Arts In LA
Runs have ended for these shows.
Walkin’ in a Winter One-Hit-Wonderland
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
The 12th-annual holiday show from Troubadour Theater Company, Walkin’ in a Winter One-Hit-Wonderland, proves to be the occasion for walkin’ down Memory Lane with the previous nine. There’s plenty of reminiscing; video footage of past productions; and in-jokey references to company members and past characters that invest the tight (an intermissionless 90 minutes) event with a real inside-baseball, for-the-cognoscenti feel.
“This one’s for the fans,” announced company founder and director Matt Walker at the post-opening gala, and there are enough of same to sell out the Falcon, as does every Troubie effort within days of its announcement. The fans know the drill: song parodies galore; plenty of outré wordplay; ample breaking of the fourth wall to tease, scold, shock, and amuse the assembled masses; and enough impressive acrobatics and choreography to remind us that the Troubies are makers of real musical comedies, not just fraternity follies.
As promised by the title, peppered throughout the evening, thanks to music director Eric Heinly and his intimate trio, are No. 1 hits churned out by artists who disappeared—a-ha and Vanilla Ice and whoever it was who sang “You Light Up My Life”—and some fun is had seeing whether the audience can be stumped. But eventually the revue format is abandoned in favor of a narrative, and it’s—you guessed it—A Christmas Carol. Oy vey, you may sigh with me, again with the spirits and the transformation? But at least it’s told efficiently, and there’s no arguing with the Scrooge they’ve chosen.
That curious supporting character from the Rankin-Bass Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, the Winter Warlock, has become a December perennial around the Falcon, blissfully incarnated by Beth Kennedy as a benighted head case with the voice of Andy Devine and the self-absorption of Miss Piggy. Here Winter, as he’s amiably known, decides to quit the Troubies and take up a living where he’s appreciated, though those foot-long icicle fingers render him unsuitable for a wide range of professions from bartender to blackjack dealer. Happily, versions of Dickens’s ghosts show up to reassure W.W. that the Troubies wouldn’t be the same without him. Quite right, too.
Walkin’ will not yield the same degree of entertainment to Troubie virgins, as they’re called, as would one of the company’s more self-contained and plot-driven extravaganzas, or even past Yuletide favorites like 2011’s unsurpassed mash-up of Jean Shepherd and Leonard Bernstein, A Christmas Westside Story. (Who can forget Mom’s warning against BB guns: “A toy like that/Will shoot your eye out”?) Yet, for those of us who have lived with these performers and their unique brand of carefully crafted chaos for years, the current offering is a jolly reunion with the satisfying sting of well-spiked eggnog.
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
The 12th-annual holiday show from Troubadour Theater Company, Walkin’ in a Winter One-Hit-Wonderland, proves to be the occasion for walkin’ down Memory Lane with the previous nine. There’s plenty of reminiscing; video footage of past productions; and in-jokey references to company members and past characters that invest the tight (an intermissionless 90 minutes) event with a real inside-baseball, for-the-cognoscenti feel.
“This one’s for the fans,” announced company founder and director Matt Walker at the post-opening gala, and there are enough of same to sell out the Falcon, as does every Troubie effort within days of its announcement. The fans know the drill: song parodies galore; plenty of outré wordplay; ample breaking of the fourth wall to tease, scold, shock, and amuse the assembled masses; and enough impressive acrobatics and choreography to remind us that the Troubies are makers of real musical comedies, not just fraternity follies.
As promised by the title, peppered throughout the evening, thanks to music director Eric Heinly and his intimate trio, are No. 1 hits churned out by artists who disappeared—a-ha and Vanilla Ice and whoever it was who sang “You Light Up My Life”—and some fun is had seeing whether the audience can be stumped. But eventually the revue format is abandoned in favor of a narrative, and it’s—you guessed it—A Christmas Carol. Oy vey, you may sigh with me, again with the spirits and the transformation? But at least it’s told efficiently, and there’s no arguing with the Scrooge they’ve chosen.
That curious supporting character from the Rankin-Bass Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, the Winter Warlock, has become a December perennial around the Falcon, blissfully incarnated by Beth Kennedy as a benighted head case with the voice of Andy Devine and the self-absorption of Miss Piggy. Here Winter, as he’s amiably known, decides to quit the Troubies and take up a living where he’s appreciated, though those foot-long icicle fingers render him unsuitable for a wide range of professions from bartender to blackjack dealer. Happily, versions of Dickens’s ghosts show up to reassure W.W. that the Troubies wouldn’t be the same without him. Quite right, too.
Walkin’ will not yield the same degree of entertainment to Troubie virgins, as they’re called, as would one of the company’s more self-contained and plot-driven extravaganzas, or even past Yuletide favorites like 2011’s unsurpassed mash-up of Jean Shepherd and Leonard Bernstein, A Christmas Westside Story. (Who can forget Mom’s warning against BB guns: “A toy like that/Will shoot your eye out”?) Yet, for those of us who have lived with these performers and their unique brand of carefully crafted chaos for years, the current offering is a jolly reunion with the satisfying sting of well-spiked eggnog.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
December 15, 2013
December 15, 2013
Twist Your Dickens! (Second City’s A Christmas Carol)
Center Theatre Group and The Second City at Kirk Douglas Theatre
There possibly have been more skewed adaptations of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol presented through the years than productions of the works of William Shakespeare, whose own classics have featured such variations as cowboys, skinheads, and Jets versus Sharks. No retelling of a beloved old story has been quite as skewed as it is in A Christmas Carol: Twist Your Dickens!, however, hilariously and ruthlessly reimagined by the fertile comedic geniuses that keep Chicago’s legendary Second City company as cutting edge as it was some 60 years ago.
Peter Gwinn and Bobby Mort have irreverently adapted—often going totally off-track—the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge and his spirited friends, under the comedically fearless, pratfall-inspired direction of Marc Warzecha. Added in are random sequences, such as one with castmembers’ heads stuck in cutouts of the Peanuts characters to spoof A Charlie Brown Christmas by offering what they say is the real ending dropped onto the cutting room floor by network censors, and appearances by George Bailey (Joe Liss) of It’s a Wonderful Life, a cheesy former ring-a-ding-y recording star (Brendan Jennings) too drunk to remember the proper lyrics for traditional Christmas carols, and a disco-dancing nun (Jaime Moyer) who seems to be on the lam from a touring production of Sister Act.
The story always returns to its Dickensian roots, but even though many of those familiar standard lines about undigested bits of beef and sending the needy off to poor houses are intact, we are also knocked to the floor when Jacob Marley (the versatile Liss again) confronts the scowling Ebenezer (Ron West) with his usual monologue about his misguided, greedy life exemplified by the length of his chains, only to be reprimanded in return by the old reprobate’s perfectly timed reply: “Fuck you.” All is well by the end, of course, especially when Scrooge visits his nephew’s home for dinner, then realizes it’s still 8am, or decides to make up for his past transgressions to his clerk Bob Cratchit (Ithamar Enriquez) and his family by sending them an Edible Arrangement.
West is the quintessential Scrooge, performing the role in some kind of unspoken homage to Larry David (“Christmas! Humbug!” he yells to the charitable solicitors, “I don’t care if it’s Jesus’s birthday!”), but able to suddenly move his lanky, supposedly creaky limbs as though he once danced with ABT—or at least in the window of Fiorucci’s. His castmates are equally outrageous and gloriously spontaneous, every one of them more than ready, willing, and able to seamlessly run with suggestions from the audience to finish sketches, improv-style. Many bits veering from Dickens are wonderfully executed, but perhaps the most memorable is a scene in which poor crippled Tiny Tim (Amanda Blake Davis) has a playdate with a group of his also physically challenged friends, including one poor kid (Frank Caeti) delivered in a heap on the floor, dumped out of his caregiver’s wheelbarrow.
In a truly right world, the prize turkey will still hang in the butcher’s window for many years to come, and this production will become a sorely needed annual counterculture holiday tradition in LA.
Center Theatre Group and The Second City at Kirk Douglas Theatre
There possibly have been more skewed adaptations of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol presented through the years than productions of the works of William Shakespeare, whose own classics have featured such variations as cowboys, skinheads, and Jets versus Sharks. No retelling of a beloved old story has been quite as skewed as it is in A Christmas Carol: Twist Your Dickens!, however, hilariously and ruthlessly reimagined by the fertile comedic geniuses that keep Chicago’s legendary Second City company as cutting edge as it was some 60 years ago.
Peter Gwinn and Bobby Mort have irreverently adapted—often going totally off-track—the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge and his spirited friends, under the comedically fearless, pratfall-inspired direction of Marc Warzecha. Added in are random sequences, such as one with castmembers’ heads stuck in cutouts of the Peanuts characters to spoof A Charlie Brown Christmas by offering what they say is the real ending dropped onto the cutting room floor by network censors, and appearances by George Bailey (Joe Liss) of It’s a Wonderful Life, a cheesy former ring-a-ding-y recording star (Brendan Jennings) too drunk to remember the proper lyrics for traditional Christmas carols, and a disco-dancing nun (Jaime Moyer) who seems to be on the lam from a touring production of Sister Act.
The story always returns to its Dickensian roots, but even though many of those familiar standard lines about undigested bits of beef and sending the needy off to poor houses are intact, we are also knocked to the floor when Jacob Marley (the versatile Liss again) confronts the scowling Ebenezer (Ron West) with his usual monologue about his misguided, greedy life exemplified by the length of his chains, only to be reprimanded in return by the old reprobate’s perfectly timed reply: “Fuck you.” All is well by the end, of course, especially when Scrooge visits his nephew’s home for dinner, then realizes it’s still 8am, or decides to make up for his past transgressions to his clerk Bob Cratchit (Ithamar Enriquez) and his family by sending them an Edible Arrangement.
West is the quintessential Scrooge, performing the role in some kind of unspoken homage to Larry David (“Christmas! Humbug!” he yells to the charitable solicitors, “I don’t care if it’s Jesus’s birthday!”), but able to suddenly move his lanky, supposedly creaky limbs as though he once danced with ABT—or at least in the window of Fiorucci’s. His castmates are equally outrageous and gloriously spontaneous, every one of them more than ready, willing, and able to seamlessly run with suggestions from the audience to finish sketches, improv-style. Many bits veering from Dickens are wonderfully executed, but perhaps the most memorable is a scene in which poor crippled Tiny Tim (Amanda Blake Davis) has a playdate with a group of his also physically challenged friends, including one poor kid (Frank Caeti) delivered in a heap on the floor, dumped out of his caregiver’s wheelbarrow.
In a truly right world, the prize turkey will still hang in the butcher’s window for many years to come, and this production will become a sorely needed annual counterculture holiday tradition in LA.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
December 15, 2013
December 15, 2013
The Steward of Christendom
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
Having well and truly conquered James Tyrone (Long Day’s Journey Into Night), Hickey (The Iceman Cometh), Krapp (Krapp’s Last Tape), and Willy Loman (Death of a Salesman), Brian Dennehy sets up base camp at the Mark Taper Forum to take on his most daunting personal Everest yet. With its dozen or more lengthy, allusive monologues, and action encompassing seven decades of life in tumultuous Dublin, ending up in a filthy madhouse, Sebastian Barry’s The Steward of Christendom could very be the most demanding role in—well, in all Christendom.
Dennehy deserves plaudits for his concentration and sheer stamina as Thomas Dunne, one-time police superintendent during the period leading up to the 1922 establishment of the Irish Free State. But that’s not to say that his energies are employed in aid of our entertainment, or even our greater moral understanding. Quite the contrary, Steward stubbornly, even perversely, resists audience engagement, especially an audience not thoroughly steeped in the history and culture of 20th century Ireland. For all Dennehy’s labors and the services of a handsome production, the play comes across as almost three hours of pretentious blather.
What makes this evening such a slog? Partly it’s the structure. Dunne’s reminiscences dash from his pitiful peasant youth, through his service in the hated municipal police as a Catholic acting for the Brits, to finally handing over Dublin Castle to Michael Collins, over whose assassination Dunne carries considerable guilt. Sounds like an eventful life, but Barry chooses maybe the least audience-friendly means of covering these ups and downs: fractured chronology, confrontations with little spark and muted resolution, speeches that meander and peter away. Particularly offputting is the practice, shared by many art-minded novelists, of beginning a speech with an undetermined pronoun, viz., “He was a fine fella.” Okay, but many minutes go by before you discover who “he” is, and by the time you find out, you’ve forgotten what’s been said about “him.”
More damaging is the lack of action—not activity but rather a personal objective the character is trying to achieve. If Dunne were actively attempting to, for instance, atone for his actions, or justify them, or redeem them, or some active verb that would invest him with a reason for gabbing all night long and reliving key events, it would be one thing. But under Steven Robman’s direction, all Dunne does is rouse himself periodically from tortured, muttering sleep from time to time to rattle off the aforementioned sea of logorrhea that passes the time but achieves little else. The Steward of Christendom—and Dennehy must share some culpability here—never picks up enough forward momentum to build to any kind of climactic realization or catharsis. To put it bluntly, when a character demonstrates no need to engage in his behavior, there is little incentive for the audience to stay interested in it.
Dunne’s three daughters—yes, there are deliberate hints of King Lear about—and his only son killed in World War I, pop up in Dunne’s fevered brain from time to time, and at least seem fully realized as characters. So do the attendants of the loony bin. All of their interactions get something going until Dunne is left alone again to prattle, as inevitably he is; the secondary figures, spirited as they are, prove inadequate to hold us.
Dennehy, as already noted, is an actor of superb gifts and grit who can pull off just about anything he puts his mind to. He and we deserve better than this misshapen vehicle.
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
Having well and truly conquered James Tyrone (Long Day’s Journey Into Night), Hickey (The Iceman Cometh), Krapp (Krapp’s Last Tape), and Willy Loman (Death of a Salesman), Brian Dennehy sets up base camp at the Mark Taper Forum to take on his most daunting personal Everest yet. With its dozen or more lengthy, allusive monologues, and action encompassing seven decades of life in tumultuous Dublin, ending up in a filthy madhouse, Sebastian Barry’s The Steward of Christendom could very be the most demanding role in—well, in all Christendom.
Dennehy deserves plaudits for his concentration and sheer stamina as Thomas Dunne, one-time police superintendent during the period leading up to the 1922 establishment of the Irish Free State. But that’s not to say that his energies are employed in aid of our entertainment, or even our greater moral understanding. Quite the contrary, Steward stubbornly, even perversely, resists audience engagement, especially an audience not thoroughly steeped in the history and culture of 20th century Ireland. For all Dennehy’s labors and the services of a handsome production, the play comes across as almost three hours of pretentious blather.
What makes this evening such a slog? Partly it’s the structure. Dunne’s reminiscences dash from his pitiful peasant youth, through his service in the hated municipal police as a Catholic acting for the Brits, to finally handing over Dublin Castle to Michael Collins, over whose assassination Dunne carries considerable guilt. Sounds like an eventful life, but Barry chooses maybe the least audience-friendly means of covering these ups and downs: fractured chronology, confrontations with little spark and muted resolution, speeches that meander and peter away. Particularly offputting is the practice, shared by many art-minded novelists, of beginning a speech with an undetermined pronoun, viz., “He was a fine fella.” Okay, but many minutes go by before you discover who “he” is, and by the time you find out, you’ve forgotten what’s been said about “him.”
More damaging is the lack of action—not activity but rather a personal objective the character is trying to achieve. If Dunne were actively attempting to, for instance, atone for his actions, or justify them, or redeem them, or some active verb that would invest him with a reason for gabbing all night long and reliving key events, it would be one thing. But under Steven Robman’s direction, all Dunne does is rouse himself periodically from tortured, muttering sleep from time to time to rattle off the aforementioned sea of logorrhea that passes the time but achieves little else. The Steward of Christendom—and Dennehy must share some culpability here—never picks up enough forward momentum to build to any kind of climactic realization or catharsis. To put it bluntly, when a character demonstrates no need to engage in his behavior, there is little incentive for the audience to stay interested in it.
Dunne’s three daughters—yes, there are deliberate hints of King Lear about—and his only son killed in World War I, pop up in Dunne’s fevered brain from time to time, and at least seem fully realized as characters. So do the attendants of the loony bin. All of their interactions get something going until Dunne is left alone again to prattle, as inevitably he is; the secondary figures, spirited as they are, prove inadequate to hold us.
Dennehy, as already noted, is an actor of superb gifts and grit who can pull off just about anything he puts his mind to. He and we deserve better than this misshapen vehicle.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
December 10, 2013
December 10, 2013
Peter and the Starcatcher
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
Our species seems to need to create prequels and sequels to all great literature, and, Lord knows, J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan has had its share. Could we be enthralled by yet another explanation of how the boy who wouldn’t grow up managed to pull off such a feat? It doesn’t take long to get caught up in the wonder of this magical reimagining, by Rick Elice (Jersey Boys).
Of course, much of the wonder here is in the world-class imaginations of directors Roger Rees and Alex Timbers (Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson and The Pee-Wee Herman Show), as well as the whimsical movement designed by Steven Hoggett. The initial stab of anticipation comes on entering the massive Ahmanson Theatre and seeing scenic designer Donyale Werle’s extraordinary, glittery false proscenium, made up entirely of discarded trash and items relegated to horrifyingly overstocked landfills. Aside from the startlingly playful, continually inventive staging by Rees and Timbers, utilizing a couple of trunks, a few ropes, bare-boned metallic structures, and incredibly dedicated actors bringing the minimal accoutrements of every day to glorious life, Werle’s set and the costume design by Paloma Young are the most creative and humorous use of trash since Ann Closs-Farley dressed the denizens of Ken Roht’s now-classic 99-Cent Only shows at LA’s Bootleg Theater.
Based on the novel titled Peter and the Starcatchers, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson, the story of the stage production follows precocious, tomboyish young Molly (Megan Stern) and her father (Nathan Hosner) as they go to sea to escort a trunk of precious “starstuff” goods to the Queen but are waylaid by enterprising pirate Slank (Jimonn Cole), who is transporting orphans in a hold below deck to sell to a potentate as food for his pet snakes. Among the doomed kiddies is a boy (Joey deBettencourt) who hates the insincerity of all adults and wants to remain a kid forever.
The evolution of these well-loved characters, and that of flamboyantly Paul Lynde–ian pirate Black Stashe (John Sanders), makes all this so clever. Stashe has both hands, but it’s not hard to imagine that by the end of the story he might not—and there might be some ominous ticking added to Darron L West’s sound design. The fearlessly over-the-top work by such a committed ham as Sanders—meant in a good way—in this ostentatiously delightful role is a major boost to the fun here, especially when the Hook-to-be loses his hand, which includes an unending sight-and-sound gag that goes on longer than a double-take by Stan Laurel played in slow motion.
The performances of the ensemble players, all steadfast in their task to honor Hoggett’s Evita-like bundled staging, have obviously been rehearsed with the precision commitment of Olympic athletes. Standouts include Benjamin Schrader as Molly’s stalwart nanny Mrs. Bumbrake, Harter Clingman as her smitten pirate love interest Alf, and Luke Smith as the dimwitted Smee, and LA’s own treasure Edward Tournier wins our hearts as a lost boy named Ted, who makes fine deadpanned use of his character’s woebegone view of the world—except when it comes to satiating his ever-present appetite.
This is theatrical innovation at its finest, in its simplicity and in its grandeur, especially amazing when it so comfortably fills a stage the size of the cavernous Ahmanson, where so many shows transported from other venues are swallowed up in its enormity. This show is obviously able to transcend anything that could possibly conspire to keep it from working, and the result is an evening to keep anyone charmed and smiling contentedly throughout the rapidly approaching holiday season.
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
Our species seems to need to create prequels and sequels to all great literature, and, Lord knows, J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan has had its share. Could we be enthralled by yet another explanation of how the boy who wouldn’t grow up managed to pull off such a feat? It doesn’t take long to get caught up in the wonder of this magical reimagining, by Rick Elice (Jersey Boys).
Of course, much of the wonder here is in the world-class imaginations of directors Roger Rees and Alex Timbers (Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson and The Pee-Wee Herman Show), as well as the whimsical movement designed by Steven Hoggett. The initial stab of anticipation comes on entering the massive Ahmanson Theatre and seeing scenic designer Donyale Werle’s extraordinary, glittery false proscenium, made up entirely of discarded trash and items relegated to horrifyingly overstocked landfills. Aside from the startlingly playful, continually inventive staging by Rees and Timbers, utilizing a couple of trunks, a few ropes, bare-boned metallic structures, and incredibly dedicated actors bringing the minimal accoutrements of every day to glorious life, Werle’s set and the costume design by Paloma Young are the most creative and humorous use of trash since Ann Closs-Farley dressed the denizens of Ken Roht’s now-classic 99-Cent Only shows at LA’s Bootleg Theater.
Based on the novel titled Peter and the Starcatchers, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson, the story of the stage production follows precocious, tomboyish young Molly (Megan Stern) and her father (Nathan Hosner) as they go to sea to escort a trunk of precious “starstuff” goods to the Queen but are waylaid by enterprising pirate Slank (Jimonn Cole), who is transporting orphans in a hold below deck to sell to a potentate as food for his pet snakes. Among the doomed kiddies is a boy (Joey deBettencourt) who hates the insincerity of all adults and wants to remain a kid forever.
The evolution of these well-loved characters, and that of flamboyantly Paul Lynde–ian pirate Black Stashe (John Sanders), makes all this so clever. Stashe has both hands, but it’s not hard to imagine that by the end of the story he might not—and there might be some ominous ticking added to Darron L West’s sound design. The fearlessly over-the-top work by such a committed ham as Sanders—meant in a good way—in this ostentatiously delightful role is a major boost to the fun here, especially when the Hook-to-be loses his hand, which includes an unending sight-and-sound gag that goes on longer than a double-take by Stan Laurel played in slow motion.
The performances of the ensemble players, all steadfast in their task to honor Hoggett’s Evita-like bundled staging, have obviously been rehearsed with the precision commitment of Olympic athletes. Standouts include Benjamin Schrader as Molly’s stalwart nanny Mrs. Bumbrake, Harter Clingman as her smitten pirate love interest Alf, and Luke Smith as the dimwitted Smee, and LA’s own treasure Edward Tournier wins our hearts as a lost boy named Ted, who makes fine deadpanned use of his character’s woebegone view of the world—except when it comes to satiating his ever-present appetite.
This is theatrical innovation at its finest, in its simplicity and in its grandeur, especially amazing when it so comfortably fills a stage the size of the cavernous Ahmanson, where so many shows transported from other venues are swallowed up in its enormity. This show is obviously able to transcend anything that could possibly conspire to keep it from working, and the result is an evening to keep anyone charmed and smiling contentedly throughout the rapidly approaching holiday season.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
December 8, 2013
December 8, 2013
Parfumerie
Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
If someone doesn’t know the history of the many variations spawned from playwright Miklós László’s 1936 Hungarian play Illatszertár, this first theatrical mounting to grace the 500-seat Bram Goldsmith Theater stage within LA’s impressive new Wallis Annenberg Center will start to seem familiar rather quickly. Adapted and translated into English by Laszlo’s nephew E.P. Dowdall, Parfumerie is as slick and crisp and quietly grand as the very playing space it inaugurates.
From Illatszertár came such enduring fodder for lovers of romantic comedy as Ernest Lubitsch’s 1940 film classic The Shop Around the Corner, starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan, followed by later remakes In the Good Old Summertime and even You’ve Got Mail, not to mention the Broadway musical She Loves Me. Yet although the sweetness and humor of those more-familiar versions filters through Parfumerie, the star-crossed romance between Budapest store clerks Mr. George Horvath and Miss Amalia Balash (Eddie Kaye Thomas and Deborah Ann Woll) plays second fiddle to a much darker and far more serious focus, the plight of the store owner’s troubles—and as played by veteran actor Richard Schiff, that’s just about fine, thank you.
As Mr. Miklos Hammerschmidt, Schiff mesmerizes in his ability to pull us into his that plight, making us want to know, even more than the employees of his charming old store (and perhaps Allen Moyer’s intricately detailed two-story design of it is the best set created in LA this year), why the old man is in such a volatile and fragile emotional state. Initially, it seems as though Mr. Hammerschmidt’s woes come from the ominous tenor of the times descending upon the wary inhabitants of prewar Hungary, including curfews for stores and policemen patrolling the streets, but soon it becomes clear there’s more to it than just his faltering business, a fact that leads to a scary cliffhanger at the end of Act One. Schiff’s quietly majestic man is a revelation, singlehandedly lifting this production from light comedy to engrossing drama.
With the sure hand of director Mark Brokaw to guide them, Thomas and Woll offer the odd counterpoint to the drama, achieving their goal with what feels like remarkable ease. They have all the charm of Stewart and Sullavan, fierce in their hatred for each other, gooey in the romantic connection that eventually surfaces. The supporting cast is golden, especially Arye Gross as the sweet and gentle veteran clerk Mr. Sipos, who advises Amalia, “When you’re as old as I am, you apologize even while you’re being yelled at.” Matt Walton and Cheryl Lynn Bowers in contrast are gloriously slimy as the gold-digging Mr. Steven Kadar and his hot-to-trot mistress Miss Ilona Ritter. Jacob Kemp has wonderful moments as the parfumerie’s awkwardly goofy, eager-to-please apprentice Arpad, though the actor is less successful after his character makes a transformation toward the end of the play.
Given how hard it must have been for Brokaw to stage so many actors on such a scene-stealing new stage, and as good as it is to see this many actors working in Los Angeles at one time, there’s a stilted feeling here in the gifted director’s staging, so full of busy work for the employees the parfumerie to accomplish, that it gets distracting—especially when it’s clear not much is being accomplished, just lots of boxes and bows being moved from one place to another, like the rocks in the concentration camp scenes in Bent.
There’s no doubt the real star of Parfumerie is the space in which it’s debuting. Moyer’s incredibly detailed set gloriously evokes the story’s setting, complete with high ceiling, art nouveau railings and trim, and even snow falling just outside the store’s front windows as David Lander’s lighting goes almost undiscernibly from sweeping sunlight to reddish twilight to nighttime with exquisite ease. Michael Krass’s perfectly period costuming, Paul Huntley’s hair and wig designs, Jon Gottlieb’s rich sound plot, and Peter Golub’s charmingly evocative original music add world-class touches to the mix, all of which in turn conspires to celebrate the advent of this finely appointed, exciting new arts complex rising in the shadow of the historic old Beverly Hills Post Office building it reinvents.
Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
If someone doesn’t know the history of the many variations spawned from playwright Miklós László’s 1936 Hungarian play Illatszertár, this first theatrical mounting to grace the 500-seat Bram Goldsmith Theater stage within LA’s impressive new Wallis Annenberg Center will start to seem familiar rather quickly. Adapted and translated into English by Laszlo’s nephew E.P. Dowdall, Parfumerie is as slick and crisp and quietly grand as the very playing space it inaugurates.
From Illatszertár came such enduring fodder for lovers of romantic comedy as Ernest Lubitsch’s 1940 film classic The Shop Around the Corner, starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan, followed by later remakes In the Good Old Summertime and even You’ve Got Mail, not to mention the Broadway musical She Loves Me. Yet although the sweetness and humor of those more-familiar versions filters through Parfumerie, the star-crossed romance between Budapest store clerks Mr. George Horvath and Miss Amalia Balash (Eddie Kaye Thomas and Deborah Ann Woll) plays second fiddle to a much darker and far more serious focus, the plight of the store owner’s troubles—and as played by veteran actor Richard Schiff, that’s just about fine, thank you.
As Mr. Miklos Hammerschmidt, Schiff mesmerizes in his ability to pull us into his that plight, making us want to know, even more than the employees of his charming old store (and perhaps Allen Moyer’s intricately detailed two-story design of it is the best set created in LA this year), why the old man is in such a volatile and fragile emotional state. Initially, it seems as though Mr. Hammerschmidt’s woes come from the ominous tenor of the times descending upon the wary inhabitants of prewar Hungary, including curfews for stores and policemen patrolling the streets, but soon it becomes clear there’s more to it than just his faltering business, a fact that leads to a scary cliffhanger at the end of Act One. Schiff’s quietly majestic man is a revelation, singlehandedly lifting this production from light comedy to engrossing drama.
With the sure hand of director Mark Brokaw to guide them, Thomas and Woll offer the odd counterpoint to the drama, achieving their goal with what feels like remarkable ease. They have all the charm of Stewart and Sullavan, fierce in their hatred for each other, gooey in the romantic connection that eventually surfaces. The supporting cast is golden, especially Arye Gross as the sweet and gentle veteran clerk Mr. Sipos, who advises Amalia, “When you’re as old as I am, you apologize even while you’re being yelled at.” Matt Walton and Cheryl Lynn Bowers in contrast are gloriously slimy as the gold-digging Mr. Steven Kadar and his hot-to-trot mistress Miss Ilona Ritter. Jacob Kemp has wonderful moments as the parfumerie’s awkwardly goofy, eager-to-please apprentice Arpad, though the actor is less successful after his character makes a transformation toward the end of the play.
Given how hard it must have been for Brokaw to stage so many actors on such a scene-stealing new stage, and as good as it is to see this many actors working in Los Angeles at one time, there’s a stilted feeling here in the gifted director’s staging, so full of busy work for the employees the parfumerie to accomplish, that it gets distracting—especially when it’s clear not much is being accomplished, just lots of boxes and bows being moved from one place to another, like the rocks in the concentration camp scenes in Bent.
There’s no doubt the real star of Parfumerie is the space in which it’s debuting. Moyer’s incredibly detailed set gloriously evokes the story’s setting, complete with high ceiling, art nouveau railings and trim, and even snow falling just outside the store’s front windows as David Lander’s lighting goes almost undiscernibly from sweeping sunlight to reddish twilight to nighttime with exquisite ease. Michael Krass’s perfectly period costuming, Paul Huntley’s hair and wig designs, Jon Gottlieb’s rich sound plot, and Peter Golub’s charmingly evocative original music add world-class touches to the mix, all of which in turn conspires to celebrate the advent of this finely appointed, exciting new arts complex rising in the shadow of the historic old Beverly Hills Post Office building it reinvents.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
December 8, 2013
December 8, 2013
Potted Potter
Irvine Barclay Theatre
In their unauthorized “Harry Experience,” two irrepressible young actors, Daniel Clarkson and Jefferson Turner, take on the Harry Potter experience with lots of audience involvement and daffy insider jokes from the seven-book bestsellers by J. K. Rowling. Billed as a parody, the material takes its cues from some elements from the books, but it also makes reference to other literary or pop culture icons, such as Bilbo Baggins and the like.
In this part-improv show, Turner and Clarkson begin with Rowling’s first in the series, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (as the first book is titled in Britan), and weave details from the books into sight gags and witty patter, much to the delight of the audience of Potter fans.
Simon Scullion’s bare-bones set is reminiscent of the setup for summer plays produced by the neighborhood kids in their backyards. The giant snake Nagini is represented by a very flexible stuffed toy. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” actually is mentioned very blithely, and the audience moans in fear of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. Potter T-shirts, jackets, and hats adorn the audience, and it is evident that the cash-cow that is anything Rowling will keep this production afloat for a long time.
One of the best moments of the show comes when a young boy and girl are invited to put on wizard hats and join in the fun onstage. On the night seen, Clarkson appeared wearing a Quidditch outfit—for the uninitiated, Quidditch is a fast-paced game played on brooms, chasing a ball with wings to score a goal. At one point, the little boy gets into the theatrical game enthusiastically and causes Clarkson to take an unanticipated pratfall, much to Turner’s delight. It is the nature of this unexpected hilarity that is most endearing.
To their credit, aside from all the improv-style banter, they include details from all of the books, and, by the time the show has ended, they have covered the 4,000 pages rather respectably. The easy camaraderie between the actors is largely the charm of the piece. Clarkson is the authority on the books, and Turner claims not to know much about them. He is basically a big goofball.
Having traveled worldwide to sellout crowds, they look like they have carved out a career for themselves in addition to their successful children’s television work back in the U. K. A non-Potter reader or stuffy old person might not find this hodge-podge of silliness worth the $45 dollar ticket, but, for the faithful, it is an opportunity to be an insider in an homage to all things Harry.
Irvine Barclay Theatre
In their unauthorized “Harry Experience,” two irrepressible young actors, Daniel Clarkson and Jefferson Turner, take on the Harry Potter experience with lots of audience involvement and daffy insider jokes from the seven-book bestsellers by J. K. Rowling. Billed as a parody, the material takes its cues from some elements from the books, but it also makes reference to other literary or pop culture icons, such as Bilbo Baggins and the like.
In this part-improv show, Turner and Clarkson begin with Rowling’s first in the series, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (as the first book is titled in Britan), and weave details from the books into sight gags and witty patter, much to the delight of the audience of Potter fans.
Simon Scullion’s bare-bones set is reminiscent of the setup for summer plays produced by the neighborhood kids in their backyards. The giant snake Nagini is represented by a very flexible stuffed toy. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” actually is mentioned very blithely, and the audience moans in fear of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. Potter T-shirts, jackets, and hats adorn the audience, and it is evident that the cash-cow that is anything Rowling will keep this production afloat for a long time.
One of the best moments of the show comes when a young boy and girl are invited to put on wizard hats and join in the fun onstage. On the night seen, Clarkson appeared wearing a Quidditch outfit—for the uninitiated, Quidditch is a fast-paced game played on brooms, chasing a ball with wings to score a goal. At one point, the little boy gets into the theatrical game enthusiastically and causes Clarkson to take an unanticipated pratfall, much to Turner’s delight. It is the nature of this unexpected hilarity that is most endearing.
To their credit, aside from all the improv-style banter, they include details from all of the books, and, by the time the show has ended, they have covered the 4,000 pages rather respectably. The easy camaraderie between the actors is largely the charm of the piece. Clarkson is the authority on the books, and Turner claims not to know much about them. He is basically a big goofball.
Having traveled worldwide to sellout crowds, they look like they have carved out a career for themselves in addition to their successful children’s television work back in the U. K. A non-Potter reader or stuffy old person might not find this hodge-podge of silliness worth the $45 dollar ticket, but, for the faithful, it is an opportunity to be an insider in an homage to all things Harry.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 26, 2013
November 26, 2013
Play Dead
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Back in the heyday of the great movie palaces—roughly the Depression until TV conquered all sometime in the 1960s—many a management would supplement the regular bill of double-feature and selected shorts with late-night live magic shows. These last gasps of vaudeville, known as “spook shows,” proved to be a great training ground—for illusionists who yearned to practice their skills before an audience, and for teenagers who welcomed the chance to engage unobserved in passionate lip-locking when the house went dark. Win-win.
However many teens will take the opportunity to make out in the Geffen’s seats during the current attraction, Play Dead, my goodness, it’s a wonderful spook show. The previous tenant of the main stage, Wait Until Dark, delivered a couple of mild frissons. But Todd Robbins’s magic show–cum–mentalist act–cum-monodrama delivers at least three big jumps and twice that many shrieks in 80 minutes, much of it played in pitch-black darkness. This is, without a doubt, the best source of theatrical scares since The Woman in Black a decade or more ago. (Not for the kids, however—unless they’re mighty mature kids.)
Robbins is a self-described “sideshow guy,” the veteran of numerous carnivals and the US magic circuit, whose signature stunt is eating lightbulbs—more than 4,000, according to Ripley’s Believe It or Not! He begins Play Dead with that very gag; other, more-elaborate feats follow, and he carries off genuinely jaw-dropping mind-reading as well. But his principal order of business is to engage us in a remarkably intimate tête-à-tête on the topic of death: what it is, why we’re fascinated with it, why we fear it and why we shouldn’t.
Tom Buderwitz’s set might have been inspired by the wacky layout of Culver City’s Museum of Jurassic Technology. It includes an untidy attic’s worth of boxes, books, relics, and ragtag curios—including a giant “Jesus Saves” cross and a Boris Karloff death mask. The voice of Teller—yes, that Teller, Penn’s partner who never speaks and who serves as director of this show; golly, he sounds distinguished—unnervingly complements the usual cellphone reminder by letting us know that once inside, we’re locked in for keeps. And suddenly there he is, the affable, courtly Robbins, his crisp lab coat soon to be smeared with fresh blood as he dips into, he says, the personal collection of a lifetime to reminisce about his relationship with the Grim Reaper, and, in passing, scare the crap out of us.
As you might expect, much of the show is wry and funny in the vein of Vampira or Zacherley or any of their fellow impresarios of pop horror. And the illusions consistently amaze. But you start to realize that there’s a lot more going on in Play Dead around the time Robbins raptly details the history of turn-of-the-20th-century serial killer Albert Fish, who kidnaped, raped, murdered, and ate 41 Brooklyn moppets. Or later, when Robbins takes a suspicious amount of pleasure in recounting the bizarre circumstances of the 1999 murder of Dorothy Bembridge, a kindly, elderly piano teacher in Robbins’s own hometown of Long Beach.
This guy wants to push our buttons, all right, but not just the ones marked “Gasp” and “Giggle.” He’s out to rub our noses in the whole idea of gruesome death, taking an almost perverse pleasure in our revulsion as he soothes us one moment and mocks us the next. That perversity is what a good spook show is all about. Go with it, and consider slipping on a pair of Depends first.
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Back in the heyday of the great movie palaces—roughly the Depression until TV conquered all sometime in the 1960s—many a management would supplement the regular bill of double-feature and selected shorts with late-night live magic shows. These last gasps of vaudeville, known as “spook shows,” proved to be a great training ground—for illusionists who yearned to practice their skills before an audience, and for teenagers who welcomed the chance to engage unobserved in passionate lip-locking when the house went dark. Win-win.
However many teens will take the opportunity to make out in the Geffen’s seats during the current attraction, Play Dead, my goodness, it’s a wonderful spook show. The previous tenant of the main stage, Wait Until Dark, delivered a couple of mild frissons. But Todd Robbins’s magic show–cum–mentalist act–cum-monodrama delivers at least three big jumps and twice that many shrieks in 80 minutes, much of it played in pitch-black darkness. This is, without a doubt, the best source of theatrical scares since The Woman in Black a decade or more ago. (Not for the kids, however—unless they’re mighty mature kids.)
Robbins is a self-described “sideshow guy,” the veteran of numerous carnivals and the US magic circuit, whose signature stunt is eating lightbulbs—more than 4,000, according to Ripley’s Believe It or Not! He begins Play Dead with that very gag; other, more-elaborate feats follow, and he carries off genuinely jaw-dropping mind-reading as well. But his principal order of business is to engage us in a remarkably intimate tête-à-tête on the topic of death: what it is, why we’re fascinated with it, why we fear it and why we shouldn’t.
Tom Buderwitz’s set might have been inspired by the wacky layout of Culver City’s Museum of Jurassic Technology. It includes an untidy attic’s worth of boxes, books, relics, and ragtag curios—including a giant “Jesus Saves” cross and a Boris Karloff death mask. The voice of Teller—yes, that Teller, Penn’s partner who never speaks and who serves as director of this show; golly, he sounds distinguished—unnervingly complements the usual cellphone reminder by letting us know that once inside, we’re locked in for keeps. And suddenly there he is, the affable, courtly Robbins, his crisp lab coat soon to be smeared with fresh blood as he dips into, he says, the personal collection of a lifetime to reminisce about his relationship with the Grim Reaper, and, in passing, scare the crap out of us.
As you might expect, much of the show is wry and funny in the vein of Vampira or Zacherley or any of their fellow impresarios of pop horror. And the illusions consistently amaze. But you start to realize that there’s a lot more going on in Play Dead around the time Robbins raptly details the history of turn-of-the-20th-century serial killer Albert Fish, who kidnaped, raped, murdered, and ate 41 Brooklyn moppets. Or later, when Robbins takes a suspicious amount of pleasure in recounting the bizarre circumstances of the 1999 murder of Dorothy Bembridge, a kindly, elderly piano teacher in Robbins’s own hometown of Long Beach.
This guy wants to push our buttons, all right, but not just the ones marked “Gasp” and “Giggle.” He’s out to rub our noses in the whole idea of gruesome death, taking an almost perverse pleasure in our revulsion as he soothes us one moment and mocks us the next. That perversity is what a good spook show is all about. Go with it, and consider slipping on a pair of Depends first.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
November 25, 2013
November 25, 2013
Dallas Non-Stop
Playwrights’ Arena at Atwater Village Theatre
Playwright Boni B. Alvarez imagines what the hopes and aspirations of ignorant Filipina country lass Girlie (Sandy Yu) might be when she arrives in the big city of Manila to go into training as a call center operator for fictional American Spirit Airlines. Fortunately, Alvarez is blessed with a dramaturgically vivid imagination. The second generation Filipino-American channels his own youthful enthusiasm for 1970s/’80s hit TV series Dallas into Girlie’s fixated belief that life on the Ewing ranch in South Fork, Texas, would be the ultimate realization of the “American Dream.” Alvarez and helmer Jon Lawrence Rivera offer a richly textured journey of discovery as Girlie and her co-workers Chichay (Angel Star Felix), Rodrigo (Kennedy Kabasares), and Charlie (Anne Yatco) come to terms with their individual situations on and off the job.
Rivera’s staging—complemented by the easily adaptable modular sets of Christopher Scott Murillo and the atmospheric video projections of Adam Flemming—captures the evolving dynamics of these co-workers as each strives to gain traction and possibly an advantage in a competition to see who will be chosen to be supervisor at the end of the training period. A highlight of the production is Rivera’s realizations of Girlie’s intermittent flights of fancy, imagining herself the embodiment of Pamela—Bobby Ewing’s lower-class bride (portrayed in the series by Victoria Principal)—and the rest of Girlie’s co-workers morphing impressively into the rest of the Ewing clan.
Girlie is immediately aware she is attracting more than professional interest from her Indian-born supervisor/trainer Sandeep (Nardeep Khurmi) and the head office honcho from Cleveland, Brad (Jim Kane). Yu offers a revelatory portrayal of a young woman who arrives ill-equipped to handle all the shifting stimuli coming her way but will let nothing deter her from her objective, even her own unwise decisions. Absorbing her life’s experiences as layered armor, Yu’s Girlie slowly evolves from relentlessly happy but naïve American TV–loving provincial child to a sadder-but-wiser big-city woman who now knows how to control her own destiny.
Yatco’s flamboyant Charlie and Felix’s more introspective Chichay offer needed counterpoint within Girlie’s story. Alvarez uses the evolving interplay between lifelong friends Charlie and Girlie to manifest Girlie’s eventual realization that she has become somebody quite apart from her friend. It is to Yatco’s credit that Charlie doesn’t let Girlie off the hook, reacting as if she has been tangibly assaulted by her former friend. Felix offers another highlight of the production with Chichay’s chilling, zen-like assault on Brad’s morality while calmly explaining to him the gastronomic wonders of balut: a developing duck embryo that is boiled alive and eaten in the shell.
Kane exudes a perfect amalgam of illusionary corporate confidence and nerdy insecurity as Brad comes to learn just how much of a self-determined woman Girlie has become. Kasabares is quite impressive as hyperactive Rodrigo, who is Girlie’s main competition for the position of supervisor. Less successful is Khurmi, who doesn’t quite inhabit the persona of the conflicted Sandeep, either as Girlie’s supervisor or her potential lover.
Dallas Non-Stop provides ample evidence that Boni B. Alvarez is evolving into a significant voice in local theater. In his second alliance with Playwrights’ Arena artistic director Jon Lawrence Rivera, Alvarez has found a synergistic creative collaborator.
Playwrights’ Arena at Atwater Village Theatre
Playwright Boni B. Alvarez imagines what the hopes and aspirations of ignorant Filipina country lass Girlie (Sandy Yu) might be when she arrives in the big city of Manila to go into training as a call center operator for fictional American Spirit Airlines. Fortunately, Alvarez is blessed with a dramaturgically vivid imagination. The second generation Filipino-American channels his own youthful enthusiasm for 1970s/’80s hit TV series Dallas into Girlie’s fixated belief that life on the Ewing ranch in South Fork, Texas, would be the ultimate realization of the “American Dream.” Alvarez and helmer Jon Lawrence Rivera offer a richly textured journey of discovery as Girlie and her co-workers Chichay (Angel Star Felix), Rodrigo (Kennedy Kabasares), and Charlie (Anne Yatco) come to terms with their individual situations on and off the job.
Rivera’s staging—complemented by the easily adaptable modular sets of Christopher Scott Murillo and the atmospheric video projections of Adam Flemming—captures the evolving dynamics of these co-workers as each strives to gain traction and possibly an advantage in a competition to see who will be chosen to be supervisor at the end of the training period. A highlight of the production is Rivera’s realizations of Girlie’s intermittent flights of fancy, imagining herself the embodiment of Pamela—Bobby Ewing’s lower-class bride (portrayed in the series by Victoria Principal)—and the rest of Girlie’s co-workers morphing impressively into the rest of the Ewing clan.
Girlie is immediately aware she is attracting more than professional interest from her Indian-born supervisor/trainer Sandeep (Nardeep Khurmi) and the head office honcho from Cleveland, Brad (Jim Kane). Yu offers a revelatory portrayal of a young woman who arrives ill-equipped to handle all the shifting stimuli coming her way but will let nothing deter her from her objective, even her own unwise decisions. Absorbing her life’s experiences as layered armor, Yu’s Girlie slowly evolves from relentlessly happy but naïve American TV–loving provincial child to a sadder-but-wiser big-city woman who now knows how to control her own destiny.
Yatco’s flamboyant Charlie and Felix’s more introspective Chichay offer needed counterpoint within Girlie’s story. Alvarez uses the evolving interplay between lifelong friends Charlie and Girlie to manifest Girlie’s eventual realization that she has become somebody quite apart from her friend. It is to Yatco’s credit that Charlie doesn’t let Girlie off the hook, reacting as if she has been tangibly assaulted by her former friend. Felix offers another highlight of the production with Chichay’s chilling, zen-like assault on Brad’s morality while calmly explaining to him the gastronomic wonders of balut: a developing duck embryo that is boiled alive and eaten in the shell.
Kane exudes a perfect amalgam of illusionary corporate confidence and nerdy insecurity as Brad comes to learn just how much of a self-determined woman Girlie has become. Kasabares is quite impressive as hyperactive Rodrigo, who is Girlie’s main competition for the position of supervisor. Less successful is Khurmi, who doesn’t quite inhabit the persona of the conflicted Sandeep, either as Girlie’s supervisor or her potential lover.
Dallas Non-Stop provides ample evidence that Boni B. Alvarez is evolving into a significant voice in local theater. In his second alliance with Playwrights’ Arena artistic director Jon Lawrence Rivera, Alvarez has found a synergistic creative collaborator.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
November 18, 2013
November 18, 2013
Barrymore
Good People Theater Company at Greenway Court
Known as The Great Profile, John Barrymore was considered one of the finest actors of his time. With a handsome visage and notable theatrics, he was praised by all and emulated later by a succession of actors including Laurence Olivier and Alec Guinness.
In playwright William Luce’s tribute to Barrymore’s legend, actor Gordon Goodman takes on the daunting task of capturing the essence of this man whose brilliance was legendary and whose alcoholism and profligate ways destroyed his career.
It is 1942, and Barrymore has rented a theater where he will play Richard III, a role that had been a hallmark of his acting career in the ’20s. He jauntily enters the stage, pushing a rack of costumes, singing “I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo,” and exuding charm. Though Barrymore seems a bit unstable, he sets about engaging the audience. Speaking from backstage, his loyal prompter, Frank (Matt Franta, adding a fine counterbalance), interrupts Barrymore’s musings with orders to start rehearsing. He is aware that this is probably Barrymore’s final chance to revive his fading career.
The bits of biography Barrymore shares are enlightening. His father, Maurice, was a famous actor in his time, but alcohol and syphilis caused madness and death when he was in his mid-50s. John feared he would follow in his father’s footsteps.
As the play progresses, Barrymore recounts tales of his several marriages and children and speaks fondly of sister, Ethel, and brother, Lionel, also accomplished actors. Barrymore relates that he first wanted to be an artist, as did Lionel, and Ethel wanted to be a pianist. They all, however, went into “the family business.”
The script is challenging, as it requires the actor to intersperse lines from the various Shakespearean plays earlier performed by Barrymore, which interrupts the general narrative. Goodman is clearly passionate in his portrayal. By the second act, dressed as Richard, Barrymore lapses into moments of histrionics that almost seem a parody of his earlier abilities. He becomes more erratic, and it is clear that he is failing. He died in 1942.
Director Janet Miller allows Goodman much latitude in his characterization. Barrymore was larger than life, and Goodman gives it all he’s got. Scott Walewski’s authentically theatrical set and Kathy Gillespie and Barbara Weisel’s costumes are apt, especially a handsome double-breasted suit with a perfect ’40s fedora. Katherine Barrett’s lighting is problematic, as the lights brighten and dim, sometimes distractingly, with a frequency that interrupts the flow of the story. Allowing the story line to take care of the mood may serve the play better.
Christopher Plummer originated this play in New York to critical acclaim, and Goodman is a worthy successor. It is an interesting look into theatrical history.
Good People Theater Company at Greenway Court
Known as The Great Profile, John Barrymore was considered one of the finest actors of his time. With a handsome visage and notable theatrics, he was praised by all and emulated later by a succession of actors including Laurence Olivier and Alec Guinness.
In playwright William Luce’s tribute to Barrymore’s legend, actor Gordon Goodman takes on the daunting task of capturing the essence of this man whose brilliance was legendary and whose alcoholism and profligate ways destroyed his career.
It is 1942, and Barrymore has rented a theater where he will play Richard III, a role that had been a hallmark of his acting career in the ’20s. He jauntily enters the stage, pushing a rack of costumes, singing “I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo,” and exuding charm. Though Barrymore seems a bit unstable, he sets about engaging the audience. Speaking from backstage, his loyal prompter, Frank (Matt Franta, adding a fine counterbalance), interrupts Barrymore’s musings with orders to start rehearsing. He is aware that this is probably Barrymore’s final chance to revive his fading career.
The bits of biography Barrymore shares are enlightening. His father, Maurice, was a famous actor in his time, but alcohol and syphilis caused madness and death when he was in his mid-50s. John feared he would follow in his father’s footsteps.
As the play progresses, Barrymore recounts tales of his several marriages and children and speaks fondly of sister, Ethel, and brother, Lionel, also accomplished actors. Barrymore relates that he first wanted to be an artist, as did Lionel, and Ethel wanted to be a pianist. They all, however, went into “the family business.”
The script is challenging, as it requires the actor to intersperse lines from the various Shakespearean plays earlier performed by Barrymore, which interrupts the general narrative. Goodman is clearly passionate in his portrayal. By the second act, dressed as Richard, Barrymore lapses into moments of histrionics that almost seem a parody of his earlier abilities. He becomes more erratic, and it is clear that he is failing. He died in 1942.
Director Janet Miller allows Goodman much latitude in his characterization. Barrymore was larger than life, and Goodman gives it all he’s got. Scott Walewski’s authentically theatrical set and Kathy Gillespie and Barbara Weisel’s costumes are apt, especially a handsome double-breasted suit with a perfect ’40s fedora. Katherine Barrett’s lighting is problematic, as the lights brighten and dim, sometimes distractingly, with a frequency that interrupts the flow of the story. Allowing the story line to take care of the mood may serve the play better.
Christopher Plummer originated this play in New York to critical acclaim, and Goodman is a worthy successor. It is an interesting look into theatrical history.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 18, 2013
November 18, 2013
Exit the King
A Theatre Connection at NoHo Actors Studio
Theatre of the Absurd icon Eugene Ionesco (1909–94) has dragged his pathetically whiny, monumentally self-serving everyman, Berenger, through four of his works: The Killer (1958), Rhinocéros (1959), Exit the King (1962), and A Stroll in the Air (1963). A Theatre Connection has taken on Exit the King—the least absurdist, most linear of the four works—with semi-successful result. The interactions project an impressive grasp of the material, but the pace of the action proves labored.
The interplay among forever-wimpy King Berenger (Jeff Alan-Lee) and his dwindling castle entourage is plot driven, eschewing Ionesco’s usual proliferation of nonsensical non-sequiturs. Helmer Pat Towne understands the basic premise of the work: Berenger is fated to die by the end of the play, and he pulls out all his self-preservation-at-all-costs artillery to ward that off. Towne surrounds the doomed monarch with the last vestiges of his crumbled empire, projecting their individual agendas, never allowing the floundering Berenger to achieve any peace of mind or body. Unfortunately, at times the ensemble members appear to be waiting their turns to speak rather than responding out of the inspiration of the moment.
There are two notable exceptions. Ragingly dismissive Queen Marguerite (Erin Matthews) counts down the minutes to her husband’s demise, never losing focus on her objective. Matthews’s Marguerite appears to snarl through her lines as she combats the King and anyone else who tries to detract from what she knows is the inevitable. This makes even more effective her final-scene segue into a comforting aide to Berenger as he gives up the fight and steps into the afterlife.
Marguerite’s willing partner in this exercise of royal oblivion is The Doctor (Nicholas Ullett), who has made himself useful as a physician, executioner, astronomer, and whatever else will guarantee he will always be needed and employed. With gleeful abandonment, Ullett entwines himself within the persona of the kingdom’s all-purpose henchman, supplying ready answers to whatever questions are asked and justifications for all actions taken.
Marguerite’s counterpart is Berenger’s ever-adoring second wife, Queen Marie, portrayed with relentless adoration by Jill Bennett. Though Marie is the object of utter scorn and dismissal by Marguerite, Marie’s mood only rises and falls with the fluctuations of Berenger’s situation. Although Bennett does not appear totally comfortable with her lines, she captures the hopelessness of an incomplete being whose only purpose in life is make someone else happy. The light in her eyes appears to switch off when she finally realizes she is of no use at all.
As the only two working-class subjects left within Berenger’s command, The Guard (Terry Tocantins) and The Nurse (Analia Lenchantin) are tasked with conveying some semblance of Ionesco’s absurdist view of life as a meaningless journey. Tocantins’s Guard dutifully stands at his station and repeats whatever commands are thrown at him, all the while exuding a total disconnection with the proceedings around him. Lenchantin projects the cheerful, disrespectful vitality of the last servant left in the kingdom, knowing full well that she is now responsible to no one.
As the main focus of everyone’s attention, Alan-Lee’s Berenger has the unenviable task of beginning to die from the moment he first steps on the stage, but must take nearly two hours to complete the deed. Although Alan-Lee possesses a well-honed physicality and sense of the comedic, there is no evolutionary throughline to his King’s supposed relentless deterioration. This King merely goes from one type of denial to another as if he were following a checklist. And because his supposed power and glory have been stripped from him before he first appears, he is not offered much wiggle room in his descent. He is pitiful when he arrives and pitiful when he leaves. Because the King is standing in for all mankind, there should be more to it than that.
A Theatre Connection at NoHo Actors Studio
Theatre of the Absurd icon Eugene Ionesco (1909–94) has dragged his pathetically whiny, monumentally self-serving everyman, Berenger, through four of his works: The Killer (1958), Rhinocéros (1959), Exit the King (1962), and A Stroll in the Air (1963). A Theatre Connection has taken on Exit the King—the least absurdist, most linear of the four works—with semi-successful result. The interactions project an impressive grasp of the material, but the pace of the action proves labored.
The interplay among forever-wimpy King Berenger (Jeff Alan-Lee) and his dwindling castle entourage is plot driven, eschewing Ionesco’s usual proliferation of nonsensical non-sequiturs. Helmer Pat Towne understands the basic premise of the work: Berenger is fated to die by the end of the play, and he pulls out all his self-preservation-at-all-costs artillery to ward that off. Towne surrounds the doomed monarch with the last vestiges of his crumbled empire, projecting their individual agendas, never allowing the floundering Berenger to achieve any peace of mind or body. Unfortunately, at times the ensemble members appear to be waiting their turns to speak rather than responding out of the inspiration of the moment.
There are two notable exceptions. Ragingly dismissive Queen Marguerite (Erin Matthews) counts down the minutes to her husband’s demise, never losing focus on her objective. Matthews’s Marguerite appears to snarl through her lines as she combats the King and anyone else who tries to detract from what she knows is the inevitable. This makes even more effective her final-scene segue into a comforting aide to Berenger as he gives up the fight and steps into the afterlife.
Marguerite’s willing partner in this exercise of royal oblivion is The Doctor (Nicholas Ullett), who has made himself useful as a physician, executioner, astronomer, and whatever else will guarantee he will always be needed and employed. With gleeful abandonment, Ullett entwines himself within the persona of the kingdom’s all-purpose henchman, supplying ready answers to whatever questions are asked and justifications for all actions taken.
Marguerite’s counterpart is Berenger’s ever-adoring second wife, Queen Marie, portrayed with relentless adoration by Jill Bennett. Though Marie is the object of utter scorn and dismissal by Marguerite, Marie’s mood only rises and falls with the fluctuations of Berenger’s situation. Although Bennett does not appear totally comfortable with her lines, she captures the hopelessness of an incomplete being whose only purpose in life is make someone else happy. The light in her eyes appears to switch off when she finally realizes she is of no use at all.
As the only two working-class subjects left within Berenger’s command, The Guard (Terry Tocantins) and The Nurse (Analia Lenchantin) are tasked with conveying some semblance of Ionesco’s absurdist view of life as a meaningless journey. Tocantins’s Guard dutifully stands at his station and repeats whatever commands are thrown at him, all the while exuding a total disconnection with the proceedings around him. Lenchantin projects the cheerful, disrespectful vitality of the last servant left in the kingdom, knowing full well that she is now responsible to no one.
As the main focus of everyone’s attention, Alan-Lee’s Berenger has the unenviable task of beginning to die from the moment he first steps on the stage, but must take nearly two hours to complete the deed. Although Alan-Lee possesses a well-honed physicality and sense of the comedic, there is no evolutionary throughline to his King’s supposed relentless deterioration. This King merely goes from one type of denial to another as if he were following a checklist. And because his supposed power and glory have been stripped from him before he first appears, he is not offered much wiggle room in his descent. He is pitiful when he arrives and pitiful when he leaves. Because the King is standing in for all mankind, there should be more to it than that.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
November 12, 2013
November 12, 2013
Falling
Rogue Machine
Falling looks at lives lived in pain. Josh, the fully grown son of Bill and Tami Martin, is autistic. Each audience member’s sense of whether he’s “severely” so or relatively functional may differ. Whatever, he can grow violent and cause serious physical harm those around him.
And so, when we meet the parents (Matthew Elkins, Anna Khaja), they’re considering whether to warehouse Josh (Matt Little) or continue trying to cope. Josh’s younger sister, Lisa (Tara Windley), would like to see Josh evaporate, and grandma Sue (Karen Landry) lives in the belief that Josh is still a malleable little tyke.
Clearly, playwright Deanna Jent chose a situation brimming with conflict. Reportedly, she took the advice “write what you know,” as the characters are said to be based on her family. The Martin family needs to be on edge moment-to-moment and yet tries to live in love.
However, as constructed, this play fails to tell a story in the dramatic sense. The characters face serious issues, and their struggles can be extrapolated to everyone’s, even if not involving autism. But no one seems to arc, no one seems to go on a purposeful journey, although the story is probably Tami’s.
Further distracting from her point, Dent paints in various styles. The script meanders among drama, black comedy, magical realism, and perhaps others. This makes it hard if not impossible for the audience to know how to react. Do we laugh heartily at stress-relieving off-the-cuff humor? Or will the next line slap us in the face for doing so? Do we pull back and wonder where Tami has gone, or do we travel with her on a metaphoric trip to a new understanding?
Director Elina de Santos has succeeded in setting her cast on a single course, each actor playing the reality of each moment, evoking “normal” reactions to the play’s events. And until the dialogue lurches elsewhere, such as into fantasy or comedy, de Santos sweeps the audience into the characters’ emotional quandaries. But even the likes of this helmer can’t overcome all of the script’s bumps.
Rogue Machine
Falling looks at lives lived in pain. Josh, the fully grown son of Bill and Tami Martin, is autistic. Each audience member’s sense of whether he’s “severely” so or relatively functional may differ. Whatever, he can grow violent and cause serious physical harm those around him.
And so, when we meet the parents (Matthew Elkins, Anna Khaja), they’re considering whether to warehouse Josh (Matt Little) or continue trying to cope. Josh’s younger sister, Lisa (Tara Windley), would like to see Josh evaporate, and grandma Sue (Karen Landry) lives in the belief that Josh is still a malleable little tyke.
Clearly, playwright Deanna Jent chose a situation brimming with conflict. Reportedly, she took the advice “write what you know,” as the characters are said to be based on her family. The Martin family needs to be on edge moment-to-moment and yet tries to live in love.
However, as constructed, this play fails to tell a story in the dramatic sense. The characters face serious issues, and their struggles can be extrapolated to everyone’s, even if not involving autism. But no one seems to arc, no one seems to go on a purposeful journey, although the story is probably Tami’s.
Further distracting from her point, Dent paints in various styles. The script meanders among drama, black comedy, magical realism, and perhaps others. This makes it hard if not impossible for the audience to know how to react. Do we laugh heartily at stress-relieving off-the-cuff humor? Or will the next line slap us in the face for doing so? Do we pull back and wonder where Tami has gone, or do we travel with her on a metaphoric trip to a new understanding?
Director Elina de Santos has succeeded in setting her cast on a single course, each actor playing the reality of each moment, evoking “normal” reactions to the play’s events. And until the dialogue lurches elsewhere, such as into fantasy or comedy, de Santos sweeps the audience into the characters’ emotional quandaries. But even the likes of this helmer can’t overcome all of the script’s bumps.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 12, 2013
November 12, 2013
Twelve Angry Men
Pasadena Playhouse
From 1954 to the present, Reginald Rose’s Emmy-nominated teleplay on CBS’s Studio One has been rewritten as a theatrical piece, was made into an Academy Award–winning film with some of the finest actors in the business, and has been reworked by theater companies over the years, even as 12 Angry Women. In this Pasadena Playhouse production, director Sheldon Epps has gathered an accomplished group of actors who have the heft and charisma to tackle this nearly archetypal work.
The setting is a jury room with 12 jurors who represent a diverse cross-section of their community. They have just heard the trial of a young man accused of murdering his father. The foreman (Scott Lowell) has taken the first vote: 11 guilty votes to one not guilty vote by Juror Eight (Jason George), who wants to explore all the possibilities that might lead to a reasonable doubt. That tactic has met with fierce opposition from some and many concerns about how long the deliberations might take from other less-committed jurors.
Beyond the tumult one would expect from a highly charged topic, Epps increases the conflict by making the jurors nearly evenly split between African-American and white actors. In one scene, the black jurors stand on one side of the jury room facing the whites. It is a stark reminder of political and social divisions that still exist today.
Juror Three (Gregory North) draws the plum role of the loud, bullying businessman who threatens other jurors with his unyielding opinions. Juror Ten (Bradford Tatum) also has a memorable scene in which he rails against “they,” who have threatened his world with change. Their scenes crackle with charged tension.
Clinton Derricks-Carroll, Robert Picardo, Lowell, and George provide the measured intellect necessary to weigh the options. Picardo is fine as an unflappable juror who deliberates with logic and reason. Adolphus Ward plays an elderly man with great humor and gravitas.
In Rose’s script, all of the other actors have an opportunity to showcase their characters, and each is realistic and identifiable. Jacques C. Smith plays a man whose youth in a slum has given him unique perspective on the murder. Adam J. Smith, Barry Pearl, Ellis E. Williams, and Jeff Williams also contribute fully believable characters with subtlety and nuance.
The anger of the title has many dimensions. It refers to the fights among the jurors but also reveals life experiences of some of the men and how they have come to form their opinions in the case. Animosity, prejudice, fear, and vexation mingle as the story plays out. As all the jurors deliberate, their humanity or lack thereof paints a picture of our society in general. Its universality is timeless.
The words electrifying and powerful need to be attached to this fine revival of Rose’s work. Epps moves the actors about skillfully, allowing the dynamic among the actors to underline the philosophical issues raised. Lighting by Brian L. Gale and sound by Jon Gottlieb enhance the production.
For solid performances and sheer magnetism, it would be hard to find a better production anywhere. The personal investment the ensemble has in the work makes it a standout.
Pasadena Playhouse
From 1954 to the present, Reginald Rose’s Emmy-nominated teleplay on CBS’s Studio One has been rewritten as a theatrical piece, was made into an Academy Award–winning film with some of the finest actors in the business, and has been reworked by theater companies over the years, even as 12 Angry Women. In this Pasadena Playhouse production, director Sheldon Epps has gathered an accomplished group of actors who have the heft and charisma to tackle this nearly archetypal work.
The setting is a jury room with 12 jurors who represent a diverse cross-section of their community. They have just heard the trial of a young man accused of murdering his father. The foreman (Scott Lowell) has taken the first vote: 11 guilty votes to one not guilty vote by Juror Eight (Jason George), who wants to explore all the possibilities that might lead to a reasonable doubt. That tactic has met with fierce opposition from some and many concerns about how long the deliberations might take from other less-committed jurors.
Beyond the tumult one would expect from a highly charged topic, Epps increases the conflict by making the jurors nearly evenly split between African-American and white actors. In one scene, the black jurors stand on one side of the jury room facing the whites. It is a stark reminder of political and social divisions that still exist today.
Juror Three (Gregory North) draws the plum role of the loud, bullying businessman who threatens other jurors with his unyielding opinions. Juror Ten (Bradford Tatum) also has a memorable scene in which he rails against “they,” who have threatened his world with change. Their scenes crackle with charged tension.
Clinton Derricks-Carroll, Robert Picardo, Lowell, and George provide the measured intellect necessary to weigh the options. Picardo is fine as an unflappable juror who deliberates with logic and reason. Adolphus Ward plays an elderly man with great humor and gravitas.
In Rose’s script, all of the other actors have an opportunity to showcase their characters, and each is realistic and identifiable. Jacques C. Smith plays a man whose youth in a slum has given him unique perspective on the murder. Adam J. Smith, Barry Pearl, Ellis E. Williams, and Jeff Williams also contribute fully believable characters with subtlety and nuance.
The anger of the title has many dimensions. It refers to the fights among the jurors but also reveals life experiences of some of the men and how they have come to form their opinions in the case. Animosity, prejudice, fear, and vexation mingle as the story plays out. As all the jurors deliberate, their humanity or lack thereof paints a picture of our society in general. Its universality is timeless.
The words electrifying and powerful need to be attached to this fine revival of Rose’s work. Epps moves the actors about skillfully, allowing the dynamic among the actors to underline the philosophical issues raised. Lighting by Brian L. Gale and sound by Jon Gottlieb enhance the production.
For solid performances and sheer magnetism, it would be hard to find a better production anywhere. The personal investment the ensemble has in the work makes it a standout.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 11, 2013
November 11, 2013
The Middle Class Nobleman
(Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme)
Parson’s Nose Theater at Lineage Performing Arts Center
What gives Lance Davis’s adaptation of Molière’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (The Middle-Class Nobleman) the ability to soar from the merely silly to the memorably sublime is its accessibility. An opening night audience ranging from the very young to the more-seasoned of theatergoers enjoyed this barebones production with equal glee. And, why not? Clearly, Davis and his fellow cast members were having just as much fun performing this crisply paced offering as were those viewing it. Credit goes to Davis for utilizing modern-day vernacular in addition to clipping the show’s normally lengthy running time to a mere 90 minutes including intermission.
In the titular role, Davis is the essence of pompous befuddlement. Desperate to join the upper class, his Monsieur Jourdain schools himself in subjects ranging from music appreciation to philosophical mumbo jumbo. Ever the fool, Davis’s character struts about the stage in a uniform best described as a Napoleonic Captain Crunch. As his opportunistic trio of coin-pocketing tutors, Thomas Ashworth, Barry Gordon and Mark McCracken lead Davis through exercises in, respectively, terpsichorean, vocal, and philosophical absurdity. Ashworth accompanies Gordon’s warbling on an accordion, and McCracken nearly stops the show with a rubber-faced lesson in vowel pronunciation.
Meanwhile, Jill Rogosheske earns heartfelt sympathy points as the long-suffering Madame Jourdain, who does her best to rein in her husband’s costly shenanigans. It’s a losing battle as it becomes clear that M. Jourdain is lusting after the daffy Marquise Dorimène, played with flighty abandon by Mary Chalon Davis. Jourdain’s confidant, Count Dorante, played with slimy delight by Paul Perri, has been using Jourdain’s funds to court the Marquise for himself. Perri does a wonderful job keeping Davis at bay while slobbering over the object of their affections.
Along the way, a subplot involving the family maid, Nicole, the Jourdain’s daughter, Lucile and their respective paramours, Covielle and Cleonte is given its just due. Playing Nicole and Lucile, Marisa Chandler and Nora Frankovich, respectively, nicely handle their state of near exasperation over Jourdain’s insanity. And as the girls’ love interests, James Calvert and Gary Lamb pull out all the stops executing the story’s dénouement—which shall remain unexplained here so as to carry its full weight for future audiences. Suffice it to say, designer Holly Victoria’s costume choices for this particular section of the production are unforgettable, as the entire cast joins forces to end this frothy confection on the highest of notes.
(Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme)
Parson’s Nose Theater at Lineage Performing Arts Center
What gives Lance Davis’s adaptation of Molière’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (The Middle-Class Nobleman) the ability to soar from the merely silly to the memorably sublime is its accessibility. An opening night audience ranging from the very young to the more-seasoned of theatergoers enjoyed this barebones production with equal glee. And, why not? Clearly, Davis and his fellow cast members were having just as much fun performing this crisply paced offering as were those viewing it. Credit goes to Davis for utilizing modern-day vernacular in addition to clipping the show’s normally lengthy running time to a mere 90 minutes including intermission.
In the titular role, Davis is the essence of pompous befuddlement. Desperate to join the upper class, his Monsieur Jourdain schools himself in subjects ranging from music appreciation to philosophical mumbo jumbo. Ever the fool, Davis’s character struts about the stage in a uniform best described as a Napoleonic Captain Crunch. As his opportunistic trio of coin-pocketing tutors, Thomas Ashworth, Barry Gordon and Mark McCracken lead Davis through exercises in, respectively, terpsichorean, vocal, and philosophical absurdity. Ashworth accompanies Gordon’s warbling on an accordion, and McCracken nearly stops the show with a rubber-faced lesson in vowel pronunciation.
Meanwhile, Jill Rogosheske earns heartfelt sympathy points as the long-suffering Madame Jourdain, who does her best to rein in her husband’s costly shenanigans. It’s a losing battle as it becomes clear that M. Jourdain is lusting after the daffy Marquise Dorimène, played with flighty abandon by Mary Chalon Davis. Jourdain’s confidant, Count Dorante, played with slimy delight by Paul Perri, has been using Jourdain’s funds to court the Marquise for himself. Perri does a wonderful job keeping Davis at bay while slobbering over the object of their affections.
Along the way, a subplot involving the family maid, Nicole, the Jourdain’s daughter, Lucile and their respective paramours, Covielle and Cleonte is given its just due. Playing Nicole and Lucile, Marisa Chandler and Nora Frankovich, respectively, nicely handle their state of near exasperation over Jourdain’s insanity. And as the girls’ love interests, James Calvert and Gary Lamb pull out all the stops executing the story’s dénouement—which shall remain unexplained here so as to carry its full weight for future audiences. Suffice it to say, designer Holly Victoria’s costume choices for this particular section of the production are unforgettable, as the entire cast joins forces to end this frothy confection on the highest of notes.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
November 11, 2013
November 11, 2013
The Homosexuals
Celebration Theatre at Atwater Village Theatre
Regardless of our sexual orientation, we spend our lifetimes seeking to understand who we are—and wondering how others perceive us. Unless one has read and favorably absorbed a heap of Ayn Rand, it’s hard not to care what other people think, as perfectly idealistic as that concept may be. The West Coast debut of Philip Dawkins’s arrestingly human and incredibly literate play The Homosexuals distinctly defines friendship and personal discovery in our confusing era when welcoming one’s own identity in a media-hungry society is anything but easy.
Evan (Brian Dare) is an almost too stereotypical corn-fed transplant arriving in Chicago in 2000, introduced his first night in town to a glibly urban group of gay friends who could be lifted directly from a Terrence McNally play. At one point Evan even tells his new friends he was moved to come out of the closet and migrate to the big city after seeing Love! Valour! Compassion!. The group immediately pounces on Evan like bees to honey, except for the first person he meets: sweet, unassuming, nerdy Michael (Kurt Quinn).
Over the next 10 years, Evan matures into a far more worldly adult but, although the pitfalls and regrets of his decade of discovery are explored, only the audience can see what’s coming. Making this play so fascinating, the tale of Evan’s decade of discovery is told backwards, beginning with the first scene set in 2010 and reversing the scene order, two years at a time.
As each scenario unfolds and more of Evan’s journey is explored, Dawkins’s play basically asks whether two gay men can stay friends without ever-present sexual tension interrupting the experience. Each of the scenes depicts Evan in a different relationship with all but two of his quickly adopted Windy City friends: the sweetly adoring Michael, to whom we wish he’d pay attention, and the group’s friendly neighborhood self-proclaimed faghag Tam (Kelly Schumann). With each section, the audience is somewhat frustratingly gifted with the knowledge of what we already know will be Evan’s future, but as he searches desperately for love and a lasting connection, the audience’s crystal ball becomes increasingly more clouded.
Under the precise direction of Michael Matthews, who handles scenic and costume changes between eras as a sensual military drill, the cast is golden. Dare does a remarkably believable job assaying the subtly demanding task of depicting Evan as increasingly less mature, never abandoning the throughline of his character. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he notes sincerely at one point, making the hotly pursuing Mark (David Fraioli) observe, “Except if you stayed where you were, you would die.” Fraioli does a commendable job as the group’s resident asshole, delivering some of Dawkins’s harshest revelations on gay life, and Schumann is in contrast a wonderful relief as the outspoken Tam. Understudies Christopher Grant Pearson, as Evan’s most enduring lover Colin, and Karnell Matthews, as the hunky British Mark, do their best squeezing into an ensemble as tight as this one, although Karnell Matthews’s godawful British accent is a huge distraction to his otherwise charming portrayal.
Two of the actors, however, leave the strongest impression. Butch Klein as the flamboyant Peter, a character unmistakably fulfilling Dawkins’s need to bring a little Nathan Lane into the proceedings, overcomes the many traps of his clichéd musical theater–obsessed queen, tugging at our hearts as Evan breaks his, culminating in the poignant plea, “I deserve to be dated on purpose!” Quinn as Michael breaks our hearts even further; he is particularly outstanding in a quietly sensational bedside confession recounting a difficult childhood trauma, something which again only the audience is privy to while Evan nods off beside him.
The Homosexuals is an epic story told with intelligence, sharp wit, and endearing theatricality. There’s an exclusivity in the struggles and pleasures offered those who embrace the gay lifestyle, especially today, when the trials of Stonewall and the inequities of times past are less an issue. Still, there’s also a palpable camaraderie shared with everyone else holding on for dear life on our rapidly spinning, increasingly more confusing planet. Evan’s progress seems clearly inevitable (“like death and Andrew Lloyd Webber”), despite Dawkins’s queries whether sex is the quintessential tie that binds. Ultimately, the author leaves the indelible and reassuring impression that friendship and love are the connection that unites us all.
Celebration Theatre at Atwater Village Theatre
Regardless of our sexual orientation, we spend our lifetimes seeking to understand who we are—and wondering how others perceive us. Unless one has read and favorably absorbed a heap of Ayn Rand, it’s hard not to care what other people think, as perfectly idealistic as that concept may be. The West Coast debut of Philip Dawkins’s arrestingly human and incredibly literate play The Homosexuals distinctly defines friendship and personal discovery in our confusing era when welcoming one’s own identity in a media-hungry society is anything but easy.
Evan (Brian Dare) is an almost too stereotypical corn-fed transplant arriving in Chicago in 2000, introduced his first night in town to a glibly urban group of gay friends who could be lifted directly from a Terrence McNally play. At one point Evan even tells his new friends he was moved to come out of the closet and migrate to the big city after seeing Love! Valour! Compassion!. The group immediately pounces on Evan like bees to honey, except for the first person he meets: sweet, unassuming, nerdy Michael (Kurt Quinn).
Over the next 10 years, Evan matures into a far more worldly adult but, although the pitfalls and regrets of his decade of discovery are explored, only the audience can see what’s coming. Making this play so fascinating, the tale of Evan’s decade of discovery is told backwards, beginning with the first scene set in 2010 and reversing the scene order, two years at a time.
As each scenario unfolds and more of Evan’s journey is explored, Dawkins’s play basically asks whether two gay men can stay friends without ever-present sexual tension interrupting the experience. Each of the scenes depicts Evan in a different relationship with all but two of his quickly adopted Windy City friends: the sweetly adoring Michael, to whom we wish he’d pay attention, and the group’s friendly neighborhood self-proclaimed faghag Tam (Kelly Schumann). With each section, the audience is somewhat frustratingly gifted with the knowledge of what we already know will be Evan’s future, but as he searches desperately for love and a lasting connection, the audience’s crystal ball becomes increasingly more clouded.
Under the precise direction of Michael Matthews, who handles scenic and costume changes between eras as a sensual military drill, the cast is golden. Dare does a remarkably believable job assaying the subtly demanding task of depicting Evan as increasingly less mature, never abandoning the throughline of his character. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he notes sincerely at one point, making the hotly pursuing Mark (David Fraioli) observe, “Except if you stayed where you were, you would die.” Fraioli does a commendable job as the group’s resident asshole, delivering some of Dawkins’s harshest revelations on gay life, and Schumann is in contrast a wonderful relief as the outspoken Tam. Understudies Christopher Grant Pearson, as Evan’s most enduring lover Colin, and Karnell Matthews, as the hunky British Mark, do their best squeezing into an ensemble as tight as this one, although Karnell Matthews’s godawful British accent is a huge distraction to his otherwise charming portrayal.
Two of the actors, however, leave the strongest impression. Butch Klein as the flamboyant Peter, a character unmistakably fulfilling Dawkins’s need to bring a little Nathan Lane into the proceedings, overcomes the many traps of his clichéd musical theater–obsessed queen, tugging at our hearts as Evan breaks his, culminating in the poignant plea, “I deserve to be dated on purpose!” Quinn as Michael breaks our hearts even further; he is particularly outstanding in a quietly sensational bedside confession recounting a difficult childhood trauma, something which again only the audience is privy to while Evan nods off beside him.
The Homosexuals is an epic story told with intelligence, sharp wit, and endearing theatricality. There’s an exclusivity in the struggles and pleasures offered those who embrace the gay lifestyle, especially today, when the trials of Stonewall and the inequities of times past are less an issue. Still, there’s also a palpable camaraderie shared with everyone else holding on for dear life on our rapidly spinning, increasingly more confusing planet. Evan’s progress seems clearly inevitable (“like death and Andrew Lloyd Webber”), despite Dawkins’s queries whether sex is the quintessential tie that binds. Ultimately, the author leaves the indelible and reassuring impression that friendship and love are the connection that unites us all.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
November 10, 2013
November 10, 2013
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Actors Co-Op David Schall Theatre
With two weekends to go until Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde vacates Actors Co-op in Hollywood, those who enjoy horror stories brought to the stage don't have many chances to take it in. But they should make the effort. An ensemble of six sports fine accents and great versatility in bringing to life Jeffrey Hatcher's adaptation of the Robert Louis Stevenson novella.
Stephen Van Dorn plays the gentle medico throughout, while every other cast member has one or more chances to play the malevolent alter ego. Fleetly and efficiently, the company brings out the highs and lows of London society, and evokes the creepy unease caused by a fiendish murderer's running around unfettered and unidentified.
Mark Bramhall and Paul Turbiak make the strongest impressions—the former for his strong, distinctive characterizations as a supremely detestable Sir Danvers Carew, the latter for his best-in-show twisted Hyde and best-in-show cue pickup. But everyone has fine moments.
If Van Dorn seems at times to overexpress Jekyll's anguish instead of having the good man fight against it, and if director Mary Jo Duprey extends some of the revelations way too long, Pablo Santiago's chiaroscuro lighting and Austin Quan's terrific sound design see to it that the classic horror tale never loses its grip on our emotions, or eardrums.
Actors Co-Op David Schall Theatre
With two weekends to go until Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde vacates Actors Co-op in Hollywood, those who enjoy horror stories brought to the stage don't have many chances to take it in. But they should make the effort. An ensemble of six sports fine accents and great versatility in bringing to life Jeffrey Hatcher's adaptation of the Robert Louis Stevenson novella.
Stephen Van Dorn plays the gentle medico throughout, while every other cast member has one or more chances to play the malevolent alter ego. Fleetly and efficiently, the company brings out the highs and lows of London society, and evokes the creepy unease caused by a fiendish murderer's running around unfettered and unidentified.
Mark Bramhall and Paul Turbiak make the strongest impressions—the former for his strong, distinctive characterizations as a supremely detestable Sir Danvers Carew, the latter for his best-in-show twisted Hyde and best-in-show cue pickup. But everyone has fine moments.
If Van Dorn seems at times to overexpress Jekyll's anguish instead of having the good man fight against it, and if director Mary Jo Duprey extends some of the revelations way too long, Pablo Santiago's chiaroscuro lighting and Austin Quan's terrific sound design see to it that the classic horror tale never loses its grip on our emotions, or eardrums.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
November 6, 2013
November 6, 2013
The Pain and the Itch
Wilder Theatrics at Zephyr Theatre
Playwright Bruce Norris doesn’t provide his audience with comfort and hope. Apparently he’d rather we think, squirm, even cringe. So his plays are not for the faint of heart. Then again, neither is life.
The Pain and the Itch is his 2004 opus. It centers on a family, adding in one outsider who has forever affected the family and another outsider whom the family has forever affected. Taking place in the home of married couple Clay and Kelly, the action flashes back and forth between Thanksgiving dinner and a subsequent evening. Invited guests at the dinner include Clay’s brother Cash, their mother, and Cash’s girlfriend. At the other evening, Clay and Kelly have brought Mr. Hadid into their home to discuss a serious matter; however, in Norris’s world, Hadid also seems to materialize during the Thanksgiving gathering.
Director Jennifer Chambers makes all this clear to the audience—or at least as clear as possible. In addition, she creates a lifelike feel of family onstage, for better or worse. Clay (Eric Hunicutt), a stay-at-home dad, deeply resents Kelly for the euthanizing of his beloved cat, supposedly to make way for the children. Kelly (Beverly Hynds) likes to take charge, except when she doesn’t, dumping unwanted tasks and blame on Clay.
Cash (Trent Dawson) is a cocky Republican, a physician, and, according to Clay, the favorite son. Mom (April Adams) can start and then stop a conversation with her pseudo-liberal gaffes. Cash’s young Eastern European girlfriend, Kalina (Beth Triffon), won’t take crap from anyone anymore but manages to leave some form of her “sick” on the bathroom mat. And yet Kalina clings to her relationship with Cash. Clay likewise stays with Kelly, and both brothers include mom in their holiday celebrations. What is it about us that makes us tolerate the pain and give up so much for the itch?
Playing Clay and Kelly’s little daughter, Kayla, Ava Bianchi (alternating with Kiara Lisette Gamboa) is extraordinarily comfortable onstage, at most times living in those imaginary circumstances (hey, we can’t begrudge her a peek at us now and then). The most startlingly real portrayal is delivered by Joe Holt as Hadid. Holt must keep our interest, because Hadid is the last to reveal his purpose there. Ultimately, debatably, he’s the character most deeply affected by the ramifications the family has set in motion. And yet, how pure are his interests in the onstage goings on?
Especially noteworthy is the casting, by Michael Donovan. He has gathered skilled veteran actors who match one another in tone and intensity. The actors playing blood relatives bear physical resemblances, particularly Adams and Dawson as mother and son. Praise is also due set designer Joel Daavid for the appealing home—and to whomever provided the financing that paid for it.
Wilder Theatrics at Zephyr Theatre
Playwright Bruce Norris doesn’t provide his audience with comfort and hope. Apparently he’d rather we think, squirm, even cringe. So his plays are not for the faint of heart. Then again, neither is life.
The Pain and the Itch is his 2004 opus. It centers on a family, adding in one outsider who has forever affected the family and another outsider whom the family has forever affected. Taking place in the home of married couple Clay and Kelly, the action flashes back and forth between Thanksgiving dinner and a subsequent evening. Invited guests at the dinner include Clay’s brother Cash, their mother, and Cash’s girlfriend. At the other evening, Clay and Kelly have brought Mr. Hadid into their home to discuss a serious matter; however, in Norris’s world, Hadid also seems to materialize during the Thanksgiving gathering.
Director Jennifer Chambers makes all this clear to the audience—or at least as clear as possible. In addition, she creates a lifelike feel of family onstage, for better or worse. Clay (Eric Hunicutt), a stay-at-home dad, deeply resents Kelly for the euthanizing of his beloved cat, supposedly to make way for the children. Kelly (Beverly Hynds) likes to take charge, except when she doesn’t, dumping unwanted tasks and blame on Clay.
Cash (Trent Dawson) is a cocky Republican, a physician, and, according to Clay, the favorite son. Mom (April Adams) can start and then stop a conversation with her pseudo-liberal gaffes. Cash’s young Eastern European girlfriend, Kalina (Beth Triffon), won’t take crap from anyone anymore but manages to leave some form of her “sick” on the bathroom mat. And yet Kalina clings to her relationship with Cash. Clay likewise stays with Kelly, and both brothers include mom in their holiday celebrations. What is it about us that makes us tolerate the pain and give up so much for the itch?
Playing Clay and Kelly’s little daughter, Kayla, Ava Bianchi (alternating with Kiara Lisette Gamboa) is extraordinarily comfortable onstage, at most times living in those imaginary circumstances (hey, we can’t begrudge her a peek at us now and then). The most startlingly real portrayal is delivered by Joe Holt as Hadid. Holt must keep our interest, because Hadid is the last to reveal his purpose there. Ultimately, debatably, he’s the character most deeply affected by the ramifications the family has set in motion. And yet, how pure are his interests in the onstage goings on?
Especially noteworthy is the casting, by Michael Donovan. He has gathered skilled veteran actors who match one another in tone and intensity. The actors playing blood relatives bear physical resemblances, particularly Adams and Dawson as mother and son. Praise is also due set designer Joel Daavid for the appealing home—and to whomever provided the financing that paid for it.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 4, 2013
November 4, 2013
The Black Suits
Center Theatre Group at Kirk Douglas Theatre
This world premiere musical, now at Kirk Douglas Theatre, manages to get plenty of new wine into very old, if not downright dusty, bottles. The saga of the making of the eponymous garage band soars despite a paper-thin, clichéd plot; derivative character types; and QED themes of friendship and youthful dream-making. What gets it off the ground are a super-talented, super-attractive, super-likable cast of six and the supple, engaging songs of Joe Iconis, perhaps the most highly touted yet underproduced music man in theater today. The Black Suits, soon to make a Gotham appearance, isn’t the smash hit that will establish him, but it certainly strengthens his brand and offers deserved exposure.
Our fab four are so closely modeled on the aspiring quartet in That Thing You Do!, you might well mistake Suits for the long-hoped-for stage version of Tom Hanks’s maiden directorial effort. This one is set in present-day Long Island, N.Y., instead of 1950s Pittsburgh, but the playbook is the same, starting with the sensitive, shy, articulate protagonist (Coby Getzug’s lead singer Chris has anxiety issues related to an indifferent dad), and what Rent called the “pretty-boy front man” (Jimmy Brewer as lead guitarist John doubts his self-worth).
Toss in two sources of comedy relief—dorky (Will Roland’s bassist Nato sports funky boxers and aspires to zoology) and doofusy (Harrison Chad’s bruiser-sized music-nerd drummer Brandon)—and you also have the lineup from Stand By Me, whose shifts in tone from frat humor to maudlin heartbreak are amply reflected in the libretto, by Iconis and Robert Emmett Maddock. The guys try to keep the partnership afloat in time for the St. Anne’s Battle of the Bands, which we’re led to believe is make or break. Is the band destined to make music together for the long haul or just be a small flash in a tiny pan?
Because first prize is a $50 gift certificate at a local Red Lobster, you can be forgiven for thinking the stakes are on the low side. But then stakes are different, aren’t they, when one is in high school? Cool and whatever, as the characters are wont to sing; but the life-and-death urgency of the acting at times seems out of proportion to the incidents depicted.
An obligatory girlfriend (Veronica Dunne) is there mostly to throw a romantic monkey wrench into the Suits’s solidarity, though she’s assigned career and identity issues of her own so as to blend in, thematically speaking. And straight from Jeanette in The Full Monty is local character Mrs. Werring (Annie Golden), supposedly a one-time CBGB’s intimate of Lou Reed and the New York Dolls, now living the suburban good life in a marijuana haze. Husband, kids, and job go unmentioned, but she possesses plenty of free time to egg on Chris’s Mick Jagger-fueled fantasies.
The Black Suits needs work in the second act, when things get all emo, angsty, and Next to Normal for far too long. (John Simpkins’s staging, lively up until that point, could profitably work against the emotional indulgence more than it does.) Still, the kids and Golden sport great pipes and unflagging commitment throughout, which keep one interested in their ups and downs even as the events play out exactly, and I mean exactly, as expected. There’s a first-rate ensemble backstage, helmed by musical director Charlie Rosen, but whether the onstage guys are playing for real some or none of the time, they appear to be rockin’ out. And as the Monkees proved, that’s almost as good as the real thing.
And though most musicals’ scores can’t fully be appreciated on first hearing, there’s lots of droll wit and fresh insights in Iconis’s lyrics, and melodic surprises throughout the score. It could be the first new tuner in five years whose CD I wished I could pop into the car stereo on the way home.
Played on Derek McLane’s ingenious, attractive set with Ben Stanton’s rock concert lighting, the whole enterprise engenders considerable good will without ever getting close to No. 1, with or without a bullet.
Center Theatre Group at Kirk Douglas Theatre
This world premiere musical, now at Kirk Douglas Theatre, manages to get plenty of new wine into very old, if not downright dusty, bottles. The saga of the making of the eponymous garage band soars despite a paper-thin, clichéd plot; derivative character types; and QED themes of friendship and youthful dream-making. What gets it off the ground are a super-talented, super-attractive, super-likable cast of six and the supple, engaging songs of Joe Iconis, perhaps the most highly touted yet underproduced music man in theater today. The Black Suits, soon to make a Gotham appearance, isn’t the smash hit that will establish him, but it certainly strengthens his brand and offers deserved exposure.
Our fab four are so closely modeled on the aspiring quartet in That Thing You Do!, you might well mistake Suits for the long-hoped-for stage version of Tom Hanks’s maiden directorial effort. This one is set in present-day Long Island, N.Y., instead of 1950s Pittsburgh, but the playbook is the same, starting with the sensitive, shy, articulate protagonist (Coby Getzug’s lead singer Chris has anxiety issues related to an indifferent dad), and what Rent called the “pretty-boy front man” (Jimmy Brewer as lead guitarist John doubts his self-worth).
Toss in two sources of comedy relief—dorky (Will Roland’s bassist Nato sports funky boxers and aspires to zoology) and doofusy (Harrison Chad’s bruiser-sized music-nerd drummer Brandon)—and you also have the lineup from Stand By Me, whose shifts in tone from frat humor to maudlin heartbreak are amply reflected in the libretto, by Iconis and Robert Emmett Maddock. The guys try to keep the partnership afloat in time for the St. Anne’s Battle of the Bands, which we’re led to believe is make or break. Is the band destined to make music together for the long haul or just be a small flash in a tiny pan?
Because first prize is a $50 gift certificate at a local Red Lobster, you can be forgiven for thinking the stakes are on the low side. But then stakes are different, aren’t they, when one is in high school? Cool and whatever, as the characters are wont to sing; but the life-and-death urgency of the acting at times seems out of proportion to the incidents depicted.
An obligatory girlfriend (Veronica Dunne) is there mostly to throw a romantic monkey wrench into the Suits’s solidarity, though she’s assigned career and identity issues of her own so as to blend in, thematically speaking. And straight from Jeanette in The Full Monty is local character Mrs. Werring (Annie Golden), supposedly a one-time CBGB’s intimate of Lou Reed and the New York Dolls, now living the suburban good life in a marijuana haze. Husband, kids, and job go unmentioned, but she possesses plenty of free time to egg on Chris’s Mick Jagger-fueled fantasies.
The Black Suits needs work in the second act, when things get all emo, angsty, and Next to Normal for far too long. (John Simpkins’s staging, lively up until that point, could profitably work against the emotional indulgence more than it does.) Still, the kids and Golden sport great pipes and unflagging commitment throughout, which keep one interested in their ups and downs even as the events play out exactly, and I mean exactly, as expected. There’s a first-rate ensemble backstage, helmed by musical director Charlie Rosen, but whether the onstage guys are playing for real some or none of the time, they appear to be rockin’ out. And as the Monkees proved, that’s almost as good as the real thing.
And though most musicals’ scores can’t fully be appreciated on first hearing, there’s lots of droll wit and fresh insights in Iconis’s lyrics, and melodic surprises throughout the score. It could be the first new tuner in five years whose CD I wished I could pop into the car stereo on the way home.
Played on Derek McLane’s ingenious, attractive set with Ben Stanton’s rock concert lighting, the whole enterprise engenders considerable good will without ever getting close to No. 1, with or without a bullet.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
November 4, 2013
November 4, 2013
Young Frankenstein
Musical Theatre West at Richard and Karen Carpenter Performing Arts Center
Mel Brooks’s very funny 1974 film became The New Mel Brooks Musical Young Frankenstein in late 2007. Receiving mixed reviews from the critics, it nonetheless played on Broadway for more than 500 performances, and it began a very successful touring show in 2009. Its appeal comes from a lively cast, very silly jokes, and energized musical numbers.
The setting is Transylvania Heights, 1934. The villagers are celebrating the death of Dr. Victor von Frankenstein when it is brought to their attention that he had an heir, Frederick Frankenstein (Zachary Ford), head of the Anatomy Department at Johns, Miriam, and Anthony Hopkins School of Medicine. Soon he arrives in town to deal with the estate and is met by Igor (Ben Liebert), an impish hunchback with a traveling hump. Liebert’s performance throughout is made for a Mel Brooks spoof, and wherever he is on the stage, something funny is happening.
After a lively “Together Again for the First Time,” they travel to the mountaintop laboratory and are greeted by the sinister Frau Blücher (Tracy Lore) and Inga (Andi Davis), Frederick’s curvaceous lab assistant. Combined with a fine voice and a comic touch in “Roll in the Hay,” Davis makes a comely foil for Ford. Adding hilarious moments to this scene are two spirited horses (Travis Morse, Ryan Chlanda) who whinny in fear every time Frau Blücher’s name is spoken. As a running gag throughout, it is pure Brooks.
He was not known for subtlety, and this burlesque of horror films provides all the shtick so beloved by his fans. Brooks’s music and lyrics and book by Brooks and Thomas Meehan reflect the wry and zany nature of Brooks’s sense of humor. The music is essentially forgettable, but when delivered by a first-rate ensemble and accompanied by musical director Corey Hirsch’s excellent orchestra, it provides the company with more than enough dazzle.
Adding charming sex appeal and over-the-top histrionics is Rebecca Ann Johnson playing Elizabeth, Frederick’s fiancée. Her entreaty “Please Don’t Touch Me” is a comic standout as Frederick tries to comply and the ensemble dancers execute pairings in which no one makes contact. She is also glamorously stunning with beehive hair à la Elsa Lanchester, bride of Frankenstein, after her passionate encounter with The Monster.
Ford, charming and boyish, gives his role a less manic performance than Gene Wilder did in the original film, but he imbues the character with comic frustration as he fails to resist Inga, discovers his inner mad scientist after creating his living monster, and seems genuinely baffled as he stands ready to be hanged by the villagers.
For genuine comic appeal, Lore and Jeffrey Rockwell (as Inspector Kemp/Hermit) deliver the goods. Lore’s Blücher is arch and suggestively evil as Lore milks the role. Rockwell hilariously brandishes his wooden arm and leg as Kemp and is humorous as the blind hermit who pours hot soup on the bewildered monster’s lap.
For sheer goofiness, Danny Blaylock is a wondrous re-animated figure of fun as The Monster. Ford and Blaylock’s “Puttin’ On the Ritz” is a classic piece of theatrics much appreciated by the audience.
Direction and choreography remounted by Lauren Kadel from Susan Stroman’s original work is superb. Lithe and athletic dancers stand out in the production numbers, and managing the large cast with many character and wardrobe changes is laudable.
Jean-Yves Tessier’s atmospheric lighting on Robin Wagner’s elaborate set is notable as are William Ivey Long’s costumes and Brian S. Hsieh’s sound design. Musical Theatre West has outdone itself with this first production in its 61st season. From the first mysterious foggy moments to the exuberant and slick finale, careful attention to every detail makes the production Broadway quality and a treat for its audience.
Musical Theatre West at Richard and Karen Carpenter Performing Arts Center
Mel Brooks’s very funny 1974 film became The New Mel Brooks Musical Young Frankenstein in late 2007. Receiving mixed reviews from the critics, it nonetheless played on Broadway for more than 500 performances, and it began a very successful touring show in 2009. Its appeal comes from a lively cast, very silly jokes, and energized musical numbers.
The setting is Transylvania Heights, 1934. The villagers are celebrating the death of Dr. Victor von Frankenstein when it is brought to their attention that he had an heir, Frederick Frankenstein (Zachary Ford), head of the Anatomy Department at Johns, Miriam, and Anthony Hopkins School of Medicine. Soon he arrives in town to deal with the estate and is met by Igor (Ben Liebert), an impish hunchback with a traveling hump. Liebert’s performance throughout is made for a Mel Brooks spoof, and wherever he is on the stage, something funny is happening.
After a lively “Together Again for the First Time,” they travel to the mountaintop laboratory and are greeted by the sinister Frau Blücher (Tracy Lore) and Inga (Andi Davis), Frederick’s curvaceous lab assistant. Combined with a fine voice and a comic touch in “Roll in the Hay,” Davis makes a comely foil for Ford. Adding hilarious moments to this scene are two spirited horses (Travis Morse, Ryan Chlanda) who whinny in fear every time Frau Blücher’s name is spoken. As a running gag throughout, it is pure Brooks.
He was not known for subtlety, and this burlesque of horror films provides all the shtick so beloved by his fans. Brooks’s music and lyrics and book by Brooks and Thomas Meehan reflect the wry and zany nature of Brooks’s sense of humor. The music is essentially forgettable, but when delivered by a first-rate ensemble and accompanied by musical director Corey Hirsch’s excellent orchestra, it provides the company with more than enough dazzle.
Adding charming sex appeal and over-the-top histrionics is Rebecca Ann Johnson playing Elizabeth, Frederick’s fiancée. Her entreaty “Please Don’t Touch Me” is a comic standout as Frederick tries to comply and the ensemble dancers execute pairings in which no one makes contact. She is also glamorously stunning with beehive hair à la Elsa Lanchester, bride of Frankenstein, after her passionate encounter with The Monster.
Ford, charming and boyish, gives his role a less manic performance than Gene Wilder did in the original film, but he imbues the character with comic frustration as he fails to resist Inga, discovers his inner mad scientist after creating his living monster, and seems genuinely baffled as he stands ready to be hanged by the villagers.
For genuine comic appeal, Lore and Jeffrey Rockwell (as Inspector Kemp/Hermit) deliver the goods. Lore’s Blücher is arch and suggestively evil as Lore milks the role. Rockwell hilariously brandishes his wooden arm and leg as Kemp and is humorous as the blind hermit who pours hot soup on the bewildered monster’s lap.
For sheer goofiness, Danny Blaylock is a wondrous re-animated figure of fun as The Monster. Ford and Blaylock’s “Puttin’ On the Ritz” is a classic piece of theatrics much appreciated by the audience.
Direction and choreography remounted by Lauren Kadel from Susan Stroman’s original work is superb. Lithe and athletic dancers stand out in the production numbers, and managing the large cast with many character and wardrobe changes is laudable.
Jean-Yves Tessier’s atmospheric lighting on Robin Wagner’s elaborate set is notable as are William Ivey Long’s costumes and Brian S. Hsieh’s sound design. Musical Theatre West has outdone itself with this first production in its 61st season. From the first mysterious foggy moments to the exuberant and slick finale, careful attention to every detail makes the production Broadway quality and a treat for its audience.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 4, 2013
November 4, 2013
A Strange Disappearance of Bees
Collaborative Artists Ensemble at Raven Playhouse
Where playwrights draw their inspiration from is often remarkably intriguing. Here author Elena Hartwell wishes to shine a light upon Colony Collapse Disorder and the mysterious circumstances surrounding the estimated decimation of nearly one-third of all U.S. honeybee colonies since the disorder’s identification in 2006. For those whose exposure to this dilemma goes no further than purchasing a jar of this industry’s delectable byproduct, it’s an eye-opening issue. The list of agricultural items is long, and the potential financial losses over such a breakdown in the food chain is inestimable.
How Hartwell parallels such a topic with a tale involving human counterparts is where things get, in a word, sticky. Kicking things off and then interspersed throughout are a sequence of informative yet, at times, relatively disjointed monologues discussing the history and importance of bees. Meanwhile, her piece follows five characters, alive and dead, whose convergence at Cashman’s, a small-town bakery, leads to a variety of rather predictable revelations. It’s a marriage of subjects that seem ill-matched most of the time.
Robert, a young Amerasian, appears seeking his father, a Vietnam War veteran whose name hangs over the store. Again, this is an intriguing catalyst, and were that the primary focus of the tale, it might make for gripping drama. Unfortunately for Robert, his father has died before his arrival. Any information he receives comes secondhand from Lissa, a young store clerk; her boyfriend, Callum, a local farmer; and his father’s longtime lover, Rud, who is a beekeeper and the deliverer of the aforementioned soliloquies on apiculture. Meanwhile, the deceased Cashman, appears throughout the play in a series of flashback scenes designed to provide backstory. Along the way, a number of rather melodramatic secrets pop out of the woodwork, ranging from crisscrossed love interests to war-related aftereffects.
Although the interweaving of these personal storylines and the overall topic of beekeeping seems tenuous at best, director Steve Jarrard has highlighted a few moments in which Hartwell’s script shows signs of dramatic acuity. As Robert and Callum, Christian T. Chan and Brian A. Pollack provide an Act One–closing nose-to-nose showdown over their respective feelings for Lissa that fairly crackles with restrained aggression. Likewise, Meg Wallace expertly handles Lissa’s escape from her otherwise subservient existence when she attacks Callum over his reluctance to divorce his (unseen) wife.
Jean Gilpin does a fine job with Rud’s various monologues in addition to her insistence that Robert read all of his father’s returned correspondence before she will tell him the circumstances of Cashman’s death. Ian Patrick Williams displays an engaging charm as the now deceased patriarch. His recollective scenes with Gilpin are perhaps the most charming and believable of any in the show; however, his Act Two breakdown was so intense on the night reviewed as to be unintelligible at times even in this intimate venue.
Collaborative Artists Ensemble at Raven Playhouse
Where playwrights draw their inspiration from is often remarkably intriguing. Here author Elena Hartwell wishes to shine a light upon Colony Collapse Disorder and the mysterious circumstances surrounding the estimated decimation of nearly one-third of all U.S. honeybee colonies since the disorder’s identification in 2006. For those whose exposure to this dilemma goes no further than purchasing a jar of this industry’s delectable byproduct, it’s an eye-opening issue. The list of agricultural items is long, and the potential financial losses over such a breakdown in the food chain is inestimable.
How Hartwell parallels such a topic with a tale involving human counterparts is where things get, in a word, sticky. Kicking things off and then interspersed throughout are a sequence of informative yet, at times, relatively disjointed monologues discussing the history and importance of bees. Meanwhile, her piece follows five characters, alive and dead, whose convergence at Cashman’s, a small-town bakery, leads to a variety of rather predictable revelations. It’s a marriage of subjects that seem ill-matched most of the time.
Robert, a young Amerasian, appears seeking his father, a Vietnam War veteran whose name hangs over the store. Again, this is an intriguing catalyst, and were that the primary focus of the tale, it might make for gripping drama. Unfortunately for Robert, his father has died before his arrival. Any information he receives comes secondhand from Lissa, a young store clerk; her boyfriend, Callum, a local farmer; and his father’s longtime lover, Rud, who is a beekeeper and the deliverer of the aforementioned soliloquies on apiculture. Meanwhile, the deceased Cashman, appears throughout the play in a series of flashback scenes designed to provide backstory. Along the way, a number of rather melodramatic secrets pop out of the woodwork, ranging from crisscrossed love interests to war-related aftereffects.
Although the interweaving of these personal storylines and the overall topic of beekeeping seems tenuous at best, director Steve Jarrard has highlighted a few moments in which Hartwell’s script shows signs of dramatic acuity. As Robert and Callum, Christian T. Chan and Brian A. Pollack provide an Act One–closing nose-to-nose showdown over their respective feelings for Lissa that fairly crackles with restrained aggression. Likewise, Meg Wallace expertly handles Lissa’s escape from her otherwise subservient existence when she attacks Callum over his reluctance to divorce his (unseen) wife.
Jean Gilpin does a fine job with Rud’s various monologues in addition to her insistence that Robert read all of his father’s returned correspondence before she will tell him the circumstances of Cashman’s death. Ian Patrick Williams displays an engaging charm as the now deceased patriarch. His recollective scenes with Gilpin are perhaps the most charming and believable of any in the show; however, his Act Two breakdown was so intense on the night reviewed as to be unintelligible at times even in this intimate venue.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
November 4, 2013
November 4, 2013
Endgame
A Noise Within
There is a moment in Samuel Beckett’s Endgame when blind, crippled, but ever-imperious Hamm (Geoff Elliott, who also directs) declares the central theme of this work, “The end is in the beginning and yet we go on.” As if playing out the hopeless final moves of a macabre chess match, Hamm and the wretched players—Clov (Jeremy Rabb), Nagg (Mitchell Edmonds), and Nell (Jill Hill)—spout out their pitiful maneuverings, fully acknowledging they have been condemned from birth yet are unable to cease their useless babbling until they are no more. If this reads like an infliction of relentless misery on the audience, it isn’t. As Nell reveals, “Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.”
Scenic designer Jeanine A. Ringer impressively honors Beckett’s specific stage directions, creating a large, inhospitable, decrepit room where two nearly-out-of-reach windows, inadequately covered by tattered black curtains, offer no real light on the proceedings. Two strategically placed trashcans underscore that this is a place for refuse. In fact the cans serve as the final habitat of Hamm’s legless parents, Nagg and Nell.
Elliott—as director and central character—deserves kudos for thrusting Beckett’s words front and center. At times, however, the specificity of the dialogue impedes the pacing of the work, as does Rabb’s painfully measured movements as Hamm’s servant—the only character who can walk. As enacted by Elliot and Rabb, the relationship between Hamm and Clov gives credence to literary assertions that their names personify their status as hammer and nail—Hamm constantly wielding hard blows and soft ones, and Clov always acquiescing, although Rabb’s projected negative manner could be likened more to a slowly bending nail, ever more resentful of the ritual Clov must face every day.
The more captivatingly humane interactions occur between Nagg and Nell. Edmonds seamlessly entwines pathos and humor within this hopelessly entrapped human decay, whether he is piteously attempting to coax a sugar plum from his imperious son or coyly cajoling his wife into sharing memories from their much happier early days. The combative, defeatist relationship between Nagg and Hamm is balanced by Nagg’s ever hopeful desire to be life-affirming with Nell.
Hill projects the deep pitying sorrow of a long-suffering companion who acquiesces to reminiscing about long ago memories but cannot endure the reality of the present, refusing when Nagg pleads, “Could you give me a scratch before you go?” When he reminds Nell that she scratched his back yesterday, Hill infuses a lifetime of lost dreams into Nell’s, “Ah, yesterday.”
The final scene offers Elliott’s well-played distillation of Beckett’s view of human existence. Clov, suitcase in hand, stands at the open door, ready to flee his lifetime of misery. Yet he doesn’t move. Where will he go?
A Noise Within
There is a moment in Samuel Beckett’s Endgame when blind, crippled, but ever-imperious Hamm (Geoff Elliott, who also directs) declares the central theme of this work, “The end is in the beginning and yet we go on.” As if playing out the hopeless final moves of a macabre chess match, Hamm and the wretched players—Clov (Jeremy Rabb), Nagg (Mitchell Edmonds), and Nell (Jill Hill)—spout out their pitiful maneuverings, fully acknowledging they have been condemned from birth yet are unable to cease their useless babbling until they are no more. If this reads like an infliction of relentless misery on the audience, it isn’t. As Nell reveals, “Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.”
Scenic designer Jeanine A. Ringer impressively honors Beckett’s specific stage directions, creating a large, inhospitable, decrepit room where two nearly-out-of-reach windows, inadequately covered by tattered black curtains, offer no real light on the proceedings. Two strategically placed trashcans underscore that this is a place for refuse. In fact the cans serve as the final habitat of Hamm’s legless parents, Nagg and Nell.
Elliott—as director and central character—deserves kudos for thrusting Beckett’s words front and center. At times, however, the specificity of the dialogue impedes the pacing of the work, as does Rabb’s painfully measured movements as Hamm’s servant—the only character who can walk. As enacted by Elliot and Rabb, the relationship between Hamm and Clov gives credence to literary assertions that their names personify their status as hammer and nail—Hamm constantly wielding hard blows and soft ones, and Clov always acquiescing, although Rabb’s projected negative manner could be likened more to a slowly bending nail, ever more resentful of the ritual Clov must face every day.
The more captivatingly humane interactions occur between Nagg and Nell. Edmonds seamlessly entwines pathos and humor within this hopelessly entrapped human decay, whether he is piteously attempting to coax a sugar plum from his imperious son or coyly cajoling his wife into sharing memories from their much happier early days. The combative, defeatist relationship between Nagg and Hamm is balanced by Nagg’s ever hopeful desire to be life-affirming with Nell.
Hill projects the deep pitying sorrow of a long-suffering companion who acquiesces to reminiscing about long ago memories but cannot endure the reality of the present, refusing when Nagg pleads, “Could you give me a scratch before you go?” When he reminds Nell that she scratched his back yesterday, Hill infuses a lifetime of lost dreams into Nell’s, “Ah, yesterday.”
The final scene offers Elliott’s well-played distillation of Beckett’s view of human existence. Clov, suitcase in hand, stands at the open door, ready to flee his lifetime of misery. Yet he doesn’t move. Where will he go?
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
October 28, 2013
October 28, 2013
4000 Miles
South Coast Repertory
Amy Herzog’s 4000 Miles comes to us with a considerable reputation as a Pulitzer Prize finalist, but whatever virtues this intergenerational seriocomedy may possess, they certainly don’t come through in South Coast Repertory’s version.
The text seems overrated from the get-go. It involves a Manhattan-based widow (91, deaf but still feisty, lifelong Communist—you know, colorful), who receives a surprise visit from her grandson (21, college dropout, Granola eater—you know, rebellious).
In town at the end of a solo bike ride that began in Seattle, an understandably weary Leo rings Vera’s doorbell at 3 a.m., surely a thoughtless time to disturb a nonagenarian’s slumber, but, because a 100-minute play has to get started, she takes him in.
“How are you?” she politely inquires. “I’m fine,” he snaps, his tone conveying that he’s not fine at all but that it’s going to be like pulling teeth to find out wassup.
Sure enough, although there are plenty of logical opportunities for him to cop to his angst’s sources, including just what happened to best friend Micah out there on the bike trail, Herzog slowly doles out the reveals with miserly meanness, arbitrarily delaying the final shoe’s dropping that will bring the show to an end.
Shared values and politics should effect a natural bond between this pair, but for contrived reasons their clashes occupy most of the intermissionless work’s running time. In between sniping, the kid lets grandma make him coffee and launder his sheets and generally walks all over her, yet, incredibly, Herzog never sees to it that the spoiled brat gets any comeuppance. His shift in address from "Vera” to “Grandma,” suggesting a softening, is just tossed away. Indeed, by casting an actor (Matt Caplan) who, one would bet, will never see 30 again, helmer David Emmes immediately renders the character well-nigh insufferable. It’s one thing when a 21-year-old is self-absorbed and feckless, quite another thing 10 or more years later.
Everything about the production seems slightly off, starting with Emmes’s crapehanger pacing. Jenny O’Hara is all fluttery mannerism as Vera; we wait in vain for a moment in which she can hit her grandson—or us—between the eyes with true, deep feeling. Leo’s scene with a free-spirited pickup (Klarissa Mesee) is pitched to giddy farce, while twin appearances by his ex (Rebecca Mozo) mosey along with Actors Studio naturalism.
Design is invariably a South Coast strong point, but even Ralph Funicello’s set feels wrong: A moderately spacious flat seems to possess the dimensions of a Costco, and yet most of the show is blocked as two people sitting on a couch.
South Coast Repertory
Amy Herzog’s 4000 Miles comes to us with a considerable reputation as a Pulitzer Prize finalist, but whatever virtues this intergenerational seriocomedy may possess, they certainly don’t come through in South Coast Repertory’s version.
The text seems overrated from the get-go. It involves a Manhattan-based widow (91, deaf but still feisty, lifelong Communist—you know, colorful), who receives a surprise visit from her grandson (21, college dropout, Granola eater—you know, rebellious).
In town at the end of a solo bike ride that began in Seattle, an understandably weary Leo rings Vera’s doorbell at 3 a.m., surely a thoughtless time to disturb a nonagenarian’s slumber, but, because a 100-minute play has to get started, she takes him in.
“How are you?” she politely inquires. “I’m fine,” he snaps, his tone conveying that he’s not fine at all but that it’s going to be like pulling teeth to find out wassup.
Sure enough, although there are plenty of logical opportunities for him to cop to his angst’s sources, including just what happened to best friend Micah out there on the bike trail, Herzog slowly doles out the reveals with miserly meanness, arbitrarily delaying the final shoe’s dropping that will bring the show to an end.
Shared values and politics should effect a natural bond between this pair, but for contrived reasons their clashes occupy most of the intermissionless work’s running time. In between sniping, the kid lets grandma make him coffee and launder his sheets and generally walks all over her, yet, incredibly, Herzog never sees to it that the spoiled brat gets any comeuppance. His shift in address from "Vera” to “Grandma,” suggesting a softening, is just tossed away. Indeed, by casting an actor (Matt Caplan) who, one would bet, will never see 30 again, helmer David Emmes immediately renders the character well-nigh insufferable. It’s one thing when a 21-year-old is self-absorbed and feckless, quite another thing 10 or more years later.
Everything about the production seems slightly off, starting with Emmes’s crapehanger pacing. Jenny O’Hara is all fluttery mannerism as Vera; we wait in vain for a moment in which she can hit her grandson—or us—between the eyes with true, deep feeling. Leo’s scene with a free-spirited pickup (Klarissa Mesee) is pitched to giddy farce, while twin appearances by his ex (Rebecca Mozo) mosey along with Actors Studio naturalism.
Design is invariably a South Coast strong point, but even Ralph Funicello’s set feels wrong: A moderately spacious flat seems to possess the dimensions of a Costco, and yet most of the show is blocked as two people sitting on a couch.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 28, 2013
October 28, 2013
The Mystery of Irma Vep
Falcon Theatre
No one does inexhaustible excess better than Charles Ludlam—and no director in Los Angeles is better at celebrating that kind of excess than Jenny Sullivan. The presence of Ludlam’s 1984 Off-Broadway “penny dreadful” Irma Vep here is made all the more welcoming at the hands of Sullivan, especially featuring the participation of her two fearless vaudevillian-inspired performers: Matthew Floyd Miller and Jamie Torcellini.
The title is an anagram for that eternal folk predator, the infamous and currently overexposed nocturnal bat-hybrid who sleeps in coffins and drinks the blood of human victims. But vampires are not the only such creatures who show up in Ludlam’s madly silly gothic tale. There are ravenous werewolves, large-breasted mummies, and murderous housekeepers, as well as delicate damsels in distress, wooden-legged groundskeepers, and one suspiciously ominous Egyptian tour guide left over from an audition for an Indiana Jones sequel.
Yes indeed, Irma Vep would surely need a large and eclectic international cast if performed under ordinary circumstances, but thanks to Ludlam’s limitless imagination, there’s no need to break the bank with all those expensive Equity contracts. Every one of the inhabitants of Mandacrest Manor near the Hampstead Heath, as well as those miscreants surfacing deep within a musty old tomb in ancient Egypt, are played by Miller and Torcellini, who careen in and out of doors and appear from behind hidden panels, playing every character—and they do so with such swiftness it would make all three faces of Eve dizzy.
Miller is especially convincing as the rigid Gale Sondergaard–esque housekeeper Jane Twisden, yet he is able to rush to the kitchen with the tea tray and almost instantaneously emerge from another entrance as the pipe-smoking man of the manor, Lord Edgar. Miller is a wonderful straight man to the outrageous Torcellini, a pint-sized cross-dressing Lucille Ball who bounces around hilariously as Edgar’s poor slip of a second wife Enid, transforming with lightning speed into the lustful limping groundskeeper Nicodemus, as well as assaying both the mummy and the mummy-hunter.
Both actors are also wonderfully adept at spouting Ludlam’s groan-inducing puns with deadpanned ease. “Get away from me, Nicodemus, with all your double entendres!” Jane Twisden warns early on, serving as something of a warning to those gathered to watch the tale unfold, as well. There is nothing but ridiculous fun waiting for lucky patrons of Irma Vep, which offers a humor that needs a sprightly audience willing to go along with the grand spoof of such mediums as old Universal Studios horror movies, Victorian melodramas, and Emily Brontë novels. This sense of abandon was something that seemed to elude those congregated at the Falcon Theatre the night this reviewer attended. They uniformly reacted to Ludlam’s nonsensical madness as though they were longtime residents of a rest home being serenaded by Miley Cyrus. This of course made the difficult and exhausting task already being undertaken by Miller and Torcellini even harder. Still, the pair persevered gamely, falling into every overdramatic swoon and trotting out every sight gag without fail, blithely ignoring the general lack of response. For that alone, these guys are to be commended.
Falcon Theatre
No one does inexhaustible excess better than Charles Ludlam—and no director in Los Angeles is better at celebrating that kind of excess than Jenny Sullivan. The presence of Ludlam’s 1984 Off-Broadway “penny dreadful” Irma Vep here is made all the more welcoming at the hands of Sullivan, especially featuring the participation of her two fearless vaudevillian-inspired performers: Matthew Floyd Miller and Jamie Torcellini.
The title is an anagram for that eternal folk predator, the infamous and currently overexposed nocturnal bat-hybrid who sleeps in coffins and drinks the blood of human victims. But vampires are not the only such creatures who show up in Ludlam’s madly silly gothic tale. There are ravenous werewolves, large-breasted mummies, and murderous housekeepers, as well as delicate damsels in distress, wooden-legged groundskeepers, and one suspiciously ominous Egyptian tour guide left over from an audition for an Indiana Jones sequel.
Yes indeed, Irma Vep would surely need a large and eclectic international cast if performed under ordinary circumstances, but thanks to Ludlam’s limitless imagination, there’s no need to break the bank with all those expensive Equity contracts. Every one of the inhabitants of Mandacrest Manor near the Hampstead Heath, as well as those miscreants surfacing deep within a musty old tomb in ancient Egypt, are played by Miller and Torcellini, who careen in and out of doors and appear from behind hidden panels, playing every character—and they do so with such swiftness it would make all three faces of Eve dizzy.
Miller is especially convincing as the rigid Gale Sondergaard–esque housekeeper Jane Twisden, yet he is able to rush to the kitchen with the tea tray and almost instantaneously emerge from another entrance as the pipe-smoking man of the manor, Lord Edgar. Miller is a wonderful straight man to the outrageous Torcellini, a pint-sized cross-dressing Lucille Ball who bounces around hilariously as Edgar’s poor slip of a second wife Enid, transforming with lightning speed into the lustful limping groundskeeper Nicodemus, as well as assaying both the mummy and the mummy-hunter.
Both actors are also wonderfully adept at spouting Ludlam’s groan-inducing puns with deadpanned ease. “Get away from me, Nicodemus, with all your double entendres!” Jane Twisden warns early on, serving as something of a warning to those gathered to watch the tale unfold, as well. There is nothing but ridiculous fun waiting for lucky patrons of Irma Vep, which offers a humor that needs a sprightly audience willing to go along with the grand spoof of such mediums as old Universal Studios horror movies, Victorian melodramas, and Emily Brontë novels. This sense of abandon was something that seemed to elude those congregated at the Falcon Theatre the night this reviewer attended. They uniformly reacted to Ludlam’s nonsensical madness as though they were longtime residents of a rest home being serenaded by Miley Cyrus. This of course made the difficult and exhausting task already being undertaken by Miller and Torcellini even harder. Still, the pair persevered gamely, falling into every overdramatic swoon and trotting out every sight gag without fail, blithely ignoring the general lack of response. For that alone, these guys are to be commended.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 27, 2013
October 27, 2013
Evita
Pantages Theatre
“She didn’t say much but she said it loud.” That’s Eva Peron (1919–1952) as assessed by nemesis Che Guevara during the prologue of Evita. But as it happens, the accusation of saying very little, very loudly has dogged the Andrew Lloyd Webber–Tim Rice through-sung tuner ever since it emerged as a concept album in 1976, sweeping Broadway’s Tonys two years later. Last fall’s revival production helmed by British wunderkind Michael Grandage was greeted with some critical indifference; but that version, now on tour at the Pantages, is unquestionably triumphant. If the show has the reputation of a lavish but empty songfest, then a stellar cast and canny theatricality redeem it.
That’s not to say the musical numbers are disappointing or secondary to the overall effect. Indeed, this could be the strongest singing-and-dancing ensemble to have visited our city in many years, those talents serving to embody the madness that was Peronism. “A New Argentina” brings the house (and act one curtain) down with full-throated revolutionary fervor, just as Eva’s mad philanthropy whips her descamisados—“the shirtless ones,” the mob—into a dizzying frenzy for “And the Money Keeps Rolling In.”
Nevertheless, the numbers are shaped for storytelling, not for stopping the show. Watch, for instance, during the first big dance number, “Buenos Aires,” how new arrival Eva apes in turn the moves of the three groups who will so impact her life (the well-to-do, the military, the peasants), easily joining each until she winds up leading them all. Rob Ashford can usually be depended on for superior choreography, but he far outdoes himself here.
Because Grandage and Ashford focus on personalities over spectacle, this Evita never devolves into the usual series of disconnected set pieces, the numbers skipping along like recording tracks. Eva’s megalomania comes through loud, yes, but also loud and clear. There’s an unprecedented fluency in the narrative as the legendary street gamine manipulates her way, through sheer force of will, into movie stardom, political power, and eventually virtual sainthood.
There are only three in the principal cast, all sensational. Caroline Bowman keeps a genuine interior life going as Evita, reflected in bearing, attitude, and a streak of humor I can’t recall seeing in the role before. Her way with a ballad is eclipsed only by her belt, her shifts between the two thrillingly analogous to the means by which the real-life Peron played her people like a pipe organ. Similarly, by applying a veneer of oily glad-handedness over a core of solid steel, Sean MacLaughlin conveys without words her consort Peron’s lifelong knack for being the last strongman standing.
Josh Young’s Che occupies an intriguing middle ground between jacked-up fanatic and bland, omniscient observer. Our narrator-companion is savvy to the Perons’ con game, sure. But he can’t help but be fascinated by it and even—of all things—retains slim hope that maybe, just maybe, their plan for the nation might pan out. That blend of cynicism and innocence keeps the character alive and alert throughout. And man, can this guy sing.
The last 20 minutes, truth be told, are a bit of a drag, as Grandage allows the tempo to flag and his cast to strain into sentimentality and near-idealization. But maybe that’s just the spirit of damnable Eva at work. It would be just like her to bring anyone who would anatomize her irresistibly under her spell.
Pantages Theatre
“She didn’t say much but she said it loud.” That’s Eva Peron (1919–1952) as assessed by nemesis Che Guevara during the prologue of Evita. But as it happens, the accusation of saying very little, very loudly has dogged the Andrew Lloyd Webber–Tim Rice through-sung tuner ever since it emerged as a concept album in 1976, sweeping Broadway’s Tonys two years later. Last fall’s revival production helmed by British wunderkind Michael Grandage was greeted with some critical indifference; but that version, now on tour at the Pantages, is unquestionably triumphant. If the show has the reputation of a lavish but empty songfest, then a stellar cast and canny theatricality redeem it.
That’s not to say the musical numbers are disappointing or secondary to the overall effect. Indeed, this could be the strongest singing-and-dancing ensemble to have visited our city in many years, those talents serving to embody the madness that was Peronism. “A New Argentina” brings the house (and act one curtain) down with full-throated revolutionary fervor, just as Eva’s mad philanthropy whips her descamisados—“the shirtless ones,” the mob—into a dizzying frenzy for “And the Money Keeps Rolling In.”
Nevertheless, the numbers are shaped for storytelling, not for stopping the show. Watch, for instance, during the first big dance number, “Buenos Aires,” how new arrival Eva apes in turn the moves of the three groups who will so impact her life (the well-to-do, the military, the peasants), easily joining each until she winds up leading them all. Rob Ashford can usually be depended on for superior choreography, but he far outdoes himself here.
Because Grandage and Ashford focus on personalities over spectacle, this Evita never devolves into the usual series of disconnected set pieces, the numbers skipping along like recording tracks. Eva’s megalomania comes through loud, yes, but also loud and clear. There’s an unprecedented fluency in the narrative as the legendary street gamine manipulates her way, through sheer force of will, into movie stardom, political power, and eventually virtual sainthood.
There are only three in the principal cast, all sensational. Caroline Bowman keeps a genuine interior life going as Evita, reflected in bearing, attitude, and a streak of humor I can’t recall seeing in the role before. Her way with a ballad is eclipsed only by her belt, her shifts between the two thrillingly analogous to the means by which the real-life Peron played her people like a pipe organ. Similarly, by applying a veneer of oily glad-handedness over a core of solid steel, Sean MacLaughlin conveys without words her consort Peron’s lifelong knack for being the last strongman standing.
Josh Young’s Che occupies an intriguing middle ground between jacked-up fanatic and bland, omniscient observer. Our narrator-companion is savvy to the Perons’ con game, sure. But he can’t help but be fascinated by it and even—of all things—retains slim hope that maybe, just maybe, their plan for the nation might pan out. That blend of cynicism and innocence keeps the character alive and alert throughout. And man, can this guy sing.
The last 20 minutes, truth be told, are a bit of a drag, as Grandage allows the tempo to flag and his cast to strain into sentimentality and near-idealization. But maybe that’s just the spirit of damnable Eva at work. It would be just like her to bring anyone who would anatomize her irresistibly under her spell.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 25, 2013
October 25, 2013
Sunny Afternoon
Gangbusters Theatre Company in association with Combined Artform at Theatre Asylum
Just as we are about to observe the 50th anniversary of the JFK assassination and considering the much-discussed newly published book The Kennedy Half-Century, which claims to blow all conspiracy theories out of the water, playwright Christian Levatino’s Gangbusters Theatre Company debuts the world premiere of his Sunny Afternoon, an engrossing work of historical fiction—or is it fictionalized history?—that proposes a whole new supposition about the still-controversial death of our 35th president.
Taking place in a cluttered, sparsely grim police interrogation room directly after the arrest of Lee Harvey Oswald (Andy Hirsch) in a Dallas movie theater, Sunny Afternoon speculates about the unrecorded 48 hours that he remained in the custody of real-life Police Captain William Fritz (Darrett Sanders) as he tried to use his Ben Johnson–esque good-ol’-boy persona to pry concrete answers out of Oswald before he was to be transferred into federal custody.
Under Levatino’s direction, the ensemble cast is uniformly excellent. Sanders is particularly arresting (no pun intended), mining a down-home cowboy “aw-shucks” charm as a guy obviously more upset about a cancelled football game and intent on making sure his Chinese food delivery includes wings than he is interested in questioning the man seated across from him accused of one of the most infamous crimes in history. Sanders nails Fritz with veteran ease, understanding Levatino's intent to make Fritz likable until the coldblooded and unfeeling nature of his quest overshadows his easygoing allure. There are wonderful, juicily scripted moments provided for most of the cast members, especially the heart-clutching histrionics of Gil Glasgow as Dallas Police Chief Jesse Curry, Justin Welborn as the swaggering but diminutive Assistant DA Bill Alexander, Janellen Steininger as Postal Inspector H.D. Holmes, and Mark St. Amant as possibly sinister 11th-hour surprise visitor Howard Hunt—yes, that Howard Hunt, one of Richard Nixon’s White House plumbers who claimed on his deathbed he had been approached by the CIA to help engineer the assassination of Kennedy.
Levatino’s knack for creating rich characters and clever dialogue—not to mention casting exceptional actors to interpret his vision—makes it possible to suspend belief in knowing historically how this sunny afternoon a half-century ago turned out. Even as the play rushes through 90 minutes of tense confrontations and chest-butting among between a roomful of testosterone-laden Texans calling dibs before what we all know will be the inevitable conclusion, Levatino’s deliciously perverse final twist is a knockout sure to flabbergast even the heartiest Kennedy assassination theoreticians.
Gangbusters Theatre Company in association with Combined Artform at Theatre Asylum
Just as we are about to observe the 50th anniversary of the JFK assassination and considering the much-discussed newly published book The Kennedy Half-Century, which claims to blow all conspiracy theories out of the water, playwright Christian Levatino’s Gangbusters Theatre Company debuts the world premiere of his Sunny Afternoon, an engrossing work of historical fiction—or is it fictionalized history?—that proposes a whole new supposition about the still-controversial death of our 35th president.
Taking place in a cluttered, sparsely grim police interrogation room directly after the arrest of Lee Harvey Oswald (Andy Hirsch) in a Dallas movie theater, Sunny Afternoon speculates about the unrecorded 48 hours that he remained in the custody of real-life Police Captain William Fritz (Darrett Sanders) as he tried to use his Ben Johnson–esque good-ol’-boy persona to pry concrete answers out of Oswald before he was to be transferred into federal custody.
Under Levatino’s direction, the ensemble cast is uniformly excellent. Sanders is particularly arresting (no pun intended), mining a down-home cowboy “aw-shucks” charm as a guy obviously more upset about a cancelled football game and intent on making sure his Chinese food delivery includes wings than he is interested in questioning the man seated across from him accused of one of the most infamous crimes in history. Sanders nails Fritz with veteran ease, understanding Levatino's intent to make Fritz likable until the coldblooded and unfeeling nature of his quest overshadows his easygoing allure. There are wonderful, juicily scripted moments provided for most of the cast members, especially the heart-clutching histrionics of Gil Glasgow as Dallas Police Chief Jesse Curry, Justin Welborn as the swaggering but diminutive Assistant DA Bill Alexander, Janellen Steininger as Postal Inspector H.D. Holmes, and Mark St. Amant as possibly sinister 11th-hour surprise visitor Howard Hunt—yes, that Howard Hunt, one of Richard Nixon’s White House plumbers who claimed on his deathbed he had been approached by the CIA to help engineer the assassination of Kennedy.
Levatino’s knack for creating rich characters and clever dialogue—not to mention casting exceptional actors to interpret his vision—makes it possible to suspend belief in knowing historically how this sunny afternoon a half-century ago turned out. Even as the play rushes through 90 minutes of tense confrontations and chest-butting among between a roomful of testosterone-laden Texans calling dibs before what we all know will be the inevitable conclusion, Levatino’s deliciously perverse final twist is a knockout sure to flabbergast even the heartiest Kennedy assassination theoreticians.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 24, 2013
October 24, 2013
The Old Settler
JVO Productions in association with InterACT Theatre Company at Pico Playhouse
Fine actors well-cast in juicy roles: That’s all a large number of theatergoers demand in the way of theatrical pleasure, and John Henry Redwood’s The Old Settler at the Pico Playhouse will amply reward them. While this nostalgic sentimental journey set in World War II–era Harlem is no great shakes as a play, it offers a quartet of thesps plenty of opportunities to strut their stuff with conviction and emotional variety.
The mood and situation are reminiscent of Paddy Chayefsky’s output back in the Philco Playhouse days: highly charged character studies of the lower-middle class denied love and starving for it. If you have fond memories of Ernest Borgnine as Marty, the gentle butcher who looked ahead into middle age with no intimacy and no prospects, you’ll bond with domestic Bessie Borny (Ruby Hinds) as relations with her young boarder from down South (John R. Davidson) gradually progress from formality to guarded intimacy to…can it really be love? Not if his down-home gal (Crystal Garrett), now jazzing it up at the Apollo, has anything to say about it—let alone Bessie’s sister, Quilly (Jolie Oliver), nosy, on the premises, and ever-ready to bring up old bad blood.
These folks are all types, and not very deeply etched types at that. But when actors are ready, willing, and able to invest types with understanding and depth, the predictability and basic plot tension of something like The Old Settler are almost comforting. You can sit back and wallow in their joys and grieving, engaged yet confident that you’re never going to be truly disturbed.
Again, the cast makes all the difference. If Davidson is a tad too motor-mouthed for a country fish out of water, and if Garrett neglects to find anything sympathetic or vulnerable in her hard-hearted floozy, both nevertheless glow with performance energy and purpose.
Oliver is particularly effective in shifting between her functions as comedy relief and sometime antagonist, and the believable dynamic between her and Hinds takes full advantage of their differences in vocal timbre, stature, and rhythm. Oliver apparently took on producing this piece as a showcase for herself and Hinds. Good on her if that’s so, for the roles suit them well and show them off impressively, just as a showcase ought to do.
Helmer William Stanford Davis has a handle on the details of time and place, and he keeps things zipping along.
JVO Productions in association with InterACT Theatre Company at Pico Playhouse
Fine actors well-cast in juicy roles: That’s all a large number of theatergoers demand in the way of theatrical pleasure, and John Henry Redwood’s The Old Settler at the Pico Playhouse will amply reward them. While this nostalgic sentimental journey set in World War II–era Harlem is no great shakes as a play, it offers a quartet of thesps plenty of opportunities to strut their stuff with conviction and emotional variety.
The mood and situation are reminiscent of Paddy Chayefsky’s output back in the Philco Playhouse days: highly charged character studies of the lower-middle class denied love and starving for it. If you have fond memories of Ernest Borgnine as Marty, the gentle butcher who looked ahead into middle age with no intimacy and no prospects, you’ll bond with domestic Bessie Borny (Ruby Hinds) as relations with her young boarder from down South (John R. Davidson) gradually progress from formality to guarded intimacy to…can it really be love? Not if his down-home gal (Crystal Garrett), now jazzing it up at the Apollo, has anything to say about it—let alone Bessie’s sister, Quilly (Jolie Oliver), nosy, on the premises, and ever-ready to bring up old bad blood.
These folks are all types, and not very deeply etched types at that. But when actors are ready, willing, and able to invest types with understanding and depth, the predictability and basic plot tension of something like The Old Settler are almost comforting. You can sit back and wallow in their joys and grieving, engaged yet confident that you’re never going to be truly disturbed.
Again, the cast makes all the difference. If Davidson is a tad too motor-mouthed for a country fish out of water, and if Garrett neglects to find anything sympathetic or vulnerable in her hard-hearted floozy, both nevertheless glow with performance energy and purpose.
Oliver is particularly effective in shifting between her functions as comedy relief and sometime antagonist, and the believable dynamic between her and Hinds takes full advantage of their differences in vocal timbre, stature, and rhythm. Oliver apparently took on producing this piece as a showcase for herself and Hinds. Good on her if that’s so, for the roles suit them well and show them off impressively, just as a showcase ought to do.
Helmer William Stanford Davis has a handle on the details of time and place, and he keeps things zipping along.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 22, 2013
October 22, 2013
Don’t
Dress for Dinner
International City Theatre
For all the purported sexual sophistication attributed to the French, Marc Camoletti’s cheeky farce about a married couple’s “liaisons dangereuses” at a French country house is less daring and more conventional than one might expect. Still, its romantic machinations make for amusing moments.
Written in the 1980s but set in the ’60s when American women were being instructed by Cosmopolitan magazine in the fine art of seduction, and London’s Carnaby Street was the world’s model for trendy mini skirts and swinging clubs, Camoletti’s Boeing Boeing and this play were part of the new hip, broad-minded openness about sex.
Jacqueline (Amie Farrell) has planned a trip to visit her mother, leaving husband Bernard (Greg Derelian) home alone for the weekend, so she thinks. Taking advantage of this domestic respite, Bernard has planned to have his mistress Suzanne (Afton Quast) visit in Jacqueline’s absence. Unfortunately for him, his wife intercepts a phone message from an employment service confirming the imminent arrival of a cook, Suzette (Karen Jean Olds). A subsequent phone call from Bernard’s friend Robert (Michael Wrather) sets Jacqueline’s heart aflutter as it becomes clear from Jacqueline’s manner that the two are having an affair, and Robert will also be coming for the weekend.
Naturally, Jacqueline plans on staying and cancels her trip to her mother’s. As the visitors begin arriving, complications pile on complications as the story unfolds. Hint: Suzy/Suzette/Suzanne cause helpful identity misunderstandings.
Standouts in the production are Olds as Suzette and Wrather as Robert. Both have mastered the studied reaction and comic timing helpful in this kind of farce. Olds, particularly, is a gifted comedienne who grabs the best laughs of the night. Also humorous is a quirky performance by Michael Cusimano, with a terrible French accent, as Suzette’s jealous husband. It might be noted that accents, in general, in the production could use a bit of work.
Director Todd Nielsen’s pacing helps preserve the silliness and coincidences necessary for the improbable storyline. Jack Jones’s “Wives and Lovers” and assorted bossa nova pieces executed by sound designer Dave Mickey also provide the backdrop for the risqué situations.
JR Bruce’s comfortable scenic design of pink and aqua pastels lighted by Donna Ruzika gives a nod to the French romantic influence. Though husband and wife are intoxicated by the prospect of having an opportunity for time with their lovers, when each spouse learns the truth, each feels betrayed and reacts with dismay. The resolution is a nifty piece of writing.
Camoletti’s play, here adapted by Robin Hawdon, is an airy, lightweight piece of fluff. Knowing that, it is easy to sit back, allow yourself to eschew the often disillusioning news of the day, and laugh.
International City Theatre
For all the purported sexual sophistication attributed to the French, Marc Camoletti’s cheeky farce about a married couple’s “liaisons dangereuses” at a French country house is less daring and more conventional than one might expect. Still, its romantic machinations make for amusing moments.
Written in the 1980s but set in the ’60s when American women were being instructed by Cosmopolitan magazine in the fine art of seduction, and London’s Carnaby Street was the world’s model for trendy mini skirts and swinging clubs, Camoletti’s Boeing Boeing and this play were part of the new hip, broad-minded openness about sex.
Jacqueline (Amie Farrell) has planned a trip to visit her mother, leaving husband Bernard (Greg Derelian) home alone for the weekend, so she thinks. Taking advantage of this domestic respite, Bernard has planned to have his mistress Suzanne (Afton Quast) visit in Jacqueline’s absence. Unfortunately for him, his wife intercepts a phone message from an employment service confirming the imminent arrival of a cook, Suzette (Karen Jean Olds). A subsequent phone call from Bernard’s friend Robert (Michael Wrather) sets Jacqueline’s heart aflutter as it becomes clear from Jacqueline’s manner that the two are having an affair, and Robert will also be coming for the weekend.
Naturally, Jacqueline plans on staying and cancels her trip to her mother’s. As the visitors begin arriving, complications pile on complications as the story unfolds. Hint: Suzy/Suzette/Suzanne cause helpful identity misunderstandings.
Standouts in the production are Olds as Suzette and Wrather as Robert. Both have mastered the studied reaction and comic timing helpful in this kind of farce. Olds, particularly, is a gifted comedienne who grabs the best laughs of the night. Also humorous is a quirky performance by Michael Cusimano, with a terrible French accent, as Suzette’s jealous husband. It might be noted that accents, in general, in the production could use a bit of work.
Director Todd Nielsen’s pacing helps preserve the silliness and coincidences necessary for the improbable storyline. Jack Jones’s “Wives and Lovers” and assorted bossa nova pieces executed by sound designer Dave Mickey also provide the backdrop for the risqué situations.
JR Bruce’s comfortable scenic design of pink and aqua pastels lighted by Donna Ruzika gives a nod to the French romantic influence. Though husband and wife are intoxicated by the prospect of having an opportunity for time with their lovers, when each spouse learns the truth, each feels betrayed and reacts with dismay. The resolution is a nifty piece of writing.
Camoletti’s play, here adapted by Robin Hawdon, is an airy, lightweight piece of fluff. Knowing that, it is easy to sit back, allow yourself to eschew the often disillusioning news of the day, and laugh.
Reviewed by Melinda
Schupmann
October 21, 2013
October 21, 2013
Wait Until Dark
Gil Cates Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Suspense and suspension hallmark this sleek production. At the play’s climax, on opening night, no breathing could be heard among the audience members. No one shifted in his seat, no one crinkled her program, no critic dared jot down a note. Suspense reigned. At the top of the play however, one must suspend disbelief, giving up all thoughts of “natural” or “expected” behavior. The earlier each viewer passes that tipping point, the more immersive this theatergoing experience will be for that viewer.
Frederick Knott’s 1966 play, turned into a film the following year, is so well-known, its mere existence could constitute a spoiler for this world-premiere adaptation, by Jeffrey Hatcher. The bone structure is the same—a blind woman confronts the criminals who invade her home—but the finer features are given a softer, more classic, yet more feminist appearance. Hatcher sets his version 20 years earlier than Knott’s, but the language suits today’s ears—including, somewhat startlingly, the dropping of an f-bomb at the play’s climax.
Matt Shakman directs, creating a memorably powerful sense of impending terror. From the first slash of light at the front door to the last flicker of a matchstick, Shakman gets the audience into the mood to be scared. He does so through fine actors who create believable characters and through the work of outstanding designers—including Craig Siebels’s steep apartment (the stage raked to improve sightlines), Elizabeth Harper’s sienna lighting that pinpoints flashing knives, and Jonathan Snipes’s ominous sound design and foreboding music.
But the theatergoing mind might need a bit of coaxing back into the forgiveness the genre requires, considering the improbable activities onstage. At the top of Hatcher’s script, two brutes invade the darkened apartment. The two readily find their way around a stranger’s abode, in one case homing in on a light switch in the kitchen and in another case casually switching on a table lamp as if he’d lived there for years.
Two actors playing the thugs certainly chill the audience’s blood: Rod McLachlan as the slightly bumbling Carlino and Adam Stein as the enormously creepy Roat. However, we might wonder how they knew the apartment’s tenant, Susan (known as Susy in the original play and the movie), would be blind and thus not see one of them as he stood at the foot of her stairs. And how did Roat know Susan’s husband’s phone number, let alone bother to memorize it? Additionally, much as we try to remain immersed in the story, we might observe that although rain pours outside throughout the entire play, only one person is wet when he comes inside.
Susan’s blindness is fortunately quickly apparent to the audience. Alison Pill plays the blindness with great technique, adding on period speech cadences and enunciation, plus welcome sturdiness and independence. Pill makes the newly blinded Susan proud to be blind, a challenge she’ll damn-well conquer. And so she stays relatively calm on the outside, focused and calculating on the inside, as the play’s events roll onward.
Setting the play in 1944 also helps explain why the seemingly savvy Susan would so readily let a stranger into her home. That “good-cop,” Mike, is a soldier here, claiming to have been “attached to the same unit” as Susan’s husband. Playing Mike, Mather Zickel gives no spoilers away and thus smoothly delivers the shocker at the end of Act One.
Knott’s and Hatcher’s work lets the womenfolk be the crime-solvers and the brawn. Susan’s young neighbor, the rebellious Gloria who helps save the day, gets a great portrayal by young Brighid Fleming, part comedic and part tender, definitely awkwardly adolescent. And, when at the play’s end the blind Susan heads straight for the arms of her devoted but not doting husband, Sam (Matt McTighe in a well-modulated performance), she proves she can indeed do anything.
Gil Cates Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Suspense and suspension hallmark this sleek production. At the play’s climax, on opening night, no breathing could be heard among the audience members. No one shifted in his seat, no one crinkled her program, no critic dared jot down a note. Suspense reigned. At the top of the play however, one must suspend disbelief, giving up all thoughts of “natural” or “expected” behavior. The earlier each viewer passes that tipping point, the more immersive this theatergoing experience will be for that viewer.
Frederick Knott’s 1966 play, turned into a film the following year, is so well-known, its mere existence could constitute a spoiler for this world-premiere adaptation, by Jeffrey Hatcher. The bone structure is the same—a blind woman confronts the criminals who invade her home—but the finer features are given a softer, more classic, yet more feminist appearance. Hatcher sets his version 20 years earlier than Knott’s, but the language suits today’s ears—including, somewhat startlingly, the dropping of an f-bomb at the play’s climax.
Matt Shakman directs, creating a memorably powerful sense of impending terror. From the first slash of light at the front door to the last flicker of a matchstick, Shakman gets the audience into the mood to be scared. He does so through fine actors who create believable characters and through the work of outstanding designers—including Craig Siebels’s steep apartment (the stage raked to improve sightlines), Elizabeth Harper’s sienna lighting that pinpoints flashing knives, and Jonathan Snipes’s ominous sound design and foreboding music.
But the theatergoing mind might need a bit of coaxing back into the forgiveness the genre requires, considering the improbable activities onstage. At the top of Hatcher’s script, two brutes invade the darkened apartment. The two readily find their way around a stranger’s abode, in one case homing in on a light switch in the kitchen and in another case casually switching on a table lamp as if he’d lived there for years.
Two actors playing the thugs certainly chill the audience’s blood: Rod McLachlan as the slightly bumbling Carlino and Adam Stein as the enormously creepy Roat. However, we might wonder how they knew the apartment’s tenant, Susan (known as Susy in the original play and the movie), would be blind and thus not see one of them as he stood at the foot of her stairs. And how did Roat know Susan’s husband’s phone number, let alone bother to memorize it? Additionally, much as we try to remain immersed in the story, we might observe that although rain pours outside throughout the entire play, only one person is wet when he comes inside.
Susan’s blindness is fortunately quickly apparent to the audience. Alison Pill plays the blindness with great technique, adding on period speech cadences and enunciation, plus welcome sturdiness and independence. Pill makes the newly blinded Susan proud to be blind, a challenge she’ll damn-well conquer. And so she stays relatively calm on the outside, focused and calculating on the inside, as the play’s events roll onward.
Setting the play in 1944 also helps explain why the seemingly savvy Susan would so readily let a stranger into her home. That “good-cop,” Mike, is a soldier here, claiming to have been “attached to the same unit” as Susan’s husband. Playing Mike, Mather Zickel gives no spoilers away and thus smoothly delivers the shocker at the end of Act One.
Knott’s and Hatcher’s work lets the womenfolk be the crime-solvers and the brawn. Susan’s young neighbor, the rebellious Gloria who helps save the day, gets a great portrayal by young Brighid Fleming, part comedic and part tender, definitely awkwardly adolescent. And, when at the play’s end the blind Susan heads straight for the arms of her devoted but not doting husband, Sam (Matt McTighe in a well-modulated performance), she proves she can indeed do anything.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 20, 2013
October 20, 2013
Totem
Cirque du Soleil at Port of Los Angeles
Themes are generally reserved for Cirque du Soleil’s permanent presentations in Las Vegas: Past and present shows that helped reinvent the Strip commemorated Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, and the music of The Beatles. Other popular forever attractions there orbit the magic of Criss Angel and offer a randy celebration of human sexuality, while two others feature a vast pool of water and a belching pit of fire in the place where a stage would normally be. Seldom have any of the Cirque’s unique touring productions revolved around one leitmotif, especially anything as all-encompassing as the evolution of mankind. Such an undertaking is Totem, which has pitched its famous blue-and-yellow tent at the harbor in San Pedro in the shadow of the city-sized U.S.S. Iowa.
Written and directed by Stephen Lapage, Totem traces the journey of man’s transformation from the amphibiotic fish and frog stage, with acrobats accomplishing unearthly feats on an enormous bone-like jungle gym as they crane their necks and flick their tongues like giant flexible reptiles, all the way to today, where cowabunga-y surfer boys in colorful jams and oversized Day-Glo sunglasses dream of flying with the birds—and of course, in the enchanted worlds of Cirque du Soleil, succeed.
Carl Fillion’s vast and mysterious set looks like a moonlit bog, until a section known as the Scorpion Bridge rises hydraulically between sections to become, with the help of gorgeously realistic projections: a lake, a pulsating ocean, a cold Icelandic vista, a fiery volcanic eruption, and a starry sky (culled from photographs taken by Cirque founder Guy Laliberté during his time aboard the International Space Station).
Of course, the participants do all things Cirque, from a showstopping sensual and gravity-defying trapeze pas de deux high above our heads to a troupe of riders on unicycles balancing and transferring metal bowls with their feet onto their cohorts’ heads. Perhaps the most arresting and emotionally affecting moments come from an amazingly majestic Amerindian hoop dancer, who recalls our nation’s overlooked history, surrounded by members of various tribes beating their drums and symbolizing the endless circle of life on our planet.
Characters include a scientist who often enters with his simian assistant (a nimble performer in a highly realistic monkey suit), obviously symbolizing Charles Darwin. There is also the omnipresent figure who occasionally descends headfirst from the highest point in the tent to spark new transformation, resembling a human disco ball as slashing spectrums of light radiate from his body in costumer Kym Barrett’s crystal-emblazoned leotard.
Totem takes us on a thrillingly seductive signature journey that lands somewhere between science and myth, speaking to us in a universally artistic and acrobatic language that exemplifies our deepest dream state and challenges us by revealing our inestimable potential to be even greater and more evolved than we are.
Cirque du Soleil at Port of Los Angeles
Themes are generally reserved for Cirque du Soleil’s permanent presentations in Las Vegas: Past and present shows that helped reinvent the Strip commemorated Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, and the music of The Beatles. Other popular forever attractions there orbit the magic of Criss Angel and offer a randy celebration of human sexuality, while two others feature a vast pool of water and a belching pit of fire in the place where a stage would normally be. Seldom have any of the Cirque’s unique touring productions revolved around one leitmotif, especially anything as all-encompassing as the evolution of mankind. Such an undertaking is Totem, which has pitched its famous blue-and-yellow tent at the harbor in San Pedro in the shadow of the city-sized U.S.S. Iowa.
Written and directed by Stephen Lapage, Totem traces the journey of man’s transformation from the amphibiotic fish and frog stage, with acrobats accomplishing unearthly feats on an enormous bone-like jungle gym as they crane their necks and flick their tongues like giant flexible reptiles, all the way to today, where cowabunga-y surfer boys in colorful jams and oversized Day-Glo sunglasses dream of flying with the birds—and of course, in the enchanted worlds of Cirque du Soleil, succeed.
Carl Fillion’s vast and mysterious set looks like a moonlit bog, until a section known as the Scorpion Bridge rises hydraulically between sections to become, with the help of gorgeously realistic projections: a lake, a pulsating ocean, a cold Icelandic vista, a fiery volcanic eruption, and a starry sky (culled from photographs taken by Cirque founder Guy Laliberté during his time aboard the International Space Station).
Of course, the participants do all things Cirque, from a showstopping sensual and gravity-defying trapeze pas de deux high above our heads to a troupe of riders on unicycles balancing and transferring metal bowls with their feet onto their cohorts’ heads. Perhaps the most arresting and emotionally affecting moments come from an amazingly majestic Amerindian hoop dancer, who recalls our nation’s overlooked history, surrounded by members of various tribes beating their drums and symbolizing the endless circle of life on our planet.
Characters include a scientist who often enters with his simian assistant (a nimble performer in a highly realistic monkey suit), obviously symbolizing Charles Darwin. There is also the omnipresent figure who occasionally descends headfirst from the highest point in the tent to spark new transformation, resembling a human disco ball as slashing spectrums of light radiate from his body in costumer Kym Barrett’s crystal-emblazoned leotard.
Totem takes us on a thrillingly seductive signature journey that lands somewhere between science and myth, speaking to us in a universally artistic and acrobatic language that exemplifies our deepest dream state and challenges us by revealing our inestimable potential to be even greater and more evolved than we are.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 17, 2013
October 17, 2013
The Liar
Antaeus Theatre
This production is a buoyant treat from first to last. Full disclosure, this is coming from someone with a lifelong antipathy to mistaken-identity plots—you know, the ones in which one opportune word from a character would set everything right immediately, but that word is arbitrarily withheld until the 11th hour. That’s exactly how David Ives’s rhymed couplet version of a 1644 Corneille play operates, and yet such is the magic of this production that it never feels labored.
Our dashing hero Dorante (Graham Hamilton in the “Cherries” cast in this double-cast production) has not one but two Achilles heels in his quest to hit upon fortune and romance in beau monde Paris: reckless impulsiveness, and a congenital disinclination to truth-telling. The former has him assume that given two first names, the woman of his dreams must be called Lucrece rather than Clarice—cf. tedious identity confusions, above—while the latter trait causes him to muck everything else up despite the best endeavors of cynical servant Cliton (Brian Staten).
Clearly this is commedia dell’arte stuff, a fact that Ives emphasizes through self-conscious asides on “this is only a play,” and that director Casey Stangl exploits with controlled tomfoolery and audience participation. Tech elements are solidly professional and eye-pleasing, creating a blithe air wholly appropriate to the textual goings-on.
On press night, some of the “Cherries” comedy suffered from muddy execution—that will surely work itself out in time, irrespective of what goes on with the “Tangerines” cast on alternate nights—but happily, three key performances avoided a bunch of deadly traps.
The play requires a Dorante totally committed to mendacity yet capable of an act of sincere 11th hour repentance, as inspired by father Geronte, who could be easily tossed away as a bumbling Pantalone. Hamilton’s classical training and apparently innate sense of whimsy put both halves of our hero in splendid hands, while Robert Pine earns Geronte’s laughs yet maintains the moral authority to bring the audience to a hush when he gives his son his deserved late-inning what-for.
Moreover, a show like The Liar needs at least one reliable, dazzling farceur or farceuse on the premises, and the “Cherries”’ cherry atop the sundae is Karen Malina White as our heroines’ twin maids. The lady careens between impish Isabelle and severe Sabine with total concentration, nary an eyebrow raised, and she kills every time in two of the funniest performances I’ve seen on any LA stage this year.
Antaeus Theatre
This production is a buoyant treat from first to last. Full disclosure, this is coming from someone with a lifelong antipathy to mistaken-identity plots—you know, the ones in which one opportune word from a character would set everything right immediately, but that word is arbitrarily withheld until the 11th hour. That’s exactly how David Ives’s rhymed couplet version of a 1644 Corneille play operates, and yet such is the magic of this production that it never feels labored.
Our dashing hero Dorante (Graham Hamilton in the “Cherries” cast in this double-cast production) has not one but two Achilles heels in his quest to hit upon fortune and romance in beau monde Paris: reckless impulsiveness, and a congenital disinclination to truth-telling. The former has him assume that given two first names, the woman of his dreams must be called Lucrece rather than Clarice—cf. tedious identity confusions, above—while the latter trait causes him to muck everything else up despite the best endeavors of cynical servant Cliton (Brian Staten).
Clearly this is commedia dell’arte stuff, a fact that Ives emphasizes through self-conscious asides on “this is only a play,” and that director Casey Stangl exploits with controlled tomfoolery and audience participation. Tech elements are solidly professional and eye-pleasing, creating a blithe air wholly appropriate to the textual goings-on.
On press night, some of the “Cherries” comedy suffered from muddy execution—that will surely work itself out in time, irrespective of what goes on with the “Tangerines” cast on alternate nights—but happily, three key performances avoided a bunch of deadly traps.
The play requires a Dorante totally committed to mendacity yet capable of an act of sincere 11th hour repentance, as inspired by father Geronte, who could be easily tossed away as a bumbling Pantalone. Hamilton’s classical training and apparently innate sense of whimsy put both halves of our hero in splendid hands, while Robert Pine earns Geronte’s laughs yet maintains the moral authority to bring the audience to a hush when he gives his son his deserved late-inning what-for.
Moreover, a show like The Liar needs at least one reliable, dazzling farceur or farceuse on the premises, and the “Cherries”’ cherry atop the sundae is Karen Malina White as our heroines’ twin maids. The lady careens between impish Isabelle and severe Sabine with total concentration, nary an eyebrow raised, and she kills every time in two of the funniest performances I’ve seen on any LA stage this year.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 16, 2013
October 16, 2013
Creditors
The Odyssey Theatre & The New American Theatre at Odyssey Theatre
Gustav (Jack Stehlin) had his happy life ripped from him, years earlier, when his youthful wife Tekla (Heather Anne Prete) cast him off for successful young artist Adolph (Burt Grinstead). Now, Gustav has invaded the Swedish seaside hotel where he and Tekla once honeymooned and where his former wife and her current husband are now vacationing. Gustav methodically sets out to extract payback for what was taken from him and he is demanding interest: the destruction of two lives for his one. A co-production of Odyssey Theatre and New American Theatre, the LA premiere of David Greig’s new translation of August Strindberg’s 1888 psycho-drama Creditors, helmed by David Trainer, offers a surgically precise yet emotion-rending study in psychological assassination with a touch of dark humor thrown in. On the minus side, this is not a fair fight. Then again, Strindberg did not instill enough humanity in these people to care who wins or loses. It’s the action that counts.
Set in 1888, the opening scene finds Adolph quite ill, confiding in Gustav in the lounge of the hotel, unaware that he is speaking to his wife’s former husband. He only knows he has found a willing, sympathetic ear on which to unload his marital concerns and doubts about Tekla’s dominating nature with him and her openly flirtatious manner with other men, especially younger men. Grinstead’s Adolph believably gushes at what he believes to be sage advice from this worldly gentleman who has been kind enough to give of his time and attention.
Unfortunately, Strindberg provides Gustav—portrayed with cold-blooded, cobra-like precision by Stehlin—with an overabundance of weapons to inflict on woefully susceptible Adolph. While sympathetically musing, “Life offers a thousand means by which we can hurt each other,” Gustav is declaring what his intentions are toward Adolph and Tekla. By the scene’s end, Gustav has reduced the younger man to a state of palsied hysteria, inhaling Gustav’s every malevolent thought and suggestion, even promising to give up sexual relations with his own wife.
What Gustav does not predict is Tekla’s commanding hold on him. Sweeping into the lounge with beaming certainty, Prete’s Tekla imperiously projects the quickly shifting agendas and priorities of a socially liberated woman who innately knows she is emotionally superior to the men who believe they can control her destiny. Her only weakness is her deep-rooted sense of guilt at having abandoned Gustav, which allows her former husband to wedge himself back into her affections and possibly her bed.
Trainer underscores the authenticity of this godless ménage à trois, bereft of free will and any true feelings for their fellow human inhabitants on earth. As Gustav points out, real feelings evolve into emotional indebtedness, and indebtedness breeds creditors. While Gustav is in mid seduction, Tekla cries out, “I feel you’re trying to steal my soul.” Gustav coldly replies, “There is no soul.” Tekla answers, “I know, I know, I know.” Indeed!
The Odyssey Theatre & The New American Theatre at Odyssey Theatre
Gustav (Jack Stehlin) had his happy life ripped from him, years earlier, when his youthful wife Tekla (Heather Anne Prete) cast him off for successful young artist Adolph (Burt Grinstead). Now, Gustav has invaded the Swedish seaside hotel where he and Tekla once honeymooned and where his former wife and her current husband are now vacationing. Gustav methodically sets out to extract payback for what was taken from him and he is demanding interest: the destruction of two lives for his one. A co-production of Odyssey Theatre and New American Theatre, the LA premiere of David Greig’s new translation of August Strindberg’s 1888 psycho-drama Creditors, helmed by David Trainer, offers a surgically precise yet emotion-rending study in psychological assassination with a touch of dark humor thrown in. On the minus side, this is not a fair fight. Then again, Strindberg did not instill enough humanity in these people to care who wins or loses. It’s the action that counts.
Set in 1888, the opening scene finds Adolph quite ill, confiding in Gustav in the lounge of the hotel, unaware that he is speaking to his wife’s former husband. He only knows he has found a willing, sympathetic ear on which to unload his marital concerns and doubts about Tekla’s dominating nature with him and her openly flirtatious manner with other men, especially younger men. Grinstead’s Adolph believably gushes at what he believes to be sage advice from this worldly gentleman who has been kind enough to give of his time and attention.
Unfortunately, Strindberg provides Gustav—portrayed with cold-blooded, cobra-like precision by Stehlin—with an overabundance of weapons to inflict on woefully susceptible Adolph. While sympathetically musing, “Life offers a thousand means by which we can hurt each other,” Gustav is declaring what his intentions are toward Adolph and Tekla. By the scene’s end, Gustav has reduced the younger man to a state of palsied hysteria, inhaling Gustav’s every malevolent thought and suggestion, even promising to give up sexual relations with his own wife.
What Gustav does not predict is Tekla’s commanding hold on him. Sweeping into the lounge with beaming certainty, Prete’s Tekla imperiously projects the quickly shifting agendas and priorities of a socially liberated woman who innately knows she is emotionally superior to the men who believe they can control her destiny. Her only weakness is her deep-rooted sense of guilt at having abandoned Gustav, which allows her former husband to wedge himself back into her affections and possibly her bed.
Trainer underscores the authenticity of this godless ménage à trois, bereft of free will and any true feelings for their fellow human inhabitants on earth. As Gustav points out, real feelings evolve into emotional indebtedness, and indebtedness breeds creditors. While Gustav is in mid seduction, Tekla cries out, “I feel you’re trying to steal my soul.” Gustav coldly replies, “There is no soul.” Tekla answers, “I know, I know, I know.” Indeed!
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
October 15, 2013
October 15, 2013
Lake Anne
The Road on Magnolia
An unrelenting aura of sadness permeates playwright Marthe Rachel Gold’s sojourn within the challenged life of Anne (Laurie O’Brien), a widowed former prima ballerina dealing with the often chaotic behavior of her handicapped adult son Will (Alex Smith) and the potential loss of her beloved lakeside home in upstate New York. Even the positive machinations—a potential real estate deal that would save the homestead, a surgery that could save her son’s life, the offer from her mercurial danseur nephew Joe (Michael Traynor) to help her land a job with his ballet company—fail to evoke any sense of tangible thematic evolution even while they are occurring. Anne’s psyche is dwelling somewhere else. O’Brien projects the bottomless melancholy of an aging artist who knows that nothing in the present or the future can make up for what she had in the past.
Director John Frank Levey compensates for Gold’s imbedded moroseness with spritely paced staging, complemented by JR Bruce’s visually engrossing scenic design dominated by a realistic projected video of the family-owned lake that is Anne’s namesake. Acting as much-needed counterbalance to Anne’s lack of positive initiative is her practical and insightful sister-in-law, Emily, portrayed with an attractive, no-nonsense fervor by Laura Gardner.
Smith offers a hauntingly realistic portrayal of a palsy-inflicted man-child who painfully but relentlessly struggles to project his own sense of identity and purpose. As Laurie, the potential real estate investor who has the power to assuage Anne’s financial woes, Stephanie Michels offers the proper hint of imperious superiority as she calmly explains the reality of Anne’s situation.
A puzzling sequence in this work is an overly long impromptu ballet pas de deux danced by Anne and her 30-something nephew-by-marriage Joe, choreographed by Cate Caplin, suggesting this might be an important dramaturgical indicator. It isn’t. The ensuing heavily implied romantic/sexual tension belies playfulness between kin, indicating instead that Anne has no grasp on reality and is bordering on mental collapse. For his part, Traynor’s coquettish nephew offers validity to his mother Emily’s evaluation that he is incapable of taking responsibility for his actions.
Playwright Gold sets Anne on a thematic path that is predictable from the beginning; but it would have been much more satisfying if she had veered off to an alternative, more creative conclusion. Despite her innate self-centeredness and penchant for making poor choices, O’Brien’s Anne exhibits a basic intelligence and sense of humor that should enable her transcend her situation. Too bad Anne didn’t go there. It would have facilitated a more impressive debut outing for Road Theatre Company’s new 77-seat performance space in the NoHo Senior Arts Colony.
The Road on Magnolia
An unrelenting aura of sadness permeates playwright Marthe Rachel Gold’s sojourn within the challenged life of Anne (Laurie O’Brien), a widowed former prima ballerina dealing with the often chaotic behavior of her handicapped adult son Will (Alex Smith) and the potential loss of her beloved lakeside home in upstate New York. Even the positive machinations—a potential real estate deal that would save the homestead, a surgery that could save her son’s life, the offer from her mercurial danseur nephew Joe (Michael Traynor) to help her land a job with his ballet company—fail to evoke any sense of tangible thematic evolution even while they are occurring. Anne’s psyche is dwelling somewhere else. O’Brien projects the bottomless melancholy of an aging artist who knows that nothing in the present or the future can make up for what she had in the past.
Director John Frank Levey compensates for Gold’s imbedded moroseness with spritely paced staging, complemented by JR Bruce’s visually engrossing scenic design dominated by a realistic projected video of the family-owned lake that is Anne’s namesake. Acting as much-needed counterbalance to Anne’s lack of positive initiative is her practical and insightful sister-in-law, Emily, portrayed with an attractive, no-nonsense fervor by Laura Gardner.
Smith offers a hauntingly realistic portrayal of a palsy-inflicted man-child who painfully but relentlessly struggles to project his own sense of identity and purpose. As Laurie, the potential real estate investor who has the power to assuage Anne’s financial woes, Stephanie Michels offers the proper hint of imperious superiority as she calmly explains the reality of Anne’s situation.
A puzzling sequence in this work is an overly long impromptu ballet pas de deux danced by Anne and her 30-something nephew-by-marriage Joe, choreographed by Cate Caplin, suggesting this might be an important dramaturgical indicator. It isn’t. The ensuing heavily implied romantic/sexual tension belies playfulness between kin, indicating instead that Anne has no grasp on reality and is bordering on mental collapse. For his part, Traynor’s coquettish nephew offers validity to his mother Emily’s evaluation that he is incapable of taking responsibility for his actions.
Playwright Gold sets Anne on a thematic path that is predictable from the beginning; but it would have been much more satisfying if she had veered off to an alternative, more creative conclusion. Despite her innate self-centeredness and penchant for making poor choices, O’Brien’s Anne exhibits a basic intelligence and sense of humor that should enable her transcend her situation. Too bad Anne didn’t go there. It would have facilitated a more impressive debut outing for Road Theatre Company’s new 77-seat performance space in the NoHo Senior Arts Colony.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
October 13, 2013
October 13, 2013
Fallen Angels
Laguna Playhouse
Naughty wit and improbable liaisons were Sir Noël Coward’s staples in many of his most-famous works, and this 1925 charmer is full of the racy and sophisticated dialogue that audiences have come to expect. As in his oft-performed Private Lives, his characters are worldly and explore sexuality through the prism of society’s strictures.
Julia and Fred Sterroll (Colette Kilroy, Mike Ryan) are a predictably upper-crust couple, settled into a marriage without the passion Julia desires and Fred treats as an indisposition neatly tucked away. Their friends, Willy and Jane Banbury (Andrew Barnicle, Katie MacNichol), live in a flat above them and share their style of living. Julia and Jane have been friends since childhood and have a secret that is unknown to their husbands. Prior to their marriages, each woman had an affair with dashing Frenchman Maurice Duclos (J. Paul Boehmer), and he has sent a message that he is in town and wants to see them. Understandably excited and titillated by the prospect of seeing him again, they realize the peril it places on their current lives.
Thus sets the stage for a masterly bit of comic theatrics. MacNichol and Kilroy are pluperfect as the agitated and eager wives who explore their options: Should they leave town or stay to meet Duclos? In a classic scene, glamorously dressed and nervously choosing to await his arrival, they fortify themselves with champagne and become gloriously drunk in comically laudable theatrics. Adding equally droll delight to the proceedings is Mary-Pat Green as Saunders, the Sterrolls’ new maid. She is omnipresent throughout, offering advice, playing and singing at the piano, dispensing hangover remedies, and claiming employment in an increasingly funny set of occupations. Awfully close to stealing the show, it is a testament to the acting prowess of MacNichol and Kilroy that they hold their own.
Though the husbands hold diminished roles in the early part of the story, they emerge with farcical outrage near the end. Barnicle and Ryan are delightfully engaging in their roles. Boehmer, too, provides the flourish and necessary theatricality as the flamboyant inamorato.
Director Art Manke handles this play with a comic touch that Coward would have endorsed. His exceedingly physical choreography for the inebriated ladies is adroit and in keeping with their upper-class portrayals. It is stylish from start to finish. Setting the mood for the time period are David K. Mickelsen’s colorful costumes and Tom Buderwitz’s elegant set, lighted handsomely by Peter Maradudin. Composer Steven Cahill’s sound design and music throughout add to the charm of the play. A scene in which the spotlighted Green plays and sings at the piano while the set is being embellished during the first act is an unexpected delight.
Manke and company have served Coward’s play well. It may be dated in light of contemporary attitudes, but its rarified atmosphere captures many recognizable human emotions.
Laguna Playhouse
Naughty wit and improbable liaisons were Sir Noël Coward’s staples in many of his most-famous works, and this 1925 charmer is full of the racy and sophisticated dialogue that audiences have come to expect. As in his oft-performed Private Lives, his characters are worldly and explore sexuality through the prism of society’s strictures.
Julia and Fred Sterroll (Colette Kilroy, Mike Ryan) are a predictably upper-crust couple, settled into a marriage without the passion Julia desires and Fred treats as an indisposition neatly tucked away. Their friends, Willy and Jane Banbury (Andrew Barnicle, Katie MacNichol), live in a flat above them and share their style of living. Julia and Jane have been friends since childhood and have a secret that is unknown to their husbands. Prior to their marriages, each woman had an affair with dashing Frenchman Maurice Duclos (J. Paul Boehmer), and he has sent a message that he is in town and wants to see them. Understandably excited and titillated by the prospect of seeing him again, they realize the peril it places on their current lives.
Thus sets the stage for a masterly bit of comic theatrics. MacNichol and Kilroy are pluperfect as the agitated and eager wives who explore their options: Should they leave town or stay to meet Duclos? In a classic scene, glamorously dressed and nervously choosing to await his arrival, they fortify themselves with champagne and become gloriously drunk in comically laudable theatrics. Adding equally droll delight to the proceedings is Mary-Pat Green as Saunders, the Sterrolls’ new maid. She is omnipresent throughout, offering advice, playing and singing at the piano, dispensing hangover remedies, and claiming employment in an increasingly funny set of occupations. Awfully close to stealing the show, it is a testament to the acting prowess of MacNichol and Kilroy that they hold their own.
Though the husbands hold diminished roles in the early part of the story, they emerge with farcical outrage near the end. Barnicle and Ryan are delightfully engaging in their roles. Boehmer, too, provides the flourish and necessary theatricality as the flamboyant inamorato.
Director Art Manke handles this play with a comic touch that Coward would have endorsed. His exceedingly physical choreography for the inebriated ladies is adroit and in keeping with their upper-class portrayals. It is stylish from start to finish. Setting the mood for the time period are David K. Mickelsen’s colorful costumes and Tom Buderwitz’s elegant set, lighted handsomely by Peter Maradudin. Composer Steven Cahill’s sound design and music throughout add to the charm of the play. A scene in which the spotlighted Green plays and sings at the piano while the set is being embellished during the first act is an unexpected delight.
Manke and company have served Coward’s play well. It may be dated in light of contemporary attitudes, but its rarified atmosphere captures many recognizable human emotions.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
October 13, 2013
October 13, 2013
Eat Your Words
The Standard Hotel’s Cactus Lounge
Since The Moth debuted in 1997, thousands of tales have been told to live audiences of standing-room-only crowds all over the world. As a not-for-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling, The Moth is a celebration for both the raconteur, who breathes life into true tales of ordinary experiences, and the storytelling novice, who has lived through something extraordinary and yearns to share it. Now, on the first Thursday of each month at the gloriously over-decorated, delightfully kitschy Standard Hotel on the Sunset Strip, Moth veteran, Howard Stern Show survivor, and New York standup comedian Greg Walloch hosts Eat Your Words, which brings a whole new spin to the tradition of slick pros and willing amateurs relating their experiences. The big difference is, the highly eclectic participants who take the stage for Eat Your Words talk about all things—and anything—food related.
Among the brave souls sharing their remembrances of meals past in the recent October event, comedian-actor Sam Pancake (star of Fox’s Kitchen Confidential and the Lifetime series Lovespring International), TV writer Shauna McGarry (Anger Management), and standup Rajiv Satyal delivered hilariously woebegone accounts of how specific memories of food triggered less-than-warm-and-fuzzy reminiscences about their lovelife and familial trials. Real-life chefs Sergio Perera and Jacob Kear of the Amalur Project, a nomadic event that brings their expertise into already established LA restaurants for one night (something akin to a culinary Rave), were less comfortable talking to the audience until a specific food was mentioned, which then turned up their passion considerably.
The only painful part of this month’s second edition of Eat Your Words came from comic writer Andy Behrman, whose unfocused, somewhat incoherent rantings barely linking the subject of food to the recent death of his father and complete with unappetizing details about his dad’s final struggle, brought the mood of the evening down considerably. Only the genuinely pained expression of our host Greg Walloch, seated nearby trying to figure out how to humanely give the poor guy the hook, provided a bright spot to Behrman’s rambling descent into uncomfortable. Just plain too soon, unless Behrman’s “bipolar” T-shirt signaled a warning against offering him a public platform in the near future.
The best story of the evening was the final one told by Walloch, who recalled his flirtation with “freegan”-ism, or dumpster diving, back home in Manhattan for food thrown out by restaurants and markets that could still be reclaimed and provide a nice, healthy, and hopefully, maggot-free meal. As Walloch remembered being headfirst in a trashbin searching for food, a producer with whom he had worked walked by and was oh-so happy to see him—and subsequently tried to help him in case Walloch had suddenly become down on his luck and homeless.
Downer surprises aside, Eat Your Words is a wonderful way to spend an evening, seated comfortably in the wildly eclectic Standard, listening to funny, endearing people—well, most of them anyway—laughing at themselves with a uniquely humorous sense of self-deprecation with which everyone in attendance can surely relate.
The Standard Hotel’s Cactus Lounge
Since The Moth debuted in 1997, thousands of tales have been told to live audiences of standing-room-only crowds all over the world. As a not-for-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling, The Moth is a celebration for both the raconteur, who breathes life into true tales of ordinary experiences, and the storytelling novice, who has lived through something extraordinary and yearns to share it. Now, on the first Thursday of each month at the gloriously over-decorated, delightfully kitschy Standard Hotel on the Sunset Strip, Moth veteran, Howard Stern Show survivor, and New York standup comedian Greg Walloch hosts Eat Your Words, which brings a whole new spin to the tradition of slick pros and willing amateurs relating their experiences. The big difference is, the highly eclectic participants who take the stage for Eat Your Words talk about all things—and anything—food related.
Among the brave souls sharing their remembrances of meals past in the recent October event, comedian-actor Sam Pancake (star of Fox’s Kitchen Confidential and the Lifetime series Lovespring International), TV writer Shauna McGarry (Anger Management), and standup Rajiv Satyal delivered hilariously woebegone accounts of how specific memories of food triggered less-than-warm-and-fuzzy reminiscences about their lovelife and familial trials. Real-life chefs Sergio Perera and Jacob Kear of the Amalur Project, a nomadic event that brings their expertise into already established LA restaurants for one night (something akin to a culinary Rave), were less comfortable talking to the audience until a specific food was mentioned, which then turned up their passion considerably.
The only painful part of this month’s second edition of Eat Your Words came from comic writer Andy Behrman, whose unfocused, somewhat incoherent rantings barely linking the subject of food to the recent death of his father and complete with unappetizing details about his dad’s final struggle, brought the mood of the evening down considerably. Only the genuinely pained expression of our host Greg Walloch, seated nearby trying to figure out how to humanely give the poor guy the hook, provided a bright spot to Behrman’s rambling descent into uncomfortable. Just plain too soon, unless Behrman’s “bipolar” T-shirt signaled a warning against offering him a public platform in the near future.
The best story of the evening was the final one told by Walloch, who recalled his flirtation with “freegan”-ism, or dumpster diving, back home in Manhattan for food thrown out by restaurants and markets that could still be reclaimed and provide a nice, healthy, and hopefully, maggot-free meal. As Walloch remembered being headfirst in a trashbin searching for food, a producer with whom he had worked walked by and was oh-so happy to see him—and subsequently tried to help him in case Walloch had suddenly become down on his luck and homeless.
Downer surprises aside, Eat Your Words is a wonderful way to spend an evening, seated comfortably in the wildly eclectic Standard, listening to funny, endearing people—well, most of them anyway—laughing at themselves with a uniquely humorous sense of self-deprecation with which everyone in attendance can surely relate.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 12, 2013
October 12, 2013
War Horse
Pantages Theatre
Nick Stafford’s epic stage adaptation of Michael Morpurgo’s popular novel for children is impressive in itself, but what incredible serendipity brought together the inimitable designers to create the unique design aspects of this production is the stuff of which theatrical history is made.
The original direction of Marianne Elliott and Tom Morris for National Theatre of Great Britain has been painstakingly maintained on this national tour by Bijan Shelbani, once again revolving around the production’s true stars: the incredible life-sized horses created by the Handspring Puppet Company. Each horse is “wrangled” by several performers, all of whom wear appropriate period costumes and walk alongside or inside the stylized animal. Trained to perfection by Toby Sedgwick in the art of making the horses, birds, and one mischievous goose come alive, the handlers animate their charges as though they were manipulating giant versions of Indonesian-style shadow puppets. Within minutes, the wranglers almost disappear to their astonished audience as their efforts to bring the animals to life makes the viewer almost totally forget the puppets are not living, breathing creatures.
The design of War Horse is equally impressive, with lighting effects by Paule Constable and set designer Rae Smith’s striking projections at the back of the stage, which change from childish sketches of horses and the idyllic green homelands of early 20th-century Devon to huge, starkly impressionistic Caligari-esque slashes horrifically depicting the gritty horrors of the French countryside during the first world war. The Pantages is actually a better-sized room for the production than its earlier version seen downtown, although the acoustics of the venue do not work with a gruff-voiced English accent any better here than it did last year with Billy Elliot.
This is of course the familiar story of a young man and his beloved horse, who is led off to battle without him. It will bring tears to anyone’s eyes by the end of the second act, which suddenly seems particularly ironic when one shakes one’s head and realizes the emotional floods are being unleashed by puppets consisting of stylized wheels and gauze and geometric superstructures. The cast, led by the hardworking Michael Wyatt Cox as the loyal Albert, is extremely passionate and appear thrilled to be a part of such a theatrical masterpiece. Maria Elena Ramirez is a standout as Albert’s mother, and Andrew May excels as the sweet German captain who so heartbreakingly questions his humanity and ponders the outrageous grotesqueness of war.
The imaginative spectacle of this makes it a perfect choice for family outings, although Mary Poppins or Peter Pan it is not. It is hard to imagine the reaction from small children to the play’s many deaths of four- and two-legged characters, although it might be the impetus for parents to talk to their children about the horror and waste of war—just in case the next generation can do a better job of avoiding it than the rest of us throughout the history of our species.
There is one unforgettable scene in which one English and one German soldier wave white flags and join together to try to save the hero’s horse from the deathlike grip of a barbed wire trap. As they shake hands and prepare to go back to their separate trenches and begin to once again try to kill one another, the war-weary Englishman says to his sworn enemy, “There are widows weeping everywhere because men couldn’t talk like you and I just have.” This is the true message of War Horse; would that the people in power in this troubled world might try to heed it.
Pantages Theatre
Nick Stafford’s epic stage adaptation of Michael Morpurgo’s popular novel for children is impressive in itself, but what incredible serendipity brought together the inimitable designers to create the unique design aspects of this production is the stuff of which theatrical history is made.
The original direction of Marianne Elliott and Tom Morris for National Theatre of Great Britain has been painstakingly maintained on this national tour by Bijan Shelbani, once again revolving around the production’s true stars: the incredible life-sized horses created by the Handspring Puppet Company. Each horse is “wrangled” by several performers, all of whom wear appropriate period costumes and walk alongside or inside the stylized animal. Trained to perfection by Toby Sedgwick in the art of making the horses, birds, and one mischievous goose come alive, the handlers animate their charges as though they were manipulating giant versions of Indonesian-style shadow puppets. Within minutes, the wranglers almost disappear to their astonished audience as their efforts to bring the animals to life makes the viewer almost totally forget the puppets are not living, breathing creatures.
The design of War Horse is equally impressive, with lighting effects by Paule Constable and set designer Rae Smith’s striking projections at the back of the stage, which change from childish sketches of horses and the idyllic green homelands of early 20th-century Devon to huge, starkly impressionistic Caligari-esque slashes horrifically depicting the gritty horrors of the French countryside during the first world war. The Pantages is actually a better-sized room for the production than its earlier version seen downtown, although the acoustics of the venue do not work with a gruff-voiced English accent any better here than it did last year with Billy Elliot.
This is of course the familiar story of a young man and his beloved horse, who is led off to battle without him. It will bring tears to anyone’s eyes by the end of the second act, which suddenly seems particularly ironic when one shakes one’s head and realizes the emotional floods are being unleashed by puppets consisting of stylized wheels and gauze and geometric superstructures. The cast, led by the hardworking Michael Wyatt Cox as the loyal Albert, is extremely passionate and appear thrilled to be a part of such a theatrical masterpiece. Maria Elena Ramirez is a standout as Albert’s mother, and Andrew May excels as the sweet German captain who so heartbreakingly questions his humanity and ponders the outrageous grotesqueness of war.
The imaginative spectacle of this makes it a perfect choice for family outings, although Mary Poppins or Peter Pan it is not. It is hard to imagine the reaction from small children to the play’s many deaths of four- and two-legged characters, although it might be the impetus for parents to talk to their children about the horror and waste of war—just in case the next generation can do a better job of avoiding it than the rest of us throughout the history of our species.
There is one unforgettable scene in which one English and one German soldier wave white flags and join together to try to save the hero’s horse from the deathlike grip of a barbed wire trap. As they shake hands and prepare to go back to their separate trenches and begin to once again try to kill one another, the war-weary Englishman says to his sworn enemy, “There are widows weeping everywhere because men couldn’t talk like you and I just have.” This is the true message of War Horse; would that the people in power in this troubled world might try to heed it.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 12, 2013
October 12, 2013
The Sunshine Boys
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
The pleasures of The Sunshine Boys stem from the interplay of phlegmatic Judd Hirsch and volcanic Danny DeVito, one-time Taxi stars now interpreting the fictional legendary vaudeville team of (respectively) Lewis and Clark. As rendered by author Neil Simon, these so-called comedy giants are pretty tame, their alleged gifts hardly in evidence in the weak sketch they’re called upon to perform. The engine of the plot is that they’ve never gotten along, but the rationale for Lewis’s hatred is woefully lame (he’s mad that Clark keeps dentalizing his T’s with spittle and poking him in the chest), and Clark’s disdain for Lewis seems based on nothing at all.
So there’s no event and no play, really. All we can feast on is a lot of gags (the Simon specialty) and personality, and fortunately there’s just enough of both in Thea Sharrock’s mostly crisp staging to get us through a two-hour evening. Hirsch and DeVito possess the effortless chemistry—and more important, the crucially different performing styles—to suggest the strengths and the strains that would be operating on a comedy duo. The poignancy of their final reunion, even though the writing is puerile, is well-earned.
Annie Abrams is a nifty bimbette in support of the comics’ crude sketch antics, while Justin Bartha (the hapless AWOL bridegroom in The Hangover) would be even stronger in support if he abandoned his sing-songy line readings and actually played the reality of his character’s need.
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
The pleasures of The Sunshine Boys stem from the interplay of phlegmatic Judd Hirsch and volcanic Danny DeVito, one-time Taxi stars now interpreting the fictional legendary vaudeville team of (respectively) Lewis and Clark. As rendered by author Neil Simon, these so-called comedy giants are pretty tame, their alleged gifts hardly in evidence in the weak sketch they’re called upon to perform. The engine of the plot is that they’ve never gotten along, but the rationale for Lewis’s hatred is woefully lame (he’s mad that Clark keeps dentalizing his T’s with spittle and poking him in the chest), and Clark’s disdain for Lewis seems based on nothing at all.
So there’s no event and no play, really. All we can feast on is a lot of gags (the Simon specialty) and personality, and fortunately there’s just enough of both in Thea Sharrock’s mostly crisp staging to get us through a two-hour evening. Hirsch and DeVito possess the effortless chemistry—and more important, the crucially different performing styles—to suggest the strengths and the strains that would be operating on a comedy duo. The poignancy of their final reunion, even though the writing is puerile, is well-earned.
Annie Abrams is a nifty bimbette in support of the comics’ crude sketch antics, while Justin Bartha (the hapless AWOL bridegroom in The Hangover) would be even stronger in support if he abandoned his sing-songy line readings and actually played the reality of his character’s need.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 7, 2013
October 7, 2013
Broadway Bound
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts
Neil Simon is widely considered one of America’s premier scriptwriters, having won dozens of critical awards in motion picture, television, and theatrical endeavors. His brand of light comedy has been the mainstay of countless theater companies nationally for more than 50 years, beginning with Come Blow Your Horn in 1961. Interestingly, in spite of these accolades, he takes hit after hit from some critics who deem much of his work as lightweight and commercial.
In his trilogy—Brighton Beach Memoirs, Biloxi Blues, and Broadway Bound—Simon arguably achieves some of the most skillful writing of his career. Semi-autobiographical, it examines a Jewish family in Brooklyn through the eyes of character Eugene Jerome. The first play looks at the teenage Eugene as he enters puberty; the second chronicles his days in basic training in the army, stationed in Mississippi; and the third and final sees Eugene grown up, preparing for a career in comedy writing for radio and television with his brother, Stanley. Intrinsically humorous, the three plays are, nonetheless, serious and accomplished.
It would be hard to imagine a better cast than the one assembled for this production of Broadway Bound. Director Jeff Maynard has deftly and sensitively allowed the innate drama in the story to coexist honestly with the wit of Simon’s lauded one-liners. Stanley (Brett Ryback) and Eugene (Ian Alda) have been given an opportunity to write a comedy sketch for a CBS radio show. As the promoter of the duo, Stanley is high-strung and over-zealous in contrast to Eugene’s less volatile nature. As this momentous point, the rest of the Jerome family is battling painful changes. The brothers’ parents, Kate (Gina Hecht) and Jack (John Mariano), are on the verge of divorce over Jack’s infidelity. Grandfather Ben (Allan Miller) is rebuffing his daughter Blanche’s (Cate Cohen) entreaties to move to Florida with his wife, who is currently not well and living independently from him.Though this play is successful on its own merits, Brighton Beach Memoirs provides some context for the inner workings of the family.
Ryback nearly steals the show as Stanley, with over-the-top antics that provide the comic heft of the story. Not overshadowed, though, Alda delivers a perceptive commentary combined with a genial portrayal, as Simon breaks the fourth wall to allow for perspective on the family trials. Miller inhabits his elderly character with warmth and believability, adding much to the family dynamic. Cohen plays the frustrated daughter with just the right amount of pathos.
The heart of the drama, however, is the husband-and-wife relationship so capably played by Mariano and Hecht. Mariano’s personal torment at betraying his wife is emotional, conflicted, and palpably real. Hecht opposes him by conveying her anguish with restrained fortitude. They make their characters sympathetic even with their obvious shortcomings. In a subsequent scene, while dancing with Eugene, Kate abandons her stoicism and allows a glimpse of a younger, hopeful woman as she elegantly mimics a dance she had with George Raft in her younger days. The ensemble work is top-notch, a testament to the abilities of fine actors.
Bruce Goodrich’s multilevel apartment is integral to the drama, and sound and lighting by Josh Bessom and Daniel Ionazzi, respectively, project the play’s era. Ann Closs-Farley’s costumes also add color to the atmosphere.
Simon’s wry commentary throughout his works affect audiences who appreciate commonalities among all ages and ethnicities. It is easy to see why he was a Kennedy Center honoree for his lifetime contribution to the performing arts.
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts
Neil Simon is widely considered one of America’s premier scriptwriters, having won dozens of critical awards in motion picture, television, and theatrical endeavors. His brand of light comedy has been the mainstay of countless theater companies nationally for more than 50 years, beginning with Come Blow Your Horn in 1961. Interestingly, in spite of these accolades, he takes hit after hit from some critics who deem much of his work as lightweight and commercial.
In his trilogy—Brighton Beach Memoirs, Biloxi Blues, and Broadway Bound—Simon arguably achieves some of the most skillful writing of his career. Semi-autobiographical, it examines a Jewish family in Brooklyn through the eyes of character Eugene Jerome. The first play looks at the teenage Eugene as he enters puberty; the second chronicles his days in basic training in the army, stationed in Mississippi; and the third and final sees Eugene grown up, preparing for a career in comedy writing for radio and television with his brother, Stanley. Intrinsically humorous, the three plays are, nonetheless, serious and accomplished.
It would be hard to imagine a better cast than the one assembled for this production of Broadway Bound. Director Jeff Maynard has deftly and sensitively allowed the innate drama in the story to coexist honestly with the wit of Simon’s lauded one-liners. Stanley (Brett Ryback) and Eugene (Ian Alda) have been given an opportunity to write a comedy sketch for a CBS radio show. As the promoter of the duo, Stanley is high-strung and over-zealous in contrast to Eugene’s less volatile nature. As this momentous point, the rest of the Jerome family is battling painful changes. The brothers’ parents, Kate (Gina Hecht) and Jack (John Mariano), are on the verge of divorce over Jack’s infidelity. Grandfather Ben (Allan Miller) is rebuffing his daughter Blanche’s (Cate Cohen) entreaties to move to Florida with his wife, who is currently not well and living independently from him.Though this play is successful on its own merits, Brighton Beach Memoirs provides some context for the inner workings of the family.
Ryback nearly steals the show as Stanley, with over-the-top antics that provide the comic heft of the story. Not overshadowed, though, Alda delivers a perceptive commentary combined with a genial portrayal, as Simon breaks the fourth wall to allow for perspective on the family trials. Miller inhabits his elderly character with warmth and believability, adding much to the family dynamic. Cohen plays the frustrated daughter with just the right amount of pathos.
The heart of the drama, however, is the husband-and-wife relationship so capably played by Mariano and Hecht. Mariano’s personal torment at betraying his wife is emotional, conflicted, and palpably real. Hecht opposes him by conveying her anguish with restrained fortitude. They make their characters sympathetic even with their obvious shortcomings. In a subsequent scene, while dancing with Eugene, Kate abandons her stoicism and allows a glimpse of a younger, hopeful woman as she elegantly mimics a dance she had with George Raft in her younger days. The ensemble work is top-notch, a testament to the abilities of fine actors.
Bruce Goodrich’s multilevel apartment is integral to the drama, and sound and lighting by Josh Bessom and Daniel Ionazzi, respectively, project the play’s era. Ann Closs-Farley’s costumes also add color to the atmosphere.
Simon’s wry commentary throughout his works affect audiences who appreciate commonalities among all ages and ethnicities. It is easy to see why he was a Kennedy Center honoree for his lifetime contribution to the performing arts.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
October 7, 2013
October 7, 2013
The End of It
End LA and Scott Disharoon at Matrix Theatre
How much should theater resemble real life, and how much can it do so? Playwright Paul Coates hits a big nail on the head in this look at the human heart. His play clearly and cleverly reveals the universality of love and the pain of divorce. But it also spotlights the artificialities, albeit long-accepted ones, of theater.
The End of It begins as a husband and wife (Coates, Kelly Coffield Park) have ushered their party guests out, long after midnight. He’s ready to settle down, she’s eager to chat. She goes offstage momentarily. He then tells her he wants a divorce. The character who reenters is now a man (David Youse). The two men continue the conversation—shock, disbelief, “when?” “why?”—and then the “husband” leaves and is replaced by another man (William Franklin Barker). We’re now watching another married couple, this one gay, having the same conversation, same time, same place. After a while, this couple morphs into a lesbian couple (Wendy Radford, Ferrell Marshall).
Yes, heartbreak is universal. After each couple’s 20 years together, the heartbreak is compounded by the crushed expectations of “forever,” the fear of being alone in middle age, the knowledge that communications between them might not have been full and open all this time.
That’s Act One, taking place at 1am. Act Two takes place at 10am that morning, in the same living-room setting, at which time more conversations ensue. The work is very real, very honest, but it’s also very rational. No one throws a fry pan. On the other hand, it’s cathartic enough that sniffles can be heard throughout the audience. But how much can be shown within the confines of the theater? In real life, these conversations, and any accompanying tantrums, take hours, days, sometimes decades to unfold and resolve and resurge. Where should a theatrical depiction leave off?
Coates’s dialogue is wonderfully realistic and thus believable no matter which of the “husbands” and “wives” are speaking it. Director Nick DeGruccio gives it verve without melodrama. No one here turns into Medea, as DeGruccio keeps the “wife” character lucid while letting each actor find his or her own breaking point. To subtly remind the viewer which character is which, the couples share color schemes: the characters wanting to leave wear variants of blue, the ones hoping for continued unity wear purples. Coates and/or DeGruccio keep the six actors onstage at many points throughout, sometimes leaving them sitting at the sides of the action, sometimes inserting them in the playing area. That is simultaneously an intellectual distraction and a sweet reminder of our commonality despite differing “lifestyles.”
From the audience’s viewpoint, this production could be performed without an intermission. Maybe it’s needed, though, to help the actors mop off and hold it together. Each is superb here, the dialogue coming from the heart, spoken simply, revealing much quiet emotion. Still, even one fry pan would give a more-rounded depiction of that life-changing event.
End LA and Scott Disharoon at Matrix Theatre
How much should theater resemble real life, and how much can it do so? Playwright Paul Coates hits a big nail on the head in this look at the human heart. His play clearly and cleverly reveals the universality of love and the pain of divorce. But it also spotlights the artificialities, albeit long-accepted ones, of theater.
The End of It begins as a husband and wife (Coates, Kelly Coffield Park) have ushered their party guests out, long after midnight. He’s ready to settle down, she’s eager to chat. She goes offstage momentarily. He then tells her he wants a divorce. The character who reenters is now a man (David Youse). The two men continue the conversation—shock, disbelief, “when?” “why?”—and then the “husband” leaves and is replaced by another man (William Franklin Barker). We’re now watching another married couple, this one gay, having the same conversation, same time, same place. After a while, this couple morphs into a lesbian couple (Wendy Radford, Ferrell Marshall).
Yes, heartbreak is universal. After each couple’s 20 years together, the heartbreak is compounded by the crushed expectations of “forever,” the fear of being alone in middle age, the knowledge that communications between them might not have been full and open all this time.
That’s Act One, taking place at 1am. Act Two takes place at 10am that morning, in the same living-room setting, at which time more conversations ensue. The work is very real, very honest, but it’s also very rational. No one throws a fry pan. On the other hand, it’s cathartic enough that sniffles can be heard throughout the audience. But how much can be shown within the confines of the theater? In real life, these conversations, and any accompanying tantrums, take hours, days, sometimes decades to unfold and resolve and resurge. Where should a theatrical depiction leave off?
Coates’s dialogue is wonderfully realistic and thus believable no matter which of the “husbands” and “wives” are speaking it. Director Nick DeGruccio gives it verve without melodrama. No one here turns into Medea, as DeGruccio keeps the “wife” character lucid while letting each actor find his or her own breaking point. To subtly remind the viewer which character is which, the couples share color schemes: the characters wanting to leave wear variants of blue, the ones hoping for continued unity wear purples. Coates and/or DeGruccio keep the six actors onstage at many points throughout, sometimes leaving them sitting at the sides of the action, sometimes inserting them in the playing area. That is simultaneously an intellectual distraction and a sweet reminder of our commonality despite differing “lifestyles.”
From the audience’s viewpoint, this production could be performed without an intermission. Maybe it’s needed, though, to help the actors mop off and hold it together. Each is superb here, the dialogue coming from the heart, spoken simply, revealing much quiet emotion. Still, even one fry pan would give a more-rounded depiction of that life-changing event.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 6, 2013
October 6, 2013
Smokey Joe’s Café
Pasadena Playhouse
It’s not really accurate to call Smokey Joe’s Café, now spinning merrily at the Pasadena Playhouse, a jukebox musical. Actually, the Leiber and Stoller revue is a jukebox, so defined as a mechanism by which popular songs can be performed one after the other. It even looks like a juke, with lighting man Steven Young’s thin neon piping around Gary Wissman’s curved proscenium arch, and Abdul Hamid Royal’s hot-licks band upstage—just where a turntable would sit—as the music goes ‘round and ‘round and it comes out here.
What it isn’t, really, is a musical. Unfortunately for Smokey Joe, not to mention Leader of the Pack and others of their ilk, the bar for this sort of thing was set awfully high by 1978’s Ain’t Misbehavin’, which presented the Fats Waller catalogue through a cavalcade of wise and wicked attitudes. All five characters in that show are clearly defined, and there’s a cynical worldview underlying everything from the staging to the setting. (Among other things, it dares to point out that the WWII home front was notable as an occasion for widespread profiteering and, well, misbehaving.) Because Richard Maltby’s sassy classic attaches some complex themes to the playlist and isn’t afraid to get dark and brooding, it makes for something less than a play but much more than a concert.
Leiber and Stoller, by contrast to Waller, don’t present a distinctive point of view, and how could they? They were songwriters for hire—ready, willing, and able to shape material to talents as varied as The Coasters, The Drifters, Ben E. King, and Elvis, whose debt to the legendary team is well attested to in the second act of Smokey Joe’s Café. They wrote ballads (“I Who Have Nothing”) for solo males and novelty songs (“Yakity Yak”) for a generation—a varied repertoire but one that no one has tried to weave together into a portrait of anyone or anything. (The songs take us through about 20 years of rock ’n’ roll, but there’s no sense of the world’s or the music’s changing over that time.)
So: an enjoyable concert, but one that may yield diminishing returns as it goes along for two bouncy but somewhat repetitious hours. Jeffrey Polk’s staging (apparently strongly indebted to Jerry Zaks’s from the original five-year Gotham run) is efficient, and his choreography even cleverer than that, but he has managed to direct only three of his nine performers to stand apart. Monique L. Midgette is a delightful peppet pot; Kyra Little Da Costa a sexy, satirical chantoosie; and big man Michael A. Shepperd a charismatic rascal. The rest are fine. They ain’t misbehavin’, but they ain’t makin’ a strong impression either.
Pasadena Playhouse
It’s not really accurate to call Smokey Joe’s Café, now spinning merrily at the Pasadena Playhouse, a jukebox musical. Actually, the Leiber and Stoller revue is a jukebox, so defined as a mechanism by which popular songs can be performed one after the other. It even looks like a juke, with lighting man Steven Young’s thin neon piping around Gary Wissman’s curved proscenium arch, and Abdul Hamid Royal’s hot-licks band upstage—just where a turntable would sit—as the music goes ‘round and ‘round and it comes out here.
What it isn’t, really, is a musical. Unfortunately for Smokey Joe, not to mention Leader of the Pack and others of their ilk, the bar for this sort of thing was set awfully high by 1978’s Ain’t Misbehavin’, which presented the Fats Waller catalogue through a cavalcade of wise and wicked attitudes. All five characters in that show are clearly defined, and there’s a cynical worldview underlying everything from the staging to the setting. (Among other things, it dares to point out that the WWII home front was notable as an occasion for widespread profiteering and, well, misbehaving.) Because Richard Maltby’s sassy classic attaches some complex themes to the playlist and isn’t afraid to get dark and brooding, it makes for something less than a play but much more than a concert.
Leiber and Stoller, by contrast to Waller, don’t present a distinctive point of view, and how could they? They were songwriters for hire—ready, willing, and able to shape material to talents as varied as The Coasters, The Drifters, Ben E. King, and Elvis, whose debt to the legendary team is well attested to in the second act of Smokey Joe’s Café. They wrote ballads (“I Who Have Nothing”) for solo males and novelty songs (“Yakity Yak”) for a generation—a varied repertoire but one that no one has tried to weave together into a portrait of anyone or anything. (The songs take us through about 20 years of rock ’n’ roll, but there’s no sense of the world’s or the music’s changing over that time.)
So: an enjoyable concert, but one that may yield diminishing returns as it goes along for two bouncy but somewhat repetitious hours. Jeffrey Polk’s staging (apparently strongly indebted to Jerry Zaks’s from the original five-year Gotham run) is efficient, and his choreography even cleverer than that, but he has managed to direct only three of his nine performers to stand apart. Monique L. Midgette is a delightful peppet pot; Kyra Little Da Costa a sexy, satirical chantoosie; and big man Michael A. Shepperd a charismatic rascal. The rest are fine. They ain’t misbehavin’, but they ain’t makin’ a strong impression either.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 1, 2013
October 1, 2013
Lost Girls
Rogue Machine
The opening scene of John Pollono’s cathartic sojourn within the lives of a working-class family in Derry, N.H., reveals deceptively placid divorced mom Maggie (Jennifer Pollono) bundling up to face her daily dose of New England winter weather. Playwright John Pollono is merely setting the audience up for the impending explosion. As she is suddenly forced to deal with another potential life-crushing tragedy in her life, Jennifer’s rage-soaked Maggie projects the weight of her family’s generations of failed women—all of whose youthful dreams were shattered by teen pregnancies—through her every jagged word and gesture.
There is no emotional wiggle room in Maggie’s life. When she discovers her 17-year-old daughter Erica (Anna Theoni DiGiovanni) has taken the car during the night and is now missing as a sudden winter blizzard hits the area, Maggie is soon hemmed in by the living representatives of her miseries—including her destitute live-in mother, Linda (Peggy Dunne reviewed, Anne Bronston alternates in the role); Maggie’s recovering-alcoholic ex-husband, Lou (Joshua Bitten); and his squeaky-clean new wife, Penny (Kirsten Kollender). There are occasional sitcom-level sarcasms flowing amongst these caged antagonists as a plethora of pent-up frustrations are unleashed; but director John Perrin Flynn admirably keeps the inherent tension focused on their tangible fears about the fate of Erica.
The scenes between Jennifer Pollono and Bitten exude a palpable sexual tension that at any moment seems capable of exploding into physical violence. Fueling their frustration is the inherent knowledge that too much has happened to bridge the gap that now separates them. Actually, playwright Pollono is guilty of exposition overkill as Maggie relentlessly batters Lou with his pre-sobriety past deeds. Dunne’s Linda offers a notable study in human wreckage just living out her days as painlessly as possible. Inadvertently serving as a tension-buster is Kollender’s Penny, who refuses to allow the misery around her to derail her innate sense of good will no matter how many insults are slung her way.
What turns this admirable working-class drama into a theatrical work of art are playwright Pollono’s brilliantly conceived counter-balancing scenes of DiGiovanni’s socially jaundiced teen girl holed up in a roadside motel to ride out the storm, accompanied by her adoring classmate and toady, Scooter (Jonathan Lipnicki), who has been talked into driving out of state so the girl he loves can hook up with her older guy boyfriend. Within the space of a few short scenes, DiGiovanni and Lipnicki manage to believably evolve and transform two embryonic psyches into a single-minded union that is prepared to take on the world.
The final character in this tale has to be David Mauer’s perfectly detailed living room/kitchen setting that impressively transforms quickly into the motel hideaway. Indeed, the entire production is buoyed by the designs of Jeff McLaughlin (lights), Peter Bayne (sound), and Caitlin Doolittle (costumes).
Rogue Machine
The opening scene of John Pollono’s cathartic sojourn within the lives of a working-class family in Derry, N.H., reveals deceptively placid divorced mom Maggie (Jennifer Pollono) bundling up to face her daily dose of New England winter weather. Playwright John Pollono is merely setting the audience up for the impending explosion. As she is suddenly forced to deal with another potential life-crushing tragedy in her life, Jennifer’s rage-soaked Maggie projects the weight of her family’s generations of failed women—all of whose youthful dreams were shattered by teen pregnancies—through her every jagged word and gesture.
There is no emotional wiggle room in Maggie’s life. When she discovers her 17-year-old daughter Erica (Anna Theoni DiGiovanni) has taken the car during the night and is now missing as a sudden winter blizzard hits the area, Maggie is soon hemmed in by the living representatives of her miseries—including her destitute live-in mother, Linda (Peggy Dunne reviewed, Anne Bronston alternates in the role); Maggie’s recovering-alcoholic ex-husband, Lou (Joshua Bitten); and his squeaky-clean new wife, Penny (Kirsten Kollender). There are occasional sitcom-level sarcasms flowing amongst these caged antagonists as a plethora of pent-up frustrations are unleashed; but director John Perrin Flynn admirably keeps the inherent tension focused on their tangible fears about the fate of Erica.
The scenes between Jennifer Pollono and Bitten exude a palpable sexual tension that at any moment seems capable of exploding into physical violence. Fueling their frustration is the inherent knowledge that too much has happened to bridge the gap that now separates them. Actually, playwright Pollono is guilty of exposition overkill as Maggie relentlessly batters Lou with his pre-sobriety past deeds. Dunne’s Linda offers a notable study in human wreckage just living out her days as painlessly as possible. Inadvertently serving as a tension-buster is Kollender’s Penny, who refuses to allow the misery around her to derail her innate sense of good will no matter how many insults are slung her way.
What turns this admirable working-class drama into a theatrical work of art are playwright Pollono’s brilliantly conceived counter-balancing scenes of DiGiovanni’s socially jaundiced teen girl holed up in a roadside motel to ride out the storm, accompanied by her adoring classmate and toady, Scooter (Jonathan Lipnicki), who has been talked into driving out of state so the girl he loves can hook up with her older guy boyfriend. Within the space of a few short scenes, DiGiovanni and Lipnicki manage to believably evolve and transform two embryonic psyches into a single-minded union that is prepared to take on the world.
The final character in this tale has to be David Mauer’s perfectly detailed living room/kitchen setting that impressively transforms quickly into the motel hideaway. Indeed, the entire production is buoyed by the designs of Jeff McLaughlin (lights), Peter Bayne (sound), and Caitlin Doolittle (costumes).
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
September 30, 2013
September 30, 2013
Flowers for Algernon
Deaf West Theatre at Whitefire Theatre
It’s an audacious challenge this renowned theatre company has taken up. David Rogers’s stage version of Daniel Keyes’s original novel detailing the struggles of an intellectually disabled man made superhumanly intelligent via an experimental surgical procedure is tough enough as written. Countless scenes and just as many characters, some of which appear once or twice at best, make for an often complicated storyline. Adapt it for audiences composed of both the hearing and the deaf, and the difficulties rise exponentially.
Charlie Gordon, the subject of this medical miracle, is chosen to receive a brain-altering surgery which seems to have proven more than successful on a laboratory mouse named Algernon—played here, no lie, by Cherry Snowdrop, Community Magnet Elementary cuter-than-cute pet. Within a short time, Charlie surpasses the cerebral levels of those responsible for his transformation. But as with most cases, this too-good-to-be-true scenario eventually spirals to a dark and heart-wrenching conclusion for mouse and man.
Director Matthew McCray and his cast of 12 offer a production that unfortunately lags in momentum due in part to the very convention Deaf West theater company normally puts to such good use. The synchronization and the clarification of signed and voiced characters, as well as an incredibly complicated series of technical effects, occasionally obstructed more than facilitated throughout the show’s nearly three-hour (with-intermission) running time.
On the surface, deafness as a metaphor for the leading character’s scripted disability is quite thought-provoking. As Charlie, actor Daniel N. Durant does a fine job mirroring the two, as his character matures socially as well as progressing from a rudimentary form of American Sign Language to his post-surgical fluency. Likewise, Josh Breslow’s pairing with Durant as Charlie’s voice is a welcomed oasis of seamless chemistry, and he provides dramatically appropriate narration for an endless string of video-style diary entries featuring Durant. These sequences, however, along with faintly imaged subtitling for multiple characters, are projected on scenic designer Sarah Krainin’s assemblage of cumbersome pole-mounted screens that the cast struggles to reposition throughout the performance. We get that these are the human-sized equivalents of Algernon’s maze walls, but any payoff in that regard is diminished by their distraction and the time it takes to get to each ensuing scene.
Glimpses of fine supporting work are available within the remainder of the cast. Alek Lev, Crystal Lott, and Melanie H. Vansell, all hearing actors fluent in ASL, pull triple duty and more as they jump effortlessly from specific roles to interpreting and back again. Bruce Katzman does a yeoman’s job both as Charlie’s long-lost father and as the head of the medical clinic who handily flips between encouragement and ruthless self-interest. Although spot-on in his direction of these moments, McCray veers toward the wildly melodramatic in those scenes featuring Sarah Lilly as Charlie’s psychotically knife wielding mother. It’s fair to assume that this aspect, like the show’s technical deficits, will fine-tune themselves as the run progresses.
Deaf West Theatre at Whitefire Theatre
It’s an audacious challenge this renowned theatre company has taken up. David Rogers’s stage version of Daniel Keyes’s original novel detailing the struggles of an intellectually disabled man made superhumanly intelligent via an experimental surgical procedure is tough enough as written. Countless scenes and just as many characters, some of which appear once or twice at best, make for an often complicated storyline. Adapt it for audiences composed of both the hearing and the deaf, and the difficulties rise exponentially.
Charlie Gordon, the subject of this medical miracle, is chosen to receive a brain-altering surgery which seems to have proven more than successful on a laboratory mouse named Algernon—played here, no lie, by Cherry Snowdrop, Community Magnet Elementary cuter-than-cute pet. Within a short time, Charlie surpasses the cerebral levels of those responsible for his transformation. But as with most cases, this too-good-to-be-true scenario eventually spirals to a dark and heart-wrenching conclusion for mouse and man.
Director Matthew McCray and his cast of 12 offer a production that unfortunately lags in momentum due in part to the very convention Deaf West theater company normally puts to such good use. The synchronization and the clarification of signed and voiced characters, as well as an incredibly complicated series of technical effects, occasionally obstructed more than facilitated throughout the show’s nearly three-hour (with-intermission) running time.
On the surface, deafness as a metaphor for the leading character’s scripted disability is quite thought-provoking. As Charlie, actor Daniel N. Durant does a fine job mirroring the two, as his character matures socially as well as progressing from a rudimentary form of American Sign Language to his post-surgical fluency. Likewise, Josh Breslow’s pairing with Durant as Charlie’s voice is a welcomed oasis of seamless chemistry, and he provides dramatically appropriate narration for an endless string of video-style diary entries featuring Durant. These sequences, however, along with faintly imaged subtitling for multiple characters, are projected on scenic designer Sarah Krainin’s assemblage of cumbersome pole-mounted screens that the cast struggles to reposition throughout the performance. We get that these are the human-sized equivalents of Algernon’s maze walls, but any payoff in that regard is diminished by their distraction and the time it takes to get to each ensuing scene.
Glimpses of fine supporting work are available within the remainder of the cast. Alek Lev, Crystal Lott, and Melanie H. Vansell, all hearing actors fluent in ASL, pull triple duty and more as they jump effortlessly from specific roles to interpreting and back again. Bruce Katzman does a yeoman’s job both as Charlie’s long-lost father and as the head of the medical clinic who handily flips between encouragement and ruthless self-interest. Although spot-on in his direction of these moments, McCray veers toward the wildly melodramatic in those scenes featuring Sarah Lilly as Charlie’s psychotically knife wielding mother. It’s fair to assume that this aspect, like the show’s technical deficits, will fine-tune themselves as the run progresses.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
September 30, 2013
September 30, 2013
Henry VIII (Enrique VIII)
Broad Stage
It’s not the first play of Shakespeare’s canon to spring to mind, but Henry VIII was reportedly among the last he wrote (co-credited to John Fletcher). At least all of us know of this king, the one with the outsized appetites—including six wives. At the end of Shakespeare’s version, which concludes with his celebration of Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn and the birth of baby Elizabeth, one might wonder where his first wife is. Indeed, Shakespeare’s Catherine of Aragon graciously disappears. Do any scholars know for certain how the original script ended? Did Shakespeare have the courage to depict her anger when her rival’s daughter was sitting in his audience? Did the play get largely rewritten—by a producer or two, by an actor or two, or by a scholar or two?
Not to leave anything to hagiography, Spanish theater company Rakatá gives Catherine the upper hand, in its adaptation credited to Jose Padilla, Rafael Díez-Labin, and Ernesto Arias. At least it seems that way, judging by the activity onstage, elegantly helmed by Arias to polished swiftness. Rakatá performs its Enrique VIII in Spanish. For those who do not speak said language, however, there are a few joys in sitting in on this two-hour conversation and not understanding a word.
One can certainly “get” the story. The nuance of the characters, however, is lost without knowing their word choice. Without the palette of the writer, we miss the clues about their level of education, their precision and need for control, their deeper emotional states. The non-Spanish-speaker here can watch behavior—of the characters and of the actors. And to that end, this production separates the hombres from the chicos. Its two leads transcend the spoken word—though each has excellent vocal technique—allowing suspension of disbelief. In Elena González’s performance, we are watching not an actor but Catherine: furious, crushed, sickened, demented. In Fernando Gil, we have Henry’s regality to the extreme: a man with absolute power, who can afford to laugh his enemies out of his sphere. Gil is, however, a handsome brunet rather than the homely redhead depicted in portraits.
The other actors, surprisingly, have picked up the bad habits associated with bad American acting. In particular, fingers jabbingly point to the ground or offstage when anger is expressed but acting homework has not been done. And those distant, “concerned” gazes over the audience as the actor stands center stage seem laughable when the dialogue is not there to engage the viewer’s mind.
As for the adaptation, the readily apparent changes include the prologue and “narration,” here divided between two congenial actors, and of course the ending. Catherine is allowed to explode, venting the rage of a longtime wife rejected in favor of a younger, prettier replacement. And to depict Catherine’s “otherness”—a foreigner in the English court—she seems to have been given the lisped “s,” though it occasionally shows up in the speech of the other actors. But hewing to Shakespeare’s version, Boleyn is mocked by the court—emphasizing the pronunciation as “Bullen”—and Catherine’s death swiftly morphs into a Shakespearean celebration of the “hey nonny nonny” kind.
Lessening the joys here, though, are supertitles that summarize scenes rather than translating dialogue. Of course the benefit is that the eye remains more on the stage and less desperate for the projected words. But the supertitles include many grammatical gaffes, which apparently no one, over the long run of this production in English-speaking countries, has bothered to edit.
Further distractions are the fault of the Broad and not Rakatá: A restless audience member can shake the seats of adjacent row mates. And, at the performance reviewed, one toddler, inexplicably brought to the theater and even more inexplicably allowed in, quite audibly cooed and babbled incessantly throughout the first act.
Broad Stage
It’s not the first play of Shakespeare’s canon to spring to mind, but Henry VIII was reportedly among the last he wrote (co-credited to John Fletcher). At least all of us know of this king, the one with the outsized appetites—including six wives. At the end of Shakespeare’s version, which concludes with his celebration of Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn and the birth of baby Elizabeth, one might wonder where his first wife is. Indeed, Shakespeare’s Catherine of Aragon graciously disappears. Do any scholars know for certain how the original script ended? Did Shakespeare have the courage to depict her anger when her rival’s daughter was sitting in his audience? Did the play get largely rewritten—by a producer or two, by an actor or two, or by a scholar or two?
Not to leave anything to hagiography, Spanish theater company Rakatá gives Catherine the upper hand, in its adaptation credited to Jose Padilla, Rafael Díez-Labin, and Ernesto Arias. At least it seems that way, judging by the activity onstage, elegantly helmed by Arias to polished swiftness. Rakatá performs its Enrique VIII in Spanish. For those who do not speak said language, however, there are a few joys in sitting in on this two-hour conversation and not understanding a word.
One can certainly “get” the story. The nuance of the characters, however, is lost without knowing their word choice. Without the palette of the writer, we miss the clues about their level of education, their precision and need for control, their deeper emotional states. The non-Spanish-speaker here can watch behavior—of the characters and of the actors. And to that end, this production separates the hombres from the chicos. Its two leads transcend the spoken word—though each has excellent vocal technique—allowing suspension of disbelief. In Elena González’s performance, we are watching not an actor but Catherine: furious, crushed, sickened, demented. In Fernando Gil, we have Henry’s regality to the extreme: a man with absolute power, who can afford to laugh his enemies out of his sphere. Gil is, however, a handsome brunet rather than the homely redhead depicted in portraits.
The other actors, surprisingly, have picked up the bad habits associated with bad American acting. In particular, fingers jabbingly point to the ground or offstage when anger is expressed but acting homework has not been done. And those distant, “concerned” gazes over the audience as the actor stands center stage seem laughable when the dialogue is not there to engage the viewer’s mind.
As for the adaptation, the readily apparent changes include the prologue and “narration,” here divided between two congenial actors, and of course the ending. Catherine is allowed to explode, venting the rage of a longtime wife rejected in favor of a younger, prettier replacement. And to depict Catherine’s “otherness”—a foreigner in the English court—she seems to have been given the lisped “s,” though it occasionally shows up in the speech of the other actors. But hewing to Shakespeare’s version, Boleyn is mocked by the court—emphasizing the pronunciation as “Bullen”—and Catherine’s death swiftly morphs into a Shakespearean celebration of the “hey nonny nonny” kind.
Lessening the joys here, though, are supertitles that summarize scenes rather than translating dialogue. Of course the benefit is that the eye remains more on the stage and less desperate for the projected words. But the supertitles include many grammatical gaffes, which apparently no one, over the long run of this production in English-speaking countries, has bothered to edit.
Further distractions are the fault of the Broad and not Rakatá: A restless audience member can shake the seats of adjacent row mates. And, at the performance reviewed, one toddler, inexplicably brought to the theater and even more inexplicably allowed in, quite audibly cooed and babbled incessantly throughout the first act.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 28, 2013
September 28, 2013
The Normal Heart
Fountain Theatre
Almost 30 years after its premiere, Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart still packs a wallop, though it’s a different kind of wallop from that which first stunned audiences in the record-breaking long run at New York’s Public Theater. Back then, the fury over governmental, institutional, and (to a large extent) public indifference to the “gay plague,” as it was then known, was designed to give everyone a huge, urgent kick in the ass, from Ronald “I won’t mention AIDS” Reagan and Mayor Ed “Here’s $9K for your little organization but don’t say where it came from” Koch, on down. No one had any idea what the eventual scope or longevity of the crisis would end up being, so every performance was suffused with a palpable fear. Is Kramer right? Could millions be wiped out?
Today the fear factor is diminished, as evidenced not by the disappearance of AIDS (where did that rumor start?) but by the hundreds of thousands now thankfully managing to live with their immunodeficiency, and by the (less thankfully) reported rise in unprotected sex. Today, as we watch Kramer’s characters gripped by a mysterious killer to which everyone else seems indifferent, a different kind of fury bubbles up: a retrospective fury. We know that science and government eventually acted; we know the virus was discovered; and we know that huge progress has been made. Anger remains, but it’s not quite as white hot.
Much of the impact of The Normal Heart on a 2013 audience comes out of shared grief over the sheer numbers of bold, beautiful men and women cut down long before their prime in an inescapably sad, and ongoing, accounting. Yes, millions were wiped out, as we feared. In many ways, the play serves as a living AIDS quilt. At the same time, Kramer’s opus can also invigorate an audience as it attests to what mass action around a common cause can do—though there is also power in the enactment of how difficult it is to organize and sustain any such mass action.
Simon Levy’s revival at the Fountain Theatre taps into all of those strains. His crisp blocking and scene changes facilitate his vigorous depiction of the messy politics of AIDS activism, and a projected crawl, as the audience exits, singles out theater, film, and TV talents who succumbed to the disease. Actually, Adam Flemming’s video designs work superbly throughout, as they communicate contemporary headlines and body counts along with identifying each scene’s place and time. But it’s that final crawl that really hits home.
The production’s main weakness, a lack of modulation in the acting, may fix itself or get attended to over time. Fine players—Verton R. Banks as the seeming mayfly who proves to be the GMHC’s rock; Lisa Pelikan, the wheelchair-bound doctor-slash-Cassandra; Fred Koehler as a bullied bureaucrat—throw all their punches in their first few scenes, boxing themselves in emotionally and histrionically as the years move along and the victims pile up. It’s small wonder that most of the show’s memorable moments are those played with restraint: Bill Brochtrup’s NY Times reporter, bearing up courageously until the very last moments. Matt Gottlieb, straight-arrow brother of activist Ned Weeks (Tim Cummings), standing tall against Ned’s accusations, founded or otherwise. And above all Stephen O’Mahoney as Bruce Niles, the Marlboro Man president of the organization, whose description of his dying lover’s horrific flight home to Phoenix is all the more chilling for how low-key it’s played.
Cummings is a special case, thrilling yet problematic. He is clearly the engine powering this event, having fully internalized all of this character’s crotchets and passions. (Ned is the warts-and-all surrogate of Kramer himself.) Yet he too loses it too soon for comfort, indulging in the most blatant of hand gestures and vocal histrionics in his earliest scenes; by the end he is literally forced to bang his fists and head into the walls to react to events, and it’s all just too much. If Cummings could justify more restraint along the way—and he is surely enough of a pro to do so—he’d be infinitely more moving at the finale.
Fountain Theatre
Almost 30 years after its premiere, Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart still packs a wallop, though it’s a different kind of wallop from that which first stunned audiences in the record-breaking long run at New York’s Public Theater. Back then, the fury over governmental, institutional, and (to a large extent) public indifference to the “gay plague,” as it was then known, was designed to give everyone a huge, urgent kick in the ass, from Ronald “I won’t mention AIDS” Reagan and Mayor Ed “Here’s $9K for your little organization but don’t say where it came from” Koch, on down. No one had any idea what the eventual scope or longevity of the crisis would end up being, so every performance was suffused with a palpable fear. Is Kramer right? Could millions be wiped out?
Today the fear factor is diminished, as evidenced not by the disappearance of AIDS (where did that rumor start?) but by the hundreds of thousands now thankfully managing to live with their immunodeficiency, and by the (less thankfully) reported rise in unprotected sex. Today, as we watch Kramer’s characters gripped by a mysterious killer to which everyone else seems indifferent, a different kind of fury bubbles up: a retrospective fury. We know that science and government eventually acted; we know the virus was discovered; and we know that huge progress has been made. Anger remains, but it’s not quite as white hot.
Much of the impact of The Normal Heart on a 2013 audience comes out of shared grief over the sheer numbers of bold, beautiful men and women cut down long before their prime in an inescapably sad, and ongoing, accounting. Yes, millions were wiped out, as we feared. In many ways, the play serves as a living AIDS quilt. At the same time, Kramer’s opus can also invigorate an audience as it attests to what mass action around a common cause can do—though there is also power in the enactment of how difficult it is to organize and sustain any such mass action.
Simon Levy’s revival at the Fountain Theatre taps into all of those strains. His crisp blocking and scene changes facilitate his vigorous depiction of the messy politics of AIDS activism, and a projected crawl, as the audience exits, singles out theater, film, and TV talents who succumbed to the disease. Actually, Adam Flemming’s video designs work superbly throughout, as they communicate contemporary headlines and body counts along with identifying each scene’s place and time. But it’s that final crawl that really hits home.
The production’s main weakness, a lack of modulation in the acting, may fix itself or get attended to over time. Fine players—Verton R. Banks as the seeming mayfly who proves to be the GMHC’s rock; Lisa Pelikan, the wheelchair-bound doctor-slash-Cassandra; Fred Koehler as a bullied bureaucrat—throw all their punches in their first few scenes, boxing themselves in emotionally and histrionically as the years move along and the victims pile up. It’s small wonder that most of the show’s memorable moments are those played with restraint: Bill Brochtrup’s NY Times reporter, bearing up courageously until the very last moments. Matt Gottlieb, straight-arrow brother of activist Ned Weeks (Tim Cummings), standing tall against Ned’s accusations, founded or otherwise. And above all Stephen O’Mahoney as Bruce Niles, the Marlboro Man president of the organization, whose description of his dying lover’s horrific flight home to Phoenix is all the more chilling for how low-key it’s played.
Cummings is a special case, thrilling yet problematic. He is clearly the engine powering this event, having fully internalized all of this character’s crotchets and passions. (Ned is the warts-and-all surrogate of Kramer himself.) Yet he too loses it too soon for comfort, indulging in the most blatant of hand gestures and vocal histrionics in his earliest scenes; by the end he is literally forced to bang his fists and head into the walls to react to events, and it’s all just too much. If Cummings could justify more restraint along the way—and he is surely enough of a pro to do so—he’d be infinitely more moving at the finale.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 24, 2013
September 24, 2013
Humor Abuse
Mark Taper Forum
Most kids dream about running away from home to join the circus. Lorenzo Pisoni’s early dream was to run away from the circus and the rampant “humor abuse” he grew up enduring. In his real-life variation on being born in a trunk, his earliest moments began with rigorous and demanding training at the hands of his clown of a father—no, his real clown of a father.
You see, his parents, Larry Pisoni and Peggy Snider, met in the San Francisco Mime Troupe and juggled together for whatever remuneration landed in their hats as street performers in Union Square. By the time Lorenzo was born, they had co-founded the Pickle Family Circus, and the die was cast. By age 2, Lorenzo was wandering onstage during the show’s intermissions to perform his own variation of what his parents did. Soon after, the training began—something accompanied by the nearly continuous mantra of, “No, do it again. No, do it again.” By age 6, Lorenzo was an integral contracted player in the Pickle Family Circus, where he matured into both a seasoned clown and a man with considerably life skills despite—or possibly because of—his bizarrely abnormal growing years.
Pisoni has taken the indelible memories of that upbringing to the stage in his one-man show Humor Abuse—with the obviously invaluable aid of this show’s director and co-creator Erica Schmidt—chronicling a childhood almost no one else in his audience could possibly fathom. To him, this was just life, and what he was taught was not at all about being funny. “This is a comedy and I am a straight man,” he tells those gathered to hear his tale. “Eat any candy you want throughout the show,” he graciously suggests at the onset, “and sit in silent judgment.” It doesn’t take long, however, before any thoughts of negative judgment melt away into belly laughs, followed by collective amazement and the realization that Larry and Peggy’s kid learned his lessons well.
For 95 nonstop, albeit sweaty, minutes, Pisoni performs the very same feats his dad passed on to him: from squeezing himself into a steamer trunk (the same one once hoisted into the ring on his father’s back) to juggling carrots to repeatedly falling down a flight of stairs in increasingly awkward positions to balancing on his nose the very hat his mother made for his father to wear.
Pisoni performs in front of a canvas drop that was used in the Pickles’s shows and utilizes many of the props and trunks they carted around from city to city while on tour. Pisoni recounts what it was like to open his lunchbox at school, only to often find a plastic banana, and being sent off to the airport to go through the check-in process carrying an enormous set of moose antlers (when the TSA official asks if he realizes he has to check the rack, Larry’s straight-man son realizes what the joke was his father played on him this time).
Pisoni’s performance is a quietly brilliant, surely unique tribute to his father and the joys of growing up in an unconventional manner. The love and respect this man shows for his father is far more amazing than any of the jaw-dropping tricks and tumbles, and we, his grateful audience, come away with far more than an appreciation for clowning as a true art form. We come away appreciating the limitless bonds of familial love few of us have been fortunate enough to know in our short time here on this risky planet.
Mark Taper Forum
Most kids dream about running away from home to join the circus. Lorenzo Pisoni’s early dream was to run away from the circus and the rampant “humor abuse” he grew up enduring. In his real-life variation on being born in a trunk, his earliest moments began with rigorous and demanding training at the hands of his clown of a father—no, his real clown of a father.
You see, his parents, Larry Pisoni and Peggy Snider, met in the San Francisco Mime Troupe and juggled together for whatever remuneration landed in their hats as street performers in Union Square. By the time Lorenzo was born, they had co-founded the Pickle Family Circus, and the die was cast. By age 2, Lorenzo was wandering onstage during the show’s intermissions to perform his own variation of what his parents did. Soon after, the training began—something accompanied by the nearly continuous mantra of, “No, do it again. No, do it again.” By age 6, Lorenzo was an integral contracted player in the Pickle Family Circus, where he matured into both a seasoned clown and a man with considerably life skills despite—or possibly because of—his bizarrely abnormal growing years.
Pisoni has taken the indelible memories of that upbringing to the stage in his one-man show Humor Abuse—with the obviously invaluable aid of this show’s director and co-creator Erica Schmidt—chronicling a childhood almost no one else in his audience could possibly fathom. To him, this was just life, and what he was taught was not at all about being funny. “This is a comedy and I am a straight man,” he tells those gathered to hear his tale. “Eat any candy you want throughout the show,” he graciously suggests at the onset, “and sit in silent judgment.” It doesn’t take long, however, before any thoughts of negative judgment melt away into belly laughs, followed by collective amazement and the realization that Larry and Peggy’s kid learned his lessons well.
For 95 nonstop, albeit sweaty, minutes, Pisoni performs the very same feats his dad passed on to him: from squeezing himself into a steamer trunk (the same one once hoisted into the ring on his father’s back) to juggling carrots to repeatedly falling down a flight of stairs in increasingly awkward positions to balancing on his nose the very hat his mother made for his father to wear.
Pisoni performs in front of a canvas drop that was used in the Pickles’s shows and utilizes many of the props and trunks they carted around from city to city while on tour. Pisoni recounts what it was like to open his lunchbox at school, only to often find a plastic banana, and being sent off to the airport to go through the check-in process carrying an enormous set of moose antlers (when the TSA official asks if he realizes he has to check the rack, Larry’s straight-man son realizes what the joke was his father played on him this time).
Pisoni’s performance is a quietly brilliant, surely unique tribute to his father and the joys of growing up in an unconventional manner. The love and respect this man shows for his father is far more amazing than any of the jaw-dropping tricks and tumbles, and we, his grateful audience, come away with far more than an appreciation for clowning as a true art form. We come away appreciating the limitless bonds of familial love few of us have been fortunate enough to know in our short time here on this risky planet.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
September 23, 2013
September 23, 2013
R II
The Theatre @ Boston Court
For R II, Jessica Kubzansky’s adaptation currently being performed at the Theater @ Boston Court, Shakespeare’s Richard II has lost not just six letters from its title but also about 25 percent of its text and upwards of 90 percent of the ensemble usually assembled to perform it. In R II, John Sloan portrays the titular monarch, with Jim Ortlieb and Paige Lindsey White on call to stand in as everyone else.
And as it happens, all of this reduction is to the good. Richard has always been the toughest history to stage. Almost nothing happens in it, and it’s almost completely concerned with the psychology of its central character, appropriately enough for Shakespeare’s one and only all-verse drama. (For Elizabethans, spoken verse was the highest form of expressed thought.) Kubzansky’s concept instantly focuses our attention on the play’s principal strength: its poetic, incisive musing on the nature of kingship.
Richard is a terrible king: vain, wasteful of the public coin, a hapless politician, and the pawn of idle flatterers. Yet he is indeed the true king, anointed by God. If he is to be deposed—as he will be, by stalwart Bolingbroke, the future Henry IV—what legitimacy is any future monarch to possess? And more immediately, if Richard is no longer king, then what exactly is he? Richard II is Shakespeare’s most existential drama, more concerned with roleplaying than any other besides Hamlet; and R II puts all the speechifying about self and mirrors and identity into fascinating relief.
The production is both beautiful—a Boston Court hallmark—and expressive. Kaitlyn Pietras sets a stark metallic throne upstage right and a sort of conference table center left as the two environments any ruler needs. There’s also a circular grid dead center, which lit from below evokes the prison environment in which the deposed Richard is confined. Key speeches are excerpted in projection (also credited to Pietras) as if to make manifest the play of thoughts in the ex-king’s mind, and Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting throughout is appropriately moody and portentous. And the action is always crystal clear: Kubzansky rearranges some text so that Richard can more or less narrate the action from confinement in flashback, and introduce each entering character by merely muttering his or her name. It’s all quite ingenious, and endlessly interesting.
That’s not to say R II is fully realized in this first production. White’s demonstrates admirable versatility, but Ortieb’s vocal and physical repertoire aren’t varied enough to bring a full panoply of characters to life. Sloan is skilled enough to capture Richard’s petulant vanity as his principal characteristic, and smart enough to know he can never, ever be likable. (A likable Richard II sinks any production.) Yet there’s a level of anguish to the character that he seems to keep at arm’s length, not an unusual state of affairs given Boston Court’s often clinical acting style, but one that can damage a play so dependent on a character’s inner torment made three-dimensional.
Reservations notwithstanding, R II is a Shakespearean evening that will amply reward anyone willing to give himself over to it. One suggestion, though: Cannot costume designer Jenny Foldenauer come up with a proper shirt for her star? Sloan has to constantly tug at his little black cotton singlet to keep it from riding up, an intolerable imposition on a king so careful of his public and private image. It’s singularly unbecoming.
The Theatre @ Boston Court
For R II, Jessica Kubzansky’s adaptation currently being performed at the Theater @ Boston Court, Shakespeare’s Richard II has lost not just six letters from its title but also about 25 percent of its text and upwards of 90 percent of the ensemble usually assembled to perform it. In R II, John Sloan portrays the titular monarch, with Jim Ortlieb and Paige Lindsey White on call to stand in as everyone else.
And as it happens, all of this reduction is to the good. Richard has always been the toughest history to stage. Almost nothing happens in it, and it’s almost completely concerned with the psychology of its central character, appropriately enough for Shakespeare’s one and only all-verse drama. (For Elizabethans, spoken verse was the highest form of expressed thought.) Kubzansky’s concept instantly focuses our attention on the play’s principal strength: its poetic, incisive musing on the nature of kingship.
Richard is a terrible king: vain, wasteful of the public coin, a hapless politician, and the pawn of idle flatterers. Yet he is indeed the true king, anointed by God. If he is to be deposed—as he will be, by stalwart Bolingbroke, the future Henry IV—what legitimacy is any future monarch to possess? And more immediately, if Richard is no longer king, then what exactly is he? Richard II is Shakespeare’s most existential drama, more concerned with roleplaying than any other besides Hamlet; and R II puts all the speechifying about self and mirrors and identity into fascinating relief.
The production is both beautiful—a Boston Court hallmark—and expressive. Kaitlyn Pietras sets a stark metallic throne upstage right and a sort of conference table center left as the two environments any ruler needs. There’s also a circular grid dead center, which lit from below evokes the prison environment in which the deposed Richard is confined. Key speeches are excerpted in projection (also credited to Pietras) as if to make manifest the play of thoughts in the ex-king’s mind, and Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting throughout is appropriately moody and portentous. And the action is always crystal clear: Kubzansky rearranges some text so that Richard can more or less narrate the action from confinement in flashback, and introduce each entering character by merely muttering his or her name. It’s all quite ingenious, and endlessly interesting.
That’s not to say R II is fully realized in this first production. White’s demonstrates admirable versatility, but Ortieb’s vocal and physical repertoire aren’t varied enough to bring a full panoply of characters to life. Sloan is skilled enough to capture Richard’s petulant vanity as his principal characteristic, and smart enough to know he can never, ever be likable. (A likable Richard II sinks any production.) Yet there’s a level of anguish to the character that he seems to keep at arm’s length, not an unusual state of affairs given Boston Court’s often clinical acting style, but one that can damage a play so dependent on a character’s inner torment made three-dimensional.
Reservations notwithstanding, R II is a Shakespearean evening that will amply reward anyone willing to give himself over to it. One suggestion, though: Cannot costume designer Jenny Foldenauer come up with a proper shirt for her star? Sloan has to constantly tug at his little black cotton singlet to keep it from riding up, an intolerable imposition on a king so careful of his public and private image. It’s singularly unbecoming.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 23, 2013
September 23, 2013
The Producers
Norris Center for the Performing Arts
The Norris Center for the Performing Arts wanted to be a producer of a great big Broadway smash. It found one: a splashy, slightly raunchy tuner. Yes, the ambitious folks at Norris got themselves The Producers. And because they got it, they thoroughly, totally, flaunt it.
There’s no respite from the Mel Brooks–style humor. He wrote this musical’s book, with Thomas Meehan, plus the music and lyrics, based on Brooks’s 1968 satirical film of the same name. This musical is chockablock with nearly tasteless, nearly reprehensible humor. So, why is it so funny?
The Norris production visually resembles the national tour. The program credits the direction and choreography to Matthew J. Vargo, “re-created from the direction and choreography of Susan Stroman.” So the several-stories-high sets, the multidoor office primed for farce-style entrances and exits, and even the pigeon coop make this version feel just like the great big touring show.
But Vargo and the Norris made one big improvement: They cast two actors who know how to earn laughs rather than force them, who can deliver musical theater songs, who care more about creating characters than being stars.
The story is about two men who plot to profit from a Broadway show that flops. They bilk “little old ladies” for the seed money, ensure that the material is universally deplored so the show closes on opening night, and then pocket the remaining funds. How low can men go for money and power, and can these two ever find redemption?
Max Bialystock is a veteran impresario par awfulness. Leo Bloom is an artistically unfulfilled accountant. These characters are ripe for overharvesting. But Nick Santa Maria modulates Max’s sleaziness and desperation, and Marc Ginsburg sweetly shows Leo’s insecurity and longing. And yet each is hilarious. Neither tries to mimic the show’s original actors, but each brings in a mix of freshness and old-school comedy. Santa Maria gets a laugh with a well-placed “oy,”and Ginsburg calibrates Leo’s manic panic yet croons like a romantic tenor.
Max and Leo head off to find a writer and director for their show. Along the way, Farley Cadena has a wicked sparkle as the leading “little old lady,” and Elaine Hayhurst sizzles as the no-talent Swedish bombshell Ulla, hired by Max and Leo to fill, er, a variety of positions. The producers find Franz Liebkind, the pigeon-raising, Fuehrer-worshipping hack who has penned Springtime for Hitler. James W. Gruessing Jr. isn’t over the top playing him; he’s at the top, in a grandly, joyously, comedic portrayal. To direct Springtime, Max and Leo tap Roger DeBris and his assistant Carmen Ghia. They’re richly enacted, from head to “Keep It Gay” wrists, by Ken Prescott as the über-confident director and Jon M. Wailin as the queen-of-the-slow-exit assistant.
Yes, this Producers looks like a Broadway smash. As the show’s numbers get bigger, the costumes get bigger, bolder, and more awe-inspiring, designed and built by The Theatre Company. The 15-piece band sounds like a broadcast orchestra, and the vocal work is beautifully clear, particularly in duets by Santa Maria and Ginsburg. However, as of opening night, the sound had not been adjusted for the performers. Good money says it will be before long.
To the distress of Max and Leo, the critics loved Springtime. One critic wrote, “It was shocking, outrageous, insulting, and I loved every minute of it.” Regarding this Producers, that’s our sentiments exactly.
Norris Center for the Performing Arts
The Norris Center for the Performing Arts wanted to be a producer of a great big Broadway smash. It found one: a splashy, slightly raunchy tuner. Yes, the ambitious folks at Norris got themselves The Producers. And because they got it, they thoroughly, totally, flaunt it.
There’s no respite from the Mel Brooks–style humor. He wrote this musical’s book, with Thomas Meehan, plus the music and lyrics, based on Brooks’s 1968 satirical film of the same name. This musical is chockablock with nearly tasteless, nearly reprehensible humor. So, why is it so funny?
The Norris production visually resembles the national tour. The program credits the direction and choreography to Matthew J. Vargo, “re-created from the direction and choreography of Susan Stroman.” So the several-stories-high sets, the multidoor office primed for farce-style entrances and exits, and even the pigeon coop make this version feel just like the great big touring show.
But Vargo and the Norris made one big improvement: They cast two actors who know how to earn laughs rather than force them, who can deliver musical theater songs, who care more about creating characters than being stars.
The story is about two men who plot to profit from a Broadway show that flops. They bilk “little old ladies” for the seed money, ensure that the material is universally deplored so the show closes on opening night, and then pocket the remaining funds. How low can men go for money and power, and can these two ever find redemption?
Max Bialystock is a veteran impresario par awfulness. Leo Bloom is an artistically unfulfilled accountant. These characters are ripe for overharvesting. But Nick Santa Maria modulates Max’s sleaziness and desperation, and Marc Ginsburg sweetly shows Leo’s insecurity and longing. And yet each is hilarious. Neither tries to mimic the show’s original actors, but each brings in a mix of freshness and old-school comedy. Santa Maria gets a laugh with a well-placed “oy,”and Ginsburg calibrates Leo’s manic panic yet croons like a romantic tenor.
Max and Leo head off to find a writer and director for their show. Along the way, Farley Cadena has a wicked sparkle as the leading “little old lady,” and Elaine Hayhurst sizzles as the no-talent Swedish bombshell Ulla, hired by Max and Leo to fill, er, a variety of positions. The producers find Franz Liebkind, the pigeon-raising, Fuehrer-worshipping hack who has penned Springtime for Hitler. James W. Gruessing Jr. isn’t over the top playing him; he’s at the top, in a grandly, joyously, comedic portrayal. To direct Springtime, Max and Leo tap Roger DeBris and his assistant Carmen Ghia. They’re richly enacted, from head to “Keep It Gay” wrists, by Ken Prescott as the über-confident director and Jon M. Wailin as the queen-of-the-slow-exit assistant.
Yes, this Producers looks like a Broadway smash. As the show’s numbers get bigger, the costumes get bigger, bolder, and more awe-inspiring, designed and built by The Theatre Company. The 15-piece band sounds like a broadcast orchestra, and the vocal work is beautifully clear, particularly in duets by Santa Maria and Ginsburg. However, as of opening night, the sound had not been adjusted for the performers. Good money says it will be before long.
To the distress of Max and Leo, the critics loved Springtime. One critic wrote, “It was shocking, outrageous, insulting, and I loved every minute of it.” Regarding this Producers, that’s our sentiments exactly.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 23, 2013
September 23, 2013
St. Jude
DouglasPlus at Kirk Douglas Theatre
One would be hard-pressed to cast aspersions on playwright–solo performer Luis Alfaro’s devotion to his chosen subject matter. Titled after the Fullerton, Calif., hospital in which his father passed away, this 70-minute one-act is, if nothing else, heartfelt. As Alfaro traces his own life from birth to that fateful day when he lovingly ushered his father from this world, it seems his intention is to grant the viewers permission to reflect on similar life experiences.
Alfaro’s emotional investment aside however, the production’s structure and theatrical conventions more than occasionally mar his desired result. With the aid of an onstage assistant, he begins the show by dressing designer Takeshi Kata’s roughly hewn, planked stage with a sparse array of minimalistic furniture. Located stage right is an overhead projector upon which the uncredited crewmember places a series of story-augmenting transparencies focused on an upstage screen. Down center is a lectern where Alfaro spends far too much time reading to the audience from a binder holding his script. The impression given is that of a work in progress. Is it a seminar, a piece of performance art, or something one might hear at a coffeehouse poetry slam?
For example, displayed on the screen is a hand-drawn map of Highway 99 running through California’s central valley region. The audience waits while Alfaro manipulates his hands over the glass of the machine in what curiously looks like an attempt to create a shadow animal. After a rather uncomfortable length of time, it becomes apparent he has pricked his finger drawing a bead of blood, which he then uses to denote his birthplace, Fresno. Explained away as a connection to the habitual medical testing his father endured, it would be an interest-piquing choice were it not so terribly overused. Instead, it becomes a repetitively creepy distraction during a series of unmemorable taped voiceovers.
To be fair, Alfaro’s background is one of a very successful playwright and university level instructor, rather than that of a seasoned actor. Still, there are times when director Robert Egan might have encouraged the author to pare some of his material, as well as coaxing a more nuanced performance from his charge.
Only toward the end of the piece does Alfaro offer a glimpse of what might have been. As he recounts his father’s final days at St. Jude, all of the vocal overprojecting falls away. He steps out from behind the safety of the lectern and simply talks, trusting his own memories to provide the words that contain the power to move his audience. Given the bombastic nature of the first 60 minutes or so, it’s a refreshing albeit tardy respite.
DouglasPlus at Kirk Douglas Theatre
One would be hard-pressed to cast aspersions on playwright–solo performer Luis Alfaro’s devotion to his chosen subject matter. Titled after the Fullerton, Calif., hospital in which his father passed away, this 70-minute one-act is, if nothing else, heartfelt. As Alfaro traces his own life from birth to that fateful day when he lovingly ushered his father from this world, it seems his intention is to grant the viewers permission to reflect on similar life experiences.
Alfaro’s emotional investment aside however, the production’s structure and theatrical conventions more than occasionally mar his desired result. With the aid of an onstage assistant, he begins the show by dressing designer Takeshi Kata’s roughly hewn, planked stage with a sparse array of minimalistic furniture. Located stage right is an overhead projector upon which the uncredited crewmember places a series of story-augmenting transparencies focused on an upstage screen. Down center is a lectern where Alfaro spends far too much time reading to the audience from a binder holding his script. The impression given is that of a work in progress. Is it a seminar, a piece of performance art, or something one might hear at a coffeehouse poetry slam?
For example, displayed on the screen is a hand-drawn map of Highway 99 running through California’s central valley region. The audience waits while Alfaro manipulates his hands over the glass of the machine in what curiously looks like an attempt to create a shadow animal. After a rather uncomfortable length of time, it becomes apparent he has pricked his finger drawing a bead of blood, which he then uses to denote his birthplace, Fresno. Explained away as a connection to the habitual medical testing his father endured, it would be an interest-piquing choice were it not so terribly overused. Instead, it becomes a repetitively creepy distraction during a series of unmemorable taped voiceovers.
To be fair, Alfaro’s background is one of a very successful playwright and university level instructor, rather than that of a seasoned actor. Still, there are times when director Robert Egan might have encouraged the author to pare some of his material, as well as coaxing a more nuanced performance from his charge.
Only toward the end of the piece does Alfaro offer a glimpse of what might have been. As he recounts his father’s final days at St. Jude, all of the vocal overprojecting falls away. He steps out from behind the safety of the lectern and simply talks, trusting his own memories to provide the words that contain the power to move his audience. Given the bombastic nature of the first 60 minutes or so, it’s a refreshing albeit tardy respite.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
September 23, 2013
September 23, 2013
Rodney King
DouglasPlus at Kirk Douglas Theatre
Roger Guenveur Smith’s monodrama Rodney King is like a Wikipedia article performed to Tai Chi moves, absent a considered point of view that might turn soapbox ranting into art.
Smith’s first words are “Fuck Rodney King,” a provocative enough way to stick it to the culturally blind among us until you start to wonder whether he actually means it. Every blow rained down on the hapless construction worker on that night in 1991 is captured as surely as it was on camcorder that night, almost to the point of exploitation.
But thereafter Smith mocks King cruelly, for everything from his famous plea “Why can’t we all just get along?” to the acceptance of a $3.8 million settlement and a sad death in a backyard pool. “Glug, glugs” are acted out throughout, along with the repeatedly whined “Right, Rodney?” which may have been intended as fellow feeling but comes across as condescension. Any artist is perfectly free to criticize anyone or anything, of course, but the tactics herein are questionable at best and contemptible at worst, and their effect is muddled.
A perfunctory ticking off of various heroes and villains of those steamy, violent LA days is punctuated by logy snippets of rap and poor jokes. Discussing King’s chief antagonist Sgt. Stacey Koon, Smith tosses in “Good name,” the height of the evening’s stinging wit. It’s all ground already magisterially covered by Anna Deavere Smith in her own monodrama Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992, where she was able to bring empathy to each of her subjects instead of the preening self-congratulation to be found here.
In life Rodney King deserved better at the hands of the L.A.P.D. In death, whether seen as hero or martyr, pawn or dupe, he deserves better than becoming the butt of this painful embarrassment.
DouglasPlus at Kirk Douglas Theatre
Roger Guenveur Smith’s monodrama Rodney King is like a Wikipedia article performed to Tai Chi moves, absent a considered point of view that might turn soapbox ranting into art.
Smith’s first words are “Fuck Rodney King,” a provocative enough way to stick it to the culturally blind among us until you start to wonder whether he actually means it. Every blow rained down on the hapless construction worker on that night in 1991 is captured as surely as it was on camcorder that night, almost to the point of exploitation.
But thereafter Smith mocks King cruelly, for everything from his famous plea “Why can’t we all just get along?” to the acceptance of a $3.8 million settlement and a sad death in a backyard pool. “Glug, glugs” are acted out throughout, along with the repeatedly whined “Right, Rodney?” which may have been intended as fellow feeling but comes across as condescension. Any artist is perfectly free to criticize anyone or anything, of course, but the tactics herein are questionable at best and contemptible at worst, and their effect is muddled.
A perfunctory ticking off of various heroes and villains of those steamy, violent LA days is punctuated by logy snippets of rap and poor jokes. Discussing King’s chief antagonist Sgt. Stacey Koon, Smith tosses in “Good name,” the height of the evening’s stinging wit. It’s all ground already magisterially covered by Anna Deavere Smith in her own monodrama Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992, where she was able to bring empathy to each of her subjects instead of the preening self-congratulation to be found here.
In life Rodney King deserved better at the hands of the L.A.P.D. In death, whether seen as hero or martyr, pawn or dupe, he deserves better than becoming the butt of this painful embarrassment.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 23, 2013
September 23, 2013
The Wizard of Oz
Pantages Theatre
Many of us out there fly away as swiftly as Elphaba’s monkeys from sugary family-oriented musical theater fare, but there’s something nearly critic-proof about this first North American tour of a new stage adaptation of The Wizard of Oz. The actors cast as the Munchkins aren’t that small, the set pieces don’t always perform as smoothly as one might wish, and the scrim that frequently descends to turn live action into filmic computer graphics are an annoyance, but still the piece has the potential to melt the hearts of even the crankiest of old critics almost as easily as Dorothy Gale dispatches the Wicked Witch of the West with a little well-placed H20. What a world, what a world.
We’re not in Kansas anymore in 2013, so a plethora of impressive computerized tricks, designed by Jon Driscoll and Daniel Brodie, are utilized in this production to tell L. Frank Baum’s enduring little tale of Dorothy and her realization that there’s no place like home, something that ordinarily sets theater purists fretting. But somehow, since this is such a famous tale and the kids in the audience are suitably—too often untypically—enthralled, the elaborately programed visual effects are somehow forgivable, although perhaps that aforementioned descending scrim should be left down throughout the show so its arrival doesn’t immediately telegraph that the actors and sets will be disappearing into CGI.
Still, there is a better reason to appreciate this journey to Oz. Under the guidance of director and co-adaptor Jeremy Sams, this cast is a major asset here, the performers pushing through the onus of roadshow-itis and giving every bit of it their all. Danielle Wade is a sufficiently feisty and wide-eyed Dorothy, rising above any dialogue inadequacies with a beautiful rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” that pays homage to the legendary performance by Judy Garland without resorting to imitation. Jamie McKnight is a standout as the suitably rubbery Scarecrow, who may not have a brain but has definite flexibility and a comic timing that subtly delivers the punch with some of the new updated dialogue. The same is true of Lee MacDougall’s charming Cowardly Lion, contributing a performance even more foppish than Bert Lahr’s indelible original interpretation, able to knock off a few decidedly contemporary bon mots that, like those of Pee-Wee Herman a few decades ago, go directly over the kiddies’ heads (to the Wizard, he puffs up his newly coiffed chest and admits, “I’m proud to be a friend of Dorothy’s!”). Then there’s Nigel, the single-named little terrier who takes on the role of Toto with the same conviction and heart as any of his human counterparts.
It’s nice to hear all those charming, evocative old tunes penned by Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg that so many generations have grown up humming on their way through life (how often have you been off to see the Wizard when you’re sure no one’s listening?), but added here are several decent new songs by none other than Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber (who is also credited for this co-adaptation), including a vaudevillian-y number called “Wonders of the World,” written for Professor Marvel (sturdily assayed by Cedric Smith), and the spirited “Red Shoe Blues,” a worthy match for the talents of Wicked Witch Jacquelyn Piro Donovan. Choreographer Arlene Phillips keeps the Winkies and others on their toes, Hugh Vanstone’s lighting glorifies the classic Deco charm of the Pantages right to the balcony, and David Andrews Rogers contributes considerably as conductor and musical director.
Nope, it may not be Garland and Bolger and Hamilton (oh, my!) in this lively adaptation of Oz, but, truly, what’s offered in their place is an entertaining, respectful substitute.
Pantages Theatre
Many of us out there fly away as swiftly as Elphaba’s monkeys from sugary family-oriented musical theater fare, but there’s something nearly critic-proof about this first North American tour of a new stage adaptation of The Wizard of Oz. The actors cast as the Munchkins aren’t that small, the set pieces don’t always perform as smoothly as one might wish, and the scrim that frequently descends to turn live action into filmic computer graphics are an annoyance, but still the piece has the potential to melt the hearts of even the crankiest of old critics almost as easily as Dorothy Gale dispatches the Wicked Witch of the West with a little well-placed H20. What a world, what a world.
We’re not in Kansas anymore in 2013, so a plethora of impressive computerized tricks, designed by Jon Driscoll and Daniel Brodie, are utilized in this production to tell L. Frank Baum’s enduring little tale of Dorothy and her realization that there’s no place like home, something that ordinarily sets theater purists fretting. But somehow, since this is such a famous tale and the kids in the audience are suitably—too often untypically—enthralled, the elaborately programed visual effects are somehow forgivable, although perhaps that aforementioned descending scrim should be left down throughout the show so its arrival doesn’t immediately telegraph that the actors and sets will be disappearing into CGI.
Still, there is a better reason to appreciate this journey to Oz. Under the guidance of director and co-adaptor Jeremy Sams, this cast is a major asset here, the performers pushing through the onus of roadshow-itis and giving every bit of it their all. Danielle Wade is a sufficiently feisty and wide-eyed Dorothy, rising above any dialogue inadequacies with a beautiful rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” that pays homage to the legendary performance by Judy Garland without resorting to imitation. Jamie McKnight is a standout as the suitably rubbery Scarecrow, who may not have a brain but has definite flexibility and a comic timing that subtly delivers the punch with some of the new updated dialogue. The same is true of Lee MacDougall’s charming Cowardly Lion, contributing a performance even more foppish than Bert Lahr’s indelible original interpretation, able to knock off a few decidedly contemporary bon mots that, like those of Pee-Wee Herman a few decades ago, go directly over the kiddies’ heads (to the Wizard, he puffs up his newly coiffed chest and admits, “I’m proud to be a friend of Dorothy’s!”). Then there’s Nigel, the single-named little terrier who takes on the role of Toto with the same conviction and heart as any of his human counterparts.
It’s nice to hear all those charming, evocative old tunes penned by Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg that so many generations have grown up humming on their way through life (how often have you been off to see the Wizard when you’re sure no one’s listening?), but added here are several decent new songs by none other than Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber (who is also credited for this co-adaptation), including a vaudevillian-y number called “Wonders of the World,” written for Professor Marvel (sturdily assayed by Cedric Smith), and the spirited “Red Shoe Blues,” a worthy match for the talents of Wicked Witch Jacquelyn Piro Donovan. Choreographer Arlene Phillips keeps the Winkies and others on their toes, Hugh Vanstone’s lighting glorifies the classic Deco charm of the Pantages right to the balcony, and David Andrews Rogers contributes considerably as conductor and musical director.
Nope, it may not be Garland and Bolger and Hamilton (oh, my!) in this lively adaptation of Oz, but, truly, what’s offered in their place is an entertaining, respectful substitute.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
September 19, 2013
September 19, 2013
The
Burnt Part Boys
Third Street Theatre and West Coast Ensemble Theatre at Third Street Theatre
The Burnt Part Boys, now at the Third Street Theater in a co-production with West Coast Ensemble Theater, is an energetic hoot-’n’-hollerin’ musical play that would benefit from a little less hoot-’n’-hollerin’ and a little more straight talk.
West Virginia, 1962. Things is fraught in the Twitchell homestead, still reeling since Paw and 11 other miners died 10 years ago in a cave-in on South Mountain, the affected portion of which has become known as “the burnt part.” The widow Twitchell is catatonic or drunk or something in a back room, leaving 18-year-old Jake (Aaron Scheff) as the man of the house. When we meet him and good ol’ boy buddy Chet (Joe Donohoe), yee-hawing and clinking beer bottles, work prospects are looking up, for the mining company intends immediately to reopen the burnt part to development for the first time in a decade.
What no one has counted on is troubled, idealistic 14-year-old Pete Twitchell (Daniel David Stewart). The lad sees the burnt part as a sacred shrine that must remain untouched, and he’s gonna climb up there and set off some dynamite (by gum!) to accomplish just that. As it happens, Pete has seen John Wayne’s The Alamo seven times, and visitations by cocky Davy Crockett, noble Sam Houston, and boozy Jim Bowie show up to egg him on. (I suppose it could’ve been worse; he could’ve fixated on The Manchurian Candidate and had Laurence Harvey persuade him to go all Raymond Shaw on the company’s ass.)
As acts of civil disobedience go, Pete’s doesn’t exactly rise to a sit-in at a Birmingham lunch counter; he is heedless of what an explosion might to do to his community’s economy, not to mention the potential additional loss of life. Still, we’re supposed to be wholly on his side as he picks up tomboyish woodsy hermit Frances (Lauren Patten) and best friend Dusty (a sprightly Adam Dingeman, who seems to have “comedy relief” tattooed on his forehead), for a trek clearly inspired by Stand By Me en route to a final reckoning with brother and dad.
The flavorful songs, by Chris Miller (music) and Nathan Tysen (words), are mainly bluegrass-anthemic. Boy, are they anthemic. Main characters are supposed to kick off a musical with an “I want” song; Pete had three before I stopped counting. Songs are staged by Richard Israel with actors staring spellbound up to the sky as if posing for a coin, and the lyrics reflect the same common-man observations already amply represented in Mariana Elder’s dialogue. Didn’t people in 1962 Appalachia ever sit still for a single quiet, unaffected conversation? If Israel had found more moments for the characters to calm down and just talk to each other, The Burnt Part Boys might not seem quite as repetitious and wearying as it currently does.
Within the heavy-handed framework, the cast acquits itself sincerely and honorably, though Patten seems to have been glued to Annie Get Your Gun while Pete was over at The Alamo. In her relish at waving her rifle around and singing about the joys of roasting squirrels and gophers, she can make one nostalgic for the greater restraint of Betty Hutton.
Third Street Theatre and West Coast Ensemble Theatre at Third Street Theatre
The Burnt Part Boys, now at the Third Street Theater in a co-production with West Coast Ensemble Theater, is an energetic hoot-’n’-hollerin’ musical play that would benefit from a little less hoot-’n’-hollerin’ and a little more straight talk.
West Virginia, 1962. Things is fraught in the Twitchell homestead, still reeling since Paw and 11 other miners died 10 years ago in a cave-in on South Mountain, the affected portion of which has become known as “the burnt part.” The widow Twitchell is catatonic or drunk or something in a back room, leaving 18-year-old Jake (Aaron Scheff) as the man of the house. When we meet him and good ol’ boy buddy Chet (Joe Donohoe), yee-hawing and clinking beer bottles, work prospects are looking up, for the mining company intends immediately to reopen the burnt part to development for the first time in a decade.
What no one has counted on is troubled, idealistic 14-year-old Pete Twitchell (Daniel David Stewart). The lad sees the burnt part as a sacred shrine that must remain untouched, and he’s gonna climb up there and set off some dynamite (by gum!) to accomplish just that. As it happens, Pete has seen John Wayne’s The Alamo seven times, and visitations by cocky Davy Crockett, noble Sam Houston, and boozy Jim Bowie show up to egg him on. (I suppose it could’ve been worse; he could’ve fixated on The Manchurian Candidate and had Laurence Harvey persuade him to go all Raymond Shaw on the company’s ass.)
As acts of civil disobedience go, Pete’s doesn’t exactly rise to a sit-in at a Birmingham lunch counter; he is heedless of what an explosion might to do to his community’s economy, not to mention the potential additional loss of life. Still, we’re supposed to be wholly on his side as he picks up tomboyish woodsy hermit Frances (Lauren Patten) and best friend Dusty (a sprightly Adam Dingeman, who seems to have “comedy relief” tattooed on his forehead), for a trek clearly inspired by Stand By Me en route to a final reckoning with brother and dad.
The flavorful songs, by Chris Miller (music) and Nathan Tysen (words), are mainly bluegrass-anthemic. Boy, are they anthemic. Main characters are supposed to kick off a musical with an “I want” song; Pete had three before I stopped counting. Songs are staged by Richard Israel with actors staring spellbound up to the sky as if posing for a coin, and the lyrics reflect the same common-man observations already amply represented in Mariana Elder’s dialogue. Didn’t people in 1962 Appalachia ever sit still for a single quiet, unaffected conversation? If Israel had found more moments for the characters to calm down and just talk to each other, The Burnt Part Boys might not seem quite as repetitious and wearying as it currently does.
Within the heavy-handed framework, the cast acquits itself sincerely and honorably, though Patten seems to have been glued to Annie Get Your Gun while Pete was over at The Alamo. In her relish at waving her rifle around and singing about the joys of roasting squirrels and gophers, she can make one nostalgic for the greater restraint of Betty Hutton.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 17, 2013
September 17, 2013
Little Shop of Horrors
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
It’s fun being rich and famous, no matter how we get there. Just ask Miley. Or Lindsey. Or Seymour Krelborn. He’s the nerd at the heart of Little Shop of Horrors, on its surface about a man-eating plant but at its roots about the need for wealth and fame that eats away at so many people and makes them do such strange things.
Kentwood Players provides rich soil for this musical, turning over the direction to Michael-Anthony Nozzi, who certainly shows a green thumb. With book and lyrics by Howard Ashman, music by Alan Menken (based on the original film written by Charles Griffith, directed by Roger Corman), the storytelling is lively, fun, and very metaphoric.
The action takes place in Mr. Mushnik’s (Peter Miller) flower shop. No wonder everyone there is underworked and underpaid: The shop is on Skid Row. Mushnik’s assistants are Seymour (Brett Chapin), who tinkers with “strange and interesting plants,” and Audrey (Kristin Towers-Rowles), a ditzy salesgirl.
Seymour and Audrey are sweet on each other, but Audrey prefers being abused by her boyfriend, a sadistic dentist (Randy Brown). So far, this is your average American love story.
Now, it happens that Seymour gets hold of a wee little dionaea in its tiny pot, which he names Audrey II—affectionately called Twoey, because who doesn’t fall in love with his man-eating house plant? Like any evil, the plant grows, until its roots, leaves, and one giant blossom fill the back wall of the shop. What Seymour must do to feed it is the stuff of horror films—and modern celebrity.
Chapin and Towers-Rowles are captivating. They have gentle chemistry and make the roles their own while hewing to the iconic characterizations. While both adeptly play the comedy, Chapin reveals mankind’s battles with temptation, and Towers-Rowles shows the heartache of abused women.
Nozzi built the Twoey puppets (spoiler, sorry) for this production. They’re charming, like plush toys, and they’re certainly more family-friendly than some. The large Audrey II is operated by and voiced by John Devereaux, fortunately with more humor than horror. He is joined by a large number of puppeteers, helping manipulate the plant and creating its eager root system.
In front of that tableau are the Skid Row denizens. So Nozzi moves a cast of about 25 performers around that stage. That’s impressive enough. But the costume and wig changes are so numerous, they’re a task merely to count. The choreography that must be going on backstage ought to be turned into a show of its own. With that kind of traffic control, however, scene changes can’t be much beyond rudimentary, though they are mercifully swift.
Those costumes and wigs are a treat (Maria Cohen and Arlene Cohen). The lioness’s share of those goes to a doo-wopping Greek chorus of very wise gals. Playing them, Liz Adabale, Amanda Majkrzak, and Brittney S. Wheeler nail the three-part harmonies. Credit music director Joshua Eli Kranz, who ensures the entire cast sounds solid and blends well.
So who or what ends happily ever after here? The plant and its progeny do. The lure of wealth and fame is destined to continue. Gulp.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
It’s fun being rich and famous, no matter how we get there. Just ask Miley. Or Lindsey. Or Seymour Krelborn. He’s the nerd at the heart of Little Shop of Horrors, on its surface about a man-eating plant but at its roots about the need for wealth and fame that eats away at so many people and makes them do such strange things.
Kentwood Players provides rich soil for this musical, turning over the direction to Michael-Anthony Nozzi, who certainly shows a green thumb. With book and lyrics by Howard Ashman, music by Alan Menken (based on the original film written by Charles Griffith, directed by Roger Corman), the storytelling is lively, fun, and very metaphoric.
The action takes place in Mr. Mushnik’s (Peter Miller) flower shop. No wonder everyone there is underworked and underpaid: The shop is on Skid Row. Mushnik’s assistants are Seymour (Brett Chapin), who tinkers with “strange and interesting plants,” and Audrey (Kristin Towers-Rowles), a ditzy salesgirl.
Seymour and Audrey are sweet on each other, but Audrey prefers being abused by her boyfriend, a sadistic dentist (Randy Brown). So far, this is your average American love story.
Now, it happens that Seymour gets hold of a wee little dionaea in its tiny pot, which he names Audrey II—affectionately called Twoey, because who doesn’t fall in love with his man-eating house plant? Like any evil, the plant grows, until its roots, leaves, and one giant blossom fill the back wall of the shop. What Seymour must do to feed it is the stuff of horror films—and modern celebrity.
Chapin and Towers-Rowles are captivating. They have gentle chemistry and make the roles their own while hewing to the iconic characterizations. While both adeptly play the comedy, Chapin reveals mankind’s battles with temptation, and Towers-Rowles shows the heartache of abused women.
Nozzi built the Twoey puppets (spoiler, sorry) for this production. They’re charming, like plush toys, and they’re certainly more family-friendly than some. The large Audrey II is operated by and voiced by John Devereaux, fortunately with more humor than horror. He is joined by a large number of puppeteers, helping manipulate the plant and creating its eager root system.
In front of that tableau are the Skid Row denizens. So Nozzi moves a cast of about 25 performers around that stage. That’s impressive enough. But the costume and wig changes are so numerous, they’re a task merely to count. The choreography that must be going on backstage ought to be turned into a show of its own. With that kind of traffic control, however, scene changes can’t be much beyond rudimentary, though they are mercifully swift.
Those costumes and wigs are a treat (Maria Cohen and Arlene Cohen). The lioness’s share of those goes to a doo-wopping Greek chorus of very wise gals. Playing them, Liz Adabale, Amanda Majkrzak, and Brittney S. Wheeler nail the three-part harmonies. Credit music director Joshua Eli Kranz, who ensures the entire cast sounds solid and blends well.
So who or what ends happily ever after here? The plant and its progeny do. The lure of wealth and fame is destined to continue. Gulp.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 17, 2013
September 17, 2013
The
Laramie Project: Ten Years Later
Davidson/Valentini Theatre
Time heals everything, so the song goes, and a quick overview of history reveals there’s no calamity so atrocious that the passage of time won’t soften its impact. Shed any tears over the massacre of the Huguenots lately? How about the victims of the Children’s Crusade? Fortunately, art often comes forward to try to ensure that an event’s power will not be blunted for future generations. Thanks in part to Shoah and Schindler’s List, the Holocaust will remain an immediate horror to millions yet unborn; and say what you will about James Cameron, those who died on the real Titanic are infinitely more likely to live on in memory because of him.
All of which is to say that if the terrible fate that awaited young Matthew Shepard in 1998 is recalled in ensuing decades, the parties responsible will be Moisés Kaufman and the members of his Tectonic Theater Project, whose travels to Laramie, Wyo.—site of the infamous, torturous beating on a prairie fence that ended in Shepard’s death six days later—led to two unique and unforgettable artistic documents. The second of them, The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later, has finally landed in LA, in a quietly splendid production helmed by Ken Sawyer.
The format is much the same as the initial Project, when Kaufman and 11 colleagues swept into town, five weeks after Matthew was pronounced dead, to take Laramie’s temperature. Interviews with intimates of the victim and perpetrators, as well as University of Wyoming types and everyday citizens, were turned into a documentary play performed by the compilers, dropping in and out of their own personas to provide a living quilt of life in the immediate wake of a town tragedy.
For the 2008 anniversary, a smaller cadre made the trip, and their mission was stranger and even more vital. They encountered pervasive evidence of a determination to sweep the Shepard incident, particularly its underlying bigotry, under the carpet. Beyond the demolition of that grimly iconic fence (too many gawking trespassers for the landowner’s comfort, apparently), the visitors found an institutional unwillingness to memorialize Matthew; coded sentiments everywhere that it was time to “move on”; and a pervasive rumor that homophobia had nothing to do with the murder, that it had all been “a drug deal” or “a robbery gone bad.” A 2004 episode of 20/20 did considerable damage in this regard, recounted here along with documentary evidence that the filmmakers were out to sabotage the hate-crime scenario sight unseen.
Anyone familiar with the Shepard case—and the Tectonic actors had more than a decade invested in it—could find plenty of fuel for fury in these developments. Moreover, on this trip, company members were for the first time given access to the perps. As the transcripts of jaw-dropping interviews with Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson are faithfully recounted, you can practically feel the audience’s collective blood pressure rise.
Yet that’s why it’s so refreshing, even stunning, that project, play, and production never waver in allowing cool heads and reason to prevail. Indeed, a local folklorist is given considerable stage time to explain sympathetically the theory of how a community—any community—tries to control its own history by allowing the more salutary narrative to take hold. To be sure, for every step toward openness or progress around town or in Wyoming generally—and there was some—two or three instances of callous disregard are recounted. But the tone remains evenhanded.
Sawyer respects the original Tectonic intent in evoking real but never overdone emotions. His ingenious production concept—placing the cast in the midst of the theater-in-the-round audience—wisely ensures that we cannot turn our eyes and hearts away from the multiple sorrows of Laramie circa October 1998 and beyond. We become heartbroken captives within them. (Certainly I don’t think I’d want to know someone whose heart wasn’t broken by the end of this play.) The actors don’t do much to characterize the Tectonic players—probably that’s inevitable—but they deftly assume Laramie characters with a snap of a John Deere cap or the donning or doffing of a cardigan. And on press night Michael Hanson and Dylan Seaton embodied principal actor McKinney and unwilling accomplice Henderson, respectively, with chilling aplomb. Evidently the thesps are alternating in those roles, though it’s hard to imagine either one better played.
The playmakers came not to praise or bury Laramie, but to understand it. They trust that we spectators share that goal, and can decide how to think and feel for ourselves.
Davidson/Valentini Theatre
Time heals everything, so the song goes, and a quick overview of history reveals there’s no calamity so atrocious that the passage of time won’t soften its impact. Shed any tears over the massacre of the Huguenots lately? How about the victims of the Children’s Crusade? Fortunately, art often comes forward to try to ensure that an event’s power will not be blunted for future generations. Thanks in part to Shoah and Schindler’s List, the Holocaust will remain an immediate horror to millions yet unborn; and say what you will about James Cameron, those who died on the real Titanic are infinitely more likely to live on in memory because of him.
All of which is to say that if the terrible fate that awaited young Matthew Shepard in 1998 is recalled in ensuing decades, the parties responsible will be Moisés Kaufman and the members of his Tectonic Theater Project, whose travels to Laramie, Wyo.—site of the infamous, torturous beating on a prairie fence that ended in Shepard’s death six days later—led to two unique and unforgettable artistic documents. The second of them, The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later, has finally landed in LA, in a quietly splendid production helmed by Ken Sawyer.
The format is much the same as the initial Project, when Kaufman and 11 colleagues swept into town, five weeks after Matthew was pronounced dead, to take Laramie’s temperature. Interviews with intimates of the victim and perpetrators, as well as University of Wyoming types and everyday citizens, were turned into a documentary play performed by the compilers, dropping in and out of their own personas to provide a living quilt of life in the immediate wake of a town tragedy.
For the 2008 anniversary, a smaller cadre made the trip, and their mission was stranger and even more vital. They encountered pervasive evidence of a determination to sweep the Shepard incident, particularly its underlying bigotry, under the carpet. Beyond the demolition of that grimly iconic fence (too many gawking trespassers for the landowner’s comfort, apparently), the visitors found an institutional unwillingness to memorialize Matthew; coded sentiments everywhere that it was time to “move on”; and a pervasive rumor that homophobia had nothing to do with the murder, that it had all been “a drug deal” or “a robbery gone bad.” A 2004 episode of 20/20 did considerable damage in this regard, recounted here along with documentary evidence that the filmmakers were out to sabotage the hate-crime scenario sight unseen.
Anyone familiar with the Shepard case—and the Tectonic actors had more than a decade invested in it—could find plenty of fuel for fury in these developments. Moreover, on this trip, company members were for the first time given access to the perps. As the transcripts of jaw-dropping interviews with Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson are faithfully recounted, you can practically feel the audience’s collective blood pressure rise.
Yet that’s why it’s so refreshing, even stunning, that project, play, and production never waver in allowing cool heads and reason to prevail. Indeed, a local folklorist is given considerable stage time to explain sympathetically the theory of how a community—any community—tries to control its own history by allowing the more salutary narrative to take hold. To be sure, for every step toward openness or progress around town or in Wyoming generally—and there was some—two or three instances of callous disregard are recounted. But the tone remains evenhanded.
Sawyer respects the original Tectonic intent in evoking real but never overdone emotions. His ingenious production concept—placing the cast in the midst of the theater-in-the-round audience—wisely ensures that we cannot turn our eyes and hearts away from the multiple sorrows of Laramie circa October 1998 and beyond. We become heartbroken captives within them. (Certainly I don’t think I’d want to know someone whose heart wasn’t broken by the end of this play.) The actors don’t do much to characterize the Tectonic players—probably that’s inevitable—but they deftly assume Laramie characters with a snap of a John Deere cap or the donning or doffing of a cardigan. And on press night Michael Hanson and Dylan Seaton embodied principal actor McKinney and unwilling accomplice Henderson, respectively, with chilling aplomb. Evidently the thesps are alternating in those roles, though it’s hard to imagine either one better played.
The playmakers came not to praise or bury Laramie, but to understand it. They trust that we spectators share that goal, and can decide how to think and feel for ourselves.
Reviewed by
Bob Verini
September 16, 2013
September 16, 2013
In My
Corner
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble
Joe Orrach has many talents, but they’re put on such obvious display in this solo show. He sings, he dances, he hits the speed bag—bare-handed. To what purpose? What’s his story?
Written by Lizbeth Hasse and Orrach, directed by Jeremiah Chechik, this show follows Orrach from his youth in the Bronx, where he imagined himself as Mickey Mantle, to Orrach’s time as a welterweight boxer for the Air Force. His mother, of Italian heritage, seemed always to be cooking. His father, a Puerto Rican, seemed always to be looming—sometimes lovingly, sometimes violently—over the kids.
Yes, Orrach has many talents. He shows us some, doing the Twist as he recounts winning a contest as a young boy; doing a little Latin dance to mimic his relative; offering a long number to honor his mother’s pasteles. Orrach sings. But why?
He tells us he played three varsity sports. After he and his teammates engaged in a prank, his teammates didn’t have his back. He blames racism. He doesn’t explore the possibility that they just didn’t like him.
By the time he puts on his tap shoes here, he’s just showboating. His tap-dance technique is of the heavy-footed school and not involving particularly interesting musicality. The tap works best when he portrays his father, building tension as Dad threatens to beat him.
The explanation for this show might be that he is and always will be the youngest of four siblings, trying to get attention—and Daddy’s approval. Dad loves boxing? Orrach takes abuse in the ring—for four years. The staging comes to life for a segment in a boxing ring, when his father finally comes to his defense.
Orrach moves out of his parents’ home and into Manhattan. He studies ballet—and presumably tap, too. And that’s it. End of story. What’s his point? What’s his purpose in asking for his audience’s time and money? One thing’s certain: He has put his one-man show on the boards.
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble
Joe Orrach has many talents, but they’re put on such obvious display in this solo show. He sings, he dances, he hits the speed bag—bare-handed. To what purpose? What’s his story?
Written by Lizbeth Hasse and Orrach, directed by Jeremiah Chechik, this show follows Orrach from his youth in the Bronx, where he imagined himself as Mickey Mantle, to Orrach’s time as a welterweight boxer for the Air Force. His mother, of Italian heritage, seemed always to be cooking. His father, a Puerto Rican, seemed always to be looming—sometimes lovingly, sometimes violently—over the kids.
Yes, Orrach has many talents. He shows us some, doing the Twist as he recounts winning a contest as a young boy; doing a little Latin dance to mimic his relative; offering a long number to honor his mother’s pasteles. Orrach sings. But why?
He tells us he played three varsity sports. After he and his teammates engaged in a prank, his teammates didn’t have his back. He blames racism. He doesn’t explore the possibility that they just didn’t like him.
By the time he puts on his tap shoes here, he’s just showboating. His tap-dance technique is of the heavy-footed school and not involving particularly interesting musicality. The tap works best when he portrays his father, building tension as Dad threatens to beat him.
The explanation for this show might be that he is and always will be the youngest of four siblings, trying to get attention—and Daddy’s approval. Dad loves boxing? Orrach takes abuse in the ring—for four years. The staging comes to life for a segment in a boxing ring, when his father finally comes to his defense.
Orrach moves out of his parents’ home and into Manhattan. He studies ballet—and presumably tap, too. And that’s it. End of story. What’s his point? What’s his purpose in asking for his audience’s time and money? One thing’s certain: He has put his one-man show on the boards.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 16, 2013
September 16, 2013
I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change
Crown City Theatre
This charming examination of relationships couldn’t be in better hands. Director Gary Lee Reed, aided by musical director William A. Reilly, offers a heartwarming version of author-lyricist Joe DiPietro’s and composer Jimmy Robert’s small-venue mainstay—which boasts a 12-year Off-Broadway run, second only to The Fantasticks. And along the way, if one notices a few “updates” or local references, never fear. Included within the script/score and its accompanying materials is permission from the show’s original creators encouraging just that.
Reed has cast a quartet of performers who amaze at every turn. Craig McEldowney and Chris Cooke hold up the testosterone side of the aisle, while Leigh Golden and Natalie Hope MacMillan balance the evening with graceful pizzazz. Tickling the ribs is the silly: McEldowney’s tough guy dissolving into mush while attending a chick flick in “Tear Jerk” or Cooke’s glib handling of infantile babble in “The Baby Song.” Tugging the heartstrings is the sublime: Golden’s ode to anticipation, “I Will Be Loved Tonight,” and “I Can Live With That”, an effectively simple duet between MacMillan and McEldowney playing single senior citizens who meet at a wake.
Showcasing choreography by Rhonda Kohl, McEldowney and MacMillan provide a sexually charged romp as long-suffering parental units in “The Marriage Tango.” The full cast takes a rip-roaring road trip in “On the Highway of Love,” courtesy of four rolling office chairs that double as the family car. And in an inspired “update” by Reed, Cooke leads the company in the normally female-sung “He Called Me” in a tip of the hat to society’s changing mores.
Adding to the fun are various musical genres featured throughout. There’s a ’50s feel to “Hey There, Single Gal/Guy,” in which disappointed parents (McEldowney and MacMillan) snidely jab their son and his girlfriend over their decision to break it off. Country-western aficionados will get a kick out of MacMillan’s homage to the ugliest of clothing collections in “Always a Bridesmaid.” And for those seeking a foray into the world of fantasy and alter egos, Cooke and Golden kick off the evening with “A Stud and a Babe,” in which two nerds let it all hang out.
Reed mines additional gold with his crafting of the scenes that thread this revue from start to finish. McEldowney and MacMillan do a remarkable job as blind daters speeding their way through subsequent dates without stopping to smell the roses. Meanwhile, Golden and Cooke are deliciously annoying as first-time parents whose insipidness drives away an old friend. But for sheer showstopping power, nothing tops Golden’s turn as a divorcee creating an online dating video that disintegrates into a full-throated therapeutic breakdown. Her performance of this serio-comic monologue is a priceless capper to this topnotch production.
Crown City Theatre
This charming examination of relationships couldn’t be in better hands. Director Gary Lee Reed, aided by musical director William A. Reilly, offers a heartwarming version of author-lyricist Joe DiPietro’s and composer Jimmy Robert’s small-venue mainstay—which boasts a 12-year Off-Broadway run, second only to The Fantasticks. And along the way, if one notices a few “updates” or local references, never fear. Included within the script/score and its accompanying materials is permission from the show’s original creators encouraging just that.
Reed has cast a quartet of performers who amaze at every turn. Craig McEldowney and Chris Cooke hold up the testosterone side of the aisle, while Leigh Golden and Natalie Hope MacMillan balance the evening with graceful pizzazz. Tickling the ribs is the silly: McEldowney’s tough guy dissolving into mush while attending a chick flick in “Tear Jerk” or Cooke’s glib handling of infantile babble in “The Baby Song.” Tugging the heartstrings is the sublime: Golden’s ode to anticipation, “I Will Be Loved Tonight,” and “I Can Live With That”, an effectively simple duet between MacMillan and McEldowney playing single senior citizens who meet at a wake.
Showcasing choreography by Rhonda Kohl, McEldowney and MacMillan provide a sexually charged romp as long-suffering parental units in “The Marriage Tango.” The full cast takes a rip-roaring road trip in “On the Highway of Love,” courtesy of four rolling office chairs that double as the family car. And in an inspired “update” by Reed, Cooke leads the company in the normally female-sung “He Called Me” in a tip of the hat to society’s changing mores.
Adding to the fun are various musical genres featured throughout. There’s a ’50s feel to “Hey There, Single Gal/Guy,” in which disappointed parents (McEldowney and MacMillan) snidely jab their son and his girlfriend over their decision to break it off. Country-western aficionados will get a kick out of MacMillan’s homage to the ugliest of clothing collections in “Always a Bridesmaid.” And for those seeking a foray into the world of fantasy and alter egos, Cooke and Golden kick off the evening with “A Stud and a Babe,” in which two nerds let it all hang out.
Reed mines additional gold with his crafting of the scenes that thread this revue from start to finish. McEldowney and MacMillan do a remarkable job as blind daters speeding their way through subsequent dates without stopping to smell the roses. Meanwhile, Golden and Cooke are deliciously annoying as first-time parents whose insipidness drives away an old friend. But for sheer showstopping power, nothing tops Golden’s turn as a divorcee creating an online dating video that disintegrates into a full-throated therapeutic breakdown. Her performance of this serio-comic monologue is a priceless capper to this topnotch production.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
September 16, 2013
September 16, 2013
The Long Weekend
Torrance Theatre Company
Max and Wynn have bought a beautiful house in the country. They’ve invited Roger and Abby for a weekend visit. The two women are best friends. Their husbands, however, gloomily predict it’s going to be a long weekend. As it turns out, in this Norm Foster play, the consequences of that weekend eventually span two years—two long, soul-searching years.
Neither of the two couples is particularly happily married. They pretend to be happy—to themselves and to each other. And so there’s laughs to be had: at the dialogue dripping with veiled disdain, at the subtle glances the spouses cast at each other, at the farcical situations.
Director Perry Shields certainly accents the comedy. The evening is well-shaped, the laughs build, the actors’ timing is crisp, and Shields adds bits of stage business that work well with the script. Perhaps unintentionally adding to the humor are the dated references. Though the play was first produced in 1994, apparently theatergoing audiences can always be counted on to laugh at the mention of permanent press and capitalists.
But Foster also includes tidily packaged messages about truth, including the truth of greener pastures. The characters haven’t told their basic truths to one another for years, and likely they haven’t been truthful to themselves. That, more than the long weekend, is the supreme waster of time. So the play is surprisingly deep, faithful to real life, and perhaps a little close to home for some in the audience.
Shields has found the balance between broad comedy and personal truths, and has cast four actors willing to stay there and not wander into the more-fun-to-play broadness. Tyler Penn plays Max, to whom Foster pointedly gives the last name Trueman. Max is a lawyer who hasn’t found the words, or courage, needed to reveal himself. Penn gives Max that ready-to-burst feel and does so in a way only the audience can sense.
Oddly, Max’s wife seems not to notice. Yet she’s a psychiatrist, played with an almost haughty pristineness by Jennifer Faneuff. Wynn has written five books because she just can’t bring herself to speak face-to-face with the people at whom her advice is directed. Wynn’s “best friend” Abby is a shopkeeper who can’t keep her home in order. Angie Light plays her with a touch of longing and heartbreak beneath the confidence. (Daina Baker-Bowler will assume the role Sept. 20–29.)
Gary Kresca, however, is given the gift of playing Roger. Kresca offers thanks by way of a hilarious portrayal, or in this case two. Roger is a math teacher but considers himself a writer because he’s working on a screenplay. It’s probably awful, as the Roger of the first act is rather doltish, deliciously played by Kresca with nerdy obliviousness. By the second act, Roger has moved to Hollywood and taken on that stereotypically cool vibe, so Kresca changes his physicality head to toe, as well as vocally, gifting us with some of the biggest laughs of the night.
And so, the human foibles, the pointed messages about honesty, told with humor but not ignoring truthfulness, make this Long Weekend at the theater zip by.
Torrance Theatre Company
Max and Wynn have bought a beautiful house in the country. They’ve invited Roger and Abby for a weekend visit. The two women are best friends. Their husbands, however, gloomily predict it’s going to be a long weekend. As it turns out, in this Norm Foster play, the consequences of that weekend eventually span two years—two long, soul-searching years.
Neither of the two couples is particularly happily married. They pretend to be happy—to themselves and to each other. And so there’s laughs to be had: at the dialogue dripping with veiled disdain, at the subtle glances the spouses cast at each other, at the farcical situations.
Director Perry Shields certainly accents the comedy. The evening is well-shaped, the laughs build, the actors’ timing is crisp, and Shields adds bits of stage business that work well with the script. Perhaps unintentionally adding to the humor are the dated references. Though the play was first produced in 1994, apparently theatergoing audiences can always be counted on to laugh at the mention of permanent press and capitalists.
But Foster also includes tidily packaged messages about truth, including the truth of greener pastures. The characters haven’t told their basic truths to one another for years, and likely they haven’t been truthful to themselves. That, more than the long weekend, is the supreme waster of time. So the play is surprisingly deep, faithful to real life, and perhaps a little close to home for some in the audience.
Shields has found the balance between broad comedy and personal truths, and has cast four actors willing to stay there and not wander into the more-fun-to-play broadness. Tyler Penn plays Max, to whom Foster pointedly gives the last name Trueman. Max is a lawyer who hasn’t found the words, or courage, needed to reveal himself. Penn gives Max that ready-to-burst feel and does so in a way only the audience can sense.
Oddly, Max’s wife seems not to notice. Yet she’s a psychiatrist, played with an almost haughty pristineness by Jennifer Faneuff. Wynn has written five books because she just can’t bring herself to speak face-to-face with the people at whom her advice is directed. Wynn’s “best friend” Abby is a shopkeeper who can’t keep her home in order. Angie Light plays her with a touch of longing and heartbreak beneath the confidence. (Daina Baker-Bowler will assume the role Sept. 20–29.)
Gary Kresca, however, is given the gift of playing Roger. Kresca offers thanks by way of a hilarious portrayal, or in this case two. Roger is a math teacher but considers himself a writer because he’s working on a screenplay. It’s probably awful, as the Roger of the first act is rather doltish, deliciously played by Kresca with nerdy obliviousness. By the second act, Roger has moved to Hollywood and taken on that stereotypically cool vibe, so Kresca changes his physicality head to toe, as well as vocally, gifting us with some of the biggest laughs of the night.
And so, the human foibles, the pointed messages about honesty, told with humor but not ignoring truthfulness, make this Long Weekend at the theater zip by.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 16, 2013
September 16, 2013
Ordinary Days
Not So Artful Productions & The Victory Theatre Center at the Big Victory Theatre
Adam Gwon’s 2009 Off-Broadway boutique tuner—which played at South Coast Rep in 2010—imaginatively underscores the socio-emotional fragility of four singles living among 8.245 million other souls in “the city that never sleeps.” Helmed by former Broadway actor–dance captain Angel Creeks, Ordinary Days follows the daily mundane struggles of aspiring artist Warren (Reggie de Leon), overachieving, angst-ridden grad student Deb (Katie Kitani), and the early-stage love affair between Jason (William Martinez) and Claire (Anne Schroeder), who are in the tentative process of living together.
Accompanied by music director–keyboardist Alby Potts, Gwon’s recitative-like songs offer more character revelation than melodic enrichment, but his lyrics cleverly thrust the characters forward. Warren is the most optimistic of the four yet faces the most rejection, attempting to pass out fliers to the unseeing, unaccepting throng that thrusts by him on the street (“One By One By One”). One of the throng who absent-mindedly grabs at one of his fliers is Deb, who cannot express to herself a clear reason for what she is doing in this town (“Don’t Wanna Be here”).
De Leon simply inhabits the persona of unrepentantly vivacious and clueless Warren, who cannot inherently understand why people wouldn’t want to listen to him. When he returns Deb’s lost book and she then attempts to flee his presence, Warren simply overpowers her with his unabashed goodwill. And that is saying something because Kitani imbues Deb with an almost tangible social misanthropy constructed out of her own fear of failure. Before agreeing to have coffee with Warren, she assures herself, “You’re gay, right?” Also a plus, DeLeon and Kitani are superb vocalists, sailing through their combined, “Dear Professor Thompson/Life Story.”
The Jason-Claire relationship is more troublesome to pull off. There is almost no backstory on their individual lives, and the romantic aspect of their relationship is not evident, leaving only the social adjustment period of two disparate individuals who probably should not be pushed together in a small living space at such an embryonic stage in their relationship (“I’m Trying”).
A sublime example of composer Gwon’s ability to reveal character motivation within a song (“Fine”) occurs when Jason and Claire disagree on what kind of wine to bring to a friend’s dinner party. When Jason suggests cabernet, Claire rejoinders, “They’re serving monkfish, so, darling, the wine can’t be red.” Jason surrenders, declaring, “Fine, I’ll bring the red. You bring the white. That way I’ll still get drunk. You’ll still be right.”
Jason constantly appears to be trying to evaluate exactly where he stands in the relationship, and Martinez carries off discomfort quite well. He offers a tenderly expressed “Favorite Places,” yearning for a situation in life where his psyche can rest. Clair offers no help, because she is constantly fighting a haunting memory that won’t allow her to truly commit herself (“Gotta Get Out”). Schroeder offers a sympathetic portrayal of this troubled woman but does not express the same vocal fluidity as the rest of the ensemble, especially in her upper register.
Creeks achieves an admirable pace to this one-act, 80-minute chamber musical, allowing the rhythm of the dramatic throughline to flow through to its prescribed conclusion for Claire and Jason (“I’ll Be Here”), as well as Warren and Deb (“Beautiful”).
Not So Artful Productions & The Victory Theatre Center at the Big Victory Theatre
Adam Gwon’s 2009 Off-Broadway boutique tuner—which played at South Coast Rep in 2010—imaginatively underscores the socio-emotional fragility of four singles living among 8.245 million other souls in “the city that never sleeps.” Helmed by former Broadway actor–dance captain Angel Creeks, Ordinary Days follows the daily mundane struggles of aspiring artist Warren (Reggie de Leon), overachieving, angst-ridden grad student Deb (Katie Kitani), and the early-stage love affair between Jason (William Martinez) and Claire (Anne Schroeder), who are in the tentative process of living together.
Accompanied by music director–keyboardist Alby Potts, Gwon’s recitative-like songs offer more character revelation than melodic enrichment, but his lyrics cleverly thrust the characters forward. Warren is the most optimistic of the four yet faces the most rejection, attempting to pass out fliers to the unseeing, unaccepting throng that thrusts by him on the street (“One By One By One”). One of the throng who absent-mindedly grabs at one of his fliers is Deb, who cannot express to herself a clear reason for what she is doing in this town (“Don’t Wanna Be here”).
De Leon simply inhabits the persona of unrepentantly vivacious and clueless Warren, who cannot inherently understand why people wouldn’t want to listen to him. When he returns Deb’s lost book and she then attempts to flee his presence, Warren simply overpowers her with his unabashed goodwill. And that is saying something because Kitani imbues Deb with an almost tangible social misanthropy constructed out of her own fear of failure. Before agreeing to have coffee with Warren, she assures herself, “You’re gay, right?” Also a plus, DeLeon and Kitani are superb vocalists, sailing through their combined, “Dear Professor Thompson/Life Story.”
The Jason-Claire relationship is more troublesome to pull off. There is almost no backstory on their individual lives, and the romantic aspect of their relationship is not evident, leaving only the social adjustment period of two disparate individuals who probably should not be pushed together in a small living space at such an embryonic stage in their relationship (“I’m Trying”).
A sublime example of composer Gwon’s ability to reveal character motivation within a song (“Fine”) occurs when Jason and Claire disagree on what kind of wine to bring to a friend’s dinner party. When Jason suggests cabernet, Claire rejoinders, “They’re serving monkfish, so, darling, the wine can’t be red.” Jason surrenders, declaring, “Fine, I’ll bring the red. You bring the white. That way I’ll still get drunk. You’ll still be right.”
Jason constantly appears to be trying to evaluate exactly where he stands in the relationship, and Martinez carries off discomfort quite well. He offers a tenderly expressed “Favorite Places,” yearning for a situation in life where his psyche can rest. Clair offers no help, because she is constantly fighting a haunting memory that won’t allow her to truly commit herself (“Gotta Get Out”). Schroeder offers a sympathetic portrayal of this troubled woman but does not express the same vocal fluidity as the rest of the ensemble, especially in her upper register.
Creeks achieves an admirable pace to this one-act, 80-minute chamber musical, allowing the rhythm of the dramatic throughline to flow through to its prescribed conclusion for Claire and Jason (“I’ll Be Here”), as well as Warren and Deb (“Beautiful”).
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
September 16, 2013
September 16, 2013
Hamlet
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Los Angeles Women’s Shakespeare Company at Odyssey Theatre
Here’s an aphorism that could have been included with Polonius’s fatherly advice to his children: Turnabout is fair play. Today we find it incomprehensible that women were not allowed to appear onstage when this play premiered. In this production, the cast is entirely female. And at many times throughout, you could prove it only by the program. From the spear-wielding Bernardo’s “Who’s there?” through to the Ghost’s gesture of triumph at the play’s close, the mind could easily believe it was watching a mixed-gender cast.
It’s also a mixed-race cast. The mind soon settles into that subset of givens. So what if Polonius is Asian (Natsuko Ohama), his daughter Ophelia is African-American (Chastity Dotson), and his son Laertes is Caucasian (Cynthia Beckert)? The focus remains on the storytelling.
Other than all that, this is a fairly straightforward rendition, directed by Lisa Wolpe and Ohama. Lavish costuming, by A. Jeffrey Schoenberg, sets it in Shakespearean days. Don Llewellyn provides the sturdy stonework set, moodily lit by Jeremy Pivnick.
The cast speaks the speech, giving meaning and life to the ultra-famous text. Offering a particularly interesting portrayal, Ann Colby Stocking plays a thoughtful Player King. She makes her character an observant, sensing actor rather than the pompous performer more commonly seen. Kimberleigh Aarn’s Horatio is a true friend to Hamlet, devoting his soul to the prince.
But of course the play belongs to Hamlet, and, in that role, Wolpe doesn’t disappoint. It’s obvious she has spent years thinking about it. It’s even more obvious she has spent years observing men and male physicality. Her facial mannerisms, the energy in her hands, the distribution of her weight as she walks make her transformation astonishing.
Her “To be” might not sound the way one wants, emphasize what one expects, but the rest of Wolpe’s text work is so clear, one must give credence to this interpretation of that most famous soliloquy.
Though our senses quickly adapt to the gender here, it’s harder to believe Hamlet is a generation younger than Gertrude—perhaps more a problem in the casting of a young-looking Laura Wernette as his mother.
Still, once Wolpe gets going, we wouldn’t trade her for anyone. Meantime Aarn and Beckert seem to be likely Hamlets for the next go-round.
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Los Angeles Women’s Shakespeare Company at Odyssey Theatre
Here’s an aphorism that could have been included with Polonius’s fatherly advice to his children: Turnabout is fair play. Today we find it incomprehensible that women were not allowed to appear onstage when this play premiered. In this production, the cast is entirely female. And at many times throughout, you could prove it only by the program. From the spear-wielding Bernardo’s “Who’s there?” through to the Ghost’s gesture of triumph at the play’s close, the mind could easily believe it was watching a mixed-gender cast.
It’s also a mixed-race cast. The mind soon settles into that subset of givens. So what if Polonius is Asian (Natsuko Ohama), his daughter Ophelia is African-American (Chastity Dotson), and his son Laertes is Caucasian (Cynthia Beckert)? The focus remains on the storytelling.
Other than all that, this is a fairly straightforward rendition, directed by Lisa Wolpe and Ohama. Lavish costuming, by A. Jeffrey Schoenberg, sets it in Shakespearean days. Don Llewellyn provides the sturdy stonework set, moodily lit by Jeremy Pivnick.
The cast speaks the speech, giving meaning and life to the ultra-famous text. Offering a particularly interesting portrayal, Ann Colby Stocking plays a thoughtful Player King. She makes her character an observant, sensing actor rather than the pompous performer more commonly seen. Kimberleigh Aarn’s Horatio is a true friend to Hamlet, devoting his soul to the prince.
But of course the play belongs to Hamlet, and, in that role, Wolpe doesn’t disappoint. It’s obvious she has spent years thinking about it. It’s even more obvious she has spent years observing men and male physicality. Her facial mannerisms, the energy in her hands, the distribution of her weight as she walks make her transformation astonishing.
Her “To be” might not sound the way one wants, emphasize what one expects, but the rest of Wolpe’s text work is so clear, one must give credence to this interpretation of that most famous soliloquy.
Though our senses quickly adapt to the gender here, it’s harder to believe Hamlet is a generation younger than Gertrude—perhaps more a problem in the casting of a young-looking Laura Wernette as his mother.
Still, once Wolpe gets going, we wouldn’t trade her for anyone. Meantime Aarn and Beckert seem to be likely Hamlets for the next go-round.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 15, 2013
September 15, 2013
Funny Girl
3—D Theatricals
3–D Theatricals’s handsomely mounted but anemic Funny Girl has taken the title too literally. Nicole Parker’s Fanny Brice practically bounces off the walls to get laughs. The actor seems to have internalized much of the available video and audio of the legendary comedienne, and channels Brice’s oy-vey, Baby Snooks mannerisms rather well. Parker’s vocals are, to these ears anyway, harsh and unappealing in the upper register, but that’s a matter of taste. What is less arguable is that she and director Michael Matthews have tended to slight the essential psychological elements built into the role.
Brice’s deep-seated insecurity about her looks, coupled with iron confidence in her own talent, are supposed to amount to a fatal combination that—according to Isobel Lennart’s libretto—lead her to both doubt the love of the first guy who gives her a tumble (Nick Arnstein, a charisma-light and musically shaky Josh Adamson) and smother him into irrelevancy as a husband. Yet Parker’s Brice is neither insecure nor confident: She’s merely a chirper, a charmer, a will-o’-the-wisp, a choice that works against the character in scene after scene. Her refusal to sing “I’m the Most Beautiful Bride” in the Ziegfeld Follies comes across as a cutesy whim rather than a fear of humiliation, so grabbing a pillow to turn into a bride en route to the maternity ward—supposedly a spontaneous comic coup that seals Fanny’s stardom—carries (no pun intended) no weight.
At one point Nick accuses her of having been angry at him the moment he walked in the room. This comes as news to the spectator, who never sees Parker get riled up at any time. Her interpretation isn’t passive-aggressive, just passive, a quality that extends to the acting across the board. Venny Carranza’s Eddie Ryan never gets a moment to establish his crush on Fanny, so his sniping from the sidelines seems unmotivated and bizarre. Gregory North’s Flo Ziegfeld is just a large fellow lacking authority and panache.
You sort of know you’re in trouble when the mature Fanny’s famous first line spoken into a mirror, “Hello gorgeous,” comes across so neutral, so colorless. Does she mean it? Is she kidding? No way to tell. At the same time, Nick’s “You Are Woman” seduction in a private restaurant salon is tarted up with all manner of slapstick. Fanny is alone with him here; she’s not performing for the public; yet both her eagerness and self-consciousness—not to mention the pratfalls—seem directed to a crowd. The private, offstage Fanny, the one who is supposedly hurting and raging and feeling, fails to make an appearance in the 3–D production, though she’s talked about often.
3—D Theatricals
3–D Theatricals’s handsomely mounted but anemic Funny Girl has taken the title too literally. Nicole Parker’s Fanny Brice practically bounces off the walls to get laughs. The actor seems to have internalized much of the available video and audio of the legendary comedienne, and channels Brice’s oy-vey, Baby Snooks mannerisms rather well. Parker’s vocals are, to these ears anyway, harsh and unappealing in the upper register, but that’s a matter of taste. What is less arguable is that she and director Michael Matthews have tended to slight the essential psychological elements built into the role.
Brice’s deep-seated insecurity about her looks, coupled with iron confidence in her own talent, are supposed to amount to a fatal combination that—according to Isobel Lennart’s libretto—lead her to both doubt the love of the first guy who gives her a tumble (Nick Arnstein, a charisma-light and musically shaky Josh Adamson) and smother him into irrelevancy as a husband. Yet Parker’s Brice is neither insecure nor confident: She’s merely a chirper, a charmer, a will-o’-the-wisp, a choice that works against the character in scene after scene. Her refusal to sing “I’m the Most Beautiful Bride” in the Ziegfeld Follies comes across as a cutesy whim rather than a fear of humiliation, so grabbing a pillow to turn into a bride en route to the maternity ward—supposedly a spontaneous comic coup that seals Fanny’s stardom—carries (no pun intended) no weight.
At one point Nick accuses her of having been angry at him the moment he walked in the room. This comes as news to the spectator, who never sees Parker get riled up at any time. Her interpretation isn’t passive-aggressive, just passive, a quality that extends to the acting across the board. Venny Carranza’s Eddie Ryan never gets a moment to establish his crush on Fanny, so his sniping from the sidelines seems unmotivated and bizarre. Gregory North’s Flo Ziegfeld is just a large fellow lacking authority and panache.
You sort of know you’re in trouble when the mature Fanny’s famous first line spoken into a mirror, “Hello gorgeous,” comes across so neutral, so colorless. Does she mean it? Is she kidding? No way to tell. At the same time, Nick’s “You Are Woman” seduction in a private restaurant salon is tarted up with all manner of slapstick. Fanny is alone with him here; she’s not performing for the public; yet both her eagerness and self-consciousness—not to mention the pratfalls—seem directed to a crowd. The private, offstage Fanny, the one who is supposedly hurting and raging and feeling, fails to make an appearance in the 3–D production, though she’s talked about often.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 13, 2013
September 13, 2013
Ah, Wilderness!
Actors Co-op
Primarily recognized and awarded—four Pulitzers and the Nobel Prize for literature—for his dramatic works, Eugene O’Neill penned this 1932 three-act comedy attempting to capture the perhaps imagined essence of a bygone era. In a small Connecticut town, the Miller family makes its way through the Fourth of July holiday. Family members cast aside their internal differences and struggles to support one another. Despite their progeny’s occasional forays into rebelliousness, parents are ultimately shown respect for their life experiences and wisdom. Given O’Neill’s upbringing in boarding schools and his lifelong struggles with depression, alcoholism, and numerous medical issues, it’s not so hard to imagine why this piece is billed as a “wistful re-imagining of his youth as he wished it had been.”
The key to a successful production lies in the ability to bring to life the story’s inherent charm. Director Thom Babbes has done a masterful job of harmonizing that requisite appeal with those moments when O’Neill’s tale takes a few slightly harsher turns. Of course, it helps that Babbes has amassed a cast that so effectively embodies the Miller family’s dynamics. As patriarch Nat, Phil Crowley presents the very essence of fatherhood. Whether Nat is advising, disciplining, or offering the unwavering love upon which his family depends, Crowley’s performance is so inspiring and believable it makes one wish for a hug. Likewise, Jodi Carlisle’s engaging portrayal of mother Essie balances with Crowley’s to produce an affectionate pas de deux.
Playing their respective unmarried siblings who make up this extended family, Townsend Coleman as Essie’s alcoholic brother, Sid, and Carrie Madsen as Nat’s sister, Lily, work through their own relational choreography. Coleman does a fine job of infusing his scenes of inebriation with the script’s clearly intentional serio-comic undertones. Meanwhile, Madsen offers a heartbreaking performance, as Lily struggles with the conflicted feelings that led her to break off her engagement with Sid some 16 years prior. Finely tuned supporting roles as various Miller family scions are provided by Patrick Lawrie, Chloe Babbes, and Tate Downing, in addition to Maurie Speed’s turn as the family’s dingy Irish maid.
Ultimately, however, this is a story of love found, nearly lost, and finally reclaimed—a journey that squarely rests on the shoulders of Nicholas Podany, whose performance as Richard, the second-eldest of the Miller children, is the arc of O’Neill’s script. He successfully traverses this coming-of-age pathway, transforming from a sometimes tantrum-throwing juvenile to a young man one feels will confidently handle adulthood. Podany’s work is never better than in a pair of singular scenes opposite Catherine Urbanek’s delicious depiction of a barhopping woman of ill repute and Melody Hollis whose rendition of Muriel McComber, Richard’s intended fiancée, is truly entrancing.
Scenic designers Mark Henderson and Tim Farmer have gifted Babbes’s production with a lusciously trimmed, turntable-based set that provides for easy transitions among the production’s various locales. Shon LeBlanc’s costuming and Krys Fehervari’s hair/wig design capture the period’s feel for high collars and coiffed stylings. Minor quibbles in this otherwise first rate production would be a few outer edge dark spots in Bill E. Kickbush’s lighting and the occasionally over amplified volume of sound designer Cameron Combe’s collection of turn-of-the-century musical scene segues.
Reviewed by Dink O'Neal
September 9, 2013
Actors Co-op
Primarily recognized and awarded—four Pulitzers and the Nobel Prize for literature—for his dramatic works, Eugene O’Neill penned this 1932 three-act comedy attempting to capture the perhaps imagined essence of a bygone era. In a small Connecticut town, the Miller family makes its way through the Fourth of July holiday. Family members cast aside their internal differences and struggles to support one another. Despite their progeny’s occasional forays into rebelliousness, parents are ultimately shown respect for their life experiences and wisdom. Given O’Neill’s upbringing in boarding schools and his lifelong struggles with depression, alcoholism, and numerous medical issues, it’s not so hard to imagine why this piece is billed as a “wistful re-imagining of his youth as he wished it had been.”
The key to a successful production lies in the ability to bring to life the story’s inherent charm. Director Thom Babbes has done a masterful job of harmonizing that requisite appeal with those moments when O’Neill’s tale takes a few slightly harsher turns. Of course, it helps that Babbes has amassed a cast that so effectively embodies the Miller family’s dynamics. As patriarch Nat, Phil Crowley presents the very essence of fatherhood. Whether Nat is advising, disciplining, or offering the unwavering love upon which his family depends, Crowley’s performance is so inspiring and believable it makes one wish for a hug. Likewise, Jodi Carlisle’s engaging portrayal of mother Essie balances with Crowley’s to produce an affectionate pas de deux.
Playing their respective unmarried siblings who make up this extended family, Townsend Coleman as Essie’s alcoholic brother, Sid, and Carrie Madsen as Nat’s sister, Lily, work through their own relational choreography. Coleman does a fine job of infusing his scenes of inebriation with the script’s clearly intentional serio-comic undertones. Meanwhile, Madsen offers a heartbreaking performance, as Lily struggles with the conflicted feelings that led her to break off her engagement with Sid some 16 years prior. Finely tuned supporting roles as various Miller family scions are provided by Patrick Lawrie, Chloe Babbes, and Tate Downing, in addition to Maurie Speed’s turn as the family’s dingy Irish maid.
Ultimately, however, this is a story of love found, nearly lost, and finally reclaimed—a journey that squarely rests on the shoulders of Nicholas Podany, whose performance as Richard, the second-eldest of the Miller children, is the arc of O’Neill’s script. He successfully traverses this coming-of-age pathway, transforming from a sometimes tantrum-throwing juvenile to a young man one feels will confidently handle adulthood. Podany’s work is never better than in a pair of singular scenes opposite Catherine Urbanek’s delicious depiction of a barhopping woman of ill repute and Melody Hollis whose rendition of Muriel McComber, Richard’s intended fiancée, is truly entrancing.
Scenic designers Mark Henderson and Tim Farmer have gifted Babbes’s production with a lusciously trimmed, turntable-based set that provides for easy transitions among the production’s various locales. Shon LeBlanc’s costuming and Krys Fehervari’s hair/wig design capture the period’s feel for high collars and coiffed stylings. Minor quibbles in this otherwise first rate production would be a few outer edge dark spots in Bill E. Kickbush’s lighting and the occasionally over amplified volume of sound designer Cameron Combe’s collection of turn-of-the-century musical scene segues.
Reviewed by Dink O'Neal
September 9, 2013
Twilight Zone Unscripted
Impro Theatre at Falcon Theatre
Submitted for your approval: Four random audience suggestions serve as the impetuses for four completely self-contained plotlines. Lights fade to black. Cue the iconic theme song. Sit back as this company’s remarkably adroit wizards of improvisation take you on a sidesplitting ride through The Twilight Zone.
Through what must have been a very curious rehearsal process for just such a theatrical genre as this, co-directors Jo McGinley and Stephen Kearin have clearly insisted their troupe do its homework. Those involved seem to have spent countless hours delving into the biographical background of TZ’s famed creator-narrator, Rod Serling. Heavily influenced by his service in World War II, Serling’s vision and messages elevated the original series beyond mere sci-fi pablum. And Impro Theatre’s excellent grasp of this style of long-form improvisation is a credit to its own collective talent and to that of the source material. Furthermore, each of the four nearly half-hour-long “episodes” is based on a single audience suggestion. This, along with the company’s rotating lineup of performers, guarantees that no two evenings could possibly be the same.
On opening night, Dan O’Connor and Lauren Rose Lewis created a newly wedded couple whose debate over the historical significance of a family heirloom—a pocket watch—gave an often emotion-packed glimpse into the struggles of a young marriage. The moments of silence they embraced, aided by sound designer Allen Simpson’s array of musical underscoring and Leigh Allen’s lighting design improvised from the booth by Michael Becker and Jo McGinley, were priceless. It was a testament to the importance of story over punch lines and over the tendency to view improvisation as merely topping the previous line.
Completing Act I was a spy story set in Cold War Berlin. Edi Patterson and Brian Lohmann had a secret so critical, they had to convince the others in this West German coffee shop to never divulge its contents. Capitalizing on extremely silly accents, this had all the earmarks of a goofy sitcom—until, that is, the story took a dark turn with the arrival of Mike McShane’s former Nazi laboratory guard. What gave this storyline an effective midway twist was Patterson’s unforeseeable decision to “off” McShane, leaving the rest of the cast to suddenly adjust the storyline accordingly. It served as a great intermission conversation starter.
Act II featured Brian Michael Jones as a wimpy gas-station attendant suddenly gifted with Herculean strength by a pair of alien beings. Diehard fans of Serling’s series will no doubt see the similarity between this and a 1961 broadcast episode titled “Mr. Dingle, the Strong,” which starred Burgess Meredith. Still, this “borrowing” of plotline came off as a delightful reminiscence, and Jones’s portrayal of the flustered everyman gifted this section of the show with a tankful of humorous charm.
Wrapping things up was perhaps the evening’s most bizarre offering. A group of participants gathered in a church social hall for a regularly scheduled night of bingo. Lohmann and Michele Spears were the newcomers, while Paul Rogan and the ever wacky Patterson inhabited the veteran players. Foreboding darkness took precedence almost immediately, as it became apparent that McShane’s minister, aided by O’Connor and Lewis, wasn’t necessarily a disciple of the Lord. Although the ending lacked the traditional TZ punch, this particular long-form sketch utilized the entire cast’s talents and sent the audience home wondering what might be on the docket for subsequent performances.
Impro Theatre at Falcon Theatre
Submitted for your approval: Four random audience suggestions serve as the impetuses for four completely self-contained plotlines. Lights fade to black. Cue the iconic theme song. Sit back as this company’s remarkably adroit wizards of improvisation take you on a sidesplitting ride through The Twilight Zone.
Through what must have been a very curious rehearsal process for just such a theatrical genre as this, co-directors Jo McGinley and Stephen Kearin have clearly insisted their troupe do its homework. Those involved seem to have spent countless hours delving into the biographical background of TZ’s famed creator-narrator, Rod Serling. Heavily influenced by his service in World War II, Serling’s vision and messages elevated the original series beyond mere sci-fi pablum. And Impro Theatre’s excellent grasp of this style of long-form improvisation is a credit to its own collective talent and to that of the source material. Furthermore, each of the four nearly half-hour-long “episodes” is based on a single audience suggestion. This, along with the company’s rotating lineup of performers, guarantees that no two evenings could possibly be the same.
On opening night, Dan O’Connor and Lauren Rose Lewis created a newly wedded couple whose debate over the historical significance of a family heirloom—a pocket watch—gave an often emotion-packed glimpse into the struggles of a young marriage. The moments of silence they embraced, aided by sound designer Allen Simpson’s array of musical underscoring and Leigh Allen’s lighting design improvised from the booth by Michael Becker and Jo McGinley, were priceless. It was a testament to the importance of story over punch lines and over the tendency to view improvisation as merely topping the previous line.
Completing Act I was a spy story set in Cold War Berlin. Edi Patterson and Brian Lohmann had a secret so critical, they had to convince the others in this West German coffee shop to never divulge its contents. Capitalizing on extremely silly accents, this had all the earmarks of a goofy sitcom—until, that is, the story took a dark turn with the arrival of Mike McShane’s former Nazi laboratory guard. What gave this storyline an effective midway twist was Patterson’s unforeseeable decision to “off” McShane, leaving the rest of the cast to suddenly adjust the storyline accordingly. It served as a great intermission conversation starter.
Act II featured Brian Michael Jones as a wimpy gas-station attendant suddenly gifted with Herculean strength by a pair of alien beings. Diehard fans of Serling’s series will no doubt see the similarity between this and a 1961 broadcast episode titled “Mr. Dingle, the Strong,” which starred Burgess Meredith. Still, this “borrowing” of plotline came off as a delightful reminiscence, and Jones’s portrayal of the flustered everyman gifted this section of the show with a tankful of humorous charm.
Wrapping things up was perhaps the evening’s most bizarre offering. A group of participants gathered in a church social hall for a regularly scheduled night of bingo. Lohmann and Michele Spears were the newcomers, while Paul Rogan and the ever wacky Patterson inhabited the veteran players. Foreboding darkness took precedence almost immediately, as it became apparent that McShane’s minister, aided by O’Connor and Lewis, wasn’t necessarily a disciple of the Lord. Although the ending lacked the traditional TZ punch, this particular long-form sketch utilized the entire cast’s talents and sent the audience home wondering what might be on the docket for subsequent performances.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
September 9, 2013
September 9, 2013
bare: A Rock Musical
glory|struck Productions at Hayworth Theatre
When bare: a pop opera premiered at the Hudson Theatre in October 2000, it wasn’t the show’s lame plot that made it such a critical sensation. Privileged young people being angst-ridden about peer acceptance and sexual identity while being confined within the walls of an upscale coed Catholic boarding school is not exactly revelatory. The show’s success was driven by the pulsating vitality and veracity of the ingenious score, wrought by Damon Intrabartolo (music) and Jon Hartmere (lyrics), performed by a well-balanced cast and backup band. The show’s current incarnation, bare: a rock musical, has the potential to achieve the same success, but not until the supposed backup band stops obliterating the onstage efforts of a hardworking ensemble that can barely be heard and is rarely understood.
The exposition of the evolving relationship between love-anguished Peter (Payson Lewis) and the school’s carefree big-man-on-campus Jason (Jonah Platt) is laid out in the opening two ensemble numbers (“Epiphany,” “You & I”). Despite director Calvin Remsberg’s efforts to create an atmosphere of zesty school-days interplay among the cast, the onstage activity is reduced to the level of hurried, inaudible pantomime. When finally given his solitary moment, Lewis admirably transcends his accompaniment to project Peter’s abject misery (“Role of a Lifetime”) at not being able to freely reveal his feelings for Jason.
At the opening night performance, Platt appeared to be searching for Jason rather than inhabiting him. There is very little display of emotional acknowledgment of Peter’s relentless desire for a committed relationship (“Best Kept Secret”) or the increasing ardor being projected Jason’s way by the popular and beauteous Ivy (Lindsay Pearce), whom he treats like an annoyance even while bedding her (“One”). Pearce, on the other hand, displays every transition in the maturing life of a casually promiscuous “golden girl” who wants more for herself (“Portrait of a Girl”) and is devastated by the ultimate reality of her situation (“All Grown Up”).
In this ensemble of never-ending personal agendas, the essence of teenage self-loathing is personified by Jason’s supposedly overweight, unattractive, and bitterly sardonic sister, Nadia, sympathetically portrayed by attractive, not at all overweight Shelley Regner (standing in for Katie Stevens), who impressively underscores the deep resentment felt by a talented, sensitive soul who is not chosen to play Juliet (“Plain Jane Fat Ass”) or asked out on a date (“A Quiet Night at Home”).
When her playfully sarcastic asides can be heard, Stephanie Anderson’s Sister Chantelle (a role she created in the 2000 original production) offers much-needed comedic relief, attempting to mold an undisciplined herd of teens into a stage-worthy production of Romeo and Juliet. Anderson has no problem being heard over the band when she blasts through gospel-tinged “911! Emergency” and “God Don’t Make No Trash.”
Another holdover from the original production is John Griffin, who created the role of Jason in 2000. Now ensconced in the robes of the Priest, the not always helpful student advisor, Griffin exudes the ambivalence of a man of the cloth who understands the emotional dilemma Jason is facing yet cannot transcend the church’s doctrine to truly help him (“Cross”).
Given the 35-song score, director Remsberg and choreographer Jen Oundjian keep the pace of this near operatic work moving spritely toward its conclusion; but there are specific plot points that need to be highlighted in order to properly appreciate the dramatic throughline. Of course, that is difficult to achieve if you can’t understand what the characters are saying. Hopefully the sound balance will be corrected in subsequent performances.
glory|struck Productions at Hayworth Theatre
When bare: a pop opera premiered at the Hudson Theatre in October 2000, it wasn’t the show’s lame plot that made it such a critical sensation. Privileged young people being angst-ridden about peer acceptance and sexual identity while being confined within the walls of an upscale coed Catholic boarding school is not exactly revelatory. The show’s success was driven by the pulsating vitality and veracity of the ingenious score, wrought by Damon Intrabartolo (music) and Jon Hartmere (lyrics), performed by a well-balanced cast and backup band. The show’s current incarnation, bare: a rock musical, has the potential to achieve the same success, but not until the supposed backup band stops obliterating the onstage efforts of a hardworking ensemble that can barely be heard and is rarely understood.
The exposition of the evolving relationship between love-anguished Peter (Payson Lewis) and the school’s carefree big-man-on-campus Jason (Jonah Platt) is laid out in the opening two ensemble numbers (“Epiphany,” “You & I”). Despite director Calvin Remsberg’s efforts to create an atmosphere of zesty school-days interplay among the cast, the onstage activity is reduced to the level of hurried, inaudible pantomime. When finally given his solitary moment, Lewis admirably transcends his accompaniment to project Peter’s abject misery (“Role of a Lifetime”) at not being able to freely reveal his feelings for Jason.
At the opening night performance, Platt appeared to be searching for Jason rather than inhabiting him. There is very little display of emotional acknowledgment of Peter’s relentless desire for a committed relationship (“Best Kept Secret”) or the increasing ardor being projected Jason’s way by the popular and beauteous Ivy (Lindsay Pearce), whom he treats like an annoyance even while bedding her (“One”). Pearce, on the other hand, displays every transition in the maturing life of a casually promiscuous “golden girl” who wants more for herself (“Portrait of a Girl”) and is devastated by the ultimate reality of her situation (“All Grown Up”).
In this ensemble of never-ending personal agendas, the essence of teenage self-loathing is personified by Jason’s supposedly overweight, unattractive, and bitterly sardonic sister, Nadia, sympathetically portrayed by attractive, not at all overweight Shelley Regner (standing in for Katie Stevens), who impressively underscores the deep resentment felt by a talented, sensitive soul who is not chosen to play Juliet (“Plain Jane Fat Ass”) or asked out on a date (“A Quiet Night at Home”).
When her playfully sarcastic asides can be heard, Stephanie Anderson’s Sister Chantelle (a role she created in the 2000 original production) offers much-needed comedic relief, attempting to mold an undisciplined herd of teens into a stage-worthy production of Romeo and Juliet. Anderson has no problem being heard over the band when she blasts through gospel-tinged “911! Emergency” and “God Don’t Make No Trash.”
Another holdover from the original production is John Griffin, who created the role of Jason in 2000. Now ensconced in the robes of the Priest, the not always helpful student advisor, Griffin exudes the ambivalence of a man of the cloth who understands the emotional dilemma Jason is facing yet cannot transcend the church’s doctrine to truly help him (“Cross”).
Given the 35-song score, director Remsberg and choreographer Jen Oundjian keep the pace of this near operatic work moving spritely toward its conclusion; but there are specific plot points that need to be highlighted in order to properly appreciate the dramatic throughline. Of course, that is difficult to achieve if you can’t understand what the characters are saying. Hopefully the sound balance will be corrected in subsequent performances.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
September 9, 2013
September 9, 2013
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep
Sacred Fools
Edward Einhorn has done a capable job in reducing Philip K. Dick’s classic, dystopic Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? to stageworthy dimensions. A brave job, too, considering that Ridley Scott’s cult hit Blade Runner has already mined the source material to such epic effect.
Einhorn seems most interested in the film noir roots of Dick’s narrative, in which bounty hunter Rick Decker operates like a private eye in the Robert Mitchum vein, investigating whether any number of suspicious characters are illegal androids who have escaped back to Earth from their enforced servitude on Mars. The play moves deliciously down shady back alleys into tense, flavorful mano-a-mano conversations, while allotting generous stage time and weight to Dick’s musings on what it truly means to be human.
At Sacred Fools, helmer Jaime Robledo creates some arresting visuals, and engages Anthony Backman and Ben Rock to pull off jazzy projection wizardry. Unfortunately, either Robledo didn’t instruct his actors to absorb enough film noir technique or they weren’t up to the task. Most of his thesps are stuck in either drippily naturalistic or campily satirical modes, neither mode especially deft or interesting. Only Rafael Goldstein, as an android rebel leader, manages to imply twisted psychology under a casual affect to hit all the right chiaroscuro notes.
Speaking of hitting notes, did warbler Luna Luft (Emily Kosloski) have to be given so damn many of them? A sort of android Celine Dion but even more annoying, Luna is the mainstay of one of earth’s two remaining TV channels in a caterwauling performance of the “Mercer Arias,” an atonal series of quasi-religious tone poems that are bafflingly allowed to intrude whenever Dick, Einhorn, and Robledo manage to get a little excitement going. A little Luna goes a long way, especially since every Aria is orchestrated and sung identically, courtesy—if that’s the word I’m looking for—composer Henry Akona. I don’t know about androids, but I began to dream of electric headphones that might mercifully drown her out.
Sacred Fools
Edward Einhorn has done a capable job in reducing Philip K. Dick’s classic, dystopic Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? to stageworthy dimensions. A brave job, too, considering that Ridley Scott’s cult hit Blade Runner has already mined the source material to such epic effect.
Einhorn seems most interested in the film noir roots of Dick’s narrative, in which bounty hunter Rick Decker operates like a private eye in the Robert Mitchum vein, investigating whether any number of suspicious characters are illegal androids who have escaped back to Earth from their enforced servitude on Mars. The play moves deliciously down shady back alleys into tense, flavorful mano-a-mano conversations, while allotting generous stage time and weight to Dick’s musings on what it truly means to be human.
At Sacred Fools, helmer Jaime Robledo creates some arresting visuals, and engages Anthony Backman and Ben Rock to pull off jazzy projection wizardry. Unfortunately, either Robledo didn’t instruct his actors to absorb enough film noir technique or they weren’t up to the task. Most of his thesps are stuck in either drippily naturalistic or campily satirical modes, neither mode especially deft or interesting. Only Rafael Goldstein, as an android rebel leader, manages to imply twisted psychology under a casual affect to hit all the right chiaroscuro notes.
Speaking of hitting notes, did warbler Luna Luft (Emily Kosloski) have to be given so damn many of them? A sort of android Celine Dion but even more annoying, Luna is the mainstay of one of earth’s two remaining TV channels in a caterwauling performance of the “Mercer Arias,” an atonal series of quasi-religious tone poems that are bafflingly allowed to intrude whenever Dick, Einhorn, and Robledo manage to get a little excitement going. A little Luna goes a long way, especially since every Aria is orchestrated and sung identically, courtesy—if that’s the word I’m looking for—composer Henry Akona. I don’t know about androids, but I began to dream of electric headphones that might mercifully drown her out.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 8, 2013
October 8, 2013
The Dream of the Burning Boy
Malibu Playhouse
David West Read’s The Dream of the Burning Boy, now in its West Coast premiere, might be an intriguing new play. It might be. As it is in this languid, over-directed, and overly sentimentalized production, it’s hard to tell.
The burning boy is high school student Dane (Matthias Chrans), who at the very beginning of the play exits from a brief conference with his English teacher, Larry (Jeff Hayenga), over his mediocre grade—he had supposedly turned in an essay on the leading character in Dante’s Inferno titled “How I Lost My Virgility”—only to drop dead of a brain aneurism in the hallway outside his demanding teacher’s classroom. As Jeff deals with a disturbing recurring dream about his final encounter with his prize student, and the rest of the people directly touched by Dane’s sudden demise are drawn into what could be an Equus-sized mystery, the school’s new overachieving greenhorn guidance counselor, Steve (Tyler Ritter), continues to lurk around offering sunshine and annoying textbook analyses to the rest in a clumsy effort to help them, scratching at wounds everyone else is trying to let heal.
There is a lot of smart dialogue in Read’s play, and the characters could be interesting enough if they were not guided by director Edward Edwards to emote at full emotional tilt from the beginning of each scene to the end, leaving the sense that all these possibly gifted actors are auditioning for roles on Days of Our Lives rather than trying simply to tell an interesting story. The best performances come from supporting actors Chrans, who does a remarkable job of re-creating the same dialogue twice, and Zach Palmer as a dimwitted friend who has shamefully bedded Dane’s girlfriend (Joslyn Kramer) and lusts for the dead boy’s troubled sister (Jayne McLendon). Hayenga and Ritter also do their best to keep from dipping headlong into melodrama, but the ladies of the cast—the two mentioned above and Melissa Kite as Dane’s grieving mother—could all be fugitives from a telenovela.
Edwards never lets his actors just stand and speak, adding continuous hand-wringing and continuous business such as emptying books from backpacks onto desks, playing with a mechanical stuffed toy in Steve’s motto-covered office (he is happiest with his posters to hang around the school that read, “Everything Will Be All Right”), and moving aimlessly and without convincing motivation around the playing space. Using activities to keep the actors on track is a fine idea, but only if the activities have some remote relationship to what’s unfolding in the storyline.
Some of the fault might be inherent in Read’s script, which features short filmic blackouts that distract rather than enhance and includes conversations that veer away from telling the story. In one encounter in the school library, Rachel disrobes for Kyle, something that seems to have absolutely no relationship to the rest of the play. Perhaps the director missed a plot point while focusing on leading his actors to cry and shake and sputter when just saying the words would have been be more effective. Erin Walley’s impressively prop-strewn and highly decorated set, featuring three distinct settings that eliminate what could be frequent set changes, is hampered by Mike Reilly’s muddy lighting effects, which do not successfully isolate the three areas where the action takes place.
There’s a lot of promise in the script. Someday, hopefully, it will be realized without overly fussy theatrical histrionics overpowering the journey. If this fault is not in the writing and did come directly from this mounting’s omnipresent direction and hectic staging, it could one day prove to be a more satisfying experience for some future audience.
Malibu Playhouse
David West Read’s The Dream of the Burning Boy, now in its West Coast premiere, might be an intriguing new play. It might be. As it is in this languid, over-directed, and overly sentimentalized production, it’s hard to tell.
The burning boy is high school student Dane (Matthias Chrans), who at the very beginning of the play exits from a brief conference with his English teacher, Larry (Jeff Hayenga), over his mediocre grade—he had supposedly turned in an essay on the leading character in Dante’s Inferno titled “How I Lost My Virgility”—only to drop dead of a brain aneurism in the hallway outside his demanding teacher’s classroom. As Jeff deals with a disturbing recurring dream about his final encounter with his prize student, and the rest of the people directly touched by Dane’s sudden demise are drawn into what could be an Equus-sized mystery, the school’s new overachieving greenhorn guidance counselor, Steve (Tyler Ritter), continues to lurk around offering sunshine and annoying textbook analyses to the rest in a clumsy effort to help them, scratching at wounds everyone else is trying to let heal.
There is a lot of smart dialogue in Read’s play, and the characters could be interesting enough if they were not guided by director Edward Edwards to emote at full emotional tilt from the beginning of each scene to the end, leaving the sense that all these possibly gifted actors are auditioning for roles on Days of Our Lives rather than trying simply to tell an interesting story. The best performances come from supporting actors Chrans, who does a remarkable job of re-creating the same dialogue twice, and Zach Palmer as a dimwitted friend who has shamefully bedded Dane’s girlfriend (Joslyn Kramer) and lusts for the dead boy’s troubled sister (Jayne McLendon). Hayenga and Ritter also do their best to keep from dipping headlong into melodrama, but the ladies of the cast—the two mentioned above and Melissa Kite as Dane’s grieving mother—could all be fugitives from a telenovela.
Edwards never lets his actors just stand and speak, adding continuous hand-wringing and continuous business such as emptying books from backpacks onto desks, playing with a mechanical stuffed toy in Steve’s motto-covered office (he is happiest with his posters to hang around the school that read, “Everything Will Be All Right”), and moving aimlessly and without convincing motivation around the playing space. Using activities to keep the actors on track is a fine idea, but only if the activities have some remote relationship to what’s unfolding in the storyline.
Some of the fault might be inherent in Read’s script, which features short filmic blackouts that distract rather than enhance and includes conversations that veer away from telling the story. In one encounter in the school library, Rachel disrobes for Kyle, something that seems to have absolutely no relationship to the rest of the play. Perhaps the director missed a plot point while focusing on leading his actors to cry and shake and sputter when just saying the words would have been be more effective. Erin Walley’s impressively prop-strewn and highly decorated set, featuring three distinct settings that eliminate what could be frequent set changes, is hampered by Mike Reilly’s muddy lighting effects, which do not successfully isolate the three areas where the action takes place.
There’s a lot of promise in the script. Someday, hopefully, it will be realized without overly fussy theatrical histrionics overpowering the journey. If this fault is not in the writing and did come directly from this mounting’s omnipresent direction and hectic staging, it could one day prove to be a more satisfying experience for some future audience.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
September 8, 2013
September 8, 2013
Rebecca’s
Gamble
Theatrecraft Playhouse
Robert Begam and Art Shulman wrote this play as a courtroom drama. Their story could also pass for a gothic tale. Unfortunately, it totters between styles, and director Rick Walters makes a simultaneous case for both. And so this production sits precariously, leaving its audience wondering how to react.
Though, five audience members per show are asked to reach a verdict on what Dr. Rebecca Adler has done. She worked at a cryonics lab, which freezes newly dead bodies in the expectation that technology of the future will revive them. She is being prosecuted for freezing her good friend, a man who had been ill with AIDS. The state of Arizona claims she murdered him. She claims otherwise.
The science is modern, the idea of resurrection is not. The writing here is old-fashioned—in good ways and not. The structure is simple: a criminal trial, some of which is ludicrous, some of which is accurate. With staging in the round, the audience must be on its best behavior at all times. The same can’t be said for the characters, some of whom flaunt courtroom etiquette.
What’s realistic here, rooting the play in 21st-century America? Nearly every witness starts on an annoyed note. Apparently no one, even in a play, wants to be subpoenaed to testify. The prosecutor is pure snark, though he’s played with craft by Jerry Weil, and the defense attorney is pure unctuousness, though that’s well done by Randy Vasquez.
On the gothic side of the balance, the intriguingly elegant Diane Linder stars as Rebecca. The character is mysterious and otherworldly, a 19th-century figure forced into a 21st-century forum. Unfortunately, Linder is given several ungainly chunks of dialogue and directed to hugely overact them. Much of the dialogue is sappily underscored. The lighting design flashes up and down, presumably to show whispered conversations when whispering would keep the conversation from the audience.
The production double casts several of the witness roles, giving the actors wigs and differing accents. Obviously, such casting works when the actors are capable. Just about everyone will love Dominick Morra as the doddering rabbi, who pulls the ace from his sleeve in the form of New Testament scripture. An interesting characterization comes from Duane Taniguchi as an insecure technician. Henry Holden is firmly in command of his craft and the courtroom as the judge.
The production certainly presents balanced arguments for and against Rebecca’s guilt, keeping the audience listening and thinking. But because of the nature of a trial, the audience is never privy to the more-interesting moments of the conversations between Rebecca and her patient. Nor, again because of the nature of the justice system, do we discover the “truth.”
Theatrecraft Playhouse
Robert Begam and Art Shulman wrote this play as a courtroom drama. Their story could also pass for a gothic tale. Unfortunately, it totters between styles, and director Rick Walters makes a simultaneous case for both. And so this production sits precariously, leaving its audience wondering how to react.
Though, five audience members per show are asked to reach a verdict on what Dr. Rebecca Adler has done. She worked at a cryonics lab, which freezes newly dead bodies in the expectation that technology of the future will revive them. She is being prosecuted for freezing her good friend, a man who had been ill with AIDS. The state of Arizona claims she murdered him. She claims otherwise.
The science is modern, the idea of resurrection is not. The writing here is old-fashioned—in good ways and not. The structure is simple: a criminal trial, some of which is ludicrous, some of which is accurate. With staging in the round, the audience must be on its best behavior at all times. The same can’t be said for the characters, some of whom flaunt courtroom etiquette.
What’s realistic here, rooting the play in 21st-century America? Nearly every witness starts on an annoyed note. Apparently no one, even in a play, wants to be subpoenaed to testify. The prosecutor is pure snark, though he’s played with craft by Jerry Weil, and the defense attorney is pure unctuousness, though that’s well done by Randy Vasquez.
On the gothic side of the balance, the intriguingly elegant Diane Linder stars as Rebecca. The character is mysterious and otherworldly, a 19th-century figure forced into a 21st-century forum. Unfortunately, Linder is given several ungainly chunks of dialogue and directed to hugely overact them. Much of the dialogue is sappily underscored. The lighting design flashes up and down, presumably to show whispered conversations when whispering would keep the conversation from the audience.
The production double casts several of the witness roles, giving the actors wigs and differing accents. Obviously, such casting works when the actors are capable. Just about everyone will love Dominick Morra as the doddering rabbi, who pulls the ace from his sleeve in the form of New Testament scripture. An interesting characterization comes from Duane Taniguchi as an insecure technician. Henry Holden is firmly in command of his craft and the courtroom as the judge.
The production certainly presents balanced arguments for and against Rebecca’s guilt, keeping the audience listening and thinking. But because of the nature of a trial, the audience is never privy to the more-interesting moments of the conversations between Rebecca and her patient. Nor, again because of the nature of the justice system, do we discover the “truth.”
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 7, 2013
September 7, 2013
Prometheus Bound
California Institute of the Arts Center for New Performance (CNP) in association with Trans Arts and the Getty Museum at Getty Villa
As Greek tragedies go, Prometheus Bound poses something of a staging nightmare. There’s no betrayed wife out to murder her own children and her rival, no king brought to understand the truth about the older woman he married. Instead, it’s a solemn religioso pageant in which the god who created mortal man, and went on to endow us with intelligence, hope, skills, and fire, is sentenced to be chained to a rock face and tormented for eternity, in perhaps the world’s first example of no good deed going unpunished. Our protagonist—he’s too static and distraught to qualify as “our hero”—hangs there while people come by, deliberately or accidentally, to harangue him or sympathize with him. He rails at the universe until the entire environment catastrophically crumbles. The end—at least for the first of three plays in a trilogy ascribed to Aeschylus, though the latter two works have been lost to history.
Still, it was inevitable that Getty Villa, annual producer of intriguing classical texts before uncomfortably backless stone benches, would get around to producing this seminal document of man’s fate and his relationship to divinity. Luckily, CalArts theater dean Travis Preston was tapped to helm it. He does pretty much everything possible to activate the material to no sacrifice to the central argument. He’s aided there by the remarkably clear and vigorous rendering of the original text by poet Joel Agee. Interested parties will be able to decide for themselves, when the translation is published in the New York Review of Books.
The production’s showpiece is the much-publicized 5-ton, 23-feet-tall wheel, ominously occupying the amphitheater floor in the role of Prometheus’s rocky-promontory prison (design by Preston and Efren Delgadillo Jr.). The contraption decidedly resembles the clock face in the movie Hugo, or one of those circular floor fans college students use to cool down their dorm rooms; within the larger sphere sits a smaller one on which Prometheus (Ron Cephas Jones) is hoist, and which can ride up or down to bring the god to ground level or back up to the mezzanine. At first you may irreverently muse that they might’ve set up a dunking pool beneath and handed out baseballs as a sure-fire Getty fundraising activity. But the setpiece actually works quite well: It’s iron, so it seems elemental enough, and over the course of the production it takes on a significant measure of metaphorical and emotional power.
Celebrated New York actor Jones possesses plenty of power as well. Splayed Christ-like on the little platform while assuming various postures of torment, he effortlessly embodies the man of action laid low by petty vindictiveness. Prometheus is a prophet—his name means “foresight,” it says here—but Jones and Preston never let him fall into the know-it-all smugness that characterizes many a dramatic seer. When it’s time to treat his visitors to a foretaste of their future, he lashes out at them as if to say, “You think I’m suffering? Wait’ll you see what’s in store for you, bee-yotch.” The attitude may play havoc with his likability, but it strengthens his interest as a character throughout.
Particularly notable is the cool jazz musical accompaniment from Vinny Golia and Ellen Reid, helping to bridge the gap between Hellas and Hollywood with confident Miles Davis–like strains.
The acting is always serviceable, and in the case of Mirjana Jokovic’s Io it’s considerably more than that. Io was the hottie whom Zeus seduced, for which pains Mrs. Zeus, Hera, turned her into a heifer pestered by a gadfly. Her misery finds no easement in Prometheus’s visions, and Jokovic seems to internalize a lifetime’s worth of pain in her body and voice. The perennial trap in poetic drama is sonorous verse speaking unencumbered by emotionality, but Jokovic believes in, and cares about, every syllable she utters.
Choral work is a mixed bag, Preston’s dozen belles sometimes engaging in activities more appropriate to a yoga class or martial arts dojo (choreography Mira Kingsley). But there’s unforgettable tension when they start to climb that clock face, the click-clicks of their protective hooks contributing to the sense of ascending a precipice. For once, a chorus can literally be said to hang on the main character’s every word.
California Institute of the Arts Center for New Performance (CNP) in association with Trans Arts and the Getty Museum at Getty Villa
As Greek tragedies go, Prometheus Bound poses something of a staging nightmare. There’s no betrayed wife out to murder her own children and her rival, no king brought to understand the truth about the older woman he married. Instead, it’s a solemn religioso pageant in which the god who created mortal man, and went on to endow us with intelligence, hope, skills, and fire, is sentenced to be chained to a rock face and tormented for eternity, in perhaps the world’s first example of no good deed going unpunished. Our protagonist—he’s too static and distraught to qualify as “our hero”—hangs there while people come by, deliberately or accidentally, to harangue him or sympathize with him. He rails at the universe until the entire environment catastrophically crumbles. The end—at least for the first of three plays in a trilogy ascribed to Aeschylus, though the latter two works have been lost to history.
Still, it was inevitable that Getty Villa, annual producer of intriguing classical texts before uncomfortably backless stone benches, would get around to producing this seminal document of man’s fate and his relationship to divinity. Luckily, CalArts theater dean Travis Preston was tapped to helm it. He does pretty much everything possible to activate the material to no sacrifice to the central argument. He’s aided there by the remarkably clear and vigorous rendering of the original text by poet Joel Agee. Interested parties will be able to decide for themselves, when the translation is published in the New York Review of Books.
The production’s showpiece is the much-publicized 5-ton, 23-feet-tall wheel, ominously occupying the amphitheater floor in the role of Prometheus’s rocky-promontory prison (design by Preston and Efren Delgadillo Jr.). The contraption decidedly resembles the clock face in the movie Hugo, or one of those circular floor fans college students use to cool down their dorm rooms; within the larger sphere sits a smaller one on which Prometheus (Ron Cephas Jones) is hoist, and which can ride up or down to bring the god to ground level or back up to the mezzanine. At first you may irreverently muse that they might’ve set up a dunking pool beneath and handed out baseballs as a sure-fire Getty fundraising activity. But the setpiece actually works quite well: It’s iron, so it seems elemental enough, and over the course of the production it takes on a significant measure of metaphorical and emotional power.
Celebrated New York actor Jones possesses plenty of power as well. Splayed Christ-like on the little platform while assuming various postures of torment, he effortlessly embodies the man of action laid low by petty vindictiveness. Prometheus is a prophet—his name means “foresight,” it says here—but Jones and Preston never let him fall into the know-it-all smugness that characterizes many a dramatic seer. When it’s time to treat his visitors to a foretaste of their future, he lashes out at them as if to say, “You think I’m suffering? Wait’ll you see what’s in store for you, bee-yotch.” The attitude may play havoc with his likability, but it strengthens his interest as a character throughout.
Particularly notable is the cool jazz musical accompaniment from Vinny Golia and Ellen Reid, helping to bridge the gap between Hellas and Hollywood with confident Miles Davis–like strains.
The acting is always serviceable, and in the case of Mirjana Jokovic’s Io it’s considerably more than that. Io was the hottie whom Zeus seduced, for which pains Mrs. Zeus, Hera, turned her into a heifer pestered by a gadfly. Her misery finds no easement in Prometheus’s visions, and Jokovic seems to internalize a lifetime’s worth of pain in her body and voice. The perennial trap in poetic drama is sonorous verse speaking unencumbered by emotionality, but Jokovic believes in, and cares about, every syllable she utters.
Choral work is a mixed bag, Preston’s dozen belles sometimes engaging in activities more appropriate to a yoga class or martial arts dojo (choreography Mira Kingsley). But there’s unforgettable tension when they start to climb that clock face, the click-clicks of their protective hooks contributing to the sense of ascending a precipice. For once, a chorus can literally be said to hang on the main character’s every word.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 7, 2013
September 7, 2013
Coyote on a Fence
Theatre of Arts at Arena Stage
Coyotes don’t play fetch and greet us at the door and guard us in our homes. Coyotes are the predator version of our snuggly pups. They are the canines with the need to kill, excused—but not usually forgiven—because they’re programmed that way. Do we know of people like that?
Two inmates on Death Row, each a predator in his own way, are the fascinating main characters in this Bruce Graham play. John Brennan is an educated, intelligent, well-spoken man, convicted of kicking to death a drug dealer. Bobby Reyburn is an ill-tended young man, convicted of setting fire to a church of African-American congregants, burning 37 people to death, including 14 children in Sunday school. Do we like one of these two inmates more than the other at this point?
The men meet when Bobby moves in to the cell adjacent to John’s. Bobby is damaged from his upbringing—underprivileged and abused, perhaps a little bit confused. Less is spoken of John’s background. Yet John is the force driving the play. Perhaps that’s why there’s shock to be had at the play’s end.
Director James Warwick cast well, and character work has laid a solid foundation for the unlikely friendship between John and Bobby. The scenes between these two men are absorbing, a credit to the writing, direction, and acting. Cody Kearsley is stellar as white supremacist Bobby. This murderer’s vile commentary on African-Americans and Jews ought to disgust the audience. As Kearsley plays him, however, Bobby remains vaguely appealing, disturbingly worthy of empathy—perhaps more like a coyote pup.
Rob Nagle plays John as highly intelligent but not annoyingly so, deeply pained but not weepily so. This character has secrets; and, though Nagle seems to know all of them, he’s not sharing.
Less successful are scenes with the play’s two other characters, apparently because Graham felt he needed them to shoehorn in additional information. That’s no fault of very competent actors Benjamin Cooper Mathes, playing the New York Times reporter, and Lisa Valenzuela, playing the prison guard. And Warwick’s staging ensures that scenes flow one into the next—though at one point a conversation between the reporter and John seems to morph into a conversation between John and Bobby, turning the action dreamlike.
Also creating a probably unintended but definitely protracted distraction, Kearsley gives Bobby one blue eye, à la Marilyn Manson. Sound design includes a somewhat menacing but also distracting metallic whirring. These are cosmetic annoyances that could be pruned from the production. The good character work far outweighs them.
The coyote of the title was shot by Bobby’s idolized uncle and stuck on a fence to show mastery of and hatred for a predator. Has our criminal justice system treated the inmates similarly? Is execution merely public humiliation and an ostentatious display of death? Or will the act serve as an example and a warning to the remaining pack? This and other questions may long haunt this Coyote’s audience.
Theatre of Arts at Arena Stage
Coyotes don’t play fetch and greet us at the door and guard us in our homes. Coyotes are the predator version of our snuggly pups. They are the canines with the need to kill, excused—but not usually forgiven—because they’re programmed that way. Do we know of people like that?
Two inmates on Death Row, each a predator in his own way, are the fascinating main characters in this Bruce Graham play. John Brennan is an educated, intelligent, well-spoken man, convicted of kicking to death a drug dealer. Bobby Reyburn is an ill-tended young man, convicted of setting fire to a church of African-American congregants, burning 37 people to death, including 14 children in Sunday school. Do we like one of these two inmates more than the other at this point?
The men meet when Bobby moves in to the cell adjacent to John’s. Bobby is damaged from his upbringing—underprivileged and abused, perhaps a little bit confused. Less is spoken of John’s background. Yet John is the force driving the play. Perhaps that’s why there’s shock to be had at the play’s end.
Director James Warwick cast well, and character work has laid a solid foundation for the unlikely friendship between John and Bobby. The scenes between these two men are absorbing, a credit to the writing, direction, and acting. Cody Kearsley is stellar as white supremacist Bobby. This murderer’s vile commentary on African-Americans and Jews ought to disgust the audience. As Kearsley plays him, however, Bobby remains vaguely appealing, disturbingly worthy of empathy—perhaps more like a coyote pup.
Rob Nagle plays John as highly intelligent but not annoyingly so, deeply pained but not weepily so. This character has secrets; and, though Nagle seems to know all of them, he’s not sharing.
Less successful are scenes with the play’s two other characters, apparently because Graham felt he needed them to shoehorn in additional information. That’s no fault of very competent actors Benjamin Cooper Mathes, playing the New York Times reporter, and Lisa Valenzuela, playing the prison guard. And Warwick’s staging ensures that scenes flow one into the next—though at one point a conversation between the reporter and John seems to morph into a conversation between John and Bobby, turning the action dreamlike.
Also creating a probably unintended but definitely protracted distraction, Kearsley gives Bobby one blue eye, à la Marilyn Manson. Sound design includes a somewhat menacing but also distracting metallic whirring. These are cosmetic annoyances that could be pruned from the production. The good character work far outweighs them.
The coyote of the title was shot by Bobby’s idolized uncle and stuck on a fence to show mastery of and hatred for a predator. Has our criminal justice system treated the inmates similarly? Is execution merely public humiliation and an ostentatious display of death? Or will the act serve as an example and a warning to the remaining pack? This and other questions may long haunt this Coyote’s audience.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 7, 2013
September 7, 2013
Captain Dan Dixon vs. the Moth Sluts From the Fifth Dimension
Zombie Joe’s Underground Theatre
Considering its smile-evoking title, it’s not hard to imagine why the audience at this sci-fi spoof was all atwitter even before the house lights dimmed. Playwright Matt Sklar, who handles double duty in the title role of Captain Dan Dixon, pulls out all the stops both on paper and onstage. His script, detailing a Star Trek–esque crew’s struggles to survive an encounter with a group of scantily clad intergalactic sirens, is a sharply tuned 1950s homage to multiple genres. If one knows their stuff, one can catch references ranging from western serials to film noir in this fast-paced one-act, smartly helmed by Sebastian Muñoz.
Opening with a scene on the bridge of the spaceship Magellan that sped by almost a little too fast to be discernible at times, Sklar introduces us to his crew of angst-ridden misfits. David Wyn Harris as Chow, the ladle-wielding chuckwagon-style “cookie” from the ship’s galley, is a hoot. His death scene is a hilarious anachronistic allusion to Hollywood’s love affair with the open range. As the Magellan’s science officer, Dr. Canigulus, Jonica Patella provides the perfect foil to Sklar’s commanding officer. Sporting a headpiece exposing her brain, Patella handles the lion’s share of technical verbiage with ease and excellent comic timing. Meanwhile, Tyler Koster’s embodiment of the vessel’s youngest crewmember, Virgil, is full of charming innocence. His budding romance with Heldine Aguiluz who plays Vickibelle, daughter of the invading force’s queen, is button cute, not to mention providing the show with it’s “question mark” conclusion.
In the title role, Sklar does a yeoman’s job. One moment he’s concretely serious in his endeavors to save the ship and potentially all of mankind, and the next he is handling the goofier aspects of the story’s ludicrous nature with abandon. His scenes with Katherine Canipe—who appears as Empress Syphla, the leader of this insectile band of marauders known as the Vulvulans—are some of the production’s finest offerings. Spouting staccato style dialogue, the two parry and thrust and at one point even engage in sultry choreography that brings to mind the Travolta-Thurman dance from Pulp Fiction.
As the minions of this cold-hearted species of winged invaders, Corey Zicari, Caroline Montes, Courtney Bandeko, and Vivi Varon deserve mention if for no other reason than their onstage hubris. They’re clad in nothing more than shimmery spandex hot pants, white go-go boots, and the skimpiest of pasties. And to top things off, these four, along with Canipe and Aguiluz, are covered in more green body paint than is used in a national tour of Wicked as they prance about this venue’s microscopically small stage, cooing and beguiling the Magellan’s crew. To be sure, it places this show in the “adult” category, but, thanks to Muñoz’s direction, it never crosses the line from comic to crass.
Production values are at best minimal. The uncredited set—consisting of panels of wall-mounted dials, gauge, and gizmos—provides just the right ambiance for this gritty silliness. It’s a laugh-packed hour of fun, of which Roger Corman would be proud.
Zombie Joe’s Underground Theatre
Considering its smile-evoking title, it’s not hard to imagine why the audience at this sci-fi spoof was all atwitter even before the house lights dimmed. Playwright Matt Sklar, who handles double duty in the title role of Captain Dan Dixon, pulls out all the stops both on paper and onstage. His script, detailing a Star Trek–esque crew’s struggles to survive an encounter with a group of scantily clad intergalactic sirens, is a sharply tuned 1950s homage to multiple genres. If one knows their stuff, one can catch references ranging from western serials to film noir in this fast-paced one-act, smartly helmed by Sebastian Muñoz.
Opening with a scene on the bridge of the spaceship Magellan that sped by almost a little too fast to be discernible at times, Sklar introduces us to his crew of angst-ridden misfits. David Wyn Harris as Chow, the ladle-wielding chuckwagon-style “cookie” from the ship’s galley, is a hoot. His death scene is a hilarious anachronistic allusion to Hollywood’s love affair with the open range. As the Magellan’s science officer, Dr. Canigulus, Jonica Patella provides the perfect foil to Sklar’s commanding officer. Sporting a headpiece exposing her brain, Patella handles the lion’s share of technical verbiage with ease and excellent comic timing. Meanwhile, Tyler Koster’s embodiment of the vessel’s youngest crewmember, Virgil, is full of charming innocence. His budding romance with Heldine Aguiluz who plays Vickibelle, daughter of the invading force’s queen, is button cute, not to mention providing the show with it’s “question mark” conclusion.
In the title role, Sklar does a yeoman’s job. One moment he’s concretely serious in his endeavors to save the ship and potentially all of mankind, and the next he is handling the goofier aspects of the story’s ludicrous nature with abandon. His scenes with Katherine Canipe—who appears as Empress Syphla, the leader of this insectile band of marauders known as the Vulvulans—are some of the production’s finest offerings. Spouting staccato style dialogue, the two parry and thrust and at one point even engage in sultry choreography that brings to mind the Travolta-Thurman dance from Pulp Fiction.
As the minions of this cold-hearted species of winged invaders, Corey Zicari, Caroline Montes, Courtney Bandeko, and Vivi Varon deserve mention if for no other reason than their onstage hubris. They’re clad in nothing more than shimmery spandex hot pants, white go-go boots, and the skimpiest of pasties. And to top things off, these four, along with Canipe and Aguiluz, are covered in more green body paint than is used in a national tour of Wicked as they prance about this venue’s microscopically small stage, cooing and beguiling the Magellan’s crew. To be sure, it places this show in the “adult” category, but, thanks to Muñoz’s direction, it never crosses the line from comic to crass.
Production values are at best minimal. The uncredited set—consisting of panels of wall-mounted dials, gauge, and gizmos—provides just the right ambiance for this gritty silliness. It’s a laugh-packed hour of fun, of which Roger Corman would be proud.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
September 2, 2013
September 2, 2013
Rapture, Blister, Burn
Playwrights Horizons Production at Geffen Playhouse
Gina Gionfriddo’s Rapture, Blister, Burn is a report from the feminist front. Folded within a thin narrative is a lot of intriguing conversation, which in the course of two acts brings out numerous perspectives on what women do (and should) need and what they do (and should) want. The talk is often witty and almost as often wise, and to the extent to which you enjoy being pummeled by ideas, while having enough leisure to relate them to your own life, you will likely have a great time at the Geffen’s latest attraction (direct from New York with the original cast). But it’s all more white paper than play, and, if your priority is story, you may get antsy long before the final curtain falls.
Like Wendy Wasserstein’s The Heidi Chronicles, which Gionfriddo has conceded was something of a precursor, Rapture focuses on a brilliant, accomplished, but restless academic who has succeeded in pretty much everything she set her mind to except settling down with a husband and family. Catherine Croll (brittle, thoughtful Amy Brenneman) came close, back when she was in grad school and enamored of prodigy Don Harper (Lee Tergesen, boasting the right mixture of sexual attractiveness and dissipation); but Ph.D. study in London left the field free for roommate Gwen (a chirpy Kellie Overbey) to snap Don up. Now that Catherine has forsaken a New York lush life for her old New England college town, in order to care for mom Alice (Beth Dixon) following a summer heart attack, there Don and Gwen are with two kids and an obviously shaky union threatened by Don’s weed and Internet porn habits. Old sparks are present. But does Catherine, in her early 40s with the clock ticking, want them rekindled? And would it be right or smart to fuel that fire?
With typical hesitation, Catherine doesn’t attack these questions head on but decides to occupy her summer by teaching a seminar in pop culture and feminism with Don as her college dean (she can stay close to him, she reasons). As it happens, the only students who sign up are Gwen and her former babysitter Avery (Virginia Kull), a bubbly co-ed with a possibly abusive undergrad boyfriend and a series of surprising opinions about how the sensuous or ambitious woman ought to live her life.
Holes are present in the storytelling and acting that ensue. For one thing, Dixon is spry as a cricket and never directed to convey infirmity, so we are never sure whether Catherine is overstating the risks to mom that deter her from what she might call “self-activating behaviors.” (And I hasten to add that this is not the kind of ambiguity that seems thematically intended from helmer and playwright, rather a matter of indifference to them.) Alice’s salty views and reminiscences keep taking Catherine aback. But has she never noticed in 40 years that her mother is a card, or is this a recent phenomenon? Either way, the relationship doesn’t convince.
Speaking of unconvincing relationships, Gwen and Catherine are written and played with little sense of a shared past as roommates or fellow scholars, so the entire set of given circumstances feels bogus. Catherine is explicitly portrayed as a celebrity author of fame and means; would a visiting scholar who’d been a guest on Bill Maher’s HBO show be able to persuade no more than two acquaintances to sign up for a seminar that promised to consider porn and slasher movies? Come on, students would be queuing up down the block. (But then the producers would have to pony up for a bigger cast, no doubt.)
The more you think about the plot mechanics, the more you start to think Gionfriddo has saved up a lot of personal ruminations and cocktail-party insights, and just jury-rigged a story to contain them. (That’s an accusation that could not be fairly leveled, by the way, at either The Heidi Chronicles or Gionfriddo’s own trenchant and brilliant Becky Shaw, as yet seen no closer to LA than South Coast Rep.)
Still, Rapture’s ruminations and insights are so amusing, and so much richer than we are used to hearing on any stage, that they will satisfy many, many audience members. As Gionfriddo chronicles the different stages of post–World War II horror movies, for instance—atomic mutations after Hiroshima; groups-bonding-to-avoid-peril disaster epics after Vietnam; slashers targeting co-eds in the wake of Women’s Lib—one can see Geffen spectators smile and nod, as if reflecting on the films they’ve witnessed and deciding whether the conclusions apply. None of it has very much to do with the Catherine-Don-Gwen triangle, of course, but who cares when the talk is this interesting? To some, the defense of the oft-reviled Phyllis Schlafly alone—whose ’80s perspective on wives’ taking the subordinate role finds considerable support in surprising places among the characters—will be fresh enough to keep one engaged for long stretches.
The most satisfying aspect of Peter DuBois’s production—the most distinctive melding of a unique and persuasive character and the attitudes she espouses—is Kull’s Avery, a priceless amalgam of tics, physical expansiveness, performer intelligence, and intense concentration. Does the performance skew the play’s thematic balance? Sure it does; Avery has no business being so much more interesting and complex than the trio at the story’s heart. But she is captivating as hell. Who wants to quibble?
Playwrights Horizons Production at Geffen Playhouse
Gina Gionfriddo’s Rapture, Blister, Burn is a report from the feminist front. Folded within a thin narrative is a lot of intriguing conversation, which in the course of two acts brings out numerous perspectives on what women do (and should) need and what they do (and should) want. The talk is often witty and almost as often wise, and to the extent to which you enjoy being pummeled by ideas, while having enough leisure to relate them to your own life, you will likely have a great time at the Geffen’s latest attraction (direct from New York with the original cast). But it’s all more white paper than play, and, if your priority is story, you may get antsy long before the final curtain falls.
Like Wendy Wasserstein’s The Heidi Chronicles, which Gionfriddo has conceded was something of a precursor, Rapture focuses on a brilliant, accomplished, but restless academic who has succeeded in pretty much everything she set her mind to except settling down with a husband and family. Catherine Croll (brittle, thoughtful Amy Brenneman) came close, back when she was in grad school and enamored of prodigy Don Harper (Lee Tergesen, boasting the right mixture of sexual attractiveness and dissipation); but Ph.D. study in London left the field free for roommate Gwen (a chirpy Kellie Overbey) to snap Don up. Now that Catherine has forsaken a New York lush life for her old New England college town, in order to care for mom Alice (Beth Dixon) following a summer heart attack, there Don and Gwen are with two kids and an obviously shaky union threatened by Don’s weed and Internet porn habits. Old sparks are present. But does Catherine, in her early 40s with the clock ticking, want them rekindled? And would it be right or smart to fuel that fire?
With typical hesitation, Catherine doesn’t attack these questions head on but decides to occupy her summer by teaching a seminar in pop culture and feminism with Don as her college dean (she can stay close to him, she reasons). As it happens, the only students who sign up are Gwen and her former babysitter Avery (Virginia Kull), a bubbly co-ed with a possibly abusive undergrad boyfriend and a series of surprising opinions about how the sensuous or ambitious woman ought to live her life.
Holes are present in the storytelling and acting that ensue. For one thing, Dixon is spry as a cricket and never directed to convey infirmity, so we are never sure whether Catherine is overstating the risks to mom that deter her from what she might call “self-activating behaviors.” (And I hasten to add that this is not the kind of ambiguity that seems thematically intended from helmer and playwright, rather a matter of indifference to them.) Alice’s salty views and reminiscences keep taking Catherine aback. But has she never noticed in 40 years that her mother is a card, or is this a recent phenomenon? Either way, the relationship doesn’t convince.
Speaking of unconvincing relationships, Gwen and Catherine are written and played with little sense of a shared past as roommates or fellow scholars, so the entire set of given circumstances feels bogus. Catherine is explicitly portrayed as a celebrity author of fame and means; would a visiting scholar who’d been a guest on Bill Maher’s HBO show be able to persuade no more than two acquaintances to sign up for a seminar that promised to consider porn and slasher movies? Come on, students would be queuing up down the block. (But then the producers would have to pony up for a bigger cast, no doubt.)
The more you think about the plot mechanics, the more you start to think Gionfriddo has saved up a lot of personal ruminations and cocktail-party insights, and just jury-rigged a story to contain them. (That’s an accusation that could not be fairly leveled, by the way, at either The Heidi Chronicles or Gionfriddo’s own trenchant and brilliant Becky Shaw, as yet seen no closer to LA than South Coast Rep.)
Still, Rapture’s ruminations and insights are so amusing, and so much richer than we are used to hearing on any stage, that they will satisfy many, many audience members. As Gionfriddo chronicles the different stages of post–World War II horror movies, for instance—atomic mutations after Hiroshima; groups-bonding-to-avoid-peril disaster epics after Vietnam; slashers targeting co-eds in the wake of Women’s Lib—one can see Geffen spectators smile and nod, as if reflecting on the films they’ve witnessed and deciding whether the conclusions apply. None of it has very much to do with the Catherine-Don-Gwen triangle, of course, but who cares when the talk is this interesting? To some, the defense of the oft-reviled Phyllis Schlafly alone—whose ’80s perspective on wives’ taking the subordinate role finds considerable support in surprising places among the characters—will be fresh enough to keep one engaged for long stretches.
The most satisfying aspect of Peter DuBois’s production—the most distinctive melding of a unique and persuasive character and the attitudes she espouses—is Kull’s Avery, a priceless amalgam of tics, physical expansiveness, performer intelligence, and intense concentration. Does the performance skew the play’s thematic balance? Sure it does; Avery has no business being so much more interesting and complex than the trio at the story’s heart. But she is captivating as hell. Who wants to quibble?
Reviewed by Bob Verini
August 28, 2013
August 28, 2013
A Short
Stay at Carranor
Theatre West
At last, a play with two lead roles for actors able to pass for 70-year-olds. More particularly, those actors here look romantically attractive enough to sweep the audience into the love story of Irene and Chet, whose relationship has been thwarted since Irene was 16.
William Blinn’s script brings Irene and Chet together at Irene’s lakeside cottage. She’s widowed, he’s still married to the supposedly understanding Diane, but he has congestive heart failure and insists on spending his last months with Irene. “The entire family is in a tizzy,” says one if its members. And this is the play’s central conflict. Give Blinn this: At least his romantic couple isn’t constantly bickering.
They are played by the perpetually luminous Lee Meriwether, as Irene, and Don Moss, as Chet. Unfortunately, Moss’s Chet seems hollow—not enough to make his character completely selfish, just that there’s no full character yet. So Meriwether is tilting at windmills up there, improvising reactions her character should be having but doing so at no apparent prompting by her scene partner.
Blinn’s script is a comedy—in the Aristotelian sense, not in the “this is funny” sense. It’s possible, but not likely, a different director could have perked up the work. John Gallogly’s pacing is at a tragedian’s gait, the evening taking two and a half hours to unfold on the night reviewed. At a crisper tempo are Corinne Shor as Irene’s daughter, Shelby, and George Tovar as Shelby’s husband. Both actors create realistic, dimensional people. Unfortunately, near the play’s end, Blinn saddles them with a spat that comes out of nowhere and ends facilely.
And speaking of the play’s end, Chet’s wife, Diane, shows up but gets little chance to say anything. It seems Blinn uses her as a way to get Chet out the door and out of Irene’s life. Mary Burkin daringly plays Diane as dowdy. Is Diane dowdy to be a contrast with Irene? Or is she dowdy because she’s tired of battling Chet, or because she was called last-moment to immediately fetch him?
Gallogly seems to have boxed himself into befuddling staging. The set (Jeff G. Rack) is handsome. However, the layout of the house suits moving the actors around but seems unrealistic—at least to a city-dweller. Why must the bathroom in this spacious home be with the kitchen, stage left, and not upstairs adjoining the bedrooms, stage right? And why does the lake, which appears as a backdrop behind the actors, wrap around to the other side of the house, so the audience seems seated in it?
Apparently to make completely certain we know whether the characters are indoors or out, or in various rooms, the lighting is switched on and off and we are given sound effects. Lots of sound effects. Whether doors are visible in the set or imaginary, open ones get their own noises—perhaps cicadas, or wind, or traffic. And, just when we’re thinking there’s something very much like On Golden Pond going on here, we get a sound suspiciously like the call of a loon.
Theatre West
At last, a play with two lead roles for actors able to pass for 70-year-olds. More particularly, those actors here look romantically attractive enough to sweep the audience into the love story of Irene and Chet, whose relationship has been thwarted since Irene was 16.
William Blinn’s script brings Irene and Chet together at Irene’s lakeside cottage. She’s widowed, he’s still married to the supposedly understanding Diane, but he has congestive heart failure and insists on spending his last months with Irene. “The entire family is in a tizzy,” says one if its members. And this is the play’s central conflict. Give Blinn this: At least his romantic couple isn’t constantly bickering.
They are played by the perpetually luminous Lee Meriwether, as Irene, and Don Moss, as Chet. Unfortunately, Moss’s Chet seems hollow—not enough to make his character completely selfish, just that there’s no full character yet. So Meriwether is tilting at windmills up there, improvising reactions her character should be having but doing so at no apparent prompting by her scene partner.
Blinn’s script is a comedy—in the Aristotelian sense, not in the “this is funny” sense. It’s possible, but not likely, a different director could have perked up the work. John Gallogly’s pacing is at a tragedian’s gait, the evening taking two and a half hours to unfold on the night reviewed. At a crisper tempo are Corinne Shor as Irene’s daughter, Shelby, and George Tovar as Shelby’s husband. Both actors create realistic, dimensional people. Unfortunately, near the play’s end, Blinn saddles them with a spat that comes out of nowhere and ends facilely.
And speaking of the play’s end, Chet’s wife, Diane, shows up but gets little chance to say anything. It seems Blinn uses her as a way to get Chet out the door and out of Irene’s life. Mary Burkin daringly plays Diane as dowdy. Is Diane dowdy to be a contrast with Irene? Or is she dowdy because she’s tired of battling Chet, or because she was called last-moment to immediately fetch him?
Gallogly seems to have boxed himself into befuddling staging. The set (Jeff G. Rack) is handsome. However, the layout of the house suits moving the actors around but seems unrealistic—at least to a city-dweller. Why must the bathroom in this spacious home be with the kitchen, stage left, and not upstairs adjoining the bedrooms, stage right? And why does the lake, which appears as a backdrop behind the actors, wrap around to the other side of the house, so the audience seems seated in it?
Apparently to make completely certain we know whether the characters are indoors or out, or in various rooms, the lighting is switched on and off and we are given sound effects. Lots of sound effects. Whether doors are visible in the set or imaginary, open ones get their own noises—perhaps cicadas, or wind, or traffic. And, just when we’re thinking there’s something very much like On Golden Pond going on here, we get a sound suspiciously like the call of a loon.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 26, 2013
August 26, 2013
Sherlock Through the Looking-Glass
Porters of Hellsgate at Whitmore-Lindley Theatre
Playwright-director Gus Krieger has imaginatively entwined the transcendent observational and deductive skills of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s fictional yet legendary crime snooper Sherlock Holmes with British author Lewis Carroll’s conundrum-strewn literary machinations, as manifested by the denizens of his nonsensical Wonderland. Sherlock Through the Looking Glass displays an abundance of the playwright’s impressive research into the output of these two 19th-century literary giants; but Krieger the director should have judiciously edited his text to enhance the flow of the complicated dramatic throughline, especially in Act Two.
The thrust of the action pits Holmes (Kevin Stidham) and his sturdy sidekick Dr. Watson (Timothy Portnoy) against a ruthless criminal known as Jabberwock, who has infected much of London’s population with a hallucinogenic drug that reduces people to psychotic babblers of disjointed Carroll-speak. The production design gives new meaning to the term sparse. Often utilizing little more than a table and two chairs, Krieger literally choreographs a disciplined 14-member ensemble as it inhabits many locales within and around late-19th-century London, as well as the surrealistic environs of Wonderland.
To the credit of director and ensemble, the plot flows coherently and seamlessly forward. There is just too much of it. This is ponderously evident in drug-addled Holmes’s second-act descent through the many testing levels of purgatorial Wonderland as Jabberwock strives to destroy the detective’s ever-more tentative grasp of reality. Because each of these levels is specifically and memorably realized—highlighted by the minimal but imaginatively wrought costumes and masks of Jessica Pasternak—it becomes an exercise in tedium for the audience to sit through Holmes’s eventual mastery of the situation by working his way up the same painstakingly realized testing levels.
Of course, much is thrust onto the mantle of the title character. Stidham wades effortlessly through reams of Holmes’s deductive jargon while exuding a buoyant sense of humor. Given the ever-recurring presence of the mercurial Holmes, Portnoy’s emotionally more grounded Watson is underutilized. It would have been interesting to witness Holmes and Watson solving the puzzles of Wonderland in tandem. It certainly would have provided more variation on the theme.
Among an adroit supporting cast, Andrew Graves stands out as a kind of grownup edition of Artful Dodger, exhibiting a zesty streetwise humor while committing all deeds nefarious. The distaff ensemble members—Jennifer Bronston, Dana DeRuyck, Ulka Mohanty, Amelia Gotham, and Louise Gassman—wend effectively through myriad portrayals, whether playing villainesses, Wonderland-ites, or heroines.
Porters of Hellsgate at Whitmore-Lindley Theatre
Playwright-director Gus Krieger has imaginatively entwined the transcendent observational and deductive skills of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s fictional yet legendary crime snooper Sherlock Holmes with British author Lewis Carroll’s conundrum-strewn literary machinations, as manifested by the denizens of his nonsensical Wonderland. Sherlock Through the Looking Glass displays an abundance of the playwright’s impressive research into the output of these two 19th-century literary giants; but Krieger the director should have judiciously edited his text to enhance the flow of the complicated dramatic throughline, especially in Act Two.
The thrust of the action pits Holmes (Kevin Stidham) and his sturdy sidekick Dr. Watson (Timothy Portnoy) against a ruthless criminal known as Jabberwock, who has infected much of London’s population with a hallucinogenic drug that reduces people to psychotic babblers of disjointed Carroll-speak. The production design gives new meaning to the term sparse. Often utilizing little more than a table and two chairs, Krieger literally choreographs a disciplined 14-member ensemble as it inhabits many locales within and around late-19th-century London, as well as the surrealistic environs of Wonderland.
To the credit of director and ensemble, the plot flows coherently and seamlessly forward. There is just too much of it. This is ponderously evident in drug-addled Holmes’s second-act descent through the many testing levels of purgatorial Wonderland as Jabberwock strives to destroy the detective’s ever-more tentative grasp of reality. Because each of these levels is specifically and memorably realized—highlighted by the minimal but imaginatively wrought costumes and masks of Jessica Pasternak—it becomes an exercise in tedium for the audience to sit through Holmes’s eventual mastery of the situation by working his way up the same painstakingly realized testing levels.
Of course, much is thrust onto the mantle of the title character. Stidham wades effortlessly through reams of Holmes’s deductive jargon while exuding a buoyant sense of humor. Given the ever-recurring presence of the mercurial Holmes, Portnoy’s emotionally more grounded Watson is underutilized. It would have been interesting to witness Holmes and Watson solving the puzzles of Wonderland in tandem. It certainly would have provided more variation on the theme.
Among an adroit supporting cast, Andrew Graves stands out as a kind of grownup edition of Artful Dodger, exhibiting a zesty streetwise humor while committing all deeds nefarious. The distaff ensemble members—Jennifer Bronston, Dana DeRuyck, Ulka Mohanty, Amelia Gotham, and Louise Gassman—wend effectively through myriad portrayals, whether playing villainesses, Wonderland-ites, or heroines.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
August 26, 2013
August 26, 2013
Red
International City Theatre
It might be deduced, knowing painter Mark Rothko’s iconoclastic nature, that he might not applaud the news that a recent Christie’s auction of paintings included one by him that sold for $86.9 million. Considered one of the great postwar modern artists, in the latter years of his life he grew increasingly disturbed by the collector who wanted his work as a conquest, acquiring it as a trophy rather than for what meaning might be gleaned from it.
When he was commissioned to do a series of paintings for the Four Seasons restaurant in the new Seagram Building in New York in 1958, he struggled with the excitement of creating work on such a grand scale versus being aware that it would be in a space frequented by diners who might not pay attention to, understand, or appreciate its worth.
John Logan’s play explores this dichotomous problem by setting the stage in Rothko’s (Tony Abatemarco) workshop with a fictitious young assistant, Ken (Patrick Stafford), who proves to be the audience for Rothko’s theories about art and other artists’ work. Rothko begins by telling Ken that he is not “your father, your rabbi, your shrink, your teacher, but your employer,” and then sets about ranting and pontificating while Ken tries to anticipate his needs and escape his wrath.
From the first moments of the play, Abatemarco’s stage presence is riveting. Aside from looking a bit like Rothko, Abatemarco leaves no doubt that he is fully invested in the work, which is highly intellectual, passionate, and, at times, spellbinding. Ken appears at first to be merely a contrivance designed to be the sounding board for Rothko. As time passes, though, Ken releases pent-up anger and challenges the master in a frustrated tirade that shows Stafford’s strong acting mettle. Direction by caryn desai is precise and allows latitude for the actors to maintain a high level of tension and brio.
Besides substantially fleshing out much of Rothko’s biographical detail, Logan creates theatrical high points in the production. Rothko and Ken engage in a verbal duel, naming things that are red. Then, in a visceral explosion, they prepare a huge canvas by painting it a vibrant red at lightning speed.
As a backdrop, JR Bruce’s studied scenic design includes large canvases in Rothko’s style that can be moved about to set a new mood and are illuminated by Donna Ruzika’s fine lighting design. Adding to the artistic mood (credit Dave Mickey’s sound design), classical music accompanies many of the scenes, often escalating the action and giving it weight.
Rothko was contemptuous of the younger generation of artists coming to prominence, including Andy Warhol and Robert Rauschenberg, calling their work vapid. Rothko’s ego seems monumental, but there is always the undercurrent of pain and loneliness in Abatemarco’s portrayal.
This is a play about relationships. It considers the relationship of artist to art and master to novice. It is erudite, invigorating, and thoroughly engrossing.
International City Theatre
It might be deduced, knowing painter Mark Rothko’s iconoclastic nature, that he might not applaud the news that a recent Christie’s auction of paintings included one by him that sold for $86.9 million. Considered one of the great postwar modern artists, in the latter years of his life he grew increasingly disturbed by the collector who wanted his work as a conquest, acquiring it as a trophy rather than for what meaning might be gleaned from it.
When he was commissioned to do a series of paintings for the Four Seasons restaurant in the new Seagram Building in New York in 1958, he struggled with the excitement of creating work on such a grand scale versus being aware that it would be in a space frequented by diners who might not pay attention to, understand, or appreciate its worth.
John Logan’s play explores this dichotomous problem by setting the stage in Rothko’s (Tony Abatemarco) workshop with a fictitious young assistant, Ken (Patrick Stafford), who proves to be the audience for Rothko’s theories about art and other artists’ work. Rothko begins by telling Ken that he is not “your father, your rabbi, your shrink, your teacher, but your employer,” and then sets about ranting and pontificating while Ken tries to anticipate his needs and escape his wrath.
From the first moments of the play, Abatemarco’s stage presence is riveting. Aside from looking a bit like Rothko, Abatemarco leaves no doubt that he is fully invested in the work, which is highly intellectual, passionate, and, at times, spellbinding. Ken appears at first to be merely a contrivance designed to be the sounding board for Rothko. As time passes, though, Ken releases pent-up anger and challenges the master in a frustrated tirade that shows Stafford’s strong acting mettle. Direction by caryn desai is precise and allows latitude for the actors to maintain a high level of tension and brio.
Besides substantially fleshing out much of Rothko’s biographical detail, Logan creates theatrical high points in the production. Rothko and Ken engage in a verbal duel, naming things that are red. Then, in a visceral explosion, they prepare a huge canvas by painting it a vibrant red at lightning speed.
As a backdrop, JR Bruce’s studied scenic design includes large canvases in Rothko’s style that can be moved about to set a new mood and are illuminated by Donna Ruzika’s fine lighting design. Adding to the artistic mood (credit Dave Mickey’s sound design), classical music accompanies many of the scenes, often escalating the action and giving it weight.
Rothko was contemptuous of the younger generation of artists coming to prominence, including Andy Warhol and Robert Rauschenberg, calling their work vapid. Rothko’s ego seems monumental, but there is always the undercurrent of pain and loneliness in Abatemarco’s portrayal.
This is a play about relationships. It considers the relationship of artist to art and master to novice. It is erudite, invigorating, and thoroughly engrossing.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
August 26, 2013
August 26, 2013
Merlin: The Untold Adventures
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
Merlin’s adventures, “untold?” Gosh, hasn’t the saga of the windbag wizard been told a bazillion times, in books (picture and grownup), films, TV movies, and even a couple of Broadway musicals? And the thing is, he’s really such a lousy character when you come right down to it. All-knowing, all-powerful figures are almost by definition the antithesis of dramatic; a true protagonist has got to possess some central vulnerability. Kept on the periphery, an omniscient Merlin (like a Yoda) can serve as a fascinating tutor/ally of your main warrior. But placing him center stage is a recipe for nothing much going on, and so it is at Theatricum Botanicum.
Writer-director Ellen Geer’s sprawling, earnest epic is a mulligatawny of pre-Christian myths, post-Christian symbology, and Arthurian iconography, performed in a style that’s one part T.S. Eliot verse drama (atonal droning to music by Marshall and Kellan McDaniel) to two parts Game of Thrones. You know the sort of thing, beefy ejaculations sparked by odd pauses: “We will not!...Have a beardless boy!...As our king!”
The huge, game cast is in constant motion, forming and reforming its ritual dances, switching costumes and characters from druids to barbarians to chivalric knights. Yet the action is well-nigh impossible to follow given the text’s carelessness in sorting out who’s who, where we are, or when, or how much time has elapsed between scenes.
Over the first half hour, at least a dozen characters are presented, but the only two identified by name are Merlin and Jesus—neither of whom, needless to say, requires any introduction. Characters are actually asked, “What is your name?” and refuse to answer. In Act One, Michael McFall roars on as a terrifying, brutalizing tyrant who’s king of the Britons, I think. Or maybe just the Saxons? Anyway, McFall is terrific in the part, but it wasn’t until Act Two that someone clearly referred to him as Vortigan. He plays a different barbarian later in Act Two, Amilcar, but I haven’t a clue as to who this one was king of or kin to, though, again, McFall etches him beautifully.
A bigger problem emerges with our lead: Melora Marshall plays Merlin. Now, cross-gender casting can be amusing (Miss Trunchbull in Matilda the Musical); winsome (traditional interpretations of Peter Pan); or provocative and even political (Lisa Wolpe had an incisive take on Iago a few years ago at the Theatre @ Boston Court). But the more sexuality is involved, the more such casting makes for a rum go.
Merlin’s central personal issue—if one can keep track of it between all the grunting and swordplay and ballets acting out the building of Stonehenge—is the wizard’s passion for his doomed Princess Asis (Samara Frume). With a female playing the man’s part, the courtship and impregnation genuinely strain credulity, and a later reunion with daughter Nimue (weirdly mispronounced with two syllables) lacks any trace of paternal feeling. Merlin is effectively neutered as a character anyhow, given his constant 20/20 foresight of what is about to occur. But the casting makes it doubly tough to respond to Merlin as much of anything.
As the play droned along, my mind kept lurching back to Vortigan. What an interesting character as limned by McFall: drunk with power and wine, alternately mauling and humiliating his wife—this guy out-Herods Herod, one might say, yet he always remained real. I started to wonder what the roots of this monster were. Was he born evil? Surely not; no artist worth his or her salt believes that. What combination of nature and nurture, then, could’ve turned out such a feral, ruthless, murderous creature? Not to mention the murderous creatures we’ve read about in our latter days. Well, Vortigan is just a generic brute in the current game plan. But he could’ve been so much more.
In the program, Geer talks about finding contemporary relevance in old legends, and she includes a lot of vague, predictable ranting about war and peace and whatnot. But if one is going to go mucking about with mythology, why not try for something fresh? Couldn’t an epic play cast some light on the roots of a Stalin, a Hitler, a Ceausescu—hell, throw in Bush or Blair if you want, I don’t care; but why not take your one vivid, original creation and put him at the forefront? The corruption of Vortigan: Now there’s an untold adventure worth the two-and-a-half-hours’ telling.
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
Merlin’s adventures, “untold?” Gosh, hasn’t the saga of the windbag wizard been told a bazillion times, in books (picture and grownup), films, TV movies, and even a couple of Broadway musicals? And the thing is, he’s really such a lousy character when you come right down to it. All-knowing, all-powerful figures are almost by definition the antithesis of dramatic; a true protagonist has got to possess some central vulnerability. Kept on the periphery, an omniscient Merlin (like a Yoda) can serve as a fascinating tutor/ally of your main warrior. But placing him center stage is a recipe for nothing much going on, and so it is at Theatricum Botanicum.
Writer-director Ellen Geer’s sprawling, earnest epic is a mulligatawny of pre-Christian myths, post-Christian symbology, and Arthurian iconography, performed in a style that’s one part T.S. Eliot verse drama (atonal droning to music by Marshall and Kellan McDaniel) to two parts Game of Thrones. You know the sort of thing, beefy ejaculations sparked by odd pauses: “We will not!...Have a beardless boy!...As our king!”
The huge, game cast is in constant motion, forming and reforming its ritual dances, switching costumes and characters from druids to barbarians to chivalric knights. Yet the action is well-nigh impossible to follow given the text’s carelessness in sorting out who’s who, where we are, or when, or how much time has elapsed between scenes.
Over the first half hour, at least a dozen characters are presented, but the only two identified by name are Merlin and Jesus—neither of whom, needless to say, requires any introduction. Characters are actually asked, “What is your name?” and refuse to answer. In Act One, Michael McFall roars on as a terrifying, brutalizing tyrant who’s king of the Britons, I think. Or maybe just the Saxons? Anyway, McFall is terrific in the part, but it wasn’t until Act Two that someone clearly referred to him as Vortigan. He plays a different barbarian later in Act Two, Amilcar, but I haven’t a clue as to who this one was king of or kin to, though, again, McFall etches him beautifully.
A bigger problem emerges with our lead: Melora Marshall plays Merlin. Now, cross-gender casting can be amusing (Miss Trunchbull in Matilda the Musical); winsome (traditional interpretations of Peter Pan); or provocative and even political (Lisa Wolpe had an incisive take on Iago a few years ago at the Theatre @ Boston Court). But the more sexuality is involved, the more such casting makes for a rum go.
Merlin’s central personal issue—if one can keep track of it between all the grunting and swordplay and ballets acting out the building of Stonehenge—is the wizard’s passion for his doomed Princess Asis (Samara Frume). With a female playing the man’s part, the courtship and impregnation genuinely strain credulity, and a later reunion with daughter Nimue (weirdly mispronounced with two syllables) lacks any trace of paternal feeling. Merlin is effectively neutered as a character anyhow, given his constant 20/20 foresight of what is about to occur. But the casting makes it doubly tough to respond to Merlin as much of anything.
As the play droned along, my mind kept lurching back to Vortigan. What an interesting character as limned by McFall: drunk with power and wine, alternately mauling and humiliating his wife—this guy out-Herods Herod, one might say, yet he always remained real. I started to wonder what the roots of this monster were. Was he born evil? Surely not; no artist worth his or her salt believes that. What combination of nature and nurture, then, could’ve turned out such a feral, ruthless, murderous creature? Not to mention the murderous creatures we’ve read about in our latter days. Well, Vortigan is just a generic brute in the current game plan. But he could’ve been so much more.
In the program, Geer talks about finding contemporary relevance in old legends, and she includes a lot of vague, predictable ranting about war and peace and whatnot. But if one is going to go mucking about with mythology, why not try for something fresh? Couldn’t an epic play cast some light on the roots of a Stalin, a Hitler, a Ceausescu—hell, throw in Bush or Blair if you want, I don’t care; but why not take your one vivid, original creation and put him at the forefront? The corruption of Vortigan: Now there’s an untold adventure worth the two-and-a-half-hours’ telling.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
August 20, 2013
August 20, 2013
Tanglin’ Hearts
Theatre 40
The plot of Shakespeare’s As You Like It—a convoluted entanglement of political intrigue, familial imperatives, and complicated youthful romance in 16th-century France—is given a much simpler treatment when updated to service the contemporary country ’n’ western tuner Tanglin’ Hearts, wrought by Zora Margolis (book, lyrics, and story), Peter Spelman (music), and Charlotte Houghton (story). Two decades after its debut at Theatre 40, this 20-tune songfest, set in Arden County, Texas, has been updated to incorporate the realities of today’s social media and computer technology, helmed with an understated hand by Allison Bibicoff.
The production impressively does away with burdensome exposition by having exiled landowner Duke Fredericks (Sean Smith) wander through the proceedings, summarizing plot machinations and scenic segues, even facilitating the disbursement of props. This allows the audience to more easily digest the evil doings of Duke’s brother Ben Fredericks (Kevin Michael Moran)—the shady real estate manipulator who is gleefully anticipating selling everybody out for fun and profit—and the socio-romantic frustrations endured by Ben’s niece Rosalind (Heather Barr), his daughter Celia (Cailan Rose), starry-eyed local girl Phebe (Sarah Schulte), and Duke’s own lost love of his youth, bar-owner Jackie (Susan Brindley).
The romantic pairings offer opportunities for appealing musical interludes, including those for Barr’s Rosalind (“My Jigsaw Heart”), confused by her infatuation for returning local boy recording-star wannabe Jesse Wells (“Sing a Country Song”), portrayed with a proper balance of country bumpkin charm and vocal acuity by Madison Cassaday. Comedically adept Rose as Celia (“Baby Straighten Up”) musically beats her woebegone beau Webb Wells (Nick Denning) into submission—imaginatively choreographed by Bibicoff. Possessing the most velvety-rich voice in the show, Smith’s Duke gives lessons in wooing with his second act-opening, “My Heart Says Yes,” although Brindley’s Jackie has already expressed her opinion of him in the first act (“Don’t Fall in Love With a Loser”). Moran’s Ben Fredericks offers a first-act highlight with his vulgarly sexist and self-serving “Benworld Rap,” featuring the comical, forced-into-it backup dancing of Celia and Rosalind.
The modular sets of Jeff G. Rack, complemented by the mood-enhancing lights of Ric Zimmerman, amply service the bare-bones mandate of Bibicoff’s staging; and Michele Young’s costumes impressively validate the country setting. What does not work is the anemic sound design of Bill Froggatt, which sabotages the adroit efforts of the three-piece back up band: Gonzolo Palacios (music director–guitarist), Sandy Chao Wang (keyboards), and Josh Browne (bass).
The sound, which should spread completely across the stage, is concentrated limply to the rear of stage right—leaving the onstage performers to sound vocally naked as they traverse the stage area, inadequately buoying the dance numbers, and failing to supply the punch needed to elevate such full-cast production numbers as the show-opening “Texas” and closing number “Country’s Where You’re Coming From.” Tanglin’ Hearts is a stage-worthy work, and Theatre 40 has the talent to pull it off. One would welcome it back with decidedly more sound reinforcement—not to make the band sound louder but to make it sound deeper. A percussionist would also be useful.
Theatre 40
The plot of Shakespeare’s As You Like It—a convoluted entanglement of political intrigue, familial imperatives, and complicated youthful romance in 16th-century France—is given a much simpler treatment when updated to service the contemporary country ’n’ western tuner Tanglin’ Hearts, wrought by Zora Margolis (book, lyrics, and story), Peter Spelman (music), and Charlotte Houghton (story). Two decades after its debut at Theatre 40, this 20-tune songfest, set in Arden County, Texas, has been updated to incorporate the realities of today’s social media and computer technology, helmed with an understated hand by Allison Bibicoff.
The production impressively does away with burdensome exposition by having exiled landowner Duke Fredericks (Sean Smith) wander through the proceedings, summarizing plot machinations and scenic segues, even facilitating the disbursement of props. This allows the audience to more easily digest the evil doings of Duke’s brother Ben Fredericks (Kevin Michael Moran)—the shady real estate manipulator who is gleefully anticipating selling everybody out for fun and profit—and the socio-romantic frustrations endured by Ben’s niece Rosalind (Heather Barr), his daughter Celia (Cailan Rose), starry-eyed local girl Phebe (Sarah Schulte), and Duke’s own lost love of his youth, bar-owner Jackie (Susan Brindley).
The romantic pairings offer opportunities for appealing musical interludes, including those for Barr’s Rosalind (“My Jigsaw Heart”), confused by her infatuation for returning local boy recording-star wannabe Jesse Wells (“Sing a Country Song”), portrayed with a proper balance of country bumpkin charm and vocal acuity by Madison Cassaday. Comedically adept Rose as Celia (“Baby Straighten Up”) musically beats her woebegone beau Webb Wells (Nick Denning) into submission—imaginatively choreographed by Bibicoff. Possessing the most velvety-rich voice in the show, Smith’s Duke gives lessons in wooing with his second act-opening, “My Heart Says Yes,” although Brindley’s Jackie has already expressed her opinion of him in the first act (“Don’t Fall in Love With a Loser”). Moran’s Ben Fredericks offers a first-act highlight with his vulgarly sexist and self-serving “Benworld Rap,” featuring the comical, forced-into-it backup dancing of Celia and Rosalind.
The modular sets of Jeff G. Rack, complemented by the mood-enhancing lights of Ric Zimmerman, amply service the bare-bones mandate of Bibicoff’s staging; and Michele Young’s costumes impressively validate the country setting. What does not work is the anemic sound design of Bill Froggatt, which sabotages the adroit efforts of the three-piece back up band: Gonzolo Palacios (music director–guitarist), Sandy Chao Wang (keyboards), and Josh Browne (bass).
The sound, which should spread completely across the stage, is concentrated limply to the rear of stage right—leaving the onstage performers to sound vocally naked as they traverse the stage area, inadequately buoying the dance numbers, and failing to supply the punch needed to elevate such full-cast production numbers as the show-opening “Texas” and closing number “Country’s Where You’re Coming From.” Tanglin’ Hearts is a stage-worthy work, and Theatre 40 has the talent to pull it off. One would welcome it back with decidedly more sound reinforcement—not to make the band sound louder but to make it sound deeper. A percussionist would also be useful.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
August 20, 2013
August 20, 2013
Undateable
Second City
Sometimes theater is about humankind’s greatest achievers. Sometimes it’s about supremely tragic figures. And sometimes, as with this show, it’s about the rest of us.
A group of Second City’s fine performers went off piste and conducted a social experiment. After Robyn’s (Robyn Norris) friend posted a profile on a dating site and asked Robyn to check it over, Robyn set up an account to access the site. Robyn created the outlandish profile of an admittedly “crazy-insane person” she named TracyLovesCats. A shockingly large number of men—and women—responded, begging for various forms of contact with “Tracy.”
Norris’s fellow troupe members Chris Alvarado, Rob Belushi, Amanda Blake Davis, Kate Duffy, and Bob Ladewig joined in, posting outrageous profiles no one could possibly think were anything other than a joke. These performers’ “sketch” show, Undateable, re-enacts verbatim the heartfelt responses by real, everyday people to these perverse personals.
So, even though Rob (Belushi) pushed the intimacy-phobic envelope with DoorSlamEric, women think Eric is dateable. And although PioneerInABox (Kate Duffy) gets busted (she claims to function as if in the 1860s, yet she’s online), she manages to lure interest. Even Amanda’s (Blake Davis) age-questionable Old4U75 appeals to a prospective beau.
The show, a fascinating concept, is well-structured and is imaginatively directed by Frank Caeti. It is also, of course, hilarious, though a strong strain of sympathy runs through it. And even though the show has been running for months, the performers have fresh energy. These performers are more interested in telling their story than in “being funny,” so the laughs come from the audience’s self-recognition and not from any obnoxious stage-hogging shenanigans.
The troupe sings and dances—and not badly—to enhance several of their “scientific” points about romantic behavior. A few minutes of improv at the end of the show reflect the performers’ well-honed chops.
Locational cautions: The venue is in Hollywood where street parking has a two-hour limit, metered until midnight on Fridays. The show is a mere one hour, but it undoubtedly will start a few minutes late. In addition, the theater is upstairs, and the site has no elevator. But if you’re swift and spry, head on up there for a dose of reality. It will probably provide you with more than several hearty belly laughs. It might also make you weep for mankind.
Second City
Sometimes theater is about humankind’s greatest achievers. Sometimes it’s about supremely tragic figures. And sometimes, as with this show, it’s about the rest of us.
A group of Second City’s fine performers went off piste and conducted a social experiment. After Robyn’s (Robyn Norris) friend posted a profile on a dating site and asked Robyn to check it over, Robyn set up an account to access the site. Robyn created the outlandish profile of an admittedly “crazy-insane person” she named TracyLovesCats. A shockingly large number of men—and women—responded, begging for various forms of contact with “Tracy.”
Norris’s fellow troupe members Chris Alvarado, Rob Belushi, Amanda Blake Davis, Kate Duffy, and Bob Ladewig joined in, posting outrageous profiles no one could possibly think were anything other than a joke. These performers’ “sketch” show, Undateable, re-enacts verbatim the heartfelt responses by real, everyday people to these perverse personals.
So, even though Rob (Belushi) pushed the intimacy-phobic envelope with DoorSlamEric, women think Eric is dateable. And although PioneerInABox (Kate Duffy) gets busted (she claims to function as if in the 1860s, yet she’s online), she manages to lure interest. Even Amanda’s (Blake Davis) age-questionable Old4U75 appeals to a prospective beau.
The show, a fascinating concept, is well-structured and is imaginatively directed by Frank Caeti. It is also, of course, hilarious, though a strong strain of sympathy runs through it. And even though the show has been running for months, the performers have fresh energy. These performers are more interested in telling their story than in “being funny,” so the laughs come from the audience’s self-recognition and not from any obnoxious stage-hogging shenanigans.
The troupe sings and dances—and not badly—to enhance several of their “scientific” points about romantic behavior. A few minutes of improv at the end of the show reflect the performers’ well-honed chops.
Locational cautions: The venue is in Hollywood where street parking has a two-hour limit, metered until midnight on Fridays. The show is a mere one hour, but it undoubtedly will start a few minutes late. In addition, the theater is upstairs, and the site has no elevator. But if you’re swift and spry, head on up there for a dose of reality. It will probably provide you with more than several hearty belly laughs. It might also make you weep for mankind.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 19, 2013
August 19, 2013
I Am Not Mark Twain
Rogue Machine
No, he’s not. Steven Cragg dresses up as Mark Twain, he puts on a “Southern” accent, and he tells an oddly tall, oddly metaphoric tale—though, who knows, this one may be true—in this solo show. It seems Cragg would like to be adored, admired, even merely remembered, the way Twain is, when he has shuffled off this mortal coil. But, as Cragg admits, he is not Mark Twain.
This did not prevent Cragg from believing he was losing his mind, thus stopping by a costume shop—conveniently on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles—and picking up a ratty wig of grey curls, false eyebrows, and mismatched cream-colored linen clothes. The theatrical accoutrements assist him, he says, in recounting the strange tale of this show.
In it, he looks back on a journey of self-discovery, which commenced when he unexpectedly heard from an ex-girlfriend. Neither his wife nor his young son, who survived a near-deadly fever, could compete with the sexual promises issued by the ex, so Cragg departed home on a cross-country excursion to, ahem, hook up with the delectable damsel.
While recounting his tale, he does his damnedest to keep the audience involved. He calls his audience “my babies.” To be precise, he says “mah babies,” in keeping with the Southern accent. Among his babies will be more critics. And he does his damnedest to keep the critics on his side. From the start, he deprecates himself. He admits to looking less like Twain than like Rip Taylor. Cragg admits his accent will falter throughout the monologue. He admits the idea to do this one-man show came from his psychotherapist. Has Cragg been reading local reviews of solo shows? Will all this disarming self-evaluation make him critic-proof?
Cragg tells his story in graphically sexual terms. He is not a heroic figure. He is a humorist, and his narrative includes humor of all colors, though much of it is particularly blue. When, however, he switches off his jokiness and claws open his raw shame over his behavior, he can shake the souls of his audiences more than all the shock-value humor could ever do.
Rogue Machine
No, he’s not. Steven Cragg dresses up as Mark Twain, he puts on a “Southern” accent, and he tells an oddly tall, oddly metaphoric tale—though, who knows, this one may be true—in this solo show. It seems Cragg would like to be adored, admired, even merely remembered, the way Twain is, when he has shuffled off this mortal coil. But, as Cragg admits, he is not Mark Twain.
This did not prevent Cragg from believing he was losing his mind, thus stopping by a costume shop—conveniently on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles—and picking up a ratty wig of grey curls, false eyebrows, and mismatched cream-colored linen clothes. The theatrical accoutrements assist him, he says, in recounting the strange tale of this show.
In it, he looks back on a journey of self-discovery, which commenced when he unexpectedly heard from an ex-girlfriend. Neither his wife nor his young son, who survived a near-deadly fever, could compete with the sexual promises issued by the ex, so Cragg departed home on a cross-country excursion to, ahem, hook up with the delectable damsel.
While recounting his tale, he does his damnedest to keep the audience involved. He calls his audience “my babies.” To be precise, he says “mah babies,” in keeping with the Southern accent. Among his babies will be more critics. And he does his damnedest to keep the critics on his side. From the start, he deprecates himself. He admits to looking less like Twain than like Rip Taylor. Cragg admits his accent will falter throughout the monologue. He admits the idea to do this one-man show came from his psychotherapist. Has Cragg been reading local reviews of solo shows? Will all this disarming self-evaluation make him critic-proof?
Cragg tells his story in graphically sexual terms. He is not a heroic figure. He is a humorist, and his narrative includes humor of all colors, though much of it is particularly blue. When, however, he switches off his jokiness and claws open his raw shame over his behavior, he can shake the souls of his audiences more than all the shock-value humor could ever do.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 15, 2013
August 15, 2013
Just Imagine
Hayworth Theatre
Tribute band concerts have become more and more common, particularly when the band in question has aged or broken up. The performers generally have an ear for the melodies and mannerisms of their idols, but you are, by and large, aware that they are not the originals. In the case of Tim Piper playing John Lennon, that doubt vanishes immediately, as he projects the look, the mannerisms, the accent, and the talent.
Brother Greg Piper greets the audience with news that the show is not a play but more like a concert, and it will be loud. He offers earplugs at $1 each and then traverses the audience selling quite a number. He also cautions that the musicians are old guys but among the best in the business. Then it’s time for “Revolution,” played by Tim Piper and his band, Working Class Hero.
Piper’s musicianship is uncannily familiar for die-hard Beatle fans. It appears that the composition of the audience falls into that category, because in nearly every sing-a-long, the audience knows the words, rhythms, and pauses. It is truly a love-fest.
If it were just about the music, it would be worth the ticket price, but Piper channels Lennon as he relates his life story. From the earliest days in school when Lennon formed a band with Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Stu Sutcliffe, he recalls that he was pretty much on his own. With a completely absent father and a mother who turned him over to her elder sister to raise, he remembers it as a rather loveless and painful time. Even though he regained a relationship with his mother, she was killed when he was 17, which appears to have made an indelible impact on him. He recalls that his relationship with most of the women in his life was violent and abusive. He describes himself as a bad husband and a worse father to Julian, born to him and Cynthia Powell, his first wife.
As the music progresses, much of it a result of his partnership with McCartney, he alludes to his early performing, their time in Hamburg, drug use, and Brian Epstein’s leadership that put them on the map.
Providing an ever-changing backdrop to the reminiscences are Piper’s video projections of photos and psychedelic images, enhancing the experience. From Ed Sullivan’s 1964 television broadcast, on which the boys gained world fame, through the stages of their evolution as a band, Piper is witty and acerbic, as well as thoughtful in his evaluations of how Lennon handled his life. Paired with Yoko Ono, whom most people disliked, he reveals that she was Lennon’s muse, the person with whom he finally found love.
Piper plays to the audience intimately, at one point coming out into the audience for a sing-along, greeting some people he obviously knows. He ties his songs to personal experiences, to Powell, to drugs, to friction with his bandmates. For those who know Lennon only through his songs, it is an expanded glimpse of a man who was a rebel, a counter-culture figure, and a person whose demons obviously drove him to acts recounted here with remorse.
The accompanying band—brother Greg on bass, Don Butler on guitar, Morley Bartnoff on keyboards, and Don Poncher on drums--contributes mightily to the enjoyment of the performance. They are top-notch in every way. Greg Piper is superb as musical director.
Written and directed by Steve Altman, with writing credit also granted to Tim Piper, the show is a notch above most tribute concerts in its narrative and lyric delivery. Straddling the line between play and musical, it provides context for the familiar hits, as well as Lennon’s less widely known works. Where most tribute shows play the standards, this show also includes his latter works created when he was on his own away from the Beatles.
Lennon is an icon, arguably one of the greatest musical talents of our time. Piper’s homage to his work and life paints a vivid portrait of the man and re-creates some of his best songs with intensity and seeming spontaneity. The energy of the band and Piper’s superb delivery make for a totally enjoyable experience.
Hayworth Theatre
Tribute band concerts have become more and more common, particularly when the band in question has aged or broken up. The performers generally have an ear for the melodies and mannerisms of their idols, but you are, by and large, aware that they are not the originals. In the case of Tim Piper playing John Lennon, that doubt vanishes immediately, as he projects the look, the mannerisms, the accent, and the talent.
Brother Greg Piper greets the audience with news that the show is not a play but more like a concert, and it will be loud. He offers earplugs at $1 each and then traverses the audience selling quite a number. He also cautions that the musicians are old guys but among the best in the business. Then it’s time for “Revolution,” played by Tim Piper and his band, Working Class Hero.
Piper’s musicianship is uncannily familiar for die-hard Beatle fans. It appears that the composition of the audience falls into that category, because in nearly every sing-a-long, the audience knows the words, rhythms, and pauses. It is truly a love-fest.
If it were just about the music, it would be worth the ticket price, but Piper channels Lennon as he relates his life story. From the earliest days in school when Lennon formed a band with Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Stu Sutcliffe, he recalls that he was pretty much on his own. With a completely absent father and a mother who turned him over to her elder sister to raise, he remembers it as a rather loveless and painful time. Even though he regained a relationship with his mother, she was killed when he was 17, which appears to have made an indelible impact on him. He recalls that his relationship with most of the women in his life was violent and abusive. He describes himself as a bad husband and a worse father to Julian, born to him and Cynthia Powell, his first wife.
As the music progresses, much of it a result of his partnership with McCartney, he alludes to his early performing, their time in Hamburg, drug use, and Brian Epstein’s leadership that put them on the map.
Providing an ever-changing backdrop to the reminiscences are Piper’s video projections of photos and psychedelic images, enhancing the experience. From Ed Sullivan’s 1964 television broadcast, on which the boys gained world fame, through the stages of their evolution as a band, Piper is witty and acerbic, as well as thoughtful in his evaluations of how Lennon handled his life. Paired with Yoko Ono, whom most people disliked, he reveals that she was Lennon’s muse, the person with whom he finally found love.
Piper plays to the audience intimately, at one point coming out into the audience for a sing-along, greeting some people he obviously knows. He ties his songs to personal experiences, to Powell, to drugs, to friction with his bandmates. For those who know Lennon only through his songs, it is an expanded glimpse of a man who was a rebel, a counter-culture figure, and a person whose demons obviously drove him to acts recounted here with remorse.
The accompanying band—brother Greg on bass, Don Butler on guitar, Morley Bartnoff on keyboards, and Don Poncher on drums--contributes mightily to the enjoyment of the performance. They are top-notch in every way. Greg Piper is superb as musical director.
Written and directed by Steve Altman, with writing credit also granted to Tim Piper, the show is a notch above most tribute concerts in its narrative and lyric delivery. Straddling the line between play and musical, it provides context for the familiar hits, as well as Lennon’s less widely known works. Where most tribute shows play the standards, this show also includes his latter works created when he was on his own away from the Beatles.
Lennon is an icon, arguably one of the greatest musical talents of our time. Piper’s homage to his work and life paints a vivid portrait of the man and re-creates some of his best songs with intensity and seeming spontaneity. The energy of the band and Piper’s superb delivery make for a totally enjoyable experience.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
August 14, 2013
August 14, 2013
Smoke and Mirrors
Disappearing Inc. and Road Theatre Company at Historic Lankershim Arts Center
“When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?” asks Albie at the top of this show. “And what were you afraid of?” These questions cleverly plunge the audience into a childlike mindset, priming each viewer to enjoy the wonders of magic—prestidigitational and theatrical—that will follow.
After young Albie’s father died, Albie was afraid of everything, his older self tells us, but mostly of being a nobody. And so Albie immersed himself in honing the skills of a magician. We meet him as a lisping lad in mismatched pajamas during the LBJ presidency; we titter with him as he wore an afro in the 1970s; we gag with him as he squeezed into spandex in the 1980s. And we watch the magic “tricks” grow in sophistication.
This production deserves its wide-ranging praise. Its writer-star, Albie Selznick, is an engaging and talented magician who has more than paid dues in acting roles across Southland stages. Here he apparently plays himself as a young magician whose father died when Albie was a lad and who subsequently has been trying to find his place and his stride, doing so through prowess in sleight-of-hand and, it turns out, sleight of his entire body.
This long-running show obviously has found its stride, directed by Paul Millet. That’s not to say Selznick coasts at this point. He’s very present, apparently eager for each audience member to have a good time, but never pandering or patronizing. His vast series of illusions begins with Ping-Pong balls that appear and disappear with seeming ease from between his fingers. He juggles, he stilt-walks, he amazes, and after 90 minutes he closes with an illusion that surprised even the careful watchers in the audience. Selznick might have overdone all the mentions of his father, but if that’s what it takes to get him through his routines, so be it.
At the performance reviewed, the warm-up act starred three young talents: Kyle Bryan Hall, Angie Hobin, and David Valdes—the latter quite young, at 14. They banter ably and amiably with the audience, host a trivia contest, and collect a short “survey” filled out by audience members that later figures in one of the illusions. They also play various characters throughout the show, and half the fun is trying to guess which ones and how they did it.
They are joined by Brandy LaPlante as Bessie Houdini, who returns from history to play magician’s assistant to young Albie. Selznick aimed high, and fearlessly, in selecting the famous wife and partner to appear with him.
Note to parents/guardians: This review does not intend to recommend the production for all young audiences, but the show is certainly appropriate for young magicians, with the proviso for hypersensitive parents that one F-bomb is dropped. If that’s the worst your child ever hears or says, you’re quite the magician.
Disappearing Inc. and Road Theatre Company at Historic Lankershim Arts Center
“When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?” asks Albie at the top of this show. “And what were you afraid of?” These questions cleverly plunge the audience into a childlike mindset, priming each viewer to enjoy the wonders of magic—prestidigitational and theatrical—that will follow.
After young Albie’s father died, Albie was afraid of everything, his older self tells us, but mostly of being a nobody. And so Albie immersed himself in honing the skills of a magician. We meet him as a lisping lad in mismatched pajamas during the LBJ presidency; we titter with him as he wore an afro in the 1970s; we gag with him as he squeezed into spandex in the 1980s. And we watch the magic “tricks” grow in sophistication.
This production deserves its wide-ranging praise. Its writer-star, Albie Selznick, is an engaging and talented magician who has more than paid dues in acting roles across Southland stages. Here he apparently plays himself as a young magician whose father died when Albie was a lad and who subsequently has been trying to find his place and his stride, doing so through prowess in sleight-of-hand and, it turns out, sleight of his entire body.
This long-running show obviously has found its stride, directed by Paul Millet. That’s not to say Selznick coasts at this point. He’s very present, apparently eager for each audience member to have a good time, but never pandering or patronizing. His vast series of illusions begins with Ping-Pong balls that appear and disappear with seeming ease from between his fingers. He juggles, he stilt-walks, he amazes, and after 90 minutes he closes with an illusion that surprised even the careful watchers in the audience. Selznick might have overdone all the mentions of his father, but if that’s what it takes to get him through his routines, so be it.
At the performance reviewed, the warm-up act starred three young talents: Kyle Bryan Hall, Angie Hobin, and David Valdes—the latter quite young, at 14. They banter ably and amiably with the audience, host a trivia contest, and collect a short “survey” filled out by audience members that later figures in one of the illusions. They also play various characters throughout the show, and half the fun is trying to guess which ones and how they did it.
They are joined by Brandy LaPlante as Bessie Houdini, who returns from history to play magician’s assistant to young Albie. Selznick aimed high, and fearlessly, in selecting the famous wife and partner to appear with him.
Note to parents/guardians: This review does not intend to recommend the production for all young audiences, but the show is certainly appropriate for young magicians, with the proviso for hypersensitive parents that one F-bomb is dropped. If that’s the worst your child ever hears or says, you’re quite the magician.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 12, 2013
August 12, 2013
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
The Actors’ Gang at Ivy Substation
Why is this Night different from all other Nights? To start with, it’s smart, it’s imaginative, it’s beautiful, it makes sense of the peculiar world Shakespeare created. It takes the titular dream to heart, as characters shape-shift and locales subtly morph. Still, the text is clear. Under the direction of Tim Robbins and starring a mere 12 actors, it’s one of the best versions to have graced LA stages in recent decades.
Instantly obvious to the audience, actors play more than one role. As the play unfolds, it is soon obvious that skilled, committed actors fill those roles. Each speaker has delved into the text, finding what’s humorous, tender, lewd, universal in each line. The actors speak with careful enunciation, so the language is heightened but not overblown. The cast mostly does not emphasize the rhythm of the verse but instead brings out its meaning.
Take for example Will Thomas McFadden. As Lysander, he’s a devoted beau in a performance that’s modern but not of our period. Then, offstage while Hannah E. Chodos delivers Helena’s “How happy some o’er other some can be” soliloquy, he returns, transformed into the “slow of study” Snug, creating him with sweetly goofy physical comedy. To launch the very next scene, McFadden becomes a prancing First Fairy, delivering delicate evocative banter opposite Puck. Then, performing the role of the lion, McFadden’s Snug turns into a RADA graduate.
Puck comprises three performances, by actors of differing nationalities, races, and genders. And yet, Alejandro Ruiz, Cihan Sahin, and Sabra Williams make Puck clearly recognizable while tossing the role to one another.
The fairies run and leap and—because of the way Robbins and the troupe created the movement, so the bodies express purpose and move without hesitation—they seem to hang in the night sky. The action onstage is so mesmerizing that the costume changes and prop swaps taking place off to the sides go unnoticed—helped by the focus of Bosco Flanagan’s sylvan lighting. Thus no scene breaks occur; a gust of theatrical wind clears out one subplot and whisks in another. Indeed, as befits the play, the entirety feels exactly like a night of unbroken dreaming.
Botanical beauty fills the stage. Actors not playing a particular role in the scene set the scene with drooping boughs of flowers or tall stalks of grasses. Instead of the characters traveling through the woods, the woods spin and shift around them. During scenes, breezes blow through blossoms, keeping visual interest alive. When the drugged Lysander discards Hermia into the shrubbery, there she appears to lie fallen, in reality held up by actors draped in ivy.
But not all is ethereal. The deep bench of skilled actors who play the inept mechanicals toy with commedia, led by the very “ept” Mary Eileen O’Donnell as Peter Quince. The mechanicals swat at bothersome insects, they get anxious as the curtain time approaches for Pyramus and Thisbe, and then, in stagecraft’s good old-fashioned lazzi, they can be seen “backstage” as they ready for their entrances.
Adding emphasis, mood, and energy, original music is played live by composer David Robbins on percussion in this dream of a production, as wise as it is beautiful.
The Actors’ Gang at Ivy Substation
Why is this Night different from all other Nights? To start with, it’s smart, it’s imaginative, it’s beautiful, it makes sense of the peculiar world Shakespeare created. It takes the titular dream to heart, as characters shape-shift and locales subtly morph. Still, the text is clear. Under the direction of Tim Robbins and starring a mere 12 actors, it’s one of the best versions to have graced LA stages in recent decades.
Instantly obvious to the audience, actors play more than one role. As the play unfolds, it is soon obvious that skilled, committed actors fill those roles. Each speaker has delved into the text, finding what’s humorous, tender, lewd, universal in each line. The actors speak with careful enunciation, so the language is heightened but not overblown. The cast mostly does not emphasize the rhythm of the verse but instead brings out its meaning.
Take for example Will Thomas McFadden. As Lysander, he’s a devoted beau in a performance that’s modern but not of our period. Then, offstage while Hannah E. Chodos delivers Helena’s “How happy some o’er other some can be” soliloquy, he returns, transformed into the “slow of study” Snug, creating him with sweetly goofy physical comedy. To launch the very next scene, McFadden becomes a prancing First Fairy, delivering delicate evocative banter opposite Puck. Then, performing the role of the lion, McFadden’s Snug turns into a RADA graduate.
Puck comprises three performances, by actors of differing nationalities, races, and genders. And yet, Alejandro Ruiz, Cihan Sahin, and Sabra Williams make Puck clearly recognizable while tossing the role to one another.
The fairies run and leap and—because of the way Robbins and the troupe created the movement, so the bodies express purpose and move without hesitation—they seem to hang in the night sky. The action onstage is so mesmerizing that the costume changes and prop swaps taking place off to the sides go unnoticed—helped by the focus of Bosco Flanagan’s sylvan lighting. Thus no scene breaks occur; a gust of theatrical wind clears out one subplot and whisks in another. Indeed, as befits the play, the entirety feels exactly like a night of unbroken dreaming.
Botanical beauty fills the stage. Actors not playing a particular role in the scene set the scene with drooping boughs of flowers or tall stalks of grasses. Instead of the characters traveling through the woods, the woods spin and shift around them. During scenes, breezes blow through blossoms, keeping visual interest alive. When the drugged Lysander discards Hermia into the shrubbery, there she appears to lie fallen, in reality held up by actors draped in ivy.
But not all is ethereal. The deep bench of skilled actors who play the inept mechanicals toy with commedia, led by the very “ept” Mary Eileen O’Donnell as Peter Quince. The mechanicals swat at bothersome insects, they get anxious as the curtain time approaches for Pyramus and Thisbe, and then, in stagecraft’s good old-fashioned lazzi, they can be seen “backstage” as they ready for their entrances.
Adding emphasis, mood, and energy, original music is played live by composer David Robbins on percussion in this dream of a production, as wise as it is beautiful.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 12, 2013
August 12, 2013
Open House
Skylight Theatre
Playwright Shem Bitterman and director Steve Zuckerman certainly know how to facilitate frustration within a character. During the opening 15 minutes of Bitterman’s 90-minute world premiere two-hander, Open House, LA-based real estate salesman Chuck (Robert Cicchini) sits in solitary vigil within the empty craftsman house he so desperately needs to sell. Set designer and lighting designer Jeff McLaughlin’s accurately detailed setting, time-shift lighting, and strategically imposed blackouts underscore the passing of days and Chuck’s increasing frustration—further amplified by intermittent cellphone conversations with his truly lost adult daughter and a condemning ex-wife.
Cicchini molds himself within Chuck’s situation, evolving from mild uneasiness to utter despair. Early on, while casually perusing the LA Times, he exudes a relaxed confidence in his abilities. This visibly erodes with the passage of time. After days spent in this self-imposed solitary confinement, Cicchini’s Chuck projects utter physical rage while listening to a game on the radio, graphically revealing he is at the edge of an emotional precipice. Zuckerman impressively guides the pace of Chuck’s solitary journey to maximum effect.
Bitterman releases Chuck from solo purgatory with the arrival of Martha (Eve Gordon), an East Coast transplant attempting to flee her own demons. Her emotional baggage sets in motion a war of agendas that thrusts the two characters into darker regions of each other’s psyches. Bitterman masterfully reveals the developing entanglement of these two damaged souls. Their individual needs relentlessly penetrate each other, as Chuck and Martha jab and parry in an engrossing journey to rampant co-dependency.
While in the process of discussing and/or negotiating the potential purchase of the house, Gordon’s always-questioning Martha provides the needed counterpoint to Chuck’s relentless pushing and placating. Later, she believably evolves into the compliant soul that desperately desires to give herself over to Chuck’s supposed masterful confidence.
Unfortunately, the playwright does not achieve a viable dramaturgical pinnacle to this Chuck–Martha saga. By play’s end, Chuck’s house-of-cards façade is too easily toppled, based on facts arbitrarily imposed onto the thematic throughline. This also forces the audience to mentally fact check earlier established posts that no longer support Bitterman’s structure. To his credit, this well-established writer has created two memorable characters that could successfully co-mingle in a longer two-act work with a reimagined ending. They certainly stay in one’s mind.
Skylight Theatre
Playwright Shem Bitterman and director Steve Zuckerman certainly know how to facilitate frustration within a character. During the opening 15 minutes of Bitterman’s 90-minute world premiere two-hander, Open House, LA-based real estate salesman Chuck (Robert Cicchini) sits in solitary vigil within the empty craftsman house he so desperately needs to sell. Set designer and lighting designer Jeff McLaughlin’s accurately detailed setting, time-shift lighting, and strategically imposed blackouts underscore the passing of days and Chuck’s increasing frustration—further amplified by intermittent cellphone conversations with his truly lost adult daughter and a condemning ex-wife.
Cicchini molds himself within Chuck’s situation, evolving from mild uneasiness to utter despair. Early on, while casually perusing the LA Times, he exudes a relaxed confidence in his abilities. This visibly erodes with the passage of time. After days spent in this self-imposed solitary confinement, Cicchini’s Chuck projects utter physical rage while listening to a game on the radio, graphically revealing he is at the edge of an emotional precipice. Zuckerman impressively guides the pace of Chuck’s solitary journey to maximum effect.
Bitterman releases Chuck from solo purgatory with the arrival of Martha (Eve Gordon), an East Coast transplant attempting to flee her own demons. Her emotional baggage sets in motion a war of agendas that thrusts the two characters into darker regions of each other’s psyches. Bitterman masterfully reveals the developing entanglement of these two damaged souls. Their individual needs relentlessly penetrate each other, as Chuck and Martha jab and parry in an engrossing journey to rampant co-dependency.
While in the process of discussing and/or negotiating the potential purchase of the house, Gordon’s always-questioning Martha provides the needed counterpoint to Chuck’s relentless pushing and placating. Later, she believably evolves into the compliant soul that desperately desires to give herself over to Chuck’s supposed masterful confidence.
Unfortunately, the playwright does not achieve a viable dramaturgical pinnacle to this Chuck–Martha saga. By play’s end, Chuck’s house-of-cards façade is too easily toppled, based on facts arbitrarily imposed onto the thematic throughline. This also forces the audience to mentally fact check earlier established posts that no longer support Bitterman’s structure. To his credit, this well-established writer has created two memorable characters that could successfully co-mingle in a longer two-act work with a reimagined ending. They certainly stay in one’s mind.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
August 6, 2013
August 6, 2013
Nickel and Dimed
Bright Eyes Productions at Hudson Mainstage Theatre
Barbara Ehrenreich’s 2001 book, Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America, prompted critics, pro and con, to examine the lives of the working poor through her eyes. Well-educated and a successful writer, Ehrenreich attempted to leave her comfortable life behind to try to live on a minimum wage. As she traversed the country taking jobs as a hospital aide, a WalMart worker, a cleaner, and a waitress, she told a compelling story of the inequities faced by millions in our society who struggle to survive.
Joan Holden, a principal playwright with the San Francisco Mime Troupe for more than 30 years, was challenged to bring Ehrenreich’s book to the stage in 2002. The play opens with Barbara (Zachary Barton) meeting with her publisher to come up with a worthwhile idea for publication. A self-described social democrat and feminist, she proposes looking at welfare reform from the inside. With only her car and a $1,000 cushion for emergencies, she applies for low-wage jobs and lives in tiny apartments that she soon learns are too expensive for her meager income of $7 an hour. Two jobs or more are the fate of her target population. In applying for them, the indignity of urine tests were the norm, along with intelligence-insulting questionnaires.
Barton makes a believable protagonist, eschewing glamour for grit. Her fellow actors—Veronica Alicino, Jackie Joniec, Kathleen Ingle, Carmen Lezeth Suarez, Johnnie Torres, and Matthew Wrather—play multiple roles as co-workers, customers, bosses, and the like. These roles are a challenge, as the actors have to morph quickly during a long succession of scene and role changes. The play has a very focused point of view, and the narrative is broken occasionally by Barbara’s journalistic voice explaining or commenting on the action. She defends a fellow worker and gets angry. She discovers how backbreaking some jobs are and begins to appreciate physically what was only an intellectual understanding of the workers’ plight.
Director Richard Kilroy handles the episodic nature of the story with skill, even though the constant set changes sometimes break into the emotional circumstances of the story. As set designer, he makes few pieces multipurpose. Lessening the scene change activity might make for a richer audience experience.
It has been argued that while Ehrenreich could comment on her own experience and be an observer of social ills, she still used a car to get to work and to appointments, was able to call her dermatologist for relief from a rash she acquired, and never fully lost sight of the fact that she was able to step in and out of the counterfeit impersonations she adopted.
As reports of Congressional inaction related to minimum wage, immigration reform, and welfare are recounted daily, it is clear this production could not be more topical and compelling. With more than 3.6 million workers making minimum wage and others not far ahead, Ehrenreich’s tale is a call to action and a reminder that good theater can spotlight societal ills more effectively than many other means of reporting.
Bright Eyes Productions at Hudson Mainstage Theatre
Barbara Ehrenreich’s 2001 book, Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America, prompted critics, pro and con, to examine the lives of the working poor through her eyes. Well-educated and a successful writer, Ehrenreich attempted to leave her comfortable life behind to try to live on a minimum wage. As she traversed the country taking jobs as a hospital aide, a WalMart worker, a cleaner, and a waitress, she told a compelling story of the inequities faced by millions in our society who struggle to survive.
Joan Holden, a principal playwright with the San Francisco Mime Troupe for more than 30 years, was challenged to bring Ehrenreich’s book to the stage in 2002. The play opens with Barbara (Zachary Barton) meeting with her publisher to come up with a worthwhile idea for publication. A self-described social democrat and feminist, she proposes looking at welfare reform from the inside. With only her car and a $1,000 cushion for emergencies, she applies for low-wage jobs and lives in tiny apartments that she soon learns are too expensive for her meager income of $7 an hour. Two jobs or more are the fate of her target population. In applying for them, the indignity of urine tests were the norm, along with intelligence-insulting questionnaires.
Barton makes a believable protagonist, eschewing glamour for grit. Her fellow actors—Veronica Alicino, Jackie Joniec, Kathleen Ingle, Carmen Lezeth Suarez, Johnnie Torres, and Matthew Wrather—play multiple roles as co-workers, customers, bosses, and the like. These roles are a challenge, as the actors have to morph quickly during a long succession of scene and role changes. The play has a very focused point of view, and the narrative is broken occasionally by Barbara’s journalistic voice explaining or commenting on the action. She defends a fellow worker and gets angry. She discovers how backbreaking some jobs are and begins to appreciate physically what was only an intellectual understanding of the workers’ plight.
Director Richard Kilroy handles the episodic nature of the story with skill, even though the constant set changes sometimes break into the emotional circumstances of the story. As set designer, he makes few pieces multipurpose. Lessening the scene change activity might make for a richer audience experience.
It has been argued that while Ehrenreich could comment on her own experience and be an observer of social ills, she still used a car to get to work and to appointments, was able to call her dermatologist for relief from a rash she acquired, and never fully lost sight of the fact that she was able to step in and out of the counterfeit impersonations she adopted.
As reports of Congressional inaction related to minimum wage, immigration reform, and welfare are recounted daily, it is clear this production could not be more topical and compelling. With more than 3.6 million workers making minimum wage and others not far ahead, Ehrenreich’s tale is a call to action and a reminder that good theater can spotlight societal ills more effectively than many other means of reporting.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
August 6, 2013
August 6, 2013
Revelation
Lillian Theatre at Elephant Stages
It’s a mixed blessing for the severely repressed über-nerd Brandon (Marco Naggar), whose fundamentalist preacher father always told him to keep his priorities intact after relocating to New York City, especially because Manhattan is hardly a place widely thought of as Rapture proof.
Sadly, the poor guy is having a very bad apocalypse. Just as daddy predicted, End Times hits the Big Apple, and much to Brandon’s dismay and despite his refusal to use bad language in his daily life or to mock his father’s obsessive religious doctrines, he has somehow been left behind with all us doomed sinners. “Jesus has come back!” we’re told—not much comfort for all the other inhabitants of Samuel Brett Williams’s hilarious new play who never thought he came in the first place.
This darkly black comedy takes our poor schlep of a hero on a cross-country trek through the ruins of the world in a borrowed Honda—a car his dad always said were built Rapture tough. Along for the ride, literally, is his disbelieving neighbor Rebecca (Zibby Allen), with whom he once shared a brief sexual dalliance that might have just been the thing that cost Brandon his rightful place on the Heavenly Express.
Rebecca doesn’t much buy Brandon’s theories until the pair heads out into the streets, where piles of smoldering clothes are all that’s left of the chosen ones, and the faces of some of the survivors sport more pustules than the first frames of a Clearasil commercial. Along the journey from New York to possible redemption in—of all places—Shreveport, La., the pair suffers through imploding ex-lovers, encounters with bat-shit crazed kidnappers, and hassles with myriad other unfortunate folk left behind to wallow in the rubble—something that allows this unstoppable ensemble of deliciously over-the-top actors a chance to throw all restraint to the winds and shine like the game troopers that they are.
Williams’s play is sharply off-kilter, absolutely chock-full of glorious chances for outrageous hilarity in its rapid barrage of wonderfully wrong circumstances, all of which Naggar and Allen sail through with delightfully confused comedic skill. The supporting cast bows nicely to the cartoonlike situations, which unfold in sequence like turning the pages of a graphic novel by Clive Barker. Oddly though, beyond the silly black humor and charmingly goofy performances, something is missing in the script, which seems to continuously miss making a point beside trying to shock and spewing otherwise welcome inappropriate humor.
Jeffrey Eisenmann’s bleak multilayered set design and Michael Mullens’s subtly tongue-in-cheek costuming, as well as (uncredited) nifty hair and make-up design, add to the success of the storytelling here, but it is entirely to the credit of director Lindsay Allbaugh, who never lets up for a moment in the pacing of the story and leads her possibly tainted Kool-Aid devoted cast to pull out every stop, that makes this work so well. If anything is revelatory about Revelation, it is Allbaugh’s ability to turn a rather predictable—albeit funny—script into a production to admire.
Lillian Theatre at Elephant Stages
It’s a mixed blessing for the severely repressed über-nerd Brandon (Marco Naggar), whose fundamentalist preacher father always told him to keep his priorities intact after relocating to New York City, especially because Manhattan is hardly a place widely thought of as Rapture proof.
Sadly, the poor guy is having a very bad apocalypse. Just as daddy predicted, End Times hits the Big Apple, and much to Brandon’s dismay and despite his refusal to use bad language in his daily life or to mock his father’s obsessive religious doctrines, he has somehow been left behind with all us doomed sinners. “Jesus has come back!” we’re told—not much comfort for all the other inhabitants of Samuel Brett Williams’s hilarious new play who never thought he came in the first place.
This darkly black comedy takes our poor schlep of a hero on a cross-country trek through the ruins of the world in a borrowed Honda—a car his dad always said were built Rapture tough. Along for the ride, literally, is his disbelieving neighbor Rebecca (Zibby Allen), with whom he once shared a brief sexual dalliance that might have just been the thing that cost Brandon his rightful place on the Heavenly Express.
Rebecca doesn’t much buy Brandon’s theories until the pair heads out into the streets, where piles of smoldering clothes are all that’s left of the chosen ones, and the faces of some of the survivors sport more pustules than the first frames of a Clearasil commercial. Along the journey from New York to possible redemption in—of all places—Shreveport, La., the pair suffers through imploding ex-lovers, encounters with bat-shit crazed kidnappers, and hassles with myriad other unfortunate folk left behind to wallow in the rubble—something that allows this unstoppable ensemble of deliciously over-the-top actors a chance to throw all restraint to the winds and shine like the game troopers that they are.
Williams’s play is sharply off-kilter, absolutely chock-full of glorious chances for outrageous hilarity in its rapid barrage of wonderfully wrong circumstances, all of which Naggar and Allen sail through with delightfully confused comedic skill. The supporting cast bows nicely to the cartoonlike situations, which unfold in sequence like turning the pages of a graphic novel by Clive Barker. Oddly though, beyond the silly black humor and charmingly goofy performances, something is missing in the script, which seems to continuously miss making a point beside trying to shock and spewing otherwise welcome inappropriate humor.
Jeffrey Eisenmann’s bleak multilayered set design and Michael Mullens’s subtly tongue-in-cheek costuming, as well as (uncredited) nifty hair and make-up design, add to the success of the storytelling here, but it is entirely to the credit of director Lindsay Allbaugh, who never lets up for a moment in the pacing of the story and leads her possibly tainted Kool-Aid devoted cast to pull out every stop, that makes this work so well. If anything is revelatory about Revelation, it is Allbaugh’s ability to turn a rather predictable—albeit funny—script into a production to admire.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
August 5, 2013
August 5, 2013
Nine
DOMA Theatre Company at MET Theatre
The fiendishly difficult (to stage, and hence usually to watch) Nine proves beyond the range of DOMA Theatre Company. It’s a shame, given the company’s mightily effective Dreamgirls earlier this year, but Arthur Kopit’s gloppy gloss on Fellini’s film 8½ has proved the undoing of many a producing organization.
Essentially an impressionistic series of musical sketches inspired by the 1963 classic’s characters and situations, Nine observes cinemauteur Guido Contini (David Michael Treviño) sorting through his life’s influential, mostly female figures to break through the blockage in his work and personal life. After many a random musical number and bit of badinage, he abruptly arrives at the realization that no matter how old he becomes, a part of him always will remain a kid, will remain “nine.” This stupendous insight could’ve hit him at any point in the previous two hours, or indeed while he was back in prep school, but we don’t begrudge him the epiphany because it means we can go home that much sooner.
The ensemble, remarkably low on performance energy, doesn’t seem to have been told why any of the production numbers is supposed to be there, so all are performed on the same forced level of tacky Vegas lounge-act verve. Maury Yeston’s melodies—flavorful and supple, the one undisputable triumph even if one detests the show—are nicely performed by Chris Raymond’s band, but the tricky lyrics are undone by the inadequate speakers and thick marinara of superfluous Italian accents. Why director Marco Gomez figured enjoyment would be enhanced if everyone sounded like Chico Marx is anyone’s guess—to one another, Italians would sound unaccented, would they not?—but atsa da way it goes.
Still, everything hinges on the star. A charismatic, thoughtful Guido, one desperate to set his emotional house in order and sexy enough to inspire universal hot pants, is clearly a must. Here, a grievously miscast Treviño lacks sexual chemistry with those who cross his path, and he greets all his past, present, and fantasy visions with the same slack-jawed stare of incomprehension. Existential inquiry is conveyed by gazing up into space as he talks to people instead of looking them in the eye, as if he were Don Quixote about to break into “The Impossible Dream.” Without a Guido who can make us believe in and care about his artistic quest, nine equals zero.
Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka
Torrance Theatre Company at James Armstrong Theatre
Torrance Theatre Company reportedly twisted itself into a chocolate pretzel to put on this production of Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka. The results are worth it.
The musical is based on Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, in which impoverished Charlie and his parents and four grandparents live in kindness and hope. Nearby factory owner Willy Wonka sets out to find his successor, putting five golden tickets into worldwide circulation. Four majorly spoiled kids and Charlie find the tickets and enter the unique world of Dahl.
This production is polished to a gloss like tempered chocolate, under the direction of Mark Torreso. Its young Charlie, performed by Logan Gould, seems genuinely and wholeheartedly kind. Its grownup star, Jared Pugh as Willy Wonka, possesses a wonderful singing voice. The youth chorus and youngsters playing the “invited” factory workers known as Oompa Loompas are disciplined but lively. Featured actors vividly create their offbeat characters without chewing the sweet scenery.
Yes, that scenery (designed by Brian Sandahl) charms, it awes and it might cause a moment of daydreaming because of its 1950s-Disneyland charm. It moves in and out of sight with apparent ease. Made of wood and whimsy, it also includes a huge screen for giggle-inducing projections—such as “bad nuts” traveling along a conveyor belt.
Unfortunately, the scenery might be all that’s hummed after the show. How much more delectable the whole would be if the adaptation (Leslie Bricusse and Timothy Allen McDonald) and score (Bricusse and Anthony Newley) were even one step up. Having committed to the material, however, the company rises above the challenges of smoothing the narrative flaws and livening the music and lyrics. Noticeably, the pit orchestra, under the firm hand of music director Rick Heckman, features remarkable unison and a crisp percussion section.
Also adding appeal to the music, Pugh has an easy, open singing voice and ample range. The opera-singer-in-waiting here, though, might be young Andres de Dios, who plays Augustus Gloop, the gluttonous German ticket holder. And even if you are of a certain age and had hoped never to hear “The Candy Man” again, John Fugatt brings it to sweet life.
Playing Augustus Gloop’s mother, Cindy Shields goes bialys to the wall in a spectacular featured performance involving a Teutonic accent and slap-dancing. Likewise, Bob Baumsten garners huge laughs as Grandpa George, because everybody loves a deaf old guy played by an actor who doesn’t miss a trick.
So what if the period of this piece is never quite clear. There’s mention of listening to Little Orphan Annie on the radio, yet Sharknado gets a shout-out. Keeping the story timeless are its themes of painful unemployment and its dreams of a lifetime supply of chocolate.
But ultimately, theater is storytelling, and best about the storytelling here is Dahl’s moral: Children who misbehave are punished, while good children who err and then apologize without being asked to and who do so with heartfelt remorse end up well. These days this moral seems like sheer fantasy, making the time spent with Wonka and company total wish fulfillment. Considering the cravings during and after the show, it’s probably also good business for chocolate purveyors across the South Bay.
DOMA Theatre Company at MET Theatre
The fiendishly difficult (to stage, and hence usually to watch) Nine proves beyond the range of DOMA Theatre Company. It’s a shame, given the company’s mightily effective Dreamgirls earlier this year, but Arthur Kopit’s gloppy gloss on Fellini’s film 8½ has proved the undoing of many a producing organization.
Essentially an impressionistic series of musical sketches inspired by the 1963 classic’s characters and situations, Nine observes cinemauteur Guido Contini (David Michael Treviño) sorting through his life’s influential, mostly female figures to break through the blockage in his work and personal life. After many a random musical number and bit of badinage, he abruptly arrives at the realization that no matter how old he becomes, a part of him always will remain a kid, will remain “nine.” This stupendous insight could’ve hit him at any point in the previous two hours, or indeed while he was back in prep school, but we don’t begrudge him the epiphany because it means we can go home that much sooner.
The ensemble, remarkably low on performance energy, doesn’t seem to have been told why any of the production numbers is supposed to be there, so all are performed on the same forced level of tacky Vegas lounge-act verve. Maury Yeston’s melodies—flavorful and supple, the one undisputable triumph even if one detests the show—are nicely performed by Chris Raymond’s band, but the tricky lyrics are undone by the inadequate speakers and thick marinara of superfluous Italian accents. Why director Marco Gomez figured enjoyment would be enhanced if everyone sounded like Chico Marx is anyone’s guess—to one another, Italians would sound unaccented, would they not?—but atsa da way it goes.
Still, everything hinges on the star. A charismatic, thoughtful Guido, one desperate to set his emotional house in order and sexy enough to inspire universal hot pants, is clearly a must. Here, a grievously miscast Treviño lacks sexual chemistry with those who cross his path, and he greets all his past, present, and fantasy visions with the same slack-jawed stare of incomprehension. Existential inquiry is conveyed by gazing up into space as he talks to people instead of looking them in the eye, as if he were Don Quixote about to break into “The Impossible Dream.” Without a Guido who can make us believe in and care about his artistic quest, nine equals zero.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
August 5, 2013
August 5, 2013
Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka
Torrance Theatre Company at James Armstrong Theatre
Torrance Theatre Company reportedly twisted itself into a chocolate pretzel to put on this production of Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka. The results are worth it.
The musical is based on Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, in which impoverished Charlie and his parents and four grandparents live in kindness and hope. Nearby factory owner Willy Wonka sets out to find his successor, putting five golden tickets into worldwide circulation. Four majorly spoiled kids and Charlie find the tickets and enter the unique world of Dahl.
This production is polished to a gloss like tempered chocolate, under the direction of Mark Torreso. Its young Charlie, performed by Logan Gould, seems genuinely and wholeheartedly kind. Its grownup star, Jared Pugh as Willy Wonka, possesses a wonderful singing voice. The youth chorus and youngsters playing the “invited” factory workers known as Oompa Loompas are disciplined but lively. Featured actors vividly create their offbeat characters without chewing the sweet scenery.
Yes, that scenery (designed by Brian Sandahl) charms, it awes and it might cause a moment of daydreaming because of its 1950s-Disneyland charm. It moves in and out of sight with apparent ease. Made of wood and whimsy, it also includes a huge screen for giggle-inducing projections—such as “bad nuts” traveling along a conveyor belt.
Unfortunately, the scenery might be all that’s hummed after the show. How much more delectable the whole would be if the adaptation (Leslie Bricusse and Timothy Allen McDonald) and score (Bricusse and Anthony Newley) were even one step up. Having committed to the material, however, the company rises above the challenges of smoothing the narrative flaws and livening the music and lyrics. Noticeably, the pit orchestra, under the firm hand of music director Rick Heckman, features remarkable unison and a crisp percussion section.
Also adding appeal to the music, Pugh has an easy, open singing voice and ample range. The opera-singer-in-waiting here, though, might be young Andres de Dios, who plays Augustus Gloop, the gluttonous German ticket holder. And even if you are of a certain age and had hoped never to hear “The Candy Man” again, John Fugatt brings it to sweet life.
Playing Augustus Gloop’s mother, Cindy Shields goes bialys to the wall in a spectacular featured performance involving a Teutonic accent and slap-dancing. Likewise, Bob Baumsten garners huge laughs as Grandpa George, because everybody loves a deaf old guy played by an actor who doesn’t miss a trick.
So what if the period of this piece is never quite clear. There’s mention of listening to Little Orphan Annie on the radio, yet Sharknado gets a shout-out. Keeping the story timeless are its themes of painful unemployment and its dreams of a lifetime supply of chocolate.
But ultimately, theater is storytelling, and best about the storytelling here is Dahl’s moral: Children who misbehave are punished, while good children who err and then apologize without being asked to and who do so with heartfelt remorse end up well. These days this moral seems like sheer fantasy, making the time spent with Wonka and company total wish fulfillment. Considering the cravings during and after the show, it’s probably also good business for chocolate purveyors across the South Bay.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 5, 2013
August 5, 2013
Shrek the Musical
3—D Theatricals at Plummer Auditorium
A hero and the musical about him have been on a journey. From the book by William Steig to the Dreamworks animated film and then back to the book again, this musical has undergone multiple changes from Broadway and the national traveling production to its current successful regional incarnation by 3—D Theatricals. With book and lyrics by David Lindsay-Abaire and music by Jeanine Tesori for the 2008 Broadway show, it is still being recrafted along its journey. Given first-rate direction here by David F. M. Vaughn, who was a cast member on Broadway and appeared in the regional tours, it is lively and exuberant.
Populated by fairy tale characters and its lovable giant ogre, Shrek (T. J. Dawson), the colorful swamp with its imposing bright green trapunto trees is visually arresting and theatrically useful for moving the cast about. As with all heroic stories, this one begins with Shrek being exhorted by the likes of Pinocchio (Daniel Dawson), elves, bears, and three famous pigs to help them foil their exile from the kingdom of Duloc by Lord Farquaad (Vaughn), who has his eye on becoming king after he marries the Princess Fiona (Melissa WolfKlain). At this point she is hidden away from him, so he challenges Shrek to find her.
Along the way, Shrek comes upon a donkey (Brandon Armstrong) beset by Farquaad’s army. Scaring them away earns Shrek the motor-mouthed donkey’s undying loyalty. Calling himself a GPS with fur (Anderson amusing as the jive-talking character), he offers to help Shrek find the princess. Of course, there have to be travails before outwitting the petulant and very tiny Lord (Vaughn on his knees to great comic effect).
Notwithstanding Farquaad’s soldiers, the most compelling danger is from a stage-filling, fierce, and fiery dragon (puppet design by Christian Anderson and Derek Lux). After Donkey averts their danger by charming her, Fiona, Donkey, and Shrek proceed on their way. Arguably the best number in the show comes when the Pied Piper (Arthur L. Ross) and a bevy of rats tap-dance through to Justin Greer’s lively choreography. Act 2 is overlong, and some of the numbers designed to explore characterizations might be trimmed to tighten the show. Having said that, though, each song is well-performed and well-directed. WolfKlain has a perfect Disney-princess voice and shines as a lovely young lady by day and a charmingly green lady ogre at night, thanks to a curse by a wicked witch. Dawson’s larger-than-life characterization is aided by his strong vocals and sensitive portrayal.
The large cast of fairy tale characters delivers splendid ensemble work. In multiple roles, Keith A. Bearden, Sydney Blair, Alison Boresi, Brennley Faith Brown, Michael Cavinder, Alex Ellis, Jenna Gillespie, Laleh Khorsandi, Emily King Brown, Emilie LaFontaine, Johnny Machesko, Hadley Belle Miller, Robert Ramirez, Amber J. Snead, Jon M. Wailin, and Drew R. Williams give it their all. In particular, Ellis stands out for her dialogue and vocals as the gingerbread boy.
As the film appealed to general audiences because of some references aimed at adults, so this show is chock-a-block with clever allusions to other Broadway shows like The Lion King, Gypsy, and Rent, and political jibes as recent as New York’s mayoral race. As Fiona and Shrek begin to fall in love, they prove “I Think I Got You Beat,” with dueling and escalating flatulence, plus belching thrown in for good measure. Though this might not set a good example for the many children in the audience, it was well-received at the performance seen. As with all fairy tales, a happy ending is in store for the characters.
In a show like this, the technical side can make or break a production. Costumes by Kate Bergh, lighting by Jared A. Sayeg, sound design by John Feinstein, and set design by Tom Buderwitz are superlative on Fullerton’s large stage. Further, Mike Marino’s prosthetic makeup design, Jason Vaughan’s character design, Cliff and Kat Senior’s wigs, and Denice Paxton’s makeup design are beautifully executed. Though the live orchestra almost drowns out some musical dialogue, musical director–conductor Julie Lamoureux’s music and Danny Troob’s orchestrations contribute to the excitement of live theater. All in all, this production hits all the right marks.
3—D Theatricals at Plummer Auditorium
A hero and the musical about him have been on a journey. From the book by William Steig to the Dreamworks animated film and then back to the book again, this musical has undergone multiple changes from Broadway and the national traveling production to its current successful regional incarnation by 3—D Theatricals. With book and lyrics by David Lindsay-Abaire and music by Jeanine Tesori for the 2008 Broadway show, it is still being recrafted along its journey. Given first-rate direction here by David F. M. Vaughn, who was a cast member on Broadway and appeared in the regional tours, it is lively and exuberant.
Populated by fairy tale characters and its lovable giant ogre, Shrek (T. J. Dawson), the colorful swamp with its imposing bright green trapunto trees is visually arresting and theatrically useful for moving the cast about. As with all heroic stories, this one begins with Shrek being exhorted by the likes of Pinocchio (Daniel Dawson), elves, bears, and three famous pigs to help them foil their exile from the kingdom of Duloc by Lord Farquaad (Vaughn), who has his eye on becoming king after he marries the Princess Fiona (Melissa WolfKlain). At this point she is hidden away from him, so he challenges Shrek to find her.
Along the way, Shrek comes upon a donkey (Brandon Armstrong) beset by Farquaad’s army. Scaring them away earns Shrek the motor-mouthed donkey’s undying loyalty. Calling himself a GPS with fur (Anderson amusing as the jive-talking character), he offers to help Shrek find the princess. Of course, there have to be travails before outwitting the petulant and very tiny Lord (Vaughn on his knees to great comic effect).
Notwithstanding Farquaad’s soldiers, the most compelling danger is from a stage-filling, fierce, and fiery dragon (puppet design by Christian Anderson and Derek Lux). After Donkey averts their danger by charming her, Fiona, Donkey, and Shrek proceed on their way. Arguably the best number in the show comes when the Pied Piper (Arthur L. Ross) and a bevy of rats tap-dance through to Justin Greer’s lively choreography. Act 2 is overlong, and some of the numbers designed to explore characterizations might be trimmed to tighten the show. Having said that, though, each song is well-performed and well-directed. WolfKlain has a perfect Disney-princess voice and shines as a lovely young lady by day and a charmingly green lady ogre at night, thanks to a curse by a wicked witch. Dawson’s larger-than-life characterization is aided by his strong vocals and sensitive portrayal.
The large cast of fairy tale characters delivers splendid ensemble work. In multiple roles, Keith A. Bearden, Sydney Blair, Alison Boresi, Brennley Faith Brown, Michael Cavinder, Alex Ellis, Jenna Gillespie, Laleh Khorsandi, Emily King Brown, Emilie LaFontaine, Johnny Machesko, Hadley Belle Miller, Robert Ramirez, Amber J. Snead, Jon M. Wailin, and Drew R. Williams give it their all. In particular, Ellis stands out for her dialogue and vocals as the gingerbread boy.
As the film appealed to general audiences because of some references aimed at adults, so this show is chock-a-block with clever allusions to other Broadway shows like The Lion King, Gypsy, and Rent, and political jibes as recent as New York’s mayoral race. As Fiona and Shrek begin to fall in love, they prove “I Think I Got You Beat,” with dueling and escalating flatulence, plus belching thrown in for good measure. Though this might not set a good example for the many children in the audience, it was well-received at the performance seen. As with all fairy tales, a happy ending is in store for the characters.
In a show like this, the technical side can make or break a production. Costumes by Kate Bergh, lighting by Jared A. Sayeg, sound design by John Feinstein, and set design by Tom Buderwitz are superlative on Fullerton’s large stage. Further, Mike Marino’s prosthetic makeup design, Jason Vaughan’s character design, Cliff and Kat Senior’s wigs, and Denice Paxton’s makeup design are beautifully executed. Though the live orchestra almost drowns out some musical dialogue, musical director–conductor Julie Lamoureux’s music and Danny Troob’s orchestrations contribute to the excitement of live theater. All in all, this production hits all the right marks.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
July 30, 2013
July 30, 2013
Brendan
Theatre Banshee
Theatre Banshee has such respect for Irish-born Ronan Noone’s immigrant saga, Brendan, that the Burbank-based ensemble has opted to eschew complicated production designs in favor of a minimalist all-purpose setting, with hints of costuming hanging from the walls for quick character transformations. When he or she is not performing within the flow of this West Coast premiere’s dramatic throughline or manipulating modular set pieces, each cast member sits in one of the chairs lined up on either side of the playing area, listening intently to the play’s progression. Director McKerrin Kelly and a well-honed six-member ensemble certainly give credence to the adage: The play’s the thing.
Developed by Boston’s Huntington Theatre Company, which premiered the work in 2007, Noone’s tale focuses on Brendan (Patrick Quinlan), a deeply troubled young Irishman who has been living in New York City for five years yet cannot escape the psyche-crippling self-loathing that caused him to flee his homeland in the first place. Though Brendan is desperate to assimilate and lose himself within this new land, his near-catatonic reclusiveness and inability to communicate sets him totally apart from the mainstream of American life.
Quinlan offers a portrayal that is almost soul-wrenching in its effectiveness. His Brendan approaches each relationship as if he will suffer some deep injury if he allows himself to open up and just be human. Yet, he exudes a puppy dog attractiveness that makes viable the number of people in Brendan’s life who want to care for him and be a part of his life.
Noone is so determined to have his woeful protagonist eventually make his way to in this new world, he imposes a few dramatically dissatisfying choices. For instance, he places Brendan in the center of one of the most inhumane communities in the world, have him be his own worse enemy, and yet have his personal path to salvation almost effortlessly paved with everybody else’s good intentions.
The visage of his dead Mammy—hilariously deadpanned by Kathleen M. Darcy—is relentlessly present, offering sound if not always welcome advice. Through all his fumbling indirectness and uncertainty, he is adored by Maria, the worldly-wise hooker he regularly frequents, and Daisy, the gentle Irish lass who would leap into his arms if only given a chance. Both characters are portrayed to endearing perfection by Catia Ojeda.
Witnessing Brendan’s woefully inept courtship of his African-American neighbor Rose (Devereau Chumrau) is an exercise in audience frustration. How could this deliciously adorable young lady be attracted to this fumbling mess? Yet, she is. She doesn’t even flee when he calls her “exotic.” It is a credit to Chumrau’s commitment to the task that she makes it work. Amir Abdullah and Eamon Sheehan also offer a series of portrayals that give needed substance to Brendan’s evolutionary pilgrimage.
It is also incomprehensible that this immigrant NYC resident is so desperate to learn to drive and needs to own a car. And everybody he knows seems to own one while living in a city where practically no one else does? Finally, how does this common laborer, who works through a series of menial jobs in one of the most expensive-to-live-in cities in the world, seem to have unlimited funds to satisfy his libido on a regular basis with Maria—even hiring her to teach him how to drive—and pays cash when he finally purchases a car?
These dramaturgical blemishes only slightly tarnish this production. In essence, the playing is the thing. And this Theatre Banshee production plays so well.
Theatre Banshee
Theatre Banshee has such respect for Irish-born Ronan Noone’s immigrant saga, Brendan, that the Burbank-based ensemble has opted to eschew complicated production designs in favor of a minimalist all-purpose setting, with hints of costuming hanging from the walls for quick character transformations. When he or she is not performing within the flow of this West Coast premiere’s dramatic throughline or manipulating modular set pieces, each cast member sits in one of the chairs lined up on either side of the playing area, listening intently to the play’s progression. Director McKerrin Kelly and a well-honed six-member ensemble certainly give credence to the adage: The play’s the thing.
Developed by Boston’s Huntington Theatre Company, which premiered the work in 2007, Noone’s tale focuses on Brendan (Patrick Quinlan), a deeply troubled young Irishman who has been living in New York City for five years yet cannot escape the psyche-crippling self-loathing that caused him to flee his homeland in the first place. Though Brendan is desperate to assimilate and lose himself within this new land, his near-catatonic reclusiveness and inability to communicate sets him totally apart from the mainstream of American life.
Quinlan offers a portrayal that is almost soul-wrenching in its effectiveness. His Brendan approaches each relationship as if he will suffer some deep injury if he allows himself to open up and just be human. Yet, he exudes a puppy dog attractiveness that makes viable the number of people in Brendan’s life who want to care for him and be a part of his life.
Noone is so determined to have his woeful protagonist eventually make his way to in this new world, he imposes a few dramatically dissatisfying choices. For instance, he places Brendan in the center of one of the most inhumane communities in the world, have him be his own worse enemy, and yet have his personal path to salvation almost effortlessly paved with everybody else’s good intentions.
The visage of his dead Mammy—hilariously deadpanned by Kathleen M. Darcy—is relentlessly present, offering sound if not always welcome advice. Through all his fumbling indirectness and uncertainty, he is adored by Maria, the worldly-wise hooker he regularly frequents, and Daisy, the gentle Irish lass who would leap into his arms if only given a chance. Both characters are portrayed to endearing perfection by Catia Ojeda.
Witnessing Brendan’s woefully inept courtship of his African-American neighbor Rose (Devereau Chumrau) is an exercise in audience frustration. How could this deliciously adorable young lady be attracted to this fumbling mess? Yet, she is. She doesn’t even flee when he calls her “exotic.” It is a credit to Chumrau’s commitment to the task that she makes it work. Amir Abdullah and Eamon Sheehan also offer a series of portrayals that give needed substance to Brendan’s evolutionary pilgrimage.
It is also incomprehensible that this immigrant NYC resident is so desperate to learn to drive and needs to own a car. And everybody he knows seems to own one while living in a city where practically no one else does? Finally, how does this common laborer, who works through a series of menial jobs in one of the most expensive-to-live-in cities in the world, seem to have unlimited funds to satisfy his libido on a regular basis with Maria—even hiring her to teach him how to drive—and pays cash when he finally purchases a car?
These dramaturgical blemishes only slightly tarnish this production. In essence, the playing is the thing. And this Theatre Banshee production plays so well.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
July 29, 2013
July 29, 2013
El Grande de Coca Cola
Ruskin Group Theatre
When Ron House starred in the February 1973 Off-Broadway premiere of El Grande de Coca Cola, he was a tad young to be playing the monumentally self-aggrandizing showbiz entrepreneur, Señor Don Pepe Hernandez. Well, his stage persona has aged perfectly to embody the near-decrepit Don Pepe, speaking in what can only described as pidgin Spanish. House commands the stage in a production helmed by Alan Shearman, who, along with House, Diz White, and John Neville-Andrews, scripted the show.
The setup for Don Pepe’s “Parada de las Estrellas” (Parade of the Stars) is given to the audience in the lobby, before the show begins. Set in a low-grade nightclub—wrought to seedy perfection by set designer Cliff Wagner—located somewhere south of the border, Don Pepe’s cabaret review is supposed to feature international headliners. When they do not show, Pepe recruits his not-so-talented daughters Maria (Nina Brissey) and Consuelo (Lila Dupree), near-catatonic son Juan (Aaron Jackson), and ragingly egotistical family friend Miguel Vasquez (David Lago) to be his faux stars.
There is a simple ethic to executing a spoof: find very talented performers to play performers with no talent, and have them do it with utter commitment. El Grande’s ensemble is certainly up to the task. Within a 70-minute running time, master of ceremonies Don Pepe oversees a plethora of groan-inducing novelty acts, including often hilariously inept attempts at acrobatics, magic, marksmanship, Shakespearean monologues, dancing that ranges from tango to hip-hop, and vocals that bombard such styles as pop, heavy metal, and even opera.
Dupree’s Consuelo sets the proper tone in a preshow warm-up, enthusiastically working the audience to find a real milionario (millionaire) she can invite to her abode in the broom closet beneath the stairs. Her broken-English interactions exude a zesty comedic sensibility, playing off whatever reactions she gets from the men (and women) she attempts to recruit to be her quickie broom-closet paramour.
A highlight of the show is Jackson’s effort to create a tableau of diminutive French painter Toulouse-Lautrec attempting to place an oversize canvas on an easel that is too tall for him to reach. With shoes strapped to his knees, Jackson puts on a jaw-dropping display of physicality that would be a credit to Charlie Chaplin. Also memorable is Brissey’s Maria, offering a comically rich portrayal of a cockeyed mystic. And Lago’s ever-frenzied Miguel not only displays ample skills as a pianist and drummer, his dance moves are put to adroit use as a Teutonic hip-hop master in a routine choreographed by Tor Campbell.
Through it all, House’s Pepe proves he is indeed the master of the show. He not only works the room, he manipulates it, often utilizing audience members as foils for his self-proclaimed talents—such as his Dancing With the Stars routine with audience ladies who never have to leave their seats.
Aiding and abetting the proceedings are the deliciously cheesy costumes of Sarah Figoten Wilson, as well as the mood-enhancing lighting and set dressing of Mike Reilly and Jeff Faeth, respectively.
Ruskin Group Theatre
When Ron House starred in the February 1973 Off-Broadway premiere of El Grande de Coca Cola, he was a tad young to be playing the monumentally self-aggrandizing showbiz entrepreneur, Señor Don Pepe Hernandez. Well, his stage persona has aged perfectly to embody the near-decrepit Don Pepe, speaking in what can only described as pidgin Spanish. House commands the stage in a production helmed by Alan Shearman, who, along with House, Diz White, and John Neville-Andrews, scripted the show.
The setup for Don Pepe’s “Parada de las Estrellas” (Parade of the Stars) is given to the audience in the lobby, before the show begins. Set in a low-grade nightclub—wrought to seedy perfection by set designer Cliff Wagner—located somewhere south of the border, Don Pepe’s cabaret review is supposed to feature international headliners. When they do not show, Pepe recruits his not-so-talented daughters Maria (Nina Brissey) and Consuelo (Lila Dupree), near-catatonic son Juan (Aaron Jackson), and ragingly egotistical family friend Miguel Vasquez (David Lago) to be his faux stars.
There is a simple ethic to executing a spoof: find very talented performers to play performers with no talent, and have them do it with utter commitment. El Grande’s ensemble is certainly up to the task. Within a 70-minute running time, master of ceremonies Don Pepe oversees a plethora of groan-inducing novelty acts, including often hilariously inept attempts at acrobatics, magic, marksmanship, Shakespearean monologues, dancing that ranges from tango to hip-hop, and vocals that bombard such styles as pop, heavy metal, and even opera.
Dupree’s Consuelo sets the proper tone in a preshow warm-up, enthusiastically working the audience to find a real milionario (millionaire) she can invite to her abode in the broom closet beneath the stairs. Her broken-English interactions exude a zesty comedic sensibility, playing off whatever reactions she gets from the men (and women) she attempts to recruit to be her quickie broom-closet paramour.
A highlight of the show is Jackson’s effort to create a tableau of diminutive French painter Toulouse-Lautrec attempting to place an oversize canvas on an easel that is too tall for him to reach. With shoes strapped to his knees, Jackson puts on a jaw-dropping display of physicality that would be a credit to Charlie Chaplin. Also memorable is Brissey’s Maria, offering a comically rich portrayal of a cockeyed mystic. And Lago’s ever-frenzied Miguel not only displays ample skills as a pianist and drummer, his dance moves are put to adroit use as a Teutonic hip-hop master in a routine choreographed by Tor Campbell.
Through it all, House’s Pepe proves he is indeed the master of the show. He not only works the room, he manipulates it, often utilizing audience members as foils for his self-proclaimed talents—such as his Dancing With the Stars routine with audience ladies who never have to leave their seats.
Aiding and abetting the proceedings are the deliciously cheesy costumes of Sarah Figoten Wilson, as well as the mood-enhancing lighting and set dressing of Mike Reilly and Jeff Faeth, respectively.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
July 24, 2013
July 24, 2013
A Parallelogram
Mark Taper Forum
If there’s a more sheerly interesting playwright in the United States these days than Bruce Norris, I don’t know who it is. In a continuing series of audacious, ambitious comedies, he has remained resolutely non-P.C. in questioning some of our culture’s most cherished assumptions on race (his Pulitzer winner Clybourne Park), compassionate liberalism (The Pain and the Itch), wounded warriors (Purple Heart), and sexual obsession (The Infidel). At the same time, Norris was and remains an established working actor, which could explain his knack for carving out juicy roles that keep both thesp and spectator gripped.
His current offering, A Parallelogram, originally mounted in 2010 by Steppenwolf Theatre Company, is interested in one of the most pervasive human illusions of all: the notion that we possess free will. In so doing, Norris seems to have taken as his model the great Alan Ayckbourn, whose masterworks like Henceforward and Comic Potential pull off the tricky task of grafting time travel and other futuristic, technological gimmickry onto intense emotional situations. Ayckbourn would immediately bond with Bee (Marin Ireland), a pharmacy chain middle manager who’s profoundly depressed. Not only is she unsure whether divorced live-in Jay (Tom Irwin) still carries a torch for his ex, but an elderly version of herself named Bee 2 (Marylouise Burke) sits chain-smoking in the corner, hinting at everything that will happen to Bee in the future and insisting that no steps Bee takes will make any difference to any outcome.
Bee 2’s remote control, which rewinds Bee’s life at any given moment to prove the old dame’s deterministic point, is the source of much of the humor of Act One. So are her wry quips on the present and future, peerlessly delivered by Burke in a role exploiting her talents for all they’re worth. (Her explanation of why senior citizens are difficult to communicate with may make you wish you’d worn Pampers to the Taper.)
Yet Norris has more than gags on his mind. For one thing, there’s a very real possibility the older woman’s Cassandra-like pronouncements of fate—which only Bee can hear—are just figments of imagination, the product of brain lesions destined to kill the girl before long. Beyond that, we are meant to share Jay’s anguish as the young woman for whom he upended his entire life rails and disintegrates. And of course Norris wants us to ruminate on and be moved by the larger human condition, because Bee—the unwitting prisoner of lines of time that occasionally, fatefully clash in space to control our fate—is, let’s face it, us.
Whether you sympathize or empathize with Bee is an open question. Despite Ireland’s valiant efforts, the character is so relentlessly dour that it’s hard not to be drawn away from her and toward the more centered and relaxed antagonists: hapless Jay, hilarious Bee 2, and the elemental JJ (Carlo Alban), a gardener assigned a very different role after one particularly drastic retake. (Shaw has much the same problem with his most rational heroines: One doesn’t rush to embrace Major Barbara or Saint Joan when there are so many more-fun folks milling about.) Moreover, it’s arguable whether Norris fully fleshes out his dramatic idea to deliver it with the roundhouse punch that seems intended.
Nevertheless, A Parallelogram is never less than fascinating, wittily designed by Todd Rosenthal and staged for maximum delight by Anna D. Shapiro. And at times, the play seems to have its finger on the pulse of something existential. Every once in a while its lines meet in the form of a parallelogram, and your universe quakes. Just a little.
Mark Taper Forum
If there’s a more sheerly interesting playwright in the United States these days than Bruce Norris, I don’t know who it is. In a continuing series of audacious, ambitious comedies, he has remained resolutely non-P.C. in questioning some of our culture’s most cherished assumptions on race (his Pulitzer winner Clybourne Park), compassionate liberalism (The Pain and the Itch), wounded warriors (Purple Heart), and sexual obsession (The Infidel). At the same time, Norris was and remains an established working actor, which could explain his knack for carving out juicy roles that keep both thesp and spectator gripped.
His current offering, A Parallelogram, originally mounted in 2010 by Steppenwolf Theatre Company, is interested in one of the most pervasive human illusions of all: the notion that we possess free will. In so doing, Norris seems to have taken as his model the great Alan Ayckbourn, whose masterworks like Henceforward and Comic Potential pull off the tricky task of grafting time travel and other futuristic, technological gimmickry onto intense emotional situations. Ayckbourn would immediately bond with Bee (Marin Ireland), a pharmacy chain middle manager who’s profoundly depressed. Not only is she unsure whether divorced live-in Jay (Tom Irwin) still carries a torch for his ex, but an elderly version of herself named Bee 2 (Marylouise Burke) sits chain-smoking in the corner, hinting at everything that will happen to Bee in the future and insisting that no steps Bee takes will make any difference to any outcome.
Bee 2’s remote control, which rewinds Bee’s life at any given moment to prove the old dame’s deterministic point, is the source of much of the humor of Act One. So are her wry quips on the present and future, peerlessly delivered by Burke in a role exploiting her talents for all they’re worth. (Her explanation of why senior citizens are difficult to communicate with may make you wish you’d worn Pampers to the Taper.)
Yet Norris has more than gags on his mind. For one thing, there’s a very real possibility the older woman’s Cassandra-like pronouncements of fate—which only Bee can hear—are just figments of imagination, the product of brain lesions destined to kill the girl before long. Beyond that, we are meant to share Jay’s anguish as the young woman for whom he upended his entire life rails and disintegrates. And of course Norris wants us to ruminate on and be moved by the larger human condition, because Bee—the unwitting prisoner of lines of time that occasionally, fatefully clash in space to control our fate—is, let’s face it, us.
Whether you sympathize or empathize with Bee is an open question. Despite Ireland’s valiant efforts, the character is so relentlessly dour that it’s hard not to be drawn away from her and toward the more centered and relaxed antagonists: hapless Jay, hilarious Bee 2, and the elemental JJ (Carlo Alban), a gardener assigned a very different role after one particularly drastic retake. (Shaw has much the same problem with his most rational heroines: One doesn’t rush to embrace Major Barbara or Saint Joan when there are so many more-fun folks milling about.) Moreover, it’s arguable whether Norris fully fleshes out his dramatic idea to deliver it with the roundhouse punch that seems intended.
Nevertheless, A Parallelogram is never less than fascinating, wittily designed by Todd Rosenthal and staged for maximum delight by Anna D. Shapiro. And at times, the play seems to have its finger on the pulse of something existential. Every once in a while its lines meet in the form of a parallelogram, and your universe quakes. Just a little.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
July 24, 2013
July 24, 2013
Wrap Your Heart Around It
Falcon Theatre
Singer-musician LynnMarie Rink accomplishes a rare feat in this autobiographical one-woman show. She ensnares her audience while never appearing to put on a show—except when she dons her accordion and plays music with the four-piece band sitting behind her onstage. The rest of the time, she just rambles nonchalantly around Jeff McLaughlin’s comfy, all-purpose setting—occasionally nibbling on her sister’s “killer” chocolate cake —gently and matter-of-factly unveiling a journey that includes growing up in a dysfunctional family with an alcoholic father, stumbling her way into a successful musical career, giving birth at age 42 to a Down syndrome child, and struggling to find the spiritual and emotional stability to actually have a life.
Under the astute guidance of solo-show guru Michael Kearns, Rink appears to be discovering what she wants to say as she is walking and talking—moving occasionally to the dressing table on stage right where she keeps the cake. Exhibiting pin-point comedic timing, she launches into a genial recap of growing up in a Slavic community outside Cleveland, Ohio—the youngest of six children, the daughter of Lud, a bar owner who was also an accomplished musician-performer.
But it soon becomes evident that this comely blond lady with the dazzling smile is also revealing the horrific history of a traumatized childhood, dominated by a high-functioning alcoholic, who thoroughly intimidated his wife and children. Rink reveals, “My mother died of cancer when I was 17. She didn’t fight it. She found a way out and she took it.” The one area in which Rink eventually found common ground with her father was in music. She explains, “He supported me all the way. He cried more than I did each time I lost at the Grammys.”
Rink almost shrugs her way through the chronicle of her career in music, admitting she had no choice but to pick up the accordion at age 11. She reveals she never took it seriously, deadpanning, “I didn’t believe the words accordion and career belonged in the same sentence.” Periodically, she does indeed strap on the “box” and launches her accomplished musicians—Paul Carrol Binkley (guitar), Paul Cartwright (fiddle), Joey Ayoub (bass), Chris Steele (percussion)—into a smorgasbord of polka and country fare, including “Beer Barrel Polka,” mildly suggestive “Momma’s Got a Squeezebox,” comical “That’s What I Like About the North,” and even a polka-tinged rendering of Three Dog Night’s rock anthem, “Joy to the World.”
The band, led by Binkley’s gently supportive acoustic guitar work, also underscores Rink’s descent into despair as she reveals her soul-ripping journey to accept her now 7-year-old son James, beginning in 2006 when she discovers—after suffering two miscarriages—she was going to give birth to a special-needs child. Rink leads the audience through her history of monumental self-denial, believing it was her job to fix this “broken child,” driving herself into deep depression and thoughts of suicide.
She admits that her salvation, in part, came after a therapist prescribed the anti-depressant Lexapro. Rink also sums up her lifelong struggle with religion by revealing a spiritual awakening that occurred when she took her young son to Sears. The events that occurred that day led her to the realization, “James was never broken. It was me.” She concludes the show with a projected collage of photos of her perennially smiling son, followed by an encore musical session with the band. This is a show that should travel well, especially as a theatrical showcase for the woman Jay Leno once dubbed “The Dixie Chick of Polka.”
Falcon Theatre
Singer-musician LynnMarie Rink accomplishes a rare feat in this autobiographical one-woman show. She ensnares her audience while never appearing to put on a show—except when she dons her accordion and plays music with the four-piece band sitting behind her onstage. The rest of the time, she just rambles nonchalantly around Jeff McLaughlin’s comfy, all-purpose setting—occasionally nibbling on her sister’s “killer” chocolate cake —gently and matter-of-factly unveiling a journey that includes growing up in a dysfunctional family with an alcoholic father, stumbling her way into a successful musical career, giving birth at age 42 to a Down syndrome child, and struggling to find the spiritual and emotional stability to actually have a life.
Under the astute guidance of solo-show guru Michael Kearns, Rink appears to be discovering what she wants to say as she is walking and talking—moving occasionally to the dressing table on stage right where she keeps the cake. Exhibiting pin-point comedic timing, she launches into a genial recap of growing up in a Slavic community outside Cleveland, Ohio—the youngest of six children, the daughter of Lud, a bar owner who was also an accomplished musician-performer.
But it soon becomes evident that this comely blond lady with the dazzling smile is also revealing the horrific history of a traumatized childhood, dominated by a high-functioning alcoholic, who thoroughly intimidated his wife and children. Rink reveals, “My mother died of cancer when I was 17. She didn’t fight it. She found a way out and she took it.” The one area in which Rink eventually found common ground with her father was in music. She explains, “He supported me all the way. He cried more than I did each time I lost at the Grammys.”
Rink almost shrugs her way through the chronicle of her career in music, admitting she had no choice but to pick up the accordion at age 11. She reveals she never took it seriously, deadpanning, “I didn’t believe the words accordion and career belonged in the same sentence.” Periodically, she does indeed strap on the “box” and launches her accomplished musicians—Paul Carrol Binkley (guitar), Paul Cartwright (fiddle), Joey Ayoub (bass), Chris Steele (percussion)—into a smorgasbord of polka and country fare, including “Beer Barrel Polka,” mildly suggestive “Momma’s Got a Squeezebox,” comical “That’s What I Like About the North,” and even a polka-tinged rendering of Three Dog Night’s rock anthem, “Joy to the World.”
The band, led by Binkley’s gently supportive acoustic guitar work, also underscores Rink’s descent into despair as she reveals her soul-ripping journey to accept her now 7-year-old son James, beginning in 2006 when she discovers—after suffering two miscarriages—she was going to give birth to a special-needs child. Rink leads the audience through her history of monumental self-denial, believing it was her job to fix this “broken child,” driving herself into deep depression and thoughts of suicide.
She admits that her salvation, in part, came after a therapist prescribed the anti-depressant Lexapro. Rink also sums up her lifelong struggle with religion by revealing a spiritual awakening that occurred when she took her young son to Sears. The events that occurred that day led her to the realization, “James was never broken. It was me.” She concludes the show with a projected collage of photos of her perennially smiling son, followed by an encore musical session with the band. This is a show that should travel well, especially as a theatrical showcase for the woman Jay Leno once dubbed “The Dixie Chick of Polka.”
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
July 21, 2013
July 21, 2013
Pack Up the Moon
Brimmer Street Theatre Company at Lounge Theatre
In 20th-century writer W.H. Auden’s 1938 poem, “Funeral Blues,” he underscores the utter finality of death with the phrase “Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.” Playwright Christina Cigala’s four-hander laudably explores the journey of a gay couple and a female relative who are desperately attempting to re-establish their lives after the death of the couple’s adoptive infant. Unfortunately, Cigala’s inventive dramatic throughline loses its way by play’s end, imposing a situation on the audience that pretty much obliterates the veracity of what has gone on before.
Living on set designer Alex Pletcher’s pseudo-impressionistic LA-home interior, showbiz entrepreneur Andre (David Jette) and his agoraphobic husband, Carter (Brad Harris), are attempting to rebalance their lives following the tragedy of the SIDS demise of their son. Helmer Amy K. Harmon establishes a captivating interplay between these two that is reminiscent of the mildly combative but emotionally interdependent sparring of Sesame Street duo Bert and Ernie. Carter distracts himself with a plethora of esoteric, self-inclusive, high-minded activities, while Andre deals with the emotionally challenging daily necessities of life— like leaving the house and going to work.
Into this unstable union, Cigala imposes the presence of Carter’s woefully wayward cousin T-Anne (Emilia Richeson), who has descended to a rock-bottom level of dysfunction that renders her incapable of surviving on her own. What Richeson does with this character is awe-inspiring in its execution. Dealing with every situation that comes her way with a last-grasp-at-life urgency, Richeson’s T-Anne overpowers the lives of her two hosts, creating an illogical but somehow functioning triumvirate that strives to bring another infant into the household.
The decision to have T-Anne impregnated with Andre’s sperm sets up a series of frustrating thematic shifts, especially in the evolution of the T-Anne–Andre and T-Anne–Carter relationships. The fact that T-Anne is going through monumental hormonal changes and imposing emotional demands on the two guys doesn’t justify the playwright’s arbitrary imposition of Jekyll-and-Hyde changes in the personalities of the two men, especially the monstrous transformation of Andre. As justification, Cigala throws in heavy-handed backstory exposition that is so arbitrary it could have come from a different play.
What works here is the added presence of Jaime, an all-purpose midwife and lifestyle guru, portrayed with creepy, effervescent goodwill by Ben Fuller, who acts as a kind of one-person Greek chorus to this distorted family threesome. An added bonus is the emotionally riveting sound design of Cricket S. Myers, whose supportive orchestrations of street sounds, jazz, and dissonance buoy the emotional undercurrent of each scene.
Cigala is to be lauded for tackling such emotionally searing subject matter. She has an original voice that deserves more time on stage. A reworking of the second act of potentially powerful Pack Up the Moon would certainly be worth the effort.
Brimmer Street Theatre Company at Lounge Theatre
In 20th-century writer W.H. Auden’s 1938 poem, “Funeral Blues,” he underscores the utter finality of death with the phrase “Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.” Playwright Christina Cigala’s four-hander laudably explores the journey of a gay couple and a female relative who are desperately attempting to re-establish their lives after the death of the couple’s adoptive infant. Unfortunately, Cigala’s inventive dramatic throughline loses its way by play’s end, imposing a situation on the audience that pretty much obliterates the veracity of what has gone on before.
Living on set designer Alex Pletcher’s pseudo-impressionistic LA-home interior, showbiz entrepreneur Andre (David Jette) and his agoraphobic husband, Carter (Brad Harris), are attempting to rebalance their lives following the tragedy of the SIDS demise of their son. Helmer Amy K. Harmon establishes a captivating interplay between these two that is reminiscent of the mildly combative but emotionally interdependent sparring of Sesame Street duo Bert and Ernie. Carter distracts himself with a plethora of esoteric, self-inclusive, high-minded activities, while Andre deals with the emotionally challenging daily necessities of life— like leaving the house and going to work.
Into this unstable union, Cigala imposes the presence of Carter’s woefully wayward cousin T-Anne (Emilia Richeson), who has descended to a rock-bottom level of dysfunction that renders her incapable of surviving on her own. What Richeson does with this character is awe-inspiring in its execution. Dealing with every situation that comes her way with a last-grasp-at-life urgency, Richeson’s T-Anne overpowers the lives of her two hosts, creating an illogical but somehow functioning triumvirate that strives to bring another infant into the household.
The decision to have T-Anne impregnated with Andre’s sperm sets up a series of frustrating thematic shifts, especially in the evolution of the T-Anne–Andre and T-Anne–Carter relationships. The fact that T-Anne is going through monumental hormonal changes and imposing emotional demands on the two guys doesn’t justify the playwright’s arbitrary imposition of Jekyll-and-Hyde changes in the personalities of the two men, especially the monstrous transformation of Andre. As justification, Cigala throws in heavy-handed backstory exposition that is so arbitrary it could have come from a different play.
What works here is the added presence of Jaime, an all-purpose midwife and lifestyle guru, portrayed with creepy, effervescent goodwill by Ben Fuller, who acts as a kind of one-person Greek chorus to this distorted family threesome. An added bonus is the emotionally riveting sound design of Cricket S. Myers, whose supportive orchestrations of street sounds, jazz, and dissonance buoy the emotional undercurrent of each scene.
Cigala is to be lauded for tackling such emotionally searing subject matter. She has an original voice that deserves more time on stage. A reworking of the second act of potentially powerful Pack Up the Moon would certainly be worth the effort.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
July 16, 2013
July 16, 2013
Alcestis
The Theatre @ Boston Court and Critical Mass Performance Group at Boston Court
Director-writer Nancy Keystone doesn’t exactly crank ’em out quickly through her Critical Mass Performance Group, but they sure are worth the waiting for. Her 2006 Theatre @ Boston Court staging of Suzan-Lori Parks’s The America Play made keen sense out of that peculiarly remote text, and now, with Alcestis, Keystone and her team have created a completely involving, scintillating take on Euripides for our time.
You may recall the myth of the good young king Admetus (Jeremy Shranko), late of treasure ship Argo (captained by Medea’s husband, Jason, remember him?), whose prophesied early death is forestalled when his titular queen (Kalean Ung) agrees to enter the Underworld in his place. This noble gesture, which has fascinated audiences and scholars for centuries (it “puts strain on a marriage,” say the Boston Court artistic directors straightfacedly in the program, which is putting it mildly), morphs in the CMPG’s hands into a sometimes whimsical, always energetically theatrical examination of vital universal themes: loyalty, the marital bond, the nature of “bromance” (Apollo and Herakles each have a strange kind of bond going with Admetus here), and, above all, humanity’s overwhelming awareness of death.
Heady stuff? Not to fear, it plays with whipsaw glee on this Pasadena stage. There are dances—both fancy production numbers and bone-cracking Martha Graham–esque contortions—as well as wacky choral interludes and absurdist pantomimes right out of Ionesco. Characters even periodically step out of character to comment on the Euripidean original. For all that, there’s not a whiff of camp to be found. The performances are emotionally pointed and rich, as legendary figures’ old sorrows and new resentments make themselves felt across the centuries and across these footlights. In the end, a reunited Admetus and Alcestis retain their mythological status even as they become an ordinary modern couple, with all the pleasure, and pain, modern coupling entails.
Most notable are Lorne Green’s urbane Apollo and Nick Santoro’s delightfully lunk-headed Herakles (costume designer Sarah Brown wittily puts him in football pads, investing him with stature and satire at once), but everyone in this captivating project pulls his or her weight. If you crave a modern spin on classical themes that respects its audience’s willingness to go where intuitive artists want to take you, you can do no better than swing by this delightful production.
The Theatre @ Boston Court and Critical Mass Performance Group at Boston Court
Director-writer Nancy Keystone doesn’t exactly crank ’em out quickly through her Critical Mass Performance Group, but they sure are worth the waiting for. Her 2006 Theatre @ Boston Court staging of Suzan-Lori Parks’s The America Play made keen sense out of that peculiarly remote text, and now, with Alcestis, Keystone and her team have created a completely involving, scintillating take on Euripides for our time.
You may recall the myth of the good young king Admetus (Jeremy Shranko), late of treasure ship Argo (captained by Medea’s husband, Jason, remember him?), whose prophesied early death is forestalled when his titular queen (Kalean Ung) agrees to enter the Underworld in his place. This noble gesture, which has fascinated audiences and scholars for centuries (it “puts strain on a marriage,” say the Boston Court artistic directors straightfacedly in the program, which is putting it mildly), morphs in the CMPG’s hands into a sometimes whimsical, always energetically theatrical examination of vital universal themes: loyalty, the marital bond, the nature of “bromance” (Apollo and Herakles each have a strange kind of bond going with Admetus here), and, above all, humanity’s overwhelming awareness of death.
Heady stuff? Not to fear, it plays with whipsaw glee on this Pasadena stage. There are dances—both fancy production numbers and bone-cracking Martha Graham–esque contortions—as well as wacky choral interludes and absurdist pantomimes right out of Ionesco. Characters even periodically step out of character to comment on the Euripidean original. For all that, there’s not a whiff of camp to be found. The performances are emotionally pointed and rich, as legendary figures’ old sorrows and new resentments make themselves felt across the centuries and across these footlights. In the end, a reunited Admetus and Alcestis retain their mythological status even as they become an ordinary modern couple, with all the pleasure, and pain, modern coupling entails.
Most notable are Lorne Green’s urbane Apollo and Nick Santoro’s delightfully lunk-headed Herakles (costume designer Sarah Brown wittily puts him in football pads, investing him with stature and satire at once), but everyone in this captivating project pulls his or her weight. If you crave a modern spin on classical themes that respects its audience’s willingness to go where intuitive artists want to take you, you can do no better than swing by this delightful production.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
July 16, 2013
July 16, 2013
Lend Me a Tenor
Westchester Playhouse
How might you know a play is a farce? Normally, the set offers a clue, and in particular the set will include several doors that allow characters to barrel into situations and then quickly escape the consequences. This production of Ken Ludwig’s Lend Me a Tenor boasts six doors. Hilarity, you can be sure, ensues.
It starts when world-renowned opera star Tito Merelli seems to have gone AWOL the afternoon of his premiere appearance with the Cleveland Grand Opera Company, in a production of the opera Otello. A thousand opera cognoscenti excitedly await the event, but behind the scenes the company general manager Saunders (Harold Dershimer) and his assistant Max (Matt Landig) frantically search for the temperamental tenor.
Eager for Merelli’s arrival but aware of the problem are Saunders’ daughter Maggie (Samantha Barrios), to whom Max has unsuccessfully proposed marriage; the company’s ambitious soprano Diana (Rachel Boller); and the chair of the opera guild Julia (Susan Goldman Weisbarth). All have gathered in Merelli’s hotel suite, where an opera-loving Bellhop (Michael Willens) inconveniently and ceaselessly attempts to meet the star.
Isn’t this enough hurly-burly for farce? Not yet. So, the bombastic Merelli (Scot Renfro) arrives with his fiery, had-it-up-to-here wife (Maria Pavone). The humor that has been simmering now begins its rolling boil. Fortunately, that humor is of various types over the course of the play. Lowbrow gags include sexual innuendo (try naming your favorite P-word). Highbrow wit includes “in” jokes to bring a chuckle to operagoers (Merelli is nicknamed Il Stupendo, though the only similarly named singer in real life was Joan Sutherland, called La Stupenda). Slapstick comes in the form of a grape that gets spit across the room. And, this being farce, situational humor abounds, from the play’s start to its finish, when the entire day’s events are re-enacted in fast-forward fashion.
Although Ludwig wrote the play in 1989, its action takes place in the 1930s, when people dressed beautifully to attend the opera or merely to travel. (Ahem.) To an admirable extent, director Gail Bernardi has urged her actors into period-correct behavior and speech, and her costume designer, Kathy Dershimer, has clad the actors lavishly. Bernardi has also kept an expert rein on the shenanigans. So though the situations are inevitably outrageous, the audience sees realistic characters who feel real-life emotions. Landig’s Max gains confidence through trials by fire, while he eventually soothes Harold Dershimer’s irascible impresario and Renfro’s divo. Maggie wants to experience “something special” before she marries, but when Maggie finally realizes what she did, the look on Barrios’ face is tender and truthful. Playing the hotel’s official nudnik, Willens mines sparkling gems from Ludwig’s lines. Pavone is a pepperpot, Boller a wily seductress, and Weisbarth a glowing presence (in part aided by her “Chrysler Building” couture).
The above-mentioned six doors, by the way, can be slammed without shaking the walls, and they stayed slammed even on opening night. Credit set designer Drew Fitzsimmons but also Kentwood Players’ crew of Jim Crawford, William Carter, and actors Renfro and Barrios. Above all, however, don’t stop to ponder how two identical Otello costumes made it into the hotel. That’s just farce.
Westchester Playhouse
How might you know a play is a farce? Normally, the set offers a clue, and in particular the set will include several doors that allow characters to barrel into situations and then quickly escape the consequences. This production of Ken Ludwig’s Lend Me a Tenor boasts six doors. Hilarity, you can be sure, ensues.
It starts when world-renowned opera star Tito Merelli seems to have gone AWOL the afternoon of his premiere appearance with the Cleveland Grand Opera Company, in a production of the opera Otello. A thousand opera cognoscenti excitedly await the event, but behind the scenes the company general manager Saunders (Harold Dershimer) and his assistant Max (Matt Landig) frantically search for the temperamental tenor.
Eager for Merelli’s arrival but aware of the problem are Saunders’ daughter Maggie (Samantha Barrios), to whom Max has unsuccessfully proposed marriage; the company’s ambitious soprano Diana (Rachel Boller); and the chair of the opera guild Julia (Susan Goldman Weisbarth). All have gathered in Merelli’s hotel suite, where an opera-loving Bellhop (Michael Willens) inconveniently and ceaselessly attempts to meet the star.
Isn’t this enough hurly-burly for farce? Not yet. So, the bombastic Merelli (Scot Renfro) arrives with his fiery, had-it-up-to-here wife (Maria Pavone). The humor that has been simmering now begins its rolling boil. Fortunately, that humor is of various types over the course of the play. Lowbrow gags include sexual innuendo (try naming your favorite P-word). Highbrow wit includes “in” jokes to bring a chuckle to operagoers (Merelli is nicknamed Il Stupendo, though the only similarly named singer in real life was Joan Sutherland, called La Stupenda). Slapstick comes in the form of a grape that gets spit across the room. And, this being farce, situational humor abounds, from the play’s start to its finish, when the entire day’s events are re-enacted in fast-forward fashion.
Although Ludwig wrote the play in 1989, its action takes place in the 1930s, when people dressed beautifully to attend the opera or merely to travel. (Ahem.) To an admirable extent, director Gail Bernardi has urged her actors into period-correct behavior and speech, and her costume designer, Kathy Dershimer, has clad the actors lavishly. Bernardi has also kept an expert rein on the shenanigans. So though the situations are inevitably outrageous, the audience sees realistic characters who feel real-life emotions. Landig’s Max gains confidence through trials by fire, while he eventually soothes Harold Dershimer’s irascible impresario and Renfro’s divo. Maggie wants to experience “something special” before she marries, but when Maggie finally realizes what she did, the look on Barrios’ face is tender and truthful. Playing the hotel’s official nudnik, Willens mines sparkling gems from Ludwig’s lines. Pavone is a pepperpot, Boller a wily seductress, and Weisbarth a glowing presence (in part aided by her “Chrysler Building” couture).
The above-mentioned six doors, by the way, can be slammed without shaking the walls, and they stayed slammed even on opening night. Credit set designer Drew Fitzsimmons but also Kentwood Players’ crew of Jim Crawford, William Carter, and actors Renfro and Barrios. Above all, however, don’t stop to ponder how two identical Otello costumes made it into the hotel. That’s just farce.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 15, 2013
July 15, 2013
Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson
Chance Theater
A number of successful musicals have interpreted history in the light of politics. Audiences have been entertained, as musicals from Ragtime to Annie to Wicked examine societal issues. In this case, populism takes center stage as Andrew Jackson’s life unfolds from youth to the presidency and the rise of the Democratic party. It’s an exhilarating ride.
Starring a youthful cast, Alex Timbers’s book and Michael Friedman’s music and lyrics explode in opening scenes as “Populism, Yea, Yea” foreshadows Jackson’s legacy as “the people’s president.” His accomplishments are extolled as well as his failures, and he appears to be his own best cheerleader, “I’m So That Guy.”
In adolescence he lost his parents to misfortune and cholera, and he joined the military, rising in the ranks to become General Jackson. At this point we learn he hates the Spanish, the British, and the Indians; further, he becomes a spokesman for the angry frontiersmen who resent all governmental corruption in politics coming from the Northeast.
Setting the play in a Western-style saloon and environs gives the cast the freewheeling space for the quirky characterizations that dominate the action. F-bombs fly along with plenty of generic discontent, as wars and strife dominate the action. The Creek Wars, the Battle of New Orleans, and Jackson’s demands that the Indians cede most of their land to the US further illuminate his rise to power. It seems very Western in nature, but the locale is Florida, Georgia, and Tennessee.
Keaton Williams delivers a credible Jackson, even though the play demands more histrionics than verisimilitude. The ensemble works well together, and Kelly Todd’s choreography makes the most of the space. Fight choreography by David McCormick is boisterous and notable. Characters rush in and out, energetically leaping about, to the excellent accompaniment of Robyn Wallace’s fine music direction. From time to time a cast member grabs a guitar or horn and joins the combo on stage. Billed as a rock opera, it is more rock than operatic, and the ensemble—which includes Robert Wallace, Zachary Storey, James McHale, Gary Fields, Nick Adomo, Kyle Cooper, Gasper Gray, Ashley Arlene Nelson, Alex Bueno, Chelsea Baldree, Dannielle Green, and Janelle Kester—sings enthusiastically even as the demanding action requires much physicality. And yes, there’s blood along with all this Sturm und Drang.
Director Kari Hayter packs a heap of storyline into her frenetic 95-minute production. Lighting by Steve Giltner can be moody or crisp as the story dictates. Dave Mickey and Iris Zacarias’s sound design enhances the work of the musicians (Robyn Wallace, Gray, Steven Wagner, Bill Strongin).
Lots of contemporary references add to the tongue-in-cheek history lesson. Effete pols like Van Buren and Adams turn up, contrasting nicely with rough-and-tumble Old Hickory. If Wall Street complaints enter the fray, so much the better. A few gender jokes also pop up here and there. Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson is not a play for every taste. It requires suspension of disbelief, a tolerance for crudity, and a willingness to revisit history with a wary eye. Nonetheless, the cast gives as good as it gets in its interpretation of this satiric look at politics through the prism of today’s affairs of state.
Chance Theater
A number of successful musicals have interpreted history in the light of politics. Audiences have been entertained, as musicals from Ragtime to Annie to Wicked examine societal issues. In this case, populism takes center stage as Andrew Jackson’s life unfolds from youth to the presidency and the rise of the Democratic party. It’s an exhilarating ride.
Starring a youthful cast, Alex Timbers’s book and Michael Friedman’s music and lyrics explode in opening scenes as “Populism, Yea, Yea” foreshadows Jackson’s legacy as “the people’s president.” His accomplishments are extolled as well as his failures, and he appears to be his own best cheerleader, “I’m So That Guy.”
In adolescence he lost his parents to misfortune and cholera, and he joined the military, rising in the ranks to become General Jackson. At this point we learn he hates the Spanish, the British, and the Indians; further, he becomes a spokesman for the angry frontiersmen who resent all governmental corruption in politics coming from the Northeast.
Setting the play in a Western-style saloon and environs gives the cast the freewheeling space for the quirky characterizations that dominate the action. F-bombs fly along with plenty of generic discontent, as wars and strife dominate the action. The Creek Wars, the Battle of New Orleans, and Jackson’s demands that the Indians cede most of their land to the US further illuminate his rise to power. It seems very Western in nature, but the locale is Florida, Georgia, and Tennessee.
Keaton Williams delivers a credible Jackson, even though the play demands more histrionics than verisimilitude. The ensemble works well together, and Kelly Todd’s choreography makes the most of the space. Fight choreography by David McCormick is boisterous and notable. Characters rush in and out, energetically leaping about, to the excellent accompaniment of Robyn Wallace’s fine music direction. From time to time a cast member grabs a guitar or horn and joins the combo on stage. Billed as a rock opera, it is more rock than operatic, and the ensemble—which includes Robert Wallace, Zachary Storey, James McHale, Gary Fields, Nick Adomo, Kyle Cooper, Gasper Gray, Ashley Arlene Nelson, Alex Bueno, Chelsea Baldree, Dannielle Green, and Janelle Kester—sings enthusiastically even as the demanding action requires much physicality. And yes, there’s blood along with all this Sturm und Drang.
Director Kari Hayter packs a heap of storyline into her frenetic 95-minute production. Lighting by Steve Giltner can be moody or crisp as the story dictates. Dave Mickey and Iris Zacarias’s sound design enhances the work of the musicians (Robyn Wallace, Gray, Steven Wagner, Bill Strongin).
Lots of contemporary references add to the tongue-in-cheek history lesson. Effete pols like Van Buren and Adams turn up, contrasting nicely with rough-and-tumble Old Hickory. If Wall Street complaints enter the fray, so much the better. A few gender jokes also pop up here and there. Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson is not a play for every taste. It requires suspension of disbelief, a tolerance for crudity, and a willingness to revisit history with a wary eye. Nonetheless, the cast gives as good as it gets in its interpretation of this satiric look at politics through the prism of today’s affairs of state.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
July 14, 2013
July 14, 2013
Sister Act
Pantages Theatre
You would think, as standardly formulaic as it is, a musical stage version of the 1992 film hit Sister Act wouldn’t have a prayer. There’s nothing even pretending to be new or innovative in this production, which boasts the movie’s leading player Whoopi Goldberg as one of its producers. But you know what? Sister Act at the Pantages is infectious fun and a perfect summer entertainment meant to just let audiences sit back, enjoy the ride, and not analyze it too deeply.
The story is a given. Over-the-top minor nightclub entertainer Deloris Van Cartier (Ta’Rea Campbell) sees her gangster boyfriend Curtis (Kingsley Leggs) blow away a guy in the alley behind his seedy club and has to go on the run to avoid being his next victim. With the help of her childhood schoolmate “Sweaty” Eddie Souther (E. Clayton Cornelious), now the cop assigned to keep her safe until she can testify in court, Doloris goes in hiding posing as a nun in a cash-strapped convent. You’d have to have been living under a rock for the past 21 years not to know what happens next, and, again, the musical version of the Joseph Howard–penned film offers nothing even remotely new. Even Alan Menken and Glenn Slater’s score seems to be chockfull of riffs faintly recognizable from tunes made famous in Disney projects; and the book by Cheri and Bill Steinkellner, even with later doctoring by the great Douglas Carter Beane, is about as fresh as a 3-day-old bagel.
It just doesn’t matter. Sister Act makes you smile and rock out a bit in your seat. What makes the show work so well is an incandescent mounting with sharply focused production values and a cast that could not be better. In a role it would be hard to interpret anew, Campbell brings an even sassier delivery than the film’s high-profile star did and is blessed with a powerhouse voice that knocks her songs out of the ballpark and could possibly even reach the back row of the cavernous Pantages’s nosebleed seats without amplification. Leggs and Cornelious at first appear cast for their vocal abilities and not their acting prowess, but one thing that’s most notable about this show is that every character is given a showcasing solo turn. Leggs takes the stage easily with his “When I Find My Baby,” and Cornelious brings the house down with Eddie’s fantasy number “I Could Be That Guy.”
Sometimes touring productions of Broadway hits look a little tattered around the edges in delivery and performance, but this one is bright and brand new—and virtually every performance is beautifully rich and heartfelt. There are dynamic solos for Lael Van Keuren as the repressed Sister Mary Robert and wonderful chances for Florrie Bagel as the bubbly Mary Patrick, Diane J. Findlay as cranky Mary Lazarus, and Richard Pruitt as Monsignor O’Hara to shine on their own, along with every member of the splendidly cast ensemble of all-singing, high-kicking, too-quickly (but who cares?) liberated nuns. There are showstopping performances from Todd A. Horman, Ernie Pruneda, and the hilarious Charles Barksdale as Curtis’s henchmen, reminiscent of performers left over from a revival of Guys and Dolls or ready to brush up their Shakespeare with their “Lady In the Long Black Dress.”
Yet perhaps the most outstanding performance of the evening comes from Hollis Resnik as the convent’s put-upon Mother Superior. Her dryly understated delivery is notable from the start, but when she takes the stage with Campbell for “Here Within These Walls” and her solo “Haven’t Got a Prayer,” this Sister Act is at its best.
Once again, there’s nothing pioneering about Jerry Zaks’s direction or Anthony Van Laast’s choreography, but it’s created and performed with such sharp precision that the work seems as though it’s an homage to early musical theater offerings from mid-last century. Klara Zieglerova’s sets, Lez Brotherston’s costuming, Ken Travis’s sound and, especially, Natasha Katz’s lighting are also top-drawer, as is the musical direction of conductor Brent-Alan Huffman and a wonderful orchestra that mixes touring and local musicians.
Nope, there’s nothing new or even remotely surprising about Sister Act, but it just plain doesn’t matter. It’s a delightful, glittery, wonderfully silly escape from the rapidly spinning and increasingly more confusing world around us and something that will leave you glad to be alive. Somehow, right now that seems to be a formidable accomplishment.
Pantages Theatre
You would think, as standardly formulaic as it is, a musical stage version of the 1992 film hit Sister Act wouldn’t have a prayer. There’s nothing even pretending to be new or innovative in this production, which boasts the movie’s leading player Whoopi Goldberg as one of its producers. But you know what? Sister Act at the Pantages is infectious fun and a perfect summer entertainment meant to just let audiences sit back, enjoy the ride, and not analyze it too deeply.
The story is a given. Over-the-top minor nightclub entertainer Deloris Van Cartier (Ta’Rea Campbell) sees her gangster boyfriend Curtis (Kingsley Leggs) blow away a guy in the alley behind his seedy club and has to go on the run to avoid being his next victim. With the help of her childhood schoolmate “Sweaty” Eddie Souther (E. Clayton Cornelious), now the cop assigned to keep her safe until she can testify in court, Doloris goes in hiding posing as a nun in a cash-strapped convent. You’d have to have been living under a rock for the past 21 years not to know what happens next, and, again, the musical version of the Joseph Howard–penned film offers nothing even remotely new. Even Alan Menken and Glenn Slater’s score seems to be chockfull of riffs faintly recognizable from tunes made famous in Disney projects; and the book by Cheri and Bill Steinkellner, even with later doctoring by the great Douglas Carter Beane, is about as fresh as a 3-day-old bagel.
It just doesn’t matter. Sister Act makes you smile and rock out a bit in your seat. What makes the show work so well is an incandescent mounting with sharply focused production values and a cast that could not be better. In a role it would be hard to interpret anew, Campbell brings an even sassier delivery than the film’s high-profile star did and is blessed with a powerhouse voice that knocks her songs out of the ballpark and could possibly even reach the back row of the cavernous Pantages’s nosebleed seats without amplification. Leggs and Cornelious at first appear cast for their vocal abilities and not their acting prowess, but one thing that’s most notable about this show is that every character is given a showcasing solo turn. Leggs takes the stage easily with his “When I Find My Baby,” and Cornelious brings the house down with Eddie’s fantasy number “I Could Be That Guy.”
Sometimes touring productions of Broadway hits look a little tattered around the edges in delivery and performance, but this one is bright and brand new—and virtually every performance is beautifully rich and heartfelt. There are dynamic solos for Lael Van Keuren as the repressed Sister Mary Robert and wonderful chances for Florrie Bagel as the bubbly Mary Patrick, Diane J. Findlay as cranky Mary Lazarus, and Richard Pruitt as Monsignor O’Hara to shine on their own, along with every member of the splendidly cast ensemble of all-singing, high-kicking, too-quickly (but who cares?) liberated nuns. There are showstopping performances from Todd A. Horman, Ernie Pruneda, and the hilarious Charles Barksdale as Curtis’s henchmen, reminiscent of performers left over from a revival of Guys and Dolls or ready to brush up their Shakespeare with their “Lady In the Long Black Dress.”
Yet perhaps the most outstanding performance of the evening comes from Hollis Resnik as the convent’s put-upon Mother Superior. Her dryly understated delivery is notable from the start, but when she takes the stage with Campbell for “Here Within These Walls” and her solo “Haven’t Got a Prayer,” this Sister Act is at its best.
Once again, there’s nothing pioneering about Jerry Zaks’s direction or Anthony Van Laast’s choreography, but it’s created and performed with such sharp precision that the work seems as though it’s an homage to early musical theater offerings from mid-last century. Klara Zieglerova’s sets, Lez Brotherston’s costuming, Ken Travis’s sound and, especially, Natasha Katz’s lighting are also top-drawer, as is the musical direction of conductor Brent-Alan Huffman and a wonderful orchestra that mixes touring and local musicians.
Nope, there’s nothing new or even remotely surprising about Sister Act, but it just plain doesn’t matter. It’s a delightful, glittery, wonderfully silly escape from the rapidly spinning and increasingly more confusing world around us and something that will leave you glad to be alive. Somehow, right now that seems to be a formidable accomplishment.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
July 12, 2013
July 12, 2013
ModRock
El Portal
ModRock is a train wreck, the waste of a perfectly good idea for a jukebox to rifle, namely the array of 1950s and ’60s British hits that transformed the pop music scene worldwide and eventually made its way to our shores as the “British invasion.” As British invasions go, ModRock is Dunkirk.
The libretto by showbiz entrepreneur Tom Coleman, billed as “Hagan Thomas-Jones,” whose program claim never to have written for the stage before is easy to credit, tries to pull the ol’ switcheroo on such mismatched musical romances as Grease and West Side Story. A star-crossed affair is contrived between a perky, posh mod bird, beehived in Mary Quant mini and go-go boots, and a surly, soulful Teddy boy rocker, slouching over his Harley in white T and tight black jeans.
That the Romeo & Juliet thing is time-tested doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily easy to pull off. West Side Story does so by emphasizing the deep emotional roots of the feud between the homegrown Jets and immigrant Sharks. Grease focuses on the efforts of one fish-out-of-water “good girl” to find acceptance among the high school greaser set. Both premises offer a lot of plot, reversals, and opportunity for character delineation.
By contrast, ModRock offers us…nothing. That’s right, literally nothing happens, dramatically or thematically, over the course of two hours of preening and posturing and thick, impenetrable British accents. No reason is ever provided for the hostility between the two groups. The mods shop and chatter; the rockers hang out on a stoop and chatter; no character is ever moved to do anything or accomplish anything. The big dance club climax of act one occurs when—and you’ll have to trust me on this—a mod and rocker accidentally bump into each other, at which point the hall breaks up into a (phonily staged) brawl. Curtain.
Instead of a story, ModRock has its characters cop attitudes and sing songs that reflect those attitudes. A girl pining for a guy sings “Tired of Waiting.” A kid fed up with his surroundings croons “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.” And so on. Many of the matchups are logical enough, and the tunes are by and large terrific. But none ever moves the story along (yeah I know, “what story?”), so tedium sets in early and never completely goes away.
Curiously, no one has bothered to explore the essence of that musical era, such as the contrast between the sprightly, puckish sensibility of, say, Herman’s Hermits or The Dave Clark Five, and the darker, more introverted concerns of The Kinks. Both extremes are represented in the show—“There's a Kind of Hush” and Petula Clark’s “Downtown” make up the finale—but the cheerful tunes aren’t assigned to the cheerful characters, nor the soulful songs to the brooders. (Or, maybe even more intriguingly, vice versa.) Nope, all the styles are lumped together, and whatever number seems to suit a momentary attitude is chosen.
It’s all really a drag, played with an almost total lack of performance energy by a talented but hamstrung ensemble of 12, none of them able to make his or her character distinguishable from the others. Nothing rocks.
It’s worth noting, speaking of The Kinks, that Ray Davies’s work is prominently featured, a reminder of what a seminal writer he was and what a trailblazing band he fronted. But he gains no reflected honor from the corny choice of “Dedicated Follower of Fashion” as an intro to the mod ethos, and his gloomily nostalgic “Where Are They Now”—depressed, dour, pretentiously staged—has got to be the worst opening number of any tuner this year. With luck, nothing else will come along to challenge it for the title.
El Portal
ModRock is a train wreck, the waste of a perfectly good idea for a jukebox to rifle, namely the array of 1950s and ’60s British hits that transformed the pop music scene worldwide and eventually made its way to our shores as the “British invasion.” As British invasions go, ModRock is Dunkirk.
The libretto by showbiz entrepreneur Tom Coleman, billed as “Hagan Thomas-Jones,” whose program claim never to have written for the stage before is easy to credit, tries to pull the ol’ switcheroo on such mismatched musical romances as Grease and West Side Story. A star-crossed affair is contrived between a perky, posh mod bird, beehived in Mary Quant mini and go-go boots, and a surly, soulful Teddy boy rocker, slouching over his Harley in white T and tight black jeans.
That the Romeo & Juliet thing is time-tested doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily easy to pull off. West Side Story does so by emphasizing the deep emotional roots of the feud between the homegrown Jets and immigrant Sharks. Grease focuses on the efforts of one fish-out-of-water “good girl” to find acceptance among the high school greaser set. Both premises offer a lot of plot, reversals, and opportunity for character delineation.
By contrast, ModRock offers us…nothing. That’s right, literally nothing happens, dramatically or thematically, over the course of two hours of preening and posturing and thick, impenetrable British accents. No reason is ever provided for the hostility between the two groups. The mods shop and chatter; the rockers hang out on a stoop and chatter; no character is ever moved to do anything or accomplish anything. The big dance club climax of act one occurs when—and you’ll have to trust me on this—a mod and rocker accidentally bump into each other, at which point the hall breaks up into a (phonily staged) brawl. Curtain.
Instead of a story, ModRock has its characters cop attitudes and sing songs that reflect those attitudes. A girl pining for a guy sings “Tired of Waiting.” A kid fed up with his surroundings croons “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.” And so on. Many of the matchups are logical enough, and the tunes are by and large terrific. But none ever moves the story along (yeah I know, “what story?”), so tedium sets in early and never completely goes away.
Curiously, no one has bothered to explore the essence of that musical era, such as the contrast between the sprightly, puckish sensibility of, say, Herman’s Hermits or The Dave Clark Five, and the darker, more introverted concerns of The Kinks. Both extremes are represented in the show—“There's a Kind of Hush” and Petula Clark’s “Downtown” make up the finale—but the cheerful tunes aren’t assigned to the cheerful characters, nor the soulful songs to the brooders. (Or, maybe even more intriguingly, vice versa.) Nope, all the styles are lumped together, and whatever number seems to suit a momentary attitude is chosen.
It’s all really a drag, played with an almost total lack of performance energy by a talented but hamstrung ensemble of 12, none of them able to make his or her character distinguishable from the others. Nothing rocks.
It’s worth noting, speaking of The Kinks, that Ray Davies’s work is prominently featured, a reminder of what a seminal writer he was and what a trailblazing band he fronted. But he gains no reflected honor from the corny choice of “Dedicated Follower of Fashion” as an intro to the mod ethos, and his gloomily nostalgic “Where Are They Now”—depressed, dour, pretentiously staged—has got to be the worst opening number of any tuner this year. With luck, nothing else will come along to challenge it for the title.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
July 9, 2013
July 9, 2013
The Royal Family
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
A nation should know and experience its classic dramatic texts. Yet the major virtues of many of ours remain virtually unknown, even to many serious theatergoers, solely because the casts are too large for almost any contemporary producer to afford.
Happily, employment limitations have never deterred the bold custodians of Topanga Canyon’s Theatricum Botanicum, who annually mount gems like George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber’s 1927 The Royal Family on the scale they deserve. Happier still, the Theatricum is able to call upon a genuine theatrical dynasty of the type this play celebrates. Having the Geer clan—matriarch Ellen Geer and her sister Melora Marshall, Ellen’s daughter Willow, and daughter-in-law Abby Craden—appear together in such a witty, stylish work truly makes for one of the summer’s most entertaining popular attractions.
The titular Cavendish family, famously modeled on the Barrymores, are toasts not only of Broadway but also of the barnstorming circuit coast to coast. Their whole lives are devoted to making theater, so much so that they turn their very everyday existence into a flamboyant performance scaled to an invisible second balcony. The issues with which they grapple—marriage, career, impending retirement, jealousy—take on greater intensity because in their own minds they’re all always on stage. All of which makes the play’s acting demands especially stringent, in our need to believe in their behavior and in the larger-than-life expression of it.
The Botanicum cast, under Susan Angelo’s assured direction, rises to the challenge. No one among the principals—who besides various relatives of founder Will Geer include multiyear company mainstays Aaron Hendry and Alan Blumenfeld—was immune from line trouble during the fifth performance. But no one’s shaky words detracted from their individual and collective embrace of the Cavendish flair, their peculiar brand of emotional extravagance that we must accept as real minute by minute—and, in this production, we do.
High style is rare among any acting company. You ought to go see this one pull it off.
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
A nation should know and experience its classic dramatic texts. Yet the major virtues of many of ours remain virtually unknown, even to many serious theatergoers, solely because the casts are too large for almost any contemporary producer to afford.
Happily, employment limitations have never deterred the bold custodians of Topanga Canyon’s Theatricum Botanicum, who annually mount gems like George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber’s 1927 The Royal Family on the scale they deserve. Happier still, the Theatricum is able to call upon a genuine theatrical dynasty of the type this play celebrates. Having the Geer clan—matriarch Ellen Geer and her sister Melora Marshall, Ellen’s daughter Willow, and daughter-in-law Abby Craden—appear together in such a witty, stylish work truly makes for one of the summer’s most entertaining popular attractions.
The titular Cavendish family, famously modeled on the Barrymores, are toasts not only of Broadway but also of the barnstorming circuit coast to coast. Their whole lives are devoted to making theater, so much so that they turn their very everyday existence into a flamboyant performance scaled to an invisible second balcony. The issues with which they grapple—marriage, career, impending retirement, jealousy—take on greater intensity because in their own minds they’re all always on stage. All of which makes the play’s acting demands especially stringent, in our need to believe in their behavior and in the larger-than-life expression of it.
The Botanicum cast, under Susan Angelo’s assured direction, rises to the challenge. No one among the principals—who besides various relatives of founder Will Geer include multiyear company mainstays Aaron Hendry and Alan Blumenfeld—was immune from line trouble during the fifth performance. But no one’s shaky words detracted from their individual and collective embrace of the Cavendish flair, their peculiar brand of emotional extravagance that we must accept as real minute by minute—and, in this production, we do.
High style is rare among any acting company. You ought to go see this one pull it off.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
July 10, 2013
July 10, 2013
A View From the Bridge
Pacific Resident Theatre
“I want my respect!” insists Eddie Carbone continually—and ambiguously. Sadly for him, but thrillingly for audiences since 1955, when Arthur Miller’s magnificently crafted play premiered, Miller’s protagonist Eddie has no idea what respect means nor how to earn it.
Eddie lives in Brooklyn with his well-worn wife, Beatrice, and her sister’s 17-year-old daughter, Catherine. Beatrice’s two young male cousins are arriving from Italy, illegally, to stay with the Carbones until the two can find enough work to support themselves and send money home. Catherine becomes sweet on one of them, unlocking a variety of previously suppressed undercurrents.
Under the co-direction of Marilyn Fox and Dana Jackson, the script’s crushing emotionality quietly settles over the audience, leaving us shaken and saddened for Eddie’s inability to handle what could have been a wonderful life. Only a few moments of direction don’t ring true: Choreographed fights are too timid, particularly considering the proximity of the audience, and recorded music playing over the last lines of dialogue distract from rather than enhance the pathos of the story. Otherwise, this is a thoughtful, measured, well-rehearsed production, from casting through the faded wallpaper.
Playing Eddie, Vince Melocchi is stunningly good—truthful and tightly lidded, so the actor swallows Eddie’s tears and earns the audience’s affection rather than bawling histrionically and demanding it. Fox and Jackson have cast an everyman rather than a matinee idol, which makes Eddie’s romantic inclinations frighteningly real rather than cartoonish.
Lisa Cirincione has cut Catherine out of cloth of another time. The character has the energy, joy, and naïveté of a 1950s teen. Melissa Weber Bales makes a lovely, unappreciated Beatrice—once a pretty girl just like Catherine, now a frustrated, exhausted, housebound wife.
Miller enhances the Greek tragedy of his tale with a Greek chorus in the single person of local lawyer Mr. Alfieri. The craft with which Robert Lesser handles the role establishes the production’s tone from the outset. This is top-quality acting, at its apex when Lesser and Melocchi share a scene in Alfieri’s office.
The play takes place on Staci Walters’s and Jeffery P. Eisenmann’s extraordinarily well-designed, well-built set. The construction is solid (slammed doors don’t shake the walls), the brickwork looks real, and that aged wallpaper is a miracle of either savvy shopping or artistic distressing.
Pacific Resident Theatre
“I want my respect!” insists Eddie Carbone continually—and ambiguously. Sadly for him, but thrillingly for audiences since 1955, when Arthur Miller’s magnificently crafted play premiered, Miller’s protagonist Eddie has no idea what respect means nor how to earn it.
Eddie lives in Brooklyn with his well-worn wife, Beatrice, and her sister’s 17-year-old daughter, Catherine. Beatrice’s two young male cousins are arriving from Italy, illegally, to stay with the Carbones until the two can find enough work to support themselves and send money home. Catherine becomes sweet on one of them, unlocking a variety of previously suppressed undercurrents.
Under the co-direction of Marilyn Fox and Dana Jackson, the script’s crushing emotionality quietly settles over the audience, leaving us shaken and saddened for Eddie’s inability to handle what could have been a wonderful life. Only a few moments of direction don’t ring true: Choreographed fights are too timid, particularly considering the proximity of the audience, and recorded music playing over the last lines of dialogue distract from rather than enhance the pathos of the story. Otherwise, this is a thoughtful, measured, well-rehearsed production, from casting through the faded wallpaper.
Playing Eddie, Vince Melocchi is stunningly good—truthful and tightly lidded, so the actor swallows Eddie’s tears and earns the audience’s affection rather than bawling histrionically and demanding it. Fox and Jackson have cast an everyman rather than a matinee idol, which makes Eddie’s romantic inclinations frighteningly real rather than cartoonish.
Lisa Cirincione has cut Catherine out of cloth of another time. The character has the energy, joy, and naïveté of a 1950s teen. Melissa Weber Bales makes a lovely, unappreciated Beatrice—once a pretty girl just like Catherine, now a frustrated, exhausted, housebound wife.
Miller enhances the Greek tragedy of his tale with a Greek chorus in the single person of local lawyer Mr. Alfieri. The craft with which Robert Lesser handles the role establishes the production’s tone from the outset. This is top-quality acting, at its apex when Lesser and Melocchi share a scene in Alfieri’s office.
The play takes place on Staci Walters’s and Jeffery P. Eisenmann’s extraordinarily well-designed, well-built set. The construction is solid (slammed doors don’t shake the walls), the brickwork looks real, and that aged wallpaper is a miracle of either savvy shopping or artistic distressing.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 6, 2013
July 6, 2013
The Judy Show—My Life As a Sitcom
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
One will glean from her solo show that Judy Gold desperately wants her own sitcom, in part to promote her personal history of ultimately earning acceptance from her family, and thus she created this 95-minute saga (co-written with Kate Moira Ryan), packaged with its own theme song. In that case, one hates the medium but loves her message.
Her set (Andrew Boyce) is a happy mix of old and new. An entry door with its three little inset windows recalls sitcom doors of yore. At the other side of the stage is a shiny upright piano, cheerily producing bouncy theme-song chords. The proscenium (created for the Audrey black box) is papered with what might be old TV Guide covers. But upstage is a wall-to-wall collection of video screens that spring to vibrant life at just the right moments (projection design by Boyce; the evening is directed by Amanda Charlton).
Just like Dick Van Dyke, Gold pops through that front door to welcome her audience. Dressed in stretch jeans and tennies, she tries hard to make us to feel comfortable and on her side. Her appeal sours quickly, however, as she drops names and emphasizes her hundreds of TV credits. Soon she’s at the piano, accompanying herself as she sings, hoping the audience will marvel at the breadth of her talents. Instead, it’s easy to let her slide into that dreaded “solo showcase” category.
Some of her jokes—including one about Nazi concentration camps and one about Anne Frank—are in excruciatingly bad taste. She shrieks. She uses myriad Yiddish words—including a prayer for the dead, which she pronounces over the goldfish she flushed down the toilet. She never lets the audience forget she’s desperate for her own sitcom.
And yet. Gold, a 6-foot-3 observant Jew and a lesbian, had trouble finding acceptance in her life. Photos of her, displayed on those video screens, reveal a child who had to self-soothe, an adolescent with bad hair on photo days, a self-consciously towering college student. She was unique and yet so human. And therein lies this show’s goldmine, pardon the pun, of catharsis.
Young Judy watched sitcoms that revolved around happy hetero families whose parents forgave and showed love to the children every 30 minutes. And as Judy grew up, she wanted to let other children know they’re normal enough to see their stories told on TV, too. Today, her moving messages of hope, of reconciliation, of acceptance, though they might not merit a sitcom, merit this solo show.
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
One will glean from her solo show that Judy Gold desperately wants her own sitcom, in part to promote her personal history of ultimately earning acceptance from her family, and thus she created this 95-minute saga (co-written with Kate Moira Ryan), packaged with its own theme song. In that case, one hates the medium but loves her message.
Her set (Andrew Boyce) is a happy mix of old and new. An entry door with its three little inset windows recalls sitcom doors of yore. At the other side of the stage is a shiny upright piano, cheerily producing bouncy theme-song chords. The proscenium (created for the Audrey black box) is papered with what might be old TV Guide covers. But upstage is a wall-to-wall collection of video screens that spring to vibrant life at just the right moments (projection design by Boyce; the evening is directed by Amanda Charlton).
Just like Dick Van Dyke, Gold pops through that front door to welcome her audience. Dressed in stretch jeans and tennies, she tries hard to make us to feel comfortable and on her side. Her appeal sours quickly, however, as she drops names and emphasizes her hundreds of TV credits. Soon she’s at the piano, accompanying herself as she sings, hoping the audience will marvel at the breadth of her talents. Instead, it’s easy to let her slide into that dreaded “solo showcase” category.
Some of her jokes—including one about Nazi concentration camps and one about Anne Frank—are in excruciatingly bad taste. She shrieks. She uses myriad Yiddish words—including a prayer for the dead, which she pronounces over the goldfish she flushed down the toilet. She never lets the audience forget she’s desperate for her own sitcom.
And yet. Gold, a 6-foot-3 observant Jew and a lesbian, had trouble finding acceptance in her life. Photos of her, displayed on those video screens, reveal a child who had to self-soothe, an adolescent with bad hair on photo days, a self-consciously towering college student. She was unique and yet so human. And therein lies this show’s goldmine, pardon the pun, of catharsis.
Young Judy watched sitcoms that revolved around happy hetero families whose parents forgave and showed love to the children every 30 minutes. And as Judy grew up, she wanted to let other children know they’re normal enough to see their stories told on TV, too. Today, her moving messages of hope, of reconciliation, of acceptance, though they might not merit a sitcom, merit this solo show.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 3, 2013
July 3, 2013
The Katrina Comedy Fest
Lounge Theatre
Beginning with a mournful blues song accompanying a video (production design by Jeff Teeter) showing the devastation and flooding after Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, the scene is set for a tale of tragedy. But no, the five actors who join the audience in the intimate Lounge Theatre are there to tell the true stories of survivors who recall the experience. The superlative cast includes Judy Jean Berns, Peggy Blow (double cast with Deidrie Henry) Travis Michael Holder, Jan Munroe, and L. Trey Wilson. Each plays a specific character but also chimes in as added voices for extra characters.
The setting is Antoinette K-Doe’s Mother-in-law Lounge. Antoinette (Blow, at this performance) is a feisty, take-charge grandma who starts the narrative about the prelude to the hurricane. It’s clear that she can handle anything that comes her way, and a flood is just one of those pesky things that illustrate her competence and generosity. Munroe is Sonny, affluent and used to being able to order solutions to problems with money. Wilson is Raymond, draped in Mardi Gras necklaces and raggedy clothes, a quasi-homeless character finding this flood the adventure of his life. Rodney, played by Holder, is the caretaker for his parents, and alcohol fuels his frustration with his situation. Judy, played by Berns, is timid but to her delight finds herself hooked up with tattooed juveniles who would never have crossed her path under ordinary circumstances. The narrative hopscotches from person to person, always leaving a thread of the story ready for pickup later on.
Director Misty Carlisle’s adept execution was probably made smoother by casting experienced pros whose nuanced characterizations range from easygoing impatience to nerve-wracking agitation. The screen at the rear of the stage, used so well in the beginning of the play, is a weak link in the staging and needs more purposeful visuals to enhance the storyline throughout. The final photos of the real-life people portrayed make a nice finish for the production.
Playwright Rob Florence’s script is funny, poignant, uplifting, and clever. In 80 minutes, he captures the essence of why people from New Orleans want to remain, even when the potential for disaster is always palpably real. This Hollywood Fringe Festival production is first-rate, and it should be remounted with this cast so more people could view the fine work exhibited.
Lounge Theatre
Beginning with a mournful blues song accompanying a video (production design by Jeff Teeter) showing the devastation and flooding after Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, the scene is set for a tale of tragedy. But no, the five actors who join the audience in the intimate Lounge Theatre are there to tell the true stories of survivors who recall the experience. The superlative cast includes Judy Jean Berns, Peggy Blow (double cast with Deidrie Henry) Travis Michael Holder, Jan Munroe, and L. Trey Wilson. Each plays a specific character but also chimes in as added voices for extra characters.
The setting is Antoinette K-Doe’s Mother-in-law Lounge. Antoinette (Blow, at this performance) is a feisty, take-charge grandma who starts the narrative about the prelude to the hurricane. It’s clear that she can handle anything that comes her way, and a flood is just one of those pesky things that illustrate her competence and generosity. Munroe is Sonny, affluent and used to being able to order solutions to problems with money. Wilson is Raymond, draped in Mardi Gras necklaces and raggedy clothes, a quasi-homeless character finding this flood the adventure of his life. Rodney, played by Holder, is the caretaker for his parents, and alcohol fuels his frustration with his situation. Judy, played by Berns, is timid but to her delight finds herself hooked up with tattooed juveniles who would never have crossed her path under ordinary circumstances. The narrative hopscotches from person to person, always leaving a thread of the story ready for pickup later on.
Director Misty Carlisle’s adept execution was probably made smoother by casting experienced pros whose nuanced characterizations range from easygoing impatience to nerve-wracking agitation. The screen at the rear of the stage, used so well in the beginning of the play, is a weak link in the staging and needs more purposeful visuals to enhance the storyline throughout. The final photos of the real-life people portrayed make a nice finish for the production.
Playwright Rob Florence’s script is funny, poignant, uplifting, and clever. In 80 minutes, he captures the essence of why people from New Orleans want to remain, even when the potential for disaster is always palpably real. This Hollywood Fringe Festival production is first-rate, and it should be remounted with this cast so more people could view the fine work exhibited.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
June 27, 2013
June 27, 2013
The Assassination of Leon Trotsky: A Comedy
Theatre Planners at Odyssey Theatre
It is historical fact that exiled Soviet Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky and his wife, Natalya Sedova, settle in Mexico in the late 1930s—living as guests in the home of artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera—until Trotsky is assassinated in August 1940 by Spanish-born Communist agent Ramon Mercader. Playwright Peter Lefcourt has enveloped these facts within the clunky machinations of a present-day ensemble of actors who decide to stage an opening night revolt, rendering their Author’s (Greyson Lewis) historical drama of Trotsky’s murder as an improvise-at-will, no-holds-barred self-serving exercise in chaos. Lefcourt’s play fails to produce the most basic element of farce: humor. Despite the imaginative, fluid staging of helmer Terri Hanauer and the yeoman efforts of a talented ensemble, the work sinks under the weighty excess of the script.
Promisingly, at the play’s outset, Lefcourt reveals the theatrical mindset of the ensemble putting on this play when the actor playing Rivera (Joe J. Garcia) steals a moment offstage to call his agent, pleading with him to set up an audition for a TV series. There is also the requisite leading-lady tension between the damsels playing Kahlo (Murielle Zuker) and Sedova (Holly Hawkins), who feels she should have been cast as Kahlo. Lefcourt sets in motion the elements of a traditional play-within-a-play comedy when news comes that the actor playing the small but pivotal roles of a police captain and assassin Mercader has died in an accident, forcing the monumentally unwilling Author to step in and assume the roles in order for the show to go on.
What’s apparent immediately is the viability of Hanauer’s cast, manifested by the first-act interplay between Zuker’s sensuous, mischievously brilliant Kahlo and Garcia’s ingratiating vulgar muralist Rivera. Deceptively refined Trotsky (Joel Swetow) and his exile-weary wife fit right in, with constantly in heat Rivera soon finding his way to Sedova’s bed. Also scampering attractively about on Joel Daavid’s exquisitely detailed Mexican hacienda setting are youthful, sexually charged servants Guadalupe (Ashley Platz) and Jesus (Christopher Rivas), who are constantly finding opportunities to lock themselves in the potting shed.
Unfortunately, the bottom drops out of these promising proceedings when Swetow’s actor inexplicably goes off script, launching into an impassioned speech by peasant-turned–land owner Lopakhin from Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, leaving the audience with nothing to hold on to from the viable dramatic throughline that has been established. During the play’s supposed intermission, Trotsky/Lopakhin convinces his stunned stage mates that the only way to save themselves in this supposedly unworthy stage work is to chew up the scenery, throwing in whatever snippets of other plays that spontaneously come to mind, much to the consternation of the Author.
The second act is long on unrepentant silliness, with excerpts of stage works ranging from Shakespeare to Beckett crammed into the proceedings, occasionally interrupted by plot snippets from the Author’s original work. There is nothing to recommend these scenic meanderings. Because they come out of nowhere, they cannot stand on their own as comedy or drama. They have no entertainment value, take up time as they put the plot of the play on hold, and obliterate the talent-laden characterizations of an ensemble that deserves better.
Lefcourt has proven his comedic playwriting adeptness with such works as Only the Dead Know Burbank and La Ronde de Lunch. In the program for Assassination, he reveals he started to write this eight years ago, intending it to be a “left wing bedroom farce.” He ran aground with it and put it away. Last fall, when he decided to finish the play, he took it in this new direction. It was decidedly the wrong direction.
Theatre Planners at Odyssey Theatre
It is historical fact that exiled Soviet Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky and his wife, Natalya Sedova, settle in Mexico in the late 1930s—living as guests in the home of artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera—until Trotsky is assassinated in August 1940 by Spanish-born Communist agent Ramon Mercader. Playwright Peter Lefcourt has enveloped these facts within the clunky machinations of a present-day ensemble of actors who decide to stage an opening night revolt, rendering their Author’s (Greyson Lewis) historical drama of Trotsky’s murder as an improvise-at-will, no-holds-barred self-serving exercise in chaos. Lefcourt’s play fails to produce the most basic element of farce: humor. Despite the imaginative, fluid staging of helmer Terri Hanauer and the yeoman efforts of a talented ensemble, the work sinks under the weighty excess of the script.
Promisingly, at the play’s outset, Lefcourt reveals the theatrical mindset of the ensemble putting on this play when the actor playing Rivera (Joe J. Garcia) steals a moment offstage to call his agent, pleading with him to set up an audition for a TV series. There is also the requisite leading-lady tension between the damsels playing Kahlo (Murielle Zuker) and Sedova (Holly Hawkins), who feels she should have been cast as Kahlo. Lefcourt sets in motion the elements of a traditional play-within-a-play comedy when news comes that the actor playing the small but pivotal roles of a police captain and assassin Mercader has died in an accident, forcing the monumentally unwilling Author to step in and assume the roles in order for the show to go on.
What’s apparent immediately is the viability of Hanauer’s cast, manifested by the first-act interplay between Zuker’s sensuous, mischievously brilliant Kahlo and Garcia’s ingratiating vulgar muralist Rivera. Deceptively refined Trotsky (Joel Swetow) and his exile-weary wife fit right in, with constantly in heat Rivera soon finding his way to Sedova’s bed. Also scampering attractively about on Joel Daavid’s exquisitely detailed Mexican hacienda setting are youthful, sexually charged servants Guadalupe (Ashley Platz) and Jesus (Christopher Rivas), who are constantly finding opportunities to lock themselves in the potting shed.
Unfortunately, the bottom drops out of these promising proceedings when Swetow’s actor inexplicably goes off script, launching into an impassioned speech by peasant-turned–land owner Lopakhin from Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, leaving the audience with nothing to hold on to from the viable dramatic throughline that has been established. During the play’s supposed intermission, Trotsky/Lopakhin convinces his stunned stage mates that the only way to save themselves in this supposedly unworthy stage work is to chew up the scenery, throwing in whatever snippets of other plays that spontaneously come to mind, much to the consternation of the Author.
The second act is long on unrepentant silliness, with excerpts of stage works ranging from Shakespeare to Beckett crammed into the proceedings, occasionally interrupted by plot snippets from the Author’s original work. There is nothing to recommend these scenic meanderings. Because they come out of nowhere, they cannot stand on their own as comedy or drama. They have no entertainment value, take up time as they put the plot of the play on hold, and obliterate the talent-laden characterizations of an ensemble that deserves better.
Lefcourt has proven his comedic playwriting adeptness with such works as Only the Dead Know Burbank and La Ronde de Lunch. In the program for Assassination, he reveals he started to write this eight years ago, intending it to be a “left wing bedroom farce.” He ran aground with it and put it away. Last fall, when he decided to finish the play, he took it in this new direction. It was decidedly the wrong direction.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
June 25, 2013
June 25, 2013
revolver
Celebration Theatre
There are six barrels in a handgun and six diverse stories in the world premiere of Chris Phillips’s revolver at the Celebration Theatre. From a heavenly confrontational tango between Jesus and Judas to the connection between perpetrator and victim hauntingly reiterated in the final tableaux between the dead Matthew Sheppard and his murderer Aaron McKinney arriving in purgatory, these are basically unrelated stories that deal with the aftermath of physical and emotional violence—particularly as it relates to the gay community.
Though the connection among the tales is a bit sketchy, the writing is clear and solid. Ryan Bergmann’s staging is appropriately ethereal, and the excellent performances by this cast of six conspire to make this an important production despite the faint flavor of a night of showcasing one-acts. There are lots of “Friends of Dorothy” references in the script, from an audition where a gay actor is reading for the character of the flaming cop (“It’s just a punchline but someone’s gotta do it”) to a speech about the banality of Out magazine, complaining that it reduces gay rights to hair highlighting mishaps and finding the right patio furniture.
The cast is palpably committed to the material and, surely to Bergmann’s credit, uniformly subtle in its performances, where an easily achieved flamboyance could sink this production faster than the Titanic. The final scene between Sheppard and McKinney is heartrendingly simple and honest, especially as performed by Daniel Montgomery and AJ Jones. John Colella is also a standout as a painfully cynical gay journalist being interviewed by a young admirer (Matthew Scott Montgomery). In this inspired, thought-provoking monologue, the playwright’s treatise on gay issues, as acceptance in our culture grows increasingly more open and narrow at the same time, clearly explores a dangerous, festering divide that could eventually swallow up so many advances as quickly as society embraces them.
Although Janet Roston’s tango and Sondra Meyer’s fight choreography were still a bit clunky on opening night, those difficult elements probably have come together by now with a little target practice. With Bergmann’s sparse vision, featuring a wall of rolling doors moved by the actors to create new spaces, and aided by Matthew Brian Denman’s shadowy, unearthly lighting plot and Rebecca Kessin’s echoing, intentionally staccato sound design, the atmosphere is exquisitely ripe for a major hit for the Celebration honoring the work of an insightful new playwright.
Celebration Theatre
There are six barrels in a handgun and six diverse stories in the world premiere of Chris Phillips’s revolver at the Celebration Theatre. From a heavenly confrontational tango between Jesus and Judas to the connection between perpetrator and victim hauntingly reiterated in the final tableaux between the dead Matthew Sheppard and his murderer Aaron McKinney arriving in purgatory, these are basically unrelated stories that deal with the aftermath of physical and emotional violence—particularly as it relates to the gay community.
Though the connection among the tales is a bit sketchy, the writing is clear and solid. Ryan Bergmann’s staging is appropriately ethereal, and the excellent performances by this cast of six conspire to make this an important production despite the faint flavor of a night of showcasing one-acts. There are lots of “Friends of Dorothy” references in the script, from an audition where a gay actor is reading for the character of the flaming cop (“It’s just a punchline but someone’s gotta do it”) to a speech about the banality of Out magazine, complaining that it reduces gay rights to hair highlighting mishaps and finding the right patio furniture.
The cast is palpably committed to the material and, surely to Bergmann’s credit, uniformly subtle in its performances, where an easily achieved flamboyance could sink this production faster than the Titanic. The final scene between Sheppard and McKinney is heartrendingly simple and honest, especially as performed by Daniel Montgomery and AJ Jones. John Colella is also a standout as a painfully cynical gay journalist being interviewed by a young admirer (Matthew Scott Montgomery). In this inspired, thought-provoking monologue, the playwright’s treatise on gay issues, as acceptance in our culture grows increasingly more open and narrow at the same time, clearly explores a dangerous, festering divide that could eventually swallow up so many advances as quickly as society embraces them.
Although Janet Roston’s tango and Sondra Meyer’s fight choreography were still a bit clunky on opening night, those difficult elements probably have come together by now with a little target practice. With Bergmann’s sparse vision, featuring a wall of rolling doors moved by the actors to create new spaces, and aided by Matthew Brian Denman’s shadowy, unearthly lighting plot and Rebecca Kessin’s echoing, intentionally staccato sound design, the atmosphere is exquisitely ripe for a major hit for the Celebration honoring the work of an insightful new playwright.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
June 20, 2013
June 20, 2013
One Night in Miami
Rogue Machine
Any stage play that incorporates characterizations of well-known, real-life contemporary people has a challenge from the outset. Audience members will usually need time to adjust their individual sense-memories of these figures before they can accept and relax into the portrayals they are viewing onstage. That is no problem for Kemp Powers’s world premiere One Night in Miami. As fluidly staged by Carl Cofield, the post–boxing match hotel-room gathering of Cassius Clay (Matt Jones), singer-composer Sam Cooke (Ty Jones), NFL football great Jim Brown (Kevin Daniels), and Nation of Islam leader Malcolm X (Jason Delane) pulsates with the tangible energies of these personalities that transcend memories of the real-life people and live on their own terms.
It is Feb. 25, 1964, the night Clay shocked the sports world by soundly thrashing reining heavyweight champion Sonny Liston. Reveling in the euphoria of Clay’s historic victory, these four avowed friends prowl around Stephanie Kerley Schwartz’s finely detailed low-rent hotel room, each projecting his own personal agenda, not always achieving empathetic accord with the others.
Powers skillfully shifts and evolves the thematic emphasis among the men as Malcolm X prepares to launch his protégé Clay into the mainstream of the Muslim Brotherhood, while Brown and Cooke urge the new champion to establish himself as a celebrity in the real world of the black man in America, with all the adulation, money, and sensual rewards that come with it. Working within a confined space, Cofield achieves an admirable rhythmic cohesion within an uninterrupted 85 minutes as these men jive and joke with each other, at times seriously challenging the veracity of one another’s choices in life. The reward for the audience is the finely realized portrayals of this inspired cast.
Matt Jones offers a powerful portrayal of Clay, a joyous man-child, whose bubbling spirit is adorned by a magnificent physique that can barely be contained within its environment. He offers a tour-de-force round-by-round re-enactment of his battle with Liston, complemented by the supportive interplay of Daniels’ Brown. Jones also gives poignant evidence of this 22-year-old’s insecurity and ambivalence—beaming with anticipation of the Jim Brown/Sam Cooke world of women and fame, while sheepishly paying heed to Malcolm X’s declaration that Clay has a moral responsibility to be a new kind of leader for the black citizens of this country.
In sharp contrast to Jones’s flamboyance is Delane’s intensely controlled outing as Malcolm X, a completely self-invented being whose every word and movement is calculated to achieve maximum effect with minimal physical exertion or emotional expression. Delane’s Malcolm exudes a concentrated laser-like energy whenever he chooses to focus his general disapproval at the antics of Clay or a member of his entourage. Yet, Delane subtly displays cracks in Malcolm’s armor, revealing his concerns that the Black Muslim bodyguards standing outside the hotel door (Giovanni Adams, Jason E. Kelley) have been provided by Nation of Islam supreme leader Elijah Muhammad more to watch Malcolm than to protect him.
The production’s principle entertainment is provided by Ty Jones’s outing as pop idol Sam Cooke, offering an impressive display of the “king of soul” vocal technique, entertaining his pals with the slick and the gritty versions of his hit, “You Send Me.” When Malcolm chides Cooke because his songs don’t reflect the changes in society reflective in Bob Dylan’s recently recorded “Blowin’ in the Wind,” Jones blasts tears and rage through Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.”
Daniels’s Jim Brown is the most relaxed man in the room. When Malcolm challenges the football great as to why he has ignored the call to become a Muslim, the athlete casually replies, “Pork chops and white women.” Daniels admirably captures the confidence of a gifted black man who has come to the decision he will deal with the white world at his own pace and on his own schedule.
Powers is a playwright-in-residence at Rogue Machine. This debut work gives every evidence his voice will be heard on stages for quite awhile.
Rogue Machine
Any stage play that incorporates characterizations of well-known, real-life contemporary people has a challenge from the outset. Audience members will usually need time to adjust their individual sense-memories of these figures before they can accept and relax into the portrayals they are viewing onstage. That is no problem for Kemp Powers’s world premiere One Night in Miami. As fluidly staged by Carl Cofield, the post–boxing match hotel-room gathering of Cassius Clay (Matt Jones), singer-composer Sam Cooke (Ty Jones), NFL football great Jim Brown (Kevin Daniels), and Nation of Islam leader Malcolm X (Jason Delane) pulsates with the tangible energies of these personalities that transcend memories of the real-life people and live on their own terms.
It is Feb. 25, 1964, the night Clay shocked the sports world by soundly thrashing reining heavyweight champion Sonny Liston. Reveling in the euphoria of Clay’s historic victory, these four avowed friends prowl around Stephanie Kerley Schwartz’s finely detailed low-rent hotel room, each projecting his own personal agenda, not always achieving empathetic accord with the others.
Powers skillfully shifts and evolves the thematic emphasis among the men as Malcolm X prepares to launch his protégé Clay into the mainstream of the Muslim Brotherhood, while Brown and Cooke urge the new champion to establish himself as a celebrity in the real world of the black man in America, with all the adulation, money, and sensual rewards that come with it. Working within a confined space, Cofield achieves an admirable rhythmic cohesion within an uninterrupted 85 minutes as these men jive and joke with each other, at times seriously challenging the veracity of one another’s choices in life. The reward for the audience is the finely realized portrayals of this inspired cast.
Matt Jones offers a powerful portrayal of Clay, a joyous man-child, whose bubbling spirit is adorned by a magnificent physique that can barely be contained within its environment. He offers a tour-de-force round-by-round re-enactment of his battle with Liston, complemented by the supportive interplay of Daniels’ Brown. Jones also gives poignant evidence of this 22-year-old’s insecurity and ambivalence—beaming with anticipation of the Jim Brown/Sam Cooke world of women and fame, while sheepishly paying heed to Malcolm X’s declaration that Clay has a moral responsibility to be a new kind of leader for the black citizens of this country.
In sharp contrast to Jones’s flamboyance is Delane’s intensely controlled outing as Malcolm X, a completely self-invented being whose every word and movement is calculated to achieve maximum effect with minimal physical exertion or emotional expression. Delane’s Malcolm exudes a concentrated laser-like energy whenever he chooses to focus his general disapproval at the antics of Clay or a member of his entourage. Yet, Delane subtly displays cracks in Malcolm’s armor, revealing his concerns that the Black Muslim bodyguards standing outside the hotel door (Giovanni Adams, Jason E. Kelley) have been provided by Nation of Islam supreme leader Elijah Muhammad more to watch Malcolm than to protect him.
The production’s principle entertainment is provided by Ty Jones’s outing as pop idol Sam Cooke, offering an impressive display of the “king of soul” vocal technique, entertaining his pals with the slick and the gritty versions of his hit, “You Send Me.” When Malcolm chides Cooke because his songs don’t reflect the changes in society reflective in Bob Dylan’s recently recorded “Blowin’ in the Wind,” Jones blasts tears and rage through Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.”
Daniels’s Jim Brown is the most relaxed man in the room. When Malcolm challenges the football great as to why he has ignored the call to become a Muslim, the athlete casually replies, “Pork chops and white women.” Daniels admirably captures the confidence of a gifted black man who has come to the decision he will deal with the white world at his own pace and on his own schedule.
Powers is a playwright-in-residence at Rogue Machine. This debut work gives every evidence his voice will be heard on stages for quite awhile.
Reviewed by Julio Martinze
June 18, 2013
June 18, 2013
We
Are Proud to Present a Presentation About the Herero of Namibia,
Formerly Known As South-West Africa, From the German Sudwestafrika,
Between the Years 1884–1915
Matrix Theatre
If you revel in fine actors’ pushing the envelope of what performance can do, or have an interest in investigating important historical experience via theatrical means, this ungainly-named but unforgettable work is *the* production of the summer, just as Son of Semele’s recently closed Our Class was *the* production of the spring. In both, a splendidly unified ensemble, masterfully directed, shape-shifts among multiple roles to tackle, head-on, the 20th century’s legacy of dread.
The title says the cast is “proud,” though the situation and subject matter seem rather to confound and rile the six thespian characters assembled on the wide-open Matrix stage, surrounded by various accoutrements of a rehearsal room (crummy chairs and tables; a blackboard) and performance space (set pieces; a ladder). The topic is the now-lost Herero tribe’s fate during the period when Germany held “Southwest Africa,” now Namibia, in its iron grip. Between 1904 and 1907, the building of a railroad by indigenous workers, their lives held cheap, led to the extinction of a massive (more than 100,000) and proud people. But how? And why?
Though company members are generically identified as “Black Woman” or “Another White Man,” they convey an aura of specific and varied mutual backstory as they arrive, banter, and engage in their actory preshow “mah-may-mee-mo-moo” warmups; a stilted historical overview complete with maps on opaque projector and scrawled wall text goes off well enough. What stymies the sextet are knotty dramaturgical concerns.
For instance, there are plenty of personal letters extant from German soldiers on the East African front to their Rhinemaidens back home, and the “cast” is prepared to present those with appropriately deep feeling. But none of the documents, apparently, alludes whatsoever to the awful events under the writers’ watch; they barely mention the Herero at all; indeed, there’s little or no documentary evidence of the tribe left to us. As one character points out, the only reason we know they’re gone is that they’re gone.
The company debates the propriety and truthfulness of ascribing, to Soldaten and tribespeople alike, motivations and emotions we cannot be certain of. They improvise, relate their own personal histories, act out and act up, their disagreements festering until they explode across racial (three blacks and three whites among the actors) and gender lines.
Eventually it becomes clear that the real subject of playwright Jackie Sibblies Drury is our very response to history. Yes, she wants to explore the Herero tragedy and see that they’re not forgotten. But even more, she needs for us to understand that human cruelty is not something we only see in the here and now: The people who sinned and were sinned against in centuries past were no less real than we are now, and if we cannot recognize that and mourn them properly, it’s our limitation, not theirs. If a genocide falls in a forest and no one’s there to hear it, it still occurred.
This ambitious play, bursting with theatrical opportunity and complex ideas, is (predictably) subject to excess and flaw. It’s never clear why these six have assembled to tell the Herero saga in the first place, or what stake in it makes them remain in the face of the rawest intercompany conflicts. Also, much is made of this being a democratic artistic collective, but there seems to be insufficient objection whenever Black Woman (Julanne Chidi Hill, clearly Drury’s mouthpiece) steps forward as director and puppeteer, as she periodically chooses to do.
Script issues aside, the work is stunningly performed. Hill wears the pain of a historical atrocity on her face and in her very body. John Sloan manfully wrestles with his innate decency as a lonely German soldier once he (Sloan) recognizes what this son of the Fatherland must have been privy to, and is completely believable in his attempted exit from the whole business. Daniel Bess provides sardonic, even dazzling comedy relief in several of the most outrageous character impersonations. Joe Holt’s intellectual and emotional pain is deep and evident throughout, while Phil LaMarr and Rebecca Mozo triumph in their attempts to reconcile their reality as actors with the narrative they have been deputized to tell.
The best compliment to helmer Jillian Armenante is that at times it becomes impossible to believe that all of this give and take, all of this historical exploration, wasn’t improvised on the spot. The flow of events, emotions, and parallel worlds, shaped by her sure directorial hand, is seamless. This is a shattering evening not to be missed by anyone who treasures theater.
Matrix Theatre
If you revel in fine actors’ pushing the envelope of what performance can do, or have an interest in investigating important historical experience via theatrical means, this ungainly-named but unforgettable work is *the* production of the summer, just as Son of Semele’s recently closed Our Class was *the* production of the spring. In both, a splendidly unified ensemble, masterfully directed, shape-shifts among multiple roles to tackle, head-on, the 20th century’s legacy of dread.
The title says the cast is “proud,” though the situation and subject matter seem rather to confound and rile the six thespian characters assembled on the wide-open Matrix stage, surrounded by various accoutrements of a rehearsal room (crummy chairs and tables; a blackboard) and performance space (set pieces; a ladder). The topic is the now-lost Herero tribe’s fate during the period when Germany held “Southwest Africa,” now Namibia, in its iron grip. Between 1904 and 1907, the building of a railroad by indigenous workers, their lives held cheap, led to the extinction of a massive (more than 100,000) and proud people. But how? And why?
Though company members are generically identified as “Black Woman” or “Another White Man,” they convey an aura of specific and varied mutual backstory as they arrive, banter, and engage in their actory preshow “mah-may-mee-mo-moo” warmups; a stilted historical overview complete with maps on opaque projector and scrawled wall text goes off well enough. What stymies the sextet are knotty dramaturgical concerns.
For instance, there are plenty of personal letters extant from German soldiers on the East African front to their Rhinemaidens back home, and the “cast” is prepared to present those with appropriately deep feeling. But none of the documents, apparently, alludes whatsoever to the awful events under the writers’ watch; they barely mention the Herero at all; indeed, there’s little or no documentary evidence of the tribe left to us. As one character points out, the only reason we know they’re gone is that they’re gone.
The company debates the propriety and truthfulness of ascribing, to Soldaten and tribespeople alike, motivations and emotions we cannot be certain of. They improvise, relate their own personal histories, act out and act up, their disagreements festering until they explode across racial (three blacks and three whites among the actors) and gender lines.
Eventually it becomes clear that the real subject of playwright Jackie Sibblies Drury is our very response to history. Yes, she wants to explore the Herero tragedy and see that they’re not forgotten. But even more, she needs for us to understand that human cruelty is not something we only see in the here and now: The people who sinned and were sinned against in centuries past were no less real than we are now, and if we cannot recognize that and mourn them properly, it’s our limitation, not theirs. If a genocide falls in a forest and no one’s there to hear it, it still occurred.
This ambitious play, bursting with theatrical opportunity and complex ideas, is (predictably) subject to excess and flaw. It’s never clear why these six have assembled to tell the Herero saga in the first place, or what stake in it makes them remain in the face of the rawest intercompany conflicts. Also, much is made of this being a democratic artistic collective, but there seems to be insufficient objection whenever Black Woman (Julanne Chidi Hill, clearly Drury’s mouthpiece) steps forward as director and puppeteer, as she periodically chooses to do.
Script issues aside, the work is stunningly performed. Hill wears the pain of a historical atrocity on her face and in her very body. John Sloan manfully wrestles with his innate decency as a lonely German soldier once he (Sloan) recognizes what this son of the Fatherland must have been privy to, and is completely believable in his attempted exit from the whole business. Daniel Bess provides sardonic, even dazzling comedy relief in several of the most outrageous character impersonations. Joe Holt’s intellectual and emotional pain is deep and evident throughout, while Phil LaMarr and Rebecca Mozo triumph in their attempts to reconcile their reality as actors with the narrative they have been deputized to tell.
The best compliment to helmer Jillian Armenante is that at times it becomes impossible to believe that all of this give and take, all of this historical exploration, wasn’t improvised on the spot. The flow of events, emotions, and parallel worlds, shaped by her sure directorial hand, is seamless. This is a shattering evening not to be missed by anyone who treasures theater.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
June 18, 2013
June 18, 2013
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)
Santa Monica Repertory Theater at The Promenade Playhouse
In this three-person show—originally the work of writer-actors Adam Long, Daniel Singer, and Jess Winfield—three actors enact highlights of, summarize, or at least mention the title of all 37 of Shakespeare’s plays. First up are highlights, or lowlights, of Romeo and Juliet. Next, Titus Andronicus is boiled down to a cooking show on which body parts get stewed by a handless Titus and a tongueless Lavinia. The plot of Othello is recounted through rap, Macbeth is summarized in a rolling brogue, led by Oz’s Wicked Witch, and all the comedies are combined and skewered on a single shtick. This leaves Hamlet to be shredded after intermission.
The show is is here performed by Eric Bloom, Mike Niedzwiecki, and Lucas Kwan Peterson, directed by Sarah Gurfield. This production might not feature the fully committed commedia antics of other versions, but these three actors bring something perhaps more engaging to the work: They present to their audiences gentler, warmer, more-welcoming personalities, sweetly and nonthreateningly coaxing full audience participation in the shenanigans while earning laughs.
As the script permits, the onstage actor-characters are named for the actors who portray them. Eric (Bloom) is the somewhat fearless leader of the troupe, forced to corral the under-prepared Mike (Niedzwiecki) and the skittish Lucas (Kwan Peterson). Mike is in truth not the Shakespearean scholar he professed to be, Lucas is the company member stuck with playing all the female roles (of course he is the tallest of the three), and Eric must keep the audience in check and amused by old jokes. Hilarity thereby ensues.
The original script, penned in those distant times of 1987, has of necessity warranted such updates as information derived from Wikipedia (some of it even accurate), as well as the use of smartphones. The style of humor, however, happily remains resolutely old-school.
The script also allows for improvisation and audience interaction. These three actors, skilled at the form, are enough in tune with the audience that, at least in one case on the night reviewed, the persona given to an audience member was stunningly close to her real life one.
The show has that expectedly ragtag feel, but someone put much thought into the details that keep the audience feeling safe. In creating the women, Lucas’s acting choices prominently feature vomiting to show feminine “upset”; the vomiting is, as the mechanicals say in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as ’twere any nightingale, so as not to frighten the ladies. Throughout, stage combat is cleverly deconstructed and warrants a show of its own. “Shakespearean” costumes (Madeline Keller) allow for swift changes in character and gender, and a vast selection of mirth-inducing wigs helps distinguish among the female characters.
The impression ultimately left by this evening is of smart, genial fun—and the memory of three actors we wouldn’t mind seeing speak the speech in a “straight” production of a Shakespeare play, where they could reveal the full extent of their apparently plentiful classical skills.
Santa Monica Repertory Theater at The Promenade Playhouse
In this three-person show—originally the work of writer-actors Adam Long, Daniel Singer, and Jess Winfield—three actors enact highlights of, summarize, or at least mention the title of all 37 of Shakespeare’s plays. First up are highlights, or lowlights, of Romeo and Juliet. Next, Titus Andronicus is boiled down to a cooking show on which body parts get stewed by a handless Titus and a tongueless Lavinia. The plot of Othello is recounted through rap, Macbeth is summarized in a rolling brogue, led by Oz’s Wicked Witch, and all the comedies are combined and skewered on a single shtick. This leaves Hamlet to be shredded after intermission.
The show is is here performed by Eric Bloom, Mike Niedzwiecki, and Lucas Kwan Peterson, directed by Sarah Gurfield. This production might not feature the fully committed commedia antics of other versions, but these three actors bring something perhaps more engaging to the work: They present to their audiences gentler, warmer, more-welcoming personalities, sweetly and nonthreateningly coaxing full audience participation in the shenanigans while earning laughs.
As the script permits, the onstage actor-characters are named for the actors who portray them. Eric (Bloom) is the somewhat fearless leader of the troupe, forced to corral the under-prepared Mike (Niedzwiecki) and the skittish Lucas (Kwan Peterson). Mike is in truth not the Shakespearean scholar he professed to be, Lucas is the company member stuck with playing all the female roles (of course he is the tallest of the three), and Eric must keep the audience in check and amused by old jokes. Hilarity thereby ensues.
The original script, penned in those distant times of 1987, has of necessity warranted such updates as information derived from Wikipedia (some of it even accurate), as well as the use of smartphones. The style of humor, however, happily remains resolutely old-school.
The script also allows for improvisation and audience interaction. These three actors, skilled at the form, are enough in tune with the audience that, at least in one case on the night reviewed, the persona given to an audience member was stunningly close to her real life one.
The show has that expectedly ragtag feel, but someone put much thought into the details that keep the audience feeling safe. In creating the women, Lucas’s acting choices prominently feature vomiting to show feminine “upset”; the vomiting is, as the mechanicals say in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as ’twere any nightingale, so as not to frighten the ladies. Throughout, stage combat is cleverly deconstructed and warrants a show of its own. “Shakespearean” costumes (Madeline Keller) allow for swift changes in character and gender, and a vast selection of mirth-inducing wigs helps distinguish among the female characters.
The impression ultimately left by this evening is of smart, genial fun—and the memory of three actors we wouldn’t mind seeing speak the speech in a “straight” production of a Shakespeare play, where they could reveal the full extent of their apparently plentiful classical skills.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 18, 2013
June 18, 2013
Yes, Prime Minister
Geffen Playhouse
Before you hear this production described as “sitcomish,” know it was written by Antony Jay and Jonathan Lynn, the writers of the 1980s British television series Yes Minister and then Yes, Prime Minister. And if the humor of those series was good enough to keep the Brits giggling, it’s good enough for this reviewer. This two-act stage version, in its American premiere, is directed by Lynn. British vibrancy and tomfoolery come to the stage, as the eponymous leader tries to lead his miscreant peoples. And that’s just his cabinet.
The prime minister (Michael McKean) seems to be a dolt. His cabinet secretary (Dakin Matthews) is gleefully convinced he is. His principal private secretary (Jefferson Mays) tries desperately not to think so. His special policy advisor (Tara Summers) suspects the worst and thus is crisply prepared to cover him at every turn. Under Lynn’s measured direction, the cast is superb. These four masters of the double-take, the slow burn, the smirk, and the cringe pull off a bigger coup than the characters do. In particular, Matthews seems to have scrupulously studied the likes of the legendary British comedic actors.
The plot is secondary. It involves something about a scheme to borrow money from the nation of Kumranistan, in turn helping the Kumranistani ambassador (Brian George) find his boss a bit of illicit entertainment for the night, and using the fluctuating measurements of global warming to cover all. A late-night visit by the director-general of the BBC (Time Winters) and a rasping interview by a veteran BBC presenter (Stephen Caffrey) put the PM at risk of losing his ultra-slim majority, but, as good leaders do, the PM gathers his wits at the right time and makes all well. At least for now. There’s always the chance of a Christmas special.
A wee word of warning, hopefully not a spoiler, for the jumpy in the audience: That first thunderclap comes swiftly and loudly after the PM asks for a sign from God—which he then promptly misuses.
Simon Higlett’s set design notably includes the window design and brick facing of the real-life home where the action takes place: the historical Chequers.
Geffen Playhouse
Before you hear this production described as “sitcomish,” know it was written by Antony Jay and Jonathan Lynn, the writers of the 1980s British television series Yes Minister and then Yes, Prime Minister. And if the humor of those series was good enough to keep the Brits giggling, it’s good enough for this reviewer. This two-act stage version, in its American premiere, is directed by Lynn. British vibrancy and tomfoolery come to the stage, as the eponymous leader tries to lead his miscreant peoples. And that’s just his cabinet.
The prime minister (Michael McKean) seems to be a dolt. His cabinet secretary (Dakin Matthews) is gleefully convinced he is. His principal private secretary (Jefferson Mays) tries desperately not to think so. His special policy advisor (Tara Summers) suspects the worst and thus is crisply prepared to cover him at every turn. Under Lynn’s measured direction, the cast is superb. These four masters of the double-take, the slow burn, the smirk, and the cringe pull off a bigger coup than the characters do. In particular, Matthews seems to have scrupulously studied the likes of the legendary British comedic actors.
The plot is secondary. It involves something about a scheme to borrow money from the nation of Kumranistan, in turn helping the Kumranistani ambassador (Brian George) find his boss a bit of illicit entertainment for the night, and using the fluctuating measurements of global warming to cover all. A late-night visit by the director-general of the BBC (Time Winters) and a rasping interview by a veteran BBC presenter (Stephen Caffrey) put the PM at risk of losing his ultra-slim majority, but, as good leaders do, the PM gathers his wits at the right time and makes all well. At least for now. There’s always the chance of a Christmas special.
A wee word of warning, hopefully not a spoiler, for the jumpy in the audience: That first thunderclap comes swiftly and loudly after the PM asks for a sign from God—which he then promptly misuses.
Simon Higlett’s set design notably includes the window design and brick facing of the real-life home where the action takes place: the historical Chequers.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 14, 2013
June 14, 2013
Neva
A DouglasPlus Workshop Presentation, co-produced with South Coast Repertory and La Jolla Playhouse at the Kirk Douglas Theatre rehearsal room, Upstairs @ KDT
In near darkness, three actors perform a play about three actors trying to rehearse a play in near darkness—almost the same thing and yet so far from the same thing. This dichotomy and interrelatedness permeates all of Guillermo Calderón’s fascinating Neva, in its English translation by Andrea Thome.
This production and the story take place in a rehearsal room. Calderón directs, lighting the 75-minute work with a single instrument: As the characters gather around their room’s only heat and light source, the actors here are illuminated by this “heater.” When one character adjusts the heater to warm himself, the actor is turning the light source toward his face. The little box is an ingenious bit of theater craft, not least of which because gentle light also emerges from its back, covering the audience with a soft blanket of visibility.
The characters are Olga Knipper, real-life widow of Anton Chekhov, and two fellow actors: the well-born Aleko and the well-worn Masha. The skilled actors playing these three are Sue Cremin, Ramón de Ocampo, and Ruth Livier, respectively. Cremin crafts that difficult creature: the actor of fragile ego and enormous self-absorption who nonetheless earns the audience’s interest and sympathy. De Ocampo gives his character a hint of leading-man swagger, while happily delving into the “theater games” the trio plays in the rehearsal. Livier gives Masha the characteristics of a third kind of actor: a little hyper, a little too eager to fit in with the senior company members, a little too overtly reactive to everything happening that day.
The characters are rehearsing in St. Petersburg on Jan. 9, 1905. That date has since become known as Bloody Sunday, on which demonstrators were killed, believed to be the start of the “violent phase” of the Russian Revolution. Art and politics, in theory, are separated by the walls of the theater but, in keeping with Calderón’s theme, deeply affect each other.
Outside, the country is in meltdown. Inside, the characters tame—or develop—their emotions by enacting and re-enacting milestones in their lives. They discuss acting techniques such as “substitution” and improvisation, but they tear themselves down. They graphically describe sexuality, but they ethereally describe emotional attachment. They talk of champagne, but they swig vodka throughout. Olga and Masha, names Chekhov often gave his characters, were, in real life, the names of his wife and sister, respectively. Is Calderón showing us the push-pull of marriage and blood family?
At the play’s end, Masha ponders: “How many times can one say I love you and I love you not? I’m tired of it? How many times can you cry and claim truth onstage? And be more real and find new symbols? Enough. It’s already 1905, and I believe that theater is finished. This is not the 19th century anymore, capitalism has machines now.” She could easily be speaking about yet more different yet related worlds: the difficulties of a stage performance and a prescient reference to the advent of film acting.
A DouglasPlus Workshop Presentation, co-produced with South Coast Repertory and La Jolla Playhouse at the Kirk Douglas Theatre rehearsal room, Upstairs @ KDT
In near darkness, three actors perform a play about three actors trying to rehearse a play in near darkness—almost the same thing and yet so far from the same thing. This dichotomy and interrelatedness permeates all of Guillermo Calderón’s fascinating Neva, in its English translation by Andrea Thome.
This production and the story take place in a rehearsal room. Calderón directs, lighting the 75-minute work with a single instrument: As the characters gather around their room’s only heat and light source, the actors here are illuminated by this “heater.” When one character adjusts the heater to warm himself, the actor is turning the light source toward his face. The little box is an ingenious bit of theater craft, not least of which because gentle light also emerges from its back, covering the audience with a soft blanket of visibility.
The characters are Olga Knipper, real-life widow of Anton Chekhov, and two fellow actors: the well-born Aleko and the well-worn Masha. The skilled actors playing these three are Sue Cremin, Ramón de Ocampo, and Ruth Livier, respectively. Cremin crafts that difficult creature: the actor of fragile ego and enormous self-absorption who nonetheless earns the audience’s interest and sympathy. De Ocampo gives his character a hint of leading-man swagger, while happily delving into the “theater games” the trio plays in the rehearsal. Livier gives Masha the characteristics of a third kind of actor: a little hyper, a little too eager to fit in with the senior company members, a little too overtly reactive to everything happening that day.
The characters are rehearsing in St. Petersburg on Jan. 9, 1905. That date has since become known as Bloody Sunday, on which demonstrators were killed, believed to be the start of the “violent phase” of the Russian Revolution. Art and politics, in theory, are separated by the walls of the theater but, in keeping with Calderón’s theme, deeply affect each other.
Outside, the country is in meltdown. Inside, the characters tame—or develop—their emotions by enacting and re-enacting milestones in their lives. They discuss acting techniques such as “substitution” and improvisation, but they tear themselves down. They graphically describe sexuality, but they ethereally describe emotional attachment. They talk of champagne, but they swig vodka throughout. Olga and Masha, names Chekhov often gave his characters, were, in real life, the names of his wife and sister, respectively. Is Calderón showing us the push-pull of marriage and blood family?
At the play’s end, Masha ponders: “How many times can one say I love you and I love you not? I’m tired of it? How many times can you cry and claim truth onstage? And be more real and find new symbols? Enough. It’s already 1905, and I believe that theater is finished. This is not the 19th century anymore, capitalism has machines now.” She could easily be speaking about yet more different yet related worlds: the difficulties of a stage performance and a prescient reference to the advent of film acting.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 14, 2013
June 14, 2013
A Midsummer Saturday Night’s Fever Dream
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
That merry band of contemporary comedia dell’arte folk known as Troubadour Theater Company has eschewed its usual annual debut of a new Shakespeare–rock ’n’ roll mashup in favor of reviving 2000’s disco-infused A Midsummer Saturday Night’s Fever Dream—combining the Bard’s mystical woodland frolic with tunes from the 1977 John Travolta film. The current incarnation, once again helmed by Troubie founder Matt Walker, is more polished than the original but less surprising and not as funny.
The preshow, disco-ball mood certainly is established as power-voiced Lisa Valenzuela rips through two 1970s standards: Peter Frampton’s “Show Me the Way” and the theme from “Car Wash,” more than adequately backed by the four-member Eric Heinly–led Troubie band, featuring the pick-perfect lead/rhythm guitar work of Linda Taylor. Once the show is on, Walker does an admirable job of balancing the progress of Shakespeare’s Troubie-accented plot with songs by the Bee Gees and others. Surprisingly, it is the to-be-expected commedia-esque breaking-the-fourth-wall mischief that fails to ignite, as if it is now merely part of the well-worn Troubie technique rather than the comedic inspiration of the moment.
In a Troubie show, plot is secondary to characterization. Walker offers a devilish Puck, moving the opening scene along with a bouncy “Staying Alive,” setting up the royal wedding machinations of Theseus (Morgan Rusler) and Hippolyta (Suzanne Jolie Narbonne) and introducing the four wayward Toluca Lake-ian lovers: Helena (Beth Kennedy), Demetrius (Joseph Leo Bwarie), Hermia (Katherine Malak), and Lysander (Tyler King).
Kennedy is a one-person comedy show as forever-scorned Demetrius-adoring Helena. She is counterbalanced perfectly by Malak’s ragingly sensual Valley girl Hermia, who has both guys lusting after her while she undulates through KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Boogie Shoes.” Bwarie makes his mark as the strutting bantam cock Demetrius, while never letting an opportunity go by to remind everyone that he once starred in Jersey Boys.
Walker emphasizes the clownish machinations of the four laborers-turned-thesps: Nick Bottom (Rick Batalia), Flute (Rob Nagle), Starveling (Valenzuela), and Quince (Walker). In fact, nearly allof the short second act is devoted to their wedding-day performance of the tragic story of Pyramus and Thisbe. These four are so determined to be hilarious that performance often disappears within a mish-mash of self-conscious improv, semi-slapstick, and impromptu one-upmanship that is more for their entertainment than for the audience’s.
The into-the-woods shenanigans of king and queen of the faeries, Oberon (Matt Merchant) and Titania (Monica Schneider), are hindered by Merchant’s understated, under-volumed delivery. But Schneider’s spell-smitten seduction of Batalla’s Bottom after he has been afflicted with a head of a donkey is a sex-charged delight, highlighted by her renderings of “If I Can’t Have You” and “How Deep Is Your Love.” As per usual in a Troubie show, much of the fun derives from the talent, enthusiasm, and commitment of the complete cast ensemble numbers, blasting through such tunes as “We Know How To Do It” and the show closing “Disco Inferno (Burn Baby Burn).”
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
That merry band of contemporary comedia dell’arte folk known as Troubadour Theater Company has eschewed its usual annual debut of a new Shakespeare–rock ’n’ roll mashup in favor of reviving 2000’s disco-infused A Midsummer Saturday Night’s Fever Dream—combining the Bard’s mystical woodland frolic with tunes from the 1977 John Travolta film. The current incarnation, once again helmed by Troubie founder Matt Walker, is more polished than the original but less surprising and not as funny.
The preshow, disco-ball mood certainly is established as power-voiced Lisa Valenzuela rips through two 1970s standards: Peter Frampton’s “Show Me the Way” and the theme from “Car Wash,” more than adequately backed by the four-member Eric Heinly–led Troubie band, featuring the pick-perfect lead/rhythm guitar work of Linda Taylor. Once the show is on, Walker does an admirable job of balancing the progress of Shakespeare’s Troubie-accented plot with songs by the Bee Gees and others. Surprisingly, it is the to-be-expected commedia-esque breaking-the-fourth-wall mischief that fails to ignite, as if it is now merely part of the well-worn Troubie technique rather than the comedic inspiration of the moment.
In a Troubie show, plot is secondary to characterization. Walker offers a devilish Puck, moving the opening scene along with a bouncy “Staying Alive,” setting up the royal wedding machinations of Theseus (Morgan Rusler) and Hippolyta (Suzanne Jolie Narbonne) and introducing the four wayward Toluca Lake-ian lovers: Helena (Beth Kennedy), Demetrius (Joseph Leo Bwarie), Hermia (Katherine Malak), and Lysander (Tyler King).
Kennedy is a one-person comedy show as forever-scorned Demetrius-adoring Helena. She is counterbalanced perfectly by Malak’s ragingly sensual Valley girl Hermia, who has both guys lusting after her while she undulates through KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Boogie Shoes.” Bwarie makes his mark as the strutting bantam cock Demetrius, while never letting an opportunity go by to remind everyone that he once starred in Jersey Boys.
Walker emphasizes the clownish machinations of the four laborers-turned-thesps: Nick Bottom (Rick Batalia), Flute (Rob Nagle), Starveling (Valenzuela), and Quince (Walker). In fact, nearly allof the short second act is devoted to their wedding-day performance of the tragic story of Pyramus and Thisbe. These four are so determined to be hilarious that performance often disappears within a mish-mash of self-conscious improv, semi-slapstick, and impromptu one-upmanship that is more for their entertainment than for the audience’s.
The into-the-woods shenanigans of king and queen of the faeries, Oberon (Matt Merchant) and Titania (Monica Schneider), are hindered by Merchant’s understated, under-volumed delivery. But Schneider’s spell-smitten seduction of Batalla’s Bottom after he has been afflicted with a head of a donkey is a sex-charged delight, highlighted by her renderings of “If I Can’t Have You” and “How Deep Is Your Love.” As per usual in a Troubie show, much of the fun derives from the talent, enthusiasm, and commitment of the complete cast ensemble numbers, blasting through such tunes as “We Know How To Do It” and the show closing “Disco Inferno (Burn Baby Burn).”
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
June 11, 2013
June 11, 2013
A Man of No Importance
Good People Theater Company at Lillian Theatre
The first extended run of the tuner A Man of No Importance is a matter of some importance, as it inaugurates—in this era of folding companies and theaters in transit—a new enterprise: the Good People Theater Company, under the direction of the gifted veteran stager-choreographer Janet Miller. Taking on the countervailing winds (money drying up, expenses mounting, uninterest in live performance growing) is a brave and noble thing, and one wishes Miller and company well.
The GPTC mission statement is a little vague at this point, the group’s reason for being seemingly pegged to Miller’s taste and enthusiasms. And one hopes the promised “focus on chamber musicals and small-cast plays” doesn’t presage yet another moribund round of superfluous The Last 5 Years and Frankie & Johnny revivals. That being said, many a robust company first saw life as the brainchild of a single artist, and Miller has been kicking around long enough at the service of others to have earned the right to open her own shop. She and the cohorts of Good People are good people; there’s plenty of reason to be optimistic about what lies ahead.
Indeed, the sheer selection of their inaugural work is evidence of interesting things ahead. A Man is a lovely, underappreciated 2002 effort from the creators of Ragtime (book by Terrence McNally, music by Stephen Flaherty, and lyrics by Lynn Ahrens), and it’s one of the most distinctive and impressive musicals of recent years. This time, the team was inspired by a little-seen 1994 film top-lining Albert Finney as Alfie Byrne, a meek, repressed bus conductor (and when was the last time you saw Albert Finney as a meek, repressed anything?), who suffers under Catholic guilt and is driven by passion for the writing of Oscar Wilde and his vehicle’s humpy driver Robbie, not necessarily in that order.
The story counterpoints Alfie’s tentative efforts to don the green carnation and be true to himself (a common theme in McNally librettos) with the reactions of his friends and neighbors: many are shocked, a few supportive, and a surprising number ready to shrug off his “difference” in stride. All in all, this more or less event-less story is a far cry from natural tuner material, even given the affinity of Irish subjects to musicalization. A repressed mama’s boy could be the definition of a character who “doesn’t sing,” and it would be very easy to reduce the neighborhood folks to types, even cruel caricatures.
Yet most of those pitfalls are avoided in the adaptation, which boasts wit and wisdom in the dialogue and bewitching balladry in the score. In the manner of James Joyce’s The Dead (as adapted by Richard Nelson) A Man captures a cross-section of humanity at one distinct period of time with precision and grace.
It’s hard to understand why this musical has gotten so little traction since its Lincoln Center premiere. In any case, there’s no question the opening night audience at Lillian Theatre reacted with delight. Despite a last-minute cast change requiring an actor to carry a script, and the need to manage a cast of 15 through multiple short scenes, Miller’s staging is as fluid as her handling of the actors is sensitive. Stealing a march on next year’s touring production of Once, musical director Corey Hirsch superbly evokes small-town Irish life through a canny marshaling of violin, guitar, flute, and percussion. The Alfie of Dominic McChesney doesn’t quite break the heart—his discomfort and later his joy at giving his suppressed desires rein, seem superficial rather than deeply felt—but the ensemble throws itself into the proceedings with appetite and integrity. Keith Barletta is a sterling Robbie, and there’s strong support from Matt Stevens, Gail Matthius, and Audrey Curd, among others.
It was smart, if risky, of Miller to present this ambitious work as part of the Hollywood Fringe, where it should stand out as a major undertaking against all the two handers and monodramas that will grace the next few weeks. The show, like Miller’s burgeoning endeavor, deserves encouragement and support.
Good People Theater Company at Lillian Theatre
The first extended run of the tuner A Man of No Importance is a matter of some importance, as it inaugurates—in this era of folding companies and theaters in transit—a new enterprise: the Good People Theater Company, under the direction of the gifted veteran stager-choreographer Janet Miller. Taking on the countervailing winds (money drying up, expenses mounting, uninterest in live performance growing) is a brave and noble thing, and one wishes Miller and company well.
The GPTC mission statement is a little vague at this point, the group’s reason for being seemingly pegged to Miller’s taste and enthusiasms. And one hopes the promised “focus on chamber musicals and small-cast plays” doesn’t presage yet another moribund round of superfluous The Last 5 Years and Frankie & Johnny revivals. That being said, many a robust company first saw life as the brainchild of a single artist, and Miller has been kicking around long enough at the service of others to have earned the right to open her own shop. She and the cohorts of Good People are good people; there’s plenty of reason to be optimistic about what lies ahead.
Indeed, the sheer selection of their inaugural work is evidence of interesting things ahead. A Man is a lovely, underappreciated 2002 effort from the creators of Ragtime (book by Terrence McNally, music by Stephen Flaherty, and lyrics by Lynn Ahrens), and it’s one of the most distinctive and impressive musicals of recent years. This time, the team was inspired by a little-seen 1994 film top-lining Albert Finney as Alfie Byrne, a meek, repressed bus conductor (and when was the last time you saw Albert Finney as a meek, repressed anything?), who suffers under Catholic guilt and is driven by passion for the writing of Oscar Wilde and his vehicle’s humpy driver Robbie, not necessarily in that order.
The story counterpoints Alfie’s tentative efforts to don the green carnation and be true to himself (a common theme in McNally librettos) with the reactions of his friends and neighbors: many are shocked, a few supportive, and a surprising number ready to shrug off his “difference” in stride. All in all, this more or less event-less story is a far cry from natural tuner material, even given the affinity of Irish subjects to musicalization. A repressed mama’s boy could be the definition of a character who “doesn’t sing,” and it would be very easy to reduce the neighborhood folks to types, even cruel caricatures.
Yet most of those pitfalls are avoided in the adaptation, which boasts wit and wisdom in the dialogue and bewitching balladry in the score. In the manner of James Joyce’s The Dead (as adapted by Richard Nelson) A Man captures a cross-section of humanity at one distinct period of time with precision and grace.
It’s hard to understand why this musical has gotten so little traction since its Lincoln Center premiere. In any case, there’s no question the opening night audience at Lillian Theatre reacted with delight. Despite a last-minute cast change requiring an actor to carry a script, and the need to manage a cast of 15 through multiple short scenes, Miller’s staging is as fluid as her handling of the actors is sensitive. Stealing a march on next year’s touring production of Once, musical director Corey Hirsch superbly evokes small-town Irish life through a canny marshaling of violin, guitar, flute, and percussion. The Alfie of Dominic McChesney doesn’t quite break the heart—his discomfort and later his joy at giving his suppressed desires rein, seem superficial rather than deeply felt—but the ensemble throws itself into the proceedings with appetite and integrity. Keith Barletta is a sterling Robbie, and there’s strong support from Matt Stevens, Gail Matthius, and Audrey Curd, among others.
It was smart, if risky, of Miller to present this ambitious work as part of the Hollywood Fringe, where it should stand out as a major undertaking against all the two handers and monodramas that will grace the next few weeks. The show, like Miller’s burgeoning endeavor, deserves encouragement and support.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
June 11, 2013
June 11, 2013
Ionescopade, A Musical Vaudeville
Odyssey Theatre
In 1960, British literary scholar Martin Esslin labeled the works of post–World War II playwrights Samuel Becket, Jean Genet, and Romanian-born Eugene Ionesco as Theater of the Absurd, based on Albert Camus’s concept of the absurd: “capturing the meaninglessness of existence.” Originally conceived by Robert Allan Ackerman in the early ’70s, the vaudeville-esque snackfest Ionescopade—as revised for the fourth time by Ackerman’s original collaborator Mildred Kayden (music and lyrics) and director-choreographer Bill Castellino—serves up semi-satisfying samplings of Ionesco’s jaundiced doomsday themes as tuneful, lightweight divertissement, enthusiastically rendered by Castellino’s dedicated seven-member ensemble.
Castellino staged the West Coast premiere of this work at the Odyssey in 1982. He and Kayden have been tinkering with it ever since, offering subsequent stagings at the Smithsonian (1995) and off Broadway (2012). Here impressively underscored by keyboardist–music director Gerald Sternbach and facilitated by the wordless onstage Writer—portrayed with endearing sad-sack affability by Alan Abelew—Ionescopade skips lightly over a dozen Ionesco works without landing solidly on any. Castellino is decidedly aiming at form over substance.
Despite the often zany and colorful outpourings, lackluster musical material such as matricidal Mother Peep (adroitly performed by Kelly Lester, Jennifer Malenke, and Cristina Gerla) and Everyone Is Like Me (forcibly sung by Tom Lowe), do not offer substance, edification, or even silliness for its own sake. They merely take up time and space. Faring better is the complete cast outing on ragingly self-serving Bobby Watson and Family, inventively choreographed by Castellino. Another successful routine, which would have been right at home on a burlesque stage, is The Cooking Lesson, featuring Joey D’Auria as the well-seasoned French chef.
Fortunately, Ionesco’s relentless demonstration of the failed human effort to achieve relevance is in evidence. The Leader features a manically adoring Andrew Ableson, extolling the wonders of a leader who turns out to be headless. Ableson also effectively conveys the hopeless rage of the next victim of The Killer. Frenzy for Two offers D’Auria and Lester as a war-ravaged couple who only truly become terrified when the sounds of the bombardment cease. As a telling finale to the evening’s proceedings, the ensemble is dispatched, one by one, knocked off by an unnamed plague, leaving Abelew’s uncaring Writer to wonder amiably off to his own dehumanized oblivion.
Castellino’s vision is impressively supported by the in-your-face production designs of David Potts (sets), Jeremy Pivnick (lights), Mylette Nora (costumes) and Joe Behm/Josie Griffin-Roosth (sound). But despite the historic affirmation Ionesco has achieved for his minimalist stage ethic, it is still disappointing there is no there there.
Odyssey Theatre
In 1960, British literary scholar Martin Esslin labeled the works of post–World War II playwrights Samuel Becket, Jean Genet, and Romanian-born Eugene Ionesco as Theater of the Absurd, based on Albert Camus’s concept of the absurd: “capturing the meaninglessness of existence.” Originally conceived by Robert Allan Ackerman in the early ’70s, the vaudeville-esque snackfest Ionescopade—as revised for the fourth time by Ackerman’s original collaborator Mildred Kayden (music and lyrics) and director-choreographer Bill Castellino—serves up semi-satisfying samplings of Ionesco’s jaundiced doomsday themes as tuneful, lightweight divertissement, enthusiastically rendered by Castellino’s dedicated seven-member ensemble.
Castellino staged the West Coast premiere of this work at the Odyssey in 1982. He and Kayden have been tinkering with it ever since, offering subsequent stagings at the Smithsonian (1995) and off Broadway (2012). Here impressively underscored by keyboardist–music director Gerald Sternbach and facilitated by the wordless onstage Writer—portrayed with endearing sad-sack affability by Alan Abelew—Ionescopade skips lightly over a dozen Ionesco works without landing solidly on any. Castellino is decidedly aiming at form over substance.
Despite the often zany and colorful outpourings, lackluster musical material such as matricidal Mother Peep (adroitly performed by Kelly Lester, Jennifer Malenke, and Cristina Gerla) and Everyone Is Like Me (forcibly sung by Tom Lowe), do not offer substance, edification, or even silliness for its own sake. They merely take up time and space. Faring better is the complete cast outing on ragingly self-serving Bobby Watson and Family, inventively choreographed by Castellino. Another successful routine, which would have been right at home on a burlesque stage, is The Cooking Lesson, featuring Joey D’Auria as the well-seasoned French chef.
Fortunately, Ionesco’s relentless demonstration of the failed human effort to achieve relevance is in evidence. The Leader features a manically adoring Andrew Ableson, extolling the wonders of a leader who turns out to be headless. Ableson also effectively conveys the hopeless rage of the next victim of The Killer. Frenzy for Two offers D’Auria and Lester as a war-ravaged couple who only truly become terrified when the sounds of the bombardment cease. As a telling finale to the evening’s proceedings, the ensemble is dispatched, one by one, knocked off by an unnamed plague, leaving Abelew’s uncaring Writer to wonder amiably off to his own dehumanized oblivion.
Castellino’s vision is impressively supported by the in-your-face production designs of David Potts (sets), Jeremy Pivnick (lights), Mylette Nora (costumes) and Joe Behm/Josie Griffin-Roosth (sound). But despite the historic affirmation Ionesco has achieved for his minimalist stage ethic, it is still disappointing there is no there there.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
June 10, 2013
June 10, 2013
Dead Man’s Cell Phone
International City Theatre
Sarah Ruhl’s slightly daffy but contemplative play takes a shot at our cell phone culture while examining human connections and the nature of love. Jean (Alina Phelan) is sitting in a cafe, ostensibly working on something, when a cell phone at the next table rings over and over, interrupting her concentration. Finally, she rises to encourage the man at the table to answer it. The problem is, he’s dead, and, in Ruhl’s world, a phone demands to be answered.
With this simple premise, a story unfolds in which Jean begins to take ownership of the phone, and, in some ways, the life of the dead man. As she takes messages and meets people involved with him, she finds herself inventing things he said so as to make those people happy. We find out he is Gordon, with a brother Dwight (Trent Dawson); a mother, Mrs. Gottlieb (Eileen T’Kaye); a wife, Hermia (Susan Diol); and a very glamorous Other Woman/The Stranger (Heather Roberts).
Ruhl has created a quirky set of characters for Jean to meet, but it is Phelan’s show all the way. She is endearingly earnest, and she makes plausible what might otherwise be the author’s implausible conceit. T’Kaye delivers a ditsy old broad as a nice foil for the pleasant but conventional Hermia and Dwight. Roberts dispatches her dual characterizations with good old-fashioned, movie-style panache.
One of the highlights of the production is a superbly choreographed fight between Phelan and Roberts (fight coordinator Andrew Amani). As Jean is knocked unconscious, in a bit of magical realism, she meets Gordon, whose revelations and questionable morality shock her into embracing life and love.
D Martyn Bookwalter’s set and Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting are streamlined for a series of scenes within the play. Kim DeShazo’s costumes for Roberts are perfectly executed. Director Richard Israel combines comedy and philosophy skillfully, mining the best aspects of Ruhl’s wit and the skills of his actors to produce a thoughtful piece with great audience appeal.
International City Theatre
Sarah Ruhl’s slightly daffy but contemplative play takes a shot at our cell phone culture while examining human connections and the nature of love. Jean (Alina Phelan) is sitting in a cafe, ostensibly working on something, when a cell phone at the next table rings over and over, interrupting her concentration. Finally, she rises to encourage the man at the table to answer it. The problem is, he’s dead, and, in Ruhl’s world, a phone demands to be answered.
With this simple premise, a story unfolds in which Jean begins to take ownership of the phone, and, in some ways, the life of the dead man. As she takes messages and meets people involved with him, she finds herself inventing things he said so as to make those people happy. We find out he is Gordon, with a brother Dwight (Trent Dawson); a mother, Mrs. Gottlieb (Eileen T’Kaye); a wife, Hermia (Susan Diol); and a very glamorous Other Woman/The Stranger (Heather Roberts).
Ruhl has created a quirky set of characters for Jean to meet, but it is Phelan’s show all the way. She is endearingly earnest, and she makes plausible what might otherwise be the author’s implausible conceit. T’Kaye delivers a ditsy old broad as a nice foil for the pleasant but conventional Hermia and Dwight. Roberts dispatches her dual characterizations with good old-fashioned, movie-style panache.
One of the highlights of the production is a superbly choreographed fight between Phelan and Roberts (fight coordinator Andrew Amani). As Jean is knocked unconscious, in a bit of magical realism, she meets Gordon, whose revelations and questionable morality shock her into embracing life and love.
D Martyn Bookwalter’s set and Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting are streamlined for a series of scenes within the play. Kim DeShazo’s costumes for Roberts are perfectly executed. Director Richard Israel combines comedy and philosophy skillfully, mining the best aspects of Ruhl’s wit and the skills of his actors to produce a thoughtful piece with great audience appeal.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
June 10, 2013
June 10, 2013
Lillias White: A Woman on Love
Catalina Jazz Club
It’s not often that our town is blessed by a rare cabaret appearance by an artist the caliber of Lillias White, who is gracing Los Angeles with her amazing talent for two Mondays, her night off from August Wilson’s Joe Turner’s Come and Gone. White leaves Bertha Holly’s apron and comfortable shoes behind and treats her eager audience to the incredibly sophisticated side of one of our generation’s greatest musical performers.
Unlike her homegrown Bertha, the glamorous, urban White is all sequins and sparkles as she hits the stage with a dynamic new arrangement of “A Grand Night for Singing” that could make Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein join the walking dead and crawl through that dang corn as high as elephant’s eye just to see her interpret their tune. Backed by an excellent combo (Steven J. Robinson on drums, Kenny Echezin on guitar, and Jonny Morrow on bass), led by musical director Michael Orland (American Idol), and featuring Kojo Littles, Timorris Lane, and Jake Simpson delivering smooth background vocals, White provides a memorable evening with the help of this world-class talent.
As an opening act, White’s co-star in Joe Turner, Keith David, does a standup set so chockfull of jokes so off-color they would make Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor blush. But, what’s special about his set is the way he morphs into every character in each joke, once again clearly revealing what a great actor he is even if his humor is enough to curl your grandma’s toes.
From a precision tribute medley of signature Lena Horne classics to a showstopping rendition of Billie Holliday’s “Forbidden Fruit” to an indelible arrangement of Jules Styne’s “Make Someone Happy” that provokes a lot of hand-holding in the audience, White is a consummate entertainer and a vocalist whose phrasings and stylings set her way above most other cabaret performers. Yet above all, White brings something inimitably special to her adoring audience: a sense of welcoming us into her home, where she wraps us up in cozy blankets and feeds us on the nourishing wonders of her talent, warmth, and grace.
Catalina Jazz Club
It’s not often that our town is blessed by a rare cabaret appearance by an artist the caliber of Lillias White, who is gracing Los Angeles with her amazing talent for two Mondays, her night off from August Wilson’s Joe Turner’s Come and Gone. White leaves Bertha Holly’s apron and comfortable shoes behind and treats her eager audience to the incredibly sophisticated side of one of our generation’s greatest musical performers.
Unlike her homegrown Bertha, the glamorous, urban White is all sequins and sparkles as she hits the stage with a dynamic new arrangement of “A Grand Night for Singing” that could make Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein join the walking dead and crawl through that dang corn as high as elephant’s eye just to see her interpret their tune. Backed by an excellent combo (Steven J. Robinson on drums, Kenny Echezin on guitar, and Jonny Morrow on bass), led by musical director Michael Orland (American Idol), and featuring Kojo Littles, Timorris Lane, and Jake Simpson delivering smooth background vocals, White provides a memorable evening with the help of this world-class talent.
As an opening act, White’s co-star in Joe Turner, Keith David, does a standup set so chockfull of jokes so off-color they would make Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor blush. But, what’s special about his set is the way he morphs into every character in each joke, once again clearly revealing what a great actor he is even if his humor is enough to curl your grandma’s toes.
From a precision tribute medley of signature Lena Horne classics to a showstopping rendition of Billie Holliday’s “Forbidden Fruit” to an indelible arrangement of Jules Styne’s “Make Someone Happy” that provokes a lot of hand-holding in the audience, White is a consummate entertainer and a vocalist whose phrasings and stylings set her way above most other cabaret performers. Yet above all, White brings something inimitably special to her adoring audience: a sense of welcoming us into her home, where she wraps us up in cozy blankets and feeds us on the nourishing wonders of her talent, warmth, and grace.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
June 8, 2013
June 8, 2013
Sleepless in Seattle—The Musical
Pasadena Playhouse
If you’ve ever had nothing else to think about and thus spent a second or two wondering if the 1993 film Sleepless in Seattle depended on Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan for its charm, this world premiere musicalized version of it provides your answer. Yes, it needed them for its success. Even that pair, however, couldn’t save this stage rendition.
The musical’s book, by the movie’s co-scripter Jeff Arch, hews to the film, adding in music by Ben Toth and lyrics by Sam Forman. Naturally, it includes songs for bereaved father Sam and son Jonah, journalist Annie and her soon-to-be-erstwhile fiancé Walter, and their various friends, bosses, siblings, dates, homeless folk, and whomever else wanders across the stage and is thus apparently in need of the emotional release of his or her own song.
Those songs are at least bland enough to not be memorable by reason of awfulness—except for the lyrics of one clunker that includes a refrain of “yeah.” Oh, yeah, it does. So, Sleepless in Seattle—The Musical didn’t warrant an 11-o’clocker like “No One Is Alone.” But this Sleepless does nothing to embrace the sounds of the 1990s, even though the story remains stubbornly set in that decade.
That setting is a choice, and a defensible one. But it begs 1990s choreography, which is unfortunately provided here, by Spencer Liff, in all its gawdawful self-consciousness. Perhaps someday everyone will conclude that those are moves best left to historical study only. Meantime, here they’re performed in particular by Jonah (a sturdy Joe West, who has a better future in the performing arts) and Sam’s buddy Rob (Todd Buonopane as the comic relief and such a welcome energy on the stage).
But this production will never loft with its charmless leads. Perhaps director Sheldon Epps toned down the performances of Tim Martin Gleason as Sam and Chandra Lee Schwartz as Annie. The audience would be more likely to root instead for a romance between Sam’s sister (were she not married), played by the lively Lowe Taylor, and Walter, played by the sturdy Robert Mammana—none of our business why these two performers weren’t given the lead roles.
Gleason is lackluster, selling nothing beyond a lightly sketched character based on a movie character. Schwartz is bland, and so oddly ageless that at times we might wonder whether she’s just too young for this story. But all might be forgiven if these leads had soaring, mellifluous voices. He doesn’t, and she hit enough off-pitch notes to cause audible gasps—from this reviewer.
Epps staged the piece with scaffolding and spiral staircases that puzzle as often as they establish locations. But more distracting are video screens, many of the ones around the proscenium arch too brightly lit and some of them occasionally ill used—as when Annie is supposedly driving but is apparently being followed by a tree. Dr. Marsha, the radio host, is shown in silhouette; her chin-length bob gives her profile a massive chin. And so forth.
Just in case the audience doesn’t know what the show is about, midway through the second act the creators insert a song about searching for connection. Even the most avid of theatergoers might, by this time, be wishing for connection with the exit doors.
Pasadena Playhouse
If you’ve ever had nothing else to think about and thus spent a second or two wondering if the 1993 film Sleepless in Seattle depended on Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan for its charm, this world premiere musicalized version of it provides your answer. Yes, it needed them for its success. Even that pair, however, couldn’t save this stage rendition.
The musical’s book, by the movie’s co-scripter Jeff Arch, hews to the film, adding in music by Ben Toth and lyrics by Sam Forman. Naturally, it includes songs for bereaved father Sam and son Jonah, journalist Annie and her soon-to-be-erstwhile fiancé Walter, and their various friends, bosses, siblings, dates, homeless folk, and whomever else wanders across the stage and is thus apparently in need of the emotional release of his or her own song.
Those songs are at least bland enough to not be memorable by reason of awfulness—except for the lyrics of one clunker that includes a refrain of “yeah.” Oh, yeah, it does. So, Sleepless in Seattle—The Musical didn’t warrant an 11-o’clocker like “No One Is Alone.” But this Sleepless does nothing to embrace the sounds of the 1990s, even though the story remains stubbornly set in that decade.
That setting is a choice, and a defensible one. But it begs 1990s choreography, which is unfortunately provided here, by Spencer Liff, in all its gawdawful self-consciousness. Perhaps someday everyone will conclude that those are moves best left to historical study only. Meantime, here they’re performed in particular by Jonah (a sturdy Joe West, who has a better future in the performing arts) and Sam’s buddy Rob (Todd Buonopane as the comic relief and such a welcome energy on the stage).
But this production will never loft with its charmless leads. Perhaps director Sheldon Epps toned down the performances of Tim Martin Gleason as Sam and Chandra Lee Schwartz as Annie. The audience would be more likely to root instead for a romance between Sam’s sister (were she not married), played by the lively Lowe Taylor, and Walter, played by the sturdy Robert Mammana—none of our business why these two performers weren’t given the lead roles.
Gleason is lackluster, selling nothing beyond a lightly sketched character based on a movie character. Schwartz is bland, and so oddly ageless that at times we might wonder whether she’s just too young for this story. But all might be forgiven if these leads had soaring, mellifluous voices. He doesn’t, and she hit enough off-pitch notes to cause audible gasps—from this reviewer.
Epps staged the piece with scaffolding and spiral staircases that puzzle as often as they establish locations. But more distracting are video screens, many of the ones around the proscenium arch too brightly lit and some of them occasionally ill used—as when Annie is supposedly driving but is apparently being followed by a tree. Dr. Marsha, the radio host, is shown in silhouette; her chin-length bob gives her profile a massive chin. And so forth.
Just in case the audience doesn’t know what the show is about, midway through the second act the creators insert a song about searching for connection. Even the most avid of theatergoers might, by this time, be wishing for connection with the exit doors.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 5, 2013
June 5, 2013
Dying City
Rogue Machine
Dying City is, if memory serves, the first LA has seen of the remarkable output of playwright Christopher Shinn in almost a decade. It’s also the latest in a series of small-cast shows at which Rogue Machine has proved itself to be peerless. Both are reasons to make immediate plans to attend this timely and emotionally draining work. And then to demand more Shinn of our local impresarios.
This distinctively American playwright has received most of his attention in London. The Shinn specialty is linking the politics of personal relationships, especially in a gay versus straight context, with the politics of the post-9/11 West, all of which you would think would put his plays in nonstop demand. Yet they have been hard to come by unless you live in London or New York, a discouraging fact that may soon change when his college-bullies melodrama Teddy Ferrara, which did well in Chicago awhile back, becomes more widely available. But who knows? One hoped in vain Now or Later, in which a presidential candidate has to cope with a gay son and his non–P.C. extracurricular activities, would surface during the past election year.
Certainly this Rogue Machine triumph should prompt LA producers to give Shinn a good hard look—first perhaps at Picked, the story of a young actor tapped for a big movie lead and a natural fit for our town; and then to the rest of his provocative and always stimulating oeuvre.
Dying City is a two-hander and a pas de trois, as Gotham therapist Kelly (Laurie Okin) enacts alternating scenes with twin brothers. In 2004, husband Craig (Burt Grinstead), a pro-war serviceman, is about to leave the next morning for one more, voluntary, Iraq tour of duty. Eighteen months later, well-known film and stage actor Peter (Grinstead again) pops in unannounced, having not seen Kelly since Craig’s funeral some months before. There’s more than meets the eye in the marriage as Craig packs up to ship out; meanwhile, in 2005, Peter has taken an intermission powder from his Broadway revival of Long Day’s Journey Into Night, and he has brought along not just familial but also career and sexual baggage to plop into his sister-in-law’s lap.
The notion of an actor’s having to pop in and out to make costume, hair, and manner changes sounds more appropriate to a Ken Ludwig farce than to a serious drama about America’s ambivalences over war and sexuality. But it all plays brilliantly, partly because Craig and Peter’s differing polarities work on Kelly’s mind in complex and clashing ways; it makes perfect psychological and dramatic sense for the two men to flit in and out of her consciousness.
But mostly it works because the playing and direction are so superior. It’s astonishing to watch Grinstead create two wholly different characters—different from top to toe—with each new entrance. Okin matches him every step of the way, believably limning a whirlwind of discoveries and conflicting emotions even when she’s given no lines to convey them. Each pair of characters carries full, rich history into their encounters, and it cannot be easy for either thesp to manage the time-twisted given circumstances of discontinuous scenes. Yet they do so in a way that will take away the breath of anyone who knows, from the inside, what it is for an actor to inhabit one character in real time, let alone two in two different real times.
Meanwhile, Michael Peretzian’s helming is the kind where you’re absolutely unaware of his hand, yet you’re absolutely certain he was critical to the work’s success. Take Peter’s initial late-evening appearance on Kelly’s doorstep, for instance. I’m trying to remember when, in either theater or film, I last saw such a believable unplanned interaction between two characters. Memory fails me. The moments of overlapping dialogue, the pauses that mesh and clash, the emotional roller coaster even a brief exchange can turn into—all of it reveals a director’s talents and taste, no question.
Then too, as Dying City moves along, the rhythms are impeccable. You never get the impression that each scene is beginning as soon as Grinstead can throw on shirt or toss off robe; rather, you sense that the director has determined how the music of the scenes must operate and is shaping the movements like those of a symphony. This show has a heartbeat that’s set by conductor Peretzian and carried out by virtuoso actors in a way that is very, very rare on any stage.
It would be unfair to say anything more about the play’s themes and narrative surprises, because Dying City relies on an audience member’s active engagement in the here and now. Throughout the play, what we think we know is suddenly transformed by that which we didn’t know but all at once perceive. Like life, kinda. The less you know about what goes on here, the more its spell will work on you. All you need to know is that it’s terrific, that the audience space is limited, and that it won’t run forever.
Rogue Machine
Dying City is, if memory serves, the first LA has seen of the remarkable output of playwright Christopher Shinn in almost a decade. It’s also the latest in a series of small-cast shows at which Rogue Machine has proved itself to be peerless. Both are reasons to make immediate plans to attend this timely and emotionally draining work. And then to demand more Shinn of our local impresarios.
This distinctively American playwright has received most of his attention in London. The Shinn specialty is linking the politics of personal relationships, especially in a gay versus straight context, with the politics of the post-9/11 West, all of which you would think would put his plays in nonstop demand. Yet they have been hard to come by unless you live in London or New York, a discouraging fact that may soon change when his college-bullies melodrama Teddy Ferrara, which did well in Chicago awhile back, becomes more widely available. But who knows? One hoped in vain Now or Later, in which a presidential candidate has to cope with a gay son and his non–P.C. extracurricular activities, would surface during the past election year.
Certainly this Rogue Machine triumph should prompt LA producers to give Shinn a good hard look—first perhaps at Picked, the story of a young actor tapped for a big movie lead and a natural fit for our town; and then to the rest of his provocative and always stimulating oeuvre.
Dying City is a two-hander and a pas de trois, as Gotham therapist Kelly (Laurie Okin) enacts alternating scenes with twin brothers. In 2004, husband Craig (Burt Grinstead), a pro-war serviceman, is about to leave the next morning for one more, voluntary, Iraq tour of duty. Eighteen months later, well-known film and stage actor Peter (Grinstead again) pops in unannounced, having not seen Kelly since Craig’s funeral some months before. There’s more than meets the eye in the marriage as Craig packs up to ship out; meanwhile, in 2005, Peter has taken an intermission powder from his Broadway revival of Long Day’s Journey Into Night, and he has brought along not just familial but also career and sexual baggage to plop into his sister-in-law’s lap.
The notion of an actor’s having to pop in and out to make costume, hair, and manner changes sounds more appropriate to a Ken Ludwig farce than to a serious drama about America’s ambivalences over war and sexuality. But it all plays brilliantly, partly because Craig and Peter’s differing polarities work on Kelly’s mind in complex and clashing ways; it makes perfect psychological and dramatic sense for the two men to flit in and out of her consciousness.
But mostly it works because the playing and direction are so superior. It’s astonishing to watch Grinstead create two wholly different characters—different from top to toe—with each new entrance. Okin matches him every step of the way, believably limning a whirlwind of discoveries and conflicting emotions even when she’s given no lines to convey them. Each pair of characters carries full, rich history into their encounters, and it cannot be easy for either thesp to manage the time-twisted given circumstances of discontinuous scenes. Yet they do so in a way that will take away the breath of anyone who knows, from the inside, what it is for an actor to inhabit one character in real time, let alone two in two different real times.
Meanwhile, Michael Peretzian’s helming is the kind where you’re absolutely unaware of his hand, yet you’re absolutely certain he was critical to the work’s success. Take Peter’s initial late-evening appearance on Kelly’s doorstep, for instance. I’m trying to remember when, in either theater or film, I last saw such a believable unplanned interaction between two characters. Memory fails me. The moments of overlapping dialogue, the pauses that mesh and clash, the emotional roller coaster even a brief exchange can turn into—all of it reveals a director’s talents and taste, no question.
Then too, as Dying City moves along, the rhythms are impeccable. You never get the impression that each scene is beginning as soon as Grinstead can throw on shirt or toss off robe; rather, you sense that the director has determined how the music of the scenes must operate and is shaping the movements like those of a symphony. This show has a heartbeat that’s set by conductor Peretzian and carried out by virtuoso actors in a way that is very, very rare on any stage.
It would be unfair to say anything more about the play’s themes and narrative surprises, because Dying City relies on an audience member’s active engagement in the here and now. Throughout the play, what we think we know is suddenly transformed by that which we didn’t know but all at once perceive. Like life, kinda. The less you know about what goes on here, the more its spell will work on you. All you need to know is that it’s terrific, that the audience space is limited, and that it won’t run forever.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
June 4, 2013
June 4, 2013
The Scottsboro Boys
Ahmanson Theatre
This production opens with a woman sitting on a bus bench, holding a pastry box. The aroma from the box seems to give her a Proustian memory. Suddenly, a troupe charges through Ahmanson Theatre, heads for the stage, and begins to tell the tale of the Scottsboro boys. The story of the real-life pretense at justice for nine Southern black teens in the 1930s unfolds, but not in documentary form.
How could anyone turn this horror into a musical? How could anyone set up the audience to laugh until the chair is pulled out from under us? And yet, the power in this style of history lesson feels familiar. Doesn’t Cabaret give its audiences the same punch in the gut, singing and dancing a path through the monstrous psychology of Nazi Germany?
Of course it does. The Scottsboro Boys comprises music and lyrics by Cabaret’s John Kander and Fred Ebb, book by David Thompson. In the hands of these three, the storytelling is even fiercer than it could be in a documentary. The glib lies that put nine young men—two of them at age 13—in prison for nearly a decade hang heavily over the production, which uses the minstrel-show style as a lurid metaphor to mock the American South’s legal system in the 1930s.
Susan Stroman directs. The (presumably necessary) excesses of The Producers are not found here. Instead, she creates a sleek, purposeful, powerful storytelling machine. Her show’s minstrel elements are ugly in meaning but full of theatrical beauty. Her staging is deceptively simple, using hard-backed chairs that fit together to form boxcars and jail cells and courtrooms. Her choreography shows off the ample skills of her cast, but more important it creates emotional reactions in the audience.
The performers who give so much of themselves to re-create the Scottsboro nine likewise focus first on the storytelling and its emotional impact. But, every so often throughout the production, their craft attracts our attention, though the actors—to the credit of Stroman and her cast—never play “angry.”
The musical’s “lead” character is Haywood Patterson. Over the course of his imprisonment, he was given literacy by the 13-year-old Roy Wright and eventually wrote his autobiography. Patterson is given a towering portrayal by Joshua Henry, while Clinton Roane gives Wright a tender one. Stunningly, at around 13 years old, Deandre Sevon plays the other 13-year-old, Eugene Williams, with the presence and skills of an adult.
Christian Dante White plays Charles Weems, but he also plays Victoria, the dastard whose lies ruined the lives of the nine men, as well as the families and friends of those men. Gilbert L. Bailey II plays Ozie Powell, but he also plays Ruby, who initially also lied about a rape but who much later at least had the decency to recant. White and Bailey are vaudevillian yet realistic in their distaff portrayals.
Completing the nonet, Christopher James Culberson plays the protective Andy Wright; Justin Prescott plays the ailing, hardworking Willie Roberson; Cedric Sanders plays the eventually pardoned Clarence Norris; and David Bazemore plays the nearly blind Olen Montgomery, whose eyeglasses were broken on the day of his arrest and who was at last given a new pair after two years.
These talents are surrounded by other spectacular performances. Trent Armand Kendall plays a bow-legged white sheriff and an aged white prosecutor; JC Montgomery plays attorney Samuel Liebowitz, who gave his time and knowledge to the nine. These two performers also take on minstrel stock characters. The two are not merely triple threats, because they make good on those threats, with convincing acting, beautifully voiced singing, and feat-filled dancing. The luminous Hal Linden plays the minstrel show’s Interlocutor.
Who, then, was that woman (C. Kelly Wright in a selfless performance) on the bus bench who opened the play? Let’s just say she was someone who knew her place. But there’s more to her presence than who she is. This musical points out something about memory, about understanding history, about reminding each of us why we need to say, “Never again.”
Ahmanson Theatre
This production opens with a woman sitting on a bus bench, holding a pastry box. The aroma from the box seems to give her a Proustian memory. Suddenly, a troupe charges through Ahmanson Theatre, heads for the stage, and begins to tell the tale of the Scottsboro boys. The story of the real-life pretense at justice for nine Southern black teens in the 1930s unfolds, but not in documentary form.
How could anyone turn this horror into a musical? How could anyone set up the audience to laugh until the chair is pulled out from under us? And yet, the power in this style of history lesson feels familiar. Doesn’t Cabaret give its audiences the same punch in the gut, singing and dancing a path through the monstrous psychology of Nazi Germany?
Of course it does. The Scottsboro Boys comprises music and lyrics by Cabaret’s John Kander and Fred Ebb, book by David Thompson. In the hands of these three, the storytelling is even fiercer than it could be in a documentary. The glib lies that put nine young men—two of them at age 13—in prison for nearly a decade hang heavily over the production, which uses the minstrel-show style as a lurid metaphor to mock the American South’s legal system in the 1930s.
Susan Stroman directs. The (presumably necessary) excesses of The Producers are not found here. Instead, she creates a sleek, purposeful, powerful storytelling machine. Her show’s minstrel elements are ugly in meaning but full of theatrical beauty. Her staging is deceptively simple, using hard-backed chairs that fit together to form boxcars and jail cells and courtrooms. Her choreography shows off the ample skills of her cast, but more important it creates emotional reactions in the audience.
The performers who give so much of themselves to re-create the Scottsboro nine likewise focus first on the storytelling and its emotional impact. But, every so often throughout the production, their craft attracts our attention, though the actors—to the credit of Stroman and her cast—never play “angry.”
The musical’s “lead” character is Haywood Patterson. Over the course of his imprisonment, he was given literacy by the 13-year-old Roy Wright and eventually wrote his autobiography. Patterson is given a towering portrayal by Joshua Henry, while Clinton Roane gives Wright a tender one. Stunningly, at around 13 years old, Deandre Sevon plays the other 13-year-old, Eugene Williams, with the presence and skills of an adult.
Christian Dante White plays Charles Weems, but he also plays Victoria, the dastard whose lies ruined the lives of the nine men, as well as the families and friends of those men. Gilbert L. Bailey II plays Ozie Powell, but he also plays Ruby, who initially also lied about a rape but who much later at least had the decency to recant. White and Bailey are vaudevillian yet realistic in their distaff portrayals.
Completing the nonet, Christopher James Culberson plays the protective Andy Wright; Justin Prescott plays the ailing, hardworking Willie Roberson; Cedric Sanders plays the eventually pardoned Clarence Norris; and David Bazemore plays the nearly blind Olen Montgomery, whose eyeglasses were broken on the day of his arrest and who was at last given a new pair after two years.
These talents are surrounded by other spectacular performances. Trent Armand Kendall plays a bow-legged white sheriff and an aged white prosecutor; JC Montgomery plays attorney Samuel Liebowitz, who gave his time and knowledge to the nine. These two performers also take on minstrel stock characters. The two are not merely triple threats, because they make good on those threats, with convincing acting, beautifully voiced singing, and feat-filled dancing. The luminous Hal Linden plays the minstrel show’s Interlocutor.
Who, then, was that woman (C. Kelly Wright in a selfless performance) on the bus bench who opened the play? Let’s just say she was someone who knew her place. But there’s more to her presence than who she is. This musical points out something about memory, about understanding history, about reminding each of us why we need to say, “Never again.”
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 4, 2013
June 4, 2013
A Fried Octopus
Bootleg Theatre
A gossamer, dreamlike feeling permeates Bootleg Theater’s homegrown dance-performance art piece A Fried Octopus, in which an absinthe-driven Toulouse Lautrec (a considerably taller Kirk Wilson) conjures visions of the models the tortured artist made legendary—while ruminating in a rambling blur about the mercurial power of art and where it can be found. Created by director Justin Zsebe and Bootleg artistic director–performer Alicia Adams from real-life writings all the way from La Belle Epoque to the contemporary musings of David Lynch, this piece was developed with the participation of these actors, and each is lucky to have the collaboration of such brave artistic souls.
Light and beauty breaks through the oppressive darkness of Lautrec’s hallucinatory visions, symbolized inventively by the participants literally breaking through the layers of draped translucent plastic strips that dominate Jason Adams’s otherworldly set—this in an effort to make the audience privy to watching the intricacies of the painter’s mind unlocking in a series of ADHD-fed stream-of-consciousness revelations as he contemplates the world around him.
It is a bold, courageously conceived concept and often proves fascinating to scrutinize, especially as lit by François-Pierre Couture’s seemingly LSD-inspired, ever-changing, clearly organically motivated lighting design that strikes at our emotions.
Still, all the elements that should fascinate are here but somehow do not reach out to us to bring us along on the journey. It’s as though we are watching a 90-minute exercise in an Ann Bogart master class, fun to observe but without much connection to truly move us.
The ensemble is boundless in its collective enthusiasm, though not all performers are on the same page nor do they deliver their message in the same rhythm. Wilson, Michael Dunn, and Will Watkins are the most successful at breaking through the private cerebral zaps of realization to pull their audience into their discoveries, and Kera Armenderaz does an especially memorable job interpreting an old standard torch song a cappela.
A Fried Octopus looks like it was exciting to create and experience coming to fruition; if only there had been more emphasis in engaging the audience enough for us to be able to join in on the fun and not be left as vaguely amused voyeurs.
Bootleg Theatre
A gossamer, dreamlike feeling permeates Bootleg Theater’s homegrown dance-performance art piece A Fried Octopus, in which an absinthe-driven Toulouse Lautrec (a considerably taller Kirk Wilson) conjures visions of the models the tortured artist made legendary—while ruminating in a rambling blur about the mercurial power of art and where it can be found. Created by director Justin Zsebe and Bootleg artistic director–performer Alicia Adams from real-life writings all the way from La Belle Epoque to the contemporary musings of David Lynch, this piece was developed with the participation of these actors, and each is lucky to have the collaboration of such brave artistic souls.
Light and beauty breaks through the oppressive darkness of Lautrec’s hallucinatory visions, symbolized inventively by the participants literally breaking through the layers of draped translucent plastic strips that dominate Jason Adams’s otherworldly set—this in an effort to make the audience privy to watching the intricacies of the painter’s mind unlocking in a series of ADHD-fed stream-of-consciousness revelations as he contemplates the world around him.
It is a bold, courageously conceived concept and often proves fascinating to scrutinize, especially as lit by François-Pierre Couture’s seemingly LSD-inspired, ever-changing, clearly organically motivated lighting design that strikes at our emotions.
Still, all the elements that should fascinate are here but somehow do not reach out to us to bring us along on the journey. It’s as though we are watching a 90-minute exercise in an Ann Bogart master class, fun to observe but without much connection to truly move us.
The ensemble is boundless in its collective enthusiasm, though not all performers are on the same page nor do they deliver their message in the same rhythm. Wilson, Michael Dunn, and Will Watkins are the most successful at breaking through the private cerebral zaps of realization to pull their audience into their discoveries, and Kera Armenderaz does an especially memorable job interpreting an old standard torch song a cappela.
A Fried Octopus looks like it was exciting to create and experience coming to fruition; if only there had been more emphasis in engaging the audience enough for us to be able to join in on the fun and not be left as vaguely amused voyeurs.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
June 4, 2013
June 4, 2013
Priscilla Queen of the Desert
Pantages Theatre
Anyone who thinks national tours are always done on the cheap need only take a quick gander at the Pantages’s Priscilla Queen of the Desert, the musical version of the 1994 cult cineclassic whose title begins The Adventures of…. Tim Chappel and Lizzy Gardiner justly won an Oscar for their array of outré gowns, towering hairstyles, and kinky footwear, but honestly, the stuff they’ve sewn together for this tuner makes their film wardrobe look like so many sack suits. The show is RuPaul’s wet dream, each look more outlandish than the next but all executed with droll wit and a boatload of investor cash. Admittedly, the sets appear against a dull array of seedy pink backdrops and borders with all seams showing, but so they did on Broadway, too.
The glamour beneath the eye-popping lights is undeniable. I daresay the only show in town more exciting must be the one backstage, as all of those clothes and accessories are laid out, put on, and set aside at lightning speed by a company of 22, boot by sequined boot. The unsung Priscilla corps of dressers and stagehands surely deserves some kind of award, or at least a raise.
Musically, the show outdoes the film by a country mile as well. Stephan Elliott, the pic’s writer-director, and Allan Scott have ransacked the ’70s and ’80s jukeboxes for every pop ballad (“True Colors”), disco hit (“Boogie Wonderland”) and self-affirmation anthem (“We Belong”) any licensee was willing to release to them. The result is a nonstop parade of glorious tunes or appalling crap—depending on your point of view—played by Brent Frederick and his little band as if every one were a showstopper and danced the same way; and damned if most of the numbers don’t stop the show, and most pleasantly too.
With so much flamboyant fun to be had, it seems almost churlish to complain about the storytelling, but duty compels. The first casualties of any good film’s transformation into a musical tend to be delicacy, understatement, and density of feeling, and indeed none of those qualities have made it through the librettists’s distillation and vulgarization process for Broadway. The highs of the trek from Sydney to Alice Springs are higher than ever, but none of the lows resonates. None of it seems to matter much, to the characters or to us.
This extends to the acting, as well. Flighty Felicia, played by Guy Pearce lookalike Bryan West, comes the closest to re-creating the original prototype, but her emotional demands are the lightest by far; she’s just a girl who wants to have fun. The ambivalence of Tick (Wade McCollum) regarding his lifestyle and wife and son is just fuzzy (to be fair, Hugo Weaving struggled a bit here as well); and Scott Willis completely jettisons the bitterness and pain Terence Stamp brought, so mysteriously and unforgettably, to the widowed transsexual Bernadette. Looking remarkably like the old-time movie actress Lizabeth Scott, Willis is just a haut-Broadway diva looking for l’amour.
Our three headliners go through the motions without cutting very deep. The queens’s barbs at each other, which gash in the film, have lost their sting. It’s all in fun now, because We Are Family and so on. But if they can’t truly pierce one another’s hearts, they can’t do likewise to ours.
None of that will bother you much during the two and a half hours of Priscilla, so intoxicating is all the showbizzery. You won’t find a harder-working or more genial ensemble anywhere in town, that’s for sure. They flit—I think that’s the verb I’m looking for—from drag divas to oil riggers to clichéd foreign tourists (who, yes, squint and carry cameras) with gusto and unflagging energy as they reflect good will, sell the tacky numbers, and shine it on for everything the material is worth.
Yet all of that, too, comes at a price. One of the major themes of the movie is found in the repeated contrasts between the shaky but defiantly plucky drag queens and the rest of Australia in all its sweaty, misogynistic, homophobic, redneck glory. The nation, Adventures seems to be saying, is still trying to invent itself, still trying to carve out a civilization from a rude, humdrum backwater, in which the diva brigade is meant to be seen as something of a vanguard as it lets its freak flag fly, whatever the consequences.
In the musical, stabs are made in that direction. The drunken road gang still beats up Felicia when she dares to flirt, and the townies still paint “Fuck off, faggots” on the side of the bus. Yet with everyone singing and dancing within an inch of their lives, where’s the contrast? Even the vicious bigots get a sprightly pop hit to perform: John Denver’s “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”
Constant juxtaposition of calloused hands and velvet gloves gives the movie version incredible bite and texture. But in the musical, we know that every bigot is just waiting to race offstage and jump into heels and Lee Press-on Nails again. The spectacle has no more bite than the Electric Parade at Disneyland.
Pantages Theatre
Anyone who thinks national tours are always done on the cheap need only take a quick gander at the Pantages’s Priscilla Queen of the Desert, the musical version of the 1994 cult cineclassic whose title begins The Adventures of…. Tim Chappel and Lizzy Gardiner justly won an Oscar for their array of outré gowns, towering hairstyles, and kinky footwear, but honestly, the stuff they’ve sewn together for this tuner makes their film wardrobe look like so many sack suits. The show is RuPaul’s wet dream, each look more outlandish than the next but all executed with droll wit and a boatload of investor cash. Admittedly, the sets appear against a dull array of seedy pink backdrops and borders with all seams showing, but so they did on Broadway, too.
The glamour beneath the eye-popping lights is undeniable. I daresay the only show in town more exciting must be the one backstage, as all of those clothes and accessories are laid out, put on, and set aside at lightning speed by a company of 22, boot by sequined boot. The unsung Priscilla corps of dressers and stagehands surely deserves some kind of award, or at least a raise.
Musically, the show outdoes the film by a country mile as well. Stephan Elliott, the pic’s writer-director, and Allan Scott have ransacked the ’70s and ’80s jukeboxes for every pop ballad (“True Colors”), disco hit (“Boogie Wonderland”) and self-affirmation anthem (“We Belong”) any licensee was willing to release to them. The result is a nonstop parade of glorious tunes or appalling crap—depending on your point of view—played by Brent Frederick and his little band as if every one were a showstopper and danced the same way; and damned if most of the numbers don’t stop the show, and most pleasantly too.
With so much flamboyant fun to be had, it seems almost churlish to complain about the storytelling, but duty compels. The first casualties of any good film’s transformation into a musical tend to be delicacy, understatement, and density of feeling, and indeed none of those qualities have made it through the librettists’s distillation and vulgarization process for Broadway. The highs of the trek from Sydney to Alice Springs are higher than ever, but none of the lows resonates. None of it seems to matter much, to the characters or to us.
This extends to the acting, as well. Flighty Felicia, played by Guy Pearce lookalike Bryan West, comes the closest to re-creating the original prototype, but her emotional demands are the lightest by far; she’s just a girl who wants to have fun. The ambivalence of Tick (Wade McCollum) regarding his lifestyle and wife and son is just fuzzy (to be fair, Hugo Weaving struggled a bit here as well); and Scott Willis completely jettisons the bitterness and pain Terence Stamp brought, so mysteriously and unforgettably, to the widowed transsexual Bernadette. Looking remarkably like the old-time movie actress Lizabeth Scott, Willis is just a haut-Broadway diva looking for l’amour.
Our three headliners go through the motions without cutting very deep. The queens’s barbs at each other, which gash in the film, have lost their sting. It’s all in fun now, because We Are Family and so on. But if they can’t truly pierce one another’s hearts, they can’t do likewise to ours.
None of that will bother you much during the two and a half hours of Priscilla, so intoxicating is all the showbizzery. You won’t find a harder-working or more genial ensemble anywhere in town, that’s for sure. They flit—I think that’s the verb I’m looking for—from drag divas to oil riggers to clichéd foreign tourists (who, yes, squint and carry cameras) with gusto and unflagging energy as they reflect good will, sell the tacky numbers, and shine it on for everything the material is worth.
Yet all of that, too, comes at a price. One of the major themes of the movie is found in the repeated contrasts between the shaky but defiantly plucky drag queens and the rest of Australia in all its sweaty, misogynistic, homophobic, redneck glory. The nation, Adventures seems to be saying, is still trying to invent itself, still trying to carve out a civilization from a rude, humdrum backwater, in which the diva brigade is meant to be seen as something of a vanguard as it lets its freak flag fly, whatever the consequences.
In the musical, stabs are made in that direction. The drunken road gang still beats up Felicia when she dares to flirt, and the townies still paint “Fuck off, faggots” on the side of the bus. Yet with everyone singing and dancing within an inch of their lives, where’s the contrast? Even the vicious bigots get a sprightly pop hit to perform: John Denver’s “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”
Constant juxtaposition of calloused hands and velvet gloves gives the movie version incredible bite and texture. But in the musical, we know that every bigot is just waiting to race offstage and jump into heels and Lee Press-on Nails again. The spectacle has no more bite than the Electric Parade at Disneyland.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013
Fool for Love
T.U. Studios
There are many obvious traps inherent in this iconic 1983 Sam Shepard play, and, despite a pair of generally sharply focused performances in the two pivotal roles, complemented by appropriately brave and often steamy staging by director Gloria Gifford, many of the traps have been fallen into headfirst in this production.
Eddie (Chad Doreck) has traveled 2,840 miles to find his half-sister and longtime obsession May (Lauren Plaxco), who is trying to make a new life for herself working as a short-order cook somewhere in the dust and heat of the Mojave Desert. Eddie, it seems, can’t stop disappearing on May, nor can he keep his hands off other women—at least according to May’s active imagination. The raw sexuality the pair shares is the heart of the story, written sometime before the term codependent became the mantra for couples counselors everywhere. May is quick to tell Eddie to leave her alone—that is when she isn’t in her next breath pleading with him to stay. Even after May’s suspicions prove correct when his current paramour arrives in her new Mercedes to shoot up the front of May’s motel room, the physical draw between the two makes it clear their unhealthy fixation with each other will never stop.
Gifford does a phenomenal job exploring the powderkeg sexuality of the couple, and her actors are troopers for making it such a swelteringly hot experience for their audience. Doreck and Plaxco are surely powerhouse actors, especially evident in the impressive 11th-hour monologues, but they are also a bit misguided.
Remember, there are those traps. If Doreck didn’t work so hard limning the standard aw-shucks cowboy persona, his performance would be infinitely more successful; and someone, most probably the director, should tell Plaxco she doesn’t need to shout every line in this intimate space as though she is trying to reach the back rows at Stratford. It’s too easy for Shepard’s dialogue to devolve into shouting and grabbing without finding the subtle subtextual nuances of the couple’s rollercoaster ride of a relationship, something essential to keep things engaging without producing a massive headache.
As the Old Man, Robert May does little besides reciting his lines without much clarity about why his occasionally intrusive character is included in the storyline. Zach Killian, as May’s current date, gets comfortable way too quickly when hanging out with May and her precariously stalking half-brother, especially after trying at first glance to beat the shit out of Eddie.
Still, this Fool for Love is certainly salvageable with a little rethinking about how the relationship between Eddie and May transitions on a dime from dangerous to passionate to even sweet. According to the program, this production was developed from a scene in Gifford’s acting class. So the director might have fallen into yet another trap: looking at the progress her students have made since studying with her without taking more into account how the actors playing these two major characters should be guided. Less yelling, more real loving in their steamy sexual couplings, and this could be a major revival of a great play that so deserves to be completely understood.
T.U. Studios
There are many obvious traps inherent in this iconic 1983 Sam Shepard play, and, despite a pair of generally sharply focused performances in the two pivotal roles, complemented by appropriately brave and often steamy staging by director Gloria Gifford, many of the traps have been fallen into headfirst in this production.
Eddie (Chad Doreck) has traveled 2,840 miles to find his half-sister and longtime obsession May (Lauren Plaxco), who is trying to make a new life for herself working as a short-order cook somewhere in the dust and heat of the Mojave Desert. Eddie, it seems, can’t stop disappearing on May, nor can he keep his hands off other women—at least according to May’s active imagination. The raw sexuality the pair shares is the heart of the story, written sometime before the term codependent became the mantra for couples counselors everywhere. May is quick to tell Eddie to leave her alone—that is when she isn’t in her next breath pleading with him to stay. Even after May’s suspicions prove correct when his current paramour arrives in her new Mercedes to shoot up the front of May’s motel room, the physical draw between the two makes it clear their unhealthy fixation with each other will never stop.
Gifford does a phenomenal job exploring the powderkeg sexuality of the couple, and her actors are troopers for making it such a swelteringly hot experience for their audience. Doreck and Plaxco are surely powerhouse actors, especially evident in the impressive 11th-hour monologues, but they are also a bit misguided.
Remember, there are those traps. If Doreck didn’t work so hard limning the standard aw-shucks cowboy persona, his performance would be infinitely more successful; and someone, most probably the director, should tell Plaxco she doesn’t need to shout every line in this intimate space as though she is trying to reach the back rows at Stratford. It’s too easy for Shepard’s dialogue to devolve into shouting and grabbing without finding the subtle subtextual nuances of the couple’s rollercoaster ride of a relationship, something essential to keep things engaging without producing a massive headache.
As the Old Man, Robert May does little besides reciting his lines without much clarity about why his occasionally intrusive character is included in the storyline. Zach Killian, as May’s current date, gets comfortable way too quickly when hanging out with May and her precariously stalking half-brother, especially after trying at first glance to beat the shit out of Eddie.
Still, this Fool for Love is certainly salvageable with a little rethinking about how the relationship between Eddie and May transitions on a dime from dangerous to passionate to even sweet. According to the program, this production was developed from a scene in Gifford’s acting class. So the director might have fallen into yet another trap: looking at the progress her students have made since studying with her without taking more into account how the actors playing these two major characters should be guided. Less yelling, more real loving in their steamy sexual couplings, and this could be a major revival of a great play that so deserves to be completely understood.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013
The Fantasticks
South Coast Repertory Segerstrom Stage
Not only does helmer Amanda Dehnert’s take on The Fantasticks at South Coast Rep justify yet another revival of an overfamiliar warhorse, but it also reminds us of the fundamental reasons the Tom Jones–Harvey Schmidt valentine has been a perennial for more than 50 years and is likely to remain one.
“This man is a magician!” explains papa Hucklebee (Gregory North) in introducing our suave narrator-compere El Gallo (Perry Ojeda), who will engineer the mock kidnaping scheme designed to bring Luisa (Addi McDaniel) and Matt (Anthony Carillo) together in true love. Dehnert takes that quite literally, turning the corny emcee and his Mute pal (Nate Dendy) into a Penn and Teller act featuring a slew of sleight of hand and vanishing illusions.
The prestidigitation is pulled off with great aplomb by the dandy Dendy. The best news is that the trickery amounts to no distraction. Quite the contrary, it taps right into the musical’s main themes of illusion versus reality.
Matt and Luisa are already in love when the story (inspired by an Edmond Rostand original) begins, but it’s a phony love, a fakery cooked up by fantasizing adolescents reared on fairy tales and heroic epics. Their love needs testing and a cold dose of reality if it is to endure; Dehnert masterfully pulls back from all the magic just when the plot needs her to do so. Even those who have seen The Fantasticks endlessly over the years will be struck by how lucid and moving it is in this interpretation.
They’ll also be amazed at how relaxed and poised the performances are—terrific work all around, especially from Scott Waara and North as the two dads— and the splendid musical direction from Dennis Castellano. There’s a tender sense of valedictory in longtime SCR veterans Richard Doyle and Hal Landon Jr. as the hapless hams Henry and Mortimer. But any sense of fading careers is just one more “Fantastick” illusion. These two redoubtable thesps are as hale, hearty, skillful, and welcome as ever.
South Coast Repertory Segerstrom Stage
Not only does helmer Amanda Dehnert’s take on The Fantasticks at South Coast Rep justify yet another revival of an overfamiliar warhorse, but it also reminds us of the fundamental reasons the Tom Jones–Harvey Schmidt valentine has been a perennial for more than 50 years and is likely to remain one.
“This man is a magician!” explains papa Hucklebee (Gregory North) in introducing our suave narrator-compere El Gallo (Perry Ojeda), who will engineer the mock kidnaping scheme designed to bring Luisa (Addi McDaniel) and Matt (Anthony Carillo) together in true love. Dehnert takes that quite literally, turning the corny emcee and his Mute pal (Nate Dendy) into a Penn and Teller act featuring a slew of sleight of hand and vanishing illusions.
The prestidigitation is pulled off with great aplomb by the dandy Dendy. The best news is that the trickery amounts to no distraction. Quite the contrary, it taps right into the musical’s main themes of illusion versus reality.
Matt and Luisa are already in love when the story (inspired by an Edmond Rostand original) begins, but it’s a phony love, a fakery cooked up by fantasizing adolescents reared on fairy tales and heroic epics. Their love needs testing and a cold dose of reality if it is to endure; Dehnert masterfully pulls back from all the magic just when the plot needs her to do so. Even those who have seen The Fantasticks endlessly over the years will be struck by how lucid and moving it is in this interpretation.
They’ll also be amazed at how relaxed and poised the performances are—terrific work all around, especially from Scott Waara and North as the two dads— and the splendid musical direction from Dennis Castellano. There’s a tender sense of valedictory in longtime SCR veterans Richard Doyle and Hal Landon Jr. as the hapless hams Henry and Mortimer. But any sense of fading careers is just one more “Fantastick” illusion. These two redoubtable thesps are as hale, hearty, skillful, and welcome as ever.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013
The Crucible
The Antaeus Company
In this version of Arthur Miller’s evergreen play, co-directors Armin Shimerman and Geoffrey Wade give us theater as the Greeks might have seen it. The two directors block the actors to face the audience, rather than one another, at almost all times. Here it’s as if the actors were in the rehearsal room, the eye “contact” shifting as if the characters were communicating with one another while facing a mirror.
Why doesn’t this work? Audiences have expectations, and many want their actors to face each other. Adding to the meta-theater feel—or in this case perhaps meta-rehearsal feel—actors involved in an upcoming scene sit upstage, subtly watching the action. Unfortunately, one might spend too long pondering the significance of the particular combination of actors there.
On the other hand, why does the direction work? We can see the full force of the play in these actors, not half-hidden in their profiles, not in three-quarter “cheating” toward the audience, not in standing unnaturally close to each other or moving downstage center to signal, “This is an important moment.” Only two pieces of lighting design do that signaling here; hopefully, either they were board-operator error or are something to be changed over the run.
The sole exceptions to the audience-facing concept are moments between John and Elizabeth Proctor. The couple’s intimacy—or lack of it—belongs to these two, privately, while the rest of Massachusetts butts in to everyone’s business and makes assumptions based on the manipulation by the town’s teen girls.
This play is, after all, Miller’s condemnation of witch hunts in general, and in particular that of the House Un-American Activities Committee. Shimerman and Wade’s direction makes this so clear. Names, reporting names, keeping a good name, signing one’s name—all seem significant without being spotlit by the line readings. So, too, the sandpaper that the Proctors’s marriage has become is given tangible layers by Bo Foxworth as a very human John and by Kimiko Gelman as a formerly ill, currently stretched Elizabeth.
The directors couldn’t have operated this way with lesser actors. The cast knows what it’s saying, the language is articulated and it resounds. Shimerman’s ability to paint beautiful compositions shows, but it doesn’t overwhelm the subtle character work he and Wade have elicited from their casts. (The play is double-cast. “The Putnams” are reviewed here.) There’s an evenness in the contrasting characters that, rather than making the whole seem bland, keeps the archetypes involvingly human. The smug-yet-insecure-televangelist portrayal of Reverend Parris by John Allee counterbalances the sensible nobility of Dawn Didawick’s Rebecca Nurse. The seductively bullying Abigail Williams created by Nicole Erb reflects the evil side of young America; the ice-breaking performance of Philip Proctor leavens and brings tenderness to the careworn Giles Corey. The scales fall from Reverend Hale’s eyes in the work of Ann Noble—the reverend’s Christian name changed to Jean here—so why, oh, why couldn’t they fall from the eyes of the obdurate Gov. Danforth, in a chilling portrayal by James Sutorius?
The costuming seems relatively modern, resembling rehearsal attire. What the audience gives up by the way of buckled shoes and pilgrim collars, we gain in the ability to see in full the reactions of these townspeople living a life far too similar to ours. And although nearly every American theatergoer has seen a Crucible—or been in it at some grade level—it’s an honor to see it done this well.
The Antaeus Company
In this version of Arthur Miller’s evergreen play, co-directors Armin Shimerman and Geoffrey Wade give us theater as the Greeks might have seen it. The two directors block the actors to face the audience, rather than one another, at almost all times. Here it’s as if the actors were in the rehearsal room, the eye “contact” shifting as if the characters were communicating with one another while facing a mirror.
Why doesn’t this work? Audiences have expectations, and many want their actors to face each other. Adding to the meta-theater feel—or in this case perhaps meta-rehearsal feel—actors involved in an upcoming scene sit upstage, subtly watching the action. Unfortunately, one might spend too long pondering the significance of the particular combination of actors there.
On the other hand, why does the direction work? We can see the full force of the play in these actors, not half-hidden in their profiles, not in three-quarter “cheating” toward the audience, not in standing unnaturally close to each other or moving downstage center to signal, “This is an important moment.” Only two pieces of lighting design do that signaling here; hopefully, either they were board-operator error or are something to be changed over the run.
The sole exceptions to the audience-facing concept are moments between John and Elizabeth Proctor. The couple’s intimacy—or lack of it—belongs to these two, privately, while the rest of Massachusetts butts in to everyone’s business and makes assumptions based on the manipulation by the town’s teen girls.
This play is, after all, Miller’s condemnation of witch hunts in general, and in particular that of the House Un-American Activities Committee. Shimerman and Wade’s direction makes this so clear. Names, reporting names, keeping a good name, signing one’s name—all seem significant without being spotlit by the line readings. So, too, the sandpaper that the Proctors’s marriage has become is given tangible layers by Bo Foxworth as a very human John and by Kimiko Gelman as a formerly ill, currently stretched Elizabeth.
The directors couldn’t have operated this way with lesser actors. The cast knows what it’s saying, the language is articulated and it resounds. Shimerman’s ability to paint beautiful compositions shows, but it doesn’t overwhelm the subtle character work he and Wade have elicited from their casts. (The play is double-cast. “The Putnams” are reviewed here.) There’s an evenness in the contrasting characters that, rather than making the whole seem bland, keeps the archetypes involvingly human. The smug-yet-insecure-televangelist portrayal of Reverend Parris by John Allee counterbalances the sensible nobility of Dawn Didawick’s Rebecca Nurse. The seductively bullying Abigail Williams created by Nicole Erb reflects the evil side of young America; the ice-breaking performance of Philip Proctor leavens and brings tenderness to the careworn Giles Corey. The scales fall from Reverend Hale’s eyes in the work of Ann Noble—the reverend’s Christian name changed to Jean here—so why, oh, why couldn’t they fall from the eyes of the obdurate Gov. Danforth, in a chilling portrayal by James Sutorius?
The costuming seems relatively modern, resembling rehearsal attire. What the audience gives up by the way of buckled shoes and pilgrim collars, we gain in the ability to see in full the reactions of these townspeople living a life far too similar to ours. And although nearly every American theatergoer has seen a Crucible—or been in it at some grade level—it’s an honor to see it done this well.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013
Heart Song
Fountain Theatre
Stephen Sachs’s flamenco-infused comedy/drama Heart Song reveals a pair of agendas, neither of them fully realized. The first act serves as a primer on the art of flamenco—its form, history, mysticism, and spiritual depth. The second act deals primarily with the cathartic emotional journey of Rochelle (Pamela Dunlop), a middle-aged Jewish woman who must face and deal with her unresolved feelings for her mother on the one-year anniversary of her mother’s death. Helmed at a measured, rhythmic pace by Shirley Jo Finney, the first act informs the second act but doesn’t illuminate it.
The center of this play’s attention is Rochelle—single, out-of-shape, and living in Manhattan—who is prodded by her Japanese-American masseuse Tina (a tentative Tamlyn Tomita) into taking a flamenco class for women who are past the physical prime of their lives. The class is taught by Katerina (Maria Bermudez), an undulating flamenco guru whose aim is not to merely teach dance steps but to unleash each woman’s inner duende: the spirit of evocation that comes from a deep inner voice as a physical/emotional response to the music.
Bermudez’s Katerina effectively claps, stomps, prods, sings, coaxes, and coos at her adoring charges, including down-to-earth African-American nurse Daloris, played to the free-spirited hilt by Juanita Jennings, and a quartet of class regulars—Alicia (Andrea Dantas), Bernadette (Sherrie Lewandowski), Sarah (Mindy Krasner), and Elisa (Elissa Kyriacou)—who serve as an appealing response chorus to Katerina’s outpourings. Unfortunately, by the end of the first act, there is no evidence that these flamenco seminars have had any effect on Rochelle, who doesn’t learn to dance and remains curmudgeonly detached from the proceedings. Her duende remains locked away.
The second-act dinner-party bonding of Rochelle, Tina, and Daloris over wine and cannabis quite believably loosens Rochelle up as she declares, “I haven’t had pot since McGovern.” As Rochelle takes the tentative steps toward revealing the deep pain and sorrow she has been suffering on the eve of the traditional unveiling of the tombstone for her mother, Sachs also includes the personal history testimonials of Tina and Daloris. It is a distraction that dilutes the potency of Rochelle’s revelation of the horrific suffering her mother endured and the facts of her early life, which Rochelle discovered only after her mother’s death.
In the final scene at the cemetery, Finney inventively utilizes Katerina’s chorus as gravestones that evolve into a lively flamenco celebration of life and the freeing of Rochelle’s duende. Although her spiritual evolution is supposedly a result of her slight immersion into the soul of flamenco, it is easier to believe that Rochelle’s newfound happiness and emotional freedom is a result of finally having loving friends in her life—no matter what they dance.
The designs of Tom Buderwitz (sets), Ken Booth (lights), and Dana Woods (costumes) serve the flow of this premiering work quite adequately. And the sound design of Bruno Louchoarn is a perfectly volumed complement to the proceedings, especially Bermudez’s programmatic but sultry choreography.
Fountain Theatre
Stephen Sachs’s flamenco-infused comedy/drama Heart Song reveals a pair of agendas, neither of them fully realized. The first act serves as a primer on the art of flamenco—its form, history, mysticism, and spiritual depth. The second act deals primarily with the cathartic emotional journey of Rochelle (Pamela Dunlop), a middle-aged Jewish woman who must face and deal with her unresolved feelings for her mother on the one-year anniversary of her mother’s death. Helmed at a measured, rhythmic pace by Shirley Jo Finney, the first act informs the second act but doesn’t illuminate it.
The center of this play’s attention is Rochelle—single, out-of-shape, and living in Manhattan—who is prodded by her Japanese-American masseuse Tina (a tentative Tamlyn Tomita) into taking a flamenco class for women who are past the physical prime of their lives. The class is taught by Katerina (Maria Bermudez), an undulating flamenco guru whose aim is not to merely teach dance steps but to unleash each woman’s inner duende: the spirit of evocation that comes from a deep inner voice as a physical/emotional response to the music.
Bermudez’s Katerina effectively claps, stomps, prods, sings, coaxes, and coos at her adoring charges, including down-to-earth African-American nurse Daloris, played to the free-spirited hilt by Juanita Jennings, and a quartet of class regulars—Alicia (Andrea Dantas), Bernadette (Sherrie Lewandowski), Sarah (Mindy Krasner), and Elisa (Elissa Kyriacou)—who serve as an appealing response chorus to Katerina’s outpourings. Unfortunately, by the end of the first act, there is no evidence that these flamenco seminars have had any effect on Rochelle, who doesn’t learn to dance and remains curmudgeonly detached from the proceedings. Her duende remains locked away.
The second-act dinner-party bonding of Rochelle, Tina, and Daloris over wine and cannabis quite believably loosens Rochelle up as she declares, “I haven’t had pot since McGovern.” As Rochelle takes the tentative steps toward revealing the deep pain and sorrow she has been suffering on the eve of the traditional unveiling of the tombstone for her mother, Sachs also includes the personal history testimonials of Tina and Daloris. It is a distraction that dilutes the potency of Rochelle’s revelation of the horrific suffering her mother endured and the facts of her early life, which Rochelle discovered only after her mother’s death.
In the final scene at the cemetery, Finney inventively utilizes Katerina’s chorus as gravestones that evolve into a lively flamenco celebration of life and the freeing of Rochelle’s duende. Although her spiritual evolution is supposedly a result of her slight immersion into the soul of flamenco, it is easier to believe that Rochelle’s newfound happiness and emotional freedom is a result of finally having loving friends in her life—no matter what they dance.
The designs of Tom Buderwitz (sets), Ken Booth (lights), and Dana Woods (costumes) serve the flow of this premiering work quite adequately. And the sound design of Bruno Louchoarn is a perfectly volumed complement to the proceedings, especially Bermudez’s programmatic but sultry choreography.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013
The Royale
Kirk Douglas Theatre
Oh, how playwrights have tried to explain why we behave the way we do. Marco Ramirez takes his audience on that exploration in this world premiere. And even though a play about boxing might not sound universal enough, this one is tremendously satisfying in its intellectual and emotional study of the psychology of sports and racism.
It is said to be “loosely inspired” by the legend of Jay Johnson, the first African-American boxer to win the heavyweight championship of the world—accomplishing it in this play by toppling a boxer named Bernard Bixby—holding the title from 1908 through 1915. But this is no straightforward biography. And, under the direction of Daniel Aukin, the sport’s brutality is rendered with artistry rather than brawn.
On a stark wooden floor, surrounded by chairs on which the cast sits and serves as a musical Greek chorus, the action plays out, whether in the ring, gym, or hotel rooms (set design by Andrew Boyce). Lights serve as a backdrop but never hurt the audience’s eyes. We meet Jay (David St. Louis) as he fights young challenger Fish (Desean Terry). The two actors face the audience as they “box,” using their feet to stamp their punches, so we see the expressions on their faces and hear their thoughts throughout their bouts. Jay’s trainer Wynton (Robert Gossett) and the progressive white fight promoter Max (Keith Szarabajka) are in Jay’s corner, soon joined by Fish.
Jay seems fearless, and in St. Louis’s stellar portrayal, he’s equal parts athlete and showman. Yet something is upsetting Jay, making him fearful and angry beneath the expert punches and counterpunches. What deeper battle is he fighting? Is he confronting racism, or is he a 9-year-old watching his sister’s desperate attempts to look like white girls? The psychology of an athlete, perhaps of all of us, comes into fascinating view.
The Royale of the play’s title was a horrific contest in which young black men would climb into a ring, blindfolded, and in essence fight for their lives, the “winner” stuffing his pockets with coins tossed into the ring. Jay’s trainer Wynton fought in them and won, and the take ran as much as a half-month’s wages. But, as Wynton observes, “To this day, ain’t a coin I hold in my hand that I don’t try to wipe the blood from.” So much for the thrill of victory, in this metaphor for sports and so much more.
Gossett plays Wynton with a body broken by the fights of decades before. He can barely walk. So it’s even more heartbreaking when he tries to share his wisdom with Jay, and Jay rejects the advice, preferring to walk his own path. Diarra Oni Kilpatrick plays Jay’s sister, the actor and the character holding ample sway over the men.
Ramirez calls the Bixby-Johnson fight “a contest 200 years in the making.” Looking back, it was unfortunately only one small step. Many more followed. The giant leaps wouldn’t come until perhaps 1964, and then perhaps 2008. So why is America still walking that path? Maybe that’s another topic for another Ramirez play.
Kirk Douglas Theatre
Oh, how playwrights have tried to explain why we behave the way we do. Marco Ramirez takes his audience on that exploration in this world premiere. And even though a play about boxing might not sound universal enough, this one is tremendously satisfying in its intellectual and emotional study of the psychology of sports and racism.
It is said to be “loosely inspired” by the legend of Jay Johnson, the first African-American boxer to win the heavyweight championship of the world—accomplishing it in this play by toppling a boxer named Bernard Bixby—holding the title from 1908 through 1915. But this is no straightforward biography. And, under the direction of Daniel Aukin, the sport’s brutality is rendered with artistry rather than brawn.
On a stark wooden floor, surrounded by chairs on which the cast sits and serves as a musical Greek chorus, the action plays out, whether in the ring, gym, or hotel rooms (set design by Andrew Boyce). Lights serve as a backdrop but never hurt the audience’s eyes. We meet Jay (David St. Louis) as he fights young challenger Fish (Desean Terry). The two actors face the audience as they “box,” using their feet to stamp their punches, so we see the expressions on their faces and hear their thoughts throughout their bouts. Jay’s trainer Wynton (Robert Gossett) and the progressive white fight promoter Max (Keith Szarabajka) are in Jay’s corner, soon joined by Fish.
Jay seems fearless, and in St. Louis’s stellar portrayal, he’s equal parts athlete and showman. Yet something is upsetting Jay, making him fearful and angry beneath the expert punches and counterpunches. What deeper battle is he fighting? Is he confronting racism, or is he a 9-year-old watching his sister’s desperate attempts to look like white girls? The psychology of an athlete, perhaps of all of us, comes into fascinating view.
The Royale of the play’s title was a horrific contest in which young black men would climb into a ring, blindfolded, and in essence fight for their lives, the “winner” stuffing his pockets with coins tossed into the ring. Jay’s trainer Wynton fought in them and won, and the take ran as much as a half-month’s wages. But, as Wynton observes, “To this day, ain’t a coin I hold in my hand that I don’t try to wipe the blood from.” So much for the thrill of victory, in this metaphor for sports and so much more.
Gossett plays Wynton with a body broken by the fights of decades before. He can barely walk. So it’s even more heartbreaking when he tries to share his wisdom with Jay, and Jay rejects the advice, preferring to walk his own path. Diarra Oni Kilpatrick plays Jay’s sister, the actor and the character holding ample sway over the men.
Ramirez calls the Bixby-Johnson fight “a contest 200 years in the making.” Looking back, it was unfortunately only one small step. Many more followed. The giant leaps wouldn’t come until perhaps 1964, and then perhaps 2008. So why is America still walking that path? Maybe that’s another topic for another Ramirez play.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013
Fool for Love
T.U. Studios
There are many obvious traps inherent in this iconic 1983 Sam Shepard play, and, despite a pair of generally sharply focused performances in the two pivotal roles, complemented by appropriately brave and often steamy staging by director Gloria Gifford, many of the traps have been fallen into headfirst in this production.
Eddie (Chad Doreck) has traveled 2,840 miles to find his half-sister and longtime obsession May (Lauren Plaxco), who is trying to make a new life for herself working as a short-order cook somewhere in the dust and heat of the Mojave Desert. Eddie, it seems, can’t stop disappearing on May, nor can he keep his hands off other women—at least according to May’s active imagination. The raw sexuality the pair shares is the heart of the story, written sometime before the term codependent became the mantra for couples counselors everywhere. May is quick to tell Eddie to leave her alone—that is when she isn’t in her next breath pleading with him to stay. Even after May’s suspicions prove correct when his current paramour arrives in her new Mercedes to shoot up the front of May’s motel room, the physical draw between the two makes it clear their unhealthy fixation with each other will never stop.
Gifford does a phenomenal job exploring the powderkeg sexuality of the couple, and her actors are troopers for making it such a swelteringly hot experience for their audience. Doreck and Plaxco are surely powerhouse actors, especially evident in the impressive 11th-hour monologues, but they are also a bit misguided.
Remember, there are those traps. If Doreck didn’t work so hard limning the standard aw-shucks cowboy persona, his performance would be infinitely more successful; and someone, most probably the director, should tell Plaxco she doesn’t need to shout every line in this intimate space as though she is trying to reach the back rows at Stratford. It’s too easy for Shepard’s dialogue to devolve into shouting and grabbing without finding the subtle subtextual nuances of the couple’s rollercoaster ride of a relationship, something essential to keep things engaging without producing a massive headache.
As the Old Man, Robert May does little besides reciting his lines without much clarity about why his occasionally intrusive character is included in the storyline. Zach Killian, as May’s current date, gets comfortable way too quickly when hanging out with May and her precariously stalking half-brother, especially after trying at first glance to beat the shit out of Eddie.
Still, this Fool for Love is certainly salvageable with a little rethinking about how the relationship between Eddie and May transitions on a dime from dangerous to passionate to even sweet. According to the program, this production was developed from a scene in Gifford’s acting class. So the director might have fallen into yet another trap: looking at the progress her students have made since studying with her without taking more into account how the actors playing these two major characters should be guided. Less yelling, more real loving in their steamy sexual couplings, and this could be a major revival of a great play that so deserves to be completely understood.
T.U. Studios
There are many obvious traps inherent in this iconic 1983 Sam Shepard play, and, despite a pair of generally sharply focused performances in the two pivotal roles, complemented by appropriately brave and often steamy staging by director Gloria Gifford, many of the traps have been fallen into headfirst in this production.
Eddie (Chad Doreck) has traveled 2,840 miles to find his half-sister and longtime obsession May (Lauren Plaxco), who is trying to make a new life for herself working as a short-order cook somewhere in the dust and heat of the Mojave Desert. Eddie, it seems, can’t stop disappearing on May, nor can he keep his hands off other women—at least according to May’s active imagination. The raw sexuality the pair shares is the heart of the story, written sometime before the term codependent became the mantra for couples counselors everywhere. May is quick to tell Eddie to leave her alone—that is when she isn’t in her next breath pleading with him to stay. Even after May’s suspicions prove correct when his current paramour arrives in her new Mercedes to shoot up the front of May’s motel room, the physical draw between the two makes it clear their unhealthy fixation with each other will never stop.
Gifford does a phenomenal job exploring the powderkeg sexuality of the couple, and her actors are troopers for making it such a swelteringly hot experience for their audience. Doreck and Plaxco are surely powerhouse actors, especially evident in the impressive 11th-hour monologues, but they are also a bit misguided.
Remember, there are those traps. If Doreck didn’t work so hard limning the standard aw-shucks cowboy persona, his performance would be infinitely more successful; and someone, most probably the director, should tell Plaxco she doesn’t need to shout every line in this intimate space as though she is trying to reach the back rows at Stratford. It’s too easy for Shepard’s dialogue to devolve into shouting and grabbing without finding the subtle subtextual nuances of the couple’s rollercoaster ride of a relationship, something essential to keep things engaging without producing a massive headache.
As the Old Man, Robert May does little besides reciting his lines without much clarity about why his occasionally intrusive character is included in the storyline. Zach Killian, as May’s current date, gets comfortable way too quickly when hanging out with May and her precariously stalking half-brother, especially after trying at first glance to beat the shit out of Eddie.
Still, this Fool for Love is certainly salvageable with a little rethinking about how the relationship between Eddie and May transitions on a dime from dangerous to passionate to even sweet. According to the program, this production was developed from a scene in Gifford’s acting class. So the director might have fallen into yet another trap: looking at the progress her students have made since studying with her without taking more into account how the actors playing these two major characters should be guided. Less yelling, more real loving in their steamy sexual couplings, and this could be a major revival of a great play that so deserves to be completely understood.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013
Mahmoud
Whitefire Theatre
It is understandable why Canadian-based thesp Tara Grammy’s Mahmoud—co-scripted by Grammy and Tom Arthur Davis, helmed by Davis—received solo-performance honors at 2012 Toronto and New York Fringe festivals. Iranian-born Grammy offers an exuberant, hyper-polished, pitch-and-rhythm-perfect sojourn within the lives of three disparate Toronto immigrants—an aging, relentlessly upbeat Iranian engineer-turned–cab driver; a romance-smitten homosexual Spaniard; and a callow Iranian-Canadian teen actor wannabe—each living out “the day-to-day grind in a large metropolitan city.” Despite duo Fringe kudos, there is not enough substance to this piece to sustain a regular theatrical run. Her adroit performance skills notwithstanding, Grammy’s sketchy, thematically incomplete character studies need to be fleshed out and amplified. At a paltry 50 minutes, the current staging of Mahmoud at Whitefire Theatre barely serves as an introduction.
Ever-vivacious Grammy touches on a number of sensitive issues: inherent racism and media-driven distrust of Middle Eastern immigrants; ignorance-driven homophobia among immigrants; preteen social angst amplified by minority status; and the historical credibility gap separating the original Iranian immigrants who fled their country following the overthrow of the shah of Iran in 1979 and the current, social media–savvy young Iranian immigrant adults who have been raised under the influence of Western culture.
The unifying force in this piece is the title character, Mahmoud the cab driver, who at some point shares his taxi with each of the other characters. Grammy effortlessly flows into the persona of this colorful refugee of a prosperous, upper-middle-class existence under the shah who became a persecuted victim of Ayatollah Khomeini’s fundamentalist Islamic regime. Intermingling Grammy’s exquisite timing with the thematically supporting production designs of Jenna Koenig (lights) and Mike Conley (sound), helmer Davis seamlessly moves the dramatic throughline forward, chronicling Mahmoud’s ongoing struggle to remain upbeat and positive while plagued by the ongoing nightmares of his obliterated former life. Unfortunately, there is not enough thematic substance within Mahmoud’s travails—present and past—to give him credence as a three-dimensional character.
The same can be said of Grammy’s not-so-adroit flamboyant Spanish-born gay romantic who is pining for the return of his Iranian lover so they can be married. Sporting an implausible, muddled Castilian accent, this character has no backstory to make believable his manic assertions that his boyfriend—a product of one of the more homophobic societies on earth—is going to wed him and take him home to meet the family. There is also an unworkable taxicab confrontation between the Spaniard and Mahmoud. It would be equally plausible to believe Mahmoud throws his passenger out of his cab because he is homophobic or due to the Spaniard’s relentlessly obnoxious behavior.
What plays to near perfection is Grammy’s 13-year-old Tara, suffering all the normal early teen social woes, further plagued by the knowledge that with her dark skin and hair, she can never compete with the blonde beauty who naturally beats her out for the role of Tinker Bell in the school play and the heart of the class hunk.
The highlight of this production is the taxi ride argument between adult Tara, who has had the privilege of enjoying many visits to modern-day Iran, and Mahmoud, who hasn’t seen his home country for more than a quarter century. Davis stages the scene to haunting effect. It is achingly poignant that long-suffering Mahmoud cannot appreciate this young woman’s transcendence over history, while Tara cannot express empathy for the self-built wall of terror Mahmoud has built that permanently places him in exile. This scene should serve as a potential beginning to a second act that continues the path of Tara and Mahmoud to discover and reveal in-depth resolutions to their journeys.
Whitefire Theatre
It is understandable why Canadian-based thesp Tara Grammy’s Mahmoud—co-scripted by Grammy and Tom Arthur Davis, helmed by Davis—received solo-performance honors at 2012 Toronto and New York Fringe festivals. Iranian-born Grammy offers an exuberant, hyper-polished, pitch-and-rhythm-perfect sojourn within the lives of three disparate Toronto immigrants—an aging, relentlessly upbeat Iranian engineer-turned–cab driver; a romance-smitten homosexual Spaniard; and a callow Iranian-Canadian teen actor wannabe—each living out “the day-to-day grind in a large metropolitan city.” Despite duo Fringe kudos, there is not enough substance to this piece to sustain a regular theatrical run. Her adroit performance skills notwithstanding, Grammy’s sketchy, thematically incomplete character studies need to be fleshed out and amplified. At a paltry 50 minutes, the current staging of Mahmoud at Whitefire Theatre barely serves as an introduction.
Ever-vivacious Grammy touches on a number of sensitive issues: inherent racism and media-driven distrust of Middle Eastern immigrants; ignorance-driven homophobia among immigrants; preteen social angst amplified by minority status; and the historical credibility gap separating the original Iranian immigrants who fled their country following the overthrow of the shah of Iran in 1979 and the current, social media–savvy young Iranian immigrant adults who have been raised under the influence of Western culture.
The unifying force in this piece is the title character, Mahmoud the cab driver, who at some point shares his taxi with each of the other characters. Grammy effortlessly flows into the persona of this colorful refugee of a prosperous, upper-middle-class existence under the shah who became a persecuted victim of Ayatollah Khomeini’s fundamentalist Islamic regime. Intermingling Grammy’s exquisite timing with the thematically supporting production designs of Jenna Koenig (lights) and Mike Conley (sound), helmer Davis seamlessly moves the dramatic throughline forward, chronicling Mahmoud’s ongoing struggle to remain upbeat and positive while plagued by the ongoing nightmares of his obliterated former life. Unfortunately, there is not enough thematic substance within Mahmoud’s travails—present and past—to give him credence as a three-dimensional character.
The same can be said of Grammy’s not-so-adroit flamboyant Spanish-born gay romantic who is pining for the return of his Iranian lover so they can be married. Sporting an implausible, muddled Castilian accent, this character has no backstory to make believable his manic assertions that his boyfriend—a product of one of the more homophobic societies on earth—is going to wed him and take him home to meet the family. There is also an unworkable taxicab confrontation between the Spaniard and Mahmoud. It would be equally plausible to believe Mahmoud throws his passenger out of his cab because he is homophobic or due to the Spaniard’s relentlessly obnoxious behavior.
What plays to near perfection is Grammy’s 13-year-old Tara, suffering all the normal early teen social woes, further plagued by the knowledge that with her dark skin and hair, she can never compete with the blonde beauty who naturally beats her out for the role of Tinker Bell in the school play and the heart of the class hunk.
The highlight of this production is the taxi ride argument between adult Tara, who has had the privilege of enjoying many visits to modern-day Iran, and Mahmoud, who hasn’t seen his home country for more than a quarter century. Davis stages the scene to haunting effect. It is achingly poignant that long-suffering Mahmoud cannot appreciate this young woman’s transcendence over history, while Tara cannot express empathy for the self-built wall of terror Mahmoud has built that permanently places him in exile. This scene should serve as a potential beginning to a second act that continues the path of Tara and Mahmoud to discover and reveal in-depth resolutions to their journeys.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013
Cooperstown
The Road Theatre’s New Second Home: The Road on Magnolia
In 1962, powerhouse baseball player Jack Roosevelt Robinson was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. As the first black player to break the color line in Major League baseball, his accomplishments over his lifetime in sports are praiseworthy.
Playwright Brian Golden has taken this historical moment and framed a story that addresses issues of civil rights along with the personal stories of his characters. Junior (Cecil Burroughs) works in Jimmy’s Diner in Cooperstown. Junior is dreaming of a day when the largely absentee owner Jimmy Fletcher would name his manager, a role Jimmy already holds without the designation. His waitresses are Sharree (Jamye Grant), his sister, and Dylan (Alexa Shoemaker), a spunky tomboy who loves baseball and can fire off statistics and opinions readily.
Into the diner comes Huck (T. J. McNeill), a quirky baseball fan who has traveled all the way from Ohio to be present at the induction. He is immediately taken with Dylan because of her forthright manner and love of baseball that matches his. There are several plots addressed in the story. The most obvious—racial discrimination and civil rights—are at the center, but love, loyalty, and family also figure into the mix.
As the induction day nears, Junior learns that Jackie Robinson and fellow inductee Bob Feller will be coming to the diner for lunch and photo ops. Junior is uncomfortable with this, but Sharree is militantly opposed. She has been protesting against discrimination, and her group wants to make a political statement. At this juncture, Fletcher’s wife, Grace (Ann Hu), arrives to let Junior know that if he refuses to go along with the scheme, he will be fired. Sexual tension exists here, and that relationship is also part of the story.
Burroughs, although almost too soft spoken, is thoroughly believable as a man looking for affirmation of his talents. His interaction with Hu delivers palpable tension as their history is revealed. Grant is also notable for her passionate characterization. McNeill and Shoemaker’s love story subplot nearly overwhelms the more serious racial narrative. They play well together, and you find yourself drawn to their reactions even when they aren’t front and center.
Director Darryl Johnson’s light touch saves the story from being bombastic or melodramatic, even as the characters’ revelations of their secrets unfold. Very well cast, the ensemble is perfectly natural and engaging. Golden’s script has enough humor to offset the sometimes didactic history inherent in the story. It is a fine-tuned production inaugurating the Road Theatre Company’s second space, The Road on Magnolia.
The Road Theatre’s New Second Home: The Road on Magnolia
In 1962, powerhouse baseball player Jack Roosevelt Robinson was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. As the first black player to break the color line in Major League baseball, his accomplishments over his lifetime in sports are praiseworthy.
Playwright Brian Golden has taken this historical moment and framed a story that addresses issues of civil rights along with the personal stories of his characters. Junior (Cecil Burroughs) works in Jimmy’s Diner in Cooperstown. Junior is dreaming of a day when the largely absentee owner Jimmy Fletcher would name his manager, a role Jimmy already holds without the designation. His waitresses are Sharree (Jamye Grant), his sister, and Dylan (Alexa Shoemaker), a spunky tomboy who loves baseball and can fire off statistics and opinions readily.
Into the diner comes Huck (T. J. McNeill), a quirky baseball fan who has traveled all the way from Ohio to be present at the induction. He is immediately taken with Dylan because of her forthright manner and love of baseball that matches his. There are several plots addressed in the story. The most obvious—racial discrimination and civil rights—are at the center, but love, loyalty, and family also figure into the mix.
As the induction day nears, Junior learns that Jackie Robinson and fellow inductee Bob Feller will be coming to the diner for lunch and photo ops. Junior is uncomfortable with this, but Sharree is militantly opposed. She has been protesting against discrimination, and her group wants to make a political statement. At this juncture, Fletcher’s wife, Grace (Ann Hu), arrives to let Junior know that if he refuses to go along with the scheme, he will be fired. Sexual tension exists here, and that relationship is also part of the story.
Burroughs, although almost too soft spoken, is thoroughly believable as a man looking for affirmation of his talents. His interaction with Hu delivers palpable tension as their history is revealed. Grant is also notable for her passionate characterization. McNeill and Shoemaker’s love story subplot nearly overwhelms the more serious racial narrative. They play well together, and you find yourself drawn to their reactions even when they aren’t front and center.
Director Darryl Johnson’s light touch saves the story from being bombastic or melodramatic, even as the characters’ revelations of their secrets unfold. Very well cast, the ensemble is perfectly natural and engaging. Golden’s script has enough humor to offset the sometimes didactic history inherent in the story. It is a fine-tuned production inaugurating the Road Theatre Company’s second space, The Road on Magnolia.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013
The Women
Theatre West
When ever-sarcastic Depression-era feminist Nancy Blake (Dianne Travis) accuses fellow Manhattan socialite Sylvia Fowler (Leona Britton) of having an “orgasm by gossip,” she is distilling the agenda underscoring playwright Clare Boothe Luce’s 1936 all-female stage play, The Women, having an unsteady but still stageworthy revival at Theatre West. Helmer Arden Teresa Lewis’s labored effort to marshal her 17-member distaff cast through a dozen scene changes and myriad costumes does not always serve the flow of Luce’s dramatic throughline, but the text prevails. And it is a deliciously satisfying text.
Having no real power or influence to control the society in which they live, Luce’s women of privilege feed on one another for their emotional nourishment. The current object of Sylvia’s cultured malice is life-contented wife and mother Mary Haines (Maria Kress), who unfortunately falls victim to the “good intentioned” machinations of the women she considers her good friends. Britton’s Sylvia glows as she manipulates events to make sure Mary learns that Mr. Haines is having his way with working-class salesgirl Crystal (Caitlin Gallogly). Kress exudes the proper poise and sophistication but doesn’t inhabit the persona of Mary, a demure, trusting innocent who eventually evolves into a take-charge warrior. Kress seems to be attempting to discover Mary as she goes along.
What elevates The Women above the level of a mere high society cat fest is Luce’s seamless social counterbalance, offering up the reality of life for the have-nots who pamper these ladies of privilege. Performing as an ensemble unto themselves, Jeanine Anderson, Heather Alyse Becker, Melanie Kwiatkowski, Paula K. Long, and Sarah Purdam portray an assortment of maids, nannies, waitresses, salesgirls, beauticians, nurses, etc. who constantly indicate their opinions of the ladies they serve, as much with body language as with words. Long’s Nurse, who informs pregnant and pampered Edith (Anne Leyden) what it is like to bear children when a woman lives in poverty is a penetrating study in controlled bitterness.
Luce reveals that in the life and times she inhabited during the early part of the 20th century, the only difference between a society matron and a salesgirl is at what level each can find a man to take care of them. Mary’s mother Mrs. Morehead, portrayed with steely determination by Sandra Tucker, staunchly advocates that her daughter keep her husband at all costs, even with his infidelity. There is an equal determination oozing out of opportunistic Crystal—played to the hot-eyed hilt by Caitlin Gallogly—who utilizes all her youthful credentials to replace Mary as Mrs. Haines.
The playwright also hints at a future when women just might be moving toward a greater freedom of purpose. She incorporates the expediency of a Reno Nevada divorce, made possible by the six-week residency statute enacted by Nevada in 1931. Travis’s free-spirited writer Nancy is proud to be a virgin in her 30s, untouched, unencumbered, and free to travel the world whenever she pleases. And for comedy relief, Luce throws in amour-smitten Countess De Lage (an endearingly dotty Jacque Lynn Colton), an independently wealthy four-time divorcee who keeps marrying and discarding men just to keep her love alive.
The designs of David Offner (sets) and Valerie Miller (costumes) adequately evoke the period. And the ensemble should be credited for the dedicated manipulation of both with nary a mishap.
Theatre West
When ever-sarcastic Depression-era feminist Nancy Blake (Dianne Travis) accuses fellow Manhattan socialite Sylvia Fowler (Leona Britton) of having an “orgasm by gossip,” she is distilling the agenda underscoring playwright Clare Boothe Luce’s 1936 all-female stage play, The Women, having an unsteady but still stageworthy revival at Theatre West. Helmer Arden Teresa Lewis’s labored effort to marshal her 17-member distaff cast through a dozen scene changes and myriad costumes does not always serve the flow of Luce’s dramatic throughline, but the text prevails. And it is a deliciously satisfying text.
Having no real power or influence to control the society in which they live, Luce’s women of privilege feed on one another for their emotional nourishment. The current object of Sylvia’s cultured malice is life-contented wife and mother Mary Haines (Maria Kress), who unfortunately falls victim to the “good intentioned” machinations of the women she considers her good friends. Britton’s Sylvia glows as she manipulates events to make sure Mary learns that Mr. Haines is having his way with working-class salesgirl Crystal (Caitlin Gallogly). Kress exudes the proper poise and sophistication but doesn’t inhabit the persona of Mary, a demure, trusting innocent who eventually evolves into a take-charge warrior. Kress seems to be attempting to discover Mary as she goes along.
What elevates The Women above the level of a mere high society cat fest is Luce’s seamless social counterbalance, offering up the reality of life for the have-nots who pamper these ladies of privilege. Performing as an ensemble unto themselves, Jeanine Anderson, Heather Alyse Becker, Melanie Kwiatkowski, Paula K. Long, and Sarah Purdam portray an assortment of maids, nannies, waitresses, salesgirls, beauticians, nurses, etc. who constantly indicate their opinions of the ladies they serve, as much with body language as with words. Long’s Nurse, who informs pregnant and pampered Edith (Anne Leyden) what it is like to bear children when a woman lives in poverty is a penetrating study in controlled bitterness.
Luce reveals that in the life and times she inhabited during the early part of the 20th century, the only difference between a society matron and a salesgirl is at what level each can find a man to take care of them. Mary’s mother Mrs. Morehead, portrayed with steely determination by Sandra Tucker, staunchly advocates that her daughter keep her husband at all costs, even with his infidelity. There is an equal determination oozing out of opportunistic Crystal—played to the hot-eyed hilt by Caitlin Gallogly—who utilizes all her youthful credentials to replace Mary as Mrs. Haines.
The playwright also hints at a future when women just might be moving toward a greater freedom of purpose. She incorporates the expediency of a Reno Nevada divorce, made possible by the six-week residency statute enacted by Nevada in 1931. Travis’s free-spirited writer Nancy is proud to be a virgin in her 30s, untouched, unencumbered, and free to travel the world whenever she pleases. And for comedy relief, Luce throws in amour-smitten Countess De Lage (an endearingly dotty Jacque Lynn Colton), an independently wealthy four-time divorcee who keeps marrying and discarding men just to keep her love alive.
The designs of David Offner (sets) and Valerie Miller (costumes) adequately evoke the period. And the ensemble should be credited for the dedicated manipulation of both with nary a mishap.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013
The Beaux’ Stratagem
A Noise Within
The pedigree seemed so promising on paper. George Farquhar’s The Beaux’ Stratagem, for 400 years a certified crowd pleaser. First stab at tightening and adaptation done by Thornton Wilder, playwright of imagination and grace (Our Town; The Matchmaker). The job latterly completed by farceur Ken Ludwig (Lend Me a Tenor; Crazy for You). All performed under the aegis of celebrated local revivalists A Noise Within. The show looks great, too. Lovely costumes and fanciful wigs. If only it were funnier.
A lack of intimacy hamstrings the endeavor. ANW’s recent hilarious The Bungler and The Comedy of Errors employed the full depth of the company’s deep thrust stage, bringing the wacky characters and their hijinks right down into our laps. Comic complicity is everything. Yet whenever I have seen ANW push the action against the back wall to maintain extensive contact with set pieces, they’ve gotten in trouble, and so they do here. We need to feel as one with the penniless beaux (Freddy Douglas and Blake Ellis) in their stratagems to marry for wealth. But director Julia Rodriguez-Elliott’s blocking shunts so much of the action upstage, in bedroom and barroom alike, that Beaux starts to feel like a genuine museum piece, i.e. something we’re straining to view through thick glass.
Strain of various kinds is the principal reason the occasional chuckles too rarely turn into belly laughs, and the viewer’s hopeful rictus smile keeps defying translation into sound. Someone thought it would be a good idea to impose on the company a variety of thick accents, mostly Midlands. They sound authentic—coach Nike Doukas knows her dialects—but at the price of obvious struggle on the part of the cast. Also, hardly any cast member tosses off lines easily, or plays against the words. Frequent exceptions are the two male leads, played by Freddy Douglas and Blake Ellis; and Joel Swetow’s nobleman and Alan Blumenthal’s lackey, the latter two not onstage enough to make enough of a difference. But these four, not coincidentally, are the surest laugh getters.
Farce requires airiness, exuberance, and surprise, none of which are easily captured when an actor is as constrained by her speaking pattern as by a period corset, and keeps getting asked to bark punch lines to hit the rear of the auditorium. The players work hard, and we have to work equally hard to stay with them. But when comedy becomes hard work—and at a running time, if that’s the phrase I’m looking for, of two and a half hours—you can’t be surprised when we workers are inclined to go on siesta or on strike. ANW’s Beaux’ Stratagem asks too much of us, for too little comic return.
A Noise Within
The pedigree seemed so promising on paper. George Farquhar’s The Beaux’ Stratagem, for 400 years a certified crowd pleaser. First stab at tightening and adaptation done by Thornton Wilder, playwright of imagination and grace (Our Town; The Matchmaker). The job latterly completed by farceur Ken Ludwig (Lend Me a Tenor; Crazy for You). All performed under the aegis of celebrated local revivalists A Noise Within. The show looks great, too. Lovely costumes and fanciful wigs. If only it were funnier.
A lack of intimacy hamstrings the endeavor. ANW’s recent hilarious The Bungler and The Comedy of Errors employed the full depth of the company’s deep thrust stage, bringing the wacky characters and their hijinks right down into our laps. Comic complicity is everything. Yet whenever I have seen ANW push the action against the back wall to maintain extensive contact with set pieces, they’ve gotten in trouble, and so they do here. We need to feel as one with the penniless beaux (Freddy Douglas and Blake Ellis) in their stratagems to marry for wealth. But director Julia Rodriguez-Elliott’s blocking shunts so much of the action upstage, in bedroom and barroom alike, that Beaux starts to feel like a genuine museum piece, i.e. something we’re straining to view through thick glass.
Strain of various kinds is the principal reason the occasional chuckles too rarely turn into belly laughs, and the viewer’s hopeful rictus smile keeps defying translation into sound. Someone thought it would be a good idea to impose on the company a variety of thick accents, mostly Midlands. They sound authentic—coach Nike Doukas knows her dialects—but at the price of obvious struggle on the part of the cast. Also, hardly any cast member tosses off lines easily, or plays against the words. Frequent exceptions are the two male leads, played by Freddy Douglas and Blake Ellis; and Joel Swetow’s nobleman and Alan Blumenthal’s lackey, the latter two not onstage enough to make enough of a difference. But these four, not coincidentally, are the surest laugh getters.
Farce requires airiness, exuberance, and surprise, none of which are easily captured when an actor is as constrained by her speaking pattern as by a period corset, and keeps getting asked to bark punch lines to hit the rear of the auditorium. The players work hard, and we have to work equally hard to stay with them. But when comedy becomes hard work—and at a running time, if that’s the phrase I’m looking for, of two and a half hours—you can’t be surprised when we workers are inclined to go on siesta or on strike. ANW’s Beaux’ Stratagem asks too much of us, for too little comic return.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013
The Matchmaker
Actors Co-Op
By 1955, when Thornton Wilder penned this play, he had already gained great success, winning Pulitzer Prizes for his novel The Bridge of San Luis Rey and plays Our Town and The Skin of Our Teeth. This play had been written earlier as The Merchant of Yonkers, but when commissioned by Tyrone Guthrie to rework it for his company, Wilder changed it significantly by featuring Dolly Levi as a central character. It was a hit, made into a film of the same name, then the stage musical Hello, Dolly.
By now most people know the story of the matchmaking machinations of the shrewdly enterprising widow, Dolly Gallagher Levi (Lori Berg), who sets her sights on the wealthy Yonkers merchant, Horace Vandergelder (Dimitri Christy). He has determined he will propose to a hat maker from New York, Mrs. Irene Malloy (Ellis Greer), but Dolly invents a wealthy young woman who is attracted to Horace and sets up a meeting at the Harmonia Gardens.
In the meantime, Irene tells her young assistant, Minnie Fay (Katie Buderwitz), that she is planning to marry Horace to escape the tedium of making and selling hats. Just as she does this, into the shop arrive Horace’s chief clerk, Cornelius Hackl (Jeff Fazakerley), and apprentice Barnaby Tucker (Joseph Barone), who are hiding out from Horace’s discovering that they are in New York, as they were supposed to be minding the store in Yonkers.
Other side plots in this comedy concern Horace’s niece, Ermengarde (Rory Patterson), who wants to marry Ambrose Kemper (Coy Benning Wentworth), an artist with no steady income, but Horace has forbidden the engagement and sent her to New York to stay with a friend of her mother’s, spinster Miss Van Huysen (Deborah Marlowe). Further he has hired a tricky agent, Malachi Stack (Brian Habicht), to see that there is no trouble with Ermengarde. Stack and a cabman (Matthew Gilmore) get drunk, along with Irene, Minnie May, Cornelius, and Barnaby. From this point on, the farce becomes very humorous—mistaken identities, true love thwarted, and money as a subject of interest to all.
Berg and Christy deliver the goods as the two main principals. Greer and Buderwitz also are well-cast as the reckless milliner and her silly giggling assistant. Fazakerley and Barone have, by far, the most engaging roles as the two clerks out for adventure. Barone also delights with spontaneous gymnastics, much appreciated by the audience. Habicht is also a pro providing comic relief.
Director Heather Chesley keeps the pace moving and manages her ensemble well. She has a deft touch, making the comic scenes believable for their lack of a heavy hand. Choreographer Julie Hall creates dancing between the scenes, adding lively music to the show. Costumes by Vicki Conrad are charming.
This production is entertaining with a cohesive ensemble. The four acts move along swiftly, and the play ends satisfactorily with all the couples perfectly matched. Overall, this show handles Wilder’s wit well, and it is recommended for a cheerful night at the theater.
Actors Co-Op
By 1955, when Thornton Wilder penned this play, he had already gained great success, winning Pulitzer Prizes for his novel The Bridge of San Luis Rey and plays Our Town and The Skin of Our Teeth. This play had been written earlier as The Merchant of Yonkers, but when commissioned by Tyrone Guthrie to rework it for his company, Wilder changed it significantly by featuring Dolly Levi as a central character. It was a hit, made into a film of the same name, then the stage musical Hello, Dolly.
By now most people know the story of the matchmaking machinations of the shrewdly enterprising widow, Dolly Gallagher Levi (Lori Berg), who sets her sights on the wealthy Yonkers merchant, Horace Vandergelder (Dimitri Christy). He has determined he will propose to a hat maker from New York, Mrs. Irene Malloy (Ellis Greer), but Dolly invents a wealthy young woman who is attracted to Horace and sets up a meeting at the Harmonia Gardens.
In the meantime, Irene tells her young assistant, Minnie Fay (Katie Buderwitz), that she is planning to marry Horace to escape the tedium of making and selling hats. Just as she does this, into the shop arrive Horace’s chief clerk, Cornelius Hackl (Jeff Fazakerley), and apprentice Barnaby Tucker (Joseph Barone), who are hiding out from Horace’s discovering that they are in New York, as they were supposed to be minding the store in Yonkers.
Other side plots in this comedy concern Horace’s niece, Ermengarde (Rory Patterson), who wants to marry Ambrose Kemper (Coy Benning Wentworth), an artist with no steady income, but Horace has forbidden the engagement and sent her to New York to stay with a friend of her mother’s, spinster Miss Van Huysen (Deborah Marlowe). Further he has hired a tricky agent, Malachi Stack (Brian Habicht), to see that there is no trouble with Ermengarde. Stack and a cabman (Matthew Gilmore) get drunk, along with Irene, Minnie May, Cornelius, and Barnaby. From this point on, the farce becomes very humorous—mistaken identities, true love thwarted, and money as a subject of interest to all.
Berg and Christy deliver the goods as the two main principals. Greer and Buderwitz also are well-cast as the reckless milliner and her silly giggling assistant. Fazakerley and Barone have, by far, the most engaging roles as the two clerks out for adventure. Barone also delights with spontaneous gymnastics, much appreciated by the audience. Habicht is also a pro providing comic relief.
Director Heather Chesley keeps the pace moving and manages her ensemble well. She has a deft touch, making the comic scenes believable for their lack of a heavy hand. Choreographer Julie Hall creates dancing between the scenes, adding lively music to the show. Costumes by Vicki Conrad are charming.
This production is entertaining with a cohesive ensemble. The four acts move along swiftly, and the play ends satisfactorily with all the couples perfectly matched. Overall, this show handles Wilder’s wit well, and it is recommended for a cheerful night at the theater.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013
Joe Turner’s Come and Gone
Mark Taper Forum
August Wilson is surely the most important American dramatist of the final two decades of the last century, a given that makes it so important to honor his memory with the kind of reverential productions his plays deserve. To say the Taper’s revival of this Wilson masterwork is worthy of this mantle is an understatement; it is a magnificent effort.
Under the nurturing, subtly omnipresent leadership of director Phylicia Rashad, Joe Turner’s back with a vengeance. and Los Angeles is lucky to be able to again experience an impeccable production of what could be Wilson’s best work, part of what has been called his Century Cycle: 10 plays that chronicle the African-American experience, each representing a different decade and all taking place in the ever-evolving Hill District of Pittsburgh. Beginning with Gem of the Ocean, set in 1900, and ending with Radio Golf, Wilson’s last play taking place in 1997 (which debuted at the Taper shortly before its creator’s death), no one since O’Neill so clearly defined who we are as Americans, with all our spirit and all our warts right out there for all to see.
Joe Turner’s Come and Gone is the second play in the cycle, set in 1911 in the kitchen and sitting room of Seth and Bertha Holly’s modest boardinghouse dwarfed by a massive, silky backdrop of the then-burgeoning Pittsburgh skyline and the Smithfield Street Bridge looming above the second floor of John Iacovelli’s evocative set. As Bertha (Lillias White) cooks and keeps her house in order in the most loving way possible, her husband (Keith David) oversees the antics of their boarders with what he’d like to be an iron hand, even if his inherent gentleness gets in the way of his attempts at authority. White and David are the heart of this production, leading the breathtaking ensemble cast with incredible spirit in a time when African-Americans were still caught between the end of slavery and a dubious—though promising—future. “The world got to start somewhere,” woebegone drifter Herald Loomis observes, his own once-solid faith in turmoil from living in the troubled times enveloping him. “I been wandering a long time in somebody else’s world.”
Joanne DeNaut must be credited for her exemplary casting here. Glynn Turman as the neighborhood’s resident conjure man Bynum Walker; Gabriel Brown, January LaVoy, and Vivian Nixon as boarders who come and go, their stories peripheral to the others but equally as fascinating, are all golden and fiercely committed to telling Wilson’s tale. John Douglas Thompson is chilling and heartbreaking as Loomis, a man held by bounty hunter Joe Turner for seven years and now on the road with his daughter Zonia to find the wife (a knockout Erica Tazel in her 11th-hour appearance) he was forced to leave behind.
Raynor Scheine is excellent as the Caucasian peddler who liberally peppers his stories with the “n-word” without a clue that it is offensive to his friends and, as the 10-year-old Zonia and her new, equally pintsized friend Reuben, Skye Barrett and Nathaniel James Potvin smoothly hold their own, acting alongside their veteran adult counterparts, surely another nod to the supportive and passionate hand of a majorly gifted director.
This new mounting is resplendent in every way, alternately delicate and wildly boisterous, epic and humble. “I ain’t never found no place for me to fit,” one boarder confesses to another. “Seem like all I do is start over.” Our country has come a long way in the last 102 years, but thanks to Wilson’s rich, blessedly fervent storytelling and his charming, resilient characters who speak in simple yet lyrical terms, it’s easy to see we still have a long way to go.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
May 11, 2013
Mark Taper Forum
August Wilson is surely the most important American dramatist of the final two decades of the last century, a given that makes it so important to honor his memory with the kind of reverential productions his plays deserve. To say the Taper’s revival of this Wilson masterwork is worthy of this mantle is an understatement; it is a magnificent effort.
Under the nurturing, subtly omnipresent leadership of director Phylicia Rashad, Joe Turner’s back with a vengeance. and Los Angeles is lucky to be able to again experience an impeccable production of what could be Wilson’s best work, part of what has been called his Century Cycle: 10 plays that chronicle the African-American experience, each representing a different decade and all taking place in the ever-evolving Hill District of Pittsburgh. Beginning with Gem of the Ocean, set in 1900, and ending with Radio Golf, Wilson’s last play taking place in 1997 (which debuted at the Taper shortly before its creator’s death), no one since O’Neill so clearly defined who we are as Americans, with all our spirit and all our warts right out there for all to see.
Joe Turner’s Come and Gone is the second play in the cycle, set in 1911 in the kitchen and sitting room of Seth and Bertha Holly’s modest boardinghouse dwarfed by a massive, silky backdrop of the then-burgeoning Pittsburgh skyline and the Smithfield Street Bridge looming above the second floor of John Iacovelli’s evocative set. As Bertha (Lillias White) cooks and keeps her house in order in the most loving way possible, her husband (Keith David) oversees the antics of their boarders with what he’d like to be an iron hand, even if his inherent gentleness gets in the way of his attempts at authority. White and David are the heart of this production, leading the breathtaking ensemble cast with incredible spirit in a time when African-Americans were still caught between the end of slavery and a dubious—though promising—future. “The world got to start somewhere,” woebegone drifter Herald Loomis observes, his own once-solid faith in turmoil from living in the troubled times enveloping him. “I been wandering a long time in somebody else’s world.”
Joanne DeNaut must be credited for her exemplary casting here. Glynn Turman as the neighborhood’s resident conjure man Bynum Walker; Gabriel Brown, January LaVoy, and Vivian Nixon as boarders who come and go, their stories peripheral to the others but equally as fascinating, are all golden and fiercely committed to telling Wilson’s tale. John Douglas Thompson is chilling and heartbreaking as Loomis, a man held by bounty hunter Joe Turner for seven years and now on the road with his daughter Zonia to find the wife (a knockout Erica Tazel in her 11th-hour appearance) he was forced to leave behind.
Raynor Scheine is excellent as the Caucasian peddler who liberally peppers his stories with the “n-word” without a clue that it is offensive to his friends and, as the 10-year-old Zonia and her new, equally pintsized friend Reuben, Skye Barrett and Nathaniel James Potvin smoothly hold their own, acting alongside their veteran adult counterparts, surely another nod to the supportive and passionate hand of a majorly gifted director.
This new mounting is resplendent in every way, alternately delicate and wildly boisterous, epic and humble. “I ain’t never found no place for me to fit,” one boarder confesses to another. “Seem like all I do is start over.” Our country has come a long way in the last 102 years, but thanks to Wilson’s rich, blessedly fervent storytelling and his charming, resilient characters who speak in simple yet lyrical terms, it’s easy to see we still have a long way to go.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
May 11, 2013
Hot Cat
Theatre Movement Bazaar at Theatre of NOTE
Throughout its first half, this production is a fun and intellectual reworking of Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Where Williams “told” us, writer Richard Alger and director-choreographer Tina Kronis “show” us. Where in Williams’s version the childless Maggie, speaking to her husband, Brick, bewails the number of children his brother Gooper and sister-in-law Mae have produced in their sports-loving family, in this version Mae plays center to Gooper’s quarterback and snaps out the no-neck monsters, er, baby dolls, in quick succession. Where Maggie complains about the twee performances those kids put on at family gatherings, here Mae and Gooper are classic stage parents, their bodies urging and acting out the show as they watch the progeny they hope will inherit the family estate of Big Daddy and Big Mama.
The dialogue could be Williams’s. Hot buttered biscuits earn a poetic description. And then biscuits get hurled in a thoroughly choreographed food fight followed by a thoroughly choreographed cleanup. Brick, accompanying himself on guitar, sings an impassioned ode to the “click” in his head. The performers do a physicalized ode to heat, some of it jocularly theatrical clichés, some of it unexpected yet descriptive movement, and some of it genuine sweating by the nonstop troupe.
No 1950s realism here. The actors go all out for Kronis’s stylized movement and delivery. Crystal Diaz is a fiercely feline Maggie, and David Guerra wields Brick’s crutch as a fifth limb while he ensures the label on the Southern Comfort bottle always faces the audience. David LM McIntyre is the highly cheery, people-pleasing Gooper, and Jenny Soo is the smug Mae. Eric Neil Gutierrez, despite relative lack of age and girth, is a shadow-casting Big Daddy, and Blaire Chandler heads straight for 1950s screen queen as Big Mama.
Yes, that’s the first impression—of tremendously amusing style but little substance. Where’s the grip in the gut normally felt at a Williams play? And then it happens, without announcement, creeping in on its cat paws. It seems to occur during what would be the Act II scene in which Brick undergoes what Williams described as “virtual vivisection” at the hands of Big Daddy. Alger and Kronis have not abandoned their comedic take (Brick’s pal Skipper may be a, gasp, communist) nor their whimsy (Maggie delivers comfort via an arrow laced with morphine). But the theater magic Kronis and Alger bring to the stage has suddenly enriched the story with almost overwhelming emotionality. The longed-for wrench of a Williams play has been provided. Indeed, this remantling of the classic might have out-Williamsed Williams.
Theatre Movement Bazaar at Theatre of NOTE
Throughout its first half, this production is a fun and intellectual reworking of Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Where Williams “told” us, writer Richard Alger and director-choreographer Tina Kronis “show” us. Where in Williams’s version the childless Maggie, speaking to her husband, Brick, bewails the number of children his brother Gooper and sister-in-law Mae have produced in their sports-loving family, in this version Mae plays center to Gooper’s quarterback and snaps out the no-neck monsters, er, baby dolls, in quick succession. Where Maggie complains about the twee performances those kids put on at family gatherings, here Mae and Gooper are classic stage parents, their bodies urging and acting out the show as they watch the progeny they hope will inherit the family estate of Big Daddy and Big Mama.
The dialogue could be Williams’s. Hot buttered biscuits earn a poetic description. And then biscuits get hurled in a thoroughly choreographed food fight followed by a thoroughly choreographed cleanup. Brick, accompanying himself on guitar, sings an impassioned ode to the “click” in his head. The performers do a physicalized ode to heat, some of it jocularly theatrical clichés, some of it unexpected yet descriptive movement, and some of it genuine sweating by the nonstop troupe.
No 1950s realism here. The actors go all out for Kronis’s stylized movement and delivery. Crystal Diaz is a fiercely feline Maggie, and David Guerra wields Brick’s crutch as a fifth limb while he ensures the label on the Southern Comfort bottle always faces the audience. David LM McIntyre is the highly cheery, people-pleasing Gooper, and Jenny Soo is the smug Mae. Eric Neil Gutierrez, despite relative lack of age and girth, is a shadow-casting Big Daddy, and Blaire Chandler heads straight for 1950s screen queen as Big Mama.
Yes, that’s the first impression—of tremendously amusing style but little substance. Where’s the grip in the gut normally felt at a Williams play? And then it happens, without announcement, creeping in on its cat paws. It seems to occur during what would be the Act II scene in which Brick undergoes what Williams described as “virtual vivisection” at the hands of Big Daddy. Alger and Kronis have not abandoned their comedic take (Brick’s pal Skipper may be a, gasp, communist) nor their whimsy (Maggie delivers comfort via an arrow laced with morphine). But the theater magic Kronis and Alger bring to the stage has suddenly enriched the story with almost overwhelming emotionality. The longed-for wrench of a Williams play has been provided. Indeed, this remantling of the classic might have out-Williamsed Williams.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013
The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later
Chance Theatre
In October 1998, Matthew Shepard was attacked and brutally beaten by Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson in Laramie, Wyo. Shepard was tied to a fence and left to die. Though he didn’t die for several days, his injuries were too severe, and he remained in a coma until his death. He was targeted because he was gay, and at the subsequent trial the acts were deemed a hate crime.
Following this story, which gained national attention, Moisés Kaufman and members of the Tectonic Theater Project traveled to Laramie to interview citizens about their views of this horrific crime. Those interviews turned into The Laramie Project, a play first performed in February 2000. For more than nine years, Matthew’s mother, Judy Shepard, advocated for hate crime legislation for LGBT individuals, including people with disabilities. Remarkably, the controversy surrounding this attempt began under President Bill Clinton, when the House of Representatives rejected his efforts to extend Federal hate crimes legislation. Later, a threat by President George W. Bush to veto a bill presented by John Conyers meant failure again. The Matthew Shepard Act was finally signed into law by President Barack Obama in 2009.
Prompted by the critical acclaim for The Laramie Project, Kaufman and several members of the original interview team returned to Laramie to re-interview some of the participants and to see what, if any, changes might have happened in the town. That visit begat the current play, also with a powerful impact.
The most common thread this time around is their desire to move away from the notoriety and go forward. Sadly, 20/20 did a special, asserting that the killing was a drug deal gone wrong, and many townspeople eagerly welcomed that interpretation rather than the one in which an innocent young man was molested because of his sexual orientation.
Director Oanh Nguyen stages the play on a raised platform stage with only chairs as props (scenic designer Fred Kinney). They have surrounded the actors with walls on which video projection (designer Joe Holbrook) can effectively serve as a colorful scene changer, from Wyoming views to prison walls. The eight-member cast (Jocelyn A. Brown, Robert Foran, David McCormick, James McHale, Erika C. Miller, Karen O’Hanlon, Brandon Sean Pearson, and Karen Webster) take on multiple roles as they portray the various citizens of Laramie.
The ensemble is superb, and it is hard to single out individual performances for praise. The plethora of characterizations required range from passionate advocates to ignorant townspeople. This second production of the events surrounding the crime adds important characters to the lineup. One interview is with a priest (well-played by Robert Foran), who cautions the interviewers to see the murderers as people. The two, Henderson (James McHale) and McKinney (Brandon Sean Pearson), give voice to their thoughts after 10 years of incarceration. Both are chillingly realistic yet, through the prism of the priest’s eyes, victims of misfortunes in their own lives. Both actors are palpably disturbing.
The play is more than an account of events. It attempts to explain the many ways in which people react to tragedy, from intellectualizing to denial. Nguyen plays it straight, letting the audience identify with characters or with the circumstances of the crime. Henderson’s portrayal is subdued, with regret and strange passivity, but Pearson, who elicits anger and pathos, delivers a memorable characterization. Kaufman’s rendering of this tragic story speaks most eloquently about the perils of diversity. While issues of equality play out in the media today, the personal face of ordinary people’s responses to such discrimination and hate crimes is fascinating. Kaufman and his co-writers Leigh Fondakowski, Greg Pierotti, Andy Paris, and Stephen Belber have produced a work that has sufficient gravitas to make a place for itself as a work of important political and social examination.
Chance Theatre
In October 1998, Matthew Shepard was attacked and brutally beaten by Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson in Laramie, Wyo. Shepard was tied to a fence and left to die. Though he didn’t die for several days, his injuries were too severe, and he remained in a coma until his death. He was targeted because he was gay, and at the subsequent trial the acts were deemed a hate crime.
Following this story, which gained national attention, Moisés Kaufman and members of the Tectonic Theater Project traveled to Laramie to interview citizens about their views of this horrific crime. Those interviews turned into The Laramie Project, a play first performed in February 2000. For more than nine years, Matthew’s mother, Judy Shepard, advocated for hate crime legislation for LGBT individuals, including people with disabilities. Remarkably, the controversy surrounding this attempt began under President Bill Clinton, when the House of Representatives rejected his efforts to extend Federal hate crimes legislation. Later, a threat by President George W. Bush to veto a bill presented by John Conyers meant failure again. The Matthew Shepard Act was finally signed into law by President Barack Obama in 2009.
Prompted by the critical acclaim for The Laramie Project, Kaufman and several members of the original interview team returned to Laramie to re-interview some of the participants and to see what, if any, changes might have happened in the town. That visit begat the current play, also with a powerful impact.
The most common thread this time around is their desire to move away from the notoriety and go forward. Sadly, 20/20 did a special, asserting that the killing was a drug deal gone wrong, and many townspeople eagerly welcomed that interpretation rather than the one in which an innocent young man was molested because of his sexual orientation.
Director Oanh Nguyen stages the play on a raised platform stage with only chairs as props (scenic designer Fred Kinney). They have surrounded the actors with walls on which video projection (designer Joe Holbrook) can effectively serve as a colorful scene changer, from Wyoming views to prison walls. The eight-member cast (Jocelyn A. Brown, Robert Foran, David McCormick, James McHale, Erika C. Miller, Karen O’Hanlon, Brandon Sean Pearson, and Karen Webster) take on multiple roles as they portray the various citizens of Laramie.
The ensemble is superb, and it is hard to single out individual performances for praise. The plethora of characterizations required range from passionate advocates to ignorant townspeople. This second production of the events surrounding the crime adds important characters to the lineup. One interview is with a priest (well-played by Robert Foran), who cautions the interviewers to see the murderers as people. The two, Henderson (James McHale) and McKinney (Brandon Sean Pearson), give voice to their thoughts after 10 years of incarceration. Both are chillingly realistic yet, through the prism of the priest’s eyes, victims of misfortunes in their own lives. Both actors are palpably disturbing.
The play is more than an account of events. It attempts to explain the many ways in which people react to tragedy, from intellectualizing to denial. Nguyen plays it straight, letting the audience identify with characters or with the circumstances of the crime. Henderson’s portrayal is subdued, with regret and strange passivity, but Pearson, who elicits anger and pathos, delivers a memorable characterization. Kaufman’s rendering of this tragic story speaks most eloquently about the perils of diversity. While issues of equality play out in the media today, the personal face of ordinary people’s responses to such discrimination and hate crimes is fascinating. Kaufman and his co-writers Leigh Fondakowski, Greg Pierotti, Andy Paris, and Stephen Belber have produced a work that has sufficient gravitas to make a place for itself as a work of important political and social examination.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013
Miss Julie
Geffen Playhouse
Neil LaBute’s brainstorm of setting Miss Julie in Prohibition-era Long Island syncs up with multiple ’30s-movie dreams, which in turn set off provocative sparks within August Strindberg’s 1888 fever dreams. Whatever your assessment of the updating, there’s no question that the Geffen Playhouse premiere offers a tremendous LA showcase for three much-vaunted Gotham talents: Lily Rabe, Logan Marshall-Green, and Laura Heisler.
If Myung Hee Cho’s gleaming gray and white kitchen set reminds you of butler William Powell’s domain in My Man Godfrey, that seems totally apropos. LaBute and helmer Jo Bonney are clearly tapping into tropes and images of New Deal–era social satire, especially the farces in which a wisecracking servant squares off with a deb far above his station.
Rabe’s Miss Julie is a throaty Katharine Hepburn in green flapper drag, alternately drawn to and repelled by her father’s footman John, embodied by Marshall-Green with studly self-possession and sneering Brooklyn patois (John Garfield is definitely indicated). Meanwhile, off to the side, John’s fiancée (Heisler) displays Nancy Carroll cuteness and Eve Arden cynicism; she’s already pregnant by the guy, so she has little to fear from any shenanigans pulled by the lady of the house in her slumming expeditions.
The upside of the updating is that Strindberg’s class war and sex battles are rendered with deep high stakes immediacy: Where most traditional productions set in 19th century Sweden seem quaintly remote, this one plops the play’s Gatsbyesque social climbing right into your lap. The downside is that there is as yet not much control over the balance between humor and pathos. Bonney really tests our willingness to go along with Miss Julie’s downward spiral. Should the audience be quite so cued into hilarity during the play’s most famous violent act, involving a pet finch?
Nevertheless, all three performances are enormously precise and persuasive, Rabe in particular making every gesture, movement and line reading count as she vacillates between lewdness and serenity, joy and despair, not unlike Carole Lombard at her most moonstruck. You may not feel that Julie’s final decision is rendered wholly believable—is it ever, in this day and age?—but Rabe’s characterization is a tart reminder of the very fine line between the comically screwball and the homicidally bipolar.
Geffen Playhouse
Neil LaBute’s brainstorm of setting Miss Julie in Prohibition-era Long Island syncs up with multiple ’30s-movie dreams, which in turn set off provocative sparks within August Strindberg’s 1888 fever dreams. Whatever your assessment of the updating, there’s no question that the Geffen Playhouse premiere offers a tremendous LA showcase for three much-vaunted Gotham talents: Lily Rabe, Logan Marshall-Green, and Laura Heisler.
If Myung Hee Cho’s gleaming gray and white kitchen set reminds you of butler William Powell’s domain in My Man Godfrey, that seems totally apropos. LaBute and helmer Jo Bonney are clearly tapping into tropes and images of New Deal–era social satire, especially the farces in which a wisecracking servant squares off with a deb far above his station.
Rabe’s Miss Julie is a throaty Katharine Hepburn in green flapper drag, alternately drawn to and repelled by her father’s footman John, embodied by Marshall-Green with studly self-possession and sneering Brooklyn patois (John Garfield is definitely indicated). Meanwhile, off to the side, John’s fiancée (Heisler) displays Nancy Carroll cuteness and Eve Arden cynicism; she’s already pregnant by the guy, so she has little to fear from any shenanigans pulled by the lady of the house in her slumming expeditions.
The upside of the updating is that Strindberg’s class war and sex battles are rendered with deep high stakes immediacy: Where most traditional productions set in 19th century Sweden seem quaintly remote, this one plops the play’s Gatsbyesque social climbing right into your lap. The downside is that there is as yet not much control over the balance between humor and pathos. Bonney really tests our willingness to go along with Miss Julie’s downward spiral. Should the audience be quite so cued into hilarity during the play’s most famous violent act, involving a pet finch?
Nevertheless, all three performances are enormously precise and persuasive, Rabe in particular making every gesture, movement and line reading count as she vacillates between lewdness and serenity, joy and despair, not unlike Carole Lombard at her most moonstruck. You may not feel that Julie’s final decision is rendered wholly believable—is it ever, in this day and age?—but Rabe’s characterization is a tart reminder of the very fine line between the comically screwball and the homicidally bipolar.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013
Falling for Make Believe
Colony Theatre
To Burbank comes the legend of Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart, retold in a trim 95 minutes by librettist Mark Saltzman. As stage memoirs go, this one is thin but not entirely unpersuasive, and in its musicality (21 Top 40 hits pulled from the savory songbook) and entertainment value alone, should be a winner for the Colony, which can use one in its heroic battle for financial solvency.
The past century’s preeminent bard of the unlucky in love, Lorenz Hart (1895–1943) was tiny in stature, homely, Jewish, alcoholic, and man-crazy—a losing combination in any era, but especially toxic in the heyday of the patrician café society that once governed Manhattan’s artistic elite. He kept his yearnings totally private—a frustrating paradox to the eager biographer, of whom Saltzman is only the latest of many—and yet there they are, for all the world to hear, pressed within the sheet music representing a quarter-century’s worth of lyrical inventiveness.
So nakedly did Hart hang heart on sleeve, Saltzman has an embarrassment of riches to choose from in detailing a downward self-destructive spiral in words and music. There’s the one-night stand he met when “My Heart Stood Still” but can’t remember “Where or When”; the trick out of Hart’s league (“You Are Too Beautiful”) and in for the kill (“You Took Advantage of Me”); and the absolute lack of faith in human interaction (“This Can’t Be Love”; “I Wish I Were in Love Again”). It’s a doleful musical profile indeed, even leaving out Hart’s all-time anthem to emotional defensiveness, “Glad to Be Unhappy” (“Unrequited love’s a bore/And I’ve got it pretty bad”), or his most plaintive lyrical line in “Bewitched,” “and worship the trousers that cling to him.”
Whether integrated into the narrative or offered as ironic or pointed commentary, these timeless tunes are performed with great gusto under Keith Harrison’s musical direction and complemented by Lisa Hopkins’s choreography, creating a real sense of musical time and place.
And the lead performance is top notch, Ben D. Goldberg nicely capturing the boozy ambivalence and self-hatred of a man out of step and out of happiness options. His portrait is deepened through scenes of homosexual life and love in prewar Manhattan, when Prohibition’s end opened the doors of “proper” saloons but banished same-sex socializing to closets and secret signals. Director Jim Fall does a good job of sketching out the milieu, aided by Jeffrey Landman’s just-sleazy-enough portrayal of a Gotham pimp and enabler who keeps Hart hopped up and strung out.
Our personal guide to the demimonde is one Fletcher Mecklin (Tyler Milliron), a stand-in for all the Broadway hangers-on who have ever hoped to enter the upper echelons on the coattails of a Lorenz Hart. (Saltzman gets something else right about Hart here: The lyricist’s sense of personal integrity refused to let him partake of the casting couch, where at least his fame and power might have gotten him laid on a regular basis.) Milliron is most likable and credible as a talented Midwestern hottie who is never quite able to “Sing for Your Supper” and sleep his way to the top, though it would’ve been good if his narration, on the day of Hart’s funeral, were invested with a little more age and gravitas.
There’s other work to be done on the roles. Composer Rodgers gets the same kind of uncritical pass he always demanded in life; Brett Ryback seems to know how flat and dour the role has been conceived but does his best to invest the man with levels. Rebecca Ann Johnson’s chorine—a too-young surrogate for aging “Pal Joey” star Vivienne Segal whom Hart vainly hoped of marrying—lacks weight except when she’s belting, which is happily often.
And there’s one seriously bungled scene in which Rodgers bails out Hart and Fletcher from a drunk tank. It’s the play’s sole opportunity to dramatize the special humiliation of being officially slammed down just for being oneself, yet Fall, Saltzman, and actor Megan Moran play it for stupid, vulgar laughs. (The lady cop confuses “Blue Moon” and “Blue Skies.”) This is a sequence that needs no jokes, only real terror.
Colony Theatre
To Burbank comes the legend of Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart, retold in a trim 95 minutes by librettist Mark Saltzman. As stage memoirs go, this one is thin but not entirely unpersuasive, and in its musicality (21 Top 40 hits pulled from the savory songbook) and entertainment value alone, should be a winner for the Colony, which can use one in its heroic battle for financial solvency.
The past century’s preeminent bard of the unlucky in love, Lorenz Hart (1895–1943) was tiny in stature, homely, Jewish, alcoholic, and man-crazy—a losing combination in any era, but especially toxic in the heyday of the patrician café society that once governed Manhattan’s artistic elite. He kept his yearnings totally private—a frustrating paradox to the eager biographer, of whom Saltzman is only the latest of many—and yet there they are, for all the world to hear, pressed within the sheet music representing a quarter-century’s worth of lyrical inventiveness.
So nakedly did Hart hang heart on sleeve, Saltzman has an embarrassment of riches to choose from in detailing a downward self-destructive spiral in words and music. There’s the one-night stand he met when “My Heart Stood Still” but can’t remember “Where or When”; the trick out of Hart’s league (“You Are Too Beautiful”) and in for the kill (“You Took Advantage of Me”); and the absolute lack of faith in human interaction (“This Can’t Be Love”; “I Wish I Were in Love Again”). It’s a doleful musical profile indeed, even leaving out Hart’s all-time anthem to emotional defensiveness, “Glad to Be Unhappy” (“Unrequited love’s a bore/And I’ve got it pretty bad”), or his most plaintive lyrical line in “Bewitched,” “and worship the trousers that cling to him.”
Whether integrated into the narrative or offered as ironic or pointed commentary, these timeless tunes are performed with great gusto under Keith Harrison’s musical direction and complemented by Lisa Hopkins’s choreography, creating a real sense of musical time and place.
And the lead performance is top notch, Ben D. Goldberg nicely capturing the boozy ambivalence and self-hatred of a man out of step and out of happiness options. His portrait is deepened through scenes of homosexual life and love in prewar Manhattan, when Prohibition’s end opened the doors of “proper” saloons but banished same-sex socializing to closets and secret signals. Director Jim Fall does a good job of sketching out the milieu, aided by Jeffrey Landman’s just-sleazy-enough portrayal of a Gotham pimp and enabler who keeps Hart hopped up and strung out.
Our personal guide to the demimonde is one Fletcher Mecklin (Tyler Milliron), a stand-in for all the Broadway hangers-on who have ever hoped to enter the upper echelons on the coattails of a Lorenz Hart. (Saltzman gets something else right about Hart here: The lyricist’s sense of personal integrity refused to let him partake of the casting couch, where at least his fame and power might have gotten him laid on a regular basis.) Milliron is most likable and credible as a talented Midwestern hottie who is never quite able to “Sing for Your Supper” and sleep his way to the top, though it would’ve been good if his narration, on the day of Hart’s funeral, were invested with a little more age and gravitas.
There’s other work to be done on the roles. Composer Rodgers gets the same kind of uncritical pass he always demanded in life; Brett Ryback seems to know how flat and dour the role has been conceived but does his best to invest the man with levels. Rebecca Ann Johnson’s chorine—a too-young surrogate for aging “Pal Joey” star Vivienne Segal whom Hart vainly hoped of marrying—lacks weight except when she’s belting, which is happily often.
And there’s one seriously bungled scene in which Rodgers bails out Hart and Fletcher from a drunk tank. It’s the play’s sole opportunity to dramatize the special humiliation of being officially slammed down just for being oneself, yet Fall, Saltzman, and actor Megan Moran play it for stupid, vulgar laughs. (The lady cop confuses “Blue Moon” and “Blue Skies.”) This is a sequence that needs no jokes, only real terror.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013
Peter Pan: The Boy Who Hated Mothers
The Blank Theatre at 2nd Stage
Bursts of joyful theatricality turn the West Coast premiere of this Michael Lluberes play into something not to be missed. What Lluberes does with the J.M. Barrie perennial is, truth be told, no fresher than Michael Matthews’s Story Theater concept, but Matthews’s actors happily take to their task as if no one had ever before built an environment with boxes and chests, or presented narration in direct address, or pulled out rippling blue fabric to represent a river. Their joy, even in hijinks so overfamiliar, becomes yours.
The script’s provenance is unusual. The world-famous fantasy that sent Maude Adams, and later Mary Martin and Cathy Rigby, a-soar remains in US copyright until 2023. However, to the sorrow of the rights-holders, the 1911 novel Peter and Wendy on which the play was based is now in the public domain, leaving the tale open to whatever shenanigans every Tom, Dick, or Michael has in mind to pull with it. And Barrie hewed so closely to his original prose source, anyway, that the two versions are to all intents and purposes identical. The eternal Never Land rascal, the Darling family, Captain Hook, Smee, and the crocodile are all fair game now for iconoclasts, parodists, and psychological investigators of every stripe.
The worst of the ripoffs are yet to come, though, because this show is no subversive desecration or hackwork. Fans won’t be irked or disturbed by what goes on within this playhouse. There are a few benign twists—Mr. Darling and Nana are gone; Mrs. Darling is made to double as Hook; little brother Michael plays a very different role—which all in all fail to justify the extreme subtitle; our hero remains “Peter Pan, the boy with slight mother issues.” Lluberes’s biggest service is in whittling down the story—which ran three hours the last time I saw it in London—to a sleek, comfortable two.
And it’s told with enormous brio, style, and good will. Matthews’s ensemble skillfully morphs from Lost Boys to Indians to pirates and back again, and each gets his or her moment to shine. Trisha LaFache is a disappointingly pallid Hook, but Daniel Shawn Miller’s buff Peter and Liza Burns’s glowing Wendy manage to set off real sparks in each other—complicated, understated sparks appropriate to Barrie’s delicately weird worldview. The environment established by Mary Hamrick’s set, Kellsy MacKilligan’s clothes, Rebecca Kessin’s sound design and especially Tim Swiss and Zack Lapinski’s subtle lighting is one for an audience member to curl up in like a favorite childhood book.
The Blank Theatre at 2nd Stage
Bursts of joyful theatricality turn the West Coast premiere of this Michael Lluberes play into something not to be missed. What Lluberes does with the J.M. Barrie perennial is, truth be told, no fresher than Michael Matthews’s Story Theater concept, but Matthews’s actors happily take to their task as if no one had ever before built an environment with boxes and chests, or presented narration in direct address, or pulled out rippling blue fabric to represent a river. Their joy, even in hijinks so overfamiliar, becomes yours.
The script’s provenance is unusual. The world-famous fantasy that sent Maude Adams, and later Mary Martin and Cathy Rigby, a-soar remains in US copyright until 2023. However, to the sorrow of the rights-holders, the 1911 novel Peter and Wendy on which the play was based is now in the public domain, leaving the tale open to whatever shenanigans every Tom, Dick, or Michael has in mind to pull with it. And Barrie hewed so closely to his original prose source, anyway, that the two versions are to all intents and purposes identical. The eternal Never Land rascal, the Darling family, Captain Hook, Smee, and the crocodile are all fair game now for iconoclasts, parodists, and psychological investigators of every stripe.
The worst of the ripoffs are yet to come, though, because this show is no subversive desecration or hackwork. Fans won’t be irked or disturbed by what goes on within this playhouse. There are a few benign twists—Mr. Darling and Nana are gone; Mrs. Darling is made to double as Hook; little brother Michael plays a very different role—which all in all fail to justify the extreme subtitle; our hero remains “Peter Pan, the boy with slight mother issues.” Lluberes’s biggest service is in whittling down the story—which ran three hours the last time I saw it in London—to a sleek, comfortable two.
And it’s told with enormous brio, style, and good will. Matthews’s ensemble skillfully morphs from Lost Boys to Indians to pirates and back again, and each gets his or her moment to shine. Trisha LaFache is a disappointingly pallid Hook, but Daniel Shawn Miller’s buff Peter and Liza Burns’s glowing Wendy manage to set off real sparks in each other—complicated, understated sparks appropriate to Barrie’s delicately weird worldview. The environment established by Mary Hamrick’s set, Kellsy MacKilligan’s clothes, Rebecca Kessin’s sound design and especially Tim Swiss and Zack Lapinski’s subtle lighting is one for an audience member to curl up in like a favorite childhood book.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 30, 2013
April 30, 2013
Cops and Friends of Cops
VS. Theatre Company
Paul stands by the light of a jukebox. The audience is intrigued, wondering who he is and why he’s there. Dom the bartender wonders aloud who this man is and why he’s there. “Are you a cop?” Dom asks Paul. “Friend of a cop?” Soon Emmett enters. We learn he’s a cop with a drinking problem. Then in come Roosevelt and Sal, cops. Roosevelt is a newlywed and a black man, Sal is one month from retirement and a racist—but Sal is okay with that because he’s only joking.
And that seems to be mostly it for how much we learn about these characters, other than the secret revealed between Paul and Emmett. For the play’s duration, writer-director Ron Klier gives us lots of silence (not as weighted as Pinter’s) and lots of combat and bleeding (not as compelling as even Shakespeare’s). Klier might be going for a filmic ambience, but silent motionless staging can’t compete with film technique for moving the exposition along.
Five very fine actors try to serve Klier here. Playing Paul, Johnny Clark is brooding darkness personified, but if all Klier allows him to do is rub his beard and push his hand through his curly mane, where’s the arc, or any drama? Paul Vincent O’Connor makes Dom grizzled hospitality personified. Rolando Boyce as Roosevelt and Gareth Williams as Sal play well off each other, convincing as partners, intense as they wait out the action. Andrew Hawkes is of interest as Emmett, but he spends most of the play lying on the floor, largely concealed from view.
Throughout, several actors at a time breathe heavily to indicate fear, though the text ought to suffice. Klier then lines up three actors, downstage to upstage, so the upstage actors cannot be seen by a portion of the audience. The lighting wanders on and off, adding a confusing layer of surrealism whether intended or not.
Danny Cistone’s superb barroom set, then, ultimately serves as the one element the audience can root for.
VS. Theatre Company
Paul stands by the light of a jukebox. The audience is intrigued, wondering who he is and why he’s there. Dom the bartender wonders aloud who this man is and why he’s there. “Are you a cop?” Dom asks Paul. “Friend of a cop?” Soon Emmett enters. We learn he’s a cop with a drinking problem. Then in come Roosevelt and Sal, cops. Roosevelt is a newlywed and a black man, Sal is one month from retirement and a racist—but Sal is okay with that because he’s only joking.
And that seems to be mostly it for how much we learn about these characters, other than the secret revealed between Paul and Emmett. For the play’s duration, writer-director Ron Klier gives us lots of silence (not as weighted as Pinter’s) and lots of combat and bleeding (not as compelling as even Shakespeare’s). Klier might be going for a filmic ambience, but silent motionless staging can’t compete with film technique for moving the exposition along.
Five very fine actors try to serve Klier here. Playing Paul, Johnny Clark is brooding darkness personified, but if all Klier allows him to do is rub his beard and push his hand through his curly mane, where’s the arc, or any drama? Paul Vincent O’Connor makes Dom grizzled hospitality personified. Rolando Boyce as Roosevelt and Gareth Williams as Sal play well off each other, convincing as partners, intense as they wait out the action. Andrew Hawkes is of interest as Emmett, but he spends most of the play lying on the floor, largely concealed from view.
Throughout, several actors at a time breathe heavily to indicate fear, though the text ought to suffice. Klier then lines up three actors, downstage to upstage, so the upstage actors cannot be seen by a portion of the audience. The lighting wanders on and off, adding a confusing layer of surrealism whether intended or not.
Danny Cistone’s superb barroom set, then, ultimately serves as the one element the audience can root for.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 29, 2013
April 29, 2013
Brecht on Brecht
The Other Theatre Company at Atwater Playhouse
On the small, basically barren stage, featuring five mismatched chairs and one door frame attendees must walk through to enter, the sense of being in for a real treat is palpable—and this welcome new mounting of the 1961 Off-Broadway classic does not disappoint. Sadly, a frozen computer kept the opening-night audience from seeing footage of Bertolt Brecht, a man who once observed that his own intelligence ruined his life, as he was forced to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Older people in attendance might have wished for those archaic, simpler ways of projecting images in live presentations to accompany this production, but in the end nothing could silence the wonder of one of the modern world’s most influential thinkers.
Luckily, the computer glitch was visual and not auditory, so the voice of Brecht—some of which was recorded while he appeared before US Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s witch hunt in 1947—still rings out throughout the play, starting with the scratchy opening strains of the great man’s own tinny 1928 recording of his “Die Moritat von Mackie Messer,” or “Mack the Knife” as we now know it, instantly evoking exactly what he and composer Kurt Weill intended. As a dramatist and dramaturg, Brecht was keen to create epic theatre without epic production values, something that soon made interpretations of his technique referred to as “Brechtian,” which the Free Dictionary describes as a “style that relies on the audience’s reflective detachment rather than the production’s atmosphere and action.”
Because of Brecht’s genius for austerity and extravagance combined, revivals of his works have one unusual thing in common: They are nearly director and actor-proof. Here, however, under the muscular direction of Alistair Hunter, the five-person ensemble is golden, understanding the quirks and excesses that make Brecht’s poetic observations on life so poignant today.
Susan Kussman leads the ensemble with a perfect sense of Brecht, delivering her pieces in harsh light, often as though she were the proverbial frightened deer caught in the headlights. Belinda Howell, who sings many of the songs, including the lusty shout-sings from Mother Courage, also has a wonderful feel for Brecht, both ladies expertly complemented by the sturdy talents of Gil Hagen-Hill, Daniel Houston-Davila, and Gregg Lawrence. Obviously, this courageous quintet and their director have worked together passionately to bring this haunting material to life, as Brecht’s words careen from his early days in Berlin through his disillusioned tenure as a screenwriter in Hollywood—which he referred to during that era as “The Swamp,” stating, “Every day I go to the market where all the lies are told”—before fleeing to East Berlin to live out his final years without finger-pointing by people who were clearly not able to understand what he had to say to us all. “I fled from the tigers,” Brecht wrote, “I fed the fleas. What got me at last? Mediocrities.”
The scariest thing about reviving Brecht on Brecht more than a half-century after George Tabori compiled this indelible material for its first appearance at Theatre de Lys—playing off-times in front of the set for one of the many mountings of Die Dreigroschenoper (The Threepenny Opera)—is how little has changed in the world. The intolerance and its horrific aftermath of a closed-minded, self-promoting society, something which Brecht so fiercely chronicled and which sent him scurrying for safety all over the world, still exists in our supposedly more sophisticated times.
Perhaps the most lingering message left behind from this heartfelt revival of Brecht on Brecht is a sparse little poem from The Buckow Elegies, written in 1953: “I sit by the roadside watching the driver changing the wheel. / I do not like the place I have come from. / I do not like the place I am going to. / So why with such impatience do I watch him changing the wheel?”
The Other Theatre Company at Atwater Playhouse
On the small, basically barren stage, featuring five mismatched chairs and one door frame attendees must walk through to enter, the sense of being in for a real treat is palpable—and this welcome new mounting of the 1961 Off-Broadway classic does not disappoint. Sadly, a frozen computer kept the opening-night audience from seeing footage of Bertolt Brecht, a man who once observed that his own intelligence ruined his life, as he was forced to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Older people in attendance might have wished for those archaic, simpler ways of projecting images in live presentations to accompany this production, but in the end nothing could silence the wonder of one of the modern world’s most influential thinkers.
Luckily, the computer glitch was visual and not auditory, so the voice of Brecht—some of which was recorded while he appeared before US Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s witch hunt in 1947—still rings out throughout the play, starting with the scratchy opening strains of the great man’s own tinny 1928 recording of his “Die Moritat von Mackie Messer,” or “Mack the Knife” as we now know it, instantly evoking exactly what he and composer Kurt Weill intended. As a dramatist and dramaturg, Brecht was keen to create epic theatre without epic production values, something that soon made interpretations of his technique referred to as “Brechtian,” which the Free Dictionary describes as a “style that relies on the audience’s reflective detachment rather than the production’s atmosphere and action.”
Because of Brecht’s genius for austerity and extravagance combined, revivals of his works have one unusual thing in common: They are nearly director and actor-proof. Here, however, under the muscular direction of Alistair Hunter, the five-person ensemble is golden, understanding the quirks and excesses that make Brecht’s poetic observations on life so poignant today.
Susan Kussman leads the ensemble with a perfect sense of Brecht, delivering her pieces in harsh light, often as though she were the proverbial frightened deer caught in the headlights. Belinda Howell, who sings many of the songs, including the lusty shout-sings from Mother Courage, also has a wonderful feel for Brecht, both ladies expertly complemented by the sturdy talents of Gil Hagen-Hill, Daniel Houston-Davila, and Gregg Lawrence. Obviously, this courageous quintet and their director have worked together passionately to bring this haunting material to life, as Brecht’s words careen from his early days in Berlin through his disillusioned tenure as a screenwriter in Hollywood—which he referred to during that era as “The Swamp,” stating, “Every day I go to the market where all the lies are told”—before fleeing to East Berlin to live out his final years without finger-pointing by people who were clearly not able to understand what he had to say to us all. “I fled from the tigers,” Brecht wrote, “I fed the fleas. What got me at last? Mediocrities.”
The scariest thing about reviving Brecht on Brecht more than a half-century after George Tabori compiled this indelible material for its first appearance at Theatre de Lys—playing off-times in front of the set for one of the many mountings of Die Dreigroschenoper (The Threepenny Opera)—is how little has changed in the world. The intolerance and its horrific aftermath of a closed-minded, self-promoting society, something which Brecht so fiercely chronicled and which sent him scurrying for safety all over the world, still exists in our supposedly more sophisticated times.
Perhaps the most lingering message left behind from this heartfelt revival of Brecht on Brecht is a sparse little poem from The Buckow Elegies, written in 1953: “I sit by the roadside watching the driver changing the wheel. / I do not like the place I have come from. / I do not like the place I am going to. / So why with such impatience do I watch him changing the wheel?”
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
April 29, 2013
April 29, 2013
The Miracle Worker
Actors Co-op
It mattered not at all that everyone in the audience knew how this William Gibson play would end. Yes, teacher Annie Sullivan would drag the blind and deaf Helen Keller to the pump and hold the child’s hand under cold running water, and Helen would be struck by a lightning bolt of understanding. And yet that didn’t stop the entire front row of a Saturday matinee audience from sitting perched in rapt attention throughout the entirety of the production. Such is the miracle of this play.
Annie was brave. Helen was braver. So are the actors portraying them, under the polished direction of Thom Babbes. Annie is taken on by Tara Battani, relatively period but mostly loose-limbed and living in roiling determination. Helen is played by Danielle Soibelman, totally immersed yet disciplined enough to throw punches, unafraid to grab her scene partner’s face, engaging in some of the most convincing stage combat seen in Los Angeles. These two ragingly impassioned and physically committed actors fully engage with their roles.
Although the audience would be satisfied watching only these two, Gibson wrote it, in the 1950s, as a large-cast play. Young students at the school for the blind and young servants help support the action. The Keller family is rather a mess. Helen’s father (Bruce Ladd) is a martinet. His son James (Tony Christopher) resents his pretty young stepmother (Catherine Gray) whom the father brought into the family. Aunt Ev (Joanne Atkinson) further fractures the relationships. In Gibson’s world, it takes Annie to force the family into a cohesive whole with a vital purpose.
Onstage is one more large bundle of disciplined joy: the Keller family’s pet dog. Adding to the realism, of course the onstage water pump for the final scene functions right on cue. For the occasional audience member who momentarily loses concentration on the story, Shon LeBlanc’s costuming—and in particular Mrs. Keller’s gowns—will keep the eye firmly on the stage.
Who or what is the miracle worker here? Is it Annie, who stuck by her understanding and persevered in her efforts? Is it Helen, who knowingly fought her way out of darkness and who became a world-renowned public speaker? Or is it whomever or whatever gives each human an indefatigable spirit?
Actors Co-op
It mattered not at all that everyone in the audience knew how this William Gibson play would end. Yes, teacher Annie Sullivan would drag the blind and deaf Helen Keller to the pump and hold the child’s hand under cold running water, and Helen would be struck by a lightning bolt of understanding. And yet that didn’t stop the entire front row of a Saturday matinee audience from sitting perched in rapt attention throughout the entirety of the production. Such is the miracle of this play.
Annie was brave. Helen was braver. So are the actors portraying them, under the polished direction of Thom Babbes. Annie is taken on by Tara Battani, relatively period but mostly loose-limbed and living in roiling determination. Helen is played by Danielle Soibelman, totally immersed yet disciplined enough to throw punches, unafraid to grab her scene partner’s face, engaging in some of the most convincing stage combat seen in Los Angeles. These two ragingly impassioned and physically committed actors fully engage with their roles.
Although the audience would be satisfied watching only these two, Gibson wrote it, in the 1950s, as a large-cast play. Young students at the school for the blind and young servants help support the action. The Keller family is rather a mess. Helen’s father (Bruce Ladd) is a martinet. His son James (Tony Christopher) resents his pretty young stepmother (Catherine Gray) whom the father brought into the family. Aunt Ev (Joanne Atkinson) further fractures the relationships. In Gibson’s world, it takes Annie to force the family into a cohesive whole with a vital purpose.
Onstage is one more large bundle of disciplined joy: the Keller family’s pet dog. Adding to the realism, of course the onstage water pump for the final scene functions right on cue. For the occasional audience member who momentarily loses concentration on the story, Shon LeBlanc’s costuming—and in particular Mrs. Keller’s gowns—will keep the eye firmly on the stage.
Who or what is the miracle worker here? Is it Annie, who stuck by her understanding and persevered in her efforts? Is it Helen, who knowingly fought her way out of darkness and who became a world-renowned public speaker? Or is it whomever or whatever gives each human an indefatigable spirit?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 29, 2013
April 29, 2013
Low Tech
Eclectic Company Theatre
The ever-recurring struggle to temper the relentless advance of technology with the basic tenets of humanity and human frailty is the basis for Jeff Folschinsky’s energetic but woefully humorless premiering farce. The inclusion of a six-member Greek chorus, which offers not only ongoing commentary to the action but also leaden asides, does nothing to enliven the underwhelming caricature-driven action, haltingly staged by Chelsea Sutton, played out on Jeff G. Rack’s cumbersome modular set pieces.
The central protagonist is Allegra Marcos (Amanda Smith), a former actor who has become the face, figure, and 24/7 spokesperson for all-consuming social media conglomerate High Tech International. When overworked and exhausted Allegra has the temerity to turn her communication device off for a day in order to enjoy much-needed down time, she causes a worldwide panic, and the forces of corporate necessity are unleashed to destroy her.
Smith offers a believable, low-keyed portrayal of a normal working girl who does not quite understand what all the fuss is about when she is forcibly sent to a loony bin for observation and then has to stand trial to save herself from being “put away.” Her supportive allies are High Tech’s operating system Zeus (personified by sympathetic Fuz Edwards)—who inexplicably has taken up residence in Allegra’s psyche, yet can physically share meals with her—and Allegra’s best friend Margaret (Michelle Danyn), who displays her own flights of mental instability. Also complementing the proceedings is Smith’s defense attorney, Jonathan (Jason Britt), refreshingly portrayed on the same understated wavelength as Smith.
Farce works best when the evolution of the dramatic throughline contains some vestige of veracity, offering at least a modicum of plot stability as a launching platform for the play’s humor. Instead, this playwright’s flimsy premise forces the villainous characters to be laugh mongers unto themselves, unsuccessfully petitioning for yocks. This is especially true of Tyler Tanner in his portrayals of professionally inappropriate Dr. Andy and neo fascist prosecuting attorney Maximillian Von Strasberg. Paul Duffy’s hyperenergetic outing as pro wrestler Slam Master–turned–trial judge is another unsuccessful effort to mine humor in a vacuum. And the self-conscious buffoonery of High Tech’s two head honchos, portrayed by Mark Bate and Dan Mandel, grows increasingly tedious with each passing scene.
The highlight of Low Tech is the adroit intermittent choreographed action by Christopher Mahr. The second act staging of Allegra’s trial as a group dance number is the most entertaining aspect of the whole evening.
Eclectic Company Theatre
The ever-recurring struggle to temper the relentless advance of technology with the basic tenets of humanity and human frailty is the basis for Jeff Folschinsky’s energetic but woefully humorless premiering farce. The inclusion of a six-member Greek chorus, which offers not only ongoing commentary to the action but also leaden asides, does nothing to enliven the underwhelming caricature-driven action, haltingly staged by Chelsea Sutton, played out on Jeff G. Rack’s cumbersome modular set pieces.
The central protagonist is Allegra Marcos (Amanda Smith), a former actor who has become the face, figure, and 24/7 spokesperson for all-consuming social media conglomerate High Tech International. When overworked and exhausted Allegra has the temerity to turn her communication device off for a day in order to enjoy much-needed down time, she causes a worldwide panic, and the forces of corporate necessity are unleashed to destroy her.
Smith offers a believable, low-keyed portrayal of a normal working girl who does not quite understand what all the fuss is about when she is forcibly sent to a loony bin for observation and then has to stand trial to save herself from being “put away.” Her supportive allies are High Tech’s operating system Zeus (personified by sympathetic Fuz Edwards)—who inexplicably has taken up residence in Allegra’s psyche, yet can physically share meals with her—and Allegra’s best friend Margaret (Michelle Danyn), who displays her own flights of mental instability. Also complementing the proceedings is Smith’s defense attorney, Jonathan (Jason Britt), refreshingly portrayed on the same understated wavelength as Smith.
Farce works best when the evolution of the dramatic throughline contains some vestige of veracity, offering at least a modicum of plot stability as a launching platform for the play’s humor. Instead, this playwright’s flimsy premise forces the villainous characters to be laugh mongers unto themselves, unsuccessfully petitioning for yocks. This is especially true of Tyler Tanner in his portrayals of professionally inappropriate Dr. Andy and neo fascist prosecuting attorney Maximillian Von Strasberg. Paul Duffy’s hyperenergetic outing as pro wrestler Slam Master–turned–trial judge is another unsuccessful effort to mine humor in a vacuum. And the self-conscious buffoonery of High Tech’s two head honchos, portrayed by Mark Bate and Dan Mandel, grows increasingly tedious with each passing scene.
The highlight of Low Tech is the adroit intermittent choreographed action by Christopher Mahr. The second act staging of Allegra’s trial as a group dance number is the most entertaining aspect of the whole evening.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
April 29, 2013
April 29, 2013
Real Men Sing Show Tunes... and play with puppets
Norris Center for the Performing Arts
The first group to take a thrashing here is gay men. Shortly thereafter, the “real men” get their knocks in against the womenfolk. That’s the downside of this West Coast premiere. However, give the show’s creators, Paul Louis and Nick Santa Maria, this: They admit early and often to being juvenile and vulgar here, and there’s no hint of mean-spiritedness. Indeed, these men poke fun at themselves more than they do at any other group. And the upsides of this show are the talents and charm of the performers, the tuneful and engaging songs, and the smooth-as-silk staging. Oh, and the puppets (constructed by Louis and Ellis Tillman).
The show begins as the heterosexual members of a men’s Broadway chorus are introduced. Three men sparsely occupy the stage, singing “Real Men.” Soon Man No. 3 (Chris Warren Gilbert) is at the office of his psychotherapist (Chris Kauffmann), unable to open up. The therapist insists on puppet therapy, so out comes a puppet who looks like a little girl but who’s a woman in her 30s. Soon the puppet is grabbed roughly and hurled into the wings. Next, Man No. 1 (Santa Maria) sings “I’m Not,” insisting, despite his clean apartment and the like, that he’s not gay. At this point, fortunately, the show has nowhere to go but up. So, up it goes.
The mirth-inducing puppetry is featured in “Prairie Men,” in which Santa Maria and Kauffmann appear as cowboys on top, bendy ballerinas on the bottom, while the lyrics rhyme ballerina with Al Pacina. Of course that’s too cute, so the show counterbalances it with a walking, talking male copulatory organ that, shall we say, takes a bow at the sight of the ill-kempt wife.
But the show grows tender, as Man No. 1 wonders why he said “I Do” and Man No. 2 resents his wife’s young children (yes, puppets) until one says the magic word. An ingenious bit features a middle-aged Superman (a hilarious puppet) and the middle-aged galoot (another hilarious puppet) whom Middle Age Man fights in an alley—until Mrs. Middle Age phones for help with the DVD player.
The men credit their fathers and other role models. They grow old while protesting, “I’m glad I’m not young anymore.” And topping off this segment on aging, Santa Maria does an awe-inspiring old geezer. The show is tied together by the device of a 12-step program, and the musical numbers are broken up by a series of one-liners delivered as readings from “The Book of More Men.” Settings are swiftly created by projections, and the pit band (uncredited) is lively and tight under the baton of Daniel Thomas.
So, the sensitive in the audience might even forgive the writers for their insensitive moments. Besides, how cranky can one be with writers of lowest-common-denominator gags who toss in an offhanded reference to a classical music conductor from the 1950s?
Norris Center for the Performing Arts
The first group to take a thrashing here is gay men. Shortly thereafter, the “real men” get their knocks in against the womenfolk. That’s the downside of this West Coast premiere. However, give the show’s creators, Paul Louis and Nick Santa Maria, this: They admit early and often to being juvenile and vulgar here, and there’s no hint of mean-spiritedness. Indeed, these men poke fun at themselves more than they do at any other group. And the upsides of this show are the talents and charm of the performers, the tuneful and engaging songs, and the smooth-as-silk staging. Oh, and the puppets (constructed by Louis and Ellis Tillman).
The show begins as the heterosexual members of a men’s Broadway chorus are introduced. Three men sparsely occupy the stage, singing “Real Men.” Soon Man No. 3 (Chris Warren Gilbert) is at the office of his psychotherapist (Chris Kauffmann), unable to open up. The therapist insists on puppet therapy, so out comes a puppet who looks like a little girl but who’s a woman in her 30s. Soon the puppet is grabbed roughly and hurled into the wings. Next, Man No. 1 (Santa Maria) sings “I’m Not,” insisting, despite his clean apartment and the like, that he’s not gay. At this point, fortunately, the show has nowhere to go but up. So, up it goes.
The mirth-inducing puppetry is featured in “Prairie Men,” in which Santa Maria and Kauffmann appear as cowboys on top, bendy ballerinas on the bottom, while the lyrics rhyme ballerina with Al Pacina. Of course that’s too cute, so the show counterbalances it with a walking, talking male copulatory organ that, shall we say, takes a bow at the sight of the ill-kempt wife.
But the show grows tender, as Man No. 1 wonders why he said “I Do” and Man No. 2 resents his wife’s young children (yes, puppets) until one says the magic word. An ingenious bit features a middle-aged Superman (a hilarious puppet) and the middle-aged galoot (another hilarious puppet) whom Middle Age Man fights in an alley—until Mrs. Middle Age phones for help with the DVD player.
The men credit their fathers and other role models. They grow old while protesting, “I’m glad I’m not young anymore.” And topping off this segment on aging, Santa Maria does an awe-inspiring old geezer. The show is tied together by the device of a 12-step program, and the musical numbers are broken up by a series of one-liners delivered as readings from “The Book of More Men.” Settings are swiftly created by projections, and the pit band (uncredited) is lively and tight under the baton of Daniel Thomas.
So, the sensitive in the audience might even forgive the writers for their insensitive moments. Besides, how cranky can one be with writers of lowest-common-denominator gags who toss in an offhanded reference to a classical music conductor from the 1950s?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 29, 2013
April 29, 2013
American Misfit
The Theatre @ Boston Court
It’s easy to describe the formal aspects of this Dan Dietz world premiere. Its meaning proves a much bigger headscratcher. In the vein of Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, Assassins, and Jeffrey Sweet’s American Enterprise, Misfit filters an episode from U.S. history through a modern musical idiom, making use of equal parts docudrama accuracy and theatrical hyperbole. (Washington, Reagan, and J. Robert Oppenheimer make buffoonish cameo appearances.) This particular legend, if so hifalutin a term can be applied to the show’s long-forgotten lowlifes, is that of the 18th century Harpe brothers, whose objections to the newly established constitutional republic allegedly led them to declare a sort of personal revolution and conduct a bloody reign of serial terror in the Cumberland West.
Clearly Dietz sees meaningful allegory in the Harpes’s protest, but what does it yield? It’s not as if their cause (they want America to have a king again) is anything we’d be inclined to rally around. There’s little emotional or intellectual logic in the arc of their rebellion—the boys meet a pair of lovelorn sisters (Maya Erskine and Karen Jean Olds) on the prairie and turn into the Manson Family—and the psychological connections required for empathy are absent. Sleazy blackguard Little Harpe (Daniel MK Cohen), the brains of the outfit, is portrayed as George to the Lennie of dull-witted brother Big (A.J. Meijer), but that’s as far as the relationship goes.
In the end, muddled Misfit belabors the point that there’s violence in America’s DNA that plays havoc with our better impulses—a message so familiar and tired, Western Union won’t even bother to deliver it any more.
Meanwhile, the chosen musical form, rockabilly, is almost immediately revealed as malapropos. The Memphis sound of Carl Perkins and early Elvis certainly presaged a rock ’n’ roll revolution, but it was only anarchic and demonic to Eisenhower-era fundamentalists and cranks. Today it just sounds joyous. As replicated by Dietz and Phillip Owens’s authentic-sounding new songs with bassist Omar D. Brancato’s fine orchestrations, it neither complements the Harpes’s bloody doings nor adds meaningful juxtaposition. It just seems off-kilter. Massacres are staged through Lee Martino’s vigorous ’50s dance party choreography, but to what end? There’s no enhanced irony or horror there, just athleticism.
The portrayal of murderers on a spree lacks conviction overall. Lead singer Banks Boutté seems to think he’s supposed to perform some sort of emcee function à la Cabaret, so he’s sinister and suggestive without suggesting anything in particular. The stuffed dummies used to represent the Harpes’s victims are an empty conceit. Later, things take a clichéd sentimental turn when Little is supposed to be reformed by the love of a good woman (Eden Riegel), but it’s no more believable than when he repents of the repentance and returns to the killing fields.
Dietz has Big accidentally kill an infant by hugging it too closely, still more shades of Of Mice and Men. Yet historians make a case that the brute was retaliating because the kid’s crying got on his nerves. The author’s indifference to that little historical nugget gives you a pretty good idea of the play’s squishy center.
Helmer Michael Michetti’s cast is capable across the board, and, in Cohen, Riegel, Erskine, and Olds, much more than that. But this anatomy of American misfits proves, in James Agee’s memorable phrase, the same old toothless dog biting the same old legless man.
The Theatre @ Boston Court
It’s easy to describe the formal aspects of this Dan Dietz world premiere. Its meaning proves a much bigger headscratcher. In the vein of Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, Assassins, and Jeffrey Sweet’s American Enterprise, Misfit filters an episode from U.S. history through a modern musical idiom, making use of equal parts docudrama accuracy and theatrical hyperbole. (Washington, Reagan, and J. Robert Oppenheimer make buffoonish cameo appearances.) This particular legend, if so hifalutin a term can be applied to the show’s long-forgotten lowlifes, is that of the 18th century Harpe brothers, whose objections to the newly established constitutional republic allegedly led them to declare a sort of personal revolution and conduct a bloody reign of serial terror in the Cumberland West.
Clearly Dietz sees meaningful allegory in the Harpes’s protest, but what does it yield? It’s not as if their cause (they want America to have a king again) is anything we’d be inclined to rally around. There’s little emotional or intellectual logic in the arc of their rebellion—the boys meet a pair of lovelorn sisters (Maya Erskine and Karen Jean Olds) on the prairie and turn into the Manson Family—and the psychological connections required for empathy are absent. Sleazy blackguard Little Harpe (Daniel MK Cohen), the brains of the outfit, is portrayed as George to the Lennie of dull-witted brother Big (A.J. Meijer), but that’s as far as the relationship goes.
In the end, muddled Misfit belabors the point that there’s violence in America’s DNA that plays havoc with our better impulses—a message so familiar and tired, Western Union won’t even bother to deliver it any more.
Meanwhile, the chosen musical form, rockabilly, is almost immediately revealed as malapropos. The Memphis sound of Carl Perkins and early Elvis certainly presaged a rock ’n’ roll revolution, but it was only anarchic and demonic to Eisenhower-era fundamentalists and cranks. Today it just sounds joyous. As replicated by Dietz and Phillip Owens’s authentic-sounding new songs with bassist Omar D. Brancato’s fine orchestrations, it neither complements the Harpes’s bloody doings nor adds meaningful juxtaposition. It just seems off-kilter. Massacres are staged through Lee Martino’s vigorous ’50s dance party choreography, but to what end? There’s no enhanced irony or horror there, just athleticism.
The portrayal of murderers on a spree lacks conviction overall. Lead singer Banks Boutté seems to think he’s supposed to perform some sort of emcee function à la Cabaret, so he’s sinister and suggestive without suggesting anything in particular. The stuffed dummies used to represent the Harpes’s victims are an empty conceit. Later, things take a clichéd sentimental turn when Little is supposed to be reformed by the love of a good woman (Eden Riegel), but it’s no more believable than when he repents of the repentance and returns to the killing fields.
Dietz has Big accidentally kill an infant by hugging it too closely, still more shades of Of Mice and Men. Yet historians make a case that the brute was retaliating because the kid’s crying got on his nerves. The author’s indifference to that little historical nugget gives you a pretty good idea of the play’s squishy center.
Helmer Michael Michetti’s cast is capable across the board, and, in Cohen, Riegel, Erskine, and Olds, much more than that. But this anatomy of American misfits proves, in James Agee’s memorable phrase, the same old toothless dog biting the same old legless man.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 23, 2013
Annapurna
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble at Odyssey Theatrei
Sometimes when film and television stars deem to return to the stage—especially small 99-Seat stages where actors are paid just enough for gas to get to the theater—the action is met with grumbles and eye-rolling by those who disdain the star’s success. There is nothing even remotely akin to slumming in the Los Angeles debut of Sharr White’s astounding Annapurna.
Real-life married couple Megan Mullally and Nick Offerman met while working together in Charles Mee’s The Berlin Circle at Evidence Room in 2000, a relationship that began for Mullally with the excitement that she was asked on a date by someone who had no idea who she was (considering her fame and awards for her work on Will & Grace were already in the wind). The production generated a true romance among Mullally, Offerman, and their director then as now, Bart DeLorenzo. Both actors have had major success since then, but both return to their roots whenever they are able, especially if it involves working with the remarkably prolific DeLorenzo.
This ménage of world-class talent is a fortunate amalgam for White’s play, a phenomenal two-character character drama from a playwright who probably will soon be as famous as his current performers. Using the analogy of scaling one of the highest and most treacherous peaks of the Himalayas, White’s story thrusts together Ulysses, a beaten-down former poet of some promise reduced to living a penniless and solitary life in a deteriorating gulfstream trailer in the Rocky Mountain foothills of Colorado, with Emma, the ex-wife he has not seen for 20 years, since the day she disappeared with their 5-year-old son in the middle of the night.
Climbing a range takes “commitment,” a word that signals special meaning for mountain climbers, evoking the moment when there’s no chance of returning to civilization from the path originally taken. The same is true for Ulysses and Emma, who shows up at her ex’s trailer with food and cash after learning he’s dying of lung cancer. “I’m just passing through,” she tells him. “Eventually.” In the course of the play’s 90-minutes, Emma cleans up Ulysses’s squalid, bug-infected, dogshit-encrusted pigsty as he coughs and wheezes and tries to be the pillar of emotionlessness men like him feel they need to be. He knows her arrival after two decades, sporting bruised shoulders and arms, carrying groceries and $17,000 in cash, and pulling a vase of fake flowers from her backpack, means it’s time to find out what happened all those years earlier, before he kicks the proverbial bucket—that is, if he can find one not crawling with his friends the ants.
Under the sturdy, austere direction of DeLorenzo and featuring two actors capable of such astonishing commitment to their art, Annapurna is the play and production of the year so far in Los Angeles. How easy it would be for the simple unfolding of these people’s enduring love for each other to be boring and more than a tad maudlin, but never once does the story get bogged down in expositionary excess. Offerman is riveting, offering a bravely uncluttered, incredibly honest portrait of a troubled man in enormous pain, physically and emotionally, while the far less showy yet heartbreaking performance of Mullally is a wonderful foil to his work. Mullally, who has had her share of memorable turns on LA stages long after her fireplace mantel was graced by a pair of Emmys and a few other well-deserves awards, seems to be here to support her man—something that so fuels her Emma with as much love as any two people could possibly share.
Even without these odds for success, the indelible debut of Annapurna signals a major new playwright to watch, who, like Williams, turns jarringly dark poetry into difficult dialogue that would be hard to decode in lesser hands than those contributed here by the Offermans and DeLorenzo. And when Ulysses begins orating the first stanzas of the epic poem he has written over the last lonely two decades to the love of his life, the long-absent Emma, Williams again comes to mind, as when the aged Nonno begins reciting “How Calmly Does the Olive Branch,” the epic poem he has also been composing for 20 years, at the end of The Night of the Iguana. Many writers are compared to Williams, it’s true; White might be the one guy who makes that mantle stick.
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble at Odyssey Theatrei
Sometimes when film and television stars deem to return to the stage—especially small 99-Seat stages where actors are paid just enough for gas to get to the theater—the action is met with grumbles and eye-rolling by those who disdain the star’s success. There is nothing even remotely akin to slumming in the Los Angeles debut of Sharr White’s astounding Annapurna.
Real-life married couple Megan Mullally and Nick Offerman met while working together in Charles Mee’s The Berlin Circle at Evidence Room in 2000, a relationship that began for Mullally with the excitement that she was asked on a date by someone who had no idea who she was (considering her fame and awards for her work on Will & Grace were already in the wind). The production generated a true romance among Mullally, Offerman, and their director then as now, Bart DeLorenzo. Both actors have had major success since then, but both return to their roots whenever they are able, especially if it involves working with the remarkably prolific DeLorenzo.
This ménage of world-class talent is a fortunate amalgam for White’s play, a phenomenal two-character character drama from a playwright who probably will soon be as famous as his current performers. Using the analogy of scaling one of the highest and most treacherous peaks of the Himalayas, White’s story thrusts together Ulysses, a beaten-down former poet of some promise reduced to living a penniless and solitary life in a deteriorating gulfstream trailer in the Rocky Mountain foothills of Colorado, with Emma, the ex-wife he has not seen for 20 years, since the day she disappeared with their 5-year-old son in the middle of the night.
Climbing a range takes “commitment,” a word that signals special meaning for mountain climbers, evoking the moment when there’s no chance of returning to civilization from the path originally taken. The same is true for Ulysses and Emma, who shows up at her ex’s trailer with food and cash after learning he’s dying of lung cancer. “I’m just passing through,” she tells him. “Eventually.” In the course of the play’s 90-minutes, Emma cleans up Ulysses’s squalid, bug-infected, dogshit-encrusted pigsty as he coughs and wheezes and tries to be the pillar of emotionlessness men like him feel they need to be. He knows her arrival after two decades, sporting bruised shoulders and arms, carrying groceries and $17,000 in cash, and pulling a vase of fake flowers from her backpack, means it’s time to find out what happened all those years earlier, before he kicks the proverbial bucket—that is, if he can find one not crawling with his friends the ants.
Under the sturdy, austere direction of DeLorenzo and featuring two actors capable of such astonishing commitment to their art, Annapurna is the play and production of the year so far in Los Angeles. How easy it would be for the simple unfolding of these people’s enduring love for each other to be boring and more than a tad maudlin, but never once does the story get bogged down in expositionary excess. Offerman is riveting, offering a bravely uncluttered, incredibly honest portrait of a troubled man in enormous pain, physically and emotionally, while the far less showy yet heartbreaking performance of Mullally is a wonderful foil to his work. Mullally, who has had her share of memorable turns on LA stages long after her fireplace mantel was graced by a pair of Emmys and a few other well-deserves awards, seems to be here to support her man—something that so fuels her Emma with as much love as any two people could possibly share.
Even without these odds for success, the indelible debut of Annapurna signals a major new playwright to watch, who, like Williams, turns jarringly dark poetry into difficult dialogue that would be hard to decode in lesser hands than those contributed here by the Offermans and DeLorenzo. And when Ulysses begins orating the first stanzas of the epic poem he has written over the last lonely two decades to the love of his life, the long-absent Emma, Williams again comes to mind, as when the aged Nonno begins reciting “How Calmly Does the Olive Branch,” the epic poem he has also been composing for 20 years, at the end of The Night of the Iguana. Many writers are compared to Williams, it’s true; White might be the one guy who makes that mantle stick.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
April 23, 2013
April 23, 2013
Ruthless! The Musical
Torrance Theatre Company
Do you love originality and scintillating wit? Well, too bad. Musical theater tropes and bad puns serve the nonstop fun in Ruthless! The Musical, currently in a lively production at Torrance Theatre Company.
Composed by Marvin Laird, with book and lyrics by Joel Paley, this show parodies large chunks of celebrated 1950s musicals such as Gypsy and films All About Eve and The Bad Seed, adding snatches of musical references to such greats as Stephen Sondheim and Jule Styne.
At its center, third-grader Tina proclaims herself a star, to the chagrin of her picture-perfect mother, Judy. No sooner are the words spoken, then at their door appears manager Sylvia. Judy’s husband is AWOL. Not so Judy’s adoptive mother, Lita, an embittered theater critic. Still, Tina auditions for her school play but earns only an understudy role. Homicidal jealousy prompts Tina to finagle her way onto the stage and eventually into sentencing to the Daisy Clover School for Psychopathic Ingénues. The second act finds mother Judy on Broadway, tended to by overeager assistant Eve. Secrets are exposed, identities revealed, and all ends happily—for the audience only.
“I was born to entertain,” says Mackenna Butcher in the role of Tina (on the evening reviewed). Now, that’s typecasting. This young actor sings, dances, has comedic timing, and is primed to learn spit-takes. Lacey Keane adorably plays Judy as a bubbly housewife, using a light vibrato singing voice, then belts her songs as diva Ginger.
Creating characters timelessly yet of the period are Lisa Meert as an overly stimulated teacher and as an overly persistent reporter, and Daina Baker-Bowler as Ginger’s scheming assistant. Shirley Hatton’s critical granny Lita bursts with braggadocio, as well as hatred for musical theater.
Sylvia, however, is an eye-catchingly statuesque creature. She looks sleek, she moves with glamor and allure, and—wait, is that an Adam’s apple? Yes, playing her is Paul Rorie. Part dragon-lady, part fairy godmother, his portrayal also includes a bit of wistfulness and is thus textured and dimensional. Amid even these performers, Rorie has the best singing voice, rich and powerful.
Director Jim Hormel cast beautifully, keeps the tone bright, and perfectly captures the period and its quirks. Adding to the pointed humor are a badly voiced piano (though well-played by Mark McCormick), the (mostly) absentee husband and father, and giggle-inducing wigs (Michael Aldapa) yet fabulous costumes accessorized with an enviable supply of gaudy rhinestone brooches (Rachel Lorenzetti).
The stage-right area used for the school auditorium scenes could be raised to improve sightlines, the stage-left area remains a bit underused, but the shenanigans center-stage hit the spot. This musical is probably not for the very young, considering its murderous 8-year-old, “some adult language,” and innumerable moments of innuendo. But, for musical-theater aficionados and newcomers, it provides joyous entertainment. And of course it should be seen by any 8-year-old pondering a life upon the wicked stage.
Torrance Theatre Company
Do you love originality and scintillating wit? Well, too bad. Musical theater tropes and bad puns serve the nonstop fun in Ruthless! The Musical, currently in a lively production at Torrance Theatre Company.
Composed by Marvin Laird, with book and lyrics by Joel Paley, this show parodies large chunks of celebrated 1950s musicals such as Gypsy and films All About Eve and The Bad Seed, adding snatches of musical references to such greats as Stephen Sondheim and Jule Styne.
At its center, third-grader Tina proclaims herself a star, to the chagrin of her picture-perfect mother, Judy. No sooner are the words spoken, then at their door appears manager Sylvia. Judy’s husband is AWOL. Not so Judy’s adoptive mother, Lita, an embittered theater critic. Still, Tina auditions for her school play but earns only an understudy role. Homicidal jealousy prompts Tina to finagle her way onto the stage and eventually into sentencing to the Daisy Clover School for Psychopathic Ingénues. The second act finds mother Judy on Broadway, tended to by overeager assistant Eve. Secrets are exposed, identities revealed, and all ends happily—for the audience only.
“I was born to entertain,” says Mackenna Butcher in the role of Tina (on the evening reviewed). Now, that’s typecasting. This young actor sings, dances, has comedic timing, and is primed to learn spit-takes. Lacey Keane adorably plays Judy as a bubbly housewife, using a light vibrato singing voice, then belts her songs as diva Ginger.
Creating characters timelessly yet of the period are Lisa Meert as an overly stimulated teacher and as an overly persistent reporter, and Daina Baker-Bowler as Ginger’s scheming assistant. Shirley Hatton’s critical granny Lita bursts with braggadocio, as well as hatred for musical theater.
Sylvia, however, is an eye-catchingly statuesque creature. She looks sleek, she moves with glamor and allure, and—wait, is that an Adam’s apple? Yes, playing her is Paul Rorie. Part dragon-lady, part fairy godmother, his portrayal also includes a bit of wistfulness and is thus textured and dimensional. Amid even these performers, Rorie has the best singing voice, rich and powerful.
Director Jim Hormel cast beautifully, keeps the tone bright, and perfectly captures the period and its quirks. Adding to the pointed humor are a badly voiced piano (though well-played by Mark McCormick), the (mostly) absentee husband and father, and giggle-inducing wigs (Michael Aldapa) yet fabulous costumes accessorized with an enviable supply of gaudy rhinestone brooches (Rachel Lorenzetti).
The stage-right area used for the school auditorium scenes could be raised to improve sightlines, the stage-left area remains a bit underused, but the shenanigans center-stage hit the spot. This musical is probably not for the very young, considering its murderous 8-year-old, “some adult language,” and innumerable moments of innuendo. But, for musical-theater aficionados and newcomers, it provides joyous entertainment. And of course it should be seen by any 8-year-old pondering a life upon the wicked stage.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 23, 2013
April 23, 2013
A Catered Affair
Musical Theatre Guild at Alex Theatre and Thousand Oaks Civic Arts Plaza’s Scherr Forum
What a simple and universal story: A mother insists on giving her only daughter a lavish wedding. The reasons here, however, are not so simple. Addie Hurley never got the wedding she wanted, perhaps not even to the man she wanted. Since then, she says, she always favored their son and never treated daughter Jane kindly. Guilt and shame drive Addie now.
So even though husband Tom needs the money for an additional share in his taxi, and even though Jane insisted on a City Hall ceremony, Addie persists, coaxed along by her “single” (read: gay) brother, Uncle Winston.
This musical, with book by Harvey Fierstein, music and lyrics by John Bucchino, is based on the 1956 Bette Davis–starrer written by Gore Vidal, from the original 1955 teleplay by Paddy Chayefsky. Fierstein keeps the 1950s setting and thus a few of the original script’s old-fashioned elements (including the pressures of pregnancy out of wedlock), but shows the timelessness of remorse and personal sadness.
Musical Theatre Guild presented the rarely seen vehicle in a concert-staged reading, the performers holding their scripts but moving around the stage. The design included black chairs that start in a circle against a black curtain, but A. Jeffrey Schoenberg provided the colorful, period-adorable costuming, and the (uncredited) lighting design eventually bathed the actors in an apricot glow as Addie gives up her vicarious dreams.
The music is more Sondheim than Rodgers, yet the performers brought out its complexities and nuances in MTG’s greatly abbreviated rehearsal schedule, under Brent Crayon’s music direction. Alan Bailey, who helms here, let melancholia drift through, so although a wedding is in the planning, this piece was not a light comedy. Bailey created pockets of hilarity, though, as when during a dinner at the Hurleys’s home, the in-laws-to-be, the Hallorans, crowd in at the table, convincing the audience the families are in a tiny Bronx walkup.
The undoubted star here was Marsha Kramer as Addie. Despite popular notions of a lack of roles for women over 30, Addie can be a gift to a musical theater performer, and Kramer unwrapped that gift with great tenderness. From the musical’s start, she left no doubt Addie lives in deep, long-term sadness and disappointment. Her Addie’s joy in planning “a catered affair” for her daughter was tainted with delusion, then with stubbornness, and we felt anguish for her and the wasted life she feels she has led.
Playing Tom, David Holmes gorgeously watched Addie as she fantasizes about the wedding she would have liked for herself. As Jane, Melissa Fahn displayed a warm, operatic voice and a combination of innocence and determination befitting the 1950s. Helen Geller earned giggles as the busybody neighbor and admiration as the quietly understanding saleswoman. Roy Leake Jr. made Uncle Winston a three-dimensional being (after the show, knowledgeable members of the audience praised his work over Fierstein’s, who reportedly overplayed the role) and gleefully delivered the tipsy variations on “Halloran.”
Musical Theatre Guild at Alex Theatre and Thousand Oaks Civic Arts Plaza’s Scherr Forum
What a simple and universal story: A mother insists on giving her only daughter a lavish wedding. The reasons here, however, are not so simple. Addie Hurley never got the wedding she wanted, perhaps not even to the man she wanted. Since then, she says, she always favored their son and never treated daughter Jane kindly. Guilt and shame drive Addie now.
So even though husband Tom needs the money for an additional share in his taxi, and even though Jane insisted on a City Hall ceremony, Addie persists, coaxed along by her “single” (read: gay) brother, Uncle Winston.
This musical, with book by Harvey Fierstein, music and lyrics by John Bucchino, is based on the 1956 Bette Davis–starrer written by Gore Vidal, from the original 1955 teleplay by Paddy Chayefsky. Fierstein keeps the 1950s setting and thus a few of the original script’s old-fashioned elements (including the pressures of pregnancy out of wedlock), but shows the timelessness of remorse and personal sadness.
Musical Theatre Guild presented the rarely seen vehicle in a concert-staged reading, the performers holding their scripts but moving around the stage. The design included black chairs that start in a circle against a black curtain, but A. Jeffrey Schoenberg provided the colorful, period-adorable costuming, and the (uncredited) lighting design eventually bathed the actors in an apricot glow as Addie gives up her vicarious dreams.
The music is more Sondheim than Rodgers, yet the performers brought out its complexities and nuances in MTG’s greatly abbreviated rehearsal schedule, under Brent Crayon’s music direction. Alan Bailey, who helms here, let melancholia drift through, so although a wedding is in the planning, this piece was not a light comedy. Bailey created pockets of hilarity, though, as when during a dinner at the Hurleys’s home, the in-laws-to-be, the Hallorans, crowd in at the table, convincing the audience the families are in a tiny Bronx walkup.
The undoubted star here was Marsha Kramer as Addie. Despite popular notions of a lack of roles for women over 30, Addie can be a gift to a musical theater performer, and Kramer unwrapped that gift with great tenderness. From the musical’s start, she left no doubt Addie lives in deep, long-term sadness and disappointment. Her Addie’s joy in planning “a catered affair” for her daughter was tainted with delusion, then with stubbornness, and we felt anguish for her and the wasted life she feels she has led.
Playing Tom, David Holmes gorgeously watched Addie as she fantasizes about the wedding she would have liked for herself. As Jane, Melissa Fahn displayed a warm, operatic voice and a combination of innocence and determination befitting the 1950s. Helen Geller earned giggles as the busybody neighbor and admiration as the quietly understanding saleswoman. Roy Leake Jr. made Uncle Winston a three-dimensional being (after the show, knowledgeable members of the audience praised his work over Fierstein’s, who reportedly overplayed the role) and gleefully delivered the tipsy variations on “Halloran.”
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 23, 2013
April 23, 2013
Habitat
Los Angeles Theatre Center, Theatre 3
Canadian playwright Judith Thompson has chosen to underscore a tragic societal schism—disenfranchised adolescents desperately needing the security of safe home environments, versus the already established communities who don’t want these children residing in their neighborhoods—as a series of short, woefully unfocussed expositional scenes that dilute and sabotage the playwright’s intent. The five-member ensemble, under Jose Luis Valenzuela’s often awkward staging, work hard at establishing character veracity but are defeated by meandering, often needlessly overwrought dialogue that does not ring true.
The combatants are distilled down to ragingly self-hating 16-year-old Raine (Esperanza America) and Margaret (Susan Clark), a former pillar of an upper-middle-class community, who has become a sorrowful recluse since the death of her husband. When Raine, who has lost her mother to cancer, moves into the group home on Margaret’s upscale, suburban block, they immediately establish a kinship of sorrow and loss that, regretfully, is never adequately explored. Instead, Raine becomes engulfed by the chaotic machinations of troubled group-home founder Lewis Chance (Sal Lopez) and an aggressively sociopathic teen, Sparkle (Paul Nguyen).
Margaret has problems of her own, dealing with her own fading mortality and an emotionally fractured adult daughter, Janet (Nina Silver), who is a mother and lawyer. Despite their mutual affection, Raine and Margaret soon find themselves on opposite sides of the NIMBY (“not in my backyard”) dilemma.
The most perplexing aspect of Thompson’s dramatic throughline is her total failure to establish a plausible battle between the group home and the neighborhood leaders who want to throw them out. Lopez’s Chance is effectively conciliatory and persuasive when first addressing the community’s populace. Yet, this man, who supposedly has had years of experience running group homes, later becomes ragingly inhospitable to the two most important members of his opposition and is subsequently reduced to the level of a babbling fool when addressing members of the city council. All lawyer Janet has to do is lay out the facts from the community’s point of view, which is no contest at all.
To satisfy Thompson’s agenda to vent against the villainy of the status quo, America’a Raine and Nguyen’s Sparkle serve up sociological “truths” that are not plausible, coming from characters of their ages and backgrounds. This is especially true of Raine’s second-act harangue of Margaret, who is blasted with a short history of the downtrodden waifs of society.
Clark instills within Margaret a fundamental amalgam of sophistication and feistiness that is underused in this work. Margaret offers flashes of Brahman superiority that gives evidence she could solve everyone’s problems with a snap of her fingers. Yet, she fades completely once the wheels of societal orthodoxy start rolling forward. Lopez commendably commits to the many shifts in Chance’s emotional stability, effectively if unintentionally establishing a character who should never have been placed in charge of a group home from the outset.
Director Valenzuela seems more perplexed than aided by designer Tesshi Nakagawa’s disjointed, wall-less environments that define the group home, Margaret’s living room, and the surrounding neighborhood. At times, the comings and goings of the characters appear aimless, as if unsure when to make an entrance or an exit. It is also noticeable if not disconcerting to have characters enter from the rear of Margaret’s house and then leave through the front.
Judith Thompson’s Habitat, which was first produced in Canada in 2001, certainly takes aim at the NIMBY mindset in society, but her scattergun approach to this work fails to hit her target.
Los Angeles Theatre Center, Theatre 3
Canadian playwright Judith Thompson has chosen to underscore a tragic societal schism—disenfranchised adolescents desperately needing the security of safe home environments, versus the already established communities who don’t want these children residing in their neighborhoods—as a series of short, woefully unfocussed expositional scenes that dilute and sabotage the playwright’s intent. The five-member ensemble, under Jose Luis Valenzuela’s often awkward staging, work hard at establishing character veracity but are defeated by meandering, often needlessly overwrought dialogue that does not ring true.
The combatants are distilled down to ragingly self-hating 16-year-old Raine (Esperanza America) and Margaret (Susan Clark), a former pillar of an upper-middle-class community, who has become a sorrowful recluse since the death of her husband. When Raine, who has lost her mother to cancer, moves into the group home on Margaret’s upscale, suburban block, they immediately establish a kinship of sorrow and loss that, regretfully, is never adequately explored. Instead, Raine becomes engulfed by the chaotic machinations of troubled group-home founder Lewis Chance (Sal Lopez) and an aggressively sociopathic teen, Sparkle (Paul Nguyen).
Margaret has problems of her own, dealing with her own fading mortality and an emotionally fractured adult daughter, Janet (Nina Silver), who is a mother and lawyer. Despite their mutual affection, Raine and Margaret soon find themselves on opposite sides of the NIMBY (“not in my backyard”) dilemma.
The most perplexing aspect of Thompson’s dramatic throughline is her total failure to establish a plausible battle between the group home and the neighborhood leaders who want to throw them out. Lopez’s Chance is effectively conciliatory and persuasive when first addressing the community’s populace. Yet, this man, who supposedly has had years of experience running group homes, later becomes ragingly inhospitable to the two most important members of his opposition and is subsequently reduced to the level of a babbling fool when addressing members of the city council. All lawyer Janet has to do is lay out the facts from the community’s point of view, which is no contest at all.
To satisfy Thompson’s agenda to vent against the villainy of the status quo, America’a Raine and Nguyen’s Sparkle serve up sociological “truths” that are not plausible, coming from characters of their ages and backgrounds. This is especially true of Raine’s second-act harangue of Margaret, who is blasted with a short history of the downtrodden waifs of society.
Clark instills within Margaret a fundamental amalgam of sophistication and feistiness that is underused in this work. Margaret offers flashes of Brahman superiority that gives evidence she could solve everyone’s problems with a snap of her fingers. Yet, she fades completely once the wheels of societal orthodoxy start rolling forward. Lopez commendably commits to the many shifts in Chance’s emotional stability, effectively if unintentionally establishing a character who should never have been placed in charge of a group home from the outset.
Director Valenzuela seems more perplexed than aided by designer Tesshi Nakagawa’s disjointed, wall-less environments that define the group home, Margaret’s living room, and the surrounding neighborhood. At times, the comings and goings of the characters appear aimless, as if unsure when to make an entrance or an exit. It is also noticeable if not disconcerting to have characters enter from the rear of Margaret’s house and then leave through the front.
Judith Thompson’s Habitat, which was first produced in Canada in 2001, certainly takes aim at the NIMBY mindset in society, but her scattergun approach to this work fails to hit her target.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
April 22, 2013
April 22, 2013
Billy & Ray
Falcon Theatre
Billy & Ray is Mike Bencivenga’s depiction of the collaboration between B. Wilder and R. Chandler on the homicidal film noir classic Double Indemnity. If you can make it through Act 1’s outrageous overacting, jokes that fail to land, and exposition and researched anecdotes heavy-handedly ladled out, your return from intermission will reward you with a pretty absorbing and satisfying show.
The principals are conceived as a thin gloss on The Odd Couple, with director Wilder (Kevin Blake) the sloppy, womanizing, boozing, cigar-chomping boor, and pulp novelist Chandler (Shaun O’Hagan) the repressed academic priss who never shows up for work without a jacket and tie. Blake’s miscalculation, compounded by Bencivenga and helmer Garry Marshall, is to take for granted that we will find Wilder’s snotty bullying to be charming, instead of allowing us to discover his charm on our own. His speaking voice resembling Peter Lorre howling in mid-orgasm, strutting around full of himself, Blake’s Wilder comes across as an insufferable lout with no redeeming qualities. Get the hook.
The morality of the presentation is also noteworthy. It’s dismaying, not to say sickening, that we are clearly meant to see Wilder—a serial adulterer who respects nothing and no one, wasting Paramount time, money, and facilities on screening room amours and gambling—as a merry pixie who is to be admired for his daring in flouting convention, yet at the same time Chandler is mercilessly mocked for his stuffiness and for sneaking shots of hootch from his briefcase while claiming to be a non-drinker.
There was a time when you could count on general agreement, with Blanche DuBois, that the only unforgivable sin was deliberate cruelty; there was a time when the struggle of someone like Chandler to curb his alcoholism might prompt compassion on the part of artists. No longer. Now the compass of modern American drama (including the cinema here) asserts that as long as one is true to oneself, one is entitled to a moral pass. Now it’s hypocrisy that has become the failing one cannot possibly redeem. Wilder goes out of his way to be arbitrarily cruel to his writing partner, but he’s honest about it so it’s okay; Chandler is a hypocrite for trying to pretend he doesn’t drink, so he’s fair game for ridicule. Double Indemnity is an unsavory story, but it doesn’t seem right that its making should be depicted with yet more sour cynicism.
Anyway, there’s every reason to leave Act 1 and do what Indemnity’s Walter Neff should have done the moment he met Phyllis Dietrichson, namely hop in the jalopy and head for the border. However, do come back for the second half of Billy & Ray. All the performers settle down and start playing the stakes of the situation. Ali Spunk’s secretary stops trying to sound like Bette Midler’s “Soph” character and brings tenderness into the writers’ room along with the endless bourbon. Anthony Starke’s producer Joe Sistrom is no longer there to just fuss about as he trots in exposition, but begins to care deeply about the fate of his project and his employees. Even Blake modulates his obnoxious hamminess to hand over the stage to O’Hagan, who becomes quite real and moving as he lets us in on what’s in Chandler’s baggage other than a flask.
Still, Bencivenga lets a delicious irony slip away. The collaborators’ chief artistic challenge, as portrayed here, is in staying within the Production Code’s restrictions on the depiction of murder, sex, rape and all the other seaminess favored by original author James M. Cain (not to mention novelist Chandler himself). Bencivenga deftly shows us the subtle choices made by the adapters to convey all of Cain’s sordidness through indirection—choices that make Indemnity an enduring, genuine classic. Yet at no point does any character, or our playwright, ever acknowledge that the much reviled Production Code was the impetus for all that creativity. Had the Code not been in place—had its prohibitions not forced the likes of Wilder and Chandler to find ingenious solutions around them—is there anybody who would argue that Double Indemnity would have turned out better?
Tomorrow
Skylight Theatre Company, Rogue Machine, and York Theatre Royal at Skylight Theatre Complex
Plays by Donald Freed are never encumbered by subtleties. In his Tomorrow, now in its world premiere at Skylight Theatre, Freed’s newest and perhaps best gift to the world in his long and illustrious writing career, is no exception. It’s as though Freed has dispensed with all extraneous bullshit and gone for the jugular of our somnambulant national consciousness. As the radio in the background in Abigail and Jamie Booth’s deteriorating craftsman estate above Beachwood Canyon drones on about the Supreme Court decision in 2000 to hand George W. Bush the presidency on a silver platter, Freed’s three players re-enact passages from Shakespeare’s Macbeth—a play about a man who stole a throne by murdering a king.
Laura Keating (Jenn Robbins) is an ambitious young star-on-the-rise who has been offered what could be the defining moment of her career, playing Lady Macbeth in the West End, a performance that will be turned into a film starring the same actors. She seeks out coaching from her idol, the 100-year-old Abigail (Salome Jens), in the role Abby had been renowned for performing. Abby has lived for many years in self-imposed exile with her great-nephew Jamie (Kevin Quinn, in for Geoffrey Forward), surrounded by racks of retired costumes and walls filled with dusty old photographs of the then-celebrated people with whom Abby once shared the stage, from Uta Hagen and Eva Le Gallienne to Edward G. Robinson and Nazimova.
Laura sinks to her knees to beg Abby to help her, even offering $1,000 per hour and the mortgage on her house. “I want your soul,” Abby tells the desperately cloying young woman. So begins Freed’s mesmerizing ballet of crashing themes, utilizing the declining splendor of the theatrical arts fueled by so many avid theater artists, people who literally gave up their lives for their careers, with the deterioration of our troubled society. Even Abby’s long-held dream to begin a national theater company has years before been dashed by economics and apathy, culminating in her realization that “We cannot have an American national theater until we have an American national soul.”
The scenes among these three characters yield much more than simply offering a story of people boosting one another into experiencing the passion every true artist needs to go on, although the audience is blessed to be privy to that mysterious process seldom seen by outsiders. Jamie, who painfully gave up his own celebrated career years earlier in shame after freezing onstage in a pivotal scene in the very same “Scottish play,” leads Laura to refine her vocal range and diction. Abby forces their eager student to explore deeper and deeper into the Lady’s background and how it demarcated her choices, dissecting and enhancing the Bard’s rich subtext with ardent fervor. The craft of the actor has never before been shared so openly onstage or with more fascinating results.
Damian Cruden’s direction is flawless, from his staging to the incredibly intricate performances he elicits from miraculous Jens and Quinn, who not only proves himself to be the perfect foil for her tour-de-force turn but also as one of those unstoppable theater artists Freed’s play celebrates. As Jamie, he is quite amazing, especially considering he took over this demanding, impossibly loquacious role from Forward for the first time, with only a week’s notice, on the evening reviewed. Quinn would have here been applauded even if the knowledge of this feat hadn’t been offhandedly shared following the performance.
Robbins is by far less successful, ironically quite impressive when she slips more and more into the role of Lady Macbeth, but she is unable to make any of her moments as Laura believable, indicating her character’s emotions rather than letting them filter through the sieve of her own persona. Her acting shows, especially when held up against the work of these co-stars.
Jens is one of the true geniuses of the world stage, who gives a performance that every student of acting should see several times. One cannot take one’s eyes off her, even when others speak. A few slow head turns or well-placed blinks signal waves of understanding not many actors alive today could attain. Perhaps the most expert part of her performance is how the frail, elderly Abby transforms into a tigress as she works with Laura, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of her forgotten career to become the actor she once had been.
The title Tomorrow was obviously chosen to be a metaphor about how we must, as artists, let our personal disappointments disappear to help one another grow in a world, as Shelly said, where poets are the “unacknowledged legislators of mankind.” There’s a line in the play about the fear of becoming one of those obscure old faces gracing Abby’s walls, photos now fading into oblivion if no one is there to remind future generations who they were and what they contributed. O, Mr. Freed, how wonderful to have you here to allow us this gossamer tribute—especially while shouting at us to wake up with such brilliantly eloquent, quiet delicacy.
Falcon Theatre
Billy & Ray is Mike Bencivenga’s depiction of the collaboration between B. Wilder and R. Chandler on the homicidal film noir classic Double Indemnity. If you can make it through Act 1’s outrageous overacting, jokes that fail to land, and exposition and researched anecdotes heavy-handedly ladled out, your return from intermission will reward you with a pretty absorbing and satisfying show.
The principals are conceived as a thin gloss on The Odd Couple, with director Wilder (Kevin Blake) the sloppy, womanizing, boozing, cigar-chomping boor, and pulp novelist Chandler (Shaun O’Hagan) the repressed academic priss who never shows up for work without a jacket and tie. Blake’s miscalculation, compounded by Bencivenga and helmer Garry Marshall, is to take for granted that we will find Wilder’s snotty bullying to be charming, instead of allowing us to discover his charm on our own. His speaking voice resembling Peter Lorre howling in mid-orgasm, strutting around full of himself, Blake’s Wilder comes across as an insufferable lout with no redeeming qualities. Get the hook.
The morality of the presentation is also noteworthy. It’s dismaying, not to say sickening, that we are clearly meant to see Wilder—a serial adulterer who respects nothing and no one, wasting Paramount time, money, and facilities on screening room amours and gambling—as a merry pixie who is to be admired for his daring in flouting convention, yet at the same time Chandler is mercilessly mocked for his stuffiness and for sneaking shots of hootch from his briefcase while claiming to be a non-drinker.
There was a time when you could count on general agreement, with Blanche DuBois, that the only unforgivable sin was deliberate cruelty; there was a time when the struggle of someone like Chandler to curb his alcoholism might prompt compassion on the part of artists. No longer. Now the compass of modern American drama (including the cinema here) asserts that as long as one is true to oneself, one is entitled to a moral pass. Now it’s hypocrisy that has become the failing one cannot possibly redeem. Wilder goes out of his way to be arbitrarily cruel to his writing partner, but he’s honest about it so it’s okay; Chandler is a hypocrite for trying to pretend he doesn’t drink, so he’s fair game for ridicule. Double Indemnity is an unsavory story, but it doesn’t seem right that its making should be depicted with yet more sour cynicism.
Anyway, there’s every reason to leave Act 1 and do what Indemnity’s Walter Neff should have done the moment he met Phyllis Dietrichson, namely hop in the jalopy and head for the border. However, do come back for the second half of Billy & Ray. All the performers settle down and start playing the stakes of the situation. Ali Spunk’s secretary stops trying to sound like Bette Midler’s “Soph” character and brings tenderness into the writers’ room along with the endless bourbon. Anthony Starke’s producer Joe Sistrom is no longer there to just fuss about as he trots in exposition, but begins to care deeply about the fate of his project and his employees. Even Blake modulates his obnoxious hamminess to hand over the stage to O’Hagan, who becomes quite real and moving as he lets us in on what’s in Chandler’s baggage other than a flask.
Still, Bencivenga lets a delicious irony slip away. The collaborators’ chief artistic challenge, as portrayed here, is in staying within the Production Code’s restrictions on the depiction of murder, sex, rape and all the other seaminess favored by original author James M. Cain (not to mention novelist Chandler himself). Bencivenga deftly shows us the subtle choices made by the adapters to convey all of Cain’s sordidness through indirection—choices that make Indemnity an enduring, genuine classic. Yet at no point does any character, or our playwright, ever acknowledge that the much reviled Production Code was the impetus for all that creativity. Had the Code not been in place—had its prohibitions not forced the likes of Wilder and Chandler to find ingenious solutions around them—is there anybody who would argue that Double Indemnity would have turned out better?
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 22, 2013
April 22, 2013
Tomorrow
Skylight Theatre Company, Rogue Machine, and York Theatre Royal at Skylight Theatre Complex
Plays by Donald Freed are never encumbered by subtleties. In his Tomorrow, now in its world premiere at Skylight Theatre, Freed’s newest and perhaps best gift to the world in his long and illustrious writing career, is no exception. It’s as though Freed has dispensed with all extraneous bullshit and gone for the jugular of our somnambulant national consciousness. As the radio in the background in Abigail and Jamie Booth’s deteriorating craftsman estate above Beachwood Canyon drones on about the Supreme Court decision in 2000 to hand George W. Bush the presidency on a silver platter, Freed’s three players re-enact passages from Shakespeare’s Macbeth—a play about a man who stole a throne by murdering a king.
Laura Keating (Jenn Robbins) is an ambitious young star-on-the-rise who has been offered what could be the defining moment of her career, playing Lady Macbeth in the West End, a performance that will be turned into a film starring the same actors. She seeks out coaching from her idol, the 100-year-old Abigail (Salome Jens), in the role Abby had been renowned for performing. Abby has lived for many years in self-imposed exile with her great-nephew Jamie (Kevin Quinn, in for Geoffrey Forward), surrounded by racks of retired costumes and walls filled with dusty old photographs of the then-celebrated people with whom Abby once shared the stage, from Uta Hagen and Eva Le Gallienne to Edward G. Robinson and Nazimova.
Laura sinks to her knees to beg Abby to help her, even offering $1,000 per hour and the mortgage on her house. “I want your soul,” Abby tells the desperately cloying young woman. So begins Freed’s mesmerizing ballet of crashing themes, utilizing the declining splendor of the theatrical arts fueled by so many avid theater artists, people who literally gave up their lives for their careers, with the deterioration of our troubled society. Even Abby’s long-held dream to begin a national theater company has years before been dashed by economics and apathy, culminating in her realization that “We cannot have an American national theater until we have an American national soul.”
The scenes among these three characters yield much more than simply offering a story of people boosting one another into experiencing the passion every true artist needs to go on, although the audience is blessed to be privy to that mysterious process seldom seen by outsiders. Jamie, who painfully gave up his own celebrated career years earlier in shame after freezing onstage in a pivotal scene in the very same “Scottish play,” leads Laura to refine her vocal range and diction. Abby forces their eager student to explore deeper and deeper into the Lady’s background and how it demarcated her choices, dissecting and enhancing the Bard’s rich subtext with ardent fervor. The craft of the actor has never before been shared so openly onstage or with more fascinating results.
Damian Cruden’s direction is flawless, from his staging to the incredibly intricate performances he elicits from miraculous Jens and Quinn, who not only proves himself to be the perfect foil for her tour-de-force turn but also as one of those unstoppable theater artists Freed’s play celebrates. As Jamie, he is quite amazing, especially considering he took over this demanding, impossibly loquacious role from Forward for the first time, with only a week’s notice, on the evening reviewed. Quinn would have here been applauded even if the knowledge of this feat hadn’t been offhandedly shared following the performance.
Robbins is by far less successful, ironically quite impressive when she slips more and more into the role of Lady Macbeth, but she is unable to make any of her moments as Laura believable, indicating her character’s emotions rather than letting them filter through the sieve of her own persona. Her acting shows, especially when held up against the work of these co-stars.
Jens is one of the true geniuses of the world stage, who gives a performance that every student of acting should see several times. One cannot take one’s eyes off her, even when others speak. A few slow head turns or well-placed blinks signal waves of understanding not many actors alive today could attain. Perhaps the most expert part of her performance is how the frail, elderly Abby transforms into a tigress as she works with Laura, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of her forgotten career to become the actor she once had been.
The title Tomorrow was obviously chosen to be a metaphor about how we must, as artists, let our personal disappointments disappear to help one another grow in a world, as Shelly said, where poets are the “unacknowledged legislators of mankind.” There’s a line in the play about the fear of becoming one of those obscure old faces gracing Abby’s walls, photos now fading into oblivion if no one is there to remind future generations who they were and what they contributed. O, Mr. Freed, how wonderful to have you here to allow us this gossamer tribute—especially while shouting at us to wake up with such brilliantly eloquent, quiet delicacy.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
April 22, 2013
April 22, 2013
Slipping
Rattlestick Playwrights Theater at Elephant Stage’s Lillian Theatre
In his haunting poem “Lament for the Moths,” Tennessee Williams warned: “Enemies of the delicate everywhere / Have breathed a pestilent mist into the air.” In our supposedly advanced and liberated society, the rampant suicides and attempted suicides of LGBT teenagers are epidemic. In Daniel Talbott’s arresting play Slipping, now in its LA premiere, one of those young victims is Eli, a troubled kid struggling with his sexuality after relocating to Iowa from San Francisco following the car crash that claimed his father’s life. Although the emerging storyline is easily foreseeable, the text is elevated by Talbott’s sweepingly poetic dialogue and the richly textured monologues Eli (Seth Numrich, who originated the role in New York in 2009 before he became a hot new star on the horizon) delivers to the audience.
Eli is trying to escape a lot of things, including whether his father’s death was an accident or a result of his mother’s infidelities. Above all, however, Slipping chronicles Eli’s attempts to come to terms with his sexuality. Eli’s battle is not compounded by the usual unaccepting parent, as his mother (Wendy vanden Heuvel) is quick to ask if there are any guys in his new school to whom he’s attracted. Although Eli is indeed intrigued by sweetly goofy girl-crazy classmate Jake (MacLeod Andrews, who also appeared in the play Off-Broadway), Eli is badly damaged by his first affair—with an abusive, self-loathing jock (Maxwell Hamilton), who alternately wants to make love to Eli and beat the crap out of him.
Talbott’s sturdy staging is the other wonder here. Besides his evocatively poetic soliloquies, another unconventional aspect is embraced with courage and fervor in his directorial choices: the weaving back and forth in time among San Francisco, Iowa, and New York without concern for standard dramatic structure. Talbott never conforms to telling a story that builds to one conclusion. Instead he offers a culminating meeting late in the timeline that could signal a possible happy ending before depicting a scene of heartrending emotion between the same two characters several years earlier.
Vanden Heuvel does her best with a rather underwritten role, making one wish Eli’s mother had a chance to experience life-changing revelations about her life and her relationship with her son that could make a difference to the play’s outcome. It’s something of a given that Numrich—who went from this production in New York to starring on Broadway as Albert in War Horse, followed this season by his critically acclaimed turn in the leading role in the heralded revival of Golden Boy—is what has brought this play to our shores four years after its debut.
He is an incredible young actor, easily echoing the early days of Paul Newman or James Dean. Indeed, his work here is something of an amalgam between Dean and Sal Mineo in Rebel Without a Cause. But although Numrich is all but guaranteed to become a major star, perhaps he and Andrews reprising their original performances today is a bit challenging for them. Numrich appears to have to work too hard, at 26, to pull off playing Eli in his mid-teen years, especially right after bulking up to play Odet’s classic hero Joe Bonaparte.
Andrews is more successful bringing an infectious teenage energy to Jake, his character’s emerging love for Eli the most touching aspect of this production—although a bit of manscaping for the play’s hotly unflinching sexual tableaus might have added to the illusion. The most impressive performance of this remounting is the new guy: Recent UCLA grad Hamilton gives a scary, finely nuanced performance as the desperately tortured Chris.
Despite its predictability, Slipping is an important new play, one that needs to be shared on whatever level it is offered. Because Talbott’s writing and staging is so clearly filmic, it wouldn’t be surprising if this run in our reclaimed desert might find it has an even more apparent future than the emergence of its original star.
Rattlestick Playwrights Theater at Elephant Stage’s Lillian Theatre
In his haunting poem “Lament for the Moths,” Tennessee Williams warned: “Enemies of the delicate everywhere / Have breathed a pestilent mist into the air.” In our supposedly advanced and liberated society, the rampant suicides and attempted suicides of LGBT teenagers are epidemic. In Daniel Talbott’s arresting play Slipping, now in its LA premiere, one of those young victims is Eli, a troubled kid struggling with his sexuality after relocating to Iowa from San Francisco following the car crash that claimed his father’s life. Although the emerging storyline is easily foreseeable, the text is elevated by Talbott’s sweepingly poetic dialogue and the richly textured monologues Eli (Seth Numrich, who originated the role in New York in 2009 before he became a hot new star on the horizon) delivers to the audience.
Eli is trying to escape a lot of things, including whether his father’s death was an accident or a result of his mother’s infidelities. Above all, however, Slipping chronicles Eli’s attempts to come to terms with his sexuality. Eli’s battle is not compounded by the usual unaccepting parent, as his mother (Wendy vanden Heuvel) is quick to ask if there are any guys in his new school to whom he’s attracted. Although Eli is indeed intrigued by sweetly goofy girl-crazy classmate Jake (MacLeod Andrews, who also appeared in the play Off-Broadway), Eli is badly damaged by his first affair—with an abusive, self-loathing jock (Maxwell Hamilton), who alternately wants to make love to Eli and beat the crap out of him.
Talbott’s sturdy staging is the other wonder here. Besides his evocatively poetic soliloquies, another unconventional aspect is embraced with courage and fervor in his directorial choices: the weaving back and forth in time among San Francisco, Iowa, and New York without concern for standard dramatic structure. Talbott never conforms to telling a story that builds to one conclusion. Instead he offers a culminating meeting late in the timeline that could signal a possible happy ending before depicting a scene of heartrending emotion between the same two characters several years earlier.
Vanden Heuvel does her best with a rather underwritten role, making one wish Eli’s mother had a chance to experience life-changing revelations about her life and her relationship with her son that could make a difference to the play’s outcome. It’s something of a given that Numrich—who went from this production in New York to starring on Broadway as Albert in War Horse, followed this season by his critically acclaimed turn in the leading role in the heralded revival of Golden Boy—is what has brought this play to our shores four years after its debut.
He is an incredible young actor, easily echoing the early days of Paul Newman or James Dean. Indeed, his work here is something of an amalgam between Dean and Sal Mineo in Rebel Without a Cause. But although Numrich is all but guaranteed to become a major star, perhaps he and Andrews reprising their original performances today is a bit challenging for them. Numrich appears to have to work too hard, at 26, to pull off playing Eli in his mid-teen years, especially right after bulking up to play Odet’s classic hero Joe Bonaparte.
Andrews is more successful bringing an infectious teenage energy to Jake, his character’s emerging love for Eli the most touching aspect of this production—although a bit of manscaping for the play’s hotly unflinching sexual tableaus might have added to the illusion. The most impressive performance of this remounting is the new guy: Recent UCLA grad Hamilton gives a scary, finely nuanced performance as the desperately tortured Chris.
Despite its predictability, Slipping is an important new play, one that needs to be shared on whatever level it is offered. Because Talbott’s writing and staging is so clearly filmic, it wouldn’t be surprising if this run in our reclaimed desert might find it has an even more apparent future than the emergence of its original star.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
April 15, 2013
April 15, 2013
American Buffalo
Geffen Playhouse
David Mamet’s bones and rep were made with his 1975 American Buffalo, a scabrously funny deconstruction of our national way of doing business as seen through the eyes, ears, and butterfingers of three lowlife Chicago a-holes who think they’re masterminds. Randall Arney’s Geffen Playhouse revival milks all the humor and fun out of this seminal piece—and reminds us what a genius Mamet can be at his best—but falls short in giving us, between the eyes, the darker underside of the American Dream.
For most of the play’s lean and mean two hours, the habitués of a Chicago junkshop (lovingly re-created by designer Takeshi Kata) rail against the fools, liars, and betrayers of their acquaintance. Here’s blowhard Teach (Ron Eldard) ranting about the temerity of a woman friend in chiding him for eating a piece of toast off her plate at the local diner:
That mix of the profane and the courtly, the entitlement underlying that “Ah, it’s no big deal” passive-aggressiveness, instantly established Mamet’s peerless comic voice, and by the reactions of the opening night Geffen audience, it’s been a long time since any other play or playwright has served up the same heady brew. The Don referred to above (Bill Smitrovich) is the shop owner with a curiously paternal interest in youthful junkie Bobby (Freddy Rodriguez), a hanger-on-cum-protégé to whom Don purveys life advice:
Useful tip, right? No more so a page later when Donny avers, “That’s what business is: people taking care of themselves.” These guys are constantly pontificating on what they know and what they’ve learned; none of it makes any sense, and it’s hilarious because we instantly see the gap between their view of themselves and who they really are.
Unfortunately, there’s another, wider, more important gap that this production fails to exploit. In the course of the play the characters get the notion of this one big score, ripping off some random coin collector whose late interest in a Buffalo head nickel suggests he’s got a cache of riches to be burgled. Things are increasingly, absurdly incomplete and chaotic as a long day’s journey of half-assed planning moves into night and the hoped-for zero hour.
We can’t be surprised when it all falls apart, but we also should not be surprised when it erupts into violence. Mamet is concerned not just with blowhard fantasies but with their consequences, and for the play to fully pay off, we have to believe in the white-hot rage boiling inside the eyes of Teach and Donny. We have to comprehend that for all the bravado, when people with nothing are confronted with their nothingness, they turn, and things get terribly ugly indeed.
There’s no rage boiling within Eldard and Smitrovich, and minimal tension between them. When Teach apologizes for speaking in anger, or when Donny lashes out at Teach for taunting Bobby about “skin-popping,” the moments have no weight, there’s nothing behind them. Arney is content to get the laughs; but he can’t or doesn’t want to elicit the deeper strains of emotion behind Mamet’s remarkable characters.
Played perfectly, American Buffalo doesn’t just make us say, “Yes, that’s exactly how people do business in this country.” It should also chill our blood with the realization of the passion behind all the big talk and self-deception. Played perfectly, the work can bring about a real catharsis of pity and terror. At the Geffen, helmer and actors are heedless of the terror, and that’s a pity.
Geffen Playhouse
David Mamet’s bones and rep were made with his 1975 American Buffalo, a scabrously funny deconstruction of our national way of doing business as seen through the eyes, ears, and butterfingers of three lowlife Chicago a-holes who think they’re masterminds. Randall Arney’s Geffen Playhouse revival milks all the humor and fun out of this seminal piece—and reminds us what a genius Mamet can be at his best—but falls short in giving us, between the eyes, the darker underside of the American Dream.
For most of the play’s lean and mean two hours, the habitués of a Chicago junkshop (lovingly re-created by designer Takeshi Kata) rail against the fools, liars, and betrayers of their acquaintance. Here’s blowhard Teach (Ron Eldard) ranting about the temerity of a woman friend in chiding him for eating a piece of toast off her plate at the local diner:
Only (and I tell you this, Don). Only, and I’m not, I don’t think, casting anything on anyone: from the mouth of a Southern bulldyke asshole ingrate of a worthless nowhere c—t can this trash come. And I take nothing back, and I know you’re close with them…. The only way to teach these people is to kill them.
That mix of the profane and the courtly, the entitlement underlying that “Ah, it’s no big deal” passive-aggressiveness, instantly established Mamet’s peerless comic voice, and by the reactions of the opening night Geffen audience, it’s been a long time since any other play or playwright has served up the same heady brew. The Don referred to above (Bill Smitrovich) is the shop owner with a curiously paternal interest in youthful junkie Bobby (Freddy Rodriguez), a hanger-on-cum-protégé to whom Don purveys life advice:
It’s no difference with you than with anyone else. Everything that I or Fletcher know we picked up on the street. That’s all business is: common sense, experience, and talent.
Useful tip, right? No more so a page later when Donny avers, “That’s what business is: people taking care of themselves.” These guys are constantly pontificating on what they know and what they’ve learned; none of it makes any sense, and it’s hilarious because we instantly see the gap between their view of themselves and who they really are.
Unfortunately, there’s another, wider, more important gap that this production fails to exploit. In the course of the play the characters get the notion of this one big score, ripping off some random coin collector whose late interest in a Buffalo head nickel suggests he’s got a cache of riches to be burgled. Things are increasingly, absurdly incomplete and chaotic as a long day’s journey of half-assed planning moves into night and the hoped-for zero hour.
We can’t be surprised when it all falls apart, but we also should not be surprised when it erupts into violence. Mamet is concerned not just with blowhard fantasies but with their consequences, and for the play to fully pay off, we have to believe in the white-hot rage boiling inside the eyes of Teach and Donny. We have to comprehend that for all the bravado, when people with nothing are confronted with their nothingness, they turn, and things get terribly ugly indeed.
There’s no rage boiling within Eldard and Smitrovich, and minimal tension between them. When Teach apologizes for speaking in anger, or when Donny lashes out at Teach for taunting Bobby about “skin-popping,” the moments have no weight, there’s nothing behind them. Arney is content to get the laughs; but he can’t or doesn’t want to elicit the deeper strains of emotion behind Mamet’s remarkable characters.
Played perfectly, American Buffalo doesn’t just make us say, “Yes, that’s exactly how people do business in this country.” It should also chill our blood with the realization of the passion behind all the big talk and self-deception. Played perfectly, the work can bring about a real catharsis of pity and terror. At the Geffen, helmer and actors are heedless of the terror, and that’s a pity.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 11, 2013
April 11, 2013
One Night With Janis Joplin
Pasadena Playhouse
Though it looks and sure sounds like a rock concert, this production is a genuine piece of theater that re-creates not just the personality of the legendary gravel-voiced rocker (Mary Bridget Davies) but the world in which she lived and died. The Pasadena Playhouse practically throbs with the soul of Woodstock Nation—an era which, for all its antiestablishment cynicism and nihilism, sustained the unmistakable sense of possibility that a dream of peace, love and rock ’n’ roll could be made real in the here and now.
You go in expecting the usual cheesy “I was born/And then I wrote” animated Wikipedia article that usually passes for the review of a notable entertainer’s life and work. But writer-director Randy Johnson never falls into predictable traps. For one thing, the details are deftly and sparingly woven into the fabric of Pearl’s boozy monologues between numbers. They’re also presented out of chronological order, so the audience never gets several steps ahead of the biography. Yes, we get to see images of the young Janis against the back wall, but never when we expect them; when they pop in, they appear to be projections of her mind at any given moment, rather than a contrived multimedia device for our benefit.
Better still, Joplin’s musical influences aren’t just talked about but also literally brought on stage in the person of The Blues Singer. The breathtaking Sabrina Elayne Carten pops in to impersonate the likes of Bessie Smith, Nina Simone and Chantels lead singer Arlene Smith as each one intersects with the Joplin playlist. Performing the numbers that helped to shape Janis’s unique “white girl sings the blues” style, Carten—with Johnson’s adroit shaping—permits us to hear the influences for ourselves. We’re encouraged to draw our own conclusions about these great artists’ musicianship and its impact on the little girl from Texas whose voice was snuffed out way too soon.
Not enough can be said about Davies, whose command of Pearl’s sound, look, moves, and temperament is close to supernatural. Her Janis is aware of her own abilities and proud of them, but also suitably modest about where she derived them and what they ought to mean to her fans. The decline and death (at age 27, good God!) are evoked, but subtly, imperceptibly: So complex is Davies’s artistry that we only gradually realize that she is playing Janis’s downward arc. It’s a sleight of hand act: She makes us so aware of Janis’s life force that the realization of how swiftly it was to be snuffed out hits us like a thunderbolt. Make no mistake, Davies pulls off not just an impersonation, it’s a full-out piece of acting worth studying, and one that’s impossible to forget.
The show, which originated in Cleveland and D.C., looks and sounds like a million bucks. Bandleader Ross Seligman’s sidemen are astonishingly varied and capable, plausibly ’60s, without ever veering into campy caricature, and Justin Townsend’s lighting is the most moody and subtle locally seen this year, whether in a play or musical.
All the familiar hits are here, but One Night With Janis Joplin perhaps never surpasses its Act One finale, when Carten delivers “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out” in full Bessie Smith drag and droop, only to transform into Aretha for a spine-chilling duet with Janis on “Spirit in the Dark.” For the better part of 20 minutes, Davies and company defy you to dwell on the real world outside. It’s the 1960s all over again, so full of love and promise.
Pasadena Playhouse
Though it looks and sure sounds like a rock concert, this production is a genuine piece of theater that re-creates not just the personality of the legendary gravel-voiced rocker (Mary Bridget Davies) but the world in which she lived and died. The Pasadena Playhouse practically throbs with the soul of Woodstock Nation—an era which, for all its antiestablishment cynicism and nihilism, sustained the unmistakable sense of possibility that a dream of peace, love and rock ’n’ roll could be made real in the here and now.
You go in expecting the usual cheesy “I was born/And then I wrote” animated Wikipedia article that usually passes for the review of a notable entertainer’s life and work. But writer-director Randy Johnson never falls into predictable traps. For one thing, the details are deftly and sparingly woven into the fabric of Pearl’s boozy monologues between numbers. They’re also presented out of chronological order, so the audience never gets several steps ahead of the biography. Yes, we get to see images of the young Janis against the back wall, but never when we expect them; when they pop in, they appear to be projections of her mind at any given moment, rather than a contrived multimedia device for our benefit.
Better still, Joplin’s musical influences aren’t just talked about but also literally brought on stage in the person of The Blues Singer. The breathtaking Sabrina Elayne Carten pops in to impersonate the likes of Bessie Smith, Nina Simone and Chantels lead singer Arlene Smith as each one intersects with the Joplin playlist. Performing the numbers that helped to shape Janis’s unique “white girl sings the blues” style, Carten—with Johnson’s adroit shaping—permits us to hear the influences for ourselves. We’re encouraged to draw our own conclusions about these great artists’ musicianship and its impact on the little girl from Texas whose voice was snuffed out way too soon.
Not enough can be said about Davies, whose command of Pearl’s sound, look, moves, and temperament is close to supernatural. Her Janis is aware of her own abilities and proud of them, but also suitably modest about where she derived them and what they ought to mean to her fans. The decline and death (at age 27, good God!) are evoked, but subtly, imperceptibly: So complex is Davies’s artistry that we only gradually realize that she is playing Janis’s downward arc. It’s a sleight of hand act: She makes us so aware of Janis’s life force that the realization of how swiftly it was to be snuffed out hits us like a thunderbolt. Make no mistake, Davies pulls off not just an impersonation, it’s a full-out piece of acting worth studying, and one that’s impossible to forget.
The show, which originated in Cleveland and D.C., looks and sounds like a million bucks. Bandleader Ross Seligman’s sidemen are astonishingly varied and capable, plausibly ’60s, without ever veering into campy caricature, and Justin Townsend’s lighting is the most moody and subtle locally seen this year, whether in a play or musical.
All the familiar hits are here, but One Night With Janis Joplin perhaps never surpasses its Act One finale, when Carten delivers “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out” in full Bessie Smith drag and droop, only to transform into Aretha for a spine-chilling duet with Janis on “Spirit in the Dark.” For the better part of 20 minutes, Davies and company defy you to dwell on the real world outside. It’s the 1960s all over again, so full of love and promise.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 10, 2013
April 10, 2013
Years to the Day
Beverly Hills Playhouse
Longtime friends Jeff and Dan meet up for a coffee, having not had a good face-to-face in four years. Their first genuine “how are you?” comes five minutes into this world premiere by Allen Barton. Yes, Dan spends much time and energy posturing and joking, but Jeff follows right along. This dynamic intrigues. The audience cares to know what drives these two, even as they banter about phone technology and the latest film.
Apparently what drives them are a shared history and basic needs for contact and stability in their lives. Barton seems to have set his play in the future, though this is not emphasized nor explained. But his point seems to be that humans will always find it hard to share and reveal our true selves, despite all our gadgetry and mediums.
Director Joel Polis confidently keeps the men at the table throughout—no blocking to vary the staging. But nothing seems static, because his actors play the subtext of every available moment. Each man sees the humor in the most banal of conversations, each knows the sadness behind their life choices. As actor Michael Yavnieli portrays him, Dan speaks in harsh words, but his tone twinkles. Jeff LeBeau gives Jeff subtle physical mannerisms that vary over the course of the men’s revelations. (Among those mannerisms, however, LeBeau continually plays with his shoe, particularly touching the sole. If it’s intended as a character trait, the trait adds nothing to the audience’s understanding of him. If it’s a bad habit, it should immediately be stopped.)
Over the years of their friendship, Jeff has, somewhat understandably, refrained from expressing opinions he thought might cause Dan to “spaz out.” Unsurprisingly, Jeff has also kept a large part of his personality hidden. Meanwhile, years before, Dan’s parents divorced and pretended to loathe each other, but in reality the couple remained romantically involved. Jeff is divorced, among other things, but shows a different side in front of his daughter. Living lies, hiding secret selves, the characters in Barton’s world make even bigger messes for those around them.
The two men finally face each other across the table when each reveals his deepest truths, in a tender, all-too-brief moment. Thereafter, Jeff sits a little differently from before, and Dan seems a little softer than before, try as he might to hide it. Whether the men have changed enough to make this work sufficiently “dramatic,” and whether the “conflict” is ample, depends on one’s theatrical tastes.
Beverly Hills Playhouse
Longtime friends Jeff and Dan meet up for a coffee, having not had a good face-to-face in four years. Their first genuine “how are you?” comes five minutes into this world premiere by Allen Barton. Yes, Dan spends much time and energy posturing and joking, but Jeff follows right along. This dynamic intrigues. The audience cares to know what drives these two, even as they banter about phone technology and the latest film.
Apparently what drives them are a shared history and basic needs for contact and stability in their lives. Barton seems to have set his play in the future, though this is not emphasized nor explained. But his point seems to be that humans will always find it hard to share and reveal our true selves, despite all our gadgetry and mediums.
Director Joel Polis confidently keeps the men at the table throughout—no blocking to vary the staging. But nothing seems static, because his actors play the subtext of every available moment. Each man sees the humor in the most banal of conversations, each knows the sadness behind their life choices. As actor Michael Yavnieli portrays him, Dan speaks in harsh words, but his tone twinkles. Jeff LeBeau gives Jeff subtle physical mannerisms that vary over the course of the men’s revelations. (Among those mannerisms, however, LeBeau continually plays with his shoe, particularly touching the sole. If it’s intended as a character trait, the trait adds nothing to the audience’s understanding of him. If it’s a bad habit, it should immediately be stopped.)
Over the years of their friendship, Jeff has, somewhat understandably, refrained from expressing opinions he thought might cause Dan to “spaz out.” Unsurprisingly, Jeff has also kept a large part of his personality hidden. Meanwhile, years before, Dan’s parents divorced and pretended to loathe each other, but in reality the couple remained romantically involved. Jeff is divorced, among other things, but shows a different side in front of his daughter. Living lies, hiding secret selves, the characters in Barton’s world make even bigger messes for those around them.
The two men finally face each other across the table when each reveals his deepest truths, in a tender, all-too-brief moment. Thereafter, Jeff sits a little differently from before, and Dan seems a little softer than before, try as he might to hide it. Whether the men have changed enough to make this work sufficiently “dramatic,” and whether the “conflict” is ample, depends on one’s theatrical tastes.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 8, 2013
April 8, 2013
Our Class
Son of Semele Ensemble at Atwater Village Theatre
Incomprehensibly horrific acts of inhumanity rarely happen in one fell swoop. Instead, they are usually the result of a series of after-the-fact identifiable and even predictable incremental steps. Such seems to have been the case with a relatively unknown, at least to those in the Western Hemisphere, massacre of Jewish Poles in the village of Jedwabne on July 10, 1941. Estimates of the number of dead range as high as 1,600, and despite trials of a few local residents in 1949 and 1953, villagers to this day claim ignorance or immunity on behalf of previous generations and familial predecessors. Not until the publication, in 2001, of a book by historian Jan Gross was the Polish government forced to fully face the guilt that most rightfully belongs to the unfortunate Jewish residents’ fellow townspeople.
Polish playwright Tadeusz Slobodzianek’s original work, adapted here by Ryan Craig, details the lives of 10 classmates, half of them Jews and half Roman Catholics, leading up to and following the slaughter of the Jedwabne Jewish community. Based loosely on a number of real-life victims and participants, it is certainly a compelling and often heart-wrenching story. Pulling no punches, the playwrights recount how Jews were murdered in the town square, as well as the torching of a local barn where 400 of the survivors were herded and eventually exterminated at the end of that fateful day. Though the vast number of storylines and subplots make a gripping tale, the coverage of more than six decades from start to finish makes the two-hour-and-45-minute running time seem unnecessarily lengthy, occasionally repetitive, and at times quite difficult to follow as Act 2 struggles to tie up all the loose ends.
Director Matthew McCray has, however, brought together a remarkable ensemble that unhesitatingly grabs this play with both hands. As one witnesses childhood friendships dissolve into divisive religiosity and national pride, thereby leading to unspeakable acts of cruelty, the trust and collective commitment these actors exhibit is beyond powerful. In the Jewish roles, Sharyn Gabriel, Michael Nehring, Gary Patent, Sarah Rosenberg, and Kiff Scholl never come off as “put upon,” despite their clearly delineated positions as victims. Nehring in particular does a fine job given that his character immigrates to America as a child, subsequently interacting with his former peers only via a series of letters. Scholl’s and Gabriel’s characters marry and produce a child. Her death, along with their child, in the farmyard inferno, as well as the brutal slaying of Patent’s character, are some of the harshest moments in the production. Rosenberg’s character is saved from the onslaught by one of the five non-Jews, whom she marries after converting to Catholicism to save her life.
On the other side of this coin are the terrifying transformations of the perpetrators from innocent youngsters to heartless automatons steeped in self-denial. Actors Matt Kirkwood, Gavin Peretti, and Dan Via play the undoubted villains of Slobodzianek’s tale, yet each fleshes out portraits of conflicted turmoil. Kirkwood’s character runs back to the church as he finishes his life as a parish priest. Peretti and Via, each symbolizing the most barbaric aspects of human nature, manage to evoke disgust and yet a perverse sense of compassion. Alexander Wells and Melina Bielefelt ably provide the rare glimpses of sympathy seen on this side of the aisle. His character marries the aforementioned Jewess, while Bielefelt’s hides Scholl’s widower with whom she, too, becomes romantically entwined.
Throughout the production, the cast plays a variety of musical instruments, to varying degrees of success, while augmenting the script with original songs by composer Sage Lewis. Occasionally effective, this music tends, more often than not, to sideline the production’s momentum. The atonal tunes accompany highly poetic lyrics that, despite the audience’s proximity to the players, aren’t always that easy to understand. Production values are handled nicely including Sarah Krainin’s arena-formed playing space filled with utilitarian-style classroom desks and chairs. Anna Cecelia Martin’s lighting picks up the monochromatic features of Jenny Foldenauer’s costuming, while Cricket S. Myers surrounds the space with a highly effective sound design.
In all, this is not a production for the faint of heart. Raw and painful in its indictment of man’s coarseness, it not only reinforces the adage that we must “never forget” but also shines a needed spotlight on the world’s current throes of violence and upheaval.
Son of Semele Ensemble at Atwater Village Theatre
Incomprehensibly horrific acts of inhumanity rarely happen in one fell swoop. Instead, they are usually the result of a series of after-the-fact identifiable and even predictable incremental steps. Such seems to have been the case with a relatively unknown, at least to those in the Western Hemisphere, massacre of Jewish Poles in the village of Jedwabne on July 10, 1941. Estimates of the number of dead range as high as 1,600, and despite trials of a few local residents in 1949 and 1953, villagers to this day claim ignorance or immunity on behalf of previous generations and familial predecessors. Not until the publication, in 2001, of a book by historian Jan Gross was the Polish government forced to fully face the guilt that most rightfully belongs to the unfortunate Jewish residents’ fellow townspeople.
Polish playwright Tadeusz Slobodzianek’s original work, adapted here by Ryan Craig, details the lives of 10 classmates, half of them Jews and half Roman Catholics, leading up to and following the slaughter of the Jedwabne Jewish community. Based loosely on a number of real-life victims and participants, it is certainly a compelling and often heart-wrenching story. Pulling no punches, the playwrights recount how Jews were murdered in the town square, as well as the torching of a local barn where 400 of the survivors were herded and eventually exterminated at the end of that fateful day. Though the vast number of storylines and subplots make a gripping tale, the coverage of more than six decades from start to finish makes the two-hour-and-45-minute running time seem unnecessarily lengthy, occasionally repetitive, and at times quite difficult to follow as Act 2 struggles to tie up all the loose ends.
Director Matthew McCray has, however, brought together a remarkable ensemble that unhesitatingly grabs this play with both hands. As one witnesses childhood friendships dissolve into divisive religiosity and national pride, thereby leading to unspeakable acts of cruelty, the trust and collective commitment these actors exhibit is beyond powerful. In the Jewish roles, Sharyn Gabriel, Michael Nehring, Gary Patent, Sarah Rosenberg, and Kiff Scholl never come off as “put upon,” despite their clearly delineated positions as victims. Nehring in particular does a fine job given that his character immigrates to America as a child, subsequently interacting with his former peers only via a series of letters. Scholl’s and Gabriel’s characters marry and produce a child. Her death, along with their child, in the farmyard inferno, as well as the brutal slaying of Patent’s character, are some of the harshest moments in the production. Rosenberg’s character is saved from the onslaught by one of the five non-Jews, whom she marries after converting to Catholicism to save her life.
On the other side of this coin are the terrifying transformations of the perpetrators from innocent youngsters to heartless automatons steeped in self-denial. Actors Matt Kirkwood, Gavin Peretti, and Dan Via play the undoubted villains of Slobodzianek’s tale, yet each fleshes out portraits of conflicted turmoil. Kirkwood’s character runs back to the church as he finishes his life as a parish priest. Peretti and Via, each symbolizing the most barbaric aspects of human nature, manage to evoke disgust and yet a perverse sense of compassion. Alexander Wells and Melina Bielefelt ably provide the rare glimpses of sympathy seen on this side of the aisle. His character marries the aforementioned Jewess, while Bielefelt’s hides Scholl’s widower with whom she, too, becomes romantically entwined.
Throughout the production, the cast plays a variety of musical instruments, to varying degrees of success, while augmenting the script with original songs by composer Sage Lewis. Occasionally effective, this music tends, more often than not, to sideline the production’s momentum. The atonal tunes accompany highly poetic lyrics that, despite the audience’s proximity to the players, aren’t always that easy to understand. Production values are handled nicely including Sarah Krainin’s arena-formed playing space filled with utilitarian-style classroom desks and chairs. Anna Cecelia Martin’s lighting picks up the monochromatic features of Jenny Foldenauer’s costuming, while Cricket S. Myers surrounds the space with a highly effective sound design.
In all, this is not a production for the faint of heart. Raw and painful in its indictment of man’s coarseness, it not only reinforces the adage that we must “never forget” but also shines a needed spotlight on the world’s current throes of violence and upheaval.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
April 8, 2013
April 8, 2013
Walking the Tightrope
24th Street Theatre
Created for children and adults, this 65-minute play evokes powerful feelings of youthful discomfort and adult mourning, as young Esme comes to her grandparents’ seaside home for a summer visit. This West Coast premiere by Mike Kenny, directed by Debbie Devine, will sadden and haunt and ultimately enlighten by its storytelling. Oddly, it may simultaneously enthrall by its simple theatricality.
A few rudimentary boxes and frames onstage, backed by projections, provide all the audience needs to be able to imagine a quaint train station, a sunny day at the beach, a comfortable moonlit bedroom. Esme (Paige Lindsey White) arrives by train, alone, but only her grandfather (Mark Bramhall) comes to greet her. Where is Nanna? Slowly, over the play’s course, the grandfather begins to overcome his grief and becomes able to reveal the fact of Nanna’s death to his grandchild.
White charms as the child, Bramhall arouses wrenching sorrow as the grandfather. But as the gentle, lingering, greatly maternal presence of Nanna, Tony Duran is masterful. Gently ensuring a warm beverage is at hand, handing out beach necessities at the back door, comforting and making life softer, Duran’s twinkling little grandmamma stands guard over her family in spirit though no one but the audience seems to notice the assistance.
A question that may come to mind when one sees this play is whether young Esme’s parents (unseen) should have stepped up and told Esme, rather than putting the burden on grandpa, that her grandmother died. Such questions are ripe for parental discussions. Young theatergoers may pose their own questions (the producers recommend this production for ages 6 and older). In stepping back from the family-blame game, however, one might consider that grandpa was unable to speak frankly, for a variety of reasons.
Onstage pianist Michael Redfield plays his original score, warming and soothing the painful moments and adding brightness to the happier ones.
24th Street Theatre
Created for children and adults, this 65-minute play evokes powerful feelings of youthful discomfort and adult mourning, as young Esme comes to her grandparents’ seaside home for a summer visit. This West Coast premiere by Mike Kenny, directed by Debbie Devine, will sadden and haunt and ultimately enlighten by its storytelling. Oddly, it may simultaneously enthrall by its simple theatricality.
A few rudimentary boxes and frames onstage, backed by projections, provide all the audience needs to be able to imagine a quaint train station, a sunny day at the beach, a comfortable moonlit bedroom. Esme (Paige Lindsey White) arrives by train, alone, but only her grandfather (Mark Bramhall) comes to greet her. Where is Nanna? Slowly, over the play’s course, the grandfather begins to overcome his grief and becomes able to reveal the fact of Nanna’s death to his grandchild.
White charms as the child, Bramhall arouses wrenching sorrow as the grandfather. But as the gentle, lingering, greatly maternal presence of Nanna, Tony Duran is masterful. Gently ensuring a warm beverage is at hand, handing out beach necessities at the back door, comforting and making life softer, Duran’s twinkling little grandmamma stands guard over her family in spirit though no one but the audience seems to notice the assistance.
A question that may come to mind when one sees this play is whether young Esme’s parents (unseen) should have stepped up and told Esme, rather than putting the burden on grandpa, that her grandmother died. Such questions are ripe for parental discussions. Young theatergoers may pose their own questions (the producers recommend this production for ages 6 and older). In stepping back from the family-blame game, however, one might consider that grandpa was unable to speak frankly, for a variety of reasons.
Onstage pianist Michael Redfield plays his original score, warming and soothing the painful moments and adding brightness to the happier ones.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 1, 2013
April 1, 2013
On the Spectrum
The Fountain Theatre
Playwright Kent LaZebnik’s personal connection with ASD (Autistic Spectrum Disorder)—he has two nephews and a niece diagnosed with autism–provides the inspiration for this, his third dramatic work dealing with the subject. Interesting enough, yes, but were it not for his skills as a storyteller, the result could have easily veered off into the lands of way-too-technical or dry-as-dust.
Instead, he has crafted a sharp, witty and informative 90-minute, extended one-act without treating his audiences as though they were listening to a lecture. So compelling is this tale, though perhaps wrapped up just a bit too quickly at the conclusion, one wishes it had been given the chance to grow up into a two-act play. This small quibble aside, the sure-handed direction of Jacqueline Schultz affords LaZebnik’s engaging piece a fitting West Coast premiere.
Mac is a 23-year-old diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. His single mother, Elizabeth, a photo editor, has devoted her life to obtaining every possible type of therapy for Mac, and it has paid off in spades. He has completed some sort of collegiate level degree in computer graphics, and he is considered highly functioning and able to pass for “typical” in the outside world. With technological advancements in her career field making her skills more and more obsolete, Elizabeth faces the prospect of having to sell their Manhattan apartment, a development that does not sit well with Mac.
While searching for a job to supplement the family income, he connects online with a woman named Iris, who, due to her own struggles with autism, realizes their bond. She hires him, sight unseen, to develop the graphics for her website, which is devoted to a fictitious “Otherworld” where Celtic mythology collides with whatever images and ideas pop out of Iris’s head. As their relationship blossoms, first electronically and then in person, the effect it has on all three characters is what elevates LaZebnik’s tale from merely intriguing to downright enthralling.
As Mac and Iris, Dan Shaked and Virginia Newcomb are engrossing at every turn. Shaked handles his character’s duality, both the calm moments and occasional outbursts, with complete believability. Before us we see a young man who has worked harder than most of us could ever imagine just to be able to seem “normal” to everyone around him. Shaked does a yeoman’s job in handling the “blind leading the blind” aspect of his character’s relationship with Newcomb’s as together they encounter heretofore unexplored emotions and physical consciousness.
Likewise, Newcomb does an amazing job bringing to life an adult who has been afforded nearly none of the therapeutic assistance her male counterpart has accessed. Her movement about the stage, replete with repetitive gestures and facial mannerisms, mirrors the nearly constant narration and computer generated voice program she uses to communicate. It is a nearly description-defying performance that tears at the audience’s heart.
Veteran actor Jeanie Hackett plays Elizabeth with the exact balance of frustration, love, and protective concern one imagines would be necessary to handle a lifelong commitment to a child challenged with Mac’s disorder. The relationship Hackett and Shaked have polished between their respective roles is one of mutual respect and love, yet never losing sight of the fact that each possesses the right to be brutally honest with the other. It’s an innately human set of qualities that adds a special level of “life” to their characters.
Supporting this trio of outstanding performances and director Shultz’s expertly conceived conceptual vision are the most enviable of production values. John Iacovelli’s scenic design consisting of countless frames, be they windows or pictures, provides an endless series of perspective-driven spaces for R. Christopher Stokes’s dappled lighting. Peter Bayne’s original music compositions and sound design are flawless as are Jeff Teeter’s stunning array of eye-catching video designs that transport us through locales both corporeal and imaginative.
The Fountain Theatre
Playwright Kent LaZebnik’s personal connection with ASD (Autistic Spectrum Disorder)—he has two nephews and a niece diagnosed with autism–provides the inspiration for this, his third dramatic work dealing with the subject. Interesting enough, yes, but were it not for his skills as a storyteller, the result could have easily veered off into the lands of way-too-technical or dry-as-dust.
Instead, he has crafted a sharp, witty and informative 90-minute, extended one-act without treating his audiences as though they were listening to a lecture. So compelling is this tale, though perhaps wrapped up just a bit too quickly at the conclusion, one wishes it had been given the chance to grow up into a two-act play. This small quibble aside, the sure-handed direction of Jacqueline Schultz affords LaZebnik’s engaging piece a fitting West Coast premiere.
Mac is a 23-year-old diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. His single mother, Elizabeth, a photo editor, has devoted her life to obtaining every possible type of therapy for Mac, and it has paid off in spades. He has completed some sort of collegiate level degree in computer graphics, and he is considered highly functioning and able to pass for “typical” in the outside world. With technological advancements in her career field making her skills more and more obsolete, Elizabeth faces the prospect of having to sell their Manhattan apartment, a development that does not sit well with Mac.
While searching for a job to supplement the family income, he connects online with a woman named Iris, who, due to her own struggles with autism, realizes their bond. She hires him, sight unseen, to develop the graphics for her website, which is devoted to a fictitious “Otherworld” where Celtic mythology collides with whatever images and ideas pop out of Iris’s head. As their relationship blossoms, first electronically and then in person, the effect it has on all three characters is what elevates LaZebnik’s tale from merely intriguing to downright enthralling.
As Mac and Iris, Dan Shaked and Virginia Newcomb are engrossing at every turn. Shaked handles his character’s duality, both the calm moments and occasional outbursts, with complete believability. Before us we see a young man who has worked harder than most of us could ever imagine just to be able to seem “normal” to everyone around him. Shaked does a yeoman’s job in handling the “blind leading the blind” aspect of his character’s relationship with Newcomb’s as together they encounter heretofore unexplored emotions and physical consciousness.
Likewise, Newcomb does an amazing job bringing to life an adult who has been afforded nearly none of the therapeutic assistance her male counterpart has accessed. Her movement about the stage, replete with repetitive gestures and facial mannerisms, mirrors the nearly constant narration and computer generated voice program she uses to communicate. It is a nearly description-defying performance that tears at the audience’s heart.
Veteran actor Jeanie Hackett plays Elizabeth with the exact balance of frustration, love, and protective concern one imagines would be necessary to handle a lifelong commitment to a child challenged with Mac’s disorder. The relationship Hackett and Shaked have polished between their respective roles is one of mutual respect and love, yet never losing sight of the fact that each possesses the right to be brutally honest with the other. It’s an innately human set of qualities that adds a special level of “life” to their characters.
Supporting this trio of outstanding performances and director Shultz’s expertly conceived conceptual vision are the most enviable of production values. John Iacovelli’s scenic design consisting of countless frames, be they windows or pictures, provides an endless series of perspective-driven spaces for R. Christopher Stokes’s dappled lighting. Peter Bayne’s original music compositions and sound design are flawless as are Jeff Teeter’s stunning array of eye-catching video designs that transport us through locales both corporeal and imaginative.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
April 1, 2013
April 1, 2013
Mad Forest
Open Fist Theatre
This is not Caryl Churchill’s best play. But, wowza, does Open Fist Theatre Company know how to produce it, bringing the structurally unwieldy, big-cast, part-foreign language script to vivid life. It centers on the times just before, during, and after the Romanian people’s move to oust Nicolae Ceauşescu.
If the audience thinks of the play as focused on that moment in history, the play, feels heavy-handed and obvious. If, however, the audience takes it as symbolizing any and all repressive leadership, the play feels chilling. Director Marya Mazor creates a dark, cold world, where unornamented concrete structures restrict physical and emotional expansion (production design by Richard Hoover). At the play’s start, the 20-member cast portrays the populace waiting, resignedly silent and unmoving, in an equally unmoving line. The characters in line turn to the audience in Brechtian style. In unison they recite a poem, in Romanian, with broad if not necessarily convincing smiles, praising Elena Ceauşescu.
Churchill divides her play into stories of the individual and stories of the nation. Parts I and III focus on two families, their friends and colleagues, and the interpersonal relationships that reflect a not-so-gracious but very universal side of humanity. Part II consists of verbatim statements by Romanians, made to Churchill and the company of British actors who went to Romania in the midst of the 1989 upheaval to conduct interviews. The Open Fist cast, stepping up to two microphones, delivers a cavalcade of testimonials. The inclusion of Eastern European accents puzzles, until one realizes that the statements are verbatim accounts given to Churchill, by brave souls with various abilities to speak English.
The two families at the play’s center are the laboring-class Vladu family and the professional-class Antonescu family. Papa and mama Vladu (Joe Hulser, Katherine Griffith) are parents to three children. Lucia (Jennifer Hyacinth Schoch) marries an American but loves a Hungarian (James Ball). Gabriel (Brad Schmidt), married to Rodica (Jessica Noboa), is wounded in the revolution. Florina (Alla Poberesky), a nurse, seems to be in love with Radu (Rene Millan), the son of the Antonescus (Patrick John Hurley, Barbara Schofield).
The depth of the theater company’s bench astonishes. The leads are stellar, and some are beyond “acting,” completely realistic onstage. But even the smaller roles are filled with actors who would be leads in other productions: A priest (Ryan Mulkay) chats with an angel (a teenage Ian Hamilton), and drinks are served by a Broadway-caliber waiter (Jan Munroe).
Add to this Mazor’s traffic-control direction, the dusky lighting design by Wyatt Bartel/PRG-LA, and Tim Labor’s ominous sound design and original compositions that sound straight out of Carpathian villages, and the whole makes for an impressively evocative and provocative evening of theater.
Open Fist Theatre
This is not Caryl Churchill’s best play. But, wowza, does Open Fist Theatre Company know how to produce it, bringing the structurally unwieldy, big-cast, part-foreign language script to vivid life. It centers on the times just before, during, and after the Romanian people’s move to oust Nicolae Ceauşescu.
If the audience thinks of the play as focused on that moment in history, the play, feels heavy-handed and obvious. If, however, the audience takes it as symbolizing any and all repressive leadership, the play feels chilling. Director Marya Mazor creates a dark, cold world, where unornamented concrete structures restrict physical and emotional expansion (production design by Richard Hoover). At the play’s start, the 20-member cast portrays the populace waiting, resignedly silent and unmoving, in an equally unmoving line. The characters in line turn to the audience in Brechtian style. In unison they recite a poem, in Romanian, with broad if not necessarily convincing smiles, praising Elena Ceauşescu.
Churchill divides her play into stories of the individual and stories of the nation. Parts I and III focus on two families, their friends and colleagues, and the interpersonal relationships that reflect a not-so-gracious but very universal side of humanity. Part II consists of verbatim statements by Romanians, made to Churchill and the company of British actors who went to Romania in the midst of the 1989 upheaval to conduct interviews. The Open Fist cast, stepping up to two microphones, delivers a cavalcade of testimonials. The inclusion of Eastern European accents puzzles, until one realizes that the statements are verbatim accounts given to Churchill, by brave souls with various abilities to speak English.
The two families at the play’s center are the laboring-class Vladu family and the professional-class Antonescu family. Papa and mama Vladu (Joe Hulser, Katherine Griffith) are parents to three children. Lucia (Jennifer Hyacinth Schoch) marries an American but loves a Hungarian (James Ball). Gabriel (Brad Schmidt), married to Rodica (Jessica Noboa), is wounded in the revolution. Florina (Alla Poberesky), a nurse, seems to be in love with Radu (Rene Millan), the son of the Antonescus (Patrick John Hurley, Barbara Schofield).
The depth of the theater company’s bench astonishes. The leads are stellar, and some are beyond “acting,” completely realistic onstage. But even the smaller roles are filled with actors who would be leads in other productions: A priest (Ryan Mulkay) chats with an angel (a teenage Ian Hamilton), and drinks are served by a Broadway-caliber waiter (Jan Munroe).
Add to this Mazor’s traffic-control direction, the dusky lighting design by Wyatt Bartel/PRG-LA, and Tim Labor’s ominous sound design and original compositions that sound straight out of Carpathian villages, and the whole makes for an impressively evocative and provocative evening of theater.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 1, 2013
April 1, 2013
The Good Thief
Open Fist Theatre
Our storyteller in this solo show doesn’t do characters. He doesn’t show slides. In the hands of performer Michael McGee, he enthralls with words. Conor McPherson, who later wrote The Weir and still later Shining City, gives an actor this opportunity for pure storytelling, Irish-style.
This is not to say director Scott Paulin seems absent. Far from it, he gives shape and seasoning to the monologue. At just the right moment, McGee bursts into fakey martial arts moves, combatting a stage full of imaginary adversaries. At just the right moment, McGee settles into the onstage chair and cracks open a big bottle of a little sumthin’.
McPherson has created a character ripe for change. Our “thief” starts his tale by revealing his profession as small-time thug and his romantic style as card-carrying member of the she-deserved-the-beating club. Sent on a job by the man who stole his girlfriend, he finds the situation not as expected, and the job is botched. Through mistakes and luck, he ends up on the run with the now-widow of the man he was only to rough up a bit. On the road, he dreams—literally or not—of a peaceful, loving, more useful life. Then, having glimpsed the life of a contented man, he tries to re-create it with a later-in-life “roommate.”
McGee seems to see and hear everything he recounts. So does the audience. From a dreary pub to a sunny garden, every setting reveals itself in the viewer’s imagination. Lighting design, by Wyatt Bartel, helps create the sites and moods. The sound design, by Peter Carlstedt, is solid, but it distracts. With storytelling this good, gilding of the aural lily isn’t needed.
With that much alcohol being downed by the character, should we wonder how much of the end of the story is from his imagination? Besides, how has he made it back to the pub to tell us his story on this particular night? Hmm. And who is the good thief? Is the play so titled because the character unwittingly stole moments of a better life? Or, as McPherson likes to do, does the title refer to a certain figure from one of the greatest stories ever told, Irish or otherwise?
Paulin sets the mood with his curtain speech, complete with Irish accent that could easily fool LA ears. In addition to the standard reminders about electronic devices and candy wrappers, he offers a foreword that, in Irish storytelling tradition, dovetails perfectly with the piece we’re about to hear.
Open Fist Theatre
Our storyteller in this solo show doesn’t do characters. He doesn’t show slides. In the hands of performer Michael McGee, he enthralls with words. Conor McPherson, who later wrote The Weir and still later Shining City, gives an actor this opportunity for pure storytelling, Irish-style.
This is not to say director Scott Paulin seems absent. Far from it, he gives shape and seasoning to the monologue. At just the right moment, McGee bursts into fakey martial arts moves, combatting a stage full of imaginary adversaries. At just the right moment, McGee settles into the onstage chair and cracks open a big bottle of a little sumthin’.
McPherson has created a character ripe for change. Our “thief” starts his tale by revealing his profession as small-time thug and his romantic style as card-carrying member of the she-deserved-the-beating club. Sent on a job by the man who stole his girlfriend, he finds the situation not as expected, and the job is botched. Through mistakes and luck, he ends up on the run with the now-widow of the man he was only to rough up a bit. On the road, he dreams—literally or not—of a peaceful, loving, more useful life. Then, having glimpsed the life of a contented man, he tries to re-create it with a later-in-life “roommate.”
McGee seems to see and hear everything he recounts. So does the audience. From a dreary pub to a sunny garden, every setting reveals itself in the viewer’s imagination. Lighting design, by Wyatt Bartel, helps create the sites and moods. The sound design, by Peter Carlstedt, is solid, but it distracts. With storytelling this good, gilding of the aural lily isn’t needed.
With that much alcohol being downed by the character, should we wonder how much of the end of the story is from his imagination? Besides, how has he made it back to the pub to tell us his story on this particular night? Hmm. And who is the good thief? Is the play so titled because the character unwittingly stole moments of a better life? Or, as McPherson likes to do, does the title refer to a certain figure from one of the greatest stories ever told, Irish or otherwise?
Paulin sets the mood with his curtain speech, complete with Irish accent that could easily fool LA ears. In addition to the standard reminders about electronic devices and candy wrappers, he offers a foreword that, in Irish storytelling tradition, dovetails perfectly with the piece we’re about to hear.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 1, 2013
April 1, 2013
Tender Napalm
Six 01 Studio
British dramatist Philip Ridley has a penchant for oxymorons. His titles pull you up short with their startling juxtapositions: Leaves of Glass, The Pitchfork Disney, The Reflecting Skin. Even his career is oddly bifurcated, as he bounces between lacerating X-rated adult drama and lighthearted plays and novels for kids. The title of his masterpiece to date, Mercury Fur, evokes the cold molten metal and warm fuzziness that coexist within a brilliant preapocalyptic nightmare, in which the world’s wealthy choose the planet’s impending doom to indulge their sickest fantasies, while their minions desperately seek some last-minute love. (The needtheatre company pulled off a dazzling local production in 2009.)
Another local outfit has gotten ahold of a worldwide Ridley hit with yet another oxymoronic title: Tender Napalm is a 90-minute series of spoken narratives performed—either as waltzes of love or dances of death, you pick—by two unnamed teenagers (Graham Hamilton and Jaimi Paige). They seem to be the last two people on earth, or at least relate to each other as if they were, trying to stave off Armageddon by way of the creation of tales.
While some of the stories seem designed to impress (he tells of elaborate derring-do in vanquishing a sea serpent), others involve elaborate psychosexual one-upsmanship verging on outright attack. At different times, each describes placing a live grenade into a nether orifice of the other and pulling the pin, and on several occasions each seems to throw a monkey wrench into a familiar storyline merely to throw the other for a loop. This must’ve been what it was like when Edward Albee’s George and Martha were dating.
It’s all very vivid and profane and sweaty and theatrical. You can readily understand why two thesps would sign on as co-producers for such an impressive showcase of their talent, as they’re called upon to handle thick English accents, leap and preen and fight and make mad love. After a while, a little of such inchoate, abstracted stuff goes a long way, though just when your eyes start crossing in the middle of still one more list of disparate images, someone invariably says or does something amazing to compel your attention. It all winds up with a memory (a fantasy?) of how they met long ago, for a rather lovely coda.
Paige is the more natural and easier to watch; Hamilton is the more “actor-y” but more fascinating to watch. Together they make a pretty good team under Edward Edwards’s direction, on a ratty Persian rug placed within a square arena bounded by 14 chairs on each side. The thesps work up a considerable sweat, and one can only hope that their sole prop, a long green schmatte—practically a third character deserving of its own curtain call—gets a good laundering between performances. It needs one.
Six 01 Studio
British dramatist Philip Ridley has a penchant for oxymorons. His titles pull you up short with their startling juxtapositions: Leaves of Glass, The Pitchfork Disney, The Reflecting Skin. Even his career is oddly bifurcated, as he bounces between lacerating X-rated adult drama and lighthearted plays and novels for kids. The title of his masterpiece to date, Mercury Fur, evokes the cold molten metal and warm fuzziness that coexist within a brilliant preapocalyptic nightmare, in which the world’s wealthy choose the planet’s impending doom to indulge their sickest fantasies, while their minions desperately seek some last-minute love. (The needtheatre company pulled off a dazzling local production in 2009.)
Another local outfit has gotten ahold of a worldwide Ridley hit with yet another oxymoronic title: Tender Napalm is a 90-minute series of spoken narratives performed—either as waltzes of love or dances of death, you pick—by two unnamed teenagers (Graham Hamilton and Jaimi Paige). They seem to be the last two people on earth, or at least relate to each other as if they were, trying to stave off Armageddon by way of the creation of tales.
While some of the stories seem designed to impress (he tells of elaborate derring-do in vanquishing a sea serpent), others involve elaborate psychosexual one-upsmanship verging on outright attack. At different times, each describes placing a live grenade into a nether orifice of the other and pulling the pin, and on several occasions each seems to throw a monkey wrench into a familiar storyline merely to throw the other for a loop. This must’ve been what it was like when Edward Albee’s George and Martha were dating.
It’s all very vivid and profane and sweaty and theatrical. You can readily understand why two thesps would sign on as co-producers for such an impressive showcase of their talent, as they’re called upon to handle thick English accents, leap and preen and fight and make mad love. After a while, a little of such inchoate, abstracted stuff goes a long way, though just when your eyes start crossing in the middle of still one more list of disparate images, someone invariably says or does something amazing to compel your attention. It all winds up with a memory (a fantasy?) of how they met long ago, for a rather lovely coda.
Paige is the more natural and easier to watch; Hamilton is the more “actor-y” but more fascinating to watch. Together they make a pretty good team under Edward Edwards’s direction, on a ratty Persian rug placed within a square arena bounded by 14 chairs on each side. The thesps work up a considerable sweat, and one can only hope that their sole prop, a long green schmatte—practically a third character deserving of its own curtain call—gets a good laundering between performances. It needs one.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 1, 2013
April 1, 2013
Mrs. Warren’s Profession
The Antaeus Company at Deaf West Theatre
A theatergoer can’t go wrong with an evening of intelligent discourse about true-to-life issues. George Bernard Shaw’s writing is hard to top, and his social conscience is as modern as could be. Mrs. Warren’s profession has been prostitution. As Shaw pointedly states, it saved her from poverty and likely starvation. She wasn’t in the business for giggles.
Mrs. Warren’s daughter, Vivie, home from college—educated but without the possibility of a degree in the 19th century—discovers how her lifestyle has been financed. She discovers other facts about her family situation, too, and about the natures of the men around her and her mother. No one is a hero here, but no one is purely villainous, either.
Even though the actors’ accents waver and speech cadences are occasionally too modern, director Robin Larsen ensures that the audience is looking at real people, not cartoon characters of “old” times. Mirrors are held up to real-life relationships as Larsen connects the dots between characters. Anne Gee Byrd’s Mrs. Warren and Rebecca Mozo’s Vivie clearly have a mother-daughter relationship, albeit Vivie has been educated in the British style, separated from her mother for months on end. Vivie’s friend and intermittent beau, Frank (Ramon de Ocampo), clearly disrespects and disdains his father, the Rev. Samuel Gardner (John-David Keller).
Larson also makes visual Mrs. Warren’s past. Behind the action, set designer François-Pierre Couture includes a slatted flat that, when lit by Jeremy Pivnick, reveals the young Mrs. Warren at “work.” The moments of revelation make real just some of the strength and determination of that woman and so many more. As Shaw wrote in his “apology” to the play, “[S]tarvation, overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as prostitution…. [T]hey are the vices and crimes of a nation, and not merely its misfortunes.”
But some of Larson’s staging might confuse the easily puzzled among the audience: For example, why do the characters sometimes come through the latching gate of the rectory garden and sometimes come around the fence?
The character name Praed (played by Bill Brochtrup as the “sensible” one onstage) gets pronounced in a variety of ways. Yes, this is the wont of the Brits, and most humorously the name is pronounced like “prayed.” But it’s not clear that the character—as opposed to the actors—intend to use differing pronunciations.
Whatever one’s impressions of this production, as the playwright said of himself in the third person, “Shaw cannot be silenced.”
Multiple casts take on the roles. This review covered a Friday-night performance, by “The Shaws.”
The Antaeus Company at Deaf West Theatre
A theatergoer can’t go wrong with an evening of intelligent discourse about true-to-life issues. George Bernard Shaw’s writing is hard to top, and his social conscience is as modern as could be. Mrs. Warren’s profession has been prostitution. As Shaw pointedly states, it saved her from poverty and likely starvation. She wasn’t in the business for giggles.
Mrs. Warren’s daughter, Vivie, home from college—educated but without the possibility of a degree in the 19th century—discovers how her lifestyle has been financed. She discovers other facts about her family situation, too, and about the natures of the men around her and her mother. No one is a hero here, but no one is purely villainous, either.
Even though the actors’ accents waver and speech cadences are occasionally too modern, director Robin Larsen ensures that the audience is looking at real people, not cartoon characters of “old” times. Mirrors are held up to real-life relationships as Larsen connects the dots between characters. Anne Gee Byrd’s Mrs. Warren and Rebecca Mozo’s Vivie clearly have a mother-daughter relationship, albeit Vivie has been educated in the British style, separated from her mother for months on end. Vivie’s friend and intermittent beau, Frank (Ramon de Ocampo), clearly disrespects and disdains his father, the Rev. Samuel Gardner (John-David Keller).
Larson also makes visual Mrs. Warren’s past. Behind the action, set designer François-Pierre Couture includes a slatted flat that, when lit by Jeremy Pivnick, reveals the young Mrs. Warren at “work.” The moments of revelation make real just some of the strength and determination of that woman and so many more. As Shaw wrote in his “apology” to the play, “[S]tarvation, overwork, dirt, and disease are as anti-social as prostitution…. [T]hey are the vices and crimes of a nation, and not merely its misfortunes.”
But some of Larson’s staging might confuse the easily puzzled among the audience: For example, why do the characters sometimes come through the latching gate of the rectory garden and sometimes come around the fence?
The character name Praed (played by Bill Brochtrup as the “sensible” one onstage) gets pronounced in a variety of ways. Yes, this is the wont of the Brits, and most humorously the name is pronounced like “prayed.” But it’s not clear that the character—as opposed to the actors—intend to use differing pronunciations.
Whatever one’s impressions of this production, as the playwright said of himself in the third person, “Shaw cannot be silenced.”
Multiple casts take on the roles. This review covered a Friday-night performance, by “The Shaws.”
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 31, 2013
March 31, 2013
The Nether
Kirk Douglas Theatre
On opening night of this world premiere, playwright Jennifer Haley cooked up a small firestorm that poured into the lobby and onto the street after the show. A notable portion of the audience continued talking about the subject matter. Those who didn’t, however, walked out in solitude and buried themselves in their online world of texting and email and whatever. Really? They didn’t even pause to think about what they had seen?
Haley paints the future of “Western” civilization as living online, some people totally and permanently becoming their virtual selves, in a place called the Nether, formerly known as the Internet. Haley focuses her play on a site called The Hideaway, created by a man called Sims (Robert Joy), who is being interrogated by Morris (Jeanne Syquia), designated a detective. The playwright does two remarkable things: She creates a mesmerizing (some would argue extremely disturbing) world, and her play’s central conflict leads to endlessly debatable questions of psychology and/or morality.
Morris has brought Sims to a sterile grey chamber, where she tells him she’s authorized by those on message boards to investigate The Hideaway. The site, or realm as it’s called, allows adults to have horrifyingly abusive and deadly relationships with children in a highly realistic, albeit “virtual,” form. In this realm, the sunlight is warm, the odors of mulch underneath open windows waft up to a second-story bedroom, and the sexuality and bloodshed leave the participant thoroughly believing his senses.
How can this not be completely reprehensible? Therein lies the play’s ultimate query. Sims knows his propensity for child abuse cannot be fixed by psychotherapy or castration. So he created this simulation, where he and others can act out their compulsions. Is it an acceptable means for venting, or will it make pedophiles think there’s acceptance in the world at large because this realm condones their acts, or should humanity have a zero-tolerance policy on any form of abuse, even an artificial one? Isn’t there a divide between mens rea and actus reus? Isn’t Sims merely the intersection of artist and scientist, reproducing life as he would like to see it but forcing it on no one?
To give little away: At some point the audience may catch glimpses of the virtual hideaway and its denizens (Brighid Fleming, Adam Haas Hunter, and Dakin Matthews). Morality aside, the view is spectacular, created with grace and smarts by director Neel Keller and set designer Adrian W. Jones. Keller literally moves the action along, making the scenes of interrogation intense and tinting other scenes of happy Victoriana with the darkest undertones.
The play’s one remarkable moment of acting occurs at the end, as Matthews takes on a 9-year-old girl’s persona. It earned the actor a gentle, genuine, probably pressure-relieving laugh—definitely for his performance, not the characters’ situations.
This production should be seen for the world it creates and the conversation it will provoke. Meantime, spare a thought for the young people in real life who are being abused as you read this.
Kirk Douglas Theatre
On opening night of this world premiere, playwright Jennifer Haley cooked up a small firestorm that poured into the lobby and onto the street after the show. A notable portion of the audience continued talking about the subject matter. Those who didn’t, however, walked out in solitude and buried themselves in their online world of texting and email and whatever. Really? They didn’t even pause to think about what they had seen?
Haley paints the future of “Western” civilization as living online, some people totally and permanently becoming their virtual selves, in a place called the Nether, formerly known as the Internet. Haley focuses her play on a site called The Hideaway, created by a man called Sims (Robert Joy), who is being interrogated by Morris (Jeanne Syquia), designated a detective. The playwright does two remarkable things: She creates a mesmerizing (some would argue extremely disturbing) world, and her play’s central conflict leads to endlessly debatable questions of psychology and/or morality.
Morris has brought Sims to a sterile grey chamber, where she tells him she’s authorized by those on message boards to investigate The Hideaway. The site, or realm as it’s called, allows adults to have horrifyingly abusive and deadly relationships with children in a highly realistic, albeit “virtual,” form. In this realm, the sunlight is warm, the odors of mulch underneath open windows waft up to a second-story bedroom, and the sexuality and bloodshed leave the participant thoroughly believing his senses.
How can this not be completely reprehensible? Therein lies the play’s ultimate query. Sims knows his propensity for child abuse cannot be fixed by psychotherapy or castration. So he created this simulation, where he and others can act out their compulsions. Is it an acceptable means for venting, or will it make pedophiles think there’s acceptance in the world at large because this realm condones their acts, or should humanity have a zero-tolerance policy on any form of abuse, even an artificial one? Isn’t there a divide between mens rea and actus reus? Isn’t Sims merely the intersection of artist and scientist, reproducing life as he would like to see it but forcing it on no one?
To give little away: At some point the audience may catch glimpses of the virtual hideaway and its denizens (Brighid Fleming, Adam Haas Hunter, and Dakin Matthews). Morality aside, the view is spectacular, created with grace and smarts by director Neel Keller and set designer Adrian W. Jones. Keller literally moves the action along, making the scenes of interrogation intense and tinting other scenes of happy Victoriana with the darkest undertones.
The play’s one remarkable moment of acting occurs at the end, as Matthews takes on a 9-year-old girl’s persona. It earned the actor a gentle, genuine, probably pressure-relieving laugh—definitely for his performance, not the characters’ situations.
This production should be seen for the world it creates and the conversation it will provoke. Meantime, spare a thought for the young people in real life who are being abused as you read this.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 26, 2013
March 26, 2013
Sexsting
Skylab Theatre Complex
Neither this website nor anyone affiliated with it endorses child abuse of any kind. Chances are, playwright Doris Baizley does not endorse child abuse of any kind. She wrote a play, and the play is undoubtedly intended to provoke. In that, she succeeds. Please don’t shoot the messengers.
This West Coast premiere, written “in collaboration with [attorney] Susan Raffanti,” traces online correspondence between a San Diego–based FBI agent and a man he is investigating for a thus-far cyberspace-only relationship with a 14-year-old girl named Sandy.
Unsurprisingly, this 14-year-old girl is a fictitious creation of said agent, Richard Roe (note the legalese surname). Under pressure from the agency to ensnare a predator, he haunts various chat rooms with the intent to persuade an adult male, any adult male, to hop a plane with a suitcase full of rubbers and head for Lindbergh Field in the hopes of meeting Sandy.
John Doe (note, again, the legalese name, perhaps to insure the playwright against lawsuits by the similarly named) finds Sandy online and begins to chat with her. Instead of snapping up Roe’s bait, Johnny D counsels patience, abstinence, and dating boys her age. And he remains resolutely put in Illinois. As Roe becomes more desperate, the agent pushes harder.
The men’s desks and chairs are identical. Both men empty their pockets of the belongings of manhood before sitting down at their computers. Both men sip their favorite beverages as they type. Each loves to fish. As it turns out, each is in a troubling relationship with his wife and kids. One, however, is in love with a fantasy, marinating in the memory of a preteen crush gone sour.
Baizley includes additional characters: adults online (Bonnie Brewster, Danielle Marie Gavaldon, and Wolfie Trausch) who are pretending to be young girls, and Roe’s supervisor (Christian Lyon). Baizley probably included these characters to provide visual and aural variety, and director Jim Holmes uses them well. But they’re not necessary to the storytelling. Our interest remains with Doe and Roe and their eminently dramatic conflict.
In large part our interest is stoked because two of the city’s finest actors play the roles. JD Cullum is stellar, playing Johnny D as lost in arrested development, tempted by feelings awakened after more than 30 years. Johnny seeks a connection with someone his own emotional age, and Cullum nails the neediness and the immaturity. Gregory Itzin plays Agent Roe as thoroughly frustrated by his personal and professional situations, unhappily puzzled by the feelings evoked as he discovers commonality with his correspondent. Itzin melts into Roe’s loneliness, evidencing moments of comfort in chatting with a correspondent Roe knows to be a contemporary.
Projections (presumably by set- and lighting designer Jeff McLaughlin) effectively and simply establish locations. Just before the play begins, sound designer Christopher Moscatiello sets the tone with Tom Waits’s poem of paranoia, “What’s He Building in There?”
The play is not flawless. It’s hard to believe FBI agents talk to each other the way these two do; it’s even harder to believe FBI specialists in this area don’t know most if not all the tricks and carefully use them. It’s likewise hard to believe Johnny D wouldn’t spot the trickery. Then, again, he has the mindset of a teenage boy and may be desperate to misunderstand the clues—most of which he catches. But the script is complex and rich. And Baizley knows when and how to end the work. The tragedy haunts the audience, and whatever we think would have happened, there’s sadness for the broken John Doe and especially for victims across the globe. We are, all needless to say, complicated creatures.
Skylab Theatre Complex
Neither this website nor anyone affiliated with it endorses child abuse of any kind. Chances are, playwright Doris Baizley does not endorse child abuse of any kind. She wrote a play, and the play is undoubtedly intended to provoke. In that, she succeeds. Please don’t shoot the messengers.
This West Coast premiere, written “in collaboration with [attorney] Susan Raffanti,” traces online correspondence between a San Diego–based FBI agent and a man he is investigating for a thus-far cyberspace-only relationship with a 14-year-old girl named Sandy.
Unsurprisingly, this 14-year-old girl is a fictitious creation of said agent, Richard Roe (note the legalese surname). Under pressure from the agency to ensnare a predator, he haunts various chat rooms with the intent to persuade an adult male, any adult male, to hop a plane with a suitcase full of rubbers and head for Lindbergh Field in the hopes of meeting Sandy.
John Doe (note, again, the legalese name, perhaps to insure the playwright against lawsuits by the similarly named) finds Sandy online and begins to chat with her. Instead of snapping up Roe’s bait, Johnny D counsels patience, abstinence, and dating boys her age. And he remains resolutely put in Illinois. As Roe becomes more desperate, the agent pushes harder.
The men’s desks and chairs are identical. Both men empty their pockets of the belongings of manhood before sitting down at their computers. Both men sip their favorite beverages as they type. Each loves to fish. As it turns out, each is in a troubling relationship with his wife and kids. One, however, is in love with a fantasy, marinating in the memory of a preteen crush gone sour.
Baizley includes additional characters: adults online (Bonnie Brewster, Danielle Marie Gavaldon, and Wolfie Trausch) who are pretending to be young girls, and Roe’s supervisor (Christian Lyon). Baizley probably included these characters to provide visual and aural variety, and director Jim Holmes uses them well. But they’re not necessary to the storytelling. Our interest remains with Doe and Roe and their eminently dramatic conflict.
In large part our interest is stoked because two of the city’s finest actors play the roles. JD Cullum is stellar, playing Johnny D as lost in arrested development, tempted by feelings awakened after more than 30 years. Johnny seeks a connection with someone his own emotional age, and Cullum nails the neediness and the immaturity. Gregory Itzin plays Agent Roe as thoroughly frustrated by his personal and professional situations, unhappily puzzled by the feelings evoked as he discovers commonality with his correspondent. Itzin melts into Roe’s loneliness, evidencing moments of comfort in chatting with a correspondent Roe knows to be a contemporary.
Projections (presumably by set- and lighting designer Jeff McLaughlin) effectively and simply establish locations. Just before the play begins, sound designer Christopher Moscatiello sets the tone with Tom Waits’s poem of paranoia, “What’s He Building in There?”
The play is not flawless. It’s hard to believe FBI agents talk to each other the way these two do; it’s even harder to believe FBI specialists in this area don’t know most if not all the tricks and carefully use them. It’s likewise hard to believe Johnny D wouldn’t spot the trickery. Then, again, he has the mindset of a teenage boy and may be desperate to misunderstand the clues—most of which he catches. But the script is complex and rich. And Baizley knows when and how to end the work. The tragedy haunts the audience, and whatever we think would have happened, there’s sadness for the broken John Doe and especially for victims across the globe. We are, all needless to say, complicated creatures.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 26, 2013
March 26, 2013
Master Class
International City Theatre at Long Beach Performing Arts Center
The success of some theatrical pieces depends on one central character to provide the emotional heft necessary to carry the show. This might be the case in this Terrence McNally revival about Maria Callas were it not for the charming portrayals of the students who are signed up to take the master class offered by the brilliant opera star at Juilliard in the early 1970s, near the end of her career. Described as fictional, the play nonetheless weaves elements of Callas’s real life into the narrative.
Callas, played with passionate precision by Gigi Bermingham, begins as she, with autocratic condescension, starts the class that we, the audience, are attending. There is no cushion for her chair; she needs a footstool because of her short stature; she calls for water—all requests that are fulfilled by an unimpressed stagehand (humorously portrayed by Jeremy Mascia). She is prepared to pass on her wisdom but only if the students merit her time.
The first young soprano to face the indomitable Callas is Sophie De Palma (Danielle Skalsky). At first eager, she is halted after singing only one note. Callas witheringly points out that wasting time on the voice must not begin until the singer can embody the character. McNally’s Callas claims, “This is not about me,” when clearly the opposite is true. Scathing yet, at times, humorous, Callas is the quintessential diva.
As the second singer—a confidently brash young tenor, Anthony Candolino (Tyler Milliron)—approaches, Callas puts him through his paces, but she is gentler with the male singer than she is with the two women in her class. His performance triggers memories of her past, bringing her to reflection and tears.
The third student is Sharon Graham (Jennifer Shelton), who leaves after being challenged with haughty treatment, but she returns for the honor of being critiqued by the bel canto expert. When the session ends badly, she reviles Callas with hateful remarks. All three students bring life to the play with beautiful operatic renditions of works that Callas either performed or knew well.
Bermingham handles the characterization well, though she is much more elegant and toned down than the fiery Greek whose life was, by her own accounts, difficult. Her Callas muses over her failed relationship with Aristotle Onassis, and she relives her triumphs at La Scala.
Director Todd Nielsen maintains a brisk pace, allowing Bermingham her dynamic presence, but he wisely allows the students to give as good as they get. Jeremy Pivnick’s skillful lighting enhances Bermingham’s solitary monologues into her past. Accompanist–music director James Lent plays a cheerful role as Callas’s skillful pianist in the classroom. An operatic soundtrack plays in the background throughout the evening.
Master Class attempts to capture the soul of this quixotic, ego-driven woman. She is gracious and abrasive, sentimental and tormented. McNally’s play on its own is self-indulgent biography, but watching Callas come to life in a taxing role for any actor is rewarding.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
March 25, 2013
International City Theatre at Long Beach Performing Arts Center
The success of some theatrical pieces depends on one central character to provide the emotional heft necessary to carry the show. This might be the case in this Terrence McNally revival about Maria Callas were it not for the charming portrayals of the students who are signed up to take the master class offered by the brilliant opera star at Juilliard in the early 1970s, near the end of her career. Described as fictional, the play nonetheless weaves elements of Callas’s real life into the narrative.
Callas, played with passionate precision by Gigi Bermingham, begins as she, with autocratic condescension, starts the class that we, the audience, are attending. There is no cushion for her chair; she needs a footstool because of her short stature; she calls for water—all requests that are fulfilled by an unimpressed stagehand (humorously portrayed by Jeremy Mascia). She is prepared to pass on her wisdom but only if the students merit her time.
The first young soprano to face the indomitable Callas is Sophie De Palma (Danielle Skalsky). At first eager, she is halted after singing only one note. Callas witheringly points out that wasting time on the voice must not begin until the singer can embody the character. McNally’s Callas claims, “This is not about me,” when clearly the opposite is true. Scathing yet, at times, humorous, Callas is the quintessential diva.
As the second singer—a confidently brash young tenor, Anthony Candolino (Tyler Milliron)—approaches, Callas puts him through his paces, but she is gentler with the male singer than she is with the two women in her class. His performance triggers memories of her past, bringing her to reflection and tears.
The third student is Sharon Graham (Jennifer Shelton), who leaves after being challenged with haughty treatment, but she returns for the honor of being critiqued by the bel canto expert. When the session ends badly, she reviles Callas with hateful remarks. All three students bring life to the play with beautiful operatic renditions of works that Callas either performed or knew well.
Bermingham handles the characterization well, though she is much more elegant and toned down than the fiery Greek whose life was, by her own accounts, difficult. Her Callas muses over her failed relationship with Aristotle Onassis, and she relives her triumphs at La Scala.
Director Todd Nielsen maintains a brisk pace, allowing Bermingham her dynamic presence, but he wisely allows the students to give as good as they get. Jeremy Pivnick’s skillful lighting enhances Bermingham’s solitary monologues into her past. Accompanist–music director James Lent plays a cheerful role as Callas’s skillful pianist in the classroom. An operatic soundtrack plays in the background throughout the evening.
Master Class attempts to capture the soul of this quixotic, ego-driven woman. She is gracious and abrasive, sentimental and tormented. McNally’s play on its own is self-indulgent biography, but watching Callas come to life in a taxing role for any actor is rewarding.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
March 25, 2013
Dreamgirls
DOMA Theatre Co. at The MET Theatre
This Dreamgirls crackles with energy and treats audiences to a tidal wave of standout performances. In this musical with book and lyrics by Tom Eyen, music by Henry Krieger, and additional material by Willie Reale, three black female vocalists, à la The Supremes, try to discover a method by which to break out in the music scene of the early 1960s. Along the way, the singers suffer through interpersonal rivalries, managerial feuds, and unrequited love affairs as each member of the group struggles to find the strength to follow her individual dreams.
Director Marco Gomez has pulled off a daring feat in finding a way to shoehorn a large ensemble piece—28 performers and an onstage musical sextet—into this smaller venue’s playing space. Not once, even during choreographer Rae Toledo’s most intricate work, is there a sense of overcrowding. Music director Chris Raymond, on keyboard, exudes confidence conducting from far stage right. His combo is balanced beautifully with the flawless vocal amplification provided by sound designer David Crawford. Picking up every nook and cranny of Amanda Lawson’s two-storied set, Johnny Ryman’s illumination misses not a beat when, seemingly at every turn, costume designer Michael Mullen increasingly amazes with a series of gowns and period clothing that are worthy of their own curtain call.
Basking in the glow of these exceptional production values is a cast whose intensity seems barely containable. Constance Jewell Lopez, Jennifer Colby Talton and Tyra Dennis are dynamite as the titular trio. As Effie White, the group’s original lead singer, Lopez handles the emotional arc with strength and her songs with all of the hallmarks of a star. Her rendition of the Act 1 barnburner “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going” very nearly heralds the intermission a whole scene early because of Lopez’s showstopping performance.
Likewise Talton as Deena Jones (the Diana Ross equivalent in this story) and Dennis as Lorrell Robinson, the baby of the group, are exceptional. As their characters transform from followers to leaders before our eyes, both actors do a yeoman’s job bringing to life the maturity their characters must develop to reclaim their personal dignity. Memorable as well is Tiffany Williams as Michelle Morris, the singer chosen to replace the ever increasingly difficult Effie when the group seems about to self-destruct.
On the male side of the aisle, all is well. Welton Thomas Pitchford provides the perfect combination of cunning and confidence in the pivotal role of Curtis Taylor, Jr. A former car salesman, Curtis nudges out another adversary and becomes the group’s manager and Deena’s love interest. On the verge of losing her over his manipulative ways, Pitchford’s pleas in “When I First Saw You” are simple and powerful. Likewise, Frank Andrus Jr. plays Effie’s brother C.C., whose musical compositions are the group’s bread and butter, with sincerity and a refreshing lack of guile. And finally, there is Keith Arthur Bolden who is an indefatigable core of passion and fervor as Jimmy “Thunder” Early, the established star in whom the trio first entrusts their future. Clearly modeling his role after real-life singer James Brown, Bolden brings down the house with “Steppin’ to the Bad Side,” “Walkin’ Down the Strip,” and his second-act swansong “I Meant You No Harm.”
The remainder of the multitalented cast covers multiple roles spanning the 1960s and on into the next decade as the ride gets much rougher. In the end, however, our heroines make peace with their various demons and distractions, which leaves each of them in separate, albeit much better, places from which to orchestrate the rest of their lives and careers.
It’s another feather in the increasingly crowded brim of a musical theater company that has staked a claim of noteworthy excellence in a city where its list of rivals has sadly dwindled over the past few years.
DOMA Theatre Co. at The MET Theatre
This Dreamgirls crackles with energy and treats audiences to a tidal wave of standout performances. In this musical with book and lyrics by Tom Eyen, music by Henry Krieger, and additional material by Willie Reale, three black female vocalists, à la The Supremes, try to discover a method by which to break out in the music scene of the early 1960s. Along the way, the singers suffer through interpersonal rivalries, managerial feuds, and unrequited love affairs as each member of the group struggles to find the strength to follow her individual dreams.
Director Marco Gomez has pulled off a daring feat in finding a way to shoehorn a large ensemble piece—28 performers and an onstage musical sextet—into this smaller venue’s playing space. Not once, even during choreographer Rae Toledo’s most intricate work, is there a sense of overcrowding. Music director Chris Raymond, on keyboard, exudes confidence conducting from far stage right. His combo is balanced beautifully with the flawless vocal amplification provided by sound designer David Crawford. Picking up every nook and cranny of Amanda Lawson’s two-storied set, Johnny Ryman’s illumination misses not a beat when, seemingly at every turn, costume designer Michael Mullen increasingly amazes with a series of gowns and period clothing that are worthy of their own curtain call.
Basking in the glow of these exceptional production values is a cast whose intensity seems barely containable. Constance Jewell Lopez, Jennifer Colby Talton and Tyra Dennis are dynamite as the titular trio. As Effie White, the group’s original lead singer, Lopez handles the emotional arc with strength and her songs with all of the hallmarks of a star. Her rendition of the Act 1 barnburner “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going” very nearly heralds the intermission a whole scene early because of Lopez’s showstopping performance.
Likewise Talton as Deena Jones (the Diana Ross equivalent in this story) and Dennis as Lorrell Robinson, the baby of the group, are exceptional. As their characters transform from followers to leaders before our eyes, both actors do a yeoman’s job bringing to life the maturity their characters must develop to reclaim their personal dignity. Memorable as well is Tiffany Williams as Michelle Morris, the singer chosen to replace the ever increasingly difficult Effie when the group seems about to self-destruct.
On the male side of the aisle, all is well. Welton Thomas Pitchford provides the perfect combination of cunning and confidence in the pivotal role of Curtis Taylor, Jr. A former car salesman, Curtis nudges out another adversary and becomes the group’s manager and Deena’s love interest. On the verge of losing her over his manipulative ways, Pitchford’s pleas in “When I First Saw You” are simple and powerful. Likewise, Frank Andrus Jr. plays Effie’s brother C.C., whose musical compositions are the group’s bread and butter, with sincerity and a refreshing lack of guile. And finally, there is Keith Arthur Bolden who is an indefatigable core of passion and fervor as Jimmy “Thunder” Early, the established star in whom the trio first entrusts their future. Clearly modeling his role after real-life singer James Brown, Bolden brings down the house with “Steppin’ to the Bad Side,” “Walkin’ Down the Strip,” and his second-act swansong “I Meant You No Harm.”
The remainder of the multitalented cast covers multiple roles spanning the 1960s and on into the next decade as the ride gets much rougher. In the end, however, our heroines make peace with their various demons and distractions, which leaves each of them in separate, albeit much better, places from which to orchestrate the rest of their lives and careers.
It’s another feather in the increasingly crowded brim of a musical theater company that has staked a claim of noteworthy excellence in a city where its list of rivals has sadly dwindled over the past few years.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
March 25, 2013
March 25, 2013
Nuttin’ But Hutton
NoHo Arts Center
She was the queen of the novelty songs. The girl next door whose firebrand pizzazz and subtle sex appeal made her the worldwide pin-up darling of the GI’s during World War II. The actress who proved to studio chiefs that she could handle anything they threw at her including saving their butts when Judy Garland’s downward spiral threatened the completion of Annie Get Your Gun and Rita Hayworth bowed out of The Greatest Show on Earth. And when she faced her own demons, she left it all behind on her own terms. She was the indefatigable Betty Hutton.
Betty may have met her match in the multitalented Diane Vincent, who felt moved, upon seeing Hutton’s final televised interview with TCM’s Robert Osborne, to spend countless hours along with her husband—Sam Kriger, who doubles as the show’s music director—researching Hutton’s life and career in order to create this remarkable homage. Vincent is the perfect whirling dervish of energy as she turns every one of the show’s nearly two-dozen numbers into showstopping bombshells. Vincent’s solo standouts include Frank Loesser’s “Rumble, Rumble, Rumble” and Jimmy Van Heusen and Johnny Burke’s “His Rocking Horse Ran Away,” but those barely scratch the surface of what this wide-eyed comedian and her fellow cast members pack into this fast paced-ride. The sure hands of director Larry Raben and choreographer Lee Martino keep everything moving smoothly and expertly balanced between madcap hilarity and heart-tugging emotions.
Vincent’s unabashedly paper thin script revolves around DeeDee, an actor who, in Act 1, has cornered a struggling Ziegfeld wannabe in his office where she machine guns him with her Hutton tribute in order to secure his backing for a full-blown production. Veteran character actor Nathan Holland provides just the right amount of harried skepticism as producer Buster Heymeister, playing foil to Vincent’s hysterical bombardment. His duet with Vincent on “A Square in a Social Circle” is a heartwarming break from the show’s rapid-fire delivery.
Backed up by a trio of highly individualized chorus boys (Chad Borden, Daniel Guzman, and Justin Jones) who just “coincidentally” happen to be named Tom, Dick and Harry, DeeDee pulls out all the stops trying to win over Heymeister’s support. Oh, and was it mentioned that Vincent’s “anything for a laugh” sensibility lends itself to a series of groan-inducing puns and punch lines that keeps the audience wanting more? Listen closely for her topper, which involves the use of Holland’s character’s name.
Likewise, Vincent and Kriger offer the backup guys the opportunity to highlight their background stories and hidden desires as Act 2 shows us DeeDee’s finished production. Borden’s dreams of traipsing the boards as a Shakespearian tragedian come to fruition when the cast re-creates Loesser’s blockbuster number “Hamlet.” Guzman’s character, killing time until he can play Emile “Debe-Cue” in a local playhouse’s production of South Pacific, steps out in a medley remembering Hutton’s Broadway appearance in that Rogers and Hammerstein vehicle. Jones is a crackup with his ventriloquist’s-dummy partner, which serves him well during a cute-as-a-button duet with Vincent titled “Igloo.”
Kriger’s orchestrations and, in particular, his quartet arrangements for the men are heavenly, as is the small combo of musicians he leads from a stage right balcony. Costume designer A. Jeffrey Schoenberg deserves a medal for the never-ending array of wardrobe choices and changes the cast pulls off with effortless aplomb. Jeff McLaughlin’s scenic design with smoothly gliding furniture pieces and swiveled wall panels looks great under Luke Moyer’s constantly impressive lighting. Cricket S. Myers sound balance is never better than during Vincent’s contemplative renditions of “I Wish I Didn’t Love You So” and in what serves as the icing on the cake, her truly heartfelt show-ending duet with a video projected Hutton as they sing her signature piece, “Somebody Loves Me.”
NoHo Arts Center
She was the queen of the novelty songs. The girl next door whose firebrand pizzazz and subtle sex appeal made her the worldwide pin-up darling of the GI’s during World War II. The actress who proved to studio chiefs that she could handle anything they threw at her including saving their butts when Judy Garland’s downward spiral threatened the completion of Annie Get Your Gun and Rita Hayworth bowed out of The Greatest Show on Earth. And when she faced her own demons, she left it all behind on her own terms. She was the indefatigable Betty Hutton.
Betty may have met her match in the multitalented Diane Vincent, who felt moved, upon seeing Hutton’s final televised interview with TCM’s Robert Osborne, to spend countless hours along with her husband—Sam Kriger, who doubles as the show’s music director—researching Hutton’s life and career in order to create this remarkable homage. Vincent is the perfect whirling dervish of energy as she turns every one of the show’s nearly two-dozen numbers into showstopping bombshells. Vincent’s solo standouts include Frank Loesser’s “Rumble, Rumble, Rumble” and Jimmy Van Heusen and Johnny Burke’s “His Rocking Horse Ran Away,” but those barely scratch the surface of what this wide-eyed comedian and her fellow cast members pack into this fast paced-ride. The sure hands of director Larry Raben and choreographer Lee Martino keep everything moving smoothly and expertly balanced between madcap hilarity and heart-tugging emotions.
Vincent’s unabashedly paper thin script revolves around DeeDee, an actor who, in Act 1, has cornered a struggling Ziegfeld wannabe in his office where she machine guns him with her Hutton tribute in order to secure his backing for a full-blown production. Veteran character actor Nathan Holland provides just the right amount of harried skepticism as producer Buster Heymeister, playing foil to Vincent’s hysterical bombardment. His duet with Vincent on “A Square in a Social Circle” is a heartwarming break from the show’s rapid-fire delivery.
Backed up by a trio of highly individualized chorus boys (Chad Borden, Daniel Guzman, and Justin Jones) who just “coincidentally” happen to be named Tom, Dick and Harry, DeeDee pulls out all the stops trying to win over Heymeister’s support. Oh, and was it mentioned that Vincent’s “anything for a laugh” sensibility lends itself to a series of groan-inducing puns and punch lines that keeps the audience wanting more? Listen closely for her topper, which involves the use of Holland’s character’s name.
Likewise, Vincent and Kriger offer the backup guys the opportunity to highlight their background stories and hidden desires as Act 2 shows us DeeDee’s finished production. Borden’s dreams of traipsing the boards as a Shakespearian tragedian come to fruition when the cast re-creates Loesser’s blockbuster number “Hamlet.” Guzman’s character, killing time until he can play Emile “Debe-Cue” in a local playhouse’s production of South Pacific, steps out in a medley remembering Hutton’s Broadway appearance in that Rogers and Hammerstein vehicle. Jones is a crackup with his ventriloquist’s-dummy partner, which serves him well during a cute-as-a-button duet with Vincent titled “Igloo.”
Kriger’s orchestrations and, in particular, his quartet arrangements for the men are heavenly, as is the small combo of musicians he leads from a stage right balcony. Costume designer A. Jeffrey Schoenberg deserves a medal for the never-ending array of wardrobe choices and changes the cast pulls off with effortless aplomb. Jeff McLaughlin’s scenic design with smoothly gliding furniture pieces and swiveled wall panels looks great under Luke Moyer’s constantly impressive lighting. Cricket S. Myers sound balance is never better than during Vincent’s contemplative renditions of “I Wish I Didn’t Love You So” and in what serves as the icing on the cake, her truly heartfelt show-ending duet with a video projected Hutton as they sing her signature piece, “Somebody Loves Me.”
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
March 25, 2013
March 25, 2013
End of the Rainbow
Ahmanson Theatre
When Judy Garland sang, “Forget your troubles, come on get happy,” in the 1950 film Summer Stock, she convinced much of her audience that she was at least trying to take her own advice. Hollywood insiders knew about her crushing insecurities and multitudinous addictions. But in performance, Garland gave. She shed her issues for the moment and became the musical number. In hindsight, of course, we see behind the big, brown, long-lashed eyes.
Peter Quilter’s West Coast premiere End of the Rainbow gives us a self-centered, thoroughly distraught, though manically jocular Garland. The action takes place in 1968 in a not-yet-paid-for suite at London’s Ritz Hotel and on the tiny stage of a nightclub. Garland, in the West End for a five-week run of concerts, is being tended to, with varying degrees of success, by her manager-fiancé Mickey Deans (Erik Heger)—soon to be husband No. 5—and by her accompanist, the saintly, gay Anthony (Michael Cumpsty).
Quilter’s script lumps in bits of well-known biography and quotes and extrapolates the rest, coming to a jarringly direct-address ending in which Anthony tells us not all will be well, unsurprisingly. Thus, the draw of this production has been the performances, directed by Terry Johnson. As Garland, Tracie Bennett gives at best an athletic performance—a jittery, frenetic portrayal. Bennett can “do” Garland the way comedic drag performers do her: as a cartoon drawing, finding the gross outlines that immediately establish the persona. But who is Garland the person, and why don’t we know her any better after the two acts we spent watching her?
In her performances, the real-life Garland appeared extroverted, seemingly aware of her every gesture and of course aware of her musicality. Bennett’s Garland seems introverted, while the actor seems focused on giving the audience—the ones at the nightclub and the ones in the Ahmanson Theatre—every quirk and tic she thinks we want to see. A touch of that might even be acceptable, if we only could see behind the shell, when Garland is not “on.” She cries to Mickey, “I don’t want to be loved out there, I want to be loved in here.” Well, let us love the real her. Instead of showing us the offstage agony and the onstage professionalism, it seems as if Bennett’s Garland is “performing” in the private-life scenes and dealing with “demons” in the nightclub scenes.
What can keep the audience hooked in are the universally human quandaries and qualities onstage here. Judy can’t cease being bossy, though she professes to be delegating to Mickey. She can’t face a performance or a radio appearance without confidence-building chemistry. She can’t see pure, caring love when it comes to her. Those moments, few as they are, are wrenching.
So is Cumpsty’s performance as Judy’s Scottish accompanist. This portrayal of a kind, supportive, smart man should qualify the actor and character for a spinoff all about Anthony. In addition, Cumpsty plays piano for Judy’s desultory rehearsals in her hotel room and at the club performances.
Two more reasons to shout hallelujah: With orchestrations by Chris Egan, music arrangements by Gareth Valentine, and music direction by Jeffrey Saver, the onstage band sounds simultaneously modern and old-school in the best senses of those terms; and William Dudley’s costuming thoroughly evokes the era.
Ahmanson Theatre
When Judy Garland sang, “Forget your troubles, come on get happy,” in the 1950 film Summer Stock, she convinced much of her audience that she was at least trying to take her own advice. Hollywood insiders knew about her crushing insecurities and multitudinous addictions. But in performance, Garland gave. She shed her issues for the moment and became the musical number. In hindsight, of course, we see behind the big, brown, long-lashed eyes.
Peter Quilter’s West Coast premiere End of the Rainbow gives us a self-centered, thoroughly distraught, though manically jocular Garland. The action takes place in 1968 in a not-yet-paid-for suite at London’s Ritz Hotel and on the tiny stage of a nightclub. Garland, in the West End for a five-week run of concerts, is being tended to, with varying degrees of success, by her manager-fiancé Mickey Deans (Erik Heger)—soon to be husband No. 5—and by her accompanist, the saintly, gay Anthony (Michael Cumpsty).
Quilter’s script lumps in bits of well-known biography and quotes and extrapolates the rest, coming to a jarringly direct-address ending in which Anthony tells us not all will be well, unsurprisingly. Thus, the draw of this production has been the performances, directed by Terry Johnson. As Garland, Tracie Bennett gives at best an athletic performance—a jittery, frenetic portrayal. Bennett can “do” Garland the way comedic drag performers do her: as a cartoon drawing, finding the gross outlines that immediately establish the persona. But who is Garland the person, and why don’t we know her any better after the two acts we spent watching her?
In her performances, the real-life Garland appeared extroverted, seemingly aware of her every gesture and of course aware of her musicality. Bennett’s Garland seems introverted, while the actor seems focused on giving the audience—the ones at the nightclub and the ones in the Ahmanson Theatre—every quirk and tic she thinks we want to see. A touch of that might even be acceptable, if we only could see behind the shell, when Garland is not “on.” She cries to Mickey, “I don’t want to be loved out there, I want to be loved in here.” Well, let us love the real her. Instead of showing us the offstage agony and the onstage professionalism, it seems as if Bennett’s Garland is “performing” in the private-life scenes and dealing with “demons” in the nightclub scenes.
What can keep the audience hooked in are the universally human quandaries and qualities onstage here. Judy can’t cease being bossy, though she professes to be delegating to Mickey. She can’t face a performance or a radio appearance without confidence-building chemistry. She can’t see pure, caring love when it comes to her. Those moments, few as they are, are wrenching.
So is Cumpsty’s performance as Judy’s Scottish accompanist. This portrayal of a kind, supportive, smart man should qualify the actor and character for a spinoff all about Anthony. In addition, Cumpsty plays piano for Judy’s desultory rehearsals in her hotel room and at the club performances.
Two more reasons to shout hallelujah: With orchestrations by Chris Egan, music arrangements by Gareth Valentine, and music direction by Jeffrey Saver, the onstage band sounds simultaneously modern and old-school in the best senses of those terms; and William Dudley’s costuming thoroughly evokes the era.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 23, 2013
March 23, 2013
Ragtime
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
About 100 years ago, the 20th century held great promise for America. We would earn a reputation as a world superpower. We would be known as a populace of hard work and bravery and innovation. And yet, we were a nation of haves and have-nots, “colored” and whites, hawks and doves, activists and the uninformed. We welcomed some immigrants and not others. We worshiped celebrities. We suffered unemployment. How much of that would change over the century?
Ragtime, the musical based on E. L. Doctorow’s novel of the same name, brings to life this panoply of 20th century American issues. It does so at a distance of time that makes us ponder what has changed and what hasn’t. The musical—with book by Terrence McNally, lyrics by Lynn Ahrens and music by Stephen Flaherty—is flavored with ragtime rhythms. Its stories are recounted in short scenes of varying tempos. Three main tales weave together, ultimately reflecting the fabric of our nation.
Mother and her family, upper-class Caucasians, at first seem bound by propriety, fighting the groundswell of change coming to their world. Meantime, Coalhouse Walker Jr., the Harlem-based musician, is quietly infuriated by those he thinks look down on him. Tateh, a Jewish immigrant, struggles his way out of the tenements, determined to make a living in the new land.
As their stories mesh under the direction of Susan Goldman Weisbarth, the cast of nearly 50 fills Westchester Playhouse’s small playing area. Weisbarth stages elegantly, particularly considering the choppy material. Her full-chorus numbers thrill, thanks in large part to music director Bill Wolfe, who ensures the clarity of the clever, intelligent lyrics and who allows moments of choral pianissimo to contrast with and build the big moments.
For the most part, Weisbarth’s stars handle Flaherty’s complex music well. The strikingly handsome Deus Xavier Scott captures Coalhouse Walker’s magnetism, simmering anger, and dignity, and the performer’s singing voice is stirring yet soothing. Jennifer Sperry is luminous as the proto-feminist Mother, her voice warming up and warming as the show progresses. As Tateh, Bradley Miller displays a big voice and big heart, as well as an effortless dance style.
The cast boasts charming child performers, particularly the engaging Logan Gould as Mother’s son, known as Little Boy, and the enchantingly focused Karen E. Kolkey as Tateh’s daughter, Little Girl. An older and thus more-sophisticated performer, Slater Ross captures the hormones and determination of Younger Brother. Coalhouse’s beloved, Sarah, gets a sweetly shy portrayal by Johanna Rose Burwell. Sarah’s opposite, the indomitable activist Emma Goldman, gets a fully charged portrayal by Joanna Churgin.
Though not all the voices astonish and not all the dancers amaze, the totality does—thanks to hard work and bravery and innovation. In Ragtime, America begins its journey to the melting pot, along the way birthing civil rights and jobs for women. What will we make of the century spinning ahead of us?
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
About 100 years ago, the 20th century held great promise for America. We would earn a reputation as a world superpower. We would be known as a populace of hard work and bravery and innovation. And yet, we were a nation of haves and have-nots, “colored” and whites, hawks and doves, activists and the uninformed. We welcomed some immigrants and not others. We worshiped celebrities. We suffered unemployment. How much of that would change over the century?
Ragtime, the musical based on E. L. Doctorow’s novel of the same name, brings to life this panoply of 20th century American issues. It does so at a distance of time that makes us ponder what has changed and what hasn’t. The musical—with book by Terrence McNally, lyrics by Lynn Ahrens and music by Stephen Flaherty—is flavored with ragtime rhythms. Its stories are recounted in short scenes of varying tempos. Three main tales weave together, ultimately reflecting the fabric of our nation.
Mother and her family, upper-class Caucasians, at first seem bound by propriety, fighting the groundswell of change coming to their world. Meantime, Coalhouse Walker Jr., the Harlem-based musician, is quietly infuriated by those he thinks look down on him. Tateh, a Jewish immigrant, struggles his way out of the tenements, determined to make a living in the new land.
As their stories mesh under the direction of Susan Goldman Weisbarth, the cast of nearly 50 fills Westchester Playhouse’s small playing area. Weisbarth stages elegantly, particularly considering the choppy material. Her full-chorus numbers thrill, thanks in large part to music director Bill Wolfe, who ensures the clarity of the clever, intelligent lyrics and who allows moments of choral pianissimo to contrast with and build the big moments.
For the most part, Weisbarth’s stars handle Flaherty’s complex music well. The strikingly handsome Deus Xavier Scott captures Coalhouse Walker’s magnetism, simmering anger, and dignity, and the performer’s singing voice is stirring yet soothing. Jennifer Sperry is luminous as the proto-feminist Mother, her voice warming up and warming as the show progresses. As Tateh, Bradley Miller displays a big voice and big heart, as well as an effortless dance style.
The cast boasts charming child performers, particularly the engaging Logan Gould as Mother’s son, known as Little Boy, and the enchantingly focused Karen E. Kolkey as Tateh’s daughter, Little Girl. An older and thus more-sophisticated performer, Slater Ross captures the hormones and determination of Younger Brother. Coalhouse’s beloved, Sarah, gets a sweetly shy portrayal by Johanna Rose Burwell. Sarah’s opposite, the indomitable activist Emma Goldman, gets a fully charged portrayal by Joanna Churgin.
Though not all the voices astonish and not all the dancers amaze, the totality does—thanks to hard work and bravery and innovation. In Ragtime, America begins its journey to the melting pot, along the way birthing civil rights and jobs for women. What will we make of the century spinning ahead of us?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 22, 2013
March 22, 2013
Tribes
Mark Taper Forum
Nina Raine’s Tribes is a dense stew of a family saga, boasting more provocative themes and sharply defined characters than most plays of double its length or ambition. Maybe not since August: Osage County packed the Ahmanson Theatre in 2009 has a single Los Angeles stage played host to such a richly satisfying examination of the bonds and strains acting upon our two families: the one in which we’re born, and the one we shape for ourselves.
The main theme is deafness, and not just that which was visited at birth to Billy (a mesmerizing Russell Harvard) and is slowly creeping up on his girlfriend and American Sign Language tutor Sylvia (excellent, touching Susan Pourfar).
The members of Billy’s family—academic parents; feckless, disturbed older brother; and feckless, rootless older sister—all make their living through words (or try to), which means they wildly overestimate their ability to communicate. Even worse, they possess a knack for selectively processing what anyone else is saying, based on long-standing prejudice or habit.
Raine knows the ways in which relatives take each other for granted, and the consequent explosions when a child or sibling suddenly doesn’t behave as expected. It doesn’t take long for new families to become afflicted, either: Billy and Sylvia’s love affair quickly becomes as tainted by crossed wires as if they’d been together for a decade.
There’s no better recipe for theatrical hilarity than a roomful of people whose business is to use words as a weapon or shield, going at each other at white heat. But it’s more than a comedic energy that’s at work here. Layers and levels among the various relationships are only gradually revealed, making Tribes one of the rare plays that becomes more complex and more gripping as it moves along. When the emotional stakes are as high as Raine raises them, amusement again and again turns on a dime into heartbreak a theatergoer will not soon shake or forget.
All the performances are spectacularly assured—doubtless a function of having been honed for more than a year at New York’s Barrow Street Theatre—with special mention going to Will Brill’s astonishing two-hour descent into mental catastrophe as Daniel, whose protectiveness toward his baby brother proves to have an eerie psychological subtext.
Director David Cromer once again shows his ability to weave metatheatrical devices (projections, oddly-framed subtitles, and sound effects) into realistic dramas, as he did at The Broad Stage for Our Town and in New York for the sadly underappreciated Brighton Beach Memoirs. While some of the devices enhance the emotion, others seem self-consciously showy. Yet none seems idle or ill-thought-through, and when the impact is as strong as it is here, one is inclined to just take it all in and be carried along, unprotesting.
There’s a lot of yelling in this household, which is justified thematically and characterologically, but which makes it a little difficult for the viewer to find a comfortable seat at the table for the first half-hour. But don’t give up on Tribes. It’s got your number.
Mark Taper Forum
Nina Raine’s Tribes is a dense stew of a family saga, boasting more provocative themes and sharply defined characters than most plays of double its length or ambition. Maybe not since August: Osage County packed the Ahmanson Theatre in 2009 has a single Los Angeles stage played host to such a richly satisfying examination of the bonds and strains acting upon our two families: the one in which we’re born, and the one we shape for ourselves.
The main theme is deafness, and not just that which was visited at birth to Billy (a mesmerizing Russell Harvard) and is slowly creeping up on his girlfriend and American Sign Language tutor Sylvia (excellent, touching Susan Pourfar).
The members of Billy’s family—academic parents; feckless, disturbed older brother; and feckless, rootless older sister—all make their living through words (or try to), which means they wildly overestimate their ability to communicate. Even worse, they possess a knack for selectively processing what anyone else is saying, based on long-standing prejudice or habit.
Raine knows the ways in which relatives take each other for granted, and the consequent explosions when a child or sibling suddenly doesn’t behave as expected. It doesn’t take long for new families to become afflicted, either: Billy and Sylvia’s love affair quickly becomes as tainted by crossed wires as if they’d been together for a decade.
There’s no better recipe for theatrical hilarity than a roomful of people whose business is to use words as a weapon or shield, going at each other at white heat. But it’s more than a comedic energy that’s at work here. Layers and levels among the various relationships are only gradually revealed, making Tribes one of the rare plays that becomes more complex and more gripping as it moves along. When the emotional stakes are as high as Raine raises them, amusement again and again turns on a dime into heartbreak a theatergoer will not soon shake or forget.
All the performances are spectacularly assured—doubtless a function of having been honed for more than a year at New York’s Barrow Street Theatre—with special mention going to Will Brill’s astonishing two-hour descent into mental catastrophe as Daniel, whose protectiveness toward his baby brother proves to have an eerie psychological subtext.
Director David Cromer once again shows his ability to weave metatheatrical devices (projections, oddly-framed subtitles, and sound effects) into realistic dramas, as he did at The Broad Stage for Our Town and in New York for the sadly underappreciated Brighton Beach Memoirs. While some of the devices enhance the emotion, others seem self-consciously showy. Yet none seems idle or ill-thought-through, and when the impact is as strong as it is here, one is inclined to just take it all in and be carried along, unprotesting.
There’s a lot of yelling in this household, which is justified thematically and characterologically, but which makes it a little difficult for the viewer to find a comfortable seat at the table for the first half-hour. But don’t give up on Tribes. It’s got your number.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
March 11, 2013
March 11, 2013
Driving Miss Daisy
Sierra Madre Playhouse
What a squandered opportunity for two highly skilled actors and a script that offers minute-by-minute chances to reach and teach an audience. Instead, here the two actors create cartoon characters in a hurried display that cursorily sketches the script’s issues and emotions.
Alfred Uhry’s three-hander introduces the audience to the 72-year-old Daisy Werthen at a point where, her driving abilities on the wane, her son Boolie hires the 50-something Hoke to chauffeur her. Prejudices being what they were in the 1940s South, the Jewish Daisy and African-American Hoke come to grips with their “places” in society and their self-images. Over the course of the play, from 1948 through 1973, the characters and American culture bravely change.
Mary Lou Rosato and Willie C. Carpenter can and do find moments of depth as Daisy and Hoke. Those moments are quiet, effective, and unfortunately brief. Director Christian Lebano seems to have put his rehearsal time into staging rather than delving into the world of the play. The various cars are represented by a handsome set of black-lacquered chairs and a bench, which work well visually; but the actors guide the furniture down the raked stage and back up, leaving the audience to hope the dolly doesn’t slip into the first few rows of seats.
Because the attention here is focused on sliding set pieces in and out and quick-change costuming, Uhry’s script is revealed as a badly strung-together chronology that lurches along like Daisy’s driving. There’s little foundation or momentum for the final scene, in which Hoke should gently feed Miss Daisy. Instead it plays as if they’re downing as much food as possible before the swiftly dimmed lighting cuts off the action.
It’s left to Brad David Reed, playing Daisy’s son Boolie, to limn a realistic character who reflects an understanding of the conflicts around him and who grows from handling them—even while playing the comic relief.
Sierra Madre Playhouse
What a squandered opportunity for two highly skilled actors and a script that offers minute-by-minute chances to reach and teach an audience. Instead, here the two actors create cartoon characters in a hurried display that cursorily sketches the script’s issues and emotions.
Alfred Uhry’s three-hander introduces the audience to the 72-year-old Daisy Werthen at a point where, her driving abilities on the wane, her son Boolie hires the 50-something Hoke to chauffeur her. Prejudices being what they were in the 1940s South, the Jewish Daisy and African-American Hoke come to grips with their “places” in society and their self-images. Over the course of the play, from 1948 through 1973, the characters and American culture bravely change.
Mary Lou Rosato and Willie C. Carpenter can and do find moments of depth as Daisy and Hoke. Those moments are quiet, effective, and unfortunately brief. Director Christian Lebano seems to have put his rehearsal time into staging rather than delving into the world of the play. The various cars are represented by a handsome set of black-lacquered chairs and a bench, which work well visually; but the actors guide the furniture down the raked stage and back up, leaving the audience to hope the dolly doesn’t slip into the first few rows of seats.
Because the attention here is focused on sliding set pieces in and out and quick-change costuming, Uhry’s script is revealed as a badly strung-together chronology that lurches along like Daisy’s driving. There’s little foundation or momentum for the final scene, in which Hoke should gently feed Miss Daisy. Instead it plays as if they’re downing as much food as possible before the swiftly dimmed lighting cuts off the action.
It’s left to Brad David Reed, playing Daisy’s son Boolie, to limn a realistic character who reflects an understanding of the conflicts around him and who grows from handling them—even while playing the comic relief.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 5, 2013
March 5, 2013
Cavalia’s Odysseo
Cavalia’s Odysseo’s White Big Top
Once again Cavalia’s trademarked multi-spired tents have been raised on what is normally a vacant and structure-less foundation in Burbank. Although this incarnation bears some resemblances to its 2011 predecessor, this time the remarkably talented cast of rider/trainers and their equestrian charges transport their audience through myriad worldly and terrestrial locales as they delight the senses at every turn. Co-directors and choreographers Wayne Fowkes and Benjamin Aillaud, respectively handling the human and animal performances, have crafted a production that is the textbook definition of spectacular.
From the opening strains of composer Michel Cusson’s original score, which runs the gamut from haunting to exhilarating, it’s obvious that every aspect of the show works in perfect harmony. A single, riderless horse enters the playing area, slowly followed by an ever-increasing number of its kind, while vocalist Anna-Laura Edmiston, interpreting Cusson’s French lyrics, welcomes one and all to this mysterious experience. As Act 1 progresses, there is the familiar and impressive Roman and Trick riding.
So too, a touching display of human-equine interaction titled “Le Sedentaire” wherein trainer Elise Verdoncq singlehandedly guides nine steeds through a series of patterns using nothing more than barely perceptible vocal commands and calming caresses. But the newest additions draw the greatest responses. A troupe of West African acrobats, including members of two families, practically steals the show with each appearance. Equally mind-blowing is “Carusello,” an aptly titled segment in which a full-sized merry-go-round descends from the upper reaches of the tent, coming to rest on the stage floor. Utilizing this veritable playground is a group of stunningly agile gymnasts whose feats of physical prowess on rotating and static poles are nothing short of astonishing.
Act 2 begins with “Oasis,” during which 28 pairs of horses and humans scattered about the stage in reclining positions slowly rise and combine into a singular body of dancelike movement. Following this majestic demonstration are death-defying performances on aerial hoops. Along the way, lighting designer Alain Lortie combines his talent with that of a group of visual specialists to transform the arena and the three-story Imax-styled scrim behind it into locations including the lunar surface, the Sahara, and the grasslands of the African tundra. Capping off the evening is a nearly full flooding of the sand-covered stage with approximately six to eight inches of water. Into this marsh-like setting bursts a riderless herd that cavorts about the stage, leading into “Odysseo,” the titular finale/curtain call in which the entire cast, human and equine, presents highlights from the production.
One note of caution: Given Cavalia’s location and the travel and parking logistics involved, it is highly advisable to plan ahead and allot ample time for reaching the venue prior to the opening curtain. And although this is not a short show, due in part to a necessary 30-minute intermission so that man and beast can prepare for Act 2, it is worth every minute.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
March 4, 2013
Cavalia’s Odysseo’s White Big Top
Once again Cavalia’s trademarked multi-spired tents have been raised on what is normally a vacant and structure-less foundation in Burbank. Although this incarnation bears some resemblances to its 2011 predecessor, this time the remarkably talented cast of rider/trainers and their equestrian charges transport their audience through myriad worldly and terrestrial locales as they delight the senses at every turn. Co-directors and choreographers Wayne Fowkes and Benjamin Aillaud, respectively handling the human and animal performances, have crafted a production that is the textbook definition of spectacular.
From the opening strains of composer Michel Cusson’s original score, which runs the gamut from haunting to exhilarating, it’s obvious that every aspect of the show works in perfect harmony. A single, riderless horse enters the playing area, slowly followed by an ever-increasing number of its kind, while vocalist Anna-Laura Edmiston, interpreting Cusson’s French lyrics, welcomes one and all to this mysterious experience. As Act 1 progresses, there is the familiar and impressive Roman and Trick riding.
So too, a touching display of human-equine interaction titled “Le Sedentaire” wherein trainer Elise Verdoncq singlehandedly guides nine steeds through a series of patterns using nothing more than barely perceptible vocal commands and calming caresses. But the newest additions draw the greatest responses. A troupe of West African acrobats, including members of two families, practically steals the show with each appearance. Equally mind-blowing is “Carusello,” an aptly titled segment in which a full-sized merry-go-round descends from the upper reaches of the tent, coming to rest on the stage floor. Utilizing this veritable playground is a group of stunningly agile gymnasts whose feats of physical prowess on rotating and static poles are nothing short of astonishing.
Act 2 begins with “Oasis,” during which 28 pairs of horses and humans scattered about the stage in reclining positions slowly rise and combine into a singular body of dancelike movement. Following this majestic demonstration are death-defying performances on aerial hoops. Along the way, lighting designer Alain Lortie combines his talent with that of a group of visual specialists to transform the arena and the three-story Imax-styled scrim behind it into locations including the lunar surface, the Sahara, and the grasslands of the African tundra. Capping off the evening is a nearly full flooding of the sand-covered stage with approximately six to eight inches of water. Into this marsh-like setting bursts a riderless herd that cavorts about the stage, leading into “Odysseo,” the titular finale/curtain call in which the entire cast, human and equine, presents highlights from the production.
One note of caution: Given Cavalia’s location and the travel and parking logistics involved, it is highly advisable to plan ahead and allot ample time for reaching the venue prior to the opening curtain. And although this is not a short show, due in part to a necessary 30-minute intermission so that man and beast can prepare for Act 2, it is worth every minute.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
March 4, 2013
12 Angry Men
Torrance Theatre Company
A few days ago, a juror made local news for conducting Internet research to help herself decide the case she was on. The court dismissed her from the jury panel.
So the audience at Torrance Theatre Company’s current production might need to suspend disbelief and all knowledge of the legal system while watching Reginald Rose’s 1950s play (here in the version adapted by Sherman Sergel). It’s a small price to pay for the thrill of watching men solve problems through the power of well-chosen words.
Rose sets his play in a jury room, where the eponymous panel must unanimously decide a young man’s guilt or innocence. But the setting serves only as a springboard for Rose’s main themes: we are creatures of prejudice, so it’s best we act peaceably and through discourse.
By the play’s end, the audience has learned a bit about each juror—though not any juror’s name. At the top of the play, only Juror No. 8 thinks the defendant deserves a considered deliberation. The foreman tries to keep peace while the men debate the testimony and confess their biases and re-enact the crime.
Perry Shields directs with charming detail and a firm hand on pacing and tone, leaving the play in its original, 1950s setting. He also stages the work flawlessly, so even though the action requires nothing more than men sitting around a long table, here those men wander and lunge and stretch and perch at precisely calibrated moments, keeping the play rolling along. The fussy in the audience might wonder whether 1950s jurors would dare appear in casual attire, but at least it breaks up the visuals and suits the characters.
Shields also cast well. From the outset, Rose’s specific character “types” make themselves known to the audience. The belligerent father, Juror No. 3, is given a well-constructed portrayal by Scot Renfro, going from merely angry to flushed rage over the course of the play. The gentle European immigrant, Juror No. 11, gets a lovely portrayal by Bob Baumsten, who clearly and consistently speaks with a vaguely Yiddish accent throughout.
So-called multicultural casting works beautifully here. Matthew David Smith plays Juror No. 5, who admits to having lived in slums, with strength but not pomposity, and with respect for the period yet without caricature.
Juror No. 8, however, must carry the show. He begins the journey by revealing the results of his independent investigation, in a flashy move that should convey what he’s thinking. In Reed Arnold’s subdued portrayal, the audience rarely sees the essence of this character or his thought processes. Arnold makes him neither an everyman nor a hero, never growing or changing.
Arnold shows skills, however. He is an adept listener, reacting with theatrical timing, as does the rest of Shield’s cast, remaining thoroughly focused though mere feet away from the audience in this intimate space.
The characters swelter in the closed room, so periodically one or another gets up for a drink at the water cooler. Here, the 1950s-evoking cooler—indeed the entire jury room with its well-worn table and chairs, and its realistically painted linoleum flooring—deserves praise for SteveG Design and the scenery crew. Steve Giltner’s lighting design hints at government-issue bulbs without looking harsh on the actors.
What’s missing from the 1950s? Fortunately, all that cigarette smoke makes no appearance here.
Torrance Theatre Company
A few days ago, a juror made local news for conducting Internet research to help herself decide the case she was on. The court dismissed her from the jury panel.
So the audience at Torrance Theatre Company’s current production might need to suspend disbelief and all knowledge of the legal system while watching Reginald Rose’s 1950s play (here in the version adapted by Sherman Sergel). It’s a small price to pay for the thrill of watching men solve problems through the power of well-chosen words.
Rose sets his play in a jury room, where the eponymous panel must unanimously decide a young man’s guilt or innocence. But the setting serves only as a springboard for Rose’s main themes: we are creatures of prejudice, so it’s best we act peaceably and through discourse.
By the play’s end, the audience has learned a bit about each juror—though not any juror’s name. At the top of the play, only Juror No. 8 thinks the defendant deserves a considered deliberation. The foreman tries to keep peace while the men debate the testimony and confess their biases and re-enact the crime.
Perry Shields directs with charming detail and a firm hand on pacing and tone, leaving the play in its original, 1950s setting. He also stages the work flawlessly, so even though the action requires nothing more than men sitting around a long table, here those men wander and lunge and stretch and perch at precisely calibrated moments, keeping the play rolling along. The fussy in the audience might wonder whether 1950s jurors would dare appear in casual attire, but at least it breaks up the visuals and suits the characters.
Shields also cast well. From the outset, Rose’s specific character “types” make themselves known to the audience. The belligerent father, Juror No. 3, is given a well-constructed portrayal by Scot Renfro, going from merely angry to flushed rage over the course of the play. The gentle European immigrant, Juror No. 11, gets a lovely portrayal by Bob Baumsten, who clearly and consistently speaks with a vaguely Yiddish accent throughout.
So-called multicultural casting works beautifully here. Matthew David Smith plays Juror No. 5, who admits to having lived in slums, with strength but not pomposity, and with respect for the period yet without caricature.
Juror No. 8, however, must carry the show. He begins the journey by revealing the results of his independent investigation, in a flashy move that should convey what he’s thinking. In Reed Arnold’s subdued portrayal, the audience rarely sees the essence of this character or his thought processes. Arnold makes him neither an everyman nor a hero, never growing or changing.
Arnold shows skills, however. He is an adept listener, reacting with theatrical timing, as does the rest of Shield’s cast, remaining thoroughly focused though mere feet away from the audience in this intimate space.
The characters swelter in the closed room, so periodically one or another gets up for a drink at the water cooler. Here, the 1950s-evoking cooler—indeed the entire jury room with its well-worn table and chairs, and its realistically painted linoleum flooring—deserves praise for SteveG Design and the scenery crew. Steve Giltner’s lighting design hints at government-issue bulbs without looking harsh on the actors.
What’s missing from the 1950s? Fortunately, all that cigarette smoke makes no appearance here.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 4, 2013
March 4, 2013
Therapy
Eleventh Street Productions in association with and at Secret Rose Theatre
The art of therapy—and it appears to be an art—attempts to explore issues leading to enhanced personal development. In this case, writer-director and licensed clinical social worker Jeff Bernhardt looks at this world through the eyes of three therapists and a bitter young man who is the patient of one of them.
Steven (Jed Sura) has a new client, Lance (Luis Selgas), who has come to him unwillingly because his parents want him to be “fixed.” Though Steven tries to make a connection, Lance isn’t willing to cooperate, and his early sessions are unproductive.
As is often the case, therapists attend therapy sessions of their own. Steven sees Moira (Lynn Ann Leveridge), a warm, motherly practitioner, who is helping him understand issues of abandonment by his mother and his failure to commit to a relationship with his girlfriend. Moira, in turn, sees Sandra (Marcie Lynn Ross), a formal and reserved therapist who seems detached from her patient.
Bernhardt’s construct utilizing frequent mini-scenes allows for the interweaving of the central characters. As a device it works to keep the action moving, but it also fragments the storyline and leaves questions unanswered.
The star of the play is the beautifully designed set by Eloise Ayala. The three coexisting offices reflect the personalities of the therapists. Moira’s is eclectic, with various art pieces and incense; Steven’s is more academic and masculine; Sandra’s is sterile and minimal.
Selgas is outstanding as the troubled, angry, and volatile young man whose persona is authentic. Leveridge is also completely believable as she invests her character with real empathy. In a particularly emotional moment with her own therapist, she imbues her character with genuine pathos. Ross and Sura are equally good in their characterizations.
While the story is engaging and follows a plausible trajectory, tightening the threads of the plot to allow for longer development of the characters’ issues would improve the audience buy-in. At play’s end, the three therapists have begun to address their personal lives more proactively, but it is more mechanical and tidy than emotional. Still, much food for thought is provided, and sympathy for the counselor results. Bernhardt’s caveat might be: therapist, heal thyself.
Eleventh Street Productions in association with and at Secret Rose Theatre
The art of therapy—and it appears to be an art—attempts to explore issues leading to enhanced personal development. In this case, writer-director and licensed clinical social worker Jeff Bernhardt looks at this world through the eyes of three therapists and a bitter young man who is the patient of one of them.
Steven (Jed Sura) has a new client, Lance (Luis Selgas), who has come to him unwillingly because his parents want him to be “fixed.” Though Steven tries to make a connection, Lance isn’t willing to cooperate, and his early sessions are unproductive.
As is often the case, therapists attend therapy sessions of their own. Steven sees Moira (Lynn Ann Leveridge), a warm, motherly practitioner, who is helping him understand issues of abandonment by his mother and his failure to commit to a relationship with his girlfriend. Moira, in turn, sees Sandra (Marcie Lynn Ross), a formal and reserved therapist who seems detached from her patient.
Bernhardt’s construct utilizing frequent mini-scenes allows for the interweaving of the central characters. As a device it works to keep the action moving, but it also fragments the storyline and leaves questions unanswered.
The star of the play is the beautifully designed set by Eloise Ayala. The three coexisting offices reflect the personalities of the therapists. Moira’s is eclectic, with various art pieces and incense; Steven’s is more academic and masculine; Sandra’s is sterile and minimal.
Selgas is outstanding as the troubled, angry, and volatile young man whose persona is authentic. Leveridge is also completely believable as she invests her character with real empathy. In a particularly emotional moment with her own therapist, she imbues her character with genuine pathos. Ross and Sura are equally good in their characterizations.
While the story is engaging and follows a plausible trajectory, tightening the threads of the plot to allow for longer development of the characters’ issues would improve the audience buy-in. At play’s end, the three therapists have begun to address their personal lives more proactively, but it is more mechanical and tidy than emotional. Still, much food for thought is provided, and sympathy for the counselor results. Bernhardt’s caveat might be: therapist, heal thyself.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
March 4, 2013
March 4, 2013
Jeckyll & Hyde, the Musical
Broadway/L.A. at Pantages Theatre
There are a few positive aspects of Jeff Calhoun’s direction of a show that is fast approaching “chestnut” status as it winds its way across the country on a multicity tour before its heralded revival on the Great White Way. Lavish production values set a high water mark from the opening moments and work exceptionally well—less perhaps one glaringly harsh exception in the second act. Designer Tobin Ost has created a magnificently versatile scenic design featuring large panels that swivel and move about the stage, providing areas upon which projection designer Daniel Brodie’s handiwork, some still and some moving, augment various scenes. Likewise, Ost’s costuming is sumptuous and eye-catching, darker hues setting the tone for this gothic tale of horrific tragedy thanks to lighting designer Jeff Croiter’s topnotch illumination.
Couple these highpoints with a deep well of supporting players from which Calhoun has drawn, and one could easily see a long and healthy New York run. But this piece must rest, as well it should, on the shoulders of the actor selected to assay the titular roles. Unfortunately, in what can best be described as a disappointing example of “stunt” casting, Constantine Maroulis—he of American Idol fame—demonstrates that an otherwise amazing ability to “rock out” on what are clearly “legitimate” musical theater compositions seems merely self-indulgent and horribly out of place.
It’s as though he and musical director Steven Landau are compensating for Maroulis being seemingly in over his head. His Jekyll displays not a shred of leading man quality, but comes off instead as weak and possessing none of the drive and determination that leads to his self-experimentation. His bland version of composer Frank Wildhorn’s and lyricist Leslie Bricusse’s Act 1 signature piece “This Is the Moment” seems more about posing around the stage than playing the good doctor’s mounting excitement. Likewise, it seems inexplicable that a woman as self-assured as Teal Wicks’s beautifully voiced Emma Carew would ever find romance with such an insecure specimen.
Maroulis’s version of Jekyll’s evil alter-ego, Edward Hyde, is, to be sure, much more watchable, that is if catching rare glimpses of his face from behind a mop of forward-combed hair qualifies as such. As Hyde becomes the stronger of the two, the transformations and Maroulis’s wavering accent become less and less convincing. But the worst affront comes in the form of Calhoun’s take and his star’s performance of “Confrontation.” Is it that Maroulis couldn’t handle what is arguably one of the most difficult solo pieces ever written or did his director feel that current audiences needed to be wowed with exaggerated spectacle? Rather than demonstrating the battle being waged between the character’s dual personalities, Maroulis sings only the Jekyll half of the song while the walls of his home play movie screen to overblown video sequences featuring the actor, prerecorded, singing the Hyde role amidst images of cracked mirrors and animated explosions. Rather than providing a climactic part of a larger story, it seems like a stage-sized version of an Xbox game.
On the other hand, and thankfully so, his co-star, Deborah Cox is everything anyone could wish for in the role of the love-starved prostitute, Lucy Harris. Cox’s acting is of the highest caliber, and kudos to her for trusting the songs enough to simply sing them as originally written. No outlandish demonstrations of a vocal range that no doubt she has on hand. Just gorgeous, lovingly rendered performances of “Someone Like You,” “A New Life,” and her showstopping interpretation with Wicks of the female duet “In His Eyes.” How audiences will respond to this piece when it finally reaches Broadway remains to be seen. On the night reviewed, the reactions of those at the Pantages were certainly a mixed bag. Some leapt to their feet to applaud, while others headed up the aisles even as the rest of the cast exited the stage and Maroulis made a final approach to the footlights visibly encouraging further adoration the way one might envision a rock concert to end.
Broadway/L.A. at Pantages Theatre
There are a few positive aspects of Jeff Calhoun’s direction of a show that is fast approaching “chestnut” status as it winds its way across the country on a multicity tour before its heralded revival on the Great White Way. Lavish production values set a high water mark from the opening moments and work exceptionally well—less perhaps one glaringly harsh exception in the second act. Designer Tobin Ost has created a magnificently versatile scenic design featuring large panels that swivel and move about the stage, providing areas upon which projection designer Daniel Brodie’s handiwork, some still and some moving, augment various scenes. Likewise, Ost’s costuming is sumptuous and eye-catching, darker hues setting the tone for this gothic tale of horrific tragedy thanks to lighting designer Jeff Croiter’s topnotch illumination.
Couple these highpoints with a deep well of supporting players from which Calhoun has drawn, and one could easily see a long and healthy New York run. But this piece must rest, as well it should, on the shoulders of the actor selected to assay the titular roles. Unfortunately, in what can best be described as a disappointing example of “stunt” casting, Constantine Maroulis—he of American Idol fame—demonstrates that an otherwise amazing ability to “rock out” on what are clearly “legitimate” musical theater compositions seems merely self-indulgent and horribly out of place.
It’s as though he and musical director Steven Landau are compensating for Maroulis being seemingly in over his head. His Jekyll displays not a shred of leading man quality, but comes off instead as weak and possessing none of the drive and determination that leads to his self-experimentation. His bland version of composer Frank Wildhorn’s and lyricist Leslie Bricusse’s Act 1 signature piece “This Is the Moment” seems more about posing around the stage than playing the good doctor’s mounting excitement. Likewise, it seems inexplicable that a woman as self-assured as Teal Wicks’s beautifully voiced Emma Carew would ever find romance with such an insecure specimen.
Maroulis’s version of Jekyll’s evil alter-ego, Edward Hyde, is, to be sure, much more watchable, that is if catching rare glimpses of his face from behind a mop of forward-combed hair qualifies as such. As Hyde becomes the stronger of the two, the transformations and Maroulis’s wavering accent become less and less convincing. But the worst affront comes in the form of Calhoun’s take and his star’s performance of “Confrontation.” Is it that Maroulis couldn’t handle what is arguably one of the most difficult solo pieces ever written or did his director feel that current audiences needed to be wowed with exaggerated spectacle? Rather than demonstrating the battle being waged between the character’s dual personalities, Maroulis sings only the Jekyll half of the song while the walls of his home play movie screen to overblown video sequences featuring the actor, prerecorded, singing the Hyde role amidst images of cracked mirrors and animated explosions. Rather than providing a climactic part of a larger story, it seems like a stage-sized version of an Xbox game.
On the other hand, and thankfully so, his co-star, Deborah Cox is everything anyone could wish for in the role of the love-starved prostitute, Lucy Harris. Cox’s acting is of the highest caliber, and kudos to her for trusting the songs enough to simply sing them as originally written. No outlandish demonstrations of a vocal range that no doubt she has on hand. Just gorgeous, lovingly rendered performances of “Someone Like You,” “A New Life,” and her showstopping interpretation with Wicks of the female duet “In His Eyes.” How audiences will respond to this piece when it finally reaches Broadway remains to be seen. On the night reviewed, the reactions of those at the Pantages were certainly a mixed bag. Some leapt to their feet to applaud, while others headed up the aisles even as the rest of the cast exited the stage and Maroulis made a final approach to the footlights visibly encouraging further adoration the way one might envision a rock concert to end.
Reviewed by Dink O'Neal
February 16, 2013
February 16, 2013
Around the World in 80 Days
International City Theatre
For nearly 150 years Jules Verne’s inventive writings have captured the imagination of other writers, poets, and artists as they create works based on his often fanciful science fiction stories. A delightful case in point is playwright Mark Brown’s clever adaptation directed by Allison Bibicoff with a crack team of five energetic actors playing more than three dozen parts.
We all know the story: Phileas Fogg (Jud V. Williford) bets a group of his Reform Club fellows that he can circle the globe in 80 days. Joined by his French manservant, Passepartout (Michael Uribes), he travels by steamer and rail, all the while encountering exotic locales and perilous mishaps. Around the same time as Fogg is leaving on his adventure, a British bank robbery leads Detective Fix (Brian Stanton) to suspect the wealthy Fogg of the deed, and Fix follows him, placing obstacles in Fogg’s way so he can arrest him at the appropriate time.
Trying to describe the plot’s machinations and actors’ roles is nearly as difficult as Fogg’s global endeavors. A particularly amusing scene is an elephant ride utilizing two gray umbrellas, a stack of chairs, and a labeled “trunk” that actors climb on, swaying as they journey. There’s a typhoon, Indian uprisings in the old West, and mysterious orange-clad figures to foil. The story is well-anchored by the very proper and precise Williford, epitomizing the unflappable Brit. Uribes contributes acrobatic skill and quick-witted comedy, making a wonderful foil for their risky perils.
Cast member Melinda Porto delights as male and female characters, notably her nuanced portrayal of an Indian princess rescued by Fogg from the funeral pyre of her husband. Mark Gagliardi’s facility with accents and quick changes are a large part of the success of the production. Stanton, in addition to his detective portrayal, does yeoman work as other colorful characters.
Staci Walters’ global-map backdrop plays its part well, following Fogg and company from London back to England with a moving light along the travelers’ path. Donna Ruzika’s artful lighting and Dave Mickey’s thoughtful sound design add punch to the production. Kim DeShazo’s costumes, particularly those which are quick changes, are highly effective.
Bibicoff has her hands full with Brown’s challenges. It is noted that he gives few stage directions, allowing for directorial imagination. Thanks to Bibicoff’s skills and lighthearted management, this play charms from beginning to end and makes a fine opener for ICT’s season.
International City Theatre
For nearly 150 years Jules Verne’s inventive writings have captured the imagination of other writers, poets, and artists as they create works based on his often fanciful science fiction stories. A delightful case in point is playwright Mark Brown’s clever adaptation directed by Allison Bibicoff with a crack team of five energetic actors playing more than three dozen parts.
We all know the story: Phileas Fogg (Jud V. Williford) bets a group of his Reform Club fellows that he can circle the globe in 80 days. Joined by his French manservant, Passepartout (Michael Uribes), he travels by steamer and rail, all the while encountering exotic locales and perilous mishaps. Around the same time as Fogg is leaving on his adventure, a British bank robbery leads Detective Fix (Brian Stanton) to suspect the wealthy Fogg of the deed, and Fix follows him, placing obstacles in Fogg’s way so he can arrest him at the appropriate time.
Trying to describe the plot’s machinations and actors’ roles is nearly as difficult as Fogg’s global endeavors. A particularly amusing scene is an elephant ride utilizing two gray umbrellas, a stack of chairs, and a labeled “trunk” that actors climb on, swaying as they journey. There’s a typhoon, Indian uprisings in the old West, and mysterious orange-clad figures to foil. The story is well-anchored by the very proper and precise Williford, epitomizing the unflappable Brit. Uribes contributes acrobatic skill and quick-witted comedy, making a wonderful foil for their risky perils.
Cast member Melinda Porto delights as male and female characters, notably her nuanced portrayal of an Indian princess rescued by Fogg from the funeral pyre of her husband. Mark Gagliardi’s facility with accents and quick changes are a large part of the success of the production. Stanton, in addition to his detective portrayal, does yeoman work as other colorful characters.
Staci Walters’ global-map backdrop plays its part well, following Fogg and company from London back to England with a moving light along the travelers’ path. Donna Ruzika’s artful lighting and Dave Mickey’s thoughtful sound design add punch to the production. Kim DeShazo’s costumes, particularly those which are quick changes, are highly effective.
Bibicoff has her hands full with Brown’s challenges. It is noted that he gives few stage directions, allowing for directorial imagination. Thanks to Bibicoff’s skills and lighthearted management, this play charms from beginning to end and makes a fine opener for ICT’s season.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
February 3, 2013
February 3, 2013
Backbeat
Karl Sydow in association with Glasgow Citizens Theatre at Ahmanson Theatre
Gentle program notes for this U.S. premiere attempt to stave off complaints by Beatles connoisseurs. “And, of course, Paul is left-handed,” the notes conclude. But the right-handed Daniel Healy who plays Paul McCartney is, pardon the Dionne Warwick paraphrase, always someone there to remind us that the production takes much license—unfortunately not all of it artistic.
Backbeat, by Iain Softley and Stephen Jeffreys, details the early history of the Beatles as the band gels in Hamburg and Liverpool. More particularly, and problematically, however, the story follows the trajectory of Stuart Sutcliffe, the band’s original bass player. Sutcliffe, played by Nick Blood, is cool and hip, and although he’d rather be painting than spending seven nights per week, six hours per night, in the smoky clubs of Hamburg, he is after all winning the girl and winning a scholarship to a German state art school. He makes a very dull main character in the midst of this low-stakes story.
The audience is told, every which way, how much John, played with pert insouciance by Andrew Knott, “loves” and “admires” Stuart. Paul plods on, but we know there’s hope for him. Meantime, as we also know, drummer Pete Best, played by Oliver Bennett, is doomed. That’s narratively and musically a pity; Bennett wails in virtuosic licks, and Best shows up sober, on time, and in time. Best is replaced in late innings by Ringo, to whom Adam Sopp gives cheery pendulous stick strokes. Daniel Westwick plays the callow George Harrison.
David Leveaux’s direction shares a credit with “Iain Softley’s Production for Glasgow Citizens Theatre.” Whoever took charge here, it’s not nearly enough. “Longer” and “louder” seem to be the actors’ guides, as walls slide in and out around them to show scene changes, while a shabby sofa serves as the furnishing that represents “a scene at home.” At a train station, steam engines let off puffy clouds of water vapor. A few scenes later, Paul and John are in an otherwise empty club, surrounded by puffy clouds of cigarette smoke.
Thick accents—maybe resembling Liverpudlian but in many cases not resembling German—waft in and out of hearing. Leanne Best, playing the photographer and eventually Stuart’s wife Astrid, is allowed to shout her every line. Once again, though she is a pretty creature in stylish blonde gamine cut, this Astrid makes one wonder what Stuart ever saw in her.
During each of the Hamburg club scenes, a drunken man dances in front of the band. Sometimes those dances are clearly from the 1980s and not the ’60s. That the actors playing the Beatles don’t look like their real-life counterparts is not as troublesome as that they don’t look like they’re in the ’60s, either.
But most troublesome in this production, the sound of the band’s numbers is muddily distorted, as well as nearing painfully loud. Additionally, it’s possible instruments were being tuned out of the audience’s sight, but you couldn’t prove it by this reviewer’s ears.
Karl Sydow in association with Glasgow Citizens Theatre at Ahmanson Theatre
Gentle program notes for this U.S. premiere attempt to stave off complaints by Beatles connoisseurs. “And, of course, Paul is left-handed,” the notes conclude. But the right-handed Daniel Healy who plays Paul McCartney is, pardon the Dionne Warwick paraphrase, always someone there to remind us that the production takes much license—unfortunately not all of it artistic.
Backbeat, by Iain Softley and Stephen Jeffreys, details the early history of the Beatles as the band gels in Hamburg and Liverpool. More particularly, and problematically, however, the story follows the trajectory of Stuart Sutcliffe, the band’s original bass player. Sutcliffe, played by Nick Blood, is cool and hip, and although he’d rather be painting than spending seven nights per week, six hours per night, in the smoky clubs of Hamburg, he is after all winning the girl and winning a scholarship to a German state art school. He makes a very dull main character in the midst of this low-stakes story.
The audience is told, every which way, how much John, played with pert insouciance by Andrew Knott, “loves” and “admires” Stuart. Paul plods on, but we know there’s hope for him. Meantime, as we also know, drummer Pete Best, played by Oliver Bennett, is doomed. That’s narratively and musically a pity; Bennett wails in virtuosic licks, and Best shows up sober, on time, and in time. Best is replaced in late innings by Ringo, to whom Adam Sopp gives cheery pendulous stick strokes. Daniel Westwick plays the callow George Harrison.
David Leveaux’s direction shares a credit with “Iain Softley’s Production for Glasgow Citizens Theatre.” Whoever took charge here, it’s not nearly enough. “Longer” and “louder” seem to be the actors’ guides, as walls slide in and out around them to show scene changes, while a shabby sofa serves as the furnishing that represents “a scene at home.” At a train station, steam engines let off puffy clouds of water vapor. A few scenes later, Paul and John are in an otherwise empty club, surrounded by puffy clouds of cigarette smoke.
Thick accents—maybe resembling Liverpudlian but in many cases not resembling German—waft in and out of hearing. Leanne Best, playing the photographer and eventually Stuart’s wife Astrid, is allowed to shout her every line. Once again, though she is a pretty creature in stylish blonde gamine cut, this Astrid makes one wonder what Stuart ever saw in her.
During each of the Hamburg club scenes, a drunken man dances in front of the band. Sometimes those dances are clearly from the 1980s and not the ’60s. That the actors playing the Beatles don’t look like their real-life counterparts is not as troublesome as that they don’t look like they’re in the ’60s, either.
But most troublesome in this production, the sound of the band’s numbers is muddily distorted, as well as nearing painfully loud. Additionally, it’s possible instruments were being tuned out of the audience’s sight, but you couldn’t prove it by this reviewer’s ears.
One scene catches a bit of fire. Paul is noodling around with a
lackluster song that begs, “Please love me, too.” John wanders by and
starts to tinker. Bit by bit, two artists see a problem, work it, and
solve it. “Love Me Do,” is born. This is simple and entrancing
storytelling. Perhaps another time, in another show with better
storytelling skills, we’ll find out how Paul’s melody line for that song
became the harmony.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
February 1, 2013
February 1, 2013
Machu Picchu, Texas
at The Stella Adler Theatres
At the top of this Timothy McNeil play, the audience may be a little confused about who’s related to whom. As McNeil continues to introduce the family members to us, it seems they’re a little confused in their relationship boundaries, too. The numerousness of the characters, though, contributes to the “old-fashioned,” “well-made play” feel of McNeil’s work. Still, metaphor pervades the storytelling, making it appear quite up-to-date and yet timeless. This world premiere script has its charms, but it also has a few faults that could be repaired.
In brief, here’s the consanguinity: Sonia and Harold Ogden, in whose home the play takes place, are parents to Melissa. Sonia’s sister Rhonda is married to Charlie Foster, and their sons are Terry and Dalton. Also visiting over the play’s course are Sonia’s childhood friend June Bug and her husband, Donnie, as well as Melissa’s boyfriend Brandon and Terry’s childhood friend Michael.
Harold and Sonia are trying to tend to Terry, who’s emotionally wrecked because his father, Charlie, had recently been brutalized by “college kids” and who is now brain-damaged and wheelchair-bound. Sonia was in love with Charlie before he married her sister, and Sonia thinks her love was requited. Terry is in love or lust with his first cousin Melissa. She seems to return the feelings, but then she shows up with Brandon. Soon, Terry momentarily falls into the arms of Michael. June Bug, unoffended by the goings on, confesses a brief long-ago crush on Sonia.
Unfortunately, it’s not clear what these unhappy souls, particularly Terry, were like prior to the attack. Was he an average “college kid,” too, when he was attending? Or was he always this withdrawn and lost? And when was he tossed out of school? Was Rhonda always so tightly wound, or has her husband’s horrifying incapacitation caused her to become a never-ending well of annoyance and fury? Sonia, it’s likely, was always a nurturer; here she is continually providing snacks, though she probably knows they’re needed to soak up all that booze. And Charlie, it seems, has always been the epitome of amiability. What a special soul he is, and how we wish he were onstage longer.
McNeil’s themes wend expertly through the play: delusion, dreams, dark urges, and the consequences. The grownups seem to be teaching the younger generation all the right things—work hard, be kind, take the high road—though alcoholism runs wide and deep. However, begging for a rewrite are two ungainly moments in the script. Information hastily revealed before the intermission break might be better left to play out in Act 2. And a rendition of verse and chorus of “Over the Rainbow” bogs down the midst of Act 2.
McNeil also directs, and he creates his mood fully and disturbingly. Some of the upstage action can’t be seen from portions of the audience, however—in particular when Terry sits in his bedroom, knife poised, and contemplates cutting his wrists. But the staging is otherwise thorough. The generous set (design by Michael Fitzgerald) tells so much about the family. At stage left is a crafts area at which Sonia tries to make her house a home—or at which she immerses herself in tasks to forget her troubles. At stage right, tiny plants are trying to spring up on the porch. A well-stocked bar seems to hover over the house upstage. And behind everything, the Andes tower over this Texas home.
The two McNeils also turn in superb performances. Bonnie McNeil’s matriarchic Sonia gently shines a glow of hope over the family, and Tim McNeil’s brain-damaged Charlie is crafted with precise but respectful details and a humanity the size of Texas.
What happens when good people give in to their dark urges and give up their dreams, and how do they deal with the consequences? It’s an intriguing setup for a drama, and it’s tackled here with solid theatermaking.
at The Stella Adler Theatres
At the top of this Timothy McNeil play, the audience may be a little confused about who’s related to whom. As McNeil continues to introduce the family members to us, it seems they’re a little confused in their relationship boundaries, too. The numerousness of the characters, though, contributes to the “old-fashioned,” “well-made play” feel of McNeil’s work. Still, metaphor pervades the storytelling, making it appear quite up-to-date and yet timeless. This world premiere script has its charms, but it also has a few faults that could be repaired.
In brief, here’s the consanguinity: Sonia and Harold Ogden, in whose home the play takes place, are parents to Melissa. Sonia’s sister Rhonda is married to Charlie Foster, and their sons are Terry and Dalton. Also visiting over the play’s course are Sonia’s childhood friend June Bug and her husband, Donnie, as well as Melissa’s boyfriend Brandon and Terry’s childhood friend Michael.
Harold and Sonia are trying to tend to Terry, who’s emotionally wrecked because his father, Charlie, had recently been brutalized by “college kids” and who is now brain-damaged and wheelchair-bound. Sonia was in love with Charlie before he married her sister, and Sonia thinks her love was requited. Terry is in love or lust with his first cousin Melissa. She seems to return the feelings, but then she shows up with Brandon. Soon, Terry momentarily falls into the arms of Michael. June Bug, unoffended by the goings on, confesses a brief long-ago crush on Sonia.
Unfortunately, it’s not clear what these unhappy souls, particularly Terry, were like prior to the attack. Was he an average “college kid,” too, when he was attending? Or was he always this withdrawn and lost? And when was he tossed out of school? Was Rhonda always so tightly wound, or has her husband’s horrifying incapacitation caused her to become a never-ending well of annoyance and fury? Sonia, it’s likely, was always a nurturer; here she is continually providing snacks, though she probably knows they’re needed to soak up all that booze. And Charlie, it seems, has always been the epitome of amiability. What a special soul he is, and how we wish he were onstage longer.
McNeil’s themes wend expertly through the play: delusion, dreams, dark urges, and the consequences. The grownups seem to be teaching the younger generation all the right things—work hard, be kind, take the high road—though alcoholism runs wide and deep. However, begging for a rewrite are two ungainly moments in the script. Information hastily revealed before the intermission break might be better left to play out in Act 2. And a rendition of verse and chorus of “Over the Rainbow” bogs down the midst of Act 2.
McNeil also directs, and he creates his mood fully and disturbingly. Some of the upstage action can’t be seen from portions of the audience, however—in particular when Terry sits in his bedroom, knife poised, and contemplates cutting his wrists. But the staging is otherwise thorough. The generous set (design by Michael Fitzgerald) tells so much about the family. At stage left is a crafts area at which Sonia tries to make her house a home—or at which she immerses herself in tasks to forget her troubles. At stage right, tiny plants are trying to spring up on the porch. A well-stocked bar seems to hover over the house upstage. And behind everything, the Andes tower over this Texas home.
The two McNeils also turn in superb performances. Bonnie McNeil’s matriarchic Sonia gently shines a glow of hope over the family, and Tim McNeil’s brain-damaged Charlie is crafted with precise but respectful details and a humanity the size of Texas.
What happens when good people give in to their dark urges and give up their dreams, and how do they deal with the consequences? It’s an intriguing setup for a drama, and it’s tackled here with solid theatermaking.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 28, 2012
January 28, 2012
Ganesh Versus the Third Reich
Center for the Art of Performance at UCLA’s Macgowan Hall Freud Playhouse
No hidden message here: From the start, we’re told that this is a story about power. Indeed, it’s several stories about power. An acting troupe is trying to piece together a theater production in which two paragons of power collide. The troupe, unsurprisingly, is led by an alpha-male director and comprises a few actors who think they should be running the show.
Enhancing and adding complexity to the storytelling, the fictional troupe was created by the real-life troupe Back to Back Theatre, hailing from Australia and led by director, devisor, and designer Bruce Gladwin.
The production’s audience probably should know that four of the five actors are, in the words of Back to Back, “intellectually disabled.” This knowledge will keep the audience from any impatience at not understanding those actors’ occasionally limited verbal articulation. But any disability doesn’t keep those actors from, well, acting. Each man reflects stagecraft—including presence, focus, and imagination. On the night reviewed, a backdrop stuck on its track. These “intellectually disabled” actors worked the problem until they solved it, just as fellow actors do any night on any stage around the world when things go amiss in live performances.
But as with group dynamics, each actor falls into a role in the troupe. The class clown is Mark Deans. The quiet problem-solver is Simon Laherty. The authority-questioner is Scott Price. And the thespian is Brian Tilley, playing Ganesh in the almost-play-within-a-play. Onstage with them is Luke Ryan, playing the troupe’s director. Ryan also plays Vishnu—simplistically stated, the Hindu god considered master of the universe, in charge of battling chaos.
The troupe is developing a production in which Ganesh—again simplistically summarized, the elephant-headed Hindu god known as the destroyer and the protector—travels to 1940s Germany. There, Ganesh plans to reclaim the symbol and symbolism of the swastika, originally a Hindu sign of luck.
Scott and the director fight over the director’s exercise of power. Some in the audience will side with actors who are in need of and deserving kindness. Some in the audience will side with a director frustrated over constantly reining in and disciplining his actors. Fisticuffs ensue—rendered gently—until Scott’s castmates subdue their director and shoo him off. What happens when there’s a void in strong leadership? Simon, never offered the role of Hitler, steps into it; in a strikingly theatrical turn, the lights switch to “performance” mode, dramatically illuminating the “play” and concealing in darkness the rehearsal furniture and costumes and the lolling actors around him.
It’s one of many moments of gorgeous visuals (design and set construction by Mark Cuthbertson, design and animation by Rhian Hinkley, lighting by Andrew Livingston, Bluebottle). Floor-to-ceiling plastic sheeting creates the various backgrounds: misty forests, a fenced-in home at evening. Two tables, a few chairs, projections, lighting, sound design, and, presto, creation! Ganesh, a Jewish man, and a Nazi are on a train hurtling through mountain passes. The audience is invited in to see how artistry is made, but the effect awes us anyway.
Even more stunning is how these young Australians can generate such chill air portraying 1940s Germany. It’s not just that their Hitler and Mengele terrify; it’s that Laherty, playing Simon, wears striped pajamas throughout rehearsals, and when Simon steps into the role of a young Jewish man, he burns with an intelligent flame we know will be horrifyingly extinguished by a sick social “need” for perfection.
The play about Ganesh is never quite completed, for reasons that make up its framing device. At the end of the evening, we’re left with Mark, who makes himself secure under a table. What is he doing there? Hiding? Resting? Playing? Thinking? Enjoying just being?
Center for the Art of Performance at UCLA’s Macgowan Hall Freud Playhouse
No hidden message here: From the start, we’re told that this is a story about power. Indeed, it’s several stories about power. An acting troupe is trying to piece together a theater production in which two paragons of power collide. The troupe, unsurprisingly, is led by an alpha-male director and comprises a few actors who think they should be running the show.
Enhancing and adding complexity to the storytelling, the fictional troupe was created by the real-life troupe Back to Back Theatre, hailing from Australia and led by director, devisor, and designer Bruce Gladwin.
The production’s audience probably should know that four of the five actors are, in the words of Back to Back, “intellectually disabled.” This knowledge will keep the audience from any impatience at not understanding those actors’ occasionally limited verbal articulation. But any disability doesn’t keep those actors from, well, acting. Each man reflects stagecraft—including presence, focus, and imagination. On the night reviewed, a backdrop stuck on its track. These “intellectually disabled” actors worked the problem until they solved it, just as fellow actors do any night on any stage around the world when things go amiss in live performances.
But as with group dynamics, each actor falls into a role in the troupe. The class clown is Mark Deans. The quiet problem-solver is Simon Laherty. The authority-questioner is Scott Price. And the thespian is Brian Tilley, playing Ganesh in the almost-play-within-a-play. Onstage with them is Luke Ryan, playing the troupe’s director. Ryan also plays Vishnu—simplistically stated, the Hindu god considered master of the universe, in charge of battling chaos.
The troupe is developing a production in which Ganesh—again simplistically summarized, the elephant-headed Hindu god known as the destroyer and the protector—travels to 1940s Germany. There, Ganesh plans to reclaim the symbol and symbolism of the swastika, originally a Hindu sign of luck.
Scott and the director fight over the director’s exercise of power. Some in the audience will side with actors who are in need of and deserving kindness. Some in the audience will side with a director frustrated over constantly reining in and disciplining his actors. Fisticuffs ensue—rendered gently—until Scott’s castmates subdue their director and shoo him off. What happens when there’s a void in strong leadership? Simon, never offered the role of Hitler, steps into it; in a strikingly theatrical turn, the lights switch to “performance” mode, dramatically illuminating the “play” and concealing in darkness the rehearsal furniture and costumes and the lolling actors around him.
It’s one of many moments of gorgeous visuals (design and set construction by Mark Cuthbertson, design and animation by Rhian Hinkley, lighting by Andrew Livingston, Bluebottle). Floor-to-ceiling plastic sheeting creates the various backgrounds: misty forests, a fenced-in home at evening. Two tables, a few chairs, projections, lighting, sound design, and, presto, creation! Ganesh, a Jewish man, and a Nazi are on a train hurtling through mountain passes. The audience is invited in to see how artistry is made, but the effect awes us anyway.
Even more stunning is how these young Australians can generate such chill air portraying 1940s Germany. It’s not just that their Hitler and Mengele terrify; it’s that Laherty, playing Simon, wears striped pajamas throughout rehearsals, and when Simon steps into the role of a young Jewish man, he burns with an intelligent flame we know will be horrifyingly extinguished by a sick social “need” for perfection.
The play about Ganesh is never quite completed, for reasons that make up its framing device. At the end of the evening, we’re left with Mark, who makes himself secure under a table. What is he doing there? Hiding? Resting? Playing? Thinking? Enjoying just being?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 27, 2013
January 27, 2013
Giving Up Is Hard to Do
The Victory Theatre Center’s Little Victory Theatre
At what point do you reveal to someone—a potential lover, a family member, an interviewing employer—an essential part of you that you’ve been keeping secret? And, having told that person, what reaction have you the right to expect?
For the many who find autobiographic solo shows too ego-driven, this one by writer-performer Annie Abbott, directed by Joel Zwick, may come as a pleasant surprise. Abbott is a working-class actor, and her tales of breaking in and earning her first roles pepper this 75-minute piece. So do her adventures in online dating after she was widowed from her much-worshiped husband. But the crux of this story is exceedingly universal—though not to be divulged here.
Abbott is energetic and engaging, playing grandmothers and young nieces and nephews and her towering husband as he knocks down walls in their new home. She makes a cozy storyteller, dressed in rich shades of plum nicely standing out against the brick-and-wood set of office, restaurants, backyards, and meeting room (all designs attributed to François-Pierre Couture).
Abbott’s script sews disparate pieces of her life together in an easy-to-follow, appealing, sometimes poetic story, punctuated by summaries (“I found myself standing in footprints I thought long ago disappeared”) that hang in the air for a few tender moments.
What doesn’t work here is the setup—the introduction and conclusion, the excuse for Annie to tell her story. The main substance, the point of the production, begs for better. There’s enough humor and frankness in Abbott’s recounting of her life. In telling a story about meeting someone she could finally trust, she and Zwick should trust the audience to be ready to listen without needing a warm-up act.
The Victory Theatre Center’s Little Victory Theatre
At what point do you reveal to someone—a potential lover, a family member, an interviewing employer—an essential part of you that you’ve been keeping secret? And, having told that person, what reaction have you the right to expect?
For the many who find autobiographic solo shows too ego-driven, this one by writer-performer Annie Abbott, directed by Joel Zwick, may come as a pleasant surprise. Abbott is a working-class actor, and her tales of breaking in and earning her first roles pepper this 75-minute piece. So do her adventures in online dating after she was widowed from her much-worshiped husband. But the crux of this story is exceedingly universal—though not to be divulged here.
Abbott is energetic and engaging, playing grandmothers and young nieces and nephews and her towering husband as he knocks down walls in their new home. She makes a cozy storyteller, dressed in rich shades of plum nicely standing out against the brick-and-wood set of office, restaurants, backyards, and meeting room (all designs attributed to François-Pierre Couture).
Abbott’s script sews disparate pieces of her life together in an easy-to-follow, appealing, sometimes poetic story, punctuated by summaries (“I found myself standing in footprints I thought long ago disappeared”) that hang in the air for a few tender moments.
What doesn’t work here is the setup—the introduction and conclusion, the excuse for Annie to tell her story. The main substance, the point of the production, begs for better. There’s enough humor and frankness in Abbott’s recounting of her life. In telling a story about meeting someone she could finally trust, she and Zwick should trust the audience to be ready to listen without needing a warm-up act.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 27, 2013
January 27, 2013
Happy Face Sad Face
The Elephant Lillian Stage
Happy Face Sad Face, R.J. Colleary’s new play, elicits much more of the latter than the former, though if all concerned were a little more conscientious and less self-congratulatory, they might have a shot at favorably reversing the ratio. Commendably, if hubristically, the show self-identifies as possessing “a brilliantly simple concept,” to the effect that the same story, first a drama and then a comedy, is “told from the polar opposite perspective.”
I would share that enthusiasm if I could think of a single instance in which such a conceit actually worked. Woody Allen’s Melinda & Melinda tried it, although the cutting back and forth between the serious and wacky versions went awry when it proved impossible to figure out which was meant to be which. Aside from canny programming choices by regional producers (as when a production of Hamlet is chosen to play in repertory with Stoppard’s Dogg’s Hamlet/Cahoot’s Macbeth), the line between tragic and comic may be too thin to make much hay out of the contrast Colleary attempts here.
At least he indulges in no cross-cutting: Act 1 is the serious take. Audience snorts and guffaws on opening night suggested audience members weren’t immediately catching on that Sad Face was up first, though they can’t be blamed for inferring that such a preposterous plot—involving a stranger’s insurance scheme, the slow revelation of family secrets, and a lot of people waving guns around—must have been intended as satire. Late-inning machinations and twists prove to be the main point of interest in what emerges as a glibly cynical thriller with a would-be O. Henry payoff, not a truly serious drama per se. But at least it keeps one interested.
The switcheroo to comedy in Act 2 feels a bit of a cheat, because instead of creating mirthful spins on Act 1’s storyline, Colleary just imposes a lot of silly choices on his characters. Insurance agent Jason (Tom Christensen) for instance, who glides through Act 1 coolly clad in casual preppy attire, now shows up in silk copper-colored pajamas and a flapping dragon-print robe. His visiting, squabbling parents (Thomas F. Evans and Perry Smith) come back after intermission as S&M-freaky swingers, while wife Emily (Krizia Bajos), a Cuban-American of oddly snippy but otherwise sensible mien, is transformed into a shrieking, non-English-speaking harpy who out-chicas Modern Family’s Sofia Vergara, if such a thing is possible. Either way…a Cuban named Emily?
For the record, Smith garners some real laughs as a wacko bondage mistress, but Christensen flits around as if always preparing to reveal his supposed heterosexuality as a sham, though that never comes to pass. Meanwhile dad Evans, in underpants and a dog collar, spends most of Act 2 hidden behind a sofa, which is good.
Here’s a totally unsolicited but totally apropos acting lesson for all concerned. A truism of acting goes that whenever someone on stage exhales or retreats or collapses, it has the effect of bringing something—an action, a scene, a moment, an intention—to an end. Once the air is gone, something else has to be built from scratch, and each new effort to get something going puts a strain on audience attention.
In both acts, helmer Kathleen Rubin allows her players constantly and fatally to let the air out of the scenes. It’s especially important that characters in a thriller or comedy, Colleary’s genres of choice, be quicksilver and alive: They must always be thinking, always trying to make things happen, eyes gleaming and bodies tingling with energy as if they can’t wait to leap up. In this production, by contrast, the cast is forever sitting around depressed and mopey, like castaways in those New Yorker cartoons set on tiny desert islands. If by any chance any of Rubin’s actors is moved to get some action going, you can count on a castmate to squelch it by misapplying the prevailing energy.
One consistent buzzkiller is Jason’s insurance client Malcolm (Rob Locke), who cannot stop panting exhaustedly. It’s unclear whether Locke, a portly fellow, is actually in distress or he somehow feels he has got to keep reminding us that Malcolm is infirm, but either way it’s unpleasant to witness.
An acting teacher I once knew made a simple but effective suggestion: Anytime you or your character feels like exhaling, find a way to justify turning it into an inhalation, and you’ll be energized by what happens. As proof that Happy Face Sad Face could profit from this tip, consider that the three biggest opening night laughs in Act 2 occurred when two or more characters took big, deep breaths simultaneously. I daresay the audience was unaware of why they were being roused, but it was like taking a hit from oxygen masks dropping from a plane’s ceiling. A steady infusion of fresh air wouldn’t fix the ungainly plot and dialogue, but it could do a lot for the palatability of this production.
The Elephant Lillian Stage
Happy Face Sad Face, R.J. Colleary’s new play, elicits much more of the latter than the former, though if all concerned were a little more conscientious and less self-congratulatory, they might have a shot at favorably reversing the ratio. Commendably, if hubristically, the show self-identifies as possessing “a brilliantly simple concept,” to the effect that the same story, first a drama and then a comedy, is “told from the polar opposite perspective.”
I would share that enthusiasm if I could think of a single instance in which such a conceit actually worked. Woody Allen’s Melinda & Melinda tried it, although the cutting back and forth between the serious and wacky versions went awry when it proved impossible to figure out which was meant to be which. Aside from canny programming choices by regional producers (as when a production of Hamlet is chosen to play in repertory with Stoppard’s Dogg’s Hamlet/Cahoot’s Macbeth), the line between tragic and comic may be too thin to make much hay out of the contrast Colleary attempts here.
At least he indulges in no cross-cutting: Act 1 is the serious take. Audience snorts and guffaws on opening night suggested audience members weren’t immediately catching on that Sad Face was up first, though they can’t be blamed for inferring that such a preposterous plot—involving a stranger’s insurance scheme, the slow revelation of family secrets, and a lot of people waving guns around—must have been intended as satire. Late-inning machinations and twists prove to be the main point of interest in what emerges as a glibly cynical thriller with a would-be O. Henry payoff, not a truly serious drama per se. But at least it keeps one interested.
The switcheroo to comedy in Act 2 feels a bit of a cheat, because instead of creating mirthful spins on Act 1’s storyline, Colleary just imposes a lot of silly choices on his characters. Insurance agent Jason (Tom Christensen) for instance, who glides through Act 1 coolly clad in casual preppy attire, now shows up in silk copper-colored pajamas and a flapping dragon-print robe. His visiting, squabbling parents (Thomas F. Evans and Perry Smith) come back after intermission as S&M-freaky swingers, while wife Emily (Krizia Bajos), a Cuban-American of oddly snippy but otherwise sensible mien, is transformed into a shrieking, non-English-speaking harpy who out-chicas Modern Family’s Sofia Vergara, if such a thing is possible. Either way…a Cuban named Emily?
For the record, Smith garners some real laughs as a wacko bondage mistress, but Christensen flits around as if always preparing to reveal his supposed heterosexuality as a sham, though that never comes to pass. Meanwhile dad Evans, in underpants and a dog collar, spends most of Act 2 hidden behind a sofa, which is good.
Here’s a totally unsolicited but totally apropos acting lesson for all concerned. A truism of acting goes that whenever someone on stage exhales or retreats or collapses, it has the effect of bringing something—an action, a scene, a moment, an intention—to an end. Once the air is gone, something else has to be built from scratch, and each new effort to get something going puts a strain on audience attention.
In both acts, helmer Kathleen Rubin allows her players constantly and fatally to let the air out of the scenes. It’s especially important that characters in a thriller or comedy, Colleary’s genres of choice, be quicksilver and alive: They must always be thinking, always trying to make things happen, eyes gleaming and bodies tingling with energy as if they can’t wait to leap up. In this production, by contrast, the cast is forever sitting around depressed and mopey, like castaways in those New Yorker cartoons set on tiny desert islands. If by any chance any of Rubin’s actors is moved to get some action going, you can count on a castmate to squelch it by misapplying the prevailing energy.
One consistent buzzkiller is Jason’s insurance client Malcolm (Rob Locke), who cannot stop panting exhaustedly. It’s unclear whether Locke, a portly fellow, is actually in distress or he somehow feels he has got to keep reminding us that Malcolm is infirm, but either way it’s unpleasant to witness.
An acting teacher I once knew made a simple but effective suggestion: Anytime you or your character feels like exhaling, find a way to justify turning it into an inhalation, and you’ll be energized by what happens. As proof that Happy Face Sad Face could profit from this tip, consider that the three biggest opening night laughs in Act 2 occurred when two or more characters took big, deep breaths simultaneously. I daresay the audience was unaware of why they were being roused, but it was like taking a hit from oxygen masks dropping from a plane’s ceiling. A steady infusion of fresh air wouldn’t fix the ungainly plot and dialogue, but it could do a lot for the palatability of this production.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
January 23, 2013
January 23, 2013
Boeing-Boeing
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts
The word stewardess has often been synonymous with the word glamorous, and Marc Camoletti’s naughty French farce, translated by Beverley Cross and Francis Evans, spotlights three sexy flight attendants and their playboy boyfriend, Bernard (Carter Roy). Bernard has created the ideal life for himself. With mathematical precision worthy of a war campaign, Bernard has acquired three stewardess fiancées, each working a different airline. He has managed this because they have flight plans that don’t overlap. True to formula, that is going to change.
Gloria (Melanie Lora) is the first of the three—a blonde American nearly the embodiment of a living Barbie. Number 2 is Gabriella (Kalie Quinones)—a feisty Italian with an attitude. Number 3 is Gretchen (Amy Rutberg)—a hearty and imposing German. All three are in love with Bernard and are pushing him toward marriage, a commitment for which he has little enthusiasm. Matters are further complicated when bachelor schoolmate Robert (Marc Valera) comes to stay. Bad weather has interfered with Bernard’s split-second timetable, and eventually all three women end up in the apartment at the same time, an event that challenges the amorous Bernard and his hapless friend.
Adding deadpan humor to the proceedings is Berthe (Michelle Azar), Bernard’s beleaguered maid. Playing Berthe, acerbic yet complicit in the events, Azar nearly steals the show. Jeff Maynard’s directorial choices are often hit-and-miss. When applying physicality to the scenes, he does a fine job with expert timing. He is heavy handed, though, and some characterizations begin at too intense a level and seem overdrawn too soon.
As in any good farce, Kevin Clowes’s colorful apartment design includes multiple doors necessary for comic entering and leaving. Jean-Yves Tessier’s lighting design also creates a bright and effective atmosphere. Helen Butler’s stewardess uniforms are notable.
When the play premiered in the 1960s, sex was just taking center stage in a number of films and plays. By now, it is old hat, and this touring revival is pleasantly silly but breaks no new ground. Though the cast is enthusiastic, the final result is a tepid C+.
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts
The word stewardess has often been synonymous with the word glamorous, and Marc Camoletti’s naughty French farce, translated by Beverley Cross and Francis Evans, spotlights three sexy flight attendants and their playboy boyfriend, Bernard (Carter Roy). Bernard has created the ideal life for himself. With mathematical precision worthy of a war campaign, Bernard has acquired three stewardess fiancées, each working a different airline. He has managed this because they have flight plans that don’t overlap. True to formula, that is going to change.
Gloria (Melanie Lora) is the first of the three—a blonde American nearly the embodiment of a living Barbie. Number 2 is Gabriella (Kalie Quinones)—a feisty Italian with an attitude. Number 3 is Gretchen (Amy Rutberg)—a hearty and imposing German. All three are in love with Bernard and are pushing him toward marriage, a commitment for which he has little enthusiasm. Matters are further complicated when bachelor schoolmate Robert (Marc Valera) comes to stay. Bad weather has interfered with Bernard’s split-second timetable, and eventually all three women end up in the apartment at the same time, an event that challenges the amorous Bernard and his hapless friend.
Adding deadpan humor to the proceedings is Berthe (Michelle Azar), Bernard’s beleaguered maid. Playing Berthe, acerbic yet complicit in the events, Azar nearly steals the show. Jeff Maynard’s directorial choices are often hit-and-miss. When applying physicality to the scenes, he does a fine job with expert timing. He is heavy handed, though, and some characterizations begin at too intense a level and seem overdrawn too soon.
As in any good farce, Kevin Clowes’s colorful apartment design includes multiple doors necessary for comic entering and leaving. Jean-Yves Tessier’s lighting design also creates a bright and effective atmosphere. Helen Butler’s stewardess uniforms are notable.
When the play premiered in the 1960s, sex was just taking center stage in a number of films and plays. By now, it is old hat, and this touring revival is pleasantly silly but breaks no new ground. Though the cast is enthusiastic, the final result is a tepid C+.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
January 21, 2013
January 21, 2013
The Snake Can
Indie Chi Productions at Odyssey Theatre
Many think of the romantic travails of the middle-aged as hilarious, and most plays on this topic say little but patronize much. This play includes its fair share of hilarity, and inevitably its main audience will be the middle-aged, though the appeal of several of the performances demands broader attendance. Indeed, in this world premiere, playwright Kathryn Graf treats the topic respectfully, thoughtfully, and intriguingly, giving what could be a light play enough disturbing undercurrents to satisfy the serious-minded theatergoer. The surprise popping out of this production, like the snake out of the can, is its submerged depth.
The play centers on three women who are close friends in differing relationship situations. Meg (Sharon Sharth) ricochets among boy toys. Nina (Diane Cary), a painter, has separated from her husband Paul (Gregory Harrison), who has a new girlfriend. Harriet (Jane Kaczmarek), a widow for seven years, is a journalist currently trying to pen a novel. Harriet’s loneliness drives her to online dating, through which she meets Stephen (James Lancaster), at least intellectually her match. Meg tries dating Jake (Joel Polis), to uncomfortable effect. Nina wants no relationship, determined only to make art.
Much of Graf’s script holds the mirror up to nature. Life’s issues are unabashedly there, onstage, for the audience to recognize. If you want a peek at what’s wrong with the way women deal with relationships, watch Harriet and Meg try to figure Stephen out after one date.
Some of the script, however, could be trimmed. In particular, the scene between Meg and her best friend’s ex husband Paul rolls on far too long, going over material already spoken about or obvious. The play tidies up loose ends, which will appeal to some audiences and frustrate others. A few charmingly phrased epigrams are offered by Brad (Polis again), who serves as a plot device and delivery system for the play’s wisdoms, such as, “By this age, whatever hasn’t killed us, hasn’t made us stronger, it’s made us tired, and vulnerable and just a little more scared of life.”
Director Steven Robman shepherds the tone, giving the comedy weighty underpinnings and keeping the drama away from melodrama. He also seems to have given the actors latitude in some areas—though why not, with these veterans? During Nina’s aria of frustration, Cary roams the stage, seemingly unencumbered by blocking. His scene changes are brisk, aided by Hana S. Kim’s projections.
Not a snake-can surprise, and enhancing this production, are several performances. Sharth is a perky delight, making Meg energized but very real. Lancaster makes Stephen a comfortable presence, clearly able to appeal to Harriet, the actor a more-than-able foil for Kaczmarek in their thought-provoking scenes together.
But absolutely stellar is Kaczmarek. Not for a second is she actorly: She never falls back on line readings or gestures seen onstage so often when actors haven’t decided what their characters would do. She’s always vibrant but never hammy. She glows with the joy of playing a character. Yes, the character Graf wrote is sturdy and funny. But Kaczmarek makes her interesting, mixing the unexpected with the typically human.
Costume designer Miguel Montalvo works in a pleasant grey palette and gives the women enough shoe changes to keep the hawkeyed in the audience a little envious. Montalvo also gives Stephen green suede shoes and a matching tie, for those seeking visual clues about the characters’ “real” lives.
Indie Chi Productions at Odyssey Theatre
Many think of the romantic travails of the middle-aged as hilarious, and most plays on this topic say little but patronize much. This play includes its fair share of hilarity, and inevitably its main audience will be the middle-aged, though the appeal of several of the performances demands broader attendance. Indeed, in this world premiere, playwright Kathryn Graf treats the topic respectfully, thoughtfully, and intriguingly, giving what could be a light play enough disturbing undercurrents to satisfy the serious-minded theatergoer. The surprise popping out of this production, like the snake out of the can, is its submerged depth.
The play centers on three women who are close friends in differing relationship situations. Meg (Sharon Sharth) ricochets among boy toys. Nina (Diane Cary), a painter, has separated from her husband Paul (Gregory Harrison), who has a new girlfriend. Harriet (Jane Kaczmarek), a widow for seven years, is a journalist currently trying to pen a novel. Harriet’s loneliness drives her to online dating, through which she meets Stephen (James Lancaster), at least intellectually her match. Meg tries dating Jake (Joel Polis), to uncomfortable effect. Nina wants no relationship, determined only to make art.
Much of Graf’s script holds the mirror up to nature. Life’s issues are unabashedly there, onstage, for the audience to recognize. If you want a peek at what’s wrong with the way women deal with relationships, watch Harriet and Meg try to figure Stephen out after one date.
Some of the script, however, could be trimmed. In particular, the scene between Meg and her best friend’s ex husband Paul rolls on far too long, going over material already spoken about or obvious. The play tidies up loose ends, which will appeal to some audiences and frustrate others. A few charmingly phrased epigrams are offered by Brad (Polis again), who serves as a plot device and delivery system for the play’s wisdoms, such as, “By this age, whatever hasn’t killed us, hasn’t made us stronger, it’s made us tired, and vulnerable and just a little more scared of life.”
Director Steven Robman shepherds the tone, giving the comedy weighty underpinnings and keeping the drama away from melodrama. He also seems to have given the actors latitude in some areas—though why not, with these veterans? During Nina’s aria of frustration, Cary roams the stage, seemingly unencumbered by blocking. His scene changes are brisk, aided by Hana S. Kim’s projections.
Not a snake-can surprise, and enhancing this production, are several performances. Sharth is a perky delight, making Meg energized but very real. Lancaster makes Stephen a comfortable presence, clearly able to appeal to Harriet, the actor a more-than-able foil for Kaczmarek in their thought-provoking scenes together.
But absolutely stellar is Kaczmarek. Not for a second is she actorly: She never falls back on line readings or gestures seen onstage so often when actors haven’t decided what their characters would do. She’s always vibrant but never hammy. She glows with the joy of playing a character. Yes, the character Graf wrote is sturdy and funny. But Kaczmarek makes her interesting, mixing the unexpected with the typically human.
Costume designer Miguel Montalvo works in a pleasant grey palette and gives the women enough shoe changes to keep the hawkeyed in the audience a little envious. Montalvo also gives Stephen green suede shoes and a matching tie, for those seeking visual clues about the characters’ “real” lives.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 21, 2013
January 21, 2013
Track 3
Theatre Movement Bazaar and Bootleg Theater at Bootleg Theater
Where does Track 3 head to? It heads to Moscow, but only if one is uncomplaining and faithful and perpetually contented. And that means three sisters by the names of Olga, Masha, and Irina will probably not be on that train.
In Track 3, Chekhov’s Three Sisters gets a thoroughly creative adaptation by Richard Alger, directed and choreographed by Tina Kronis. This work merges text with dance—though it’s not “dance” as audiences may expect after watching certain television versions of it. No sambas, no 32 fouettés. Kronis’s style is fascinatingly distorted daily movement. Why ask an actor to walk across the stage when he or she can slither, limp, leap, or otherwise skedaddle in unique ways?
The production’s period (Alger’s lighting and scenic design, Ellen McCartney’s costuming) has a Chekhovian look, yet splashes of modernity delightfully disorient the eye. So, too, Alger’s story sticks to the original, but smartphones interrupt the action—fortunately onstage and not from the audience.
The lighting is bright and spills onto the brick walls of the theater and into the audience. This keeps the piece from being as moody and mysterious as other of Kronis and Alger’s works. It also keeps the viewer’s mind focused on the mechanics of the production and not wandering off to Russia with the characters. Adding to the Brechtian feel, the actors sit at the side of the stage, preparing for and awaiting entrances.
Those actors reflect long rehearsals here, but they also reflect skills built over years. They move well. Particularly adept at Kronis’s vocabulary, Mark Skeens plays the worshipped brother, Andrei. In general, though, the men commit more fully than the women do to the dancing, moving with purpose and completing each “step.”
The actors also sing, particularly charmingly in a barbershop quartet of Skeens, Mark Doerr, David LM McIntyre, and Jesse D. Myers; and Myers, playing heartbroken suitor Tuzenbach, contributes beautiful guitar accompaniment to other musical numbers. Doerr cuts a romantic figure as Masha’s lover, Vershinin. Skeens reveals the crushed spirit of Andrei. McIntyre provides gentle comedy as the buffoonish Solyony but also steps in to reveal “random” facts—presumably as the nonmentioned character of Ferapont from Chekhov’s original.
Yes, women star in this version, too. From the production’s start, the iconic trio springs forth as a lively—yes, including Masha—group. Kendra Chell creates schoolmarm Olga, Dylan Jones plays the disappointed Masha, and Caitlyn Conlin is the babied Irina. And then, Liz Vital bursts forth as Natasha, the sisters’ new and unwanted sister-in-law. Vital seems to thrive on physical comedy, her skills made even more noteworthy by Natasha’s lovely scarlet shoes.
Alger leaves in the essentials and the amusing. Natasha’s inamorato gets mentioned, repeatedly, because “Protopopov” is such a fun-to-say name. Masha’s husband is never seen, because, feh, who needs him! Natasha proudly wears a shiny green belt. The troubling fork remains downstage throughout.
At the play’s very end, the sisters construct a tiny house out of teacups and books. Indeed, isn’t that all a cozy home needs?
For the persnickety in the audience: The actors pronounce the city as “Mahs-cow.” To their credit, they do so with uniformity—though on the night reviewed one educated-otherwise actor let slip and then corrected mid-sound a “Mahs-coh.”
Sadly, the pronunciation doesn’t matter to three sisters, who still, despite a long history of appearing onstage in various fantastical adaptations, aren’t anywhere near their return to Moscow.
Where does Track 3 head to? It heads to Moscow, but only if one is uncomplaining and faithful and perpetually contented. And that means three sisters by the names of Olga, Masha, and Irina will probably not be on that train.
In Track 3, Chekhov’s Three Sisters gets a thoroughly creative adaptation by Richard Alger, directed and choreographed by Tina Kronis. This work merges text with dance—though it’s not “dance” as audiences may expect after watching certain television versions of it. No sambas, no 32 fouettés. Kronis’s style is fascinatingly distorted daily movement. Why ask an actor to walk across the stage when he or she can slither, limp, leap, or otherwise skedaddle in unique ways?
The production’s period (Alger’s lighting and scenic design, Ellen McCartney’s costuming) has a Chekhovian look, yet splashes of modernity delightfully disorient the eye. So, too, Alger’s story sticks to the original, but smartphones interrupt the action—fortunately onstage and not from the audience.
The lighting is bright and spills onto the brick walls of the theater and into the audience. This keeps the piece from being as moody and mysterious as other of Kronis and Alger’s works. It also keeps the viewer’s mind focused on the mechanics of the production and not wandering off to Russia with the characters. Adding to the Brechtian feel, the actors sit at the side of the stage, preparing for and awaiting entrances.
Those actors reflect long rehearsals here, but they also reflect skills built over years. They move well. Particularly adept at Kronis’s vocabulary, Mark Skeens plays the worshipped brother, Andrei. In general, though, the men commit more fully than the women do to the dancing, moving with purpose and completing each “step.”
The actors also sing, particularly charmingly in a barbershop quartet of Skeens, Mark Doerr, David LM McIntyre, and Jesse D. Myers; and Myers, playing heartbroken suitor Tuzenbach, contributes beautiful guitar accompaniment to other musical numbers. Doerr cuts a romantic figure as Masha’s lover, Vershinin. Skeens reveals the crushed spirit of Andrei. McIntyre provides gentle comedy as the buffoonish Solyony but also steps in to reveal “random” facts—presumably as the nonmentioned character of Ferapont from Chekhov’s original.
Yes, women star in this version, too. From the production’s start, the iconic trio springs forth as a lively—yes, including Masha—group. Kendra Chell creates schoolmarm Olga, Dylan Jones plays the disappointed Masha, and Caitlyn Conlin is the babied Irina. And then, Liz Vital bursts forth as Natasha, the sisters’ new and unwanted sister-in-law. Vital seems to thrive on physical comedy, her skills made even more noteworthy by Natasha’s lovely scarlet shoes.
Alger leaves in the essentials and the amusing. Natasha’s inamorato gets mentioned, repeatedly, because “Protopopov” is such a fun-to-say name. Masha’s husband is never seen, because, feh, who needs him! Natasha proudly wears a shiny green belt. The troubling fork remains downstage throughout.
At the play’s very end, the sisters construct a tiny house out of teacups and books. Indeed, isn’t that all a cozy home needs?
For the persnickety in the audience: The actors pronounce the city as “Mahs-cow.” To their credit, they do so with uniformity—though on the night reviewed one educated-otherwise actor let slip and then corrected mid-sound a “Mahs-coh.”
Sadly, the pronunciation doesn’t matter to three sisters, who still, despite a long history of appearing onstage in various fantastical adaptations, aren’t anywhere near their return to Moscow.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 19, 2013
January 19, 2013
The Motherfucker With the Hat
South Coast Repertory Julianne Argyros Stage
Stephen Adly Guirgis’s fine play The Motherfucker With the Hat is about many interesting things, the least important of which is the title’s brazenly cocking a snook at print editors and old-school patrons, daring anyone to object to the vulgarity. Well, the title is juvenile and stupid, an unnecessary attempt to call attention to itself. But the play is anything but.
Where Hat and Michael John Garcés’s production at South Coast Rep are strongest is in the insistent tugging at the tenuous bonds between pairs of people with whom we can all identify. Husbands and wives. Lovers. AA sponsor and sponsee. Relatives. Buddies. Guirgis has built his reputation as the detailer of society’s flotsam and jetsam in such works as and The Last Days of Judas Iscariot. But if you look past all of his freaks and geeks with their self-consciously outrageous dialogue and behavior, you locate a sensitive humanist, whose main theme is the endless physical, psychological, and financial and emotional obstacles that separate the members of our species in their important relationships. Guirgis is peerless at piling on those obstacles, such that it becomes completely fascinating to watch his people struggle to cut past them.
Hat is a five-hander, a much smaller cast than Guirgis is used to fielding. Yet there are as many complications among them as in his breakthrough epic (13 characters) of Times Square in the Giuliani era In Arabia, We’d All Be Kings (1999). There are race and class differences exploited here, as well as differing moral philosophies and just plain everyday misunderstandings, and Garcés manipulates them (and our feelings and funny bones) with unusual skill.
Where the play is strong but the production is not, is in the central tragedy of Jackie, a recent parolee struggling with going straight but unable to exorcise a lifetime’s legacy of fear, doubt, and low self-esteem. When Hat begins, he has been (mostly) sober for weeks, he has nabbed a job with a future, and he brings his girlfriend flowers. Within minutes, however, his demons are aroused at the sight of some motherfucker’s hat in the apartment, and thereafter he tears himself apart with the methodical decline of a Greek tragedy.
I didn’t see the Broadway production in which Bobby Cannavale scored a personal triumph as Jackie, but I can imagine him in it: He’s a big man—not just physically but aesthetically; he commands any room just by standing in it—playing a character who is being pushed by society, and AA, and everyone around him to become small, well-behaved, obsequious…that is, ordinary. When Jackie is imposing, as Cannavale surely is, his fall can assume a tragic dimension. But a miscast Tony Sancho is already small and ordinary, and boasts a limited vocal and emotional palette to boot.
The rest of the cast is marvelous, and Nephelie Andonyadis’s spinning, swirling set picks up on the chaos at work among the actors. But there’s no way a whiny, petulant, unprepossessing Jackie can break our hearts, and Sancho does not do so, not for a moment. As a result this Motherfucker delights but never awes.
South Coast Repertory Julianne Argyros Stage
Stephen Adly Guirgis’s fine play The Motherfucker With the Hat is about many interesting things, the least important of which is the title’s brazenly cocking a snook at print editors and old-school patrons, daring anyone to object to the vulgarity. Well, the title is juvenile and stupid, an unnecessary attempt to call attention to itself. But the play is anything but.
Where Hat and Michael John Garcés’s production at South Coast Rep are strongest is in the insistent tugging at the tenuous bonds between pairs of people with whom we can all identify. Husbands and wives. Lovers. AA sponsor and sponsee. Relatives. Buddies. Guirgis has built his reputation as the detailer of society’s flotsam and jetsam in such works as and The Last Days of Judas Iscariot. But if you look past all of his freaks and geeks with their self-consciously outrageous dialogue and behavior, you locate a sensitive humanist, whose main theme is the endless physical, psychological, and financial and emotional obstacles that separate the members of our species in their important relationships. Guirgis is peerless at piling on those obstacles, such that it becomes completely fascinating to watch his people struggle to cut past them.
Hat is a five-hander, a much smaller cast than Guirgis is used to fielding. Yet there are as many complications among them as in his breakthrough epic (13 characters) of Times Square in the Giuliani era In Arabia, We’d All Be Kings (1999). There are race and class differences exploited here, as well as differing moral philosophies and just plain everyday misunderstandings, and Garcés manipulates them (and our feelings and funny bones) with unusual skill.
Where the play is strong but the production is not, is in the central tragedy of Jackie, a recent parolee struggling with going straight but unable to exorcise a lifetime’s legacy of fear, doubt, and low self-esteem. When Hat begins, he has been (mostly) sober for weeks, he has nabbed a job with a future, and he brings his girlfriend flowers. Within minutes, however, his demons are aroused at the sight of some motherfucker’s hat in the apartment, and thereafter he tears himself apart with the methodical decline of a Greek tragedy.
I didn’t see the Broadway production in which Bobby Cannavale scored a personal triumph as Jackie, but I can imagine him in it: He’s a big man—not just physically but aesthetically; he commands any room just by standing in it—playing a character who is being pushed by society, and AA, and everyone around him to become small, well-behaved, obsequious…that is, ordinary. When Jackie is imposing, as Cannavale surely is, his fall can assume a tragic dimension. But a miscast Tony Sancho is already small and ordinary, and boasts a limited vocal and emotional palette to boot.
The rest of the cast is marvelous, and Nephelie Andonyadis’s spinning, swirling set picks up on the chaos at work among the actors. But there’s no way a whiny, petulant, unprepossessing Jackie can break our hearts, and Sancho does not do so, not for a moment. As a result this Motherfucker delights but never awes.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
January 15, 2013
January 15, 2013
The Grand Irrationality
The Lost Studio
An array of themes populates Jemma Kennedy’s world premiere script. Together, those themes might send a nicely existential message about taking responsibility for oneself. The production, however, suffers from an unimaginative mounting.
We first meet Guy Proud (Gregory Marcel), indeed a guy but not yet a man, as he lunches with Nina (Kirsten Kollender), a businesswoman who has made herself sexually objectified. Guy works for Big Daddy ad agency as a copywriter. Nina is a senior product developer for a soft-drink company. He cares more about keeping his job than being creative on it. It’s hard to tell whether she cares more about hooking up with Guy than about ensuring booming sales on the new beverage, but Kollender’s portrayal seems to lean more toward the romance, judging by the crushed heart she delicately reveals near the play’s end.
Guy’s lunch is interrupted by his blowsy sister Liz (Mina Badie), who wheels her baby in with her to announce that her and Guy’s father, Murray (Peter Elbling), has fallen and is injured. Murray, it turns out, is quite a card. Murray’s neighbor Vivienne (Bess Meyer) is a Frenchwoman and an active women’s rights advocate. Guy’s boss Alex (James Donovan) completes this chamber piece by filling in the fatherly, though vulgarly delivered, advice Guy isn’t getting from Murray.
Feminism, alcoholism, abandonment issues, and astrology feature in Kennedy’s script. Ultimately, the Proud family decides to get a grip. The script may be too long. It’s hard to tell because, although director John Pleshette has done solid work developing his actors’ characters, the staging drags out the storytelling beyond what average patience can bear. The frequent scene changes seem well-rehearsed but not well-conceived. Pleshette’s work with the actors shines in the production’s consistent tone and the characters’ three-dimensionality—though the French and Irish accents are wobbly.
Highlighting the acting, Elbling is, to borrow a delightful British adjective from the dialogue, stupendous. He creates the heart of a very unsympathetic character, and he displays pristine timing that lets Murray speak naturally without cutting off his scene partners’ lines.
The production’s nudity is gratuitous, mostly because it is distracting and does not fit with tone of play.
The Lost Studio
An array of themes populates Jemma Kennedy’s world premiere script. Together, those themes might send a nicely existential message about taking responsibility for oneself. The production, however, suffers from an unimaginative mounting.
We first meet Guy Proud (Gregory Marcel), indeed a guy but not yet a man, as he lunches with Nina (Kirsten Kollender), a businesswoman who has made herself sexually objectified. Guy works for Big Daddy ad agency as a copywriter. Nina is a senior product developer for a soft-drink company. He cares more about keeping his job than being creative on it. It’s hard to tell whether she cares more about hooking up with Guy than about ensuring booming sales on the new beverage, but Kollender’s portrayal seems to lean more toward the romance, judging by the crushed heart she delicately reveals near the play’s end.
Guy’s lunch is interrupted by his blowsy sister Liz (Mina Badie), who wheels her baby in with her to announce that her and Guy’s father, Murray (Peter Elbling), has fallen and is injured. Murray, it turns out, is quite a card. Murray’s neighbor Vivienne (Bess Meyer) is a Frenchwoman and an active women’s rights advocate. Guy’s boss Alex (James Donovan) completes this chamber piece by filling in the fatherly, though vulgarly delivered, advice Guy isn’t getting from Murray.
Feminism, alcoholism, abandonment issues, and astrology feature in Kennedy’s script. Ultimately, the Proud family decides to get a grip. The script may be too long. It’s hard to tell because, although director John Pleshette has done solid work developing his actors’ characters, the staging drags out the storytelling beyond what average patience can bear. The frequent scene changes seem well-rehearsed but not well-conceived. Pleshette’s work with the actors shines in the production’s consistent tone and the characters’ three-dimensionality—though the French and Irish accents are wobbly.
Highlighting the acting, Elbling is, to borrow a delightful British adjective from the dialogue, stupendous. He creates the heart of a very unsympathetic character, and he displays pristine timing that lets Murray speak naturally without cutting off his scene partners’ lines.
The production’s nudity is gratuitous, mostly because it is distracting and does not fit with tone of play.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 15, 2013
January 15, 2013
Hansel and Gretel
Theatre West
This well-known tale, of German origin, is credited to the Brothers Grimm for its first official recording in the early 19th century. The ironies of the publishing duo’s surname and the general tone of their works are hardly lost on those familiar with their compilations. Foreboding and often quite gruesome, these stories were clearly intended to frighten and warn the reader.
For the purposes of this spritely production, however, Lloyd J. Schwartz’s script homogenizes the more grotesque aspects while maintaining a clear focus on the moral that no matter how bad things get, it’s never the right choice to run away. And judging by the enraptured attention of the 3- to 9-year-old audience members at the performance reviewed, director Elliot Schwartz and company have achieved precisely their intended goal. Although the production is heavy on audience participation, director Schwartz keeps things moving with enough speed so that there isn’t time for fidgety boredom to take over.
In the title roles, adult actors Joey Jennings and Caitlin Gallogly make a cute pair for their paradoxical physical appearances and their onstage chemistry. Jennings plays Hansel as a very tall boy whose zero percent body fat contradicts his constant desire to eat. Gallogly’s Gretel, on the other hand, is the sensible one. Shorter in stature and sporting a blue gingham dress that would do Dorothy Gale proud, she has the job of reining in Jenning’s nicely turned goofiness. Their delivery of composers-lyricists Hope and Laurence Juber’s ear-friendly original compositions, particularly “We’re in a Mess of Trouble,” is well-rendered.
Anthony Gruppuso does a fine job as the protagonistic pair’s father, an unemployed woodcutter. Having eschewed the wicked stepmother, playwright Schwartz uses dad’s lack of work as the reason his children decide to run away. Gruppuso’s voice lends a legitimate quality to the production’s most lyrical number, titled “Family,” while ably handling his comedic interactions with the young viewers.
Silliness in spades is served up by Barbara Mallory as Birdy, a scatterbrained fowl, reminiscent of Dory from Finding Nemo, who eats the children’s breadcrumb trail. On a technical note, her number, “Birds Fly Better in Flocks,” was almost unintelligible due to the taped music’s volume level and the logistics of herding nearly two dozen kiddos who flooded the stage when she asked for volunteers.
Meanwhile, Kathy Garrick, as an ever-so-friendly Witch, is the closest thing to a villain this play serves up. Gone are the cannibalistic undertones, replaced by her conniving plan to overfeed the titular duo, thereby leading to their slothful laziness, so she can hijack the production and present her own theatrical showcase. Her big number, “The Candy Wrapper Song,” performed with Mallory, is clearly the standout piece on the song list.
In the end, with a magic spell here and a well-timed reveal there, the proceedings wrap up with a nice big bow. It proved to be an experience that sent everyone out the door with smiles on their faces.
Theatre West
This well-known tale, of German origin, is credited to the Brothers Grimm for its first official recording in the early 19th century. The ironies of the publishing duo’s surname and the general tone of their works are hardly lost on those familiar with their compilations. Foreboding and often quite gruesome, these stories were clearly intended to frighten and warn the reader.
For the purposes of this spritely production, however, Lloyd J. Schwartz’s script homogenizes the more grotesque aspects while maintaining a clear focus on the moral that no matter how bad things get, it’s never the right choice to run away. And judging by the enraptured attention of the 3- to 9-year-old audience members at the performance reviewed, director Elliot Schwartz and company have achieved precisely their intended goal. Although the production is heavy on audience participation, director Schwartz keeps things moving with enough speed so that there isn’t time for fidgety boredom to take over.
In the title roles, adult actors Joey Jennings and Caitlin Gallogly make a cute pair for their paradoxical physical appearances and their onstage chemistry. Jennings plays Hansel as a very tall boy whose zero percent body fat contradicts his constant desire to eat. Gallogly’s Gretel, on the other hand, is the sensible one. Shorter in stature and sporting a blue gingham dress that would do Dorothy Gale proud, she has the job of reining in Jenning’s nicely turned goofiness. Their delivery of composers-lyricists Hope and Laurence Juber’s ear-friendly original compositions, particularly “We’re in a Mess of Trouble,” is well-rendered.
Anthony Gruppuso does a fine job as the protagonistic pair’s father, an unemployed woodcutter. Having eschewed the wicked stepmother, playwright Schwartz uses dad’s lack of work as the reason his children decide to run away. Gruppuso’s voice lends a legitimate quality to the production’s most lyrical number, titled “Family,” while ably handling his comedic interactions with the young viewers.
Silliness in spades is served up by Barbara Mallory as Birdy, a scatterbrained fowl, reminiscent of Dory from Finding Nemo, who eats the children’s breadcrumb trail. On a technical note, her number, “Birds Fly Better in Flocks,” was almost unintelligible due to the taped music’s volume level and the logistics of herding nearly two dozen kiddos who flooded the stage when she asked for volunteers.
Meanwhile, Kathy Garrick, as an ever-so-friendly Witch, is the closest thing to a villain this play serves up. Gone are the cannibalistic undertones, replaced by her conniving plan to overfeed the titular duo, thereby leading to their slothful laziness, so she can hijack the production and present her own theatrical showcase. Her big number, “The Candy Wrapper Song,” performed with Mallory, is clearly the standout piece on the song list.
In the end, with a magic spell here and a well-timed reveal there, the proceedings wrap up with a nice big bow. It proved to be an experience that sent everyone out the door with smiles on their faces.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
January 14, 2013
January 14, 2013
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore
Cheek by Jowl, Center for the Art of Performance at UCLA’s Macgowan Hall Freud Playhouse
For several reasons, it may take the audience a while to “get” this production. But once the concept makes sense and the more-adept performances begin, there will be no doubts left about the setup and the execution. This is a benchmark evening.
Director Declan Donnellan places John Ford’s nearly 400-year-old play in the present. The set is a bedroom backed by a blood-red wall hung with movie posters—sirens and seductresses are their unifying theme—and their contrasting images, primarily of the Virgin Mary. One door in the upstage wall opens to a hallway, but the other door opens to a pristine, brightly lit bathroom in contrast with the darkly sanguine bedroom.
Donnellan avoids scene changes: All the action takes place in and around the bed, whether reflecting a choice to reveal the text as a nightmare or to show that every thought and movement of each character stems from sexuality or its denial. The friar offers his advice to “repent” while the bed sits squarely centerstage; a crowd piles onto the bed to “whoot” loudly over a fight.
Most fascinating, however, is that Donnellan brings one or more witness into many of the scenes. Thus, many conversations seem to be watched over by someone. Does this represent our conscience, or does it represent society’s prurience, nosiness, curiosity, judgmentalism? At the play’s gruesome end, so many characters feel compelled to peek into the bathroom and see the bloody wreckage, though those ahead of them emerge screaming in fright and disgust. We love our voyeurism, don’t we?
We also love the superficial. The female characters play dress-up in a variety of modes: a haloed bride, a widow in weeds (a little black dress here), a naughty schoolgirl. The males, at least the overtly sexual ones, go leather-clad or starkers.
So why the doubts at the top of the play? Apparently not every RADA-trained actor has spectacular enunciation (who knew?) and not every actor can dance (we knew!). The cast emerges to perform a little introductory divertissement, but only a few of the actors move well and in time to the music. Then it may take time for the audience to stop objectively observing the world of the direction and start to feel for the characters.
Eventually, somehow, we feel. It seems to happen when Donnellan shows us the mundane: when the married couple fights in the bedroom, or while the husband offers his wife a gift of tiny baby clothes, which she unpacks with gentle surprise. Or it may happen when the violence becomes just too much: when a sadistic “exotic dancer” bites the tongue out of the chatty “tutoress,” or when the brother of the “whore” commits his two final deeds.
It seems there’s nothing to pity here, and no blame leveled at the title character, as the original script’s last line is omitted. What’s left is a vivid evening of storytelling—and any judgment is up to us.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 10, 2013
Cheek by Jowl, Center for the Art of Performance at UCLA’s Macgowan Hall Freud Playhouse
For several reasons, it may take the audience a while to “get” this production. But once the concept makes sense and the more-adept performances begin, there will be no doubts left about the setup and the execution. This is a benchmark evening.
Director Declan Donnellan places John Ford’s nearly 400-year-old play in the present. The set is a bedroom backed by a blood-red wall hung with movie posters—sirens and seductresses are their unifying theme—and their contrasting images, primarily of the Virgin Mary. One door in the upstage wall opens to a hallway, but the other door opens to a pristine, brightly lit bathroom in contrast with the darkly sanguine bedroom.
Donnellan avoids scene changes: All the action takes place in and around the bed, whether reflecting a choice to reveal the text as a nightmare or to show that every thought and movement of each character stems from sexuality or its denial. The friar offers his advice to “repent” while the bed sits squarely centerstage; a crowd piles onto the bed to “whoot” loudly over a fight.
Most fascinating, however, is that Donnellan brings one or more witness into many of the scenes. Thus, many conversations seem to be watched over by someone. Does this represent our conscience, or does it represent society’s prurience, nosiness, curiosity, judgmentalism? At the play’s gruesome end, so many characters feel compelled to peek into the bathroom and see the bloody wreckage, though those ahead of them emerge screaming in fright and disgust. We love our voyeurism, don’t we?
We also love the superficial. The female characters play dress-up in a variety of modes: a haloed bride, a widow in weeds (a little black dress here), a naughty schoolgirl. The males, at least the overtly sexual ones, go leather-clad or starkers.
So why the doubts at the top of the play? Apparently not every RADA-trained actor has spectacular enunciation (who knew?) and not every actor can dance (we knew!). The cast emerges to perform a little introductory divertissement, but only a few of the actors move well and in time to the music. Then it may take time for the audience to stop objectively observing the world of the direction and start to feel for the characters.
Eventually, somehow, we feel. It seems to happen when Donnellan shows us the mundane: when the married couple fights in the bedroom, or while the husband offers his wife a gift of tiny baby clothes, which she unpacks with gentle surprise. Or it may happen when the violence becomes just too much: when a sadistic “exotic dancer” bites the tongue out of the chatty “tutoress,” or when the brother of the “whore” commits his two final deeds.
It seems there’s nothing to pity here, and no blame leveled at the title character, as the original script’s last line is omitted. What’s left is a vivid evening of storytelling—and any judgment is up to us.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 10, 2013
Dirty Filthy Love Story
Rogue Machine at Theatre/Theater
The dirt and filth of Rob Mersola’s world premiere script refers to his protagonist’s hoarding. The love in the title is a thornier issue. Ashley (Jennifer Pollono) is a young widow who cannot throw anything away. Her nosy neighbor Benny (Burl Mosley) finally worms his way into her home and persuades her to begin the purging process. The unlikely prince who comes to clean up her life is the waste-disposal expert Hal (Joshua Bitton).
Ashley, it seems, had a troubled relationship with her husband. It seems her relationship with her mother (spoken to by phone, a lot) might be even more problematic. By contrast, the garbage collector Hal brings a purity of love into Ashley’s life.
The relentless humor in Mersola’s script springs from pain. A deep, tender heart occupies the play’s center. And director Elina de Santos ensures that the audience laughs with the characters and never at them, which makes this play about extremes of behavior very, very universal.
Pollono tears our hearts. Her Ashley is ludicrous, but she is also real. Pollono plays her with a revealing candor—a bit of a clown and yet a princess-in-waiting. Mosley’s Benny is pure clown, yet Mosley’s calibrated performance lets the audience know when it’s acceptable to laugh.
Bitton, however, goes for no laughs as Hal. The actor is stunningly gentle with Hal. Bitton is so rawly honest, one forgets he’s acting, whether he’s plowing through boxes or calming Ashley.
Another spectacular star of this production is the set, designed by David Mauer and Hazel Kuang, which fills the stage to overflowing. Indeed, Rogue Machine bravely and generously allows the set to spill over into house right, limiting the number of seats to be sold each night. Debris tumbles at precisely the right moments, in precisely the right places, reflecting thoughtfully designed and carefully constructed “backstage” machinery. If only we could control our hearts just as precisely.
Rogue Machine at Theatre/Theater
The dirt and filth of Rob Mersola’s world premiere script refers to his protagonist’s hoarding. The love in the title is a thornier issue. Ashley (Jennifer Pollono) is a young widow who cannot throw anything away. Her nosy neighbor Benny (Burl Mosley) finally worms his way into her home and persuades her to begin the purging process. The unlikely prince who comes to clean up her life is the waste-disposal expert Hal (Joshua Bitton).
Ashley, it seems, had a troubled relationship with her husband. It seems her relationship with her mother (spoken to by phone, a lot) might be even more problematic. By contrast, the garbage collector Hal brings a purity of love into Ashley’s life.
The relentless humor in Mersola’s script springs from pain. A deep, tender heart occupies the play’s center. And director Elina de Santos ensures that the audience laughs with the characters and never at them, which makes this play about extremes of behavior very, very universal.
Pollono tears our hearts. Her Ashley is ludicrous, but she is also real. Pollono plays her with a revealing candor—a bit of a clown and yet a princess-in-waiting. Mosley’s Benny is pure clown, yet Mosley’s calibrated performance lets the audience know when it’s acceptable to laugh.
Bitton, however, goes for no laughs as Hal. The actor is stunningly gentle with Hal. Bitton is so rawly honest, one forgets he’s acting, whether he’s plowing through boxes or calming Ashley.
Another spectacular star of this production is the set, designed by David Mauer and Hazel Kuang, which fills the stage to overflowing. Indeed, Rogue Machine bravely and generously allows the set to spill over into house right, limiting the number of seats to be sold each night. Debris tumbles at precisely the right moments, in precisely the right places, reflecting thoughtfully designed and carefully constructed “backstage” machinery. If only we could control our hearts just as precisely.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 9, 2013
January 9, 2013
Other Desert Cities
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
After decades of literature in which parents have been unrelentingly portrayed as thoroughly idiotic, playwright Jon Robin Baitz at last gives us the Wyeths. Yes, he loads them up with politically conservative ideology. And, yes, the top of the show is joke-heavy, as Polly and Lyman’s liberal-leaning daughter, Brooke, comes home for Christmas. Fortunately, however, Baitz has a bigger agenda.
As Brooke, her brother Trip, and their mother’s sister Silda genially gang up, the audience can’t help but notice a distant coolness in Polly and Lyman. These parents like their lifestyle of tennis and drinking and a close circle of Reaganites—including, it turns out, Nancy—and the cigarette habit they hide from each other. But when Brooke announces she is about to reveal family secrets via her memoirs, cracks appear in her parents’ iciness.
Their desert home spans the wide Mark Taper Forum stage, stirringly appointed by Takeshi Kata to fully convince the viewer the family lives in affluence in Palm Springs, Calif. The stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and pale color scheme whisper desert elegance, but the design also conveys secrecy and lifelessness, as curtains remain closed at all hours while most of the signs of occupancy are the bottles of booze. Of course there’s also a thickly lit Christmas tree, which becomes even more laden with symbolism when Baitz reveals that Polly and Silda are Jewish.
That wide expanse of the home may, however, be the problem director Robert Egan couldn’t navigate. He blocks the actors far, far apart, and thus many conversations are yelled across the stage. Further, to keep the visuals from monotony, he makes the actors wander over the stage and stand in conversation. The men, with better vocal skills than the women have here, don’t seem to be screaming when they speak, so the audience’s support may tend toward Lyman and Trip at the start of the play.
Robert Foxworth plays Lyman superbly. Foxworth not only understands and conveys Baitz’s humor, but the actor is also in character from head to toe at every moment, so we’re immersed and invested in Lyman’s story without “actorly” distractions. Also adept is Michael Weston, who is natural and engaging and who brings honesty to Trip’s sense of humor.
Playing Brooke, Robin Weigert is given, or allowed, so much business by Egan, she’s a bundle of tics. But she has masterful moments, including Brooke’s explanation of the topic of her new manuscript; the actor sounds as if the moment is new and improvised and full of enthusiasm.
JoBeth Williams gets off to a weak start, trying to communicate with her scene partners across the expansive stage; but she is flawless listening to Foxworth and then taking the reins during the play’s reveal. Jeannie Berlin doesn’t pick up her cues as Silda, leaving uncomfortable gaps in her conversations with Williams’s Polly. Baitz gave Silda the funniest lines, however, so audience members not paying attention to acting technique will probably be inclined toward supportive laughter.
Baitz briefly mentions “other desert cities”—once as Brooke talks about the sign along the freeway leading from LA to Palm Springs, and once in reference to other, other desert cities, halfway around the world, which begins a mention of political truth-telling and starts the mind wondering about parent-child relations there.
But here, in this small but fraught desert city, Polly and Lyman have a reason for being so seemingly unemotional. As it turns out, mom and dad are dimensional, caring, and wise—though, fascinatingly, the ethics of their choice at the core of the play are debatable.
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
After decades of literature in which parents have been unrelentingly portrayed as thoroughly idiotic, playwright Jon Robin Baitz at last gives us the Wyeths. Yes, he loads them up with politically conservative ideology. And, yes, the top of the show is joke-heavy, as Polly and Lyman’s liberal-leaning daughter, Brooke, comes home for Christmas. Fortunately, however, Baitz has a bigger agenda.
As Brooke, her brother Trip, and their mother’s sister Silda genially gang up, the audience can’t help but notice a distant coolness in Polly and Lyman. These parents like their lifestyle of tennis and drinking and a close circle of Reaganites—including, it turns out, Nancy—and the cigarette habit they hide from each other. But when Brooke announces she is about to reveal family secrets via her memoirs, cracks appear in her parents’ iciness.
Their desert home spans the wide Mark Taper Forum stage, stirringly appointed by Takeshi Kata to fully convince the viewer the family lives in affluence in Palm Springs, Calif. The stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and pale color scheme whisper desert elegance, but the design also conveys secrecy and lifelessness, as curtains remain closed at all hours while most of the signs of occupancy are the bottles of booze. Of course there’s also a thickly lit Christmas tree, which becomes even more laden with symbolism when Baitz reveals that Polly and Silda are Jewish.
That wide expanse of the home may, however, be the problem director Robert Egan couldn’t navigate. He blocks the actors far, far apart, and thus many conversations are yelled across the stage. Further, to keep the visuals from monotony, he makes the actors wander over the stage and stand in conversation. The men, with better vocal skills than the women have here, don’t seem to be screaming when they speak, so the audience’s support may tend toward Lyman and Trip at the start of the play.
Robert Foxworth plays Lyman superbly. Foxworth not only understands and conveys Baitz’s humor, but the actor is also in character from head to toe at every moment, so we’re immersed and invested in Lyman’s story without “actorly” distractions. Also adept is Michael Weston, who is natural and engaging and who brings honesty to Trip’s sense of humor.
Playing Brooke, Robin Weigert is given, or allowed, so much business by Egan, she’s a bundle of tics. But she has masterful moments, including Brooke’s explanation of the topic of her new manuscript; the actor sounds as if the moment is new and improvised and full of enthusiasm.
JoBeth Williams gets off to a weak start, trying to communicate with her scene partners across the expansive stage; but she is flawless listening to Foxworth and then taking the reins during the play’s reveal. Jeannie Berlin doesn’t pick up her cues as Silda, leaving uncomfortable gaps in her conversations with Williams’s Polly. Baitz gave Silda the funniest lines, however, so audience members not paying attention to acting technique will probably be inclined toward supportive laughter.
Baitz briefly mentions “other desert cities”—once as Brooke talks about the sign along the freeway leading from LA to Palm Springs, and once in reference to other, other desert cities, halfway around the world, which begins a mention of political truth-telling and starts the mind wondering about parent-child relations there.
But here, in this small but fraught desert city, Polly and Lyman have a reason for being so seemingly unemotional. As it turns out, mom and dad are dimensional, caring, and wise—though, fascinatingly, the ethics of their choice at the core of the play are debatable.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
December 18, 2012
December 18, 2012
Rudolph the Red-Nosed ReinDOORS
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
An L.A. Christmas without a new Troubie holiday show would be like an office party without spiked punch. Even in one of Troubie’s less-than-great outings, like the current Rudolph the Red-Nosed ReinDOORS, you get a healthy dose of the unique relationship that exists between Matt Walker’s troupe of musical zanies and their audience. In the mutual affection between strangers that characterizes every Troubie performance, there’s no better expression of the spirit of Christmas to be found in Southern California.
There’s a lot to like in this adaptation of the Rankin-Bass perennial about the weird reindeer with the shiny nose, as cross-pollinated with the Doors’ songbook. Musical director Eric Heinly comes up with theater-friendly orchestrations of the likes of “Riders on the Storm” and “The End,” which he and his combo deliver with smokin’ heat. Molly Alvarez pulls off some typically slick choreography for the troupe, with Ameenah Kaplan staging a nifty flying sequence late in Act 2. And the cast of 18 is one of the Troubies’ strongest, standouts being Paul C. Vogt’s droll, understated Frosty the Narrating Snowman; Rick Batalla as a bloated, shirt-open, chest-hair-sporting Santa; and the indispensable Beth Kennedy, featured as Rudolph’s Tab-addicted mother Blitzen and—wait for it—yes! The Winter Warlock. Most delightful of all, perhaps, is Dan Wascom as “Bomi” the Yeti, doing things on stilts (in a giant Elmo-dyed-white costume) that should be impossible, if not illegal.
For all that, why does the show feel so second-tier overall? Even keeping in mind that Troubie shows always change, grow, and improve over time, the disjunction between the jolly Rankin-Bass cartoon and the dour, deterministic Doors songs simply hasn’t been addressed in the construction. One wonders why Rudolph wasn’t played as a Jim Morrison clone. (Morrison is actually pretty much absent from the entire production.) Steven Booth’s Rudolph is just a likable dolt as he was in the animated version, and not much comic mileage is made out of his, and the other North Pole denizens', singing these songs. So Rudolph is just kind of there, kind of dull, actually.
Meanwhile, here’s a quick guess: I’d venture to speculate that this show uses fewer parody lyrics, and relies more on the original words, than any other Troubie show before it. Sure, it’s good for a chuckle when Rudolph’s nose glows to inspire “Light My Fire,” but the joke doesn’t expand beyond that. All of which is to say, the songs just aren’t that funny, and the effort hasn’t been made to truly metamorphose the Rudolph cartoon by way of the Doors’ sensibility—the way West Side Story and A Christmas Story were magically, hilariously made to merge in last December’s offering.
Essentially, Rudolph the Red-Nosed ReinDOORS is a satire without a target, which means it misses its mark too often. Maybe the key to the problem is the show’s fatal looseness. Absent is the strong structure that made last year’s extravaganza shine. I for one would like to see the Troubies tackle another Christmas tale while following the blueprint of another familiar book show like West Side, with its tonal consistency and lyrics ripe for parody. (Rock songs as a rule aren’t especially reliant on their words, so there’s little to spoof there. But show tunes are a different matter.) What about Santa on the Roof? (Sounds crazy, no?) Or The Winter Warlock Picture Show? It’s about time for W.W. to take center stage, and I for one would love to see her/him assume the role of Frank N. Furter for some Christmas-based mischief.
As I say, you can’t spell Christmas in L.A. without “Troubies.” Well, I mean you can spell the word, but not cast the spell. ReinDOORS should be seen. But we’ll have to await Santa Matt and his elves’ getting back to prime form next year.
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
An L.A. Christmas without a new Troubie holiday show would be like an office party without spiked punch. Even in one of Troubie’s less-than-great outings, like the current Rudolph the Red-Nosed ReinDOORS, you get a healthy dose of the unique relationship that exists between Matt Walker’s troupe of musical zanies and their audience. In the mutual affection between strangers that characterizes every Troubie performance, there’s no better expression of the spirit of Christmas to be found in Southern California.
There’s a lot to like in this adaptation of the Rankin-Bass perennial about the weird reindeer with the shiny nose, as cross-pollinated with the Doors’ songbook. Musical director Eric Heinly comes up with theater-friendly orchestrations of the likes of “Riders on the Storm” and “The End,” which he and his combo deliver with smokin’ heat. Molly Alvarez pulls off some typically slick choreography for the troupe, with Ameenah Kaplan staging a nifty flying sequence late in Act 2. And the cast of 18 is one of the Troubies’ strongest, standouts being Paul C. Vogt’s droll, understated Frosty the Narrating Snowman; Rick Batalla as a bloated, shirt-open, chest-hair-sporting Santa; and the indispensable Beth Kennedy, featured as Rudolph’s Tab-addicted mother Blitzen and—wait for it—yes! The Winter Warlock. Most delightful of all, perhaps, is Dan Wascom as “Bomi” the Yeti, doing things on stilts (in a giant Elmo-dyed-white costume) that should be impossible, if not illegal.
For all that, why does the show feel so second-tier overall? Even keeping in mind that Troubie shows always change, grow, and improve over time, the disjunction between the jolly Rankin-Bass cartoon and the dour, deterministic Doors songs simply hasn’t been addressed in the construction. One wonders why Rudolph wasn’t played as a Jim Morrison clone. (Morrison is actually pretty much absent from the entire production.) Steven Booth’s Rudolph is just a likable dolt as he was in the animated version, and not much comic mileage is made out of his, and the other North Pole denizens', singing these songs. So Rudolph is just kind of there, kind of dull, actually.
Meanwhile, here’s a quick guess: I’d venture to speculate that this show uses fewer parody lyrics, and relies more on the original words, than any other Troubie show before it. Sure, it’s good for a chuckle when Rudolph’s nose glows to inspire “Light My Fire,” but the joke doesn’t expand beyond that. All of which is to say, the songs just aren’t that funny, and the effort hasn’t been made to truly metamorphose the Rudolph cartoon by way of the Doors’ sensibility—the way West Side Story and A Christmas Story were magically, hilariously made to merge in last December’s offering.
Essentially, Rudolph the Red-Nosed ReinDOORS is a satire without a target, which means it misses its mark too often. Maybe the key to the problem is the show’s fatal looseness. Absent is the strong structure that made last year’s extravaganza shine. I for one would like to see the Troubies tackle another Christmas tale while following the blueprint of another familiar book show like West Side, with its tonal consistency and lyrics ripe for parody. (Rock songs as a rule aren’t especially reliant on their words, so there’s little to spoof there. But show tunes are a different matter.) What about Santa on the Roof? (Sounds crazy, no?) Or The Winter Warlock Picture Show? It’s about time for W.W. to take center stage, and I for one would love to see her/him assume the role of Frank N. Furter for some Christmas-based mischief.
As I say, you can’t spell Christmas in L.A. without “Troubies.” Well, I mean you can spell the word, but not cast the spell. ReinDOORS should be seen. But we’ll have to await Santa Matt and his elves’ getting back to prime form next year.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
December 12, 2012
December 12, 2012
Gatz
Elevator Repair Service at REDCAT
If you are reading this on or prior to Dec. 9 and you haven’t procured a ticket to Gatz, the Elevator Repair Service marathon running only through that date, please stop reading and get going. This is one of those theatrical events that truly merits the clichéd designation “not to be missed,” though the reason it’s unmissable may not be the aspect of the production that’s been touted to you.
Having read this far, you doubtless know that the intrepid ERS team is presenting (the most appropriate verb in this context) the entirety of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, word for word. The vast majority of the text is read aloud by actor Scott Shepherd, though there’s a distinctive staging idea at work that doesn’t exactly make Gatz a play—it’s probably best described as a literary circus—but its values are immediate and theatrical and heavily visual. Gatz most certainly isn’t a “staged reading.”
You’ve also surely heard that it’s long, though you may not have been told that the bulk is handed out in manageable, easily digestible chunks. For the record: Chapters I, II and III take two hours, followed by a 15-minute intermission. Chapters IV and V occupy another one hour and 45 minutes, at which point you get an hour-long dinner break. Chapter VI and most of chapter VII take up 90 minutes, and then after the intermission they finish up chapter VII through to the end, a comparatively speedy 85 minutes. On Dec. 1, we began at 2:06 pm and filed out at 10 minutes after 10.
It’s a prodigious theatrical feat, full of amusing acting turns and self-conscious directorial moments, but Gatz is finally most interesting and, yes, important, for the insight it provides into Fitzgerald’s text. The story of Jay Gatsby nee Jim Gatz is a satirical portrait of 20th-century America—all the more striking because though it was barely written two decades in, it got the century’s number big time—but it is first and foremost a satire, something adaptations bland (1949 with Alan Ladd) and floridly romantic/funereal (1974 with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow) totally missed. It’s easy to miss in a silent read, as well. But when read/performed aloud, and helmed by a director (John Collins) who knows how mordant-funny the tale really is, the novel’s genius is evident, maybe as never before.
And if you mourn the loss of deathless romance in what ERS make of Gatsby and Daisy, remember that she commits manslaughter and doesn’t give a damn about it.
Elevator Repair Service at REDCAT
If you are reading this on or prior to Dec. 9 and you haven’t procured a ticket to Gatz, the Elevator Repair Service marathon running only through that date, please stop reading and get going. This is one of those theatrical events that truly merits the clichéd designation “not to be missed,” though the reason it’s unmissable may not be the aspect of the production that’s been touted to you.
Having read this far, you doubtless know that the intrepid ERS team is presenting (the most appropriate verb in this context) the entirety of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, word for word. The vast majority of the text is read aloud by actor Scott Shepherd, though there’s a distinctive staging idea at work that doesn’t exactly make Gatz a play—it’s probably best described as a literary circus—but its values are immediate and theatrical and heavily visual. Gatz most certainly isn’t a “staged reading.”
You’ve also surely heard that it’s long, though you may not have been told that the bulk is handed out in manageable, easily digestible chunks. For the record: Chapters I, II and III take two hours, followed by a 15-minute intermission. Chapters IV and V occupy another one hour and 45 minutes, at which point you get an hour-long dinner break. Chapter VI and most of chapter VII take up 90 minutes, and then after the intermission they finish up chapter VII through to the end, a comparatively speedy 85 minutes. On Dec. 1, we began at 2:06 pm and filed out at 10 minutes after 10.
It’s a prodigious theatrical feat, full of amusing acting turns and self-conscious directorial moments, but Gatz is finally most interesting and, yes, important, for the insight it provides into Fitzgerald’s text. The story of Jay Gatsby nee Jim Gatz is a satirical portrait of 20th-century America—all the more striking because though it was barely written two decades in, it got the century’s number big time—but it is first and foremost a satire, something adaptations bland (1949 with Alan Ladd) and floridly romantic/funereal (1974 with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow) totally missed. It’s easy to miss in a silent read, as well. But when read/performed aloud, and helmed by a director (John Collins) who knows how mordant-funny the tale really is, the novel’s genius is evident, maybe as never before.
And if you mourn the loss of deathless romance in what ERS make of Gatsby and Daisy, remember that she commits manslaughter and doesn’t give a damn about it.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
December 6, 2012
December 6, 2012
Coney Island Christmas
Gil Cates Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Every year Christmas plays emerge—some staple productions like A Christmas Carol or It’s a Wonderful Life, and some not so ordinary like The SantaLand Diaries or Winter Wonderettes. There is a certain amount of trepidation attending one when the cast includes children—or young adults pretending to be children, which can often be much worse.
In this play, adapted by Donald Margulies from a short story by Grace Paley called The Loudest Voice, the setting is Brooklyn in the ’30s. The Abramowitzes own a grocery store on Coney Island. Their daughter Shirley, a very forthright and loud-voiced young lady, is the central character in the story. At play’s opening, young Clara (Grace Kaufman) is home, claiming illness that will cause her to miss her Christmas pageant at school. Her great-grandmother Shirley (Angela Paton), using a bit of psychology, tells her a story about when she was in school. As the scene unfolds, the stage fills with characters, one of whom is Shirley at school age.
Clara is fascinated with what she is seeing, and she settles down with her great-grandmother to watch. Shirley’s parents appear center stage in their store, and her mother (Annabelle Gurwitch), who appears to be very strict, tells young Shirley (Isabella Acres) to be useful and unpack cans and shelve them. Her father (Arye Gross), seemingly the warmer of the two, reminds his wife that life is meant to be enjoyed. This establishes the conflict that will arise when Shirley is tapped for a particular part in her school play, something that is an obvious conflict with her mother’s view of Judaism and assimilationism.
Shirley’s teacher, Mr. Hilton (John Sloan), is an enthusiastic young man with big plans for his class. The first performance we see from the youngsters is a Thanksgiving play, complete with Pilgrims, Indians, and a very enthusiastic turkey played by Shirley. Mr. Hilton is helped by an attractive French music teacher, an energetic Miss Glace (Lily Holleman), clearly smitten with her male colleague. This pageant is soon followed by a Christmas one, even more elaborate and hilarious.
Bart DeLorenzo’s direction wrests every bit of humor imaginable out of his large cast. Shirley’s best friend, Evie Slotnick (Kira Sternnbach), is a priceless scene stealer and adds considerable comedy to her various roles. As the parade of wise men, angels, and even Santa Claus show up at the manger, there can hardly be an audience member who can’t conjure up memories of school programs that are equally improbable and fraught with peril.
Paton is delightful as the senior storyteller, easily capturing the excitement she feels as she sees herself and her parents come to life. She is warm and wise. Kaufman is natural with just the right amount of spunk. Gross is also excellent as the loving father, trying to please his demanding wife yet following his instincts for what will be best for Shirley. Gurwitch is also fine as the mother kvetching against change, who is trying to keep the customs alive in the family. As Shirley’s schoolmates, the excellent cast of 20-somethings are superb, principally Joe Gillette, Ty Freedman, Julian Evens, Mays Erskine, and Andrew Walke. Sloan and Holleman are equally delightful in their parts, particularly as they root for their charges with animated gratification. Eileen T’Kaye neatly adds a bit of local color to shrewd shopper Mrs. Kornblum. Also in the lively ensemble are Rachel Hirshee, Sequoia Houston, Elitia Daniels, Jim Kane, and Richard Realivasquez.
But it is Acres who carries a large part of the show, from delight at being selected for important roles in the pageants to anguish as her mother forbids her participation. Acres is a strong actor and brings authenticity to her part.
Takeshi Kata’s Coney Island set in sepia and black conjures up old photographs and is artistically interesting. Utilizing a revolving turntable, he allows for smooth scene changes. Far in the background is a skeletal Ferris wheel adding an extra dimension to the design. Costumes by Ann Closs-Farley are also imaginative and whimsical.
When the now-late Geffen Playhouse founder and producing director Gil Cates commissioned this Jewish Christmas story, he envisioned it being a classic across the denominations that could be repeated annually. Margulies has easily created the framework, and DeLorenzo has set a high bar for subsequent productions. It is hard to imagine a better one.
Anything Goes
Roundabout Theatre Company at Ahmanson Theatre
For pure escapism and delightfully silly antics, Cole Porter’s 1934 romp joined the ranks of plays and movies designed to provide a respite from the travails of the Depression. This touring version of the 2011 Broadway revival employs a passel of talent and gives audiences the pleasure of revisiting Porter’s witty lyrics and lovely ballads.
Like the screwball comedies of the ’30s, Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse’s book created from the original work by P. G. Wodehouse and Guy Bolton is full of improbable situations. In brief, a young stockbroker, Billy Crocker (Erich Bergen), has a wealthy client, Elisha Whitney (Dennis Kelly), who is bound for England on a cruise ship. When Crocker arrives at the ship on an errand for Whitney, he spots a girl he is in love with, Hope Harcourt (Alex Finke). Prodded by her mother, Mrs. Evangeline Harcourt (Sandra Shipley), Hope is set to marry a prosperous Englishman, Lord Evelyn Oakleigh (Edward Staudenmayer), in order to repair the family fortunes.
Also aboard is Crocker’s gal pal, former evangelist–turned-singer Reno Sweeney (Rachel York), who not so secretly hankers after Billy and is the nicely contrasting vamp beside the virginal Harcourt. That should certainly be enough to create a perfectly respectable play; but, in the hands of the original four collaborators and ramped up in the new book by Timothy Crouse (Russel’s son) and John Weidman, all sorts of quirky characters are thrown in for good measure.
There’s Moonface Martin (Fred Applegate), a second-string gangster whose companion is Erma (Joyce Chittick), the flirty charmer who takes on the willing crew. Throw in two Chinese card sharks (Vincent Rodriguez III and Marcus Shane), four so-called angels under Sweeney’s wing (Jacqueline Burtney, Courtney Rottenberger, Vanessa Sonon, Dionna Thomas Littleton), the Captain (Chuck Wagner), and the ship’s purser (Jeff Brooks), and you have the principal characters. They are joined by a cadre of passengers and crew members who enliven the musical numbers and provide heft to the storyline.
Act 1 is arguably the better half of the play. Porter’s hits “I Get a Kick Out of You,” Easy to Love,” “It’s De-Lovely,” and “Anything Goes” are standards, and director-choreographer Kathleen Marshall gives them fresh appeal. Adapted from other Porter shows, they fit nicely into the plotline.
The original Sweeney was played by Ether Merman, and York has all the power and confident delivery required, though she gives it a more full-throated, seductive turn. Bergen adds lanky charm to his role as love interest. His “You’re the Top” with York and “All Through the Night” with Finke are show favorites and charming interludes in the wildly comical and convoluted plot.
Character roles are a staple of Broadway shows, and a standout in this show is Applegate, who joins with York in “Friendship,” one of the best comic songs delivered. The other standout is Staudenmayer, playing a character typical in Wodehouse’s stories and a welcome addition to the production. His duet with York near the end of the show, “The Gypsy in Me,” is a wonderfully comic crowd pleaser.
Another notable performance is by Chittick, nearly stealing many of the scenes in which she appears. Her insouciant effervescence makes “Buddie, Beware” with the sailors noteworthy. Also enjoyable is Kelly as the slightly tipsy Yalie who pines for Hope’s mother.
Costumes by Martin Pakledinaz are clever and dazzling, notably a quintessentially British one for Staudenmayer and the many beautiful gowns for the female characters. Makeup design by Angelina Avallone and hair and wig design by Paul Huntley add authenticity for the ’30s look.
Derek McLane’s original scenic design aboard ship and in cabin scenes also serves the production well. Added to that is the inventive lighting design by Howell Binkley, especially in a scene where a blue light comes to life in Moonface Martin’s “Be Like the Blue Bird.”
Among the most memorable moments in a Broadway musical are those when the orchestra delivers the overture and the curtain rises on a wonderful set. Music director Jay Alger, donning a naval hat, adds that special touch, providing energy for the musical numbers, in particular for the tap-dancing “Anything Goes.”
The production is not without flaws. Act 2 is over-long and filled with zany plot machinations that exist only to provide further opportunities for showcasing musical numbers. While York and Chittick are Broadway-quality performers, Finke is a paler version in her role, though she has a voice that blends well.
In order to populate the very large set, sometimes cast members appear and disappear simply to add color as the show progresses. On opening night, however, the cast handled some technical glitches well.
This original Roundabout Theatre Company production is bright, lively, and, on balance, delivers the requisite humor originally plotted by its creators. It recognizes the need for modification but doesn’t stray too far from the original authors’ intent. Those of a certain age will welcome the return of Porter’s classics with nostalgia, and those who are newly discovering time-honored theater will find charm in the vintage ballroom-dancing and colorful choreography. It is easy to see from this production why Anything Goes continues to be a staple of musical theater companies.
Gil Cates Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Every year Christmas plays emerge—some staple productions like A Christmas Carol or It’s a Wonderful Life, and some not so ordinary like The SantaLand Diaries or Winter Wonderettes. There is a certain amount of trepidation attending one when the cast includes children—or young adults pretending to be children, which can often be much worse.
In this play, adapted by Donald Margulies from a short story by Grace Paley called The Loudest Voice, the setting is Brooklyn in the ’30s. The Abramowitzes own a grocery store on Coney Island. Their daughter Shirley, a very forthright and loud-voiced young lady, is the central character in the story. At play’s opening, young Clara (Grace Kaufman) is home, claiming illness that will cause her to miss her Christmas pageant at school. Her great-grandmother Shirley (Angela Paton), using a bit of psychology, tells her a story about when she was in school. As the scene unfolds, the stage fills with characters, one of whom is Shirley at school age.
Clara is fascinated with what she is seeing, and she settles down with her great-grandmother to watch. Shirley’s parents appear center stage in their store, and her mother (Annabelle Gurwitch), who appears to be very strict, tells young Shirley (Isabella Acres) to be useful and unpack cans and shelve them. Her father (Arye Gross), seemingly the warmer of the two, reminds his wife that life is meant to be enjoyed. This establishes the conflict that will arise when Shirley is tapped for a particular part in her school play, something that is an obvious conflict with her mother’s view of Judaism and assimilationism.
Shirley’s teacher, Mr. Hilton (John Sloan), is an enthusiastic young man with big plans for his class. The first performance we see from the youngsters is a Thanksgiving play, complete with Pilgrims, Indians, and a very enthusiastic turkey played by Shirley. Mr. Hilton is helped by an attractive French music teacher, an energetic Miss Glace (Lily Holleman), clearly smitten with her male colleague. This pageant is soon followed by a Christmas one, even more elaborate and hilarious.
Bart DeLorenzo’s direction wrests every bit of humor imaginable out of his large cast. Shirley’s best friend, Evie Slotnick (Kira Sternnbach), is a priceless scene stealer and adds considerable comedy to her various roles. As the parade of wise men, angels, and even Santa Claus show up at the manger, there can hardly be an audience member who can’t conjure up memories of school programs that are equally improbable and fraught with peril.
Paton is delightful as the senior storyteller, easily capturing the excitement she feels as she sees herself and her parents come to life. She is warm and wise. Kaufman is natural with just the right amount of spunk. Gross is also excellent as the loving father, trying to please his demanding wife yet following his instincts for what will be best for Shirley. Gurwitch is also fine as the mother kvetching against change, who is trying to keep the customs alive in the family. As Shirley’s schoolmates, the excellent cast of 20-somethings are superb, principally Joe Gillette, Ty Freedman, Julian Evens, Mays Erskine, and Andrew Walke. Sloan and Holleman are equally delightful in their parts, particularly as they root for their charges with animated gratification. Eileen T’Kaye neatly adds a bit of local color to shrewd shopper Mrs. Kornblum. Also in the lively ensemble are Rachel Hirshee, Sequoia Houston, Elitia Daniels, Jim Kane, and Richard Realivasquez.
But it is Acres who carries a large part of the show, from delight at being selected for important roles in the pageants to anguish as her mother forbids her participation. Acres is a strong actor and brings authenticity to her part.
Takeshi Kata’s Coney Island set in sepia and black conjures up old photographs and is artistically interesting. Utilizing a revolving turntable, he allows for smooth scene changes. Far in the background is a skeletal Ferris wheel adding an extra dimension to the design. Costumes by Ann Closs-Farley are also imaginative and whimsical.
When the now-late Geffen Playhouse founder and producing director Gil Cates commissioned this Jewish Christmas story, he envisioned it being a classic across the denominations that could be repeated annually. Margulies has easily created the framework, and DeLorenzo has set a high bar for subsequent productions. It is hard to imagine a better one.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 30, 2012
November 30, 2012
Anything Goes
Roundabout Theatre Company at Ahmanson Theatre
For pure escapism and delightfully silly antics, Cole Porter’s 1934 romp joined the ranks of plays and movies designed to provide a respite from the travails of the Depression. This touring version of the 2011 Broadway revival employs a passel of talent and gives audiences the pleasure of revisiting Porter’s witty lyrics and lovely ballads.
Like the screwball comedies of the ’30s, Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse’s book created from the original work by P. G. Wodehouse and Guy Bolton is full of improbable situations. In brief, a young stockbroker, Billy Crocker (Erich Bergen), has a wealthy client, Elisha Whitney (Dennis Kelly), who is bound for England on a cruise ship. When Crocker arrives at the ship on an errand for Whitney, he spots a girl he is in love with, Hope Harcourt (Alex Finke). Prodded by her mother, Mrs. Evangeline Harcourt (Sandra Shipley), Hope is set to marry a prosperous Englishman, Lord Evelyn Oakleigh (Edward Staudenmayer), in order to repair the family fortunes.
Also aboard is Crocker’s gal pal, former evangelist–turned-singer Reno Sweeney (Rachel York), who not so secretly hankers after Billy and is the nicely contrasting vamp beside the virginal Harcourt. That should certainly be enough to create a perfectly respectable play; but, in the hands of the original four collaborators and ramped up in the new book by Timothy Crouse (Russel’s son) and John Weidman, all sorts of quirky characters are thrown in for good measure.
There’s Moonface Martin (Fred Applegate), a second-string gangster whose companion is Erma (Joyce Chittick), the flirty charmer who takes on the willing crew. Throw in two Chinese card sharks (Vincent Rodriguez III and Marcus Shane), four so-called angels under Sweeney’s wing (Jacqueline Burtney, Courtney Rottenberger, Vanessa Sonon, Dionna Thomas Littleton), the Captain (Chuck Wagner), and the ship’s purser (Jeff Brooks), and you have the principal characters. They are joined by a cadre of passengers and crew members who enliven the musical numbers and provide heft to the storyline.
Act 1 is arguably the better half of the play. Porter’s hits “I Get a Kick Out of You,” Easy to Love,” “It’s De-Lovely,” and “Anything Goes” are standards, and director-choreographer Kathleen Marshall gives them fresh appeal. Adapted from other Porter shows, they fit nicely into the plotline.
The original Sweeney was played by Ether Merman, and York has all the power and confident delivery required, though she gives it a more full-throated, seductive turn. Bergen adds lanky charm to his role as love interest. His “You’re the Top” with York and “All Through the Night” with Finke are show favorites and charming interludes in the wildly comical and convoluted plot.
Character roles are a staple of Broadway shows, and a standout in this show is Applegate, who joins with York in “Friendship,” one of the best comic songs delivered. The other standout is Staudenmayer, playing a character typical in Wodehouse’s stories and a welcome addition to the production. His duet with York near the end of the show, “The Gypsy in Me,” is a wonderfully comic crowd pleaser.
Another notable performance is by Chittick, nearly stealing many of the scenes in which she appears. Her insouciant effervescence makes “Buddie, Beware” with the sailors noteworthy. Also enjoyable is Kelly as the slightly tipsy Yalie who pines for Hope’s mother.
Costumes by Martin Pakledinaz are clever and dazzling, notably a quintessentially British one for Staudenmayer and the many beautiful gowns for the female characters. Makeup design by Angelina Avallone and hair and wig design by Paul Huntley add authenticity for the ’30s look.
Derek McLane’s original scenic design aboard ship and in cabin scenes also serves the production well. Added to that is the inventive lighting design by Howell Binkley, especially in a scene where a blue light comes to life in Moonface Martin’s “Be Like the Blue Bird.”
Among the most memorable moments in a Broadway musical are those when the orchestra delivers the overture and the curtain rises on a wonderful set. Music director Jay Alger, donning a naval hat, adds that special touch, providing energy for the musical numbers, in particular for the tap-dancing “Anything Goes.”
The production is not without flaws. Act 2 is over-long and filled with zany plot machinations that exist only to provide further opportunities for showcasing musical numbers. While York and Chittick are Broadway-quality performers, Finke is a paler version in her role, though she has a voice that blends well.
In order to populate the very large set, sometimes cast members appear and disappear simply to add color as the show progresses. On opening night, however, the cast handled some technical glitches well.
This original Roundabout Theatre Company production is bright, lively, and, on balance, delivers the requisite humor originally plotted by its creators. It recognizes the need for modification but doesn’t stray too far from the original authors’ intent. Those of a certain age will welcome the return of Porter’s classics with nostalgia, and those who are newly discovering time-honored theater will find charm in the vintage ballroom-dancing and colorful choreography. It is easy to see from this production why Anything Goes continues to be a staple of musical theater companies.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 29, 2012
November 29, 2012
Bad Apples
Circle X Theatre Co. at Atwater Village Theatre
The setting for this rock musical is Abu Ghraib, and the characters are soldiers of various stripes. But the triangular relationship at the story’s core could be set anywhere and anytime in history. This musical is operatic in its expansive reach. Not that the word opera comes to mind when listening to the score’s rhythms and watching the choreography’s hip-hop tone. But the whole is classical in construction—including its three-act structure that runs nearly three hours with two intermissions.
This world premiere—with book by Jim Leonard, music and lyrics by Rob Cairns and Beth Thornley—centers on a real-life romantic and military quandary, though the storytelling takes artistic liberties with names and facts. This version tells of black Sgt. Chuck Shepard (James Black) and the two white women—Lindsay Skinner (Kate Morgan Chadwick) and Margaret Scott (Meghan Maureen McDonough)—who became spellbound and then pregnant by him and begged him to marry them.
Act 1 opens with a somber ballad. “Love conquers all, but love is no defense,” the three lovers sing, by way of apologetic introduction that resonates and reflects the many actions shown, described, and hinted at over the evening. There’s danger in not fully knowing what or whom one loves so passionately. Young Americans generously volunteer for National Guard duty, thinking they’d fight floods, not wars. Donald Rumsfeld (Sean Spann) professes love for country. Lindsay’s parents (Larry Clarke, McDonough) profess love for her. Shepard professes love for his fellow soldiers. The 9/11 murderers (Mueen Jahan, Anthony Manough) professed their love, too. Every action here is true or realistic, yet far from norms and expectations.
Act 2 opens with a rolling three-quarter-time drinking song at Club Abu. The song lyrics have been provided to the audience, some of whom are sitting at the café tables edging the stage. Sure enough, most are easily lured into joining the “fun,” despite having seen and heard the misguided, violent, shameful things the characters did in Act 1. So can we blame the young soldiers for their willingness to “join in?”
Pitch-black humor abounds, and yet not many will want to laugh. The 9/11 murderers mundanely order a pre-flight pizza, bickering like early-bird diners over which one was to bring the coupon. John Langs directs, keeping visual vibrancy throughout while the tone deepens and darkens. He fully uses the two-story playing space, keeping the audience busy. Another of his smart moves was to retain lighting designer Jeremy Pivnick, who creates mood and memory.
Choreography by Cassandra Daurden mixes hip-hop and old-fashioned Broadway jazz, and it suits the performers, who look like real-life soldiers and not like Fosse’s Jets and Sharks. Music direction by Rob Cairns and Beth Thornley is notable for its balance and the performers’ clarity.
Remember the good old days when war was merely hell? asks one of the characters. Fortunately or not, we’re now in the days when musicals are not merely escapist fun. Be prepared to observe and think at this one.
Nora
Pacific Resident Theatre
Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House sans accoutrements is still A Doll’s House. The housewife who starts out as chattel finds the strength to break away from societal and marital strictures. Nora is Ingmar Bergman’s abridged version of Ibsen’s play minus such characters as the children and servants. It nonetheless captures the essence of the power-struggle marriage between the doll-like Nora and her husband, Torvald—though in this production, with English translation by Frederick J. Marker and Lisa Lone-Marker and directed by Dana Jackson, the story still runs two hours.
In both versions, young Nora Helmer, who lives in 1870s Norway, realizes her courage and potential as more than a perfect dolly who exists solely to serve her husband. In Bergman’s redux, the characters helping effect change in Nora (Jeanette Driver) are Torvald (Brad Greenquest); the longtime family friend, Dr. Rank (Bruce French); the chum of distant memory, Kristine Linde (Martha Hackett); and the lawyer to whom Nora owes money, Krogstad (Scott Conte).
Jackson’s direction focuses sharply on Nora, putting her on a bright red loveseat center stage at the top of the play, as the supporting characters sit upstage awaiting their entrances. Driver’s Nora starts as a twittering bird—from a modern feminist viewpoint a little annoying in her abject submission to Torvald.
Over the play, Driver deepens and strengthens Nora’s voice and lets her listen more and more openly rather than pretending to not notice. That Nora’s transitions may exist more in these physicalized changes and the audience’s knowledge of Ibsen’s famous character than in the script is not the fault of the actors or director here.
The most behaviorally fascinating and probably most honest moment in the production occurs when the elderly ailing Rank opens his soul to Nora and confesses his longtime feelings for her. Driver’s Nora knows but can’t cope, whereas French’s Rank thinks she knows but can’t press the issue. Both actors speak the dialogue as written but evidence subtle emotional reactions that contrast with the words.
Also trying to find additional dimensions to Mrs. Linde, Hackett is rather luminous, making her character a sturdy but certainly not overconfident role model for Nora. At least on the night reviewed, however, Hackett’s hair was cropped in a very modern style, which distracted more than once from the storytelling.
Also distracting are exits and entrances up the center aisle that suddenly occur near the conclusion of the play, and a strange moment of nudity in which the Helmers undress to show they’re going to bed, then immediately dress as the lights come up—though artistically handled by Jackson.
But Jackson creates the era and, magically, the climate, as this production is best at transporting the audience to a chilly distant past, when the war on women seemed to be ending at last.
Circle X Theatre Co. at Atwater Village Theatre
The setting for this rock musical is Abu Ghraib, and the characters are soldiers of various stripes. But the triangular relationship at the story’s core could be set anywhere and anytime in history. This musical is operatic in its expansive reach. Not that the word opera comes to mind when listening to the score’s rhythms and watching the choreography’s hip-hop tone. But the whole is classical in construction—including its three-act structure that runs nearly three hours with two intermissions.
This world premiere—with book by Jim Leonard, music and lyrics by Rob Cairns and Beth Thornley—centers on a real-life romantic and military quandary, though the storytelling takes artistic liberties with names and facts. This version tells of black Sgt. Chuck Shepard (James Black) and the two white women—Lindsay Skinner (Kate Morgan Chadwick) and Margaret Scott (Meghan Maureen McDonough)—who became spellbound and then pregnant by him and begged him to marry them.
Act 1 opens with a somber ballad. “Love conquers all, but love is no defense,” the three lovers sing, by way of apologetic introduction that resonates and reflects the many actions shown, described, and hinted at over the evening. There’s danger in not fully knowing what or whom one loves so passionately. Young Americans generously volunteer for National Guard duty, thinking they’d fight floods, not wars. Donald Rumsfeld (Sean Spann) professes love for country. Lindsay’s parents (Larry Clarke, McDonough) profess love for her. Shepard professes love for his fellow soldiers. The 9/11 murderers (Mueen Jahan, Anthony Manough) professed their love, too. Every action here is true or realistic, yet far from norms and expectations.
Act 2 opens with a rolling three-quarter-time drinking song at Club Abu. The song lyrics have been provided to the audience, some of whom are sitting at the café tables edging the stage. Sure enough, most are easily lured into joining the “fun,” despite having seen and heard the misguided, violent, shameful things the characters did in Act 1. So can we blame the young soldiers for their willingness to “join in?”
Pitch-black humor abounds, and yet not many will want to laugh. The 9/11 murderers mundanely order a pre-flight pizza, bickering like early-bird diners over which one was to bring the coupon. John Langs directs, keeping visual vibrancy throughout while the tone deepens and darkens. He fully uses the two-story playing space, keeping the audience busy. Another of his smart moves was to retain lighting designer Jeremy Pivnick, who creates mood and memory.
Choreography by Cassandra Daurden mixes hip-hop and old-fashioned Broadway jazz, and it suits the performers, who look like real-life soldiers and not like Fosse’s Jets and Sharks. Music direction by Rob Cairns and Beth Thornley is notable for its balance and the performers’ clarity.
Remember the good old days when war was merely hell? asks one of the characters. Fortunately or not, we’re now in the days when musicals are not merely escapist fun. Be prepared to observe and think at this one.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 25, 2012
November 25, 2012
Nora
Pacific Resident Theatre
Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House sans accoutrements is still A Doll’s House. The housewife who starts out as chattel finds the strength to break away from societal and marital strictures. Nora is Ingmar Bergman’s abridged version of Ibsen’s play minus such characters as the children and servants. It nonetheless captures the essence of the power-struggle marriage between the doll-like Nora and her husband, Torvald—though in this production, with English translation by Frederick J. Marker and Lisa Lone-Marker and directed by Dana Jackson, the story still runs two hours.
In both versions, young Nora Helmer, who lives in 1870s Norway, realizes her courage and potential as more than a perfect dolly who exists solely to serve her husband. In Bergman’s redux, the characters helping effect change in Nora (Jeanette Driver) are Torvald (Brad Greenquest); the longtime family friend, Dr. Rank (Bruce French); the chum of distant memory, Kristine Linde (Martha Hackett); and the lawyer to whom Nora owes money, Krogstad (Scott Conte).
Jackson’s direction focuses sharply on Nora, putting her on a bright red loveseat center stage at the top of the play, as the supporting characters sit upstage awaiting their entrances. Driver’s Nora starts as a twittering bird—from a modern feminist viewpoint a little annoying in her abject submission to Torvald.
Over the play, Driver deepens and strengthens Nora’s voice and lets her listen more and more openly rather than pretending to not notice. That Nora’s transitions may exist more in these physicalized changes and the audience’s knowledge of Ibsen’s famous character than in the script is not the fault of the actors or director here.
The most behaviorally fascinating and probably most honest moment in the production occurs when the elderly ailing Rank opens his soul to Nora and confesses his longtime feelings for her. Driver’s Nora knows but can’t cope, whereas French’s Rank thinks she knows but can’t press the issue. Both actors speak the dialogue as written but evidence subtle emotional reactions that contrast with the words.
Also trying to find additional dimensions to Mrs. Linde, Hackett is rather luminous, making her character a sturdy but certainly not overconfident role model for Nora. At least on the night reviewed, however, Hackett’s hair was cropped in a very modern style, which distracted more than once from the storytelling.
Also distracting are exits and entrances up the center aisle that suddenly occur near the conclusion of the play, and a strange moment of nudity in which the Helmers undress to show they’re going to bed, then immediately dress as the lights come up—though artistically handled by Jackson.
But Jackson creates the era and, magically, the climate, as this production is best at transporting the audience to a chilly distant past, when the war on women seemed to be ending at last.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 25, 2012
November 25, 2012
Hamlet
Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre at Broad Stage
For anyone interested in, let alone passionate about, Shakespeare or classical acting, a trip to The Broad Stage to attend the (UK) Globe Theater’s touring production of Hamlet ought to be as much a priority as a pilgrimage to Lourdes for the halt, weak, and lame. This could be the best Hamlet (and the best Hamlet) you will see in your lifetime. It certainly was in mine.
Finally we get a prince of Denmark who justifies all the textual references to his rash youth. Michael Benz, whose future stardom should be a foregone conclusion, bears a not-unuseful resemblance to Dennis Christopher back in his Breaking Away days; Benz is raw and callow, thoroughly believable as the overeducated, overemotional young scholar with whom nothing in the adult world sits well, least of all his parental situation. Yet Benz also possesses incredible (for his age) physical control and concentration, as well as a merciless intelligence. His skills make Hamlet’s transition to manhood and revelation, and finally to premature death, eminently plausible. In sum, I’ve never seen a Hamlet conceive of, let alone pull off, such a clear, textually supported, and affecting transformation over the course of the five acts. During the interval, I bet a friend that this Hamlet would come back from England demonstrably the same character but with new resolve and stature—and I was so right.
Blessedly, the other characters in the court of Elsinore aren’t played as types but as fully wrought individuals who are transformed by the tragedy’s headlong events. Especially impressive are the Claudius of Dickon Tyrrell (what a Shakespearean name!), at first a dapper, self-possessed gent who shrinks by inches as his world closes in; Miranda Foster’s Gertrude, only gradually made aware of how her actions have offended Heaven; Carlyss Peer’s Ophelia, making the descent into madness chillingly believable; and a memorable, original Polonius in Christopher Saul, getting all the character’s laughs without compromising his stature as a statesman. Everyone but Benz plays multiple parts, in a complex casting scheme that brings out the best in each actor and, I would argue, the best in each role. For instance, having Tyrrell essay not just the King but the ghost king and the First Player—a feat of magic made possible by a curtain quickly flung closed and open across the mock-Globe touring stage to whip us between the two sides of the playing area—creates all sorts of resonances if you pay attention to what’s being said and by whom.
Best of all, this is as well-spoken a piece of Shakespeare as I have ever been thrilled to attend. Helmers Dominic Dromgoole and Bill Buckhurst clearly subscribe to the Sir Peter Hall school of versification, which transformed the RSC into a world-class classical repertory but whose precepts, at least in the U.S., have as Hamlet would say been more honored in the breach than in the observance. They’re really quite simple, actually:
1. Respect the rhythm. The iambic pentameter is the characters’ heartbeat, not an impediment to your naturalistic style. Use the verse; it’s not yours to abandon at whim.
2. Act on the lines, not between them. The syllables and words tell you what you should be thinking and feeling. Everything you need to know is there.
3. Take slight pauses at the ends of lines, and feel free to take a full stop when a sentence or clause ends mid-line. Otherwise: Keep it going. As a rule, Shakespeare’s characters think as they speak, not while they’re silent.
4. Play the urgency. Pick up the cues.
Most American actors of Shakespeare, in my experience, follow No. 4 pretty regularly, Nos. 2 and 3 intermittently, and No. 1 almost never, which is actually the most important rule for unearthing from the plays everything the author placed there. Seeing this Hamlet amounts to an acting class in the playing of verse.
Some of my colleagues and friends have snippily carped at all the humor, often racy and broad, in this production, sniffing it’s not a tragedy. I wish them many fine times with lugubrious three-hour productions with Melancholy Danes clad in black and walking the parapets of Elsinore lost in grim thought. Me, I’ll stick with the one Hamlet—and I estimate I’ve seen over three dozen—that made me feel deeply for the boy whose tragedy it is that he’s forced to be a man too soon, and that kept me in its grip from beginning to end.
Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre at Broad Stage
For anyone interested in, let alone passionate about, Shakespeare or classical acting, a trip to The Broad Stage to attend the (UK) Globe Theater’s touring production of Hamlet ought to be as much a priority as a pilgrimage to Lourdes for the halt, weak, and lame. This could be the best Hamlet (and the best Hamlet) you will see in your lifetime. It certainly was in mine.
Finally we get a prince of Denmark who justifies all the textual references to his rash youth. Michael Benz, whose future stardom should be a foregone conclusion, bears a not-unuseful resemblance to Dennis Christopher back in his Breaking Away days; Benz is raw and callow, thoroughly believable as the overeducated, overemotional young scholar with whom nothing in the adult world sits well, least of all his parental situation. Yet Benz also possesses incredible (for his age) physical control and concentration, as well as a merciless intelligence. His skills make Hamlet’s transition to manhood and revelation, and finally to premature death, eminently plausible. In sum, I’ve never seen a Hamlet conceive of, let alone pull off, such a clear, textually supported, and affecting transformation over the course of the five acts. During the interval, I bet a friend that this Hamlet would come back from England demonstrably the same character but with new resolve and stature—and I was so right.
Blessedly, the other characters in the court of Elsinore aren’t played as types but as fully wrought individuals who are transformed by the tragedy’s headlong events. Especially impressive are the Claudius of Dickon Tyrrell (what a Shakespearean name!), at first a dapper, self-possessed gent who shrinks by inches as his world closes in; Miranda Foster’s Gertrude, only gradually made aware of how her actions have offended Heaven; Carlyss Peer’s Ophelia, making the descent into madness chillingly believable; and a memorable, original Polonius in Christopher Saul, getting all the character’s laughs without compromising his stature as a statesman. Everyone but Benz plays multiple parts, in a complex casting scheme that brings out the best in each actor and, I would argue, the best in each role. For instance, having Tyrrell essay not just the King but the ghost king and the First Player—a feat of magic made possible by a curtain quickly flung closed and open across the mock-Globe touring stage to whip us between the two sides of the playing area—creates all sorts of resonances if you pay attention to what’s being said and by whom.
Best of all, this is as well-spoken a piece of Shakespeare as I have ever been thrilled to attend. Helmers Dominic Dromgoole and Bill Buckhurst clearly subscribe to the Sir Peter Hall school of versification, which transformed the RSC into a world-class classical repertory but whose precepts, at least in the U.S., have as Hamlet would say been more honored in the breach than in the observance. They’re really quite simple, actually:
1. Respect the rhythm. The iambic pentameter is the characters’ heartbeat, not an impediment to your naturalistic style. Use the verse; it’s not yours to abandon at whim.
2. Act on the lines, not between them. The syllables and words tell you what you should be thinking and feeling. Everything you need to know is there.
3. Take slight pauses at the ends of lines, and feel free to take a full stop when a sentence or clause ends mid-line. Otherwise: Keep it going. As a rule, Shakespeare’s characters think as they speak, not while they’re silent.
4. Play the urgency. Pick up the cues.
Most American actors of Shakespeare, in my experience, follow No. 4 pretty regularly, Nos. 2 and 3 intermittently, and No. 1 almost never, which is actually the most important rule for unearthing from the plays everything the author placed there. Seeing this Hamlet amounts to an acting class in the playing of verse.
Some of my colleagues and friends have snippily carped at all the humor, often racy and broad, in this production, sniffing it’s not a tragedy. I wish them many fine times with lugubrious three-hour productions with Melancholy Danes clad in black and walking the parapets of Elsinore lost in grim thought. Me, I’ll stick with the one Hamlet—and I estimate I’ve seen over three dozen—that made me feel deeply for the boy whose tragedy it is that he’s forced to be a man too soon, and that kept me in its grip from beginning to end.
Reviewed by Bob
Verini
November 20, 2012
November 20, 2012
Avenue Q
DOMA Theatre Company at MET Theatre
Somewhere on the unseen side of its iconic logo lies a section of the Big Apple where sunny days rarely chase the clouds away. This neighborhood—lined with shabby-looking, somewhat boarded-up brownstones—is populated by a bizarre collection of people and craft-store fabricated creatures. Pre-kindergarten phonics or in-depth discussions concerning which of these things is not like the others hold little concern. This is a street where the inhabitants struggle merely to survive. And thanks to this altogether flawless production, it’s a sinfully delectable place to visit.
Sporting a hilariously adult-themed book by the ironically named Jeff Whitty, with music and lyrics by Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx, this piece is a creative coup. Obviously based on the world concocted by Jim Henson and crew, it’s a ladle of homage sprinkled into a swimming pool filled to the brim with irreverent jabs and some downright naughty goings-on. And it works wonderfully in this cozy venue under the impeccable direction of Richard Israel, as the misfit residents of this forgotten lane endeavor to conquer issues including sex, love, and financial desperation.
Danielle Judovits, Christopher Kauffmann, Mark Whitten, and Libby Letlow are the human hands and voices behind the most outrageous collection of oddball puppets one could ever conjure. Judovits, gifted with effortless vocal skills, plays Kate Monster, the preschool teaching assistant pining for love, as well as her own arch-nemesis, Lucy the Slut. Kate/Judovits’s Act 1 ending ballad, “There’s a Fine, Fine Line,” is heartbreakingly tender in its simplicity. Breathing life into Kate’s romantic counterpart, Kauffmann is cute as a button. Playing an unemployed college graduate, aptly named Princeton, he ponders “What Do You Do With a B.A. in English?” And as these two pas de deux their way through the show, Kauffmann also doubles as Rod, one-half of a male roommate situation, who wrestles with his sexual identity.
Whitten and Letlow must lose 10 pounds a performance. In addition to portraying Rod’s goofy roommate, Nicky (their duet “If You Were Gay” is a near showstopper), Whitten brings down the house with every energetic appearance of Trekkie Monster, a horny—both his head and his libido—loveable furball who assures us that “The Internet Is for Porn.” Letlow is a walking definition of versatility, demonstrating her extensive background in theatrical puppetry. Her appearances as Kate’s teaching mentor, Mrs. Thistletwat, and her work with Whitten as a pair of passive-aggressive demons called the The Bad Idea Bears are wickedly funny.
As the non-puppeted neighbors, Chris Kerrigan and Janelle Dote provide much-needed human interaction. Dote’s duet with Kate titled “The More You Ruv Someone” is a belter’s delight, while Kerrigan revels in his solo “I’m Not Wearing Underwear Today.” The final cog on the wheel that makes this show spin smoothly is Benai Boyd’s gender-bending portrayal of landlord Gary Coleman. Yes, that Gary Coleman. Boyd is perfect as she pops in and out with sassy asides and words of wisdom—including “Schadenfreude,” a duet with Nicky so clever, it’s regrettable that there aren’t more verses.
Israel’s fantastic direction is supported by Angela Todaro’s sharply executed choreography and Chris Raymond’s first-rate musical direction. Raymond conducts a stage-right combo of six that is superbly balanced with the cast’s microphones. Johnny Ryman’s masterful lighting finds every crevice of Staci Walters’s astonishingly detailed scenic design.
On a personal note, this production has catapulted its way to the top of this reviewer’s list of the best shows of 2012. Dare to miss it, and you, like the cast of this groundbreaking piece, will be singing “It Sucks to Be Me.”
One November Yankee
NoHo Arts Center
This two-person drama by Joshua Ravetch examines the lives of three sets of brothers and sisters. Stars Harry Hamlin and Loretta Swit give it all they’ve got, but the script is thin, and it’s hard to find a sustained emotional connection to the characters. Ravetch directs his script, and that helps to some degree, but it may also hinder his objectivity as he weaves his storyline. Scenic designer Dana Moran Williams and set constructor–artisan Red Colegrove/Grove Scenery have given the play a visual shot in the arm with the canary yellow, single-engine plane missing half a wing and nose down on the stage. As each of the four scenes unfold, that representation of a crash is central to the action.
The first and last scenes concern Maggie and Ralph. He is an artist who has constructed a replica of this plane for MOMA, while Maggie kvetches a lot, grudgingly offering her support. There is a fair amount of squabbling between Maggie the realist and Ralph the optimist.
The second scene takes place five years earlier but still revolves around the aircraft so prominent in the story. We learn more about the plane crash and the effect it has on siblings Margo and Harry. To disclose more would spoil the revelations that occur in the third scene with yet another pair, Mia and Ronnie, and, finally, back to Maggie and Ralph in the present time.
There is a fair amount of adult humor laced throughout the play. F-bombs are plentiful, and there are times when wit sparks a scene that is otherwise flat and sex seems a subject designed strictly for the audience.
Kate Bergh’s costumes are well-suited to the time period, but unfortunate wigs do not enhance Swit and are distracting. Luke Moyer adds fine lighting to the production, and Jeff Gardner’s sound design works well, especially as background for scene-changing. A television monitor provides engaging historical footage of airplane history.
Hamlin and Swit have good chemistry, and they are old hands at characterizations from their many years on television and the stage. They often add the electricity that enlivens the play’s superficiality, and they find the humanity necessary to engage the audience. Hamlin is particularly touching in one vignette as he faces his future.
All plays are, by nature, contrived; and believability is a key element that can take a simple idea and make it meaningful for an audience. In this case, Ravetch has combined humor and drama, but the story only begins to gain momentum in the second half. The show is described as “theatrical origami,” a designation that is apparent near the end of the play as pieces fall into place. It has promise, but it feels like a short story trying to be a two-act play, and its needs fine-tuning.
DOMA Theatre Company at MET Theatre
Somewhere on the unseen side of its iconic logo lies a section of the Big Apple where sunny days rarely chase the clouds away. This neighborhood—lined with shabby-looking, somewhat boarded-up brownstones—is populated by a bizarre collection of people and craft-store fabricated creatures. Pre-kindergarten phonics or in-depth discussions concerning which of these things is not like the others hold little concern. This is a street where the inhabitants struggle merely to survive. And thanks to this altogether flawless production, it’s a sinfully delectable place to visit.
Sporting a hilariously adult-themed book by the ironically named Jeff Whitty, with music and lyrics by Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx, this piece is a creative coup. Obviously based on the world concocted by Jim Henson and crew, it’s a ladle of homage sprinkled into a swimming pool filled to the brim with irreverent jabs and some downright naughty goings-on. And it works wonderfully in this cozy venue under the impeccable direction of Richard Israel, as the misfit residents of this forgotten lane endeavor to conquer issues including sex, love, and financial desperation.
Danielle Judovits, Christopher Kauffmann, Mark Whitten, and Libby Letlow are the human hands and voices behind the most outrageous collection of oddball puppets one could ever conjure. Judovits, gifted with effortless vocal skills, plays Kate Monster, the preschool teaching assistant pining for love, as well as her own arch-nemesis, Lucy the Slut. Kate/Judovits’s Act 1 ending ballad, “There’s a Fine, Fine Line,” is heartbreakingly tender in its simplicity. Breathing life into Kate’s romantic counterpart, Kauffmann is cute as a button. Playing an unemployed college graduate, aptly named Princeton, he ponders “What Do You Do With a B.A. in English?” And as these two pas de deux their way through the show, Kauffmann also doubles as Rod, one-half of a male roommate situation, who wrestles with his sexual identity.
Whitten and Letlow must lose 10 pounds a performance. In addition to portraying Rod’s goofy roommate, Nicky (their duet “If You Were Gay” is a near showstopper), Whitten brings down the house with every energetic appearance of Trekkie Monster, a horny—both his head and his libido—loveable furball who assures us that “The Internet Is for Porn.” Letlow is a walking definition of versatility, demonstrating her extensive background in theatrical puppetry. Her appearances as Kate’s teaching mentor, Mrs. Thistletwat, and her work with Whitten as a pair of passive-aggressive demons called the The Bad Idea Bears are wickedly funny.
As the non-puppeted neighbors, Chris Kerrigan and Janelle Dote provide much-needed human interaction. Dote’s duet with Kate titled “The More You Ruv Someone” is a belter’s delight, while Kerrigan revels in his solo “I’m Not Wearing Underwear Today.” The final cog on the wheel that makes this show spin smoothly is Benai Boyd’s gender-bending portrayal of landlord Gary Coleman. Yes, that Gary Coleman. Boyd is perfect as she pops in and out with sassy asides and words of wisdom—including “Schadenfreude,” a duet with Nicky so clever, it’s regrettable that there aren’t more verses.
Israel’s fantastic direction is supported by Angela Todaro’s sharply executed choreography and Chris Raymond’s first-rate musical direction. Raymond conducts a stage-right combo of six that is superbly balanced with the cast’s microphones. Johnny Ryman’s masterful lighting finds every crevice of Staci Walters’s astonishingly detailed scenic design.
On a personal note, this production has catapulted its way to the top of this reviewer’s list of the best shows of 2012. Dare to miss it, and you, like the cast of this groundbreaking piece, will be singing “It Sucks to Be Me.”
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
November 19, 2012
November 19, 2012
One November Yankee
NoHo Arts Center
This two-person drama by Joshua Ravetch examines the lives of three sets of brothers and sisters. Stars Harry Hamlin and Loretta Swit give it all they’ve got, but the script is thin, and it’s hard to find a sustained emotional connection to the characters. Ravetch directs his script, and that helps to some degree, but it may also hinder his objectivity as he weaves his storyline. Scenic designer Dana Moran Williams and set constructor–artisan Red Colegrove/Grove Scenery have given the play a visual shot in the arm with the canary yellow, single-engine plane missing half a wing and nose down on the stage. As each of the four scenes unfold, that representation of a crash is central to the action.
The first and last scenes concern Maggie and Ralph. He is an artist who has constructed a replica of this plane for MOMA, while Maggie kvetches a lot, grudgingly offering her support. There is a fair amount of squabbling between Maggie the realist and Ralph the optimist.
The second scene takes place five years earlier but still revolves around the aircraft so prominent in the story. We learn more about the plane crash and the effect it has on siblings Margo and Harry. To disclose more would spoil the revelations that occur in the third scene with yet another pair, Mia and Ronnie, and, finally, back to Maggie and Ralph in the present time.
There is a fair amount of adult humor laced throughout the play. F-bombs are plentiful, and there are times when wit sparks a scene that is otherwise flat and sex seems a subject designed strictly for the audience.
Kate Bergh’s costumes are well-suited to the time period, but unfortunate wigs do not enhance Swit and are distracting. Luke Moyer adds fine lighting to the production, and Jeff Gardner’s sound design works well, especially as background for scene-changing. A television monitor provides engaging historical footage of airplane history.
Hamlin and Swit have good chemistry, and they are old hands at characterizations from their many years on television and the stage. They often add the electricity that enlivens the play’s superficiality, and they find the humanity necessary to engage the audience. Hamlin is particularly touching in one vignette as he faces his future.
All plays are, by nature, contrived; and believability is a key element that can take a simple idea and make it meaningful for an audience. In this case, Ravetch has combined humor and drama, but the story only begins to gain momentum in the second half. The show is described as “theatrical origami,” a designation that is apparent near the end of the play as pieces fall into place. It has promise, but it feels like a short story trying to be a two-act play, and its needs fine-tuning.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 19, 2012
November 19, 2012
A Christmas Twist
SeaGlass Theatre at the Victory Theatre Center’s Big Vic Theatre
From some of the wacky minds that brought forth Of Grapes and Nuts, which tweaked John Steinbeck’s greatest works, comes this irreverently funny collage of characters and storylines first put to paper by the pen of Charles Dickens. Authors Doug Armstrong and Keith Cooper, joined by Maureen Morley, have intertwined a bevy of Dickensian favorites—Fagin and Mr. Bumble, as well as Scrooge, the Cratchits, and the requisite Ghosts of various Christmases—resulting in a rip-roaring holiday classic.
In this hilarious consolidation, Mr. Bumble, the workhouse beadle, is the nephew of Ebeneezer Scrooge, who coincidentally owns the orphanage made famous in the original Oliver Twist. Bumble winds up selling the young lad, herein nicknamed Tiny for obviously comic purposes, to Fagin, who ends up losing him on his first job, whereupon Tiny is adopted by the Cratchit family. Act 2 incorporates all of these oddballs and nutcases into Scrooge’s traditional visit from the specters who bring about his soulful transformation and an ending chock full of revelations and comeuppances galore.
At this point, it might take a scorecard to keep up with the outlandishly bizarre comings and goings, but, really, who cares as long as the laughs keep rolling. And with a cast this versatile, it’s one bellyacher after the next. Paul Stroili directs this romp while he provides an outstanding turn as Mr. Bumble, whose flowery dialogue consists of some of the most nonsensical analogies imaginable. The style, pacing, and off-kilter tone are all testaments to Stroili’s intimate connection with this material, which had its world premiere in Chicago in 1989.
Aiding Stroili in these madcap high jinks is the facile Chris Wynne who, as Fagin, serves as victim to Bumble’s aforementioned challenging language only to reappear in a show-stopping cameo as the lisping Mr. Fuzzywig. There’s Lauren McCormack’s Scrooge, subtly deadpanned as he endures a night of unexpected apparitions. Jen Ray submits a delightful homage to child actor Jack Wild in her portrayal of Little Artful Annie (wait for the joke, it’s coming). Kimberly Van Luin is a hoot as Mrs. Cratchit and the anxiety-ridden Ghost of Christmas Past. Alison Blanchard’s inebriated Ghost of Christmas Present drags Scrooge around Scott LeGrand’s uncluttered yet surprise-filled set with gusto.
But the night belongs to Warren Davis and David Reynolds in their respective roles as the surprisingly swinish Bob Cratchit and the oversized man-child “Tiny” Twist. Davis produces a near flawless turn as his Cratchit, so often the victim in this tale, relishes with sadistic glee the ludicrous stunts that he and his wife put Twist through, all in the name of celebrating Christmas. Meanwhile, Reynolds, sporting the physique of an NFL lineman, hobbles about the stage with the aid of a crutch clearly many sizes too small as he offers asides to the audience, denouncing his various persecutors. The sheer juxtapositions alone are laughable, but it’s what Davis and Reynolds accomplish here that makes them so noteworthy. Handsome attire all around is credited to costume designer Travis Thi. Keep an eye out for Blanchard’s Christmas Tree–styled dress and the various accoutrements found hanging all over actor David G. Peryam’s side-splitting visit as the spirit of Scrooge’s former partner, Jacob Marley. Efrain Schunior’s sound inserts, including soap opera-ish organ chords, are another dollop of icing on this well-turned fruitcake of a production.
A Bright New Boise
Rogue Machine at Theatre/Theater
This Samuel D. Hunter script is saying something, and other people say they hear its message. But some of us do not hear it. Why not? The play pleased a New York publication enough to win an Obie. The play then merited the interest of Rogue Machine theater company and director John Perrin Flynn, who are giving it its West Coast premiere.
The play seems to be about religious zealotry and its effects on those less believing. Will (Matthew Elkins) has come to town, ostensibly to find employment, possibly to escape a scandal at his Evangelical church. We can’t be sure about any of this, nor that Will is desperate enough to take the not-quite-full-time job at ultralow wages, and so it’s hard to work up sympathy for him. Once he convinces the store manager (Betsy Zajko) he can handle the job under her stated conditions and she hires him on the spot, his first act is to tell young Alex (Erik Odom) that he’s his father. Alex seems shaken by the news, but he also seems shaky to begin with. His adoptive brother, Leroy (Trevor Peterson), is a counterpoint to Will, having artistic talents and a capacity for proselytizing shock.
Will certainly disturbs the status quo of every other character. Pauline (Betsy Zajko) crisply runs a branch of Hobby Lobby, having kept the store on steady legs for years now. Leroy has been protecting his brother, and Alex might have temporarily forgotten the father whom he thinks abandoned him. Another employee, childishly awkward Anna (Heather L. Tyler), has been living a solitary life, spending her after-hours evenings in the store’s break room—one setting of the play, sharing stage time with a parking lot Flynn creates by bringing a cross-like streetlamp on and off the stage. Periodically, Will stands under that lamp and, face upturned, pleads, “Now!” presumably asking to be taken from his Earthly state or asking that the entire race be rapturized.
Maybe a hint about the storytelling is offered by two corporate “suits” (Ron Bottitta and Rob Dodd), whom the audience sees via closed-circuit TV as the two offer corporate-style inspiration to the workers—when the broadcasts aren’t crossing wires with grisly videos of real-life surgeries.
The play doesn’t clearly fall into a genre, which of itself should not signify any wrongdoing by Hunter; but at least some of us are left wondering if we should be laughing at these characters, pitying them, or trying to emulate them.
Red Barn
Independent Shakespeare Company in the ISC Studio
Captivating storytelling hallmarks this world premiere musical in Los Angeles that centers on an 1827 crime in the English countryside. David Melville and Melissa Chalsma, better-known to summer-Shakespeare audiences as the makers of Independent Shakespeare Company’s outdoor seasons, wrote the book for Red Barn, in part because the story, told to Melville by his mother when he was a boy, continued to stay with him—an excellent recommendation for a tale. In it, the mole-catcher’s daughter, Maria, had an affair with the landowner’s son and heir, Matthew, and bore his daughter. Matthew would set wedding dates and then postpone, until his debauched lust pushed him into an even more irrevocable act.
The musical’s book tells the story chronologically but with detours to courtroom testimony by the townsfolk. It neatly introduces the characters. The dialogue sounds period, with occasional intentional bits of very modern English.
Melville’s music enchants. The appealing melodies and chords and rhythms are varied yet make a cohesive whole, and that whole establishes time and place without sounding of the period. Indeed, one might find the music more redolent of the Beatles than of, say, the likes of Elgar. The score is played by Melville and Ashley Nguyen (who also plays various townsfolk) on guitar, David Bickford (who also doubles as a judge) on piano, and Dan Schwartz (who music directs) on bass.
The ISC Studio space is a white box, which surprisingly sets the piece more in 19th century England than a black box might. The space feels barnlike (in a good sense), as well as like a schoolhouse and courtroom. Chalsma directs. She stages the piece fluidly, with charming details, shaping the action to build and peak. She plays up the creamy white space, costuming her performers (credited to Michelle Neuman) in shades of eggshell and brown.
The production stars Mary Guilliams, as the unfortunate Maria, and Matthew Michael Hurley as her paramour William. Robert Alan Beuth as Maria’s father, Claudia de Vasco as her stepmother, Aisha Kabia as the obligatorily saucy wench, and Erika Soto as the classically pure wife give lovely, specific portrayals. Melville plays the comedically villainous Beauty Smith, and, though Melville wouldn’t intend to steal the show, it’s impossible not to watch his every quirky moment onstage.
The two creators say they wrote this musical on and for the Independent Shakespeare actors, giving the performers the chance to work in a new area: musical theater. That’s a noble idea, and certainly the cast includes performers in the actors-who-sing and actors-who-move categories, in addition to a few musical theater triple-threats. But if this production is to have a second life—and it should—better singing voices are in order, particularly for the two leads. However, likely responsible for much of the storytelling’s success are the acting abilities and engaging presences of the actors, again particularly those two leads. Firming up the Suffolk accents will also turn this into the top-rate production it can easily be.
Theatre Banshee at The Banshee
This
U.S. premiere of an Irish import is a gentle little script that
probably would speak to Dubliners of the late 1990s. But playwright
Jimmy Murphy offers not much to Angelenos of the new millennium, who
would be thrilled with increasingly large offers to purchase any
property we might be lucky enough to own. In addition, the play’s
structure feels anticlimactic before we even notice a climax. But it
provides an armature on which to hang human behavior, and director Sean
Branney makes certain the five characters spark and sparkle.
Dublin boomed during that era—not to mention the signature penchant for drink we hear about in so many Irish plays—so pub owner Mick (Matt Foyer at the performance reviewed) has been able to keep the Black Pool afloat for at least a quarter of a century. Tommy the tenant (Ian Patrick Williams) raised his daughter in the adjacent cottage. Nora the hairdresser (Kathleen M. Darcy) has been struggling, but she knew better days, particularly when she met the love of her life and held her engagement party at the Black Pool. Sinéad the barmaid (Lisa Dobbyn) depends on the bar for her living.
The overly friendly local property developer, Mossy (Andrew Leman at the performance reviewed), has finally named Mick’s price, and Mick sells the bar—in action offstage. The sale forces Tommy to move, Sinéad to find work elsewhere, and Nora to confront her feelings for Mick. Tommy cashed his retirement check, Sinéad shows herself to be a reliable worker, and Nora, we’re told, will start advertising her business and just might decide on a second date with Mossy and/or accept his offer to buy her family-business salon.
That’s the plot. The interesting undercurrent on this stage is Mick’s aversion to or lack of interest in the women, who drop hints subtle and unsubtle that they’d give him a go. This aspect of Mick is never explored, but its result seems clear: He is out of there, no strings attached.
But no matter what might trouble the viewer about the script, Branney has brought out every possible relationship among the characters, and his actors play the the relationships with graceful warmth. Foyer’s Mick is emotionally transparent to the audience, even if Mick isn’t to the other characters. Darcy’s Nora is so humanly layered, we’ll never know all her hidden thoughts and feelings. Dobbyn is a sharing presence on the stage, and Williams is a gentle one. Adding spice, Leman’s Mossy is an Irish Mr. Applegate as he gleefully brings havoc to the neighborhood.
SeaGlass Theatre at the Victory Theatre Center’s Big Vic Theatre
From some of the wacky minds that brought forth Of Grapes and Nuts, which tweaked John Steinbeck’s greatest works, comes this irreverently funny collage of characters and storylines first put to paper by the pen of Charles Dickens. Authors Doug Armstrong and Keith Cooper, joined by Maureen Morley, have intertwined a bevy of Dickensian favorites—Fagin and Mr. Bumble, as well as Scrooge, the Cratchits, and the requisite Ghosts of various Christmases—resulting in a rip-roaring holiday classic.
In this hilarious consolidation, Mr. Bumble, the workhouse beadle, is the nephew of Ebeneezer Scrooge, who coincidentally owns the orphanage made famous in the original Oliver Twist. Bumble winds up selling the young lad, herein nicknamed Tiny for obviously comic purposes, to Fagin, who ends up losing him on his first job, whereupon Tiny is adopted by the Cratchit family. Act 2 incorporates all of these oddballs and nutcases into Scrooge’s traditional visit from the specters who bring about his soulful transformation and an ending chock full of revelations and comeuppances galore.
At this point, it might take a scorecard to keep up with the outlandishly bizarre comings and goings, but, really, who cares as long as the laughs keep rolling. And with a cast this versatile, it’s one bellyacher after the next. Paul Stroili directs this romp while he provides an outstanding turn as Mr. Bumble, whose flowery dialogue consists of some of the most nonsensical analogies imaginable. The style, pacing, and off-kilter tone are all testaments to Stroili’s intimate connection with this material, which had its world premiere in Chicago in 1989.
Aiding Stroili in these madcap high jinks is the facile Chris Wynne who, as Fagin, serves as victim to Bumble’s aforementioned challenging language only to reappear in a show-stopping cameo as the lisping Mr. Fuzzywig. There’s Lauren McCormack’s Scrooge, subtly deadpanned as he endures a night of unexpected apparitions. Jen Ray submits a delightful homage to child actor Jack Wild in her portrayal of Little Artful Annie (wait for the joke, it’s coming). Kimberly Van Luin is a hoot as Mrs. Cratchit and the anxiety-ridden Ghost of Christmas Past. Alison Blanchard’s inebriated Ghost of Christmas Present drags Scrooge around Scott LeGrand’s uncluttered yet surprise-filled set with gusto.
But the night belongs to Warren Davis and David Reynolds in their respective roles as the surprisingly swinish Bob Cratchit and the oversized man-child “Tiny” Twist. Davis produces a near flawless turn as his Cratchit, so often the victim in this tale, relishes with sadistic glee the ludicrous stunts that he and his wife put Twist through, all in the name of celebrating Christmas. Meanwhile, Reynolds, sporting the physique of an NFL lineman, hobbles about the stage with the aid of a crutch clearly many sizes too small as he offers asides to the audience, denouncing his various persecutors. The sheer juxtapositions alone are laughable, but it’s what Davis and Reynolds accomplish here that makes them so noteworthy. Handsome attire all around is credited to costume designer Travis Thi. Keep an eye out for Blanchard’s Christmas Tree–styled dress and the various accoutrements found hanging all over actor David G. Peryam’s side-splitting visit as the spirit of Scrooge’s former partner, Jacob Marley. Efrain Schunior’s sound inserts, including soap opera-ish organ chords, are another dollop of icing on this well-turned fruitcake of a production.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
November 12, 2012
November 12, 2012
A Bright New Boise
Rogue Machine at Theatre/Theater
This Samuel D. Hunter script is saying something, and other people say they hear its message. But some of us do not hear it. Why not? The play pleased a New York publication enough to win an Obie. The play then merited the interest of Rogue Machine theater company and director John Perrin Flynn, who are giving it its West Coast premiere.
The play seems to be about religious zealotry and its effects on those less believing. Will (Matthew Elkins) has come to town, ostensibly to find employment, possibly to escape a scandal at his Evangelical church. We can’t be sure about any of this, nor that Will is desperate enough to take the not-quite-full-time job at ultralow wages, and so it’s hard to work up sympathy for him. Once he convinces the store manager (Betsy Zajko) he can handle the job under her stated conditions and she hires him on the spot, his first act is to tell young Alex (Erik Odom) that he’s his father. Alex seems shaken by the news, but he also seems shaky to begin with. His adoptive brother, Leroy (Trevor Peterson), is a counterpoint to Will, having artistic talents and a capacity for proselytizing shock.
Will certainly disturbs the status quo of every other character. Pauline (Betsy Zajko) crisply runs a branch of Hobby Lobby, having kept the store on steady legs for years now. Leroy has been protecting his brother, and Alex might have temporarily forgotten the father whom he thinks abandoned him. Another employee, childishly awkward Anna (Heather L. Tyler), has been living a solitary life, spending her after-hours evenings in the store’s break room—one setting of the play, sharing stage time with a parking lot Flynn creates by bringing a cross-like streetlamp on and off the stage. Periodically, Will stands under that lamp and, face upturned, pleads, “Now!” presumably asking to be taken from his Earthly state or asking that the entire race be rapturized.
Maybe a hint about the storytelling is offered by two corporate “suits” (Ron Bottitta and Rob Dodd), whom the audience sees via closed-circuit TV as the two offer corporate-style inspiration to the workers—when the broadcasts aren’t crossing wires with grisly videos of real-life surgeries.
The play doesn’t clearly fall into a genre, which of itself should not signify any wrongdoing by Hunter; but at least some of us are left wondering if we should be laughing at these characters, pitying them, or trying to emulate them.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 11, 2012
November 11, 2012
Red Barn
Independent Shakespeare Company in the ISC Studio
Captivating storytelling hallmarks this world premiere musical in Los Angeles that centers on an 1827 crime in the English countryside. David Melville and Melissa Chalsma, better-known to summer-Shakespeare audiences as the makers of Independent Shakespeare Company’s outdoor seasons, wrote the book for Red Barn, in part because the story, told to Melville by his mother when he was a boy, continued to stay with him—an excellent recommendation for a tale. In it, the mole-catcher’s daughter, Maria, had an affair with the landowner’s son and heir, Matthew, and bore his daughter. Matthew would set wedding dates and then postpone, until his debauched lust pushed him into an even more irrevocable act.
The musical’s book tells the story chronologically but with detours to courtroom testimony by the townsfolk. It neatly introduces the characters. The dialogue sounds period, with occasional intentional bits of very modern English.
Melville’s music enchants. The appealing melodies and chords and rhythms are varied yet make a cohesive whole, and that whole establishes time and place without sounding of the period. Indeed, one might find the music more redolent of the Beatles than of, say, the likes of Elgar. The score is played by Melville and Ashley Nguyen (who also plays various townsfolk) on guitar, David Bickford (who also doubles as a judge) on piano, and Dan Schwartz (who music directs) on bass.
The ISC Studio space is a white box, which surprisingly sets the piece more in 19th century England than a black box might. The space feels barnlike (in a good sense), as well as like a schoolhouse and courtroom. Chalsma directs. She stages the piece fluidly, with charming details, shaping the action to build and peak. She plays up the creamy white space, costuming her performers (credited to Michelle Neuman) in shades of eggshell and brown.
The production stars Mary Guilliams, as the unfortunate Maria, and Matthew Michael Hurley as her paramour William. Robert Alan Beuth as Maria’s father, Claudia de Vasco as her stepmother, Aisha Kabia as the obligatorily saucy wench, and Erika Soto as the classically pure wife give lovely, specific portrayals. Melville plays the comedically villainous Beauty Smith, and, though Melville wouldn’t intend to steal the show, it’s impossible not to watch his every quirky moment onstage.
The two creators say they wrote this musical on and for the Independent Shakespeare actors, giving the performers the chance to work in a new area: musical theater. That’s a noble idea, and certainly the cast includes performers in the actors-who-sing and actors-who-move categories, in addition to a few musical theater triple-threats. But if this production is to have a second life—and it should—better singing voices are in order, particularly for the two leads. However, likely responsible for much of the storytelling’s success are the acting abilities and engaging presences of the actors, again particularly those two leads. Firming up the Suffolk accents will also turn this into the top-rate production it can easily be.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 11, 2012
The Muesli BeltNovember 11, 2012
Theatre Banshee at The Banshee
Dublin boomed during that era—not to mention the signature penchant for drink we hear about in so many Irish plays—so pub owner Mick (Matt Foyer at the performance reviewed) has been able to keep the Black Pool afloat for at least a quarter of a century. Tommy the tenant (Ian Patrick Williams) raised his daughter in the adjacent cottage. Nora the hairdresser (Kathleen M. Darcy) has been struggling, but she knew better days, particularly when she met the love of her life and held her engagement party at the Black Pool. Sinéad the barmaid (Lisa Dobbyn) depends on the bar for her living.
The overly friendly local property developer, Mossy (Andrew Leman at the performance reviewed), has finally named Mick’s price, and Mick sells the bar—in action offstage. The sale forces Tommy to move, Sinéad to find work elsewhere, and Nora to confront her feelings for Mick. Tommy cashed his retirement check, Sinéad shows herself to be a reliable worker, and Nora, we’re told, will start advertising her business and just might decide on a second date with Mossy and/or accept his offer to buy her family-business salon.
That’s the plot. The interesting undercurrent on this stage is Mick’s aversion to or lack of interest in the women, who drop hints subtle and unsubtle that they’d give him a go. This aspect of Mick is never explored, but its result seems clear: He is out of there, no strings attached.
But no matter what might trouble the viewer about the script, Branney has brought out every possible relationship among the characters, and his actors play the the relationships with graceful warmth. Foyer’s Mick is emotionally transparent to the audience, even if Mick isn’t to the other characters. Darcy’s Nora is so humanly layered, we’ll never know all her hidden thoughts and feelings. Dobbyn is a sharing presence on the stage, and Williams is a gentle one. Adding spice, Leman’s Mossy is an Irish Mr. Applegate as he gleefully brings havoc to the neighborhood.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 8, 2012
November 8, 2012
Theatre in the Dark
Odyssey Theatre
Some ideas don’t even sound good on paper. This one, however, turns out to be a thoroughly entertaining and relatively informative one. Ron Sossi’s brainchild lets audiences sit in absolute pitch darkness, experiencing theater without benefit of our sight. These 90-minute performances (of alternating evenings titled Dark, reviewed here, and More Dark) comprise stories told in the dark, sketches about the dark, conversations as if not in the dark, and bits of the dark side.
A comforting preshow speech by Sossi lets the audience know what to do if the darkness overwhelms any of us. Then, of course, he reminds us to shut our cellphones. One phone doesn’t go out, however, leaving a flickering blue flame that annoys the audience plenty. The phone’s owner continues his loud conversation. But, wait! The trained timbres of that voice belong to actor Ron Bottitta, and he’s in a piece titled Our Dark Connection (written by Anna Nicholas, directed by Sossi) that pointedly reminds us of cellphone etiquette and missing the best part of a play’s opening seconds because of audience distractions.
Several brief moments of light help break up the evening, calling upon designer Kathi O’Donohue to reward our eyes with a flash of vision. In Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s metaphor-filled account of a train trip that goes off the beaten tracks, titled The Tunnel (directed by Sossi), we spot the terrified faces of men hurtling toward their fate (voiced by Alan Abelew, Jack Axelrod, and Botita, narrated by Denise Blasor, Beth Hogan, and Nicholas). In Elegant Dinner (created by the company and Nicholas, directed by Sossi), we eventually see what or where the gourmets are eating, as do they. Uh oh. (Performed by Axelrod, Marcia Battiste, Blasor, Sheelagh Cullen, Jean Gilpin, Nicholas, and Cary Thompson.) The nostalgic Dancing in the Dark is a glimpse of Axelrod doing as advertised.
So, in darkness, this audience could easily realize how essential sound design is to theater. John Zalewski creates a sense of excitement, so the audience never sits in stifling stillness, then adds sound as specific as furniture and belongings tumbling down (Moving In, written and directed by Sossi) and as abstract as movement of air.
In String (directed by David Bridel), two people repeatedly try to coerce a man into saying “string,” even though he is desperately doing exactly that. The piece comes off as bad Monty Python until one recalls it’s by Matei Visniec, whose voice was repressed in his native Romania. Almost as philosophic but deliberately funny, in Sound in the Forest the tree falls after a pontificating trio departs for the nearest bar.
Occasionally, without visual cues, the end of one segment is indistinguishable from the start of the next. Did the animalistic roar come from the mother in Womb (Sossi) or from a creature in Prehistoric Hunt (created by the company, directed by Jeremy Aluma)?
The stars indeed come out in the dark. Hogan, whom Odyssey audiences barely see as she quietly administers the theater, is the lively highlight here in A Happening. She plays a chipper grocery shopper with a charmingly extreme desire to share the delights of food with us. Hogan treats the audience to a feast of appreciation and real food; presumably with the help of night vision goggles, she interacts with hungry volunteers from the audience, offering tastes to them and spreading the aromas of strawberries and popcorn over the rest of us. Hogan also begins the evening by sharing a warm recount of the sensing of ghosts across Odyssey Theatre’s long history.
This production is memorable for its setting. It’s also memorable for the lingering impression that its actors are genuinely joyous. Their childlike energy pours from the stage, as if they had returned to their first-year acting-student selves and discovered a new class exercise that just can’t go on long enough. And yet, they are responsible for the timing of overlapping conversations without benefit of seeing their scene partners, plus blocking to remember, accomplished with a grid of overhead wires they navigate so their voices move around the large playing area.
How does the audience fare? One supposes no one with claustrophobia or fear of the dark will attend. At the show reviewed, the crowd behaved exemplarily at first, then let off steam during and immediately after Hogan’s feast, and feet get restless at about the 60-minute mark. Still, it’s a remarkable event lovers of theater should try.
Odyssey Theatre
Some ideas don’t even sound good on paper. This one, however, turns out to be a thoroughly entertaining and relatively informative one. Ron Sossi’s brainchild lets audiences sit in absolute pitch darkness, experiencing theater without benefit of our sight. These 90-minute performances (of alternating evenings titled Dark, reviewed here, and More Dark) comprise stories told in the dark, sketches about the dark, conversations as if not in the dark, and bits of the dark side.
A comforting preshow speech by Sossi lets the audience know what to do if the darkness overwhelms any of us. Then, of course, he reminds us to shut our cellphones. One phone doesn’t go out, however, leaving a flickering blue flame that annoys the audience plenty. The phone’s owner continues his loud conversation. But, wait! The trained timbres of that voice belong to actor Ron Bottitta, and he’s in a piece titled Our Dark Connection (written by Anna Nicholas, directed by Sossi) that pointedly reminds us of cellphone etiquette and missing the best part of a play’s opening seconds because of audience distractions.
Several brief moments of light help break up the evening, calling upon designer Kathi O’Donohue to reward our eyes with a flash of vision. In Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s metaphor-filled account of a train trip that goes off the beaten tracks, titled The Tunnel (directed by Sossi), we spot the terrified faces of men hurtling toward their fate (voiced by Alan Abelew, Jack Axelrod, and Botita, narrated by Denise Blasor, Beth Hogan, and Nicholas). In Elegant Dinner (created by the company and Nicholas, directed by Sossi), we eventually see what or where the gourmets are eating, as do they. Uh oh. (Performed by Axelrod, Marcia Battiste, Blasor, Sheelagh Cullen, Jean Gilpin, Nicholas, and Cary Thompson.) The nostalgic Dancing in the Dark is a glimpse of Axelrod doing as advertised.
So, in darkness, this audience could easily realize how essential sound design is to theater. John Zalewski creates a sense of excitement, so the audience never sits in stifling stillness, then adds sound as specific as furniture and belongings tumbling down (Moving In, written and directed by Sossi) and as abstract as movement of air.
In String (directed by David Bridel), two people repeatedly try to coerce a man into saying “string,” even though he is desperately doing exactly that. The piece comes off as bad Monty Python until one recalls it’s by Matei Visniec, whose voice was repressed in his native Romania. Almost as philosophic but deliberately funny, in Sound in the Forest the tree falls after a pontificating trio departs for the nearest bar.
Occasionally, without visual cues, the end of one segment is indistinguishable from the start of the next. Did the animalistic roar come from the mother in Womb (Sossi) or from a creature in Prehistoric Hunt (created by the company, directed by Jeremy Aluma)?
The stars indeed come out in the dark. Hogan, whom Odyssey audiences barely see as she quietly administers the theater, is the lively highlight here in A Happening. She plays a chipper grocery shopper with a charmingly extreme desire to share the delights of food with us. Hogan treats the audience to a feast of appreciation and real food; presumably with the help of night vision goggles, she interacts with hungry volunteers from the audience, offering tastes to them and spreading the aromas of strawberries and popcorn over the rest of us. Hogan also begins the evening by sharing a warm recount of the sensing of ghosts across Odyssey Theatre’s long history.
This production is memorable for its setting. It’s also memorable for the lingering impression that its actors are genuinely joyous. Their childlike energy pours from the stage, as if they had returned to their first-year acting-student selves and discovered a new class exercise that just can’t go on long enough. And yet, they are responsible for the timing of overlapping conversations without benefit of seeing their scene partners, plus blocking to remember, accomplished with a grid of overhead wires they navigate so their voices move around the large playing area.
How does the audience fare? One supposes no one with claustrophobia or fear of the dark will attend. At the show reviewed, the crowd behaved exemplarily at first, then let off steam during and immediately after Hogan’s feast, and feet get restless at about the 60-minute mark. Still, it’s a remarkable event lovers of theater should try.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 5, 2012
November 5, 2012
How To Survive a Zombie Apocalypse
Combined Artform and After Dark Entertainment at Theatre Asylum & Lab
Curse you, George Romero! Oh sure, there have been films focused on reanimated cadavers that predate the famous director’s 1968 groundbreaker, but these were populated primarily by ashen-faced, hollow-eyed voodoo slaves lurching across the screen in forgettable titles such as 1932’s White Zombie. But along came Romero’s Night of the Living Dead and with it a whole new set of ground rules as to why these creatures exist, what their objectives are, and how to avoid becoming their next meal.
In the spirit of Dawn of..., Day of…, Return of…, Land of..., and yes, even Shaun of the Dead, this half-scripted, half-improvisational, Americanized edition of a British version (original written by Ben Muir, Jess Napthine, David Ash, Lee Cooper/After Dark Productions) is back to poke fun and a few sharp objects at our fascination with this horror genre.
Director Patrick Bristow and his fellow trio of actors have accomplished something more than merely admirable in adapting this piece for us Yanks. They finesse this material with, dare the pun be uttered, deadpan proficiency. The result is a comic home run that keeps the subject matter engaging even for those who, like this reviewer, have previously found this particular field of fiction to be of minor interest. Bristow is an emcee extraordinaire, playing the role of Dr. Bobert Dougash, a clinical specialist whose overriding desire is to prepare the rest of us for the as-yet-to-occur but surely imminent arrival of the show’s titular calamity. Never flagging in enthusiasm, Bristow demonstrates an expertise for realizing when a bit has run its course or can be milked for a few more guffaws. And upon sitting down with a figurative stool and bucket, milk them he does with a magnificently dry delivery.
Dr. Dougash’s compatriots from the School of Survival—be sure to watch for the specialized hand signal here—included, on the night reviewed, Mario Vernazza, Jayne Entwistle, and Chris Sheets as conspiracy-minded lunatics. Vernazza is a comic powder keg as Ronald Jarfist, a camouflage-clad, pseudo-military type constantly restrained by Bristow from making slightly sexy overtures to female audience members. Entwistle exudes the perfect air of scientific authority as the lab-coated, bespectacled Kirsta Kanbert until her unpredictably nutty communications with the audience on survival do’s and don’ts prove her to be just as much a first-class eccentric. Sheets sidesplittingly portrays Braydon Manxpipe, the part–village idiot, part–scientific experiment guinea pig for the group. Sheets does a fantastic job of personifying this tousled man-child’s literal take on each new piece of incoming information. He’s not retarded, just hilariously befuddled.
Three chairs and a podium keep the focus in this cozy venue right where it needs to be: on the performers and their interactions with the viewers. This briskly paced, family-friendly one-act deserves a long and profitable run, be that at the box office or away from the brain-eating undead.
Combined Artform and After Dark Entertainment at Theatre Asylum & Lab
Curse you, George Romero! Oh sure, there have been films focused on reanimated cadavers that predate the famous director’s 1968 groundbreaker, but these were populated primarily by ashen-faced, hollow-eyed voodoo slaves lurching across the screen in forgettable titles such as 1932’s White Zombie. But along came Romero’s Night of the Living Dead and with it a whole new set of ground rules as to why these creatures exist, what their objectives are, and how to avoid becoming their next meal.
In the spirit of Dawn of..., Day of…, Return of…, Land of..., and yes, even Shaun of the Dead, this half-scripted, half-improvisational, Americanized edition of a British version (original written by Ben Muir, Jess Napthine, David Ash, Lee Cooper/After Dark Productions) is back to poke fun and a few sharp objects at our fascination with this horror genre.
Director Patrick Bristow and his fellow trio of actors have accomplished something more than merely admirable in adapting this piece for us Yanks. They finesse this material with, dare the pun be uttered, deadpan proficiency. The result is a comic home run that keeps the subject matter engaging even for those who, like this reviewer, have previously found this particular field of fiction to be of minor interest. Bristow is an emcee extraordinaire, playing the role of Dr. Bobert Dougash, a clinical specialist whose overriding desire is to prepare the rest of us for the as-yet-to-occur but surely imminent arrival of the show’s titular calamity. Never flagging in enthusiasm, Bristow demonstrates an expertise for realizing when a bit has run its course or can be milked for a few more guffaws. And upon sitting down with a figurative stool and bucket, milk them he does with a magnificently dry delivery.
Dr. Dougash’s compatriots from the School of Survival—be sure to watch for the specialized hand signal here—included, on the night reviewed, Mario Vernazza, Jayne Entwistle, and Chris Sheets as conspiracy-minded lunatics. Vernazza is a comic powder keg as Ronald Jarfist, a camouflage-clad, pseudo-military type constantly restrained by Bristow from making slightly sexy overtures to female audience members. Entwistle exudes the perfect air of scientific authority as the lab-coated, bespectacled Kirsta Kanbert until her unpredictably nutty communications with the audience on survival do’s and don’ts prove her to be just as much a first-class eccentric. Sheets sidesplittingly portrays Braydon Manxpipe, the part–village idiot, part–scientific experiment guinea pig for the group. Sheets does a fantastic job of personifying this tousled man-child’s literal take on each new piece of incoming information. He’s not retarded, just hilariously befuddled.
Three chairs and a podium keep the focus in this cozy venue right where it needs to be: on the performers and their interactions with the viewers. This briskly paced, family-friendly one-act deserves a long and profitable run, be that at the box office or away from the brain-eating undead.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
November 5, 2012
November 5, 2012
How to Write a New Book for the Bible
South Coast Repertory
Narrator Bill (Tyler Pierce) enters with a notebook in hand and announces: “First rule of writing? Write what you know. If writers stuck to it, there would be no books.” On that note, over time, we learn that Bill is a writer, a priest, and, ultimately, a caregiver for his dying mother. Family, we find out, is where we learn what we know.
Audaciously, Bill further announces that the Bible embarrasses him. He claims it begins with bad anthropology and ends with bad science fiction. It is from this irreverence that we come to understand his faith and travel back and forth in time to learn about his family he calls “functional.”
The play is autobiographical storytelling. Playwright Bill Cain kept a diary, and from it he has culled memories from his youth and adult life that help him articulate his feelings and frustrations. We meet his father, Pete (Jeff Biehl); brother, Paul (Aaron Blakely); and mother, Mary (Linda Gehringer).
Almost immediately we learn that Mary has terminal cancer with about six months to live. She is in intractable pain, but her quirkiness and upbeat nature provide a lot of the humor that permeates the play. Bill opines that his and Paul’s lives were ruined by the book The Little Engine That Could. Mary thought that there wasn’t anything you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it and had God on your side.
This comes into focus in Blakely’s fine performance as a willing warrior in Vietnam who suffers in silence after his return. A touching scene describes the brothers' road trip to the Vietnam Memorial (with clever uplighting by Alexander V. Nichols from removable circles on the floor of Scott Bradley’s excellent minimalist set).
Kent Nicholson directs with a sure hand. The chemistry among the actors and the directorial choices make compelling Cain’s wit, honesty, and sentiment without sentimentality. Pierce is outstanding as he navigates the highs and lows of the family relationships.
Gehringer is thoroughly believable as the 80-year-old who struggles with acceptance and the physical impairments that beset her. Pete is also brought amiably to life by Biehl (along with other cameos throughout the production). Pete is an optimist and is said by Bill to “have loved entirely a woman who could not be entirely loved.”
An argument could be made that the play is too long and drawn out. There’s a lot of soul searching and maybe a tad too many pauses for philosophical reflection. What does successfully occur, though, is Bill’s coming to terms with what he has learned about his family and himself.
Bill announces at the end of the play that every hundred years every family should add a new book to the Bible. He considers this play his submission. The visceral recognition that the human condition is about living and dying strikes a universal chord and provides the emotional heft that lingers long after the production ends.
South Coast Repertory
Narrator Bill (Tyler Pierce) enters with a notebook in hand and announces: “First rule of writing? Write what you know. If writers stuck to it, there would be no books.” On that note, over time, we learn that Bill is a writer, a priest, and, ultimately, a caregiver for his dying mother. Family, we find out, is where we learn what we know.
Audaciously, Bill further announces that the Bible embarrasses him. He claims it begins with bad anthropology and ends with bad science fiction. It is from this irreverence that we come to understand his faith and travel back and forth in time to learn about his family he calls “functional.”
The play is autobiographical storytelling. Playwright Bill Cain kept a diary, and from it he has culled memories from his youth and adult life that help him articulate his feelings and frustrations. We meet his father, Pete (Jeff Biehl); brother, Paul (Aaron Blakely); and mother, Mary (Linda Gehringer).
Almost immediately we learn that Mary has terminal cancer with about six months to live. She is in intractable pain, but her quirkiness and upbeat nature provide a lot of the humor that permeates the play. Bill opines that his and Paul’s lives were ruined by the book The Little Engine That Could. Mary thought that there wasn’t anything you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it and had God on your side.
This comes into focus in Blakely’s fine performance as a willing warrior in Vietnam who suffers in silence after his return. A touching scene describes the brothers' road trip to the Vietnam Memorial (with clever uplighting by Alexander V. Nichols from removable circles on the floor of Scott Bradley’s excellent minimalist set).
Kent Nicholson directs with a sure hand. The chemistry among the actors and the directorial choices make compelling Cain’s wit, honesty, and sentiment without sentimentality. Pierce is outstanding as he navigates the highs and lows of the family relationships.
Gehringer is thoroughly believable as the 80-year-old who struggles with acceptance and the physical impairments that beset her. Pete is also brought amiably to life by Biehl (along with other cameos throughout the production). Pete is an optimist and is said by Bill to “have loved entirely a woman who could not be entirely loved.”
An argument could be made that the play is too long and drawn out. There’s a lot of soul searching and maybe a tad too many pauses for philosophical reflection. What does successfully occur, though, is Bill’s coming to terms with what he has learned about his family and himself.
Bill announces at the end of the play that every hundred years every family should add a new book to the Bible. He considers this play his submission. The visceral recognition that the human condition is about living and dying strikes a universal chord and provides the emotional heft that lingers long after the production ends.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
November 4, 2012
November 4, 2012
Death of a Salesgirl
Bootleg Theater
First to strike the attentive audience member upon entering the theater here is John Zalewski’s sound design. It seems to consist of effervescent electronic dots and anchoring bass-note dashes. A haunting, initially disquieting, ultimately soothing presence, his sound will continue to envelop the production.
Meanwhile, next of note to the observer is François-Pierre Couture’s set. Apparently a hotel room—though its ceiling is a gape rimmed by earth and dead leaves—it is confining, a little menacing, and very tidy if shabby.
Cat (writer-actor Patricia Scanlon) storms onstage, wearing a trench coat and carrying two old-style hard-shell suitcases. A slurry of words pours from her, delivered in noir stylings. An exhausted traveling saleswoman, Cat needs comforting. Our empathy immediately sets in.
What would it be like to be someone else, Cat wonders? A crow, laden with symbolism, perches on a picture frame behind her (projections by Adam Flemming; animation by Dan Lund). She takes off her coat; she is wearing a Girl Scout uniform laden with badges and patches—presumably reflecting knowledge and good behavior.
Sales aren’t what they used to be, Cat says. More empathy for this worker struggling to stay afloat. I’d like to blame it on the economy, she says. The elliptical thought indicates self-awareness. All I need is communication between two human beings, Cat says.
Suddenly a man bursts into the room. Frank (Paul Dillon) is manic but has apparent affection for Cat. Over the course of the action, he plies her with their old bad habits, making messes that force her pay the financial and emotional costs. Dillon gives an astonishing, completely uninhibited performance of a completely uninhibited character; the portrayal causes us to feel for Frank and his deep unhappiness. Scanlon, too, gives a wrenching portrayal, stylized and real, crushing in its eventual self-containment.
And yet we’ve seen characters in need before. Why are we reacting so strongly to Cat and her circumstances? Scanlon’s script is a journey, building to the ending one might hope for, taking a frightening, twisted, even humorous path (deliberately clichéd conversations add to the tapestry of words). Beyond that, the script gets vivid life from director Matthew McCray. From the carnival-esque to the bedlam-esque, his direction engages, startles, and shakes the mesmerized audience. Virtual Franks dance along the walls, one of them the well-behaved man disdaining the “real” Frank’s behavior and treating Cat as he should. Out of the tattered corners of the room pour dusty desiccated vines, the fruitlessness of Cat’s attempts at human connection.
Those who have experienced Arthur Miller’s version won’t be unfamiliar with the emotional impact the lonely salesperson’s story can have; this one delivers its wallop in 75 minutes. Helping usher in clues, enlivening and tying the whole together, a character called Management is played with wit and intensity by Jeremy Mascia.
Let’s not forget another group of theatermakers in this endeavor. Each night the production begins with that tidy set that becomes inundated with mess: empty bottles, clothes, leaves, snow, and Cat’s dozen or so samples that must be unwrapped again. Person or persons unacknowledged stay after the show to clean up the stage every night, resetting the props where they can be used for the next night’s journey. If the play disturbs, the crew’s constant labors reassure again.
Bootleg Theater
First to strike the attentive audience member upon entering the theater here is John Zalewski’s sound design. It seems to consist of effervescent electronic dots and anchoring bass-note dashes. A haunting, initially disquieting, ultimately soothing presence, his sound will continue to envelop the production.
Meanwhile, next of note to the observer is François-Pierre Couture’s set. Apparently a hotel room—though its ceiling is a gape rimmed by earth and dead leaves—it is confining, a little menacing, and very tidy if shabby.
Cat (writer-actor Patricia Scanlon) storms onstage, wearing a trench coat and carrying two old-style hard-shell suitcases. A slurry of words pours from her, delivered in noir stylings. An exhausted traveling saleswoman, Cat needs comforting. Our empathy immediately sets in.
What would it be like to be someone else, Cat wonders? A crow, laden with symbolism, perches on a picture frame behind her (projections by Adam Flemming; animation by Dan Lund). She takes off her coat; she is wearing a Girl Scout uniform laden with badges and patches—presumably reflecting knowledge and good behavior.
Sales aren’t what they used to be, Cat says. More empathy for this worker struggling to stay afloat. I’d like to blame it on the economy, she says. The elliptical thought indicates self-awareness. All I need is communication between two human beings, Cat says.
Suddenly a man bursts into the room. Frank (Paul Dillon) is manic but has apparent affection for Cat. Over the course of the action, he plies her with their old bad habits, making messes that force her pay the financial and emotional costs. Dillon gives an astonishing, completely uninhibited performance of a completely uninhibited character; the portrayal causes us to feel for Frank and his deep unhappiness. Scanlon, too, gives a wrenching portrayal, stylized and real, crushing in its eventual self-containment.
And yet we’ve seen characters in need before. Why are we reacting so strongly to Cat and her circumstances? Scanlon’s script is a journey, building to the ending one might hope for, taking a frightening, twisted, even humorous path (deliberately clichéd conversations add to the tapestry of words). Beyond that, the script gets vivid life from director Matthew McCray. From the carnival-esque to the bedlam-esque, his direction engages, startles, and shakes the mesmerized audience. Virtual Franks dance along the walls, one of them the well-behaved man disdaining the “real” Frank’s behavior and treating Cat as he should. Out of the tattered corners of the room pour dusty desiccated vines, the fruitlessness of Cat’s attempts at human connection.
Those who have experienced Arthur Miller’s version won’t be unfamiliar with the emotional impact the lonely salesperson’s story can have; this one delivers its wallop in 75 minutes. Helping usher in clues, enlivening and tying the whole together, a character called Management is played with wit and intensity by Jeremy Mascia.
Let’s not forget another group of theatermakers in this endeavor. Each night the production begins with that tidy set that becomes inundated with mess: empty bottles, clothes, leaves, snow, and Cat’s dozen or so samples that must be unwrapped again. Person or persons unacknowledged stay after the show to clean up the stage every night, resetting the props where they can be used for the next night’s journey. If the play disturbs, the crew’s constant labors reassure again.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 3, 2012
November 3, 2012
Orestes 3.0: Inferno
City Garage
Apollo, god of healing and truth, pops onstage for a chat with the audience. He is clad in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses, a party boy. Does his makeover shake our core beliefs? If our gods aren’t who we think they are, how can we put one foot in front of the other and keep marching through life? And then he says, “Just because a god commands it, doesn’t make it right.” Were we ancient Greeks, would we have bothered going home from the theater?
Apollo, god of healing and truth, pops onstage for a chat with the audience. He is clad in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses, a party boy. Does his makeover shake our core beliefs? If our gods aren’t who we think they are, how can we put one foot in front of the other and keep marching through life? And then he says, “Just because a god commands it, doesn’t make it right.” Were we ancient Greeks, would we have bothered going home from the theater?
Thus begins Charles L. Mee’s Orestes 3.0: Inferno (upgraded from his Orestes 2.0)
directed and choreographed by Frédérique Michel. Based on the Euripides
original, this production reminds us how modern the Greeks were—or how
old-fashioned we are—as humankind continues its savaging of family and
culture. After all, mom had killed dad, so son has killed mom and now is
in an incestuous relationship with his sister. What’s a civilization to
do about that?
The play concerns rationales and blame and forgiveness. It also lets Michel ply her stylish taste. In Michel’s signature palate of black and red, Apollo (Erol Dolen in a lively, fun-loving portrayal) pulls mom’s body away on a river of blood. The act clears the stage for the very personal (Megan Kim’s topless Electra gets washed by silver-voiced operatic singer Samantha Geraci-Yee as the muse Clio), as well as the very public (a court of law presided over by Nathan Dana Aldrich as a keffiyeh-draped, yes, Sophocles).
Orestes (Johanny Paulino) gets advice from his bangder cousin Pylades (Justin Davanzo in a clear, stageworthy portrayal): commit more murder, topped with a bit of kidnapping. The victims? The glamour-puss Helen (a classily comedic Katrina Nelson in vivid red, whether a 1940s-style swimsuit and cream fur coat or an off-the-shoulder Grecian-column dress, among the highlights of Josephine Poinsot’s lively costume design) must be slain and her young daughter must be kidnapped (fortunately, Hermione is here portrayed by a life-size doll, wielded with Henson-esque skill by Dolen).
Of no help to Orestes is his bombastic uncle Menelaus (Daryl Keith Roach). Of much help to the audience is Orestes’s grandfather, Tyndareus (the fearless Bo Roberts), who reminds the listener that there are words our culture is told not to say, and yet one can commit murder and be allowed to find the words to justify it.
Another very human presence onstage is Nikos (sympathetically played by Mitchell Colley), a sweet soul who loves Clio unrequitedly. Three Furies (Leah Harf, Mariko Oka, Megan Penn) pursue the presumed evildoers and seek retribution.
Musician Justin Bardales provides unobtrusive but propulsive drum and guitar licks to accent Michel’s sleek storytelling.
The play concerns rationales and blame and forgiveness. It also lets Michel ply her stylish taste. In Michel’s signature palate of black and red, Apollo (Erol Dolen in a lively, fun-loving portrayal) pulls mom’s body away on a river of blood. The act clears the stage for the very personal (Megan Kim’s topless Electra gets washed by silver-voiced operatic singer Samantha Geraci-Yee as the muse Clio), as well as the very public (a court of law presided over by Nathan Dana Aldrich as a keffiyeh-draped, yes, Sophocles).
Orestes (Johanny Paulino) gets advice from his bangder cousin Pylades (Justin Davanzo in a clear, stageworthy portrayal): commit more murder, topped with a bit of kidnapping. The victims? The glamour-puss Helen (a classily comedic Katrina Nelson in vivid red, whether a 1940s-style swimsuit and cream fur coat or an off-the-shoulder Grecian-column dress, among the highlights of Josephine Poinsot’s lively costume design) must be slain and her young daughter must be kidnapped (fortunately, Hermione is here portrayed by a life-size doll, wielded with Henson-esque skill by Dolen).
Of no help to Orestes is his bombastic uncle Menelaus (Daryl Keith Roach). Of much help to the audience is Orestes’s grandfather, Tyndareus (the fearless Bo Roberts), who reminds the listener that there are words our culture is told not to say, and yet one can commit murder and be allowed to find the words to justify it.
Another very human presence onstage is Nikos (sympathetically played by Mitchell Colley), a sweet soul who loves Clio unrequitedly. Three Furies (Leah Harf, Mariko Oka, Megan Penn) pursue the presumed evildoers and seek retribution.
Musician Justin Bardales provides unobtrusive but propulsive drum and guitar licks to accent Michel’s sleek storytelling.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 29, 2012
October 29, 2012
Build
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Technology and human relationships combine to warmhearted effect in Michael Golamco’s world premiere. Even his not terribly likeable two characters turn universal, sympathetic, and somewhat heroic by play’s end.
Kip has become severely agoraphobic, never leaving the conglomerated mess he calls home (designer Sibyl Wickersheimer), living in a robe and pajamas, dining on pizza deliveries. In major part he doesn’t want to leave, but in small part he shouldn’t: He has been paid to complete design of a video game, apparently a task at which he is supremely adept. Someone must keep him on track, so he and his boss agree on his childhood friend Will to crack the virtual whip.
While Kip finds burning inspiration in the creative and technological side of his work, Will cares most for the materialistic benefits of the salary and hipness of his job. Both, however, live for the artificial worlds they create, and each, as we eventually find out, lost his wife to his obsessions.
Directed by Will Frears, the play hurtles along, cresting like a good digital game. But pause buttons get hit to fine effect, as one or another character stops to think, perhaps to feel. The setting is sometime in the future—not so distant that people aren’t wearing shabby plaid robes and a medical boot to stabilize an ankle, and pizza no longer comes in cardboard boxes, but later enough that an A.I. wandering into one’s living space doesn’t totally shock.
That artificial intelligence is a creature built by Kip, meant to replicate his late wife from a time when the marriage was solid. Laura Heisler plays the A.I. as very realistically human, whether through the actor’s choice or that of Frears. Only the bit of ring-modulation underlying her voice clues the audience in that she’s an A.I., but charmingly the sound effect increases as her “emotions” rise (designer Vincent Oliveiri).
So why do we care about Kip and Will? Ultimately, each recognizes his faults, each is an unselfishly devoted friend to the other. Can we blame them for wanting to live in the virtual world, where everything follows a clear set of rules? We also care because they’re played by very skilled, very patient actors. Thomas Sadoski turns Kip into a man older than his physical years: crooked posture, crumbling joints, broken by the deepest personal loss. Peter Katona chisels the post-yuppie Will: driven, confident, and yet not snide or cocky. Each actor waits, allowing his character to slowly bloom into the men we hoped they could be.
The script deftly drops hints about the characters instead of announcing facts about them. Its title is also telling. We have learned how to build new things, but sometimes the most important things in life are already right there, awaiting our attention.
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Technology and human relationships combine to warmhearted effect in Michael Golamco’s world premiere. Even his not terribly likeable two characters turn universal, sympathetic, and somewhat heroic by play’s end.
Kip has become severely agoraphobic, never leaving the conglomerated mess he calls home (designer Sibyl Wickersheimer), living in a robe and pajamas, dining on pizza deliveries. In major part he doesn’t want to leave, but in small part he shouldn’t: He has been paid to complete design of a video game, apparently a task at which he is supremely adept. Someone must keep him on track, so he and his boss agree on his childhood friend Will to crack the virtual whip.
While Kip finds burning inspiration in the creative and technological side of his work, Will cares most for the materialistic benefits of the salary and hipness of his job. Both, however, live for the artificial worlds they create, and each, as we eventually find out, lost his wife to his obsessions.
Directed by Will Frears, the play hurtles along, cresting like a good digital game. But pause buttons get hit to fine effect, as one or another character stops to think, perhaps to feel. The setting is sometime in the future—not so distant that people aren’t wearing shabby plaid robes and a medical boot to stabilize an ankle, and pizza no longer comes in cardboard boxes, but later enough that an A.I. wandering into one’s living space doesn’t totally shock.
That artificial intelligence is a creature built by Kip, meant to replicate his late wife from a time when the marriage was solid. Laura Heisler plays the A.I. as very realistically human, whether through the actor’s choice or that of Frears. Only the bit of ring-modulation underlying her voice clues the audience in that she’s an A.I., but charmingly the sound effect increases as her “emotions” rise (designer Vincent Oliveiri).
So why do we care about Kip and Will? Ultimately, each recognizes his faults, each is an unselfishly devoted friend to the other. Can we blame them for wanting to live in the virtual world, where everything follows a clear set of rules? We also care because they’re played by very skilled, very patient actors. Thomas Sadoski turns Kip into a man older than his physical years: crooked posture, crumbling joints, broken by the deepest personal loss. Peter Katona chisels the post-yuppie Will: driven, confident, and yet not snide or cocky. Each actor waits, allowing his character to slowly bloom into the men we hoped they could be.
The script deftly drops hints about the characters instead of announcing facts about them. Its title is also telling. We have learned how to build new things, but sometimes the most important things in life are already right there, awaiting our attention.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 29, 2012
October 29, 2012
Silence! The Musical
Theater Mogul at Hayworth Theatre
Watching Silence! The Musical can bring on a full-fledged case of déjà vu, flashbacks to the first time you saw Airplane! (1980) or, before that, Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein in the ’70s. In each case, a recognizable property or genre was raked over the coals, its tropes and self-seriousness lampooned, its integrity interrupted by modern non sequiturs and general nonsense.
So it is with this sendup of Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs, as crafted by book writer Hunter Bell (Name of Show) and songwriters Jon and Al Kaplan, who—the Playbill hints—seem to have collaborated, in some undefined way, on the spoofy libretto. Not just the bones, but the flesh and blood of the iconic 1991 Oscar winner are all there, yet it’s all given a snarky, often clever, sometimes labored twist. Whichever of the movie’s violent, vulgar moments have stuck in your mind, you can be sure that every one is highlighted and beaten into comic submission, and the ones you don’t remember will be dragged in as well.
Which is why, even at 90 minutes, it goes on far too long. It doesn’t take much to nail this kind of spoofery, just a transcript of the original, a good ear for cliché, and a knack for inverting anything rude as innocent and vice versa. Audiences roar, which is not to be mistaken for appreciation for artistry.
There’s talent aplenty here. Director-choreographer Christopher Gatteli just won a Tony for contributing the latter skill to Newsies. Designer Scott Pask’s three Tonys include one for The Book of Mormon. Christine Lakin, expertly channeling Jodie Foster’s Agent Starling, is a mainstay of our local geniuses the Troubadours, and Davis Gaines—sort of but not completely channeling Anthony Hopkins’s Dr. Lecter—performed both Raoul and the title role in The Phantom of the Opera more than 2,000 times.
Which is to say that all of them have much experience with more worthwhile material, and one can only hope they get back to it soon.
Theater Mogul at Hayworth Theatre
Watching Silence! The Musical can bring on a full-fledged case of déjà vu, flashbacks to the first time you saw Airplane! (1980) or, before that, Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein in the ’70s. In each case, a recognizable property or genre was raked over the coals, its tropes and self-seriousness lampooned, its integrity interrupted by modern non sequiturs and general nonsense.
So it is with this sendup of Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs, as crafted by book writer Hunter Bell (Name of Show) and songwriters Jon and Al Kaplan, who—the Playbill hints—seem to have collaborated, in some undefined way, on the spoofy libretto. Not just the bones, but the flesh and blood of the iconic 1991 Oscar winner are all there, yet it’s all given a snarky, often clever, sometimes labored twist. Whichever of the movie’s violent, vulgar moments have stuck in your mind, you can be sure that every one is highlighted and beaten into comic submission, and the ones you don’t remember will be dragged in as well.
Which is why, even at 90 minutes, it goes on far too long. It doesn’t take much to nail this kind of spoofery, just a transcript of the original, a good ear for cliché, and a knack for inverting anything rude as innocent and vice versa. Audiences roar, which is not to be mistaken for appreciation for artistry.
There’s talent aplenty here. Director-choreographer Christopher Gatteli just won a Tony for contributing the latter skill to Newsies. Designer Scott Pask’s three Tonys include one for The Book of Mormon. Christine Lakin, expertly channeling Jodie Foster’s Agent Starling, is a mainstay of our local geniuses the Troubadours, and Davis Gaines—sort of but not completely channeling Anthony Hopkins’s Dr. Lecter—performed both Raoul and the title role in The Phantom of the Opera more than 2,000 times.
Which is to say that all of them have much experience with more worthwhile material, and one can only hope they get back to it soon.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 22, 2012
October 22, 2012
The Doctor’s Dilemma
A Noise Within
George Bernard Shaw would be so proud—not just because this production of one of his more rarely mounted plays is virtually flawless, but because of its ironic relevance given one of the biggest disputes in our nation’s present-day political clime. As the major parties in America currently battle over the pros and cons of national healthcare coverage, Shaw’s piece is a masterfully comprehensive tome centered on a medical professional’s ethical skirmish over whether to care for the tubercular bohemian artist husband of a much younger woman with whom he has been smitten. Containing countless targets of ridicule, the script might come off as “preachy” were it not for the masterful work of director Dámaso Rodriguez and an absolutely stellar cast.
Leading the pack is the wonderfully restrained Geoff Elliott as Sir Colenso Ridgeon, a seemingly upright physician actively engaged in a trial testing the effects of a treatment for tuberculosis. Elliott’s work in detailing his character’s internal struggle between his Hippocratic obligation and personal desires is pure magic. As Jennifer Dubedat, the object of Ridgeon’s affections, Jules Willcox injects her character’s girlish charm with a fortitude that when aroused proves her to be every bit Elliott’s equal on the boards. Likewise, Jason Dechert provides a measured sense of swagger in his role as Louis Dubedat, the young artist who serves as a foil to Ridgeon and his close-knit collection of fellow medical luminaries.
Shaw puts this trio of colleagues to best use as his story’s comic relief. Apollo Dukakis’s take on Sir Patrick Cullen is one of impeccably delivered dry wit and understatement as Cullen’s is the moderate viewpoint when things veer toward the absurd. And veer they do, with Freddy Douglas and Robertson Dean portraying the other two support pillars on this three-legged stool of buffoonery. As Dr. Cutler Walpole and Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington, Douglas and Dean are the life of the party as their respective characters constantly bump heads over the advantages of surgical versus medicinal intervention. Dean in particular, with his rising chorus of “stimulate the phagocytes,” elevates Shaw’s dialogue from merely amusing to bust-your-gut funny. His interpretation of a Shakespearian monologue, clearly evidence of Shaw’s scorn for the Bard, is practically showstopping.
Supporting roles are ably filled all around. David LM McIntyre is endearingly sympathetic as Dr. Blenkinsop, a junior-level colleague also suffering from TB whom Ridgeon chooses to treat while pawning off the artist Dubedat on one of his flakey associates. Rafael Goldstein and Kelly Ehlert keep pace with the crowd in a pair of minor expository characters, while Deborah Strang is a sassy hoot as Ridgeon’s snarky housekeeper.
Susan Gratch’s open-air scenic designs are made all the more remarkable by the obviously well-rehearsed running crew. Lighting designer Brian Gale has provided a beautiful mix of shadows and illumination that emphasize Rodriguez’s traffic patterns. Doug Newell’s sound assists the scenic segues nicely, and Leah Piehl’s costuming perfectly reinforces each character’s individual traits.
In the end, Shaw’s genius was his ability to skewer societal norms, classes, and subjects—be it vivisectionists, art critics of all sorts, or any sort of pomposity—through seemingly innocuous philosophical discussions. Here, we are treated to a wonderfully wrought production that has taken Shaw’s best and made it even better.
A Noise Within
George Bernard Shaw would be so proud—not just because this production of one of his more rarely mounted plays is virtually flawless, but because of its ironic relevance given one of the biggest disputes in our nation’s present-day political clime. As the major parties in America currently battle over the pros and cons of national healthcare coverage, Shaw’s piece is a masterfully comprehensive tome centered on a medical professional’s ethical skirmish over whether to care for the tubercular bohemian artist husband of a much younger woman with whom he has been smitten. Containing countless targets of ridicule, the script might come off as “preachy” were it not for the masterful work of director Dámaso Rodriguez and an absolutely stellar cast.
Leading the pack is the wonderfully restrained Geoff Elliott as Sir Colenso Ridgeon, a seemingly upright physician actively engaged in a trial testing the effects of a treatment for tuberculosis. Elliott’s work in detailing his character’s internal struggle between his Hippocratic obligation and personal desires is pure magic. As Jennifer Dubedat, the object of Ridgeon’s affections, Jules Willcox injects her character’s girlish charm with a fortitude that when aroused proves her to be every bit Elliott’s equal on the boards. Likewise, Jason Dechert provides a measured sense of swagger in his role as Louis Dubedat, the young artist who serves as a foil to Ridgeon and his close-knit collection of fellow medical luminaries.
Shaw puts this trio of colleagues to best use as his story’s comic relief. Apollo Dukakis’s take on Sir Patrick Cullen is one of impeccably delivered dry wit and understatement as Cullen’s is the moderate viewpoint when things veer toward the absurd. And veer they do, with Freddy Douglas and Robertson Dean portraying the other two support pillars on this three-legged stool of buffoonery. As Dr. Cutler Walpole and Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington, Douglas and Dean are the life of the party as their respective characters constantly bump heads over the advantages of surgical versus medicinal intervention. Dean in particular, with his rising chorus of “stimulate the phagocytes,” elevates Shaw’s dialogue from merely amusing to bust-your-gut funny. His interpretation of a Shakespearian monologue, clearly evidence of Shaw’s scorn for the Bard, is practically showstopping.
Supporting roles are ably filled all around. David LM McIntyre is endearingly sympathetic as Dr. Blenkinsop, a junior-level colleague also suffering from TB whom Ridgeon chooses to treat while pawning off the artist Dubedat on one of his flakey associates. Rafael Goldstein and Kelly Ehlert keep pace with the crowd in a pair of minor expository characters, while Deborah Strang is a sassy hoot as Ridgeon’s snarky housekeeper.
Susan Gratch’s open-air scenic designs are made all the more remarkable by the obviously well-rehearsed running crew. Lighting designer Brian Gale has provided a beautiful mix of shadows and illumination that emphasize Rodriguez’s traffic patterns. Doug Newell’s sound assists the scenic segues nicely, and Leah Piehl’s costuming perfectly reinforces each character’s individual traits.
In the end, Shaw’s genius was his ability to skewer societal norms, classes, and subjects—be it vivisectionists, art critics of all sorts, or any sort of pomposity—through seemingly innocuous philosophical discussions. Here, we are treated to a wonderfully wrought production that has taken Shaw’s best and made it even better.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
October 22, 2012
October 22, 2012
And
Then There Were None
Actors Co-Op David Schall Theatre
Many consider Dame Agatha Christie the finest mystery writer of all time. Whether you agree, it can certainly be said that her work And Then There Were None has been one of the most successful play adaptations from a mystery novel to date. A clever if not grim story, Christie modified it for the stage in 1943 with a lighter tone and more palatable ending than the one in her original book.
The setting is a remote island. The guests have been invited by absent hosts who promise to arrive soon. In the meantime, recently hired butler Rogers (Pete Pano) and his wife (Teresa Bisson) see to the disposition of the visitors. They are a mixed lot, but it is learned via a sonorous, disembodied voice that each has been responsible for the death of others and has escaped retribution. This, of course, ramps up the tension, and soon deaths begin to occur among the travelers.
The first is Anthony Marston (Lucas Moore), a victim of cyanide poisoning diagnosed by Dr. Armstrong (Wenzel Jones). A feeling of unease settles over the gloomy house (nicely designed by Karen Ipock). The second is Mrs. Rogers, who seems to have died in her sleep.
On the wall of the living room is a framed nursery rhyme, “Ten Little Soldiers,” which describes how they died. The first “choked his little self,” followed by one who “overslept himself.” The group begins to recognize that these sudden deaths fit those descriptions, and soon others listed in the poem follow. To add to the guests’ fear, little soldier figurines sit on a mantel; and, as murders occur, the counterpart figurines begin to disappear.
The entire cast is excellent. Though Bisson and Moore have the least stage time, they do a fine job of making the most of their characters. Following those characters’ deaths, next comes elderly General McKenzie (Don Robb), who dies from a knife to his chest (“one got left behind”). Rogers is killed with an axe to his head (“one chopped himself in halves”). Emily Brent (Deborah Marlowe), religious and cold, is killed by hypodermic needle (“a bumblebee stung one”). By this time, the remaining characters are left to ponder their fate, and a mystery’s conclusion should never be revealed.
Remaining are Vera Claythorne (Greyson Chadwick), a young attractive secretary; Philip Lombard (Clay Bunker), an upbeat soldier of fortune; William Blore (Jack Kandel), a former policeman; and Sir Lawrence Wargrave (Steve Gustafson), a retired judge whose observations bring the story into focus. Adding additional color is Fred Narracott (Sergio Mautone), the boat skipper.
Gustafson’s portrayal of Wargrave is accomplished and nuanced as his character develops. Jones is spot-on, a nervous, dithery doctor with the right amount of trepidation; Chadwick makes a fine damsel in distress, while Bunker is cocky and confident. Marlowe gets special kudos for her superbly rigid near-fanatic. Pano enacts a fine English butler, doing his duty even as his wife has died. Robb embodies a fine older soldier whose resignation about his fate makes him a sympathetic character. Blore adds masculine confidence as he puzzles through the events.
The designs are beautifully done, with set and props by Karen Ipock, lighting by Mark Svastics, and costumes by Vicki Conrad appropriate for time and place.
Director Linda Kerns manages the complicated characterizations and storyline with just the right amount of gravitas and tension. Under less expert leadership, the story could develop into farce or melodrama, neither of those happening here. However improbable the ending, it works, and the audience can breathe a sigh of relief and appreciate the enduring pleasure of Christie’s most famous work.
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
If you’re new to theatergoing, you may be surprised to learn that characters have secrets they just might reveal shortly before the play ends. And if you’re still growing up, you may not know that bullies have a pained or soft side. What else is revelatory about Theresa Rebeck’s West Coast premiere?
Its story covers an approximately one-month period during which four young writers have each paid $5,000 to be critiqued by formerly exalted writer Leonard (Jeff Goldblum). Over the first four sessions, Leonard reads as few as five words and as “much” as two pages of a student’s work, forms his intransigent opinion based on that quick read, and offers by way of “seminar” his looks of disdain, disgust, or mildly pleased surprise, or his verbal commentary in the form of name-calling and trash-talking.
The female characters are stunningly 1970s clichéd. What could Rebeck be trying to tell the audience about those clichés? Izzy (Jennifer Ikeda) is an overtly sexual Asian who at the top of the play flashes her bare chest. Kate (Aya Cash) is a lovelorn affluent feminist. The male characters are likewise clichéd writers. Douglas (Lucas Near-Verbrugghe) is a bloviating bag of logorrhea—who opens the play and then seems to fade into the backdrop. Martin (Greg Keller) is financially strapped, naive, and insecure—and apparently thus, according to Rebeck, the perfect candidate to be a writer.
With its quips about writers and writing, and its quips about New York, this is yet another play that lets audiences feel smarter for getting it but doesn’t make its audiences smarter.
David Zinn’s set consists of the stately walls and bookcases, topped by a crystal chandelier, of Kate’s New York apartment; but the furniture “doesn’t go” with the architecture. The chairs and credenza are hideous modern, and the back wall is mostly obscured by a painting of presumably the New York skyline in various shades of hot pink. Does the set symbolize the degradation of modern writing? The decay of New York? At the 80-minute mark, that backdrop lifts and the setting moves to Leonard’s loft, where we see shifting alliances and interests and learn, “Life is complicated. People are complicated.”
Sam Gold directs. On opening night, following a week of previews in Los Angeles, the actors’ timing was seriously off and they repeatedly failed to hold for laughs. This is one Seminar it’s best not to sign up for. (Fortunately, Leonard didn’t seem to be quibbling about ending sentences with prepositions.)
Many consider Dame Agatha Christie the finest mystery writer of all time. Whether you agree, it can certainly be said that her work And Then There Were None has been one of the most successful play adaptations from a mystery novel to date. A clever if not grim story, Christie modified it for the stage in 1943 with a lighter tone and more palatable ending than the one in her original book.
The setting is a remote island. The guests have been invited by absent hosts who promise to arrive soon. In the meantime, recently hired butler Rogers (Pete Pano) and his wife (Teresa Bisson) see to the disposition of the visitors. They are a mixed lot, but it is learned via a sonorous, disembodied voice that each has been responsible for the death of others and has escaped retribution. This, of course, ramps up the tension, and soon deaths begin to occur among the travelers.
The first is Anthony Marston (Lucas Moore), a victim of cyanide poisoning diagnosed by Dr. Armstrong (Wenzel Jones). A feeling of unease settles over the gloomy house (nicely designed by Karen Ipock). The second is Mrs. Rogers, who seems to have died in her sleep.
On the wall of the living room is a framed nursery rhyme, “Ten Little Soldiers,” which describes how they died. The first “choked his little self,” followed by one who “overslept himself.” The group begins to recognize that these sudden deaths fit those descriptions, and soon others listed in the poem follow. To add to the guests’ fear, little soldier figurines sit on a mantel; and, as murders occur, the counterpart figurines begin to disappear.
The entire cast is excellent. Though Bisson and Moore have the least stage time, they do a fine job of making the most of their characters. Following those characters’ deaths, next comes elderly General McKenzie (Don Robb), who dies from a knife to his chest (“one got left behind”). Rogers is killed with an axe to his head (“one chopped himself in halves”). Emily Brent (Deborah Marlowe), religious and cold, is killed by hypodermic needle (“a bumblebee stung one”). By this time, the remaining characters are left to ponder their fate, and a mystery’s conclusion should never be revealed.
Remaining are Vera Claythorne (Greyson Chadwick), a young attractive secretary; Philip Lombard (Clay Bunker), an upbeat soldier of fortune; William Blore (Jack Kandel), a former policeman; and Sir Lawrence Wargrave (Steve Gustafson), a retired judge whose observations bring the story into focus. Adding additional color is Fred Narracott (Sergio Mautone), the boat skipper.
Gustafson’s portrayal of Wargrave is accomplished and nuanced as his character develops. Jones is spot-on, a nervous, dithery doctor with the right amount of trepidation; Chadwick makes a fine damsel in distress, while Bunker is cocky and confident. Marlowe gets special kudos for her superbly rigid near-fanatic. Pano enacts a fine English butler, doing his duty even as his wife has died. Robb embodies a fine older soldier whose resignation about his fate makes him a sympathetic character. Blore adds masculine confidence as he puzzles through the events.
The designs are beautifully done, with set and props by Karen Ipock, lighting by Mark Svastics, and costumes by Vicki Conrad appropriate for time and place.
Director Linda Kerns manages the complicated characterizations and storyline with just the right amount of gravitas and tension. Under less expert leadership, the story could develop into farce or melodrama, neither of those happening here. However improbable the ending, it works, and the audience can breathe a sigh of relief and appreciate the enduring pleasure of Christie’s most famous work.
Reviewed by
Melinda Schupmann
October 21, 2012
SeminarOctober 21, 2012
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
If you’re new to theatergoing, you may be surprised to learn that characters have secrets they just might reveal shortly before the play ends. And if you’re still growing up, you may not know that bullies have a pained or soft side. What else is revelatory about Theresa Rebeck’s West Coast premiere?
Its story covers an approximately one-month period during which four young writers have each paid $5,000 to be critiqued by formerly exalted writer Leonard (Jeff Goldblum). Over the first four sessions, Leonard reads as few as five words and as “much” as two pages of a student’s work, forms his intransigent opinion based on that quick read, and offers by way of “seminar” his looks of disdain, disgust, or mildly pleased surprise, or his verbal commentary in the form of name-calling and trash-talking.
The female characters are stunningly 1970s clichéd. What could Rebeck be trying to tell the audience about those clichés? Izzy (Jennifer Ikeda) is an overtly sexual Asian who at the top of the play flashes her bare chest. Kate (Aya Cash) is a lovelorn affluent feminist. The male characters are likewise clichéd writers. Douglas (Lucas Near-Verbrugghe) is a bloviating bag of logorrhea—who opens the play and then seems to fade into the backdrop. Martin (Greg Keller) is financially strapped, naive, and insecure—and apparently thus, according to Rebeck, the perfect candidate to be a writer.
With its quips about writers and writing, and its quips about New York, this is yet another play that lets audiences feel smarter for getting it but doesn’t make its audiences smarter.
David Zinn’s set consists of the stately walls and bookcases, topped by a crystal chandelier, of Kate’s New York apartment; but the furniture “doesn’t go” with the architecture. The chairs and credenza are hideous modern, and the back wall is mostly obscured by a painting of presumably the New York skyline in various shades of hot pink. Does the set symbolize the degradation of modern writing? The decay of New York? At the 80-minute mark, that backdrop lifts and the setting moves to Leonard’s loft, where we see shifting alliances and interests and learn, “Life is complicated. People are complicated.”
Sam Gold directs. On opening night, following a week of previews in Los Angeles, the actors’ timing was seriously off and they repeatedly failed to hold for laughs. This is one Seminar it’s best not to sign up for. (Fortunately, Leonard didn’t seem to be quibbling about ending sentences with prepositions.)
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 18, 2012
October 18, 2012
Cymbeline
A Noise Within
The pros make it look so easy. This production has the breezy feel of an itinerant theater troupe mounting an impromptu version of one of Shakespeare’s lesser-known plays. Most things that look easy, however, result from planning and practice. That, plus years of training contribute to making the dialogue sound improvised here. And of course we can’t see the probably madcap goings on backstage: the swift crossings, the costume and wig changes, the actors and crew waiting in the wings to execute the rapid, economical scene changes.
Cymbeline tells of hasty banishments of the good while the bad hold sway too long. It’s a late Shakespeare play, but not a great one. However, Bart DeLorenzo directs, making this production memorable and thoroughly pleasing. On one level it seems to be about making theater, though never preciously so. Detritus of theater props edges the playing space, the costuming is a mélange of centuries, and the play opens with a ghost light onstage. At the top of the play, whirling on and offstage via a cheerful storm are the play’s characters—and, it seems, a few from other Shakespeare plays, perhaps in a nod to the borrowings here by the playwright from his earlier works.
But DeLorenzo’s ingenious decision was to assign the actors multiple roles. With the exception of Helen Sadler—who plays the heroic Imogen—the cast assays at least two roles each, one a basically good person and the other a relative villain. Angela Balogh Calin’s costuming helps the audience separate good from evil. Imogen is the only character pure enough to earn the wearing of white; her beloved husband, Posthumus, nearly as decent, gets a powder-blue frock coat; and the Italian villain, Iachimo, gets black leather, neck to toe.
Happily, the actors also beautifully convey their characters. Sadler makes a lovely Imogen: fearless but not reckless, sturdy but not joyless, a “virtuous” woman but one with modern virtues of strength and intelligence and independent thinking. Sadler has a relaxed but vibrant physicality, and her voice has pleasing colors.
She plays opposite Andrew Elvis Miller, who makes a wonderfully sleazy Iachimo, their bedroom scene comedically suspenseful and unnerving, and then becomes Caius Lucius, the capitulating Roman general. Sadler also plays opposite Adam Haas Hunter, appropriately graceful and loving as Posthumus, but madly hilarious as the Queen’s petulant son, Cloten.
Francia DiMase plays said malevolent Queen, then the paternal Belarius who has tended to King Cymbeline’s expatriated sons. DiMase executes a nice hip-throw of one of those sons, helping earn Ken Merckx’s fight choreography a round of applause at the performance reviewed. The two sons are played by Jarrett Sleeper and Paul David Story, who also serve as narrator-hosts in those portions where Shakespeare tells us instead of showing us. Joel Swetow gives humanity to the ultimately good Cymbeline, Time Winters gives nobility to the always faithful servant Pisanio.
Who portrays the play’s visiting Jupiter? The god who appears upon an eagle, throwing a thunderbolt, is a darling shadow puppet. Throughout the play, Ken Booth’s lighting, warm for Italy and cool for Britain, always hints at magic to be done.
Yes, the play seems to glide by on a fall breeze. “Live, and deal with others better,” says Posthumus concisely, in one of theater’s most magnificent credos. And then, suddenly, the happy ending—such a fairy tale, so improbable, and so deeply enviable in its gracious hope for mankind—hits with a knockout punch.
Julius Caesar
The New American Theatre at McCadden Place Theatre
Apparently this Shakespeare play doesn’t need to be performed on the steps of a real-life city hall to impress. Here, a chamber version captures the story’s expanse while feeling immediate, near, and unfortunately modern. Add in the casting of women in traditionally male roles, modern-day business attire, and non-declamatory performances, and the production plays like an Aaron Sorkin series.
Jack Stehlin directs in the small but two-story stage. Between his staging and the terracotta painted flats (designed by Noah Silverstein to resemble ancient pottery), all roads lead to Rome’s many locales. There, uncertainty over political leadership leads to partisan conversations, which lead to deadly warfare.
But no stage makeup bloodies the hands here. Seemingly out of nowhere, when characters are knifed to death, the actors discreetly don scarlet satin gloves to represent blood-soaked hands. Against the black clothing, the effect is more shocking than even the goriest of fake blood produces. Knives, too, are fitted with red tape that shows up as the knives are pulled from the victims. Crowd scenes are loud and propulsive and seem to sweep the audience into the action. Music (Roger Bellon) augments the drama.
Said drama begins as the statue of Caesar (Tim Halligan) watches over his city. It ends as his ghost (Halligan in white face) haunts the city. Between, Stehlin plays Brutus as a man wracked with doubts but showing none of it to those he can’t trust. One of the city’s few actors who does heightened classical speech and makes it sound like modern everyday conversation, Stehlin turns Brutus into an everyman.
Flanked by adept actors Tom Groenwald as the manipulative Cassius and Scott Sheldon as the oratorical Marc Antony, Stehlin leads his troupe the way that Roman throng had wished its leaders would have done. Other friends, Romans, and countrymen are played by Joe Bays, Brendan Brandt, Alex Monti Fox, Kimberly Jurgen, Jordan Lund, Chelsea Povall, Jobeth Prince, Jade Sealey, Patrick Vest, and Vanessa Waters.
The Real Drunk Housewives of the San Fernando Valley
Bill & Nathalie Haller at Oh My Ribs Entertainment at The Complex***
Feeding off of America’s love of voyeuristic schadenfreude, they’ve propelled the Bravo Channel to the top of the cable TV ratings heap. From Beverly Hills to Miami to New York, these women deliver some of the most stunning behavior into our living rooms on an almost daily basis. So, is it any wonder that someone would grab the brass ring by penning a stage version dedicated to such shocking conduct?
Authors-composers-lyricists Kelly Holden-Bashar and Bill Haller deserve tons of praise for doing just that with this hourlong one-act packed with some of the most inappropriately uproarious material one could imagine. Having enjoyed a standing-room-only run earlier this summer, the show is back, with only one cast member substitution, for its current schedule of performances.
Director David Jahn and choreographer Jeffrey Polk have left no turn unstoned as their cast of six cavorts its way through this often jaw-dropping script and score. Introductions all around are delivered via “Champagne,” the opening number in which backstories and interpersonal rivalries are cleverly established.
There’s Rene, the older of the bunch, played with delightful abandon by Leah Mangum. Jen Rhonheimer provides a pushcart full of spice as Pepsi, the wisecracking Spanish hottie. Ana Cristina is all bubbly brainlessness as Olivia, the show’s Barbie figured, requisite blonde bombshell. Robyn Roth demonstrates knockout comic timing as Rikki, a former child television star whose hateful sibling rivalry takes centerstage as she is interviewed by Chris Caldwell Eckert who fills the enviable position of male host for this alcohol fueled catfight.
Holden-Bashar and Haller’s score effectively skewers every major plot point found on the programs they are parodying. The song titles are fairly self-explanatory—including “Ain’t Nothin’ That She Wouldn’t Screw,” “Big Money,” and “Better Than I’ve Ever Been.” A couple of obvious standouts, however, touch on current events and censorship. “The End of Sober” features Eckert’s host character railing on the topic of gay versus straight marriage inequities. Eckert does a fantastic job of grabbing the spotlight as he capitalizes on his chance to shine amidst this estrogen-packed laugh fest. But for sheer technical kudos, nothing tops “The Bleep Song” in which the ladies perform a profanity-laden rant during which Haller, doubling as the show’s technician, electronically bleeps out each vulgarity as it’s mouthed by the cast. It’s a must-be-seen-to-be-believed highlight of the show.
And as the audience finishes its BYOB adult beverages (yes, really!), the cast wraps things up with “We’re Alive As Long As We’re On Bravo.” It’s apparent that these types of individuals, lampooned so successfully here, crave attention with such ferocity that they possess virtually no concern for the damage they inflict on themselves or others. It’s a brilliantly voiced condemnation of our culture set against a backdrop of politically incorrect hilarity.
A Noise Within
The pros make it look so easy. This production has the breezy feel of an itinerant theater troupe mounting an impromptu version of one of Shakespeare’s lesser-known plays. Most things that look easy, however, result from planning and practice. That, plus years of training contribute to making the dialogue sound improvised here. And of course we can’t see the probably madcap goings on backstage: the swift crossings, the costume and wig changes, the actors and crew waiting in the wings to execute the rapid, economical scene changes.
Cymbeline tells of hasty banishments of the good while the bad hold sway too long. It’s a late Shakespeare play, but not a great one. However, Bart DeLorenzo directs, making this production memorable and thoroughly pleasing. On one level it seems to be about making theater, though never preciously so. Detritus of theater props edges the playing space, the costuming is a mélange of centuries, and the play opens with a ghost light onstage. At the top of the play, whirling on and offstage via a cheerful storm are the play’s characters—and, it seems, a few from other Shakespeare plays, perhaps in a nod to the borrowings here by the playwright from his earlier works.
But DeLorenzo’s ingenious decision was to assign the actors multiple roles. With the exception of Helen Sadler—who plays the heroic Imogen—the cast assays at least two roles each, one a basically good person and the other a relative villain. Angela Balogh Calin’s costuming helps the audience separate good from evil. Imogen is the only character pure enough to earn the wearing of white; her beloved husband, Posthumus, nearly as decent, gets a powder-blue frock coat; and the Italian villain, Iachimo, gets black leather, neck to toe.
Happily, the actors also beautifully convey their characters. Sadler makes a lovely Imogen: fearless but not reckless, sturdy but not joyless, a “virtuous” woman but one with modern virtues of strength and intelligence and independent thinking. Sadler has a relaxed but vibrant physicality, and her voice has pleasing colors.
She plays opposite Andrew Elvis Miller, who makes a wonderfully sleazy Iachimo, their bedroom scene comedically suspenseful and unnerving, and then becomes Caius Lucius, the capitulating Roman general. Sadler also plays opposite Adam Haas Hunter, appropriately graceful and loving as Posthumus, but madly hilarious as the Queen’s petulant son, Cloten.
Francia DiMase plays said malevolent Queen, then the paternal Belarius who has tended to King Cymbeline’s expatriated sons. DiMase executes a nice hip-throw of one of those sons, helping earn Ken Merckx’s fight choreography a round of applause at the performance reviewed. The two sons are played by Jarrett Sleeper and Paul David Story, who also serve as narrator-hosts in those portions where Shakespeare tells us instead of showing us. Joel Swetow gives humanity to the ultimately good Cymbeline, Time Winters gives nobility to the always faithful servant Pisanio.
Who portrays the play’s visiting Jupiter? The god who appears upon an eagle, throwing a thunderbolt, is a darling shadow puppet. Throughout the play, Ken Booth’s lighting, warm for Italy and cool for Britain, always hints at magic to be done.
Yes, the play seems to glide by on a fall breeze. “Live, and deal with others better,” says Posthumus concisely, in one of theater’s most magnificent credos. And then, suddenly, the happy ending—such a fairy tale, so improbable, and so deeply enviable in its gracious hope for mankind—hits with a knockout punch.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 7, 2012
October 7, 2012
Julius Caesar
The New American Theatre at McCadden Place Theatre
Apparently this Shakespeare play doesn’t need to be performed on the steps of a real-life city hall to impress. Here, a chamber version captures the story’s expanse while feeling immediate, near, and unfortunately modern. Add in the casting of women in traditionally male roles, modern-day business attire, and non-declamatory performances, and the production plays like an Aaron Sorkin series.
Jack Stehlin directs in the small but two-story stage. Between his staging and the terracotta painted flats (designed by Noah Silverstein to resemble ancient pottery), all roads lead to Rome’s many locales. There, uncertainty over political leadership leads to partisan conversations, which lead to deadly warfare.
But no stage makeup bloodies the hands here. Seemingly out of nowhere, when characters are knifed to death, the actors discreetly don scarlet satin gloves to represent blood-soaked hands. Against the black clothing, the effect is more shocking than even the goriest of fake blood produces. Knives, too, are fitted with red tape that shows up as the knives are pulled from the victims. Crowd scenes are loud and propulsive and seem to sweep the audience into the action. Music (Roger Bellon) augments the drama.
Said drama begins as the statue of Caesar (Tim Halligan) watches over his city. It ends as his ghost (Halligan in white face) haunts the city. Between, Stehlin plays Brutus as a man wracked with doubts but showing none of it to those he can’t trust. One of the city’s few actors who does heightened classical speech and makes it sound like modern everyday conversation, Stehlin turns Brutus into an everyman.
Flanked by adept actors Tom Groenwald as the manipulative Cassius and Scott Sheldon as the oratorical Marc Antony, Stehlin leads his troupe the way that Roman throng had wished its leaders would have done. Other friends, Romans, and countrymen are played by Joe Bays, Brendan Brandt, Alex Monti Fox, Kimberly Jurgen, Jordan Lund, Chelsea Povall, Jobeth Prince, Jade Sealey, Patrick Vest, and Vanessa Waters.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 29, 2012
September 29, 2012
The Real Drunk Housewives of the San Fernando Valley
Bill & Nathalie Haller at Oh My Ribs Entertainment at The Complex***
Feeding off of America’s love of voyeuristic schadenfreude, they’ve propelled the Bravo Channel to the top of the cable TV ratings heap. From Beverly Hills to Miami to New York, these women deliver some of the most stunning behavior into our living rooms on an almost daily basis. So, is it any wonder that someone would grab the brass ring by penning a stage version dedicated to such shocking conduct?
Authors-composers-lyricists Kelly Holden-Bashar and Bill Haller deserve tons of praise for doing just that with this hourlong one-act packed with some of the most inappropriately uproarious material one could imagine. Having enjoyed a standing-room-only run earlier this summer, the show is back, with only one cast member substitution, for its current schedule of performances.
Director David Jahn and choreographer Jeffrey Polk have left no turn unstoned as their cast of six cavorts its way through this often jaw-dropping script and score. Introductions all around are delivered via “Champagne,” the opening number in which backstories and interpersonal rivalries are cleverly established.
There’s Rene, the older of the bunch, played with delightful abandon by Leah Mangum. Jen Rhonheimer provides a pushcart full of spice as Pepsi, the wisecracking Spanish hottie. Ana Cristina is all bubbly brainlessness as Olivia, the show’s Barbie figured, requisite blonde bombshell. Robyn Roth demonstrates knockout comic timing as Rikki, a former child television star whose hateful sibling rivalry takes centerstage as she is interviewed by Chris Caldwell Eckert who fills the enviable position of male host for this alcohol fueled catfight.
Holden-Bashar and Haller’s score effectively skewers every major plot point found on the programs they are parodying. The song titles are fairly self-explanatory—including “Ain’t Nothin’ That She Wouldn’t Screw,” “Big Money,” and “Better Than I’ve Ever Been.” A couple of obvious standouts, however, touch on current events and censorship. “The End of Sober” features Eckert’s host character railing on the topic of gay versus straight marriage inequities. Eckert does a fantastic job of grabbing the spotlight as he capitalizes on his chance to shine amidst this estrogen-packed laugh fest. But for sheer technical kudos, nothing tops “The Bleep Song” in which the ladies perform a profanity-laden rant during which Haller, doubling as the show’s technician, electronically bleeps out each vulgarity as it’s mouthed by the cast. It’s a must-be-seen-to-be-believed highlight of the show.
And as the audience finishes its BYOB adult beverages (yes, really!), the cast wraps things up with “We’re Alive As Long As We’re On Bravo.” It’s apparent that these types of individuals, lampooned so successfully here, crave attention with such ferocity that they possess virtually no concern for the damage they inflict on themselves or others. It’s a brilliantly voiced condemnation of our culture set against a backdrop of politically incorrect hilarity.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
***Review of show in its previous run.
***Review of show in its previous run.
Edith Can Shoot Things and Hit Them
Artists at Play at GTC Burbank
Edith is an unusual little girl. She’s a 12-year-old Filipina, armed with a pellet rifle and an oversized stuffed frog, living alone with her 16-year-old brother, Kenny, on a remote farm somewhere in the Midwest. Their mother is dead and their father, never seen onstage, seems to serve only as a source for replenishing the bank account from which these two ostensibly abandoned minors draw funds to purchase their necessities. Kenny’s best friend and classmate, Benji, rounds out this trio of characters in playwright A. Rey Pamatmat’s treatise on childhood development that frequently stretches the bounds of credulity.
Despite Pamatmat’s rather monotonous script, director Jennifer Chang achieves some pleasant results. Aided by a first-rate design team, the show’s production values are quite nice. Arturo Betanzos’s barn-like interior and various furniture and accessories, including a remarkably multifaceted sofa, work wonderfully for the script’s constantly changing series of locales. Jennifer Hill’s lighting and Dennis Yen’s sound design are also admirable sources of support.
But it’s the acting by Rodney To as Kenny and Brian Hostenske as Benji that elevate their portion of this story from the commonplace to intriguing. So many times, it seems adult actors wind up overplaying underage youths in a falsely representational manner. Nothing could be further from the case with To and Hostenske who, under Chang’s directorial hand, present each moment of their budding gay relationship with complete believability and just the right amount of curious trepidation. The outcome is an endearing story of two boys whose respective searches for individuality ends up bringing them even closer together than ever.
It’s a shame Pamatmat wasn’t satisfied with making this plotline the primary focus of his tale. For as heartwarming as Kenny and Benji’s blossoming love affair proves to be, it’s diametrically offset by what winds up feeling like the pointless inclusion of Edith’s character. Amielynn Abellera deserves a measure of recognition for her efforts, but her performance settles into a style that proves to be the polar opposite of that of her co-stars.
In her defense, Abellera is saddled with a number of repetitively dull scenes in which she carries on one-sided conversations with Fergie, the aforementioned frog, while scouting out positions from which she can guard the homestead with her BB gun.
Maybe these monologues seemed good on paper when Pamatmat penned them, but Chang doesn’t seem to have been able to inspire Abellera, clearly much older than 12, to rise above what would be average children’s theater. And it’s enough to make one wonder why, in a city full of talented child actors, this production didn’t choose to cast a real 12-year-old in this supposedly pivotal title role.
Artists at Play at GTC Burbank
Edith is an unusual little girl. She’s a 12-year-old Filipina, armed with a pellet rifle and an oversized stuffed frog, living alone with her 16-year-old brother, Kenny, on a remote farm somewhere in the Midwest. Their mother is dead and their father, never seen onstage, seems to serve only as a source for replenishing the bank account from which these two ostensibly abandoned minors draw funds to purchase their necessities. Kenny’s best friend and classmate, Benji, rounds out this trio of characters in playwright A. Rey Pamatmat’s treatise on childhood development that frequently stretches the bounds of credulity.
Despite Pamatmat’s rather monotonous script, director Jennifer Chang achieves some pleasant results. Aided by a first-rate design team, the show’s production values are quite nice. Arturo Betanzos’s barn-like interior and various furniture and accessories, including a remarkably multifaceted sofa, work wonderfully for the script’s constantly changing series of locales. Jennifer Hill’s lighting and Dennis Yen’s sound design are also admirable sources of support.
But it’s the acting by Rodney To as Kenny and Brian Hostenske as Benji that elevate their portion of this story from the commonplace to intriguing. So many times, it seems adult actors wind up overplaying underage youths in a falsely representational manner. Nothing could be further from the case with To and Hostenske who, under Chang’s directorial hand, present each moment of their budding gay relationship with complete believability and just the right amount of curious trepidation. The outcome is an endearing story of two boys whose respective searches for individuality ends up bringing them even closer together than ever.
It’s a shame Pamatmat wasn’t satisfied with making this plotline the primary focus of his tale. For as heartwarming as Kenny and Benji’s blossoming love affair proves to be, it’s diametrically offset by what winds up feeling like the pointless inclusion of Edith’s character. Amielynn Abellera deserves a measure of recognition for her efforts, but her performance settles into a style that proves to be the polar opposite of that of her co-stars.
In her defense, Abellera is saddled with a number of repetitively dull scenes in which she carries on one-sided conversations with Fergie, the aforementioned frog, while scouting out positions from which she can guard the homestead with her BB gun.
Maybe these monologues seemed good on paper when Pamatmat penned them, but Chang doesn’t seem to have been able to inspire Abellera, clearly much older than 12, to rise above what would be average children’s theater. And it’s enough to make one wonder why, in a city full of talented child actors, this production didn’t choose to cast a real 12-year-old in this supposedly pivotal title role.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
October 30, 2012
October 30, 2012
42nd Street
Musical Theatre West at Carpenter Performing Arts Center
Ever since 1934 when Ruby Keeler sweetly but awkwardly tapped her way into America’s collective heart, this show has been a feel-good offering, and Musical Theatre West has mounted it with flash and dazzle. With more than a little nod to Busby Berkeley, director-choreographer Jon Engstrom channels those extravagant floor patterns and over-the-top production numbers to give an audience a lot to smile at.
It’s an iconic story. A fresh young thing, Peggy Sawyer (Tessa Grady), comes to Broadway from Allentown, Pa., to audition for a show called Pretty Lady, directed by legendary tyrant Julian Marsh (Damon Kirsche). She is befriended by handsome juvenile Billy Lawlor (Zach Hess) and, after a few awkward missteps, finds herself in the chorus.
The reputed star of Lady is Dorothy Brock (Tracy Lore). Her Texas sugar daddy, Abner Dillon (Paul Ainsley), has put up the money for the show as long as she stars, but she is secretly in a relationship with Pat Denning (Christopher Guilmet), her former stage manager, behind Dillon’s back. When Marsh is tipped to this fact, he hires a couple of thugs to take Denning out.
As Brock rehearses, Sawyer accidentally falls on her, and Brock breaks her ankle. It looks like the show must close, but chorus girls talk Marsh into starring Sawyer, even though she has only two days to prepare. Exhausted and discouraged, Sawyer packs and gets ready to take the train back to Allentown. Marsh follows her, and repeats the most famous line in the show, “Sawyer, you listen to me, and you listen hard. You’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star.”
The cast of this show is superior in every way. Kirsche has powerful vocals and charisma, especially in his encounters with Grady. She is the perfect ingénue, perky and bright, with a lovely voice, and she handles the physical comedy like a pro. Lore, too, can deliver a number and acquits herself well as the diva with a heart of gold.
Supporting characters in this show are standouts. Lady writer-producer Bert Barry (Jamie Torcellini) is a hoofer in the old style, and his numbers are among the best in the show. The show’s writer, Maggie Jones (Barbara Carlton Heart), plays mother hen to the chorus girls, and “Shuffle Off to Buffalo” with Bert and “Anytime” Annie (Caitlyn Calfas) can’t be beat.
Featured chorines Calfas, Lindsay Kristine Anderson, Blair Hollingsworth, and Evie Hutton dance expertly and provide extra energy and humor.
Harry Warren’s music and Al Dubin’s lyrics have become standards. “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me,” We’re in the Money,” “Lullaby of Broadway,” and “42nd Street” are among those that endure. Mark Bramble and Michael Stewart’s book also captures the vibe of the period.
Lighting by Jean-Yves Tessier is notable, especially on the large stage. Particularly lovely costumes by The Theatre Company and sets and props courtesy of Reagle Music Theatre of Greater Boston give the production the grand look necessary to make this a big Broadway-style production. Michael Borth’s music direction with the outstanding orchestra also adds special energy to the dancing and singing.
This 42nd Street stands out from among many productions of this chestnut as the perfect marriage of talent and enthusiasm, accomplishing all one could want in a musical theater evening.
Musical Theatre West at Carpenter Performing Arts Center
Ever since 1934 when Ruby Keeler sweetly but awkwardly tapped her way into America’s collective heart, this show has been a feel-good offering, and Musical Theatre West has mounted it with flash and dazzle. With more than a little nod to Busby Berkeley, director-choreographer Jon Engstrom channels those extravagant floor patterns and over-the-top production numbers to give an audience a lot to smile at.
It’s an iconic story. A fresh young thing, Peggy Sawyer (Tessa Grady), comes to Broadway from Allentown, Pa., to audition for a show called Pretty Lady, directed by legendary tyrant Julian Marsh (Damon Kirsche). She is befriended by handsome juvenile Billy Lawlor (Zach Hess) and, after a few awkward missteps, finds herself in the chorus.
The reputed star of Lady is Dorothy Brock (Tracy Lore). Her Texas sugar daddy, Abner Dillon (Paul Ainsley), has put up the money for the show as long as she stars, but she is secretly in a relationship with Pat Denning (Christopher Guilmet), her former stage manager, behind Dillon’s back. When Marsh is tipped to this fact, he hires a couple of thugs to take Denning out.
As Brock rehearses, Sawyer accidentally falls on her, and Brock breaks her ankle. It looks like the show must close, but chorus girls talk Marsh into starring Sawyer, even though she has only two days to prepare. Exhausted and discouraged, Sawyer packs and gets ready to take the train back to Allentown. Marsh follows her, and repeats the most famous line in the show, “Sawyer, you listen to me, and you listen hard. You’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star.”
The cast of this show is superior in every way. Kirsche has powerful vocals and charisma, especially in his encounters with Grady. She is the perfect ingénue, perky and bright, with a lovely voice, and she handles the physical comedy like a pro. Lore, too, can deliver a number and acquits herself well as the diva with a heart of gold.
Supporting characters in this show are standouts. Lady writer-producer Bert Barry (Jamie Torcellini) is a hoofer in the old style, and his numbers are among the best in the show. The show’s writer, Maggie Jones (Barbara Carlton Heart), plays mother hen to the chorus girls, and “Shuffle Off to Buffalo” with Bert and “Anytime” Annie (Caitlyn Calfas) can’t be beat.
Featured chorines Calfas, Lindsay Kristine Anderson, Blair Hollingsworth, and Evie Hutton dance expertly and provide extra energy and humor.
Harry Warren’s music and Al Dubin’s lyrics have become standards. “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me,” We’re in the Money,” “Lullaby of Broadway,” and “42nd Street” are among those that endure. Mark Bramble and Michael Stewart’s book also captures the vibe of the period.
Lighting by Jean-Yves Tessier is notable, especially on the large stage. Particularly lovely costumes by The Theatre Company and sets and props courtesy of Reagle Music Theatre of Greater Boston give the production the grand look necessary to make this a big Broadway-style production. Michael Borth’s music direction with the outstanding orchestra also adds special energy to the dancing and singing.
This 42nd Street stands out from among many productions of this chestnut as the perfect marriage of talent and enthusiasm, accomplishing all one could want in a musical theater evening.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
October 30, 2012
October 30, 2012
Vincent
The Next Arena at VS Theater
In a tiny theater, performed by only one actor, is the story of a massive passion. Eager to learn, yearning to serve, desperate for romance, Vincent Van Gogh lived an unfulfilled life that haunts us to this day. What would he think if he could have seen into the future?
Leonard Nimoy penned this one-person show, which we can be certain accurately depicts Van Gogh’s thoughts and feelings. The painter copiously corresponded with his brother Theo, and the letters have survived. But Nimoy shapes the facts, his framing device here a eulogy by Theo, the emotionality of the story coming from Theo’s fervid admiration for Vincent and our own sadness for sweetly noble aims cut short by physical and probably mental illness.
Still, it takes an actor and director to fully create Theo and his memories of Vincent. Paul Stein directs, Jean-Michel Richaud performs, and the effect transports the audience to 1890s Paris. Richaud beautifully calibrates his performance. Fraternal adoration, religious fervor, lust, guilt—all are created in truth here and have their rightful place in his work.
The set includes the furniture of Arles one could see in Vincent’s paintings: wooden side chairs, a French Provincial table, stools, and an easel—that, although loaded with an artistically incorrect empty frame, allows us to watch Richaud’s “painting” as he faces us while speaking. The set also includes a video screen that displays the many, many canvases Vincent painted—some familiar to all, some familiar to only the Van Gogh aficionados.
Steve Pope’s lighting prominently features Vincent’s favorite color, yellow, then dramatizes the stage with magenta, a color supposedly symbolizing the highest universal love.
Some people burn with talent. Others of us can only talk about it.
The Next Arena at VS Theater
In a tiny theater, performed by only one actor, is the story of a massive passion. Eager to learn, yearning to serve, desperate for romance, Vincent Van Gogh lived an unfulfilled life that haunts us to this day. What would he think if he could have seen into the future?
Leonard Nimoy penned this one-person show, which we can be certain accurately depicts Van Gogh’s thoughts and feelings. The painter copiously corresponded with his brother Theo, and the letters have survived. But Nimoy shapes the facts, his framing device here a eulogy by Theo, the emotionality of the story coming from Theo’s fervid admiration for Vincent and our own sadness for sweetly noble aims cut short by physical and probably mental illness.
Still, it takes an actor and director to fully create Theo and his memories of Vincent. Paul Stein directs, Jean-Michel Richaud performs, and the effect transports the audience to 1890s Paris. Richaud beautifully calibrates his performance. Fraternal adoration, religious fervor, lust, guilt—all are created in truth here and have their rightful place in his work.
The set includes the furniture of Arles one could see in Vincent’s paintings: wooden side chairs, a French Provincial table, stools, and an easel—that, although loaded with an artistically incorrect empty frame, allows us to watch Richaud’s “painting” as he faces us while speaking. The set also includes a video screen that displays the many, many canvases Vincent painted—some familiar to all, some familiar to only the Van Gogh aficionados.
Steve Pope’s lighting prominently features Vincent’s favorite color, yellow, then dramatizes the stage with magenta, a color supposedly symbolizing the highest universal love.
Some people burn with talent. Others of us can only talk about it.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 25, 2012
October 25, 2012
You Can’t Take It With You
Antaeus Company at Deaf West Theatre
The family at the heart of this George S. Kaufman–Moss Hart play is so cheerful, non-critical, and forgiving, it’s obviously sheer fantasy. It’s certainly unusual on stages so often filled with alcoholism, abuse, manipulation, and self-loathing. The Vanderhofs and Sycamores and their hangers-on live for free speech and the pursuit of happiness.
Indeed, as director Gigi Bermingham sees it here, life in this home is so congenial that the “colored” maid and her beau sit at the dining table with the rest of the family, breaking class and race barriers that would have seemed insurmountable in 1937 when the play premiered. To top that, one of the Sycamore daughters has married a black man. Not everyone is easy with the choice, but Bermingham leaves it up to the audience to glimpse the checkered reactions.
Obviously this well-made play hasn’t changed since you saw it—or likely performed in it in high school. What’s different here is the two casts of veteran actors in roles from lead to bit. It’s an honor to observe their work, as each commits to Bermingham’s shtick and soul.
Anyone wondering what actors add to the director’s work must watch both casts of a double-cast play, as here. Starting with the tax-evading Grandpa Vanderhof, Joseph Ruskin plays him as eccentric because he was born that way; Lawrence Pressman plays him as eccentric by choice. Pressman’s character is a wealthy libertarian, aware of the maelstrom around him; Ruskin’s seems too sweet to deliberately cheat the national treasury, merely a forgetfully wise patriarch.
Grandpa’s daughter, Penny Sycamore, gets the loving-mother treatment from Julia Fletcher and Eve Gordon. As the aspiring but probably no-talent playwright, Fletcher lets her eyebrows rhythmically accompany her typing; Gordon types while acting out the melodramas Penny writes.
Penny’s husband, Paul, gets a contented teddy-bear portrayal by Paul Eiding; under Marcello Tubert’s crafting, Paul glances at himself in the mirror but ruefully notes there’s no improvement he could make before company comes.
Paul and Penny’s daughter Essie wants desperately to be a ballerina. Linda Park’s Essie is slender and a skilled dancer, so her downfall is narcissism. Kellie Matteson’s Essie does ballet because her soul needs to physically dramatize every emotion. But the Sycamore daughter Alice seeks a more “normal” life and has fallen in love with Tony Kirby, whom she reluctantly brings home for a meet-see. Lizzie Zerebko and Kate Maher bring a period sensibility to their work as Alice, and Jeremy Glazer and Nicholas D’Agosto turn Tony into a sweet matinee idol, though D’Agosto gives the most authentic period feel by giving Tony that signature veneer of happiness.
As the man who delivered ice and stayed for eight years, Mr. DePina, Tony Abatemarco is perfectly accented and perfectly, seriously, immersed in his comedic role, adding to it more than a hint that this perpetual bachelor is homosexual. Jeremy Guskin brings to the role shades of a child escaping the travails of growing up. Karen Malina White’s maid, Rheba, is happy as can be; Veralyn Jones makes her sensible and undeluded.
Of course Tony’s parents come to dinner. Playing Mr. Kirby, Josh Clark brings a blue-bloodedly initial reluctance to the table; John Apicella brings a hidden hunger—for affection and for the tempting food.
Shannon Holt, as Mrs. Kirby, is sour-faced and trembling with fury, and her speech cadence is of the era. Her performance is a little “big” but also fits the shape of the play, the zaniness peaking near the play’s end. Amelia White plays it smaller, but there’s plenty to watch in her uptight wealthy white conservative plunged into her nightmare of American liberalism.
Even small roles get thoughtful touches. Playing the IRS agent who drops in on the family, Patrick Wenk-Wolff looks at each family member with a suspicious eye, while Jeremy Shouldis is befuddled by the many-ring circus.
On Tom Buderwitz’s cozily busy set, style meets functionality as he breaks the small playing space into rooms and nooks. Sports equipment hangs on the walls though it’s seemingly never used by this family that finds its pleasures indoors. Paul and Mr. DePina build firecrackers that resound in the Deaf West space made for sound to be felt.
“Why can’t we be like other people?” Alice asks pleadingly. It’s because the audience wouldn’t have it any other way.
Antaeus Company at Deaf West Theatre
The family at the heart of this George S. Kaufman–Moss Hart play is so cheerful, non-critical, and forgiving, it’s obviously sheer fantasy. It’s certainly unusual on stages so often filled with alcoholism, abuse, manipulation, and self-loathing. The Vanderhofs and Sycamores and their hangers-on live for free speech and the pursuit of happiness.
Indeed, as director Gigi Bermingham sees it here, life in this home is so congenial that the “colored” maid and her beau sit at the dining table with the rest of the family, breaking class and race barriers that would have seemed insurmountable in 1937 when the play premiered. To top that, one of the Sycamore daughters has married a black man. Not everyone is easy with the choice, but Bermingham leaves it up to the audience to glimpse the checkered reactions.
Obviously this well-made play hasn’t changed since you saw it—or likely performed in it in high school. What’s different here is the two casts of veteran actors in roles from lead to bit. It’s an honor to observe their work, as each commits to Bermingham’s shtick and soul.
Anyone wondering what actors add to the director’s work must watch both casts of a double-cast play, as here. Starting with the tax-evading Grandpa Vanderhof, Joseph Ruskin plays him as eccentric because he was born that way; Lawrence Pressman plays him as eccentric by choice. Pressman’s character is a wealthy libertarian, aware of the maelstrom around him; Ruskin’s seems too sweet to deliberately cheat the national treasury, merely a forgetfully wise patriarch.
Grandpa’s daughter, Penny Sycamore, gets the loving-mother treatment from Julia Fletcher and Eve Gordon. As the aspiring but probably no-talent playwright, Fletcher lets her eyebrows rhythmically accompany her typing; Gordon types while acting out the melodramas Penny writes.
Penny’s husband, Paul, gets a contented teddy-bear portrayal by Paul Eiding; under Marcello Tubert’s crafting, Paul glances at himself in the mirror but ruefully notes there’s no improvement he could make before company comes.
Paul and Penny’s daughter Essie wants desperately to be a ballerina. Linda Park’s Essie is slender and a skilled dancer, so her downfall is narcissism. Kellie Matteson’s Essie does ballet because her soul needs to physically dramatize every emotion. But the Sycamore daughter Alice seeks a more “normal” life and has fallen in love with Tony Kirby, whom she reluctantly brings home for a meet-see. Lizzie Zerebko and Kate Maher bring a period sensibility to their work as Alice, and Jeremy Glazer and Nicholas D’Agosto turn Tony into a sweet matinee idol, though D’Agosto gives the most authentic period feel by giving Tony that signature veneer of happiness.
As the man who delivered ice and stayed for eight years, Mr. DePina, Tony Abatemarco is perfectly accented and perfectly, seriously, immersed in his comedic role, adding to it more than a hint that this perpetual bachelor is homosexual. Jeremy Guskin brings to the role shades of a child escaping the travails of growing up. Karen Malina White’s maid, Rheba, is happy as can be; Veralyn Jones makes her sensible and undeluded.
Of course Tony’s parents come to dinner. Playing Mr. Kirby, Josh Clark brings a blue-bloodedly initial reluctance to the table; John Apicella brings a hidden hunger—for affection and for the tempting food.
Shannon Holt, as Mrs. Kirby, is sour-faced and trembling with fury, and her speech cadence is of the era. Her performance is a little “big” but also fits the shape of the play, the zaniness peaking near the play’s end. Amelia White plays it smaller, but there’s plenty to watch in her uptight wealthy white conservative plunged into her nightmare of American liberalism.
Even small roles get thoughtful touches. Playing the IRS agent who drops in on the family, Patrick Wenk-Wolff looks at each family member with a suspicious eye, while Jeremy Shouldis is befuddled by the many-ring circus.
On Tom Buderwitz’s cozily busy set, style meets functionality as he breaks the small playing space into rooms and nooks. Sports equipment hangs on the walls though it’s seemingly never used by this family that finds its pleasures indoors. Paul and Mr. DePina build firecrackers that resound in the Deaf West space made for sound to be felt.
“Why can’t we be like other people?” Alice asks pleadingly. It’s because the audience wouldn’t have it any other way.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 23, 2012
October 23, 2012
In the
Red and Brown Water
Fountain Theatre
It’s about time Tarell Alvin McCraney’s work was able to be seen in Los Angeles. The Brother/Sister Plays, his trilogy about indigenous backwoods Louisiana folk operating under strange and magical Yoruba and Caribbean influences, has been garnering raves on both sides of the Atlantic (he has served as a house playwright for the RSC), whether performed as a unit or, as here, one at a time with the debut of In the Red and Brown Water at the Fountain Theater. McCraney is black and gay, but his work occupies no narrow niche; it’s for and about everyone.
This particular leg of the tripod takes off from Federico Garcia Lorca’s Yerma, the famous verse drama about a young women driven insane by her inability to become a mother. Her McCraney counterpart is Oya, a high school track star with dreams of running her way out of the bayou to a promising future, but she forgoes them in favor of men who don’t exactly use her ill, but don’t use her in the way she wants to be used—that is, as the mother of their child. The hothouse environment, in which a woman’s childbearing is prized above everything else and the denizens occupy themselves with exotic talismans, songs and dances, and superstition, is presented as fertile breeding ground for profound mental disturbance, and McCraney charts Oya’s disintegration masterfully, and devastatingly.
The play is peppered with an odd but effective conceit, as the actors speak stage directions—“Oya runs”—and then perform them. It turns the entire ensemble into one great group griot, inviting us around the fire to participate in the immediate creation of an unforgettable folk tale.
Shirley Jo Finney is the perfect director for this sort of material, fearless and skillful and completely comfortable with the interweaving of indigenous ritual into a linear narrative, as she demonstrated in The Ballad of Emmett Till a couple of years back. Once again she has assembled an excellent cast, beginning with the stunning Diarra Kilpatrick, whose Oya begins fresh-faced and ends shattered, yet her decline is so subtly etched we’re practically unaware of her falling apart until it’s too late.
The female members of San Pere, La., are one and all superb. Of the men, Theodore Perkins is a crafty, delightful trickster and Gilbert Glenn Brown a sizzling, sinister stud; only Dorian Christian Baucum, as the auto mechanic Ogun, fails to deliver a clearly delineated portrait. (Ogun is a principal in the other two plays, The Brothers Size and Marcus or the Secret of Sweet, so perhaps Baucum will find his legs as the trilogy goes along. The Fountain expects to perform all three plays in due course.)
McCraney also has a drag play, Wig Out!, floating around, and his new Choir Boy is a London smash hit. You will be hearing a lot about him. You might as well start finding out now what all the shouting is about.
Fountain Theatre
It’s about time Tarell Alvin McCraney’s work was able to be seen in Los Angeles. The Brother/Sister Plays, his trilogy about indigenous backwoods Louisiana folk operating under strange and magical Yoruba and Caribbean influences, has been garnering raves on both sides of the Atlantic (he has served as a house playwright for the RSC), whether performed as a unit or, as here, one at a time with the debut of In the Red and Brown Water at the Fountain Theater. McCraney is black and gay, but his work occupies no narrow niche; it’s for and about everyone.
This particular leg of the tripod takes off from Federico Garcia Lorca’s Yerma, the famous verse drama about a young women driven insane by her inability to become a mother. Her McCraney counterpart is Oya, a high school track star with dreams of running her way out of the bayou to a promising future, but she forgoes them in favor of men who don’t exactly use her ill, but don’t use her in the way she wants to be used—that is, as the mother of their child. The hothouse environment, in which a woman’s childbearing is prized above everything else and the denizens occupy themselves with exotic talismans, songs and dances, and superstition, is presented as fertile breeding ground for profound mental disturbance, and McCraney charts Oya’s disintegration masterfully, and devastatingly.
The play is peppered with an odd but effective conceit, as the actors speak stage directions—“Oya runs”—and then perform them. It turns the entire ensemble into one great group griot, inviting us around the fire to participate in the immediate creation of an unforgettable folk tale.
Shirley Jo Finney is the perfect director for this sort of material, fearless and skillful and completely comfortable with the interweaving of indigenous ritual into a linear narrative, as she demonstrated in The Ballad of Emmett Till a couple of years back. Once again she has assembled an excellent cast, beginning with the stunning Diarra Kilpatrick, whose Oya begins fresh-faced and ends shattered, yet her decline is so subtly etched we’re practically unaware of her falling apart until it’s too late.
The female members of San Pere, La., are one and all superb. Of the men, Theodore Perkins is a crafty, delightful trickster and Gilbert Glenn Brown a sizzling, sinister stud; only Dorian Christian Baucum, as the auto mechanic Ogun, fails to deliver a clearly delineated portrait. (Ogun is a principal in the other two plays, The Brothers Size and Marcus or the Secret of Sweet, so perhaps Baucum will find his legs as the trilogy goes along. The Fountain expects to perform all three plays in due course.)
McCraney also has a drag play, Wig Out!, floating around, and his new Choir Boy is a London smash hit. You will be hearing a lot about him. You might as well start finding out now what all the shouting is about.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 22, 2012
October 22, 2012
Creation
Boston Court Performing Arts Center
The premise is promising, but the sum of this Kathryn Walat script feels unoriginal and uninspiring. However, it gets much tender care from director Michael Michetti and his design team, and the quartet of actors steps up in all seriousness to deliver lines that might flop from the mouths of lesser performers.
Could the story end any other way? From the start of the play, Sarah (Deborah Puette) and Ian (Johnathan McClain) seem dissatisfied with their marriage. Ian had imagined himself a working paleontologist, and Sarah had imagined herself married to a “nice” Jewish doctor. He’s instead tied down as an academic, apparently a reluctant biology professor, also uninspired to start on his book. She is a pathologist because she prefers the science to the healing arts. On his birthday, they’re boating. Lightning strikes him. She thinks she waited too long to begin resuscitation. This she confesses to handsome young neurologist Amal (Ethan Raines), as electricity sparks between these two.
Meantime, Ian happens to meet Zach (Adam Silver), a gay master’s candidate in music composition. Ian, hearing music in his head since the boat episode, decides he’ll free his inner composer through Zach’s knowledge of notation. But Zach has already told the audience—through one of the direct addresses Walat relies on to convey information not revealed in dialogue—that his newbie students don’t know “what being a composer is.”
By play’s end, Zach is the only character who has kept his word and who has not violated professional ethics. Meantime, Sarah is rather cold, she is rather unfaithful to Ian, and now she’s having second thoughts about a grant previously awarded her. And yet Sarah is inexplicably attractive to not one but two men. Still, the most puzzling character is Ian. Did the lightning strike alter Ian’s brain, prompting him to believe in the existence of God? Or, did proximity to his mortality awaken a fear of death? Or had Ian already been looking for an excuse to pursue yet more hobbies and occupations, meanwhile avoiding manhood and fatherhood?
Michetti stages the work elegantly, from boating incident to melodramatic ending, on François-Pierre Couture’s set paired with Adam Flemming’s projection design, providing visual interest and mood. Bruno Louchouarn’s original music lets the audience know that at least we’re not imagining it.
Boston Court Performing Arts Center
The premise is promising, but the sum of this Kathryn Walat script feels unoriginal and uninspiring. However, it gets much tender care from director Michael Michetti and his design team, and the quartet of actors steps up in all seriousness to deliver lines that might flop from the mouths of lesser performers.
Could the story end any other way? From the start of the play, Sarah (Deborah Puette) and Ian (Johnathan McClain) seem dissatisfied with their marriage. Ian had imagined himself a working paleontologist, and Sarah had imagined herself married to a “nice” Jewish doctor. He’s instead tied down as an academic, apparently a reluctant biology professor, also uninspired to start on his book. She is a pathologist because she prefers the science to the healing arts. On his birthday, they’re boating. Lightning strikes him. She thinks she waited too long to begin resuscitation. This she confesses to handsome young neurologist Amal (Ethan Raines), as electricity sparks between these two.
Meantime, Ian happens to meet Zach (Adam Silver), a gay master’s candidate in music composition. Ian, hearing music in his head since the boat episode, decides he’ll free his inner composer through Zach’s knowledge of notation. But Zach has already told the audience—through one of the direct addresses Walat relies on to convey information not revealed in dialogue—that his newbie students don’t know “what being a composer is.”
By play’s end, Zach is the only character who has kept his word and who has not violated professional ethics. Meantime, Sarah is rather cold, she is rather unfaithful to Ian, and now she’s having second thoughts about a grant previously awarded her. And yet Sarah is inexplicably attractive to not one but two men. Still, the most puzzling character is Ian. Did the lightning strike alter Ian’s brain, prompting him to believe in the existence of God? Or, did proximity to his mortality awaken a fear of death? Or had Ian already been looking for an excuse to pursue yet more hobbies and occupations, meanwhile avoiding manhood and fatherhood?
Michetti stages the work elegantly, from boating incident to melodramatic ending, on François-Pierre Couture’s set paired with Adam Flemming’s projection design, providing visual interest and mood. Bruno Louchouarn’s original music lets the audience know that at least we’re not imagining it.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 15, 2012
October 15, 2012
Fraternity
Ebony Repertory Theatre at Nate Holden Performing Arts Center
Real-life events often beget theatrical productions that bring to light the larger picture surrounding those happenings. In playwright Jeff Stetson’s script, the terrorist bombing of a Birmingham, Ala., Baptist church in which four young girls died figures in a complex story about politics and race.
The setting is an exclusive black men’s club in 1987 populated by the movers and shakers of Birmingham. There’s Senator Charles Lincoln (Roger Robinson), an aging politician, who is running for what may be his last term. His opponent is his former aide, Paul Stanton (Rocky Carroll), a man who prides himself on his strong morals and wants to represent a new age in black politics. The key players comprise Reverend Benjamin Franklin Wilcox (Harvy Blanks), wealthy real estate tycoon Preston Gherard (William Allen Young), musician Turk Maddox (Robert Gossett), and newspaper publisher Turner Greystone (Mel Winkler). Seeking admission to the club is young lawyer Brandon Carrington (Nasir Najieb).
Power is the prime exploration here—how you get it, what you are willing to do to get it, what you do with it when you achieve it. Intertwined in this examination are other issues of black history: unequal opportunities for blacks, particularly in the South, and lingering echoes of the civil rights movement.
What keeps the somewhat pedagogic nature of the dialogue convincing is the dynamic among the actors. Director Henry Miller uses restraint as the hot-button topics come to light, and his impressive cast makes genuine its passion, anger, or grief. In particular, Robinson seems larger than life, an almost archetypal politician who has achievements as well as compromises in his career. The drinking minister, the smarmy opportunist, and the grieving father are revealed as the story unfolds.
Scenic designer Edward E. Haynes Jr. creates a beautifully articulated set that, combined with Elizabeth Harper’s subtle and evocative lighting, is a perfect setting for the production. From bow ties and suspenders to well-shod men, Wendell C. Carmichael’s costume design is first rate.
In an after-the-performance audience talkback, Carroll commented on how gratifying it was for the ensemble to be able to work together in one show, an opportunity he acknowledged didn’t happen often in theater or television. The caliber of the actors, their authenticity, and their regard for the material make it a very worthwhile production.
Ebony Repertory Theatre at Nate Holden Performing Arts Center
Real-life events often beget theatrical productions that bring to light the larger picture surrounding those happenings. In playwright Jeff Stetson’s script, the terrorist bombing of a Birmingham, Ala., Baptist church in which four young girls died figures in a complex story about politics and race.
The setting is an exclusive black men’s club in 1987 populated by the movers and shakers of Birmingham. There’s Senator Charles Lincoln (Roger Robinson), an aging politician, who is running for what may be his last term. His opponent is his former aide, Paul Stanton (Rocky Carroll), a man who prides himself on his strong morals and wants to represent a new age in black politics. The key players comprise Reverend Benjamin Franklin Wilcox (Harvy Blanks), wealthy real estate tycoon Preston Gherard (William Allen Young), musician Turk Maddox (Robert Gossett), and newspaper publisher Turner Greystone (Mel Winkler). Seeking admission to the club is young lawyer Brandon Carrington (Nasir Najieb).
Power is the prime exploration here—how you get it, what you are willing to do to get it, what you do with it when you achieve it. Intertwined in this examination are other issues of black history: unequal opportunities for blacks, particularly in the South, and lingering echoes of the civil rights movement.
What keeps the somewhat pedagogic nature of the dialogue convincing is the dynamic among the actors. Director Henry Miller uses restraint as the hot-button topics come to light, and his impressive cast makes genuine its passion, anger, or grief. In particular, Robinson seems larger than life, an almost archetypal politician who has achievements as well as compromises in his career. The drinking minister, the smarmy opportunist, and the grieving father are revealed as the story unfolds.
Scenic designer Edward E. Haynes Jr. creates a beautifully articulated set that, combined with Elizabeth Harper’s subtle and evocative lighting, is a perfect setting for the production. From bow ties and suspenders to well-shod men, Wendell C. Carmichael’s costume design is first rate.
In an after-the-performance audience talkback, Carroll commented on how gratifying it was for the ensemble to be able to work together in one show, an opportunity he acknowledged didn’t happen often in theater or television. The caliber of the actors, their authenticity, and their regard for the material make it a very worthwhile production.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
October 15, 2012
October 15, 2012
The Turn of the Screw
Visceral Company at Underground Theatre
To attend this production, one should be able to see in the dark. To best enjoy this production, one should probably be at least a little afraid of the dark.
The Henry James novella on which Jeffrey Hatcher based this script is that classic “ambiguous” tale about a young governess who comes to a Victorian manor to tend two young children. Does she see the ghosts of former occupants, or is she imagining/hallucinating?
Either way, Hatcher turns the story into a two-actor play. The female actor plays the governess on her new job at Bly. The male actor, however, plays all other characters—including the housekeeper Mrs. Grose, the 10-year-old possibly precocious Miles, and the 8-year-old darling innocent Flora. Thus, the scaredy-cats in the audience can jump in shock or quiver in fear as the story unfolds; while the theater aficionados can relish the creativity.
Amelia Gotham plays the governess. She plays it straight though heightened enough to keep the viewer intrigued. She does so without giving away whether her character is haunted or crazed. Nich Kauffman takes on the remaining personae. He likewise plays them straight, not campily, whether portraying the conveniently icy uncle or the presumably naive progeny, though he carefully delineates each of his characters.
Under Dan Spurgeon’s steadying direction, though not every moment is true to the setting and period, the mood stays simultaneously gripping and playful. He turns the minuscule playing space into bumpy roads, lakeside gardens, offices, entry halls, nursery bedrooms, and more. Tyler Aaron Travis’s set design consists of chalky outlines to create balustrades and patterned wallpaper; a simple black side chair is the only furniture on the set. Dave Sousa provides picture-perfect lighting, including creepy candlelight and spooky moonlight.
So why must we see in the dark? Before the show, the theater’s house is kept in very dim lighting even while the audience is filing in. Watch your step. And then, on your way out, keep an eye peeled for, you know, things that go bump in the night.
Visceral Company at Underground Theatre
To attend this production, one should be able to see in the dark. To best enjoy this production, one should probably be at least a little afraid of the dark.
The Henry James novella on which Jeffrey Hatcher based this script is that classic “ambiguous” tale about a young governess who comes to a Victorian manor to tend two young children. Does she see the ghosts of former occupants, or is she imagining/hallucinating?
Either way, Hatcher turns the story into a two-actor play. The female actor plays the governess on her new job at Bly. The male actor, however, plays all other characters—including the housekeeper Mrs. Grose, the 10-year-old possibly precocious Miles, and the 8-year-old darling innocent Flora. Thus, the scaredy-cats in the audience can jump in shock or quiver in fear as the story unfolds; while the theater aficionados can relish the creativity.
Amelia Gotham plays the governess. She plays it straight though heightened enough to keep the viewer intrigued. She does so without giving away whether her character is haunted or crazed. Nich Kauffman takes on the remaining personae. He likewise plays them straight, not campily, whether portraying the conveniently icy uncle or the presumably naive progeny, though he carefully delineates each of his characters.
Under Dan Spurgeon’s steadying direction, though not every moment is true to the setting and period, the mood stays simultaneously gripping and playful. He turns the minuscule playing space into bumpy roads, lakeside gardens, offices, entry halls, nursery bedrooms, and more. Tyler Aaron Travis’s set design consists of chalky outlines to create balustrades and patterned wallpaper; a simple black side chair is the only furniture on the set. Dave Sousa provides picture-perfect lighting, including creepy candlelight and spooky moonlight.
So why must we see in the dark? Before the show, the theater’s house is kept in very dim lighting even while the audience is filing in. Watch your step. And then, on your way out, keep an eye peeled for, you know, things that go bump in the night.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 15, 2012
October 15, 2012
November
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
Many of the modern-day U.S. presidents have been great public speakers, most have had their moments of dignity, a few have done great acts to better the nation. But, in every case, haven’t you wondered what each is like in the privacy of the Oval Office?
Maybe it’s best not to know. As playwright David Mamet postulates him here, Charles Smith is an idiot. This president is uninformed, bigoted, and on the take. And, being a Mamet creation, he’s delightfully foul-mouthed.
When we meet him, Smith (given a freewheeling portrayal by Ed Begley Jr.) is about to lose the second-term election. His wife (unseen) continually phones him at work, a device that’s not only comedic but also allows Mamet to set up the impending relative poverty Smith faces. Alas, no presidential library awaits Smith. So he needs a quick buck. This November, he is reminded that he’s about to receive a $50,000 honorarium for the customary pardoning of a turkey or two. So he sets out to shake down the birds.
Smith is kept afloat by his by-the-rules aide Archer (Rod McLachlan) and by Smith’s utterly devoted speechwriter Bernstein (Felicity Huffman). The turkeys are kept afloat by the character Mamet names A Representative of the National Association of Turkey and Turkey By-Products Manufacturers (Todd Weeks). Add a visit by the local Native-American tribal leader (Gregory Cruz), and wackiness ensues.
Fortunately, there’s a point to the high jinks. Bernstein bears the double-whammy of being Jewish and a lesbian, just two of the persuasions and ethnicities disdained by Smith. And yet, Smith dimly recognizes that he can’t function without her.
Scott Zigler directs with an obvious affinity for the playwright’s work. Each character is an island, but all the actors function as a solid unit. Lines fall trippingly from the tongues. The blocking feels natural, working well in the round Oval Office on the thrust stage. Zigler’s actors set the stage during the brief scene-change blackouts, Huffman pulling props out of Bernstein’s capacious purse.
Begley is delightfully adept at playing the imbecile, jumbling words and repeating lines of dialogue. But Huffman is the superstar here. She is made up to be unglamorous and plays a character jet-lagged and suffering a cold. And yet we can’t take our eyes off her. Perhaps that’s because Huffman never takes her eyes off the other actors, and Bernstein never stops focusing on Smith. Turns out Bernstein has her own agenda. She begs and coaxes Smith to “do something pure in this waning time.”
At the play’s end, our POTUS is about to take a stand that will undoubtedly tick off his fellow bigots. Considering that the person Smith is helping is someone he has relied upon, used, and abused for many years, Mamet offers a lot of justice, poetic or otherwise, in balancing these scales.
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
Many of the modern-day U.S. presidents have been great public speakers, most have had their moments of dignity, a few have done great acts to better the nation. But, in every case, haven’t you wondered what each is like in the privacy of the Oval Office?
Maybe it’s best not to know. As playwright David Mamet postulates him here, Charles Smith is an idiot. This president is uninformed, bigoted, and on the take. And, being a Mamet creation, he’s delightfully foul-mouthed.
When we meet him, Smith (given a freewheeling portrayal by Ed Begley Jr.) is about to lose the second-term election. His wife (unseen) continually phones him at work, a device that’s not only comedic but also allows Mamet to set up the impending relative poverty Smith faces. Alas, no presidential library awaits Smith. So he needs a quick buck. This November, he is reminded that he’s about to receive a $50,000 honorarium for the customary pardoning of a turkey or two. So he sets out to shake down the birds.
Smith is kept afloat by his by-the-rules aide Archer (Rod McLachlan) and by Smith’s utterly devoted speechwriter Bernstein (Felicity Huffman). The turkeys are kept afloat by the character Mamet names A Representative of the National Association of Turkey and Turkey By-Products Manufacturers (Todd Weeks). Add a visit by the local Native-American tribal leader (Gregory Cruz), and wackiness ensues.
Fortunately, there’s a point to the high jinks. Bernstein bears the double-whammy of being Jewish and a lesbian, just two of the persuasions and ethnicities disdained by Smith. And yet, Smith dimly recognizes that he can’t function without her.
Scott Zigler directs with an obvious affinity for the playwright’s work. Each character is an island, but all the actors function as a solid unit. Lines fall trippingly from the tongues. The blocking feels natural, working well in the round Oval Office on the thrust stage. Zigler’s actors set the stage during the brief scene-change blackouts, Huffman pulling props out of Bernstein’s capacious purse.
Begley is delightfully adept at playing the imbecile, jumbling words and repeating lines of dialogue. But Huffman is the superstar here. She is made up to be unglamorous and plays a character jet-lagged and suffering a cold. And yet we can’t take our eyes off her. Perhaps that’s because Huffman never takes her eyes off the other actors, and Bernstein never stops focusing on Smith. Turns out Bernstein has her own agenda. She begs and coaxes Smith to “do something pure in this waning time.”
At the play’s end, our POTUS is about to take a stand that will undoubtedly tick off his fellow bigots. Considering that the person Smith is helping is someone he has relied upon, used, and abused for many years, Mamet offers a lot of justice, poetic or otherwise, in balancing these scales.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 9, 2012
October 9, 2012
Bend in the Road
Carrie Hamilton Theatre
Albert Einstein is credited with having said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” These words are certainly apropos when it comes to the title character of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s classic novel, Anne of Green Gables. Her tale of a redheaded orphan, Anne “with an E” Shirley, whose daydreams and creativity lead to adventures galore, is renowned for its appeal to audiences both young and old. Never was this was more evident than in a recent standing room– only performance of this staged version. It’s an invitingly charming production for all ages, adapted by Benita Scheckel, who also directs the piece, and Michael Upward, whose original composition make this more a “play with music” than a traditional musical.
At the performance reviewed, Justine Huxley brought to life Montgomery’s sassy young heroine with an engaging impishness that immediately won over the mix of adult and child audience members. Ever spunky, but never annoying or off-putting, Huxley’s comic timing was complimented perfectly by her excellent vocal skills. In particular, “Walk Like Sisters”—featuring Huxley and Melinda Porto, playing Anne’s best friend, Diana Barry—is clearly the show’s most memorable tune. Faintly reminiscent of “For Good” from Stephen Schwartz’s score of “Wicked,” this duet soars melodically with a lovely harmonic line that produces goose bumps. All in all, Huxley did a first rate job, so much so that it’s hard to believe that she is the production’s understudy.
Supporting roles in the show are handled expertly. As Anne’s adoptive guardians, Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, Christopher Callen and Don Margolin provide a sense of stability for their characters’ teenage charge while grounding the production with a crucial reality. At one point, Callen, tempering mild exasperation with compassion, leads Anne through a touching rendition of Upward’s version of “The Lord’s Prayer.” You could have heard a pin drop in the theatre.
Providing additional standout performances are James Jaeger as a curmudgeonly stationmaster and teacher Mr. Phillips, and Christopher Higgins as the schoolhouse heartthrob, Gilbert Blythe. And a doff of the hat to Barbara Niles for injecting comic relief with her role as Avonlea’s town busybody, Rachel Lynde. She does a great job of bringing to life a bombastic character without crossing the line into caricature. In a musically challenging trio titled “The Feud,” Niles joins Callen and Kate Sullivan, as Diana’s mother, as they battle over what should be done about Anne’s antics. It’s a great ending to the show’s first act.
At times, Act 2 feels a bit choppier as attempts are made to include as many of Montgomery’s more memorable plot twists as possible. There’s the tea party mix-up between currant wine and raspberry cordial, leaving Diana drunk as a skunk, as well as Anne’s saving of Diana’s younger sister, Minnie Mae, with a dose of Syrup of Ipecac. And who could forget Anne’s walking the ridgepole on the roof of the schoolhouse?
As the production concludes with Anne’s graduation and her subsequent promotion to the position of Avonlea’s schoolteacher, one senses that Scheckel and Upward had their hands full paring Montgomery’s 300-page tome down to a marketable running time. Still, the proceedings are wrapped up nicely with the cast singing the production’s title song as Anne proclaims poet Robert Browning’s well-known phrase, “God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world.”
Carrie Hamilton Theatre
Albert Einstein is credited with having said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” These words are certainly apropos when it comes to the title character of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s classic novel, Anne of Green Gables. Her tale of a redheaded orphan, Anne “with an E” Shirley, whose daydreams and creativity lead to adventures galore, is renowned for its appeal to audiences both young and old. Never was this was more evident than in a recent standing room– only performance of this staged version. It’s an invitingly charming production for all ages, adapted by Benita Scheckel, who also directs the piece, and Michael Upward, whose original composition make this more a “play with music” than a traditional musical.
At the performance reviewed, Justine Huxley brought to life Montgomery’s sassy young heroine with an engaging impishness that immediately won over the mix of adult and child audience members. Ever spunky, but never annoying or off-putting, Huxley’s comic timing was complimented perfectly by her excellent vocal skills. In particular, “Walk Like Sisters”—featuring Huxley and Melinda Porto, playing Anne’s best friend, Diana Barry—is clearly the show’s most memorable tune. Faintly reminiscent of “For Good” from Stephen Schwartz’s score of “Wicked,” this duet soars melodically with a lovely harmonic line that produces goose bumps. All in all, Huxley did a first rate job, so much so that it’s hard to believe that she is the production’s understudy.
Supporting roles in the show are handled expertly. As Anne’s adoptive guardians, Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, Christopher Callen and Don Margolin provide a sense of stability for their characters’ teenage charge while grounding the production with a crucial reality. At one point, Callen, tempering mild exasperation with compassion, leads Anne through a touching rendition of Upward’s version of “The Lord’s Prayer.” You could have heard a pin drop in the theatre.
Providing additional standout performances are James Jaeger as a curmudgeonly stationmaster and teacher Mr. Phillips, and Christopher Higgins as the schoolhouse heartthrob, Gilbert Blythe. And a doff of the hat to Barbara Niles for injecting comic relief with her role as Avonlea’s town busybody, Rachel Lynde. She does a great job of bringing to life a bombastic character without crossing the line into caricature. In a musically challenging trio titled “The Feud,” Niles joins Callen and Kate Sullivan, as Diana’s mother, as they battle over what should be done about Anne’s antics. It’s a great ending to the show’s first act.
At times, Act 2 feels a bit choppier as attempts are made to include as many of Montgomery’s more memorable plot twists as possible. There’s the tea party mix-up between currant wine and raspberry cordial, leaving Diana drunk as a skunk, as well as Anne’s saving of Diana’s younger sister, Minnie Mae, with a dose of Syrup of Ipecac. And who could forget Anne’s walking the ridgepole on the roof of the schoolhouse?
As the production concludes with Anne’s graduation and her subsequent promotion to the position of Avonlea’s schoolteacher, one senses that Scheckel and Upward had their hands full paring Montgomery’s 300-page tome down to a marketable running time. Still, the proceedings are wrapped up nicely with the cast singing the production’s title song as Anne proclaims poet Robert Browning’s well-known phrase, “God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world.”
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
October 7, 2012
October 7, 2012
American
Fiesta
Colony Theatre
There are many ways to find pleasure in a production: you like the story, you admire the actors, the philosophical themes are intriguing, or you have such a personal connection to some element in the play that you are willing to overlook a few inherent flaws. Such is American Fiesta, by Steven Tomlinson, starring Larry Cedar as its singular performer.
Cedar presents himself as Steven, a 40-year-old Oklahoma-bred male whose childhood fascination with Barbie and G.I. Joe wearing Ken’s clothes foretells his present leanings. Steven works for a company called Goldrich Neurometrics, where he looks at various areas of the brain to figure out how to sell something. Flanked by three large screens, he diagrams brain anatomy leading to what he calls a “serotonin smoothie.”
Jump to his present dilemma. He is planning to marry his partner, Leon, in a ceremony in Canada, and he wants his parents to attend. That desire seems doomed at the start as Cedar re-creates the parents’ reactions. Flaw No. 1: Steven seemingly doesn’t use any of his understanding of this neurometric data to make the case to his parents.
About this time, he becomes fascinated with Homer Laughlin’s Fiesta dinnerware. Fiesta ware was created in the ’30s in five solid colors: red, cobalt blue, yellow, ivory, and green, and its appeal was that it could be purchased as mix-and-match open stock. Steven begins to collect, beginning with a large mixing bowl, but he only wants perfect pieces and soon discovers Ebay.
Scenic designer David Potts chooses a stage-wide, white shelving system on which Fiesta pieces begin to appear, some placed by Cedar and others subtly added from behind the scenes (well lighted by Jared A. Sayeg). As they increase in number, we meet relatives and antique dealers amid more visits to Steven’s home and continuing parental disapproval. Cedar is perfectly charming as he tells the story and morphs into his many characterizations. He makes it easy to understand his character’s fascination with collecting.
Director David Rose utilizes pauses effectively as the humor in the characterizations develops. The Latino lover is stereotypically gay but endearing, and both parents are believable as they love their son but grapple with his situation.
Flaw No. 2: Writer Tomlinson bogs down in making everything overtly meaningful. As Steven comes to understand that flaws in the pottery may not always detract from their worth, Tomlinson doesn’t trust the audience to find its way through the character’s evolutionary growth and put all the pieces together. Instead, the final minutes of the play become a lecture, even as Cedar makes palpable the emotional connection.
Cedar gives it all he’s got as he integrates history into storyline. His skill is considerable, and that is what makes the evening enjoyable.
Colony Theatre
There are many ways to find pleasure in a production: you like the story, you admire the actors, the philosophical themes are intriguing, or you have such a personal connection to some element in the play that you are willing to overlook a few inherent flaws. Such is American Fiesta, by Steven Tomlinson, starring Larry Cedar as its singular performer.
Cedar presents himself as Steven, a 40-year-old Oklahoma-bred male whose childhood fascination with Barbie and G.I. Joe wearing Ken’s clothes foretells his present leanings. Steven works for a company called Goldrich Neurometrics, where he looks at various areas of the brain to figure out how to sell something. Flanked by three large screens, he diagrams brain anatomy leading to what he calls a “serotonin smoothie.”
Jump to his present dilemma. He is planning to marry his partner, Leon, in a ceremony in Canada, and he wants his parents to attend. That desire seems doomed at the start as Cedar re-creates the parents’ reactions. Flaw No. 1: Steven seemingly doesn’t use any of his understanding of this neurometric data to make the case to his parents.
About this time, he becomes fascinated with Homer Laughlin’s Fiesta dinnerware. Fiesta ware was created in the ’30s in five solid colors: red, cobalt blue, yellow, ivory, and green, and its appeal was that it could be purchased as mix-and-match open stock. Steven begins to collect, beginning with a large mixing bowl, but he only wants perfect pieces and soon discovers Ebay.
Scenic designer David Potts chooses a stage-wide, white shelving system on which Fiesta pieces begin to appear, some placed by Cedar and others subtly added from behind the scenes (well lighted by Jared A. Sayeg). As they increase in number, we meet relatives and antique dealers amid more visits to Steven’s home and continuing parental disapproval. Cedar is perfectly charming as he tells the story and morphs into his many characterizations. He makes it easy to understand his character’s fascination with collecting.
Director David Rose utilizes pauses effectively as the humor in the characterizations develops. The Latino lover is stereotypically gay but endearing, and both parents are believable as they love their son but grapple with his situation.
Flaw No. 2: Writer Tomlinson bogs down in making everything overtly meaningful. As Steven comes to understand that flaws in the pottery may not always detract from their worth, Tomlinson doesn’t trust the audience to find its way through the character’s evolutionary growth and put all the pieces together. Instead, the final minutes of the play become a lecture, even as Cedar makes palpable the emotional connection.
Cedar gives it all he’s got as he integrates history into storyline. His skill is considerable, and that is what makes the evening enjoyable.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
October 1, 2012
October 1, 2012
By the Way, Meet Vera Stark
Gil Cates Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Early in Hollywood’s heyday, directors discovered that caricatured black actors played well in films, especially comedies, and the actors, desperate for work, acquiesced. Male stereotypes were born: wide-eyed, lazy, superstitious, subservient characters who kowtowed to their superiors (read that white). Among the actors were Willie Best, Mantan Moreland, and Stepin Fetchit, the most highly paid stock actors in the genre.
Women fared no better. As bandana-clad mammies, coquettish ladies’ maids, or earthy seductresses, they were represented by several character actors: Butterfly McQueen, Hattie McDaniel, Ethel Waters, to name a few. Subservience was pervasive but softened as the women appeared to be satisfied with their lot in life.
Thus, we come to Lynn Nottage’s West Coast premiere that takes a humorous look at a fictitious actress, Vera Stark (Sanaa Lathen), as she tries to break the 1930s casting barrier faced by blacks. She is joined by Lottie (Kimberly Hébert Gregory), a sassy plus-sized charmer who would like to break into movies. Rounding out the trio of friends is Anna Mae (Merle Dandridge), a sexy black passing for Brazilian so she can get cast by director Maximillion Von Oster (a droll Mather Zickel) in his picture.
Act 1 opens with maid Stark helping her mistress, actress Gloria Marshall (a pitch-perfect Amanda Detmer), learn her lines for a picture she will be doing called The Belle of New Orleans. Marshall, known as America’s sweetie pie, is capricious and theatrical, and her maid indulges her while hoping to become a star in her own right. Many funny lines create a fluid, old-fashioned, Broadway-style play. It is the more effective half of the production.
Act 2 confirms the three actresses’ shot at stardom via filmmaker Tony Gerber’s screening of Belle, as viewed by a 1970s audience looking for an answer to “What Happened to Vera Stark?” It is played broadly for laughs, but older members of the audience will fare better, as the panelists (Spencer Garrett, Gregory, Dandridge) channel the era’s classic pseudo-intellectuals deconstructing the film. In another characterization as a Brit on the panel, Zickel exhibits his comedic chops. Kevin T. Carroll also makes the most of dual characterizations.
Now we learn that Vera has turned into a boozy lounge performer in Vegas, bitter and larger than life in her marabou-trimmed, psychedelic outfit (stylish costumes by Esosa). Marshall surprises her at the event, and the slightly bitchy dialogue and back-and-forth by the panelists diminishes the earlier artful depiction of the character types and the underlying racial context.
Director Jo Bonney handles the material adroitly and is adept at comedic timing. Her skilled touch is most evident in Lathan’s over-the-top scene playing a shuffling Southern black slave. Even as Stark does this, she bemoans her willingness to demean herself, something she vowed she would never do. This, then, becomes Nottage’s focus as she explores racial bias in America. Skilled at looking at black women in a theatrical context (Intimate Apparel, Ruined), Nottage delivers a lighthearted production with a message.
Gil Cates Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Early in Hollywood’s heyday, directors discovered that caricatured black actors played well in films, especially comedies, and the actors, desperate for work, acquiesced. Male stereotypes were born: wide-eyed, lazy, superstitious, subservient characters who kowtowed to their superiors (read that white). Among the actors were Willie Best, Mantan Moreland, and Stepin Fetchit, the most highly paid stock actors in the genre.
Women fared no better. As bandana-clad mammies, coquettish ladies’ maids, or earthy seductresses, they were represented by several character actors: Butterfly McQueen, Hattie McDaniel, Ethel Waters, to name a few. Subservience was pervasive but softened as the women appeared to be satisfied with their lot in life.
Thus, we come to Lynn Nottage’s West Coast premiere that takes a humorous look at a fictitious actress, Vera Stark (Sanaa Lathen), as she tries to break the 1930s casting barrier faced by blacks. She is joined by Lottie (Kimberly Hébert Gregory), a sassy plus-sized charmer who would like to break into movies. Rounding out the trio of friends is Anna Mae (Merle Dandridge), a sexy black passing for Brazilian so she can get cast by director Maximillion Von Oster (a droll Mather Zickel) in his picture.
Act 1 opens with maid Stark helping her mistress, actress Gloria Marshall (a pitch-perfect Amanda Detmer), learn her lines for a picture she will be doing called The Belle of New Orleans. Marshall, known as America’s sweetie pie, is capricious and theatrical, and her maid indulges her while hoping to become a star in her own right. Many funny lines create a fluid, old-fashioned, Broadway-style play. It is the more effective half of the production.
Act 2 confirms the three actresses’ shot at stardom via filmmaker Tony Gerber’s screening of Belle, as viewed by a 1970s audience looking for an answer to “What Happened to Vera Stark?” It is played broadly for laughs, but older members of the audience will fare better, as the panelists (Spencer Garrett, Gregory, Dandridge) channel the era’s classic pseudo-intellectuals deconstructing the film. In another characterization as a Brit on the panel, Zickel exhibits his comedic chops. Kevin T. Carroll also makes the most of dual characterizations.
Now we learn that Vera has turned into a boozy lounge performer in Vegas, bitter and larger than life in her marabou-trimmed, psychedelic outfit (stylish costumes by Esosa). Marshall surprises her at the event, and the slightly bitchy dialogue and back-and-forth by the panelists diminishes the earlier artful depiction of the character types and the underlying racial context.
Director Jo Bonney handles the material adroitly and is adept at comedic timing. Her skilled touch is most evident in Lathan’s over-the-top scene playing a shuffling Southern black slave. Even as Stark does this, she bemoans her willingness to demean herself, something she vowed she would never do. This, then, becomes Nottage’s focus as she explores racial bias in America. Skilled at looking at black women in a theatrical context (Intimate Apparel, Ruined), Nottage delivers a lighthearted production with a message.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
September 27, 2012
September 27, 2012
Rome at the End of the Line (Roma al Final de la Via)
24th Street Theatre and Viaje Redondo Producciones at 24th Street Theatre
24th Street Theatre and Viaje Redondo Producciones at 24th Street Theatre
Two timid 7-year-old girls walk along railroad tracks. But as with all
great friendships, each needs the other—to help climb, to correct
misconceptions, to have someone with whom to share her dreams. For
Emilia and Evangelina, some things never change. We watch as they
return, at ages 13, 20, 40, 60, and 80. Each time, they come with the
hope of hopping the train and heading for Rome—as far from their village
in Mexico as Moscow was to Chekhov’s sisters or, one can’t help but
think, as far from a chat with Godot as Beckett’s two travelers will
always be.
The entire piece is performed in Spanish with English supertitles. Written by Daniel Serrano, directed by Alberto Lomnitz, the dialogue allows the friends to gossip between revealing milestones, secrets, and fears. But the dialogue might not be the most important element of the storytelling here. (Either that or it was difficult to follow at the performance reviewed because parents think “recommended for ages 12 and up” means their restless attention-seeking 4-year-old twin boys would enjoy it.)
Julieta Ortiz plays the pretty, brave Emilia. Norma Angélica plays the honest, loyal Evangelina. The actors work the characters’ physicalities but also age the speech patterns and deepen the emotions. At age 7, the girls leave gaps before speaking; by the time they’re 40, the women chat over each other’s sentences. At 20, fixing their hair takes precedence over all else; at 80, it’s finding the way to walk in comfortable shoes. At 13, Ortiz’s Emilia is a mass of sullenness and impatience; at 60 she walks with a seriously broken pelvis. Throughout, Angélica’s Evangelina is the sturdy beacon that allows a friend to wander without getting lost.
But Rome remains the focus of all their longings, particularly Emilia’s. And when they feel they’re too mature to keep trying, Emilia says, “I miss the hope of getting there.” The more-sensible Evangelina realizes what she will miss is her friend.
For the audience, much of this production’s magic is in watching the actors change clothes and hairstyles onstage. These brief moments allow glimpses at the art of creating characters on the hoof.
Clearly this is a memory play, and clearly the each of us must decide what has transpired. Also as clearly, we will have seen a memorable production.
(Best for ages 12 and up. And we mean it.)
The entire piece is performed in Spanish with English supertitles. Written by Daniel Serrano, directed by Alberto Lomnitz, the dialogue allows the friends to gossip between revealing milestones, secrets, and fears. But the dialogue might not be the most important element of the storytelling here. (Either that or it was difficult to follow at the performance reviewed because parents think “recommended for ages 12 and up” means their restless attention-seeking 4-year-old twin boys would enjoy it.)
Julieta Ortiz plays the pretty, brave Emilia. Norma Angélica plays the honest, loyal Evangelina. The actors work the characters’ physicalities but also age the speech patterns and deepen the emotions. At age 7, the girls leave gaps before speaking; by the time they’re 40, the women chat over each other’s sentences. At 20, fixing their hair takes precedence over all else; at 80, it’s finding the way to walk in comfortable shoes. At 13, Ortiz’s Emilia is a mass of sullenness and impatience; at 60 she walks with a seriously broken pelvis. Throughout, Angélica’s Evangelina is the sturdy beacon that allows a friend to wander without getting lost.
But Rome remains the focus of all their longings, particularly Emilia’s. And when they feel they’re too mature to keep trying, Emilia says, “I miss the hope of getting there.” The more-sensible Evangelina realizes what she will miss is her friend.
For the audience, much of this production’s magic is in watching the actors change clothes and hairstyles onstage. These brief moments allow glimpses at the art of creating characters on the hoof.
Clearly this is a memory play, and clearly the each of us must decide what has transpired. Also as clearly, we will have seen a memorable production.
(Best for ages 12 and up. And we mean it.)
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 23, 2012
September 23, 2012
Under My Skin
Pasadena Playhouse
It is hard to decide which of the many tragic excesses committed in this wannabe romantic comedy should be singled out for scrutiny. Billed as being about sex, love, and healthcare, it cobbles together as many gender-bending, puerile double-entendres as can be heaped onto in one storyline.
Harrison Badish (Matt Walton) is the arrogant, smarmy CEO of Amalgamated Health Care. Melody Dent (Erin Cardillo) is a single mom whose bratty daughter, Casey (Danielle Soibelman), and geriatric father, Samuel (Hal Linden), are her responsibility. When she gets a job at Amalgamated, she and Badish end up in an elevator that plummets to the ground and kills them. A smart-aleck angel (Yvette Cason) appears and brings them back to life. However, their souls end up in each other’s bodies, and that sets the stage for the comedy advertised.
Robert Sternin and Prudence Fraser, whose sitcom-writing credentials are extensive, have applied the hit-you-over-the-head style of playwriting to this story. Lines like “Don’t ask me, I have dementia” and “That’s Mayan.” “Then by all means take it.” are standard.
Tim Bagley and Monette Magrath, both capable actors, fill in as multiple characters like Badish’s fiancée and Dr. Hurtz (get it?). Also, as Melody’s gal pal, Megan Sikora plays Nanette, an energetic sex bomb, whose antics are predictable and tasteless.
Marcia Milgrom Dodge directs this farce with a heavy hand. As the switched-at-death couple, Cardillo and Walton are encouraged to mug and strike attitudes that diminish the potential humor in the situations. Their awareness of each other’s problems becomes lost in the parade of sex scenes, visits to the gynecologist, cancer scares, and appraisal of our failing healthcare system. Linden and Soibelman are caricatures and largely wasted in their roles.
The only plusses in this production are on the technical side. The talented John Iacovelli provides an artistic, Mondrian-inspired set, complete with center-stage, realistic elevator. Jared A. Sayeg’s lighting also enhances the scenes, and costumes by Kate Bergh are imaginative.
For quasi-adult innuendo and a spate of one-liners, this play would be hard to beat. Opportunities for real reflection are too little, too late and turn what might be a clever premise into schlock.
Pasadena Playhouse
It is hard to decide which of the many tragic excesses committed in this wannabe romantic comedy should be singled out for scrutiny. Billed as being about sex, love, and healthcare, it cobbles together as many gender-bending, puerile double-entendres as can be heaped onto in one storyline.
Harrison Badish (Matt Walton) is the arrogant, smarmy CEO of Amalgamated Health Care. Melody Dent (Erin Cardillo) is a single mom whose bratty daughter, Casey (Danielle Soibelman), and geriatric father, Samuel (Hal Linden), are her responsibility. When she gets a job at Amalgamated, she and Badish end up in an elevator that plummets to the ground and kills them. A smart-aleck angel (Yvette Cason) appears and brings them back to life. However, their souls end up in each other’s bodies, and that sets the stage for the comedy advertised.
Robert Sternin and Prudence Fraser, whose sitcom-writing credentials are extensive, have applied the hit-you-over-the-head style of playwriting to this story. Lines like “Don’t ask me, I have dementia” and “That’s Mayan.” “Then by all means take it.” are standard.
Tim Bagley and Monette Magrath, both capable actors, fill in as multiple characters like Badish’s fiancée and Dr. Hurtz (get it?). Also, as Melody’s gal pal, Megan Sikora plays Nanette, an energetic sex bomb, whose antics are predictable and tasteless.
Marcia Milgrom Dodge directs this farce with a heavy hand. As the switched-at-death couple, Cardillo and Walton are encouraged to mug and strike attitudes that diminish the potential humor in the situations. Their awareness of each other’s problems becomes lost in the parade of sex scenes, visits to the gynecologist, cancer scares, and appraisal of our failing healthcare system. Linden and Soibelman are caricatures and largely wasted in their roles.
The only plusses in this production are on the technical side. The talented John Iacovelli provides an artistic, Mondrian-inspired set, complete with center-stage, realistic elevator. Jared A. Sayeg’s lighting also enhances the scenes, and costumes by Kate Bergh are imaginative.
For quasi-adult innuendo and a spate of one-liners, this play would be hard to beat. Opportunities for real reflection are too little, too late and turn what might be a clever premise into schlock.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
September 23, 2012
September 23, 2012
Justin Love
Celebration Theatre in association with Demand Productions and Peter Schneider at Celebration Theatre
As with any fairy tale, we know the story but eagerly await the manner of its telling. The hero must make a difference, must battle demons, and probably should end up “the winner.” And likely if you have decided to see this production, you’d approve of the outcome. So, how is the telling?
This world-premiere musical is told by book writers Patricia Cotter and David Elzer, story by Elzer and Bret Calder. In it, young Chris (Tyler Ledon), despite a passion to become “a writer,” becomes an assistant to Hollywood publicist Buck (Alet Taylor), whose client is big-name actor Justin Rush (Adam Huss), married in power couple fashion to Amanda (Carrie St. Louis). So much for setup. Oh, wait. Chris is openly gay. Oh, and Justin is gay but not apparently so to his fans.
In telling the story, the creators use music by Lori Scarlett and David Manning, lyrics by Scarlett, to so effectively sweep the unfolding events along, the audience will either willingly follow with the characters or stop to marvel at the detailed theatermaking.
The musical highlight may be the anthemic “Someone Goes First,” in which Chris urges Justin to be the first major movie star to admit his homosexuality. Of course the song could serve to urge any of us to step out for any of our causes, to act as a standard-bearer, to not assume someone else will fix what needs fixing. Currently, the song ends so quickly the audience doesn’t have a chance to applaud, let alone absorb it. And it has no reprise.
At least not yet. This musical will have more lives. And when those occur, that ought to attract a stronger singer-actor to the role of Justin. Though, to be fair, once Taylor steps onstage as Justin’s publicist, no competition can distract the audience. Her energy spills up the aisles as she plays the monstrous boss but one with a delicate job to do.
And speaking of delicate jobs, Michael Matthews directs. This vehicle is neither tacky nor salacious. It tells its story joyously but with sophistication and compassion. Well, compassion for everyone except the media. For theatermaking this good, we’ll take one for the team.
Celebration Theatre in association with Demand Productions and Peter Schneider at Celebration Theatre
As with any fairy tale, we know the story but eagerly await the manner of its telling. The hero must make a difference, must battle demons, and probably should end up “the winner.” And likely if you have decided to see this production, you’d approve of the outcome. So, how is the telling?
This world-premiere musical is told by book writers Patricia Cotter and David Elzer, story by Elzer and Bret Calder. In it, young Chris (Tyler Ledon), despite a passion to become “a writer,” becomes an assistant to Hollywood publicist Buck (Alet Taylor), whose client is big-name actor Justin Rush (Adam Huss), married in power couple fashion to Amanda (Carrie St. Louis). So much for setup. Oh, wait. Chris is openly gay. Oh, and Justin is gay but not apparently so to his fans.
In telling the story, the creators use music by Lori Scarlett and David Manning, lyrics by Scarlett, to so effectively sweep the unfolding events along, the audience will either willingly follow with the characters or stop to marvel at the detailed theatermaking.
The musical highlight may be the anthemic “Someone Goes First,” in which Chris urges Justin to be the first major movie star to admit his homosexuality. Of course the song could serve to urge any of us to step out for any of our causes, to act as a standard-bearer, to not assume someone else will fix what needs fixing. Currently, the song ends so quickly the audience doesn’t have a chance to applaud, let alone absorb it. And it has no reprise.
At least not yet. This musical will have more lives. And when those occur, that ought to attract a stronger singer-actor to the role of Justin. Though, to be fair, once Taylor steps onstage as Justin’s publicist, no competition can distract the audience. Her energy spills up the aisles as she plays the monstrous boss but one with a delicate job to do.
And speaking of delicate jobs, Michael Matthews directs. This vehicle is neither tacky nor salacious. It tells its story joyously but with sophistication and compassion. Well, compassion for everyone except the media. For theatermaking this good, we’ll take one for the team.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 22, 2012
September 22, 2012
Churchill
The Production Company and Portrait of Churchill, LLC, at Lex Theatre
One of civilization’s great men ought to make an ideal subject for a one-person show. Unfortunately, writer Andrew Edlin failed to take the threads of that life and weave it into even a solid fabric, let alone a fascinating tapestry. Actor Edmund L. Shaff recites the material with a respectable degree of authority, and director James Horan polishes as much as he can. But, to borrow badly from the historical witticisms, rarely has so little been culled from so much material with so few results.
Instead Edlin finds a flimsy excuse for dramatic “conflict” and then strings together Winston Churchill’s most famous and most delightful epigrams, whether apocryphal or not. The audience is somehow seated inside Churchill’s “bunker” on the evening he decides whether or not to retire from leadership of the British government. Churchill reveals to the audience, in direct address, that he must telephone his wife and let her know his decision. Oh, how he suffers while trying to make that decision. Meanwhile, he speaks clever sayings while trying to light his cigar.
Act 2 begins as Churchill is bathing—even though he knows the audience is seated in his bunker—and then he must pop out of the bath, wrapped in a towel fortunately the size of the Queen’s official flag. The audience then is privileged to watch one of the 20th century’s great leaders don shoes and socks. And then the “conflict” returns as he dithers about whether to retire and how to break the news to his wife. The conclusion comes as the lighter finally strikes its flint and he can puff his cigar.
Give the evening this: Shaff doesn’t “do” the caricatured speech. Instead he effects an aristocratic accent. And on the night reviewed he enthralled much of the audience with his ability to “memorize all those lines.” Theatergoers for whom that is the benchmark of greatness might be satisfied here. Those of us who expect more must keep expecting—and we will never, never, never give up.
The Production Company and Portrait of Churchill, LLC, at Lex Theatre
One of civilization’s great men ought to make an ideal subject for a one-person show. Unfortunately, writer Andrew Edlin failed to take the threads of that life and weave it into even a solid fabric, let alone a fascinating tapestry. Actor Edmund L. Shaff recites the material with a respectable degree of authority, and director James Horan polishes as much as he can. But, to borrow badly from the historical witticisms, rarely has so little been culled from so much material with so few results.
Instead Edlin finds a flimsy excuse for dramatic “conflict” and then strings together Winston Churchill’s most famous and most delightful epigrams, whether apocryphal or not. The audience is somehow seated inside Churchill’s “bunker” on the evening he decides whether or not to retire from leadership of the British government. Churchill reveals to the audience, in direct address, that he must telephone his wife and let her know his decision. Oh, how he suffers while trying to make that decision. Meanwhile, he speaks clever sayings while trying to light his cigar.
Act 2 begins as Churchill is bathing—even though he knows the audience is seated in his bunker—and then he must pop out of the bath, wrapped in a towel fortunately the size of the Queen’s official flag. The audience then is privileged to watch one of the 20th century’s great leaders don shoes and socks. And then the “conflict” returns as he dithers about whether to retire and how to break the news to his wife. The conclusion comes as the lighter finally strikes its flint and he can puff his cigar.
Give the evening this: Shaff doesn’t “do” the caricatured speech. Instead he effects an aristocratic accent. And on the night reviewed he enthralled much of the audience with his ability to “memorize all those lines.” Theatergoers for whom that is the benchmark of greatness might be satisfied here. Those of us who expect more must keep expecting—and we will never, never, never give up.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 21, 2012
September 21, 2012
Scream Queens—The Musical
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
At a time when the world seems constantly on the verge of strife and upheaval, it’s easy to understand why so many people find solace in the past. Whether it’s comic book heroes or decades old science fiction television programming they love, fans are never in short supply. At “cons,” they find equal parts nostalgia and vicarious thrills. Souvenir vendors hawk their wares, and even minor celebrities make a sideline living reveling in the adoration of their devotees.
Capitalizing on these uniquely voyeuristic gatherings, author-composer-librettist Scott Martin has crafted a satirically charming variety show featuring a cross section of B-list horror film mavens. It’s a delightful evening of camp, corn, and costumes galore.
In a hotel ballroom in Parma Heights, Ohio, the 1998 International GlamaGore ScreamiCon gets off to a riotous start as this cast of six introduces itself via the production’s title song. Martin, who also directs, is clearly a top-drawer wordsmith. Well-crafted rhymes and puns abound, and there’s just enough innuendo and bawdiness to maintain these wannabe leading ladies’ underlying sexuality without being crass. With each ensuing number, each of these straight-to-video stars offers insight into their personal histories and their universal need to be remembered.
Leading the pack is Amanda Majkrzak as Richelle. Clearly the mistress of ceremonies, she establishes an immediate rapport with the audience and offers a beautifully soulful rendition of Martin’s second-act ballad, “Happy Endings.” As Alexis, Susan Goldman Weisbarth is the troupe’s den mother. But watch out. Just about the time you take her calm demeanor for granted, she busts out, à la Diana Ross, with a showstopper called “Everybody Starts at the Bottom,” backed up by our next two noteworthy sirens of the small screen. Jennifer Richardson is all pearly-white smiles, Daisy Duke cutoffs, and “Hey, y’alls” as the Arkansas-raised Bianca. Richardson is a hoot in her feature number, “Gotcha Cornered,” which pays hilarious homage to a plotline staple of most horror films.
Equally fun is Allison Mattiza as DeeDee, the queen whose career was, well, shall we say, “consummated” in every one of her R-rated credits. Mattiza handles Martin’s patter song, “Don’t Open That Door” with ease and is definitely the show’s premiere comedienne. Azeen Kazemi plays the youngest fright-fest star, and Victoria Miller plays the well-mannered Brit. Although they fit well into the group numbers, both struggled with their respective solos, “Fay Wray” and “Still in Demand,” on the night reviewed.
Jim Crawford’s scenery and Tom Brophey’s lighting are adequately supportive, but Jayne Hamil’s seemingly endless array of costumes and wardrobe accessories stands out among the production values. Also noteworthy are uncredited homemade clips of our stars’ films, sprinkled liberally throughout the production. Sure, some fall a bit flat but others, such as “Soccer Mom Sleepover” and one in which an unseen giant boils down three of these heroines into a hot-tub consommé’ are guffaw-inducing knee-slappers in this clever tribute to celluloid schlock.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
At a time when the world seems constantly on the verge of strife and upheaval, it’s easy to understand why so many people find solace in the past. Whether it’s comic book heroes or decades old science fiction television programming they love, fans are never in short supply. At “cons,” they find equal parts nostalgia and vicarious thrills. Souvenir vendors hawk their wares, and even minor celebrities make a sideline living reveling in the adoration of their devotees.
Capitalizing on these uniquely voyeuristic gatherings, author-composer-librettist Scott Martin has crafted a satirically charming variety show featuring a cross section of B-list horror film mavens. It’s a delightful evening of camp, corn, and costumes galore.
In a hotel ballroom in Parma Heights, Ohio, the 1998 International GlamaGore ScreamiCon gets off to a riotous start as this cast of six introduces itself via the production’s title song. Martin, who also directs, is clearly a top-drawer wordsmith. Well-crafted rhymes and puns abound, and there’s just enough innuendo and bawdiness to maintain these wannabe leading ladies’ underlying sexuality without being crass. With each ensuing number, each of these straight-to-video stars offers insight into their personal histories and their universal need to be remembered.
Leading the pack is Amanda Majkrzak as Richelle. Clearly the mistress of ceremonies, she establishes an immediate rapport with the audience and offers a beautifully soulful rendition of Martin’s second-act ballad, “Happy Endings.” As Alexis, Susan Goldman Weisbarth is the troupe’s den mother. But watch out. Just about the time you take her calm demeanor for granted, she busts out, à la Diana Ross, with a showstopper called “Everybody Starts at the Bottom,” backed up by our next two noteworthy sirens of the small screen. Jennifer Richardson is all pearly-white smiles, Daisy Duke cutoffs, and “Hey, y’alls” as the Arkansas-raised Bianca. Richardson is a hoot in her feature number, “Gotcha Cornered,” which pays hilarious homage to a plotline staple of most horror films.
Equally fun is Allison Mattiza as DeeDee, the queen whose career was, well, shall we say, “consummated” in every one of her R-rated credits. Mattiza handles Martin’s patter song, “Don’t Open That Door” with ease and is definitely the show’s premiere comedienne. Azeen Kazemi plays the youngest fright-fest star, and Victoria Miller plays the well-mannered Brit. Although they fit well into the group numbers, both struggled with their respective solos, “Fay Wray” and “Still in Demand,” on the night reviewed.
Jim Crawford’s scenery and Tom Brophey’s lighting are adequately supportive, but Jayne Hamil’s seemingly endless array of costumes and wardrobe accessories stands out among the production values. Also noteworthy are uncredited homemade clips of our stars’ films, sprinkled liberally throughout the production. Sure, some fall a bit flat but others, such as “Soccer Mom Sleepover” and one in which an unseen giant boils down three of these heroines into a hot-tub consommé’ are guffaw-inducing knee-slappers in this clever tribute to celluloid schlock.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal September 21, 2012
The Fools
Santa Monica Playhouse
One would be a fool to not find charm in this translation/adaptation of Molière’s Les Fâcheux. He mocked youthful love, ageless deception, and classism of 17th-century France, and it’s comforting to know we’re still able to provide material for playwrights. Evelyn Rudie keeps the style of the original but makes the language accessible to modern ears and the comedy fresh enough.
Director Chris DeCarlo takes the stage to briefly play Molière but also to play La Montaigne the valet. Ironically named, this valet is not a mountain but a bumbler. But as is usual in comedy, the bumbler puts broken-hearted lovers back together. Meanwhile, DeCarlo lays claim to theater’s most comedically slow exits and one of its most unidentifiable accents. (French? German? Freedonian?)
Nor does he keep all the fun to himself. Rudie plays various characters, including a widow who emits sound effects when she, or another, mentions trigger words. Alison Blanchard steps into a few trouser roles. Garett Stevens splashily takes on gamblers, dandies, and a troubadour. Commedia dell’arte is alive and thriving.
That young hero, Eraste, is played with romantic charm by Zack Medway. His adored, Orphise, is played with romantic wit by Serena Dolinsky. Both have a firm grasp on classical acting, and, in the musical numbers along with Stevens, the younger generation reveals lovely singing voices.
Mon dieu, the costuming! Designer Ashley Hayes’s banquet of colors and textures keeps the audience’s eyes on the action, turning the tiny playing space into a busy French village.
How can Eraste compose a song when he has lost his composure? And, mid-sentence when he spots his beloved, could he say anything but, “I gave at the—Orphise?” These and other urgent questions can be answered for those willing to admit what fools we all be.
Santa Monica Playhouse
One would be a fool to not find charm in this translation/adaptation of Molière’s Les Fâcheux. He mocked youthful love, ageless deception, and classism of 17th-century France, and it’s comforting to know we’re still able to provide material for playwrights. Evelyn Rudie keeps the style of the original but makes the language accessible to modern ears and the comedy fresh enough.
Director Chris DeCarlo takes the stage to briefly play Molière but also to play La Montaigne the valet. Ironically named, this valet is not a mountain but a bumbler. But as is usual in comedy, the bumbler puts broken-hearted lovers back together. Meanwhile, DeCarlo lays claim to theater’s most comedically slow exits and one of its most unidentifiable accents. (French? German? Freedonian?)
Nor does he keep all the fun to himself. Rudie plays various characters, including a widow who emits sound effects when she, or another, mentions trigger words. Alison Blanchard steps into a few trouser roles. Garett Stevens splashily takes on gamblers, dandies, and a troubadour. Commedia dell’arte is alive and thriving.
That young hero, Eraste, is played with romantic charm by Zack Medway. His adored, Orphise, is played with romantic wit by Serena Dolinsky. Both have a firm grasp on classical acting, and, in the musical numbers along with Stevens, the younger generation reveals lovely singing voices.
Mon dieu, the costuming! Designer Ashley Hayes’s banquet of colors and textures keeps the audience’s eyes on the action, turning the tiny playing space into a busy French village.
How can Eraste compose a song when he has lost his composure? And, mid-sentence when he spots his beloved, could he say anything but, “I gave at the—Orphise?” These and other urgent questions can be answered for those willing to admit what fools we all be.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 16, 2012
September 16, 2012
Encounter
East West Players in Association with Navarasa Dance Theatre at David Henry Hwang Theater at the Union Center for the Arts
The wisdom of the adage “Show, don’t tell” quickly becomes apparent in this dance-theater piece. And symbolic “showing” can be even more evocative than realism, which may explain why the storytelling here leaves the viewer shattered. In a universal tale about shortsighted despotism and evilly wielded power, only the production’s beautiful theatricality comes out the winner.
Navarasa Dance Theatre tells the story through some dialogue, a bit of singing, and much dance/movement. As the beautiful Dopdi is suspended upside down, high on a pole, while her captors interrogate her, the backstory begins to unfold. Written by director-choreographers Aparna Sindhoor and Anil Natyaveda with S M Raju, the story follows Dopdi (Sindhoor) and her husband, Dulna (Natyaveda), heads of a troupe of traveling performers by night, apparently working the fields by day. A militaristic regime has taken away the rights and resources of the natives and claims the troupe is passing along secret messages at each performance. So the major general (Sunil Kumar) and his troops (Raghu Narayanan, Suvarna Raj, and Leah Vincent) track the couple, finally capturing Dopdi.
The setting and period is deliberately ambiguous. “They took the forests, they took the rivers, now they want us to leave” cries the indigenous populace. The fieldworkers have no option but backbreaking labor, and though they keep a watchful eye around themselves, danger comes from above. The music accompanying them, by Isaac Thomas Kottukapally, is wonderfully programmatic: sometimes through South Asian melodies and orchestrations, sometimes a bugler and drummer in a propulsive military tattoo, sometimes a terrifying buzz or hum. And sometimes actor-dancer Natyaveda drives the story with tabla rhythms on a tambourine.
The dance/movement styles also cross many stylistic borders: Indian classical, Bollywood, and touches of hip-hop blend with various martial arts and their kicks, lunges, marches, and stick-fighting. Even the moments of humor here transcend cultures—softly mocking “starving artists,” gently provoking giggles at the sight of a captive who insists on grinning for his ID photos. Not funny is the startling, ultimately haunting statement hanging over the story, “Unknown male, age 32, killed in an encounter.”
Sindhoor and Natyaveda are thoroughly trained, but their performances are studies in contrasts. She moves with enchanting schooled precision, not a stretched finger out of place. He favors the joy in movement, so though he’s never sloppy, he lets himself fly. The two share a pas de deux; and this may be the least interesting choreography here, ornamental rather than at all narrative. However, it allows a moment to reflect on Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting, which forms hidden depths and pockets of glow, creating thick tropical air and spreading heavy sadness across the evening.
After the captors lie about the conditions in which they keep Dopdi, they strip her naked (symbolically), and hooded men rape her. Never mind which nation or era they’re in: Sindhoor turns the aftermath and Dopdi’s gut-wrenching reaction, the stuff of legends, into world-class theater.
East West Players in Association with Navarasa Dance Theatre at David Henry Hwang Theater at the Union Center for the Arts
The wisdom of the adage “Show, don’t tell” quickly becomes apparent in this dance-theater piece. And symbolic “showing” can be even more evocative than realism, which may explain why the storytelling here leaves the viewer shattered. In a universal tale about shortsighted despotism and evilly wielded power, only the production’s beautiful theatricality comes out the winner.
Navarasa Dance Theatre tells the story through some dialogue, a bit of singing, and much dance/movement. As the beautiful Dopdi is suspended upside down, high on a pole, while her captors interrogate her, the backstory begins to unfold. Written by director-choreographers Aparna Sindhoor and Anil Natyaveda with S M Raju, the story follows Dopdi (Sindhoor) and her husband, Dulna (Natyaveda), heads of a troupe of traveling performers by night, apparently working the fields by day. A militaristic regime has taken away the rights and resources of the natives and claims the troupe is passing along secret messages at each performance. So the major general (Sunil Kumar) and his troops (Raghu Narayanan, Suvarna Raj, and Leah Vincent) track the couple, finally capturing Dopdi.
The setting and period is deliberately ambiguous. “They took the forests, they took the rivers, now they want us to leave” cries the indigenous populace. The fieldworkers have no option but backbreaking labor, and though they keep a watchful eye around themselves, danger comes from above. The music accompanying them, by Isaac Thomas Kottukapally, is wonderfully programmatic: sometimes through South Asian melodies and orchestrations, sometimes a bugler and drummer in a propulsive military tattoo, sometimes a terrifying buzz or hum. And sometimes actor-dancer Natyaveda drives the story with tabla rhythms on a tambourine.
The dance/movement styles also cross many stylistic borders: Indian classical, Bollywood, and touches of hip-hop blend with various martial arts and their kicks, lunges, marches, and stick-fighting. Even the moments of humor here transcend cultures—softly mocking “starving artists,” gently provoking giggles at the sight of a captive who insists on grinning for his ID photos. Not funny is the startling, ultimately haunting statement hanging over the story, “Unknown male, age 32, killed in an encounter.”
Sindhoor and Natyaveda are thoroughly trained, but their performances are studies in contrasts. She moves with enchanting schooled precision, not a stretched finger out of place. He favors the joy in movement, so though he’s never sloppy, he lets himself fly. The two share a pas de deux; and this may be the least interesting choreography here, ornamental rather than at all narrative. However, it allows a moment to reflect on Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting, which forms hidden depths and pockets of glow, creating thick tropical air and spreading heavy sadness across the evening.
After the captors lie about the conditions in which they keep Dopdi, they strip her naked (symbolically), and hooded men rape her. Never mind which nation or era they’re in: Sindhoor turns the aftermath and Dopdi’s gut-wrenching reaction, the stuff of legends, into world-class theater.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 14, 2012
September 14, 2012
The Full Monty
Third Street Theatre
There’s not a heck of a lot to say about Richard Israel’s competent if somewhat slipshod The Full Monty at Third Street Theatre, erroneously billed as LA’s first intimate staging (a version was mounted at Theatre/Theater in 2008). If you like the Terrence McNally/
David Yazbek Buffalo, N.Y., rejiggering of the UK original —and I do—you will probably like this take on it. If you love the musical and still resent its losing every one of 10 Tony nominations to The Producers (raised hand here as well), then you are almost certainly destined to have a good time and be able to overlook the manifold flaws, not the least of which is an imbalance between offstage pit band and singers such that Yazbek’s witty lyrics too often go unheard despite the 99-Seat “intimacy.”
The show seemed terribly underrehearsed on opening night, especially the clunky scene changes, I’m not sure how much smoother the latter will get over time. For Malcolm’s suicide attempt, did they have to not only create an ugly and unevocative shell of a car, but also take the time to build it right before our eyes? Seating the actor on a plain wooden block would’ve been preferable to forcing us to watch that boring setup.
Also, Will Collyer is a fine musical juvenile—and that’s not a rap but a compliment; strong juveniles are hard to come by—but he lacks the requisite athleticism and roughneck authority for the pivotal role of Jerry. Still, it’s a pleasure to see so many roles executed with droll underplaying, especially Ryan O’Connor’s tough-to-pull-off Dave and Jan Sheldrick’s usually-hammed-up Jeanette, and Shannon Warne and Erin Bennett bring rare depth to two of the women in the men’s lives.
It’s a shame that they couldn’t have rounded up at least one more character male to pick up some of the burden forced on poor Paul Walling, who seems to end up playing a dozen roles by show’s end, though he’s far from an inconspicuous doubler. It gets kind of funny as he’s trotted out scene after scene as union rep, auditioner, minister, delivery man, etc., trying in vain to disguise himself. Chronic underemployment is a main theme of this musical, but not in Walling’s case.
The thing I liked best about this Full Monty is the rock-bottom authenticity of its central dramatic arc. These six guys seem like regular Joes trying very hard to impersonate Chippendales dancers and gradually realizing how much fun they’re having in the process. Every other Monty finale I’ve seen has come across as far too slick and showbiz. In the final half hour of a long evening, this production’s offhanded messiness turns into a major virtue.
Third Street Theatre
There’s not a heck of a lot to say about Richard Israel’s competent if somewhat slipshod The Full Monty at Third Street Theatre, erroneously billed as LA’s first intimate staging (a version was mounted at Theatre/Theater in 2008). If you like the Terrence McNally/
David Yazbek Buffalo, N.Y., rejiggering of the UK original —and I do—you will probably like this take on it. If you love the musical and still resent its losing every one of 10 Tony nominations to The Producers (raised hand here as well), then you are almost certainly destined to have a good time and be able to overlook the manifold flaws, not the least of which is an imbalance between offstage pit band and singers such that Yazbek’s witty lyrics too often go unheard despite the 99-Seat “intimacy.”
The show seemed terribly underrehearsed on opening night, especially the clunky scene changes, I’m not sure how much smoother the latter will get over time. For Malcolm’s suicide attempt, did they have to not only create an ugly and unevocative shell of a car, but also take the time to build it right before our eyes? Seating the actor on a plain wooden block would’ve been preferable to forcing us to watch that boring setup.
Also, Will Collyer is a fine musical juvenile—and that’s not a rap but a compliment; strong juveniles are hard to come by—but he lacks the requisite athleticism and roughneck authority for the pivotal role of Jerry. Still, it’s a pleasure to see so many roles executed with droll underplaying, especially Ryan O’Connor’s tough-to-pull-off Dave and Jan Sheldrick’s usually-hammed-up Jeanette, and Shannon Warne and Erin Bennett bring rare depth to two of the women in the men’s lives.
It’s a shame that they couldn’t have rounded up at least one more character male to pick up some of the burden forced on poor Paul Walling, who seems to end up playing a dozen roles by show’s end, though he’s far from an inconspicuous doubler. It gets kind of funny as he’s trotted out scene after scene as union rep, auditioner, minister, delivery man, etc., trying in vain to disguise himself. Chronic underemployment is a main theme of this musical, but not in Walling’s case.
The thing I liked best about this Full Monty is the rock-bottom authenticity of its central dramatic arc. These six guys seem like regular Joes trying very hard to impersonate Chippendales dancers and gradually realizing how much fun they’re having in the process. Every other Monty finale I’ve seen has come across as far too slick and showbiz. In the final half hour of a long evening, this production’s offhanded messiness turns into a major virtue.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 11, 2012
September 11, 2012
Collected Stories
Langland Productions at Odyssey Theatre
The quality of this production is undoubtable. Much thought and skill and time have gone into the onstage product. But whether director Terri Hanauer and her duet of fine actors ring all the possible tones in Donald Margulies’s script is another think.
Margulies’s craft is on display start-to-finish here, as he sculpts a mentoring relationship. His two intriguing characters help the story flow and build, and bits of clues are carefully inlaid within the dialogue. We meet Lisa, a young writer, when she first enters the Greenwich Village walkup of Ruth Steiner, established short-story writer. Over six years, Ruth mentors Lisa in art and in life. While Ruth goes from prime to possibly past that prime and certainly ailing, Lisa goes from fumbling hero-worshiper to possibly worthy adversary.
“My memory is shot to hell,” says Ruth. Is that an invitation to shore it up? To pilfer it? Whichever, Lisa is mobilized to take on Ruth’s memory—or, more specifically, her memories.
From the actors’ first moments onstage, little glances, littler inhalations, all sorts of subtle behavior inform the audience of so much subtext. Meanwhile, a cup of tea spills expertly. A slap lands swiftly and accurately and almost goes unnoticed, but the result stuns the recipient and the audience. April Lang and Natalie Sutherland seem to have spent a very long time developing their characters and living honestly in those circumstances. Lang is thoroughly believable (though a little low in energy at the matinee reviewed) as Ruth: touchingly donnish, grudgingly materteral, easily secretive, and very humorous. Sutherland creates a rich, plausible portrait of Lisa, growing from callow, rawly talented young woman through ambitious author but never losing her desperation to please.
And therein may lie a problem: At this production’s conclusion, Lisa seems to have acted out of a guileless belief that her acts were artistically justified. And that makes for a valid balance of power between the two women, leaving hanging an interesting question about the ownership of a story. But would the play be stronger if we saw a possibility that Lisa acted out of manipulation, vindictiveness, or jealousy?
The (uncredited) costumes and makeup turn Lisa from a casually sloppy, tennie-clad student to published author in her little black dress. Heel heights increase across each of the five scenes, as Lisa grows in confidence. And makeup subtly ages her. Ruth seems to go from almost elderly in shrouding clothing to youthful casual as her status may be diminishing. Hanauer puts so much care into showing the passage of time that a plant in the bookcase “grows” over the play’s course.
Hanauer’s direction is valid. But is it “right?” Or is there such a thing in the theater? And ultimately, aren’t these the questions that distinguish “art” from “craft”?
Langland Productions at Odyssey Theatre
The quality of this production is undoubtable. Much thought and skill and time have gone into the onstage product. But whether director Terri Hanauer and her duet of fine actors ring all the possible tones in Donald Margulies’s script is another think.
Margulies’s craft is on display start-to-finish here, as he sculpts a mentoring relationship. His two intriguing characters help the story flow and build, and bits of clues are carefully inlaid within the dialogue. We meet Lisa, a young writer, when she first enters the Greenwich Village walkup of Ruth Steiner, established short-story writer. Over six years, Ruth mentors Lisa in art and in life. While Ruth goes from prime to possibly past that prime and certainly ailing, Lisa goes from fumbling hero-worshiper to possibly worthy adversary.
“My memory is shot to hell,” says Ruth. Is that an invitation to shore it up? To pilfer it? Whichever, Lisa is mobilized to take on Ruth’s memory—or, more specifically, her memories.
From the actors’ first moments onstage, little glances, littler inhalations, all sorts of subtle behavior inform the audience of so much subtext. Meanwhile, a cup of tea spills expertly. A slap lands swiftly and accurately and almost goes unnoticed, but the result stuns the recipient and the audience. April Lang and Natalie Sutherland seem to have spent a very long time developing their characters and living honestly in those circumstances. Lang is thoroughly believable (though a little low in energy at the matinee reviewed) as Ruth: touchingly donnish, grudgingly materteral, easily secretive, and very humorous. Sutherland creates a rich, plausible portrait of Lisa, growing from callow, rawly talented young woman through ambitious author but never losing her desperation to please.
And therein may lie a problem: At this production’s conclusion, Lisa seems to have acted out of a guileless belief that her acts were artistically justified. And that makes for a valid balance of power between the two women, leaving hanging an interesting question about the ownership of a story. But would the play be stronger if we saw a possibility that Lisa acted out of manipulation, vindictiveness, or jealousy?
The (uncredited) costumes and makeup turn Lisa from a casually sloppy, tennie-clad student to published author in her little black dress. Heel heights increase across each of the five scenes, as Lisa grows in confidence. And makeup subtly ages her. Ruth seems to go from almost elderly in shrouding clothing to youthful casual as her status may be diminishing. Hanauer puts so much care into showing the passage of time that a plant in the bookcase “grows” over the play’s course.
Hanauer’s direction is valid. But is it “right?” Or is there such a thing in the theater? And ultimately, aren’t these the questions that distinguish “art” from “craft”?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies September 10, 2012
The World Goes ‘Round
Actors Co-Op Crossley Theatre
It’s difficult to imagine a more ingeniously crafted and flawlessly performed conceptualization of this Kander and Ebb homage than that which has sprung from the innovative mind of director Robert Marra. It’s not the expansion of the traditional cast of five singers to include an additional pair of performers that makes this show a zinger. It’s not merely scenic designer Andy Hammer’s magnificently rendered urban coffee shop setting or Bill E. Kickbush’s spectacular lighting and Vicki Conrad’s individualized costuming. Rather, it’s that Marra has fashioned, seemingly from whole cloth, an utterly seamless take on this traditional revue while utilizing the show’s wide-ranging song list to create characters who exhibit backstories and plotlines galore.
These are real people whose doubts, fears, regrets, and expectations play out as they interact in “real life” and through fantasy sequences. From Gina D’Acciaro’s forlorn Homeless Woman to Carrie Madsen’s elite Socialite, this remarkably talented cast portrays an intriguing cross-section of society brought together at this intersection of time and place for a very particular reason. As Kander and Ebb’s prolific songbook unfolds, we meet a collection of customers—including Robert W. Laur’s crossword puzzle obsessed Older Man, Michael D’Elia’s nervously flighty Business Man, and Selah Victor’s spunky Housewife. Rounding out the cast as the Coffee Shop Girl and Her Boyfriend are Kristen Heitman and Jeremiah Lowder.
Marra and music director Michael Brill have struck gold with this multitalented septet as virtually every number is worthy of praise. D’Acciaro brings a tortured ennui to the title song while reappearing strategically with various reprises, then closes Act 1 leading the company through a stunning rendition of “How Lucky Can You Get” from Funny Lady. The Older Man, it turns out, is a widower and obvious creature of habit. As he reminisces with “Sometimes a Day Goes By” from Woman of the Year, his younger counterpart, played by Lowder, is outside the coffee shop window, simultaneously pining for his own lost love with the wistful “I Don’t Remember You” from The Happy Time. It’s a haunting juxtaposition of imagery.
Meanwhile D’Elia’s businessman clearly has the hots for Madsen’s obliviously self-absorbed blueblood. His unrequited passion takes wing with a tragicomical take on “Mr. Cellophane” from Chicago and his second-act assaying of the title song from Kiss of the Spider Woman. Madsen demonstrates a notable range with Marra’s leggy choreography in “All That Jazz,” as well as a heart-wrenching turn with “Colored Lights” from The Rink and when teamed up with Victor’s starstruck housewife in the charmingly funny duet “The Grass Is Always Greener.” Victor highlights her skills with Heitman and Lowder as they perform the tremendously difficult trio blend of “Isn’t This Better?”, “Maybe This Time,” and “We Can Make It.”
And as the show floats effortlessly towards Marra’s well-calculated conclusion, there is a renewed sense of hope. Hope, not only for the younger couple’s blossoming love but that these people, and perhaps the audience members as well, have been touched by something truly meaningful.
Actors Co-Op Crossley Theatre
It’s difficult to imagine a more ingeniously crafted and flawlessly performed conceptualization of this Kander and Ebb homage than that which has sprung from the innovative mind of director Robert Marra. It’s not the expansion of the traditional cast of five singers to include an additional pair of performers that makes this show a zinger. It’s not merely scenic designer Andy Hammer’s magnificently rendered urban coffee shop setting or Bill E. Kickbush’s spectacular lighting and Vicki Conrad’s individualized costuming. Rather, it’s that Marra has fashioned, seemingly from whole cloth, an utterly seamless take on this traditional revue while utilizing the show’s wide-ranging song list to create characters who exhibit backstories and plotlines galore.
These are real people whose doubts, fears, regrets, and expectations play out as they interact in “real life” and through fantasy sequences. From Gina D’Acciaro’s forlorn Homeless Woman to Carrie Madsen’s elite Socialite, this remarkably talented cast portrays an intriguing cross-section of society brought together at this intersection of time and place for a very particular reason. As Kander and Ebb’s prolific songbook unfolds, we meet a collection of customers—including Robert W. Laur’s crossword puzzle obsessed Older Man, Michael D’Elia’s nervously flighty Business Man, and Selah Victor’s spunky Housewife. Rounding out the cast as the Coffee Shop Girl and Her Boyfriend are Kristen Heitman and Jeremiah Lowder.
Marra and music director Michael Brill have struck gold with this multitalented septet as virtually every number is worthy of praise. D’Acciaro brings a tortured ennui to the title song while reappearing strategically with various reprises, then closes Act 1 leading the company through a stunning rendition of “How Lucky Can You Get” from Funny Lady. The Older Man, it turns out, is a widower and obvious creature of habit. As he reminisces with “Sometimes a Day Goes By” from Woman of the Year, his younger counterpart, played by Lowder, is outside the coffee shop window, simultaneously pining for his own lost love with the wistful “I Don’t Remember You” from The Happy Time. It’s a haunting juxtaposition of imagery.
Meanwhile D’Elia’s businessman clearly has the hots for Madsen’s obliviously self-absorbed blueblood. His unrequited passion takes wing with a tragicomical take on “Mr. Cellophane” from Chicago and his second-act assaying of the title song from Kiss of the Spider Woman. Madsen demonstrates a notable range with Marra’s leggy choreography in “All That Jazz,” as well as a heart-wrenching turn with “Colored Lights” from The Rink and when teamed up with Victor’s starstruck housewife in the charmingly funny duet “The Grass Is Always Greener.” Victor highlights her skills with Heitman and Lowder as they perform the tremendously difficult trio blend of “Isn’t This Better?”, “Maybe This Time,” and “We Can Make It.”
And as the show floats effortlessly towards Marra’s well-calculated conclusion, there is a renewed sense of hope. Hope, not only for the younger couple’s blossoming love but that these people, and perhaps the audience members as well, have been touched by something truly meaningful.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
September 9, 2012
September 9, 2012
Natalie Portman, the Musical!
Chromolume Theatre at the Attic
“What were they thinking?” That’s the polite form of the question critics ask rhetorically when theater productions don’t work. Fortunately regarding this production, the answer is apparent from start to finish. Unfortunately another question hangs over it. “What’s missing?” we wonder. What is making it good but keeping it from being great?
The “they” who are thinking clearly in this case is a theater company of young, energetic, skilled actor-singers. Their goal is to give audiences a good time, and although that comes at the expense of real-life actor Natalie Portman, she doesn’t pay at all dearly. Not that it should matter, but the fun poked at her is relatively gentle; the facts speak for themselves. (Oddly, her choreographer-fiancé-husband is not mentioned by name.) The fun poked at those around her is harsher; again, the facts speak for themselves. The perpetually sullen Kristen Stewart (Brittany Garms) appears briefly and takes a skewering. Portman’s Black Swan director, Darren Aronofsky (Garms again), gets shellacked.
The onstage talent is plentiful. The design is gleefully guerilla. The storytelling is entertaining. And Tara Pitt, playing Portman, is delightful, gently mocking the perennially successful actor’s perennially extraordinary cheeriness. However, a higher-stakes feel to all the performances might take this production up a level, as might a more disciplining hand at the helm. Several moments are already up there. Particularly electrified is Lindsey Nesmith as a rhapsodic Sesame Street puppeteer; not only is the character comedically irrepressible, her blonde-pigtailed puppet is hilarious.
The cast sings more than competently, and the harmonies are strong and pleasing in the group numbers (book and lyrics by Garms, music by Frankie Marrone and Pitt). Song topics include Harvard University—where Portman earned a degree and here has a brief encounter with Mark Zuckerberg—and the shaving of her head for V for Vendetta. Garms, the writing-directing motor of this machine, obviously has comedic chops, but her stage presence and sense of humor are so sophisticatedly dry, they don’t loft the production. The in-jokes about being a young actor in Hollywood don’t let up, but perhaps that’s their point.
The troupe revels in the badness, mocking the work when the storytelling slumps. Wigs are deliberately gawdawful, tunes get comedically clichéd. But heighten more of the work, and a gem can be mined.
Or would a high-gloss polish ruin the rough-hewn product? As it stands, the overall feel is merry, the silliness is charming, and the production should appeal to its presumed target audience of millennials.
Chromolume Theatre at the Attic
“What were they thinking?” That’s the polite form of the question critics ask rhetorically when theater productions don’t work. Fortunately regarding this production, the answer is apparent from start to finish. Unfortunately another question hangs over it. “What’s missing?” we wonder. What is making it good but keeping it from being great?
The “they” who are thinking clearly in this case is a theater company of young, energetic, skilled actor-singers. Their goal is to give audiences a good time, and although that comes at the expense of real-life actor Natalie Portman, she doesn’t pay at all dearly. Not that it should matter, but the fun poked at her is relatively gentle; the facts speak for themselves. (Oddly, her choreographer-fiancé-husband is not mentioned by name.) The fun poked at those around her is harsher; again, the facts speak for themselves. The perpetually sullen Kristen Stewart (Brittany Garms) appears briefly and takes a skewering. Portman’s Black Swan director, Darren Aronofsky (Garms again), gets shellacked.
The onstage talent is plentiful. The design is gleefully guerilla. The storytelling is entertaining. And Tara Pitt, playing Portman, is delightful, gently mocking the perennially successful actor’s perennially extraordinary cheeriness. However, a higher-stakes feel to all the performances might take this production up a level, as might a more disciplining hand at the helm. Several moments are already up there. Particularly electrified is Lindsey Nesmith as a rhapsodic Sesame Street puppeteer; not only is the character comedically irrepressible, her blonde-pigtailed puppet is hilarious.
The cast sings more than competently, and the harmonies are strong and pleasing in the group numbers (book and lyrics by Garms, music by Frankie Marrone and Pitt). Song topics include Harvard University—where Portman earned a degree and here has a brief encounter with Mark Zuckerberg—and the shaving of her head for V for Vendetta. Garms, the writing-directing motor of this machine, obviously has comedic chops, but her stage presence and sense of humor are so sophisticatedly dry, they don’t loft the production. The in-jokes about being a young actor in Hollywood don’t let up, but perhaps that’s their point.
The troupe revels in the badness, mocking the work when the storytelling slumps. Wigs are deliberately gawdawful, tunes get comedically clichéd. But heighten more of the work, and a gem can be mined.
Or would a high-gloss polish ruin the rough-hewn product? As it stands, the overall feel is merry, the silliness is charming, and the production should appeal to its presumed target audience of millennials.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 8, 2012
September 8, 2012
Euripides’ Helen
Playwrights’ Arena, presented by J. Paul Getty Museum at Barbara and Lawrence Fleischman Theater at Getty Villa
Nick Salamone is most gracious in crediting Euripides as the writer here, merely listing himself as adaptor. He has riffed on the Greek tragicomedy original, working with historical plot and characters but blending in elements of Hollywood movie musicals and characters from Hollywood’s Golden Age.
Rumor had it Helen abandoned her husband, Menelaos, and her homeland, Sparta, to take up with Paris, the handsome prince of Troy. As retold by Euripides, the gods had instead removed Helen to the Egyptian island of Pharos, where she lived an insulated life while a look-alike lived the life the Spartans heard about.
It’s charming to sit at the Getty’s outdoor amphitheater and guess who the modernized characters are. Hattie the slave (Carlease Burke) is patently Mammy of Gone With the Wind fame. An entertaining chorus (singing, no less) of three screen sirens comprises the (formerly) most beautiful women in the world: Elizabeth Taylor, in the role of a (wink, wink) black Cleopatra/Cleo (Arséne DeLay), Marilyn Monroe as Cherie/Cherry (Jayme Lake), and Vivien Leigh as Blanche DuBois/Lady (Melody Butiu).
But can we, and should we, expect more from the likes of Salamone and his director, Jon Lawrence Rivera? The play lambastes Hollywood’s glorification of youth and glamour, as Helen (Rachel Sorsa) repeatedly speaks in the past tense of her country’s, and Menelaos’s (Maxwell Caulfield), love for her.
The play also turns powerfully anti-war when Ajax’s half-brother Teucer (Christopher Rivas) rolls onstage in a wheelchair, the luckless pacifist having lost his lower legs to battle. The play is working at this point, and as often happens with life and art, just then on the night reviewed a jet plane flew low over the amphitheater and re-created the sounds of modern warfare. This potent moment was then deflated by a sung chorus of “When Teucer Comes Marching Home.”
To bring the funny, a vaguely Asian-Communist regime runs Pharos, headed by Theoclymenus and encouraged by his sister Theonoe. He, played with lechery and hilarity by Chil Kong, is the type who takes all the available titles—king, chairman, CEO—you know the type. Theonoe, played with tenderness by Natsuko Ohama, however, has the gods in her corner, probably thanks to hours spent in prayer. And in the acting department, Robert Almodovar wields stagecraft as his weapon, his voice thrillingly filling the space.
What else have modern audiences come to expect, and what have we the right to expect? Did the Greeks cast the best singers in the singing roles? Did all the jokes land in those days, either because of the writing or the delivery?
And are Salamone and Rivera preaching to the Hollywood choir? Most know we, like the ancient Greeks, love our mythology, enjoy believing in improbabilities, and are deeply divided over our wars. Some things just can’t change.
Playwrights’ Arena, presented by J. Paul Getty Museum at Barbara and Lawrence Fleischman Theater at Getty Villa
Nick Salamone is most gracious in crediting Euripides as the writer here, merely listing himself as adaptor. He has riffed on the Greek tragicomedy original, working with historical plot and characters but blending in elements of Hollywood movie musicals and characters from Hollywood’s Golden Age.
Rumor had it Helen abandoned her husband, Menelaos, and her homeland, Sparta, to take up with Paris, the handsome prince of Troy. As retold by Euripides, the gods had instead removed Helen to the Egyptian island of Pharos, where she lived an insulated life while a look-alike lived the life the Spartans heard about.
It’s charming to sit at the Getty’s outdoor amphitheater and guess who the modernized characters are. Hattie the slave (Carlease Burke) is patently Mammy of Gone With the Wind fame. An entertaining chorus (singing, no less) of three screen sirens comprises the (formerly) most beautiful women in the world: Elizabeth Taylor, in the role of a (wink, wink) black Cleopatra/Cleo (Arséne DeLay), Marilyn Monroe as Cherie/Cherry (Jayme Lake), and Vivien Leigh as Blanche DuBois/Lady (Melody Butiu).
But can we, and should we, expect more from the likes of Salamone and his director, Jon Lawrence Rivera? The play lambastes Hollywood’s glorification of youth and glamour, as Helen (Rachel Sorsa) repeatedly speaks in the past tense of her country’s, and Menelaos’s (Maxwell Caulfield), love for her.
The play also turns powerfully anti-war when Ajax’s half-brother Teucer (Christopher Rivas) rolls onstage in a wheelchair, the luckless pacifist having lost his lower legs to battle. The play is working at this point, and as often happens with life and art, just then on the night reviewed a jet plane flew low over the amphitheater and re-created the sounds of modern warfare. This potent moment was then deflated by a sung chorus of “When Teucer Comes Marching Home.”
To bring the funny, a vaguely Asian-Communist regime runs Pharos, headed by Theoclymenus and encouraged by his sister Theonoe. He, played with lechery and hilarity by Chil Kong, is the type who takes all the available titles—king, chairman, CEO—you know the type. Theonoe, played with tenderness by Natsuko Ohama, however, has the gods in her corner, probably thanks to hours spent in prayer. And in the acting department, Robert Almodovar wields stagecraft as his weapon, his voice thrillingly filling the space.
What else have modern audiences come to expect, and what have we the right to expect? Did the Greeks cast the best singers in the singing roles? Did all the jokes land in those days, either because of the writing or the delivery?
And are Salamone and Rivera preaching to the Hollywood choir? Most know we, like the ancient Greeks, love our mythology, enjoy believing in improbabilities, and are deeply divided over our wars. Some things just can’t change.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 7, 2012
September 7, 2012
Ghost-Writer
International City Theatre at Long Beach Performing Arts Center
From where does creative inspiration come? And what do the lucky recipients do with it when it comes? Michael Hollinger’s play quietly and thoughtfully wonders about this. But more-haunting, more-universal questions lurk at the play’s depths: How much do people imagine their romances, and how often are those imaginings sussed out by outsiders?
The audience’s mind is thusly probed by the onstage characters. They are novelist Franklin Woolsey; his wife, Vivian; and his longtime amanuensis, Myra. As we learn early on, Franklin is deceased, but Myra seems to continue typing out his words, apparently attuned to ectoplasmic messages. Or so she may be telling a listener she addresses throughout the play—but whom we never see. Hmm.
As Myra unfolds the tale, one fact emerges: She has skill and inspiration as a writer. The audience is clued in to one more fact, in large part by Kim DeShazo’s luscious costumes: The play is set in 1919. And so Myra has been dismissively ignored—as so many women were in that era, though they served as lieutenants for famous men—instead going through life as “Mr. Woolsey’s eccentric secretary.”
The genteel artistry of this production owes much to the script but also to the elegant, graceful, delicate direction of Caryn Desai. “Inspiration makes us wait,” says the play, and Desai heeds the epigram, lingeringly and sedately. And yet sharp shards of more than one broken heart wend their way through the play’s calm exterior.
International City Theatre’s casting director, Michael Donovan, helped choose ideal actors for the roles. Leland Crooke appears codgery enough to be the distant older boss, appealing enough to suit a romanticized memory of a sapiosexual secretary. Cheryl David, long cast in LA theater as a comedian, here gets the laughs but also molds several crushing moments as the wife/widow Vivian. Paige Lindsey White, playing Myra, lets nothing modern wander into her work. White is completely of the era, articulate without sounding artificial, believably intelligent, and perfectly keeping Hollinger’s secrets while keeping the audience interested in Myra.
Hollinger also packs in much about writing: punctuation and word choice and, yes, the inspiration involved, provoking laughter of recognition from those in the audience who have struggled with the likes of parataxis.
Even in 1919, technology interrupts inopportunely. A ringing telephone (sound designer Dave Mickey) represents the wife’s watchful presence and comedically cautionary voice when Vivian can’t in person.
International City Theatre at Long Beach Performing Arts Center
From where does creative inspiration come? And what do the lucky recipients do with it when it comes? Michael Hollinger’s play quietly and thoughtfully wonders about this. But more-haunting, more-universal questions lurk at the play’s depths: How much do people imagine their romances, and how often are those imaginings sussed out by outsiders?
The audience’s mind is thusly probed by the onstage characters. They are novelist Franklin Woolsey; his wife, Vivian; and his longtime amanuensis, Myra. As we learn early on, Franklin is deceased, but Myra seems to continue typing out his words, apparently attuned to ectoplasmic messages. Or so she may be telling a listener she addresses throughout the play—but whom we never see. Hmm.
As Myra unfolds the tale, one fact emerges: She has skill and inspiration as a writer. The audience is clued in to one more fact, in large part by Kim DeShazo’s luscious costumes: The play is set in 1919. And so Myra has been dismissively ignored—as so many women were in that era, though they served as lieutenants for famous men—instead going through life as “Mr. Woolsey’s eccentric secretary.”
The genteel artistry of this production owes much to the script but also to the elegant, graceful, delicate direction of Caryn Desai. “Inspiration makes us wait,” says the play, and Desai heeds the epigram, lingeringly and sedately. And yet sharp shards of more than one broken heart wend their way through the play’s calm exterior.
International City Theatre’s casting director, Michael Donovan, helped choose ideal actors for the roles. Leland Crooke appears codgery enough to be the distant older boss, appealing enough to suit a romanticized memory of a sapiosexual secretary. Cheryl David, long cast in LA theater as a comedian, here gets the laughs but also molds several crushing moments as the wife/widow Vivian. Paige Lindsey White, playing Myra, lets nothing modern wander into her work. White is completely of the era, articulate without sounding artificial, believably intelligent, and perfectly keeping Hollinger’s secrets while keeping the audience interested in Myra.
Hollinger also packs in much about writing: punctuation and word choice and, yes, the inspiration involved, provoking laughter of recognition from those in the audience who have struggled with the likes of parataxis.
Even in 1919, technology interrupts inopportunely. A ringing telephone (sound designer Dave Mickey) represents the wife’s watchful presence and comedically cautionary voice when Vivian can’t in person.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies September 5, 2012
Sweet Thursday
Pacific Resident Theatre
John Steinbeck might well admire the look and feel of this world premiere stage adaptation of his sequel to Cannery Row. It takes place years later, and most of the characters still live on the Row even though it has fallen on hard times. Doc (Joe McGovern) has returned from his stint in WWII, and his melancholic demeanor has subdued the generally ebullient denizens of the Palace Flophouse and Grill. Mack (Jeff Doucette), the hearty idea man and story narrator, figures that Doc needs a woman to snap him out of his apparent loneliness. Luckily, Suzy (Lela Loren) has arrived and taken up residence in Madame Fauna’s Bear House Restaurant, the local brothel. Many machinations follow before true love can win out. Hence, the problem with the adaptation.
Steinbeck was gifted at examining life’s microcosms as his characters interact. What was fluid in prose becomes scattered and awkward as characters come and go with concomitant furniture changes, new costumes, and pauses for narration. As Robb Derringer and director Matt McKenzie’s adaptation attempts to flesh out the wonderfully quirky souls of the story, it bogs down as scene after scene tries to include too much of Steinbeck’s plot and local color.
McGovern’s Doc is gloomy and underplayed, often fading against a sea of picturesque characters. Loren’s Suzy is also colorless, and their eventual relationship is half-hearted and pale.
There are, however, interesting characters who don’t appear in Cannery Row. Lee Chong’s store is now owned by Joseph and Mary Rivas (George Villas), an upbeat bantam rooster of a man who will do anything for a buck. Villas is terrific, livening up any scene he is in. Dora Flood, the original brothel owner, is replaced by her sister Fauna (Suzanne Ford), who continues the tradition of instilling in her girls (Lisa Cirincione, Summera Howell) manners and good deportment. She prides herself on the number who have gotten a star on her picture wall as successfully finding husbands. Suzy is her new project, and Ford delivers an energetic portrait as madam and local astrologer.
As Mack’s boys, Norman Scott, Ed Levey, and London Shover look the part but have little to do but add atmosphere as actors and musicians. The exception is Hazel, given a nice turn by Ericjohn Scialo, who plays the dim-witted but lovable fool of the play.
Other notable characters are the Seer (Dennis Madden), Old Jingleballicks (Lee de Broux), and Joe Elegant (Kevin Fabian). In the myriad scenes, they come and go, adding humor and life to the work. Adding to the puzzlement of how this play is constructed, though, is the inclusion of musical numbers and a jazzy ’40s dance routine by Doc and Suzy (choreography by Elizabeth “Tiggy” McKenzie). The numbers are staged intermittently but have no function in the story, and their exclusion would help trim the overlong three-hour play.
Charles Erven’s scenic design is visually interesting and helps create the ramshackle locale. William Wilday’s lighting design and Audrey Eisner’s costumes also enhance the time period.
Steinbeck’s moody and evocative language creates memorable characters in a believable slice of life. This adaptation misses the mark even as it tries to stay true to Steinbeck’s words.
Pacific Resident Theatre
John Steinbeck might well admire the look and feel of this world premiere stage adaptation of his sequel to Cannery Row. It takes place years later, and most of the characters still live on the Row even though it has fallen on hard times. Doc (Joe McGovern) has returned from his stint in WWII, and his melancholic demeanor has subdued the generally ebullient denizens of the Palace Flophouse and Grill. Mack (Jeff Doucette), the hearty idea man and story narrator, figures that Doc needs a woman to snap him out of his apparent loneliness. Luckily, Suzy (Lela Loren) has arrived and taken up residence in Madame Fauna’s Bear House Restaurant, the local brothel. Many machinations follow before true love can win out. Hence, the problem with the adaptation.
Steinbeck was gifted at examining life’s microcosms as his characters interact. What was fluid in prose becomes scattered and awkward as characters come and go with concomitant furniture changes, new costumes, and pauses for narration. As Robb Derringer and director Matt McKenzie’s adaptation attempts to flesh out the wonderfully quirky souls of the story, it bogs down as scene after scene tries to include too much of Steinbeck’s plot and local color.
McGovern’s Doc is gloomy and underplayed, often fading against a sea of picturesque characters. Loren’s Suzy is also colorless, and their eventual relationship is half-hearted and pale.
There are, however, interesting characters who don’t appear in Cannery Row. Lee Chong’s store is now owned by Joseph and Mary Rivas (George Villas), an upbeat bantam rooster of a man who will do anything for a buck. Villas is terrific, livening up any scene he is in. Dora Flood, the original brothel owner, is replaced by her sister Fauna (Suzanne Ford), who continues the tradition of instilling in her girls (Lisa Cirincione, Summera Howell) manners and good deportment. She prides herself on the number who have gotten a star on her picture wall as successfully finding husbands. Suzy is her new project, and Ford delivers an energetic portrait as madam and local astrologer.
As Mack’s boys, Norman Scott, Ed Levey, and London Shover look the part but have little to do but add atmosphere as actors and musicians. The exception is Hazel, given a nice turn by Ericjohn Scialo, who plays the dim-witted but lovable fool of the play.
Other notable characters are the Seer (Dennis Madden), Old Jingleballicks (Lee de Broux), and Joe Elegant (Kevin Fabian). In the myriad scenes, they come and go, adding humor and life to the work. Adding to the puzzlement of how this play is constructed, though, is the inclusion of musical numbers and a jazzy ’40s dance routine by Doc and Suzy (choreography by Elizabeth “Tiggy” McKenzie). The numbers are staged intermittently but have no function in the story, and their exclusion would help trim the overlong three-hour play.
Charles Erven’s scenic design is visually interesting and helps create the ramshackle locale. William Wilday’s lighting design and Audrey Eisner’s costumes also enhance the time period.
Steinbeck’s moody and evocative language creates memorable characters in a believable slice of life. This adaptation misses the mark even as it tries to stay true to Steinbeck’s words.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
September 2, 2012
September 2, 2012
The Little Dog Laughed
Blazeco Productions at Zephyr Theatre
How far off the rails can a production go? You need look no further than the revival of Douglas Carter Beane’s The Little Dog Laughed, which has unaccountably made its way from the Secret Rose to the Zephyr. It should’ve remained a secret.
There’s an argument that the 2007 Broadway and LA hit—a satire on Hollywood’s self-deception and bottomless appetite for power—is already seriously dated in its treatment of the hoops closeted actors have to go through. (Every week seems to usher in some notable announcing same-sex orientation, which she or he, and the public, promptly shrug off.) Still, the author of Xanadu and As Bees in Honey Drown has a way with a wickedly bitchy line, so Dog is a proven laugh getter. It was also a star-making vehicle for Julie White as the world’s most rapacious, cobra-charming agent.
Yet the audience mostly stares at the spectacle at the Zephyr in mute stupefaction. And why not? It casts four actors, who will be nameless here out of charity, with no flair for comedy whatsoever on this evidence, and then directs them as if they were doing a Lifetime melodrama in Act 1 and a soap opera in Act 2. This production runs, if that’s the word for it, fully 25 minutes longer than the play’s 2008 mounting at the Kirk Douglas. The extra time is not eaten up by laughs and applause, but by pauses you could drive a truck through.
The spine of this revival is annoyance. Everyone sounds and looks irked from absolute beginning to absolute end: agent Diane, because client Mitchell is willful and a playwright she’s courting is coy; rent boy Alex, because he can’t get Mitchell to commit; Alex’s off-again-on-again gal pal Ellen, because she lacks money; and Mitchell, who just wants to be himself, darn it. He’s the only one of the four who doesn’t walk around with an unchanging frowny face, which would be a blessing except his mode is the goofiest set of funny faces this side of commedia dell’arte. As for verbal wit, Diane and Ellen toss out their zingers with an utter absence of venom, while Alex swallows his words as if no one told him he was playing in a comedy, and Mitchell just mopes and preens.
What ever happened to stakes? What ever happened to need? These four actors are permitted, even encouraged, to saunter around mouthing lines with nothing behind them. Say what you will about White in her Tony-winning performance—and some did carp that she went way too far with her scene-chewing monstrousness—there was never any doubt that every fiber, every atom of her being was invested in transforming Mitchell into a superstar and herself into a mogul. Note to the producers at the Zephyr, and to anyone else who thinks that mere self-expression is the basis of what goes on on a stage: Need is what makes for drama, and nowhere must characters act out of greater need than in a comedy. This Little Dog is such a crashing bore mostly because no one in it exhibits the slightest need for anything, except to indulge themselves in navel-gazing that would be laughed out of the Actors Studio.
As an object lesson in how not to stage a comedy this production would be extremely useful, but it’s not recommend that even the most dutiful student subject himself to what was, by a country mile, the most excruciating evening in a theater in 2012 And though it’s only September, it seems, or maybe it’s just a wistful hope, that this production will remain the champeen.
Blazeco Productions at Zephyr Theatre
How far off the rails can a production go? You need look no further than the revival of Douglas Carter Beane’s The Little Dog Laughed, which has unaccountably made its way from the Secret Rose to the Zephyr. It should’ve remained a secret.
There’s an argument that the 2007 Broadway and LA hit—a satire on Hollywood’s self-deception and bottomless appetite for power—is already seriously dated in its treatment of the hoops closeted actors have to go through. (Every week seems to usher in some notable announcing same-sex orientation, which she or he, and the public, promptly shrug off.) Still, the author of Xanadu and As Bees in Honey Drown has a way with a wickedly bitchy line, so Dog is a proven laugh getter. It was also a star-making vehicle for Julie White as the world’s most rapacious, cobra-charming agent.
Yet the audience mostly stares at the spectacle at the Zephyr in mute stupefaction. And why not? It casts four actors, who will be nameless here out of charity, with no flair for comedy whatsoever on this evidence, and then directs them as if they were doing a Lifetime melodrama in Act 1 and a soap opera in Act 2. This production runs, if that’s the word for it, fully 25 minutes longer than the play’s 2008 mounting at the Kirk Douglas. The extra time is not eaten up by laughs and applause, but by pauses you could drive a truck through.
The spine of this revival is annoyance. Everyone sounds and looks irked from absolute beginning to absolute end: agent Diane, because client Mitchell is willful and a playwright she’s courting is coy; rent boy Alex, because he can’t get Mitchell to commit; Alex’s off-again-on-again gal pal Ellen, because she lacks money; and Mitchell, who just wants to be himself, darn it. He’s the only one of the four who doesn’t walk around with an unchanging frowny face, which would be a blessing except his mode is the goofiest set of funny faces this side of commedia dell’arte. As for verbal wit, Diane and Ellen toss out their zingers with an utter absence of venom, while Alex swallows his words as if no one told him he was playing in a comedy, and Mitchell just mopes and preens.
What ever happened to stakes? What ever happened to need? These four actors are permitted, even encouraged, to saunter around mouthing lines with nothing behind them. Say what you will about White in her Tony-winning performance—and some did carp that she went way too far with her scene-chewing monstrousness—there was never any doubt that every fiber, every atom of her being was invested in transforming Mitchell into a superstar and herself into a mogul. Note to the producers at the Zephyr, and to anyone else who thinks that mere self-expression is the basis of what goes on on a stage: Need is what makes for drama, and nowhere must characters act out of greater need than in a comedy. This Little Dog is such a crashing bore mostly because no one in it exhibits the slightest need for anything, except to indulge themselves in navel-gazing that would be laughed out of the Actors Studio.
As an object lesson in how not to stage a comedy this production would be extremely useful, but it’s not recommend that even the most dutiful student subject himself to what was, by a country mile, the most excruciating evening in a theater in 2012 And though it’s only September, it seems, or maybe it’s just a wistful hope, that this production will remain the champeen.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 1, 2012
September 1, 2012
The Paris Letter
The Group Rep at Lonny Chapman Theatre
The sum total of an earthly existence is traditionally measured by accomplishments, as well as the conduct one exhibits. Jon Robin Baitz’s circuitously arranged drama offers insight into the domino effect a single life, mired in secretive indecision, can have on those around it. Through a series of flashbacks, Baitz provides moments of brilliance, which director Jules Aaron and a uniformly strong cast take full advantage of in presenting this thought-provoking treatise on the ramifications of self-denial.
The story’s protagonist, Sandy Sonnenberg, spends his life riding a fence. Pre-Stonewall, the tenor of the 1960s dictated that open homosexuality was in direct conflict with societal values. So, Sonnenberg spends his life stuck somewhere back in the closet as he pits self-loathing against his true feelings. Because Baitz’s script covers 40-some years, ranging from the Kennedy administration to the early part of this century, a number of roles are played by younger and older performers. Here, Dan Sykes and Larry Eisenberg offer solid work as they relay Sandy’s angst-filled duality. The physical resemblance is certainly helpful, but Aaron has done a fine job in guiding Eisenberg to a nuanced performance by building upon his character’s past experiences.
It’s a little dicey, however, when it comes to the story’s flamboyant narrator, one Anton Kilgallen, played by Lloyd Pedersen and his younger counterpart, Alex Parker. Both do an excellent job with their respective places in Baitz’s play, mirroring their character’s mannerisms and vocal stylings, but the actors’ disparate heights and other physical differences are occasionally confusing, particularly because Parker pulls additional duties as the older Sonnenberg’s current-day love interest as well.
As everyone aside from Pedersen plays more than role, one would be remiss in not mentioning the outstanding portrayals served up by Julia Silverman. Whether she is embodying Sandy’s mother—a Joan Rivers–like socialite who seems clueless about her son’s proclivities—or his modern-day wife, Silverman’s work is excellent in detail and truthfulness.
Chris Winfield’s ingenious scenic design includes a black box–like forestage and a series of background spaces revealed throughout the show by sliding panels. Lighting by J. Kent Inasy works well for the upstage locales but leaves a few shadowy gaps in the downstage playing area. Liz Nankin’s costuming covers the various time periods very well.
It is important to note that the show is adult in nature for its themes and nudity.
The Group Rep at Lonny Chapman Theatre
The sum total of an earthly existence is traditionally measured by accomplishments, as well as the conduct one exhibits. Jon Robin Baitz’s circuitously arranged drama offers insight into the domino effect a single life, mired in secretive indecision, can have on those around it. Through a series of flashbacks, Baitz provides moments of brilliance, which director Jules Aaron and a uniformly strong cast take full advantage of in presenting this thought-provoking treatise on the ramifications of self-denial.
The story’s protagonist, Sandy Sonnenberg, spends his life riding a fence. Pre-Stonewall, the tenor of the 1960s dictated that open homosexuality was in direct conflict with societal values. So, Sonnenberg spends his life stuck somewhere back in the closet as he pits self-loathing against his true feelings. Because Baitz’s script covers 40-some years, ranging from the Kennedy administration to the early part of this century, a number of roles are played by younger and older performers. Here, Dan Sykes and Larry Eisenberg offer solid work as they relay Sandy’s angst-filled duality. The physical resemblance is certainly helpful, but Aaron has done a fine job in guiding Eisenberg to a nuanced performance by building upon his character’s past experiences.
It’s a little dicey, however, when it comes to the story’s flamboyant narrator, one Anton Kilgallen, played by Lloyd Pedersen and his younger counterpart, Alex Parker. Both do an excellent job with their respective places in Baitz’s play, mirroring their character’s mannerisms and vocal stylings, but the actors’ disparate heights and other physical differences are occasionally confusing, particularly because Parker pulls additional duties as the older Sonnenberg’s current-day love interest as well.
As everyone aside from Pedersen plays more than role, one would be remiss in not mentioning the outstanding portrayals served up by Julia Silverman. Whether she is embodying Sandy’s mother—a Joan Rivers–like socialite who seems clueless about her son’s proclivities—or his modern-day wife, Silverman’s work is excellent in detail and truthfulness.
Chris Winfield’s ingenious scenic design includes a black box–like forestage and a series of background spaces revealed throughout the show by sliding panels. Lighting by J. Kent Inasy works well for the upstage locales but leaves a few shadowy gaps in the downstage playing area. Liz Nankin’s costuming covers the various time periods very well.
It is important to note that the show is adult in nature for its themes and nudity.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
August 28, 2012
August 28, 2012
Elephant Room
Center Theatre Group at Kirk Douglas Theatre
Try as one might, no subtle meaning or artistic metaphor springs to mind when pondering this show. No, Elephant Room seems to be a comedy act centered on magic tricks. And, to be unfortunately precise, it seems to be a not-terribly-funny comedy act centered on mediocre magic tricks. Even if it intends to spoof bad acts, even if it mocks self-deluded performers, the onstage result is one-note and grows monotonous despite its 75-minute running time. It whiffs of a show high school geeks would put on.
Not that every theatrical event needs depth. But each needs a reason for charging its ticket prices, even if that reason is pure “entertainment.” The elephant in the room here is why a theater that has presented Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo and The Night Watcher and A Raisin in the Sun would offer this show.
It starts out with a touch of promise. Three magicians, seemingly stuck in the 1980s, have gathered in their clubhouse that seems stuck in the 1970s (dial phone included). Louie Magic, Daryl Hannah, and Dennis Diamond are squeezed into a dilapidated sofa. Over deliberately bad smoke effects and Diamond’s inability to time the “magical” turning-on of a lamp, they tell us what we could expect to see. Diamond’s obsession with fire seems to presage disaster or thrills. Even the stage-within-a-stage set (Mimi Lien) intrigues. For about five minutes, the trio talks about who each member is and what we might see. Then comes the first illusion: levitation. Too bad we can see how it’s done. Or is it too bad? Again, is the trio mocking an oft-thought sacred art?
At play’s end is a brief illusion, allowing us to see the elephant in the room. What does it mean? It should be obvious, or at least apparent after consideration. All that comes to mind, however, is that someone had a leftover elephant puppet. The show is the creation of Steve Cuiffo, Trey Lyford, and Geoff Sobelle, and directed by Paul Lazar.
Center Theatre Group at Kirk Douglas Theatre
Try as one might, no subtle meaning or artistic metaphor springs to mind when pondering this show. No, Elephant Room seems to be a comedy act centered on magic tricks. And, to be unfortunately precise, it seems to be a not-terribly-funny comedy act centered on mediocre magic tricks. Even if it intends to spoof bad acts, even if it mocks self-deluded performers, the onstage result is one-note and grows monotonous despite its 75-minute running time. It whiffs of a show high school geeks would put on.
Not that every theatrical event needs depth. But each needs a reason for charging its ticket prices, even if that reason is pure “entertainment.” The elephant in the room here is why a theater that has presented Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo and The Night Watcher and A Raisin in the Sun would offer this show.
It starts out with a touch of promise. Three magicians, seemingly stuck in the 1980s, have gathered in their clubhouse that seems stuck in the 1970s (dial phone included). Louie Magic, Daryl Hannah, and Dennis Diamond are squeezed into a dilapidated sofa. Over deliberately bad smoke effects and Diamond’s inability to time the “magical” turning-on of a lamp, they tell us what we could expect to see. Diamond’s obsession with fire seems to presage disaster or thrills. Even the stage-within-a-stage set (Mimi Lien) intrigues. For about five minutes, the trio talks about who each member is and what we might see. Then comes the first illusion: levitation. Too bad we can see how it’s done. Or is it too bad? Again, is the trio mocking an oft-thought sacred art?
At play’s end is a brief illusion, allowing us to see the elephant in the room. What does it mean? It should be obvious, or at least apparent after consideration. All that comes to mind, however, is that someone had a leftover elephant puppet. The show is the creation of Steve Cuiffo, Trey Lyford, and Geoff Sobelle, and directed by Paul Lazar.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 27, 2012
August 27, 2012
The Return to Morality
The Production Company at Lex Theatre
Playwright Jamie Pachino twists our knickers for us while we watch a college professor–turned–bestselling author foist and get foisted. Said author’s new book, intended as satire in its propagandizing of militant far-right ideas, becomes the flashpoint that incites the people it satirizes to commit destruction and murder. Too ludicrous for theater? Have you seen the news headlines lately? And, of course, a play about a satire begs for outrageous caricatures of ourselves: the media, politicos, and academics.
The script calls for sleek staging, and director Mark L. Taylor obliges. Scenes are many but link up via handoffs of costumes and the swirling on and off of furniture and props. Though the acting occasionally turns too farcical even for this story, the actors have ample craft to tell the story.
In particular, Kevin Weisman leads the cast as the author, Arthur: a man who grows from naive to wised over the period from publication through public humiliation. Catherine O’Connor plays his wife: a Brit with sympathy but not so much that she’ll tolerate his pseudo-passivity. The other actors play more than one role and sharply delineate each. Jim Hanna is a (very loud) publisher, a nebbishy waiter, and a secretly intellectual shock jock. Jennifer Lynn Davis plays Arthur’s department head, as well as television journalist Leslie Stahl. Ace Gibson plays a history professor, personal assistant, bartender, and police officer.
But, as sometimes happens even with a solid ensemble, this show includes a standout actor. Christy Keller is a pretty young woman, and one very unkindly thinks, “Another attractive kid who moved to LA thinking she could become a TV star.” And then one watches her honed proficiency as she crafts Arthur’s new assistant and interview coach, the makeup artist, and the young woman who seduces Arthur. She could be a star—because of her acting talent.
August Viverito’s elegant set design features an exceedingly smart central piece of furniture that serves as dining table, office desk, hospital bed, and virtual fireplace. Dimitrios Kakaris cleverly gives slightly ill-fitting and definitely unattractive clothes to Arthur that add to our impression of his gawkiness. Sound designer Lindsay Jones makes the convention speech echo in the small theater.
Yes, this tale is ludicrous. And though this production seems cunningly timed to today’s headlines, can we think of a month when it wouldn’t have been?
The Production Company at Lex Theatre
Playwright Jamie Pachino twists our knickers for us while we watch a college professor–turned–bestselling author foist and get foisted. Said author’s new book, intended as satire in its propagandizing of militant far-right ideas, becomes the flashpoint that incites the people it satirizes to commit destruction and murder. Too ludicrous for theater? Have you seen the news headlines lately? And, of course, a play about a satire begs for outrageous caricatures of ourselves: the media, politicos, and academics.
The script calls for sleek staging, and director Mark L. Taylor obliges. Scenes are many but link up via handoffs of costumes and the swirling on and off of furniture and props. Though the acting occasionally turns too farcical even for this story, the actors have ample craft to tell the story.
In particular, Kevin Weisman leads the cast as the author, Arthur: a man who grows from naive to wised over the period from publication through public humiliation. Catherine O’Connor plays his wife: a Brit with sympathy but not so much that she’ll tolerate his pseudo-passivity. The other actors play more than one role and sharply delineate each. Jim Hanna is a (very loud) publisher, a nebbishy waiter, and a secretly intellectual shock jock. Jennifer Lynn Davis plays Arthur’s department head, as well as television journalist Leslie Stahl. Ace Gibson plays a history professor, personal assistant, bartender, and police officer.
But, as sometimes happens even with a solid ensemble, this show includes a standout actor. Christy Keller is a pretty young woman, and one very unkindly thinks, “Another attractive kid who moved to LA thinking she could become a TV star.” And then one watches her honed proficiency as she crafts Arthur’s new assistant and interview coach, the makeup artist, and the young woman who seduces Arthur. She could be a star—because of her acting talent.
August Viverito’s elegant set design features an exceedingly smart central piece of furniture that serves as dining table, office desk, hospital bed, and virtual fireplace. Dimitrios Kakaris cleverly gives slightly ill-fitting and definitely unattractive clothes to Arthur that add to our impression of his gawkiness. Sound designer Lindsay Jones makes the convention speech echo in the small theater.
Yes, this tale is ludicrous. And though this production seems cunningly timed to today’s headlines, can we think of a month when it wouldn’t have been?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 25, 2012
August 25, 2012
Red
Donmar Warehouse at Mark Taper Forum
No question, Alfred Molina is otherworldly brilliant here, playing mid-century American painter Mark Rothko as potently leonine. We feel we are watching a real-life man whose anger is unleashed, whose ego is unfettered. Molina’s work is beyond accents—though not for even a single sound does his own London accent emerge—and his abilities exceed even fine technical acting. He doesn’t merely inhabit his character, he is the character on that stage.
And for that reason, this production should be seen. John Logan’s script is not as clearly mandatory viewing. Its main character is a gasbag of ego, who learns nothing by play’s end and who teaches us nothing through either his change or his intransigence.
Meanwhile, Logan discourses on art and competition and misguided principles. He does so through Rothko’s interactions with Ken, the young assistant who has come to improve his own skills but ends up serving as hall boy for Rothko. Why is the kid onstage? This is in essence a one-person play. But, at least as Logan paints him, Rothko seems too confident to speak in interesting soliloquies, and an audience might not be strong enough to endure his ranting, possibly insulting, direct address.
The fictionalized diatribes—though very likely close to Rothko’s real-life thoughts—center on canvases Rothko is painting, commissioned by the Seagram company for its new Four Seasons restaurant on New York’s Park Avenue. The real-life Rothko reportedly accepted the commission so he could “ruin the appetites of the diners.” Then he wanted to create the atmosphere of a temple through his canvases, in essence to convert the filthy-rich philistines. At some point during the course of the play, he decides a conversion would never occur, so he yanks the plug on the project. Meanwhile, Ken reveals bits of his own personal life that cause him to experience the resonance of Rothko’s paintings.
Ken is played by Jonathan Groff in a sweet, slightly bemused portrayal of a lad on his first grownup job. If Groff can’t compete with Molina, at least he doesn’t try to distract from him, and for that he gives an admirable performance. Michael Grandage stages the script expertly, creating some of the intensity Rothko believed his paintings had. Christopher Oram’s set is cavernous, framing the Rothko canvases (re-created here) with complementary greys and browns and towering vertical structures. Neil Austin lights the stage for maximum dramatic impact while adhering to Rothko’s stated insistence, “Natural light doesn’t work for me.” Grandage and Oram dress the characters in jeans when they paint, suits when they mean “business,” harking to the play’s 1950s setting.
What, then, remains so troubling about this production? Is it that Rothko didn’t end up the way we hoped? Do we envy his blinkered confidence? Do we disapprove of his taste? Or does Logan do right in making sure his audiences are still pondering what we saw?
Donmar Warehouse at Mark Taper Forum
No question, Alfred Molina is otherworldly brilliant here, playing mid-century American painter Mark Rothko as potently leonine. We feel we are watching a real-life man whose anger is unleashed, whose ego is unfettered. Molina’s work is beyond accents—though not for even a single sound does his own London accent emerge—and his abilities exceed even fine technical acting. He doesn’t merely inhabit his character, he is the character on that stage.
And for that reason, this production should be seen. John Logan’s script is not as clearly mandatory viewing. Its main character is a gasbag of ego, who learns nothing by play’s end and who teaches us nothing through either his change or his intransigence.
Meanwhile, Logan discourses on art and competition and misguided principles. He does so through Rothko’s interactions with Ken, the young assistant who has come to improve his own skills but ends up serving as hall boy for Rothko. Why is the kid onstage? This is in essence a one-person play. But, at least as Logan paints him, Rothko seems too confident to speak in interesting soliloquies, and an audience might not be strong enough to endure his ranting, possibly insulting, direct address.
The fictionalized diatribes—though very likely close to Rothko’s real-life thoughts—center on canvases Rothko is painting, commissioned by the Seagram company for its new Four Seasons restaurant on New York’s Park Avenue. The real-life Rothko reportedly accepted the commission so he could “ruin the appetites of the diners.” Then he wanted to create the atmosphere of a temple through his canvases, in essence to convert the filthy-rich philistines. At some point during the course of the play, he decides a conversion would never occur, so he yanks the plug on the project. Meanwhile, Ken reveals bits of his own personal life that cause him to experience the resonance of Rothko’s paintings.
Ken is played by Jonathan Groff in a sweet, slightly bemused portrayal of a lad on his first grownup job. If Groff can’t compete with Molina, at least he doesn’t try to distract from him, and for that he gives an admirable performance. Michael Grandage stages the script expertly, creating some of the intensity Rothko believed his paintings had. Christopher Oram’s set is cavernous, framing the Rothko canvases (re-created here) with complementary greys and browns and towering vertical structures. Neil Austin lights the stage for maximum dramatic impact while adhering to Rothko’s stated insistence, “Natural light doesn’t work for me.” Grandage and Oram dress the characters in jeans when they paint, suits when they mean “business,” harking to the play’s 1950s setting.
What, then, remains so troubling about this production? Is it that Rothko didn’t end up the way we hoped? Do we envy his blinkered confidence? Do we disapprove of his taste? Or does Logan do right in making sure his audiences are still pondering what we saw?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 17, 2012
August 17, 2012
Blame It on Beckett
Colony Theatre
At the top of this play, a character tries to light his cigarette with a
desk lamp. The cigarette doesn’t catch fire. The play, however, does.
It sparks into brightness: a smart, funny, conversation-provoking work
in its West Coast premiere by John Morogiello, directed by Andrew
Barnicle.
Why is the character so frustrated? He’s a dramaturg. Or dramaturge. He works in a New England regional theater. He’s Jim (Louis Lotorto), and he’s not in love with his job, except when he’s helping established playwright Tina Fike (Peggy Goss). But as so often happens in plays, a newcomer arrives to throw conflict into his life. She is Heidi (Blythe Auffarth), a new MFA grad who is blindly and energetically in love with theatrical literature. The theater’s general manager Mike (Brian Ibsen) likes her in oh so many ways. Tina likes her, too, in oh so many ways. And therein Morogiello creates structure, character development, issues, and a heck of a lot of funny dialogue.
Truth be told, Jim is similar to so many critics: His expectations have too frequently been crushed. A play presents itself, fresh-faced and promising to revitalize the world’s view of life. When that view is the same old flawed, hackneyed horizon, we’re annoyed. Jim has seen an excess of bad scripts. Is he still the right person for the job? Morogiello hints early on about what will happen to the characters, and though the ending may initially disappoint us, it’s the best possible result.
No crushed expectations where the direction here is concerned. Los Angeles is home to many stage directors who can be relied on to bring out the humanity in onstage characters, and a small but still substantial number who can bring out the funny. Barnicle is in the even smaller subset that can do both simultaneously. His characters are experiencing an interesting but always apt range of emotions while snapping out the quips.
He also cast wisely. Lotorto is, not to say this lightly, a gift to the theater. Not for one second does he force the comedy. We laugh heartily for the truths in his character, not for any actorly antics. And because Lotorto has been so truthful onstage, we hurt for Jim’s hurt. Distressingly, we also like Auffarth’s Heidi, even when she schemes and lies. In large part that’s because Auffarth gives her intelligence, curiosity, and a genuine friendliness. Goss convinces us her grande-dame playwright cares about the state of American theater, though Tina pretends she cares only about her own successes. (Have fun trying to guess which real-life playwright she’s modeled after.) Ibsen even makes management humane, in a well-calibrated performance that twirls no moustaches.
Colony Theatre
Why is the character so frustrated? He’s a dramaturg. Or dramaturge. He works in a New England regional theater. He’s Jim (Louis Lotorto), and he’s not in love with his job, except when he’s helping established playwright Tina Fike (Peggy Goss). But as so often happens in plays, a newcomer arrives to throw conflict into his life. She is Heidi (Blythe Auffarth), a new MFA grad who is blindly and energetically in love with theatrical literature. The theater’s general manager Mike (Brian Ibsen) likes her in oh so many ways. Tina likes her, too, in oh so many ways. And therein Morogiello creates structure, character development, issues, and a heck of a lot of funny dialogue.
Truth be told, Jim is similar to so many critics: His expectations have too frequently been crushed. A play presents itself, fresh-faced and promising to revitalize the world’s view of life. When that view is the same old flawed, hackneyed horizon, we’re annoyed. Jim has seen an excess of bad scripts. Is he still the right person for the job? Morogiello hints early on about what will happen to the characters, and though the ending may initially disappoint us, it’s the best possible result.
No crushed expectations where the direction here is concerned. Los Angeles is home to many stage directors who can be relied on to bring out the humanity in onstage characters, and a small but still substantial number who can bring out the funny. Barnicle is in the even smaller subset that can do both simultaneously. His characters are experiencing an interesting but always apt range of emotions while snapping out the quips.
He also cast wisely. Lotorto is, not to say this lightly, a gift to the theater. Not for one second does he force the comedy. We laugh heartily for the truths in his character, not for any actorly antics. And because Lotorto has been so truthful onstage, we hurt for Jim’s hurt. Distressingly, we also like Auffarth’s Heidi, even when she schemes and lies. In large part that’s because Auffarth gives her intelligence, curiosity, and a genuine friendliness. Goss convinces us her grande-dame playwright cares about the state of American theater, though Tina pretends she cares only about her own successes. (Have fun trying to guess which real-life playwright she’s modeled after.) Ibsen even makes management humane, in a well-calibrated performance that twirls no moustaches.
The set, designed by Stephen Gifford, creates a
cramped space without making the audience feel claustrophobia. The set
seems to evoke the stench of old, sadly unwanted piles of paper. Kate
Bergh dresses the characters in grad-student chic for Heidi, lived-in
for Jim, “ah-tistic” for Tina, and starchy-casual for Mike. Scene
changes are swift and in darkness, but they’re greatly enhanced by
hilarious audio conversations, the most delicious of which is an
Irish-accented Beckett pitching his scripts to a producer during an
elevator ride.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 12, 2012
August 12, 2012
I, Caligula: An Insanity Musical
Nouvelle Adaptation Productions in association with the Secret Rose Theatre at Secret Rose
It’s difficult to discern to what goals the creative minds behind this show were aspiring. Its subtitle bills it as a musical, but it’s clearly played as an opera. It’s supposedly set in a mental institution—hence the insanity angle—but aside from a remarkably uninspired introductory number cataloguing each patient’s respective neurosis, one wouldn’t have a clue as to the origins of these characters. There are even elements of children’s theater, as actors break the fourth wall and, in at least one case, physically engage a member of the audience as thought it’s, what, visiting day at the nuthouse? The brainchild of author-librettist-director Kai Cofer and composer Cody T. Gillette, this production, despite its adherence to the Roman source material, is an erratic, often confusing mess.
Clearly, at least a few of the cast members are excellent musicians. Sporting program bios filled with operatic credits and exhibiting trained vocal skills, they slog their way through Gillette’s monotonously repetitive score. Recitatives sound exactly like the arias. Cacophonously minor-keyed melodic lines do nothing to further the emotion supposedly being rendered on this tiny stage. And virtually every piece peters out to nothing, followed by uncomfortable pauses for applause that rarely comes, because the audience probably hasn’t a clue as to what’s going on. In particular, Act 2’s “Life Is Beautiful” is remarkably unpleasant but is ironically tempered by the fact that it follows the aptly titled duet, “When Is This Going to Stop?”
Meanwhile, Cofer’s lyrics, which are at least clearly sung, thanks again to the expertise of the performers, are trite and oftentimes frustratingly mismatched with Gillette’s score. In the title role, Dory Schultz is hamstrung on a number of occasions by this mismatching, none more obvious than during the more-introspective pieces “Mirror, Mirror” and “All I Really Want Is the Moon.” These issues seem worsened by Cofer’s muddled direction, along with Heather Lipson Bell’s simplistic choreography, providing no guidance to the actors who wander aimlessly about the stage, even during a downright creepy orgy scene that ends Act 1.
Cofer’s production design consisting of a miniature chaise parked center stage feels more like a roadblock than a seating arrangement. And the choice to clownishly wardrobe Gillette, perhaps as another asylum resident, and position him downstage right supposedly “conducting” the score is a distracting gimmick that wears thin almost immediately, as it’s clear he’s simply manning whatever technology is being used to play the amateurishly rendered taped orchestrations.
Nouvelle Adaptation Productions in association with the Secret Rose Theatre at Secret Rose
It’s difficult to discern to what goals the creative minds behind this show were aspiring. Its subtitle bills it as a musical, but it’s clearly played as an opera. It’s supposedly set in a mental institution—hence the insanity angle—but aside from a remarkably uninspired introductory number cataloguing each patient’s respective neurosis, one wouldn’t have a clue as to the origins of these characters. There are even elements of children’s theater, as actors break the fourth wall and, in at least one case, physically engage a member of the audience as thought it’s, what, visiting day at the nuthouse? The brainchild of author-librettist-director Kai Cofer and composer Cody T. Gillette, this production, despite its adherence to the Roman source material, is an erratic, often confusing mess.
Clearly, at least a few of the cast members are excellent musicians. Sporting program bios filled with operatic credits and exhibiting trained vocal skills, they slog their way through Gillette’s monotonously repetitive score. Recitatives sound exactly like the arias. Cacophonously minor-keyed melodic lines do nothing to further the emotion supposedly being rendered on this tiny stage. And virtually every piece peters out to nothing, followed by uncomfortable pauses for applause that rarely comes, because the audience probably hasn’t a clue as to what’s going on. In particular, Act 2’s “Life Is Beautiful” is remarkably unpleasant but is ironically tempered by the fact that it follows the aptly titled duet, “When Is This Going to Stop?”
Meanwhile, Cofer’s lyrics, which are at least clearly sung, thanks again to the expertise of the performers, are trite and oftentimes frustratingly mismatched with Gillette’s score. In the title role, Dory Schultz is hamstrung on a number of occasions by this mismatching, none more obvious than during the more-introspective pieces “Mirror, Mirror” and “All I Really Want Is the Moon.” These issues seem worsened by Cofer’s muddled direction, along with Heather Lipson Bell’s simplistic choreography, providing no guidance to the actors who wander aimlessly about the stage, even during a downright creepy orgy scene that ends Act 1.
Cofer’s production design consisting of a miniature chaise parked center stage feels more like a roadblock than a seating arrangement. And the choice to clownishly wardrobe Gillette, perhaps as another asylum resident, and position him downstage right supposedly “conducting” the score is a distracting gimmick that wears thin almost immediately, as it’s clear he’s simply manning whatever technology is being used to play the amateurishly rendered taped orchestrations.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
August 23, 2012
August 23, 2012
Mary Poppins
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
Mary Poppins isn’t practically perfect in every way, or even in any way; but much is good and even borderline great about the legit adaptation of the 1964 Disney film, and those features are still up there on the Ahmanson stage now that the tour has decided to pay us a second visit.
Most of the show’s plusses have to do with changes made in the transposition from the movie—and for the second time this review avoids using the word classic, because truth be told, the original Julie Andrews starrer is pretty bad. Setting aside the overly broad acting, Andrews’ one-note smugness—in a role barely long enough to qualify as starring—and Dick Van Dyke’s appalling accent, the movie’s through-line is pathetically thin. Poppins takes the Banks children on a series of episodes with no rhyme or reason, until the callous father has his change of heart; the end.
Librettist Julian Fellowes—a very fine choice, he of Downton Abbey and Gosford Park—wisely applies a solid narrative structure to the piece. In the musical, each of Poppins’ outings with the Banks kids has a specific purpose in the kids’ development: “Jolly Holiday” teaches them to expand their imaginations; “Feed the Birds,” to learn empathy; “Supercalifrag etc.” to find the joy and power of words. That last one isn’t carried out especially completely, but at least that’s the number’s intention.
To make all that work, the script is smart to assign dysfunction to every member of the Banks household, not just—as in the film—to cold, uptight papa. Whereas Mother Banks in the movie was merely distracted by her suffragette activities but otherwise kind and capable, Mama here is truly adrift: She’s an ex-actress unused to life in the “real world,” where she can find no footing as wife, mother, or householder. Meanwhile, the Banks children are genuinely insufferable, most definitely in immediate need of fixing.
In other words, the thrust of the script is to put a great deal at stake in Mary Poppins’ mission and set real obstacles in her path—stakes and obstacles being, of course, the principal ingredients of drama. It’s done so subtly that many spectators doubtless fail to realize how integral to their enjoyment all of that foundational storytelling actually is. Yes, Matthew Bourne’s choreography is inventive and eye-popping, as are the sets and costumes. And yes, the worst movie songs have been cut, while the new ones aren’t bad at all and the best of the originals are beautifully staged, “Feed the Birds” and “Step in Time” in particular.
But it’s the shoring-up of the story that truly gives the stage Mary Poppins its zing. The acting at the Ahmanson suggests a troupe bored with their parts after a long transcontinental tour, content to throw subtlety out the window and just milk it. And even that—and a three-hour length that really strains kids’ attention spans and bladders—aren’t enough to kill the musical’s warmth and emotional impact, so affecting is Fellowes’ storytelling.
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
Mary Poppins isn’t practically perfect in every way, or even in any way; but much is good and even borderline great about the legit adaptation of the 1964 Disney film, and those features are still up there on the Ahmanson stage now that the tour has decided to pay us a second visit.
Most of the show’s plusses have to do with changes made in the transposition from the movie—and for the second time this review avoids using the word classic, because truth be told, the original Julie Andrews starrer is pretty bad. Setting aside the overly broad acting, Andrews’ one-note smugness—in a role barely long enough to qualify as starring—and Dick Van Dyke’s appalling accent, the movie’s through-line is pathetically thin. Poppins takes the Banks children on a series of episodes with no rhyme or reason, until the callous father has his change of heart; the end.
Librettist Julian Fellowes—a very fine choice, he of Downton Abbey and Gosford Park—wisely applies a solid narrative structure to the piece. In the musical, each of Poppins’ outings with the Banks kids has a specific purpose in the kids’ development: “Jolly Holiday” teaches them to expand their imaginations; “Feed the Birds,” to learn empathy; “Supercalifrag etc.” to find the joy and power of words. That last one isn’t carried out especially completely, but at least that’s the number’s intention.
To make all that work, the script is smart to assign dysfunction to every member of the Banks household, not just—as in the film—to cold, uptight papa. Whereas Mother Banks in the movie was merely distracted by her suffragette activities but otherwise kind and capable, Mama here is truly adrift: She’s an ex-actress unused to life in the “real world,” where she can find no footing as wife, mother, or householder. Meanwhile, the Banks children are genuinely insufferable, most definitely in immediate need of fixing.
In other words, the thrust of the script is to put a great deal at stake in Mary Poppins’ mission and set real obstacles in her path—stakes and obstacles being, of course, the principal ingredients of drama. It’s done so subtly that many spectators doubtless fail to realize how integral to their enjoyment all of that foundational storytelling actually is. Yes, Matthew Bourne’s choreography is inventive and eye-popping, as are the sets and costumes. And yes, the worst movie songs have been cut, while the new ones aren’t bad at all and the best of the originals are beautifully staged, “Feed the Birds” and “Step in Time” in particular.
But it’s the shoring-up of the story that truly gives the stage Mary Poppins its zing. The acting at the Ahmanson suggests a troupe bored with their parts after a long transcontinental tour, content to throw subtlety out the window and just milk it. And even that—and a three-hour length that really strains kids’ attention spans and bladders—aren’t enough to kill the musical’s warmth and emotional impact, so affecting is Fellowes’ storytelling.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
August 18, 2012
August 18, 2012
A Ring in Brooklyn
Academy for New Musical Theatre at NoHo Arts Center
Whether it’s dreaded or welcomed, nearly all of us have received one. Usually arriving in an innocuous-looking envelope, it’s an invitation to one’s high school reunion. Germinating from this all-American seed is this razor-sharp script by playwright-lyricist Eric Dodson and composer Alan Ross Fleishman. During this well-paced production, helmed and choreographed by Joshua Finkel, the past- and present-day mischief of a half-dozen former classmates comes to light during a gathering marking the decade since their graduation. And to think it’s all about a small ring that changes hands faster than a speeding bullet!
Dodson’s characters are a stable of standards, and yet each cast member does a yeoman’s job of rising above what might have been mere caricatures. Leading the pack is Gabrielle Wagner as Gina, whose marriage to the only non-classmate in the group seems to border on the mundane. Mike Irizarry is a hoot as Gina’s sports-obsessed spouse, who spends most of the show trying to make heads or tails of the chaos surrounding him. Jordan Kai Burnett spins gold with the role of Gina’s best friend, the quintessential Brooklyn single girl. Burnett and Wagner’s chemistry is utterly believable and riotously funny. In particular, their first-act closer, “So Not Seventeen,” in which they are joined in the ladies’ room by Anna Hanson in a delicious turn as the class slut, is a showstopper as the trio catfights its way through Dodson’s wickedly ingenious lyrics.
Meanwhile, Smitty, the class jock, comes to life in the hands of Mark Shunock, who capitalizes on this water polo athlete’s unexpectedly intellectual maturity. As the tale unfolds through various flashbacks, it’s revealed that Smitty enjoyed a closeted relationship with Tommy, a now-deceased member of the class. Shunock’s scenes with Matt Valle as Tommy are given a special poignancy, topped beautifully by their rendition with Wagner of the heartwarming “If I Were You.”
Rounding out this disparate group is Johnny Cannizzaro’s cute-as-a-button performance as the class nerd, who, although having blossomed into manhood, still lacks self-confidence. Cannizzaro and Shunock show off Finkel’s choreography with style in the double entendre–filled “Magic Wand.”
Working well are Michael Hoffman’s scenery, moved about the stage by the cast, and Coby Chasman-Beck’s lighting, which delineates the story’s numerous scene changes. Body microphones would help the audience catch every last one of Dodson’s intricate lyrical choices over the onstage combo ably led by music director Ross Kalling.
Academy for New Musical Theatre at NoHo Arts Center
Whether it’s dreaded or welcomed, nearly all of us have received one. Usually arriving in an innocuous-looking envelope, it’s an invitation to one’s high school reunion. Germinating from this all-American seed is this razor-sharp script by playwright-lyricist Eric Dodson and composer Alan Ross Fleishman. During this well-paced production, helmed and choreographed by Joshua Finkel, the past- and present-day mischief of a half-dozen former classmates comes to light during a gathering marking the decade since their graduation. And to think it’s all about a small ring that changes hands faster than a speeding bullet!
Dodson’s characters are a stable of standards, and yet each cast member does a yeoman’s job of rising above what might have been mere caricatures. Leading the pack is Gabrielle Wagner as Gina, whose marriage to the only non-classmate in the group seems to border on the mundane. Mike Irizarry is a hoot as Gina’s sports-obsessed spouse, who spends most of the show trying to make heads or tails of the chaos surrounding him. Jordan Kai Burnett spins gold with the role of Gina’s best friend, the quintessential Brooklyn single girl. Burnett and Wagner’s chemistry is utterly believable and riotously funny. In particular, their first-act closer, “So Not Seventeen,” in which they are joined in the ladies’ room by Anna Hanson in a delicious turn as the class slut, is a showstopper as the trio catfights its way through Dodson’s wickedly ingenious lyrics.
Meanwhile, Smitty, the class jock, comes to life in the hands of Mark Shunock, who capitalizes on this water polo athlete’s unexpectedly intellectual maturity. As the tale unfolds through various flashbacks, it’s revealed that Smitty enjoyed a closeted relationship with Tommy, a now-deceased member of the class. Shunock’s scenes with Matt Valle as Tommy are given a special poignancy, topped beautifully by their rendition with Wagner of the heartwarming “If I Were You.”
Rounding out this disparate group is Johnny Cannizzaro’s cute-as-a-button performance as the class nerd, who, although having blossomed into manhood, still lacks self-confidence. Cannizzaro and Shunock show off Finkel’s choreography with style in the double entendre–filled “Magic Wand.”
Working well are Michael Hoffman’s scenery, moved about the stage by the cast, and Coby Chasman-Beck’s lighting, which delineates the story’s numerous scene changes. Body microphones would help the audience catch every last one of Dodson’s intricate lyrical choices over the onstage combo ably led by music director Ross Kalling.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
August 10, 2012
August 10, 2012
Memphis
Broadway/L.A. at Pantages Theatre
Set against the backdrop of the segregated South of the 1950’s, this impressively staged toe-tapper is spectacle, to be sure. Christopher Ashley’s sharply defining direction drives the show forward at a brisk pace, while Sergio Trujillo’s aerobic choreography keeps the vocally expert, incredibly athletic cast moving nonstop. It’s Joe DiPietro’s book, although admittedly well-constructed, that pales in comparison. The underlying tale of integration within the music industry and interracial love between the leads simply doesn’t pack much of a punch these days.
Actor Bryan Fenkart, in a tour-de-force performance, brings to life one Huey Calhoun, a local white rebel and music aficionado. Calhoun’s disgust with the cotton candy music of the era leads him to the “dark side” of Memphis where he discovers black singer Felicia Farrell, charmingly portrayed by Felicia Boswell, cutting a rug in her brother’s underground nightclub. With pieces falling into place at an alarming rate, these two hit it off as Calhoun winds up taking over the radio airwaves as Memphis’s No. 1 disc jockey and local concert promoter.
Despite this production’s somewhat grittier tone, the comparisons between this storyline and Hairspray are easily made, as evidenced by a number of patron conversations overheard on opening night. So, the individual performances make the piece. Fenkart and Boswell have great chemistry, and their voices are perfectly suited to composer David Bryan’s material. Boswell’s renditions of “Colored Woman” and “Love Will Stand When All Else Fails” are top notch, and Fenkart and company shoot for the stars with “Memphis Lives in Me.” Of the two, Boswell’s character arc from local girl to touring headliner is perhaps the more clearly defined. While Fenkart’s quirkiness works well for Calhoun’s early scenes, Calhoun’s fall from grace leaves him aged and somewhat creepy.
Supporting players worth noting include William Parry as Huey’s exasperated station owner, Rhett George and Will Mann as members of Felicia’s nightclub entourage, and Julie Johnson in a hilarious turn as Huey’s mama. Her gut-busting, second-act showstopper, “Change Don’t Come Easy,” is priceless.
Across the board, the production values are stunning, led foremost by Paul Tazewell’s period-perfect costuming and Ken Travis’s spot-on sound design flawlessly balancing the vocals with conductor Alvin Hough Jr.’s onstage band. David Gallo’s scenery literally flows about the stage effortlessly under the smoky haze of Howell Binkley’s lighting.
Broadway/L.A. at Pantages Theatre
Set against the backdrop of the segregated South of the 1950’s, this impressively staged toe-tapper is spectacle, to be sure. Christopher Ashley’s sharply defining direction drives the show forward at a brisk pace, while Sergio Trujillo’s aerobic choreography keeps the vocally expert, incredibly athletic cast moving nonstop. It’s Joe DiPietro’s book, although admittedly well-constructed, that pales in comparison. The underlying tale of integration within the music industry and interracial love between the leads simply doesn’t pack much of a punch these days.
Actor Bryan Fenkart, in a tour-de-force performance, brings to life one Huey Calhoun, a local white rebel and music aficionado. Calhoun’s disgust with the cotton candy music of the era leads him to the “dark side” of Memphis where he discovers black singer Felicia Farrell, charmingly portrayed by Felicia Boswell, cutting a rug in her brother’s underground nightclub. With pieces falling into place at an alarming rate, these two hit it off as Calhoun winds up taking over the radio airwaves as Memphis’s No. 1 disc jockey and local concert promoter.
Despite this production’s somewhat grittier tone, the comparisons between this storyline and Hairspray are easily made, as evidenced by a number of patron conversations overheard on opening night. So, the individual performances make the piece. Fenkart and Boswell have great chemistry, and their voices are perfectly suited to composer David Bryan’s material. Boswell’s renditions of “Colored Woman” and “Love Will Stand When All Else Fails” are top notch, and Fenkart and company shoot for the stars with “Memphis Lives in Me.” Of the two, Boswell’s character arc from local girl to touring headliner is perhaps the more clearly defined. While Fenkart’s quirkiness works well for Calhoun’s early scenes, Calhoun’s fall from grace leaves him aged and somewhat creepy.
Supporting players worth noting include William Parry as Huey’s exasperated station owner, Rhett George and Will Mann as members of Felicia’s nightclub entourage, and Julie Johnson in a hilarious turn as Huey’s mama. Her gut-busting, second-act showstopper, “Change Don’t Come Easy,” is priceless.
Across the board, the production values are stunning, led foremost by Paul Tazewell’s period-perfect costuming and Ken Travis’s spot-on sound design flawlessly balancing the vocals with conductor Alvin Hough Jr.’s onstage band. David Gallo’s scenery literally flows about the stage effortlessly under the smoky haze of Howell Binkley’s lighting.
Reviewed by Dink O'Neal
August 1, 2012
August 1, 2012
The Bat
Theatre 40 at Reuben Cordova Theatre
It was indeed a dark and stormy night. Though clichés can be delightful if wielded well, this production can’t decide whether it’s classic mystery or farce under Martin M. Speer’s direction, and so it’s neither. Add to that fumbled lines, tumbling door handles, and much of the action playing out in “candlelight,” and the darkness and storminess were not assets here on the night reviewed.
When reports of a criminal on the loose reach the Long Island mansion rented by Cornelia Van Gorder, the maid goes hysterical, the Japanese butler remains impassive, but Cornelia turns sleuth. Thank goodness a local police detective is on his way to protect all of them.
Written by Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood, based on Rinehart’s story The Circular Staircase, the play was suited to its 1920s audiences. A running time of two hours, 40 minutes, including two intermissions, appealed to theatergoers whose lifestyles accommodated long plays and socializing during intermission. Now we expect shorter evenings that pack more of a punch, particularly in the comedy and mystery genres.
Apparently the actors haven’t acclimated to longer plays, either. Lines are still a struggle for several here, and energy clearly flags in Act 3 though the action should reach frenzy level.
That’s not to say there’s no talent visible. Speer and scenic designer Jeff G. Rack use the space particularly well. The back wall of the set flips effectively to create the attic setting of Act 3. The structure is sturdy, so actors can firmly close doors, stand on window frames, and tug at bookcases. Ric Zimmerman beautifully renders that candlelight, however misguided a choice it is. Bill Froggatt’s sound design nicely re-creates stormy weather; the design unfortunately also includes loud underscoring that becomes overscoring, distracting from and sometimes drowning out the dialogue.
Veronica Cartwright is a reliable and engaging presence as Cordelia. Elizabeth J. Carlisle likewise has ample onstage skills as Cordelia’s niece, though she spends too much time “worried,” with furrowed brow. Yas Takahashi plays the Japanese butler. That could be a cliché, considering the heavy accent written into the script, but Takahashi brings much realism to the stage, as well as a mysterious aura. Loraine Shields, on the other hand, begs for laughs as the nervous-wreck maid.
The dialogue offers enough red herrings and regular herrings to fill a smorgasbord, and that’s a lot of food for thought to keep in mind over the play’s three acts. The criminal-at-large known as the Bat reputedly moves with incredible speed and can see at night. The same can’t quite be said for this production and for its audience.
Theatre 40 at Reuben Cordova Theatre
It was indeed a dark and stormy night. Though clichés can be delightful if wielded well, this production can’t decide whether it’s classic mystery or farce under Martin M. Speer’s direction, and so it’s neither. Add to that fumbled lines, tumbling door handles, and much of the action playing out in “candlelight,” and the darkness and storminess were not assets here on the night reviewed.
When reports of a criminal on the loose reach the Long Island mansion rented by Cornelia Van Gorder, the maid goes hysterical, the Japanese butler remains impassive, but Cornelia turns sleuth. Thank goodness a local police detective is on his way to protect all of them.
Written by Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood, based on Rinehart’s story The Circular Staircase, the play was suited to its 1920s audiences. A running time of two hours, 40 minutes, including two intermissions, appealed to theatergoers whose lifestyles accommodated long plays and socializing during intermission. Now we expect shorter evenings that pack more of a punch, particularly in the comedy and mystery genres.
Apparently the actors haven’t acclimated to longer plays, either. Lines are still a struggle for several here, and energy clearly flags in Act 3 though the action should reach frenzy level.
That’s not to say there’s no talent visible. Speer and scenic designer Jeff G. Rack use the space particularly well. The back wall of the set flips effectively to create the attic setting of Act 3. The structure is sturdy, so actors can firmly close doors, stand on window frames, and tug at bookcases. Ric Zimmerman beautifully renders that candlelight, however misguided a choice it is. Bill Froggatt’s sound design nicely re-creates stormy weather; the design unfortunately also includes loud underscoring that becomes overscoring, distracting from and sometimes drowning out the dialogue.
Veronica Cartwright is a reliable and engaging presence as Cordelia. Elizabeth J. Carlisle likewise has ample onstage skills as Cordelia’s niece, though she spends too much time “worried,” with furrowed brow. Yas Takahashi plays the Japanese butler. That could be a cliché, considering the heavy accent written into the script, but Takahashi brings much realism to the stage, as well as a mysterious aura. Loraine Shields, on the other hand, begs for laughs as the nervous-wreck maid.
The dialogue offers enough red herrings and regular herrings to fill a smorgasbord, and that’s a lot of food for thought to keep in mind over the play’s three acts. The criminal-at-large known as the Bat reputedly moves with incredible speed and can see at night. The same can’t quite be said for this production and for its audience.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 6, 2012
August 6, 2012
The Government Inspector
The Theatre @ Boston Court and Furious Theatre Company at Theatre @ Boston Court
In this world-premiere adaptation by Oded Gross, directed by Stefan Novinski, the title character is not so much the empty-headed naif of Nikolai Gogol’s original play. This Khlestakov is a deceitful leech from the start. So there’s no doubt to whom the audience’s allegiance belongs: to Osip, his sensible sidekick, here his much-abused servant and obvious representative of the lowest classes. Add to this the play’s resetting in somewhat modern times—viz. a dial telephone in the seedy hotel room but also two pairs of wannabe Jimmy Choos—and the original can be found in the bone structure if not the musculature of this production.
New, youthful muscles can be a good thing, however. Whether in tsarist Russia or LIBOR-ist America, crisp writing and physical humor sell the point that corruption corrupts absolutely. Gross adds original musical numbers, seemingly subscribing to the view that songs help characters express emotions beyond the range of mere dialogue. “Someday things may change,” sings the ensemble in the finale. One thing has changed: In Gross’s version, more women are included in the play. Some are corrupt. Well, at least they’re at the party.
The plot revolves around a rumor that a government inspector is arriving to investigate “unnecessary corruption” in town. The community leaders gather in the mayor’s living room for strategery. Oh, that living room! Donna Marquet’s design is pure Russian Neo-Renaissance. The wallpaper must be a mockup, because no one could possibly hope to commercially sell a pattern that outrageous. After recovering from the wallpaper, enjoy the hilarious portraits hanging on the wall.
It’s petty to complain that the clever lines are so plentiful that we don’t have a moment to reflect on them, that the sight gags are too numerous to take in fully, and that the actors are so adept and in sync with Novinski’s vision that we sometimes miss the main action because we’re watching a sideshow.
The colors in Tina Haatainen-Jones’s vaudeville-tinged costumes clash—and then suddenly, happily, blend in our befuddled brains. Not so the actors and their sharply drawn characters. Adam Haas Hunter plays the impostor-inspector Khlestakov in the fine tradition of comedic villains. John Billingsley plays the chipper but non–civic minded mayor, Alan Brooks is the town’s sweet tooth, and Joe Fria Ivan is the non sequitur–spewing busybody. Sara Hennessy plays the Bible-thumper who is ultimately thumped.
Megan Goodchild is the mayor’s Disney-obsessed daughter, the actor carrying the bulk of singing duties. Shannon Holt is the mayor’s fashionista wife, Dana Kelly Jr. is the judge who doesn’t want to be judged, and Jacob Sidney is the German-speaking “doctor.” Eileen T’Kaye plays Osif the servant—the actor given the toughest role of being the moral center at a swirl of miscreants, engaging the audience while not making herself look foolish.
Under Novinski’s direction, the acting is heightened, commedia but not distractingly so, too sophisticated to wink at the audience but somehow inviting us in on the joke. Corruption might not be a hilarious topic on its own, but humankind’s ability to spoof it lives in good health here.
The Theatre @ Boston Court and Furious Theatre Company at Theatre @ Boston Court
In this world-premiere adaptation by Oded Gross, directed by Stefan Novinski, the title character is not so much the empty-headed naif of Nikolai Gogol’s original play. This Khlestakov is a deceitful leech from the start. So there’s no doubt to whom the audience’s allegiance belongs: to Osip, his sensible sidekick, here his much-abused servant and obvious representative of the lowest classes. Add to this the play’s resetting in somewhat modern times—viz. a dial telephone in the seedy hotel room but also two pairs of wannabe Jimmy Choos—and the original can be found in the bone structure if not the musculature of this production.
New, youthful muscles can be a good thing, however. Whether in tsarist Russia or LIBOR-ist America, crisp writing and physical humor sell the point that corruption corrupts absolutely. Gross adds original musical numbers, seemingly subscribing to the view that songs help characters express emotions beyond the range of mere dialogue. “Someday things may change,” sings the ensemble in the finale. One thing has changed: In Gross’s version, more women are included in the play. Some are corrupt. Well, at least they’re at the party.
The plot revolves around a rumor that a government inspector is arriving to investigate “unnecessary corruption” in town. The community leaders gather in the mayor’s living room for strategery. Oh, that living room! Donna Marquet’s design is pure Russian Neo-Renaissance. The wallpaper must be a mockup, because no one could possibly hope to commercially sell a pattern that outrageous. After recovering from the wallpaper, enjoy the hilarious portraits hanging on the wall.
It’s petty to complain that the clever lines are so plentiful that we don’t have a moment to reflect on them, that the sight gags are too numerous to take in fully, and that the actors are so adept and in sync with Novinski’s vision that we sometimes miss the main action because we’re watching a sideshow.
The colors in Tina Haatainen-Jones’s vaudeville-tinged costumes clash—and then suddenly, happily, blend in our befuddled brains. Not so the actors and their sharply drawn characters. Adam Haas Hunter plays the impostor-inspector Khlestakov in the fine tradition of comedic villains. John Billingsley plays the chipper but non–civic minded mayor, Alan Brooks is the town’s sweet tooth, and Joe Fria Ivan is the non sequitur–spewing busybody. Sara Hennessy plays the Bible-thumper who is ultimately thumped.
Megan Goodchild is the mayor’s Disney-obsessed daughter, the actor carrying the bulk of singing duties. Shannon Holt is the mayor’s fashionista wife, Dana Kelly Jr. is the judge who doesn’t want to be judged, and Jacob Sidney is the German-speaking “doctor.” Eileen T’Kaye plays Osif the servant—the actor given the toughest role of being the moral center at a swirl of miscreants, engaging the audience while not making herself look foolish.
Under Novinski’s direction, the acting is heightened, commedia but not distractingly so, too sophisticated to wink at the audience but somehow inviting us in on the joke. Corruption might not be a hilarious topic on its own, but humankind’s ability to spoof it lives in good health here.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 31, 2012
July 31, 2012
The Adding Machine
Grove Theater Center Burbank
In a world in which job outsourcing and its economic aftershocks have become weapons of political aggression, it’s uncanny how timely Elmer Rice’s script remains despite having originally premiered in 1923. Director Kevin Cochran and a multifaceted cast of eight keep this extended one-act clicking like a well-oiled version of the play’s title. Each scene of Rice’s expressionistic saga is solid enough to stand on its own while collectively conveying an overall sense of anguish.
Heading the cast of Rice’s numerically named characters is David Allen Jones’ outstanding performance as the long suffering Mr. Zero. As we witness the downward spiral of this surrealistic Everyman, Jones demonstrates a remarkable capacity for making the audience feel an almost sympathetic disdain for his character. Married to a shrewish wife, played with gusto by Karen Kalensky, Jones’ Mr. Zero endures a bedroom rant during which fellow actors Kate Danley and Frank Simons tag-team in as Mrs. Zero to push this nightmarish tirade over the top.
The next day, mechanized obsolescence marks Zero’s 35th anniversary on the job as he is unceremoniously pink slipped by David Ghilardi in the role of his thoughtlessly obtuse boss. By the conclusion of this mind-bending journey, Zero has been tried, convicted, and executed for having murdered his superior, all of which leads to a philosophical visit to the afterlife.
The remainder of Cochran’s cast brings to life a bizarre collection of personages. As Daisy Devore, Zero’s workplace associate and object of his romantic fantasies, Jane Macfie creates a believable dichotomy of earthly frustration and post-suicidal happiness as she and Zero meet in a purgatory-like location known as The Elysian Fields. Similarly, Skip Pipo and Joe Langer display a skill for making the most of supporting roles.
The show’s design is a wonder. Leonard Ogden’s constantly unfolding set reminds one of a giant Rubik’s Cube and is in itself worth the price of admission. Particularly gasp-inducing, given the tight confines of this venue, is the set’s transformation into Zero’s jail cell. David Darwin’s lighting and Hunter Stephenson’s sound design are equally emblematic of this fine rendition of Rice’s emotionally charged story.
Grove Theater Center Burbank
In a world in which job outsourcing and its economic aftershocks have become weapons of political aggression, it’s uncanny how timely Elmer Rice’s script remains despite having originally premiered in 1923. Director Kevin Cochran and a multifaceted cast of eight keep this extended one-act clicking like a well-oiled version of the play’s title. Each scene of Rice’s expressionistic saga is solid enough to stand on its own while collectively conveying an overall sense of anguish.
Heading the cast of Rice’s numerically named characters is David Allen Jones’ outstanding performance as the long suffering Mr. Zero. As we witness the downward spiral of this surrealistic Everyman, Jones demonstrates a remarkable capacity for making the audience feel an almost sympathetic disdain for his character. Married to a shrewish wife, played with gusto by Karen Kalensky, Jones’ Mr. Zero endures a bedroom rant during which fellow actors Kate Danley and Frank Simons tag-team in as Mrs. Zero to push this nightmarish tirade over the top.
The next day, mechanized obsolescence marks Zero’s 35th anniversary on the job as he is unceremoniously pink slipped by David Ghilardi in the role of his thoughtlessly obtuse boss. By the conclusion of this mind-bending journey, Zero has been tried, convicted, and executed for having murdered his superior, all of which leads to a philosophical visit to the afterlife.
The remainder of Cochran’s cast brings to life a bizarre collection of personages. As Daisy Devore, Zero’s workplace associate and object of his romantic fantasies, Jane Macfie creates a believable dichotomy of earthly frustration and post-suicidal happiness as she and Zero meet in a purgatory-like location known as The Elysian Fields. Similarly, Skip Pipo and Joe Langer display a skill for making the most of supporting roles.
The show’s design is a wonder. Leonard Ogden’s constantly unfolding set reminds one of a giant Rubik’s Cube and is in itself worth the price of admission. Particularly gasp-inducing, given the tight confines of this venue, is the set’s transformation into Zero’s jail cell. David Darwin’s lighting and Hunter Stephenson’s sound design are equally emblematic of this fine rendition of Rice’s emotionally charged story.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
July 31, 2012
July 31, 2012
The Irish Curse
Odyssey Theatre
As a dramatic event, Martin Casella’s The Irish Curse is a complete and utter contrivance. But within its rickety structure are some pungent, surprising observations on character delivered with a good deal of sincerity, and that’s not nothing.
The best thing Casella has going for him is his premise. Most adults are at least glancingly aware that men’s penises are divvied out by God or nature in a startling variety of dimensions, especially differing lengths. But to be told, as Casella’s characters tell us—boy, oh boy, do they tell us—that being on the super-small side carries with it significant psychic costs is a psychological fact of life that will be new to many audiences; it certainly is a novel insight for the theater to explore.
At the same time, smaller guys’ struggles not to define themselves by physical limitation has striking parallels with numerous other body image issues for men and for women, too. (Last year’s most unfortunate touring show Busting Out was redeemed only insofar as it properly decried society’s prejudices toward full-figured ladies of a certain age.)
Moreover, by pointing out that sons of Eire are famously prone to coming up short—the curse of the title—Casella is also able to dabble in an analysis of ethnic stereotyping’s roots and effects. At least half of dramatic writing is just showing up with a fresh jumping-off point, so on that score: Good on ya, Casella me lad.
On the other hand, not only are small penises Topic A, they’re Topics B through Z as well. With literally nothing else on the minds of the fellas brought together to St. Sebastian’s church basement by Father Kevin (Joe Pacheco), the conversation can’t help but get repetitive and tiresome, even over a fast-paced 90 minutes with the NY premiere’s intermission removed. There’s plenty of leisure to drift away and think of alternative titles (Much Ado About Nothing, It’s Not Easy Being Green), not to mention reflect on what the group could possibly have had to talk about in previous sessions, since everyone here is laying out his entire sad-sack story—pun most definitely intended—in unstinting detail.
Then, too, there are the built-in limitations of the group therapy format, which is inherently undramatic and always sounds phony when it purports to bring a patient’s problems to closure in such a short time. (You’re hearing this from someone who loved The Sopranos but couldn’t fast-forward through the Tony/Dr. Melfi sessions fast enough.)
The play has only been running since July 7, but at the July 18 performance the cast members were already displaying a tendency to be too comfortable with each other. If a small dick is the Irish curse, the difficulty of sustaining the “illusion of the first time” over multiple performances is the actor’s curse, and director Andrew Barnicle’s crew is suffering from it. The actors’ rhythms are too similar and their confrontations too slick; revelations that should startle, attacks that should unnerve are clearly being anticipated across the board. An overrehearsed griot chant about various ethnicities’ genital blessings or lack of same doesn’t work at all, bereft of spontaneity or believability.
Pacheco comes off best in the quintet. Always in the moment, he always leaves something more for us to discover. Austin Hébert, as a hot-tempered working-class youth, would be right up there with Pacheco if he didn’t blast in already dialed up to 10; so, when he has to lose it later, he pushes the dial to a hysterical 11 or 12. (Note to the actor: Watch Jack Warden in the 1957 12 Angry Men for a master class in how to pull back.)
Shaun O’Hagan’s gay Irish cop is too bland; he could plausibly weave in little moments of camp and macho to make his character more than just aggressively suave. Patrick Quinlan seems so intent on creating an authentic brogue as to shortchange his attention to other behavioral dimensions. And brash, bullheaded Scott Conte is simply miscast as a self-described shy attorney, lacking in vocal variety and overusing hand gestures until there’s nothing to pay attention to in his performance but hands—small or otherwise.
Odyssey Theatre
As a dramatic event, Martin Casella’s The Irish Curse is a complete and utter contrivance. But within its rickety structure are some pungent, surprising observations on character delivered with a good deal of sincerity, and that’s not nothing.
The best thing Casella has going for him is his premise. Most adults are at least glancingly aware that men’s penises are divvied out by God or nature in a startling variety of dimensions, especially differing lengths. But to be told, as Casella’s characters tell us—boy, oh boy, do they tell us—that being on the super-small side carries with it significant psychic costs is a psychological fact of life that will be new to many audiences; it certainly is a novel insight for the theater to explore.
At the same time, smaller guys’ struggles not to define themselves by physical limitation has striking parallels with numerous other body image issues for men and for women, too. (Last year’s most unfortunate touring show Busting Out was redeemed only insofar as it properly decried society’s prejudices toward full-figured ladies of a certain age.)
Moreover, by pointing out that sons of Eire are famously prone to coming up short—the curse of the title—Casella is also able to dabble in an analysis of ethnic stereotyping’s roots and effects. At least half of dramatic writing is just showing up with a fresh jumping-off point, so on that score: Good on ya, Casella me lad.
On the other hand, not only are small penises Topic A, they’re Topics B through Z as well. With literally nothing else on the minds of the fellas brought together to St. Sebastian’s church basement by Father Kevin (Joe Pacheco), the conversation can’t help but get repetitive and tiresome, even over a fast-paced 90 minutes with the NY premiere’s intermission removed. There’s plenty of leisure to drift away and think of alternative titles (Much Ado About Nothing, It’s Not Easy Being Green), not to mention reflect on what the group could possibly have had to talk about in previous sessions, since everyone here is laying out his entire sad-sack story—pun most definitely intended—in unstinting detail.
Then, too, there are the built-in limitations of the group therapy format, which is inherently undramatic and always sounds phony when it purports to bring a patient’s problems to closure in such a short time. (You’re hearing this from someone who loved The Sopranos but couldn’t fast-forward through the Tony/Dr. Melfi sessions fast enough.)
The play has only been running since July 7, but at the July 18 performance the cast members were already displaying a tendency to be too comfortable with each other. If a small dick is the Irish curse, the difficulty of sustaining the “illusion of the first time” over multiple performances is the actor’s curse, and director Andrew Barnicle’s crew is suffering from it. The actors’ rhythms are too similar and their confrontations too slick; revelations that should startle, attacks that should unnerve are clearly being anticipated across the board. An overrehearsed griot chant about various ethnicities’ genital blessings or lack of same doesn’t work at all, bereft of spontaneity or believability.
Pacheco comes off best in the quintet. Always in the moment, he always leaves something more for us to discover. Austin Hébert, as a hot-tempered working-class youth, would be right up there with Pacheco if he didn’t blast in already dialed up to 10; so, when he has to lose it later, he pushes the dial to a hysterical 11 or 12. (Note to the actor: Watch Jack Warden in the 1957 12 Angry Men for a master class in how to pull back.)
Shaun O’Hagan’s gay Irish cop is too bland; he could plausibly weave in little moments of camp and macho to make his character more than just aggressively suave. Patrick Quinlan seems so intent on creating an authentic brogue as to shortchange his attention to other behavioral dimensions. And brash, bullheaded Scott Conte is simply miscast as a self-described shy attorney, lacking in vocal variety and overusing hand gestures until there’s nothing to pay attention to in his performance but hands—small or otherwise.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
July 19, 2012
July 19, 2012
Shakespeare’s Macbeth
Antaeus Company at Deaf West Theatre
Are we, as an educated audience, expected to know exactly when Macbeth “turns”— when the pathologically evil ambition overtakes his soul? Or must the change in him be left open to interpretation? The answer may determine which cast to see in this double-cast production of Shakespeare’s “Scottish play,” illuminatingly directed by Jessica Kubzansky.
All the dramatis personae are introduced to the audience in Kubzansky’s prologue—not the only interesting emendation to the play but certainly the first and most apparent. The Macbeths are burying their dead infant, while fellow families come to mourn, spilling onto the stage, wearing sashes in the plaids of their real-life clans to establish for the audience, early on, the characters’ relationships (costume design by Jessica Olson). There, Rob Nagle’s Macbeth weeps openly for his child, whereas Bo Foxworth’s Macbeth holds it together until he is alone. Their Lady Macbeths join in the rending of garments. And so, the director seems to be saying, out of the deepest grief parents can feel, some succumb to the darkness within.
One of the not-dark aspects of this production is the depth of talent onstage. Between Kubzansky and text coach Armin Shimerman—who shares the role of Ross with the equally articulate John Sloan—even the “minor” players on the stage know whereof they speak. Christian Barillas and Brian Tichnell are exceptionally fine as young Malcolm, and minds may wander to imagine them taking on the title role in a few years.
The witches are played by veteran stage actors Fran Bennett, Susan Boyd, Jane Carr, Saundra McClain, Joyce Lorna Raver, and Elizabeth Swain—and could have kept the audience’s attention all evening with their clear, distinctive interpretation of the dialogue. Notably, Kubzansky brings them to the banquet; Banquo’s ghost is in Macbeth’s mind only.
Among the more differing of the portrayals are Tessa Auberjonois and Ann Noble as Lady Macbeth. Auberjonois introduces her as initially insecure and paints her with realism, even her extreme ambition, which makes hers the more terrifying portrayal. Noble begins as heightened, one might say “theatrical,” but the actor offers so much insight into the language that hers might be the more cerebrally interesting performance. So which cast to see?
Assuming the characters are changing as a result of their grief, sadness guides Nagle’s Macbeth down his path, while anger motivates Foxworth’s Macbeth. And, in answer to the question of the character’s turning point, Foxworth seems to begin changing with the witches’ first prophecy. One may not even notice the change in Nagle.
Certainly both Macbeths can keep an audience in thrall. On opening weekend, the house was completely silent and still during Nagle’s “Is this a dagger which I see before me” speech; next night at the same point during Foxworth’s delivery, an audience member turned to see whether a dagger indeed hung in the air.
Tom Buderwitz’s set is an outdoors-indoors affair, with seating that appears to be rocky benches or draped chaises longues, as circumstances demand. A back gate somewhat hidden by a sturdy tree allows the witches to disappear into Scottish mists. John Zalewski’s subtle sound design surrounds the audience with weather effects, animal calls, and general malaise. Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting creates frosty days, eerie nights, and, upon Malcolm’s accession to the throne, thawing sunlight.
Antaeus Company at Deaf West Theatre
Are we, as an educated audience, expected to know exactly when Macbeth “turns”— when the pathologically evil ambition overtakes his soul? Or must the change in him be left open to interpretation? The answer may determine which cast to see in this double-cast production of Shakespeare’s “Scottish play,” illuminatingly directed by Jessica Kubzansky.
All the dramatis personae are introduced to the audience in Kubzansky’s prologue—not the only interesting emendation to the play but certainly the first and most apparent. The Macbeths are burying their dead infant, while fellow families come to mourn, spilling onto the stage, wearing sashes in the plaids of their real-life clans to establish for the audience, early on, the characters’ relationships (costume design by Jessica Olson). There, Rob Nagle’s Macbeth weeps openly for his child, whereas Bo Foxworth’s Macbeth holds it together until he is alone. Their Lady Macbeths join in the rending of garments. And so, the director seems to be saying, out of the deepest grief parents can feel, some succumb to the darkness within.
One of the not-dark aspects of this production is the depth of talent onstage. Between Kubzansky and text coach Armin Shimerman—who shares the role of Ross with the equally articulate John Sloan—even the “minor” players on the stage know whereof they speak. Christian Barillas and Brian Tichnell are exceptionally fine as young Malcolm, and minds may wander to imagine them taking on the title role in a few years.
The witches are played by veteran stage actors Fran Bennett, Susan Boyd, Jane Carr, Saundra McClain, Joyce Lorna Raver, and Elizabeth Swain—and could have kept the audience’s attention all evening with their clear, distinctive interpretation of the dialogue. Notably, Kubzansky brings them to the banquet; Banquo’s ghost is in Macbeth’s mind only.
Among the more differing of the portrayals are Tessa Auberjonois and Ann Noble as Lady Macbeth. Auberjonois introduces her as initially insecure and paints her with realism, even her extreme ambition, which makes hers the more terrifying portrayal. Noble begins as heightened, one might say “theatrical,” but the actor offers so much insight into the language that hers might be the more cerebrally interesting performance. So which cast to see?
Assuming the characters are changing as a result of their grief, sadness guides Nagle’s Macbeth down his path, while anger motivates Foxworth’s Macbeth. And, in answer to the question of the character’s turning point, Foxworth seems to begin changing with the witches’ first prophecy. One may not even notice the change in Nagle.
Certainly both Macbeths can keep an audience in thrall. On opening weekend, the house was completely silent and still during Nagle’s “Is this a dagger which I see before me” speech; next night at the same point during Foxworth’s delivery, an audience member turned to see whether a dagger indeed hung in the air.
Tom Buderwitz’s set is an outdoors-indoors affair, with seating that appears to be rocky benches or draped chaises longues, as circumstances demand. A back gate somewhat hidden by a sturdy tree allows the witches to disappear into Scottish mists. John Zalewski’s subtle sound design surrounds the audience with weather effects, animal calls, and general malaise. Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting creates frosty days, eerie nights, and, upon Malcolm’s accession to the throne, thawing sunlight.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 16, 2012
July 16, 2012
The Exorcist
Geffen Playhouse
Give John Doyle’s direction its due: It lends an effective visual and aural atmosphere to a problematic script. Regrettably, the direction does not quite create the fearsome battleground presumably intended by the writers. John Pielmeier’s scrip, in its premiere here, is of course based on William Peter Blatty’s iconic novel. Missing from the direction is thorough-enough dramaturgy and any passion—maternal or religious.
Said script is unfortunately almost laughable in its on-the-nose dialogue, shoehorned facts, and effortful relevancy. On top of that, for a play about characters in extreme crises, the storytelling is awkwardly anemic. The uniform flatness of the acting might have worked—indeed might be a better choice than melodrama—had the actors also been allowed to reveal the underlying traumas and guilts their characters faced in the novel.
The performers probably shouldn’t be faulted here. The young girl at the center of the story, Regan, is played by Emily Yetter with enough touches of innocence and demonic possession to create the character. But she remains, at least externally, pristine and hale throughout—not that the audience needs to see guts and gore—so that the script’s repeated exclamation of “She’s dying!” earns derision rather than caring.
Certainly the comedic relief of Harry Groener’s British film director, Burke Demmings, is a delight—seemingly showy only because it contrasts with the surrounding emotional bleakness. Richard Chamberlain is in magnificent voice and perhaps for this reason was given the narrator’s role in addition to playing Father Merrin, the priest who begins the exorcism. The priest who ends it, Father Karras, should be the most interesting character onstage; fortunately, played by David Wilson Barnes, he is.
But Brooke Shields seems to take the unimpassioned style of the piece to heart, creating an unmaternal mother and almost objective observer. Roslyn Ruff does respectable work playing Carla, the conflation of the servants and assistant in the novel. Carla is African and given a backstory of wrongdoing in her native land, presumably meant to tie in with the play’s “evil is everywhere” theme. Unfortunately, knowledge that the original characters were Caucasian makes this choice cringe-inducing, as Carla seems to come onstage mostly to fetch and carry.
Stephen Bogardus, Manoel Felciano, and Tom Nelis are cast in exceedingly minor roles.
Their talents are wasted.
The many scenes and locales are staged primarily in one playing space, on Scott Pask’s set. Wrought iron screening serves as a backdrop. Scenes cleverly overlap as pairs of actors continue conversations across other actors. The screening serves to create “rooms” while performers not in the scene stand behind it and contribute sound effects, murmurs, and the demonic voices in Regan.
Pask’s costumes are black, white, and shades of gray, so the play’s final visual bit is quite the contrast. Jane Cox’s lighting design offers the thrills here, and Dan Moses Schreier’s sound design gives the startling moments their punch—though the design also, perhaps kindly, offers advance notice to the observant.
Toward the play’s end, even if the script isn’t peaking, at least the stagecraft reaches a climax or two—including a nifty illusion by Teller (of Penn & Teller) and a splashy bit of bloodshed. And then all chance of redemption is dashed by the dialogue’s preachy ending, including its newsflash that evil still lurks in the hearts of men.
Geffen Playhouse
Give John Doyle’s direction its due: It lends an effective visual and aural atmosphere to a problematic script. Regrettably, the direction does not quite create the fearsome battleground presumably intended by the writers. John Pielmeier’s scrip, in its premiere here, is of course based on William Peter Blatty’s iconic novel. Missing from the direction is thorough-enough dramaturgy and any passion—maternal or religious.
Said script is unfortunately almost laughable in its on-the-nose dialogue, shoehorned facts, and effortful relevancy. On top of that, for a play about characters in extreme crises, the storytelling is awkwardly anemic. The uniform flatness of the acting might have worked—indeed might be a better choice than melodrama—had the actors also been allowed to reveal the underlying traumas and guilts their characters faced in the novel.
The performers probably shouldn’t be faulted here. The young girl at the center of the story, Regan, is played by Emily Yetter with enough touches of innocence and demonic possession to create the character. But she remains, at least externally, pristine and hale throughout—not that the audience needs to see guts and gore—so that the script’s repeated exclamation of “She’s dying!” earns derision rather than caring.
Certainly the comedic relief of Harry Groener’s British film director, Burke Demmings, is a delight—seemingly showy only because it contrasts with the surrounding emotional bleakness. Richard Chamberlain is in magnificent voice and perhaps for this reason was given the narrator’s role in addition to playing Father Merrin, the priest who begins the exorcism. The priest who ends it, Father Karras, should be the most interesting character onstage; fortunately, played by David Wilson Barnes, he is.
But Brooke Shields seems to take the unimpassioned style of the piece to heart, creating an unmaternal mother and almost objective observer. Roslyn Ruff does respectable work playing Carla, the conflation of the servants and assistant in the novel. Carla is African and given a backstory of wrongdoing in her native land, presumably meant to tie in with the play’s “evil is everywhere” theme. Unfortunately, knowledge that the original characters were Caucasian makes this choice cringe-inducing, as Carla seems to come onstage mostly to fetch and carry.
Stephen Bogardus, Manoel Felciano, and Tom Nelis are cast in exceedingly minor roles.
Their talents are wasted.
The many scenes and locales are staged primarily in one playing space, on Scott Pask’s set. Wrought iron screening serves as a backdrop. Scenes cleverly overlap as pairs of actors continue conversations across other actors. The screening serves to create “rooms” while performers not in the scene stand behind it and contribute sound effects, murmurs, and the demonic voices in Regan.
Pask’s costumes are black, white, and shades of gray, so the play’s final visual bit is quite the contrast. Jane Cox’s lighting design offers the thrills here, and Dan Moses Schreier’s sound design gives the startling moments their punch—though the design also, perhaps kindly, offers advance notice to the observant.
Toward the play’s end, even if the script isn’t peaking, at least the stagecraft reaches a climax or two—including a nifty illusion by Teller (of Penn & Teller) and a splashy bit of bloodshed. And then all chance of redemption is dashed by the dialogue’s preachy ending, including its newsflash that evil still lurks in the hearts of men.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 13, 2012
July 13, 2012
The Immigrant
West Coast Jewish Theatre at Pico Playhouse
West Coast Jewish Theatre at Pico Playhouse
In
the case of so many musicals, audiences tolerate the book so we can get
to the songs. Here, however, the book’s the thing wherein the musical
catches the conscience of the audience. Small wonder, as this work is
based on the charming stage play of the same name by bookwriter Mark
Harelik.
The score (lyrics by Sarah Knapp, music by Steven M. Alper), though,
is not uninteresting. It’s syncopated and somewhat dissonant, which
underpins the immigrants’ failure to feel completely at home but which
also occasionally distracts while the voices sing over the irregular
rhythms.
The tale told is of Harelik’s grandfather, a Jewish man who escaped
persecution in his native Russia to come to America, arriving in Texas.
Selling fruit from a cart but speaking minimal English—mostly “banana,
one penny”—Haskell Harelik drops from exhaustion in the yard of Milton
and Ima Perry, who, long story short, befriend him and then the wife he
eventually brings over.
The story is one of commonality and kindness and the conflicts that
arise when we offer help and try hard not to expect anything in return.
Director Howard Teichman creates a long-ago world that feels vibrant,
and the visuals help move the narrative while trusting our imaginations.
Haskell is given a scholarly, determined, but caring feel by Gary
Patent, who has a charming singing voice. The Perrys are given warm,
patient, understanding personalities by Anthony Gruppuso and Cheryl
David. Gruppuso has a natural onstage physicality, so Milton’s aging is
shockingly realistic. David takes a more comedic tack, but her solo
“Keep Him Safe” is stunningly touching.
The better marriage in this production belongs to Milton and Ima. In large part that may be because Dana Shaw has chosen to play Leah Harelik as shrewishly unhappy rather than gently unhappy. This
Haskell and Leah seem to stay together because of, pardon the
reference, tradition. But Milton and Ima prod and coax and tease each
other into becoming better people, and we know they’re in love for the
duration.
Yes, Ima’s pronunciation of Yiddish with a Texas accent gets the
laughs. But other faiths ought to appreciate Haskell’s
stranger-in-a-strange-land efforts to be understood when he begs for
water to drink, then to wash in, and then for a place to stay. So this
is not “Jewish theater” but rather theater about human experiences that
should be seen by all audiences.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 9, 2012
Stoneface
Sacred Fools Theater
and
Beautified
Katselas Theatre Company at Skylight Theatre
Little links these two world premiere plays for me, except that I saw them on consecutive nights and each is inspired by, and celebrates, a real-life figure. One production had me leaping from my seat; the other had me squirming in it.
The triumph was Sacred Fools’ Stoneface, whose subtitle The Rise & Fall & Rise of Buster Keaton seemed to promise one of those standard, clichéd, name-dropping bioplays in which you can practically hear the 3x5 cards fall as the author shoehorns in all the researched facts of a Hollywood life. But Vanessa Stewart’s approach to structure is considerably fresher and more complex than that.
It’s most ingenious of her to careen back and forth in time to reveal the perfectionism, fecklessness, and childhood traumas that contributed to Keaton’s lifetime’s worth of great (professional) and poor (personal) choices. It’s equally impressive how she and helmer Jaime Robledo weave in actual Keaton film clips, as well as clips newly created for the production, on top of live re-creations of cinematically inspired conventions performed live on stage. The marriage to Norma Talmadge, for instance, is narrated and staged as Mack Sennett would have included it in a Keystone comedy; and home life briefly shared with Scott Leggett’s Fatty Arbuckle opens Act Two with a hilarious sequence involving a Rube Goldberg–like “machine for living.”
Always aware of Keaton as a man both in and of cinema, Stewart and her collaborators skillfully employ cinematic DNA to craft a detailed, persuasive portrait. I do think she could have made more of the convention of having two actors portraying the old and young Buster: They have a few brief confrontations and one sweet homage to the mirror sequence from Duck Soup, but a brooding fellow like Keaton ought to be even more in touch with, and inquiring of, his younger self. Still, in the remarkable hands of French Stewart (the author’s spouse) and Joe Fria, old and young Buster together made me feel I was learning quite a bit about an artist I felt I’d known pretty well when I walked in.
I knew very little about the main character of Beautified when it was over, I’m afraid, but while at the Skylight I learned a great deal about the face of my wristwatch, which I consulted for what seemed like a world-record number of times. I was more than prepared to be persuaded that playwright Tony Abatemarco’s late brother, a hairdresser by trade, was a warm person and fine friend, but this clunky, inept tribute play never met me halfway.
A husband and father comes out of the closet late in life, and a mousy Republican (code for bigoted and small-minded) becomes a customer in his shop and a confidante over 30-odd years. And in all that time, they never have one substantial conversation? Not one meaningful conflict of values? Later on, our hero finds a partner about whom we learn nothing, and his supposed close friend and client never has anything to say about the partner? Or about sexuality generally? Come on. Their climactic fight is over Heath Ledger’s not winning the Oscar for Brokeback Mountain. Say what?
Two things bugged me most of all. I am really tired of plays and films that exploit the crazy fashions of the past for cheap, easy gags. In the 1970s, the hairdresser is put in humiliating Rod Stewart drag, tight pants, blond shag, and all, just so the audience can engage in smug hardy-har-har. It rarely seems to occur to directors or costume designers that people wear clothes in every era for a reason, and that maybe the respect owed to characters should include an effort to understand why they dressed in a particular way. (For a cool, recent counterexample, check out the underseen and underappreciated Ang Lee film Taking Woodstock, in which ’60s fashions are wacky but never condescended to because the spirit in which they’re worn is sympathetic and inclusive.)
Even more annoying is the way Beautified has the customer character presume from the outset that we are in sync with her. Utilizing the world’s laziest playwriting tool—direct address—she’s brought right into the center aisle to get all cozy and familiar with us. I’m sorry, I like Karen Austin as an actor as much as the next man does, but a character has to earn that intimacy. It’s presumptuous and off-putting to take for granted that an audience wants to take a narrator to its heart. At the performance I attended, the reaction to her intrusiveness was pretty much stonefaced resistance, killing the warmth and laughter that seem to have been intended.
It occurs to me that I just used the word “stonefaced.” What do you know, these two shows had something else in common after all.
Sacred Fools Theater
and
Beautified
Katselas Theatre Company at Skylight Theatre
Little links these two world premiere plays for me, except that I saw them on consecutive nights and each is inspired by, and celebrates, a real-life figure. One production had me leaping from my seat; the other had me squirming in it.
The triumph was Sacred Fools’ Stoneface, whose subtitle The Rise & Fall & Rise of Buster Keaton seemed to promise one of those standard, clichéd, name-dropping bioplays in which you can practically hear the 3x5 cards fall as the author shoehorns in all the researched facts of a Hollywood life. But Vanessa Stewart’s approach to structure is considerably fresher and more complex than that.
It’s most ingenious of her to careen back and forth in time to reveal the perfectionism, fecklessness, and childhood traumas that contributed to Keaton’s lifetime’s worth of great (professional) and poor (personal) choices. It’s equally impressive how she and helmer Jaime Robledo weave in actual Keaton film clips, as well as clips newly created for the production, on top of live re-creations of cinematically inspired conventions performed live on stage. The marriage to Norma Talmadge, for instance, is narrated and staged as Mack Sennett would have included it in a Keystone comedy; and home life briefly shared with Scott Leggett’s Fatty Arbuckle opens Act Two with a hilarious sequence involving a Rube Goldberg–like “machine for living.”
Always aware of Keaton as a man both in and of cinema, Stewart and her collaborators skillfully employ cinematic DNA to craft a detailed, persuasive portrait. I do think she could have made more of the convention of having two actors portraying the old and young Buster: They have a few brief confrontations and one sweet homage to the mirror sequence from Duck Soup, but a brooding fellow like Keaton ought to be even more in touch with, and inquiring of, his younger self. Still, in the remarkable hands of French Stewart (the author’s spouse) and Joe Fria, old and young Buster together made me feel I was learning quite a bit about an artist I felt I’d known pretty well when I walked in.
I knew very little about the main character of Beautified when it was over, I’m afraid, but while at the Skylight I learned a great deal about the face of my wristwatch, which I consulted for what seemed like a world-record number of times. I was more than prepared to be persuaded that playwright Tony Abatemarco’s late brother, a hairdresser by trade, was a warm person and fine friend, but this clunky, inept tribute play never met me halfway.
A husband and father comes out of the closet late in life, and a mousy Republican (code for bigoted and small-minded) becomes a customer in his shop and a confidante over 30-odd years. And in all that time, they never have one substantial conversation? Not one meaningful conflict of values? Later on, our hero finds a partner about whom we learn nothing, and his supposed close friend and client never has anything to say about the partner? Or about sexuality generally? Come on. Their climactic fight is over Heath Ledger’s not winning the Oscar for Brokeback Mountain. Say what?
Two things bugged me most of all. I am really tired of plays and films that exploit the crazy fashions of the past for cheap, easy gags. In the 1970s, the hairdresser is put in humiliating Rod Stewart drag, tight pants, blond shag, and all, just so the audience can engage in smug hardy-har-har. It rarely seems to occur to directors or costume designers that people wear clothes in every era for a reason, and that maybe the respect owed to characters should include an effort to understand why they dressed in a particular way. (For a cool, recent counterexample, check out the underseen and underappreciated Ang Lee film Taking Woodstock, in which ’60s fashions are wacky but never condescended to because the spirit in which they’re worn is sympathetic and inclusive.)
Even more annoying is the way Beautified has the customer character presume from the outset that we are in sync with her. Utilizing the world’s laziest playwriting tool—direct address—she’s brought right into the center aisle to get all cozy and familiar with us. I’m sorry, I like Karen Austin as an actor as much as the next man does, but a character has to earn that intimacy. It’s presumptuous and off-putting to take for granted that an audience wants to take a narrator to its heart. At the performance I attended, the reaction to her intrusiveness was pretty much stonefaced resistance, killing the warmth and laughter that seem to have been intended.
It occurs to me that I just used the word “stonefaced.” What do you know, these two shows had something else in common after all.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
July 5, 2012
July 5, 2012
War Horse
The National Theatre of Great Britain at Ahmanson Theatre
The National Theatre of Great Britain at Ahmanson Theatre
“Where
have you been?” asks soldier Albert of his beloved horse Joey near the
conclusion of this epic tale. Yes, we’ve spoiled the ending, as you now
can be certain man and steed make it through World War I. But the answer
to the question is the artistic—dare it be called unique—recounting of a
straightforward but unfortunately historic tale, based on the novel by
Michael Morpurgo, adapted by Nick Stafford, and directed by Bijan
Sheibani based on the original direction of Marianne Elliott and Tom
Morris.
Albert is played by a flesh-and-blood actor, and a fine one. Andrew
Veenstra ages beautifully, at first playing a young teen whose father
(Todd Cerveris) spends the mortgage money on a foal, then growing up
quickly on the battlefields. What makes this production a must see,
however, is the work of those who created and still create Joey and his
fellow animals: Handspring Puppet Company and the performers.
The puppeteers for Joey and his colleague Topthorn are triple-cast,
three people per horse. They lovingly re-create equines—including
skittish fits and starts, twitching ears and tail, and that most
horselike capability of being playful and intensely hardworking.
Rae Smith’s set design consists primarily of drawings projected on a
strip of paper, for good reasons. This is a story torn from history, a
torn page is figuring throughout the journeys, and it’s a quick and
relatively easy way to establish time and place. The projections set the
scene with words; they also quickly convey symbolic meaning faster than
words could, as when splatters of blood grow and morph into the poppies
that have come to memorialize the war dead. Christopher Shutt’s sound
design takes the audience deep into battle.
There’s another charming performance, this one by Lavita Shaurice as
she plays—pardon the Franglish, but it’s a running joke in the show—une
petite French lass whose jangled wartime nerves are soothed by Joey’s
presence.
The storytelling is direct, the history is well-known, and the plight
of the horses is sentimentalized. And yet, as Joey struggles and
triumphs through strength and will, we might just think, “If a horse can
determine his fate and overcome the seemingly insurmountable, so can
I.”
One oddity: Who can name another British script in which the Germans
are portrayed as reasonable, pacifistic, and truthful? In this one,
Captain Friedrich Muller (Andrew May) defects to head for a sane life in
Switzerland, and another soldier collaborates—in the good sense—with a
Brit to free Joey from barbed wire. Or is the story barbed, delivered to
fellow countrymen who are trying to forgive and forget? War is at end,
the Brits absolve the Germans, and all ends happily. Right?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 30, 2012
The Savannah Disputation
Colony Theatre
Million Dollar Quartet
Broadway/LA at Pantages Theatre
Goodness gracious, check out the megastar-in-waiting among this quartet of talents. Meanwhile, the framing device that brings their characters onstage together suits the evening, feeling neither gratuitous nor forced, in this musical with book by Colin Escott and Floyd Mutrux, original concept and direction by Mutrux.
Said device is the real-life historic night in 1956 when record-producer and star-maker Sam Phillips lured four of his musicians to the Sun Records studio to conduct a bit of business and a lot of songs. Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley were on the road to becoming legends; Jerry Lee Lewis was a pesky kid just breaking in.
The four performers portraying them sing, act, and play their musical instruments (yes, live onstage) very much in the style of the musicians they embody. The performers’ musicianship is outstanding, their physicality organic and looking mighty authentic. Derek Keeling plies his easygoing bass-baritone as Cash, Cody Slaughter has the look and moves of Presley—if not all of the allure—and Lee Ferris turns the now-lesser-known Perkins into a vibrant personality who holds his own against his two fellow greats.
But Martin Kaye, as a callow Lewis, gives one of the outstanding performances of the year—in musical theater or otherwise. From the second he begins flailing at the piano—legs splayed and pumping in syncopation, spine lashing with the bouncy blues—Kaye creates an indelible portrait. Indeed, one might wonder if the actor is on a performance-enhancing chemical, at least until he steps upstage to the shadows and, with relief, we notice he can stand perfectly still if needed. Kaye has crisp comedic timing, limning a believably flirtatious, happily bumptious newcomer to the illustrious quartet. And don’t miss his jazz licks in “Fever.”
In the evening’s one conceit that seems slightly gratuitous—even if factual—a female presence takes the stage for several numbers. Kelly Lamont plays Elvis’ girlfriend Dyanne, who provides a foil for Lewis and a balm for the men’s flickering tempers.
In case the fact gets lost in the high-wattage activity surrounding him onstage, a darned fine actor plays Phillips. Christopher Ryan Grant is a gracious host who also creates a man about to be sandbagged but strong enough to stand right back up.
Bass player Chuck Zayas does it all, including a bit of acting. Drummer Billy Shaffer does exactly what must be done, including setting and keeping the tempi and dynamics beautifully in check.
Throughout the show, Howell Binkley’s lighting gently creates a look back at the 1950s. For the encores, however, the lighting seems to build another dimension. The scene looks crisper, sharper, more modern, taking its audiences back to the present and urging us back on our feet to dance. Yes, even a certain cranky old critic was up. We weren’t fakin’, whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.
Colony Theatre
Two Catholic
sisters—in the biological sense, not the devotional sense—live together
but have divergent personalities and coping mechanisms in Evan Smith’s
smart, multidimensional play. So, when their seemingly placid lives are
under attack, thought-provoking conflict ensues.
Mary (Anne Gee Byrd) is about to hear presumably bad news about her
health; intriguingly, the audience never hears the news, because
Margaret (Bonnie Bailey-Reed) is trying to hide the phone calls.
Coincidentally—or perhaps not—Christian missionary Melissa (Rebecca
Mozo) rings the sisters’ doorbell, ready to proselytize. But of course
Melissa has her own personal issues. Meanwhile, Mary calls for backup,
inviting Father Murphy (Josh Clark) to the house to debate Melissa on
points of scripture.
Balance is maintained under Cameron Watson’s direction. The play
doesn’t get mired in religious discourse, nor does it suffer from
cuteness. The characters’ flaws are not forced, nor are they mocked.
Humor amply flows in just when the audience’s dander might be rising.
The actors have completely done their “homework” individually and as an
ensemble, leaving the audience to pay attention to story rather than
acting technique.
It turns out the sisters don’t know their religion as fully as they
thought. What mere mortal does? Father Murphy has written an armful of
academic books on various topics, and they are obviously a drop in the
sea.
For those whose concerns might keep them away, this production is not
anti-religious. It is anti-ignorance, willful or otherwise. Ultimately,
for these people, the human relationships are there when the precepts
seem to falter.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 25, 2012
June 25, 2012
Million Dollar Quartet
Broadway/LA at Pantages Theatre
Goodness gracious, check out the megastar-in-waiting among this quartet of talents. Meanwhile, the framing device that brings their characters onstage together suits the evening, feeling neither gratuitous nor forced, in this musical with book by Colin Escott and Floyd Mutrux, original concept and direction by Mutrux.
Said device is the real-life historic night in 1956 when record-producer and star-maker Sam Phillips lured four of his musicians to the Sun Records studio to conduct a bit of business and a lot of songs. Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley were on the road to becoming legends; Jerry Lee Lewis was a pesky kid just breaking in.
The four performers portraying them sing, act, and play their musical instruments (yes, live onstage) very much in the style of the musicians they embody. The performers’ musicianship is outstanding, their physicality organic and looking mighty authentic. Derek Keeling plies his easygoing bass-baritone as Cash, Cody Slaughter has the look and moves of Presley—if not all of the allure—and Lee Ferris turns the now-lesser-known Perkins into a vibrant personality who holds his own against his two fellow greats.
But Martin Kaye, as a callow Lewis, gives one of the outstanding performances of the year—in musical theater or otherwise. From the second he begins flailing at the piano—legs splayed and pumping in syncopation, spine lashing with the bouncy blues—Kaye creates an indelible portrait. Indeed, one might wonder if the actor is on a performance-enhancing chemical, at least until he steps upstage to the shadows and, with relief, we notice he can stand perfectly still if needed. Kaye has crisp comedic timing, limning a believably flirtatious, happily bumptious newcomer to the illustrious quartet. And don’t miss his jazz licks in “Fever.”
In the evening’s one conceit that seems slightly gratuitous—even if factual—a female presence takes the stage for several numbers. Kelly Lamont plays Elvis’ girlfriend Dyanne, who provides a foil for Lewis and a balm for the men’s flickering tempers.
In case the fact gets lost in the high-wattage activity surrounding him onstage, a darned fine actor plays Phillips. Christopher Ryan Grant is a gracious host who also creates a man about to be sandbagged but strong enough to stand right back up.
Bass player Chuck Zayas does it all, including a bit of acting. Drummer Billy Shaffer does exactly what must be done, including setting and keeping the tempi and dynamics beautifully in check.
Throughout the show, Howell Binkley’s lighting gently creates a look back at the 1950s. For the encores, however, the lighting seems to build another dimension. The scene looks crisper, sharper, more modern, taking its audiences back to the present and urging us back on our feet to dance. Yes, even a certain cranky old critic was up. We weren’t fakin’, whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 20, 2012
June 20, 2012
Richard Parker
Hollywood Fringe Festival
Two men, one boat, and a world of existentialism combine onstage in this British import. Owen Thomas’ script is an interesting meditation on fate, coincidence, nature, indeed many forces bigger than ourselves—and the parts we play in them.
In the first scene, two men meet on shipboard and find connections in past and present circumstances. In the second, the men are adrift in a lifeboat, covered in seagull guano—which explains a lengthy blackout between the scenes. The men take turns being the chattier or being in the catbird seat.
The hourlong work takes more than one leaf out of Waiting for Godot. Gareth John Bale (who “did most of” the direction) and Alastair Sill adeptly ply their characterizations, gently giving pathos to the funny moments and levity to the weighty ones.
Gumshoe McMonocle and the Strange Case of Rumpelsomething
Omnipresent Puppet Theater at Hollywood Fringe
Bah, it’s a show for kids, right? Very wrong. The magic of puppetry and the mystery of our mind’s ability to see real people in the hands, literally, of a puppeteer make this charmer appealing to all ages. The story of Rumpelstiltskin is told by a 1940s noir detective (oh, why not!) who is slightly narcoleptic and rather inept. The puppets are adorable, the props induce lasting fits of the giggles, and puppetmaker-writer-stagehand Don Kruszka is as kind a host as he is a charming puppeteer. Fun voices and those little puppet gestures that turn Styrofoam into warm flesh are Kruszka’s tools, just as Meryl Streep’s translucent expressions and spot-on accents are hers.
Rumpelstiltskin helps the miller’s daughter turn straw into gold, demands her first-born child in exchange, then tries to avoid, uh, detection by Gumshoe McMonocle. A cooing baby (tee hee), a mole and a pigeon (heh), a miller who sounds like Leslie Jordan (yay), and a Rumpelstiltskin with eyes like a deranged cat’s (yikes) populate (uh, puppulate?) the stage. For the philosophers in the audience, however, what’s this strange fairy tale’s moral? Maybe that’s another mystery for Mr. McMonocle to solve.
Hollywood Fringe Festival
Two men, one boat, and a world of existentialism combine onstage in this British import. Owen Thomas’ script is an interesting meditation on fate, coincidence, nature, indeed many forces bigger than ourselves—and the parts we play in them.
In the first scene, two men meet on shipboard and find connections in past and present circumstances. In the second, the men are adrift in a lifeboat, covered in seagull guano—which explains a lengthy blackout between the scenes. The men take turns being the chattier or being in the catbird seat.
The hourlong work takes more than one leaf out of Waiting for Godot. Gareth John Bale (who “did most of” the direction) and Alastair Sill adeptly ply their characterizations, gently giving pathos to the funny moments and levity to the weighty ones.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 16, 2012
June 16, 2012
Gumshoe McMonocle and the Strange Case of Rumpelsomething
Omnipresent Puppet Theater at Hollywood Fringe
Bah, it’s a show for kids, right? Very wrong. The magic of puppetry and the mystery of our mind’s ability to see real people in the hands, literally, of a puppeteer make this charmer appealing to all ages. The story of Rumpelstiltskin is told by a 1940s noir detective (oh, why not!) who is slightly narcoleptic and rather inept. The puppets are adorable, the props induce lasting fits of the giggles, and puppetmaker-writer-stagehand Don Kruszka is as kind a host as he is a charming puppeteer. Fun voices and those little puppet gestures that turn Styrofoam into warm flesh are Kruszka’s tools, just as Meryl Streep’s translucent expressions and spot-on accents are hers.
Rumpelstiltskin helps the miller’s daughter turn straw into gold, demands her first-born child in exchange, then tries to avoid, uh, detection by Gumshoe McMonocle. A cooing baby (tee hee), a mole and a pigeon (heh), a miller who sounds like Leslie Jordan (yay), and a Rumpelstiltskin with eyes like a deranged cat’s (yikes) populate (uh, puppulate?) the stage. For the philosophers in the audience, however, what’s this strange fairy tale’s moral? Maybe that’s another mystery for Mr. McMonocle to solve.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 12, 2012
June 12, 2012
The Children
The Theatre @ Boston Court
We’ve learned to fly. We’ve learned to cure diseases. And, for those whose boat it floats, we’ve learned to communicate using our thumbs and tiny electrical devices. What haven’t we learned in nearly 2,500 years? We haven’t learned to control our homicidal urges, particularly toward our children. On the other hand, we’ve kept one of our magnificent traditions alive: storytelling.
The power of storytelling may be this play’s central metaphor and message. It certainly proves to be the play’s central virtue. It’s a good thing myths have come to us through hundreds of generations, because they provide us with lifesaving advice and, for what it’s worth, hope.
In The Children, playwright Michael Elyanow has molded the myth of Medea to suit modern times in this world premiere directed by Jessica Kubzansky with attention to the intellect and room for the heart. As befits modern times, the story centers on the two children, brother and sister, who are taken via an act of kindness from ancient Greece to modern Maine, where turbulent waters and an even more turbulent relationship with their mother threaten their lives.
The children are portrayed by two sweet puppets (designed by Susan Gratch), but audiences may find their attention being drawn to the two tender puppeteers—Sonny Valicenti and Paige Lindsey White—who display childlike involvement as they manipulate their three-dimensional avatars. Stealing the children from their classical fate and leading them to New England, the kindly nurse is played with a mix of classicism and modernity by Adriana Sevahn Nichols. The evil figure chasing them is fleshed hilariously and terrifyingly by Jacqueline Wright, while the paternal sheriff is given stern compassion by Daniel Blinkoff. François-Pierre Couture’s set implies a nightmarish state, awash under Jaymi Lee Smith’s transportive lighting.
But, the star of this production remains the storytelling. How astonishing that our minds can travel so far while we sit and listen—and, hopefully, think.
The Theatre @ Boston Court
We’ve learned to fly. We’ve learned to cure diseases. And, for those whose boat it floats, we’ve learned to communicate using our thumbs and tiny electrical devices. What haven’t we learned in nearly 2,500 years? We haven’t learned to control our homicidal urges, particularly toward our children. On the other hand, we’ve kept one of our magnificent traditions alive: storytelling.
The power of storytelling may be this play’s central metaphor and message. It certainly proves to be the play’s central virtue. It’s a good thing myths have come to us through hundreds of generations, because they provide us with lifesaving advice and, for what it’s worth, hope.
In The Children, playwright Michael Elyanow has molded the myth of Medea to suit modern times in this world premiere directed by Jessica Kubzansky with attention to the intellect and room for the heart. As befits modern times, the story centers on the two children, brother and sister, who are taken via an act of kindness from ancient Greece to modern Maine, where turbulent waters and an even more turbulent relationship with their mother threaten their lives.
The children are portrayed by two sweet puppets (designed by Susan Gratch), but audiences may find their attention being drawn to the two tender puppeteers—Sonny Valicenti and Paige Lindsey White—who display childlike involvement as they manipulate their three-dimensional avatars. Stealing the children from their classical fate and leading them to New England, the kindly nurse is played with a mix of classicism and modernity by Adriana Sevahn Nichols. The evil figure chasing them is fleshed hilariously and terrifyingly by Jacqueline Wright, while the paternal sheriff is given stern compassion by Daniel Blinkoff. François-Pierre Couture’s set implies a nightmarish state, awash under Jaymi Lee Smith’s transportive lighting.
But, the star of this production remains the storytelling. How astonishing that our minds can travel so far while we sit and listen—and, hopefully, think.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012
Copy
Theatre of NOTE
Theatre of NOTE
It’s remarkable when a playwright uses the word caesura and a shower of f-bombs in the same play. Then again, the human race has developed those two words and their uses and meanings.
Padraic Duffy’s world premiere script is about language and what it
can and should convey. And the script does a clever, engaging job of
exploring our brains. But the story is also about that complementary
organ, the heart. And after nearly two hours of making its audience
think, when the play unfolds its own tender heart and reveals who these
characters are and what they mean to one another, it grips us in a
sweetly stunning moment.
The workplace in which the action occurs is peculiar. Firstly, no one
there knows what the business of the company is, as each finds out when
a new worker (Phil Ward) wanders in. Secondly, they’re a supremely
motley crew. In his spare time, though on work hours, the Boss (Troy
Blendell) makes Daguerreotypes. His secretary (Gabby Sanalitro) is
“overweight”—an unusual characteristic in theater, leading to a pointed
and wise reveal at the play’s end.
Worker Wendy (Cat Davis) is annoying and a wannabe musical theater
star—well, perhaps neither quality is so peculiar in workplaces these
days. A worker on her first day there (Lauren Letherer) comes fresh from
the sexpot school of temps. And another worker is out of a 1930s
adventure movie, a matinee idol in safari mode (Stephen Simon creating a
character who is is part hilarity, part wisdom). Of course all the
characters are copying something or are copies of something in one form
or other.
David LM McIntyre directs with apparently equal facility for the
cerebral and the sentimental. He also apparently wielded the discipline
whip. (It probably helped that the producers gave this production a
preview week.) On opening night the items that needed to fall from above
fell on cue, the lights and sounds paralleled each other when the
eponymous photocopier was engaged, and the few copies that were
made—because not everything can be copied, you will learn—were carefully
lined up to match the action.
Enhancing the action are sound and original music—presumably
including the deliberately gawdawful songs—by the inimitable Peter
Bayne.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012
Bedfellows
The New American Theatre at McCadden Place Theatre
It’s mere hours away from the California gubernatorial election in Chuck Rose’s world premiere script. By all accounts, Sanford Mitchell is sure to win the office. And that seems promising for the state, as he appears to be a smart, good-hearted, well-motivated man. But the past has a way of coughing up reminders at inopportune moments.
At this point, Rose’s script could have gone in any number of directions, including one of those tell-a-lie, unwind-the-lie farces that make the more sensible in the audience want to shout, “Tell the truth and get us out of here.” Rose’s candidate, however, squarely faces the dilemma with the help of, if not on the advice of, his trusted staff.
Jack Stehlin directs, unfolding the story with realism tinged by the mythological. He cast well with Thomas Vincent Kelly as the candidate, choosing an actor with enough skill to create a believable yet bigger-than-life hero. One can see characteristics of our 42nd president in Kelly, as the actor’s voice sooths and gently scolds, persuades and cadges. One can also see a frightened boy reminded of his long-ago callowness.
Robert Cicchini provides the sizzle and Marc Jablon the wryness as Mitchell’s senior staffers—men who gave their lives to the candidate. Cameron Meyer is the hilariously manipulative interviewer, Jordan Lund is the darkly manipulative reporter.
The candidate talks about dreams and destiny, but ultimately it’s up to him, and each of us, to take responsibility for past actions and then probably continue to clean up our messes.
The New American Theatre at McCadden Place Theatre
It’s mere hours away from the California gubernatorial election in Chuck Rose’s world premiere script. By all accounts, Sanford Mitchell is sure to win the office. And that seems promising for the state, as he appears to be a smart, good-hearted, well-motivated man. But the past has a way of coughing up reminders at inopportune moments.
At this point, Rose’s script could have gone in any number of directions, including one of those tell-a-lie, unwind-the-lie farces that make the more sensible in the audience want to shout, “Tell the truth and get us out of here.” Rose’s candidate, however, squarely faces the dilemma with the help of, if not on the advice of, his trusted staff.
Jack Stehlin directs, unfolding the story with realism tinged by the mythological. He cast well with Thomas Vincent Kelly as the candidate, choosing an actor with enough skill to create a believable yet bigger-than-life hero. One can see characteristics of our 42nd president in Kelly, as the actor’s voice sooths and gently scolds, persuades and cadges. One can also see a frightened boy reminded of his long-ago callowness.
Robert Cicchini provides the sizzle and Marc Jablon the wryness as Mitchell’s senior staffers—men who gave their lives to the candidate. Cameron Meyer is the hilariously manipulative interviewer, Jordan Lund is the darkly manipulative reporter.
The candidate talks about dreams and destiny, but ultimately it’s up to him, and each of us, to take responsibility for past actions and then probably continue to clean up our messes.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 22, 2012
April 22, 2012
Ivanov
The Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Evidence Room at the Odyssey Theatre
The set for this production of Anton Chekhov’s Ivanov immediately clues its audience in, even before the show starts. This is a play about clashes and contrasts. Veteran designer Frederica Nascimento would not have placed lime green backlit panels adjacent to avocado matte walls by accident.
Indeed, under the whimsical yet heart-wrenching direction of Bart DeLorenzo, all the world’s a circus in this, Chekhov’s first, play. But one can spot shades of The Seagull. Ivanov’s fated end is skillfully foreshadowed for those willing to keep an eye on all the onstage festivities.
DeLorenzo sets the piece in the late 20th century, so a variety of Raquel Barreto’s costumes will look familiar to various generations in the audience—Hawaiian shirts, maxi dresses, and tightly vested three-piece suits among the horrifying reminders of the past. Other horrifying reminders include Chekhov’s anti-Semitism, and yet all the characters manage to live cheek-by-jowl in Ivanov’s world.
The seemingly strait-laced Ivanov (Barry Del Sherman) lives at the center of a maelstrom of activities, personalities, hormones, and addictions. Swept up by the swirling energies, he jostles against those around him. The one he should be most tender with is his ailing wife (Dorie Barton), but no marital bliss seems to exist for them. Instead she seems properly cared for—if not slightly smothered—by her upright young physician (Daniel Bess), who “gets” her and in another world might have run away with her.
Paul Schmidt’s translation from the Russian sounds heightened yet contemporary, and most of the actors play with that contrast to enjoyable effect. Barton’s Anna is elegant and fragile. Brittany Slattery plays Sasha, Anna’s competition for Ivanov’s affection, with celebutante petulance. Tom Fitzpatrick as Ivanov’s uncle is cut out of commedia cloth, while Christian Leffler as Ivanov’s cousin is out of a 1980s buddy movie. Eileen T’Kaye turns a complacent wealthy wife into a fascinating character.
For Chekhov aficionados and for students of human behavior, this production is a lively dreamscape that haunts its audiences long after the shenanigans have crested in the, ahem, contrasting finale.
The Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Evidence Room at the Odyssey Theatre
The set for this production of Anton Chekhov’s Ivanov immediately clues its audience in, even before the show starts. This is a play about clashes and contrasts. Veteran designer Frederica Nascimento would not have placed lime green backlit panels adjacent to avocado matte walls by accident.
Indeed, under the whimsical yet heart-wrenching direction of Bart DeLorenzo, all the world’s a circus in this, Chekhov’s first, play. But one can spot shades of The Seagull. Ivanov’s fated end is skillfully foreshadowed for those willing to keep an eye on all the onstage festivities.
DeLorenzo sets the piece in the late 20th century, so a variety of Raquel Barreto’s costumes will look familiar to various generations in the audience—Hawaiian shirts, maxi dresses, and tightly vested three-piece suits among the horrifying reminders of the past. Other horrifying reminders include Chekhov’s anti-Semitism, and yet all the characters manage to live cheek-by-jowl in Ivanov’s world.
The seemingly strait-laced Ivanov (Barry Del Sherman) lives at the center of a maelstrom of activities, personalities, hormones, and addictions. Swept up by the swirling energies, he jostles against those around him. The one he should be most tender with is his ailing wife (Dorie Barton), but no marital bliss seems to exist for them. Instead she seems properly cared for—if not slightly smothered—by her upright young physician (Daniel Bess), who “gets” her and in another world might have run away with her.
Paul Schmidt’s translation from the Russian sounds heightened yet contemporary, and most of the actors play with that contrast to enjoyable effect. Barton’s Anna is elegant and fragile. Brittany Slattery plays Sasha, Anna’s competition for Ivanov’s affection, with celebutante petulance. Tom Fitzpatrick as Ivanov’s uncle is cut out of commedia cloth, while Christian Leffler as Ivanov’s cousin is out of a 1980s buddy movie. Eileen T’Kaye turns a complacent wealthy wife into a fascinating character.
For Chekhov aficionados and for students of human behavior, this production is a lively dreamscape that haunts its audiences long after the shenanigans have crested in the, ahem, contrasting finale.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 16, 2012
April 16, 2012
The Bewildered Herd
Greenway Arts Alliance at the Greenway Court Theatre
This won’t be the only time someone asks whether the characters or the audience constitutes the eponymous topic of Cody Henderson’s world-premiere The Bewildered Herd. A thinking-person’s evening, the play asks its audience for attentiveness and patience. For the greater part, the audience is suitably rewarded.
Henderson seems to postulate that we lie to one another as a matter of human nature, most often with unhappy results. Sometimes we lie to protect ourselves or another, sometimes we lie for sport, sometimes it’s the way we earn our livings, sometimes it just slips out. And sometimes we feel lied to but the lie was not intended to deceive.
The lying has been going on long before the action starts here. Miranda (Corryn Cummins) comes home after her first quarter at UC Berkeley—which she hasn’t bothered to finish. Her stepfather (John Getz) is a professional political media manipulator, her mother (Trace Turville) deludes herself if not all others. Miranda is accompanied by an underemployed musician (Derek Manson), who’s impossible to figure out. And to all in the room, Grandma Helen (Lisa Richards) seems to be lying, but we know otherwise.
The actors are endlessly fascinating, each giving a calibrated, rich performance about a character at a crossroads, kept at a constant simmer by Laurie Woolery’s direction. Paradoxically, the actors play all of their moments as absolutely truthful, so any vindictiveness between the characters makes the audience wonder if we are imagining the lies.
Woolery’s complex staging is likewise masterful, as she keeps the space active and yet allows for secretive moments. She cleverly places characters around the dinner table: She faces Helen away from us, as Helen will probably have the least reaction to the conversation, and places dad at one end, “cheating” to the house-left audience, because he would be the character most desperate to turn away from the cross-currents of the conversation.
Not all is perfect here, however. The scenic design, by Susan Gratch, though sturdy and evocative, calls to mind a vacation cabin in the woods, not yet fully built, so discussions of where they are can confuse us into thinking the family will be heading elsewhere any minute. A photo of buffalos tumbling off a cliff enhances the play’s metaphors but also give the place a wild, rustic feel. In addition, Henderson engenders further confusion by naming stepdad and his (now deceased) father “Charles.”
Yet perhaps all is done on purpose, showing that all of us are bewildered all the time. It’s not a far-fetched premise.
Greenway Arts Alliance at the Greenway Court Theatre
This won’t be the only time someone asks whether the characters or the audience constitutes the eponymous topic of Cody Henderson’s world-premiere The Bewildered Herd. A thinking-person’s evening, the play asks its audience for attentiveness and patience. For the greater part, the audience is suitably rewarded.
Henderson seems to postulate that we lie to one another as a matter of human nature, most often with unhappy results. Sometimes we lie to protect ourselves or another, sometimes we lie for sport, sometimes it’s the way we earn our livings, sometimes it just slips out. And sometimes we feel lied to but the lie was not intended to deceive.
The lying has been going on long before the action starts here. Miranda (Corryn Cummins) comes home after her first quarter at UC Berkeley—which she hasn’t bothered to finish. Her stepfather (John Getz) is a professional political media manipulator, her mother (Trace Turville) deludes herself if not all others. Miranda is accompanied by an underemployed musician (Derek Manson), who’s impossible to figure out. And to all in the room, Grandma Helen (Lisa Richards) seems to be lying, but we know otherwise.
The actors are endlessly fascinating, each giving a calibrated, rich performance about a character at a crossroads, kept at a constant simmer by Laurie Woolery’s direction. Paradoxically, the actors play all of their moments as absolutely truthful, so any vindictiveness between the characters makes the audience wonder if we are imagining the lies.
Woolery’s complex staging is likewise masterful, as she keeps the space active and yet allows for secretive moments. She cleverly places characters around the dinner table: She faces Helen away from us, as Helen will probably have the least reaction to the conversation, and places dad at one end, “cheating” to the house-left audience, because he would be the character most desperate to turn away from the cross-currents of the conversation.
Not all is perfect here, however. The scenic design, by Susan Gratch, though sturdy and evocative, calls to mind a vacation cabin in the woods, not yet fully built, so discussions of where they are can confuse us into thinking the family will be heading elsewhere any minute. A photo of buffalos tumbling off a cliff enhances the play’s metaphors but also give the place a wild, rustic feel. In addition, Henderson engenders further confusion by naming stepdad and his (now deceased) father “Charles.”
Yet perhaps all is done on purpose, showing that all of us are bewildered all the time. It’s not a far-fetched premise.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 16, 2012
April 16, 2012
Waiting for Godot
at the Mark Taper Forum
Is there a right way and a wrong way to watch Waiting for Godot? Probably one wrong way is to insist on finding all possible meanings in one evening of Samuel Beckett’s existential classic. Even the scholars can’t agree on its many nuances and ideas. And with fine actors limning the day-to-day struggles of Beckett’s iconic characters, each audience member is bound to discover personal and universal truths at least somewhere along the journey.
The Center Theatre Group production offers ample opportunities for truth-finding. Under the direction of Michael Arabian, the script is played without adornment or high concept. Touches of technology peek out, however. At the top of the show, a tiny computer-generated figure marches along a solitary hilly road, toward the sacred ground that is the playing field of the production and of the men’s lives. And then the figure disappears, leaving us to wonder who and where and why.
Inevitably, Vladimir and Estragon arrive to live out their repetitive days. As the character often portrayed as the higher-status Vladimir, Barry McGovern has a pleasing Irish lilt and charming appreciation for his buddy-in-perpetuity Estragon. Alan Mandell gives said Gogo great good nature and a joy in living, complete with a jaunty little walk, not playing him as the low-status character. This equality between the men keeps their relationship cordial and the play bubbly though never superficial, notably in the short-phrase segment in which dialogue is volleyed, as the two men march arm-in-arm around the stage.
As created here, these men, though life promises nothing, are happy and revel in the comedy, whether it’s situational or self-created. Lazzi abound. Estragon mockingly mimes Vladimir’s peeing. Then Estragon’s carrot is minuscule and probably juiceless, but Estragon savors it as if it were life’s finest meal.
Of course Didi and Gogo are not alone on the planet. The usually pompous Pozzo is given a fairly straight turn by James Cromwell, who goes for realism. Why not? Aren’t oppression and selfishness frightening enough without theatrical ornamentation? Only his bowler hat is taller than those of the others, indicating Pozzo’s wealth and class, and Cromwell earns a laugh putting his match out on Lucky’s tongue. Hugo Armstrong plays said lackey, a touch too convincing as Lucky is brutalized by his owner in Arabian’s realistic stage combat, then plunging into Lucky’s brain-challenging monologue in spectacular form, then making Lucky struggle mightily against being re-leashed. Meanwhile, Arabian also gives his leads a needed rest, letting Gogo and Didi wander off for a leak. Young LJ Benet plays the boy, and whether as a directorial choice or because Benet has a good agent, he steps onto the stage for his scenes, rather than remaining at the foot of the stage as is often done.
John Iacovelli’s set is memorable even as it hews to the customary bare rocky ground and solitary bare willow tree of the script. The playing area is a concentrically swirling path, rimmed by a circle of rocks. In Brian Gale’s lighting and projection design, the sky is darkly clouded, changing only during Pozzo’s speech about the sky. Much praise is due Gale for not only beautiful moonlight that casts perfect shadows but also his ability to light faces under all those bowlers with no apparent side-lighting.
American Idiot
at the Ahmanson Theatre
The music is rock solid, but too much is wrong with the picture. A musical based on the album by Green Day, American Idiot is about and presumably for today’s disaffected youth who hate the world created for them by older folks. But the production borrows so heavy-handedly from musical theater that it closely resembles that hated world, spoofing the last century more than foraying into the current one. At least the Green Day songs—among them “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” and of course “American Idiot”—cohere into a respectable score while being varied enough to hold an audience’s ear.
The album—music by Green Day, lyrics by Billy Joe Armstrong—has been given a book by Armstrong and Michael Mayer. In it, over the course of one year, Johnny (Van Hughes) moves away from his suburban home and to the big city, indulges in alcohol and then drugs, loves a girl, loses the girl, gets a job, hates the job, and in the process shares an array of soul-searching musical numbers with his buddies. These include Will (Jake Epstein), headed for fatherhood; Tunny (Scott J. Campbell), headed to the military and back; Whatsername (Gabrielle McClinton), Johnny’s girl; and St. Jimmy (Joshua Kobak), Johnny’s obliging, apparently imaginary, dealer.
Onstage and behind the scenes, the talent seems plentiful, but the project amounts to less than the sum of its parts, under the direction of Michael Mayer. The set is a floor-to-catwalk scaffold fitted with screens that broadcast videos, mottoes, vital-sign monitors, and other hints to establish locale and mood. It’s also fitted with lights directed at the audience that far too often flash and glare and otherwise brutalize the retina. The set and lighting, credited to Christine Jones and Kevin Adams respectively, cannot substitute for excitement that should be created by the story, nor should they be expected to. Choreography by Steven Hoggett consists of a whole lot of head-banging, with too-frequent borrowings from Jerome Robbins as gangs of kids strut the mean streets.
Oddly, where many works suffer from a second-act slump, in this intermissionless piece the best segments come in its middle. After losing a leg to war, the hospitalized Tunny is hallucinatorily lofted to fly in ease and perfection with an angelic nurse (Nicci Claspell), in “Extraordinary Girl.” Then Johnny, after ensuring that Whatsername is asleep, accompanies himself on guitar as he tenderly sings “When It’s Time,” watched by a finally quiescent St. Jimmy. And then the production sinks into a series of false endings.
See American Idiot if you wish to experience a new day in musical theater history. Otherwise, the album should suffice.
at the Mark Taper Forum
Is there a right way and a wrong way to watch Waiting for Godot? Probably one wrong way is to insist on finding all possible meanings in one evening of Samuel Beckett’s existential classic. Even the scholars can’t agree on its many nuances and ideas. And with fine actors limning the day-to-day struggles of Beckett’s iconic characters, each audience member is bound to discover personal and universal truths at least somewhere along the journey.
The Center Theatre Group production offers ample opportunities for truth-finding. Under the direction of Michael Arabian, the script is played without adornment or high concept. Touches of technology peek out, however. At the top of the show, a tiny computer-generated figure marches along a solitary hilly road, toward the sacred ground that is the playing field of the production and of the men’s lives. And then the figure disappears, leaving us to wonder who and where and why.
Inevitably, Vladimir and Estragon arrive to live out their repetitive days. As the character often portrayed as the higher-status Vladimir, Barry McGovern has a pleasing Irish lilt and charming appreciation for his buddy-in-perpetuity Estragon. Alan Mandell gives said Gogo great good nature and a joy in living, complete with a jaunty little walk, not playing him as the low-status character. This equality between the men keeps their relationship cordial and the play bubbly though never superficial, notably in the short-phrase segment in which dialogue is volleyed, as the two men march arm-in-arm around the stage.
As created here, these men, though life promises nothing, are happy and revel in the comedy, whether it’s situational or self-created. Lazzi abound. Estragon mockingly mimes Vladimir’s peeing. Then Estragon’s carrot is minuscule and probably juiceless, but Estragon savors it as if it were life’s finest meal.
Of course Didi and Gogo are not alone on the planet. The usually pompous Pozzo is given a fairly straight turn by James Cromwell, who goes for realism. Why not? Aren’t oppression and selfishness frightening enough without theatrical ornamentation? Only his bowler hat is taller than those of the others, indicating Pozzo’s wealth and class, and Cromwell earns a laugh putting his match out on Lucky’s tongue. Hugo Armstrong plays said lackey, a touch too convincing as Lucky is brutalized by his owner in Arabian’s realistic stage combat, then plunging into Lucky’s brain-challenging monologue in spectacular form, then making Lucky struggle mightily against being re-leashed. Meanwhile, Arabian also gives his leads a needed rest, letting Gogo and Didi wander off for a leak. Young LJ Benet plays the boy, and whether as a directorial choice or because Benet has a good agent, he steps onto the stage for his scenes, rather than remaining at the foot of the stage as is often done.
John Iacovelli’s set is memorable even as it hews to the customary bare rocky ground and solitary bare willow tree of the script. The playing area is a concentrically swirling path, rimmed by a circle of rocks. In Brian Gale’s lighting and projection design, the sky is darkly clouded, changing only during Pozzo’s speech about the sky. Much praise is due Gale for not only beautiful moonlight that casts perfect shadows but also his ability to light faces under all those bowlers with no apparent side-lighting.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 23, 2012
March 23, 2012
American Idiot
at the Ahmanson Theatre
The music is rock solid, but too much is wrong with the picture. A musical based on the album by Green Day, American Idiot is about and presumably for today’s disaffected youth who hate the world created for them by older folks. But the production borrows so heavy-handedly from musical theater that it closely resembles that hated world, spoofing the last century more than foraying into the current one. At least the Green Day songs—among them “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” and of course “American Idiot”—cohere into a respectable score while being varied enough to hold an audience’s ear.
The album—music by Green Day, lyrics by Billy Joe Armstrong—has been given a book by Armstrong and Michael Mayer. In it, over the course of one year, Johnny (Van Hughes) moves away from his suburban home and to the big city, indulges in alcohol and then drugs, loves a girl, loses the girl, gets a job, hates the job, and in the process shares an array of soul-searching musical numbers with his buddies. These include Will (Jake Epstein), headed for fatherhood; Tunny (Scott J. Campbell), headed to the military and back; Whatsername (Gabrielle McClinton), Johnny’s girl; and St. Jimmy (Joshua Kobak), Johnny’s obliging, apparently imaginary, dealer.
Onstage and behind the scenes, the talent seems plentiful, but the project amounts to less than the sum of its parts, under the direction of Michael Mayer. The set is a floor-to-catwalk scaffold fitted with screens that broadcast videos, mottoes, vital-sign monitors, and other hints to establish locale and mood. It’s also fitted with lights directed at the audience that far too often flash and glare and otherwise brutalize the retina. The set and lighting, credited to Christine Jones and Kevin Adams respectively, cannot substitute for excitement that should be created by the story, nor should they be expected to. Choreography by Steven Hoggett consists of a whole lot of head-banging, with too-frequent borrowings from Jerome Robbins as gangs of kids strut the mean streets.
Oddly, where many works suffer from a second-act slump, in this intermissionless piece the best segments come in its middle. After losing a leg to war, the hospitalized Tunny is hallucinatorily lofted to fly in ease and perfection with an angelic nurse (Nicci Claspell), in “Extraordinary Girl.” Then Johnny, after ensuring that Whatsername is asleep, accompanies himself on guitar as he tenderly sings “When It’s Time,” watched by a finally quiescent St. Jimmy. And then the production sinks into a series of false endings.
See American Idiot if you wish to experience a new day in musical theater history. Otherwise, the album should suffice.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 16, 2012
March 16, 2012
Blithe Spirit
Ahmanson Theatre
Well, of course it’s an enormous privilege to see the super-legendary Angela Lansbury reprise her 2009 Broadway turn as the infamous Madame Arcati in Noël Coward’s enduringly popular 1941 drawing room comedy. It’s also a great treat to experience such a grand homage to Coward, directed by the venerable Michael Blakemore and featuring an exquisite design team in every category. Also a given, the mounting’s ensemble cast could not be populated by better or more worthy veteran performers—although surprisingly, under Blakemore’s otherwise sturdy direction, it’s disappointing how little most of the supporting players understand the style that makes Blithe Spirit …well… spirited.
With the exception of each welcome entrance of Lansbury’s outlandishly quirky Arcati, which immediately fills the stage with a presence so rich one can almost smell her perfume way back in the cavernous Ahmanson’s row P, and also excepting the delightful performance of Susan Louise O’Connor as the Condomines’s nightmare of a maid Edith, everyone else is too dry and way too serious. The scenes between Charles Edwards as poor haunted Charles Condomine and Charlotte Parry as his terminally British second wife, Ruth, are technically proficient but deadly dull.
Only on two occasions does Edwards unearth the endearingly stuffy over-the-top idiosyncrasies of Charles, necessary to make his character lovable, and never does Parry do anything to bring Ruth to life in all her overly dramatic excess. Jemima Rooper does better as the ghost of Charles’s unwelcome first wife, Elvira, but as a whole, the scenes featuring these three leading characters are a disappointment, causing the nearly three-hour running time to seem agonizingly brittle and even longer than it needs to be.
Lansbury totally breathes life into the broad farcical elements of the play that, when it opened, took Londoners out of their wartime mindset. This is particularly true in the juicy séance segment, where Lansbury does a bizarre little Isadora Duncan–esque dance that looks like one of the Marx Brothers attempting to play Cleopatra in a musical comedy. Arcati is always the most talked about character, but, in this production, Lansbury is without a doubt purposely the center of attention, Blakemore’s staging focusing on her instead of any of the other performers.
The design of this revival is truly magnificent, from Simon Higlett’s sweeping set, faultless right down to the Jean Miro toss pillows (which Charles and Parry toss more than they need to for something to do) and featuring “fresh” floral arrangements that change with each new scene. Higlett’s costumes are also perfection, as are the incredible sparkly outfits designed by Martin Pakledinaz and worn by Lansbury. Mark Johnson’s lovely lighting, which easily evokes the changes of time and season at the Condomines’s country estate in Kent, and the sound design by Ben and Max Ringham, with seemingly different species of British birds chirping in every corner of the Ahmanson, are fine additions to this most respectful tribute to Coward—who created characters who believe anyone can write a book but it takes a real artist to make a dry martini.
There’s no doubt the major reason to journey back into the familiar world of Blithe Spirit is seeing the illustrious 89-year-old Lansbury onstage, reprising the role that won her an unprecedented fifth Tony Award, capping her 70 years as one of the planet’s most beloved and prolific actors. Whatever role she takes on next, it will surely nab her a sixth Tony sometime in the near future.
Ahmanson Theatre
Well, of course it’s an enormous privilege to see the super-legendary Angela Lansbury reprise her 2009 Broadway turn as the infamous Madame Arcati in Noël Coward’s enduringly popular 1941 drawing room comedy. It’s also a great treat to experience such a grand homage to Coward, directed by the venerable Michael Blakemore and featuring an exquisite design team in every category. Also a given, the mounting’s ensemble cast could not be populated by better or more worthy veteran performers—although surprisingly, under Blakemore’s otherwise sturdy direction, it’s disappointing how little most of the supporting players understand the style that makes Blithe Spirit …well… spirited.
With the exception of each welcome entrance of Lansbury’s outlandishly quirky Arcati, which immediately fills the stage with a presence so rich one can almost smell her perfume way back in the cavernous Ahmanson’s row P, and also excepting the delightful performance of Susan Louise O’Connor as the Condomines’s nightmare of a maid Edith, everyone else is too dry and way too serious. The scenes between Charles Edwards as poor haunted Charles Condomine and Charlotte Parry as his terminally British second wife, Ruth, are technically proficient but deadly dull.
Only on two occasions does Edwards unearth the endearingly stuffy over-the-top idiosyncrasies of Charles, necessary to make his character lovable, and never does Parry do anything to bring Ruth to life in all her overly dramatic excess. Jemima Rooper does better as the ghost of Charles’s unwelcome first wife, Elvira, but as a whole, the scenes featuring these three leading characters are a disappointment, causing the nearly three-hour running time to seem agonizingly brittle and even longer than it needs to be.
Lansbury totally breathes life into the broad farcical elements of the play that, when it opened, took Londoners out of their wartime mindset. This is particularly true in the juicy séance segment, where Lansbury does a bizarre little Isadora Duncan–esque dance that looks like one of the Marx Brothers attempting to play Cleopatra in a musical comedy. Arcati is always the most talked about character, but, in this production, Lansbury is without a doubt purposely the center of attention, Blakemore’s staging focusing on her instead of any of the other performers.
The design of this revival is truly magnificent, from Simon Higlett’s sweeping set, faultless right down to the Jean Miro toss pillows (which Charles and Parry toss more than they need to for something to do) and featuring “fresh” floral arrangements that change with each new scene. Higlett’s costumes are also perfection, as are the incredible sparkly outfits designed by Martin Pakledinaz and worn by Lansbury. Mark Johnson’s lovely lighting, which easily evokes the changes of time and season at the Condomines’s country estate in Kent, and the sound design by Ben and Max Ringham, with seemingly different species of British birds chirping in every corner of the Ahmanson, are fine additions to this most respectful tribute to Coward—who created characters who believe anyone can write a book but it takes a real artist to make a dry martini.
There’s no doubt the major reason to journey back into the familiar world of Blithe Spirit is seeing the illustrious 89-year-old Lansbury onstage, reprising the role that won her an unprecedented fifth Tony Award, capping her 70 years as one of the planet’s most beloved and prolific actors. Whatever role she takes on next, it will surely nab her a sixth Tony sometime in the near future.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
December 17, 2014
December 17, 2014
The Snow QUEEN
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
As surely as the Rockettes annually turn out to Occupy Radio City, Troubadour Theater Company uses December to command Burbank’s Falcon Theatre for a celebratory holiday mash-up of some sort of Christmas tale and a particular pop songbook. The Snow QUEEN, the sixth such expression of wassail I’ve encountered, is one of the company’s very finest: clever and vulgar and warm by turns, always funny and marked by superior theatricality.
Troubie extravaganzas work best when the narrative and catalog tossed into director–head writer Matt Walker’s Cuisinart come out tasting better than they did separately. Here, the fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen isn’t quite as robust as other material the Troubies have pilfered. Young Gerda (an amazing Misty Cotton) and Kai (Joseph Keane, delightful) live together in a home where, as HCA puts it, “they were not brother and sister, but they cared for each other as much as if they were.” (To which narrator Walker responds edgily, “Annnnnnddddd…that’s not creepy at all.”)
As is their wont, the troupe sticks closely to the story’s characters and incidents, as a brainwashed Kai is separated from Gerda, whose quest is to find and restore him. But with the title character basically remaining on the sidelines until needed at the 11th hour, a lot of rewriting was needed to keep some momentum going, as was the case with Disney’s Frozen, inspired by the same yarn. (Walker contributes a droll cameo as an officious exec who sees to it that as far as Disney’s intellectual property is concerned, the Troubies Let It Go.)
Dramaturgical efforts pay off, preserving priceless analogues to Andersen’s Raven (a hilarious Rick Batalla manipulating a horny puppet head while his skin-tight black leotard rides up in back) and Old Woman (Beth Kennedy brilliant as a snaggle-toothed crone).
Most important, the beefed-up storytelling jibes nicely with the score, executed impeccably by musical director Eric Heinly and his mates. The music of Queen, for all its superficial glitz and hints of sexual subversion, has always struck me as warmhearted and sweet, even a little quaint with all that “Galileo” and “Mamma mia” and “Scaramouche/fandango” fey stuff. (It was no clash when they scored the campy Flash Gordon back in the day.) So when “Killer Queen” becomes “Chiller Queen,” or “We Will Rock You” turns into the more polite “We will/We will/Ask you politely to leave the premises,” it simultaneously satirizes and celebrates.
And the unveiling of the Snow Queen turns into a triumphant 11th-hour turn when John Quale trots out as a frosty-freeze version of Freddie Mercury, with deeply mascara’d eyes peeping out of blue- and whiteface, a glittering blue/white jumpsuit (congrats, designer Sharon McGunigle), and a white upswept hairdo that looks as if Marge Simpson walked into her hairdresser’s and demanded, “Dye it white, and make it look like Carvel.” Quale’s amazing singing and singular presence honor his inspiration. Annnnnnddddd…I bet Freddie would feel it wasn’t creepy at all.
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
As surely as the Rockettes annually turn out to Occupy Radio City, Troubadour Theater Company uses December to command Burbank’s Falcon Theatre for a celebratory holiday mash-up of some sort of Christmas tale and a particular pop songbook. The Snow QUEEN, the sixth such expression of wassail I’ve encountered, is one of the company’s very finest: clever and vulgar and warm by turns, always funny and marked by superior theatricality.
Troubie extravaganzas work best when the narrative and catalog tossed into director–head writer Matt Walker’s Cuisinart come out tasting better than they did separately. Here, the fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen isn’t quite as robust as other material the Troubies have pilfered. Young Gerda (an amazing Misty Cotton) and Kai (Joseph Keane, delightful) live together in a home where, as HCA puts it, “they were not brother and sister, but they cared for each other as much as if they were.” (To which narrator Walker responds edgily, “Annnnnnddddd…that’s not creepy at all.”)
As is their wont, the troupe sticks closely to the story’s characters and incidents, as a brainwashed Kai is separated from Gerda, whose quest is to find and restore him. But with the title character basically remaining on the sidelines until needed at the 11th hour, a lot of rewriting was needed to keep some momentum going, as was the case with Disney’s Frozen, inspired by the same yarn. (Walker contributes a droll cameo as an officious exec who sees to it that as far as Disney’s intellectual property is concerned, the Troubies Let It Go.)
Dramaturgical efforts pay off, preserving priceless analogues to Andersen’s Raven (a hilarious Rick Batalla manipulating a horny puppet head while his skin-tight black leotard rides up in back) and Old Woman (Beth Kennedy brilliant as a snaggle-toothed crone).
Most important, the beefed-up storytelling jibes nicely with the score, executed impeccably by musical director Eric Heinly and his mates. The music of Queen, for all its superficial glitz and hints of sexual subversion, has always struck me as warmhearted and sweet, even a little quaint with all that “Galileo” and “Mamma mia” and “Scaramouche/fandango” fey stuff. (It was no clash when they scored the campy Flash Gordon back in the day.) So when “Killer Queen” becomes “Chiller Queen,” or “We Will Rock You” turns into the more polite “We will/We will/Ask you politely to leave the premises,” it simultaneously satirizes and celebrates.
And the unveiling of the Snow Queen turns into a triumphant 11th-hour turn when John Quale trots out as a frosty-freeze version of Freddie Mercury, with deeply mascara’d eyes peeping out of blue- and whiteface, a glittering blue/white jumpsuit (congrats, designer Sharon McGunigle), and a white upswept hairdo that looks as if Marge Simpson walked into her hairdresser’s and demanded, “Dye it white, and make it look like Carvel.” Quale’s amazing singing and singular presence honor his inspiration. Annnnnnddddd…I bet Freddie would feel it wasn’t creepy at all.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
December 15, 2014
December 15, 2014
Possum Carcass
Theatre of NOTE
Just as in The Seagull, friends and family members gather to be the first to see the artistically challenged Conrad’s attempt to create a work of counterculture art. A character wonders aloud if it’s going to be one of those plays with a sticky start. “No, no,” she’s told, “this is a professional play.” Soon after, Conrad (Kjai Block) reminds his typically skittish star, Nina (Nadia Marina), that their debuting effort is a performance, not a play. In other words, there are many familiar references to Chekhov’s masterpiece in David Bucci’s wily adaptation of the great 1896 classic, once again pointing out how enduring the work of the great Russian dramatist has remained.
In Bucci’s contemporary update, Conrad’s famous actress mother, here called Mona (Lauren Letherer), had her former husband build her her own black box theater on their New York City rooftop instead of maintaining a makeshift outdoor stage on the shore of her lakefront estate. Bucci’s tongue-in-cheek nods to the original story are consistently clever, and his dialogue beautifully recalls and honors the original. Masha has become Lydia (Alana Dietze), arriving to see Conrad’s not-play performed, still dressed in her waitress uniform on a break from work, and Mona has brought along Boris (Jonathon Lamer), a successful screenwriter she has taken as her latest lover.
All this is viewed and commented upon by Mona’s former brother-in-law Angus, who lives in her brownstone but tries valiantly to convince her to let him come live in her LA beach house despite how much he hates her. Of course, Conrad shoots a possum rather than a seagull, but most of Bucci’s scenes mirror ol’ Anton’s original scene by scene. Lydia still hates Nina (“Dead dogs move faster than that chick”); and Mona supports her favorite charity, although here the recipient of her dubious caring is an organization called Artists Anonymous, a group intent on rehabilitating poor souls suffering from Amateur Syndrome.
As gifted as director Alina Phelan is, and as inspiring as Bucci’s shrewd and irreverent adaptation seems to be, Possum Carcass is not entirely successful. There are odd glitches in the staging, clearly distracting when characters talk about going downstairs and then climb stairs leading upward and visa-versa. And when Conrad’s preserved dead possum (extra kudos to propmaster Misty Carlisle for coming up with such a thing) is tossed unceremoniously onto a table, no one reacts very much—nor does anyone later entering the scene, even Conrad, seem to notice its presence once it’s lying there in the middle of all subsequent action, all four tiny clawed feet facing hopefully skyward.
The most obvious problem, however, is the glaringly uneven performance style of the ensemble cast. Theatre of NOTE stalwarts Letherer and Dietze are wonderful, and Travis York is lovable as poor lovelorn Angus, but the other performances appear to be assayed by actors who rehearsed to appear in another far more broadly played production. This is especially true of Block’s annoying take on Conrad. This is not to say the actor doesn’t intellectually understand the character, only that he should be more trusting that his audience may be smart enough to understand Conrad too without him working so hard—or delivering every line so loudly in this intimate Hollywood black box that it leaves those on the other side of the fourth wall with a raging headache by final curtain.
Theatre of NOTE
Just as in The Seagull, friends and family members gather to be the first to see the artistically challenged Conrad’s attempt to create a work of counterculture art. A character wonders aloud if it’s going to be one of those plays with a sticky start. “No, no,” she’s told, “this is a professional play.” Soon after, Conrad (Kjai Block) reminds his typically skittish star, Nina (Nadia Marina), that their debuting effort is a performance, not a play. In other words, there are many familiar references to Chekhov’s masterpiece in David Bucci’s wily adaptation of the great 1896 classic, once again pointing out how enduring the work of the great Russian dramatist has remained.
In Bucci’s contemporary update, Conrad’s famous actress mother, here called Mona (Lauren Letherer), had her former husband build her her own black box theater on their New York City rooftop instead of maintaining a makeshift outdoor stage on the shore of her lakefront estate. Bucci’s tongue-in-cheek nods to the original story are consistently clever, and his dialogue beautifully recalls and honors the original. Masha has become Lydia (Alana Dietze), arriving to see Conrad’s not-play performed, still dressed in her waitress uniform on a break from work, and Mona has brought along Boris (Jonathon Lamer), a successful screenwriter she has taken as her latest lover.
All this is viewed and commented upon by Mona’s former brother-in-law Angus, who lives in her brownstone but tries valiantly to convince her to let him come live in her LA beach house despite how much he hates her. Of course, Conrad shoots a possum rather than a seagull, but most of Bucci’s scenes mirror ol’ Anton’s original scene by scene. Lydia still hates Nina (“Dead dogs move faster than that chick”); and Mona supports her favorite charity, although here the recipient of her dubious caring is an organization called Artists Anonymous, a group intent on rehabilitating poor souls suffering from Amateur Syndrome.
As gifted as director Alina Phelan is, and as inspiring as Bucci’s shrewd and irreverent adaptation seems to be, Possum Carcass is not entirely successful. There are odd glitches in the staging, clearly distracting when characters talk about going downstairs and then climb stairs leading upward and visa-versa. And when Conrad’s preserved dead possum (extra kudos to propmaster Misty Carlisle for coming up with such a thing) is tossed unceremoniously onto a table, no one reacts very much—nor does anyone later entering the scene, even Conrad, seem to notice its presence once it’s lying there in the middle of all subsequent action, all four tiny clawed feet facing hopefully skyward.
The most obvious problem, however, is the glaringly uneven performance style of the ensemble cast. Theatre of NOTE stalwarts Letherer and Dietze are wonderful, and Travis York is lovable as poor lovelorn Angus, but the other performances appear to be assayed by actors who rehearsed to appear in another far more broadly played production. This is especially true of Block’s annoying take on Conrad. This is not to say the actor doesn’t intellectually understand the character, only that he should be more trusting that his audience may be smart enough to understand Conrad too without him working so hard—or delivering every line so loudly in this intimate Hollywood black box that it leaves those on the other side of the fourth wall with a raging headache by final curtain.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
December 15, 2014
December 15, 2014
Bob’s Holiday Office Party
Pico Playhouse
Every December for the past 19 years, producer-playwright-actors Joe Keyes and Rob Elk have untangled their strings of walnut-sized Christmas lights of our younger days; dragged their plastic snowmen, cardboard “Season’s Greetings” signs, and Ann Randolph’s tattered pantyhose out of storage; and included a truckload or so of Coors Light and a heaping supply of Cheez Whiz on their annual list of preshow needs. With all this familiar gear in tow and surely including an intrepid band of courageous elves to clean up the destroyed stage after each performance, they have mounted their incredibly popular Bob’s Holiday Office Party at some lucky theater each year, a feat that remains one of the true highlights of the holiday season in Los Angeles.
You’ve gotta feel the pain of poor Bob Finhead (played all 19 years by Elk), who is trying to adorn his tiny insurance office in downtown Neuterburg, Iowa—known by residents as the “Gateway to the rest of the Midwest”—for his regionally acclaimed holiday bash, thrown each year for clients, friends, and the mayor’s wife Margie Mincer (Andrea Hutchman, alternating with Dawn Brodey in the role), with whom he shares hanky-panky in the backroom at her Knick Knack Knook every Tuesday afternoon at 4pm. Bob has filled the downstage-center aluminum tub with copious amounts of beer and brought out decorations that would make the seasonal kitsch sold at 99-Cents Only Stores look like treasures from Cartier.
Somehow this year, however, Bob’s heart is not with it. Instead, he’s thinking of getting out of town and heading for urban climes: Des Moines. There, his dream is to become an inventor, perhaps starting with his newest creation, the Crapper Clapper (no explanations necessary or offered here). When the town’s former resident bullying victim Elwin Bewee (Nelson Ascencio, alternating this year with Bewee veteran Pat O’Brien) returns with a proposition to buy out his insurance business, Bob is torn between his existence in Neuterburg and the magic lure of the big city. Once again, just as a reminder, that big city would be: Des Moines.
His decision becomes more and more unfettered by reluctance to run from his life, especially when exacerbated by the arrival of the town’s opinionated sheriff Joe Walker (Elk’s co-conspirator Keyes), whose immediate action, centered on the office’s doorless bathroom, provides a chance for Bob to test out his Crapper Clapper on the spot. Joe nixes the offer for a beer since he has recently joined AA (although the Anonymous part is rather a joke in a town the size of Neuterburg), opting instead to swallow huge gulps from his ever-present Jack Daniels bottle.
Then there are the Johnson twins, LaDonna and LaVoris (Johanna McKay and Maile Flanagan), the richest farmers in the tri-city area who are so committed to their Tea Party ways they have Fox News tweets on in the milking barn. The arrival of the Johnsons, dressed in identical wear that could win top prize at any Ugly Sweater Day party on the planet, gives Elk and Keyes a perfect opportunity to update their hilariously inappropriate script each season, this time out giving the sisters a chance to spout out about Obamacare, Super Pacs, global warming, and missing George Bush.
Add in such rich characters as local alcoholic druggie, community theater star (you should see his Rum Tum Tugger), and Jeff Spicoli clone Marty (Cody Chappel, alternating with Mark Fite), who comes to the party not only for the beer but also to put in his 16th accident report for the year after totaling Margie’s parked car on the way to the party. Then there’s Margie’s husband, Ray Mincer (David Bauman, alternating with Pat Towne), whose relationship with his best friend Derek is as much a well-kept town secret as is his wife and Bob’s Tuesday afternoon dalliances in the back of the Knick Knack.
And just when you think all the over-the-top revelers are gathered to start spraying Coors and throwing Cheez-Its at one another, the friends are joined by the production’s two most delightfully off-center Neuterburg legends, both played by Bob’s legend Ann Randolph, alternating with Sirena Irwin). The first is the town’s resident cuckoo, Carol, who brings along her guitar and entertains the partygoers with an increasingly agitated folk song about her cheating husband. She is followed by Brandy, Neuterburg’s most available free pump, who joins the gathering when she realizes all the usual customers at her home away from home, the Tip Top Lounge, have left for Bob’s annual gala.
Under the direction this year of Craig Anton, Elk and Keyes’s raucous holiday treat has lost none of its outrageous humor—nor has it become any easier for the aforementioned clean-up crew, who each night must return the Pico Playhouse stage back to a place that would not be condemned by the Health Department. Without a doubt, this production has become a vital part of every Christmas season in our fair city—at least for anyone who enjoys delightfully tasteless nonstop laughs generated by a world-class ensemble of comedians unafraid of going beyond the usual holiday celebrating, assaying antics that fall somewhere between the Three Stooges and a Ron Jeremy movie. Beyond the traditional eggnog and the tired old carols about mangers and flying reindeer, Bob’s Holiday Office Party should be heralded as the quintessential ambassador of Christmas in LA.
Pico Playhouse
Every December for the past 19 years, producer-playwright-actors Joe Keyes and Rob Elk have untangled their strings of walnut-sized Christmas lights of our younger days; dragged their plastic snowmen, cardboard “Season’s Greetings” signs, and Ann Randolph’s tattered pantyhose out of storage; and included a truckload or so of Coors Light and a heaping supply of Cheez Whiz on their annual list of preshow needs. With all this familiar gear in tow and surely including an intrepid band of courageous elves to clean up the destroyed stage after each performance, they have mounted their incredibly popular Bob’s Holiday Office Party at some lucky theater each year, a feat that remains one of the true highlights of the holiday season in Los Angeles.
You’ve gotta feel the pain of poor Bob Finhead (played all 19 years by Elk), who is trying to adorn his tiny insurance office in downtown Neuterburg, Iowa—known by residents as the “Gateway to the rest of the Midwest”—for his regionally acclaimed holiday bash, thrown each year for clients, friends, and the mayor’s wife Margie Mincer (Andrea Hutchman, alternating with Dawn Brodey in the role), with whom he shares hanky-panky in the backroom at her Knick Knack Knook every Tuesday afternoon at 4pm. Bob has filled the downstage-center aluminum tub with copious amounts of beer and brought out decorations that would make the seasonal kitsch sold at 99-Cents Only Stores look like treasures from Cartier.
Somehow this year, however, Bob’s heart is not with it. Instead, he’s thinking of getting out of town and heading for urban climes: Des Moines. There, his dream is to become an inventor, perhaps starting with his newest creation, the Crapper Clapper (no explanations necessary or offered here). When the town’s former resident bullying victim Elwin Bewee (Nelson Ascencio, alternating this year with Bewee veteran Pat O’Brien) returns with a proposition to buy out his insurance business, Bob is torn between his existence in Neuterburg and the magic lure of the big city. Once again, just as a reminder, that big city would be: Des Moines.
His decision becomes more and more unfettered by reluctance to run from his life, especially when exacerbated by the arrival of the town’s opinionated sheriff Joe Walker (Elk’s co-conspirator Keyes), whose immediate action, centered on the office’s doorless bathroom, provides a chance for Bob to test out his Crapper Clapper on the spot. Joe nixes the offer for a beer since he has recently joined AA (although the Anonymous part is rather a joke in a town the size of Neuterburg), opting instead to swallow huge gulps from his ever-present Jack Daniels bottle.
Then there are the Johnson twins, LaDonna and LaVoris (Johanna McKay and Maile Flanagan), the richest farmers in the tri-city area who are so committed to their Tea Party ways they have Fox News tweets on in the milking barn. The arrival of the Johnsons, dressed in identical wear that could win top prize at any Ugly Sweater Day party on the planet, gives Elk and Keyes a perfect opportunity to update their hilariously inappropriate script each season, this time out giving the sisters a chance to spout out about Obamacare, Super Pacs, global warming, and missing George Bush.
Add in such rich characters as local alcoholic druggie, community theater star (you should see his Rum Tum Tugger), and Jeff Spicoli clone Marty (Cody Chappel, alternating with Mark Fite), who comes to the party not only for the beer but also to put in his 16th accident report for the year after totaling Margie’s parked car on the way to the party. Then there’s Margie’s husband, Ray Mincer (David Bauman, alternating with Pat Towne), whose relationship with his best friend Derek is as much a well-kept town secret as is his wife and Bob’s Tuesday afternoon dalliances in the back of the Knick Knack.
And just when you think all the over-the-top revelers are gathered to start spraying Coors and throwing Cheez-Its at one another, the friends are joined by the production’s two most delightfully off-center Neuterburg legends, both played by Bob’s legend Ann Randolph, alternating with Sirena Irwin). The first is the town’s resident cuckoo, Carol, who brings along her guitar and entertains the partygoers with an increasingly agitated folk song about her cheating husband. She is followed by Brandy, Neuterburg’s most available free pump, who joins the gathering when she realizes all the usual customers at her home away from home, the Tip Top Lounge, have left for Bob’s annual gala.
Under the direction this year of Craig Anton, Elk and Keyes’s raucous holiday treat has lost none of its outrageous humor—nor has it become any easier for the aforementioned clean-up crew, who each night must return the Pico Playhouse stage back to a place that would not be condemned by the Health Department. Without a doubt, this production has become a vital part of every Christmas season in our fair city—at least for anyone who enjoys delightfully tasteless nonstop laughs generated by a world-class ensemble of comedians unafraid of going beyond the usual holiday celebrating, assaying antics that fall somewhere between the Three Stooges and a Ron Jeremy movie. Beyond the traditional eggnog and the tired old carols about mangers and flying reindeer, Bob’s Holiday Office Party should be heralded as the quintessential ambassador of Christmas in LA.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
December 14, 2014
December 14, 2014
She Loves Me
Chance Theater
Ill-advised, intrusive direction plagues the Chance Theater’s She Loves Me, and the casualty is the easy, unforced enjoyment traditionally associated with this jewel box of a musical, adapted from the 1940 Lubitsch classic The Shop Around the Corner.
This is the one about feuding shop clerks, who are longtime lonely-hearts correspondents unbeknownst to each other. It’s had many incarnations, from the MGM’s frothy In the Good Old Summertime to the somewhat shopworn modernization You’ve Got Mail, but the key to every one has been: Keep it light on its feet and emotionally real.
In the infrequent instances when director Sarah Figoten Wilson respects both criteria, this She Loves Me charms. There’s nice rapport between blustery proprietor Maraczek (Beach Vickers) and youthful delivery boy Arpad (Daniel Jared Hersh). Our leading man, Stanton Kane Morales, finds a good balance between chief clerk Georg’s professional stiffness and the champagne brio his “Dear Friend” pen pal is destined to uncork. The source of that bubbly, Erika C. Miller as Amalia, has a dear way with ballads like “Will He Like Me?” Indeed, the entire cast does justice to the delicate melodies—even the big numbers are delicate—as penned by Bock and Harnick, who bounced back from this 1963 Broadway succès d’estime to unveil Fiddler on the Roof a year later.
But again and again, this production falls victim to undercooked ideas that subvert the material. Bruce Goodrich’s set, for instance, is a giant wooden box on wheels, which opens up to reveal the parfumerie. Our first view of the shop floor is pleasant, but the set piece soon becomes the elephant in the room, killing the rhythm with long waits as it opens and closes and swings around, sometimes getting pushed aside altogether. Its literalness is matched by that of a two-sided wall representing Amalia’s flat. Does Wilson credit us with insufficient imagination to conjure up a simple interior? The heart sinks every time an actor grabs a wall and prepares to push or pull, because we know the froth is about to dry up.
The musical staging (choreography credited to Christopher M. Albrecht) is mostly a mess of irrelevant business and uncertain focus. “Tango Tragique,” a usually foolproof counterpoint to the “Romantic Atmosphere” created in a Budapest café, becomes virtually unwatchable as the headwaiter (Matt Takahashi) mugs and preens and practically throws himself against the proscenium to beg for laughs, which don’t come. The priceless “A Day at the Library”—in which a flirtatious cocotte (Camryn Zelinger) describes her transformation at the hands of a studious optometrist—comes to naught as she’s directed to toy with a colleague’s bald head and handle Christmas garlands, thus suggesting she’s an unredeemed coquette after all.
There is no prop too irrelevant and no bit of burlesque too low for Wilson to banish. Miller is directed to engage in enough takes and mugging for a full season of Carol Burnett sketches. An opening customer sequence is so frantically busy it kills the plot-required impression that the shop is in deep financial trouble—not to mention the impact of Act Two’s “12 Days to Christmas,” when things are really supposed to pop.
Then there are the gimmicks, or “doodles” as Wilson condescendingly refers to them in her director’s notes, but she should confine her doodling to her own sketch pad. Set aside the obvious ones: the cross-dressing lady customers—never has drag been so colorlessly or uselessly employed—or the lady violinist (Tina Nguyen) who magically keeps appearing to intrude on the title song and generally throw us knowing winks. (A fiddler at the shop? Sounds crazy, no?)
But disrupting the musical’s emotional center is another thing altogether. That feat is pulled off by having Elizabeth Adabale, as a café chanteuse, stand next to the leads while crooning Gershwin classics. Regardless of how the Bock or Gershwin estates, or the licensors of She Loves Me, would take to such interpolations, all they do is distract from the exquisite scene Miller and Morales are trying to play. The romance of Georg and Amalia is at cross-purposes enough, without having to battle “Someone to Watch Over Me.”
Chance Theater
Ill-advised, intrusive direction plagues the Chance Theater’s She Loves Me, and the casualty is the easy, unforced enjoyment traditionally associated with this jewel box of a musical, adapted from the 1940 Lubitsch classic The Shop Around the Corner.
This is the one about feuding shop clerks, who are longtime lonely-hearts correspondents unbeknownst to each other. It’s had many incarnations, from the MGM’s frothy In the Good Old Summertime to the somewhat shopworn modernization You’ve Got Mail, but the key to every one has been: Keep it light on its feet and emotionally real.
In the infrequent instances when director Sarah Figoten Wilson respects both criteria, this She Loves Me charms. There’s nice rapport between blustery proprietor Maraczek (Beach Vickers) and youthful delivery boy Arpad (Daniel Jared Hersh). Our leading man, Stanton Kane Morales, finds a good balance between chief clerk Georg’s professional stiffness and the champagne brio his “Dear Friend” pen pal is destined to uncork. The source of that bubbly, Erika C. Miller as Amalia, has a dear way with ballads like “Will He Like Me?” Indeed, the entire cast does justice to the delicate melodies—even the big numbers are delicate—as penned by Bock and Harnick, who bounced back from this 1963 Broadway succès d’estime to unveil Fiddler on the Roof a year later.
But again and again, this production falls victim to undercooked ideas that subvert the material. Bruce Goodrich’s set, for instance, is a giant wooden box on wheels, which opens up to reveal the parfumerie. Our first view of the shop floor is pleasant, but the set piece soon becomes the elephant in the room, killing the rhythm with long waits as it opens and closes and swings around, sometimes getting pushed aside altogether. Its literalness is matched by that of a two-sided wall representing Amalia’s flat. Does Wilson credit us with insufficient imagination to conjure up a simple interior? The heart sinks every time an actor grabs a wall and prepares to push or pull, because we know the froth is about to dry up.
The musical staging (choreography credited to Christopher M. Albrecht) is mostly a mess of irrelevant business and uncertain focus. “Tango Tragique,” a usually foolproof counterpoint to the “Romantic Atmosphere” created in a Budapest café, becomes virtually unwatchable as the headwaiter (Matt Takahashi) mugs and preens and practically throws himself against the proscenium to beg for laughs, which don’t come. The priceless “A Day at the Library”—in which a flirtatious cocotte (Camryn Zelinger) describes her transformation at the hands of a studious optometrist—comes to naught as she’s directed to toy with a colleague’s bald head and handle Christmas garlands, thus suggesting she’s an unredeemed coquette after all.
There is no prop too irrelevant and no bit of burlesque too low for Wilson to banish. Miller is directed to engage in enough takes and mugging for a full season of Carol Burnett sketches. An opening customer sequence is so frantically busy it kills the plot-required impression that the shop is in deep financial trouble—not to mention the impact of Act Two’s “12 Days to Christmas,” when things are really supposed to pop.
Then there are the gimmicks, or “doodles” as Wilson condescendingly refers to them in her director’s notes, but she should confine her doodling to her own sketch pad. Set aside the obvious ones: the cross-dressing lady customers—never has drag been so colorlessly or uselessly employed—or the lady violinist (Tina Nguyen) who magically keeps appearing to intrude on the title song and generally throw us knowing winks. (A fiddler at the shop? Sounds crazy, no?)
But disrupting the musical’s emotional center is another thing altogether. That feat is pulled off by having Elizabeth Adabale, as a café chanteuse, stand next to the leads while crooning Gershwin classics. Regardless of how the Bock or Gershwin estates, or the licensors of She Loves Me, would take to such interpolations, all they do is distract from the exquisite scene Miller and Morales are trying to play. The romance of Georg and Amalia is at cross-purposes enough, without having to battle “Someone to Watch Over Me.”
Reviewed by Bob Verini
December 14, 2014
December 14, 2014
Into the Woods
Oregon Shakespeare Festival at Wallis Center for the Performing Arts
“I wish.” So begins this Stephen Sondheim–James Lapine musical. Fairy-tale characters express their most-fervent desires. Cinderella wants to stop cleaning out the fireplace and instead go to the king’s festival. Jack wants his ultra-beloved cow to give milk so his mother won’t make him sell this pet. The Baker and the Baker’s Wife want a real-life bun in the oven. And so each wishes aloud.
These characters and more make occasionally humorous, always intelligent commentaries about their lives and ours, revealed in Sondheim’s lyrics—perhaps the best in the musical theater canon. Those lyrics are sung to Sondheim’s music, consisting of oddly appealing atonalities and challenging rhythms, sometimes as simple as a children’s rhyme, sometimes evoking rap, sometimes operatic.
I wish. I wish I weren’t so judgmental about a show before it even begins. I wish I could relax and let a director do her magic. As for what follows in this review, I wish you would stop reading here if you don’t want to know spoilers about Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s production at the Wallis. Buy a ticket and see it with fresh eyes.
Amanda Dehnert directs this version, giving us a deconstructed musical. There is no curtain dividing the stage from the audience before the show. The actors putter, wearing what appear to be street clothes, and the orchestra is seated in upstage scaffolding, also in street clothes. The actors are glancing at their scripts, which rest on music stands haphazardly placed across the stage. What? We’re seeing a concert version? Where are the storybook sets? Where are the whimsical costumes? How can the witch’s spell be broken if she’s not an ugly hag? Is it a waste of time to have come out on a rain-soaked weeknight?
Well, the performers’ “street clothes” seem to be in a palate of putty and beige. They could be considered costumes, right? And then those performers start to sing. And that young lad playing Jack (Miles Fletcher) sure has a good singing voice. Oh, look, the witch (Miriam A. Laube), in fabulous makeup, is in a wheelchair, being tended to by a put-upon assistant (Royer Bockus) who’s good enough to have a bigger role.
Oh, my. Cinderella’s stepsisters have gone backstage and are re-entering in rather whimsical costumes (yes, more to come, in ever-increasing visual pageantry, designed by Linda Roethke).
The mixing of characters and audience, characters and orchestra, story and metatheater, wears thin after Dehnert introduces and reintroduces her concept. On the other hand, she has fun with the Wallis. The beanstalk is evoked by green lights glowing behind the slats of the side walls (lighting design by Jane Cox), and the giantess appears via giant video screens (a commentary on the media?).
Rapunzel's Prince (John Tufts) and Cinderella's Prince (Jeremy Peter Johnson) get to ride around the stage, not on handsome steeds but on tricycles, befitting their emotional ages, as they sing the hilarious “Agony.” On the other hand, the Wolf is played by a singer (Johnson) and a performer (Howie Seago) who uses American Sign Language—a puzzling bit of theatricality.
The passion of Dehnert’s performers is undeniable, though, and Denhnert particularly illuminates the musical’s themes of parent-child relations. Kjerstine Rose Anderson’s Little Red Ridinghood is a grunge but perky example of parental absence, while Bockus’s Rapunzel (yes, that performer gets a bigger role) is an example of emotional and physical abuse. Near the evening’s end, Laube’s Witch rises above her curse to pleadingly deliver “Children Will Listen.”
The second-to-last chorus is given over to the entire cast, which sings a capella, each voice seemingly getting its own harmony, creating a stunning sound. And then, in an even more stunning moment, Dehnert gives the last chorus to the Baker (the sensational Jeff Skowron) as a solo, which he sings to his baby as a pianissimo lullaby. After all, the Narrator (an endlessly fascinating John Vickery) tells us, someone has to pass our story along. And someone has to break the cycle of parental use, abuse, and abandonment of their children. I wish.
Oregon Shakespeare Festival at Wallis Center for the Performing Arts
“I wish.” So begins this Stephen Sondheim–James Lapine musical. Fairy-tale characters express their most-fervent desires. Cinderella wants to stop cleaning out the fireplace and instead go to the king’s festival. Jack wants his ultra-beloved cow to give milk so his mother won’t make him sell this pet. The Baker and the Baker’s Wife want a real-life bun in the oven. And so each wishes aloud.
These characters and more make occasionally humorous, always intelligent commentaries about their lives and ours, revealed in Sondheim’s lyrics—perhaps the best in the musical theater canon. Those lyrics are sung to Sondheim’s music, consisting of oddly appealing atonalities and challenging rhythms, sometimes as simple as a children’s rhyme, sometimes evoking rap, sometimes operatic.
I wish. I wish I weren’t so judgmental about a show before it even begins. I wish I could relax and let a director do her magic. As for what follows in this review, I wish you would stop reading here if you don’t want to know spoilers about Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s production at the Wallis. Buy a ticket and see it with fresh eyes.
Amanda Dehnert directs this version, giving us a deconstructed musical. There is no curtain dividing the stage from the audience before the show. The actors putter, wearing what appear to be street clothes, and the orchestra is seated in upstage scaffolding, also in street clothes. The actors are glancing at their scripts, which rest on music stands haphazardly placed across the stage. What? We’re seeing a concert version? Where are the storybook sets? Where are the whimsical costumes? How can the witch’s spell be broken if she’s not an ugly hag? Is it a waste of time to have come out on a rain-soaked weeknight?
Well, the performers’ “street clothes” seem to be in a palate of putty and beige. They could be considered costumes, right? And then those performers start to sing. And that young lad playing Jack (Miles Fletcher) sure has a good singing voice. Oh, look, the witch (Miriam A. Laube), in fabulous makeup, is in a wheelchair, being tended to by a put-upon assistant (Royer Bockus) who’s good enough to have a bigger role.
Oh, my. Cinderella’s stepsisters have gone backstage and are re-entering in rather whimsical costumes (yes, more to come, in ever-increasing visual pageantry, designed by Linda Roethke).
The mixing of characters and audience, characters and orchestra, story and metatheater, wears thin after Dehnert introduces and reintroduces her concept. On the other hand, she has fun with the Wallis. The beanstalk is evoked by green lights glowing behind the slats of the side walls (lighting design by Jane Cox), and the giantess appears via giant video screens (a commentary on the media?).
Rapunzel's Prince (John Tufts) and Cinderella's Prince (Jeremy Peter Johnson) get to ride around the stage, not on handsome steeds but on tricycles, befitting their emotional ages, as they sing the hilarious “Agony.” On the other hand, the Wolf is played by a singer (Johnson) and a performer (Howie Seago) who uses American Sign Language—a puzzling bit of theatricality.
The passion of Dehnert’s performers is undeniable, though, and Denhnert particularly illuminates the musical’s themes of parent-child relations. Kjerstine Rose Anderson’s Little Red Ridinghood is a grunge but perky example of parental absence, while Bockus’s Rapunzel (yes, that performer gets a bigger role) is an example of emotional and physical abuse. Near the evening’s end, Laube’s Witch rises above her curse to pleadingly deliver “Children Will Listen.”
The second-to-last chorus is given over to the entire cast, which sings a capella, each voice seemingly getting its own harmony, creating a stunning sound. And then, in an even more stunning moment, Dehnert gives the last chorus to the Baker (the sensational Jeff Skowron) as a solo, which he sings to his baby as a pianissimo lullaby. After all, the Narrator (an endlessly fascinating John Vickery) tells us, someone has to pass our story along. And someone has to break the cycle of parental use, abuse, and abandonment of their children. I wish.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
December 8, 2014
December 8, 2014
Northanger Abbey
Box Tale Soup at the Edye at Broad Stage
The six novels of the great 19th century author Jane Austen lend themselves to updates and adaptations, viz. wit Bridget Jones’s Diary and Clueless. In the, ahem, hands of Box Tale Soup, Austen’s first-published novel is entrancingly recounted by two fabulous actors and seven smoochable puppets.
Austen’s Northanger Abbey follows young Catherine Morland. The sturdy child grows into teenhood with a love of reading—but she reads the potboilers of her days, which Austen points out might not be the most educational and inspiring literature for young women.
So when Catherine is taken on holiday by family friends (as heroines always are in Austen novels), and they go to the charming English town of Bath (as heroines frequently do in Austen novels), Catherine meets people of noble ethics (as always appear) and ignoble ones (as her readers expect).
Antonia Christophers plays Catherine and Noel Byrne plays Henry Tilney, the gentleman who accepts and enlightens Catherine’s spirited mind. But each also plays the various other characters, using puppets. Those puppets are about 3 feet tall, and each looks basically alike, fortunately with bright eyes and engaged eyebrows. Only wooden hairstyles (curls and comb-overs) and bits of fabrics distinguish each character. So, the Tilneys wear touches of purple, Catherine’s hosts green, the reprehensible Thorpes red, and Catherine and her brother blue.
But the actors—their voices and physicalities—help let the audience know at every moment which character is speaking. Byrne in particular has a childlike immersion in his puppetry, so his whole body, and that of his puppets, engage in the storytelling. Christophers, on the other hand, realistically limns the youthful naïveté of her young character. Both actors charmingly evoke the manners and deportment of Regency England.
Directed by Robert Soulsby-Smith, the physical production emerges from a rugged, antique-looking suitcase. Clothing, books, bedclothes, candelabras, gardens, and whatever other scene-setting items are needed are tenderly unpacked as the show gets underway. Left as a surprise is the towering figure of Henry Tilney’s father, whom Catherine believes in her febrile state to be a Gothic figure with nefarious purposes.
Soon the audience is immersed in the story of Catherine; the opportunistic Isabella Thorpe and her boundary-pushing brother, James; the society-conscious hosts; and the gentle, amiable Eleanor Tilney and her wise and handsome brother, Henry.
Catherine learns her lesson—not to stop reading but to read with intelligence and think about what she reads. The audience will likely learn its lessons—to forthwith read or reread Austen, and of the delights of great storytelling.
Box Tale Soup at the Edye at Broad Stage
The six novels of the great 19th century author Jane Austen lend themselves to updates and adaptations, viz. wit Bridget Jones’s Diary and Clueless. In the, ahem, hands of Box Tale Soup, Austen’s first-published novel is entrancingly recounted by two fabulous actors and seven smoochable puppets.
Austen’s Northanger Abbey follows young Catherine Morland. The sturdy child grows into teenhood with a love of reading—but she reads the potboilers of her days, which Austen points out might not be the most educational and inspiring literature for young women.
So when Catherine is taken on holiday by family friends (as heroines always are in Austen novels), and they go to the charming English town of Bath (as heroines frequently do in Austen novels), Catherine meets people of noble ethics (as always appear) and ignoble ones (as her readers expect).
Antonia Christophers plays Catherine and Noel Byrne plays Henry Tilney, the gentleman who accepts and enlightens Catherine’s spirited mind. But each also plays the various other characters, using puppets. Those puppets are about 3 feet tall, and each looks basically alike, fortunately with bright eyes and engaged eyebrows. Only wooden hairstyles (curls and comb-overs) and bits of fabrics distinguish each character. So, the Tilneys wear touches of purple, Catherine’s hosts green, the reprehensible Thorpes red, and Catherine and her brother blue.
But the actors—their voices and physicalities—help let the audience know at every moment which character is speaking. Byrne in particular has a childlike immersion in his puppetry, so his whole body, and that of his puppets, engage in the storytelling. Christophers, on the other hand, realistically limns the youthful naïveté of her young character. Both actors charmingly evoke the manners and deportment of Regency England.
Directed by Robert Soulsby-Smith, the physical production emerges from a rugged, antique-looking suitcase. Clothing, books, bedclothes, candelabras, gardens, and whatever other scene-setting items are needed are tenderly unpacked as the show gets underway. Left as a surprise is the towering figure of Henry Tilney’s father, whom Catherine believes in her febrile state to be a Gothic figure with nefarious purposes.
Soon the audience is immersed in the story of Catherine; the opportunistic Isabella Thorpe and her boundary-pushing brother, James; the society-conscious hosts; and the gentle, amiable Eleanor Tilney and her wise and handsome brother, Henry.
Catherine learns her lesson—not to stop reading but to read with intelligence and think about what she reads. The audience will likely learn its lessons—to forthwith read or reread Austen, and of the delights of great storytelling.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
December 8, 2014
December 8, 2014
Love, Noël: The Letters and Songs of Noël Coward
Lovelace Studio Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
Noël Coward’s songs should be standards, heard often, like those of his contemporaries Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart and Irving Berlin. Coward’s cabaret tunes and show numbers are just as witty, his melodies just as harmonious. But other than “Mad About the Boy,” few of his songs are heard these days. Perhaps that’s because he’s more cherished for his classic plays, such as Blithe Spirit or Private Lives, than for his musicals, such as Sail Away and The Girl Who Came to Supper.
Coward’s music deserves the spotlight, and Love, Noël, a combination of his songs and his correspondences with his famous friends, gives his songs the respect they deserve. The show has returned to the Wallis, after a run in February, again directed by Jeanie Hackett, with a new winning cast of two: Sharon Lawrence and Harry Groener.
Coward was the bon vivant of the 20th century. He dined with Winston Churchill and the Queen Mother; wrote plays for his friends The Lunts, Gertrude Lawrence, Elaine Stritch, and Bea Lillie; and was the confidant for Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo. His letters were pithy but illustrated a dear love he had for all the people in his life.
Coward expert Barry Day forms an evening around the letters he published in The Letters of Noël Coward. The music, played on piano by musical director Gerald Sternbach, captures a blend of Coward genres: from the comical “Nina” and “Why Do the Wrong People Travel” to the operatic “I’ll See You Again” to the reflective “If Love Were All” to the paean of war-torn 1940s Europe “London Pride.” Coward fans will delight in the presentation of Coward’s lovely tunes while newcomers will marvel they haven’t heard some of these numbers before.
Groener, who made a splash on Broadway in Crazy for You, Cats and the ’79 revival of Oklahoma!, captures Coward’s snarky turn of phrase, as well as his empathy for the pain felt by those for whom his heart breaks. Lawrence plays an array of famous women, from Gertie L to Stritchy, Queen Mum to Edna Ferber. Lawrence invests in each role, not only converting her voice to each lady’s cadence but also contorting her face to capture each’s flavor. Lawrence doesn’t have the belt for some songs and her upper register is light, but she still enhances each tune with a lovely alto voice and acts each song with gusto.
The cabaret act plays in the Wallis’s smaller space, arranged like a supper club, giving the evening the class found in New York’s famous Café Carlyle. The evening is as elegant as the setting.
Lovelace Studio Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
Noël Coward’s songs should be standards, heard often, like those of his contemporaries Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart and Irving Berlin. Coward’s cabaret tunes and show numbers are just as witty, his melodies just as harmonious. But other than “Mad About the Boy,” few of his songs are heard these days. Perhaps that’s because he’s more cherished for his classic plays, such as Blithe Spirit or Private Lives, than for his musicals, such as Sail Away and The Girl Who Came to Supper.
Coward’s music deserves the spotlight, and Love, Noël, a combination of his songs and his correspondences with his famous friends, gives his songs the respect they deserve. The show has returned to the Wallis, after a run in February, again directed by Jeanie Hackett, with a new winning cast of two: Sharon Lawrence and Harry Groener.
Coward was the bon vivant of the 20th century. He dined with Winston Churchill and the Queen Mother; wrote plays for his friends The Lunts, Gertrude Lawrence, Elaine Stritch, and Bea Lillie; and was the confidant for Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo. His letters were pithy but illustrated a dear love he had for all the people in his life.
Coward expert Barry Day forms an evening around the letters he published in The Letters of Noël Coward. The music, played on piano by musical director Gerald Sternbach, captures a blend of Coward genres: from the comical “Nina” and “Why Do the Wrong People Travel” to the operatic “I’ll See You Again” to the reflective “If Love Were All” to the paean of war-torn 1940s Europe “London Pride.” Coward fans will delight in the presentation of Coward’s lovely tunes while newcomers will marvel they haven’t heard some of these numbers before.
Groener, who made a splash on Broadway in Crazy for You, Cats and the ’79 revival of Oklahoma!, captures Coward’s snarky turn of phrase, as well as his empathy for the pain felt by those for whom his heart breaks. Lawrence plays an array of famous women, from Gertie L to Stritchy, Queen Mum to Edna Ferber. Lawrence invests in each role, not only converting her voice to each lady’s cadence but also contorting her face to capture each’s flavor. Lawrence doesn’t have the belt for some songs and her upper register is light, but she still enhances each tune with a lovely alto voice and acts each song with gusto.
The cabaret act plays in the Wallis’s smaller space, arranged like a supper club, giving the evening the class found in New York’s famous Café Carlyle. The evening is as elegant as the setting.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
December 8, 2014
December 8, 2014
Luna Gale
Goodman Theatre at Kirk Douglas Theatre
What makes playwright Rebecca Gilman so great is not that she writes plays on hot-button issues: racial discrimination accusations on campus (Spinning Into Butter), child disappearances (The Joy of Living), sexual stalkers (Boy Gets Girl), or the problems of child custody and bureaucratic maneuvering, as in her newest work, Luna Gale. (The Kirk Douglas is hosting the original Goodman Theater of Chicago production.) It’s that instead of exploiting any of those issues in the manner of a knockoff TV movie, she uses them as a jumping-off point for something much more robust and stinging. Each play goes far beyond its fundamental conceit, and her work always surprises.
One of Gilman’s pet themes is action in the face of uncertainty. Her protagonists are trying desperately to find out the truth about this accusation or that new acquaintance. But when they think they’ve got it all figured out and take steps accordingly, the result tends to be a total cock-up. “The truth,” after all, is rarely clear-cut and almost always in the eye of the beholder.
All of which makes for absorbing drama, not to mention serving as a rich metaphor for America in the 21st century. Our social and political (and even personal) crises, today, seem so much more confusing and complicated than in bygone days, don’t they? Gilman has her finger squarely on the pulse of modern absurdity.
Few of her protagonists battle personal and official absurdity quite so feverishly as Caroline Cox (Mary Beth Fisher), the child welfare case officer at the heart of Luna Gale. In her 50s, Caroline remains passionate about protecting kids and making their lives right, but the obstacles are starting to mount up. Her ambitious, narrow-minded supervisor (Erik Hellman) clashes with her in style and substance. She can’t figure out whether two unwed parents hooked on meth (Reyna de Courcy and Colin Sphar) are redeemable or a threat to their infant daughter. Nor can she be sure the baby’s grandmother (Jordan Baker) is a more fit guardian.
In the “recent success” department, a young woman (Melissa DuPrey) newly “emancipated” from foster care, and seemingly successfully launched in college, may not be quite as stable as she appears. Most of all, Caroline is confounded by The System— a morass of rules and forms and procedures that offers too few resources, and presents too many contradictory choices, for anyone’s comfort.
Still, a precious, vulnerable child is at stake, and the fate of baby Luna will hinge on how effectively Caroline can navigate the difficult waters in which playwright Gilman has placed her.
The plot gets into the clashes of devout belief and atheism, as well as accusations of past sexual abuse and standards of professional conduct. So much is thrown into the hopper that occasionally you sense Gilman deliberately stacking the deck, rather than letting the plot developments evolve naturally. But director Robert Falls’s firm command of pacing, and Fisher’s extraordinary depth of intellect and feeling, keep the theatrical event compelling and focused.
Goodman Theatre at Kirk Douglas Theatre
What makes playwright Rebecca Gilman so great is not that she writes plays on hot-button issues: racial discrimination accusations on campus (Spinning Into Butter), child disappearances (The Joy of Living), sexual stalkers (Boy Gets Girl), or the problems of child custody and bureaucratic maneuvering, as in her newest work, Luna Gale. (The Kirk Douglas is hosting the original Goodman Theater of Chicago production.) It’s that instead of exploiting any of those issues in the manner of a knockoff TV movie, she uses them as a jumping-off point for something much more robust and stinging. Each play goes far beyond its fundamental conceit, and her work always surprises.
One of Gilman’s pet themes is action in the face of uncertainty. Her protagonists are trying desperately to find out the truth about this accusation or that new acquaintance. But when they think they’ve got it all figured out and take steps accordingly, the result tends to be a total cock-up. “The truth,” after all, is rarely clear-cut and almost always in the eye of the beholder.
All of which makes for absorbing drama, not to mention serving as a rich metaphor for America in the 21st century. Our social and political (and even personal) crises, today, seem so much more confusing and complicated than in bygone days, don’t they? Gilman has her finger squarely on the pulse of modern absurdity.
Few of her protagonists battle personal and official absurdity quite so feverishly as Caroline Cox (Mary Beth Fisher), the child welfare case officer at the heart of Luna Gale. In her 50s, Caroline remains passionate about protecting kids and making their lives right, but the obstacles are starting to mount up. Her ambitious, narrow-minded supervisor (Erik Hellman) clashes with her in style and substance. She can’t figure out whether two unwed parents hooked on meth (Reyna de Courcy and Colin Sphar) are redeemable or a threat to their infant daughter. Nor can she be sure the baby’s grandmother (Jordan Baker) is a more fit guardian.
In the “recent success” department, a young woman (Melissa DuPrey) newly “emancipated” from foster care, and seemingly successfully launched in college, may not be quite as stable as she appears. Most of all, Caroline is confounded by The System— a morass of rules and forms and procedures that offers too few resources, and presents too many contradictory choices, for anyone’s comfort.
Still, a precious, vulnerable child is at stake, and the fate of baby Luna will hinge on how effectively Caroline can navigate the difficult waters in which playwright Gilman has placed her.
The plot gets into the clashes of devout belief and atheism, as well as accusations of past sexual abuse and standards of professional conduct. So much is thrown into the hopper that occasionally you sense Gilman deliberately stacking the deck, rather than letting the plot developments evolve naturally. But director Robert Falls’s firm command of pacing, and Fisher’s extraordinary depth of intellect and feeling, keep the theatrical event compelling and focused.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
December 7, 2014
December 7, 2014
What the Butler Saw
Mark Taper Forum
Perhaps the most overwhelmingly bittersweet thing about Joe Orton’s final play is to imagine where his boundless and insightful comedic genius might have taken him if his life hadn’t been prematurely snuffed out in 1967, halfway through his 34th year and only weeks after he had completed this wildly off-kilter farce. Orton’s star was at the height of its brightest luminosity, his soaring career the talk of the town after the success of his earlier and equally controversial comedies Loot and Entertaining Mr. Sloane—both of which are, a half-century after his untimely demise, presented more frequently than this one. Perhaps this is because, unlike his other works, Orton died before he could embark on the myriad rewrites for which he was famous, his obsession with detail cut short when he was found dead in his tiny bedsitter at 25 Noel Road, Islington, bludgeoned to death with a hammer by Kenneth Halliwell, his lover and mentor for 16 years.
No one was more notoriously audacious than Orton, skewering upper-class rigidity and political foibles with more comic precision than anyone since Molière. With an outrageous disregard for the hypocritical morality and social taboos unspoken in polite society since Queen Victoria’s repressive reign, he took on topics that scandalized and enraged the more-conservative drama critics of the era, one of whom declared about this particular swansong that it was a “wholly unacceptable exploitation of sexual perversion.” Audiences ran from the theater in droves, quickly replaced by other patrons eager to be simultaneously appalled and surreptitiously titillated beyond their acceptably reserved reactions.
By today’s standards, however, even the sea of conservative white heads populating a typical Mark Taper Forum audience is way beyond being shocked by the antics of doctors Rance and Prentice, proprietors of the private psychiatric clinic that is such a perfect setting for the master’s last gasp of absurdist creativity. Even when everything wraps up at the end as intricately and cleverly as in Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, or when a huge brass phallus missing from a statue of the venerable Winston Churchill is held high for all to see, no one seems nearly as scandalized as Londoners professed to be in spring 1969.
There are no servants, let alone butlers, in this hilarious Chaucerian romp filled with slamming doors and naked civil servants. This leaves its audience to assume the POV of the domestic help eagerly peeking through the clinic’s many keyholes as its proprietor Dr. Prentice (Charles Shaugnessy) pulls back the bed curtains to provide a suitable nest in which to seduce poor put-upon Geraldine Barclay (Sarah Manton), the innocent waif from the employment agency come to interview for a position as his secretary despite her inability to grasp the intricacies of the typewriter keyboard. Prentice was once on a mission, dedicated to teach others about the rampant lunacy lurking just below societal mores. But because he has proven himself to be “unable to achieve madness himself” and finds himself beyond caring much about his harpy of a wife’s amorous nymphomania, he decides to join the habits of the great unwashed he treats—with disastrous but hilarious results.
Along the way, poor Geraldine is pushed and pulled, stripped and coerced until she appears— shoulder-length red locks clipped to the scalp, in a Standard Hotel bellboy’s uniform—to pass herself off as a boy. Meanwhile, her counterpart—randy blackmailing bellboy Nicholas Beckett (Angus McEwan)—romps through the action in women’s clothes when he’s not running across the stage in his birthday suit with a strategically placed policemen’s helmet covering his private parts, albeit a little late. Only Dr. Prentice and his superior, Dr. Rance (Paxton Whitehead), stay fully clothed before the play’s crashing rollercoaster of a culminating chase sequence, Geraldine and Nicholas joined by the good doctor’s scotch-swigging, hotel worker–boffing wife (Frances Barber) and a compromised London bobby (Rod McLachlan), characters also compelled to lose their clothing by the end—or, in Sgt. March’s case, trading his uniform for a most chic leopard-print dress belonging to the mistress of the house.
No one understands directing Orton better than John Tillinger does. He has previously helmed Loot and Entertaining Mr. Sloane on this stage and is a virtuoso at bringing to life the playwright’s mantra that, as Dr. Rance notes, “Just when one least expects it, the unexpected always happens.” Tillinger’s cast does a remarkable job finding the delightfully silly tone and playing it right to the bone, without the physical and vocal exaggeration that usually accompanies such a performance. Barber is particularly successful as Mrs. Prentice, getting away with extravagant full-body reactions to most everything she encounters on each entrance and dropping continuous dry British witticisms with a vocal delivery landing somewhere between Tallulah Bankhead and Carrie Nye. Whitehead is also an expert at dryly dropping Orton’s continuous pronouncements, about the state of the world and the mental health community of the time, with well-polished ease.
The wide Taper stage might be the biggest problem, making the quickness of the characters’ rapid entrances and exits a tad difficult to assay. The sound system, which can’t seem to allow for the actors to keep up the timing while still being heard over the laughter lingering from the previous line, also detracts, especially when it’s so important to hear everything the soft-spoken septuagenarian Whitehead has to propose. Still, this is a worthy denizen of an era when everything changed in British comedy, signaling the even braver future days of farceurs Caryl Churchill, Alan Ayckbourn, and Michael Frayn, not to mention the unstoppable comedic outlandishness of Beyond the Fringe and Monty Python. As Dr. Rance observes, “Radical thought comes easy to the lunatic.” Thank Lord God Terpsichore for the brief stay on this planet of the lunatic Joe Orton, who uproariously and courageously opened—and slammed—so many secret doors and private closets.
Mark Taper Forum
Perhaps the most overwhelmingly bittersweet thing about Joe Orton’s final play is to imagine where his boundless and insightful comedic genius might have taken him if his life hadn’t been prematurely snuffed out in 1967, halfway through his 34th year and only weeks after he had completed this wildly off-kilter farce. Orton’s star was at the height of its brightest luminosity, his soaring career the talk of the town after the success of his earlier and equally controversial comedies Loot and Entertaining Mr. Sloane—both of which are, a half-century after his untimely demise, presented more frequently than this one. Perhaps this is because, unlike his other works, Orton died before he could embark on the myriad rewrites for which he was famous, his obsession with detail cut short when he was found dead in his tiny bedsitter at 25 Noel Road, Islington, bludgeoned to death with a hammer by Kenneth Halliwell, his lover and mentor for 16 years.
No one was more notoriously audacious than Orton, skewering upper-class rigidity and political foibles with more comic precision than anyone since Molière. With an outrageous disregard for the hypocritical morality and social taboos unspoken in polite society since Queen Victoria’s repressive reign, he took on topics that scandalized and enraged the more-conservative drama critics of the era, one of whom declared about this particular swansong that it was a “wholly unacceptable exploitation of sexual perversion.” Audiences ran from the theater in droves, quickly replaced by other patrons eager to be simultaneously appalled and surreptitiously titillated beyond their acceptably reserved reactions.
By today’s standards, however, even the sea of conservative white heads populating a typical Mark Taper Forum audience is way beyond being shocked by the antics of doctors Rance and Prentice, proprietors of the private psychiatric clinic that is such a perfect setting for the master’s last gasp of absurdist creativity. Even when everything wraps up at the end as intricately and cleverly as in Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, or when a huge brass phallus missing from a statue of the venerable Winston Churchill is held high for all to see, no one seems nearly as scandalized as Londoners professed to be in spring 1969.
There are no servants, let alone butlers, in this hilarious Chaucerian romp filled with slamming doors and naked civil servants. This leaves its audience to assume the POV of the domestic help eagerly peeking through the clinic’s many keyholes as its proprietor Dr. Prentice (Charles Shaugnessy) pulls back the bed curtains to provide a suitable nest in which to seduce poor put-upon Geraldine Barclay (Sarah Manton), the innocent waif from the employment agency come to interview for a position as his secretary despite her inability to grasp the intricacies of the typewriter keyboard. Prentice was once on a mission, dedicated to teach others about the rampant lunacy lurking just below societal mores. But because he has proven himself to be “unable to achieve madness himself” and finds himself beyond caring much about his harpy of a wife’s amorous nymphomania, he decides to join the habits of the great unwashed he treats—with disastrous but hilarious results.
Along the way, poor Geraldine is pushed and pulled, stripped and coerced until she appears— shoulder-length red locks clipped to the scalp, in a Standard Hotel bellboy’s uniform—to pass herself off as a boy. Meanwhile, her counterpart—randy blackmailing bellboy Nicholas Beckett (Angus McEwan)—romps through the action in women’s clothes when he’s not running across the stage in his birthday suit with a strategically placed policemen’s helmet covering his private parts, albeit a little late. Only Dr. Prentice and his superior, Dr. Rance (Paxton Whitehead), stay fully clothed before the play’s crashing rollercoaster of a culminating chase sequence, Geraldine and Nicholas joined by the good doctor’s scotch-swigging, hotel worker–boffing wife (Frances Barber) and a compromised London bobby (Rod McLachlan), characters also compelled to lose their clothing by the end—or, in Sgt. March’s case, trading his uniform for a most chic leopard-print dress belonging to the mistress of the house.
No one understands directing Orton better than John Tillinger does. He has previously helmed Loot and Entertaining Mr. Sloane on this stage and is a virtuoso at bringing to life the playwright’s mantra that, as Dr. Rance notes, “Just when one least expects it, the unexpected always happens.” Tillinger’s cast does a remarkable job finding the delightfully silly tone and playing it right to the bone, without the physical and vocal exaggeration that usually accompanies such a performance. Barber is particularly successful as Mrs. Prentice, getting away with extravagant full-body reactions to most everything she encounters on each entrance and dropping continuous dry British witticisms with a vocal delivery landing somewhere between Tallulah Bankhead and Carrie Nye. Whitehead is also an expert at dryly dropping Orton’s continuous pronouncements, about the state of the world and the mental health community of the time, with well-polished ease.
The wide Taper stage might be the biggest problem, making the quickness of the characters’ rapid entrances and exits a tad difficult to assay. The sound system, which can’t seem to allow for the actors to keep up the timing while still being heard over the laughter lingering from the previous line, also detracts, especially when it’s so important to hear everything the soft-spoken septuagenarian Whitehead has to propose. Still, this is a worthy denizen of an era when everything changed in British comedy, signaling the even braver future days of farceurs Caryl Churchill, Alan Ayckbourn, and Michael Frayn, not to mention the unstoppable comedic outlandishness of Beyond the Fringe and Monty Python. As Dr. Rance observes, “Radical thought comes easy to the lunatic.” Thank Lord God Terpsichore for the brief stay on this planet of the lunatic Joe Orton, who uproariously and courageously opened—and slammed—so many secret doors and private closets.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
November 28, 2014
November 28, 2014
Dirty
Zephyr Theatre
First things first: Dirty is by no means dirty, at least insofar as habitues of Melrose Avenue’s Zephyr Theatre might expect. That particular venue has hosted more than its share of full-frontal nudity and simulated sex acts over the years.
No, what playwright Andrew Hinderaker finds dirty, in this work transplanted from Chicago, are the machinations, betrayals, and moral blind spots of those who would set out to make a really big score. In short, Dirty joins Other People’s Money and Glengarry Glen Ross on the short list of indignant dramatic indictments of the American way of doing business. Choir members will already be well familiar with the ideas and the melodies. Others may be less-readily persuaded by the author’s heavily stacked deck.
Our virtue-challenged protagonists are investment banker Matt (Max Lesser) and pregnant wife Katie (Anna Konkle), one-percenters who crave a greater share of that 1 percent. Matt clearly lacks the rapacious gene of his boss Terry (Lea Coco) while wanting the good life for his family, while Katie seeks the wherewithal for her various philanthropic enterprises, mostly of a feminist variety.
Matt and Katie, as it happens, are porn aficionados, but not the dirty fantasy-filled stuff. They like the down-to-earth scenes featuring women who are accomplished and smart. Such high-toned X-rated vids are understandably tough to come by, so Max conceives of a sure-fire venture: a porn studio that will hire no talent under 25 and that will devote a significant part of the proceeds to Katie’s pet projects. What a swell idea, a sex film enterprise supporting the causes of the liberal elite. Maybe Hinderaker has Ben and Jerry’s in mind? Though, dishing out scrumptious ice cream would hardly seem analogous to cranking out digital sex.
Setting aside the dubious underlying ideology, Hinderecker seems to think that setting up shop as an X-rated filmmaker is about as difficult as running a lemonade stand in the front yard, once one makes the commitment to it, that is. So he devotes the entire first act to tedious conversations with Katie about the venture’s morality, and tedious confrontations with Terry about providing the financial backing. How so, tedious? Because if Katie doesn’t agree to the scheme, and if Terry doesn’t put up the cash, there’s no play. The act ends exactly as it must—Katie will reluctantly participate, and Terry will put in the cash with huge conditions—and we’re left with the sole dramatic question: Will all concerned be able to keep their hands clean as they embark on their quixotic adventures in the skin trade?
Can there be any doubt? As Act Two begins, somehow they’ve gotten the equipment and talent and marketing and distribution in place and are chugging profitably along, even though Matt seems no more capable of running that aforementioned lemonade stand. Golly, if it’s this easy, why doesn’t everyone do it? But that old devil Greed enters and begins to prey on our hapless heroes. Along comes a dazzlingly beautiful, multicultural, articulate law student (Zuleyka Silver) with an unaccountable interest in having sex on camera. So what if she’s not yet 25, Matt and Terry reason; she’ll be a sensation. You’re pushing the line, Katie complains, and if you continue I’m not sure I’ll be here when you get back. Or words to that effect. Dirty features more clichés per scene than many another play of the season, despite its ostensibly fresh and frank milieu.
There are a couple of twists one can see coming a mile away. But even more clear in the distance, from the first scene on, are the phony moral dilemmas the playwright insists on setting up, in order to cast a baleful eye on anyone who’s trying to produce something and create jobs. There are crackerjack dramatic possibilities in a critique of American enterprise, but they await a more plausible human construct than the text of Dirty offers. The cast and director Shannon Cochran do their best under the irritating circumstances.
Zephyr Theatre
First things first: Dirty is by no means dirty, at least insofar as habitues of Melrose Avenue’s Zephyr Theatre might expect. That particular venue has hosted more than its share of full-frontal nudity and simulated sex acts over the years.
No, what playwright Andrew Hinderaker finds dirty, in this work transplanted from Chicago, are the machinations, betrayals, and moral blind spots of those who would set out to make a really big score. In short, Dirty joins Other People’s Money and Glengarry Glen Ross on the short list of indignant dramatic indictments of the American way of doing business. Choir members will already be well familiar with the ideas and the melodies. Others may be less-readily persuaded by the author’s heavily stacked deck.
Our virtue-challenged protagonists are investment banker Matt (Max Lesser) and pregnant wife Katie (Anna Konkle), one-percenters who crave a greater share of that 1 percent. Matt clearly lacks the rapacious gene of his boss Terry (Lea Coco) while wanting the good life for his family, while Katie seeks the wherewithal for her various philanthropic enterprises, mostly of a feminist variety.
Matt and Katie, as it happens, are porn aficionados, but not the dirty fantasy-filled stuff. They like the down-to-earth scenes featuring women who are accomplished and smart. Such high-toned X-rated vids are understandably tough to come by, so Max conceives of a sure-fire venture: a porn studio that will hire no talent under 25 and that will devote a significant part of the proceeds to Katie’s pet projects. What a swell idea, a sex film enterprise supporting the causes of the liberal elite. Maybe Hinderaker has Ben and Jerry’s in mind? Though, dishing out scrumptious ice cream would hardly seem analogous to cranking out digital sex.
Setting aside the dubious underlying ideology, Hinderecker seems to think that setting up shop as an X-rated filmmaker is about as difficult as running a lemonade stand in the front yard, once one makes the commitment to it, that is. So he devotes the entire first act to tedious conversations with Katie about the venture’s morality, and tedious confrontations with Terry about providing the financial backing. How so, tedious? Because if Katie doesn’t agree to the scheme, and if Terry doesn’t put up the cash, there’s no play. The act ends exactly as it must—Katie will reluctantly participate, and Terry will put in the cash with huge conditions—and we’re left with the sole dramatic question: Will all concerned be able to keep their hands clean as they embark on their quixotic adventures in the skin trade?
Can there be any doubt? As Act Two begins, somehow they’ve gotten the equipment and talent and marketing and distribution in place and are chugging profitably along, even though Matt seems no more capable of running that aforementioned lemonade stand. Golly, if it’s this easy, why doesn’t everyone do it? But that old devil Greed enters and begins to prey on our hapless heroes. Along comes a dazzlingly beautiful, multicultural, articulate law student (Zuleyka Silver) with an unaccountable interest in having sex on camera. So what if she’s not yet 25, Matt and Terry reason; she’ll be a sensation. You’re pushing the line, Katie complains, and if you continue I’m not sure I’ll be here when you get back. Or words to that effect. Dirty features more clichés per scene than many another play of the season, despite its ostensibly fresh and frank milieu.
There are a couple of twists one can see coming a mile away. But even more clear in the distance, from the first scene on, are the phony moral dilemmas the playwright insists on setting up, in order to cast a baleful eye on anyone who’s trying to produce something and create jobs. There are crackerjack dramatic possibilities in a critique of American enterprise, but they await a more plausible human construct than the text of Dirty offers. The cast and director Shannon Cochran do their best under the irritating circumstances.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
November 24, 2014
November 24, 2014
Into the Woods
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
Traditional fairy tales begin with characters who have far to travel, while the promise of adventure perfumes the story. And at the conclusions of these tales, the righteous get their rewards, while the wrongdoers are punished or worse.
But that’s only Act One of Into the Woods. Then what? What if the prince climbs up Rapunzel’s yards-long golden tresses, only to abandon her before she bears his twin babies? What if Cinderella finds that her prince is a carefree lothario? On the other hand, what if the giant that Jack has killed after the young lad climbs that beanstalk has left a widow—and she’s infuriated?
What the heck happened to “happily ever after?” More to the point of this show—with music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, book by James Lapine—aren’t we responsible for our own actions? Further, aren’t we, as members of society, responsible for other people, too?
Into the Woods begins as fairy tale characters state their wishes. A baby, money, travel opportunities—the characters ask for different, better, more-exciting lives. Cinderella (played here by Heather Barnett) wants to escape her drudgery and go to the king’s festival. Jack (Brad Halvorsen), to the despair of his Mother (Patricia Butler), wishes his starving but beloved pet cow Milky White (Brandie June) would give milk. And the Baker (Terry Delegeane) and the Baker's Wife (Amy Coles) are desperate for a baby.
All of them—as well as Rapunzel (Alicia Reynolds), Little Red Ridinghood (Carly Linehan), two extraordinarily tall princes (Matthew Artson and Jon Sparks), a very Mysterious Man (Ben Lupejkis), and a secretly beautiful Witch (Elizabeth Bouton)—do indeed go into the woods, hoping to find what they need there.
This being Sondheim and Lapine, the woods are a metaphor. So perhaps it’s best, in this show’s spirit of existentialism, to leave interpretation to each audience member—unless that audience member wants to just enjoy being greatly entertained.
And this Kentwood Players’s production certainly entertains. Shawn K. Summerer directs a smooth, lively, pointed, and crisp production. There’s wit in every characterization and physicality at every moment—including lots of pratfalls. Most of the singing voices are knockouts, and all of the portrayals are sharp, with performances that understate the humor rather than playing for laughs.
The music direction, by Catherine Rahm, is gorgeous, at least once the performers found their bearings on opening night. Sondheim is melodically and rhythmically complex and unpredictable. But very soon this cast became note-perfect—as is the small but mighty orchestra, conducted by Daniel Gledhill.
Sure, we might wish the Witch’s mask didn’t hide her expressions and perhaps muffle occasional lyrics. And the tree that supposedly falls seems to still be standing. But if we learned anything from this musical, we’re better off focusing on the good of what’s already there.
The character-defining costumes—by Kathy Dershimer, Elizabeth Summerer, and Jon Sparks—notably include a cow’s mask for Milky White that enables the Baker to feed her all the items the Witch has demanded, and yet nothing spills out during the scene. Tony Pereslete’s set turns the small stage into spacious woods, and Robert Davis’s lighting gorgeously establishes place and tone.
This exceptionally deep musical is about choosing and decisiveness, consequences and responsibility. It’s also just a joy to watch.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
Traditional fairy tales begin with characters who have far to travel, while the promise of adventure perfumes the story. And at the conclusions of these tales, the righteous get their rewards, while the wrongdoers are punished or worse.
But that’s only Act One of Into the Woods. Then what? What if the prince climbs up Rapunzel’s yards-long golden tresses, only to abandon her before she bears his twin babies? What if Cinderella finds that her prince is a carefree lothario? On the other hand, what if the giant that Jack has killed after the young lad climbs that beanstalk has left a widow—and she’s infuriated?
What the heck happened to “happily ever after?” More to the point of this show—with music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, book by James Lapine—aren’t we responsible for our own actions? Further, aren’t we, as members of society, responsible for other people, too?
Into the Woods begins as fairy tale characters state their wishes. A baby, money, travel opportunities—the characters ask for different, better, more-exciting lives. Cinderella (played here by Heather Barnett) wants to escape her drudgery and go to the king’s festival. Jack (Brad Halvorsen), to the despair of his Mother (Patricia Butler), wishes his starving but beloved pet cow Milky White (Brandie June) would give milk. And the Baker (Terry Delegeane) and the Baker's Wife (Amy Coles) are desperate for a baby.
All of them—as well as Rapunzel (Alicia Reynolds), Little Red Ridinghood (Carly Linehan), two extraordinarily tall princes (Matthew Artson and Jon Sparks), a very Mysterious Man (Ben Lupejkis), and a secretly beautiful Witch (Elizabeth Bouton)—do indeed go into the woods, hoping to find what they need there.
This being Sondheim and Lapine, the woods are a metaphor. So perhaps it’s best, in this show’s spirit of existentialism, to leave interpretation to each audience member—unless that audience member wants to just enjoy being greatly entertained.
And this Kentwood Players’s production certainly entertains. Shawn K. Summerer directs a smooth, lively, pointed, and crisp production. There’s wit in every characterization and physicality at every moment—including lots of pratfalls. Most of the singing voices are knockouts, and all of the portrayals are sharp, with performances that understate the humor rather than playing for laughs.
The music direction, by Catherine Rahm, is gorgeous, at least once the performers found their bearings on opening night. Sondheim is melodically and rhythmically complex and unpredictable. But very soon this cast became note-perfect—as is the small but mighty orchestra, conducted by Daniel Gledhill.
Sure, we might wish the Witch’s mask didn’t hide her expressions and perhaps muffle occasional lyrics. And the tree that supposedly falls seems to still be standing. But if we learned anything from this musical, we’re better off focusing on the good of what’s already there.
The character-defining costumes—by Kathy Dershimer, Elizabeth Summerer, and Jon Sparks—notably include a cow’s mask for Milky White that enables the Baker to feed her all the items the Witch has demanded, and yet nothing spills out during the scene. Tony Pereslete’s set turns the small stage into spacious woods, and Robert Davis’s lighting gorgeously establishes place and tone.
This exceptionally deep musical is about choosing and decisiveness, consequences and responsibility. It’s also just a joy to watch.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 16, 2014
November 16, 2014
The Vortex
Amanda Eliasch and Vespa Collaborative at Matrix Theatre
There’s nothing much harder to perform than anything written by Noël Coward. This once-scandalous 1924 play, in which the fledgling dramatist wrote a juicy role for himself in an effort to propel himself to stardom, is particularly difficult. Although his strategy worked and his performance as the coke-addicted upper-crust dandy Nicky put him on the map as an actor and as a playwright, his once highly controversial play has not survived the ages as well as some of his other classic works.
When the play was first financed in London by its author, the themes of drug abuse (thought by some scholars to be a mask for Coward’s still-hidden homosexuality) and marital infidelity were far more novel and certainly more provocative than they are today. But director Gene Franklin Smith and his fine band of actors have thrust themselves headfirst into the manners and posturing of Coward’s style, refreshing ever-present cocktails and lounging across convenient chaises longues while confidently uttering the master’s notoriously brittle bons mots. It is a noble effort, finding a base from which to interpret the blurred humanity of people from a bygone era who have been “living their lives on pretense for years.”
Aging and intolerably vain socialite Florence Lancaster (Shannon Holt) lives a busy life overshadowed by her desperate need to stay youthful, especially since it’s “too late to become beautifully old” at this point in her journey. Brazenly carrying on in front of her presumably long-suffering husband, David (John Mawson), and her continuously traumatized eye-rolling friends Helen and Pawnie (Victoria Hoffman and Cameron Mitchell Jr.), Florence parades her latest boytoy, Tom Veryan (Daniel Jimenez), at a gathering at her London flat. Perhaps if her dandy of a son, Nicky (Craig Robert Young in the role Coward wrote for himself), wasn’t preoccupied courting a vapid young thing named Bunty Mannering (Skye LaFontaine) and regularly sniffing that demon powder, he might be more concerned about his mother’s dalliances—something that changes rapidly after Bunty and Tom leave their respective Lancasters behind for a go at each other.
Although the verbal sparring between these purposely insipid characters is recognizable as Coward’s dialogue, far less of the expected droll humor is offered here than in the master’s more-enduring drawing room comedies such as Private Lives or Blithe Spirit. This includes the shattering ending that seems lifted from another play—or could have been a product of one of the writer’s well-documented lifelong mood swings.
It’s a tough transition, from playing period cocktail banter tossed about by the hoity-toity of London society in the ’20s—with most of the juiciest lines delivered as though the fourth wall is one gigantic room-length mirror—to the final emotional and physically draining confrontation in Florence’s bedroom between the troubled mother and son. Still, Holt and Young tackle the scene and each other with all barrels blazing. Meanwhile, their game fellow actors, around mostly to guide the pair to that moment, do so admirably, albeit hampered by their small well-dressed band of underwritten stereotypical supporting characters.
Resetting the period from the 1920s to the 1960s, although an interesting choice, particularly in the first scene as all actors frug their hearts out Laugh-In style to Dusty Springfield and Diana Ross, is not entirely successful—even if it does give costumer Shon LeBlanc a swell opportunity to parade a knockout collection of Carnaby Street–inspired finery. But revisiting an old warhorse like The Vortex affords a perspective on the attitudes and mores of its playwright’s era. By the swingin’ ’60s, Florence’s lifestyle and Nicky’s drug use were hardly shocking. So, here the updating thins the message Coward intended to convey and dilutes the reason the work was so eagerly embraced in its own time.
Glitches needed ironing out during the opening weekend after this production transferred from Malibu Playhouse to the Matrix, including sound cue issues that would have made Coward quite vociferously annoyed (this from the outspoken fellow who once gave his opinion of Lee Strasberg’s class at the Actors Studio as “pretentious balls”). Still, it’s a treat to see The Vortex performed and appreciated again, especially by such a dedicated, plucky troupe of fearless artists with such obvious respect for the material and its creator.
Amanda Eliasch and Vespa Collaborative at Matrix Theatre
There’s nothing much harder to perform than anything written by Noël Coward. This once-scandalous 1924 play, in which the fledgling dramatist wrote a juicy role for himself in an effort to propel himself to stardom, is particularly difficult. Although his strategy worked and his performance as the coke-addicted upper-crust dandy Nicky put him on the map as an actor and as a playwright, his once highly controversial play has not survived the ages as well as some of his other classic works.
When the play was first financed in London by its author, the themes of drug abuse (thought by some scholars to be a mask for Coward’s still-hidden homosexuality) and marital infidelity were far more novel and certainly more provocative than they are today. But director Gene Franklin Smith and his fine band of actors have thrust themselves headfirst into the manners and posturing of Coward’s style, refreshing ever-present cocktails and lounging across convenient chaises longues while confidently uttering the master’s notoriously brittle bons mots. It is a noble effort, finding a base from which to interpret the blurred humanity of people from a bygone era who have been “living their lives on pretense for years.”
Aging and intolerably vain socialite Florence Lancaster (Shannon Holt) lives a busy life overshadowed by her desperate need to stay youthful, especially since it’s “too late to become beautifully old” at this point in her journey. Brazenly carrying on in front of her presumably long-suffering husband, David (John Mawson), and her continuously traumatized eye-rolling friends Helen and Pawnie (Victoria Hoffman and Cameron Mitchell Jr.), Florence parades her latest boytoy, Tom Veryan (Daniel Jimenez), at a gathering at her London flat. Perhaps if her dandy of a son, Nicky (Craig Robert Young in the role Coward wrote for himself), wasn’t preoccupied courting a vapid young thing named Bunty Mannering (Skye LaFontaine) and regularly sniffing that demon powder, he might be more concerned about his mother’s dalliances—something that changes rapidly after Bunty and Tom leave their respective Lancasters behind for a go at each other.
Although the verbal sparring between these purposely insipid characters is recognizable as Coward’s dialogue, far less of the expected droll humor is offered here than in the master’s more-enduring drawing room comedies such as Private Lives or Blithe Spirit. This includes the shattering ending that seems lifted from another play—or could have been a product of one of the writer’s well-documented lifelong mood swings.
It’s a tough transition, from playing period cocktail banter tossed about by the hoity-toity of London society in the ’20s—with most of the juiciest lines delivered as though the fourth wall is one gigantic room-length mirror—to the final emotional and physically draining confrontation in Florence’s bedroom between the troubled mother and son. Still, Holt and Young tackle the scene and each other with all barrels blazing. Meanwhile, their game fellow actors, around mostly to guide the pair to that moment, do so admirably, albeit hampered by their small well-dressed band of underwritten stereotypical supporting characters.
Resetting the period from the 1920s to the 1960s, although an interesting choice, particularly in the first scene as all actors frug their hearts out Laugh-In style to Dusty Springfield and Diana Ross, is not entirely successful—even if it does give costumer Shon LeBlanc a swell opportunity to parade a knockout collection of Carnaby Street–inspired finery. But revisiting an old warhorse like The Vortex affords a perspective on the attitudes and mores of its playwright’s era. By the swingin’ ’60s, Florence’s lifestyle and Nicky’s drug use were hardly shocking. So, here the updating thins the message Coward intended to convey and dilutes the reason the work was so eagerly embraced in its own time.
Glitches needed ironing out during the opening weekend after this production transferred from Malibu Playhouse to the Matrix, including sound cue issues that would have made Coward quite vociferously annoyed (this from the outspoken fellow who once gave his opinion of Lee Strasberg’s class at the Actors Studio as “pretentious balls”). Still, it’s a treat to see The Vortex performed and appreciated again, especially by such a dedicated, plucky troupe of fearless artists with such obvious respect for the material and its creator.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
November 16, 2014
November 16, 2014
Kinky Boots
Pantages Theatre
Please, if you can’t tolerate disco music and you loathe musicals about accepting people for who they are, skip this one. If, however, you appreciate the propulsive glory of that musical genre, and if the theme of acceptance cheers you, this show is worth your while.
Neither should you expect Beckett or Pinter. This musical about two men—the stolid heterosexual son of a shoemaker and the drag queen who needs high-heeled boots—can have only one ending (book by Harvey Fierstein). But there’s satisfaction in predicting that ending long before it happens, particularly because these characters are enormously appealing.
So, when Charlie Price, the cheerful but insecure heir to a respected shoe factory in England, finds himself with a new fiancée and a staff of workers counting on him for their livelihoods, the audience feels like guardian angels, fingers crossed for him.
Steven Booth plays Charlie as one of the most sweetly pleasant characters to grace the stage—at least until his meltdown. Charlie’s fiancée, Nicola, is materialistic and somewhat shrewish (played by Grace Stockdale), so we know she won’t last in the story. About the time we realize that, the perky Lauren comes into focus, played with never-ceasing joy by Lindsay Nicole Chambers.
Early on in the story, Charlie is accidentally walloped by Simon, known for most of the musical as Lola, the queen of drag queens. When Lauren gives Lola a big, warm, understanding smile, more than one audience member must have been thinking, “Say, why doesn’t Charlie dump Nicola and marry her?”
Lola unashamedly struts into the factory, earning the self-conscious ire of burly worker Don (Joe Coots) and the unself-conscious admiration of George (Craig Waletzko). The antagonism between Don and Lola escalates so far, it becomes a central conflict in Act Two. It also becomes a stunning lesson in kindness and tolerance.
Kyle Taylor Parker has the showier role, not just because he plays the outsize Lola but also because Parker gets to play the shyer Simon. Parker, too, makes his characters someone we long to hug, and his comedic chops are matched by the depth of his dramatic work.
A few distracting plot points tangle the second act—probably there to bring a few first-act characters back—and Charlie’s moment of worry turns him angry and uncharacteristically bigoted. But the tackling of “father issues” by the characters and the themes of what makes men “men” make this musical stand out in the canon.
Jerry Mitchell’s direction focuses on characterization, and his choreography is a happy combination of the expected and the unexpected. One highlight is the exhilarating Act One closer, danced on conveyor belts.
The scenic design, by David Rockwell, serves well the story’s various locales, and the lighting, by Kenneth Posner, creates English sunlight, factory dust, and fantasy brilliance. But best is how they unselfishly showcase the costumes, designed by Gregg Barnes. The set, in browns and greys, settles in behind factory-worker costumes in blue-jean blues and pastels.
The dazzlers, to no one’s surprise, are worn by the drag queens—and yes, all of them are played by men. Satins, sequins, zippers, rivets, and stiletto-heeled thigh-high boots combine to create visual splendors that stay on the retinas long after the show is over.
What is surprising is this show’s music. Composed by Cyndi Lauper (along with the lyrics), arranged and orchestrated by Stephen Oremus, it’s an aural spectacle. Bass and guitar deepen the textures, strings and horns brighten the tones, but those bittersweet chord progressions and relentless eighth-notes of the disco-infused tunes sure make the aged in the audience long for those good ol’ days.
Her lyrics might be fabulous, but they are relatively indecipherable here. They are sung, if not by the best voices in musical theater, with exceedingly passionate conviction by the cast. The musical might not call for operatic voices, however. Here, Booth sings mostly in the style of 1970s pop with occasional nods to rock. Parker, however, has a huge belt, stunningly apparent in the drag numbers because our eyes see a woman with an uncharacteristically powerful voice.
Charlie and his shoe factory workers learn to go from making a range of shoes for men to, yes, “a range of shoes for a range of men.” Hopefully, some in the audience will likewise learn to be their authentic selves and learn to accept others for doing the same. In addition, some of us might be tempted to once again put on our boogie shoes—just not the high-heeled ones.
Pantages Theatre
Please, if you can’t tolerate disco music and you loathe musicals about accepting people for who they are, skip this one. If, however, you appreciate the propulsive glory of that musical genre, and if the theme of acceptance cheers you, this show is worth your while.
Neither should you expect Beckett or Pinter. This musical about two men—the stolid heterosexual son of a shoemaker and the drag queen who needs high-heeled boots—can have only one ending (book by Harvey Fierstein). But there’s satisfaction in predicting that ending long before it happens, particularly because these characters are enormously appealing.
So, when Charlie Price, the cheerful but insecure heir to a respected shoe factory in England, finds himself with a new fiancée and a staff of workers counting on him for their livelihoods, the audience feels like guardian angels, fingers crossed for him.
Steven Booth plays Charlie as one of the most sweetly pleasant characters to grace the stage—at least until his meltdown. Charlie’s fiancée, Nicola, is materialistic and somewhat shrewish (played by Grace Stockdale), so we know she won’t last in the story. About the time we realize that, the perky Lauren comes into focus, played with never-ceasing joy by Lindsay Nicole Chambers.
Early on in the story, Charlie is accidentally walloped by Simon, known for most of the musical as Lola, the queen of drag queens. When Lauren gives Lola a big, warm, understanding smile, more than one audience member must have been thinking, “Say, why doesn’t Charlie dump Nicola and marry her?”
Lola unashamedly struts into the factory, earning the self-conscious ire of burly worker Don (Joe Coots) and the unself-conscious admiration of George (Craig Waletzko). The antagonism between Don and Lola escalates so far, it becomes a central conflict in Act Two. It also becomes a stunning lesson in kindness and tolerance.
Kyle Taylor Parker has the showier role, not just because he plays the outsize Lola but also because Parker gets to play the shyer Simon. Parker, too, makes his characters someone we long to hug, and his comedic chops are matched by the depth of his dramatic work.
A few distracting plot points tangle the second act—probably there to bring a few first-act characters back—and Charlie’s moment of worry turns him angry and uncharacteristically bigoted. But the tackling of “father issues” by the characters and the themes of what makes men “men” make this musical stand out in the canon.
Jerry Mitchell’s direction focuses on characterization, and his choreography is a happy combination of the expected and the unexpected. One highlight is the exhilarating Act One closer, danced on conveyor belts.
The scenic design, by David Rockwell, serves well the story’s various locales, and the lighting, by Kenneth Posner, creates English sunlight, factory dust, and fantasy brilliance. But best is how they unselfishly showcase the costumes, designed by Gregg Barnes. The set, in browns and greys, settles in behind factory-worker costumes in blue-jean blues and pastels.
The dazzlers, to no one’s surprise, are worn by the drag queens—and yes, all of them are played by men. Satins, sequins, zippers, rivets, and stiletto-heeled thigh-high boots combine to create visual splendors that stay on the retinas long after the show is over.
What is surprising is this show’s music. Composed by Cyndi Lauper (along with the lyrics), arranged and orchestrated by Stephen Oremus, it’s an aural spectacle. Bass and guitar deepen the textures, strings and horns brighten the tones, but those bittersweet chord progressions and relentless eighth-notes of the disco-infused tunes sure make the aged in the audience long for those good ol’ days.
Her lyrics might be fabulous, but they are relatively indecipherable here. They are sung, if not by the best voices in musical theater, with exceedingly passionate conviction by the cast. The musical might not call for operatic voices, however. Here, Booth sings mostly in the style of 1970s pop with occasional nods to rock. Parker, however, has a huge belt, stunningly apparent in the drag numbers because our eyes see a woman with an uncharacteristically powerful voice.
Charlie and his shoe factory workers learn to go from making a range of shoes for men to, yes, “a range of shoes for a range of men.” Hopefully, some in the audience will likewise learn to be their authentic selves and learn to accept others for doing the same. In addition, some of us might be tempted to once again put on our boogie shoes—just not the high-heeled ones.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 13, 2014
November 13, 2014
Completeness
VS. Theatre Company and Firefly Theater and Film, at VS. Theatre
She’s a grad student studying yeast cultures; he’s working on algorithms. With the exception of Tom Stoppard, Itamar Moses is the only playwright who could write a talky two-act play in which two horny young college science geeks (Emily Swallow and Stephen Klein) use incessant technologically savvy conversation as foreplay for hot sex.
Molly and Elliot meet in a college library where each is distracted from the glowing light of computer screens by the presence of the other. Soon they have retreated to Elliot’s dorm room in the guise of establishing a work connection, but, of course, before long they are humping like rabbits (“I love the moment when you’re suddenly allowed to touch someone,” Elliot proclaims). In record time, they dump their current friends with benefits (Nicole Erb and Rob Nagle) in favor of exploring the possibly passionate future of what might prove to be newly minted potential soulmates.
The sensations of their new relationship lead the lovers on. Between orgasms they sit on Elliot’s bed in their underwear, discussing the usual emotional scars of past loves, tentatively exploring what surprises might emerge from beneath the studied flannel-shirted nerd-wear (“I feel like I tricked you into thinking I’m happy or interesting or fun to be around,” Molly warns), and hesitantly deliberating whether those pesky stars might actually be in alignment this time around. It isn’t long, though, before they begin to sniff out other prospective mates (all played by Erb and Nagle) entering into their daily lives, making the journey of Molly and Elliot more rocky than a hike down Runyon Canyon after dusk.
This play must be a roller coaster to interpret, in danger of drowning in Moses’s ever-present textual dexterity, a palpable presence that could easily come off as bang-on-the-head pretentiousness. In lesser hands, Completeness might turn out to be anything but complete, but this mounting is blessed with a quartet of exquisitely multilayered, bittersweet performances that honor and match its author’s tech-swollen dialogue. His jigsaw puzzle of a play is able to rise above its inherent traps thanks to the commitment of its obviously driven cast, the understated but passionate vision of director Matt Pfieffer, and Darcy Scanlin’s incredibly smart, strikingly spare, versatile set design ingeniously filling VS. Theatre Company’s challenging playing space.
The message is clear even if, alas, no answers are offered. Behind the scientific and technological loquaciousness that spews in torrents from these characters’ mouths, there’s an abundance of Chekhovian subtext that reveals in a snap that these are all are people broken well before their years. “This is just a terrible time in all our lives,” Molly admits, “and a terrible, terrible generation to be a part of.” Technical advances in all our lives, it seems, have trumped and all but eliminated our old values and most established rules of human engagement. There’s nothing new to be offered beneath Moses’s clever, sharply contemporary dialogue, which in the final analysis is a sad indictment of the state of anthropological interaction in our wildly stepped-up, media-obsessed society.
VS. Theatre Company and Firefly Theater and Film, at VS. Theatre
She’s a grad student studying yeast cultures; he’s working on algorithms. With the exception of Tom Stoppard, Itamar Moses is the only playwright who could write a talky two-act play in which two horny young college science geeks (Emily Swallow and Stephen Klein) use incessant technologically savvy conversation as foreplay for hot sex.
Molly and Elliot meet in a college library where each is distracted from the glowing light of computer screens by the presence of the other. Soon they have retreated to Elliot’s dorm room in the guise of establishing a work connection, but, of course, before long they are humping like rabbits (“I love the moment when you’re suddenly allowed to touch someone,” Elliot proclaims). In record time, they dump their current friends with benefits (Nicole Erb and Rob Nagle) in favor of exploring the possibly passionate future of what might prove to be newly minted potential soulmates.
The sensations of their new relationship lead the lovers on. Between orgasms they sit on Elliot’s bed in their underwear, discussing the usual emotional scars of past loves, tentatively exploring what surprises might emerge from beneath the studied flannel-shirted nerd-wear (“I feel like I tricked you into thinking I’m happy or interesting or fun to be around,” Molly warns), and hesitantly deliberating whether those pesky stars might actually be in alignment this time around. It isn’t long, though, before they begin to sniff out other prospective mates (all played by Erb and Nagle) entering into their daily lives, making the journey of Molly and Elliot more rocky than a hike down Runyon Canyon after dusk.
This play must be a roller coaster to interpret, in danger of drowning in Moses’s ever-present textual dexterity, a palpable presence that could easily come off as bang-on-the-head pretentiousness. In lesser hands, Completeness might turn out to be anything but complete, but this mounting is blessed with a quartet of exquisitely multilayered, bittersweet performances that honor and match its author’s tech-swollen dialogue. His jigsaw puzzle of a play is able to rise above its inherent traps thanks to the commitment of its obviously driven cast, the understated but passionate vision of director Matt Pfieffer, and Darcy Scanlin’s incredibly smart, strikingly spare, versatile set design ingeniously filling VS. Theatre Company’s challenging playing space.
The message is clear even if, alas, no answers are offered. Behind the scientific and technological loquaciousness that spews in torrents from these characters’ mouths, there’s an abundance of Chekhovian subtext that reveals in a snap that these are all are people broken well before their years. “This is just a terrible time in all our lives,” Molly admits, “and a terrible, terrible generation to be a part of.” Technical advances in all our lives, it seems, have trumped and all but eliminated our old values and most established rules of human engagement. There’s nothing new to be offered beneath Moses’s clever, sharply contemporary dialogue, which in the final analysis is a sad indictment of the state of anthropological interaction in our wildly stepped-up, media-obsessed society.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
November 11, 2014
November 11, 2014
Brighton Beach Memoirs
Torrance Theatre Company
Widely considered the best of writer Neil Simon’s well-made plays, Brighton Beach Memoirs—about a Jewish family in 1930s Brooklyn—has landed in the South Bay through Dec. 19 at Torrance Theater Company. But can this Southern California cast give it that New York zing and Jewish bittersweetness?
The kitchen-sink comedy centers on 15-year-old Eugene Jerome and his family, modeled after Simon and his family—or, to be precise, Simon’s fantasy of a family. Eugene’s home is crowded with his father, mother and elder brother, plus his mother’s sister and that aunt’s two daughters.
Eugene wants to become a writer, if the Yankees don’t come calling first. He keeps thorough notes because he knows what goes on in that home and the hilariously remarkable things his family says will become his artistic material.
The abrasion at every turn sparks some of the funniest lines ever spoken from the stage. But each family member encounters his or her roadblocks. And those roadblocks are true-to-life, whether in the 1930s or now. Job loss, loneliness, ill health, intra-family strife—the characters must navigate each with loyalty and integrity.
K.C. Gussler directs this production. And, yes, he shepherds the zings and the tenderness. He starts with a cast of skilled actors who understand the sadness of Simon’s comedies, the heightened stakes each character feels in the story.
Each actor’s timing is gorgeous, not only comedically but also in the way conversations and emotions build. The actors know they’re in a comedy, but no one tries to force the laughs, and so they get them.
Heading the pack is Price T. Morgan as Eugene. A pepper pot, the young actor plies Simon’s wryness and Eugene’s tremendous, endless energy. Patrick J. Gallagher brings a heroic quality to the levelheaded, fair-minded Stanley, and Geoffrey Lloyd is a steadying force onstage as the brothers’ weary but patient father, Jack.
Playing Eugene’s younger cousin and the least-likeable character, Laurie, Billie Foley unselfishly disappears into this unattractive, indulged little girl. Playing her elder sister, Eliza Faloona skirts petulance to give Nora’s longing for her late father much genuine heft.
Ariane Alten delicately plays widowed aunt Blanche, who has voluntarily assumed the status of a second-class family member until it’s time to throw off that mantel. And holding the family together, sometimes like magnets and sometimes like a skewer, is Eugene’s mother, Kate, given an intense, firm, and loving portrayal by Shirley Hatton.
Crisp sound design and impeccably timed work by the crew help the actors navigate the cramped quarters.
Sharing a bedroom with prickly brother Stanley, sharing a bathroom with the luscious Nora, sharing a dining-room table with all, Eugene will never lack for material. His alter ego didn’t, either. Simon has written more than 30 plays, earning four Tony Awards and one Pulitzer.
Two of those plays are sequels to this one: Biloxi Blues, which follows Eugene into Army basic training in Mississippi, and Broadway Bound, in which Eugene and Stanley become professional writers in New York City. But right now, in Torrance, there’s a bit of 1930s New York and a loving family about to thrive—zing and bittersweetness and all.
Torrance Theatre Company
Widely considered the best of writer Neil Simon’s well-made plays, Brighton Beach Memoirs—about a Jewish family in 1930s Brooklyn—has landed in the South Bay through Dec. 19 at Torrance Theater Company. But can this Southern California cast give it that New York zing and Jewish bittersweetness?
The kitchen-sink comedy centers on 15-year-old Eugene Jerome and his family, modeled after Simon and his family—or, to be precise, Simon’s fantasy of a family. Eugene’s home is crowded with his father, mother and elder brother, plus his mother’s sister and that aunt’s two daughters.
Eugene wants to become a writer, if the Yankees don’t come calling first. He keeps thorough notes because he knows what goes on in that home and the hilariously remarkable things his family says will become his artistic material.
The abrasion at every turn sparks some of the funniest lines ever spoken from the stage. But each family member encounters his or her roadblocks. And those roadblocks are true-to-life, whether in the 1930s or now. Job loss, loneliness, ill health, intra-family strife—the characters must navigate each with loyalty and integrity.
K.C. Gussler directs this production. And, yes, he shepherds the zings and the tenderness. He starts with a cast of skilled actors who understand the sadness of Simon’s comedies, the heightened stakes each character feels in the story.
Each actor’s timing is gorgeous, not only comedically but also in the way conversations and emotions build. The actors know they’re in a comedy, but no one tries to force the laughs, and so they get them.
Heading the pack is Price T. Morgan as Eugene. A pepper pot, the young actor plies Simon’s wryness and Eugene’s tremendous, endless energy. Patrick J. Gallagher brings a heroic quality to the levelheaded, fair-minded Stanley, and Geoffrey Lloyd is a steadying force onstage as the brothers’ weary but patient father, Jack.
Playing Eugene’s younger cousin and the least-likeable character, Laurie, Billie Foley unselfishly disappears into this unattractive, indulged little girl. Playing her elder sister, Eliza Faloona skirts petulance to give Nora’s longing for her late father much genuine heft.
Ariane Alten delicately plays widowed aunt Blanche, who has voluntarily assumed the status of a second-class family member until it’s time to throw off that mantel. And holding the family together, sometimes like magnets and sometimes like a skewer, is Eugene’s mother, Kate, given an intense, firm, and loving portrayal by Shirley Hatton.
Crisp sound design and impeccably timed work by the crew help the actors navigate the cramped quarters.
Sharing a bedroom with prickly brother Stanley, sharing a bathroom with the luscious Nora, sharing a dining-room table with all, Eugene will never lack for material. His alter ego didn’t, either. Simon has written more than 30 plays, earning four Tony Awards and one Pulitzer.
Two of those plays are sequels to this one: Biloxi Blues, which follows Eugene into Army basic training in Mississippi, and Broadway Bound, in which Eugene and Stanley become professional writers in New York City. But right now, in Torrance, there’s a bit of 1930s New York and a loving family about to thrive—zing and bittersweetness and all.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 10, 2014
November 10, 2014
King Lear
Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre at Broad Stage
This production purportedly re-creates an Elizabethan-style touring version of one of Shakespeare’s most-famous plays, presumably staging it the way the Bard’s contemporaries would have seen his plays. All the action is packed onto a small, portable, two-story structure. The motley costuming probably harkens to the days when actors wore their own clothing. The production uses no “theatrical” lighting, and the actors make their own sound effects.
And that can be quite enchanting: Witness Los Angeles’s local treasure Independent Shakespeare Company. But chances are Shakespeare’s audiences would have preferred what today’s audiences prefer, whatever the mise-en-scène. We want to hear the actors, we want the actors to enunciate, we want to see truth and not emoting.
We didn’t get that, at least not on opening night of this tour. That’s stunning because British actors spend years honing their vocal work. The problem can’t be blamed on the Broad Stage acoustics, because that house successfully hosts fine concerts, operas, and other pieces of theater.
Perhaps director Bill Buckhurst failed to demand enunciation from his actors. He certainly got volume from them, in particular from Joseph Marcell as Lear. Marcell shouts from start to finish—except for a few moments when he decides to barely whisper. Maybe the sound and fury is intended to camouflage his failure to find depth and truth in his character.
He is joined onstage by seven other actors, some double- and triple-cast. The bare-bones costuming means the audience must be familiar enough with the play to tell, for example, the Duke of Burgundy from the Duke of Cornwall, both played by Alex Mugnaioni?. Fortunately, Mugnaioni? dons a pair of specs to play the righteous Edgar (poking fun at Shakespeare’s anachronisms?).
The most interesting bit of double-casting finds Bethan Cullinane playing Lear’s youngest and only honorable daughter, Cordelia, as well as his faithful and wise sidekick Fool. Fortunately, Cullinane is flawlessly adept at both.
Buckhurst bookends this tragedy with song-and-dance numbers. Historically accurate? Maybe. Distracting and distancing? Definitely.
And one more bit of distraction is the black Lear and his fully white daughters. With the increasingly common practice of color-blind casting, the racial disconnect fades quickly as the play progresses. But it leaves one pondering, at the top of the play and on the drive home, what deeper message it is trying to deliver.
Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre at Broad Stage
This production purportedly re-creates an Elizabethan-style touring version of one of Shakespeare’s most-famous plays, presumably staging it the way the Bard’s contemporaries would have seen his plays. All the action is packed onto a small, portable, two-story structure. The motley costuming probably harkens to the days when actors wore their own clothing. The production uses no “theatrical” lighting, and the actors make their own sound effects.
And that can be quite enchanting: Witness Los Angeles’s local treasure Independent Shakespeare Company. But chances are Shakespeare’s audiences would have preferred what today’s audiences prefer, whatever the mise-en-scène. We want to hear the actors, we want the actors to enunciate, we want to see truth and not emoting.
We didn’t get that, at least not on opening night of this tour. That’s stunning because British actors spend years honing their vocal work. The problem can’t be blamed on the Broad Stage acoustics, because that house successfully hosts fine concerts, operas, and other pieces of theater.
Perhaps director Bill Buckhurst failed to demand enunciation from his actors. He certainly got volume from them, in particular from Joseph Marcell as Lear. Marcell shouts from start to finish—except for a few moments when he decides to barely whisper. Maybe the sound and fury is intended to camouflage his failure to find depth and truth in his character.
He is joined onstage by seven other actors, some double- and triple-cast. The bare-bones costuming means the audience must be familiar enough with the play to tell, for example, the Duke of Burgundy from the Duke of Cornwall, both played by Alex Mugnaioni?. Fortunately, Mugnaioni? dons a pair of specs to play the righteous Edgar (poking fun at Shakespeare’s anachronisms?).
The most interesting bit of double-casting finds Bethan Cullinane playing Lear’s youngest and only honorable daughter, Cordelia, as well as his faithful and wise sidekick Fool. Fortunately, Cullinane is flawlessly adept at both.
Buckhurst bookends this tragedy with song-and-dance numbers. Historically accurate? Maybe. Distracting and distancing? Definitely.
And one more bit of distraction is the black Lear and his fully white daughters. With the increasingly common practice of color-blind casting, the racial disconnect fades quickly as the play progresses. But it leaves one pondering, at the top of the play and on the drive home, what deeper message it is trying to deliver.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
November 9, 2014
November 9, 2014
Cannibal! The Musical
Coeurage Theatre Company at Lyric-Hyperion Theatre & Cafe
Seeing Trey Parker’s name on any project is enough to let you know you’re in for a ride. In 1993, the 23-year-old co-creator of South Park and The Book of Mormon wrote, directed, produced, co-scored (along with fellow University of Colorado at Boulder student Rich Sanders), and starred in a three-minute trailer made for their college film class. After news of its outrageousness spread around campus, Parker, joined by another student featured in the film who went on to become his future writing partner Matt Stone, raised $125,000 and turned Cannibal! The Musical into a full-length film. Although it was shot during weekends and on spring break, according to Coeurage Theatre Company’s resident composer and here keyboardist-actor Gregory Nabours, most of the crew members failed their film history class as a result.
Parker’s early filmic sign of greatness was loosely based on the true story of Alferd Packer (played here by Kurt Quinn, master of the Ben Turpin deadpan), a prospector with a questionable interest in his beloved horse Liane (represented by a small stuffed puppet suggestively manipulated by the definitely life-sized Kalena Ranoa). Historically, Packer was the lone survivor of an 1872 journey from Utah to Colorado in search of gold, an ill-fated trek that left his five fellow travelers dead—and partially eaten.
The musical begins as Packer languishes in jail, charged with cannibalizing his buddies, as he tells his side of the bloody-funny tale of the expedition in flashback to Polly Pry (Ashley Kane). She’s a comely young newspaper reporter with a “heart as full as a baked potato” whose own motives might include replacing Liane as an object of Packer’s affections. Just as in every John Ford movie ever made, the party meets many obstacles and hardships along the way. These include Injuns (played by geisha-bowing, Japanese-speaking Asian actors Kari Lee and Jane Lui, along with Mikey De Lara, who also doubles as guitarist for the onstage band), as well as a group of sadistic trappers (Joe Tomasini and twin brothers Ryan and Mike Brady) who whisk away poor Liane with possibly inappropriate intentions for her wellbeing.
With an inventively over-the-top troupe of actors, each ready and willing to “play-act like a Kansas City queer” under the spell of director Tito Fleetwood Ladd, the boundlessly ambitious and youthfully energetic Coeurage Theatre Company is the quintessential LA entity to take on Parker’s minor film epic and turn it into bloody good counterculture entertainment. Carly Wielstein’s delightfully off-kilter choreography is equally welcome, as the actors earnestly playing faux-rugged Old West characters send up every Broadway style from De Mille to Fosse to Robbins. Simply put, cowboys and cattlemen haven’t been so physically unfettered since the creation of the Dream Ballet in Oklahoma!
Castmembers enthusiastically munch on propmaster Ryan Lewis’s occasionally realistic-looking human legs and other appendages (made from Fruit Roll-Ups and gelatin, I’m told by a reliable source) and fling around a considerable amount of splattering stage blood with great abandon as their characters face the wilderness with dubious frontier survivalist decisions like “Let’s build a snowman!” when the weather changes on their journey, all of which contributes to making this production more fun than a barrel of edible monkeys.
Although Parker’s book and lyrics are hilarious, signaling the future Cartmans and Kennys to come, his score written with Sanders is a bit generic. Still, it’s made palpable here by musical director¬–keyboardist Nabours’s vocal arrangements and his band of fellow actor-musicians. And with song titles such as Packer’s lovelorn lament to his missing mare Liane, titled “When I’m On Top of You,” and featuring spirited dance numbers such as the disco-y solo swansong by sequined and heavily bedazzled rhinestone cowboy Swan (Travis Dixon, whose character’s hazy sexuality in middle of the man’s man world of the 19th century American plains might almost rival the suitability of Packer’s feelings for all things equine), there’s not a moment of this wonderfully silly musical treat that won’t make you howl with laughter. If it starts giving you a taste for barbequed ribs, however, consider getting some professional help before it’s too late.
Coeurage Theatre Company at Lyric-Hyperion Theatre & Cafe
Seeing Trey Parker’s name on any project is enough to let you know you’re in for a ride. In 1993, the 23-year-old co-creator of South Park and The Book of Mormon wrote, directed, produced, co-scored (along with fellow University of Colorado at Boulder student Rich Sanders), and starred in a three-minute trailer made for their college film class. After news of its outrageousness spread around campus, Parker, joined by another student featured in the film who went on to become his future writing partner Matt Stone, raised $125,000 and turned Cannibal! The Musical into a full-length film. Although it was shot during weekends and on spring break, according to Coeurage Theatre Company’s resident composer and here keyboardist-actor Gregory Nabours, most of the crew members failed their film history class as a result.
Parker’s early filmic sign of greatness was loosely based on the true story of Alferd Packer (played here by Kurt Quinn, master of the Ben Turpin deadpan), a prospector with a questionable interest in his beloved horse Liane (represented by a small stuffed puppet suggestively manipulated by the definitely life-sized Kalena Ranoa). Historically, Packer was the lone survivor of an 1872 journey from Utah to Colorado in search of gold, an ill-fated trek that left his five fellow travelers dead—and partially eaten.
The musical begins as Packer languishes in jail, charged with cannibalizing his buddies, as he tells his side of the bloody-funny tale of the expedition in flashback to Polly Pry (Ashley Kane). She’s a comely young newspaper reporter with a “heart as full as a baked potato” whose own motives might include replacing Liane as an object of Packer’s affections. Just as in every John Ford movie ever made, the party meets many obstacles and hardships along the way. These include Injuns (played by geisha-bowing, Japanese-speaking Asian actors Kari Lee and Jane Lui, along with Mikey De Lara, who also doubles as guitarist for the onstage band), as well as a group of sadistic trappers (Joe Tomasini and twin brothers Ryan and Mike Brady) who whisk away poor Liane with possibly inappropriate intentions for her wellbeing.
With an inventively over-the-top troupe of actors, each ready and willing to “play-act like a Kansas City queer” under the spell of director Tito Fleetwood Ladd, the boundlessly ambitious and youthfully energetic Coeurage Theatre Company is the quintessential LA entity to take on Parker’s minor film epic and turn it into bloody good counterculture entertainment. Carly Wielstein’s delightfully off-kilter choreography is equally welcome, as the actors earnestly playing faux-rugged Old West characters send up every Broadway style from De Mille to Fosse to Robbins. Simply put, cowboys and cattlemen haven’t been so physically unfettered since the creation of the Dream Ballet in Oklahoma!
Castmembers enthusiastically munch on propmaster Ryan Lewis’s occasionally realistic-looking human legs and other appendages (made from Fruit Roll-Ups and gelatin, I’m told by a reliable source) and fling around a considerable amount of splattering stage blood with great abandon as their characters face the wilderness with dubious frontier survivalist decisions like “Let’s build a snowman!” when the weather changes on their journey, all of which contributes to making this production more fun than a barrel of edible monkeys.
Although Parker’s book and lyrics are hilarious, signaling the future Cartmans and Kennys to come, his score written with Sanders is a bit generic. Still, it’s made palpable here by musical director¬–keyboardist Nabours’s vocal arrangements and his band of fellow actor-musicians. And with song titles such as Packer’s lovelorn lament to his missing mare Liane, titled “When I’m On Top of You,” and featuring spirited dance numbers such as the disco-y solo swansong by sequined and heavily bedazzled rhinestone cowboy Swan (Travis Dixon, whose character’s hazy sexuality in middle of the man’s man world of the 19th century American plains might almost rival the suitability of Packer’s feelings for all things equine), there’s not a moment of this wonderfully silly musical treat that won’t make you howl with laughter. If it starts giving you a taste for barbequed ribs, however, consider getting some professional help before it’s too late.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
November 8, 2014
November 8, 2014
Cannibal! The Musical
Coeurage Theatre Company at Lyric-Hyperion Theatre & Cafe
Seeing Trey Parker’s name on any project is enough to let you know you’re in for a ride. In 1993, the 23-year-old co-creator of South Park and The Book of Mormon wrote, directed, produced, co-scored (along with fellow University of Colorado at Boulder student Rich Sanders), and starred in a three-minute trailer made for their college film class. After news of its outrageousness spread around campus, Parker, joined by another student featured in the film who went on to become his future writing partner Matt Stone, raised $125,000 and turned Cannibal! The Musical into a full-length film. Although it was shot during weekends and on spring break, according to Coeurage Theatre Company’s resident composer and here keyboardist-actor Gregory Nabours, most of the crew members failed their film history class as a result.
Parker’s early filmic sign of greatness was loosely based on the true story of Alferd Packer (played here by Kurt Quinn, master of the Ben Turpin deadpan), a prospector with a questionable interest in his beloved horse Liane (represented by a small stuffed puppet suggestively manipulated by the definitely life-sized Kalena Ranoa). Historically, Packer was the lone survivor of an 1872 journey from Utah to Colorado in search of gold, an ill-fated trek that left his five fellow travelers dead—and partially eaten.
The musical begins as Packer languishes in jail, charged with cannibalizing his buddies, as he tells his side of the bloody-funny tale of the expedition in flashback to Polly Pry (Ashley Kane). She’s a comely young newspaper reporter with a “heart as full as a baked potato” whose own motives might include replacing Liane as an object of Packer’s affections. Just as in every John Ford movie ever made, the party meets many obstacles and hardships along the way. These include Injuns (played by geisha-bowing, Japanese-speaking Asian actors Kari Lee and Jane Lui, along with Mikey De Lara, who also doubles as guitarist for the onstage band), as well as a group of sadistic trappers (Joe Tomasini and twin brothers Ryan and Mike Brady) who whisk away poor Liane with possibly inappropriate intentions for her wellbeing.
With an inventively over-the-top troupe of actors, each ready and willing to “play-act like a Kansas City queer” under the spell of director Tito Fleetwood Ladd, the boundlessly ambitious and youthfully energetic Coeurage Theatre Company is the quintessential LA entity to take on Parker’s minor film epic and turn it into bloody good counterculture entertainment. Carly Wielstein’s delightfully off-kilter choreography is equally welcome, as the actors earnestly playing faux-rugged Old West characters send up every Broadway style from De Mille to Fosse to Robbins. Simply put, cowboys and cattlemen haven’t been so physically unfettered since the creation of the Dream Ballet in Oklahoma!
Castmembers enthusiastically munch on propmaster Ryan Lewis’s occasionally realistic-looking human legs and other appendages (made from Fruit Roll-Ups and gelatin, I’m told by a reliable source) and fling around a considerable amount of splattering stage blood with great abandon as their characters face the wilderness with dubious frontier survivalist decisions like “Let’s build a snowman!” when the weather changes on their journey, all of which contributes to making this production more fun than a barrel of edible monkeys.
Although Parker’s book and lyrics are hilarious, signaling the future Cartmans and Kennys to come, his score written with Sanders is a bit generic. Still, it’s made palpable here by musical director¬–keyboardist Nabours’s vocal arrangements and his band of fellow actor-musicians. And with song titles such as Packer’s lovelorn lament to his missing mare Liane, titled “When I’m On Top of You,” and featuring spirited dance numbers such as the disco-y solo swansong by sequined and heavily bedazzled rhinestone cowboy Swan (Travis Dixon, whose character’s hazy sexuality in middle of the man’s man world of the 19th century American plains might almost rival the suitability of Packer’s feelings for all things equine), there’s not a moment of this wonderfully silly musical treat that won’t make you howl with laughter. If it starts giving you a taste for barbequed ribs, however, consider getting some professional help before it’s too late.
Coeurage Theatre Company at Lyric-Hyperion Theatre & Cafe
Seeing Trey Parker’s name on any project is enough to let you know you’re in for a ride. In 1993, the 23-year-old co-creator of South Park and The Book of Mormon wrote, directed, produced, co-scored (along with fellow University of Colorado at Boulder student Rich Sanders), and starred in a three-minute trailer made for their college film class. After news of its outrageousness spread around campus, Parker, joined by another student featured in the film who went on to become his future writing partner Matt Stone, raised $125,000 and turned Cannibal! The Musical into a full-length film. Although it was shot during weekends and on spring break, according to Coeurage Theatre Company’s resident composer and here keyboardist-actor Gregory Nabours, most of the crew members failed their film history class as a result.
Parker’s early filmic sign of greatness was loosely based on the true story of Alferd Packer (played here by Kurt Quinn, master of the Ben Turpin deadpan), a prospector with a questionable interest in his beloved horse Liane (represented by a small stuffed puppet suggestively manipulated by the definitely life-sized Kalena Ranoa). Historically, Packer was the lone survivor of an 1872 journey from Utah to Colorado in search of gold, an ill-fated trek that left his five fellow travelers dead—and partially eaten.
The musical begins as Packer languishes in jail, charged with cannibalizing his buddies, as he tells his side of the bloody-funny tale of the expedition in flashback to Polly Pry (Ashley Kane). She’s a comely young newspaper reporter with a “heart as full as a baked potato” whose own motives might include replacing Liane as an object of Packer’s affections. Just as in every John Ford movie ever made, the party meets many obstacles and hardships along the way. These include Injuns (played by geisha-bowing, Japanese-speaking Asian actors Kari Lee and Jane Lui, along with Mikey De Lara, who also doubles as guitarist for the onstage band), as well as a group of sadistic trappers (Joe Tomasini and twin brothers Ryan and Mike Brady) who whisk away poor Liane with possibly inappropriate intentions for her wellbeing.
With an inventively over-the-top troupe of actors, each ready and willing to “play-act like a Kansas City queer” under the spell of director Tito Fleetwood Ladd, the boundlessly ambitious and youthfully energetic Coeurage Theatre Company is the quintessential LA entity to take on Parker’s minor film epic and turn it into bloody good counterculture entertainment. Carly Wielstein’s delightfully off-kilter choreography is equally welcome, as the actors earnestly playing faux-rugged Old West characters send up every Broadway style from De Mille to Fosse to Robbins. Simply put, cowboys and cattlemen haven’t been so physically unfettered since the creation of the Dream Ballet in Oklahoma!
Castmembers enthusiastically munch on propmaster Ryan Lewis’s occasionally realistic-looking human legs and other appendages (made from Fruit Roll-Ups and gelatin, I’m told by a reliable source) and fling around a considerable amount of splattering stage blood with great abandon as their characters face the wilderness with dubious frontier survivalist decisions like “Let’s build a snowman!” when the weather changes on their journey, all of which contributes to making this production more fun than a barrel of edible monkeys.
Although Parker’s book and lyrics are hilarious, signaling the future Cartmans and Kennys to come, his score written with Sanders is a bit generic. Still, it’s made palpable here by musical director¬–keyboardist Nabours’s vocal arrangements and his band of fellow actor-musicians. And with song titles such as Packer’s lovelorn lament to his missing mare Liane, titled “When I’m On Top of You,” and featuring spirited dance numbers such as the disco-y solo swansong by sequined and heavily bedazzled rhinestone cowboy Swan (Travis Dixon, whose character’s hazy sexuality in middle of the man’s man world of the 19th century American plains might almost rival the suitability of Packer’s feelings for all things equine), there’s not a moment of this wonderfully silly musical treat that won’t make you howl with laughter. If it starts giving you a taste for barbequed ribs, however, consider getting some professional help before it’s too late.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
November 8, 2014
November 8, 2014
Villa Thrilla
Atwater Village Theatre
On its surface, this world premiere by playwright Anna Nicholas has all the requisite components to achieve her stated goal of combining an English-style murder mystery with the farcical goings-on of Noises Off. A cast of broadly drawn characters, none of them quite who or what they seem to be, inhabits a mansion on the proverbial dark and stormy night. The set, a richly appointed foyer/drawing room courtesy of designer Madison Rhoades, contains no less than five separate entrances/exits for said performers to pop in an out of at will. Lighting by Brandon Baruch and sound cues attributed to Peter Bayne, here only occasionally timed correctly, are supposed to add to the unfolding mystery. And yet, the outcome is a surprisingly muddled mess.
Most of director Gary Lee Reed’s cast of 10 (little Indians?) operates in a world of clownish choices with often unintelligible accents and overplayed punch lines—not to mention innumerable dropped cues—ruling the day. Add this to an almost horserace-like pace of certain individual actors’ line deliveries, and this play-within-a-play’s storyline winds up darn near impossible to follow. The trick to this type of endeavor, be it comic or truly suspenseful, is allowing one’s audience the ability to amass and separate clues from red herrings either during the proceedings or as self-revelatory moments of “Ah, ha” after the denouement. This performance was so difficult to decipher at times, it left this critic scratching his head as to when certain actors were playing their true-life characters or their murder mystery alter egos.
Still, a few performances are worth noting. Erica Hanrahan-Ball, dressed to the 9’s in costume designer Adriana Lambarri’s smartly composed go-go dancer attire complete with lusciously frosted eye shadow, stands out from the crowd. Her skill at creating two sharply drawn character(s)—a classically trained actress appearing as the airheaded wife of the evening’s host—provides a satisfying respite. So too, the appearance of a real-life police detective, played by Leslie A. Jones, whose second-act arrival brings a welcome deceleration to the virtually out-of-control proceedings.
Attempting a plot synopsis would be pointless. The overall lack of attention to details and focus is so rampant that by the time this tale reaches its abrupt conclusion, the result isn’t so much one of “Whodunit” but rather “Who cares?”
Atwater Village Theatre
On its surface, this world premiere by playwright Anna Nicholas has all the requisite components to achieve her stated goal of combining an English-style murder mystery with the farcical goings-on of Noises Off. A cast of broadly drawn characters, none of them quite who or what they seem to be, inhabits a mansion on the proverbial dark and stormy night. The set, a richly appointed foyer/drawing room courtesy of designer Madison Rhoades, contains no less than five separate entrances/exits for said performers to pop in an out of at will. Lighting by Brandon Baruch and sound cues attributed to Peter Bayne, here only occasionally timed correctly, are supposed to add to the unfolding mystery. And yet, the outcome is a surprisingly muddled mess.
Most of director Gary Lee Reed’s cast of 10 (little Indians?) operates in a world of clownish choices with often unintelligible accents and overplayed punch lines—not to mention innumerable dropped cues—ruling the day. Add this to an almost horserace-like pace of certain individual actors’ line deliveries, and this play-within-a-play’s storyline winds up darn near impossible to follow. The trick to this type of endeavor, be it comic or truly suspenseful, is allowing one’s audience the ability to amass and separate clues from red herrings either during the proceedings or as self-revelatory moments of “Ah, ha” after the denouement. This performance was so difficult to decipher at times, it left this critic scratching his head as to when certain actors were playing their true-life characters or their murder mystery alter egos.
Still, a few performances are worth noting. Erica Hanrahan-Ball, dressed to the 9’s in costume designer Adriana Lambarri’s smartly composed go-go dancer attire complete with lusciously frosted eye shadow, stands out from the crowd. Her skill at creating two sharply drawn character(s)—a classically trained actress appearing as the airheaded wife of the evening’s host—provides a satisfying respite. So too, the appearance of a real-life police detective, played by Leslie A. Jones, whose second-act arrival brings a welcome deceleration to the virtually out-of-control proceedings.
Attempting a plot synopsis would be pointless. The overall lack of attention to details and focus is so rampant that by the time this tale reaches its abrupt conclusion, the result isn’t so much one of “Whodunit” but rather “Who cares?”
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
November 7, 2014
November 7, 2014
Wedding Band
Antaeus Theatre
When novelist and playwright Alice Childress (1916–1994) wrote Wedding Band in 1962, most producers found it too hot to handle. Its tale of a love affair between a black woman and a white man had the potential to alienate black audiences and white audiences. And its raw account of racism in America was offensive to many. Though the play was given a workshop production at NYC’s Actors Studio, and there were a couple of regional theatre productions, it took 10 years for the piece to achieve a full New York production, in 1972, at The Public Theatre. And when it was subsequently produced on ABC Television, eight affiliate stations refused to run it.
Childress set her play in a down-at-heel black neighborhood in Charleston, S.C., in summer 1918—when World War I was still raging in Europe and the lethal Spanish flu epidemic was killing hundreds at home. Black seamstress Julia Augustine (Veralyn Jones) is romantically involved with a white baker and German émigré, Herman (Leo Marks). They’ve been together 10 years, and they’re very much in love, but they can’t marry because the state’s miscegenation laws prohibit interracial marriage. So Julia finds herself at odds with both the white community and her black neighbors, who disapprove of her involvement with a white man and regard her as an adulteress.
During a visit to Julia, Herman collapses with a virulent case of the flu, which leaves her on the horns of a dilemma: Without medical attention, he may not survive, but if she calls in a doctor, both she and Herman may be arrested. And the neighbors are fearful that any involvement with white authorities may cause trouble for all of them.
Soon, Herman’s Mother (Ann Gee Byrd) and his sister Annabelle (Belen Green) arrive, determined to take him home lest he be discovered—or die—in the home of his black mistress. The Mother is a virulent white supremacist who brandishes the N-word frequently and viciously, as she drives Julia out of her own home and pulls the clothes onto the near comatose Herman and carries him away. She’s a controlling termagant who has kept Herman tied to her apron strings and driven away Annabelle’s suitor because he is a lowly sailor. (Ironically, she is also a victim of prejudice as a German at a time when the war has inspired hatred and suspicion of all “Huns.”)
Eventually, the still-shaky Herman returns, having finally broken free of his controlling mother and bought tickets to New York for himself and Julia. Mother and Annabelle return, intent on taking him away again, but Julia forbids her to enter her house, and she is driven from the field. But seeds of antagonism have been sown between Julia and Herman, and she takes him to task for failing to stand up for her and leaving her to make all the sacrifices.
Several subplots deal with Julia’s neighbors, including the matriarch Lula Green (Sandra McClain) and her rebellious son Nelson (Jason Turner), their nosy and bossy landlady (Karen Malina White), and the impoverished Mattie (Nadege August), who has been denied her soldier husband’s military allotment because she can’t prove they were legally married.
Director Gregg T. Daniels has assembled a fine ensemble and gives them finely nuanced direction. Jones ably captures Julia’s fear of the white majority and her ultimate rebellion against it. McClain is a tower of strength as Lula, who lives in fear that her “uppity” son may fall victim of white wrath. And Byrd etches a merciless and savage portrait of Herman’s irascible mother.
François-Pierre Couture designed the flexible skeleton set, A. Jeffrey Schoenberg provides the apt costumes, and Peggy Ann Blow created the vocal arrangements for the songs that add rich texture to the production.
Note: Like all Antaeus productions, this one is double cast.
Antaeus Theatre
When novelist and playwright Alice Childress (1916–1994) wrote Wedding Band in 1962, most producers found it too hot to handle. Its tale of a love affair between a black woman and a white man had the potential to alienate black audiences and white audiences. And its raw account of racism in America was offensive to many. Though the play was given a workshop production at NYC’s Actors Studio, and there were a couple of regional theatre productions, it took 10 years for the piece to achieve a full New York production, in 1972, at The Public Theatre. And when it was subsequently produced on ABC Television, eight affiliate stations refused to run it.
Childress set her play in a down-at-heel black neighborhood in Charleston, S.C., in summer 1918—when World War I was still raging in Europe and the lethal Spanish flu epidemic was killing hundreds at home. Black seamstress Julia Augustine (Veralyn Jones) is romantically involved with a white baker and German émigré, Herman (Leo Marks). They’ve been together 10 years, and they’re very much in love, but they can’t marry because the state’s miscegenation laws prohibit interracial marriage. So Julia finds herself at odds with both the white community and her black neighbors, who disapprove of her involvement with a white man and regard her as an adulteress.
During a visit to Julia, Herman collapses with a virulent case of the flu, which leaves her on the horns of a dilemma: Without medical attention, he may not survive, but if she calls in a doctor, both she and Herman may be arrested. And the neighbors are fearful that any involvement with white authorities may cause trouble for all of them.
Soon, Herman’s Mother (Ann Gee Byrd) and his sister Annabelle (Belen Green) arrive, determined to take him home lest he be discovered—or die—in the home of his black mistress. The Mother is a virulent white supremacist who brandishes the N-word frequently and viciously, as she drives Julia out of her own home and pulls the clothes onto the near comatose Herman and carries him away. She’s a controlling termagant who has kept Herman tied to her apron strings and driven away Annabelle’s suitor because he is a lowly sailor. (Ironically, she is also a victim of prejudice as a German at a time when the war has inspired hatred and suspicion of all “Huns.”)
Eventually, the still-shaky Herman returns, having finally broken free of his controlling mother and bought tickets to New York for himself and Julia. Mother and Annabelle return, intent on taking him away again, but Julia forbids her to enter her house, and she is driven from the field. But seeds of antagonism have been sown between Julia and Herman, and she takes him to task for failing to stand up for her and leaving her to make all the sacrifices.
Several subplots deal with Julia’s neighbors, including the matriarch Lula Green (Sandra McClain) and her rebellious son Nelson (Jason Turner), their nosy and bossy landlady (Karen Malina White), and the impoverished Mattie (Nadege August), who has been denied her soldier husband’s military allotment because she can’t prove they were legally married.
Director Gregg T. Daniels has assembled a fine ensemble and gives them finely nuanced direction. Jones ably captures Julia’s fear of the white majority and her ultimate rebellion against it. McClain is a tower of strength as Lula, who lives in fear that her “uppity” son may fall victim of white wrath. And Byrd etches a merciless and savage portrait of Herman’s irascible mother.
François-Pierre Couture designed the flexible skeleton set, A. Jeffrey Schoenberg provides the apt costumes, and Peggy Ann Blow created the vocal arrangements for the songs that add rich texture to the production.
Note: Like all Antaeus productions, this one is double cast.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
October 27, 2014
October 27, 2014
Wait Until Dark
Surf City Theatre Company at 2nd Story Theater, Hermosa Beach Playhouse
What can be seen in this production is acting technique too often ignored by productions at the “big” theaters. This version reflects great care by its theatermakers. Here, in this classic 1960s thriller written by Frederick Knott, more widely known through its 1967 film version, the set is sturdy, the props are plentiful, and the actors—particularly one very young one—keep the audience breathless.
Unfortunately, some of this show can’t be seen by some of the audience. And, on opening night, some of it couldn’t be heard. Undoubtedly, considering her attention to detail thus far, director Kathleen Rubin will fix what she can before long.
“Living truthfully under imaginary circumstances” is an established acting technique, which springs to mind here when one watches a trio of major creeps infiltrate the Greenwich Village basement home of Sam and Susy Hendrix. The three enter in darkness. As each actor opens the door, he looks around as if for the first time. One gazes, wide-eyed, as if truly in darkness. One fumbles for a light switch. One appraises the space, determining whether he’s alone, guessing where the bedroom might be.
This doesn’t always happen at the theater, even with big-name actors and despite high-price tickets. Clearly, Rubin cares about creating a terrifying world for her audiences here, and clearly her actors do, too.
The story centers on Suzy, inadvertently trapped in a drug-smuggling scheme gone wrong. She is blind, but she is hearty, determined, and independent. Keri Blunt plays Susy, believably sightless at every moment, believably terrified as the chills and shocks unfold. Blunt plays her with other senses heightened but doesn’t overplay, so Susy’s path to her meltdown and regrouping is realistic and absorbing.
Susy’s nemeses include “Sergeant” Carlino, masquerading as a policeman, played by Aaron Goddard with bits of comic relief. Playing the two-faced Mike Talman, who professes to be Sam’s buddy from the Marines, Matt Harrison is a smooth operator, handsome enough to make the audience forget he’s a bad guy. And, as Harry Roat, one of theater’s most unnerving villains, Danny Roque is memorably petrifying. Seemingly dispassionate, patient with his prey, Roque’s Roat starts off as apparently harmless but slowly reveals himself as deadly. Luckily, Linden East plays Susy’s overprotective husband.
Jolts and stunners abound in Knott’s script. But the surprise of the night may be 14-year-old Simone Beres as Susy’s young neighbor Gloria. Tugging at her hideous sweater-vest (picture-perfect costuming by Laurie Sullivan), geek-adjusting her eyeglasses, the young actor believably creates the sometimes bratty, sometimes solicitous preteen.
Even more careful details abound. Roat’s shoes audibly squeak here, leading the blind Susy to sense extreme danger. The phone is a dial phone, to go with the 1960s-format phone numbers. By contrast, the script mentions two windows but the set includes only one—noticeable only because the rest of the work is so precise.
However, the acting is not faultless. On opening night, cue pickups became increasingly delayed, line deliveries increasingly sluggish, and voices increasingly low. But the theater’s sightlines are the main drawback to this production. Action around the story’s iconic refrigerator—no spoilers here—takes place far stage right and disappears behind heads of the audience members in house left. Most problematically, the play’s final shocker takes place on the apartment’s floor, but even the tall folks in the audience wouldn’t see it all.
With work striving to be this good, with Surf City Theatre Company branching into dramas after its initial seasons of comedies, risers or permanent staggered seating should be the next major goal on the company’s clearly growth-oriented agenda.
Surf City Theatre Company at 2nd Story Theater, Hermosa Beach Playhouse
What can be seen in this production is acting technique too often ignored by productions at the “big” theaters. This version reflects great care by its theatermakers. Here, in this classic 1960s thriller written by Frederick Knott, more widely known through its 1967 film version, the set is sturdy, the props are plentiful, and the actors—particularly one very young one—keep the audience breathless.
Unfortunately, some of this show can’t be seen by some of the audience. And, on opening night, some of it couldn’t be heard. Undoubtedly, considering her attention to detail thus far, director Kathleen Rubin will fix what she can before long.
“Living truthfully under imaginary circumstances” is an established acting technique, which springs to mind here when one watches a trio of major creeps infiltrate the Greenwich Village basement home of Sam and Susy Hendrix. The three enter in darkness. As each actor opens the door, he looks around as if for the first time. One gazes, wide-eyed, as if truly in darkness. One fumbles for a light switch. One appraises the space, determining whether he’s alone, guessing where the bedroom might be.
This doesn’t always happen at the theater, even with big-name actors and despite high-price tickets. Clearly, Rubin cares about creating a terrifying world for her audiences here, and clearly her actors do, too.
The story centers on Suzy, inadvertently trapped in a drug-smuggling scheme gone wrong. She is blind, but she is hearty, determined, and independent. Keri Blunt plays Susy, believably sightless at every moment, believably terrified as the chills and shocks unfold. Blunt plays her with other senses heightened but doesn’t overplay, so Susy’s path to her meltdown and regrouping is realistic and absorbing.
Susy’s nemeses include “Sergeant” Carlino, masquerading as a policeman, played by Aaron Goddard with bits of comic relief. Playing the two-faced Mike Talman, who professes to be Sam’s buddy from the Marines, Matt Harrison is a smooth operator, handsome enough to make the audience forget he’s a bad guy. And, as Harry Roat, one of theater’s most unnerving villains, Danny Roque is memorably petrifying. Seemingly dispassionate, patient with his prey, Roque’s Roat starts off as apparently harmless but slowly reveals himself as deadly. Luckily, Linden East plays Susy’s overprotective husband.
Jolts and stunners abound in Knott’s script. But the surprise of the night may be 14-year-old Simone Beres as Susy’s young neighbor Gloria. Tugging at her hideous sweater-vest (picture-perfect costuming by Laurie Sullivan), geek-adjusting her eyeglasses, the young actor believably creates the sometimes bratty, sometimes solicitous preteen.
Even more careful details abound. Roat’s shoes audibly squeak here, leading the blind Susy to sense extreme danger. The phone is a dial phone, to go with the 1960s-format phone numbers. By contrast, the script mentions two windows but the set includes only one—noticeable only because the rest of the work is so precise.
However, the acting is not faultless. On opening night, cue pickups became increasingly delayed, line deliveries increasingly sluggish, and voices increasingly low. But the theater’s sightlines are the main drawback to this production. Action around the story’s iconic refrigerator—no spoilers here—takes place far stage right and disappears behind heads of the audience members in house left. Most problematically, the play’s final shocker takes place on the apartment’s floor, but even the tall folks in the audience wouldn’t see it all.
With work striving to be this good, with Surf City Theatre Company branching into dramas after its initial seasons of comedies, risers or permanent staggered seating should be the next major goal on the company’s clearly growth-oriented agenda.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
October 27, 2014
October 27, 2014
Melissa Arctic
The Road on Magnolia
One of William Shakespeare’s lesser works, The Winter’s Tale—imbued with arbitrary character motivations and jagged plot shifts—chronicles the complicated, pseudo-tragic history of former childhood friends: Polixenes, King of Bohemia, and Leontes, King of Sicilia. Scripter Craig Wright’s adaptation moves the action to 1970 rural Minnesota but does not offer any relief from the Bard’s awkward throughline, despite the efforts of a talented cast here. Helmer Scott Alan Smith competently guides the ensemble over this scenic ice flow but cannot instill substance not inherent in the play.
Soon into the first act, two beer-guzzling pals since childhood—small-town barber Leonard (Tom Musgrove) and visiting businessman Paul (Coronado Romero)—suffer a sudden and strange rift. With little explanation for the overwhelming shift in temperament, Leonard develops a murderous rage against his longtime buddy, aimed also at his own wife, Mina (Laurie Okin), whom he accuses of dallying with Paul, even charging his friend with being the biological father of the couple’s infant daughter.
The second act, set 18 years later, is a different play altogether, filled with blossoming young love, comedy, and cuddly reconciliations of all parties concerned, no motivations needed. A highlight of the action is the endearing presence of former mortician-turned–herb farmer Alec (Joe Hart), who acts as a gentle guide and mentor to his ward Melissa (Hannah Mae Sturges) and her callow swain, Ferris (Lockne O’Brien).
There is an overt effort to present this work as a fable, whereby all plot shortcomings are forgiven. It doesn’t work. This includes the not really needed surrealistic presence of Time (Alexa Hodzic, alternating with Samantha Salamoff), a child who not only observes all the action, she participates in it as a solo Greek chorus. Also, the mood-enhancing fairy tale–like settings and projections of Desma Murphy and Kaitlyn Pietras, respectively, as well as the lackluster original songs of the playwright, serve only to underscore the play’s scenic disconnects.
What works are the interactions of this committed ensemble. Okin offers a compelling portrayal of a devoted wife and mother who has been blindsided into a state of helplessness and terror. Elizabeth Simpson and Michael Dempsey as married couple Cindy and Lindy offer a perfect balance of concern and intervention when Leonard goes into his downward spiral. And Brian M. Cole’s Carl offers tangible veracity to a character that is under-explained by the playwright.
The Road on Magnolia
One of William Shakespeare’s lesser works, The Winter’s Tale—imbued with arbitrary character motivations and jagged plot shifts—chronicles the complicated, pseudo-tragic history of former childhood friends: Polixenes, King of Bohemia, and Leontes, King of Sicilia. Scripter Craig Wright’s adaptation moves the action to 1970 rural Minnesota but does not offer any relief from the Bard’s awkward throughline, despite the efforts of a talented cast here. Helmer Scott Alan Smith competently guides the ensemble over this scenic ice flow but cannot instill substance not inherent in the play.
Soon into the first act, two beer-guzzling pals since childhood—small-town barber Leonard (Tom Musgrove) and visiting businessman Paul (Coronado Romero)—suffer a sudden and strange rift. With little explanation for the overwhelming shift in temperament, Leonard develops a murderous rage against his longtime buddy, aimed also at his own wife, Mina (Laurie Okin), whom he accuses of dallying with Paul, even charging his friend with being the biological father of the couple’s infant daughter.
The second act, set 18 years later, is a different play altogether, filled with blossoming young love, comedy, and cuddly reconciliations of all parties concerned, no motivations needed. A highlight of the action is the endearing presence of former mortician-turned–herb farmer Alec (Joe Hart), who acts as a gentle guide and mentor to his ward Melissa (Hannah Mae Sturges) and her callow swain, Ferris (Lockne O’Brien).
There is an overt effort to present this work as a fable, whereby all plot shortcomings are forgiven. It doesn’t work. This includes the not really needed surrealistic presence of Time (Alexa Hodzic, alternating with Samantha Salamoff), a child who not only observes all the action, she participates in it as a solo Greek chorus. Also, the mood-enhancing fairy tale–like settings and projections of Desma Murphy and Kaitlyn Pietras, respectively, as well as the lackluster original songs of the playwright, serve only to underscore the play’s scenic disconnects.
What works are the interactions of this committed ensemble. Okin offers a compelling portrayal of a devoted wife and mother who has been blindsided into a state of helplessness and terror. Elizabeth Simpson and Michael Dempsey as married couple Cindy and Lindy offer a perfect balance of concern and intervention when Leonard goes into his downward spiral. And Brian M. Cole’s Carl offers tangible veracity to a character that is under-explained by the playwright.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
October 26, 2014
October 26, 2014
Broomstick
Fountain Theatre
Talk about something to hit Los Angeles in time for Halloween, this eerie, airy tale by New Orleans’s writer John Biguenet transports us into the cluttered interior of a creepy gingerbread-y cabin in some “deep, dark woods” as the welcomed guests of a possibly authentic, decidedly homebrewed, raspy-voiced Creole-accented witch.
Biguenet, Grand Guignol–obsessed wordsmith and creator of the gothic novel The Torturer’s Apprentice, utilized more than his imagination to create this solo play. Raised in the Crescent City’s working-class Chantilly district, in a recent interview Biguenet shared that “only tourists walk on the sunny side of the street” in his hometown. “If you grew up in New Orleans like I did, you know there is darkness in the world.... I had to plunge into that darkness to write a play that’s both terrifying and comic.”
Perfect for furthering the playwright’s intention is director Stephen Sachs’s inspired casting of the extraordinary Jenny O’Hara as a character identified in the program as Witch. Although the scary-looking crone tries earnestly to refute such a label, insisting her adversaries’ creepy-crawler invasions and fatal falls down the well were purely coincidental, when she pointedly jokes about cooking little boys with the same glee as roasting a sweet-fleshed suckling piglet, any potential dinner guest would have to wonder if that plate of carnitas was really thatother other white meat.
At first sight, O’Hara appears to be a small presence on Andrew Hammer’s breathtaking backwoods storybook set that looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting gone nightmarish, overpowered by Misty Carlisle’s exhaustively over-decorated candlelit property design. But soon O’Hara, spouting an 80-minute monologue written entirely in rhymed iambic couplets, commands the stage and scares the living bejeezus out of her audience. At one moment resembling a youthfully sunny, warmly smiling June Allyson–like ingénue lurking just under the character’s rat’s nest hairdo and penciled-on wrinkles, O’Hara transforms on a dime into a menacingly countenanced Gale Sondergaard, warning those in attendance to watch their step or they could find themselves insect-infested too. Her voice at times is so gentle and soft one must strain to hear her, but when lighting designer Jennifer Edwards makes lightning flash, O’Hara’s voice crescendos to awesome, powerful heights, competing effortlessly with Peter Bayne’s suddenly rock concert–decibeled sound effects.
To this remarkable play’s credit, the final result goes deeper than scaring its audience and eliciting a few heartfelt screams from the back row. Underlying the quintessential seasonal fun of Broomstick—and transcending even O’Hara’s masterful turn, Sachs’s excellent staging, and a design that makes one want to go onstage and explore all those dusty goodies lurking in the corners of the witch’s cabin—is a surprising deeper message about the intolerance, misogyny, and rampant racism still existing in the rural South.
“It’s easy to make fun of childhood fears, but they are real,” Biguenet confesses in that recent interview, noting his purpose in this play was to raise the hair on the backs of our necks as his witch casts a spell on us with the subtle rhymes and richness of her stories. “My witch can’t turn a tree into a fireball—special effects don’t interest me—but I could give her the power of language.” Mission accomplished. Broomstick is guaranteed to provoke unexpected thought—as it keeps the viewer jumping at shadows and itching the nape of the neck long after final curtain.
Fountain Theatre
Talk about something to hit Los Angeles in time for Halloween, this eerie, airy tale by New Orleans’s writer John Biguenet transports us into the cluttered interior of a creepy gingerbread-y cabin in some “deep, dark woods” as the welcomed guests of a possibly authentic, decidedly homebrewed, raspy-voiced Creole-accented witch.
Biguenet, Grand Guignol–obsessed wordsmith and creator of the gothic novel The Torturer’s Apprentice, utilized more than his imagination to create this solo play. Raised in the Crescent City’s working-class Chantilly district, in a recent interview Biguenet shared that “only tourists walk on the sunny side of the street” in his hometown. “If you grew up in New Orleans like I did, you know there is darkness in the world.... I had to plunge into that darkness to write a play that’s both terrifying and comic.”
Perfect for furthering the playwright’s intention is director Stephen Sachs’s inspired casting of the extraordinary Jenny O’Hara as a character identified in the program as Witch. Although the scary-looking crone tries earnestly to refute such a label, insisting her adversaries’ creepy-crawler invasions and fatal falls down the well were purely coincidental, when she pointedly jokes about cooking little boys with the same glee as roasting a sweet-fleshed suckling piglet, any potential dinner guest would have to wonder if that plate of carnitas was really thatother other white meat.
At first sight, O’Hara appears to be a small presence on Andrew Hammer’s breathtaking backwoods storybook set that looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting gone nightmarish, overpowered by Misty Carlisle’s exhaustively over-decorated candlelit property design. But soon O’Hara, spouting an 80-minute monologue written entirely in rhymed iambic couplets, commands the stage and scares the living bejeezus out of her audience. At one moment resembling a youthfully sunny, warmly smiling June Allyson–like ingénue lurking just under the character’s rat’s nest hairdo and penciled-on wrinkles, O’Hara transforms on a dime into a menacingly countenanced Gale Sondergaard, warning those in attendance to watch their step or they could find themselves insect-infested too. Her voice at times is so gentle and soft one must strain to hear her, but when lighting designer Jennifer Edwards makes lightning flash, O’Hara’s voice crescendos to awesome, powerful heights, competing effortlessly with Peter Bayne’s suddenly rock concert–decibeled sound effects.
To this remarkable play’s credit, the final result goes deeper than scaring its audience and eliciting a few heartfelt screams from the back row. Underlying the quintessential seasonal fun of Broomstick—and transcending even O’Hara’s masterful turn, Sachs’s excellent staging, and a design that makes one want to go onstage and explore all those dusty goodies lurking in the corners of the witch’s cabin—is a surprising deeper message about the intolerance, misogyny, and rampant racism still existing in the rural South.
“It’s easy to make fun of childhood fears, but they are real,” Biguenet confesses in that recent interview, noting his purpose in this play was to raise the hair on the backs of our necks as his witch casts a spell on us with the subtle rhymes and richness of her stories. “My witch can’t turn a tree into a fireball—special effects don’t interest me—but I could give her the power of language.” Mission accomplished. Broomstick is guaranteed to provoke unexpected thought—as it keeps the viewer jumping at shadows and itching the nape of the neck long after final curtain.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 26, 2014
October 26, 2014
Pippin
Pantages Theatre
Diane Paulus’ circus-themed Pippin revival is every bit as good as you’ve heard, and then some. It invests the famously thin libretto (crafted by Roger O. Hirson in 1972) with so much conviction, and so bathes it in an overlay of gorgeous lighting (many thanks, Kenneth Posner), acrobatics, juggling, and gymnastics, that it actually sustains the illusion, over two and a half hours, that something meaningful is going on. This is no small feat.
Back in ’72, young Prince Pippin’s medieval search for purpose—finding his “Corner of the Sky,” as his anthemic I-want number has it—was hip and now, or at least could pretend to be, as the milquetoasty son of Charlemagne the Great alternately tries soldiering, sensuality, wielding power, and just plain dropping out in the course of his Kerouac-like odyssey of life. Hirson’s conventional and even reactionary denouement (Pippin settles down to ordinary suburban domesticity) was shockingly out of kilter with the rest, but given the razzle dazzle provided by director-choreographer Bob Fosse in his prime, the show was able to get by. Just.
Pippin has stayed in vigorous demand in schools and community productions on the strength of Stephen Schwartz’s sprightly score and memories of Fosse’s Tony-winning staging. It’s always been a crowd pleaser, but the inability to get either a film version or major Broadway revival underway for more than 40 years attests to the skepticism, on the part of the big money folks, that the musical really had what it takes. Paulus felt otherwise.
Like Lincoln Center’s Bartlett Sher, Paulus has a knack for marshaling a thoughtful reconsideration of an older work like Hair or Porgy and Bess and ushering it to the stage with style and vitality. (Most current helmers are good at only one or the other, conceiving or staging, which makes Paulus and Sher the go-to people when producers contemplate unearthing a vintage tuner. Paulus often gets the edge because it’s cheaper to try things out at her home venue, ART in Boston, than in Lincoln Center, where Sher is about to revisit The King and I.)
Her brilliant idea for Pippin was that each of Pippin’s attempts to find himself could be not just talked and sung about but should be fully acted out within a circus environment. So the battle scenes are marked by the juggling of swords and firesticks. A paean to living life to the full, sung by a doddering grandma (Andrea Martin), becomes a stunning coup de theatre involving a studly acrobat and a MILF. (Or would that be GILF?) Life on the farm is brought to life by a singing and dancing menagerie.
Paulus’s staging ideas aren’t just showbiz set pieces, though they work very well on that level. More important, they literalize the fertile central metaphor that life can and should be lived on the edge, with boldness and risk. That theme has always been present in the libretto and lyrics, but never truly felt.
The circus acts get us viscerally involved in Pippin’s struggles, and thus his story takes on unanticipated importance. Something’s at stake here, which has never before been true of Pippin in my experience. Paulus even manages to invest the ending with Beckettian despair. It’s really awesome stagecraft.
Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Paulus cast the beautiful, likable, sublimely talented Matthew James Thomas in the title role; you can’t help but root for him. Martin’s turn earns her a standing O mid-number—you just have to see it—and there’s not a weak link anywhere in the Pantages tour cast.
The show has always promised “Magic to Do” in its opening number. Now it’s literally true —there are numerous stage illusions tied into the action—and metaphorically so, in the central idea and the transformational performances.
One caveat. The circus motif in the marketing materials, not to mention associations with Schwartz’s Wicked, might suggest that this attraction is kid-friendly. Pippin's orgy—ramped up “in the Fosse style,” as Chet Walker’s choreography is billed, inside a tiger cage with whips and kinks galore—is not something most responsible adults would consider appropriate for the entire family. (The Kardashian family, maybe.)
But the kid inside you deserves to see the show pronto.
Pantages Theatre
Diane Paulus’ circus-themed Pippin revival is every bit as good as you’ve heard, and then some. It invests the famously thin libretto (crafted by Roger O. Hirson in 1972) with so much conviction, and so bathes it in an overlay of gorgeous lighting (many thanks, Kenneth Posner), acrobatics, juggling, and gymnastics, that it actually sustains the illusion, over two and a half hours, that something meaningful is going on. This is no small feat.
Back in ’72, young Prince Pippin’s medieval search for purpose—finding his “Corner of the Sky,” as his anthemic I-want number has it—was hip and now, or at least could pretend to be, as the milquetoasty son of Charlemagne the Great alternately tries soldiering, sensuality, wielding power, and just plain dropping out in the course of his Kerouac-like odyssey of life. Hirson’s conventional and even reactionary denouement (Pippin settles down to ordinary suburban domesticity) was shockingly out of kilter with the rest, but given the razzle dazzle provided by director-choreographer Bob Fosse in his prime, the show was able to get by. Just.
Pippin has stayed in vigorous demand in schools and community productions on the strength of Stephen Schwartz’s sprightly score and memories of Fosse’s Tony-winning staging. It’s always been a crowd pleaser, but the inability to get either a film version or major Broadway revival underway for more than 40 years attests to the skepticism, on the part of the big money folks, that the musical really had what it takes. Paulus felt otherwise.
Like Lincoln Center’s Bartlett Sher, Paulus has a knack for marshaling a thoughtful reconsideration of an older work like Hair or Porgy and Bess and ushering it to the stage with style and vitality. (Most current helmers are good at only one or the other, conceiving or staging, which makes Paulus and Sher the go-to people when producers contemplate unearthing a vintage tuner. Paulus often gets the edge because it’s cheaper to try things out at her home venue, ART in Boston, than in Lincoln Center, where Sher is about to revisit The King and I.)
Her brilliant idea for Pippin was that each of Pippin’s attempts to find himself could be not just talked and sung about but should be fully acted out within a circus environment. So the battle scenes are marked by the juggling of swords and firesticks. A paean to living life to the full, sung by a doddering grandma (Andrea Martin), becomes a stunning coup de theatre involving a studly acrobat and a MILF. (Or would that be GILF?) Life on the farm is brought to life by a singing and dancing menagerie.
Paulus’s staging ideas aren’t just showbiz set pieces, though they work very well on that level. More important, they literalize the fertile central metaphor that life can and should be lived on the edge, with boldness and risk. That theme has always been present in the libretto and lyrics, but never truly felt.
The circus acts get us viscerally involved in Pippin’s struggles, and thus his story takes on unanticipated importance. Something’s at stake here, which has never before been true of Pippin in my experience. Paulus even manages to invest the ending with Beckettian despair. It’s really awesome stagecraft.
Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Paulus cast the beautiful, likable, sublimely talented Matthew James Thomas in the title role; you can’t help but root for him. Martin’s turn earns her a standing O mid-number—you just have to see it—and there’s not a weak link anywhere in the Pantages tour cast.
The show has always promised “Magic to Do” in its opening number. Now it’s literally true —there are numerous stage illusions tied into the action—and metaphorically so, in the central idea and the transformational performances.
One caveat. The circus motif in the marketing materials, not to mention associations with Schwartz’s Wicked, might suggest that this attraction is kid-friendly. Pippin's orgy—ramped up “in the Fosse style,” as Chet Walker’s choreography is billed, inside a tiger cage with whips and kinks galore—is not something most responsible adults would consider appropriate for the entire family. (The Kardashian family, maybe.)
But the kid inside you deserves to see the show pronto.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 26, 2014
October 26, 2014
Wicked Lit 2014
Mountain View Mausoleum and Cemetery
Immersive, site-specific theater could end up saving the art form for the immediate future. At the very least, it offers an audience an interactive and one-of-a-kind experience that can’t be gotten in front of a large or small screen or on a mobile device. It tends to involve music and movement, never a bad idea when it comes to attracting young people. And by their very nature, immersive spectacles gain “Event” status. It would be great if live theater could once again become routine for mass audiences, but that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. Event-ness may be the best we can hope for, to keep the legit stage alive.
Wicked Lit is a notable entry in the genre, a dramatization of three spooky tales carried out along the pathways, hallways, anterooms, and grounds of Mountain View Mausoleum and Cemetery. The 120 or so patrons are divided into three groups, each of which sees the one-acts in a different order. The performers need considerable energy to get through three renditions a night, though I must say that on a recent Wednesday we spectators showed more strain than they did. It was three hours before we all reconvened in the main garden for the curtain calls, and a lot of walking (and running up and down steps) had gone on before the final bows.
This year’s edition—it’s the seventh year for Unbound Productions—presents a nice mix of refreshingly camp-free narratives. My group began with the most traditionally scary entry, John Leslie’s adaptation of “Dracula’s Guest,” which some believe was a discarded first chapter for Bram Stoker’s classic vampire chiller, though published separately (and the Count himself never appears). This tale, helmed by Jeff G. Rack, climaxes on benches in the middle of the cemetery grounds, and you have to hand it to sound designers Drew Dalzell and Noelle Hoffman for setting the clip-clop of carriage horses, the howl of wolves, and the rumblings of thunder to fill the outdoor setting so believably.
Grand Guignolers doyenne Debbie McMahon takes the reins for “The Monk,” Douglas R. Clayton’s reduction of a single key plot from Matthew “Monk” Lewis’s 19th-century blaspheming Gothic classic. The love triangle involving a pious prelate, a dashing suitor, and the handmaiden of Satan who bewitches them both is light on gore but heavy on insinuation, and its climax—involving a Madonna statue that comes to life and a lot of swordplay—is enjoyably viewed by us from an upper balcony.
We go back indoors for good for “Las Lloronas (The Weeping Ones),” a Mexican folk tale about a mother’s murder of her children, told in five different styles, plots, and time periods from the age of Hernan Cortes to the present. Paul Millet’s direction incorporates a mix of Spanish and English and a large dose of mime and dance (lovely choreography by Angie Hobin), and represents the evening’s most serious turn by far.
Each of the pieces, then, has its distinctive and distinguished qualities, though the acting by the company of 22 is spotty, much of it attitudinal rather than deeply felt. The triumphant Wendy Worthington, as the sinister nun of “The Monk,” manages to navigate the narrow passage between flamboyance and genuine emotion, but most of the others miss the mark.
And it’s hard not to lose steam whenever you return to the main garden to await the other plays’ audiences in advance of the next attraction. A troupe of ragtag magicians combines illusion (impressive) and improv (wearisome) to kill time in what’s billed as “The Spirits of Walpurgisnacht,” and a little of that goes a long way. Might Wicked Lit hit it out of the park—or the cemetery—if it mounted two longer pieces and went a little less campy with the interstitial antics? I’d like to find out.
All in all, a rewarding and engaging evening. It may not last in the memory as vividly as Tamara of years ago, but you sure feel as if you’ve gotten your money’s worth. And there’s more to come: Rumor has it that Britain’s Punchdrunk company plans to gut and renovate a downtown location for its worldwide sensation Sleep No More. And maybe we’ll be lucky enough to get a gander at Here Lies Love, in which David Byrne, Fatboy Slim, and director Alex Timbers narrate the rise and fall of Imelda Marcos as a dancehall rave. Bring ’em on! They get people talking and they get people buying. We need more of both.
Mountain View Mausoleum and Cemetery
Immersive, site-specific theater could end up saving the art form for the immediate future. At the very least, it offers an audience an interactive and one-of-a-kind experience that can’t be gotten in front of a large or small screen or on a mobile device. It tends to involve music and movement, never a bad idea when it comes to attracting young people. And by their very nature, immersive spectacles gain “Event” status. It would be great if live theater could once again become routine for mass audiences, but that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. Event-ness may be the best we can hope for, to keep the legit stage alive.
Wicked Lit is a notable entry in the genre, a dramatization of three spooky tales carried out along the pathways, hallways, anterooms, and grounds of Mountain View Mausoleum and Cemetery. The 120 or so patrons are divided into three groups, each of which sees the one-acts in a different order. The performers need considerable energy to get through three renditions a night, though I must say that on a recent Wednesday we spectators showed more strain than they did. It was three hours before we all reconvened in the main garden for the curtain calls, and a lot of walking (and running up and down steps) had gone on before the final bows.
This year’s edition—it’s the seventh year for Unbound Productions—presents a nice mix of refreshingly camp-free narratives. My group began with the most traditionally scary entry, John Leslie’s adaptation of “Dracula’s Guest,” which some believe was a discarded first chapter for Bram Stoker’s classic vampire chiller, though published separately (and the Count himself never appears). This tale, helmed by Jeff G. Rack, climaxes on benches in the middle of the cemetery grounds, and you have to hand it to sound designers Drew Dalzell and Noelle Hoffman for setting the clip-clop of carriage horses, the howl of wolves, and the rumblings of thunder to fill the outdoor setting so believably.
Grand Guignolers doyenne Debbie McMahon takes the reins for “The Monk,” Douglas R. Clayton’s reduction of a single key plot from Matthew “Monk” Lewis’s 19th-century blaspheming Gothic classic. The love triangle involving a pious prelate, a dashing suitor, and the handmaiden of Satan who bewitches them both is light on gore but heavy on insinuation, and its climax—involving a Madonna statue that comes to life and a lot of swordplay—is enjoyably viewed by us from an upper balcony.
We go back indoors for good for “Las Lloronas (The Weeping Ones),” a Mexican folk tale about a mother’s murder of her children, told in five different styles, plots, and time periods from the age of Hernan Cortes to the present. Paul Millet’s direction incorporates a mix of Spanish and English and a large dose of mime and dance (lovely choreography by Angie Hobin), and represents the evening’s most serious turn by far.
Each of the pieces, then, has its distinctive and distinguished qualities, though the acting by the company of 22 is spotty, much of it attitudinal rather than deeply felt. The triumphant Wendy Worthington, as the sinister nun of “The Monk,” manages to navigate the narrow passage between flamboyance and genuine emotion, but most of the others miss the mark.
And it’s hard not to lose steam whenever you return to the main garden to await the other plays’ audiences in advance of the next attraction. A troupe of ragtag magicians combines illusion (impressive) and improv (wearisome) to kill time in what’s billed as “The Spirits of Walpurgisnacht,” and a little of that goes a long way. Might Wicked Lit hit it out of the park—or the cemetery—if it mounted two longer pieces and went a little less campy with the interstitial antics? I’d like to find out.
All in all, a rewarding and engaging evening. It may not last in the memory as vividly as Tamara of years ago, but you sure feel as if you’ve gotten your money’s worth. And there’s more to come: Rumor has it that Britain’s Punchdrunk company plans to gut and renovate a downtown location for its worldwide sensation Sleep No More. And maybe we’ll be lucky enough to get a gander at Here Lies Love, in which David Byrne, Fatboy Slim, and director Alex Timbers narrate the rise and fall of Imelda Marcos as a dancehall rave. Bring ’em on! They get people talking and they get people buying. We need more of both.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 26, 2014
October 26, 2014
Scream!
Rockwell Table & Stage
It’s a worthy if not unprecedented idea, taking a hit blockbuster movie and inventing an in-joke infused musical spoof of the original. And surely there could be no better target than Kevin Williamson’s archetypal and oft-imitated slasher flick Scream!, a film that has inspired more Halloween costumes than a whole gaggle of slutty nurses.
Michael Gans and Richard Register have conceived, written, and directed this irreverent and delightfully off-color takeoff on the 1996 horror classic, inaugurating Rockwell Table and Stage’s Unauthorized Musical Parody series with gusto. Also appearing onstage carrying books labeled “Holy Shit” and wearing choir robes fashioned to look like elongated football jerseys, the creators double—triple?—as the show’s gleefully animated narrators, something that might have been extra difficult on opening night with Williamson and his entourage seated directly down front to check out what has become of his baby in this unauthorized version.
Unfolding around and through the cramped dinner tables, outside the front window, and even on and over the bar of the ambitious Los Feliz cabaret supper club, Gans and Register lead a sparkling revolving cast of some of the best transplanted Broadway musical talent to recently arrive on our shores and headlined by that diminutive livewire Sarah Hyland. Best known as the empty-headed Haley on Modern Family, Hyland knocked audiences on their proverbial butts in July, delivering a showstoppingly sweet and simple “Frank Mills” as Crissy in Hair at the Hollywood Bowl. Now, as the woebegone teenage stalking victim Sidney, Hyland is equally memorable, proving herself possessed with a powerhouse voice for rock that goes far beyond Crissy’s quiet lament of the boy she lost in front of the Waverly.
All the musical theater veterans alternating in this pun-full satire are wonderfully sincere and slickly successful in their comedic efforts. Particular standouts at the first performance were Jimmy Ray Bennett as Randy and the wildly Midler-like Carly Jibson, one-third of the ever-present Screamette chorus, both of whom break out from the ranks to deliver dynamic world-class solos.
It’s kind of a shame the score for this Scream! is made up of popular standards when the book by Gans and Register, the music direction by keyboardist Brian P. Kennedy, and the talents of his bandmates and this particular cast prove good enough to support the addition of a creative young composer to step the project up to the next level.
A caution to anyone interested in attending an event at the Rockwell: Avoid getting plunked down onto an uncomfortable stool at the venue’s bar, even if the hostess assures you that you’ll be right in the middle of the action. That’s the biggest part of the problem. Despite the absence of a much desired chair-back to make the 90-minute running time of this show substantially more comfortable, turning away from the bar to watch the show is especially difficult for anyone over 6-foot-tall. The steady stream of wait staff, hosts, bathroom-goers, and actors trying to maneuver past the outstretched legs of those dumped at the bar and the tightly herded patrons seated on the other side of what felt like about an 18-inch aisle made what could have been a pleasant experience more claustrophobic than fun. The staging by Gans and Register is clever, but somehow no one seemed to consider how it would work with a full house.
Rockwell Table & Stage
It’s a worthy if not unprecedented idea, taking a hit blockbuster movie and inventing an in-joke infused musical spoof of the original. And surely there could be no better target than Kevin Williamson’s archetypal and oft-imitated slasher flick Scream!, a film that has inspired more Halloween costumes than a whole gaggle of slutty nurses.
Michael Gans and Richard Register have conceived, written, and directed this irreverent and delightfully off-color takeoff on the 1996 horror classic, inaugurating Rockwell Table and Stage’s Unauthorized Musical Parody series with gusto. Also appearing onstage carrying books labeled “Holy Shit” and wearing choir robes fashioned to look like elongated football jerseys, the creators double—triple?—as the show’s gleefully animated narrators, something that might have been extra difficult on opening night with Williamson and his entourage seated directly down front to check out what has become of his baby in this unauthorized version.
Unfolding around and through the cramped dinner tables, outside the front window, and even on and over the bar of the ambitious Los Feliz cabaret supper club, Gans and Register lead a sparkling revolving cast of some of the best transplanted Broadway musical talent to recently arrive on our shores and headlined by that diminutive livewire Sarah Hyland. Best known as the empty-headed Haley on Modern Family, Hyland knocked audiences on their proverbial butts in July, delivering a showstoppingly sweet and simple “Frank Mills” as Crissy in Hair at the Hollywood Bowl. Now, as the woebegone teenage stalking victim Sidney, Hyland is equally memorable, proving herself possessed with a powerhouse voice for rock that goes far beyond Crissy’s quiet lament of the boy she lost in front of the Waverly.
All the musical theater veterans alternating in this pun-full satire are wonderfully sincere and slickly successful in their comedic efforts. Particular standouts at the first performance were Jimmy Ray Bennett as Randy and the wildly Midler-like Carly Jibson, one-third of the ever-present Screamette chorus, both of whom break out from the ranks to deliver dynamic world-class solos.
It’s kind of a shame the score for this Scream! is made up of popular standards when the book by Gans and Register, the music direction by keyboardist Brian P. Kennedy, and the talents of his bandmates and this particular cast prove good enough to support the addition of a creative young composer to step the project up to the next level.
A caution to anyone interested in attending an event at the Rockwell: Avoid getting plunked down onto an uncomfortable stool at the venue’s bar, even if the hostess assures you that you’ll be right in the middle of the action. That’s the biggest part of the problem. Despite the absence of a much desired chair-back to make the 90-minute running time of this show substantially more comfortable, turning away from the bar to watch the show is especially difficult for anyone over 6-foot-tall. The steady stream of wait staff, hosts, bathroom-goers, and actors trying to maneuver past the outstretched legs of those dumped at the bar and the tightly herded patrons seated on the other side of what felt like about an 18-inch aisle made what could have been a pleasant experience more claustrophobic than fun. The staging by Gans and Register is clever, but somehow no one seemed to consider how it would work with a full house.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 20, 2014
The Cherry Orchard
Pacific Resident Theater
The Cherry Orchard has been eluding directors for more than a century. Noting surface hints, the work’s proximity to the Czar’s fall (albeit 13 years later), and knowing that this was Chekhov’s final, dying gift to the stage, productions have persisted in seeing it as nostalgic and elegiac in character. They ignore the manifest hard edges, and, indeed, the very facts of the plot, which on first glance are puzzling if not downright paradoxical, including Mme. Ranevskaya’s inexplicable return from Paris to her family estate; the bewildering renunciation of the lover she worships; her professed passionate loyalty to the titular orchard, followed by little or no fight to keep it; and finally, her profound relief once it’s gone.
If a director fails to figure out what’s going on there thematically and psychologically, or worse, applies a romantic, sentimental gloss to it all, the four acts are destined to play, and fail, as limp soap opera. I had hoped that the generally reliable Pacific Resident Theater would avoid the traps, but regrettably Dana Jackson’s revival is vulnerable to all of them.
By way of full disclosure, three understudies were on the night I saw it, which ordinarily would earn a rather large pass except they more than pulled their weight relative to the rest. Michael Prichard’s Firs was one-dimensional, but it was a likable dimension. Joseph Lemieux missed the hollowness beneath Trofimov’s revolutionary ranting, but captured his social gracelessness. The excellent Alex Fernandez nailed Lopakhin’s ambivalence, simultaneously reveling in and regretting the ruin he brings onto the family for whom he genuinely cares. I can’t say I was unhappy to have missed the first cast in these roles, however strong they may usually be.
It was the regulars who most disappointed, starting with consistent line difficulties across the board. Any cast ought at minimum to be line- and cue-perfect, but Chekhov carries a special demand for precision. The fumbling and waffling on the PRT stage would’ve been a surprise and a letdown even if the interpretation had been on target.
Granting that authors may not always know what’s best for their own work, here’s Chekhov complaining to his director, Konstantin Stanislavski, during rehearsals for the 1904 premiere:
He’s right, I’m sure, if for no other reason than that tears are anti-dramatic. The weeper (on stage, and I think in life) is in stasis, indulging himself, in contrast with the non-weeper who rolls up his sleeves and tries to make things happen. Reaction vs. action: I know which I’d choose in a heartbeat. (On stage, if not always in life.) In his comments, Chekhov is indicating two things to prospective directors: (1) There is opportunity for going the easy route by turning the play lachrymose; and (2) the truly interesting choice is to go against the grain. He wants artists to reject the obvious, in favor of exploring subtler aspects of the human condition that may seem counterintuitive but are actually profoundly human. The only way to reconcile all the above-mentioned plot developments, in fact, is to turn standard assumptions on their head.
PRT’s Anya (Kelsey Ritter) cries plenty, as does adopted Varya (Tania Getty), but both are outdone by their mother. Weeping almost constantly for two and a half hours, Marilyn Fox’s Ranevskaya is a doddering, darling kewpie doll whom everyone yearns to hug. Bruce French’s Gaev falls prey to tears, too, while never seeming to figure out why the guy keeps muttering about billiards. The rest of the company, in their charity, keeps stopping to listen to him, until they return to tut-tutting in attendance on beloved Ranevskaya with an oh-poor-lady air. The psychological dynamics make no sense, except as scenes from a maudlin soap.
What’s so debilitating about allowing characters in theOrchard to sit around bemoaning their fate is that it automatically turns them into victims. In their very nostalgia, they become pawns in the wake of political and cultural change lying beyond their understanding, let alone control. And that is so wrong, so very inappropriate, so downright reactionary for a play whose real concerns are restoration and healing. In no way is it about a cruel new order’s threatening to dispossess the polite, pleasant old world, a view for which neither Chekhov’s work nor his life offers any support.
The night I went, Fernandez had a couple of moments where he tried to give family and play a shot of adrenalin, and Aramazd Stepanian’s Simeonov-Pischik briefly supplied a full-blooded, complex Chekhovian presence. They were too little, too late. The world of The Cherry Orchard is, or should be, populated with multifaceted, ambitious, vivid people who are hanging on to life with pure grit. Not this time.
Pacific Resident Theater
The Cherry Orchard has been eluding directors for more than a century. Noting surface hints, the work’s proximity to the Czar’s fall (albeit 13 years later), and knowing that this was Chekhov’s final, dying gift to the stage, productions have persisted in seeing it as nostalgic and elegiac in character. They ignore the manifest hard edges, and, indeed, the very facts of the plot, which on first glance are puzzling if not downright paradoxical, including Mme. Ranevskaya’s inexplicable return from Paris to her family estate; the bewildering renunciation of the lover she worships; her professed passionate loyalty to the titular orchard, followed by little or no fight to keep it; and finally, her profound relief once it’s gone.
If a director fails to figure out what’s going on there thematically and psychologically, or worse, applies a romantic, sentimental gloss to it all, the four acts are destined to play, and fail, as limp soap opera. I had hoped that the generally reliable Pacific Resident Theater would avoid the traps, but regrettably Dana Jackson’s revival is vulnerable to all of them.
By way of full disclosure, three understudies were on the night I saw it, which ordinarily would earn a rather large pass except they more than pulled their weight relative to the rest. Michael Prichard’s Firs was one-dimensional, but it was a likable dimension. Joseph Lemieux missed the hollowness beneath Trofimov’s revolutionary ranting, but captured his social gracelessness. The excellent Alex Fernandez nailed Lopakhin’s ambivalence, simultaneously reveling in and regretting the ruin he brings onto the family for whom he genuinely cares. I can’t say I was unhappy to have missed the first cast in these roles, however strong they may usually be.
It was the regulars who most disappointed, starting with consistent line difficulties across the board. Any cast ought at minimum to be line- and cue-perfect, but Chekhov carries a special demand for precision. The fumbling and waffling on the PRT stage would’ve been a surprise and a letdown even if the interpretation had been on target.
Granting that authors may not always know what’s best for their own work, here’s Chekhov complaining to his director, Konstantin Stanislavski, during rehearsals for the 1904 premiere:
Anya, I fear, should not have any sort of tearful tone…. Not once does my Anya cry, nowhere do I speak of a tearful tone, in the second act there are tears in their eyes, but the tone is happy, lively. Why did you speak in your telegram about so many tears in my play? Where are they?.... Often you will find the words “through tears,” but I am describing only the expression on their faces, not tears.
He’s right, I’m sure, if for no other reason than that tears are anti-dramatic. The weeper (on stage, and I think in life) is in stasis, indulging himself, in contrast with the non-weeper who rolls up his sleeves and tries to make things happen. Reaction vs. action: I know which I’d choose in a heartbeat. (On stage, if not always in life.) In his comments, Chekhov is indicating two things to prospective directors: (1) There is opportunity for going the easy route by turning the play lachrymose; and (2) the truly interesting choice is to go against the grain. He wants artists to reject the obvious, in favor of exploring subtler aspects of the human condition that may seem counterintuitive but are actually profoundly human. The only way to reconcile all the above-mentioned plot developments, in fact, is to turn standard assumptions on their head.
PRT’s Anya (Kelsey Ritter) cries plenty, as does adopted Varya (Tania Getty), but both are outdone by their mother. Weeping almost constantly for two and a half hours, Marilyn Fox’s Ranevskaya is a doddering, darling kewpie doll whom everyone yearns to hug. Bruce French’s Gaev falls prey to tears, too, while never seeming to figure out why the guy keeps muttering about billiards. The rest of the company, in their charity, keeps stopping to listen to him, until they return to tut-tutting in attendance on beloved Ranevskaya with an oh-poor-lady air. The psychological dynamics make no sense, except as scenes from a maudlin soap.
What’s so debilitating about allowing characters in theOrchard to sit around bemoaning their fate is that it automatically turns them into victims. In their very nostalgia, they become pawns in the wake of political and cultural change lying beyond their understanding, let alone control. And that is so wrong, so very inappropriate, so downright reactionary for a play whose real concerns are restoration and healing. In no way is it about a cruel new order’s threatening to dispossess the polite, pleasant old world, a view for which neither Chekhov’s work nor his life offers any support.
The night I went, Fernandez had a couple of moments where he tried to give family and play a shot of adrenalin, and Aramazd Stepanian’s Simeonov-Pischik briefly supplied a full-blooded, complex Chekhovian presence. They were too little, too late. The world of The Cherry Orchard is, or should be, populated with multifaceted, ambitious, vivid people who are hanging on to life with pure grit. Not this time.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 20, 2014
October 20, 2014
Phantom of the Opera
Vox Lumiere at Los Angeles Theatre Center
Kevin Saunders Hayes’s ambitious multimedia experimentations with silent films returns to Los Angeles with a funhouse version of the Lon Chaney classic Phantom of the Opera. Projecting the film on the big screen, the production comments on the movie by intensify the experience with original songs, dance, and wild costumes. Though the quality of the songs is uneven, the intriguing premise and Natalie Willes’s scandalous choreography make for an amusing evening.
The Carl Laemmle 1925 version of Phantom won worldwide acclaim for its epic sets, frightening sequences, and Man of a Thousand Faces’s most horrifying makeup creation. Manipulating and punishing his own face with tape and wires, Chaney pulled back his features to construct a chilling monster. Both maniacal and pitiable, Chaney’s Erik was a complex villain, since Erik is haunted by unrequited love.
Saunders Hayes collides early- and late-20th-century influences, making the silent masterpieces palatable for school-age children who grew up in an MTV universe. The production, with strobe lighting, thumping beats, and grotesque body movements that border on camp, is a live version of a music video. Because the screen is not obscured, the audiences can delight in the modern fixings while imbibing one of the great horror films. It’s a shame that nitrate deterioration has blurred a lot of the film, but hopefully celebrations like this will continue the fight for movie restoration after such carelessness in the studio system during the mid-20th century.
Willes’s choreography is Saunders Hayes’s asset. Ballet, interpretive jazz, and hip-hop are mashed-up with precision. The aerial partnering sequences are dazzling and innovative, something you’d see in a Cirque du Soleil show. She has employed dancers who have flawless technique.
The peculiar original score is problematic. The opera numbers are piercing, effectively melding with the visions on the screen. They are exquisitely sung by Danielle Skalsky as the Grand Dame, Julie Brody as Carlotta, and Marisa Johnson as the onstage version of Christine. The pop songs, many with an industrial sound that were utilized by ’80s bands like Styx, are less successful. The melodies are loud and monotonous.
Because of the theater’s sound system, the lyrics are indecipherable. When they could be heard, they were the same phrases over and over. Some, like the Faust character singing again and again, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi” and “Let’s party like it’s 1899,” are insipid. On the other hand, the use of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana is creepily commanding. Sharell Martin’s costumes—bustiers and metallic skirts for the women and shield-like cut-off shirts for the men—create a sexy, robotic punk mood. The Phantom is dressed in tight leather, blood red and black, night goggles and a mad hatter top hat, a clever variation of the boogeyman.
The concept of Vox Lumiere is a sterling idea: making forgotten films accessible to the new generations. Given better songs, it would have the potential to evolve into something startling, adding new dimensions to many gems of masters like F.W. Murnau, Fritz Lang, Sergei Eisenstein, and D.W. Griffith.
Vox Lumiere at Los Angeles Theatre Center
Kevin Saunders Hayes’s ambitious multimedia experimentations with silent films returns to Los Angeles with a funhouse version of the Lon Chaney classic Phantom of the Opera. Projecting the film on the big screen, the production comments on the movie by intensify the experience with original songs, dance, and wild costumes. Though the quality of the songs is uneven, the intriguing premise and Natalie Willes’s scandalous choreography make for an amusing evening.
The Carl Laemmle 1925 version of Phantom won worldwide acclaim for its epic sets, frightening sequences, and Man of a Thousand Faces’s most horrifying makeup creation. Manipulating and punishing his own face with tape and wires, Chaney pulled back his features to construct a chilling monster. Both maniacal and pitiable, Chaney’s Erik was a complex villain, since Erik is haunted by unrequited love.
Saunders Hayes collides early- and late-20th-century influences, making the silent masterpieces palatable for school-age children who grew up in an MTV universe. The production, with strobe lighting, thumping beats, and grotesque body movements that border on camp, is a live version of a music video. Because the screen is not obscured, the audiences can delight in the modern fixings while imbibing one of the great horror films. It’s a shame that nitrate deterioration has blurred a lot of the film, but hopefully celebrations like this will continue the fight for movie restoration after such carelessness in the studio system during the mid-20th century.
Willes’s choreography is Saunders Hayes’s asset. Ballet, interpretive jazz, and hip-hop are mashed-up with precision. The aerial partnering sequences are dazzling and innovative, something you’d see in a Cirque du Soleil show. She has employed dancers who have flawless technique.
The peculiar original score is problematic. The opera numbers are piercing, effectively melding with the visions on the screen. They are exquisitely sung by Danielle Skalsky as the Grand Dame, Julie Brody as Carlotta, and Marisa Johnson as the onstage version of Christine. The pop songs, many with an industrial sound that were utilized by ’80s bands like Styx, are less successful. The melodies are loud and monotonous.
Because of the theater’s sound system, the lyrics are indecipherable. When they could be heard, they were the same phrases over and over. Some, like the Faust character singing again and again, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi” and “Let’s party like it’s 1899,” are insipid. On the other hand, the use of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana is creepily commanding. Sharell Martin’s costumes—bustiers and metallic skirts for the women and shield-like cut-off shirts for the men—create a sexy, robotic punk mood. The Phantom is dressed in tight leather, blood red and black, night goggles and a mad hatter top hat, a clever variation of the boogeyman.
The concept of Vox Lumiere is a sterling idea: making forgotten films accessible to the new generations. Given better songs, it would have the potential to evolve into something startling, adding new dimensions to many gems of masters like F.W. Murnau, Fritz Lang, Sergei Eisenstein, and D.W. Griffith.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
October 14, 2014
October 14, 2014
Forever
Kirk Douglas Theatre
At the Douglas, writer-performer Dael Orlandersmith reads Forever—a memoir of growing up with an abusive parent—from a loose-leaf binder while (mostly) standing at a lectern or (occasionally) sitting on a stool. Though the performance is raised above the floor on a handsome, raw-wood structure from Takeshi Kata, and given arty lighting effects by Mary Louise Geiger, by me this is not a play. It’s a platform reading, akin to that which you’d see at New York’s 92nd St. Y. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but let’s call a thing what it is.
Orlandersmith never works the pages into her performance, and she takes sips of water at times that don’t seem determined by the material. One can only wonder what the effect of the evening would be if she, or an actor designated by her, memorized the piece that she professes to have been working on for a year or more, and acted it full out.
Even then, I suspect that in its current state, Forever would lack some of the characteristics one cherishes in a dramatic work. The premise is that a visit to Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris—where the likes of Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison are buried—sparks a chain of memories of Orlandersmith’s early life and identification of herself as an artist. Such themes are talked about, but not really lived out, onstage at the Douglas. Events are more or less narrated chronologically, rather than seeming to be shaped artistically. Glimpses of the East Village scene of the ’70s and ’80s lack color and delight.
Moreover, the character of Dael (if indeed any gap is intended between the author and her creation) doesn’t experience the changes or revelations we anticipate. If director Neel Keller were moved to eke out some variety in the presentation, it was in vain; Orlandersmith starts out in a tone of steely, white-hot anger, which she never drops for a second. She certainly has a lot to be angry about: The mother, whose aspirations to a life in the dance foundered on alcoholism and wild living, sounds to have been a horror, and a rape inflicted on the daughter under their own roof is narrated in a harrowing and truly unforgettable way. But were there no moments of grace, of softness, of pity along the way that could be shared with us?
And what happened to the idea that there are two sides to every story, that we can only understand someone by walking in their shoes? Orlandersmith bites off every word, every syllable, for 90 minutes with a remarkable absence of empathy for anyone else. A guide she encounters at the cemetery fuels her rage; even the Irish cop who shows up on the night of the rape to offer comfort barely escapes her resentment. At the end, the announcement of her having come to terms with mother (in an interaction with her body in the morgue) comes of nowhere and doesn’t convince.
Across the three walls of the stage, tiny images of the author’s family and life—too tiny to be seen from out front—are posted in a long line. The audience is invited at the end of Forever to traverse the display, an offer I declined. Having been permitted so little insight into a life in the course of 90 minutes of talking, I figured I wasn’t going to learn much more from snapshots.
Kirk Douglas Theatre
At the Douglas, writer-performer Dael Orlandersmith reads Forever—a memoir of growing up with an abusive parent—from a loose-leaf binder while (mostly) standing at a lectern or (occasionally) sitting on a stool. Though the performance is raised above the floor on a handsome, raw-wood structure from Takeshi Kata, and given arty lighting effects by Mary Louise Geiger, by me this is not a play. It’s a platform reading, akin to that which you’d see at New York’s 92nd St. Y. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but let’s call a thing what it is.
Orlandersmith never works the pages into her performance, and she takes sips of water at times that don’t seem determined by the material. One can only wonder what the effect of the evening would be if she, or an actor designated by her, memorized the piece that she professes to have been working on for a year or more, and acted it full out.
Even then, I suspect that in its current state, Forever would lack some of the characteristics one cherishes in a dramatic work. The premise is that a visit to Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris—where the likes of Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison are buried—sparks a chain of memories of Orlandersmith’s early life and identification of herself as an artist. Such themes are talked about, but not really lived out, onstage at the Douglas. Events are more or less narrated chronologically, rather than seeming to be shaped artistically. Glimpses of the East Village scene of the ’70s and ’80s lack color and delight.
Moreover, the character of Dael (if indeed any gap is intended between the author and her creation) doesn’t experience the changes or revelations we anticipate. If director Neel Keller were moved to eke out some variety in the presentation, it was in vain; Orlandersmith starts out in a tone of steely, white-hot anger, which she never drops for a second. She certainly has a lot to be angry about: The mother, whose aspirations to a life in the dance foundered on alcoholism and wild living, sounds to have been a horror, and a rape inflicted on the daughter under their own roof is narrated in a harrowing and truly unforgettable way. But were there no moments of grace, of softness, of pity along the way that could be shared with us?
And what happened to the idea that there are two sides to every story, that we can only understand someone by walking in their shoes? Orlandersmith bites off every word, every syllable, for 90 minutes with a remarkable absence of empathy for anyone else. A guide she encounters at the cemetery fuels her rage; even the Irish cop who shows up on the night of the rape to offer comfort barely escapes her resentment. At the end, the announcement of her having come to terms with mother (in an interaction with her body in the morgue) comes of nowhere and doesn’t convince.
Across the three walls of the stage, tiny images of the author’s family and life—too tiny to be seen from out front—are posted in a long line. The audience is invited at the end of Forever to traverse the display, an offer I declined. Having been permitted so little insight into a life in the course of 90 minutes of talking, I figured I wasn’t going to learn much more from snapshots.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 14, 2014
October 14, 2014
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown
Sustaining Sound Theatre Company and Chromolume Theatre at the Attic
The original, 1967 Off-Broadway staging of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown did not have a book, merely a string of well-known Charles Schulz cartoon quips from his Peanuts strip, highlighted by original songs from the show’s creator, Clark Gesner. Because the tunes are unmemorable, the show relies on the viability of its six-member cast to inhabit and amplify Schulz’s beloved menagerie of life-challenged moppets.
Sustaining Sound Theatre Company’s ensemble is mostly up to the task, assisted greatly by additional material culled from the 1999 Broadway revival of this tuner provided by Michael Mayer (dialogue) and Andrew Lippa (music and lyrics). Helmer Cate Caplin—who also handles the musical staging—is to be complimented for instilling a strong sense of purpose within the character interactions.
The show chronicles the daily tribulations of woebegone Charlie Brown (Holland Noel). They are inflicted by his own inadequacies—real and imagined—but he is ever hopeful he will one day get to up the courage to talk to that “little redheaded girl.” Noel is properly callow as “Good ol’ Chuck” but has problems keeping command of his lines. Nevertheless, Noel exudes a proper balance of hopefulness and helplessness, as our round-headed protagonist deals with friends Linus (Richie Ferris), Lucy (Dorothy Blue), and Schroeder (John Deveraux), as well as little sister Sally (Kristin Towers-Rowles) and his dog Snoopy (Matt Steele).
What can’t be helped is Gesner’s lame score, but Caplin certainly tries. Making inventive use of Attic’s limited performance area, Caplin and choreographer Samantha Whidby invest a zesty vitality in the proceedings, incorporating a sense of musical theater pizzazz into such ensemble numbers as the opening, “You’re a Good Man...,” Schroeder’s ode to “Beethoven Day” and the show-closing “Happiness.” Musical director–keyboardist Jeff Bonhiver and an uncredited percussionist serve quite nicely as a two-person pit band.
The most effective number in the show is Sally Brown’s monumentally self-serving “My New Philosophy,” by Lippa, performed with sociopathic fervor by Towers-Rowles, in a duet with Deveraux’s thoroughly intimidated Schroeder. Towers-Rowles also displays impressive hoofer skills—along with the equally accomplished Steele—as Sally Brown and Snoopy dance their way through “Rabbit Chasing.” On his own, Steele morphs into a canine Bob Fosse as Snoopy celebrates the wonders of “Suppertime.”
Blue’s Lucy Van Pelt is properly domineering, opinionated, and crabby, especially in her dealings with Charlie Brown (“The Doctor Is In”) and brother Linus (“Little Known Facts”). It also works that Blue’s Lucy doesn’t just melt in the presence of her true love (“Schroeder”); she tells him how it is going to be. Ferris’s Linus believably manages to subdue Lucy with his unrelenting brotherly love.
Erik Austin’s modular scenic pieces are workable, as are the lighting design of Will Clekler and sound design of Kenny Leforte (sound). What doesn’t work are the oversized, thoroughly unflattering costumes of Shon LeBlanc and Melissa Pritchett.
Sustaining Sound Theatre Company and Chromolume Theatre at the Attic
The original, 1967 Off-Broadway staging of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown did not have a book, merely a string of well-known Charles Schulz cartoon quips from his Peanuts strip, highlighted by original songs from the show’s creator, Clark Gesner. Because the tunes are unmemorable, the show relies on the viability of its six-member cast to inhabit and amplify Schulz’s beloved menagerie of life-challenged moppets.
Sustaining Sound Theatre Company’s ensemble is mostly up to the task, assisted greatly by additional material culled from the 1999 Broadway revival of this tuner provided by Michael Mayer (dialogue) and Andrew Lippa (music and lyrics). Helmer Cate Caplin—who also handles the musical staging—is to be complimented for instilling a strong sense of purpose within the character interactions.
The show chronicles the daily tribulations of woebegone Charlie Brown (Holland Noel). They are inflicted by his own inadequacies—real and imagined—but he is ever hopeful he will one day get to up the courage to talk to that “little redheaded girl.” Noel is properly callow as “Good ol’ Chuck” but has problems keeping command of his lines. Nevertheless, Noel exudes a proper balance of hopefulness and helplessness, as our round-headed protagonist deals with friends Linus (Richie Ferris), Lucy (Dorothy Blue), and Schroeder (John Deveraux), as well as little sister Sally (Kristin Towers-Rowles) and his dog Snoopy (Matt Steele).
What can’t be helped is Gesner’s lame score, but Caplin certainly tries. Making inventive use of Attic’s limited performance area, Caplin and choreographer Samantha Whidby invest a zesty vitality in the proceedings, incorporating a sense of musical theater pizzazz into such ensemble numbers as the opening, “You’re a Good Man...,” Schroeder’s ode to “Beethoven Day” and the show-closing “Happiness.” Musical director–keyboardist Jeff Bonhiver and an uncredited percussionist serve quite nicely as a two-person pit band.
The most effective number in the show is Sally Brown’s monumentally self-serving “My New Philosophy,” by Lippa, performed with sociopathic fervor by Towers-Rowles, in a duet with Deveraux’s thoroughly intimidated Schroeder. Towers-Rowles also displays impressive hoofer skills—along with the equally accomplished Steele—as Sally Brown and Snoopy dance their way through “Rabbit Chasing.” On his own, Steele morphs into a canine Bob Fosse as Snoopy celebrates the wonders of “Suppertime.”
Blue’s Lucy Van Pelt is properly domineering, opinionated, and crabby, especially in her dealings with Charlie Brown (“The Doctor Is In”) and brother Linus (“Little Known Facts”). It also works that Blue’s Lucy doesn’t just melt in the presence of her true love (“Schroeder”); she tells him how it is going to be. Ferris’s Linus believably manages to subdue Lucy with his unrelenting brotherly love.
Erik Austin’s modular scenic pieces are workable, as are the lighting design of Will Clekler and sound design of Kenny Leforte (sound). What doesn’t work are the oversized, thoroughly unflattering costumes of Shon LeBlanc and Melissa Pritchett.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
October 14, 2014
October 14, 2014
Jersey Boys
Pantages Theatre
Whether or not you’re old enough to have been a rabid fan of those legendary ’60s pop music megastars The Four Seasons, or even if you turned off “Sherry Baby” the minute it came on the radio or cancelled that order of fries when the jukebox at the diner coughed up “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” there’s not a chance in do-wop heaven anyone left standing could possibly not enjoyJersey Boys.
The multi-Tony-winning 2005 hit musical first played here in a hugely successful run in 2007 and still continues to take New York and Las Vegas by storm. Ironically, not even the onstage re-creation of Frankie Valli’s fingernails-on-the-blackboard falsetto could dissuade anyone from enjoying this show immensely. And, frankly, Hayden Milanes’s turn as Valli, swinging effortlessly into his highest margarita-freeze notes, is such a feat of skill one might listen to the original versions of Four Seasons songs with an all new sense of wonder.
Jersey Boys, featuring a staggering number of the group’s numerous Top-40 smashes written by original band member Bob Gaudio, first and foremost has something going for it a lot of musicals simply do not: a ballsy, crisply intelligent, nonfluffy book, by Marshall Brickman and Rick Elice, which tells the story of these four working-class goombas from beautiful downtown Newark who beat the odds and stayed out of jail just long enough to become members of one of the most enduringly popular musical success stories of the last century.
Under Des McAnuff’s bold yet surprisingly economical direction and featuring Sergio Trujillo’s perfectly period choreography on Klara Zieglorova’s massive steel industrial-style set that could house an international Stones concert tour, Jersey Boys never once whitewashes the bad times, from founding “Season” Tommy DeVito’s raging personality problems and gambling addiction to Valli’s miserably unsuccessful marriage and the tragic heroin overdose of his daughter Francine (Leslie Rochette).
Brickman and Elice cleverly conceived Jersey Boys in four parts, giving each castmember playing the Four Seasons a chance to tell that character’s side of the same story. This narrative migration from one guy to the next is accompanied by colorful huge Lichtenstein-inspired rear projections by Michael Clark tagged Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall, indicating passage into a new storyteller’s version. The device is also cleverly used to illustrate the occasional tour stop-off in a random local jail by showing a gavel-banging cartoon judge straight out of a 1955 Dick Tracy panel or to illustrate the group’s best-known song titles as they incubate from tentative first scribble to international hit status, occasionally interspersed with historically accurate performances featuring the current cast performing in living black-and-white re-creations of the Boys’s original performances on American Bandstand and The Ed Sullivan Show.
DeVito’s take on things is up first. With Nicolas Dromard in the role, the production is off to a fine start, his boy-Sopranos character telling the audience with feigned humility, “I don’ wanna seem ubiquitous, but we put Joizey on da map.” Dromard walks a fine line as loudmouthed minor street hood DeVito in the effort to make him less of a swaggering, ego-driven asshole, achieving a kind of underlying vulnerability that makes DeVito’s brutish attitude—and the financial problems he created for the group—a bit more understandable.
Jason Kappus is excellent as the decidedly nonstreetwise Gaudio, the only suburban white-bread member of the group and the last guy to join. Gaudio eventually became the inspired composer of almost all of their great hits, including “Stay,” “Let’s Hang On,” “Bye, Bye, Baby,” “Walk Like a Man,” and “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”
Adam Zelasco is endearing and arrestingly understated as the late Nick Massi, the often overlooked Season who left fame behind when he came to the realization that “if there’s four guys and you’re Ringo,” there’s only so much glory one can attain.
The ensemble is impressive, all those performers cast because obviously they’re also precision musicians able to pick up guitars, man the smoothly portable drum sets, and rock out as the storyline demands. Marlana Dunn is appropriately shrill as Valli’s Snookie of a first wife, Mary, someone whom DeVito first warns Frankie will “eat you alive and send you home in an envelope.” Barry Anderson is hilarious as producer-lyricist Bob Crewe, who was a tad on the effete side in an era when everyone thought, as Gaudio tells the audience, that “Liberace was just theatrical.” From the ranks, Jonny Wexler and former Angeleno Thomas Fiscella are standouts as Joey, the gnat-like wannabe groupie who later in life morphed into Joe Pesci, and sentimental mother-loving neighborhood godfather mobster Gyp DeCarlo.
Still, for everything Jersey Boys has going for it, including exceptional lighting, costume, and sound design (by Howell Binkley, Jess Goldstein, and Steve Canyon Kennedy, respectively), all would be in vain without a truly special performer to play Valli, both for the octave-breaking vocal calisthenics the role demands and the wild emotional ride the singer was stuck on as he rode his rollercoaster to fame and fortune. Although in the first act Milanes seemed to have trouble replicating Valli’s unearthly ability to slide effortlessly into those ear-shattering higher ranges, by Act Two he was given a prolonged ovation after knocking a showstopping “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” all the way back to the dreaded row UU and the Pantages’s other sound-challenged under-balcony seats.
Milanes is riveting again as his character relives the horrendous news of Francine’s untimely death, when the singer is reached alone by phone backstage while out on tour. It was surely not by lottery that the writers decided to save Valli’s take on The Four Seasons’s tumultuous life story for last. And it’s no mistake Milanes was the actor chosen to take over the role on what is surely a grueling national tour, proving himself able to get under the conflicted, often troubled, Jersey-proud skin of Frankie Valli—and make it sing.
Pantages Theatre
Whether or not you’re old enough to have been a rabid fan of those legendary ’60s pop music megastars The Four Seasons, or even if you turned off “Sherry Baby” the minute it came on the radio or cancelled that order of fries when the jukebox at the diner coughed up “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” there’s not a chance in do-wop heaven anyone left standing could possibly not enjoyJersey Boys.
The multi-Tony-winning 2005 hit musical first played here in a hugely successful run in 2007 and still continues to take New York and Las Vegas by storm. Ironically, not even the onstage re-creation of Frankie Valli’s fingernails-on-the-blackboard falsetto could dissuade anyone from enjoying this show immensely. And, frankly, Hayden Milanes’s turn as Valli, swinging effortlessly into his highest margarita-freeze notes, is such a feat of skill one might listen to the original versions of Four Seasons songs with an all new sense of wonder.
Jersey Boys, featuring a staggering number of the group’s numerous Top-40 smashes written by original band member Bob Gaudio, first and foremost has something going for it a lot of musicals simply do not: a ballsy, crisply intelligent, nonfluffy book, by Marshall Brickman and Rick Elice, which tells the story of these four working-class goombas from beautiful downtown Newark who beat the odds and stayed out of jail just long enough to become members of one of the most enduringly popular musical success stories of the last century.
Under Des McAnuff’s bold yet surprisingly economical direction and featuring Sergio Trujillo’s perfectly period choreography on Klara Zieglorova’s massive steel industrial-style set that could house an international Stones concert tour, Jersey Boys never once whitewashes the bad times, from founding “Season” Tommy DeVito’s raging personality problems and gambling addiction to Valli’s miserably unsuccessful marriage and the tragic heroin overdose of his daughter Francine (Leslie Rochette).
Brickman and Elice cleverly conceived Jersey Boys in four parts, giving each castmember playing the Four Seasons a chance to tell that character’s side of the same story. This narrative migration from one guy to the next is accompanied by colorful huge Lichtenstein-inspired rear projections by Michael Clark tagged Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall, indicating passage into a new storyteller’s version. The device is also cleverly used to illustrate the occasional tour stop-off in a random local jail by showing a gavel-banging cartoon judge straight out of a 1955 Dick Tracy panel or to illustrate the group’s best-known song titles as they incubate from tentative first scribble to international hit status, occasionally interspersed with historically accurate performances featuring the current cast performing in living black-and-white re-creations of the Boys’s original performances on American Bandstand and The Ed Sullivan Show.
DeVito’s take on things is up first. With Nicolas Dromard in the role, the production is off to a fine start, his boy-Sopranos character telling the audience with feigned humility, “I don’ wanna seem ubiquitous, but we put Joizey on da map.” Dromard walks a fine line as loudmouthed minor street hood DeVito in the effort to make him less of a swaggering, ego-driven asshole, achieving a kind of underlying vulnerability that makes DeVito’s brutish attitude—and the financial problems he created for the group—a bit more understandable.
Jason Kappus is excellent as the decidedly nonstreetwise Gaudio, the only suburban white-bread member of the group and the last guy to join. Gaudio eventually became the inspired composer of almost all of their great hits, including “Stay,” “Let’s Hang On,” “Bye, Bye, Baby,” “Walk Like a Man,” and “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”
Adam Zelasco is endearing and arrestingly understated as the late Nick Massi, the often overlooked Season who left fame behind when he came to the realization that “if there’s four guys and you’re Ringo,” there’s only so much glory one can attain.
The ensemble is impressive, all those performers cast because obviously they’re also precision musicians able to pick up guitars, man the smoothly portable drum sets, and rock out as the storyline demands. Marlana Dunn is appropriately shrill as Valli’s Snookie of a first wife, Mary, someone whom DeVito first warns Frankie will “eat you alive and send you home in an envelope.” Barry Anderson is hilarious as producer-lyricist Bob Crewe, who was a tad on the effete side in an era when everyone thought, as Gaudio tells the audience, that “Liberace was just theatrical.” From the ranks, Jonny Wexler and former Angeleno Thomas Fiscella are standouts as Joey, the gnat-like wannabe groupie who later in life morphed into Joe Pesci, and sentimental mother-loving neighborhood godfather mobster Gyp DeCarlo.
Still, for everything Jersey Boys has going for it, including exceptional lighting, costume, and sound design (by Howell Binkley, Jess Goldstein, and Steve Canyon Kennedy, respectively), all would be in vain without a truly special performer to play Valli, both for the octave-breaking vocal calisthenics the role demands and the wild emotional ride the singer was stuck on as he rode his rollercoaster to fame and fortune. Although in the first act Milanes seemed to have trouble replicating Valli’s unearthly ability to slide effortlessly into those ear-shattering higher ranges, by Act Two he was given a prolonged ovation after knocking a showstopping “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” all the way back to the dreaded row UU and the Pantages’s other sound-challenged under-balcony seats.
Milanes is riveting again as his character relives the horrendous news of Francine’s untimely death, when the singer is reached alone by phone backstage while out on tour. It was surely not by lottery that the writers decided to save Valli’s take on The Four Seasons’s tumultuous life story for last. And it’s no mistake Milanes was the actor chosen to take over the role on what is surely a grueling national tour, proving himself able to get under the conflicted, often troubled, Jersey-proud skin of Frankie Valli—and make it sing.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
October 6, 2014
October 6, 2014
The Behavior of Broadus
Sacred Fools Theater Company
Straight up, the Sacred Fool–Burglars of Hamm co-production of The Behavior of Broadus is the most audacious, provocative, entertaining, original musical to premiere in LA since 2008’s Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, to which the new show bears more than a little resemblance.
Not only did both receive workshopping and support from Center Theater Group (for which, bless CTG), but each exhibits the same cheerfully anarchic spirit; the same harum-scarum, period-mashing, fourth-wall-breaking theatricality; and equal 20/20 hindsight as to the effect of historical personages and events on the present day.
The behavior Behavior charts is that of Dr. John Broadus Watson (1878–1958), to whose life story the Burglars librettists (Carolyn Almos, co-director Matt Almos, Jon Beauregard, and Albert Dayan) hew more closely than did Alex Timbers and Michael Friedman in their evisceration of our seventh president. Watson (impersonated charismatically by Hugo Armstrong) escaped a hardscrabble Southern upbringing and fundamentalist conditioning to earn a psychology Ph.D., becoming a pioneer in the movement known, and somewhat eclipsed today but still hanging on, as “behaviorism.”
Broadly (Broadusly?) speaking, that’s the Pavlovian, anti-Freudian notion that science must observe and experiment upon human subjects. Probing into that which is interior, dreamlike, or hypothetical is rigorously proscribed.
As the musical faithfully synopsizes, Watson applied his faith in the power of psychological conditioning first to the behavior of maze rats (impersonated charmingly by Andrew Joseph Perez); then to child-rearing (he beat Dr. Spock to the punch by decades with 1928’s bestselling Psychological Care of Infant and Child); and finally to advertising, where he propounded the notion that products sell not because of the facts we consumers are told about them but by the seductive narrative woven around them. (Sound familiar?)
The musical takes awhile to gain its footing. Act One, in particular, fails to establish the evening’s tone for long stretches; for a while it looks like we’re just in for a cartoonish series of easy, cheesy satirical targets (religious mania; egotistical scientists; vain, dumb flappers) with little point beyond childish cynicism. As adroit as Armstrong is, he can’t quite get a handle on Watson in the first half, forced to bang around alternately as clodhopper, fraud, dupe, and true believer.
Once Watson’s personal and professional lives merge after intermission, the ideas start pinging, and Armstrong’s performance takes on full potency and poignancy. We see Watson as much a prisoner of his own theories as their booster: His parenting system sadly backfires on his own sons, and he’s haunted by his incomplete, world-famous experiments on the infant known as “Little Albert,” in whom Watson instilled a fear of rats without following through to undo any potential damage. (Amir Levi chillingly portrays the grown Albert in Watson’s heartbreaking hallucination.)
We’re also invited to consider behaviorism’s role in making us all consumerists, and in advancing the effects of authoritarian political systems generally. Few musicals offer as much food for the mind.
There’s plenty of ear and eye candy too. The score, credited to the sensational composer Brendan Milburn (Sleeping Beauty Wakes), as well as to Matt Almos and the Burglars generally, is sophisticated and tuneful at once, and—praise be—heavily period influenced as well. Choreography by co-director Ken Roht is sharp and apt throughout, avoiding showiness and camp. Most memorable of all are Jason H. Thompson’s brilliant projected images, whether literal or symbolically tinged, of the outside world Watson was so eager to bend to his behaviorist will.
Sacred Fools Theater Company
Straight up, the Sacred Fool–Burglars of Hamm co-production of The Behavior of Broadus is the most audacious, provocative, entertaining, original musical to premiere in LA since 2008’s Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, to which the new show bears more than a little resemblance.
Not only did both receive workshopping and support from Center Theater Group (for which, bless CTG), but each exhibits the same cheerfully anarchic spirit; the same harum-scarum, period-mashing, fourth-wall-breaking theatricality; and equal 20/20 hindsight as to the effect of historical personages and events on the present day.
The behavior Behavior charts is that of Dr. John Broadus Watson (1878–1958), to whose life story the Burglars librettists (Carolyn Almos, co-director Matt Almos, Jon Beauregard, and Albert Dayan) hew more closely than did Alex Timbers and Michael Friedman in their evisceration of our seventh president. Watson (impersonated charismatically by Hugo Armstrong) escaped a hardscrabble Southern upbringing and fundamentalist conditioning to earn a psychology Ph.D., becoming a pioneer in the movement known, and somewhat eclipsed today but still hanging on, as “behaviorism.”
Broadly (Broadusly?) speaking, that’s the Pavlovian, anti-Freudian notion that science must observe and experiment upon human subjects. Probing into that which is interior, dreamlike, or hypothetical is rigorously proscribed.
As the musical faithfully synopsizes, Watson applied his faith in the power of psychological conditioning first to the behavior of maze rats (impersonated charmingly by Andrew Joseph Perez); then to child-rearing (he beat Dr. Spock to the punch by decades with 1928’s bestselling Psychological Care of Infant and Child); and finally to advertising, where he propounded the notion that products sell not because of the facts we consumers are told about them but by the seductive narrative woven around them. (Sound familiar?)
The musical takes awhile to gain its footing. Act One, in particular, fails to establish the evening’s tone for long stretches; for a while it looks like we’re just in for a cartoonish series of easy, cheesy satirical targets (religious mania; egotistical scientists; vain, dumb flappers) with little point beyond childish cynicism. As adroit as Armstrong is, he can’t quite get a handle on Watson in the first half, forced to bang around alternately as clodhopper, fraud, dupe, and true believer.
Once Watson’s personal and professional lives merge after intermission, the ideas start pinging, and Armstrong’s performance takes on full potency and poignancy. We see Watson as much a prisoner of his own theories as their booster: His parenting system sadly backfires on his own sons, and he’s haunted by his incomplete, world-famous experiments on the infant known as “Little Albert,” in whom Watson instilled a fear of rats without following through to undo any potential damage. (Amir Levi chillingly portrays the grown Albert in Watson’s heartbreaking hallucination.)
We’re also invited to consider behaviorism’s role in making us all consumerists, and in advancing the effects of authoritarian political systems generally. Few musicals offer as much food for the mind.
There’s plenty of ear and eye candy too. The score, credited to the sensational composer Brendan Milburn (Sleeping Beauty Wakes), as well as to Matt Almos and the Burglars generally, is sophisticated and tuneful at once, and—praise be—heavily period influenced as well. Choreography by co-director Ken Roht is sharp and apt throughout, avoiding showiness and camp. Most memorable of all are Jason H. Thompson’s brilliant projected images, whether literal or symbolically tinged, of the outside world Watson was so eager to bend to his behaviorist will.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
October 5, 2014
October 5, 2014
The Goat or, Who Is Sylvia?
Davidson/Valentini Theatre, Los Angeles LGBT Center
Edward Albee’s disturbing tragic comedy The Goat or, Who Is Sylvia? was the first of his exceptionally prolific body of work to rival Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in importance. It is also his most shocking effort ever, the most challenging to our societal sense of morality and acceptable behavior, and the only one of his plays where finding oneself laughing is something of a guilty pleasure.
Martin (Paul Witten) is a happily married and highly successful architect who celebrates his midlife crisis at age 50 by having an affair with a bucolic beauty of decidedly nonhuman attributes. He named his four-legged mistress Sylvia because “it seemed to fit her” and, as the tale begins to unfold, he becomes increasingly more puzzled why the people he loves can’t understand what he feels. He’s tried support groups, a kind of Animalfuckers Anonymous where fellow attendees have “things” for horses, dogs, and one small pig, but he keeps his passion hidden until he spills the oats to his best friend Ross (Matt Kirkwood). Ross immediately feels compelled to tell Martin’s wife, Stevie (Ann Noble), so they can plan a strategy to get the poor guy help—or at least buy him stronger cologne.
Ken Sawyer’s direction is fluid throughout, especially amazing when the suddenly aware Stevie begins to smash ceramic tchotchkes around Robert Selander’s smartly claustrophobic Manhattan living room setting, while Martin tries to calmly, rationally explain himself to his freaking-out wife. Between lobbing vases into the fireplace, Stevie makes jokes about her own inadequacy in knowing how to handle this, especially as she has only two breasts and walks upright. No matter how happy or strong a marriage may appear, there are a lot of ingrained suspicions that pass through a wife’s mind, but, as Stevie admits, “I wonder when he’ll start cruising livestock” was not high among them.
With such a well-proven director to skillfully guide his brave performers through a difficult script, exhausting to watch and perform as Stevie turns their Pier 1–friendly apartment to rubble, The Goat is made more accessible by the rich performances of Witten and Noble, who are fearless in the difficult roles of a couple still in love but facing a devastation neither one believes he or she can possibly survive. Both veteran LA stage actors are monumentally simple, hilariously funny, sincerely heartbreaking, and obviously deeply trusting of Sawyer’s steady but unobtrusive leadership.
Spencer Morrissey, though not entirely comfortable yet with his stage physicality and considerable talent, has wonderfully touching moments as their teenage son, whose own admission to homosexuality pales in comparison to his father’s newly unearthed penchant for bestiality. Kirkwood’s most memorable moment comes when Martin extracts Sylvia’s photo from his wallet and passes it to his old friend. Without showing it to the audience, his facial expression describes Sylvia right down to those sexy, well-turned hooves of hers (a special unexplained shout-out to the production’s property designer, Bethany Tucker).
Running through Albee’s raucous but always sophisticated humor is the creeping onslaught of tragedy worthy of the ancient Greeks. Just when it seems Martin’s continuous avoidance has become too much, too constricting, Albee pumps up his character with an uncanny strength and even indignation at the reaction of those he loves. Coming slowly to the realization that the people around him are more concerned with how others will react to his barnyard dalliance than how they feel about it themselves, Martin presents the real theme of this masterfully constructed play. Ayn Rand once wrote that most people in the world are “second-handers,” that they live not for themselves but for how everyone else they encounter in their lives perceive them to be. Nothing in this world is more immoral than that.
Davidson/Valentini Theatre, Los Angeles LGBT Center
Edward Albee’s disturbing tragic comedy The Goat or, Who Is Sylvia? was the first of his exceptionally prolific body of work to rival Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in importance. It is also his most shocking effort ever, the most challenging to our societal sense of morality and acceptable behavior, and the only one of his plays where finding oneself laughing is something of a guilty pleasure.
Martin (Paul Witten) is a happily married and highly successful architect who celebrates his midlife crisis at age 50 by having an affair with a bucolic beauty of decidedly nonhuman attributes. He named his four-legged mistress Sylvia because “it seemed to fit her” and, as the tale begins to unfold, he becomes increasingly more puzzled why the people he loves can’t understand what he feels. He’s tried support groups, a kind of Animalfuckers Anonymous where fellow attendees have “things” for horses, dogs, and one small pig, but he keeps his passion hidden until he spills the oats to his best friend Ross (Matt Kirkwood). Ross immediately feels compelled to tell Martin’s wife, Stevie (Ann Noble), so they can plan a strategy to get the poor guy help—or at least buy him stronger cologne.
Ken Sawyer’s direction is fluid throughout, especially amazing when the suddenly aware Stevie begins to smash ceramic tchotchkes around Robert Selander’s smartly claustrophobic Manhattan living room setting, while Martin tries to calmly, rationally explain himself to his freaking-out wife. Between lobbing vases into the fireplace, Stevie makes jokes about her own inadequacy in knowing how to handle this, especially as she has only two breasts and walks upright. No matter how happy or strong a marriage may appear, there are a lot of ingrained suspicions that pass through a wife’s mind, but, as Stevie admits, “I wonder when he’ll start cruising livestock” was not high among them.
With such a well-proven director to skillfully guide his brave performers through a difficult script, exhausting to watch and perform as Stevie turns their Pier 1–friendly apartment to rubble, The Goat is made more accessible by the rich performances of Witten and Noble, who are fearless in the difficult roles of a couple still in love but facing a devastation neither one believes he or she can possibly survive. Both veteran LA stage actors are monumentally simple, hilariously funny, sincerely heartbreaking, and obviously deeply trusting of Sawyer’s steady but unobtrusive leadership.
Spencer Morrissey, though not entirely comfortable yet with his stage physicality and considerable talent, has wonderfully touching moments as their teenage son, whose own admission to homosexuality pales in comparison to his father’s newly unearthed penchant for bestiality. Kirkwood’s most memorable moment comes when Martin extracts Sylvia’s photo from his wallet and passes it to his old friend. Without showing it to the audience, his facial expression describes Sylvia right down to those sexy, well-turned hooves of hers (a special unexplained shout-out to the production’s property designer, Bethany Tucker).
Running through Albee’s raucous but always sophisticated humor is the creeping onslaught of tragedy worthy of the ancient Greeks. Just when it seems Martin’s continuous avoidance has become too much, too constricting, Albee pumps up his character with an uncanny strength and even indignation at the reaction of those he loves. Coming slowly to the realization that the people around him are more concerned with how others will react to his barnyard dalliance than how they feel about it themselves, Martin presents the real theme of this masterfully constructed play. Ayn Rand once wrote that most people in the world are “second-handers,” that they live not for themselves but for how everyone else they encounter in their lives perceive them to be. Nothing in this world is more immoral than that.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
September 27, 2014
September 27, 2014
Choir Boy
Geffen Playhouse
Tarell Alvin McCraney’s Choir Boy is a mess but all the same a bona fide crowd pleaser. Its characters are drawn with remarkable inconsistency, and they’re put through enough subplots (touched on, though never explored fully) for a play twice its two-hour length. What pulls it through is the passion of director Trip Cullman’s cast, as well as the potency of the theme that occupies more stage time than a dozen or so others: the power of song to unite and heal.
There’s a particular urgency in the unity and healing at the Charles N. Drew Preparatory School, about to celebrate its 50th year of rooting African-American youth in religion and tradition to groom them for the future. If you’ve any memory of the “Baird Men” of the 1992 movie Scent of a Woman, you’ll immediately connect with the world with which the Drew Men struggle: honor code, strict faculty, parental pressure, and of course adolescent rebellion and raging hormones.
Every prep school story has its central misfit, and McCraney’s is more original than most. Scholarship student Pharus Young (Jeremy Pope) is a glorious singer and openly, flamboyantly gay—and the most refreshing element in the first half of Choir Boy is everyone else’s comfort with his sexuality. Oh, there’s a little trouble with gay baiter Bobby (Donovan Mitchell), but jock roommate A.J. (Grantham Coleman) is untroubled, and the others (Nicholas L. Ashe and Caleb Eberhardt) seem to accept the camping with equanimity.
Only the headmaster (Michael A. Shepperd) frets—“The wrist, Pharus!”—but for him it’s more a matter of exasperation than prejudice. His job is to get these kids ready for college while maintaining Drew’s honor, and he clearly senses that Pharus’s “thing” may put both at risk. The boy’s anchor is the Drew Choir, a renowned ensemble performing old-time spirituals and the school anthem, and Pharus’s one dream is to lead it during senior year.
A lot of puppies-in-a-sack tussling goes on, as in all boarding school yarns, and an entire side plot is brought in wholesale from The History Boys when an eccentric retired prof—Leonard Kelly-Young as Mr. P, a white veteran of Dr. King’s civil rights struggles—is charged with getting the boys ready for essay exams. He shows them how to stand out by opposing a commonly held view. (Remember the tutor in the Bennett comedy, urging a student of Russian history to prove “Stalin was a sweetie”?) Mr. P inspires Pharus to argue that slave songs of liberation—“Wade in the Water” and “Swing Low”—weren’t coded instructions for the Underground Railroad as is widely believed, but rather anthems solely intended to toughen the heart.
Controversy over this thesism which McCraney takes pains to explore—clearly it’s a pet interest of his—unaccountably becomes a turning point to send Choir Boy careening off its moorings. Tensions of which there was no previous hint start to emerge, and the tone shifts uncomfortably from sassy comedy to turgid melodrama. Issues of shamed sexuality, religious prejudice, family secrets, loyalty, and honor start tumbling out like an opened overstuffed closet, along with unnecessary, exploitative nudity, and suddenly the play has to rush and cut corners to bring all of its strains together. It never quite succeeds.
Yet audience engagement remains unaffected, in the face of all the crisp acting, witty lines, and especially the string of musical turns in which the lights dim on all but a single character selling a soulful classic. Every voice is superb, but I confess I quickly wearied of this repetitious device, which to me yielded diminishing returns. It seemed glib, a too-easy shortcut to eloquence instead of the playwright’s doing his job. But mine is assuredly a minority opinion. The opening night crowd screamed and hooted at every overdone rendition as if this were Spirituals Theme Night on American Idol.
I suspect idolaters and skeptics alike will agree that Shepperd is the MVP here. His towering presence and studious mien are complemented by a wry sense of humor and rock-ribbed integrity, the combination of which renders his headmaster utterly authentic and welcome in every appearance. He even gets his own musical moment to shine, as the weary leader confesses he’s “Been in the Storm Too Long.” A local favorite, not just for his acting but also for his artistic leadership in the community, Shepperd is by any measure a star, and it can’t be long before all media realize it. See Choir Boy for him if nothing else, and make him your discovery too.
Geffen Playhouse
Tarell Alvin McCraney’s Choir Boy is a mess but all the same a bona fide crowd pleaser. Its characters are drawn with remarkable inconsistency, and they’re put through enough subplots (touched on, though never explored fully) for a play twice its two-hour length. What pulls it through is the passion of director Trip Cullman’s cast, as well as the potency of the theme that occupies more stage time than a dozen or so others: the power of song to unite and heal.
There’s a particular urgency in the unity and healing at the Charles N. Drew Preparatory School, about to celebrate its 50th year of rooting African-American youth in religion and tradition to groom them for the future. If you’ve any memory of the “Baird Men” of the 1992 movie Scent of a Woman, you’ll immediately connect with the world with which the Drew Men struggle: honor code, strict faculty, parental pressure, and of course adolescent rebellion and raging hormones.
Every prep school story has its central misfit, and McCraney’s is more original than most. Scholarship student Pharus Young (Jeremy Pope) is a glorious singer and openly, flamboyantly gay—and the most refreshing element in the first half of Choir Boy is everyone else’s comfort with his sexuality. Oh, there’s a little trouble with gay baiter Bobby (Donovan Mitchell), but jock roommate A.J. (Grantham Coleman) is untroubled, and the others (Nicholas L. Ashe and Caleb Eberhardt) seem to accept the camping with equanimity.
Only the headmaster (Michael A. Shepperd) frets—“The wrist, Pharus!”—but for him it’s more a matter of exasperation than prejudice. His job is to get these kids ready for college while maintaining Drew’s honor, and he clearly senses that Pharus’s “thing” may put both at risk. The boy’s anchor is the Drew Choir, a renowned ensemble performing old-time spirituals and the school anthem, and Pharus’s one dream is to lead it during senior year.
A lot of puppies-in-a-sack tussling goes on, as in all boarding school yarns, and an entire side plot is brought in wholesale from The History Boys when an eccentric retired prof—Leonard Kelly-Young as Mr. P, a white veteran of Dr. King’s civil rights struggles—is charged with getting the boys ready for essay exams. He shows them how to stand out by opposing a commonly held view. (Remember the tutor in the Bennett comedy, urging a student of Russian history to prove “Stalin was a sweetie”?) Mr. P inspires Pharus to argue that slave songs of liberation—“Wade in the Water” and “Swing Low”—weren’t coded instructions for the Underground Railroad as is widely believed, but rather anthems solely intended to toughen the heart.
Controversy over this thesism which McCraney takes pains to explore—clearly it’s a pet interest of his—unaccountably becomes a turning point to send Choir Boy careening off its moorings. Tensions of which there was no previous hint start to emerge, and the tone shifts uncomfortably from sassy comedy to turgid melodrama. Issues of shamed sexuality, religious prejudice, family secrets, loyalty, and honor start tumbling out like an opened overstuffed closet, along with unnecessary, exploitative nudity, and suddenly the play has to rush and cut corners to bring all of its strains together. It never quite succeeds.
Yet audience engagement remains unaffected, in the face of all the crisp acting, witty lines, and especially the string of musical turns in which the lights dim on all but a single character selling a soulful classic. Every voice is superb, but I confess I quickly wearied of this repetitious device, which to me yielded diminishing returns. It seemed glib, a too-easy shortcut to eloquence instead of the playwright’s doing his job. But mine is assuredly a minority opinion. The opening night crowd screamed and hooted at every overdone rendition as if this were Spirituals Theme Night on American Idol.
I suspect idolaters and skeptics alike will agree that Shepperd is the MVP here. His towering presence and studious mien are complemented by a wry sense of humor and rock-ribbed integrity, the combination of which renders his headmaster utterly authentic and welcome in every appearance. He even gets his own musical moment to shine, as the weary leader confesses he’s “Been in the Storm Too Long.” A local favorite, not just for his acting but also for his artistic leadership in the community, Shepperd is by any measure a star, and it can’t be long before all media realize it. See Choir Boy for him if nothing else, and make him your discovery too.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 27, 2014
September 27, 2014
The Tempest
South Coast Repertory
Befitting the final work of a master playwright, Shakespeare puts a little bit of everything into The Tempest. Realism and magic, romance and suspense, farce and wit, spectacle and intimacy—all are put to varied use in his tale of a betrayed man’s elaborate revenge plot that ends in reconciliation and the acceptance of grace. In many ways the entire human condition in microcosm, it’s a tricky theme. Trickier still is the effort to bring the play’s disparate strains into a satisfying whole.
The South Coast Rep production, born at ART in Cambridge, Mass., by way of a Las Vegas engagement, succeeds in that effort, one might say spectacularly so; and it does so by employing much the same kitchen-sink approach the playwright did, to thoughtful and logical ends.
From designer Daniel Conway it gets a rough-hewn, three-tiered, Globe Playhouse–inspired stage with balcony, main platform including concealable “inner below,” and basement level. Readily morphing from ship to cavern to beach to forest, the set at all times conveys a sense of danger always at hand, especially under Christopher Akerlind’s supple, often startling lighting. Paloma Young’s sumptuous costumes complement the eclectic style.
From Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan, the show derives a series of bluesy tunes performed in the balcony by a splendid combo and two supperclub divas (Miche Braden and Liz Filios) evoking Nina Simone and Diana Krall at their most relaxed. The score is completely modern, yet serves to reinforce the universality of theme here, particularly in the power of music to both bewitch and salve. The shipwrecked characters initially seem a bit unnerved by the unfamiliar strains of piano, bass, and drums, but by the end are brought to the state of bliss only cool jazz can provide.
The fantastical comes alive thanks to Matt Kent of Pilobolus dance company, who put Zachary Eisenstat and Manelich Minniefee through their paces as Caliban. You heard right: Two guys, virtually twins in their little dirty diapers, filthy cornrowed hair, and head-to-toe grime are wrapped up on top of and around each other, transformed into a spinning and leaping eight-legged monster speaking in twin voices and scaring the bejesus out of everyone. Except us, that is; for us they are only delight. This could be the first Tempest within memory in which you actively look forward to Caliban and the drunken sailors (Eric Hissom and Jonathan M. Kim) who bewitch him. Traditionally tedious scenes become hilarious and unforgettable with this trio—um, quartet—on the scene.
Teller, the silent, diminutive magic partner of Penn Gillette, certainly did most of the magical heavy lifting here, as he did last year at the Geffen for Todd Robbins’ spookshow Play Dead. For once Prospero (Tom Nelis) is a for-real magician, producing objects from thin air, levitating ladies, and summoning demons; a Pirandellian paradox is created within which the illusions are carried out for the delectation, or at times education, of both the onstage characters and also ourselves.
My personal favorite involves the flashback re-creation of Prospero’s first encounter with his principal minion. Nate Dendy, a spectacularly droll Ariel with a knack for card tricks, is placed into a magic box with his face and legs exposed, and the sorcerer first gives the head several full twists before opening the doors and revealing a body twisted like a Twizzler. Yes, it’s a great illusion, but it also instantly establishes the master-servant relationship central to the play’s action and climax. Anyway, however any individual gag is meant to work, the sorcery invests the play with visual jaw-droppers never before woven so effectively into The Tempest’s framework.
And where does Teller’s co-director Aaron Posner shine in? Hard to pinpoint, of course, but his superb adaptations of My Name Is Asher Lev (Chaim Potok’s novel) and Stupid Fucking Bird (Chekhov’s Seagull) suggest that his talents lie in audacious yet respectful translations of known artistic quantities, adaptations which transform them even as they honor and illuminate them. Which means he could very well be the single most important force in this Tempest, which never before in my memory has made as much sense, as play or a spectacle. The farewell of Prospero and Ariel had many in the audience, including yours truly, in tears. This is a Tempest to remember and savor forever.
South Coast Repertory
Befitting the final work of a master playwright, Shakespeare puts a little bit of everything into The Tempest. Realism and magic, romance and suspense, farce and wit, spectacle and intimacy—all are put to varied use in his tale of a betrayed man’s elaborate revenge plot that ends in reconciliation and the acceptance of grace. In many ways the entire human condition in microcosm, it’s a tricky theme. Trickier still is the effort to bring the play’s disparate strains into a satisfying whole.
The South Coast Rep production, born at ART in Cambridge, Mass., by way of a Las Vegas engagement, succeeds in that effort, one might say spectacularly so; and it does so by employing much the same kitchen-sink approach the playwright did, to thoughtful and logical ends.
From designer Daniel Conway it gets a rough-hewn, three-tiered, Globe Playhouse–inspired stage with balcony, main platform including concealable “inner below,” and basement level. Readily morphing from ship to cavern to beach to forest, the set at all times conveys a sense of danger always at hand, especially under Christopher Akerlind’s supple, often startling lighting. Paloma Young’s sumptuous costumes complement the eclectic style.
From Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan, the show derives a series of bluesy tunes performed in the balcony by a splendid combo and two supperclub divas (Miche Braden and Liz Filios) evoking Nina Simone and Diana Krall at their most relaxed. The score is completely modern, yet serves to reinforce the universality of theme here, particularly in the power of music to both bewitch and salve. The shipwrecked characters initially seem a bit unnerved by the unfamiliar strains of piano, bass, and drums, but by the end are brought to the state of bliss only cool jazz can provide.
The fantastical comes alive thanks to Matt Kent of Pilobolus dance company, who put Zachary Eisenstat and Manelich Minniefee through their paces as Caliban. You heard right: Two guys, virtually twins in their little dirty diapers, filthy cornrowed hair, and head-to-toe grime are wrapped up on top of and around each other, transformed into a spinning and leaping eight-legged monster speaking in twin voices and scaring the bejesus out of everyone. Except us, that is; for us they are only delight. This could be the first Tempest within memory in which you actively look forward to Caliban and the drunken sailors (Eric Hissom and Jonathan M. Kim) who bewitch him. Traditionally tedious scenes become hilarious and unforgettable with this trio—um, quartet—on the scene.
Teller, the silent, diminutive magic partner of Penn Gillette, certainly did most of the magical heavy lifting here, as he did last year at the Geffen for Todd Robbins’ spookshow Play Dead. For once Prospero (Tom Nelis) is a for-real magician, producing objects from thin air, levitating ladies, and summoning demons; a Pirandellian paradox is created within which the illusions are carried out for the delectation, or at times education, of both the onstage characters and also ourselves.
My personal favorite involves the flashback re-creation of Prospero’s first encounter with his principal minion. Nate Dendy, a spectacularly droll Ariel with a knack for card tricks, is placed into a magic box with his face and legs exposed, and the sorcerer first gives the head several full twists before opening the doors and revealing a body twisted like a Twizzler. Yes, it’s a great illusion, but it also instantly establishes the master-servant relationship central to the play’s action and climax. Anyway, however any individual gag is meant to work, the sorcery invests the play with visual jaw-droppers never before woven so effectively into The Tempest’s framework.
And where does Teller’s co-director Aaron Posner shine in? Hard to pinpoint, of course, but his superb adaptations of My Name Is Asher Lev (Chaim Potok’s novel) and Stupid Fucking Bird (Chekhov’s Seagull) suggest that his talents lie in audacious yet respectful translations of known artistic quantities, adaptations which transform them even as they honor and illuminate them. Which means he could very well be the single most important force in this Tempest, which never before in my memory has made as much sense, as play or a spectacle. The farewell of Prospero and Ariel had many in the audience, including yours truly, in tears. This is a Tempest to remember and savor forever.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 25, 2014
Spring Awakening
Deaf West at the Rosenthal Theater, Inner City Arts
Following its much-heralded 2006 Off-Broadway debut at the Atlantic Theatre Company, this groundbreaking masterwork won the Tony Award after its transfer to the Great White Way in 2008. Still, it’s a show definitely not for every taste. Based on the originally banned 1891 German play Fruhlings Erwachen, by Frank Wedekind, however, this reviewer considers it one of the two most powerful and innovative musicals of the last decade (the other is Next to Normal) despite its large following of detractors from the ranks of the habitually offended.
Dealing with sexual situations, nudity, homoeroticism, solo and implied mutual masturbation, sadomasochism, rape, physical parental abuse, abortion, and suicide, all involving a highly charged group of pubescent curious students in a tight-knit rural German community, these were not your average everyday subjects for artistic exploration in late-19th-century Europe under the thumb of Kaiser Wilhelm II—or of the New York City then recently relinquished by Rudy Giuliani either: a place Rosie O’Donnell once quipped was so cleaned up that Times Square hookers were dressing like Teletubbies.
Steven Sater’s remarkable adaptation was a brave undertaking even on Broadway, a risky effort made more palpable by the inclusion of Duncan Sheik’s haunting score, Sater’s exceptional book and lyrics, and career-making original performances from fresh-faced newcomers Lea Michele and Jonathan Goss, among others. After its global success as a musical, not many people would think someone could further improve on such odds. The “someones” are the clever veteran re-interpreters at Deaf West, and the improvements are onstage in downtown Los Angeles.
Utilizing deaf and hearing-impaired actors working alongside hearing musical theater performers here proves to be a brilliant concept, especially because the story takes place in an era when sign language was banned from deaf education and the alienation of the hearing impaired or otherwise disabled population was considerably more heartless than it is today.
Without updating Wedekind’s original material much, thus leaving these horny country-fed kids puzzled by their own testosterone levels and all ready to jump out of their skins under the repressive hold of their stiff-backed parents and educators, Sater’s book quickly erupts from the standard theatrical format in its second scene, taking place in a strictly run Latin class.
Featuring the blossoming boys of the town seated at austere wooden desks, suffering the wrath of a miserably Dickens-y schoolmaster (played by Daniel Marmion—he, Natacha Roi, and Deaf West’s foremost leading player Troy Kotsur, play all the adult roles), the stage suddenly explodes with the contagious energy and raucous volume of a rock concert with the spirited “The Bitch of Living,” giving rise (no pun intended) to deaf and hearing boys leaping high in air in precise unison to interpret Spencer Liff’s electric and ingeniously ASL-inspired choreography.
Michael Arden’s smoothly sly and visionary direction is evident throughout, guiding his wildly gifted young performers. Sandra Mae Frank (beautifully voiced by Katie Boeck) and Austin MacKenzie (in his first professional turn and first performance since high school) are the resident star-crossed lovers Wendla and Melchior, particularly unforgettable in their haunting duet “The Word of Your Body.”
Daniel N. Durant as poor doomed slacker Moritz is memorable in his indelible “Don’t Do Sadness,” voiced by Rustin Cole Sailors who, like all the other singers, does double duty as part of the production’s knockout band. And although there isn’t a poor performance in the cast, Ali Stroker as Anna, able to somehow sign her dialogue and guide her wheelchair simultaneously, and Joseph Haro as that lovable secret wanker Hanschen, are major standouts—as is Haro again when he joins Joshua Castille (voiced by Daniel David Stewart) to stop the show with their delightful gay-curious reprise of “The Word of Your Body.”
As innovative as is the work of Arden and Liff, and as clever as Sater was eight years ago to take an obscure and dusty period piece and turn it into a resplendently relevant contemporary theatrical effort still able to blast the ill-conceived conduct of miserably unhappy adults trying to repress the human condition of their offspring in the name of religion and “common decency,” what makes Spring Awakening one for the ages is Sheik’s Grammy-winning and ingeniously evocative score, which soars to new heights in this converted downtown warehouse—with poignant ballads such as “Mama Who Bore Me” and upbeat whole-company numbers able to send the entire house rocking like the aptly titled “Totally Fucked.”
Sure, when Spring Awakening took New York by storm, we’d heard it all before—from the late 1960s when Hair first premiered to 30 years later when Rent reinvented the world of musical theater. Both those productions shook out the corn as high as an elephant’s eye, cleared away the rain in Spain, and beat enormous odds for enduring success. Now, thanks to the magic of Deaf West coupled with the limitless talent and imagination of Arden and Liff, here we go again.
Deaf West at the Rosenthal Theater, Inner City Arts
Following its much-heralded 2006 Off-Broadway debut at the Atlantic Theatre Company, this groundbreaking masterwork won the Tony Award after its transfer to the Great White Way in 2008. Still, it’s a show definitely not for every taste. Based on the originally banned 1891 German play Fruhlings Erwachen, by Frank Wedekind, however, this reviewer considers it one of the two most powerful and innovative musicals of the last decade (the other is Next to Normal) despite its large following of detractors from the ranks of the habitually offended.
Dealing with sexual situations, nudity, homoeroticism, solo and implied mutual masturbation, sadomasochism, rape, physical parental abuse, abortion, and suicide, all involving a highly charged group of pubescent curious students in a tight-knit rural German community, these were not your average everyday subjects for artistic exploration in late-19th-century Europe under the thumb of Kaiser Wilhelm II—or of the New York City then recently relinquished by Rudy Giuliani either: a place Rosie O’Donnell once quipped was so cleaned up that Times Square hookers were dressing like Teletubbies.
Steven Sater’s remarkable adaptation was a brave undertaking even on Broadway, a risky effort made more palpable by the inclusion of Duncan Sheik’s haunting score, Sater’s exceptional book and lyrics, and career-making original performances from fresh-faced newcomers Lea Michele and Jonathan Goss, among others. After its global success as a musical, not many people would think someone could further improve on such odds. The “someones” are the clever veteran re-interpreters at Deaf West, and the improvements are onstage in downtown Los Angeles.
Utilizing deaf and hearing-impaired actors working alongside hearing musical theater performers here proves to be a brilliant concept, especially because the story takes place in an era when sign language was banned from deaf education and the alienation of the hearing impaired or otherwise disabled population was considerably more heartless than it is today.
Without updating Wedekind’s original material much, thus leaving these horny country-fed kids puzzled by their own testosterone levels and all ready to jump out of their skins under the repressive hold of their stiff-backed parents and educators, Sater’s book quickly erupts from the standard theatrical format in its second scene, taking place in a strictly run Latin class.
Featuring the blossoming boys of the town seated at austere wooden desks, suffering the wrath of a miserably Dickens-y schoolmaster (played by Daniel Marmion—he, Natacha Roi, and Deaf West’s foremost leading player Troy Kotsur, play all the adult roles), the stage suddenly explodes with the contagious energy and raucous volume of a rock concert with the spirited “The Bitch of Living,” giving rise (no pun intended) to deaf and hearing boys leaping high in air in precise unison to interpret Spencer Liff’s electric and ingeniously ASL-inspired choreography.
Michael Arden’s smoothly sly and visionary direction is evident throughout, guiding his wildly gifted young performers. Sandra Mae Frank (beautifully voiced by Katie Boeck) and Austin MacKenzie (in his first professional turn and first performance since high school) are the resident star-crossed lovers Wendla and Melchior, particularly unforgettable in their haunting duet “The Word of Your Body.”
Daniel N. Durant as poor doomed slacker Moritz is memorable in his indelible “Don’t Do Sadness,” voiced by Rustin Cole Sailors who, like all the other singers, does double duty as part of the production’s knockout band. And although there isn’t a poor performance in the cast, Ali Stroker as Anna, able to somehow sign her dialogue and guide her wheelchair simultaneously, and Joseph Haro as that lovable secret wanker Hanschen, are major standouts—as is Haro again when he joins Joshua Castille (voiced by Daniel David Stewart) to stop the show with their delightful gay-curious reprise of “The Word of Your Body.”
As innovative as is the work of Arden and Liff, and as clever as Sater was eight years ago to take an obscure and dusty period piece and turn it into a resplendently relevant contemporary theatrical effort still able to blast the ill-conceived conduct of miserably unhappy adults trying to repress the human condition of their offspring in the name of religion and “common decency,” what makes Spring Awakening one for the ages is Sheik’s Grammy-winning and ingeniously evocative score, which soars to new heights in this converted downtown warehouse—with poignant ballads such as “Mama Who Bore Me” and upbeat whole-company numbers able to send the entire house rocking like the aptly titled “Totally Fucked.”
Sure, when Spring Awakening took New York by storm, we’d heard it all before—from the late 1960s when Hair first premiered to 30 years later when Rent reinvented the world of musical theater. Both those productions shook out the corn as high as an elephant’s eye, cleared away the rain in Spain, and beat enormous odds for enduring success. Now, thanks to the magic of Deaf West coupled with the limitless talent and imagination of Arden and Liff, here we go again.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
September 23, 2014
September 23, 2014
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Actors Co-Op Crossley Theatre
The Actors Co-op modest production of the Tony-winning The Mystery of Edwin Drood strips away the large orchestrations, the amplified mikes, and the harmonizing chorus and focuses on Rupert Holmes’s ribald script. Led by the superbly dry Peter Allen Vogt, Drood makes for an uproarious evening.
The 1986 musical, one of the few meta-musicals, draws on the conventions of the 19th century English music halls, Dickensian melodrama, and what it means to be an audience member. Based on Charles Dickens’s unfinished novel (he died before its completion), the musical takes on the fact that Dickens never revealed who killed Edwin Drood—or even whether Drood died—and creates the first pick-your-own-ending musical, allowing the audience to make that choice.
Composer Rupert Holmes wrote alternate endings allowing for any of the players to have committed and confessed to the murder. Holmes added to the self-reflexivity by having the play performed in a Music Hall, with a Master of Ceremonies (Vogt) commenting on the characters, drawing the audience across the fourth wall, and even promoting future events at the Music Hall. Adding to the insanity, Edwin Drood is played by woman, a primadonna who walks out in a snit when the other cast members turn on her.
Holmes’s songs are an amalgamation of character songs, such as the piercing “Moonfall” and the revealing “A Man Could Go Quite Mad,” and out-of-nowhere music hall ditties that purposely pull the audience out of the dramatics, like the Act One finale “Off to the Races” and the opening “There You Are.”
Actors Co-op’s director Stephen Van Dorn, with a small but able five-piece orchestra and a stage the size of a bathroom, draws attention to those limitations by having the actors interact with the band and rely on the parody aspects to compensate for the smaller sounds. He utilizes the set for visual jokes, like characters opening pop-out doors as if they were appearing on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In. Most essentially, Van Dorn relies on a nimble cast to draw out the humor with ironic facial expressions and sly line interpretations.
Setting the comic bar high, Vogt so masters the double-take that he appears to successfully channel Bea Arthur. Like the famed comedienne, Vogt can shatter an audience into hysterics just with one piercing look. Gina D’Acciaro exaggerates her eyes like a silent movie queen, turning Princess Puffer into a bewitching character. She makes each of her songs, including “Wages of Sin” and “Don’t Quit While You’re Ahead,” a showstopper.
Greg Baldwin makes the permanently soused crypt-keeper Durdles such a loveable drunk that at the performance reviewed here, the audience voted for him and Puffer as the production’s lovers. Catherine Gray is delightfully bombastic as Alice Nutting, the too-big-for-her britches star playing Edwin Drood. Gray exaggerates her characters’ movements as if her Alice thinks that the audience will be entranced by her every whim. She has a lyrical voice that makes Drood’s songs a joy to hear.
Also playing every line like it is much needed oxygen, Craig McEldowney is appropriately lecherous and manic as the villainous John Jasper. Isaac Wade, who plays a discounted actor playing a dismissed character, conveys in Phillip Bax both a meek nature and desperation for attention. It’s a testament to Wade’s hilarious performance that the audience chose him as the murderer just to watch him perform, since there’s no logical reason for his Drood character Bazzard to have killed the title character.
If one seeks a beautifully and powerfully sung version of The Mystery Of Edwin Drood, this may not be the ideal production. The cast have melodic but small voices, and, at least in the current production, lack sustaining power in their notes. However, if one wishes to revel in the delightfully witty dialogue and commentary of Rupert Holmes’s book, enacted by a cast of talented clowns, look no farther than the Actors Co-op.
Actors Co-Op Crossley Theatre
The Actors Co-op modest production of the Tony-winning The Mystery of Edwin Drood strips away the large orchestrations, the amplified mikes, and the harmonizing chorus and focuses on Rupert Holmes’s ribald script. Led by the superbly dry Peter Allen Vogt, Drood makes for an uproarious evening.
The 1986 musical, one of the few meta-musicals, draws on the conventions of the 19th century English music halls, Dickensian melodrama, and what it means to be an audience member. Based on Charles Dickens’s unfinished novel (he died before its completion), the musical takes on the fact that Dickens never revealed who killed Edwin Drood—or even whether Drood died—and creates the first pick-your-own-ending musical, allowing the audience to make that choice.
Composer Rupert Holmes wrote alternate endings allowing for any of the players to have committed and confessed to the murder. Holmes added to the self-reflexivity by having the play performed in a Music Hall, with a Master of Ceremonies (Vogt) commenting on the characters, drawing the audience across the fourth wall, and even promoting future events at the Music Hall. Adding to the insanity, Edwin Drood is played by woman, a primadonna who walks out in a snit when the other cast members turn on her.
Holmes’s songs are an amalgamation of character songs, such as the piercing “Moonfall” and the revealing “A Man Could Go Quite Mad,” and out-of-nowhere music hall ditties that purposely pull the audience out of the dramatics, like the Act One finale “Off to the Races” and the opening “There You Are.”
Actors Co-op’s director Stephen Van Dorn, with a small but able five-piece orchestra and a stage the size of a bathroom, draws attention to those limitations by having the actors interact with the band and rely on the parody aspects to compensate for the smaller sounds. He utilizes the set for visual jokes, like characters opening pop-out doors as if they were appearing on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In. Most essentially, Van Dorn relies on a nimble cast to draw out the humor with ironic facial expressions and sly line interpretations.
Setting the comic bar high, Vogt so masters the double-take that he appears to successfully channel Bea Arthur. Like the famed comedienne, Vogt can shatter an audience into hysterics just with one piercing look. Gina D’Acciaro exaggerates her eyes like a silent movie queen, turning Princess Puffer into a bewitching character. She makes each of her songs, including “Wages of Sin” and “Don’t Quit While You’re Ahead,” a showstopper.
Greg Baldwin makes the permanently soused crypt-keeper Durdles such a loveable drunk that at the performance reviewed here, the audience voted for him and Puffer as the production’s lovers. Catherine Gray is delightfully bombastic as Alice Nutting, the too-big-for-her britches star playing Edwin Drood. Gray exaggerates her characters’ movements as if her Alice thinks that the audience will be entranced by her every whim. She has a lyrical voice that makes Drood’s songs a joy to hear.
Also playing every line like it is much needed oxygen, Craig McEldowney is appropriately lecherous and manic as the villainous John Jasper. Isaac Wade, who plays a discounted actor playing a dismissed character, conveys in Phillip Bax both a meek nature and desperation for attention. It’s a testament to Wade’s hilarious performance that the audience chose him as the murderer just to watch him perform, since there’s no logical reason for his Drood character Bazzard to have killed the title character.
If one seeks a beautifully and powerfully sung version of The Mystery Of Edwin Drood, this may not be the ideal production. The cast have melodic but small voices, and, at least in the current production, lack sustaining power in their notes. However, if one wishes to revel in the delightfully witty dialogue and commentary of Rupert Holmes’s book, enacted by a cast of talented clowns, look no farther than the Actors Co-op.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
September 23, 2014
September 23, 2014
Marjorie Prime
Mark Taper Forum
On the heels of Spike Jonze’s award-winning film Her comes another whimsical, futuristic, seriocomic speculation about artificial intelligence’s commercial and emotional potential.
This one is Jordan Harrison’s world premiere play at the Taper, titled Marjorie Prime, and concededly it lacks the heft of Jonze’s celebrated Oscar winner, not to mention its unforgettable strain of steamy sexuality. Still, under Les Waters’s skillful direction, the play’s precise understanding of human need, captured by a wonderful cast, grants it resonance and entertainment value way out of proportion to its modest (80 minutes) scale.
In Her, lonely folk of the future can link up to a humanoid app that both organizes one’s calendar and acts as a surrogate friend, confidante, career counselor, and even lover (giving new meaning to the phrase “phone sex”). By contrast, Harrison is interested in technology’s ability not to obtain intimacy never before known but to hang on to past intimacy beyond the reach of death.
Sometime late in the current century, Harrison posits, your MacBook Pro will be able to summon up for you a three-dimensional, living (if not exactly breathing) replica of a loved one—and at the age of your choice. Say there, elderly widow: Want your husband back, and not just returned but at the age when he proposed to you? You got it. All you have to do is feed your “Husband Prime” the names and anecdotes you want him to absorb, and correct him when he gets attitude or manner wrong, and presto, you may upload a companion for the rest of natural life. Yours, anyway.
How this all works out—who orders which Prime, and what transpires in the wake of those purchase orders—must be kept a secret from all except those who buy tickets for the Taper. However, what can and should be noted are the flavorful ways in which the basic situation taps into some of the very fundamentals of human relationships. What do we actually crave from a parent, a sibling, a lover? How do loved ones construct histories—their own, and each other’s—and what happens when two such narratives clash? If we were granted a second chance to work out problems in a crucial relationship, how would we go about it? And above all, what exactly does it mean to be human?
Such pungent questions may sound heavy and even pretentious, yet they are handled here with an unfailing sense of playfulness. It’s as easy to sit back and revel in the fun, as it is for Marjorie herself (Lois Smith) to rock back in her assisted-living home Barcalounger and parry with her anguished daughter (Lisa Emery), put-upon son-in-law (Frank Wood), and reconstituted hubby (Jeff Ward). The sands are running out of her hourglass, but the will to live is strong. It’s reassuring, somehow, to visit America several decades hence and know that whatever technological remedies become newly available, the same old problems will be there for the grappling.
Luminous Smith and brittle Emery are potent foils, and Wood’s patented brand of bemused humor and folk wisdom complements them perfectly. (It’s actually difficult to think of any play to which Wood would not be a decided asset. Clare Luce’s The Women, maybe? That’s about it.) Ward has less to do, but, visually and attitudinally, there’s never a reason to wonder why someone would choose to conjure him back.
Mimi Lien’s set design exudes both futuristic efficiency and modern-day comfort. There’s a scenic coup built in that’s simple and heartbreaking, adjectives equally applicable to Marjorie Prime.
Mark Taper Forum
On the heels of Spike Jonze’s award-winning film Her comes another whimsical, futuristic, seriocomic speculation about artificial intelligence’s commercial and emotional potential.
This one is Jordan Harrison’s world premiere play at the Taper, titled Marjorie Prime, and concededly it lacks the heft of Jonze’s celebrated Oscar winner, not to mention its unforgettable strain of steamy sexuality. Still, under Les Waters’s skillful direction, the play’s precise understanding of human need, captured by a wonderful cast, grants it resonance and entertainment value way out of proportion to its modest (80 minutes) scale.
In Her, lonely folk of the future can link up to a humanoid app that both organizes one’s calendar and acts as a surrogate friend, confidante, career counselor, and even lover (giving new meaning to the phrase “phone sex”). By contrast, Harrison is interested in technology’s ability not to obtain intimacy never before known but to hang on to past intimacy beyond the reach of death.
Sometime late in the current century, Harrison posits, your MacBook Pro will be able to summon up for you a three-dimensional, living (if not exactly breathing) replica of a loved one—and at the age of your choice. Say there, elderly widow: Want your husband back, and not just returned but at the age when he proposed to you? You got it. All you have to do is feed your “Husband Prime” the names and anecdotes you want him to absorb, and correct him when he gets attitude or manner wrong, and presto, you may upload a companion for the rest of natural life. Yours, anyway.
How this all works out—who orders which Prime, and what transpires in the wake of those purchase orders—must be kept a secret from all except those who buy tickets for the Taper. However, what can and should be noted are the flavorful ways in which the basic situation taps into some of the very fundamentals of human relationships. What do we actually crave from a parent, a sibling, a lover? How do loved ones construct histories—their own, and each other’s—and what happens when two such narratives clash? If we were granted a second chance to work out problems in a crucial relationship, how would we go about it? And above all, what exactly does it mean to be human?
Such pungent questions may sound heavy and even pretentious, yet they are handled here with an unfailing sense of playfulness. It’s as easy to sit back and revel in the fun, as it is for Marjorie herself (Lois Smith) to rock back in her assisted-living home Barcalounger and parry with her anguished daughter (Lisa Emery), put-upon son-in-law (Frank Wood), and reconstituted hubby (Jeff Ward). The sands are running out of her hourglass, but the will to live is strong. It’s reassuring, somehow, to visit America several decades hence and know that whatever technological remedies become newly available, the same old problems will be there for the grappling.
Luminous Smith and brittle Emery are potent foils, and Wood’s patented brand of bemused humor and folk wisdom complements them perfectly. (It’s actually difficult to think of any play to which Wood would not be a decided asset. Clare Luce’s The Women, maybe? That’s about it.) Ward has less to do, but, visually and attitudinally, there’s never a reason to wonder why someone would choose to conjure him back.
Mimi Lien’s set design exudes both futuristic efficiency and modern-day comfort. There’s a scenic coup built in that’s simple and heartbreaking, adjectives equally applicable to Marjorie Prime.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 23, 2014
September 23, 2014
The Full Monty
Palos Verdes Performing Arts at Norris Theatre
While the material may be a bit questionable, the talent involved in this production is undeniable. This musical tells the story of average men who learn to love their physical selves and the special women who never stopped loving them. Its book, by Terrence McNally, hews to the 1997 film of the same name (written by Simon Beaufoy). McNally’s musical is set in Buffalo, N.Y., as that city’s steelworkers lose their jobs.
When the men’s wives wander into a nightclub featuring male strippers, spending chunks of their own incomes on the entertainment, two of the men, Jerry and Dave, plot to raise desperately needed funds by likewise stripping down to their boxers, or indeed even less. They gather a ragtag troupe of fellow unemployed workers, and rehearsals commence.
The men’s poor body images (sagginess, pudginess, baldness) and their perceived limitations (arthritis, age, stage fright) are mighty massive roadblocks. Topping that are the men’s fraught relationships with wives, ex-wives, and mothers. But this wouldn’t be an American musical if the characters didn’t have steep hills to climb.
Playing those characters are a substantial number of vibrant younger talents and a few dazzling “older” folks. At the show’s center, Harley Jay plays Jerry and Sheldon Robert Morley plays Dave. Jay has a rock quality to his singing, Morley a more “conversational” one. Both men, however, flawlessly deliver the anxiety and passions of their characters.
Paul David Bryant brings fresh vitality to the middle of Act One, even though, he says, as a black man with the nickname of Horse, he is ladened by the expectations of others. At the other extreme, Kevin Patrick Doherty plays the fragile Malcolm, who starts the audience’s tears flowing in the gorgeous “You Walk With Me.” Jonathan Brett masters the clowning role of Ethan: quick to strip, quick to show his Donald O’Connor routine, not so quick to learn the choreography. But if you’re looking for that soaring, thrilling, musical-theater voice, you’ll relish Bryan Dobson as the men’s former boss Harold.
The womenfolk get the almost last word, and it’s a good one. As Dave’s wife, Heidi Godt’s Georgie sturdily loves him through the belly fat. As Jerry’s ex-wife, Pam, Rebecca Thomas lets kindness peek through Pam’s longtime disappointment. And dominating the men’s rehearsals is old showbiz vet Jeanette, played with pizzazz by (much younger) Eloise Coopersmith.
Even at two and a half hours, the show zips along, directed by James W. Gruessing Jr. with a robust energy and restrained yet hilarious physical comedy. One of his smart moves is to place members of his ensemble alongside the audience to cheer on the men who ultimately perform at the Buffalo club, because clearly the audiences at the Norris could use the support as much as the strippers can.
But another of Gruessing’s smart moves is to find the heart of this musical, and, as it winds toward its end, it doesn’t pull its emotional punches. From Jerry’s tender ballad “Breeze off the River” through his final battle with fear, Gruessing’s direction grows poignant. David Yazbek’s score is jazzy, complex, and memorable. Under music director Daniel Thomas, the pit band sizzles and the vocal performances are polished.
The story starts off with homophobic joking among the men. This can’t last, one thinks, particularly considering its writers’ other works. It doesn’t. The men of the troupe learn to accept themselves and one another. Less easily accepted is the presence of Jerry’s 12-year-old son, Nathan (the gifted young Bradley Nolan), as an observer of the stripping scheme. The concepts and language expressed in front of him will shock some audience members. Maybe things were different in Buffalo in the year 2000. Or, does the story intend for its audience to loosen up?
Speaking of 2000, the choreography (by Bryant) is delightfully 1970s. Truth be told, popular dance hasn’t hit a highlight since then. But some of the script’s humor (really, an Eddie Fisher joke?) is painfully dated.
Spoilers: The men indeed go full monty. But, thanks to the split-second timing of the tech crew, the moment is nearly view-proof.
Palos Verdes Performing Arts at Norris Theatre
While the material may be a bit questionable, the talent involved in this production is undeniable. This musical tells the story of average men who learn to love their physical selves and the special women who never stopped loving them. Its book, by Terrence McNally, hews to the 1997 film of the same name (written by Simon Beaufoy). McNally’s musical is set in Buffalo, N.Y., as that city’s steelworkers lose their jobs.
When the men’s wives wander into a nightclub featuring male strippers, spending chunks of their own incomes on the entertainment, two of the men, Jerry and Dave, plot to raise desperately needed funds by likewise stripping down to their boxers, or indeed even less. They gather a ragtag troupe of fellow unemployed workers, and rehearsals commence.
The men’s poor body images (sagginess, pudginess, baldness) and their perceived limitations (arthritis, age, stage fright) are mighty massive roadblocks. Topping that are the men’s fraught relationships with wives, ex-wives, and mothers. But this wouldn’t be an American musical if the characters didn’t have steep hills to climb.
Playing those characters are a substantial number of vibrant younger talents and a few dazzling “older” folks. At the show’s center, Harley Jay plays Jerry and Sheldon Robert Morley plays Dave. Jay has a rock quality to his singing, Morley a more “conversational” one. Both men, however, flawlessly deliver the anxiety and passions of their characters.
Paul David Bryant brings fresh vitality to the middle of Act One, even though, he says, as a black man with the nickname of Horse, he is ladened by the expectations of others. At the other extreme, Kevin Patrick Doherty plays the fragile Malcolm, who starts the audience’s tears flowing in the gorgeous “You Walk With Me.” Jonathan Brett masters the clowning role of Ethan: quick to strip, quick to show his Donald O’Connor routine, not so quick to learn the choreography. But if you’re looking for that soaring, thrilling, musical-theater voice, you’ll relish Bryan Dobson as the men’s former boss Harold.
The womenfolk get the almost last word, and it’s a good one. As Dave’s wife, Heidi Godt’s Georgie sturdily loves him through the belly fat. As Jerry’s ex-wife, Pam, Rebecca Thomas lets kindness peek through Pam’s longtime disappointment. And dominating the men’s rehearsals is old showbiz vet Jeanette, played with pizzazz by (much younger) Eloise Coopersmith.
Even at two and a half hours, the show zips along, directed by James W. Gruessing Jr. with a robust energy and restrained yet hilarious physical comedy. One of his smart moves is to place members of his ensemble alongside the audience to cheer on the men who ultimately perform at the Buffalo club, because clearly the audiences at the Norris could use the support as much as the strippers can.
But another of Gruessing’s smart moves is to find the heart of this musical, and, as it winds toward its end, it doesn’t pull its emotional punches. From Jerry’s tender ballad “Breeze off the River” through his final battle with fear, Gruessing’s direction grows poignant. David Yazbek’s score is jazzy, complex, and memorable. Under music director Daniel Thomas, the pit band sizzles and the vocal performances are polished.
The story starts off with homophobic joking among the men. This can’t last, one thinks, particularly considering its writers’ other works. It doesn’t. The men of the troupe learn to accept themselves and one another. Less easily accepted is the presence of Jerry’s 12-year-old son, Nathan (the gifted young Bradley Nolan), as an observer of the stripping scheme. The concepts and language expressed in front of him will shock some audience members. Maybe things were different in Buffalo in the year 2000. Or, does the story intend for its audience to loosen up?
Speaking of 2000, the choreography (by Bryant) is delightfully 1970s. Truth be told, popular dance hasn’t hit a highlight since then. But some of the script’s humor (really, an Eddie Fisher joke?) is painfully dated.
Spoilers: The men indeed go full monty. But, thanks to the split-second timing of the tech crew, the moment is nearly view-proof.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 22, 2014
September 22, 2014
Cock
Rogue Machine Theatre
Mike Bartlett’s long one-act is a tale of uncertain sexual identity. It attempts to be both visceral and abstract. The central figure is John (Patrick Stafford), the only character who is given a name. He has been living for some time with his lover M (for Man?), played by Matthew Elkins. John claims to love M, but when a young woman, here called W (Rebecca Mozo), takes an erotic interest in him, he succumbs almost immediately to her blandishments, and they tumble into bed. But, though John has left M for W, he now seems to want to return, and brings M a gift of teddy bears in hopes of mollifying him. But M finds that more infuriating than endearing.
In an attempt to force some kind of showdown, M invites John and W to dinner—but he also invites his remarkably tolerant and understanding father, called F (Gregory Itzin), to provide backup. There are various alarums and excursions as the characters face off, but it’s without the desired result. There’s no way to wring a decision from John. He seems like a dubious prize in a tug of war between M and W, with occasional attempts to intervene by F. In the end, John lies in the fetal position on M’s lawn, while M goes inside to go to bed and W goes off into the night. Has anybody won? And what did they win?
The piece seems potentially fascinating, but because none of the characters has much of a backstory, we’re left with nothing but unanswered questions. Is John gay? Bisexual? Or simply so weak-willed he can be swayed by anyone who makes a serious effort? And why does W go out of her way to seduce a man/boy she knows is gay? We aren’t given enough information to be able to draw any conclusions.
According to director Cameron Watson, “The playwright has stripped away all devices and elements that we normally have to lean on to tell the story.” In practice, this means there are no props, furniture, or scenic elements, and the four actors are left to square off in a bare space like the cockpit in which game-birds fight. There is no attempt to act out the literal actions of the play, leaving us to rely on the words. Despite the erotic content, the actors seldom touch, and they remain fully clothed in scenes where the words tell us they’re naked. The result is strangely abstract and slightly arid.
Watson has assembled admirable and hardworking actors who play the piece out with skill and style, but they can’t make it add up to much.
Designer Stephen Gifford provides an all-lime-green performance space, in which the entire theater is circled by green drapes, green floor, green handrails, and green seats for much of the audience. The only nongreen elements are the designs of three parallel lines, which are scattered round the set—representing perhaps John, M, and W?
Rogue Machine Theatre
Mike Bartlett’s long one-act is a tale of uncertain sexual identity. It attempts to be both visceral and abstract. The central figure is John (Patrick Stafford), the only character who is given a name. He has been living for some time with his lover M (for Man?), played by Matthew Elkins. John claims to love M, but when a young woman, here called W (Rebecca Mozo), takes an erotic interest in him, he succumbs almost immediately to her blandishments, and they tumble into bed. But, though John has left M for W, he now seems to want to return, and brings M a gift of teddy bears in hopes of mollifying him. But M finds that more infuriating than endearing.
In an attempt to force some kind of showdown, M invites John and W to dinner—but he also invites his remarkably tolerant and understanding father, called F (Gregory Itzin), to provide backup. There are various alarums and excursions as the characters face off, but it’s without the desired result. There’s no way to wring a decision from John. He seems like a dubious prize in a tug of war between M and W, with occasional attempts to intervene by F. In the end, John lies in the fetal position on M’s lawn, while M goes inside to go to bed and W goes off into the night. Has anybody won? And what did they win?
The piece seems potentially fascinating, but because none of the characters has much of a backstory, we’re left with nothing but unanswered questions. Is John gay? Bisexual? Or simply so weak-willed he can be swayed by anyone who makes a serious effort? And why does W go out of her way to seduce a man/boy she knows is gay? We aren’t given enough information to be able to draw any conclusions.
According to director Cameron Watson, “The playwright has stripped away all devices and elements that we normally have to lean on to tell the story.” In practice, this means there are no props, furniture, or scenic elements, and the four actors are left to square off in a bare space like the cockpit in which game-birds fight. There is no attempt to act out the literal actions of the play, leaving us to rely on the words. Despite the erotic content, the actors seldom touch, and they remain fully clothed in scenes where the words tell us they’re naked. The result is strangely abstract and slightly arid.
Watson has assembled admirable and hardworking actors who play the piece out with skill and style, but they can’t make it add up to much.
Designer Stephen Gifford provides an all-lime-green performance space, in which the entire theater is circled by green drapes, green floor, green handrails, and green seats for much of the audience. The only nongreen elements are the designs of three parallel lines, which are scattered round the set—representing perhaps John, M, and W?
Review by Neal Weaver
September 18, 2014
September 18, 2014
Orphans
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
The three actors of Orphans hurl themselves to the floor, barrel across the stage, and bound around with their ankles tied together. Theirs are athletic, fully energized portrayals that turn Kentwood Players’s Westchester Playhouse into a virtual athletic field.
But their subtle and truthful internalized reactions to their characters’ circumstances, as well as Kentwood’s choice of this brutal yet tender allegory, make this the most daring, exhilarating piece of theater seen on this stage in a long while.
Written by Lyle Kessler, the script looks at human need for familial connection. His characters are archetypes—whatever trinity the audience may see in them—dwelling in Kessler’s magical-realism world. Two brothers, Treat and Phillip, live in Philadelphia—the city of brotherly love, natch. They are orphans, and Treat has taken on the parental role.
But Treat is desperate to keep his younger brother helpless and thus reliant on him. So Treat has kept Phillip inside their home by convincing Phillip that the younger lad long ago suffered a near-fatal allergic response in the “outdoor” air.
Treat supports them through petty theft and pickpocketing. In the evenings, he returns home and pulls spoils of his day from his own pockets (kudos to the stage crew for its work in setting the play’s many props before every performance).
One day, Treat brings home a different kind of treasure: a stranger. He is the improbably inebriated Harold, who carries a briefcase full of financial documents, a symbol of but not real money. Harold, mid-nightmare, calls out for “Mommy.” That may be his last honest utterance in the play. When Harold wakes, he is unperturbed by his circumstances. After he sobers up, he reveals he, too, is an orphan, on the run from those with whom he did “business” in Chicago.
And yet, Harold seems far too clever to let himself be “taken in”—brought into their shelter and hoodwinked—by Treat. Harold’s presence, however, is what the lads need to begin their emotional growth.
Kathy Dershimer picked a challenging play to direct, and then she rose to the challenge. She doesn’t force realism on the circumstances, nor does she underline mystical moments—though the lighting in that center-stage clothes closet is a deft touch. She has kept the actors’ energy pumping and the action moving along, although a pacing slump occurs just before the play’s end.
Dershimer also cast wisely. Playing Treat, Jeff Cheezum seems powered by an auxiliary energy source, reacting to every threat, big or small, facing the little world Treat has created. As Phillip, Raúl Bencomo is a manchild, stunted but not hopelessly so, unschooled but not dull-witted.
And, as Harold, Karl Schott is a master class in layering humanity on a rather magical character. Whether the actor is watching for reactions from the other characters, or whether he’s delivering seemingly unplayable lines (“What did he do next?”), Schott is the real deal.
The apartment and the lads clean up nicely after intermission, Bencomo looking preppy and Cheezum yuppy as befits the 1980s script. If Dershimer can quiet Cheezum, so he’s not yelling every line with no respite, his character would seem more menacing and less predictable. And a bit of sound design would benefit the scene changes. With those bits of housekeeping, this would be a totally stellar production.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
The three actors of Orphans hurl themselves to the floor, barrel across the stage, and bound around with their ankles tied together. Theirs are athletic, fully energized portrayals that turn Kentwood Players’s Westchester Playhouse into a virtual athletic field.
But their subtle and truthful internalized reactions to their characters’ circumstances, as well as Kentwood’s choice of this brutal yet tender allegory, make this the most daring, exhilarating piece of theater seen on this stage in a long while.
Written by Lyle Kessler, the script looks at human need for familial connection. His characters are archetypes—whatever trinity the audience may see in them—dwelling in Kessler’s magical-realism world. Two brothers, Treat and Phillip, live in Philadelphia—the city of brotherly love, natch. They are orphans, and Treat has taken on the parental role.
But Treat is desperate to keep his younger brother helpless and thus reliant on him. So Treat has kept Phillip inside their home by convincing Phillip that the younger lad long ago suffered a near-fatal allergic response in the “outdoor” air.
Treat supports them through petty theft and pickpocketing. In the evenings, he returns home and pulls spoils of his day from his own pockets (kudos to the stage crew for its work in setting the play’s many props before every performance).
One day, Treat brings home a different kind of treasure: a stranger. He is the improbably inebriated Harold, who carries a briefcase full of financial documents, a symbol of but not real money. Harold, mid-nightmare, calls out for “Mommy.” That may be his last honest utterance in the play. When Harold wakes, he is unperturbed by his circumstances. After he sobers up, he reveals he, too, is an orphan, on the run from those with whom he did “business” in Chicago.
And yet, Harold seems far too clever to let himself be “taken in”—brought into their shelter and hoodwinked—by Treat. Harold’s presence, however, is what the lads need to begin their emotional growth.
Kathy Dershimer picked a challenging play to direct, and then she rose to the challenge. She doesn’t force realism on the circumstances, nor does she underline mystical moments—though the lighting in that center-stage clothes closet is a deft touch. She has kept the actors’ energy pumping and the action moving along, although a pacing slump occurs just before the play’s end.
Dershimer also cast wisely. Playing Treat, Jeff Cheezum seems powered by an auxiliary energy source, reacting to every threat, big or small, facing the little world Treat has created. As Phillip, Raúl Bencomo is a manchild, stunted but not hopelessly so, unschooled but not dull-witted.
And, as Harold, Karl Schott is a master class in layering humanity on a rather magical character. Whether the actor is watching for reactions from the other characters, or whether he’s delivering seemingly unplayable lines (“What did he do next?”), Schott is the real deal.
The apartment and the lads clean up nicely after intermission, Bencomo looking preppy and Cheezum yuppy as befits the 1980s script. If Dershimer can quiet Cheezum, so he’s not yelling every line with no respite, his character would seem more menacing and less predictable. And a bit of sound design would benefit the scene changes. With those bits of housekeeping, this would be a totally stellar production.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 15, 2014
September 15, 2014
Happy Days
Theatre @ Boston Court
Although this Samuel Beckett play was written and first performed more than a half-century ago, it seems he was something of a Nostradamus while churning out his hilariously bitter, deliciously off-centered allegories chronicling the hidden underbelly of life as he knew it. With our planet today crashing to destruction through climate change, not to mention our state’s bleak drought conditions and even the current debilitating heat wave enveloping the Southland this week, the absurdist playwright’s 1961 play Happy Days eerily reinforces his chillingly prophetic, humorously bleak pronouncements of the gradual disintegration of all living creatures struggling for fresh air and daily sustenance.
British director Peter Hall once expressed that Beckett’s much-dissected work was “as much about mime and physical precision as about words”—an observation clearly buttressing the perception that the gossamer directorial vision of Andrei Belgrader, guiding an actor as fearless as Brooke Adams, has inspired something truly remarkable. With her body stuck in a massive mound of dirt from just below her chest throughout Act One, only Adams’s arms, her incredibly mobile face, a scattering of everyday items pulled from a large leather satchel, and a few scattered groans and mumbles emanating from the mostly out-of-sight Tony Shaloub as her husband Willie are available to help her keep our attention.
When lights come up for the play’s second half, Winnie is buried even deeper, visible now only from the neck up. Adams still uncannily manages to hold the stage despite her character’s restricted physicality (“What a curse, mobility!” Winnie exclaims without much conviction), riveting our attention with her deep, soulful eyes that easily impart an acute sense of the mournfully lonely and exaggeratedly barren spaces surrounding Winnie’s steadily shrinking world. As though simultaneously channeling the unique qualities of Meryl Streep or Kathleen Chalfant and Marcel Marceau, Adams magically employs the flash of a wide goofy smile or the flickering of a quickly extinguished dark cloud of fear to interrupt her character’s frequent exclamations while trying to convince us—and herself—just how happy her days really are.
Willie is there to help but not able to do much himself. “You’re not the crawler you once were, dear,” Winnie notes, yet life without him is the scariest thing she might have to endure. “If you were to die or go away and leave me,” she realizes, “what would I do? What could I do all day long? Simply gaze before me with compressed lips?” Shaloub is obviously a world-class comedian, bringing a floppy clown-like energy to the usually thankless role, pulling focus once in a while but never at an inopportune moment, always working in deference to the overdue rediscovery of his real-life wife’s unearthly and too-long-absent talent.
Between the ringing of a headache-inducing bell to guide her daily habits, one shrill bleat for sleep and another to awaken, Winnie exists without a clue why she and Willie are there. “But that is what I find so wonderful,” she tells us. “The way man adapts himself to changing conditions.” Winnie always looks at the bright side of her dilemma, chronicling the “great mercies” of her situation in a bizarrely poetic, bitingly funny, and incredibly pessimistic two-act monologue, continuously searching for things to reinforce how wonderful life is.
Interpreted by lesser talents than this director and his two exceptionally gifted performers, nothing can be harder to sit through than Happy Days—something that thrilled its author, who was famous for sitting near the rear exit of his plays in performance to gleefully thank the patrons who chose to leave early. See, his work—especially this play and his classic Waiting for Godot—skewers the dryness and encroaching disintegration of daily life. Winnie tries desperately to keep this negativity inside her, but notwithstanding continuous little expressions of small joyful discoveries, “sorrow keeps breaking in.” Despite his once-grateful personal thank-yous offered to disgusted or confused departing audience members rushing for the exit, Beckett does not let us leave the theater feeling good about the world around us, but his woeful, often uproarious revelations oddly celebrate the indomitable spirit of the human condition despite the massively insurmountable odds stacked against us all.
Theatre @ Boston Court
Although this Samuel Beckett play was written and first performed more than a half-century ago, it seems he was something of a Nostradamus while churning out his hilariously bitter, deliciously off-centered allegories chronicling the hidden underbelly of life as he knew it. With our planet today crashing to destruction through climate change, not to mention our state’s bleak drought conditions and even the current debilitating heat wave enveloping the Southland this week, the absurdist playwright’s 1961 play Happy Days eerily reinforces his chillingly prophetic, humorously bleak pronouncements of the gradual disintegration of all living creatures struggling for fresh air and daily sustenance.
British director Peter Hall once expressed that Beckett’s much-dissected work was “as much about mime and physical precision as about words”—an observation clearly buttressing the perception that the gossamer directorial vision of Andrei Belgrader, guiding an actor as fearless as Brooke Adams, has inspired something truly remarkable. With her body stuck in a massive mound of dirt from just below her chest throughout Act One, only Adams’s arms, her incredibly mobile face, a scattering of everyday items pulled from a large leather satchel, and a few scattered groans and mumbles emanating from the mostly out-of-sight Tony Shaloub as her husband Willie are available to help her keep our attention.
When lights come up for the play’s second half, Winnie is buried even deeper, visible now only from the neck up. Adams still uncannily manages to hold the stage despite her character’s restricted physicality (“What a curse, mobility!” Winnie exclaims without much conviction), riveting our attention with her deep, soulful eyes that easily impart an acute sense of the mournfully lonely and exaggeratedly barren spaces surrounding Winnie’s steadily shrinking world. As though simultaneously channeling the unique qualities of Meryl Streep or Kathleen Chalfant and Marcel Marceau, Adams magically employs the flash of a wide goofy smile or the flickering of a quickly extinguished dark cloud of fear to interrupt her character’s frequent exclamations while trying to convince us—and herself—just how happy her days really are.
Willie is there to help but not able to do much himself. “You’re not the crawler you once were, dear,” Winnie notes, yet life without him is the scariest thing she might have to endure. “If you were to die or go away and leave me,” she realizes, “what would I do? What could I do all day long? Simply gaze before me with compressed lips?” Shaloub is obviously a world-class comedian, bringing a floppy clown-like energy to the usually thankless role, pulling focus once in a while but never at an inopportune moment, always working in deference to the overdue rediscovery of his real-life wife’s unearthly and too-long-absent talent.
Between the ringing of a headache-inducing bell to guide her daily habits, one shrill bleat for sleep and another to awaken, Winnie exists without a clue why she and Willie are there. “But that is what I find so wonderful,” she tells us. “The way man adapts himself to changing conditions.” Winnie always looks at the bright side of her dilemma, chronicling the “great mercies” of her situation in a bizarrely poetic, bitingly funny, and incredibly pessimistic two-act monologue, continuously searching for things to reinforce how wonderful life is.
Interpreted by lesser talents than this director and his two exceptionally gifted performers, nothing can be harder to sit through than Happy Days—something that thrilled its author, who was famous for sitting near the rear exit of his plays in performance to gleefully thank the patrons who chose to leave early. See, his work—especially this play and his classic Waiting for Godot—skewers the dryness and encroaching disintegration of daily life. Winnie tries desperately to keep this negativity inside her, but notwithstanding continuous little expressions of small joyful discoveries, “sorrow keeps breaking in.” Despite his once-grateful personal thank-yous offered to disgusted or confused departing audience members rushing for the exit, Beckett does not let us leave the theater feeling good about the world around us, but his woeful, often uproarious revelations oddly celebrate the indomitable spirit of the human condition despite the massively insurmountable odds stacked against us all.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
September 16, 2014
The Western Unscripted
Impro Theatre at Falcon Theatre
Ah, the creative days of childhood. Backyard forts, instantaneously assigned roles, and an endless supply of “You go there” and “Then I’ll say this“ led to countless hours of fun. Capitalizing on this nostalgic view of yesteryear, Impro Theatre’s revolving troupe of improvisational wizards takes its audiences on a trek through the old West. Playing out on scenic designer Sandra Burns’s dusty town boardwalk with a distant plateau-laden backdrop providing visual perspective, each show’s storyline unfolds based solely on a pair of audience-spawned suggestions.
On the night reviewed, a gold pocket watch engraved with the name Bessie and the preshow occasion of a bank robbery had the company off and running. By the time the proverbial final curtain touched the stage, there were fistfights, chases on imaginary horseback, and even the obligatory slow-motion shootout.
Although this effort didn’t fall under the category of “knee-slapper,” there were plenty of laughs to go around as the totally unscripted, two-act storyline unfolded. Perhaps the greatest accolade one could offer co-directors Dan O’Connor and Stephen Kearin, et al., would be their attention to detail. Regardless of whether a scene or moment was spot-on or dead-ended, not once did the vernacular of their chosen genre waiver. And half the fun is watching the mental wheels turn as actors work their way around previously provided clues while searching for just the right colloquialism.
At this performance, a company of eight (from an overall cast list of 20) portrayed an array of a cattle rustlers, robber barons, boarding-house occupants, and local lawmen set in the fictional town of Comsquatch. Highlights included Floyd VanBuskirks’ murderous cattle rancher hell-bent on replenishing his drought-stricken herd by eliminating his nearest rival, Elbert Grisham, played with curmudgeonly glee by O’Connor. Clearly a favorite with the audience, Grisham’s premature murder proved a double-edged sword: ending the first act with the perfect cliffhanger but depriving the audience of the best-constructed character of the night. For example, while listening intently as the Comsquatch sheriff and deputy, played respectively by Ryan Smith and Daniel Blinkoff, admitted not knowing how much money was taken from the town’s bank because no one kept any records, O’Connor’s retort “That’s a horrible way to run a bank!” nearly stopped the show.
Supporting players included Nick Massouh as a local ruffian taken under VanBuskirk’s character’s evil tutelage. Playing Massouh’s wife was Edi Patterson who developed a romantic involvement with Blinkoff’s deputy, thereby offering an interesting subplot full of conflict and drama. Kelly Holden-Bashar, who took on the moniker of Bessie, and Kari Coleman, as her sister, arrived in town, having traveled from Philadelphia. Domestically inclined, one cooked and one sewed, and they set up residence in the boarding house run by Patterson’s hilarious landlord, Chesapeake Nightsong.
Assisted ably by the technical improvisation of stage manager Michael Becker on lights and Alex Caan on the soundboard, the evening flows seamlessly from scene to scene. In the end, storylines are tied up, the villains are vanquished, and young love flourishes as the sun sets in the west and once again all is well with the world.
Impro Theatre at Falcon Theatre
Ah, the creative days of childhood. Backyard forts, instantaneously assigned roles, and an endless supply of “You go there” and “Then I’ll say this“ led to countless hours of fun. Capitalizing on this nostalgic view of yesteryear, Impro Theatre’s revolving troupe of improvisational wizards takes its audiences on a trek through the old West. Playing out on scenic designer Sandra Burns’s dusty town boardwalk with a distant plateau-laden backdrop providing visual perspective, each show’s storyline unfolds based solely on a pair of audience-spawned suggestions.
On the night reviewed, a gold pocket watch engraved with the name Bessie and the preshow occasion of a bank robbery had the company off and running. By the time the proverbial final curtain touched the stage, there were fistfights, chases on imaginary horseback, and even the obligatory slow-motion shootout.
Although this effort didn’t fall under the category of “knee-slapper,” there were plenty of laughs to go around as the totally unscripted, two-act storyline unfolded. Perhaps the greatest accolade one could offer co-directors Dan O’Connor and Stephen Kearin, et al., would be their attention to detail. Regardless of whether a scene or moment was spot-on or dead-ended, not once did the vernacular of their chosen genre waiver. And half the fun is watching the mental wheels turn as actors work their way around previously provided clues while searching for just the right colloquialism.
At this performance, a company of eight (from an overall cast list of 20) portrayed an array of a cattle rustlers, robber barons, boarding-house occupants, and local lawmen set in the fictional town of Comsquatch. Highlights included Floyd VanBuskirks’ murderous cattle rancher hell-bent on replenishing his drought-stricken herd by eliminating his nearest rival, Elbert Grisham, played with curmudgeonly glee by O’Connor. Clearly a favorite with the audience, Grisham’s premature murder proved a double-edged sword: ending the first act with the perfect cliffhanger but depriving the audience of the best-constructed character of the night. For example, while listening intently as the Comsquatch sheriff and deputy, played respectively by Ryan Smith and Daniel Blinkoff, admitted not knowing how much money was taken from the town’s bank because no one kept any records, O’Connor’s retort “That’s a horrible way to run a bank!” nearly stopped the show.
Supporting players included Nick Massouh as a local ruffian taken under VanBuskirk’s character’s evil tutelage. Playing Massouh’s wife was Edi Patterson who developed a romantic involvement with Blinkoff’s deputy, thereby offering an interesting subplot full of conflict and drama. Kelly Holden-Bashar, who took on the moniker of Bessie, and Kari Coleman, as her sister, arrived in town, having traveled from Philadelphia. Domestically inclined, one cooked and one sewed, and they set up residence in the boarding house run by Patterson’s hilarious landlord, Chesapeake Nightsong.
Assisted ably by the technical improvisation of stage manager Michael Becker on lights and Alex Caan on the soundboard, the evening flows seamlessly from scene to scene. In the end, storylines are tied up, the villains are vanquished, and young love flourishes as the sun sets in the west and once again all is well with the world.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
September 16, 2014
September 16, 2014
Run for Your Wife
Torrance Theatre Company
Farce is a difficult form of theater. Torrance Theatre Company is taking it on, in the form of Ray Cooney’s Run for Your Wife. The set here is sturdy, the actors competent. But, under the direction of Gary Robbins, much of the piece is played as if it were a drama.
The play follows a day in the life of John Smith (Frank Pepito), a cabbie in London. Normally, John lives according to a highly structured schedule. He must. He is a bigamist, and scheduling around two clingy wives requires precision. On this day, however, John is recovering from a concussion he suffered when trying to rescue an old woman who was being mugged.
Because the normally timely John is late in returning to both his homes, both his wives call their local constabulary in their respective parts of town. Mary (Jennifer Fanueff) lives in Wimbledon, Barbara (Amanda Webb) in Streatham. The police don’t put two and two together because they probably get “John Smith” missing persons calls several times per day.
The concussed John is not thinking clearly and, because this is farce, he tries to solve his problems by rushing from wife to wife to explain his tardiness to each. Also because this is farce, John confesses his situation to his neighbor Stanley (Gary Kresca) — his Wimbledon neighbor, that is. His Streatham neighbor (Daniel Tennant) is a very swishy dress designer. Two police officers (Geoff Lloyd, Tim Blake) and one newspaper reporter (Tennant again) complete the cast.
Robbins keeps the action lively, but not lively enough. Farce is outsize, it’s manic, it must start high and build to incredibly high intensity. Before a farce’s audience can let go and howl with laughter, it must feel confident the play will take off in a solid trajectory. Instead, here, there’s cause for worry. First of all, the accents falter. There is no such thing as a “British accent,” but too many of the production’s actors have taken on a generalized, vague one.
The pronunciation of Streatham here varies, and that could be funny if the actors made more of that variation. But too many of them also pronounce Wimbledon as “Wimbleton,” again probably not meant as comedy. The play’s first visual joke falls flat, too, as Barbara wears a black negligee and old pink fluffy slippers.
Then, there are the stakes in farce. John has been carrying a huge secret to keep his life comfortable. That secret is about to be revealed. Nothing else can matter to him, and that sets the play’s action spinning around him. That doesn’t happen here.
But at one point on opening weekend, midway through Act One, the production jelled. The actors didn’t seem to be saying lines, they didn’t seem to be carrying props and crossing a stage; instead, they were characters who had big, albeit outrageous, problems to solve. And for those few moments, the show was genuinely funny.
Torrance Theatre Company
Farce is a difficult form of theater. Torrance Theatre Company is taking it on, in the form of Ray Cooney’s Run for Your Wife. The set here is sturdy, the actors competent. But, under the direction of Gary Robbins, much of the piece is played as if it were a drama.
The play follows a day in the life of John Smith (Frank Pepito), a cabbie in London. Normally, John lives according to a highly structured schedule. He must. He is a bigamist, and scheduling around two clingy wives requires precision. On this day, however, John is recovering from a concussion he suffered when trying to rescue an old woman who was being mugged.
Because the normally timely John is late in returning to both his homes, both his wives call their local constabulary in their respective parts of town. Mary (Jennifer Fanueff) lives in Wimbledon, Barbara (Amanda Webb) in Streatham. The police don’t put two and two together because they probably get “John Smith” missing persons calls several times per day.
The concussed John is not thinking clearly and, because this is farce, he tries to solve his problems by rushing from wife to wife to explain his tardiness to each. Also because this is farce, John confesses his situation to his neighbor Stanley (Gary Kresca) — his Wimbledon neighbor, that is. His Streatham neighbor (Daniel Tennant) is a very swishy dress designer. Two police officers (Geoff Lloyd, Tim Blake) and one newspaper reporter (Tennant again) complete the cast.
Robbins keeps the action lively, but not lively enough. Farce is outsize, it’s manic, it must start high and build to incredibly high intensity. Before a farce’s audience can let go and howl with laughter, it must feel confident the play will take off in a solid trajectory. Instead, here, there’s cause for worry. First of all, the accents falter. There is no such thing as a “British accent,” but too many of the production’s actors have taken on a generalized, vague one.
The pronunciation of Streatham here varies, and that could be funny if the actors made more of that variation. But too many of them also pronounce Wimbledon as “Wimbleton,” again probably not meant as comedy. The play’s first visual joke falls flat, too, as Barbara wears a black negligee and old pink fluffy slippers.
Then, there are the stakes in farce. John has been carrying a huge secret to keep his life comfortable. That secret is about to be revealed. Nothing else can matter to him, and that sets the play’s action spinning around him. That doesn’t happen here.
But at one point on opening weekend, midway through Act One, the production jelled. The actors didn’t seem to be saying lines, they didn’t seem to be carrying props and crossing a stage; instead, they were characters who had big, albeit outrageous, problems to solve. And for those few moments, the show was genuinely funny.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 15, 2014
September 15, 2014
Animals Out of Paper
East West Players at David Henry Hwang Theater at Union Center of the Arts
Rajiv Joseph has built Animals Out of Paper with metaphors about human longing for connection. The result is a gentle but unpersuasive play.
Ilana (Tess Lina) is an unhappy woman, in the process of divorcing. She is a noted expert in origami: the Japanese art of paper-folding, in which a two-dimensional sheet is transformed into a three-dimensional figure. She lives in disarray and faces a creative block. Presumably, through the action of the play, she will transform into a three-dimensional person.
One rainy night, Andy (C.S. Lee) arrives in her life. He has been longing for her from afar for years—since he first saw her lecturing at a national conference on origami. He purports to contact her on conference business, but he wouldn’t mind a romance with her. He also wants her to mentor his high-school student, Suresh (Kapil Talwalkar).
The embittered Ilana lets Andy into her life, though it’s not clear why—other than for Joseph’s dramaturgical needs. Andy always looks on the bright side, having literally counted his blessings since he was 12 years old.
Ilana lets Suresh in, too. He’s of Indian heritage, but he masquerades as a hip-hopper. He comes off the rails near the play’s end, looking for a sexual connection with her. Her reaction is troubling but unfortunately not impossible. The entire story could, however, be her dream, as the play begins on a stormy night when she is awakened by Andy’s persistent ringing of her doorbell.
Director Jennifer Chang stages the piece competently but seems to gloss over the deeper sadness of the characters. Lina’s Ilana is just so prickly, although that may be the reason she doesn’t promptly launch Suresh back on track. Lee’s Andy is much the buffoon (very much akin to his character on Dexter). But when Ilana asks Andy about his hidden pain, Lee implodes in a beautifully internalized reaction—the most memorable moment of this production.
Naomi Kasahara’s set folds and unfolds like, you guessed it, origami. Sound effects to indicate a “magical” moment distract more than aid the audience. But the scene change performed by Talwalkar’s Suresh is a surprising delight.
East West Players at David Henry Hwang Theater at Union Center of the Arts
Rajiv Joseph has built Animals Out of Paper with metaphors about human longing for connection. The result is a gentle but unpersuasive play.
Ilana (Tess Lina) is an unhappy woman, in the process of divorcing. She is a noted expert in origami: the Japanese art of paper-folding, in which a two-dimensional sheet is transformed into a three-dimensional figure. She lives in disarray and faces a creative block. Presumably, through the action of the play, she will transform into a three-dimensional person.
One rainy night, Andy (C.S. Lee) arrives in her life. He has been longing for her from afar for years—since he first saw her lecturing at a national conference on origami. He purports to contact her on conference business, but he wouldn’t mind a romance with her. He also wants her to mentor his high-school student, Suresh (Kapil Talwalkar).
The embittered Ilana lets Andy into her life, though it’s not clear why—other than for Joseph’s dramaturgical needs. Andy always looks on the bright side, having literally counted his blessings since he was 12 years old.
Ilana lets Suresh in, too. He’s of Indian heritage, but he masquerades as a hip-hopper. He comes off the rails near the play’s end, looking for a sexual connection with her. Her reaction is troubling but unfortunately not impossible. The entire story could, however, be her dream, as the play begins on a stormy night when she is awakened by Andy’s persistent ringing of her doorbell.
Director Jennifer Chang stages the piece competently but seems to gloss over the deeper sadness of the characters. Lina’s Ilana is just so prickly, although that may be the reason she doesn’t promptly launch Suresh back on track. Lee’s Andy is much the buffoon (very much akin to his character on Dexter). But when Ilana asks Andy about his hidden pain, Lee implodes in a beautifully internalized reaction—the most memorable moment of this production.
Naomi Kasahara’s set folds and unfolds like, you guessed it, origami. Sound effects to indicate a “magical” moment distract more than aid the audience. But the scene change performed by Talwalkar’s Suresh is a surprising delight.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 15, 2014
September 15, 2014
Roar
Rockwell Table and Stage
It’s been 43 years since Helen Reddy rocked the charts with her announcement “I am woman, hear me roar,” the foremost pop anthem echoing the feminist revolution of the 1970s. Divas have continued to warble messages of female empowerment—in numbers too big to ignore—well into this century, and many of them have been collated into the Rockwell Stage’s “semi-musical” play titled, of all things, Roar.
That of course is a reflection of the tune “recorded by Taylor Swift,” but Helen Reddy would be pleased nevertheless. If you have trouble telling your Katys and Demis from your Mileys and Gagas, or if you simply crave a wallow in today’s patented brand of tuneful girl power, this turbocharged performance would be a great way to get to know them better, know/Them better, know/Them better now. (Thanks again, Taylor.)
Calling Roar a “semi” musical is generous, given the flimsiness of director VP Boyle’s storyline linking the 25 songs. Quarreling marrieds (Matt Magnusson and Nicci Claspell), a Lesbian pair (Emily Morris and Kyra Selman), and an off-and-on threesome (Sebastian La Cause, Bianca Gisselle, and Briana Cuoco) use the pop hits to express their momentary pain or joy, as they meet in encounters marked by smoldering looks and anguished poses.
One person’s health crisis and another’s drinking problem lead to some sort of vague closure, and next to Roar, Mamma Mia!’s storyline starts to look as complex as Les Misérables. However, few will notice or care about the thin, fuzzy, narrative, as the Rockwell cast of seven bursts roaring out of its cage to throw itself into the cavalcade of angst-y celebration with committed abandon.
As performed with the sizzling accompaniment of musical director Brian P. Kennedy’s combo, most of the numbers reveal melodic sophistication and lyrical eloquence you may not have noticed on Sirius-XM as you’ve been driving along to them. (Kudos to Robert Bradley’s sound design for keeping the words intelligible over the din.) A trio of Demi Lovato’s—“Really Don’t Care,” “Heart Attack,” and “Skyscraper”—suggests she might have a stage musical or two in her, so closely tied are the songs to specific psychology. Sara Bareilles’s “Brave” becomes a plea for a vulnerable character to take control of her health when Lorde’s “Royals” is used as the patient’s retreat into depression and defeat.
Selman and Morris never get an opportunity to cut loose along the order of “Take Me or Leave Me” in Rent, but they make the most of their uninhibited moves as choreographed by Ambrose Respicio III. And speaking of Rent, the second act shift to heartbreak with Christine Perri’s “Human” offers a comforting parallel to “Seasons of Love.” Even when the situations seem derivative, the energy with which they’re played seems fresh—indeed, evergreen.
Rockwell Table and Stage
It’s been 43 years since Helen Reddy rocked the charts with her announcement “I am woman, hear me roar,” the foremost pop anthem echoing the feminist revolution of the 1970s. Divas have continued to warble messages of female empowerment—in numbers too big to ignore—well into this century, and many of them have been collated into the Rockwell Stage’s “semi-musical” play titled, of all things, Roar.
That of course is a reflection of the tune “recorded by Taylor Swift,” but Helen Reddy would be pleased nevertheless. If you have trouble telling your Katys and Demis from your Mileys and Gagas, or if you simply crave a wallow in today’s patented brand of tuneful girl power, this turbocharged performance would be a great way to get to know them better, know/Them better, know/Them better now. (Thanks again, Taylor.)
Calling Roar a “semi” musical is generous, given the flimsiness of director VP Boyle’s storyline linking the 25 songs. Quarreling marrieds (Matt Magnusson and Nicci Claspell), a Lesbian pair (Emily Morris and Kyra Selman), and an off-and-on threesome (Sebastian La Cause, Bianca Gisselle, and Briana Cuoco) use the pop hits to express their momentary pain or joy, as they meet in encounters marked by smoldering looks and anguished poses.
One person’s health crisis and another’s drinking problem lead to some sort of vague closure, and next to Roar, Mamma Mia!’s storyline starts to look as complex as Les Misérables. However, few will notice or care about the thin, fuzzy, narrative, as the Rockwell cast of seven bursts roaring out of its cage to throw itself into the cavalcade of angst-y celebration with committed abandon.
As performed with the sizzling accompaniment of musical director Brian P. Kennedy’s combo, most of the numbers reveal melodic sophistication and lyrical eloquence you may not have noticed on Sirius-XM as you’ve been driving along to them. (Kudos to Robert Bradley’s sound design for keeping the words intelligible over the din.) A trio of Demi Lovato’s—“Really Don’t Care,” “Heart Attack,” and “Skyscraper”—suggests she might have a stage musical or two in her, so closely tied are the songs to specific psychology. Sara Bareilles’s “Brave” becomes a plea for a vulnerable character to take control of her health when Lorde’s “Royals” is used as the patient’s retreat into depression and defeat.
Selman and Morris never get an opportunity to cut loose along the order of “Take Me or Leave Me” in Rent, but they make the most of their uninhibited moves as choreographed by Ambrose Respicio III. And speaking of Rent, the second act shift to heartbreak with Christine Perri’s “Human” offers a comforting parallel to “Seasons of Love.” Even when the situations seem derivative, the energy with which they’re played seems fresh—indeed, evergreen.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 15, 2014
What I Learned in Paris
The Colony Theatre
In 1973, Atlanta-based playwright Pearl Cleage served as speechwriter and press secretary to 35-year-old Maynard Jackson during his historic successful bid to become mayor of Atlanta—the first African American to be elected mayor of a major US city. Cleage has funneled this experience into a tame romantic sitcom, focusing on peripheral players in Jackson’s campaign. Helmed by Saundra McClain with a sense of comedic expediency more than thematic clarity, The Colony Theatre’s West Coast debut of What I Learned in Paris does not offer enough substance to warrant its two-and-a-half-hour running time, despite L. Scott Caldwell’s captivating turn as feminist warrior Evie.
Played out on Charles Erven’s period-perfect Atlanta apartment, the post-election night romantic shenanigans involve campaign wheeler-dealer J.P. Madison (William C. Mitchell), his youthful wife Ann (Joy Brunson), and his youthful campaign aide John Nelson (Shon Fuller). The problem lies in the fact that the two youthfuls are secretly in love, which could seriously jeopardize J.P.’s political aspirations. Observing from a not-so-safe-distance is campaign worker Lena Jefferson (Karen Kendrick). But the action moves into high gear with the arrival of J.P.’s ex-wife, Evie, who has acquired an overflowing cornucopia of feminist enlightenment since her self-imposed exile from Atlanta.
Cleage eschews the very real substance of the election to focus on a domestic schism that, in essence, could have happened anytime, anywhere. There is also the clunky device about J.P. and Ann’s original elopement that takes too much time to explain and lacks any thematic veracity. And despite frenzied action by all concerned, the only laugh-getter in this whole menagerie is Evie, who—despite a heroic effort by Caldwell—is given way too much to say and to do. Given Caldwell’s fluency, Cleage could have reduced this effort into the one-person Evie play. It would have gotten more laughs in a lot less time.
The play’s title refers to Evie’s post-marriage sojourn to Paris, where she finally learned to love herself purely as herself, gaining the confidence to openly explore the wonders of positive self-realization. And by play’s end, she easily casts aside everybody else’s problems, as well as her own. Along the way, the rest of the ensemble acquits itself, despite the dramatic throughline imbalance. Kendrick gives credible evidence that if her Lena had been allowed to break out more, she could have offered strong counterbalance to Evie. Mitchell is properly sputtering and intractable as J.P., knowing in his heart that he is no match for his ex. The best thing about Brunson’s Ann and Fuller’s Nelson is they project an endearing, totally callow understanding of adulthood.
The production values of this second installment of the Colony’s 40th season are admirable. Erven’s afore-mentioned setting is complemented by designers Dianne K. Graebner (costumes), Jared A. Sayeg (lights), Dave Mickey (sound), and Orlando del la Paz (scenic art).
The Colony Theatre
In 1973, Atlanta-based playwright Pearl Cleage served as speechwriter and press secretary to 35-year-old Maynard Jackson during his historic successful bid to become mayor of Atlanta—the first African American to be elected mayor of a major US city. Cleage has funneled this experience into a tame romantic sitcom, focusing on peripheral players in Jackson’s campaign. Helmed by Saundra McClain with a sense of comedic expediency more than thematic clarity, The Colony Theatre’s West Coast debut of What I Learned in Paris does not offer enough substance to warrant its two-and-a-half-hour running time, despite L. Scott Caldwell’s captivating turn as feminist warrior Evie.
Played out on Charles Erven’s period-perfect Atlanta apartment, the post-election night romantic shenanigans involve campaign wheeler-dealer J.P. Madison (William C. Mitchell), his youthful wife Ann (Joy Brunson), and his youthful campaign aide John Nelson (Shon Fuller). The problem lies in the fact that the two youthfuls are secretly in love, which could seriously jeopardize J.P.’s political aspirations. Observing from a not-so-safe-distance is campaign worker Lena Jefferson (Karen Kendrick). But the action moves into high gear with the arrival of J.P.’s ex-wife, Evie, who has acquired an overflowing cornucopia of feminist enlightenment since her self-imposed exile from Atlanta.
Cleage eschews the very real substance of the election to focus on a domestic schism that, in essence, could have happened anytime, anywhere. There is also the clunky device about J.P. and Ann’s original elopement that takes too much time to explain and lacks any thematic veracity. And despite frenzied action by all concerned, the only laugh-getter in this whole menagerie is Evie, who—despite a heroic effort by Caldwell—is given way too much to say and to do. Given Caldwell’s fluency, Cleage could have reduced this effort into the one-person Evie play. It would have gotten more laughs in a lot less time.
The play’s title refers to Evie’s post-marriage sojourn to Paris, where she finally learned to love herself purely as herself, gaining the confidence to openly explore the wonders of positive self-realization. And by play’s end, she easily casts aside everybody else’s problems, as well as her own. Along the way, the rest of the ensemble acquits itself, despite the dramatic throughline imbalance. Kendrick gives credible evidence that if her Lena had been allowed to break out more, she could have offered strong counterbalance to Evie. Mitchell is properly sputtering and intractable as J.P., knowing in his heart that he is no match for his ex. The best thing about Brunson’s Ann and Fuller’s Nelson is they project an endearing, totally callow understanding of adulthood.
The production values of this second installment of the Colony’s 40th season are admirable. Erven’s afore-mentioned setting is complemented by designers Dianne K. Graebner (costumes), Jared A. Sayeg (lights), Dave Mickey (sound), and Orlando del la Paz (scenic art).
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
September 15, 2014
Equivocation
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
Bill Cain’s Equivocation posits Shakespeare in crisis. Not surprisingly, the bard behaves much as his characters do when facing their great questions. Cain’s character, named Shag, cogitates: To write or not to write. That, plus sly commentary on creativity and politics, witty reflections on Shakespeare’s canon, and a universal point about parental love, thoroughly fill the two-and-a-half hours of this delicious play.
Shag (Ted Barton) is in the midst of writing King Lear and wrestling his unruly, very true-to-life acting troupe at the Globe, under the leadership of veteran actor Richard—presumably Burbage—(Franc Ross). Character actor Nate (Alan Blumenfeld) realizes it’s best to just say the lines, because he wants pay his mortgage. Incipient leading man Sharpe (Dane Oliver), however, wants to be “brilliant.” Armin (Paul Turbiak) wants to keep food off the scripts. Instead, they’re being asked to trudge across that rainy heath in their underwear.
That’s one conflict Cain creates. Another arises as King James’s henchman, aka prime minister, Robert Cecil (Blumenfeld, again) summons Shag to the palace and demands a play based on a manuscript by James. The play’s plot is to be the Powder Plot—presumably real, reputedly propaganda—which we know of as Guy Fawkes’s scheme to cause a massive explosion under Parliament, thereby killing the royal family and reinstalling Catholicism in England. Whether Cecil concocted the plot, or whether the government is using it to discredit Catholics, Shag must live with himself yet make a living.
Another character instigates Cain’s third conflict. She is Shag’s indomitable daughter, Judith (Taylor Jackson Ross), twin of his deceased and better-loved son. She, Cain proposes, is one reason Shakespeare was obsessed with twins and spent his last plays on fathers who threw away their daughters and suffered for it.
Mike Peebler directs Equivocation as a comedy with deep currents. Peebler gives the actors modern British accents (scholars debate whether those accents existed in Elizabethan England), but this helps differentiate among the characters. For example, Blumenfeld’s Cecil is veddy upper class, whereas his Nate is lower-middle class. Franc Ross’s Richard probably has the most accurate accent for the period: a clear but “rhotic” (pronouncing his Rs) speech.
As expected, considering Peebler’s long familiarity with the outdoor Theatricum Botanicum stage, he makes wonderful use of the area, creating Cecil’s office in the cozy loft above the theater’s entrance, placing Shag’s home against the sheltering structure at stage left, setting prison scenes in the second-story space, and of course using the expansive stage as the Globe. Best of all, Peebler choreographs the playing of a famous Shakespeare tragedy facing away from the audience, so we see the stagecraft in swordfights and beheadings.
The actors here throws themselves into the roles (all but Barton and Jackson Ross creating more than one), seeming to relish their time spent in Cain’s world. There’s not a misstep in the evening, and the opening-night audience, clearly Shakespeare-knowledgeable, caught every in-joke.
How ever could Shag handle his artistically volatile troupe? Turns out that the sense of fraternity among theatrical families is thicker than blood. How could he write a play for Cecil without violating his own sense of ethics and truth-telling? By equivocating. How can he finally see his daughter for who she is? Ah. That’s one of life’s mysteries even Cain can’t solve.
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
Bill Cain’s Equivocation posits Shakespeare in crisis. Not surprisingly, the bard behaves much as his characters do when facing their great questions. Cain’s character, named Shag, cogitates: To write or not to write. That, plus sly commentary on creativity and politics, witty reflections on Shakespeare’s canon, and a universal point about parental love, thoroughly fill the two-and-a-half hours of this delicious play.
Shag (Ted Barton) is in the midst of writing King Lear and wrestling his unruly, very true-to-life acting troupe at the Globe, under the leadership of veteran actor Richard—presumably Burbage—(Franc Ross). Character actor Nate (Alan Blumenfeld) realizes it’s best to just say the lines, because he wants pay his mortgage. Incipient leading man Sharpe (Dane Oliver), however, wants to be “brilliant.” Armin (Paul Turbiak) wants to keep food off the scripts. Instead, they’re being asked to trudge across that rainy heath in their underwear.
That’s one conflict Cain creates. Another arises as King James’s henchman, aka prime minister, Robert Cecil (Blumenfeld, again) summons Shag to the palace and demands a play based on a manuscript by James. The play’s plot is to be the Powder Plot—presumably real, reputedly propaganda—which we know of as Guy Fawkes’s scheme to cause a massive explosion under Parliament, thereby killing the royal family and reinstalling Catholicism in England. Whether Cecil concocted the plot, or whether the government is using it to discredit Catholics, Shag must live with himself yet make a living.
Another character instigates Cain’s third conflict. She is Shag’s indomitable daughter, Judith (Taylor Jackson Ross), twin of his deceased and better-loved son. She, Cain proposes, is one reason Shakespeare was obsessed with twins and spent his last plays on fathers who threw away their daughters and suffered for it.
Mike Peebler directs Equivocation as a comedy with deep currents. Peebler gives the actors modern British accents (scholars debate whether those accents existed in Elizabethan England), but this helps differentiate among the characters. For example, Blumenfeld’s Cecil is veddy upper class, whereas his Nate is lower-middle class. Franc Ross’s Richard probably has the most accurate accent for the period: a clear but “rhotic” (pronouncing his Rs) speech.
As expected, considering Peebler’s long familiarity with the outdoor Theatricum Botanicum stage, he makes wonderful use of the area, creating Cecil’s office in the cozy loft above the theater’s entrance, placing Shag’s home against the sheltering structure at stage left, setting prison scenes in the second-story space, and of course using the expansive stage as the Globe. Best of all, Peebler choreographs the playing of a famous Shakespeare tragedy facing away from the audience, so we see the stagecraft in swordfights and beheadings.
The actors here throws themselves into the roles (all but Barton and Jackson Ross creating more than one), seeming to relish their time spent in Cain’s world. There’s not a misstep in the evening, and the opening-night audience, clearly Shakespeare-knowledgeable, caught every in-joke.
How ever could Shag handle his artistically volatile troupe? Turns out that the sense of fraternity among theatrical families is thicker than blood. How could he write a play for Cecil without violating his own sense of ethics and truth-telling? By equivocating. How can he finally see his daughter for who she is? Ah. That’s one of life’s mysteries even Cain can’t solve.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 9, 2014
September 9, 2014
Race
Kirk Douglas Theatre
There was a time when seeing a new play by David Mamet promised an evening charged with electricity, a guaranteed celebration of just how stimulating and provocative art can be if the artist is willing to not give a proverbial rat’s ass what people will think. With the LA debut of Mamet’s newest play at the Douglas, however, all the circuits have been connected with the precise hand of a long-established pro, but the resulting charge is simply not the intense jolt it used to be.
Race unfolds in one room: the conference room of a well-heeled big-city law office, where partners Jack Lawson (Chris Bauer) and Henry Brown (Dominic Hoffman) are grilling a potential client to decide if they are willing to take on his controversial case. As the firm’s comely intern Susan (DeWanda Wise) sits unobtrusively in the background taking notes on the meeting, pompous business mogul Charles Strickland (Jonno Roberts), accused of raping a young black girl he had been dating, grudgingly and half-heartedly tells his side of the events.
It’s fairly apparent Strickland chose this firm to take his case, after releasing another, mainly because of the partners’ make-up. Lawson is white, Brown is African-American. One would assume the question would be whether the partners believe the man’s story, but, as Lawson sermonizes to his protégée Susan, the man’s innocence or guilt is unimportant. Instead, the question is whether or not they can persuade the jury that he’s innocent. “He gets off,” Lawson pontificates, “because his entertainer—that would be me—put on a better show.” Asked at one point by Susan, who is also African-American, whether somewhere down deep he thinks black people are less intelligent than whites, Lawson quickly counters that he thinks all people are stupid and blacks are not exempt.
Under Scott Zigler’s crisply slick direction, the production features a dynamic cast and design team that would be hard to better. And even though Mamet has created Susan as far more three-dimensional and instrumental to the plot than are any of his past female characters, something is missing here, especially in the play’s highly predictable ending. The language and themes—not to mention the title—are just as provocative as in those exciting old Glengarry Glen Ross and American Buffalo days, but somehow the writing doesn’t pack the wallop one would expect from one of our time’s most courageous—and most feted—wordsmiths.
Perhaps we’ve all become inured to the sharply barbed language and skewering one-liners a new play by Mamet promises to deliver. Or perhaps the playwright has reached that place in his renown where he does give that aforementioned rat’s ass after all. It’s just that the usual rat-a-tat-tat urgency of his brilliant, daring early work seems somewhat subdued here. But don’t give up hope. This is a guy with a few surprises up his sleeve yet, especially if he goes back to revisit that brashly youthful time when he didn’t care what his audiences’—or his critics’—reaction would be.
Kirk Douglas Theatre
There was a time when seeing a new play by David Mamet promised an evening charged with electricity, a guaranteed celebration of just how stimulating and provocative art can be if the artist is willing to not give a proverbial rat’s ass what people will think. With the LA debut of Mamet’s newest play at the Douglas, however, all the circuits have been connected with the precise hand of a long-established pro, but the resulting charge is simply not the intense jolt it used to be.
Race unfolds in one room: the conference room of a well-heeled big-city law office, where partners Jack Lawson (Chris Bauer) and Henry Brown (Dominic Hoffman) are grilling a potential client to decide if they are willing to take on his controversial case. As the firm’s comely intern Susan (DeWanda Wise) sits unobtrusively in the background taking notes on the meeting, pompous business mogul Charles Strickland (Jonno Roberts), accused of raping a young black girl he had been dating, grudgingly and half-heartedly tells his side of the events.
It’s fairly apparent Strickland chose this firm to take his case, after releasing another, mainly because of the partners’ make-up. Lawson is white, Brown is African-American. One would assume the question would be whether the partners believe the man’s story, but, as Lawson sermonizes to his protégée Susan, the man’s innocence or guilt is unimportant. Instead, the question is whether or not they can persuade the jury that he’s innocent. “He gets off,” Lawson pontificates, “because his entertainer—that would be me—put on a better show.” Asked at one point by Susan, who is also African-American, whether somewhere down deep he thinks black people are less intelligent than whites, Lawson quickly counters that he thinks all people are stupid and blacks are not exempt.
Under Scott Zigler’s crisply slick direction, the production features a dynamic cast and design team that would be hard to better. And even though Mamet has created Susan as far more three-dimensional and instrumental to the plot than are any of his past female characters, something is missing here, especially in the play’s highly predictable ending. The language and themes—not to mention the title—are just as provocative as in those exciting old Glengarry Glen Ross and American Buffalo days, but somehow the writing doesn’t pack the wallop one would expect from one of our time’s most courageous—and most feted—wordsmiths.
Perhaps we’ve all become inured to the sharply barbed language and skewering one-liners a new play by Mamet promises to deliver. Or perhaps the playwright has reached that place in his renown where he does give that aforementioned rat’s ass after all. It’s just that the usual rat-a-tat-tat urgency of his brilliant, daring early work seems somewhat subdued here. But don’t give up hope. This is a guy with a few surprises up his sleeve yet, especially if he goes back to revisit that brashly youthful time when he didn’t care what his audiences’—or his critics’—reaction would be.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
September 8, 2014
September 8, 2014
Persians
Getty Villa’s Barbara and Lawrence Fleischman Theater
The weighty ideas expressed in this piece have retained their potency from nearly 2,500 years ago. The skills and vibrancy of the actors here are flawless. Had the two elements meshed, this would be a perfect production.
Aaron Poochigian’s translation of Aeschylus’s tragedies—said to be the oldest surviving pieces of Western dramatic literature—retains the majesty of a classical work while letting the audience relax into the language and concepts. When the ghost of King Dareius asks how his son’s ego-driven invasion of a powerful neighboring nation can be anything but “brain disease,” who can help but nod in recognition and agreement? When his son Xerxes, the current king of Persia, returns from battle, only to say he suffers afresh from lack of a parade, it’s horrifyingly clear this defeated leader’s ego remains while his countrymen lost everything.
Any of the audience’s connection to the text is also due to the deeply committed work by the actors. Stephen Duff Webber, playing Dareius, turns that apparitional persona not into a somberly grandiose specter but instead into the court jester: speaking truths but with all the irony and liveliness one expects from the mentor archetype. Gian-Murray Gianino, playing Xerxes, emits all the self-delusion of the spoiled firstborn son, oblivious to the catastrophe he has caused by invading Greece. Playing the messenger, leaning on a weathered oar for a long, long, long time, Will Bond recites a history lesson and turns it into an action-adventure saga as he describes atheists in foxholes.
However, the magnificence of Ellen Lauren, playing the queen, trumps all. Widow of Dareius, mother of Xerxes, Lauren’s queen feels the weight of both men’s choices and the current responsibility of being the sole clear-sighted one left at the top. Clarity of speech, electrifyingly intense physicality, and an apparently profound understanding of the text mark Lauren’s work.
These actors, and those playing the ever-present chorus, form the SITI company, Anne Bogart’s longtime ensemble. Intensively trained by Bogart, the actors work in a uniform and awe-inspiring style. They have firm, purposeful walks, their bare feet nearly as expressive as their speech. Some voices sounded forced and raspy in the huge outdoor space of the Getty Villa on opening night, one actor has an impenetrable accent, but otherwise the delivery is clear and “natural.”
In Brian H Scott’s design, broken bits of giant, presumably Greek, statuary litter the stage. Gold curtains forming the upstage wall rend as figures emerge, and the queen’s gold veil and long train leave a trail of meaningless wealth. All wealth is worthless in the underworld, Dareius points out.
But the audience spends its energy watching these things, not feeling them, not becoming immersed in the storytelling. Bogart’s choreography, consisting of references to Greek dance and Greek pictorial art, is just that and not welling up from the characters. After all, isn’t our hope for catharsis—a Greek word—the reason we go to theater?
Getty Villa’s Barbara and Lawrence Fleischman Theater
The weighty ideas expressed in this piece have retained their potency from nearly 2,500 years ago. The skills and vibrancy of the actors here are flawless. Had the two elements meshed, this would be a perfect production.
Aaron Poochigian’s translation of Aeschylus’s tragedies—said to be the oldest surviving pieces of Western dramatic literature—retains the majesty of a classical work while letting the audience relax into the language and concepts. When the ghost of King Dareius asks how his son’s ego-driven invasion of a powerful neighboring nation can be anything but “brain disease,” who can help but nod in recognition and agreement? When his son Xerxes, the current king of Persia, returns from battle, only to say he suffers afresh from lack of a parade, it’s horrifyingly clear this defeated leader’s ego remains while his countrymen lost everything.
Any of the audience’s connection to the text is also due to the deeply committed work by the actors. Stephen Duff Webber, playing Dareius, turns that apparitional persona not into a somberly grandiose specter but instead into the court jester: speaking truths but with all the irony and liveliness one expects from the mentor archetype. Gian-Murray Gianino, playing Xerxes, emits all the self-delusion of the spoiled firstborn son, oblivious to the catastrophe he has caused by invading Greece. Playing the messenger, leaning on a weathered oar for a long, long, long time, Will Bond recites a history lesson and turns it into an action-adventure saga as he describes atheists in foxholes.
However, the magnificence of Ellen Lauren, playing the queen, trumps all. Widow of Dareius, mother of Xerxes, Lauren’s queen feels the weight of both men’s choices and the current responsibility of being the sole clear-sighted one left at the top. Clarity of speech, electrifyingly intense physicality, and an apparently profound understanding of the text mark Lauren’s work.
These actors, and those playing the ever-present chorus, form the SITI company, Anne Bogart’s longtime ensemble. Intensively trained by Bogart, the actors work in a uniform and awe-inspiring style. They have firm, purposeful walks, their bare feet nearly as expressive as their speech. Some voices sounded forced and raspy in the huge outdoor space of the Getty Villa on opening night, one actor has an impenetrable accent, but otherwise the delivery is clear and “natural.”
In Brian H Scott’s design, broken bits of giant, presumably Greek, statuary litter the stage. Gold curtains forming the upstage wall rend as figures emerge, and the queen’s gold veil and long train leave a trail of meaningless wealth. All wealth is worthless in the underworld, Dareius points out.
But the audience spends its energy watching these things, not feeling them, not becoming immersed in the storytelling. Bogart’s choreography, consisting of references to Greek dance and Greek pictorial art, is just that and not welling up from the characters. After all, isn’t our hope for catharsis—a Greek word—the reason we go to theater?
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
September 5, 2014
September 5, 2014
Psyche: A Modern Rock Opera
Greenway Court Theatre
The unarguable triumph of Psyche: A Modern Rock Opera is the choreography of Janet Roston, which sets a company of 10, many of them veterans of university ballet and modern-dance programs, to dizzying displays of complex movement. From their first worshipful celebration of the young Psyche (Ashley Ruth Jones), through their incarnation of various spirits and demons doing the bidding of vengeful Greek gods, the ensemble is continuously expressive and interesting.
At several points Roston and director Michael Matthews bring in trapezes for airborne acrobatics; they’re not as impressive as the aerial work we’ll see at the Pantages in Pippin next month, yet somehow, perhaps because of their proximity to us, they come across as even more moving.
In other respects, expressive, moving, and interesting are not adjectives that can be consistently applied to Cindy Shapiro’s two-and-a-quarter hour, through-sung, atonal Emo retelling, in semi-modern terms, of the myth of Psyche and Cupid (here called Eros, perhaps to avoid any distracting hint of Valentine’s Day). Her score is one long moan, dynamically scored (by musical director Jack Wall) but lacking in eloquence and dramatic tension; the characters sing what they’re feeling and rarely if ever use the music to make decisions or create action. “Life is so difficult I cannot bear it / I might as well end it” is typical of the on-the-money nature of the lyrics, and the device of having singers repeat their verbs (“You must follow, follow”; “It’s time to travel, travel”) grows stale.
Despite five pages’ worth of program notes and synopsis, and excellent sound design by Cricket Myers, it proves virtually impossible to follow the narrative via visual or aural means; the existence of those five pages is actually a pretty potent hint that someone fears the audience won’t catch on. Our lifeline, and the sole source of the evening’s wit, is projected footnotes (yep, still more commentary) to tell us what has just occurred or what is being said, which proves helpful but clunky. Often the comments are downright sassy, as in “Psyche is fucked” or “Eros is fucked.” What’s significant here is that the spectator would have absolutely no way of discerning the fuckedness of either character in the absence of those side notes, a sure sign that something on stage is simply not communicating.
If this work is to have a life beyond its six-week engagement at the Greenway Court, Shapiro might do well to introduce Psyche is such a way as to earn our empathy and interest. Right now she’s a construct who never comes alive as a character, and thus she inspires indifference. Shapiro would also be wise not to banish Eros (Michael Starr, an impressively chiseled hunk o’ beefcake) to the attic for the entirety of Act Two, like the first Mrs. Rochester; give him a love song to remind us he’s there, for Pete’s sake, and maybe one with a melody we can turn our ears and hearts around to, for once. And Eros is both the son and lover of Aphrodite (Laura L. Thomas, lively if pitchy); couldn’t more be done with that?
Despite all the great dancing and strong production values, Psyche: A Modern Rock Opera never escapes its crippling, pretentious self-importance. The soul of humanity, so the Greek myths tell us, was born at the hands of Psyche. Greater infusions of humanity couldn’t do Psyche any harm, for sure.
Greenway Court Theatre
The unarguable triumph of Psyche: A Modern Rock Opera is the choreography of Janet Roston, which sets a company of 10, many of them veterans of university ballet and modern-dance programs, to dizzying displays of complex movement. From their first worshipful celebration of the young Psyche (Ashley Ruth Jones), through their incarnation of various spirits and demons doing the bidding of vengeful Greek gods, the ensemble is continuously expressive and interesting.
At several points Roston and director Michael Matthews bring in trapezes for airborne acrobatics; they’re not as impressive as the aerial work we’ll see at the Pantages in Pippin next month, yet somehow, perhaps because of their proximity to us, they come across as even more moving.
In other respects, expressive, moving, and interesting are not adjectives that can be consistently applied to Cindy Shapiro’s two-and-a-quarter hour, through-sung, atonal Emo retelling, in semi-modern terms, of the myth of Psyche and Cupid (here called Eros, perhaps to avoid any distracting hint of Valentine’s Day). Her score is one long moan, dynamically scored (by musical director Jack Wall) but lacking in eloquence and dramatic tension; the characters sing what they’re feeling and rarely if ever use the music to make decisions or create action. “Life is so difficult I cannot bear it / I might as well end it” is typical of the on-the-money nature of the lyrics, and the device of having singers repeat their verbs (“You must follow, follow”; “It’s time to travel, travel”) grows stale.
Despite five pages’ worth of program notes and synopsis, and excellent sound design by Cricket Myers, it proves virtually impossible to follow the narrative via visual or aural means; the existence of those five pages is actually a pretty potent hint that someone fears the audience won’t catch on. Our lifeline, and the sole source of the evening’s wit, is projected footnotes (yep, still more commentary) to tell us what has just occurred or what is being said, which proves helpful but clunky. Often the comments are downright sassy, as in “Psyche is fucked” or “Eros is fucked.” What’s significant here is that the spectator would have absolutely no way of discerning the fuckedness of either character in the absence of those side notes, a sure sign that something on stage is simply not communicating.
If this work is to have a life beyond its six-week engagement at the Greenway Court, Shapiro might do well to introduce Psyche is such a way as to earn our empathy and interest. Right now she’s a construct who never comes alive as a character, and thus she inspires indifference. Shapiro would also be wise not to banish Eros (Michael Starr, an impressively chiseled hunk o’ beefcake) to the attic for the entirety of Act Two, like the first Mrs. Rochester; give him a love song to remind us he’s there, for Pete’s sake, and maybe one with a melody we can turn our ears and hearts around to, for once. And Eros is both the son and lover of Aphrodite (Laura L. Thomas, lively if pitchy); couldn’t more be done with that?
Despite all the great dancing and strong production values, Psyche: A Modern Rock Opera never escapes its crippling, pretentious self-importance. The soul of humanity, so the Greek myths tell us, was born at the hands of Psyche. Greater infusions of humanity couldn’t do Psyche any harm, for sure.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
September 1, 2014
September 1, 2014
The Threepenny Opera
Garage Theater and Alive Theater
Productions of this difficult but essential classic are rare enough that any chance to see it performed is a reason for celebration, even a version that’s as spotty and problematic as the one currently at the Garage Theater “in collision with” Alive Theater.
Two things they get very right. The scale of the piece, as marshalled by director Eric Hamme, is everything Brecht could have wished for. As the title suggests, this opera was intended for the masses, who in Weimar Republic days could just about scrape up three pennies to go in and find out, in song and story, how the System was designed to screw them. The Garage mise en scene really looks like it was assembled in a garage—with dirty, oily blankets on the walls and a profound sense of depressing cheap everywhere.
The musical accompaniment is also spot-on, with Ellen Warkentine at the keyboard directing a little band perfectly suited to Weill’s wily, insidious melodies of corruption and decay. The familiar sounds are all there—trumpet, trombone, banjo, percussion—and not so much blended together as clashing together, exactly as one suspects the composer intended.
I wish the voicing of the lyrics had gotten the same thoughtful attention, but, even in this tiny house with no more than 30 seats, the singing is muddy from beginning to end. This, Brecht would consider, is not an aesthetic but an ideological flaw, as the commentaries on barbarity and the human condition are largely contained in the songs. When they can’t be made out, you’re left with the equivalent of a Hasty Pudding Show, which makes it way too easy for any spectator to tune out the politics.
It’s not even about sloppy diction. Well, it is about sloppy diction, but more than that, the stagings serve to subvert the intent. Solo numbers are way too overstaged: Ashley Elizabeth Allen’s rendition of “Pirate Jenny,” for instance, is preciously acted out line by line, rendering the great satirical ballad unwatchable. The group numbers, for their part, are far too mechanical and echt-Broadway, instead of trying for a pickup style paralleling the musicians’ offhand manner (Angela Lopez is credited with choreography).
This Threepenny retreats too readily and too often to the banality of traditional musical staging. The most troublesome aspect is that the play is played with a veritable absence of feeling. It’s a profound misunderstanding, not to say betrayal, of Brecht to banish sincerity and emotional reality from the stage. Indeed, it’s the counterpoint between the deepest feelings of truly invested characters and the sociopolitical critique offered by the actors inhabiting those characters that makes for a stimulating experience that is uniquely Brechtian.
Take Mr. Peachum (Mark Piatelli), London’s master organizer of beggars and calamity. He certainly has the capitalist system all figured out in his instructional musical numbers. But when he’s not singing, he must be ruthless in attempting to protect the encroachment on his criminal affairs by his new son-in-law, the notorious Macheath, aka Mack the Knife (Robert Edward). Peachum has thousands of pounds at stake, and the plot confirms that his house of cards could fall at any moment. Yet in the book scenes, Piatelli is as sanguine and unconcerned as a song-and-dance smoothie. If he’s not threatened by anything, why should we get involved?
And he’s not the only one. Allen’s Polly Peachum has evidently been directed to ape Miley Cyrus from beginning to end. She twirks and preens and stamps her feet, and never for a moment makes us accept her supposed passion for Mackie. Ditto Sarah Chaffin as her rival Lucy, putting air quotes around every line. Ditto Thomas Amerman as Tiger Brown and Jason Bowe as Matthew, professing feelings for their old pal Mack that their casual, “whatever” manner belies. There’s barely a believable moment among these five; all play smug cynicism on the top, with nothing beneath.
Three exceptions stand out, and they’re so strong they—along with the ambience and music—make this production worth a trip to Long Beach. All of the gals are garishly painted up like the glum whores of Cabaret, but only the mascara of Dana Benedict as Low-Dive Jenny looks like it’s been running because of genuine tears. Benedict’s Jenny is clearly moved by the events of the play. So is—in a different vein—musical director Warkentine, popping in for double duty as a benighted, blinking, half-conscious Mrs. Peachum. Her emotional reality is a comical one, garnered at the bottom of an absinthe bottle, but it’s palpable nonetheless.
Best of all is Edward’s Macheath, who with his tiny mustache, slicked-back hair, and blazing eyes looks like he just stepped out of a George Grosz caricature. Roaring of the world’s betrayals, he’s both philosophical and hurt to the quick, thus capturing the blend of personal commitment and political consciousness that The Threepenny Opera demands. (He also looks and sounds uncannily reminiscent of Raul Julia, the strongest Mack of my lifetime.) That Mack is offstage for much of the second and third acts is unfortunate, but all of Edward’s appearances are to be relished and remind us how this material could work.
A final cavil, minor but expanding in annoyance over the course of three and a half hours. How come no one, not even Edward, can properly pronounce the two mighty syllables of the lead character’s name? The guy isn’t nicknamed “Mick the Knife,” after all, and to insist on making him sound like a sandwich sold at the Golden Arches up the street is ridiculous. What’s next for the Garage? A revival of “McBeth”?
Garage Theater and Alive Theater
Productions of this difficult but essential classic are rare enough that any chance to see it performed is a reason for celebration, even a version that’s as spotty and problematic as the one currently at the Garage Theater “in collision with” Alive Theater.
Two things they get very right. The scale of the piece, as marshalled by director Eric Hamme, is everything Brecht could have wished for. As the title suggests, this opera was intended for the masses, who in Weimar Republic days could just about scrape up three pennies to go in and find out, in song and story, how the System was designed to screw them. The Garage mise en scene really looks like it was assembled in a garage—with dirty, oily blankets on the walls and a profound sense of depressing cheap everywhere.
The musical accompaniment is also spot-on, with Ellen Warkentine at the keyboard directing a little band perfectly suited to Weill’s wily, insidious melodies of corruption and decay. The familiar sounds are all there—trumpet, trombone, banjo, percussion—and not so much blended together as clashing together, exactly as one suspects the composer intended.
I wish the voicing of the lyrics had gotten the same thoughtful attention, but, even in this tiny house with no more than 30 seats, the singing is muddy from beginning to end. This, Brecht would consider, is not an aesthetic but an ideological flaw, as the commentaries on barbarity and the human condition are largely contained in the songs. When they can’t be made out, you’re left with the equivalent of a Hasty Pudding Show, which makes it way too easy for any spectator to tune out the politics.
It’s not even about sloppy diction. Well, it is about sloppy diction, but more than that, the stagings serve to subvert the intent. Solo numbers are way too overstaged: Ashley Elizabeth Allen’s rendition of “Pirate Jenny,” for instance, is preciously acted out line by line, rendering the great satirical ballad unwatchable. The group numbers, for their part, are far too mechanical and echt-Broadway, instead of trying for a pickup style paralleling the musicians’ offhand manner (Angela Lopez is credited with choreography).
This Threepenny retreats too readily and too often to the banality of traditional musical staging. The most troublesome aspect is that the play is played with a veritable absence of feeling. It’s a profound misunderstanding, not to say betrayal, of Brecht to banish sincerity and emotional reality from the stage. Indeed, it’s the counterpoint between the deepest feelings of truly invested characters and the sociopolitical critique offered by the actors inhabiting those characters that makes for a stimulating experience that is uniquely Brechtian.
Take Mr. Peachum (Mark Piatelli), London’s master organizer of beggars and calamity. He certainly has the capitalist system all figured out in his instructional musical numbers. But when he’s not singing, he must be ruthless in attempting to protect the encroachment on his criminal affairs by his new son-in-law, the notorious Macheath, aka Mack the Knife (Robert Edward). Peachum has thousands of pounds at stake, and the plot confirms that his house of cards could fall at any moment. Yet in the book scenes, Piatelli is as sanguine and unconcerned as a song-and-dance smoothie. If he’s not threatened by anything, why should we get involved?
And he’s not the only one. Allen’s Polly Peachum has evidently been directed to ape Miley Cyrus from beginning to end. She twirks and preens and stamps her feet, and never for a moment makes us accept her supposed passion for Mackie. Ditto Sarah Chaffin as her rival Lucy, putting air quotes around every line. Ditto Thomas Amerman as Tiger Brown and Jason Bowe as Matthew, professing feelings for their old pal Mack that their casual, “whatever” manner belies. There’s barely a believable moment among these five; all play smug cynicism on the top, with nothing beneath.
Three exceptions stand out, and they’re so strong they—along with the ambience and music—make this production worth a trip to Long Beach. All of the gals are garishly painted up like the glum whores of Cabaret, but only the mascara of Dana Benedict as Low-Dive Jenny looks like it’s been running because of genuine tears. Benedict’s Jenny is clearly moved by the events of the play. So is—in a different vein—musical director Warkentine, popping in for double duty as a benighted, blinking, half-conscious Mrs. Peachum. Her emotional reality is a comical one, garnered at the bottom of an absinthe bottle, but it’s palpable nonetheless.
Best of all is Edward’s Macheath, who with his tiny mustache, slicked-back hair, and blazing eyes looks like he just stepped out of a George Grosz caricature. Roaring of the world’s betrayals, he’s both philosophical and hurt to the quick, thus capturing the blend of personal commitment and political consciousness that The Threepenny Opera demands. (He also looks and sounds uncannily reminiscent of Raul Julia, the strongest Mack of my lifetime.) That Mack is offstage for much of the second and third acts is unfortunate, but all of Edward’s appearances are to be relished and remind us how this material could work.
A final cavil, minor but expanding in annoyance over the course of three and a half hours. How come no one, not even Edward, can properly pronounce the two mighty syllables of the lead character’s name? The guy isn’t nicknamed “Mick the Knife,” after all, and to insist on making him sound like a sandwich sold at the Golden Arches up the street is ridiculous. What’s next for the Garage? A revival of “McBeth”?
Reviewed by Bob Verini
August 26, 2014
August 26, 2014
Trying
International City Theatre
A theatrical reminiscence by Joanna McClelland Glass about a time when she served as secretary to Judge Francis Biddle gets a standout production at International City Theatre. Its casting choices—Tony Abatemarco playing Biddle, Paige Lindsey White as his assistant Sarah “with an h”—make the very literate and demanding script a thoughtful and intimate view of two people whose lives are changing.
Biddle, a judge at the Nuremberg trials and former attorney general of the United States under Franklin Roosevelt during World War II, is 82 and declares that this will be the last year of his life. He claims, “The exit sign is flashing over the door.” Sarah is one in a long string of women who have worked for him, mostly unsuccessfully, and she has been urged by Biddle’s wife to try to work with him in spite of his curmudgeonly ways.
Sarah is from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and credits her Canadian prairie roots for her ability to prevail over Biddle’s dictatorial pronouncements. She admires his record and wants to make this part-time job work.
Abatemarco inhabits Biddle most convincingly; his transformation into a cantankerous octogenarian with increasing lapses of memory and physical ailments is commanding. White has her work cut out for her to hold her own against Abatemarco’s rich characterization and dialogue, but she gives her character subtle nuances and agreeable charm.
Glass packs a heap of history and literature into her script. Biddle’s ancestor, Virginian Edmund Randolph, was the country’s first attorney general. Most of his siblings had notable careers. Some melancholy days at Groton and then Harvard come into focus, though he is definitely a proponent of an Ivy League education. At least it looks that way to Sarah, a fact that comes up early in her employment.
Glass credits Biddle with deep regret over his part in America’s internment of Japanese-American citizens during the war. He interjects much of his past into moments with Sarah as he relies more and more on her. He is delighted to learn that she likes poetry, as his wife is poet Katherine Chapin. They share a fondness for e. e. cummings, and throughout the production Biddle quotes from respected writers. He is particularly distressed by grammatical errors, and chides Sarah for her use of split infinitives.
Director John Henry Davis keeps the action lively in spite of the erudite nature of the play. He finds ways to shine a light on White in the midst of Abatemarco’s imposing presence. Over time, as Sarah becomes more important to Biddle’s welfare, he adjusts the mood accordingly.
JR Bruce’s inventive set with books stacked sky high sets the tone for the scholarly discourse. The set of stairs stage right leading from Biddle’s home to his office plays a role in watching him grow more and more frail.
Dave Mickey’s sound design uses Simon and Garfunkel, the Beatles, and other popular groups of the 1960s to help anchor the audience in the time period. Also, radio clips of significant events like Martin Luther King’s assassination keeps that going as scenes change. Donna Ruzika’s lighting design works well with the overall mood.
Though audiences in Los Angeles tend to stand in appreciation at the end of plays, the instantaneous and universal acclamation on the night attended speaks volumes for the recognition that this is a special play. It is passionate, humorous, and intelligent throughout. By play’s end, the “trying,” by all involved, to make the relationship work proves a success.
International City Theatre
A theatrical reminiscence by Joanna McClelland Glass about a time when she served as secretary to Judge Francis Biddle gets a standout production at International City Theatre. Its casting choices—Tony Abatemarco playing Biddle, Paige Lindsey White as his assistant Sarah “with an h”—make the very literate and demanding script a thoughtful and intimate view of two people whose lives are changing.
Biddle, a judge at the Nuremberg trials and former attorney general of the United States under Franklin Roosevelt during World War II, is 82 and declares that this will be the last year of his life. He claims, “The exit sign is flashing over the door.” Sarah is one in a long string of women who have worked for him, mostly unsuccessfully, and she has been urged by Biddle’s wife to try to work with him in spite of his curmudgeonly ways.
Sarah is from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and credits her Canadian prairie roots for her ability to prevail over Biddle’s dictatorial pronouncements. She admires his record and wants to make this part-time job work.
Abatemarco inhabits Biddle most convincingly; his transformation into a cantankerous octogenarian with increasing lapses of memory and physical ailments is commanding. White has her work cut out for her to hold her own against Abatemarco’s rich characterization and dialogue, but she gives her character subtle nuances and agreeable charm.
Glass packs a heap of history and literature into her script. Biddle’s ancestor, Virginian Edmund Randolph, was the country’s first attorney general. Most of his siblings had notable careers. Some melancholy days at Groton and then Harvard come into focus, though he is definitely a proponent of an Ivy League education. At least it looks that way to Sarah, a fact that comes up early in her employment.
Glass credits Biddle with deep regret over his part in America’s internment of Japanese-American citizens during the war. He interjects much of his past into moments with Sarah as he relies more and more on her. He is delighted to learn that she likes poetry, as his wife is poet Katherine Chapin. They share a fondness for e. e. cummings, and throughout the production Biddle quotes from respected writers. He is particularly distressed by grammatical errors, and chides Sarah for her use of split infinitives.
Director John Henry Davis keeps the action lively in spite of the erudite nature of the play. He finds ways to shine a light on White in the midst of Abatemarco’s imposing presence. Over time, as Sarah becomes more important to Biddle’s welfare, he adjusts the mood accordingly.
JR Bruce’s inventive set with books stacked sky high sets the tone for the scholarly discourse. The set of stairs stage right leading from Biddle’s home to his office plays a role in watching him grow more and more frail.
Dave Mickey’s sound design uses Simon and Garfunkel, the Beatles, and other popular groups of the 1960s to help anchor the audience in the time period. Also, radio clips of significant events like Martin Luther King’s assassination keeps that going as scenes change. Donna Ruzika’s lighting design works well with the overall mood.
Though audiences in Los Angeles tend to stand in appreciation at the end of plays, the instantaneous and universal acclamation on the night attended speaks volumes for the recognition that this is a special play. It is passionate, humorous, and intelligent throughout. By play’s end, the “trying,” by all involved, to make the relationship work proves a success.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
August 24, 2014
August 24, 2014
I Wanna Hold Your Hand
Theatre of NOTE
Erik Patterson is a master wordsmith, and anytime his impressive skills descend upon the LA theatrical community, they’re worth a look. His debuting I Wanna Hold Your Hand might be his most personal effort yet.
The play was inspired by the real-life battle with a brain aneurysm and subsequent stroke that nearly killed Patterson’s best friend, Uma Nithipalan, a nightmare that forever changed the lives of the well-loved local theater actor and her steadfast husband, composer John Ballinger. While camped out for an agonizing week in a sterile hospital waiting room praying for Uma to wake from a coma, the playwright was offhandedly challenged to one day write a play about her ordeal—and Patterson is a guy who doesn’t take challenges lightly.
I Wanna Hold Your Hand begins in one of those antiseptic hospital waiting rooms where brother and sister Paul and Julia (understudy Jonathon Lamer and the play’s co-producer Alina Phelan), are holding vigil for their mother (Judith Ann Levitt) lying in the adjoining ICU, felled in the same manner as Nithipalan. They are joined by Julia’s actor husband (Keston John) and a sleeping, blanket-covered father we never meet, whose vigil ended early on when news his teenage son’s fight for his own life ended tragically. Before long, another watcher joins the group: a terrified young woman named Ada (Kirsten Vangsness) who has been summoned there after her fiancé of only a few hours is admitted in the same dire circumstances.
The play chronicles the bittersweet connections that are often sparked between strangers at the time of unimaginable tragedy and the fragility of that condition that can also lead to frustrating missed connections. Patterson has created a touching and often humorous journey through the struggles that befall—and mostly strengthen—the lives of those afflicted, made all the better by a dynamic, gifted, and committed ensemble cast. Phelan and Vangsness are especially compelling to watch, particularly in one later scene together when what might be a relationship-shattering talk is thwarted in favor of maintaining their friendship, something both women at this point desperately need to hold onto.
Still, the most memorable performance of the evening is turned in by Phil Ward as Ada’s intended, the only partially recovered Frank, a character we are privileged to watch try courageously to regain his speech and his dignity, and fight to get his life back. Although Patterson has created a most promising new play, it is still somewhat a work in progress. Something is missing in the text, which aims to confront a subject near and dear to the writer yet surprisingly never goes as far off-center as his plays usually do. Part of this palpable sense of incompletion lingers in those missed connections, often suggested but not tackled as completely as they could be, and part of it is the Beatles-instigated theme that never materializes quite as successfully as it could. Even though Paul prays to the group’s dead members instead of the god he has lost belief in, and considering the fact that Levitt’s feisty mother was a diehard Beatles fan who named her children after one of the boys and the dead mother immortalized in one of their most beautiful ballads, the correlation never goes beyond the insinuation of more to come.
The other problems lie in the venue itself and the staging by director McKerrin Kelly. Theatre of N.O.T.E.’s deep but somewhat cramped restructured storefront playing space works like gangbusters with more abstract or unstructured works, but the kitchen-sink nature of this play somewhat backfires there, especially as voices in the more intimate scenes are made reedy and small, swallowed up into the room’s acoustically inadequate high ceiling. Kelly does a masterful job extracting fine performances from her cast, but the intervals between the play’s many short filmic scenes are cluttered by lengthy and elaborate scene changes, all made with fabric-covered cubes reminiscent of every actors’ workshop anyone ever attended, which in the frequency and clunkiness of their blue-lit rearrangement pull the viewer right out of the storyline. Lighting effects highlighting a bed in one corner, benches in the waiting room elsewhere, living room gatherings placed somewhere else on the deep stage, would have sped up the action and kept the throughline of the line of the play unhampered and unfettered.
Then there’s the ending, which suddenly switches to focus on an elaborate Rube Goldberg–y machine designed by William Moore Jr. that covers the entire three walls of the stage, an ingenious contraption Phelan’s character sets in motion. Although the apparatus, with its self-turning wheels, model trains on a mission, and collapsing oversized dominos is amazing to behold, sadly it shows that Patterson’s well-meaning desire to explore connections needs more time to find them.
Theatre of NOTE
Erik Patterson is a master wordsmith, and anytime his impressive skills descend upon the LA theatrical community, they’re worth a look. His debuting I Wanna Hold Your Hand might be his most personal effort yet.
The play was inspired by the real-life battle with a brain aneurysm and subsequent stroke that nearly killed Patterson’s best friend, Uma Nithipalan, a nightmare that forever changed the lives of the well-loved local theater actor and her steadfast husband, composer John Ballinger. While camped out for an agonizing week in a sterile hospital waiting room praying for Uma to wake from a coma, the playwright was offhandedly challenged to one day write a play about her ordeal—and Patterson is a guy who doesn’t take challenges lightly.
I Wanna Hold Your Hand begins in one of those antiseptic hospital waiting rooms where brother and sister Paul and Julia (understudy Jonathon Lamer and the play’s co-producer Alina Phelan), are holding vigil for their mother (Judith Ann Levitt) lying in the adjoining ICU, felled in the same manner as Nithipalan. They are joined by Julia’s actor husband (Keston John) and a sleeping, blanket-covered father we never meet, whose vigil ended early on when news his teenage son’s fight for his own life ended tragically. Before long, another watcher joins the group: a terrified young woman named Ada (Kirsten Vangsness) who has been summoned there after her fiancé of only a few hours is admitted in the same dire circumstances.
The play chronicles the bittersweet connections that are often sparked between strangers at the time of unimaginable tragedy and the fragility of that condition that can also lead to frustrating missed connections. Patterson has created a touching and often humorous journey through the struggles that befall—and mostly strengthen—the lives of those afflicted, made all the better by a dynamic, gifted, and committed ensemble cast. Phelan and Vangsness are especially compelling to watch, particularly in one later scene together when what might be a relationship-shattering talk is thwarted in favor of maintaining their friendship, something both women at this point desperately need to hold onto.
Still, the most memorable performance of the evening is turned in by Phil Ward as Ada’s intended, the only partially recovered Frank, a character we are privileged to watch try courageously to regain his speech and his dignity, and fight to get his life back. Although Patterson has created a most promising new play, it is still somewhat a work in progress. Something is missing in the text, which aims to confront a subject near and dear to the writer yet surprisingly never goes as far off-center as his plays usually do. Part of this palpable sense of incompletion lingers in those missed connections, often suggested but not tackled as completely as they could be, and part of it is the Beatles-instigated theme that never materializes quite as successfully as it could. Even though Paul prays to the group’s dead members instead of the god he has lost belief in, and considering the fact that Levitt’s feisty mother was a diehard Beatles fan who named her children after one of the boys and the dead mother immortalized in one of their most beautiful ballads, the correlation never goes beyond the insinuation of more to come.
The other problems lie in the venue itself and the staging by director McKerrin Kelly. Theatre of N.O.T.E.’s deep but somewhat cramped restructured storefront playing space works like gangbusters with more abstract or unstructured works, but the kitchen-sink nature of this play somewhat backfires there, especially as voices in the more intimate scenes are made reedy and small, swallowed up into the room’s acoustically inadequate high ceiling. Kelly does a masterful job extracting fine performances from her cast, but the intervals between the play’s many short filmic scenes are cluttered by lengthy and elaborate scene changes, all made with fabric-covered cubes reminiscent of every actors’ workshop anyone ever attended, which in the frequency and clunkiness of their blue-lit rearrangement pull the viewer right out of the storyline. Lighting effects highlighting a bed in one corner, benches in the waiting room elsewhere, living room gatherings placed somewhere else on the deep stage, would have sped up the action and kept the throughline of the line of the play unhampered and unfettered.
Then there’s the ending, which suddenly switches to focus on an elaborate Rube Goldberg–y machine designed by William Moore Jr. that covers the entire three walls of the stage, an ingenious contraption Phelan’s character sets in motion. Although the apparatus, with its self-turning wheels, model trains on a mission, and collapsing oversized dominos is amazing to behold, sadly it shows that Patterson’s well-meaning desire to explore connections needs more time to find them.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
August 20, 2014
August 20, 2014
Motorcity
Magic
Laguna Playhouse
Over the years, the trademarked Motown Sound has generated millions of dollars in hit records for a largely African-American stable of stars. Names like Smokey Robinson, Aretha Franklin, and Diana Ross come to mind, as well as groups like The Temptations, The Four Tops, Gladys Knight and the Pips, and even the Jackson 5. Founder Berry Gordy Jr. was instrumental in developing their careers, as well as providing a fertile field for the evolution of musical orchestrations and creating a unique sub-genre in the music world.
Motorcity Magic taps into the current success and appeal of tribute performances and delivers a solid evening of nostalgia and admiration for mighty fine singing. The show opens with the four principals—Arthur Jefferson, Donald McCall, Denny Mendes, and Steven Wood—in glam gold jackets, delivering Smokey Robinson’s tune “Get Ready” to a very enthusiastic audience. From that moment on, the foursome traverses a familiar path of decades of hits. From “Dancing in the Street” to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” they re-create the timeless, indelible music of Motown
They are joined by Evelyn Dillion, whose renditions of “Respect,” “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” and “Neither One of Us (Wants to Be the First To Say Goodbye,” are showstoppers. She adds the important inclusion of the female stars to this tribute.
Accompanying them is The Motorcity Magic Band, directed by drummer Richard “The Power Station” Marshall: on Trumpet, Don Chilton; bass, Rudi Weeks; keyboards/piano, Pat Jennings; saxophone/flute, Rodney Caron; and guitar, David Boudah. A standout is a saxophone jazz solo by Caron. Boudah provides much of the special sound effects that accompany Motown music. Adding to the atmosphere is a huge photo collage wrapping around the proscenium that represents the musical greats who performed for the Motown label. Also an uncredited large screen video behind the band helps to anchor the music as it is performed.
The entire show is directed by Michael Yorkell, and he makes the 90-minute performance smooth and entertaining. There is so much history in the ’60s and ’70s music scene that it might further enhance the production if a little more background was incorporated into the concert. Each performer earns solo time while the others perform the backup choreography. With countless years performing this music, the guys make it look very easy, but they are in constant motion without a break for the whole time.
As a testament to the likability of the performers and the durability of the music, at the well received encore, audience members moved down front to dance to the energetic number. All in all, it was a pleasant reminiscence, and after the show the performers joined the appreciative audience in the lobby for post-show conversations.
Laguna Playhouse
Over the years, the trademarked Motown Sound has generated millions of dollars in hit records for a largely African-American stable of stars. Names like Smokey Robinson, Aretha Franklin, and Diana Ross come to mind, as well as groups like The Temptations, The Four Tops, Gladys Knight and the Pips, and even the Jackson 5. Founder Berry Gordy Jr. was instrumental in developing their careers, as well as providing a fertile field for the evolution of musical orchestrations and creating a unique sub-genre in the music world.
Motorcity Magic taps into the current success and appeal of tribute performances and delivers a solid evening of nostalgia and admiration for mighty fine singing. The show opens with the four principals—Arthur Jefferson, Donald McCall, Denny Mendes, and Steven Wood—in glam gold jackets, delivering Smokey Robinson’s tune “Get Ready” to a very enthusiastic audience. From that moment on, the foursome traverses a familiar path of decades of hits. From “Dancing in the Street” to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” they re-create the timeless, indelible music of Motown
They are joined by Evelyn Dillion, whose renditions of “Respect,” “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” and “Neither One of Us (Wants to Be the First To Say Goodbye,” are showstoppers. She adds the important inclusion of the female stars to this tribute.
Accompanying them is The Motorcity Magic Band, directed by drummer Richard “The Power Station” Marshall: on Trumpet, Don Chilton; bass, Rudi Weeks; keyboards/piano, Pat Jennings; saxophone/flute, Rodney Caron; and guitar, David Boudah. A standout is a saxophone jazz solo by Caron. Boudah provides much of the special sound effects that accompany Motown music. Adding to the atmosphere is a huge photo collage wrapping around the proscenium that represents the musical greats who performed for the Motown label. Also an uncredited large screen video behind the band helps to anchor the music as it is performed.
The entire show is directed by Michael Yorkell, and he makes the 90-minute performance smooth and entertaining. There is so much history in the ’60s and ’70s music scene that it might further enhance the production if a little more background was incorporated into the concert. Each performer earns solo time while the others perform the backup choreography. With countless years performing this music, the guys make it look very easy, but they are in constant motion without a break for the whole time.
As a testament to the likability of the performers and the durability of the music, at the well received encore, audience members moved down front to dance to the energetic number. All in all, it was a pleasant reminiscence, and after the show the performers joined the appreciative audience in the lobby for post-show conversations.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
August 20, 2014
August 20, 2014
One in the Chamber
Lounge Theatre
For committed theatergoers, there's no happier occasion than stumbling upon a mature, polished work of dramatic art where you never expected to find one. In the little hole-in-the-wall Lounge on Santa Monica Boulevard, 6140 Productions is putting up the world premiere of Marja-Lewis Ryan’s One in the Chamber, and you will not encounter a more stimulating evening of theater this year, nor one harder to shake off.
A strong sense of something special is conveyed the moment you enter the theater space and scope out Michael Fitzgerald’s precisely detailed re-creation of a Colorado farming-home kitchen. Dozens of family photos attest to strong ties, and there’s evidence of activity everywhere: kids’ artwork proudly displayed; sports equipment leaning against the walls; cereal boxes and bread loaves attesting to meals eaten on the fly; laundry piled up for the folding.
And yet something’s not quite right. Could it be the sense of incompletion, as if all the frantic busy-ness seems to have ceased in place? Or is it that not a single square inch of the spacious kitchen is given over to a family’s settling-in as a group? Whatever the cause of our unease, the set most definitely kicks off speculation on the psychology of the kitchen’s inhabitants, in a stimulating overture to the 75-minute gem that follows.
Ryan’s theme is psychic chaos in the wake of catastrophe, explored through a painfully plausible premise. Six years ago, a 10-year-old accidentally killed his younger brother with a handgun in this very room. Today, a state social worker (Emily Peck) has arrived to interview each of the survivors—father, mother, two sister, and the perp—to decide whether Adam (Alec Frasier) can be taken off probation to live a normal life.
Normal? What can be normal under these circumstances? Ryan sidesteps all the traps of her given situation. She never falls into Movie-of-the-Week sentimentality or cliché, nor does she take a tendentious, preachy stance on the Second Amendment. All she’s after is a slice of life, albeit lives that have been sliced worse than any family should ever have to cope with. And she achieves it through emotion and behavior that are, from beginning to end, precisely observed and rendered.
The production is seamlessly paced and cast. Heidi Sulzman, as bipolar mom Helen, has perhaps the most torturous arc to follow, and she’s magnificent, but so is every performance: Robert Bella, easygoing dad desperate to keep peace; Kelli Anderson as elder daughter Kaylee, angsty as any rebellious teen but with an extra air of sadness; Fenix Isabella, all gangly and screechie as little Ruthie, a breath of life in a house that needs it. Frasier is left until the end and lives up to the buildup, a sweet, walking wound. All of the interrogations are masterfully managed by Peck.
If this is, as Ryan admits, the work of a novice director, I cannot wait to see what she produces after more seasoning. But there is no need to wait, as One in the Chamber runs into September. You won’t soon forget it.
Lounge Theatre
For committed theatergoers, there's no happier occasion than stumbling upon a mature, polished work of dramatic art where you never expected to find one. In the little hole-in-the-wall Lounge on Santa Monica Boulevard, 6140 Productions is putting up the world premiere of Marja-Lewis Ryan’s One in the Chamber, and you will not encounter a more stimulating evening of theater this year, nor one harder to shake off.
A strong sense of something special is conveyed the moment you enter the theater space and scope out Michael Fitzgerald’s precisely detailed re-creation of a Colorado farming-home kitchen. Dozens of family photos attest to strong ties, and there’s evidence of activity everywhere: kids’ artwork proudly displayed; sports equipment leaning against the walls; cereal boxes and bread loaves attesting to meals eaten on the fly; laundry piled up for the folding.
And yet something’s not quite right. Could it be the sense of incompletion, as if all the frantic busy-ness seems to have ceased in place? Or is it that not a single square inch of the spacious kitchen is given over to a family’s settling-in as a group? Whatever the cause of our unease, the set most definitely kicks off speculation on the psychology of the kitchen’s inhabitants, in a stimulating overture to the 75-minute gem that follows.
Ryan’s theme is psychic chaos in the wake of catastrophe, explored through a painfully plausible premise. Six years ago, a 10-year-old accidentally killed his younger brother with a handgun in this very room. Today, a state social worker (Emily Peck) has arrived to interview each of the survivors—father, mother, two sister, and the perp—to decide whether Adam (Alec Frasier) can be taken off probation to live a normal life.
Normal? What can be normal under these circumstances? Ryan sidesteps all the traps of her given situation. She never falls into Movie-of-the-Week sentimentality or cliché, nor does she take a tendentious, preachy stance on the Second Amendment. All she’s after is a slice of life, albeit lives that have been sliced worse than any family should ever have to cope with. And she achieves it through emotion and behavior that are, from beginning to end, precisely observed and rendered.
The production is seamlessly paced and cast. Heidi Sulzman, as bipolar mom Helen, has perhaps the most torturous arc to follow, and she’s magnificent, but so is every performance: Robert Bella, easygoing dad desperate to keep peace; Kelli Anderson as elder daughter Kaylee, angsty as any rebellious teen but with an extra air of sadness; Fenix Isabella, all gangly and screechie as little Ruthie, a breath of life in a house that needs it. Frasier is left until the end and lives up to the buildup, a sweet, walking wound. All of the interrogations are masterfully managed by Peck.
If this is, as Ryan admits, the work of a novice director, I cannot wait to see what she produces after more seasoning. But there is no need to wait, as One in the Chamber runs into September. You won’t soon forget it.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
August 11, 2014
August 11, 2014
Oklahoma!
Torrance Theatre Company at James Armstrong Theatre
Oh, what a beautiful show. From curtain rise to curtain call, this production looks and sounds like a national tour. First produced on Broadway in 1943—with music by Richard Rodgers, and book and lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II—Oklahoma! ushered in the Golden Age of American musicals. Its lush melodies and somewhat serious psychological study make this musical a timeless classic.
In Torrance, the thrills begin when music director–conductor Rick Heckman strikes up the 19-member orchestra for the overture, which sounds like a recording by a 1940s philharmonic. Then, when the curtain goes up on the show’s first number, “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’,” the audience gets its first eyeful of the panoramic, sturdy set with its expansive Plains sky that changes mood and time of day (lighting design by Steve Giltner).
And then we hear the performers’ heavenly singing voices—the antitheses of today’s pop belts—and watch those performers create believable characters. And when we thrill to the spectacular group dances, we know the Golden Age of American musicals is alive and thriving here and now.
Director-choreographer K.C. Gussler doesn’t shy from this musical’s darker themes. Here, pretty young Laurey (Christine Tucker), who lives on her Aunt Eller’s farm, is clad in overalls, her hair in pigtails. In Gussler’s view, she is too immature and too tomboyish to be thinking of marriage—despite the attention of the handsome, optimistic cowboy Curly (Eric Ferguson) and the dark, violent farmhand Jud (Jeffrey Black). This sets up the musical’s themes of growth and change: Laurey must manage adult emotions, while around her the territory of Oklahoma is moving into statehood.
Clearly, this is not a musical for kids. Where many musicals rely on innuendo for their spice, this one delves into the young female psyche, most notably in the “Dream Ballet.” Here the program credits “inspiration” by the musical’s original choreographer, Agnes de Mille. With its brutalization of romantic love, with its inclusion of “harlots” that dance across Laurey’s vision, it’s a tough-to-watch but memorable physicalization of the storyline. According to de Mille, she fought to keep the ballet from being merely a pretty diversion, and, coming at the end of Act 1, it stunned many in this opening-night audience.
The “Dream Ballet” also had this audience agape at yet another talent of the performers. Though the ballet is customarily danced by stunt doubles, here it stars the three leads. Gussler and co-choreographer Virginia Siegler play to the strengths of the two men, while Tucker’s ballet training gets put to beautiful use.
But not all is dark and serious in Oklahoma!. Ado Annie (Sara Hone), the girl who “Caint Say No,” is obligated to say yes to either the Persian peddler Ali Hakim (Perry Shields) or her hometown cowboy Will (Ryan Chlanda). Tough choice for the adorable Hone, because Shields has the comedic chops and Chlanda has the loose-limbed hoofing skills—including a difficult “stair” routine up and down wooden boxes. No worries: One or the other of the men will end up with the giggling Gertie (Karin Bryeans).
De Mille thought Hammerstein was the best Aunt Eller she ever saw. She never saw Cindy Shields in the role, though. Above her singing and dancing skills, Shields is sturdy and comforting—for the characters and, on opening night, for the chorus, holding the group’s tempo and pitch.
Speaking of musicality, Heckman takes the show’s many familiar tunes at pleasingly speedy but still manageable tempi. He also ensures the remarkable clarity of every lyric.
Near the story’s end, Laurey tells her Aunt Eller she can’t take the toughness of life. You can and you will take it, says Eller. That’s the American spirit and the lesson here. Laurey, now married to Curly, heads off in the shiny little surrey he promised her at the top of the show. This one’s motorized, and the newlyweds hop in and drive offstage—an emblem of progress and hope for a better future.
Torrance Theatre Company at James Armstrong Theatre
Oh, what a beautiful show. From curtain rise to curtain call, this production looks and sounds like a national tour. First produced on Broadway in 1943—with music by Richard Rodgers, and book and lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II—Oklahoma! ushered in the Golden Age of American musicals. Its lush melodies and somewhat serious psychological study make this musical a timeless classic.
In Torrance, the thrills begin when music director–conductor Rick Heckman strikes up the 19-member orchestra for the overture, which sounds like a recording by a 1940s philharmonic. Then, when the curtain goes up on the show’s first number, “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’,” the audience gets its first eyeful of the panoramic, sturdy set with its expansive Plains sky that changes mood and time of day (lighting design by Steve Giltner).
And then we hear the performers’ heavenly singing voices—the antitheses of today’s pop belts—and watch those performers create believable characters. And when we thrill to the spectacular group dances, we know the Golden Age of American musicals is alive and thriving here and now.
Director-choreographer K.C. Gussler doesn’t shy from this musical’s darker themes. Here, pretty young Laurey (Christine Tucker), who lives on her Aunt Eller’s farm, is clad in overalls, her hair in pigtails. In Gussler’s view, she is too immature and too tomboyish to be thinking of marriage—despite the attention of the handsome, optimistic cowboy Curly (Eric Ferguson) and the dark, violent farmhand Jud (Jeffrey Black). This sets up the musical’s themes of growth and change: Laurey must manage adult emotions, while around her the territory of Oklahoma is moving into statehood.
Clearly, this is not a musical for kids. Where many musicals rely on innuendo for their spice, this one delves into the young female psyche, most notably in the “Dream Ballet.” Here the program credits “inspiration” by the musical’s original choreographer, Agnes de Mille. With its brutalization of romantic love, with its inclusion of “harlots” that dance across Laurey’s vision, it’s a tough-to-watch but memorable physicalization of the storyline. According to de Mille, she fought to keep the ballet from being merely a pretty diversion, and, coming at the end of Act 1, it stunned many in this opening-night audience.
The “Dream Ballet” also had this audience agape at yet another talent of the performers. Though the ballet is customarily danced by stunt doubles, here it stars the three leads. Gussler and co-choreographer Virginia Siegler play to the strengths of the two men, while Tucker’s ballet training gets put to beautiful use.
But not all is dark and serious in Oklahoma!. Ado Annie (Sara Hone), the girl who “Caint Say No,” is obligated to say yes to either the Persian peddler Ali Hakim (Perry Shields) or her hometown cowboy Will (Ryan Chlanda). Tough choice for the adorable Hone, because Shields has the comedic chops and Chlanda has the loose-limbed hoofing skills—including a difficult “stair” routine up and down wooden boxes. No worries: One or the other of the men will end up with the giggling Gertie (Karin Bryeans).
De Mille thought Hammerstein was the best Aunt Eller she ever saw. She never saw Cindy Shields in the role, though. Above her singing and dancing skills, Shields is sturdy and comforting—for the characters and, on opening night, for the chorus, holding the group’s tempo and pitch.
Speaking of musicality, Heckman takes the show’s many familiar tunes at pleasingly speedy but still manageable tempi. He also ensures the remarkable clarity of every lyric.
Near the story’s end, Laurey tells her Aunt Eller she can’t take the toughness of life. You can and you will take it, says Eller. That’s the American spirit and the lesson here. Laurey, now married to Curly, heads off in the shiny little surrey he promised her at the top of the show. This one’s motorized, and the newlyweds hop in and drive offstage—an emblem of progress and hope for a better future.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
August 11, 2014
August 11, 2014
Reasons to Be Pretty
Geffen Playhouse
Playwright Neil LaBute is so prolific, and has created in so many different and varied media, that it’s virtually impossible to generalize about his work. (His program bio is downright intimidating.) But in many of the scripts for which he is best known—Fat Pig, In the Company of Men, The Shape of Things, and Your Friends and Neighbors—he seems to be convicting his characters of succumbing to other people’s values, cruelty, callousness, indifference, and moral cowardice.
In Reasons to Be Pretty, he takes a more genial look at the world. His hero, Greg (Shawn Hatosy), is a blue-collar worker on the graveyard shift in a warehouse, where it always seems to be 3am. He may not be precisely a victim, but certainly he is not a victimizer.
When we first see Greg, he’s cowering from an onslaught of rage from his girlfriend, Steph (Amber Tamblyn), and utterly at a loss as to why she’s so angry. He made what he thought was an innocuous remark about Steph to their mutual friend Carly (Alicia Witt), acknowledging that Steph is not quite perfect. Carly has repeated his remark to Steph—a remark Steph deems demeaning, unappreciative, and designed to undermine her sense of self-worth. She’s not interested in explanations or apologies, and declares that all is over between them. She then storms off (in Greg’s car) and goes running home to Mama.
We next see Greg at work, during his 3am break in the company lunchroom. And here we meet his friend Kent (Nick Gehlfuss), and Kent’s wife, Carly, who’s a company security guard. (In their circumscribed world, they don’t seem to know anyone who doesn’t work for the company.) Kent is unsympathetic to Greg’s plight as a ditched lover, and Kent is also a bossy, cynical bully, who treats Greg like an incompetent underling, though Kent needs Greg as a member of the company baseball team. And he insists on telling Greg about his clandestine affair with a gorgeous dish named Crystal, who works in another department. Eventually, he’ll pressure Greg into colluding with him to conceal his affair from Carly.
At this point, an objective observer might feel that if Greg had any sense, he’d shed both friend and girlfriend, but Greg doesn’t see it that way. Not yet, anyway. This play is about growing up—becoming a responsible adult. But, for Greg, the process is slow and painful. He’s still carrying a torch for Steph (though the torch dims a bit when she smacks him during a chance meeting), and he’s feeling guilty about helping Kent to deceive Carly. But, finally, the worm turns: Fed up with Kent’s bullying and manipulation, Greg decks him—and finds the act exuberantly, exultantly, and hilariously liberating. By the end, Greg is learning to cut his losses and take control of his own life. It’s not a blissfully happy ending, but it has real promise.
LaBute has always shown a knack for capturing the lurking treacheries and manipulations that underlie our everyday lives, and he makes the offenders sufficiently funny and charming that we, like Greg, don’t immediately realize how dangerous they are.
Director Randall Arney deftly captures every nuance in the relationships and their unfolding. He keeps the comedy flowing, the realizations only gradually emerging. And he has assembled a terrific cast, knowing and expert. Hatosy brings a rare charm to Greg, rivaling Jimmy Stewart at playing the tongue-tied aw-shucks moments, but sketching the arc of his character with precision and conviction. Tamblyn’s Steph is so self-righteous and self-centered that one wants to smack her, but she never entirely loses our sympathy. Gehlfuss makes Kent enough of a slimeball that one can heartily enjoy his well-deserved comeuppance. And Witt is a winning presence as the deceived wife who knows in her heart that she has married a heel, though it takes a nudge from Greg to drive the point home.
Takeshi Kata’s clever sets manage the frequent shifts of locale with unobtrusive speed and efficiency, and David Kay Mickelsen’s costumes seem right and apt.
Geffen Playhouse
Playwright Neil LaBute is so prolific, and has created in so many different and varied media, that it’s virtually impossible to generalize about his work. (His program bio is downright intimidating.) But in many of the scripts for which he is best known—Fat Pig, In the Company of Men, The Shape of Things, and Your Friends and Neighbors—he seems to be convicting his characters of succumbing to other people’s values, cruelty, callousness, indifference, and moral cowardice.
In Reasons to Be Pretty, he takes a more genial look at the world. His hero, Greg (Shawn Hatosy), is a blue-collar worker on the graveyard shift in a warehouse, where it always seems to be 3am. He may not be precisely a victim, but certainly he is not a victimizer.
When we first see Greg, he’s cowering from an onslaught of rage from his girlfriend, Steph (Amber Tamblyn), and utterly at a loss as to why she’s so angry. He made what he thought was an innocuous remark about Steph to their mutual friend Carly (Alicia Witt), acknowledging that Steph is not quite perfect. Carly has repeated his remark to Steph—a remark Steph deems demeaning, unappreciative, and designed to undermine her sense of self-worth. She’s not interested in explanations or apologies, and declares that all is over between them. She then storms off (in Greg’s car) and goes running home to Mama.
We next see Greg at work, during his 3am break in the company lunchroom. And here we meet his friend Kent (Nick Gehlfuss), and Kent’s wife, Carly, who’s a company security guard. (In their circumscribed world, they don’t seem to know anyone who doesn’t work for the company.) Kent is unsympathetic to Greg’s plight as a ditched lover, and Kent is also a bossy, cynical bully, who treats Greg like an incompetent underling, though Kent needs Greg as a member of the company baseball team. And he insists on telling Greg about his clandestine affair with a gorgeous dish named Crystal, who works in another department. Eventually, he’ll pressure Greg into colluding with him to conceal his affair from Carly.
At this point, an objective observer might feel that if Greg had any sense, he’d shed both friend and girlfriend, but Greg doesn’t see it that way. Not yet, anyway. This play is about growing up—becoming a responsible adult. But, for Greg, the process is slow and painful. He’s still carrying a torch for Steph (though the torch dims a bit when she smacks him during a chance meeting), and he’s feeling guilty about helping Kent to deceive Carly. But, finally, the worm turns: Fed up with Kent’s bullying and manipulation, Greg decks him—and finds the act exuberantly, exultantly, and hilariously liberating. By the end, Greg is learning to cut his losses and take control of his own life. It’s not a blissfully happy ending, but it has real promise.
LaBute has always shown a knack for capturing the lurking treacheries and manipulations that underlie our everyday lives, and he makes the offenders sufficiently funny and charming that we, like Greg, don’t immediately realize how dangerous they are.
Director Randall Arney deftly captures every nuance in the relationships and their unfolding. He keeps the comedy flowing, the realizations only gradually emerging. And he has assembled a terrific cast, knowing and expert. Hatosy brings a rare charm to Greg, rivaling Jimmy Stewart at playing the tongue-tied aw-shucks moments, but sketching the arc of his character with precision and conviction. Tamblyn’s Steph is so self-righteous and self-centered that one wants to smack her, but she never entirely loses our sympathy. Gehlfuss makes Kent enough of a slimeball that one can heartily enjoy his well-deserved comeuppance. And Witt is a winning presence as the deceived wife who knows in her heart that she has married a heel, though it takes a nudge from Greg to drive the point home.
Takeshi Kata’s clever sets manage the frequent shifts of locale with unobtrusive speed and efficiency, and David Kay Mickelsen’s costumes seem right and apt.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
August 9, 2014
August 9, 2014
6 Rms Riv Vu
Sierra Madre Playhouse
In truth, playwright Bob Randall’s piece feels a bit dated with its references to 1970s-era authors, events and societal issues that now seem antiquated. But, for the most part, director Sherrie Lofton and her company tender an often quaint look back to a time of surprisingly affordable New York City rental properties and more than a fair share of polyester double-knit.
As the title suggests, a seemingly spacious six-room apartment, complete with an offstage kitchen, maid’s quarters, and service entrance is on the market for what, even in the play’s 1972 setting, is the ridiculously bargain price of $325 a month. Arriving separately at the behest of a listing agent are Anne Miller, a mother of two, and Paul Friedman, an advertising copywriter. Oh, and that “river view?” Well, according to one character’s observations, a glimpse of the Hudson can be had if you crane your neck out one of the bathroom windows at just the right angle. Accidentally locked in the apartment due to a faulty front door knob, these two begin what quickly develops into a relationship based on their desires for something a little more exciting than their respective marriages.
The chemistry that performers Lena Bouton and Jeremy Guskin bring to these roles is engaging, although the sometimes breakneck pace at which their extended scenes have been directed runs roughshod over punch lines and transitional moments. Guskin, in particular, rolls equal parts boyish bounciness and comic mania into his portrayal of Paul. His delivery of a long monologue detailing a one-time flirtation with a young lady on a New York subway car is enthralling. Bouton, too, is button cute but tends to go for broader, more rushed, deliveries when perhaps subtlety would be more effective. And given the script’s emphasis on the need for surreptitiousness during their clandestine meetings, the characters’ volume levels would easily alert any surrounding residents other than those suffering from total deafness.
Supporting cast members range from fair to excellent. On the positive end of that range are Kristin Towers-Rowles and Craig McEldowney as, respectively, Paul’s wife, Janet, and Anne’s spouse, Richard, who arrive in Act 2 to check out the apartment. Towers-Rowles brings a wonderful joie de vivre to Janet, the somewhat stereotypical Jewish housewife whose dalliances with the Women’s Liberation Movement and her sense of sexual freedom are hilarious. As Richard, McEldowney excellently portrays this straitlaced architect, whose interest in redesigning their potential new abode overshadows Anne’s obvious discomfort. And as the Lady in 4A who reluctantly comes to the leading couple’s rescue, Lynndi Scott steals every scene she visits. Her acceptance of various pieces of fruit from a picnic Anne and Paul are holding in the empty living room is pricelessly funny in its simplicity.
Lofton’s creative team does a bang-up job transporting the audience back in time. Scenic designer Jon Vertrees works magic, given that the entire set contains not one stick of furniture. Out-of-style wallpaper, marked with gritty outlines depicting where the previous occupant’s framed items hung, reveal Vertrees’s exquisite attention to detail. Naila Aladdin Sanders’s period-perfect costume designs include go-go boots, caftans, and, of course, America’s contribution to clothing disasters, the leisure suit.
Sierra Madre Playhouse
In truth, playwright Bob Randall’s piece feels a bit dated with its references to 1970s-era authors, events and societal issues that now seem antiquated. But, for the most part, director Sherrie Lofton and her company tender an often quaint look back to a time of surprisingly affordable New York City rental properties and more than a fair share of polyester double-knit.
As the title suggests, a seemingly spacious six-room apartment, complete with an offstage kitchen, maid’s quarters, and service entrance is on the market for what, even in the play’s 1972 setting, is the ridiculously bargain price of $325 a month. Arriving separately at the behest of a listing agent are Anne Miller, a mother of two, and Paul Friedman, an advertising copywriter. Oh, and that “river view?” Well, according to one character’s observations, a glimpse of the Hudson can be had if you crane your neck out one of the bathroom windows at just the right angle. Accidentally locked in the apartment due to a faulty front door knob, these two begin what quickly develops into a relationship based on their desires for something a little more exciting than their respective marriages.
The chemistry that performers Lena Bouton and Jeremy Guskin bring to these roles is engaging, although the sometimes breakneck pace at which their extended scenes have been directed runs roughshod over punch lines and transitional moments. Guskin, in particular, rolls equal parts boyish bounciness and comic mania into his portrayal of Paul. His delivery of a long monologue detailing a one-time flirtation with a young lady on a New York subway car is enthralling. Bouton, too, is button cute but tends to go for broader, more rushed, deliveries when perhaps subtlety would be more effective. And given the script’s emphasis on the need for surreptitiousness during their clandestine meetings, the characters’ volume levels would easily alert any surrounding residents other than those suffering from total deafness.
Supporting cast members range from fair to excellent. On the positive end of that range are Kristin Towers-Rowles and Craig McEldowney as, respectively, Paul’s wife, Janet, and Anne’s spouse, Richard, who arrive in Act 2 to check out the apartment. Towers-Rowles brings a wonderful joie de vivre to Janet, the somewhat stereotypical Jewish housewife whose dalliances with the Women’s Liberation Movement and her sense of sexual freedom are hilarious. As Richard, McEldowney excellently portrays this straitlaced architect, whose interest in redesigning their potential new abode overshadows Anne’s obvious discomfort. And as the Lady in 4A who reluctantly comes to the leading couple’s rescue, Lynndi Scott steals every scene she visits. Her acceptance of various pieces of fruit from a picnic Anne and Paul are holding in the empty living room is pricelessly funny in its simplicity.
Lofton’s creative team does a bang-up job transporting the audience back in time. Scenic designer Jon Vertrees works magic, given that the entire set contains not one stick of furniture. Out-of-style wallpaper, marked with gritty outlines depicting where the previous occupant’s framed items hung, reveal Vertrees’s exquisite attention to detail. Naila Aladdin Sanders’s period-perfect costume designs include go-go boots, caftans, and, of course, America’s contribution to clothing disasters, the leisure suit.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
August 7, 2014
August 7, 2014
The Taming of the Shrew
Independent Shakespeare Co. at The Old Zoo in Griffith Park
“A jug of wine, a loaf of bread—and thou” is the phrase made famous in English poet Edward FitzGerald’s translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. With that in mind, it’s hard to conjure what might beat an evening of free Shakespearean verse and antics on the gently sloping grassy section of the Old Los Angeles Zoo at Griffith Park. Well, okay, it’s a city property, so you can’t bring the jug of wine, but a picnic dinner on a blanket or collapsible chairs followed by this first-rate production is a must-do for anyone whose summer activity list includes the arts.
Director David Melville and a rollicking cast of zanies revive this now-familiar tale with such zest that even a mid¬–Act 2 sprinkle-turned–steady summer rainfall on the night reviewed didn’t detour this company or its audience from enjoying the entire show. Resetting Padua as a provincial Italian coastal town in the 1950s, complete with some really nifty costuming by designer Jenny Foldenaur, brings an embraceable accessibility to the story. And from the lowliest of servant roles to the titular character, this is an ensemble whose knowledge of its craft and the Bard’s works is abundantly evident at every turn.
Leading the pack are Melissa Chalsma and Luis Galindo as Katherine/Katerina/Kate and her stalwartly swaggering paramour Petruchio. So often, this particular pairing relies almost exclusively on a rough-and-tumble physicality that, at face value, produces the requisite comedy through base slapstick. Not so here. Chalsma and Galindo, presumably with Melville’s skillful direction, give us a glimpse of their brawn but with a more prominent nod to the brains that each character possesses as they thrust and parry toward a romantic conclusion. Chalsma and Galindo bring a refreshing honor to the script’s beautifully structured verbal one-upmanship. And hats off, or some other costume piece as it turns out, to Galindo for a bit of onstage bravery that will not be divulged here lest it ruin the effect.
Sean Pritchett and Erika Soto as, respectively, Lucentio and Kate’s younger sister, Bianca, are the perfect set of lovebirds whose blossoming relationship is beset by disguises and the affections of other suitors. Thomas Ehas and Erwin Tuazon throw hilariously well-aimed wrenches into the works—left, right and center—as said suitors Gremio and Hortensio. Joseph Culliton expertly picks up on the world weariness of Baptista, Kate and Bianca’s forlorn father, whose prime mission is to marry off his daughters so he can enjoy a good rest.
Clear audience favorites were Andre Martin as the manservant Tranio, who assumes his master Lucentio’s identity in an effort to help his sire win Bianca’s love. Traipsing and mincing about the stage with the capriciousness of a butterfly, Martin is a hands-down master at revealing Shakespeare’s comic potential through words and actions. For almost the exact opposite reasons, Ashley Nguyen brings an exquisite sense of grounded strength to her scenes as the Widow who runs the town’s local café.
Throughout the production, Nguyen, along with pianist Dave Beukers, provide a series of musical segues—songs she composed with, Melville, Chalsma, Jim Lang, and Mary Guilliams Goodchild—that perfectly set the 1950s tone. And hearkening back to that oddball visitation of rain, Nguyen nearly stole the show as, on the spot, she rewrote the lyrics to the final song, “Snow in Georgia” as—you guessed it—“Rain in Georgia.” It was the perfect capper for a wonderful night of theater—under the clouds.
Independent Shakespeare Co. at The Old Zoo in Griffith Park
“A jug of wine, a loaf of bread—and thou” is the phrase made famous in English poet Edward FitzGerald’s translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. With that in mind, it’s hard to conjure what might beat an evening of free Shakespearean verse and antics on the gently sloping grassy section of the Old Los Angeles Zoo at Griffith Park. Well, okay, it’s a city property, so you can’t bring the jug of wine, but a picnic dinner on a blanket or collapsible chairs followed by this first-rate production is a must-do for anyone whose summer activity list includes the arts.
Director David Melville and a rollicking cast of zanies revive this now-familiar tale with such zest that even a mid¬–Act 2 sprinkle-turned–steady summer rainfall on the night reviewed didn’t detour this company or its audience from enjoying the entire show. Resetting Padua as a provincial Italian coastal town in the 1950s, complete with some really nifty costuming by designer Jenny Foldenaur, brings an embraceable accessibility to the story. And from the lowliest of servant roles to the titular character, this is an ensemble whose knowledge of its craft and the Bard’s works is abundantly evident at every turn.
Leading the pack are Melissa Chalsma and Luis Galindo as Katherine/Katerina/Kate and her stalwartly swaggering paramour Petruchio. So often, this particular pairing relies almost exclusively on a rough-and-tumble physicality that, at face value, produces the requisite comedy through base slapstick. Not so here. Chalsma and Galindo, presumably with Melville’s skillful direction, give us a glimpse of their brawn but with a more prominent nod to the brains that each character possesses as they thrust and parry toward a romantic conclusion. Chalsma and Galindo bring a refreshing honor to the script’s beautifully structured verbal one-upmanship. And hats off, or some other costume piece as it turns out, to Galindo for a bit of onstage bravery that will not be divulged here lest it ruin the effect.
Sean Pritchett and Erika Soto as, respectively, Lucentio and Kate’s younger sister, Bianca, are the perfect set of lovebirds whose blossoming relationship is beset by disguises and the affections of other suitors. Thomas Ehas and Erwin Tuazon throw hilariously well-aimed wrenches into the works—left, right and center—as said suitors Gremio and Hortensio. Joseph Culliton expertly picks up on the world weariness of Baptista, Kate and Bianca’s forlorn father, whose prime mission is to marry off his daughters so he can enjoy a good rest.
Clear audience favorites were Andre Martin as the manservant Tranio, who assumes his master Lucentio’s identity in an effort to help his sire win Bianca’s love. Traipsing and mincing about the stage with the capriciousness of a butterfly, Martin is a hands-down master at revealing Shakespeare’s comic potential through words and actions. For almost the exact opposite reasons, Ashley Nguyen brings an exquisite sense of grounded strength to her scenes as the Widow who runs the town’s local café.
Throughout the production, Nguyen, along with pianist Dave Beukers, provide a series of musical segues—songs she composed with, Melville, Chalsma, Jim Lang, and Mary Guilliams Goodchild—that perfectly set the 1950s tone. And hearkening back to that oddball visitation of rain, Nguyen nearly stole the show as, on the spot, she rewrote the lyrics to the final song, “Snow in Georgia” as—you guessed it—“Rain in Georgia.” It was the perfect capper for a wonderful night of theater—under the clouds.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
August 7, 2014
August 7, 2014
Broadway Bound
Odyssey Theatre
Jason Alexander, co-star of the original Broadway cast of Broadway Bound, directs this nostalgic piece with enough pathos and humor to stir audiences’ hearts. Led by the sensitive actor Gina Hecht, the top-caliber cast mines Neil Simon’s jokes for all their potency, while remaining grounded in this touching memoir of a family collapsing.
The final play of Simon’s “Brighton Beach” trilogy, Broadway Bound is more dramatic and less jovial than Brighton Beach Memoirsand Biloxi Blues. In winter 1949, the Jerome family is at a crossroads as some members are climbing the capitalist ladder and others are tied to the pre–World War II world, have lost their way.
The narrator Eugene (Ian Alda) is no longer the naive child of the first play. He and his brother, Stanley (Noah James), have begun an exciting writing career. Their Aunt Blanche (Betsy Zajko), who in Brighton Beach Memoirs is a lonely widow struggling with two daughters, has married a wealthy man and now lives comfortably on Park Avenue.
Heartbreakingly, the marriage of parents Kate (Hecht) and Jack (Michael Mantell) is disintegrating. The noble, kind spirit that led the household in Brighton Beach Memoirs is gone. Jack has lost the integrity that Eugene idolized in that first play. Weak and sometimes cruel, Jack treats his family like strangers. Kate, who lives to serve her family, finds her boys growing up and her husband sneaking away, so her purpose is dwindling. Grandfather Ben (Allan Miller) ignores his ill wife and lives separately from her in the Jerome house, ranting Socialist rhetoric about how the country has fallen apart.
Dealing with the tragedy of growing old and growing apart, author Simon, who won a Tony for the play in 1986, still manages to be hilariously astute. Punch lines about the generation gap, familial bonds, and life in the lower middle class never mock the characters but shine a light on experiences many share.
Alexander, who played Stanley in the original production, displays a special affinity with these people, and that filters through to the cast. Miller, as the cantankerous but wise grandfather, plays the role with insight into Ben’s values and into his selfishness. Zajko brings tenderness to Blanche, a central character from the first play, now on the sidelines in the family, too wealthy to fit in anymore and too representative of everything her father hates to connect with him. Zajko makes it clear how much Blanche cares and how frustrating it must be to drift away when she can financially support the people who saved her and her children during the first play.
James is a firecracker as Stanley, filled with anxiety, hope, and combustive energy of someone on the brink of success. He flops around like a yippy dog, endearing his character to the audience. Mantell has a tougher role, and, due to either brave or unwise choices, his performance didn’t ingratiate his character to the audience. It would take finesse to draw the audience to Jack despite his unlikable actions, and Mantell does not show the consternation in Jack’s current soul. He comes off as merely a cad.
Eugene Morris Jerome has always represented the youthful exuberance, naiveté, and perceptiveness of Simon as a young man. It’s a great service to Simon’s voice that Ian Alda’s performance is so winning. Marveling at the family his character would eventually write about, Alda’s Eugene is observant, sensitive, and prescient.
But, Hecht holds the play together. Obstinate as a bull but protective and loving, her Kate is the Jewish mother audiences either cherish or wish they had. The play’s pièce de résistance, a monologue about Kate’s youthful dalliance with movie star George Raft, reveals a rebellious and passionate woman who may have been able to achieve more in a different world. Her foxtrot with Alda is graceful and touching.
Set designer Bruce Goodrich and prop designer Katherine S. Hunt have turned the stage into a lived-in Brighton Beach Jewish home of the late ’40s with ironed doilies, hanging designer plates, sconces, and faded family photos. The costumes, by Kate Bergh, are appropriate for the period and this family’s financial lot.
A special play, Broadway Bound is poetic in its interpretation of a family’s struggles. Unlike Eugene O’Neill’s, Tennessee Williams’s, or Edward Albee’s literary families, Simon’s famous family rallies together under adversity, with comedy and love. Alexander’s witty version is a valentine to families everywhere.
Odyssey Theatre
Jason Alexander, co-star of the original Broadway cast of Broadway Bound, directs this nostalgic piece with enough pathos and humor to stir audiences’ hearts. Led by the sensitive actor Gina Hecht, the top-caliber cast mines Neil Simon’s jokes for all their potency, while remaining grounded in this touching memoir of a family collapsing.
The final play of Simon’s “Brighton Beach” trilogy, Broadway Bound is more dramatic and less jovial than Brighton Beach Memoirsand Biloxi Blues. In winter 1949, the Jerome family is at a crossroads as some members are climbing the capitalist ladder and others are tied to the pre–World War II world, have lost their way.
The narrator Eugene (Ian Alda) is no longer the naive child of the first play. He and his brother, Stanley (Noah James), have begun an exciting writing career. Their Aunt Blanche (Betsy Zajko), who in Brighton Beach Memoirs is a lonely widow struggling with two daughters, has married a wealthy man and now lives comfortably on Park Avenue.
Heartbreakingly, the marriage of parents Kate (Hecht) and Jack (Michael Mantell) is disintegrating. The noble, kind spirit that led the household in Brighton Beach Memoirs is gone. Jack has lost the integrity that Eugene idolized in that first play. Weak and sometimes cruel, Jack treats his family like strangers. Kate, who lives to serve her family, finds her boys growing up and her husband sneaking away, so her purpose is dwindling. Grandfather Ben (Allan Miller) ignores his ill wife and lives separately from her in the Jerome house, ranting Socialist rhetoric about how the country has fallen apart.
Dealing with the tragedy of growing old and growing apart, author Simon, who won a Tony for the play in 1986, still manages to be hilariously astute. Punch lines about the generation gap, familial bonds, and life in the lower middle class never mock the characters but shine a light on experiences many share.
Alexander, who played Stanley in the original production, displays a special affinity with these people, and that filters through to the cast. Miller, as the cantankerous but wise grandfather, plays the role with insight into Ben’s values and into his selfishness. Zajko brings tenderness to Blanche, a central character from the first play, now on the sidelines in the family, too wealthy to fit in anymore and too representative of everything her father hates to connect with him. Zajko makes it clear how much Blanche cares and how frustrating it must be to drift away when she can financially support the people who saved her and her children during the first play.
James is a firecracker as Stanley, filled with anxiety, hope, and combustive energy of someone on the brink of success. He flops around like a yippy dog, endearing his character to the audience. Mantell has a tougher role, and, due to either brave or unwise choices, his performance didn’t ingratiate his character to the audience. It would take finesse to draw the audience to Jack despite his unlikable actions, and Mantell does not show the consternation in Jack’s current soul. He comes off as merely a cad.
Eugene Morris Jerome has always represented the youthful exuberance, naiveté, and perceptiveness of Simon as a young man. It’s a great service to Simon’s voice that Ian Alda’s performance is so winning. Marveling at the family his character would eventually write about, Alda’s Eugene is observant, sensitive, and prescient.
But, Hecht holds the play together. Obstinate as a bull but protective and loving, her Kate is the Jewish mother audiences either cherish or wish they had. The play’s pièce de résistance, a monologue about Kate’s youthful dalliance with movie star George Raft, reveals a rebellious and passionate woman who may have been able to achieve more in a different world. Her foxtrot with Alda is graceful and touching.
Set designer Bruce Goodrich and prop designer Katherine S. Hunt have turned the stage into a lived-in Brighton Beach Jewish home of the late ’40s with ironed doilies, hanging designer plates, sconces, and faded family photos. The costumes, by Kate Bergh, are appropriate for the period and this family’s financial lot.
A special play, Broadway Bound is poetic in its interpretation of a family’s struggles. Unlike Eugene O’Neill’s, Tennessee Williams’s, or Edward Albee’s literary families, Simon’s famous family rallies together under adversity, with comedy and love. Alexander’s witty version is a valentine to families everywhere.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
August 6, 2014
August 6, 2014
Paternus
Rogue Machine at Theatre/Theater
With more judicious fleshing out, Daphne Malfitano’s Paternus could be a fascinating character study of what for many of us is one of the most contentious relationship in our lives: the difficult clash between a demanding father and his sensitive son who, in his eyes, is floundering terribly as he crashes into adulthood. The play kicks off Rogue Machine’s “Off the Clock” late-night option, borrowing the set for Gruesome Playground Injuries in Theatre/Theater’s more intimate second space.
Malfitano brings this familiar conflict to a new level of difficulty as the pair becomes hopelessly trapped in the father’s RV during a blistering snowstorm. Soon after the 45-minute play begins, it becomes apparent the outcome will be shockingly grim. How the two arrived at this grisly stage of their struggle is told with a clever but not entirely successful conceit: The scenes run backwards in time, starting with the final denouement to the unfortunate day and concluding at the beginning when the dad (Darrell Larson) first comes upon his teenaged son (Timothy Walker) dancing in his room to his own beat and tells him they are leaving on the trip. It should be a simple excursion, but Malfitano’s audience knows better by the time this scene unfolds, aware by then it’s a journey from which at least one family member might never return.
Both actors and their director, Mark St. Amant, are severely hampered by the sketchy, unfinished feeling to the script, especially during the clunky periodic interludes when the action stops and, after a quick blackout and light change, one character or the other steps aside to face the audience and launch into a soliloquy explaining their individual emotional struggle. If St. Amant let his actors stay where they are to create their moments, trusting the light change to make us aware the second character is not privy to the other’s monologue, it might make these sections less jarring to the continuity of the piece.
Paternus needs further work to make it less of a fragmentary CliffsNotes excursion into what could be an important study of the struggles between many parents and their children. But what makes this mounting a worthy if too-brief treat are the performances of Larson and Walker. Both actors are clearly committed to the material and impressively able to quickly draw us into the fight for understanding and resolution between the demanding, hardnosed father and the son he sees as a pampered underachiever. Larson exhibits a slickly smooth veteran performer’s ability to find his conflicted character, but Walker ultimately wins our hearts with his textbook-simple and arrestingly touching turn as a kid anxious to find that quicksilver place where his dad will accept him for who he is before it’s too late.
Rogue Machine at Theatre/Theater
With more judicious fleshing out, Daphne Malfitano’s Paternus could be a fascinating character study of what for many of us is one of the most contentious relationship in our lives: the difficult clash between a demanding father and his sensitive son who, in his eyes, is floundering terribly as he crashes into adulthood. The play kicks off Rogue Machine’s “Off the Clock” late-night option, borrowing the set for Gruesome Playground Injuries in Theatre/Theater’s more intimate second space.
Malfitano brings this familiar conflict to a new level of difficulty as the pair becomes hopelessly trapped in the father’s RV during a blistering snowstorm. Soon after the 45-minute play begins, it becomes apparent the outcome will be shockingly grim. How the two arrived at this grisly stage of their struggle is told with a clever but not entirely successful conceit: The scenes run backwards in time, starting with the final denouement to the unfortunate day and concluding at the beginning when the dad (Darrell Larson) first comes upon his teenaged son (Timothy Walker) dancing in his room to his own beat and tells him they are leaving on the trip. It should be a simple excursion, but Malfitano’s audience knows better by the time this scene unfolds, aware by then it’s a journey from which at least one family member might never return.
Both actors and their director, Mark St. Amant, are severely hampered by the sketchy, unfinished feeling to the script, especially during the clunky periodic interludes when the action stops and, after a quick blackout and light change, one character or the other steps aside to face the audience and launch into a soliloquy explaining their individual emotional struggle. If St. Amant let his actors stay where they are to create their moments, trusting the light change to make us aware the second character is not privy to the other’s monologue, it might make these sections less jarring to the continuity of the piece.
Paternus needs further work to make it less of a fragmentary CliffsNotes excursion into what could be an important study of the struggles between many parents and their children. But what makes this mounting a worthy if too-brief treat are the performances of Larson and Walker. Both actors are clearly committed to the material and impressively able to quickly draw us into the fight for understanding and resolution between the demanding, hardnosed father and the son he sees as a pampered underachiever. Larson exhibits a slickly smooth veteran performer’s ability to find his conflicted character, but Walker ultimately wins our hearts with his textbook-simple and arrestingly touching turn as a kid anxious to find that quicksilver place where his dad will accept him for who he is before it’s too late.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
August 6, 2014
August 6, 2014
Damn Yankees
Redondo Beach Performing Arts Center
The pleasures of solid musical comedy craftsmanship are amply on display in 3D Theatricals’s fine production of Damn Yankees. Alan Souza’s staging has its excesses and blind spots, but they result from good intentions rather than bad taste. Everything that matters, this show gets right.
First and foremost, what it gets right is the human drama, which may sound odd in this context. The Tony Award winner of 1955 in a less ambitious and less pretentious era, Damn Yankees will never be mistaken for high art although its forebears are Gounod and Goethe. (This is the one about the fan of the hapless Washington Senators who makes a Faustian bargain with Satan, transforming himself into a world-class hitter and shortstop to take the A.L. pennant from the detested team of the title.)
Yet even a giddy fantasy, if it’s going to come across as something more than a Hasty Pudding lampoon, needs reality behind it, and here’s where Souza’s casting and directing come up roses. As Joe Boyd (middle-aged shlubby fan) and Joe Hardy (reconstituted phenom), the respective Robert Hoyt and Cameron Bond are a perfect matched pair, not just as mellifluous baritones but as simple, sincere men wracked by longing—torn between dreams of baseball stardom and the embraces of the “old girl” they are (or rather, he is) missing.
And in Cynthia Ferrer, the patient, loyal Meg Boyd whose husband has disappeared without explanation, 3D has come up with a love object emphatically worth the missing. It’s rare for a Meg to impress as a key ingredient of the George Abbott and Douglass Wallop book, but Ferrer pulls it off: warm, vulnerable, and believable from first to last. For the first Damn Yankees within my memory, I actually looked forward to the sentimental, ballad-driven (“Near to You,” “A Man Doesn’t Know”) scenes in the Boyd home.
That trio of actors isn’t alone in aspiring to, and reaching, emotional reality. Alexis Carra, cut cleanly from Gwen Verdon cloth as supernatural temptress Lola, has all the burlesque moves and amazing dance stretches down pat. At the same time, she keeps a handle on the wistful regret of a 172-year-old ex-witch who, despite decades of ruining men for the Devil’s pleasure, has never fully lived in the world. Whatever Lola wants, it turns out, is human connection; Carra makes us feel it, and she and Bond achieve it in a delightful rendition of “Two Lost Souls (On the Highway to Life).”
I could do without Karla Franko and Tamara Zook’s over-the-top antics as Meg’s baseball crazy neighbors, and Chelsea Emma Franko is screechy and overagressive as sports reporter Gloria Thorpe. What do you call it when you need relief from comedy relief? Wishing you had a slingshot, I guess.
But the main comic burden is hauled by Jordan Lamoureux, who offers an unexpected and striking—but still credible—take on Mr. Applegate, aka the Dark Lord. He’s younger than usual, and hirsute, and truth be told more effete than imposing. (The resemblance to creepy Carmen Ghia in The Producers is a little startling, but then Applegate has all that hostility to the wives of his victims, and he does get off on hanging around locker rooms….)
At first I felt Lamoureux was working way too hard, lurching around the stage with arms flailing. But it actually makes sense for Applegate to have to work hard, as the script makes it clear that his powers are limited and forever on the verge of failing him. (The two things he can do reliably are make business cards and lit cigarettes appear, which Lamoureux pulls off expertly.) The suspense is increased if Applegate is a bit of a bumbler, and one gets all his laughs while reminding us that Joe may eventually have a chance to get off the look.
The 10 ballplayers here look like jocks and not chorus boys, and choreographer Dana Solimando puts them through so many athletic leaps and lunges that we really don’t have to long for the Newsies tour because it’s all happening here already. “Shoeless Joe” is wonderful (Chelsea Franko’s musical chops are first-rate), and “Who’s Got the Pain?” finally has a purpose now that Souza and Solimando have found a way to integrate Applegate into it.
On the other hand, there’s a disappointing “You Gotta Have Heart,” which coach Van Buren (stalwart Joe Hart) uses to get his dejected, demoralized ballplayers to buck up. It falls short partly because they don’t take the time to establish the team’s gloominess (“We gotta get better cuz we can’t get woise”) but mostly because it’s too busy. While the four main teammates are singing downstage, the other six are upstage at their lockers, undressing down to underpants, throwing on towels, and taking showers right there on stage. Even a world-famous hit like “Heart” can’t possibly compete with a revival of Take Me Out going on behind it.
Redondo Beach Performing Arts Center
The pleasures of solid musical comedy craftsmanship are amply on display in 3D Theatricals’s fine production of Damn Yankees. Alan Souza’s staging has its excesses and blind spots, but they result from good intentions rather than bad taste. Everything that matters, this show gets right.
First and foremost, what it gets right is the human drama, which may sound odd in this context. The Tony Award winner of 1955 in a less ambitious and less pretentious era, Damn Yankees will never be mistaken for high art although its forebears are Gounod and Goethe. (This is the one about the fan of the hapless Washington Senators who makes a Faustian bargain with Satan, transforming himself into a world-class hitter and shortstop to take the A.L. pennant from the detested team of the title.)
Yet even a giddy fantasy, if it’s going to come across as something more than a Hasty Pudding lampoon, needs reality behind it, and here’s where Souza’s casting and directing come up roses. As Joe Boyd (middle-aged shlubby fan) and Joe Hardy (reconstituted phenom), the respective Robert Hoyt and Cameron Bond are a perfect matched pair, not just as mellifluous baritones but as simple, sincere men wracked by longing—torn between dreams of baseball stardom and the embraces of the “old girl” they are (or rather, he is) missing.
And in Cynthia Ferrer, the patient, loyal Meg Boyd whose husband has disappeared without explanation, 3D has come up with a love object emphatically worth the missing. It’s rare for a Meg to impress as a key ingredient of the George Abbott and Douglass Wallop book, but Ferrer pulls it off: warm, vulnerable, and believable from first to last. For the first Damn Yankees within my memory, I actually looked forward to the sentimental, ballad-driven (“Near to You,” “A Man Doesn’t Know”) scenes in the Boyd home.
That trio of actors isn’t alone in aspiring to, and reaching, emotional reality. Alexis Carra, cut cleanly from Gwen Verdon cloth as supernatural temptress Lola, has all the burlesque moves and amazing dance stretches down pat. At the same time, she keeps a handle on the wistful regret of a 172-year-old ex-witch who, despite decades of ruining men for the Devil’s pleasure, has never fully lived in the world. Whatever Lola wants, it turns out, is human connection; Carra makes us feel it, and she and Bond achieve it in a delightful rendition of “Two Lost Souls (On the Highway to Life).”
I could do without Karla Franko and Tamara Zook’s over-the-top antics as Meg’s baseball crazy neighbors, and Chelsea Emma Franko is screechy and overagressive as sports reporter Gloria Thorpe. What do you call it when you need relief from comedy relief? Wishing you had a slingshot, I guess.
But the main comic burden is hauled by Jordan Lamoureux, who offers an unexpected and striking—but still credible—take on Mr. Applegate, aka the Dark Lord. He’s younger than usual, and hirsute, and truth be told more effete than imposing. (The resemblance to creepy Carmen Ghia in The Producers is a little startling, but then Applegate has all that hostility to the wives of his victims, and he does get off on hanging around locker rooms….)
At first I felt Lamoureux was working way too hard, lurching around the stage with arms flailing. But it actually makes sense for Applegate to have to work hard, as the script makes it clear that his powers are limited and forever on the verge of failing him. (The two things he can do reliably are make business cards and lit cigarettes appear, which Lamoureux pulls off expertly.) The suspense is increased if Applegate is a bit of a bumbler, and one gets all his laughs while reminding us that Joe may eventually have a chance to get off the look.
The 10 ballplayers here look like jocks and not chorus boys, and choreographer Dana Solimando puts them through so many athletic leaps and lunges that we really don’t have to long for the Newsies tour because it’s all happening here already. “Shoeless Joe” is wonderful (Chelsea Franko’s musical chops are first-rate), and “Who’s Got the Pain?” finally has a purpose now that Souza and Solimando have found a way to integrate Applegate into it.
On the other hand, there’s a disappointing “You Gotta Have Heart,” which coach Van Buren (stalwart Joe Hart) uses to get his dejected, demoralized ballplayers to buck up. It falls short partly because they don’t take the time to establish the team’s gloominess (“We gotta get better cuz we can’t get woise”) but mostly because it’s too busy. While the four main teammates are singing downstage, the other six are upstage at their lockers, undressing down to underpants, throwing on towels, and taking showers right there on stage. Even a world-famous hit like “Heart” can’t possibly compete with a revival of Take Me Out going on behind it.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
August 2, 2014
August 2, 2014
Hair
Hollywood Bowl
When I first stepped onstage at the Aquarius Theatre some 46 years ago, dropping my drawers and singing about sodomy and fellatio to a sea of horrified tourists from Des Moines, the last thing I envisioned was that, all these years later, I would be standing along with an über-enthusiastic crowd of 17,000 opening-night revelers jamming into the venerable Hollywood Bowl to clap and sing “Let the Sunshine In.” Heck, for that matter, I never envisioned I would live to see the dawning of a new millennium in that far-distant futuristic time known as the year 2000. It was also amazing to me that I remembered every familiar Galt McDermot harmony, every “Gliddy-glad-gloopy,” every sequence of words in “I Ain’t Got No”—all of which I found myself singing not-so silently from my hard wooden bleacher seat along with a remarkable cast of well-known Hollywood and musical theater stars, most of whom could be my grandkids.
Over the years, I have been invited to many Hair revivals and always thought most of them appeared horribly dated and heartbreakingly missed the point. Unlike four-and-a-half decades ago, when we all first got naked to show the folks how important it was to “get” what we were trying to say about freedom, about tolerance, about the enormous obscenity of war, it seemed in subsequent productions to be more about showing off how pumped the castmembers’ gym bodies were. The same is true of the show’s still urgent message, with performers poking fun at the outrageous hippies rather than embracing their courage and grit. To put it simply, “The Age of Aquarius” never quite dawned; it was a dream that sometimes seems to have disappeared entirely despite our once sincere efforts to promote its coming.
This current gargantuan revival at the Hollywood Bowl, however, surprisingly does indeed “get” it. Bigtime. Under the masterful direction of and featuring the wonderfully energetic choreography of Adam Shankman, this is finally a Hair for an all-new age, reverently honoring what the show’s creators, my old friends and former costars James Rado and the late Gerome Ragni, wanted to communicate. It’s a shame the run is so brief. This production gets enormous help from musical director Lon Hoyt and adds an entire Bowl-sized orchestra complete with a large horn section and some sparkling jazzy updated arrangements. Rita Ryack’s brilliant period costuming, Joe Celli’s versatile set that so echoes our original and miraculously makes the cavernous stage somehow intimate, Tom Ruzika’s wonderful lighting, and Phillip G. Allen’s perfect sound plot also add to the wonder, but in the end this phenomenal cast makes this such an inimitable experience.
The performances by most of the major characters go beyond being just good: They prove to be far more than trick casting by hiring major stars slumming between film projects or on hiatus from TV series. Benjamin Walker (of LA and Broadway’s Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson before playing Abraham Lincoln as a vampire hunter on screen) instantly evokes Jerry Ragni’s memorable turn as the original Berger, as though channeling him through the ages, and Hunter Parrish (of Weeds and the lead in last year’s New York revival of Godspell) delivers a most memorable performance, reducing the colossal Bowl stage to human-sized as the clearly conflicted—and sadly doomed—British wannabe Claude.
As Sheila, Kristen Bell (Veronica Mars) offers a dynamic Emylou Harris–like rendition of the haunting ballad “Easy To Be Hard.” Jonah Platt is an endearingly silly and infectious Woof. Pop singer Mario provides just the right amount of brooding and charm as Hud. Glee’s Jenna Ushkowitz and Amber Riley may be two of the best Jeanies and Dionnes ever, especially in their respective showstopping solos of “Air” and the musical’s unforgettable opening number, “Aquarius.” The best and most indelible performance of the event comes from Sarah Hyland (the vapid teenaged daughter on Modern Family), who performs the quiet, sweetly hilarious “Frank Mills” better than anyone ever did in all the productions I’ve performed or seen.
The decision to add Beverly D’Angelo (who was Sheila in Milos Forman’s 1979 film version of Hair) and three-time Tony nominee Kevin Chamberlin (Broadway’s Horton the Elephant in Suessical, Uncle Fester in The Addams Family) as Claude’s parents was a bit of a mistake, the roles being so much more fun when played as they should be by younger members of the Tribe. Chamberlin makes it all right, however, when he dons a lovely frock coat and puts a curly wig over his bald head to sing “My Conviction” in Kate Smith–style falsetto as that inquisitive “visitor from another generation” Margaret Mead, informing the audience that it’s okay to tell their kids to be what they want to be and do whatever they want to do, as long as they don’t hurt anybody. And when Chamberlin reveals what’s going on under that frock coat, once again the Bowl erupts in massive cheers—a first for the actor, I suspect, as it was for me in 2001 when I took on this unexpected visual assault to the environment.
Yet, if anything makes this Hairwork as memorably as the original, it’s the incredible score. How many times have you heard someone say they enjoyed a musical but none of the songs stuck with them past the lobby after the show? Well, folks, try: “Good Morning, Starshine,” “I Got Life,” “Hair,” Walking in Space,” “Let the Sunshine In,” and the gorgeous “What a Piece of Work Is Man,” with lyrics borrowed from Shakespeare. The music of the American modern musical theater doesn’t get much better than this.
Hollywood Bowl
When I first stepped onstage at the Aquarius Theatre some 46 years ago, dropping my drawers and singing about sodomy and fellatio to a sea of horrified tourists from Des Moines, the last thing I envisioned was that, all these years later, I would be standing along with an über-enthusiastic crowd of 17,000 opening-night revelers jamming into the venerable Hollywood Bowl to clap and sing “Let the Sunshine In.” Heck, for that matter, I never envisioned I would live to see the dawning of a new millennium in that far-distant futuristic time known as the year 2000. It was also amazing to me that I remembered every familiar Galt McDermot harmony, every “Gliddy-glad-gloopy,” every sequence of words in “I Ain’t Got No”—all of which I found myself singing not-so silently from my hard wooden bleacher seat along with a remarkable cast of well-known Hollywood and musical theater stars, most of whom could be my grandkids.
Over the years, I have been invited to many Hair revivals and always thought most of them appeared horribly dated and heartbreakingly missed the point. Unlike four-and-a-half decades ago, when we all first got naked to show the folks how important it was to “get” what we were trying to say about freedom, about tolerance, about the enormous obscenity of war, it seemed in subsequent productions to be more about showing off how pumped the castmembers’ gym bodies were. The same is true of the show’s still urgent message, with performers poking fun at the outrageous hippies rather than embracing their courage and grit. To put it simply, “The Age of Aquarius” never quite dawned; it was a dream that sometimes seems to have disappeared entirely despite our once sincere efforts to promote its coming.
This current gargantuan revival at the Hollywood Bowl, however, surprisingly does indeed “get” it. Bigtime. Under the masterful direction of and featuring the wonderfully energetic choreography of Adam Shankman, this is finally a Hair for an all-new age, reverently honoring what the show’s creators, my old friends and former costars James Rado and the late Gerome Ragni, wanted to communicate. It’s a shame the run is so brief. This production gets enormous help from musical director Lon Hoyt and adds an entire Bowl-sized orchestra complete with a large horn section and some sparkling jazzy updated arrangements. Rita Ryack’s brilliant period costuming, Joe Celli’s versatile set that so echoes our original and miraculously makes the cavernous stage somehow intimate, Tom Ruzika’s wonderful lighting, and Phillip G. Allen’s perfect sound plot also add to the wonder, but in the end this phenomenal cast makes this such an inimitable experience.
The performances by most of the major characters go beyond being just good: They prove to be far more than trick casting by hiring major stars slumming between film projects or on hiatus from TV series. Benjamin Walker (of LA and Broadway’s Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson before playing Abraham Lincoln as a vampire hunter on screen) instantly evokes Jerry Ragni’s memorable turn as the original Berger, as though channeling him through the ages, and Hunter Parrish (of Weeds and the lead in last year’s New York revival of Godspell) delivers a most memorable performance, reducing the colossal Bowl stage to human-sized as the clearly conflicted—and sadly doomed—British wannabe Claude.
As Sheila, Kristen Bell (Veronica Mars) offers a dynamic Emylou Harris–like rendition of the haunting ballad “Easy To Be Hard.” Jonah Platt is an endearingly silly and infectious Woof. Pop singer Mario provides just the right amount of brooding and charm as Hud. Glee’s Jenna Ushkowitz and Amber Riley may be two of the best Jeanies and Dionnes ever, especially in their respective showstopping solos of “Air” and the musical’s unforgettable opening number, “Aquarius.” The best and most indelible performance of the event comes from Sarah Hyland (the vapid teenaged daughter on Modern Family), who performs the quiet, sweetly hilarious “Frank Mills” better than anyone ever did in all the productions I’ve performed or seen.
The decision to add Beverly D’Angelo (who was Sheila in Milos Forman’s 1979 film version of Hair) and three-time Tony nominee Kevin Chamberlin (Broadway’s Horton the Elephant in Suessical, Uncle Fester in The Addams Family) as Claude’s parents was a bit of a mistake, the roles being so much more fun when played as they should be by younger members of the Tribe. Chamberlin makes it all right, however, when he dons a lovely frock coat and puts a curly wig over his bald head to sing “My Conviction” in Kate Smith–style falsetto as that inquisitive “visitor from another generation” Margaret Mead, informing the audience that it’s okay to tell their kids to be what they want to be and do whatever they want to do, as long as they don’t hurt anybody. And when Chamberlin reveals what’s going on under that frock coat, once again the Bowl erupts in massive cheers—a first for the actor, I suspect, as it was for me in 2001 when I took on this unexpected visual assault to the environment.
Yet, if anything makes this Hairwork as memorably as the original, it’s the incredible score. How many times have you heard someone say they enjoyed a musical but none of the songs stuck with them past the lobby after the show? Well, folks, try: “Good Morning, Starshine,” “I Got Life,” “Hair,” Walking in Space,” “Let the Sunshine In,” and the gorgeous “What a Piece of Work Is Man,” with lyrics borrowed from Shakespeare. The music of the American modern musical theater doesn’t get much better than this.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
August 2, 2014
August 2, 2014
Andronicus
Coeurage Theatre Company at the Lyric-Hyperion Theatre & Cafe
It takes some mighty big cajones to attempt a modern aerodynamic adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s least heralded works—his bloody, body-strewn, and rarely performedThe Lamentable Tragedy of Titus Andronicus—and present it with a cast of 16 in the dead of summer in a tiny un-air-conditioned Silverlake theater space seating 35.
But if there’s one thing Coeurage Theatre Company’s founder and artistic director Jeremy Lelliott doesn’t lack, it’s that aforementioned set of mighty big ones. His gritty, often darkly humorous, totally Paul Morrissey–esque take on ol’ Will’s most difficult play, a tale even Anthony Hopkins and Julie Taymor couldn’t make work on film with a $20 million budget, is a remarkable effort indeed. With the title streamlined along with the play, Lelliott directs with ferocity and passion, though he’s considerably hampered this time out, not only by the material but by the size of the stage versus the size of his cast.
There are plenty of intentionally whimsical blood effects, a large selection of severed tongues and wrapped stumps from missing hands, and a stageful of dirt-smeared, testosterone-challenged shirtless actors ardently endeavoring to energize the Bard’s answer to his contemporaries’ numerous “revenge” plays of the era.
During the latter days of the doomed Roman Empire, Titus (Ted Barton), a general in the Roman Army, is engaged in an offspring offing “eye for an eye” cycle of Hatfield and McCoy–style murders with the lusty Tamora, Queen of the Goths (Rebekah Tripp). As the body count escalates, Titus’s mind begins to deteriorate, leading him finally to offer a tasty feast of Mrs. Lovett’s meat pies to Tamora, waiting until dessert to tell her the delicacy she has just consumed was made from the heads and ground bones of her own sons. Spoiler alert: Most everybody dies by the end of the play. What might be surprising to hear, though, is that apparently they all tasted like chicken.
It’s difficult to successfully mount any Shakespearean epic in an intimate space where non-period zippers and plastic buttons—not to mention weaponry that looks and clinks together like props culled from Hollywood Toy & Costume—continuously spoil the mood. Here Lelliott has taken on an even more difficult task, with assorted soldiers and spear-carriers forced to stand in queues in the theater’s cramped aisles, with audience members looking up at them from either side, for lack of enough playing space to be positioned anywhere else.
Most of the design elements are clever, though, from the graffiti-splashed blacklit backdrop to Kara Mcleod’s game try at imbuing her contemporary grunge-ish costuming with handstitched hints of Elizabethan finery.
Much of this Andronicus is remarkably crafty, and these Coeurage-ous players act with impressive fervency. Barton, Tripp, Anthony Mark Barrow as Tamora’s secret lover Aaron, and T. J. Marchbank as Titus’s son Lucius, who surprisingly actually survives the bloodbath through final curtain, are standouts. Still, what Lelliott struggles to create and rework here also sometimes does this production in—along with many of its characters. Some of his actors emote with contemporary ease and tongues placed firmly in cheek.
Others, while surely honoring the Bard’s millennium-enduring stateliness and iambic pentameter, seem to be playing grandly to the very back nosebleed seats at the Stratford Festival. As the run progresses, hopefully this wide divide between the company members’ acting styles will narrow; if everyone involved were on the same page, this nicely updated Andronicus could indeed be the bold and imaginative interpretation that was probably originally envisioned.
Coeurage Theatre Company at the Lyric-Hyperion Theatre & Cafe
It takes some mighty big cajones to attempt a modern aerodynamic adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s least heralded works—his bloody, body-strewn, and rarely performedThe Lamentable Tragedy of Titus Andronicus—and present it with a cast of 16 in the dead of summer in a tiny un-air-conditioned Silverlake theater space seating 35.
But if there’s one thing Coeurage Theatre Company’s founder and artistic director Jeremy Lelliott doesn’t lack, it’s that aforementioned set of mighty big ones. His gritty, often darkly humorous, totally Paul Morrissey–esque take on ol’ Will’s most difficult play, a tale even Anthony Hopkins and Julie Taymor couldn’t make work on film with a $20 million budget, is a remarkable effort indeed. With the title streamlined along with the play, Lelliott directs with ferocity and passion, though he’s considerably hampered this time out, not only by the material but by the size of the stage versus the size of his cast.
There are plenty of intentionally whimsical blood effects, a large selection of severed tongues and wrapped stumps from missing hands, and a stageful of dirt-smeared, testosterone-challenged shirtless actors ardently endeavoring to energize the Bard’s answer to his contemporaries’ numerous “revenge” plays of the era.
During the latter days of the doomed Roman Empire, Titus (Ted Barton), a general in the Roman Army, is engaged in an offspring offing “eye for an eye” cycle of Hatfield and McCoy–style murders with the lusty Tamora, Queen of the Goths (Rebekah Tripp). As the body count escalates, Titus’s mind begins to deteriorate, leading him finally to offer a tasty feast of Mrs. Lovett’s meat pies to Tamora, waiting until dessert to tell her the delicacy she has just consumed was made from the heads and ground bones of her own sons. Spoiler alert: Most everybody dies by the end of the play. What might be surprising to hear, though, is that apparently they all tasted like chicken.
It’s difficult to successfully mount any Shakespearean epic in an intimate space where non-period zippers and plastic buttons—not to mention weaponry that looks and clinks together like props culled from Hollywood Toy & Costume—continuously spoil the mood. Here Lelliott has taken on an even more difficult task, with assorted soldiers and spear-carriers forced to stand in queues in the theater’s cramped aisles, with audience members looking up at them from either side, for lack of enough playing space to be positioned anywhere else.
Most of the design elements are clever, though, from the graffiti-splashed blacklit backdrop to Kara Mcleod’s game try at imbuing her contemporary grunge-ish costuming with handstitched hints of Elizabethan finery.
Much of this Andronicus is remarkably crafty, and these Coeurage-ous players act with impressive fervency. Barton, Tripp, Anthony Mark Barrow as Tamora’s secret lover Aaron, and T. J. Marchbank as Titus’s son Lucius, who surprisingly actually survives the bloodbath through final curtain, are standouts. Still, what Lelliott struggles to create and rework here also sometimes does this production in—along with many of its characters. Some of his actors emote with contemporary ease and tongues placed firmly in cheek.
Others, while surely honoring the Bard’s millennium-enduring stateliness and iambic pentameter, seem to be playing grandly to the very back nosebleed seats at the Stratford Festival. As the run progresses, hopefully this wide divide between the company members’ acting styles will narrow; if everyone involved were on the same page, this nicely updated Andronicus could indeed be the bold and imaginative interpretation that was probably originally envisioned.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
July 30, 2014
July 30, 2014
Buddy—The Buddy Holly Story
Laguna Playhouse
W ith gusto, this musical taps into the rock ’n’ roll’ 50s and examines the backstory of this seminal artist. Like the legends of James Dean and others who died tragically and very young, Buddy Holly’s has achieved almost mythic proportions.
The story begins as Holly’s career does, in his hometown of Lubbock, Texas, when he sang country music. It ends with his death in a small-plane crash in 1959. On that plane were Richie Valens (Emilio Ramos) and J. P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson (Mike Brennan), Holly (Todd Meredith), and his band, The Crickets. Holly is known for some of the most durable songs in rock history, and they appear here: “That’ll Be the Day,” “Peggy Sue,” and “True Love Ways,” just to name a few.
He was first befriended by a local D. J. (Bob Bohon), went on to record with Decca records, and finally achieved national success with manager Norman Petty (Nathan Yates Douglass) at his recording studio in Clovis, N.M. During this time, Holly began to develop his style, a kind of rockabilly, backed by his drummer, Jerry Allison (Logan Farine); bassist, Joe B. Mauldin (Bill Morey); and guitarist, Niki Sullivan (Zach Sicherman).
One highlight of this production chronicles Holly’s appearance at the Apollo Theater in Harlem. Two black performers—Tyrone Jones (James S. Patton) and Marvin Madison (David Reed)—in a comic tour de force, doubt Holly’s ability to interest an Apollo audience. Their theatrical misgivings are quickly put to rest when audiences overwhelmingly accept Holly.
Another notable performance comes from the dynamic Ramos as he delivers “La Bamba.”?While Alan Janes’s book keeps the storyline entertaining, the best moments in the production come when the performers are simply delivering the music. The versatile cast doubles as characters and musicians. In the closing numbers of the show, musicians credited are Douglass on bass, Farine on drums, Sicherman on guitar, Patton and MaryAnn DiPietro on keyboards; Jenny Stodd on violin, Bohon on tenor sax, Trombone: Morey on trombone, Alejandro Gutierrez on trumpet. Singers include Kelbi-Caitlin H. Carrig, Benjamin Gray, Reed, Stodd, and Vernon.
Steve Steiner, doubling as director and musical director, balances the need for the audience to believe that the characters are worthy imitators with the logistics of utilizing their talents in multiple ways. He captures the time period with a blend of nostalgia and verisimilitude, giving the show a fresh vitality.
Laguna Playhouse
W ith gusto, this musical taps into the rock ’n’ roll’ 50s and examines the backstory of this seminal artist. Like the legends of James Dean and others who died tragically and very young, Buddy Holly’s has achieved almost mythic proportions.
The story begins as Holly’s career does, in his hometown of Lubbock, Texas, when he sang country music. It ends with his death in a small-plane crash in 1959. On that plane were Richie Valens (Emilio Ramos) and J. P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson (Mike Brennan), Holly (Todd Meredith), and his band, The Crickets. Holly is known for some of the most durable songs in rock history, and they appear here: “That’ll Be the Day,” “Peggy Sue,” and “True Love Ways,” just to name a few.
He was first befriended by a local D. J. (Bob Bohon), went on to record with Decca records, and finally achieved national success with manager Norman Petty (Nathan Yates Douglass) at his recording studio in Clovis, N.M. During this time, Holly began to develop his style, a kind of rockabilly, backed by his drummer, Jerry Allison (Logan Farine); bassist, Joe B. Mauldin (Bill Morey); and guitarist, Niki Sullivan (Zach Sicherman).
One highlight of this production chronicles Holly’s appearance at the Apollo Theater in Harlem. Two black performers—Tyrone Jones (James S. Patton) and Marvin Madison (David Reed)—in a comic tour de force, doubt Holly’s ability to interest an Apollo audience. Their theatrical misgivings are quickly put to rest when audiences overwhelmingly accept Holly.
Another notable performance comes from the dynamic Ramos as he delivers “La Bamba.”?While Alan Janes’s book keeps the storyline entertaining, the best moments in the production come when the performers are simply delivering the music. The versatile cast doubles as characters and musicians. In the closing numbers of the show, musicians credited are Douglass on bass, Farine on drums, Sicherman on guitar, Patton and MaryAnn DiPietro on keyboards; Jenny Stodd on violin, Bohon on tenor sax, Trombone: Morey on trombone, Alejandro Gutierrez on trumpet. Singers include Kelbi-Caitlin H. Carrig, Benjamin Gray, Reed, Stodd, and Vernon.
Steve Steiner, doubling as director and musical director, balances the need for the audience to believe that the characters are worthy imitators with the logistics of utilizing their talents in multiple ways. He captures the time period with a blend of nostalgia and verisimilitude, giving the show a fresh vitality.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
July 30, 2014
July 30, 2014
I Married a Neanderthal and Other Modern Problems
Surf City Theatre Company at 2nd Story Theater, Hermosa Beach Playhouse
Let’s be clear from the outset: This one-woman show does not bash men. It gently ribs them, but, hey, who can’t take a little ribbing? And Honey Buczkowski, the life coach who hosts this show, er, coaching session, did not marry a Neanderthal. Indeed, as she describes him, Walter Buczkowski is an alright guy.
The Neanderthal husbands and “other modern problems” Honey addresses are issues raised by the audience—with her help, of course. This show consists partly of letting Honey “coach” us and partly of audience interaction.
Honey congenially introduces herself, shows us a few of her childhood photos, and tells how she married her high school sweetheart, Walter. They had three children, one of whom eventually married a lactose-intolerant (“emphasis on intolerant”) gluten-free vegan who makes Honey’s holiday menu-planning a nightmare and Honey’s grandchildren perpetually hungry. But Honey is not here to talk about her problems. She’s here to encourage us to talk about ours, which she can solve promptly and efficiently.
The audience on opening night, however, seemed slightly reluctant to talk. This reluctance wasn’t for lack of gentle encouragement by Honey. Rather, it was because the cheerful Honey is a character written by and performed by Maripat Donovan. And this audience clearly knew Donovan from her appearances throughout Southern California over the last nearly two decades, playing Sister in the hilarious show “Late Night Catechism,” in which she excoriated audience members as only a stern Catholic nun can, until we simultaneously laughed and trembled with fear.
It takes Honey’s audience awhile to settle in and realize she’s not going to make us spit out our gum, she’s not going to conceal our knees with Kleenex (you’ll notice this audience is well-covered-up, though) and she’ll not expect us to respectfully address her as “Sister.”
Calling for questions and comments from the audience, Donovan didn’t make any headway, so she gracefully let us off the hook, instead sharing plenty of life-coaching advice with us. Topics she provided for discussion include the handling of boomerang kids: To combat adult children who move back to their parents’ houses, she suggests replacing flat-screen TVs with 18-inch black-and-whites.
Before breaking for intermission, Honey asks the audience to write questions on cards, which she collects after intermission. She begins Act Two with an onstage game. She gathers two teams from volunteers—five men and five women—and asks each team questions the other gender could answer. On opening night, the women were asked about jumper cables and flipping hamburgers on a grill, the men were asked the color of soles of Christian Louboutin shoes, and so forth.
Then, Honey rounds out the evening by answering questions from the cards. Now, whether those cards come from the audience or are pre-prepared, it matters not. Donovan, who charms when Honey is “lecturing,” moves into the stellar category when she improvises and interacts with the crowd. Her timing and her memory for which audience member said what are phenomenal.
And, to report accurately on the evening, the women’s team outscored the men 5-1. The men good-naturedly accepted their runner-up prizes. They probably were also later rewarded for going to theater with the wives and not being Neanderthals.
Surf City Theatre Company at 2nd Story Theater, Hermosa Beach Playhouse
Let’s be clear from the outset: This one-woman show does not bash men. It gently ribs them, but, hey, who can’t take a little ribbing? And Honey Buczkowski, the life coach who hosts this show, er, coaching session, did not marry a Neanderthal. Indeed, as she describes him, Walter Buczkowski is an alright guy.
The Neanderthal husbands and “other modern problems” Honey addresses are issues raised by the audience—with her help, of course. This show consists partly of letting Honey “coach” us and partly of audience interaction.
Honey congenially introduces herself, shows us a few of her childhood photos, and tells how she married her high school sweetheart, Walter. They had three children, one of whom eventually married a lactose-intolerant (“emphasis on intolerant”) gluten-free vegan who makes Honey’s holiday menu-planning a nightmare and Honey’s grandchildren perpetually hungry. But Honey is not here to talk about her problems. She’s here to encourage us to talk about ours, which she can solve promptly and efficiently.
The audience on opening night, however, seemed slightly reluctant to talk. This reluctance wasn’t for lack of gentle encouragement by Honey. Rather, it was because the cheerful Honey is a character written by and performed by Maripat Donovan. And this audience clearly knew Donovan from her appearances throughout Southern California over the last nearly two decades, playing Sister in the hilarious show “Late Night Catechism,” in which she excoriated audience members as only a stern Catholic nun can, until we simultaneously laughed and trembled with fear.
It takes Honey’s audience awhile to settle in and realize she’s not going to make us spit out our gum, she’s not going to conceal our knees with Kleenex (you’ll notice this audience is well-covered-up, though) and she’ll not expect us to respectfully address her as “Sister.”
Calling for questions and comments from the audience, Donovan didn’t make any headway, so she gracefully let us off the hook, instead sharing plenty of life-coaching advice with us. Topics she provided for discussion include the handling of boomerang kids: To combat adult children who move back to their parents’ houses, she suggests replacing flat-screen TVs with 18-inch black-and-whites.
Before breaking for intermission, Honey asks the audience to write questions on cards, which she collects after intermission. She begins Act Two with an onstage game. She gathers two teams from volunteers—five men and five women—and asks each team questions the other gender could answer. On opening night, the women were asked about jumper cables and flipping hamburgers on a grill, the men were asked the color of soles of Christian Louboutin shoes, and so forth.
Then, Honey rounds out the evening by answering questions from the cards. Now, whether those cards come from the audience or are pre-prepared, it matters not. Donovan, who charms when Honey is “lecturing,” moves into the stellar category when she improvises and interacts with the crowd. Her timing and her memory for which audience member said what are phenomenal.
And, to report accurately on the evening, the women’s team outscored the men 5-1. The men good-naturedly accepted their runner-up prizes. They probably were also later rewarded for going to theater with the wives and not being Neanderthals.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 28, 2014
July 28, 2014
Luigi
The Inkwell Theater at VS Theatre
A sullen 13-year-old sets in motion this world premiere, by Louise Munson. That’s the playwright’s first mistake. Uninteresting and unlikeable, young Anna doesn’t anchor the audience’s interest. Munson introduces her in the midst of the American teen’s visit to her great-uncle Luigi at his villa in Italy. At the top of the play, sitting at an outdoor dining table, Anna and Luigi attempt to chat—he in Italian, she trying to speak Italian. This leaves audience members who don’t speak Italian hoping the rest of the play won’t continue this way.
But it does. Large chunks of it are in Italian, including a conversation in which the only intelligible words are “FOX-a news” and “Georg-a Bush.” Those portions of the play in English reveal Anna’s desire to “know about love” and her attempts to write poems. No wonder Munson can provide no resolution. Instead, Anna and the audience find out about this family’s history and intersecting lives.
The slim material is then padded with such wastage as a long rendition of “The House of the Rising Sun.” In point of fact, that’s an entire scene. Another scene includes the family’s rendition of “Good Night, Irene.” Some scenes run a mere several sentences and then power down. Some encompass how various couples met. Some reveal how unhappy the characters are. There are references to Odysseus and to Anaeus.
With one exception, all of the scenes take place on the villa’s outdoor eating area, cleverly depicted by set designer David Mauer. That one scene takes place indoors but can’t be seen by audience members sitting on the aisle. Seven actors entering and exiting through a single door provide this play’s main activity—and prompt a hope in the audience that they won’t collide. One other bit of suspense is whether Luigi will die over the course of the play, as we learn he has cancer of the lymph nodes.
For one scene, the actors bring out bowls and baskets of appetizers, wish each other “buon appetito”—then turn around and take all the food backstage. Frankly, it’s difficult to get involved with characters if that’s the extent of a scene.
Those characters include Anna’s disappointed-in-life mother; Anna’s aunt, who does embarrassingly bad yoga and modern dance; Anna’s good-natured brother Max, who develops the warmies for the aunt; the aunt’s carefree boyfriend; and of course Luigi and his patient wife.
One scene seems to repeat itself, with slightly varying dialogue. Anna is reading, presumably a book of poetry or perhaps her own work, and speaking into a recording device. She’s dressed in a white nightgown, a wreath encircling her head. Presumably this recurring scene represents memory, or the fluid nature of poetry, or the like. The idea needs fleshing.
Maybe Anna learned something during her visit, but this reviewer has no idea what that might be. Even Max’s stuttering, hemming summation at the play’s end didn’t help.
The Inkwell Theater at VS Theatre
A sullen 13-year-old sets in motion this world premiere, by Louise Munson. That’s the playwright’s first mistake. Uninteresting and unlikeable, young Anna doesn’t anchor the audience’s interest. Munson introduces her in the midst of the American teen’s visit to her great-uncle Luigi at his villa in Italy. At the top of the play, sitting at an outdoor dining table, Anna and Luigi attempt to chat—he in Italian, she trying to speak Italian. This leaves audience members who don’t speak Italian hoping the rest of the play won’t continue this way.
But it does. Large chunks of it are in Italian, including a conversation in which the only intelligible words are “FOX-a news” and “Georg-a Bush.” Those portions of the play in English reveal Anna’s desire to “know about love” and her attempts to write poems. No wonder Munson can provide no resolution. Instead, Anna and the audience find out about this family’s history and intersecting lives.
The slim material is then padded with such wastage as a long rendition of “The House of the Rising Sun.” In point of fact, that’s an entire scene. Another scene includes the family’s rendition of “Good Night, Irene.” Some scenes run a mere several sentences and then power down. Some encompass how various couples met. Some reveal how unhappy the characters are. There are references to Odysseus and to Anaeus.
With one exception, all of the scenes take place on the villa’s outdoor eating area, cleverly depicted by set designer David Mauer. That one scene takes place indoors but can’t be seen by audience members sitting on the aisle. Seven actors entering and exiting through a single door provide this play’s main activity—and prompt a hope in the audience that they won’t collide. One other bit of suspense is whether Luigi will die over the course of the play, as we learn he has cancer of the lymph nodes.
For one scene, the actors bring out bowls and baskets of appetizers, wish each other “buon appetito”—then turn around and take all the food backstage. Frankly, it’s difficult to get involved with characters if that’s the extent of a scene.
Those characters include Anna’s disappointed-in-life mother; Anna’s aunt, who does embarrassingly bad yoga and modern dance; Anna’s good-natured brother Max, who develops the warmies for the aunt; the aunt’s carefree boyfriend; and of course Luigi and his patient wife.
One scene seems to repeat itself, with slightly varying dialogue. Anna is reading, presumably a book of poetry or perhaps her own work, and speaking into a recording device. She’s dressed in a white nightgown, a wreath encircling her head. Presumably this recurring scene represents memory, or the fluid nature of poetry, or the like. The idea needs fleshing.
Maybe Anna learned something during her visit, but this reviewer has no idea what that might be. Even Max’s stuttering, hemming summation at the play’s end didn’t help.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 27, 2014
July 27, 2014
Once
Pantages Theatre
A vital love story threads together this journey of two displaced souls struggling to regain their stability in the streets and pubs of Dublin. But poignantly revealed—in this musically sumptuous but overly dramatized saga—is that our protagonists, Girl (Dani de Waal) and Guy (Stuart Ward), are not meant to be together but are destined to instill in each other the passion and confidence to move on.
Although this storyline is familiar from its source material—John Carney’s 2006 independent film, Once—de Waal and Ward exude a tangible romantic connection that permeates, amplifies, and elevates the proceedings to a higher level of veracity in this touring production of John Tiffany’s stage adaptation.
Tiffany and movement guru Steven Hoggett, aided immensely by Bob Crowley’s pub-inspired setting, create a musically meditative world wherein the 13 ensemble members act, sing, dance, and accompany themselves on a variety of instruments. Like an extended pub outing, the drinks, music, dramas and comedies flow freely as pints are downed and inhibitions are loosened. Unfortunately, the proceedings are often bogged down by Irish playwright Enda Walsh’s book that constantly peruses plot points rather than facilitating them and letting the folks move on with the action.
Of course, the show flies predominantly on the wings of the songs created by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová, the stars of the film, and here the drama plays out. Guy’s voice-rending show opener, “Leave,” gives Girl all the information she needs to know: He is a phenomenally talented young man whose soul has been deeply wounded. The gentle probing in the duet “Falling Slowly” informs Guy and Girl that this failed street musician and this Czech refugee are musical soul mates who need to find a reason to create together. And Girl’s “If You Want Me” unveils the insecurities of a young woman who has no safety net under her life. The rest of the ensemble at times literally surrounds the couple with a Greek chorus of supportive fare, highlighted by the endearing a cappella first-act closer, “Gold” and the affirmative, zesty instrumental work on “North Strand.”
Complementing this Girl-Guy pas de deux, when not overburdened with dialogue, the enthusiastic ensemble inhabits characters—notably Donna Garner’s lusty portrayal of Girl’s mother, and Benjamin Magnuson’s (also a fine cellist) comedically geeky bank manager.
Once makes the usually cavernous Pantages Theatre seem intimate. But it would be interesting see what a local small-space ensemble could do with this melodious, Gallic-infused romance-fest.
Pantages Theatre
A vital love story threads together this journey of two displaced souls struggling to regain their stability in the streets and pubs of Dublin. But poignantly revealed—in this musically sumptuous but overly dramatized saga—is that our protagonists, Girl (Dani de Waal) and Guy (Stuart Ward), are not meant to be together but are destined to instill in each other the passion and confidence to move on.
Although this storyline is familiar from its source material—John Carney’s 2006 independent film, Once—de Waal and Ward exude a tangible romantic connection that permeates, amplifies, and elevates the proceedings to a higher level of veracity in this touring production of John Tiffany’s stage adaptation.
Tiffany and movement guru Steven Hoggett, aided immensely by Bob Crowley’s pub-inspired setting, create a musically meditative world wherein the 13 ensemble members act, sing, dance, and accompany themselves on a variety of instruments. Like an extended pub outing, the drinks, music, dramas and comedies flow freely as pints are downed and inhibitions are loosened. Unfortunately, the proceedings are often bogged down by Irish playwright Enda Walsh’s book that constantly peruses plot points rather than facilitating them and letting the folks move on with the action.
Of course, the show flies predominantly on the wings of the songs created by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová, the stars of the film, and here the drama plays out. Guy’s voice-rending show opener, “Leave,” gives Girl all the information she needs to know: He is a phenomenally talented young man whose soul has been deeply wounded. The gentle probing in the duet “Falling Slowly” informs Guy and Girl that this failed street musician and this Czech refugee are musical soul mates who need to find a reason to create together. And Girl’s “If You Want Me” unveils the insecurities of a young woman who has no safety net under her life. The rest of the ensemble at times literally surrounds the couple with a Greek chorus of supportive fare, highlighted by the endearing a cappella first-act closer, “Gold” and the affirmative, zesty instrumental work on “North Strand.”
Complementing this Girl-Guy pas de deux, when not overburdened with dialogue, the enthusiastic ensemble inhabits characters—notably Donna Garner’s lusty portrayal of Girl’s mother, and Benjamin Magnuson’s (also a fine cellist) comedically geeky bank manager.
Once makes the usually cavernous Pantages Theatre seem intimate. But it would be interesting see what a local small-space ensemble could do with this melodious, Gallic-infused romance-fest.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
July 25, 2014
July 25, 2014
Lay Me Down Softly
Theatre Banshee
Billy Roche’s play is set in Delaney’s Traveling Roadshow, a down-market boxing show that’s touring the Irish midlands, circa 1960. Theo Delaney (Andrew Graves) is the show’s proprietor, who has a love ’em and leave ’em approach to women. He makes his profit from admission tickets, concessions, and a raffle, but his chief gimmick is advertising that his fighters will take on all comers. This seems to be a fine plan until a pro fighter—whom we never see—turns up to challenge Theo’s principal boxer, Dean (Kevin Stidham), and defeat him in the ring. The pro must then be paid the advertised purse for winning the match, radically cutting into the profits. And now the pro is threatening to come back every week and carry off the prize.
Dean, a feisty guy with lots of bark and very little bite, is not thrilled by the prospect of being beaten up by the pro every week. Three others are also in the mix. Peadar (John McKenna), an old sidekick of Theo’s, now serves as handyman and de facto fight manager. Junior (Patrick Quinlan) is another handyman, and a former boxer until he injured his foot in the ring. And Lily (Kacey Camp), Theo’s tough-talking current lady-friend, is along to work the box office and concessions, and to sell the raffle tickets. The plot gets under way when Theo’s daughter Emer (Kirsten Kollender) appears on the scene. He abandoned her mother before she was born, but now he seems to have taken a shine to Emer. Lily tells him Emer is up to no good, but because she regards Emer as a sexual rival, Theo and the audience tend to disbelieve her warnings.
Emer takes a shine to Junior and persuades him to get back in the ring, despite his injury. She’s hell-bent on getting out of the Midlands and attempts to convince Junior to run away with her, but Lily offers stiff competition.
Director Sean Branney provides a sterling production, despite flaws in the script. It’s primarily a genre piece, with more flavor and atmosphere than plot. And there are a few too many offstage characters, though Roche’s knack for Irish storytelling makes them colorful and intriguing. But when the offstage characters threaten to become more appealing than the ones onstage, it’s a sign of trouble. The scenes are always interesting, but the piece seldom generates the kind of dramatic heat one expects from a boxing drama. The presence of a full-scale boxing ring onstage (courtesy of set designer Arthur McBride) encourages us to expect to see boxing, but all the significant matches occur between the scenes.
Graves’s Theo likes to play the tough manager, but he’s a soft touch at heart. Stidham’s Dean is a big talker but short on delivery. Quinlan’s Junior is honest and stolid, but no match for the wiles of Emer. Camp’s Lily is sassy and competitive, and Kollender’s Emer conceals her iron determination and larcenous heart beneath a sweet exterior. But the soul of the piece is McKenna Peadar, Theo’s sweetly smiling boon companion and henchman, with a taste for poetry and playing his accordion.
Theatre Banshee
Billy Roche’s play is set in Delaney’s Traveling Roadshow, a down-market boxing show that’s touring the Irish midlands, circa 1960. Theo Delaney (Andrew Graves) is the show’s proprietor, who has a love ’em and leave ’em approach to women. He makes his profit from admission tickets, concessions, and a raffle, but his chief gimmick is advertising that his fighters will take on all comers. This seems to be a fine plan until a pro fighter—whom we never see—turns up to challenge Theo’s principal boxer, Dean (Kevin Stidham), and defeat him in the ring. The pro must then be paid the advertised purse for winning the match, radically cutting into the profits. And now the pro is threatening to come back every week and carry off the prize.
Dean, a feisty guy with lots of bark and very little bite, is not thrilled by the prospect of being beaten up by the pro every week. Three others are also in the mix. Peadar (John McKenna), an old sidekick of Theo’s, now serves as handyman and de facto fight manager. Junior (Patrick Quinlan) is another handyman, and a former boxer until he injured his foot in the ring. And Lily (Kacey Camp), Theo’s tough-talking current lady-friend, is along to work the box office and concessions, and to sell the raffle tickets. The plot gets under way when Theo’s daughter Emer (Kirsten Kollender) appears on the scene. He abandoned her mother before she was born, but now he seems to have taken a shine to Emer. Lily tells him Emer is up to no good, but because she regards Emer as a sexual rival, Theo and the audience tend to disbelieve her warnings.
Emer takes a shine to Junior and persuades him to get back in the ring, despite his injury. She’s hell-bent on getting out of the Midlands and attempts to convince Junior to run away with her, but Lily offers stiff competition.
Director Sean Branney provides a sterling production, despite flaws in the script. It’s primarily a genre piece, with more flavor and atmosphere than plot. And there are a few too many offstage characters, though Roche’s knack for Irish storytelling makes them colorful and intriguing. But when the offstage characters threaten to become more appealing than the ones onstage, it’s a sign of trouble. The scenes are always interesting, but the piece seldom generates the kind of dramatic heat one expects from a boxing drama. The presence of a full-scale boxing ring onstage (courtesy of set designer Arthur McBride) encourages us to expect to see boxing, but all the significant matches occur between the scenes.
Graves’s Theo likes to play the tough manager, but he’s a soft touch at heart. Stidham’s Dean is a big talker but short on delivery. Quinlan’s Junior is honest and stolid, but no match for the wiles of Emer. Camp’s Lily is sassy and competitive, and Kollender’s Emer conceals her iron determination and larcenous heart beneath a sweet exterior. But the soul of the piece is McKenna Peadar, Theo’s sweetly smiling boon companion and henchman, with a taste for poetry and playing his accordion.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
July 23, 2014
July 23, 2014
We Will Rock You
Center Theatre Group/Ahmanson Theatre
This show is an exuberant, enthusiastic, unabashed homage to the rock group Queen and its lead singer, the late Freddie Mercury. It is also splashy, a little bit silly, and loud enough to rattle your ribcage, with a rock-concert-style light show that is occasionally blinding. If those things appeal to you, then you should love this show. If not, you should probably stay home—or, like at least one member of the opening night audience, come equipped with earplugs.
The tale is set on an imaginary planet (a surrogate for Earth) in the future. Killer Queen (Jacqueline B. Arnold) is the head of Globalsoft Industries, which has devoted itself to stamping out rock ’n’ roll. She’s a symbol of all the commercial interests that have exploited artists and musicians. The hero of the piece, Galileo (Brian Justin Crum), is the poet whose mission is to save rock and, by extension, the world. It’s not entirely clear just why Killer Queen is so afraid of rock, and in the real world she’d have been more likely to co-opt it than destroy it.
But, whatever: There’s an underground group called the Bohemians, dedicated to rediscovering the lost world—or lost religion—of rock, and hanging out in an ancient and dilapidated Hard Rock Café. They have preserved some artifacts of the rock world—a Harley-Davidson, a TV set, and a videocassette whose message they don’t know how to unlock. They also remember the names of the rock gods, even if they don’t know what they mean, and misapply them wildly. Thus you have a gal who calls herself Oz (Erica Peck), for Ozzy Osborne, and her male partner Brit (Jared Zirilli), for Britney Spears.
The opening-night audience was delighted by every cockeyed pop culture reference. When a black Bohemian named Aretha gives Galileo’s sidekick Scaramouche (Ruby Lewis) a new outfit, she says, “Put it on, and don’t come back ’til you look like a natural woman.” The leader of the Bohemians is Buddy (Ryan Knowles), a long and lanky guy with a vocal range that extends from deep gravel voice to high falsetto. And presiding over the Bohemian enclave is the bronze statue of Mercury, whom they regard as their spiritual ancestor, even if they aren’t sure who or what he really was. When the Bohemians are captured and mind-zapped by the Killer Queen’s minions, only Galileo and Scaramouche escape to try and save the day.
The almost hagiographic treatment of Freddie Mercury and Queen obviously pleases the hard-core fans, but non-devotees may find it a bit excessive. And the fans, perhaps reliving their own glory days, are hell-bent on keeping the celebration going, and waving their light sticks in time to “We Will Rock You” and “We Are the Champions.”
The music is, of course, by Queen. Writer-director Ben Elton gives us a ramshackle script and a production that is flashy, relentless, and chock full of video special effects. All the performers acquit themselves well, when they’re not called upon to be so loud we can’t hear them. Among the machine-made sturm und drang, Crum and Lewis, as Galileo and Scaramouche, add a much-needed touch of humanity along with their considerable vocal skills. As Killer Queen, Arnold can belt out a song along with the best, and Peck and Zirilli provide high energy performances as Oz and Brit. Knowles, as Buddy, makes the most of his zanily subversive patter and vocal tricks.
The approach is insistently hip, and slightly tongue-and-check. But it almost seems like cheating when they refuse to give us “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which everyone seemed to be waiting for, until a final encore.
Center Theatre Group/Ahmanson Theatre
This show is an exuberant, enthusiastic, unabashed homage to the rock group Queen and its lead singer, the late Freddie Mercury. It is also splashy, a little bit silly, and loud enough to rattle your ribcage, with a rock-concert-style light show that is occasionally blinding. If those things appeal to you, then you should love this show. If not, you should probably stay home—or, like at least one member of the opening night audience, come equipped with earplugs.
The tale is set on an imaginary planet (a surrogate for Earth) in the future. Killer Queen (Jacqueline B. Arnold) is the head of Globalsoft Industries, which has devoted itself to stamping out rock ’n’ roll. She’s a symbol of all the commercial interests that have exploited artists and musicians. The hero of the piece, Galileo (Brian Justin Crum), is the poet whose mission is to save rock and, by extension, the world. It’s not entirely clear just why Killer Queen is so afraid of rock, and in the real world she’d have been more likely to co-opt it than destroy it.
But, whatever: There’s an underground group called the Bohemians, dedicated to rediscovering the lost world—or lost religion—of rock, and hanging out in an ancient and dilapidated Hard Rock Café. They have preserved some artifacts of the rock world—a Harley-Davidson, a TV set, and a videocassette whose message they don’t know how to unlock. They also remember the names of the rock gods, even if they don’t know what they mean, and misapply them wildly. Thus you have a gal who calls herself Oz (Erica Peck), for Ozzy Osborne, and her male partner Brit (Jared Zirilli), for Britney Spears.
The opening-night audience was delighted by every cockeyed pop culture reference. When a black Bohemian named Aretha gives Galileo’s sidekick Scaramouche (Ruby Lewis) a new outfit, she says, “Put it on, and don’t come back ’til you look like a natural woman.” The leader of the Bohemians is Buddy (Ryan Knowles), a long and lanky guy with a vocal range that extends from deep gravel voice to high falsetto. And presiding over the Bohemian enclave is the bronze statue of Mercury, whom they regard as their spiritual ancestor, even if they aren’t sure who or what he really was. When the Bohemians are captured and mind-zapped by the Killer Queen’s minions, only Galileo and Scaramouche escape to try and save the day.
The almost hagiographic treatment of Freddie Mercury and Queen obviously pleases the hard-core fans, but non-devotees may find it a bit excessive. And the fans, perhaps reliving their own glory days, are hell-bent on keeping the celebration going, and waving their light sticks in time to “We Will Rock You” and “We Are the Champions.”
The music is, of course, by Queen. Writer-director Ben Elton gives us a ramshackle script and a production that is flashy, relentless, and chock full of video special effects. All the performers acquit themselves well, when they’re not called upon to be so loud we can’t hear them. Among the machine-made sturm und drang, Crum and Lewis, as Galileo and Scaramouche, add a much-needed touch of humanity along with their considerable vocal skills. As Killer Queen, Arnold can belt out a song along with the best, and Peck and Zirilli provide high energy performances as Oz and Brit. Knowles, as Buddy, makes the most of his zanily subversive patter and vocal tricks.
The approach is insistently hip, and slightly tongue-and-check. But it almost seems like cheating when they refuse to give us “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which everyone seemed to be waiting for, until a final encore.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
July 17, 2014
July 17, 2014
Buyer & Cellar
Mark Taper Forum
The premise is so implausible it could be real, although Michael Urie, the sole performer in Buyer & Cellar, makes sure in the opening beats that his audience knows Jonathan Tolins’s sprightly little comedy is a work of fiction. Still, there is that slight head jerk and the rapidfire batting of his expressive eyelashes as Urie suggests that Barbra Striesand, who features prominently in the imagined storyline, is known to be a tad litigious. Is there a bit of a subtle wink-wink-nudge-nudge added here to suggest there is more to consider as we’re taken on an E-ticket ride through an eccentric superstar’s personal at-home Oz?
The story centers on Alex Moore, a young Hollywood acting wannabe who loses his job at Disneyland as the Mayor of Toontown, leaving him plenty of time to do LA theater (which, he observes, “is just about as tragic as it sounds”). Soon, however Alex is referred to a position as the sole proprietor of Streisand’s personal shopping mall, set up in grand style in the basement of a barn on her Malibu estate. As Alex describes it, “it’s as if your grandmother designed an Apple Store,” featuring an antique shop, a vintage doll store, a soda fountain complete with sprinkles to be liberally offered in Streisand’s very own frozen yogurt bar, and a clothing store filled with the diva’s personal wardrobe resembling “a dress shop in Gigi stocked with costumes from Funny Girl.” Why, there’s even a mink hat on display—one that’s perfect for tugboat travel.
At first Alex wonders how he can keep from going bonkers, dusting Streisand’s massive assemblage of just about anything and everything Americana from the 18th through the 20th centuries, a collection culled over the decades never inhibited by any budgetary restrictions, making it something akin to Hoarders on a higher plane. One day, however, things change as the lady of the house enters the doll shop and immediately plays a bizarre game with the wide-eyed Alex, playing unknown customer to his clerk in her own world, suggesting Alex call her Sadie as she browses the store’s crowded shelves. As she dickers on the price of a doll that’s already hers, her uncomfortable, starstruck employee is only too glad for all those improv classes he took with The Groundlings.
It’s hard to imagine the farfetched nature of this piece working without the many-octave range and endearingly cuddly nature of Urie, who takes about five minutes to make everyone in the audience fall in love with him. His Alex is clearly someone you just want to hug and protect, but when Urie launches at breakneck speed into one of the play’s other characters, from Alex’s bitchy boyfriend Barry to the star’s husband James Brolin to the manor’s Gestapo-esque housekeeper to Babs herself, it becomes apparent this talented lad could play just about anyone. As Streisand, he’s not in any way the tired traditional drag-queen Barbra, instead giving his subject a sweet delicacy and the lost essence of a mysterious, reclusive public figure somewhat tormented by the nature of great fame and all the criticism someone in that unique position must try to ignore. Only one standard Streisand-y mannerism survives and is surely recognizable to just about everyone in attendance, as Urie runs his nonexistent stiletto fingernails through his subject’s imaginary blow-dried frosted bangs.
Buyer & Cellar is extremely slick and, running just under two intermissionless hours, diabolically quick, filled with so many nonstop Friends of Dorothy–inspired references that it begins to feel like Tolins’s roots might just have been as a camp follower of the Jewel Box Revue. Ordinarily, this technique can cause massive eye-rolling in an audience, but again, in Urie’s capable hands, it all works like gangbusters. And as Alex and his famous boss teeter more and more on the verge of becoming reluctant friends, something that eventually costs him his obviously jealous boyfriend, it also becomes a little bittersweet, eventually emerging as a knowing statement about the loneliness and insecurities of superstardom.
At one point Alex tells us that, unlike Barry, he doesn’t want to spend his life being a less-talented person making fun of more-talented people—a concept Urie and Tolins, along with their director Stephen Brackett, adhere to with classy finesse. Never is the legendary supernova the butt of an easy joke, nor are her eccentricities presented as anything but understandable under the weight of decades of massive worldwide scrutiny. This just might be the reason the awkwardly exposed, often pitiably cloistered megastar with a penchant for litigious conduct has left Buyer & Cellar alone in silence and without comment.
Mark Taper Forum
The premise is so implausible it could be real, although Michael Urie, the sole performer in Buyer & Cellar, makes sure in the opening beats that his audience knows Jonathan Tolins’s sprightly little comedy is a work of fiction. Still, there is that slight head jerk and the rapidfire batting of his expressive eyelashes as Urie suggests that Barbra Striesand, who features prominently in the imagined storyline, is known to be a tad litigious. Is there a bit of a subtle wink-wink-nudge-nudge added here to suggest there is more to consider as we’re taken on an E-ticket ride through an eccentric superstar’s personal at-home Oz?
The story centers on Alex Moore, a young Hollywood acting wannabe who loses his job at Disneyland as the Mayor of Toontown, leaving him plenty of time to do LA theater (which, he observes, “is just about as tragic as it sounds”). Soon, however Alex is referred to a position as the sole proprietor of Streisand’s personal shopping mall, set up in grand style in the basement of a barn on her Malibu estate. As Alex describes it, “it’s as if your grandmother designed an Apple Store,” featuring an antique shop, a vintage doll store, a soda fountain complete with sprinkles to be liberally offered in Streisand’s very own frozen yogurt bar, and a clothing store filled with the diva’s personal wardrobe resembling “a dress shop in Gigi stocked with costumes from Funny Girl.” Why, there’s even a mink hat on display—one that’s perfect for tugboat travel.
At first Alex wonders how he can keep from going bonkers, dusting Streisand’s massive assemblage of just about anything and everything Americana from the 18th through the 20th centuries, a collection culled over the decades never inhibited by any budgetary restrictions, making it something akin to Hoarders on a higher plane. One day, however, things change as the lady of the house enters the doll shop and immediately plays a bizarre game with the wide-eyed Alex, playing unknown customer to his clerk in her own world, suggesting Alex call her Sadie as she browses the store’s crowded shelves. As she dickers on the price of a doll that’s already hers, her uncomfortable, starstruck employee is only too glad for all those improv classes he took with The Groundlings.
It’s hard to imagine the farfetched nature of this piece working without the many-octave range and endearingly cuddly nature of Urie, who takes about five minutes to make everyone in the audience fall in love with him. His Alex is clearly someone you just want to hug and protect, but when Urie launches at breakneck speed into one of the play’s other characters, from Alex’s bitchy boyfriend Barry to the star’s husband James Brolin to the manor’s Gestapo-esque housekeeper to Babs herself, it becomes apparent this talented lad could play just about anyone. As Streisand, he’s not in any way the tired traditional drag-queen Barbra, instead giving his subject a sweet delicacy and the lost essence of a mysterious, reclusive public figure somewhat tormented by the nature of great fame and all the criticism someone in that unique position must try to ignore. Only one standard Streisand-y mannerism survives and is surely recognizable to just about everyone in attendance, as Urie runs his nonexistent stiletto fingernails through his subject’s imaginary blow-dried frosted bangs.
Buyer & Cellar is extremely slick and, running just under two intermissionless hours, diabolically quick, filled with so many nonstop Friends of Dorothy–inspired references that it begins to feel like Tolins’s roots might just have been as a camp follower of the Jewel Box Revue. Ordinarily, this technique can cause massive eye-rolling in an audience, but again, in Urie’s capable hands, it all works like gangbusters. And as Alex and his famous boss teeter more and more on the verge of becoming reluctant friends, something that eventually costs him his obviously jealous boyfriend, it also becomes a little bittersweet, eventually emerging as a knowing statement about the loneliness and insecurities of superstardom.
At one point Alex tells us that, unlike Barry, he doesn’t want to spend his life being a less-talented person making fun of more-talented people—a concept Urie and Tolins, along with their director Stephen Brackett, adhere to with classy finesse. Never is the legendary supernova the butt of an easy joke, nor are her eccentricities presented as anything but understandable under the weight of decades of massive worldwide scrutiny. This just might be the reason the awkwardly exposed, often pitiably cloistered megastar with a penchant for litigious conduct has left Buyer & Cellar alone in silence and without comment.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
July 15, 2014
July 15, 2014
Always...Patsy Cline
El Portal Theatre & 22Q Entertainment at El Portal Theatre
Long before concerts of all genres evolved into today’s ever expanding spectacles of pyrotechnical and luminary wizardry and over-amplification, it was the music, lyrics, and an artist’s ability to personally connect with an audience that produced instant stardom. Based on a series of letters between the title character and perhaps her biggest fan, this homage to the late Patsy Cline and her all-too-short rise to stardom captures the essence of a bygone era. Cline’s vocal interpretations of message-laden songs touched the collective heart of America as it enjoyed the last vestiges of an innocence soon to be shattered by Vietnam and our country’s social struggles.
Written and originally directed by Ted Swindley, this latest incarnation, starring Sally Struthers and Carter Calvert, pairs this incomparable duo for their third run of this piece, as they bring the most self-confident chemistry to the stage. Each moment feels as fresh as if it were happening for the very first time, and the actors’ obvious admiration for each other’s talents is unmistakable.
As Louise Seger, a single mother of two living in Houston, Struthers floods the stage with an effervescent energy that knows no bounds. Having first heard Cline on The Arthur Godfrey Show, Seger’s true-life encounter with Cline at a local honky-tonk concert hall sets this unusual friendship rolling like a freight train. Without a single moment offstage during the entire show, Struthers owns the space as she relays her character’s interactions with one of country-western music’s brightest stars. Whether inhabiting a variety of characters that comprise Louise’s circle of family and friends or yukking it up with Calvert on foot-stomping duets of “Shake, Rattle and Roll” and “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” Struthers demonstrates her well-honed, comedic skills. And when she delivers the inevitably bad news surrounding Cline’s tragic death at age 30 in an airplane accident on March 5, 1963, we see a side to this woman that only an actor of Struthers’s depth can essay. Hers is a tour-de-force performance that must be seen to be believed.
Likewise, Calvert’s vocal depictions of Cline’s original recordings, spot-on perfect at every turn, are stunning. Demonstrating flawless control, tonality, range, and command of the nuances that elevated Cline above her contemporaries, Calvert is equally at home with ballads and roof-raising up-tempos. Her renditions of “Stupid Cupid,” “Bill Bailey,” and “San Antonio Rose” had the audience singing and clapping along. On the other hand, it was nearly impossible to imagine a dry eye as Calvert brought forth gorgeously simple versions of “I Fall to Pieces,” “You Belong to Me,” “If I Could See the World” and her nearly showstopping performance of Cline’s signature piece “Crazy.”
Of course, Calvert doesn’t perform a cappella. Under the musical direction of John Randall, who plays piano while leading a five-piece onstage combo, the show’s catalogue of 22 of Cline’s most-famous hits comes to life with gusto. Scenic design consultant Bruce Goodrich bookends the band’s centerstage elevated platform with mini-sets depicting Louise’s kitchen and the Houston watering hole where the ladies first crossed paths. Gordon DeVinney’s wardrobe design, particularly Calvert’s never ending array of costumes, brings back beloved memories of the Grand Ol’ Opry’s golden era.
Perhaps the most moving aspect of this show is the realization of lost opportunities. Cline was more than just a singer. She was an artiste, and it’s through Calvert’s and Struthers’s performances that we can only imagine the songs unsung and what might have been had fate’s cruel hand not taken Cline at such a tender age.
El Portal Theatre & 22Q Entertainment at El Portal Theatre
Long before concerts of all genres evolved into today’s ever expanding spectacles of pyrotechnical and luminary wizardry and over-amplification, it was the music, lyrics, and an artist’s ability to personally connect with an audience that produced instant stardom. Based on a series of letters between the title character and perhaps her biggest fan, this homage to the late Patsy Cline and her all-too-short rise to stardom captures the essence of a bygone era. Cline’s vocal interpretations of message-laden songs touched the collective heart of America as it enjoyed the last vestiges of an innocence soon to be shattered by Vietnam and our country’s social struggles.
Written and originally directed by Ted Swindley, this latest incarnation, starring Sally Struthers and Carter Calvert, pairs this incomparable duo for their third run of this piece, as they bring the most self-confident chemistry to the stage. Each moment feels as fresh as if it were happening for the very first time, and the actors’ obvious admiration for each other’s talents is unmistakable.
As Louise Seger, a single mother of two living in Houston, Struthers floods the stage with an effervescent energy that knows no bounds. Having first heard Cline on The Arthur Godfrey Show, Seger’s true-life encounter with Cline at a local honky-tonk concert hall sets this unusual friendship rolling like a freight train. Without a single moment offstage during the entire show, Struthers owns the space as she relays her character’s interactions with one of country-western music’s brightest stars. Whether inhabiting a variety of characters that comprise Louise’s circle of family and friends or yukking it up with Calvert on foot-stomping duets of “Shake, Rattle and Roll” and “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” Struthers demonstrates her well-honed, comedic skills. And when she delivers the inevitably bad news surrounding Cline’s tragic death at age 30 in an airplane accident on March 5, 1963, we see a side to this woman that only an actor of Struthers’s depth can essay. Hers is a tour-de-force performance that must be seen to be believed.
Likewise, Calvert’s vocal depictions of Cline’s original recordings, spot-on perfect at every turn, are stunning. Demonstrating flawless control, tonality, range, and command of the nuances that elevated Cline above her contemporaries, Calvert is equally at home with ballads and roof-raising up-tempos. Her renditions of “Stupid Cupid,” “Bill Bailey,” and “San Antonio Rose” had the audience singing and clapping along. On the other hand, it was nearly impossible to imagine a dry eye as Calvert brought forth gorgeously simple versions of “I Fall to Pieces,” “You Belong to Me,” “If I Could See the World” and her nearly showstopping performance of Cline’s signature piece “Crazy.”
Of course, Calvert doesn’t perform a cappella. Under the musical direction of John Randall, who plays piano while leading a five-piece onstage combo, the show’s catalogue of 22 of Cline’s most-famous hits comes to life with gusto. Scenic design consultant Bruce Goodrich bookends the band’s centerstage elevated platform with mini-sets depicting Louise’s kitchen and the Houston watering hole where the ladies first crossed paths. Gordon DeVinney’s wardrobe design, particularly Calvert’s never ending array of costumes, brings back beloved memories of the Grand Ol’ Opry’s golden era.
Perhaps the most moving aspect of this show is the realization of lost opportunities. Cline was more than just a singer. She was an artiste, and it’s through Calvert’s and Struthers’s performances that we can only imagine the songs unsung and what might have been had fate’s cruel hand not taken Cline at such a tender age.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
July 15, 2014
July 15, 2014
The Sexual Life of Savages
Skylight Theatre Company at Beverly Hills Playhouse
Ian MacAllister-McDonald’s world premiere script broaches several slices of life not usually seen onstage. The topic, as his play’s title responsibly hints, is the sexuality of his five characters. The dialogue is exceedingly explicit, and we’re not talking an occasional F-bomb. But the situations his characters put themselves in and the conversations the play will undoubtedly provoke in its audiences are unique.
The characters range from the presumably untouched to the sexually gluttonous. Hal and Jean have been a couple for two years. We meet them moments after Hal has demanded to know her “number”—how many sexual partners she has had. Her total has stunned and disgusted him. The fallout from that conversation causes them to break up.
In the next scene, Clark and Hal are discussing this and other sexual matters in the teachers’ lounge of a high school. (The appropriateness of this conversation in this locale is, of course, questionable.) Clark brings three-ways into his marriage, advertising for female participants through his supposedly private website. Simultaneously in this scene, Jean is in a hospital break room, discussing with her colleague Naomi her version of her breakup with Hal.
The new art teacher, Alice, enters the teachers’ lounge, and Hal becomes attracted to her. Meanwhile, Naomi, we learn or observe from the start, is a lesbian, who breaks up with her partner and, over the course of the play, finds her way into Clark’s marital bed.
Elina de Santos directs a stunningly skilled cast. Luke Cook masterfully creates the uncomfortable Hal, but Melissa Paladino is so good as the feisty Jean that she’s almost at that “is she always like this or is she acting?” state.
As Coach Clark, Burt Grinstead is a touch cartoonish in the teachers’ lounge—though perhaps anyone that secure would seem so—but we get to see Clark when he’s alone, and Grinstead lets us glimpse a bit of insecurity. T. Lynn Mikeska plays Naomi as part brusque, part vulnerable.
However, an astonishing acting moment happens here, thanks to Melanie Lyons as Alice. This character begins as a prim but hopeful young woman with an English accent. As Hal discovers, she changes, and the transformation and descent, seen on her face, are startling.
De Santos ensures ample subtext, painting in subtlety and swirling currents. She creates various playing areas here, but the bed takes centerstage. Pacing is snappy, except near the play’s end, when de Santos allows a lingering exchange of thoughts—the characters’ and the audience’s—time to develop.
But problematically, form overwhelms substance in the script, disrupting the audience’s concentration on the moments MacAllister-McDonald has otherwise carefully crafted. No sooner do we suspend disbelief then the playwright introduces a conceit. Sometimes it’s cross-conversations, in which two pairs of actors carry on their dialogue simultaneously. Sometimes it’s through the direct-address monologue each characters delivers. The information imparted may be interesting and relevant, but the contrived method of delivery takes its audience out of the story and back into the theater seats.
This play is not for “sensitive” audiences. But those fascinated by behavior might find this an intriguing glimpse into, as promised, the sexual lives of the race.
Skylight Theatre Company at Beverly Hills Playhouse
Ian MacAllister-McDonald’s world premiere script broaches several slices of life not usually seen onstage. The topic, as his play’s title responsibly hints, is the sexuality of his five characters. The dialogue is exceedingly explicit, and we’re not talking an occasional F-bomb. But the situations his characters put themselves in and the conversations the play will undoubtedly provoke in its audiences are unique.
The characters range from the presumably untouched to the sexually gluttonous. Hal and Jean have been a couple for two years. We meet them moments after Hal has demanded to know her “number”—how many sexual partners she has had. Her total has stunned and disgusted him. The fallout from that conversation causes them to break up.
In the next scene, Clark and Hal are discussing this and other sexual matters in the teachers’ lounge of a high school. (The appropriateness of this conversation in this locale is, of course, questionable.) Clark brings three-ways into his marriage, advertising for female participants through his supposedly private website. Simultaneously in this scene, Jean is in a hospital break room, discussing with her colleague Naomi her version of her breakup with Hal.
The new art teacher, Alice, enters the teachers’ lounge, and Hal becomes attracted to her. Meanwhile, Naomi, we learn or observe from the start, is a lesbian, who breaks up with her partner and, over the course of the play, finds her way into Clark’s marital bed.
Elina de Santos directs a stunningly skilled cast. Luke Cook masterfully creates the uncomfortable Hal, but Melissa Paladino is so good as the feisty Jean that she’s almost at that “is she always like this or is she acting?” state.
As Coach Clark, Burt Grinstead is a touch cartoonish in the teachers’ lounge—though perhaps anyone that secure would seem so—but we get to see Clark when he’s alone, and Grinstead lets us glimpse a bit of insecurity. T. Lynn Mikeska plays Naomi as part brusque, part vulnerable.
However, an astonishing acting moment happens here, thanks to Melanie Lyons as Alice. This character begins as a prim but hopeful young woman with an English accent. As Hal discovers, she changes, and the transformation and descent, seen on her face, are startling.
De Santos ensures ample subtext, painting in subtlety and swirling currents. She creates various playing areas here, but the bed takes centerstage. Pacing is snappy, except near the play’s end, when de Santos allows a lingering exchange of thoughts—the characters’ and the audience’s—time to develop.
But problematically, form overwhelms substance in the script, disrupting the audience’s concentration on the moments MacAllister-McDonald has otherwise carefully crafted. No sooner do we suspend disbelief then the playwright introduces a conceit. Sometimes it’s cross-conversations, in which two pairs of actors carry on their dialogue simultaneously. Sometimes it’s through the direct-address monologue each characters delivers. The information imparted may be interesting and relevant, but the contrived method of delivery takes its audience out of the story and back into the theater seats.
This play is not for “sensitive” audiences. But those fascinated by behavior might find this an intriguing glimpse into, as promised, the sexual lives of the race.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 15, 2014
July 15, 2014
Sordid Lives
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
Give Kentwood Players credit for mounting this production. Del Shores’s Sordid Lives focuses on social outcasts who ignite ire—if not disgust and even hatred. Where Kentwood’s version falters is in its failure to make some of the characters real despite their outrageousness. But when the actors delve into universal truths, the show hits Shores’s intended targets: our shriveled little hearts.
The play is set in the middle of Texas and follows the family dynamics after the death of Peggy, who was sister to Sissy and mother to Latrelle, La Vonda, and Earl. Clearly, homosexuality runs in this family. So does intolerance. So does outlandishness.
The play begins as Ty, Peggy’s grandson who was raised in this Southern Baptist family, reveals to his therapist that he is gay. Presumably the audience will think his life is the sordid one. Minds will change quickly.
So, yes, the audience can snicker when it learns that Peggy died in flagrante with G.W., the husband of her daughter’s best friend. The audience can laugh louder when it learns that Peggy died from a fall after tripping over G.W.’s wooden legs, which he left lying on the floor. The audience can howl when it sees the assortment of family members and friends left to face the aftermath of Peggy’s choices.
But this play is a microcosm of all of us. Everybody had a family, whether beloved and close or not. Everybody eventually faces differences. Everybody deals with consequences. And most of us, at least the lucky ones, at some point in our sordid lives feel the relief of receiving—and giving—forgiveness and acceptance.
Director Kirk Larson pulls all of his actors into this world, though some have wandered into cartoonish territory, laughing at their characters and begging the audience to laugh with them. A few of the other actors, however, capture just the right tone.
Notably, Catherine Rahm plays Sissy, Peggy’s younger sister. Sissy would be the family peacemaker, but she is trying to quit smoking. Rahm plays it relatively straight, her Sissy hoping to ease the family quarrels while calming her own nerves.
Samantha Barrios plays La Vonda, the “liberal” one in the family. Barrios gives her a buoyant, jolly quality, making her a woman whom Ty would probably have preferred as his mother. Ty, however, was born to Latrelle, and Alison Mattiza goes full bore for a pinched, seemingly intolerant characterization.
But the production’s loveliest performances come from three actors. Michael Sandidge plays Ty as just so clean-cut and cheerful, he’s almost too perfect. Slowly, carefully, Sandidge lets the depths of his character emerge.
Greg Abbott plays the gay, transvestite Earl, whom the family has institutionalized for more than two decades. Clad in pink pajamas, a pink feather boa, and rose-trimmed slippers, Abbott’s Earl, among all these characters, symbolizes the people we most set aside. In watching Abbott work, suddenly we don’t see an actor onstage but instead a true-to-life human being who is hidden and hiding, harmless and hopeless.
Also embodying the Shores style is Susan Stangl, playing Peggy’s “close” friend Bitsy Mae. Stangl doesn’t laugh at her character; she is the character, feeling her emotions and just “being” onstage. Stangl accompanies herself on guitar as she sings the scene-setting songs in a soothing, appealing voice.
Kentwood Players chose to use the tamed-language version of the play: The naughtiest word said here is the S-word, though a lot of behavior gets discussed. Fortunately, this version is ample to tell this story of reconciliation and perhaps hope.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
Give Kentwood Players credit for mounting this production. Del Shores’s Sordid Lives focuses on social outcasts who ignite ire—if not disgust and even hatred. Where Kentwood’s version falters is in its failure to make some of the characters real despite their outrageousness. But when the actors delve into universal truths, the show hits Shores’s intended targets: our shriveled little hearts.
The play is set in the middle of Texas and follows the family dynamics after the death of Peggy, who was sister to Sissy and mother to Latrelle, La Vonda, and Earl. Clearly, homosexuality runs in this family. So does intolerance. So does outlandishness.
The play begins as Ty, Peggy’s grandson who was raised in this Southern Baptist family, reveals to his therapist that he is gay. Presumably the audience will think his life is the sordid one. Minds will change quickly.
So, yes, the audience can snicker when it learns that Peggy died in flagrante with G.W., the husband of her daughter’s best friend. The audience can laugh louder when it learns that Peggy died from a fall after tripping over G.W.’s wooden legs, which he left lying on the floor. The audience can howl when it sees the assortment of family members and friends left to face the aftermath of Peggy’s choices.
But this play is a microcosm of all of us. Everybody had a family, whether beloved and close or not. Everybody eventually faces differences. Everybody deals with consequences. And most of us, at least the lucky ones, at some point in our sordid lives feel the relief of receiving—and giving—forgiveness and acceptance.
Director Kirk Larson pulls all of his actors into this world, though some have wandered into cartoonish territory, laughing at their characters and begging the audience to laugh with them. A few of the other actors, however, capture just the right tone.
Notably, Catherine Rahm plays Sissy, Peggy’s younger sister. Sissy would be the family peacemaker, but she is trying to quit smoking. Rahm plays it relatively straight, her Sissy hoping to ease the family quarrels while calming her own nerves.
Samantha Barrios plays La Vonda, the “liberal” one in the family. Barrios gives her a buoyant, jolly quality, making her a woman whom Ty would probably have preferred as his mother. Ty, however, was born to Latrelle, and Alison Mattiza goes full bore for a pinched, seemingly intolerant characterization.
But the production’s loveliest performances come from three actors. Michael Sandidge plays Ty as just so clean-cut and cheerful, he’s almost too perfect. Slowly, carefully, Sandidge lets the depths of his character emerge.
Greg Abbott plays the gay, transvestite Earl, whom the family has institutionalized for more than two decades. Clad in pink pajamas, a pink feather boa, and rose-trimmed slippers, Abbott’s Earl, among all these characters, symbolizes the people we most set aside. In watching Abbott work, suddenly we don’t see an actor onstage but instead a true-to-life human being who is hidden and hiding, harmless and hopeless.
Also embodying the Shores style is Susan Stangl, playing Peggy’s “close” friend Bitsy Mae. Stangl doesn’t laugh at her character; she is the character, feeling her emotions and just “being” onstage. Stangl accompanies herself on guitar as she sings the scene-setting songs in a soothing, appealing voice.
Kentwood Players chose to use the tamed-language version of the play: The naughtiest word said here is the S-word, though a lot of behavior gets discussed. Fortunately, this version is ample to tell this story of reconciliation and perhaps hope.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
July 14, 2014
July 14, 2014
Dixie’s Tupperware Party
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
The good graces of the Geffen Playhouse are responsible for Los Angeles’ introduction to one Dixie Longate: Alabama native, single mom, social critic, and, above all, housewares entrepreneuse in the unveiling of Dixie’s Tupperware Party. This 100-minute interactive theatrical experience—having already cut a successful swath through New York City and numerous other venues—encompasses audience participation and liberal doses of Dixie’s unique brand of Southern-fried personal reminiscence.
Oh my baby Jesus, does she talk, as the taffeta-clad, bouffant-haired lady herself might put it: yarns about how her parole officer got her started in the Tupperware dodge, her three deceased exes, and the thrill of going to an annual salesladies’ corporate jubilee to celebrate the past year’s biggest earners.
Make no mistake, by the way: This is a for-real sales event, no foolin’. The chairs of the Geffen’s intimate Audrey space are preset with catalogues, order forms, and complimentary pens (thanks, Dixie!). Before you’re granted exit, you will have seen a couple dozen items paraded before your eyes, stock numbers and all, and just try to get past Dixie and her beaming minions as they pounce to take your order before you can make it out onto LeConte Avenue again. A lot of “the crap,” as Dixie is fond of referring to her wares, needs to be shipped from Tupperware Central, though on opening night there was quite a run on all sorts of bowls, canisters, and gadgets available cash and carry. The lady is, without a doubt, persuasive.
The provenance of the merchandise is assuredly official Tupperware, but that of the show is couched in some mystery. Director Patrick Richwood makes his presence known through a beaming photo in the program, but the writing is credited to some guy named Kris Andersson, who appears to have something of the same relationship to Dixie that that Australian fellow Barry Humphries has to the celebrated (and frequent visitor to our county) Dame Edna Everage.
In both cases, you don’t want to sniff around too closely; just sit back and wallow in the situation. And there’s plenty to wallow in.
Dame Edna and Miss Dixie share a good deal more than a certain ambiguity beneath the pantyhose. Both greet their audience members with tender condescension, and both are rampant narcissists exuding self-love at every conceivable opportunity. “Where are you from, darlin’?” Dixie will ask a flustered patron. “London.” “Oh!” the star exclaims, “Hola!”—clearly indicating that in her eyes one furriner is jes’ lak t’other, and, never mind that, can I interest you in this container for marinating meat?
Speaking of meat, while Edna is no slouch in the naughtiness department, Dixie has her beat by a country mile, with allusions to sexuality that go so far beyond double entendres, they’re just entendres. It starts with the pronunciation of her name (when you say it out loud slowly, the only possible response is, “Why, yes, they certainly do”); followed by rapid-fire references to private parts and demonstrations to boot.
Prudes will be made uncomfortable by her verbal and visual antics even as they’re drawn to the deep-dish salad crisper, though Dixie clearly couldn’t care less about any ol’ stick-in-the-muds who are bothered. Indeed, one senses she has a wicked evil eye for anyone squirming; bless their hearts, they better watch out.
Most important, divas Edna and Dixie share an ability to perfectly play their spectators like a musical instrument in order to extract the maximum amount of embarrassed hilarity. When four audience members are placed on stage, one is immediately identified as “lesbian” simply to be the butt of Doc Martens humor, while a young man down front is chosen to stand in for everyone of the male gender who dismisses Tupperware as all about mere bowls. “Ain’t that right, Patrick? Just bow-els, bow-els,” she drawls with frosty hostility.
And say this for Dixie, she picks her targets extremely well: The putative lesbian took it all with good humor, and when poor Patrick took the stage to show how easily the Tupperware can opener works, his 10-minute display of ineptitude justified every bit of skepticism about male competence our hostess had already raised.
You could quibble and say that while Dame Edna sticks to her guns without ever backing off her nastiness, Dixie takes the time, before her party ends, to lower the lights and get all sincere, the way Don Rickles does when he wants to take some of the heat off his insults. On the other hand, Dixie’s dazzling improv ability is something Edna could well envy, and her brief foray into sentimentality only serves to endear her to us even more.
I do hope you’ve gotten enough of a taste of the show to know whether it will grab you where you live. I for one thought it was wonderful. And I really love my new can opener.
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
The good graces of the Geffen Playhouse are responsible for Los Angeles’ introduction to one Dixie Longate: Alabama native, single mom, social critic, and, above all, housewares entrepreneuse in the unveiling of Dixie’s Tupperware Party. This 100-minute interactive theatrical experience—having already cut a successful swath through New York City and numerous other venues—encompasses audience participation and liberal doses of Dixie’s unique brand of Southern-fried personal reminiscence.
Oh my baby Jesus, does she talk, as the taffeta-clad, bouffant-haired lady herself might put it: yarns about how her parole officer got her started in the Tupperware dodge, her three deceased exes, and the thrill of going to an annual salesladies’ corporate jubilee to celebrate the past year’s biggest earners.
Make no mistake, by the way: This is a for-real sales event, no foolin’. The chairs of the Geffen’s intimate Audrey space are preset with catalogues, order forms, and complimentary pens (thanks, Dixie!). Before you’re granted exit, you will have seen a couple dozen items paraded before your eyes, stock numbers and all, and just try to get past Dixie and her beaming minions as they pounce to take your order before you can make it out onto LeConte Avenue again. A lot of “the crap,” as Dixie is fond of referring to her wares, needs to be shipped from Tupperware Central, though on opening night there was quite a run on all sorts of bowls, canisters, and gadgets available cash and carry. The lady is, without a doubt, persuasive.
The provenance of the merchandise is assuredly official Tupperware, but that of the show is couched in some mystery. Director Patrick Richwood makes his presence known through a beaming photo in the program, but the writing is credited to some guy named Kris Andersson, who appears to have something of the same relationship to Dixie that that Australian fellow Barry Humphries has to the celebrated (and frequent visitor to our county) Dame Edna Everage.
In both cases, you don’t want to sniff around too closely; just sit back and wallow in the situation. And there’s plenty to wallow in.
Dame Edna and Miss Dixie share a good deal more than a certain ambiguity beneath the pantyhose. Both greet their audience members with tender condescension, and both are rampant narcissists exuding self-love at every conceivable opportunity. “Where are you from, darlin’?” Dixie will ask a flustered patron. “London.” “Oh!” the star exclaims, “Hola!”—clearly indicating that in her eyes one furriner is jes’ lak t’other, and, never mind that, can I interest you in this container for marinating meat?
Speaking of meat, while Edna is no slouch in the naughtiness department, Dixie has her beat by a country mile, with allusions to sexuality that go so far beyond double entendres, they’re just entendres. It starts with the pronunciation of her name (when you say it out loud slowly, the only possible response is, “Why, yes, they certainly do”); followed by rapid-fire references to private parts and demonstrations to boot.
Prudes will be made uncomfortable by her verbal and visual antics even as they’re drawn to the deep-dish salad crisper, though Dixie clearly couldn’t care less about any ol’ stick-in-the-muds who are bothered. Indeed, one senses she has a wicked evil eye for anyone squirming; bless their hearts, they better watch out.
Most important, divas Edna and Dixie share an ability to perfectly play their spectators like a musical instrument in order to extract the maximum amount of embarrassed hilarity. When four audience members are placed on stage, one is immediately identified as “lesbian” simply to be the butt of Doc Martens humor, while a young man down front is chosen to stand in for everyone of the male gender who dismisses Tupperware as all about mere bowls. “Ain’t that right, Patrick? Just bow-els, bow-els,” she drawls with frosty hostility.
And say this for Dixie, she picks her targets extremely well: The putative lesbian took it all with good humor, and when poor Patrick took the stage to show how easily the Tupperware can opener works, his 10-minute display of ineptitude justified every bit of skepticism about male competence our hostess had already raised.
You could quibble and say that while Dame Edna sticks to her guns without ever backing off her nastiness, Dixie takes the time, before her party ends, to lower the lights and get all sincere, the way Don Rickles does when he wants to take some of the heat off his insults. On the other hand, Dixie’s dazzling improv ability is something Edna could well envy, and her brief foray into sentimentality only serves to endear her to us even more.
I do hope you’ve gotten enough of a taste of the show to know whether it will grab you where you live. I for one thought it was wonderful. And I really love my new can opener.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
July 11, 2014
July 11, 2014
The Curse of Oedipus
The Antaeus Company
The dark and bloody legend of King Oedipus inspired the ancient Greek dramatists to create many plays recounting his fate. In Sophocles’s tragedy Oedipus the King, we learn how he fled his home city, Corinth, to escape a terrible prophecy that he would kill his father and marry his mother. But instead of evading his fate, he runs headlong into it, unwittingly fulfilling the prophecy. Told by an oracle of the gods that he must find and punish an evildoer to save his city from a plague, his search reveals to him that the evil-doer is himself. In shame and horror at his unknowing incest, he puts out his eyes.
In Euripides’s The Phoenicians, as much a blood-and-thunder melodrama as a tragedy, we see how the blinded, guilt-ridden Oedipus confers joint kingship of Thebes on his two sons, Eteocles and Polyneices, proposing that they should reign in alternate years. Instead, they become murderous rivals, launch a war over the throne, and slay each other in single, fratricidal combat. Oedipus is driven into exile by the people of Thebes.
In Sophocles’s elegiac Oedipus in Colonus, we see him led by his daughter Antigone to a sacred precinct in Athens where, under the protection of King Theseus, he at last finds peace, humility, and his final apotheosis.
Now, in a daring move, writer-translator Kenneth Cavender has taken up these three plays—and other ancient sources—and blended them into a single, epic drama. His concise, direct, athletic renderings rescue the plays from the fustian and bombast of the older translations and present them new-minted, with a curiously modern thrust. And director Casey Stangl gives them a faithful and dynamic staging, with a sterling cast of terrific actors.
As Oedipus, Ramon de Ocampo eloquently captures the unfortunate monarch’s strength, hot temper, and arrogance, as well as his transition to faltering, guilt-ridden, fallen hero. He gives us a man, imperfect and suffering, rather than a monument carved of stone. Equally effective, in a very different way, is Josh Clark as Oedipus’s wily brother-in-law Creon, who nurses secret ambitions to capture the throne for himself. He struggles to take it, and when he briefly succeeds, he can’t hold onto it. In a futile effort to restore order to his troubled city, he tells the people over and over, “Go home. The danger is over.” But the danger is never over.
Fran Bennett, in a piece of inspired gender-blind casting, gives us an iconic rendition of the blind prophet Tiresias, who senses the tragedies looming, but can do nothing to stop them. Eve Gordon is a passionate, thwarted Jocasta, the mother/wife of Oedipus; and Kwana Martinez is a courageously obstinate Antigone. Mark Bramhall and Stoney Westmoreland are the rival gods Apollo and Dionysus, who preside over the action and seek to impose their own meanings on it.
Ultimately the backbone of Greek tragedy is the chorus, and this one is vital, dynamic, and eloquent. Stangl has cast actors of all ages, shapes, and sizes: Philip Proctor, John Achorn, Cameron J. Oro, Chris Clowers, Elizabeth Swain, Susan Boyd Joyce, Belen Greene, and Keri Safran. But this is no abstract unit: they are rather a cross-section of confused, striving individuals, attempting to understand what is happening around them, what it means, and how it affects their lives.
Drummer Geno Monteiro provides electrifying percussion to punctuate and heighten the action, while François-Pierre Couture’s semi-abstract set features criss-crossing cords that suggest a web the characters are caught in—until the end, when the web snaps. The story may be archaic, but, without striving, it achieves contemporary relevance. When Oedipus proclaims that he feels the agony of his suffering people, it rings like an echo of Bill Clinton’s “I feel your pain.” And when the Delphic Oracle hastily reaches out to claim payment for a prophecy, we think of fundraising televangelists. There’s plenty of grim laughter along with the blood and death.
Note the production is double-cast. Check theater website for schedule.
The Antaeus Company
The dark and bloody legend of King Oedipus inspired the ancient Greek dramatists to create many plays recounting his fate. In Sophocles’s tragedy Oedipus the King, we learn how he fled his home city, Corinth, to escape a terrible prophecy that he would kill his father and marry his mother. But instead of evading his fate, he runs headlong into it, unwittingly fulfilling the prophecy. Told by an oracle of the gods that he must find and punish an evildoer to save his city from a plague, his search reveals to him that the evil-doer is himself. In shame and horror at his unknowing incest, he puts out his eyes.
In Euripides’s The Phoenicians, as much a blood-and-thunder melodrama as a tragedy, we see how the blinded, guilt-ridden Oedipus confers joint kingship of Thebes on his two sons, Eteocles and Polyneices, proposing that they should reign in alternate years. Instead, they become murderous rivals, launch a war over the throne, and slay each other in single, fratricidal combat. Oedipus is driven into exile by the people of Thebes.
In Sophocles’s elegiac Oedipus in Colonus, we see him led by his daughter Antigone to a sacred precinct in Athens where, under the protection of King Theseus, he at last finds peace, humility, and his final apotheosis.
Now, in a daring move, writer-translator Kenneth Cavender has taken up these three plays—and other ancient sources—and blended them into a single, epic drama. His concise, direct, athletic renderings rescue the plays from the fustian and bombast of the older translations and present them new-minted, with a curiously modern thrust. And director Casey Stangl gives them a faithful and dynamic staging, with a sterling cast of terrific actors.
As Oedipus, Ramon de Ocampo eloquently captures the unfortunate monarch’s strength, hot temper, and arrogance, as well as his transition to faltering, guilt-ridden, fallen hero. He gives us a man, imperfect and suffering, rather than a monument carved of stone. Equally effective, in a very different way, is Josh Clark as Oedipus’s wily brother-in-law Creon, who nurses secret ambitions to capture the throne for himself. He struggles to take it, and when he briefly succeeds, he can’t hold onto it. In a futile effort to restore order to his troubled city, he tells the people over and over, “Go home. The danger is over.” But the danger is never over.
Fran Bennett, in a piece of inspired gender-blind casting, gives us an iconic rendition of the blind prophet Tiresias, who senses the tragedies looming, but can do nothing to stop them. Eve Gordon is a passionate, thwarted Jocasta, the mother/wife of Oedipus; and Kwana Martinez is a courageously obstinate Antigone. Mark Bramhall and Stoney Westmoreland are the rival gods Apollo and Dionysus, who preside over the action and seek to impose their own meanings on it.
Ultimately the backbone of Greek tragedy is the chorus, and this one is vital, dynamic, and eloquent. Stangl has cast actors of all ages, shapes, and sizes: Philip Proctor, John Achorn, Cameron J. Oro, Chris Clowers, Elizabeth Swain, Susan Boyd Joyce, Belen Greene, and Keri Safran. But this is no abstract unit: they are rather a cross-section of confused, striving individuals, attempting to understand what is happening around them, what it means, and how it affects their lives.
Drummer Geno Monteiro provides electrifying percussion to punctuate and heighten the action, while François-Pierre Couture’s semi-abstract set features criss-crossing cords that suggest a web the characters are caught in—until the end, when the web snaps. The story may be archaic, but, without striving, it achieves contemporary relevance. When Oedipus proclaims that he feels the agony of his suffering people, it rings like an echo of Bill Clinton’s “I feel your pain.” And when the Delphic Oracle hastily reaches out to claim payment for a prophecy, we think of fundraising televangelists. There’s plenty of grim laughter along with the blood and death.
Note the production is double-cast. Check theater website for schedule.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
July 2, 2014
July 2, 2014
Drop Dead!
Theatre 68 at NoHo Arts Center
Make no mistake about it: This show is two-dimensional, and that’s not an objection. This murder mystery within a murder mystery, crafted by playwrights Billy Van Zandt and Jane Milmore, is clearly a satirical homage with just a hint of Noises Off thrown in for good measure. In this case, the two-act storyline follows a group of half-witted actors and production personnel neck deep in a final dress rehearsal and eventual opening night. The location? Well, suffice it to say this New York theater is so far from Broadway it has more “Off’s” than a group of campers battling an army of mosquitoes.
A wealthy English lord has been murdered offstage, surrounded by what we are reminded is a serving of Gouda, “sliced thin,” a descriptive phrase repeated ad nauseam throughout. His obnoxious scion along with their obtuse mother, the son’s newly acquired airhead of a wife, a trench coat sporting detective, and the requisite butler try to make sense of things while constantly harping on at one another. Meanwhile, on the other side of the footlights are the playwright, the rapper-turned-producer, a brown-nosing assistant, and the production’s director, still smarting from his last flop, a musical version of the 2004 Thailand tsunami titled “Wave Goodbye to Dad.”
The script is loaded to the gills with ridiculous puns, off-color asides, and outright groaners. And yet, most of the time, the melodramatic style of the onstage shenanigans bleeds over into what is supposedly reality, thereby confusing matters. The result is a systemic feeling of forced contrivance, whether the humor stems from having met a foreshadowed expectation or gut-punching us with a surprise. It’s primarily a harried-pacing issue, partially attributable to the cast but perhaps best laid at the feet of Van Zandt, whose background as co-author would have otherwise seemed to qualify him to direct the piece.
This is not to say there aren’t very nice aspects to the production values and a few laugh-out-loud moments, albeit too few for a show of this variety. Scenic designer Danny Cistone sets the perfect low-budget tone with a cartoon look for this supposedly wealthy estate. Painted on the walls are lighting fixtures, curtains, a potted palm, the mantelpiece and its various decorative items, the mounted head of a Jack-a-lope (an antlered rabbit), and a wall plaque proclaiming, “Life Is Gouda.”
Likewise, there are individual standouts in the cast. Barry Brisco is a breath of fresh air as producer P.G. “Piggy” Banks, a smart-talking music mogul whose devotion to the bottom line, be that financial or the nearest hot chick, supersedes any concern for artistic quality. Timothy Alonzo’s mincing snarkiness as Phillip Fey, the overly protective directorial lackey, is excellently precise. Alonzo’s choices may be the epitome of over-the-top, but his actions deftly sidestep the “My line, your line, my line” delivery of most of the rest of the cast. Mews Small brings down the house as nearly deaf actor Constance Crawford, whose auditory limitations hilariously cripple the onstage activity at every turn. In particular, a bit in which Alonzo feeds Small her character’s lines via a pair of oversized headphones from offstage is showstoppingly funny.
Overall, if moments were afforded just a bit of breathing space and focus was more clearly delineated, especially when all 10 cast members crowd this tiny stage or when actors fluctuate between real life and their onstage personas, this smartly written script could rise above being merely “cute.”
Theatre 68 at NoHo Arts Center
Make no mistake about it: This show is two-dimensional, and that’s not an objection. This murder mystery within a murder mystery, crafted by playwrights Billy Van Zandt and Jane Milmore, is clearly a satirical homage with just a hint of Noises Off thrown in for good measure. In this case, the two-act storyline follows a group of half-witted actors and production personnel neck deep in a final dress rehearsal and eventual opening night. The location? Well, suffice it to say this New York theater is so far from Broadway it has more “Off’s” than a group of campers battling an army of mosquitoes.
A wealthy English lord has been murdered offstage, surrounded by what we are reminded is a serving of Gouda, “sliced thin,” a descriptive phrase repeated ad nauseam throughout. His obnoxious scion along with their obtuse mother, the son’s newly acquired airhead of a wife, a trench coat sporting detective, and the requisite butler try to make sense of things while constantly harping on at one another. Meanwhile, on the other side of the footlights are the playwright, the rapper-turned-producer, a brown-nosing assistant, and the production’s director, still smarting from his last flop, a musical version of the 2004 Thailand tsunami titled “Wave Goodbye to Dad.”
The script is loaded to the gills with ridiculous puns, off-color asides, and outright groaners. And yet, most of the time, the melodramatic style of the onstage shenanigans bleeds over into what is supposedly reality, thereby confusing matters. The result is a systemic feeling of forced contrivance, whether the humor stems from having met a foreshadowed expectation or gut-punching us with a surprise. It’s primarily a harried-pacing issue, partially attributable to the cast but perhaps best laid at the feet of Van Zandt, whose background as co-author would have otherwise seemed to qualify him to direct the piece.
This is not to say there aren’t very nice aspects to the production values and a few laugh-out-loud moments, albeit too few for a show of this variety. Scenic designer Danny Cistone sets the perfect low-budget tone with a cartoon look for this supposedly wealthy estate. Painted on the walls are lighting fixtures, curtains, a potted palm, the mantelpiece and its various decorative items, the mounted head of a Jack-a-lope (an antlered rabbit), and a wall plaque proclaiming, “Life Is Gouda.”
Likewise, there are individual standouts in the cast. Barry Brisco is a breath of fresh air as producer P.G. “Piggy” Banks, a smart-talking music mogul whose devotion to the bottom line, be that financial or the nearest hot chick, supersedes any concern for artistic quality. Timothy Alonzo’s mincing snarkiness as Phillip Fey, the overly protective directorial lackey, is excellently precise. Alonzo’s choices may be the epitome of over-the-top, but his actions deftly sidestep the “My line, your line, my line” delivery of most of the rest of the cast. Mews Small brings down the house as nearly deaf actor Constance Crawford, whose auditory limitations hilariously cripple the onstage activity at every turn. In particular, a bit in which Alonzo feeds Small her character’s lines via a pair of oversized headphones from offstage is showstoppingly funny.
Overall, if moments were afforded just a bit of breathing space and focus was more clearly delineated, especially when all 10 cast members crowd this tiny stage or when actors fluctuate between real life and their onstage personas, this smartly written script could rise above being merely “cute.”
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
June 26, 2014
June 26, 2014
The Human Spirit
Odyssey Theatre
Carole Eglash-Kosoff’s world premiere embodies the best and worst of storytelling. A fascinating, inspiring, informative slice of history is told with too-often ungainly craft, by the playwright and occasionally by director Donald Squires. Ultimately, though, because the audience cares for the characters, the result is uplifting.
During South Africa’s age of apartheid, the blacks lived in “townships,” a euphemism for slums. Not all white South Africans favored this. Helen Cohen Silverman (Lisa Dobbyn) is a nurse’s aide in a hospital. She insists the black patients be treated as thoroughly as the whites. She meets resistance from the hospital nurse (Zuri Alexander), a black woman who was only following orders. Helen also meets resistance from her rabbi, who reminds her that the Jewish community must remain silently invisible to escape the notice of the white leadership.
TuTu (Allison Reeves), living with her grandmother (Virtic Emil Brown) on a white man’s farm, sets off for the city before the man can rape her as he has done to her sister. TuTu eventually finds her mother (Brown again), who rejects her out of fear for what the mother’s “other” family would say. TuTu then is rejected from a job for which she is qualified, instead assigned to dishwashing.
Millie (Rea Segoati) lost her parents in a robbery, lost her husband in a bar fight. How can she now survive on her own?
In Eglash-Kosoff’s dramatization of their real-life stories, these three women band together and become The Mamas. They bring medicine into the local township. They arrange the importation of black dolls into the community, in some cases smuggled in the luggage of traveling priests. They create change peacefully, from within.
Thus, inspiring stories abound here. But the script consists of much telling, some effortful showing, and some dialogue so on the nose it merely summarizes the issues of the play.
Squires evokes the sights of cities halfway around the world yet not that different from parts of ours. Gary Lee Reed’s set focuses the action into a small playing space, which enables Squires to craft speedy scene changes. But the cast is not uniformly skilled, and that, too, detracts from efforts at fluid storytelling—and from the full realization of what could and should be a completely enthralling play.
Odyssey Theatre
Carole Eglash-Kosoff’s world premiere embodies the best and worst of storytelling. A fascinating, inspiring, informative slice of history is told with too-often ungainly craft, by the playwright and occasionally by director Donald Squires. Ultimately, though, because the audience cares for the characters, the result is uplifting.
During South Africa’s age of apartheid, the blacks lived in “townships,” a euphemism for slums. Not all white South Africans favored this. Helen Cohen Silverman (Lisa Dobbyn) is a nurse’s aide in a hospital. She insists the black patients be treated as thoroughly as the whites. She meets resistance from the hospital nurse (Zuri Alexander), a black woman who was only following orders. Helen also meets resistance from her rabbi, who reminds her that the Jewish community must remain silently invisible to escape the notice of the white leadership.
TuTu (Allison Reeves), living with her grandmother (Virtic Emil Brown) on a white man’s farm, sets off for the city before the man can rape her as he has done to her sister. TuTu eventually finds her mother (Brown again), who rejects her out of fear for what the mother’s “other” family would say. TuTu then is rejected from a job for which she is qualified, instead assigned to dishwashing.
Millie (Rea Segoati) lost her parents in a robbery, lost her husband in a bar fight. How can she now survive on her own?
In Eglash-Kosoff’s dramatization of their real-life stories, these three women band together and become The Mamas. They bring medicine into the local township. They arrange the importation of black dolls into the community, in some cases smuggled in the luggage of traveling priests. They create change peacefully, from within.
Thus, inspiring stories abound here. But the script consists of much telling, some effortful showing, and some dialogue so on the nose it merely summarizes the issues of the play.
Squires evokes the sights of cities halfway around the world yet not that different from parts of ours. Gary Lee Reed’s set focuses the action into a small playing space, which enables Squires to craft speedy scene changes. But the cast is not uniformly skilled, and that, too, detracts from efforts at fluid storytelling—and from the full realization of what could and should be a completely enthralling play.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 25, 2014
June 25, 2014
Zombies From the Beyond
Visceral Company at the Lex
The Visceral Company has revived Zombie From the Beyond: a goofy, jaunty spoof of Grade-Z horror movies like Ed Wood’s Plan Nine From Outer Space and the Zsa Zsa Gabor epic Queen of Outer Space. Capturing the tone of those bombastic, overwritten scripts; dead-tone acting; and bargain basement sets and special effects, this musical comedy fosters nostalgia for those creaky flicks from The Late, Late…Late Show.
In Milwaukee, the “epicenter” of scientific advancement, scientists and the military work together to save the world from invading aliens in the guise of fabulously dressed Amazon-like women. The stock characters include the by-the-book military man with a secret agenda, the genius who’s an amateur in love, the man-hungry secretary, and nerdy soda jerk with a dance in his heart.
Writer James Valcq lovingly mocks the conventions. His melodies steal from 1950s bubble gum pop that was bland in its own right, including songs that introduced “new” dances, patriotic anthems that are truly bloodthirsty, and tunes loaded with innuendo. His lyrics spryly toy with rhymes and satirize the homogenized, Cold War era that instigated the “Terror From Outer Space” genre. Valcq’s dialogue is ironically moronic, its characters talking in bumper stickers and stringing together alliterations and 50-cent words to make nonsensical exposition. The Wicked Witch’s famous last line from The Wizard of Oz is cleverly riffed.
Director Dan Spurgeon succeeds in nudging the audience to laugh at the characters without making those characters pathetically inane. His crew swings painted bowl “flying saucers,” creating havoc on cardboard buildings, knowing full well that the shoestring budgeted films of Ed Wood looked almost exactly the same.
The cast is game for the false heroics and sarcastic jabs at ’50s America. Amelia Gotham finds that air-headed wholesomeness in heroine Mary. She humorously rattles off intense scientific conclusions one second and claims a woman’s place is in the home caring for her man the next. As Charlie, the secretary desperate for a husband, Lara Fisher satirizes the misogynistic jargon hammered into women’s heads after the men returned from war. Alison England steals the show as the soprano diva from outer space: Wearing a wig that looks like a lemon wedding cake that had collapsed, caked in make-up too extreme for Tammy Faye Bakker, cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West as played by JoAnn Worley, England is over-the-top hilarity with a legitimate opera voice.
The men have less-interesting roles, which fits with the era of plastic Ken dolls, but it also makes their performances less memorable. Still, Alex Taber has a nimble tap routine as Billy the delivery boy, and of the men, Eric Sand has the most “legitimate” singing voice.
Dawn Dudley is responsible for not only Zombina’s wonderful wig but also the cavalcades of hair-don’ts the Zombettes feature in the Act 1 finale. The wigs are cast members all their own. The design team of Tommi Stugart, Angel Madrid, and Jason Thomas playfully turn cardboard into barely functioning command centers, city skylines, and hair salons.
Zombie From the Beyond will invade the heart of any cheesy-movie fan. Everyone involved apparently adores these flicks and means to play loving homage, not snidely attack.
Visceral Company at the Lex
The Visceral Company has revived Zombie From the Beyond: a goofy, jaunty spoof of Grade-Z horror movies like Ed Wood’s Plan Nine From Outer Space and the Zsa Zsa Gabor epic Queen of Outer Space. Capturing the tone of those bombastic, overwritten scripts; dead-tone acting; and bargain basement sets and special effects, this musical comedy fosters nostalgia for those creaky flicks from The Late, Late…Late Show.
In Milwaukee, the “epicenter” of scientific advancement, scientists and the military work together to save the world from invading aliens in the guise of fabulously dressed Amazon-like women. The stock characters include the by-the-book military man with a secret agenda, the genius who’s an amateur in love, the man-hungry secretary, and nerdy soda jerk with a dance in his heart.
Writer James Valcq lovingly mocks the conventions. His melodies steal from 1950s bubble gum pop that was bland in its own right, including songs that introduced “new” dances, patriotic anthems that are truly bloodthirsty, and tunes loaded with innuendo. His lyrics spryly toy with rhymes and satirize the homogenized, Cold War era that instigated the “Terror From Outer Space” genre. Valcq’s dialogue is ironically moronic, its characters talking in bumper stickers and stringing together alliterations and 50-cent words to make nonsensical exposition. The Wicked Witch’s famous last line from The Wizard of Oz is cleverly riffed.
Director Dan Spurgeon succeeds in nudging the audience to laugh at the characters without making those characters pathetically inane. His crew swings painted bowl “flying saucers,” creating havoc on cardboard buildings, knowing full well that the shoestring budgeted films of Ed Wood looked almost exactly the same.
The cast is game for the false heroics and sarcastic jabs at ’50s America. Amelia Gotham finds that air-headed wholesomeness in heroine Mary. She humorously rattles off intense scientific conclusions one second and claims a woman’s place is in the home caring for her man the next. As Charlie, the secretary desperate for a husband, Lara Fisher satirizes the misogynistic jargon hammered into women’s heads after the men returned from war. Alison England steals the show as the soprano diva from outer space: Wearing a wig that looks like a lemon wedding cake that had collapsed, caked in make-up too extreme for Tammy Faye Bakker, cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West as played by JoAnn Worley, England is over-the-top hilarity with a legitimate opera voice.
The men have less-interesting roles, which fits with the era of plastic Ken dolls, but it also makes their performances less memorable. Still, Alex Taber has a nimble tap routine as Billy the delivery boy, and of the men, Eric Sand has the most “legitimate” singing voice.
Dawn Dudley is responsible for not only Zombina’s wonderful wig but also the cavalcades of hair-don’ts the Zombettes feature in the Act 1 finale. The wigs are cast members all their own. The design team of Tommi Stugart, Angel Madrid, and Jason Thomas playfully turn cardboard into barely functioning command centers, city skylines, and hair salons.
Zombie From the Beyond will invade the heart of any cheesy-movie fan. Everyone involved apparently adores these flicks and means to play loving homage, not snidely attack.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
June 22, 2014
June 22, 2014
Abbamemnon
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
They’re baaaack! Capitalizing on an intimate knowledge of their skewered source material and banking on the troupe’s ability to handle dramatic intensity as nimbly as it does the satirical side of things, the Troubadours present a piece deliciously reminiscent of 2007’s OthE.L.O. In bringing to life Aeschylus’s complicated mythological tragedy Agamemnon, the company floods the stage with no shortage of gore and human depravity—balanced this time, via Troubadour’s signature recipe, by the musical catalogue of the famed Swedish pop group, ABBA.
It’s a successful symbiosis concocted by adaptor-director Matt Walker. Wisely, Walker has peopled his production with performers whose backgrounds boast both the serious and the silly. A tight-knit core of Troubadour regulars expertly handles the lion’s share of the dramatic sections, while the entire cast rocks out to each of ABBA’s recycled goodies. And can this group ever dance, knocking it out of the park in particular with choreographer Molly Alvarez’s zombie-like interpretation of “I’m a Marionette.”
Nearly stopping the show, though, before it even begins is perhaps the most ingenious preshow announcement/curtain speech in the group’s history, set to “Take a Chance on Me.” And with the introduction of each character, the audience is treated to yet another of the tunes that kept the Stockholm foursome atop the charts from 1975 through 1982.
Beth Kennedy’s city watchman sets the tone as expository speeches abound throughout Walker’s easily followed compilation of numerous translations of Aeschylus’s original script. Walker and Monica Schneider as the titular monarch and his scheming wife, Clytemnestra, are a “Dancing King/Queen” to be reckoned with. In particular, Schneider does a remarkable job delivering the lengthy explanation to Rob Nagle’s acerbically dry Greek Chorus Leader as to how a series of bonfires relayed the results of the assault on Troy. Along with some pretty nifty moves, she rounds out her display of triple-threat talents by giving more than ample song-stylings to her version of “SOS.”
Returning from the Trojan War, Abbamennon discovers his betrothed in the arms of his duplicitous cousin, Aegisthus, played by the outrageously unpredictable Rick Batalla. Never one to pass up the chance to milk a “bit,” at the show reviewed he was in rare form as improvisational “licks” flew fast and furious. So much so, that, goaded by the opening-night audience, Walker threw the company’s dreaded “yellow penalty flag” on Batalla for having bobbled a section of actual scripted dialogue. It’s one of those “Troubie” moments one always hopes will happen.
Katherine Donahoe, playing the confiscated Cassandra, one of Abbamemnon’s spoils of war, is downright chilling as she prophesies the coming calamity that will be visited upon the house of her captor. Conversely, Joseph Keane’s Herald, bisected by an 8-foot spear, provides laughs galore as he returns from the battle to impart how everything went down on the front lines.
Along the way, anachronistic references to the 405 Freeway construction issues, the Taliban, the Clippers, and even the missing Malaysian Airliner abound. An upstage overhead projector is employed so that hand and shadow puppets can lay out some of the backstory. Scenic and puppet designer Matt Scott has crafted a scene-stealing quartet of oversized floating heads occupying the stage left Chorus area. And lastly, kudos galore to musical director Eric Heinly and his band members, especially cellist Ginger Murphy, for supporting the proceedings so flawlessly.
Troubadour Theater Company at Falcon Theatre
They’re baaaack! Capitalizing on an intimate knowledge of their skewered source material and banking on the troupe’s ability to handle dramatic intensity as nimbly as it does the satirical side of things, the Troubadours present a piece deliciously reminiscent of 2007’s OthE.L.O. In bringing to life Aeschylus’s complicated mythological tragedy Agamemnon, the company floods the stage with no shortage of gore and human depravity—balanced this time, via Troubadour’s signature recipe, by the musical catalogue of the famed Swedish pop group, ABBA.
It’s a successful symbiosis concocted by adaptor-director Matt Walker. Wisely, Walker has peopled his production with performers whose backgrounds boast both the serious and the silly. A tight-knit core of Troubadour regulars expertly handles the lion’s share of the dramatic sections, while the entire cast rocks out to each of ABBA’s recycled goodies. And can this group ever dance, knocking it out of the park in particular with choreographer Molly Alvarez’s zombie-like interpretation of “I’m a Marionette.”
Nearly stopping the show, though, before it even begins is perhaps the most ingenious preshow announcement/curtain speech in the group’s history, set to “Take a Chance on Me.” And with the introduction of each character, the audience is treated to yet another of the tunes that kept the Stockholm foursome atop the charts from 1975 through 1982.
Beth Kennedy’s city watchman sets the tone as expository speeches abound throughout Walker’s easily followed compilation of numerous translations of Aeschylus’s original script. Walker and Monica Schneider as the titular monarch and his scheming wife, Clytemnestra, are a “Dancing King/Queen” to be reckoned with. In particular, Schneider does a remarkable job delivering the lengthy explanation to Rob Nagle’s acerbically dry Greek Chorus Leader as to how a series of bonfires relayed the results of the assault on Troy. Along with some pretty nifty moves, she rounds out her display of triple-threat talents by giving more than ample song-stylings to her version of “SOS.”
Returning from the Trojan War, Abbamennon discovers his betrothed in the arms of his duplicitous cousin, Aegisthus, played by the outrageously unpredictable Rick Batalla. Never one to pass up the chance to milk a “bit,” at the show reviewed he was in rare form as improvisational “licks” flew fast and furious. So much so, that, goaded by the opening-night audience, Walker threw the company’s dreaded “yellow penalty flag” on Batalla for having bobbled a section of actual scripted dialogue. It’s one of those “Troubie” moments one always hopes will happen.
Katherine Donahoe, playing the confiscated Cassandra, one of Abbamemnon’s spoils of war, is downright chilling as she prophesies the coming calamity that will be visited upon the house of her captor. Conversely, Joseph Keane’s Herald, bisected by an 8-foot spear, provides laughs galore as he returns from the battle to impart how everything went down on the front lines.
Along the way, anachronistic references to the 405 Freeway construction issues, the Taliban, the Clippers, and even the missing Malaysian Airliner abound. An upstage overhead projector is employed so that hand and shadow puppets can lay out some of the backstory. Scenic and puppet designer Matt Scott has crafted a scene-stealing quartet of oversized floating heads occupying the stage left Chorus area. And lastly, kudos galore to musical director Eric Heinly and his band members, especially cellist Ginger Murphy, for supporting the proceedings so flawlessly.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
June 19, 2014
June 19, 2014
Penelope
Rogue Machine
This grimly hilarious dark comedy by Irish playwright Enda Walsh (The New Electric Ballroom, The Walworth Farce) puts a snarky, post-modern spin on the Greek myth of Penelope, faithful wife of Odysseus. Odysseus sailed away to fight in the Trojan War and hasn’t been heard from since. It’s generally assumed he’s dead, and scores of ambitious suitors have taken up residence in his palace, living the high life at the expense of Odysseus’s treasury and demanding that Penelope shall marry one of them.
In Walsh’s version of the tale, we are somehow in both ancient Ionia and the present day. Someone mentions driving away in a Lexus. Walsh revels in anachronisms. One of Penelope’s suitors, the unfortunate Murray, has been driven to suicide by his rivals, and 95 of them have abandoned the field and gone home. Only four remain. Elderly Fitz (Richard Fancy) spends his days reading—and if it’s Homer he’s reading, he must have at least a glimmering that fate will not be kind to him. Quinn (Brian Letscher) is a fleshily handsome and arrogant narcissist, who likes to show off his body. Dunne (Ron Bottitta) is a strutting showoff, but sensitive about his age and weight. Burns (Scott Sheldon), the low man on the totem pole, has somehow been reduced to acting as servant and dogsbody for the other three.
They spend their days sunning themselves at the bottom of Penelope’s empty swimming pool, which they have fitted out as a combination lounge and bar and grill, dominated by a large elaborate barbecue that mysteriously appeared one day. The suitors feel that the barbecue is a kind of warning and threat from “him.” (Odysseus is never mentioned by name: He’s referred to only as “he” and “him.”)
Initially the suitors seem to have nothing more on their minds than idle chitchat. They argue about the proper way to describe a sausage: “Sausagy” is deemed inadequate. They discuss books: They all love The Magic Porridge Pot, which Quinn declares is “the only book.” But there’s an air of unease among them. They know that “he” is on his way home. And one of them must win Penelope’s hand before “he” arrives. As the tension mounts, relations become strained. They have a pretzel fight, hurl drinks in one another’s faces, and knock one another down. Quinn insists, despite their seeming friendship, that each of them has murderous feelings toward the others.
Now the moment of decision has arrived: Each must audition for the approval of Penelope (Holly Fulger), who silently and enigmatically watches. Fitz delivers a sincere and heartfelt plea. Dunne, always the braggart, proclaims his own strength and virility. Burns declares the need for love, to assuage the pain of living. But Quinn delivers a pageant instead of a plea. With the assistance of Burns as straight man, he performs an elaborately hilarious vaudeville magic show, appearing consecutively as Napoleon, Josephine, Romeo, Juliet, Rhett Butler, and Scarlet O’Hara. And as a grand finale, he appears only in his speedo, with magnificent multicolored wings that he can spread or fold at will. He proclaims himself The Mighty Quinn.
But in the end, the myth is the myth, and despite all the talk, it can’t be changed. There are dark hints that it will end the way it has always ended, with a bloodbath.
Walsh’s play is an ominous, albeit funny, existential parable, with more than a touch of nihilism. It’s always entertaining, and the mythical context keeps the tragedy at arm’s length, but it’s always there.
Director John Perrin Flynn juggles the play’s diverse elements with wit and skill, and the actors are splendid. Stephanie Kerley Schwartz’s colorful set depicts Penelope’s down-at-heel swimming pool with marvelous detail. Lauren Taylor’s costumes are wonderfully apt, and Hazel Kuang provides the props. And whoever is responsible for those wings—costumes or props—has created a visual tour-de-force. Magic consultants are Jack Lovick and Arthur Trace, and Ned Mochel is credited, curiously, with “violence design,” and there is plenty of it. One can’t help feeling sorry for the stage crew who must clean up after the performance.
Rogue Machine
This grimly hilarious dark comedy by Irish playwright Enda Walsh (The New Electric Ballroom, The Walworth Farce) puts a snarky, post-modern spin on the Greek myth of Penelope, faithful wife of Odysseus. Odysseus sailed away to fight in the Trojan War and hasn’t been heard from since. It’s generally assumed he’s dead, and scores of ambitious suitors have taken up residence in his palace, living the high life at the expense of Odysseus’s treasury and demanding that Penelope shall marry one of them.
In Walsh’s version of the tale, we are somehow in both ancient Ionia and the present day. Someone mentions driving away in a Lexus. Walsh revels in anachronisms. One of Penelope’s suitors, the unfortunate Murray, has been driven to suicide by his rivals, and 95 of them have abandoned the field and gone home. Only four remain. Elderly Fitz (Richard Fancy) spends his days reading—and if it’s Homer he’s reading, he must have at least a glimmering that fate will not be kind to him. Quinn (Brian Letscher) is a fleshily handsome and arrogant narcissist, who likes to show off his body. Dunne (Ron Bottitta) is a strutting showoff, but sensitive about his age and weight. Burns (Scott Sheldon), the low man on the totem pole, has somehow been reduced to acting as servant and dogsbody for the other three.
They spend their days sunning themselves at the bottom of Penelope’s empty swimming pool, which they have fitted out as a combination lounge and bar and grill, dominated by a large elaborate barbecue that mysteriously appeared one day. The suitors feel that the barbecue is a kind of warning and threat from “him.” (Odysseus is never mentioned by name: He’s referred to only as “he” and “him.”)
Initially the suitors seem to have nothing more on their minds than idle chitchat. They argue about the proper way to describe a sausage: “Sausagy” is deemed inadequate. They discuss books: They all love The Magic Porridge Pot, which Quinn declares is “the only book.” But there’s an air of unease among them. They know that “he” is on his way home. And one of them must win Penelope’s hand before “he” arrives. As the tension mounts, relations become strained. They have a pretzel fight, hurl drinks in one another’s faces, and knock one another down. Quinn insists, despite their seeming friendship, that each of them has murderous feelings toward the others.
Now the moment of decision has arrived: Each must audition for the approval of Penelope (Holly Fulger), who silently and enigmatically watches. Fitz delivers a sincere and heartfelt plea. Dunne, always the braggart, proclaims his own strength and virility. Burns declares the need for love, to assuage the pain of living. But Quinn delivers a pageant instead of a plea. With the assistance of Burns as straight man, he performs an elaborately hilarious vaudeville magic show, appearing consecutively as Napoleon, Josephine, Romeo, Juliet, Rhett Butler, and Scarlet O’Hara. And as a grand finale, he appears only in his speedo, with magnificent multicolored wings that he can spread or fold at will. He proclaims himself The Mighty Quinn.
But in the end, the myth is the myth, and despite all the talk, it can’t be changed. There are dark hints that it will end the way it has always ended, with a bloodbath.
Walsh’s play is an ominous, albeit funny, existential parable, with more than a touch of nihilism. It’s always entertaining, and the mythical context keeps the tragedy at arm’s length, but it’s always there.
Director John Perrin Flynn juggles the play’s diverse elements with wit and skill, and the actors are splendid. Stephanie Kerley Schwartz’s colorful set depicts Penelope’s down-at-heel swimming pool with marvelous detail. Lauren Taylor’s costumes are wonderfully apt, and Hazel Kuang provides the props. And whoever is responsible for those wings—costumes or props—has created a visual tour-de-force. Magic consultants are Jack Lovick and Arthur Trace, and Ned Mochel is credited, curiously, with “violence design,” and there is plenty of it. One can’t help feeling sorry for the stage crew who must clean up after the performance.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
June 18, 2014
June 18, 2014
The Guardsman
NoHo Arts Center
Originally published in 1910, this semi-farcical tale by Hungarian playwright Ferenc Molnar revolves around the egotistically charged marriage of a pair of world-renowned European actors. Translated into English for its 1924 Broadway debut, the play and its 1931 film version starred the coincidentally wedded Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne. This production utilizes a script “freely adapted”—with heavy emphasis on the word freely—by H. Patrikas Zakshevskis.
In relocating the setting from Budapest to Vienna, Zakshevskis has changed the characters’ names to those of Austrian heritage. Audiences familiar with the original version may find this a confusing and not entirely justifiable choice. Condensing Molnar’s script into a 90-minute one-act should give the show a brisk gait. And yet it doesn’t.
Director Lillian Groag allows a settled pace to infect the proceedings. Inexplicable pauses during what should otherwise be rapid-fire line deliveries between these erudite characters raise the specter of actor hesitancy. Clearly intended comical moments, particularly those involving an obtuse young parlor maid, fall flat most of the time. Where there would normally be two intermissions, a pair of fastidious footmen changes the scenery in a methodically intriguing manner. Here, Groag misses the opportunity to inject a bit of conflict between the two that would liven up these semi-interesting albeit repetitive mise-en-scènes.
As the quarreling lovebirds Max and Elena Schumann, Henry Olek and Susan Priver have their chemistry down fairly well. Priver, though, clearly has a better handle on the heightened style needed to carry off her narcissistically tinged character. Her movements are large and fluid, with an almost choreographed feel. Reminiscent of Isadora Duncan, Priver flows effortlessly about designer Joel Daavid’s set, itself adorned with double-storied panels festooned with faux gold leaf, while she models costumer Shon LeBlanc’s sumptuous array of Edwardian-era apparel.
Olek, on the other hand, seems to lack the vitality required to match Priver in their marital clashes. Granted, his turn as the mysterious title character, here an embassy attaché of Russian extraction, who attempts to test his wife’s loyalty by way of a well-planned-out seduction, is much stronger. The normally energetic flipping back and forth between characters should provide the lion’s share of the humor, but not so here.
And in what is clearly an egregiously anachronistic faux pas by Zakshevskis, when faced with the supposition that Elena knew all along of Max’s attempted deception, Olek’s 1914-era character threatens to throw himself off the Empire State Building—a skyscraper that didn’t see construction begin until 1930.
As theater critic Dr. Heinrich Kraus—the couple’s irrepressible hanger-on and friend—David Fruechting brings a nice jolt to his scenes. But here again, Zakshevskis takes ample liberty, making Kraus openly gay, whereas in Molnar’s original, Kraus’s unrequited ardor for Elena gives the story a stronger sense of depth. Fruechting and Bonnie Snyder, who plays Elena’s lady’s maid and confidant, have several nicely acerbic interchanges as their characters find each other to be annoying obstacles.
Ultimately though, Molnar’s seemingly frothy piece is quite deceptive, requiring all pistons to fire in unison. If one or two are not, as in the case of this production, the result is a performance that never attains its requisite speed.
NoHo Arts Center
Originally published in 1910, this semi-farcical tale by Hungarian playwright Ferenc Molnar revolves around the egotistically charged marriage of a pair of world-renowned European actors. Translated into English for its 1924 Broadway debut, the play and its 1931 film version starred the coincidentally wedded Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne. This production utilizes a script “freely adapted”—with heavy emphasis on the word freely—by H. Patrikas Zakshevskis.
In relocating the setting from Budapest to Vienna, Zakshevskis has changed the characters’ names to those of Austrian heritage. Audiences familiar with the original version may find this a confusing and not entirely justifiable choice. Condensing Molnar’s script into a 90-minute one-act should give the show a brisk gait. And yet it doesn’t.
Director Lillian Groag allows a settled pace to infect the proceedings. Inexplicable pauses during what should otherwise be rapid-fire line deliveries between these erudite characters raise the specter of actor hesitancy. Clearly intended comical moments, particularly those involving an obtuse young parlor maid, fall flat most of the time. Where there would normally be two intermissions, a pair of fastidious footmen changes the scenery in a methodically intriguing manner. Here, Groag misses the opportunity to inject a bit of conflict between the two that would liven up these semi-interesting albeit repetitive mise-en-scènes.
As the quarreling lovebirds Max and Elena Schumann, Henry Olek and Susan Priver have their chemistry down fairly well. Priver, though, clearly has a better handle on the heightened style needed to carry off her narcissistically tinged character. Her movements are large and fluid, with an almost choreographed feel. Reminiscent of Isadora Duncan, Priver flows effortlessly about designer Joel Daavid’s set, itself adorned with double-storied panels festooned with faux gold leaf, while she models costumer Shon LeBlanc’s sumptuous array of Edwardian-era apparel.
Olek, on the other hand, seems to lack the vitality required to match Priver in their marital clashes. Granted, his turn as the mysterious title character, here an embassy attaché of Russian extraction, who attempts to test his wife’s loyalty by way of a well-planned-out seduction, is much stronger. The normally energetic flipping back and forth between characters should provide the lion’s share of the humor, but not so here.
And in what is clearly an egregiously anachronistic faux pas by Zakshevskis, when faced with the supposition that Elena knew all along of Max’s attempted deception, Olek’s 1914-era character threatens to throw himself off the Empire State Building—a skyscraper that didn’t see construction begin until 1930.
As theater critic Dr. Heinrich Kraus—the couple’s irrepressible hanger-on and friend—David Fruechting brings a nice jolt to his scenes. But here again, Zakshevskis takes ample liberty, making Kraus openly gay, whereas in Molnar’s original, Kraus’s unrequited ardor for Elena gives the story a stronger sense of depth. Fruechting and Bonnie Snyder, who plays Elena’s lady’s maid and confidant, have several nicely acerbic interchanges as their characters find each other to be annoying obstacles.
Ultimately though, Molnar’s seemingly frothy piece is quite deceptive, requiring all pistons to fire in unison. If one or two are not, as in the case of this production, the result is a performance that never attains its requisite speed.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
June 16, 2014
June 16, 2014
The Country House
A co-production with Manhattan Theatre Club at Geffen Playhouse
It must be the year to honor and craftily transform the enduring work of Anton Chekhov. First was Christopher Durang’s delightfully sneaky Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike earlier this year at the Taper. In a few weeks, Stupid Fucking Bird, Aaron Posner’s adaptation of The Seagull, opens at the Boston Court. Now, the pre-Broadway debut of Donald Margulies’s The Country House sweeps elegantly into Geffen Playhouse. Somehow, this playwright’s trademark Eastern seaboard WASPS fit nicely plopped down among the lingering ghosts of the master’s 19th-century Russia, but, as with the quickly transforming society that dominated those original stories, Margulies still needs to refine his purpose here.
For The Country House, he has picked and chosen many familiar Chekhovian elements, most particularly borrowing from The Seagull to present the troubled relationship between a frustrated playwright son and his ego-driven star of a mother, as well as lifting the young unsuccessful actress’s crush on a world-famous artist from that play, then slyly mixing in a visit from the cradle-robbing Professor Serebryakov of Uncle Vanya. The homage even carries through in the creation of John Lee Beatty’s magnificent set, which at the back prominently features those traditional three magnificent windows overlooking Madame Ranevskaya’s country estate, the place where Lubya sees her dead mother walking through the trees in The Cherry Orchard.
The comfortingly cozy country house in the Berkshires near Williamstown Playhouse, a place “where all ambivalent successful actors come for redemption” is, as in The Seagull, helmed by a self-absorbed matriarch who has been one of the great stars of the American stage. However, as played here by a Broadway stalwart and theatrical matriarch in her own right, Blythe Danner, Anna Patterson is difficult not to like. Unlike Chekhov’s most infamously clueless and self-absorbed grande dames, there is an air of humble resignation in Anna, who is the first to offer self-deprecating humor about the deterioration of her physical condition and recognize her celebrated career is in its inevitable decline. “There are no Broadway stars these days,” she bemoans with a resigned smile, “only stars on Broadway.”
There is wonderful humor in The Country House, especially for those audience members who have some connection to the world it depicts; for all others who see it along the way, much of the theatrical in-jokery might prove overwhelming. Anna’s woebegone son, Elliot (that magnificent underplayer Eric Lange) is the brunt of most of this familiarity, as when he announces he’s decided to stop acting to focus on playwriting and it’s quickly pointed out by one character that “giving up auditioning is not quite the same as giving up acting,” while another muses, “Acting isn’t demoralizing enough?”
Danner is of course luminous, looking even more gracious and fashionable in an impressive parade of Rita Ryack’s flowing gossamer costume changes that could rival her omnipresent Prolia TV commercial wardrobe; and her veteran, long-honed ease at creating an indelibly real, intensely watchable character is unmistakably in evidence here. As she is a notable board member and longtime participant in the Williamstown Summer Theatre Festival, where her Country House character is preparing to open in Shaw’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, it’s interesting to wonder if Margulies created this role especially for Danner.
Sarah Steele is a particular standout as Anna’s acerbic granddaughter Susie, a dead ringer for Vanya’s woebegone niece Sonya. Emily Swallow, as the much younger fiancée of Anna’s former son-in-law Walter, and Scott Foley, as the George Clooney¬–esque movie star she makes a Seagull-y play for, handle their still rather underwritten roles with veteran comportment. Unfortunately, David Rasche’s turn as the Serebryakov/Dr. Dorn–esque Walter is the production’s Achilles’ heel, giving a performance so ungrounded and surface-skimming he seems to be performing in another play entirely. Nothing is more distracting in such an ensemble piece as someone unwilling to collaborate, made more apparent when an actor suddenly delivers what he considers his most important lines directly out to the audience, turning away from the characters he’s addressing to make sure we all get the reference.
Still, the evening belongs to Lange, who, as the miserable underachieving Elliot, overcomes playing someone so whiny and difficult he’s “on everyone’s Life-Is-Too-Short” list. It’s as though that cloud of dirt swirling around Charlie Brown’s friend Pigpen has latched itself like a dark cloud of terminal angst around Elliot. Yet, by the final sweetly heartbreaking scene, Lange makes us hope the guy won’t pull a Konstantine and shoot himself in the head—an act that somewhere before intermission seemed like a consummation devotedly to be wished.
Margulies needs to rewrite before this basically worthy new play hits the Great White Way, despite the excellent staging and guidance of Daniel Sullivan. The director allows his actors to deliver a major speech with his or her back to the audience, ingeniously making us work to keep up. Still, some of the pointed industry-related humor of Act 1 and the many, many visual and textual references to Chekhovian themes are a distraction, especially from the impact of the quietly shattering ending. Like his sorrowful character Elliot Cooper, perhaps Margulies has cultivated a few “bad habits just to make things interesting.”
A co-production with Manhattan Theatre Club at Geffen Playhouse
It must be the year to honor and craftily transform the enduring work of Anton Chekhov. First was Christopher Durang’s delightfully sneaky Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike earlier this year at the Taper. In a few weeks, Stupid Fucking Bird, Aaron Posner’s adaptation of The Seagull, opens at the Boston Court. Now, the pre-Broadway debut of Donald Margulies’s The Country House sweeps elegantly into Geffen Playhouse. Somehow, this playwright’s trademark Eastern seaboard WASPS fit nicely plopped down among the lingering ghosts of the master’s 19th-century Russia, but, as with the quickly transforming society that dominated those original stories, Margulies still needs to refine his purpose here.
For The Country House, he has picked and chosen many familiar Chekhovian elements, most particularly borrowing from The Seagull to present the troubled relationship between a frustrated playwright son and his ego-driven star of a mother, as well as lifting the young unsuccessful actress’s crush on a world-famous artist from that play, then slyly mixing in a visit from the cradle-robbing Professor Serebryakov of Uncle Vanya. The homage even carries through in the creation of John Lee Beatty’s magnificent set, which at the back prominently features those traditional three magnificent windows overlooking Madame Ranevskaya’s country estate, the place where Lubya sees her dead mother walking through the trees in The Cherry Orchard.
The comfortingly cozy country house in the Berkshires near Williamstown Playhouse, a place “where all ambivalent successful actors come for redemption” is, as in The Seagull, helmed by a self-absorbed matriarch who has been one of the great stars of the American stage. However, as played here by a Broadway stalwart and theatrical matriarch in her own right, Blythe Danner, Anna Patterson is difficult not to like. Unlike Chekhov’s most infamously clueless and self-absorbed grande dames, there is an air of humble resignation in Anna, who is the first to offer self-deprecating humor about the deterioration of her physical condition and recognize her celebrated career is in its inevitable decline. “There are no Broadway stars these days,” she bemoans with a resigned smile, “only stars on Broadway.”
There is wonderful humor in The Country House, especially for those audience members who have some connection to the world it depicts; for all others who see it along the way, much of the theatrical in-jokery might prove overwhelming. Anna’s woebegone son, Elliot (that magnificent underplayer Eric Lange) is the brunt of most of this familiarity, as when he announces he’s decided to stop acting to focus on playwriting and it’s quickly pointed out by one character that “giving up auditioning is not quite the same as giving up acting,” while another muses, “Acting isn’t demoralizing enough?”
Danner is of course luminous, looking even more gracious and fashionable in an impressive parade of Rita Ryack’s flowing gossamer costume changes that could rival her omnipresent Prolia TV commercial wardrobe; and her veteran, long-honed ease at creating an indelibly real, intensely watchable character is unmistakably in evidence here. As she is a notable board member and longtime participant in the Williamstown Summer Theatre Festival, where her Country House character is preparing to open in Shaw’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, it’s interesting to wonder if Margulies created this role especially for Danner.
Sarah Steele is a particular standout as Anna’s acerbic granddaughter Susie, a dead ringer for Vanya’s woebegone niece Sonya. Emily Swallow, as the much younger fiancée of Anna’s former son-in-law Walter, and Scott Foley, as the George Clooney¬–esque movie star she makes a Seagull-y play for, handle their still rather underwritten roles with veteran comportment. Unfortunately, David Rasche’s turn as the Serebryakov/Dr. Dorn–esque Walter is the production’s Achilles’ heel, giving a performance so ungrounded and surface-skimming he seems to be performing in another play entirely. Nothing is more distracting in such an ensemble piece as someone unwilling to collaborate, made more apparent when an actor suddenly delivers what he considers his most important lines directly out to the audience, turning away from the characters he’s addressing to make sure we all get the reference.
Still, the evening belongs to Lange, who, as the miserable underachieving Elliot, overcomes playing someone so whiny and difficult he’s “on everyone’s Life-Is-Too-Short” list. It’s as though that cloud of dirt swirling around Charlie Brown’s friend Pigpen has latched itself like a dark cloud of terminal angst around Elliot. Yet, by the final sweetly heartbreaking scene, Lange makes us hope the guy won’t pull a Konstantine and shoot himself in the head—an act that somewhere before intermission seemed like a consummation devotedly to be wished.
Margulies needs to rewrite before this basically worthy new play hits the Great White Way, despite the excellent staging and guidance of Daniel Sullivan. The director allows his actors to deliver a major speech with his or her back to the audience, ingeniously making us work to keep up. Still, some of the pointed industry-related humor of Act 1 and the many, many visual and textual references to Chekhovian themes are a distraction, especially from the impact of the quietly shattering ending. Like his sorrowful character Elliot Cooper, perhaps Margulies has cultivated a few “bad habits just to make things interesting.”
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
June 15, 2014
June 15, 2014
The Brothers Size
The Fountain Theatre
It would be surprising if the emergent notoriety of playwright Terell Alvin McCraney didn’t lead to a career compared to that of his former mentor, the late August Wilson. The Brothers Size, one play in McCraney’s epic Brothers/Sisters Trilogy, is an emotional slap of a drama. At the Fountain Theatre, it succeeds last year’s In the Red and Brown Water to disprove the old adage that lightning never strikes twice in the same place.
As with Red and Brown Water, The Brothers Size is set in San Pere: a steamy-hot, hole-in-the-wall town near a bayou somewhere in the rugged and disaster-prone backwaters of rural Louisiana. Here Ogun Size (played by Gilbert Glenn Brown with salient ferocity and a deep well of understanding for the still-inequitable nature of human oppression) has agreed to share his home and auto repair business with his troubled kid brother, Oshoosi (a remarkable Matthew Hancock), after the younger Size is released from prison.
The story is based on the mythology of West Africa’s Yoruba culture, tales passed down from generation to generation, utilizing roughhewn poetry and pulsating rhythms to explore and identify the roots of familial love and devotion when faced with the reality of loss and the ever-present gleam of temptation.
Try as he will to get Oshoosi out of his bed and focusing on the future, Ogun’s patient efforts are thwarted by the recurring appearance of Elegba (an engaging Theodore Perkins), his younger brother’s former cellmate with whom lust had obviously blossomed into something more substantial than physical desire as they paid their debt to society. Elegba is the slithering snake offering a ripe red apple, and soon all of Ogun’s plans for the rehabilitation of Oshoosi give way to Elegba’s dangerously questionable plotting.
The Brothers Size is about love—unconditional and otherwise—but it is also about the intangible quest for freedom in a society still racist at its core, a world that all too often drags the weak and vulnerable into a tangled web of bad decisions and inherited misfortune from which many will never escape.
Director Shirley Jo Finney understands the nature of these men and the complexities of this material from somewhere deep in her core, expertly weaving in strikingly discordant staging and musicality to achieve a dreamlike, unreal ambience that at first hearkens back to the story’s ancient roots then melds seamlessly into the cacophonous pulse of our contemporary Southern climes. Utilizing modern hip-hop tempos and clanking hubcaps struck against Hana S. Kim’s austerely Dada-like metal beam–dominated set, Finney and her team exotically interpret McCraney’s vision as well as the original source material.
With the aid of choreographer Ameenah Kaplan and the gifts of these outstanding performers, who go directly to the top of the list as this year’s most exceptional ensemble cast in Los Angeles as they exquisitely embrace the poetry and theatricality of the piece, once again the team of Finney and Fountain proves a match made in dramaturgical heaven.
The Fountain Theatre
It would be surprising if the emergent notoriety of playwright Terell Alvin McCraney didn’t lead to a career compared to that of his former mentor, the late August Wilson. The Brothers Size, one play in McCraney’s epic Brothers/Sisters Trilogy, is an emotional slap of a drama. At the Fountain Theatre, it succeeds last year’s In the Red and Brown Water to disprove the old adage that lightning never strikes twice in the same place.
As with Red and Brown Water, The Brothers Size is set in San Pere: a steamy-hot, hole-in-the-wall town near a bayou somewhere in the rugged and disaster-prone backwaters of rural Louisiana. Here Ogun Size (played by Gilbert Glenn Brown with salient ferocity and a deep well of understanding for the still-inequitable nature of human oppression) has agreed to share his home and auto repair business with his troubled kid brother, Oshoosi (a remarkable Matthew Hancock), after the younger Size is released from prison.
The story is based on the mythology of West Africa’s Yoruba culture, tales passed down from generation to generation, utilizing roughhewn poetry and pulsating rhythms to explore and identify the roots of familial love and devotion when faced with the reality of loss and the ever-present gleam of temptation.
Try as he will to get Oshoosi out of his bed and focusing on the future, Ogun’s patient efforts are thwarted by the recurring appearance of Elegba (an engaging Theodore Perkins), his younger brother’s former cellmate with whom lust had obviously blossomed into something more substantial than physical desire as they paid their debt to society. Elegba is the slithering snake offering a ripe red apple, and soon all of Ogun’s plans for the rehabilitation of Oshoosi give way to Elegba’s dangerously questionable plotting.
The Brothers Size is about love—unconditional and otherwise—but it is also about the intangible quest for freedom in a society still racist at its core, a world that all too often drags the weak and vulnerable into a tangled web of bad decisions and inherited misfortune from which many will never escape.
Director Shirley Jo Finney understands the nature of these men and the complexities of this material from somewhere deep in her core, expertly weaving in strikingly discordant staging and musicality to achieve a dreamlike, unreal ambience that at first hearkens back to the story’s ancient roots then melds seamlessly into the cacophonous pulse of our contemporary Southern climes. Utilizing modern hip-hop tempos and clanking hubcaps struck against Hana S. Kim’s austerely Dada-like metal beam–dominated set, Finney and her team exotically interpret McCraney’s vision as well as the original source material.
With the aid of choreographer Ameenah Kaplan and the gifts of these outstanding performers, who go directly to the top of the list as this year’s most exceptional ensemble cast in Los Angeles as they exquisitely embrace the poetry and theatricality of the piece, once again the team of Finney and Fountain proves a match made in dramaturgical heaven.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
June 14, 2014
June 14, 2014
The Last Confession
Ahmanson Theatre
Most Westerners of a certain age, certainly most Catholics, recall the startling day in 1978 when we learned that Pope John Paul I had died 33 days after the puff of white smoke announced his election to the papacy. Very few people, if anyone, knew the exact cause of death. Whether the Curia, the Vatican’s governmental cabinet, considered it unseemly to probe or the answers didn’t favor a perfectly innocent explanation, any investigations into his death seemed likewise to die swiftly.
Few in the audience of Roger Crane’s play would expect to learn the truth about the cause of death or its catalyst, if any. But we expect a sense of intrigue, yet there’s little here.
The play begins as Cardinal Giovanni Benelli (David Suchet) confesses to a fellow priest (Philip Craig) his belief that he killed his pope. Benelli is not speaking literally. The rest of the play is told in flashback. During a period of widely reported corruption in the Vatican, coinciding with a papal election, Benelli campaigns for Albino Luciani, who is ultimately chosen and becomes John Paul I. He, however, is so much an outsider that he wants to clean the Augean stables. His politics falling far outside that of the majority of the College of Cardinals, he swiftly announces plans to replace longtime appointees with his own. In the early morning after making this announcement, John Paul I is discovered dead in his bed. Even the people who found him there don’t tell the story the same way. Disputes ensue over how to act and what to reveal to the public.
Decades later, the real-life story remains intriguing. It’s surprising the play can’t evoke the same suspense. Perhaps the repetitive dialogue distracts our attention. We first learn that Luciani is gentle and innocent—even in an aside about whether he’s innocent or naïve. But Crane includes multiple iterations of how gentle and innocent he is. Then he appears in the flesh (Richard O’Callaghan), and he’s gentle and innocent.
Director Jonathan Church contributes a handsome design scheme, but it’s hard to stay in the story when we watch the presumably aged cardinals moving the set between scenes. An ornate backdrop is partially concealed by a series of wrought-iron walls and grey-and-white marble doorways (scenic design by William Dudley). As the walls are moved during the plentiful locale shifts, desks and chairs are pushed on and off the stage. At least the lighting design, by Peter Mumford, is redolent of dust and power.
However, perhaps Church’s greatest sin is in his direction of Suchet. If you’re a fan of Suchet’s work, you’d probably pay to watch him read the phone book (sorry, now not only a cliché but a dated cliché). In essence, unfortunately, we are watching him read the phone book, and it’s not a thrill. He starts out angry, in a surprisingly forced vocal delivery. There’s no self-doubt in this cardinal, only petulance and blame. And that doesn’t gather in a sympathetic audience. Nor are there any moments of seeming freshness in his work. Even his physicality seems carefully plotted.
Fortunately, another performance absorbs our attention. O’Callaghan is fascinating as the subject pontiff. While the other actors are playing at their characters, he seems to just be, simply playing a simple man, but knowing that simple men have thoughts and feelings even if they’re not broadcasting them at every moment.
As for the storytelling, the biggest surprise here is the identity of the confessor. There was certainly more to his story, too. Oh, to be a mosca on the Vatican walls.
Ahmanson Theatre
Most Westerners of a certain age, certainly most Catholics, recall the startling day in 1978 when we learned that Pope John Paul I had died 33 days after the puff of white smoke announced his election to the papacy. Very few people, if anyone, knew the exact cause of death. Whether the Curia, the Vatican’s governmental cabinet, considered it unseemly to probe or the answers didn’t favor a perfectly innocent explanation, any investigations into his death seemed likewise to die swiftly.
Few in the audience of Roger Crane’s play would expect to learn the truth about the cause of death or its catalyst, if any. But we expect a sense of intrigue, yet there’s little here.
The play begins as Cardinal Giovanni Benelli (David Suchet) confesses to a fellow priest (Philip Craig) his belief that he killed his pope. Benelli is not speaking literally. The rest of the play is told in flashback. During a period of widely reported corruption in the Vatican, coinciding with a papal election, Benelli campaigns for Albino Luciani, who is ultimately chosen and becomes John Paul I. He, however, is so much an outsider that he wants to clean the Augean stables. His politics falling far outside that of the majority of the College of Cardinals, he swiftly announces plans to replace longtime appointees with his own. In the early morning after making this announcement, John Paul I is discovered dead in his bed. Even the people who found him there don’t tell the story the same way. Disputes ensue over how to act and what to reveal to the public.
Decades later, the real-life story remains intriguing. It’s surprising the play can’t evoke the same suspense. Perhaps the repetitive dialogue distracts our attention. We first learn that Luciani is gentle and innocent—even in an aside about whether he’s innocent or naïve. But Crane includes multiple iterations of how gentle and innocent he is. Then he appears in the flesh (Richard O’Callaghan), and he’s gentle and innocent.
Director Jonathan Church contributes a handsome design scheme, but it’s hard to stay in the story when we watch the presumably aged cardinals moving the set between scenes. An ornate backdrop is partially concealed by a series of wrought-iron walls and grey-and-white marble doorways (scenic design by William Dudley). As the walls are moved during the plentiful locale shifts, desks and chairs are pushed on and off the stage. At least the lighting design, by Peter Mumford, is redolent of dust and power.
However, perhaps Church’s greatest sin is in his direction of Suchet. If you’re a fan of Suchet’s work, you’d probably pay to watch him read the phone book (sorry, now not only a cliché but a dated cliché). In essence, unfortunately, we are watching him read the phone book, and it’s not a thrill. He starts out angry, in a surprisingly forced vocal delivery. There’s no self-doubt in this cardinal, only petulance and blame. And that doesn’t gather in a sympathetic audience. Nor are there any moments of seeming freshness in his work. Even his physicality seems carefully plotted.
Fortunately, another performance absorbs our attention. O’Callaghan is fascinating as the subject pontiff. While the other actors are playing at their characters, he seems to just be, simply playing a simple man, but knowing that simple men have thoughts and feelings even if they’re not broadcasting them at every moment.
As for the storytelling, the biggest surprise here is the identity of the confessor. There was certainly more to his story, too. Oh, to be a mosca on the Vatican walls.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 13, 2014
June 13, 2014
Lear
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
Shakespeare’s King Lear has its potencies. Simply described, it follows the downfall of a once-
powerful leader and the dysfunction of his family. Pondering his retirement, the monarch asks his three daughters to avow their love. The elder two, Goneril and Regan, lavish empty words on papa. The youngest, Cordelia, refuses to play that game, believing her actions of loyalty and respect will trump her sisters’ verbiage.
The role of Lear is also a noted goal of male actors who are, shall we say, no longer castable as Romeo. Audiences expect to see an aged Lear, whose two eldest daughters are married, who is ready to divide his kingdom among the three heirs. Age and apparent frailty aside, Lear commands the stage, the role requiring vocal and emotional range and calling for masses of memorization. Who among our great actors can fit the bill?
And, can a woman take on the role?
After more than 40 years of filling theatergoers’ summer schedules with various productions of Shakespeare plays and starring in probably every leading female role in those plays, Will Geer Theatricum Botanicum artistic director Ellen Geer takes on Lear. Completing the gender swap, this Lear’s three children are sons. Will the audience feel more protective of a female Lear? Do the two sons’ actions now feel like elder abuse? Alas, it seems disrespect, hunger for power, and plain ol’ cruelty know no gender.
It’s possible audiences quite familiar with King Lear will find that the intellectual exercise trumps much of the text’s emotional impact. Quite easily, the word father become mother, he becomes she, and so forth, and for the most part the meter still scans as Shakespeare wrote it. But the acting and the picturesque and effective staging in this production, co-directed by Geer and Melora Marshall, thrill where it matters most.
At the play’s top, Geer’s Lear is a bloated bag of ego. The flattery of elder sons Goneril (Aaron Hendry) and Regan (Christopher W. Jones) sits well with her. When she hears the simple “no more, nor less” from her youngest son, Cordelian (Dane Oliver), Geer’s Lear evidences a recognition that he may be speaking accurately and from a deeper love; but she’s embarrassed and rejects him out of pride.
Lear takes a fall, despite the best efforts of her loyal advisors and companions. The Fool, more often seen in gender-blind casting than the other characters are, is here played by Marshall. Although the character is still referred to as “boy” and “sirrah,” Marshall gives the Fool deep sisterly devotion and care, while maintaining the verbal comedy the role allows. Kent is played by Gerald C. Rivers in a Caribbean accent when face-to-face with the sane Lear, in standard English elsewhere. Lear, Fool, and Kent ride out the storm on the roof of Theatricum Botanicum’s permanent two-story structure, the outdoor stage providing perfect ambience for the play’s outdoor scenes.
Less easy to see, Edgar’s main scene is enacted far house right. Edgar, though, is here called Eden, played with sturdy sincerity and a notably expressive voice by Willow Geer. Eden’s sibling, Edmund in the original, is here Igraine, played with head-to-toe resentful ire by Abby Craden.
Other acting standouts are Alan Blumenfeld as the eye-gouged Gloucester and Frank Weidner as Goneril’s henchman Oswald. But the night’s biggest surprise is young Oliver, who plays Cordelian with classic delivery and physicality, and who will undoubtedly shore up the company’s needs in the up-and-coming-actor department. It’s a thrill to watch him go a round with Geer.
Lines get rewritten to suit the gender shift. “Put’st down thine own breeches” becomes “lift’d up thine own skirt.” Puzzlingly, however, here Lear says, “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is/To have a shameful child!”
One of theater’s great stage directions, “Re-enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms,” is staged by the Geer family with due respect to the text, as well as to the gender swap. After Lear has found Cordelian’s body, hanged in prison, Ellen Geer emerges from a trap door in the stage, seeming to hoist Oliver up the stairs. In this version, at play’s end, Edgar and Albany will share the throne.
Marshall McDaniel provides evocative original music, and Ian Flanders and McDaniel contribute scene-setting sound design. Speaking of even more of the Geer family, in grand Theatricum tradition the family dog gets a cameo, showing stage presence and not reacting to the awws of the audience.
Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum
Shakespeare’s King Lear has its potencies. Simply described, it follows the downfall of a once-
powerful leader and the dysfunction of his family. Pondering his retirement, the monarch asks his three daughters to avow their love. The elder two, Goneril and Regan, lavish empty words on papa. The youngest, Cordelia, refuses to play that game, believing her actions of loyalty and respect will trump her sisters’ verbiage.
The role of Lear is also a noted goal of male actors who are, shall we say, no longer castable as Romeo. Audiences expect to see an aged Lear, whose two eldest daughters are married, who is ready to divide his kingdom among the three heirs. Age and apparent frailty aside, Lear commands the stage, the role requiring vocal and emotional range and calling for masses of memorization. Who among our great actors can fit the bill?
And, can a woman take on the role?
After more than 40 years of filling theatergoers’ summer schedules with various productions of Shakespeare plays and starring in probably every leading female role in those plays, Will Geer Theatricum Botanicum artistic director Ellen Geer takes on Lear. Completing the gender swap, this Lear’s three children are sons. Will the audience feel more protective of a female Lear? Do the two sons’ actions now feel like elder abuse? Alas, it seems disrespect, hunger for power, and plain ol’ cruelty know no gender.
It’s possible audiences quite familiar with King Lear will find that the intellectual exercise trumps much of the text’s emotional impact. Quite easily, the word father become mother, he becomes she, and so forth, and for the most part the meter still scans as Shakespeare wrote it. But the acting and the picturesque and effective staging in this production, co-directed by Geer and Melora Marshall, thrill where it matters most.
At the play’s top, Geer’s Lear is a bloated bag of ego. The flattery of elder sons Goneril (Aaron Hendry) and Regan (Christopher W. Jones) sits well with her. When she hears the simple “no more, nor less” from her youngest son, Cordelian (Dane Oliver), Geer’s Lear evidences a recognition that he may be speaking accurately and from a deeper love; but she’s embarrassed and rejects him out of pride.
Lear takes a fall, despite the best efforts of her loyal advisors and companions. The Fool, more often seen in gender-blind casting than the other characters are, is here played by Marshall. Although the character is still referred to as “boy” and “sirrah,” Marshall gives the Fool deep sisterly devotion and care, while maintaining the verbal comedy the role allows. Kent is played by Gerald C. Rivers in a Caribbean accent when face-to-face with the sane Lear, in standard English elsewhere. Lear, Fool, and Kent ride out the storm on the roof of Theatricum Botanicum’s permanent two-story structure, the outdoor stage providing perfect ambience for the play’s outdoor scenes.
Less easy to see, Edgar’s main scene is enacted far house right. Edgar, though, is here called Eden, played with sturdy sincerity and a notably expressive voice by Willow Geer. Eden’s sibling, Edmund in the original, is here Igraine, played with head-to-toe resentful ire by Abby Craden.
Other acting standouts are Alan Blumenfeld as the eye-gouged Gloucester and Frank Weidner as Goneril’s henchman Oswald. But the night’s biggest surprise is young Oliver, who plays Cordelian with classic delivery and physicality, and who will undoubtedly shore up the company’s needs in the up-and-coming-actor department. It’s a thrill to watch him go a round with Geer.
Lines get rewritten to suit the gender shift. “Put’st down thine own breeches” becomes “lift’d up thine own skirt.” Puzzlingly, however, here Lear says, “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is/To have a shameful child!”
One of theater’s great stage directions, “Re-enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms,” is staged by the Geer family with due respect to the text, as well as to the gender swap. After Lear has found Cordelian’s body, hanged in prison, Ellen Geer emerges from a trap door in the stage, seeming to hoist Oliver up the stairs. In this version, at play’s end, Edgar and Albany will share the throne.
Marshall McDaniel provides evocative original music, and Ian Flanders and McDaniel contribute scene-setting sound design. Speaking of even more of the Geer family, in grand Theatricum tradition the family dog gets a cameo, showing stage presence and not reacting to the awws of the audience.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
June 10, 2014
June 10, 2014
Flower Duet
The Road on Magnolia
The haunting two-soprano “Flower Duet” from Léo Delibes 1883 French opera, Lakmé, gives playwright Maura Campbell the title for this awkwardly conceived five-actor perusal of conjugal dysfunction in the rural outskirts of Burlington, Vt. As in the distaff duet, this work focuses on two women: Stephanie (Avery Clyde) and Maddie (Jessica Noboa). They are upscale damsels whose intermingled lives ebb and flow through two decades of soap opera–esque travails that seldom elevate above the maudlin and the predictable as each struggles to achieve happiness with the men in their lives and with each other. Helmer Jeffrey Wienckowski manages to maintain an impressively fluid thematic flow through the play’s eight scenes, including one flashback and two flash forwards, but does not manage to underscore or amplify anything meaningful in Campbell’s text.
Christopher Scott Murillo’s impressively detailed setting, complemented by Boris Gortinski’s mood-enhancing lighting, serves as the kitchen/dining environment for both households as supposedly sexually liberated Stephanie and Max (Adam Mondschein) strive unsuccessfully to establish a firm foundation on which to base their relationship. Meanwhile, Maddie is being driven to an alcohol-fueled breaking point by her hubby Sandy’s (Patrick Joseph Rieger) emotional and sexual inattentiveness.
Complicating matters is the blossoming dalliance between Sandy and Stephanie and growing concerns by Maddie and Sandy that their 4-year-old daughter Daisy (played by adult Kara Hume) might have developmental issues.
There are no real resolutions to any of these concerns except the passage of time. Eventually all four of these protagonists move on quite nicely between scenes, out of sight of the audience. By play’s end, Stephanie, Sandy, Max, and Maddie are present to launch Daisy into her adult life. The ending further diminishes all the shenanigans that went on before.
One really annoying bit of business is the ongoing assertion that Stephanie and Maddie actually have the vocal ability to sing the “Flower Duet,” which they are intermittently rehearsing to perform at a friend’s wedding. Wienckowski’s staging to work around the fact that Noboa and Clyde do not have this ability is clumsy. Another distraction is the odd, symbolically stylized costuming of Haleil Parker, entwining flowers within clothing and executing a surrealistic wedding dress that looks like it was created for Miss Havisham of Great Expectations.
The cast impressively inhabits the personas of these troubled folk. Clyde’s sensually charged Stephanie exudes a tangible sense of friction when trying to break through Max’s cerebral aloofness. For his part, Mondschein instills levity into the proceedings, projecting utter disdain toward Sandy while being lugubriously courtly toward Maddie.
Rieger and Noboa believably portray a couple who have lost any semblance of the sensitivity and good-heartedness they offered each other when courting (seen in flashback), so all that’s left is the simmering bile of mutual dissatisfaction. Hume’s Daisy is an undefined entity seen in various situations, including dancing and singing vignettes that don’t relate to anything.
The Road on Magnolia
The haunting two-soprano “Flower Duet” from Léo Delibes 1883 French opera, Lakmé, gives playwright Maura Campbell the title for this awkwardly conceived five-actor perusal of conjugal dysfunction in the rural outskirts of Burlington, Vt. As in the distaff duet, this work focuses on two women: Stephanie (Avery Clyde) and Maddie (Jessica Noboa). They are upscale damsels whose intermingled lives ebb and flow through two decades of soap opera–esque travails that seldom elevate above the maudlin and the predictable as each struggles to achieve happiness with the men in their lives and with each other. Helmer Jeffrey Wienckowski manages to maintain an impressively fluid thematic flow through the play’s eight scenes, including one flashback and two flash forwards, but does not manage to underscore or amplify anything meaningful in Campbell’s text.
Christopher Scott Murillo’s impressively detailed setting, complemented by Boris Gortinski’s mood-enhancing lighting, serves as the kitchen/dining environment for both households as supposedly sexually liberated Stephanie and Max (Adam Mondschein) strive unsuccessfully to establish a firm foundation on which to base their relationship. Meanwhile, Maddie is being driven to an alcohol-fueled breaking point by her hubby Sandy’s (Patrick Joseph Rieger) emotional and sexual inattentiveness.
Complicating matters is the blossoming dalliance between Sandy and Stephanie and growing concerns by Maddie and Sandy that their 4-year-old daughter Daisy (played by adult Kara Hume) might have developmental issues.
There are no real resolutions to any of these concerns except the passage of time. Eventually all four of these protagonists move on quite nicely between scenes, out of sight of the audience. By play’s end, Stephanie, Sandy, Max, and Maddie are present to launch Daisy into her adult life. The ending further diminishes all the shenanigans that went on before.
One really annoying bit of business is the ongoing assertion that Stephanie and Maddie actually have the vocal ability to sing the “Flower Duet,” which they are intermittently rehearsing to perform at a friend’s wedding. Wienckowski’s staging to work around the fact that Noboa and Clyde do not have this ability is clumsy. Another distraction is the odd, symbolically stylized costuming of Haleil Parker, entwining flowers within clothing and executing a surrealistic wedding dress that looks like it was created for Miss Havisham of Great Expectations.
The cast impressively inhabits the personas of these troubled folk. Clyde’s sensually charged Stephanie exudes a tangible sense of friction when trying to break through Max’s cerebral aloofness. For his part, Mondschein instills levity into the proceedings, projecting utter disdain toward Sandy while being lugubriously courtly toward Maddie.
Rieger and Noboa believably portray a couple who have lost any semblance of the sensitivity and good-heartedness they offered each other when courting (seen in flashback), so all that’s left is the simmering bile of mutual dissatisfaction. Hume’s Daisy is an undefined entity seen in various situations, including dancing and singing vignettes that don’t relate to anything.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
June 10, 2014
June 10, 2014
Other Desert Cities
International City Theatre
In one of the famous lines from The Godfather, Don Corleone tells his eldest son, “Never tell anyone outside the family what you are thinking again.” The don would have burst a gut if he had seen what Brooke Wyeth, the protagonist of Jon Robin Baitz’s Other Desert Cities, has written about her family in her soon-to-be published memoirs. International City Theatre’s new production is a poignant, provocative rendering with a first-class cast.
Brooke (Ann Noble) returns to her parents’ home in Palm Springs after six years away. She had suffered hospitalization after a breakdown and has now written her first book in years. She and her brother, Trip (Blake Anthony Edwards), have lived under the shadows of their famous and high-powered political parents, Polly (Suzanne Ford) and Lyman (Nicholas Hormann). Even more traumatically, the family has been emotionally weighed down by the suicide of the eldest son, Henry, who almost 30 years before was a bombing suspect. When the family discovers that Brooke’s new book focuses on Henry, it resurrects the ordeal for everyone, shattering the illusion the family tried for years to hold together in the public eye.
Other Desert Cities is a piercing play, one that distorts memories and in which the ghosts of the past threaten a fragile family’s foundation. The play shrewdly skewers politics on both sides: The right is portrayed as narrow-minded, with a penchant for clumping groups together into generalizations, while the left is seen as casting themselves as perpetual victims. There are no heroes this story, only the wounded. Baitz’s astute dialogue cuts familial relations with a jagged-edge knife.
Director caryn desai keeps the tension high by allowing the actors to overlap their conversations. The actors are so natural, the audience feels guilt as if eavesdropping on a very private conversation.
The entire cast is outstanding. Noble, filled with rage and frustration, is heartrending to watch. Ford, who plays a former confidante of Nancy Reagan, radiates that rigidity and controlling presence people will recognize from interviews during the 1980s. Hormann, whose character was once an important force in the Republican Party, reveals Lyman’s physical deterioration, a man barely holding onto his health. Edwards brings humor to the youngest child, one who was too young in the ’70s to be destroyed by Henry’s tragedy. Because of that, Edwards makes his character more of an observer, a commentator. Despite such strong performances, Eileen T’Kaye still manages to upstage everyone as the dipsomaniac aunt who judges everyone to sublimate her own guilt. She is hilarious as the loud, frantic, and self-congratulatory Silda.
Set designer JR Bruce has created the perfect simulation of a comfy desert home. Costume designer Kim DeShazo has fun with Ford’s tailored outfits and T’Kaye’s more bargain-basement clothing.
Baitz’s ode to a family’s upheaval is universal and cathartic. The intimate staging at ICT makes for a thought-provoking evening.
International City Theatre
In one of the famous lines from The Godfather, Don Corleone tells his eldest son, “Never tell anyone outside the family what you are thinking again.” The don would have burst a gut if he had seen what Brooke Wyeth, the protagonist of Jon Robin Baitz’s Other Desert Cities, has written about her family in her soon-to-be published memoirs. International City Theatre’s new production is a poignant, provocative rendering with a first-class cast.
Brooke (Ann Noble) returns to her parents’ home in Palm Springs after six years away. She had suffered hospitalization after a breakdown and has now written her first book in years. She and her brother, Trip (Blake Anthony Edwards), have lived under the shadows of their famous and high-powered political parents, Polly (Suzanne Ford) and Lyman (Nicholas Hormann). Even more traumatically, the family has been emotionally weighed down by the suicide of the eldest son, Henry, who almost 30 years before was a bombing suspect. When the family discovers that Brooke’s new book focuses on Henry, it resurrects the ordeal for everyone, shattering the illusion the family tried for years to hold together in the public eye.
Other Desert Cities is a piercing play, one that distorts memories and in which the ghosts of the past threaten a fragile family’s foundation. The play shrewdly skewers politics on both sides: The right is portrayed as narrow-minded, with a penchant for clumping groups together into generalizations, while the left is seen as casting themselves as perpetual victims. There are no heroes this story, only the wounded. Baitz’s astute dialogue cuts familial relations with a jagged-edge knife.
Director caryn desai keeps the tension high by allowing the actors to overlap their conversations. The actors are so natural, the audience feels guilt as if eavesdropping on a very private conversation.
The entire cast is outstanding. Noble, filled with rage and frustration, is heartrending to watch. Ford, who plays a former confidante of Nancy Reagan, radiates that rigidity and controlling presence people will recognize from interviews during the 1980s. Hormann, whose character was once an important force in the Republican Party, reveals Lyman’s physical deterioration, a man barely holding onto his health. Edwards brings humor to the youngest child, one who was too young in the ’70s to be destroyed by Henry’s tragedy. Because of that, Edwards makes his character more of an observer, a commentator. Despite such strong performances, Eileen T’Kaye still manages to upstage everyone as the dipsomaniac aunt who judges everyone to sublimate her own guilt. She is hilarious as the loud, frantic, and self-congratulatory Silda.
Set designer JR Bruce has created the perfect simulation of a comfy desert home. Costume designer Kim DeShazo has fun with Ford’s tailored outfits and T’Kaye’s more bargain-basement clothing.
Baitz’s ode to a family’s upheaval is universal and cathartic. The intimate staging at ICT makes for a thought-provoking evening.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
June 10, 2014
June 10, 2014
The Fantasticks
Good People Theater Company at Lillian Theater
When this modest little musical, with book and lyrics by Tom Jones and music by Harvey Schmidt, first opened Off-Broadway in 1960, no one could have predicted the astonishing success it would achieve. It ran for a grand 42 years, racking up an astronomical 17,162 performances, and has since been performed all over the world.
The show was loosely adapted from an old play, The Romanticks, by that arch-romantic Edmond Rostand, creator of Cyrano de Bergerac. If, as Thornton Wilder observed, art is the orchestration of clichés, this is a prime example. Most of the jokes—dealing with the follies and foibles of young lovers, and the scheming of ambitious parents—were old when Shakespeare was a pup. But they always seem to reap rich laughter from audiences, as they do here.
The plot is simple in this gentle and genial satire on romantic illusions like “perfect love” and “happily ever after.” Despite the opposition of their fathers and the wall that separates his garden and hers, Matt (Matt Franta) and Luisa (Audrey Curd) have fallen in love. But there’s more to this than meets the eye. The two fathers, Huckleby (Matt Stevens) and Bellomy (Michael P. Wallot) actually want the two to fall in love and marry. But knowing that the young always seem to defy their elders, the two have built the wall to create an obstacle and invented a feud between them, so the kids can think they’re rebelling. Now, however, the fathers must find a way to end the feud. They hire a passing vagabond, El Gallo (Christopher Karbo), to stage an abduction of Luisa, from which Matt can gallantly rescue her. And in the resulting celebration, they can end their war and the lovers can be married. So ends Act 1.
In Act 2, disillusionment sets in, starting with the very first song: “This Plum Is Too Ripe.” Perfect love is hard to sustain, and soon the parents are really feuding over their respective gardening techniques. Matt and Luisa learn about the deception of their fathers and have a serious falling out. Matt decides to venture out alone to see what the great world is like.
The authors have crafted a passle of lovely melodies to balance the comedy, including “Try To Remember” and “Soon It’s Gonna Rain,” and equally effective comic songs, including “When You Plant a Radish (You Get A Radish)”—unlike children who may turn out quite unexpectedly.
Director-choreographer Janet Miller has said that she wanted to recapture the fun of the original production, and in that she is quite successful. But earlier productions have done a bit more than that and carried the disillusion further. The song “Round and Round,” sung by Luisa and El Gallo, began to echo Luisa’s desperation, while the return of the bruised and disillusioned Matt from his adventures achieved pathos, defusing the show’s potential cutesiness. The success of the piece has always depended on its ability to tread the fine line between the sweet and the saccharine. And thus there were obstacles to overcome before the bittersweet ending.
Karbo captures the dash and cynical wisdom of El Gallo, and has the vocal chops to score with his songs. Franta and Curd provide the requisite charm and naiveté of the young lovers, and Stevens and Wallot supply the style, skill, and savoir faire of a music-hall team as the two fathers. They are ably supported by Alex Rikki Ogawa as the Kabuki-style stage manager. Joey D’Auria shines as the Old Actor hired to assist El Gallo in the abduction, and Corky Loupe contributes further comedy as Mortimer, the actor who specializes in dying.
Corey Hirsch provides sparkling musical direction, and Jillian Risigari-Gai lends elegance as the harpist. Robert Schroeder created the engagingly simple set, and Kathy Gillespie is responsible for the colorful costumes.
Good People Theater Company at Lillian Theater
When this modest little musical, with book and lyrics by Tom Jones and music by Harvey Schmidt, first opened Off-Broadway in 1960, no one could have predicted the astonishing success it would achieve. It ran for a grand 42 years, racking up an astronomical 17,162 performances, and has since been performed all over the world.
The show was loosely adapted from an old play, The Romanticks, by that arch-romantic Edmond Rostand, creator of Cyrano de Bergerac. If, as Thornton Wilder observed, art is the orchestration of clichés, this is a prime example. Most of the jokes—dealing with the follies and foibles of young lovers, and the scheming of ambitious parents—were old when Shakespeare was a pup. But they always seem to reap rich laughter from audiences, as they do here.
The plot is simple in this gentle and genial satire on romantic illusions like “perfect love” and “happily ever after.” Despite the opposition of their fathers and the wall that separates his garden and hers, Matt (Matt Franta) and Luisa (Audrey Curd) have fallen in love. But there’s more to this than meets the eye. The two fathers, Huckleby (Matt Stevens) and Bellomy (Michael P. Wallot) actually want the two to fall in love and marry. But knowing that the young always seem to defy their elders, the two have built the wall to create an obstacle and invented a feud between them, so the kids can think they’re rebelling. Now, however, the fathers must find a way to end the feud. They hire a passing vagabond, El Gallo (Christopher Karbo), to stage an abduction of Luisa, from which Matt can gallantly rescue her. And in the resulting celebration, they can end their war and the lovers can be married. So ends Act 1.
In Act 2, disillusionment sets in, starting with the very first song: “This Plum Is Too Ripe.” Perfect love is hard to sustain, and soon the parents are really feuding over their respective gardening techniques. Matt and Luisa learn about the deception of their fathers and have a serious falling out. Matt decides to venture out alone to see what the great world is like.
The authors have crafted a passle of lovely melodies to balance the comedy, including “Try To Remember” and “Soon It’s Gonna Rain,” and equally effective comic songs, including “When You Plant a Radish (You Get A Radish)”—unlike children who may turn out quite unexpectedly.
Director-choreographer Janet Miller has said that she wanted to recapture the fun of the original production, and in that she is quite successful. But earlier productions have done a bit more than that and carried the disillusion further. The song “Round and Round,” sung by Luisa and El Gallo, began to echo Luisa’s desperation, while the return of the bruised and disillusioned Matt from his adventures achieved pathos, defusing the show’s potential cutesiness. The success of the piece has always depended on its ability to tread the fine line between the sweet and the saccharine. And thus there were obstacles to overcome before the bittersweet ending.
Karbo captures the dash and cynical wisdom of El Gallo, and has the vocal chops to score with his songs. Franta and Curd provide the requisite charm and naiveté of the young lovers, and Stevens and Wallot supply the style, skill, and savoir faire of a music-hall team as the two fathers. They are ably supported by Alex Rikki Ogawa as the Kabuki-style stage manager. Joey D’Auria shines as the Old Actor hired to assist El Gallo in the abduction, and Corky Loupe contributes further comedy as Mortimer, the actor who specializes in dying.
Corey Hirsch provides sparkling musical direction, and Jillian Risigari-Gai lends elegance as the harpist. Robert Schroeder created the engagingly simple set, and Kathy Gillespie is responsible for the colorful costumes.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
June 9, 2014
June 9, 2014
Backyard
Echo Theater Company at Atwater Village Theatre
No LA playwright’s work is as dark and shocking as Mickey Birnbaum’s. He skewers the distinctively off-kilter modern-family system of our distinctive reclaimed desert location almost as eloquently as Anton Chekhov or Tracy Letts did for their times and places. Meanwhile, guilty laughter erupts from those of us in his audience, while we cover our eyes from the visual and physical excessiveness of his work.
Nope, the inhabitants of this dysfunctional suburban Backyard along the San Diego–Mexican border are definitely not the Sycamores, and there isn’t any corn as high an elephant’s eye. Instead, Birnbaum offers plenty of juicy subtext lurking just below the surface. When the long-absent certifiable father of the teenage superhero-wannabe suggests cheerfully that they should not worry about a little bloodletting and instead enjoy their family reunion, it’s not hard to imagine buckets of stage blood will soon flow like the Ganges.
Two of our town’s most-treasured practitioners of celebrating countercultural dramatic material, the remarkably courageous and jaw-droppingly gifted Jacqueline Wright and Hugo Armstrong, indelibly play the trailerpark-y parents watching their son Chuck (Ian Bamberg), his best friend Ray (Adan Rocha), and the lads’ lovestuck Goth-groupie Lilith (Esmer Kazvinova) create a hazardous backyard wrestling exhibition, starting by filling the yard’s omnipresent inflatable dolphin-decorated pool with piles of dirt. Chuck is obviously the brains behind the operation, writing a script for the event that clearly shows him, as usual, beating Ray’s ass at the end. “Well, I’m the King of Tears and he’s the Destroyer,” Ray explains to his father. “You do the math.”
Both social outcast lost boys have severe father issues, Ray occasionally visiting with his father Raymundo (Richard Azurdia), once a Mexican wrestling contender, through a section of chainlink fence which divides our country from Mexico. Ray does not appreciate it when his dad calls him Raymundo Jr., however, as he’s desperate in his attempts to keep his Chicano heritage a secret from his friends, nor does he want any advice from someone whose career he sees as an embarrassing failure. Chuck’s father has also long been absent but happens to descend upon his family by surprise, full of talk about his successful film-producing career, which one might expect would make Debbie Does Dallas look like Gone With the Wind.
Chuck’s mother is none too pleased at first to see her deadbeat babydaddy, especially when her son instantly bonds with him after the guy shows an interest in—and knowledge of—backyard wrestling. Chuck had wanted his mom to join in the skit, giving The Destroyer the Elixir of Life to miraculously revive him after he is killed off, but she had declined. She is still none too pleased when Chuck’s other parent accepts the task, instead wishing the guy would give his son the “Elixir of Delinquent Child Support.” Yet what starts as an angry, ferocious wrestling match of their own and ends with a little onstage cunnilingus, while mom shouts a darkly poetic monologue, is all it takes to bring the couple’s long-shattered relationship back into a state of beer bottle–clinking togetherness and harmony.
These are not nice, functional family members, but somehow Birnbaum has a unique knack for making them likable as he dismembers—with bold, uncannily endearing humor—contemporary family life and the last death rattle of the American Dream. Still, a major part of why this material works is the spectacular, unbelievably brave, and physically dexterous cast; the visually stunning, in-your-face staging by Larry Biederman; a dynamically evocative and cleverly simple set by Stephen Gifford; Matt Richter and Christina Robinson’s sweaty-hot bordertown lighting; and Mike Hooker’s purposely distracting sound design filled with leaf blowers, car horns, crickets, and coyotes.
A shout-out for the precision fight choreography of Ahmed Best, which sends these willing, possible deluded, actors slamming onto their backs, falling down stairs, and gingerly beating each other over the head with metal folding chairs. The staging here is breakneck, wincingly violent, and sure to leave these über-committed actors with a few nasty bruises or worse by the end of the run. Take a trip to Backyard before someone gets hurt; the program doesn’t list any understudies.
Echo Theater Company at Atwater Village Theatre
No LA playwright’s work is as dark and shocking as Mickey Birnbaum’s. He skewers the distinctively off-kilter modern-family system of our distinctive reclaimed desert location almost as eloquently as Anton Chekhov or Tracy Letts did for their times and places. Meanwhile, guilty laughter erupts from those of us in his audience, while we cover our eyes from the visual and physical excessiveness of his work.
Nope, the inhabitants of this dysfunctional suburban Backyard along the San Diego–Mexican border are definitely not the Sycamores, and there isn’t any corn as high an elephant’s eye. Instead, Birnbaum offers plenty of juicy subtext lurking just below the surface. When the long-absent certifiable father of the teenage superhero-wannabe suggests cheerfully that they should not worry about a little bloodletting and instead enjoy their family reunion, it’s not hard to imagine buckets of stage blood will soon flow like the Ganges.
Two of our town’s most-treasured practitioners of celebrating countercultural dramatic material, the remarkably courageous and jaw-droppingly gifted Jacqueline Wright and Hugo Armstrong, indelibly play the trailerpark-y parents watching their son Chuck (Ian Bamberg), his best friend Ray (Adan Rocha), and the lads’ lovestuck Goth-groupie Lilith (Esmer Kazvinova) create a hazardous backyard wrestling exhibition, starting by filling the yard’s omnipresent inflatable dolphin-decorated pool with piles of dirt. Chuck is obviously the brains behind the operation, writing a script for the event that clearly shows him, as usual, beating Ray’s ass at the end. “Well, I’m the King of Tears and he’s the Destroyer,” Ray explains to his father. “You do the math.”
Both social outcast lost boys have severe father issues, Ray occasionally visiting with his father Raymundo (Richard Azurdia), once a Mexican wrestling contender, through a section of chainlink fence which divides our country from Mexico. Ray does not appreciate it when his dad calls him Raymundo Jr., however, as he’s desperate in his attempts to keep his Chicano heritage a secret from his friends, nor does he want any advice from someone whose career he sees as an embarrassing failure. Chuck’s father has also long been absent but happens to descend upon his family by surprise, full of talk about his successful film-producing career, which one might expect would make Debbie Does Dallas look like Gone With the Wind.
Chuck’s mother is none too pleased at first to see her deadbeat babydaddy, especially when her son instantly bonds with him after the guy shows an interest in—and knowledge of—backyard wrestling. Chuck had wanted his mom to join in the skit, giving The Destroyer the Elixir of Life to miraculously revive him after he is killed off, but she had declined. She is still none too pleased when Chuck’s other parent accepts the task, instead wishing the guy would give his son the “Elixir of Delinquent Child Support.” Yet what starts as an angry, ferocious wrestling match of their own and ends with a little onstage cunnilingus, while mom shouts a darkly poetic monologue, is all it takes to bring the couple’s long-shattered relationship back into a state of beer bottle–clinking togetherness and harmony.
These are not nice, functional family members, but somehow Birnbaum has a unique knack for making them likable as he dismembers—with bold, uncannily endearing humor—contemporary family life and the last death rattle of the American Dream. Still, a major part of why this material works is the spectacular, unbelievably brave, and physically dexterous cast; the visually stunning, in-your-face staging by Larry Biederman; a dynamically evocative and cleverly simple set by Stephen Gifford; Matt Richter and Christina Robinson’s sweaty-hot bordertown lighting; and Mike Hooker’s purposely distracting sound design filled with leaf blowers, car horns, crickets, and coyotes.
A shout-out for the precision fight choreography of Ahmed Best, which sends these willing, possible deluded, actors slamming onto their backs, falling down stairs, and gingerly beating each other over the head with metal folding chairs. The staging here is breakneck, wincingly violent, and sure to leave these über-committed actors with a few nasty bruises or worse by the end of the run. Take a trip to Backyard before someone gets hurt; the program doesn’t list any understudies.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
June 8, 2014
June 8, 2014
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
Pantages Theatre
“So that’s where American Idol contestants go to die: non-Equity tours and Indian casinos.” So sniffed my companion as we approached the Pantages Theatre and its proud marquee announcement of Ace Young (seventh place, Season V) and Diana DeGarmo (second place, Season III) in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. The skepticism was understandable. Doesn’t the whole idea of packaging reality competition runners-up in an old-warhorse musical seem...well...tacky?
Keep an open mind. Sure, the Pantages has had its share of cheesy tours, but this isn’t one of them. With Broadway pro Andy Blankenbuehler at the helm (as a choreographer he won the Tony for In the Heights and an LADCC award for Bring It On: The Musical), this reincarnation of the Andrew Lloyd Webber–Tim Rice Biblical pop opera is a first-class job all the way. And a fully Equity one, for the record.
Blankenbuehler, who doesn’t have a signature style as yet but seems to be endlessly inventive, honors the material by allowing it to be sung and danced within an inch of its life. The show opens peculiarly, in what seems to be a kind of stylized dumb-show in which a modern Joseph dreams in multicolored smoke and gets bullied for his pains, but I can’t really vouch for that: It’s all pretty dim and confusing. And while some of the visual effects are impressive, some are just baffling. Anyone figure out yet why ocean waves and dolphins are projected onto the back of choristers’ raiment? They’re in the desert, for Pete’s sake.
On the other hand, Blankenbuehler breaks with recent tradition—begun, as near as I can make out, by the late British director Steven Pimlott in his superspectacular 1991 London mounting—by not kicking off the evening with Joseph’s signature ballad (and the show’s one hit single) “Any Dream Will Do.” Pimlott’s decision deeply damaged the piece: The number’s lyrics make no sense before the story’s been told, and to turn the finale into a reprise kills its impact. Still, that’s how it’s been used for the better part of 20 years, so despite all those odd shenanigans during the overture, Blankenbuehler’s choice to save “Any Dream” until the end suggests the work is in good hands.
Things just get better and better from there. Assigning wives to each of Joseph’s 11 brothers doubles not only the dance spectacle but also the gleeful villainy, as the jealous brethren sell their youngest sibling into slavery and tell papa Jacob (a wonderful William Thomas Evans) that now there’s “One More Angel in Heaven.” It’s always a good yee-haw number, but, with 22 dancers do-si-doing and spinning, it becomes a mini-revival of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers unto itself, and absolutely thrilling.
The Elvis-impersonation Pharaoh (Ryan Williams) and his court rock the Pyramids. And who’d ever expect “Those Canaan Days”—a Piaf-inspired cabaret dirge intoned by those same brothers during a famine—to become a certified showstopper? That’s the net effect once Blankenbuehler turns it into a juggling ballet of empty tin plates.
The dancing is nonstop and propulsive, and may even make believers of those who have always found Joseph just too twee for its own good, too much this side of Starlight Express for comfort. The preciosity is kept to a minimum at the Pantages, the movement patterns more knowing and expressive of character than you’d think possible given this material. It’s partly thanks to the extravagant lighting, Jersey Boys’s Howell Binkley at his color-saturated best.
DeGarmo (Mrs. Young in real life) is a charming Narrator, her garb deliberately kept au courant to separate her from the Biblical characters, which works. Many are not fond of Young’s nasality and sometimes strange phrasing—I am one of them—but he’s a likeable-enough goop, and that’s all that Joseph needs to be, really. If there’s life after American Idol, these two young marrieds have lit upon the right way to go about it: finding a property of broad popular appeal, but one that’s well suited to their particular, if limited, talents. Maybe they got some inspiration from Constantine Maroulis’s Jekyll & Hyde at the same venue last year. That, too, was a good, unambitious fit.
Best of all, the sound system at the Pantages works like a dream this time out. You can make out every single lyric without straining. Even if you’re not crazy about Rice’s words here, it’s a blessing to have them come through so clearly. Would that other playhouses in town would follow suit.
Pantages Theatre
“So that’s where American Idol contestants go to die: non-Equity tours and Indian casinos.” So sniffed my companion as we approached the Pantages Theatre and its proud marquee announcement of Ace Young (seventh place, Season V) and Diana DeGarmo (second place, Season III) in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. The skepticism was understandable. Doesn’t the whole idea of packaging reality competition runners-up in an old-warhorse musical seem...well...tacky?
Keep an open mind. Sure, the Pantages has had its share of cheesy tours, but this isn’t one of them. With Broadway pro Andy Blankenbuehler at the helm (as a choreographer he won the Tony for In the Heights and an LADCC award for Bring It On: The Musical), this reincarnation of the Andrew Lloyd Webber–Tim Rice Biblical pop opera is a first-class job all the way. And a fully Equity one, for the record.
Blankenbuehler, who doesn’t have a signature style as yet but seems to be endlessly inventive, honors the material by allowing it to be sung and danced within an inch of its life. The show opens peculiarly, in what seems to be a kind of stylized dumb-show in which a modern Joseph dreams in multicolored smoke and gets bullied for his pains, but I can’t really vouch for that: It’s all pretty dim and confusing. And while some of the visual effects are impressive, some are just baffling. Anyone figure out yet why ocean waves and dolphins are projected onto the back of choristers’ raiment? They’re in the desert, for Pete’s sake.
On the other hand, Blankenbuehler breaks with recent tradition—begun, as near as I can make out, by the late British director Steven Pimlott in his superspectacular 1991 London mounting—by not kicking off the evening with Joseph’s signature ballad (and the show’s one hit single) “Any Dream Will Do.” Pimlott’s decision deeply damaged the piece: The number’s lyrics make no sense before the story’s been told, and to turn the finale into a reprise kills its impact. Still, that’s how it’s been used for the better part of 20 years, so despite all those odd shenanigans during the overture, Blankenbuehler’s choice to save “Any Dream” until the end suggests the work is in good hands.
Things just get better and better from there. Assigning wives to each of Joseph’s 11 brothers doubles not only the dance spectacle but also the gleeful villainy, as the jealous brethren sell their youngest sibling into slavery and tell papa Jacob (a wonderful William Thomas Evans) that now there’s “One More Angel in Heaven.” It’s always a good yee-haw number, but, with 22 dancers do-si-doing and spinning, it becomes a mini-revival of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers unto itself, and absolutely thrilling.
The Elvis-impersonation Pharaoh (Ryan Williams) and his court rock the Pyramids. And who’d ever expect “Those Canaan Days”—a Piaf-inspired cabaret dirge intoned by those same brothers during a famine—to become a certified showstopper? That’s the net effect once Blankenbuehler turns it into a juggling ballet of empty tin plates.
The dancing is nonstop and propulsive, and may even make believers of those who have always found Joseph just too twee for its own good, too much this side of Starlight Express for comfort. The preciosity is kept to a minimum at the Pantages, the movement patterns more knowing and expressive of character than you’d think possible given this material. It’s partly thanks to the extravagant lighting, Jersey Boys’s Howell Binkley at his color-saturated best.
DeGarmo (Mrs. Young in real life) is a charming Narrator, her garb deliberately kept au courant to separate her from the Biblical characters, which works. Many are not fond of Young’s nasality and sometimes strange phrasing—I am one of them—but he’s a likeable-enough goop, and that’s all that Joseph needs to be, really. If there’s life after American Idol, these two young marrieds have lit upon the right way to go about it: finding a property of broad popular appeal, but one that’s well suited to their particular, if limited, talents. Maybe they got some inspiration from Constantine Maroulis’s Jekyll & Hyde at the same venue last year. That, too, was a good, unambitious fit.
Best of all, the sound system at the Pantages works like a dream this time out. You can make out every single lyric without straining. Even if you’re not crazy about Rice’s words here, it’s a blessing to have them come through so clearly. Would that other playhouses in town would follow suit.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
June 8, 2014
June 8, 2014
Les Misérables
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts
From their top-billed leads to the ranks of ensemble members—banish forever the word chorus from any connection with this show—director Brian Kite and musical director John Glaudini must have been in heaven, having such an astonishing level of talent with which to work. For the record, this production is the LA regional premiere of the English-language version that premiered in 1985: music by Claude-Michel Schönberg; book by Alain Boublil and Schönberg, based on the novel by Victor Hugo; lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer.
Here, James Barbour and Randall Dodge are nothing short of electrifying as the story’s heroic Jean Valjean and his arch nemesis, the ever threatening Inspector Javert. Barbour’s vocal range is a wonder, as he moves apparently effortlessly from Valjean’s reflective “Who Am I?” to his nearly showstopping rendition of “Bring Him Home.” Likewise, Dodge’s Javert is everything one could wish for in the show’s antagonist. His deep resonant bass is intensely frightening as he vows to capture Valjean in “Stars” and eventually succumbs to his own internal struggles in “Javert’s Suicide.”
Equally enthralling are performers portraying the story’s females. Playing Fantine, Cassandra Murphy offers a truly moving version of the show’s signature theme “I Dreamed a Dream.” As the grown-up incarnation of Fantine’s orphaned daughter, Cosette, Kimberly Hessler brings a lovely clarity and simplicity to her various numbers. So too with the performance of Valerie Rose Curiel as Eponine, whose unrequited love for Marius, played by Nathaniel Irvin, illustrated in “On My Own,” leads to her sacrifice as the first victim on the soon to be bloody barricade. When this trio of mismatched lovers sang “A Heart Full of Love,” the audience fairly held its collective breath as composer Schönberg’s gentlest of harmonies took flight.
Meanwhile, as the co-leaders of the rebellious youth who raise the barricade, Irvin’s Marius and his counterpart Enjolras, played by Anthony Fedorov, lead their colleagues into battle with the inspirational anthems “The ABC Café” and “The People’s Song.” Though their efforts are doomed to failure, leaving Marius as the sole survivor, the sequences utilizing scenic designer Cliff Simon’s spinning centerpiece of stacked household items and junk is a wonder to behold.
Jeff Skowron and Meeghan Holaway offer wonderful supporting turns as the irascibly wicked Thenardiers who lead the ensemble through “The Innkeeper’s Song” (aka “Master of the House”). It’s by far the sharpest number in the show thanks to Dana Solimando’s hilariously structured choreography. As Young Cosette, Emilie Fontaine gives a heartstring-tugging interpretation of “Castle On a Cloud,” and Jude Mason elicited roars of approval from the audience as Gavroche, the gutsy street urchin who joins the fight for freedom.
Though surely oft-repeated, Hugo’s quote, “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent,” could not have been any more prescient than in referring to the beauty and emotional impact of this must-see production.
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts
From their top-billed leads to the ranks of ensemble members—banish forever the word chorus from any connection with this show—director Brian Kite and musical director John Glaudini must have been in heaven, having such an astonishing level of talent with which to work. For the record, this production is the LA regional premiere of the English-language version that premiered in 1985: music by Claude-Michel Schönberg; book by Alain Boublil and Schönberg, based on the novel by Victor Hugo; lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer.
Here, James Barbour and Randall Dodge are nothing short of electrifying as the story’s heroic Jean Valjean and his arch nemesis, the ever threatening Inspector Javert. Barbour’s vocal range is a wonder, as he moves apparently effortlessly from Valjean’s reflective “Who Am I?” to his nearly showstopping rendition of “Bring Him Home.” Likewise, Dodge’s Javert is everything one could wish for in the show’s antagonist. His deep resonant bass is intensely frightening as he vows to capture Valjean in “Stars” and eventually succumbs to his own internal struggles in “Javert’s Suicide.”
Equally enthralling are performers portraying the story’s females. Playing Fantine, Cassandra Murphy offers a truly moving version of the show’s signature theme “I Dreamed a Dream.” As the grown-up incarnation of Fantine’s orphaned daughter, Cosette, Kimberly Hessler brings a lovely clarity and simplicity to her various numbers. So too with the performance of Valerie Rose Curiel as Eponine, whose unrequited love for Marius, played by Nathaniel Irvin, illustrated in “On My Own,” leads to her sacrifice as the first victim on the soon to be bloody barricade. When this trio of mismatched lovers sang “A Heart Full of Love,” the audience fairly held its collective breath as composer Schönberg’s gentlest of harmonies took flight.
Meanwhile, as the co-leaders of the rebellious youth who raise the barricade, Irvin’s Marius and his counterpart Enjolras, played by Anthony Fedorov, lead their colleagues into battle with the inspirational anthems “The ABC Café” and “The People’s Song.” Though their efforts are doomed to failure, leaving Marius as the sole survivor, the sequences utilizing scenic designer Cliff Simon’s spinning centerpiece of stacked household items and junk is a wonder to behold.
Jeff Skowron and Meeghan Holaway offer wonderful supporting turns as the irascibly wicked Thenardiers who lead the ensemble through “The Innkeeper’s Song” (aka “Master of the House”). It’s by far the sharpest number in the show thanks to Dana Solimando’s hilariously structured choreography. As Young Cosette, Emilie Fontaine gives a heartstring-tugging interpretation of “Castle On a Cloud,” and Jude Mason elicited roars of approval from the audience as Gavroche, the gutsy street urchin who joins the fight for freedom.
Though surely oft-repeated, Hugo’s quote, “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent,” could not have been any more prescient than in referring to the beauty and emotional impact of this must-see production.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
June 5, 2014
June 5, 2014
Pray to Ball
Skylight Theatre
In imagining the dramatic arc of Pray to Ball, first-time playwright Amir Abdullah initiated quite a task for himself: to fashion a play that requires the two main protagonists to not only portray all-star level collegiate basketball players but to also place them in situations where they have to believably display basketball skills as a vital requirement of the thematic throughline. Fortunately, Abdullah’s Lou and Y’Lan Noel’s Hakeem pull it off quite nicely, thanks in great measure to their well-honed skills, complemented by helmer Bill Mendieta’s and basketball choreographer Micaal Stevens’s astute attention to onstage veracity.
Elevating this work to a higher level of stagecraft is Abdullah’s finely crafted tale of the evolution of the humor-filled friendship between “two bros from the projects.” Emotionally bombarded by ego-inflating co-ed adulation and sex, as well as the media-fueled relentless quest for the “holy grail” of first-round NBA recruitment, the two must confront their ever-widening individual paths to maturity and fulfillment. Abdullah is guilty of thematic redundancy in making his case, but there is no faulting his ability to craft a great story.
Lou is the epitome of the “one-and-done” star athlete, swaggering his way to the NBA with little regard for either his school, which, he sneers, is “makin’ money off our black asses,” or his girlfriend Nika (Lindsey Beeman), a socio-sexual satellite he uses and abuses with an aura of mocking entitled indifference. But through it all, Lou exudes the deep-rooted dependency he feels for Hakeem, believing they are tied together in this journey to fame and fortune, forged out of a lifetime of mutual support, underscoring the desperate rage Lou eventually displays when he believes his friend is rejecting him.
Noel travels an impressive emotional journey as Hakeem—equally excited to play and party with Lou, yet more grounded in his sense of social obligation and purpose. When a family tragedy alters Hakeem’s state of mind, Noel believably allows the conflicted star athlete to gradually awaken to the possibilities inherent in changing the direction of his life: his tentative investigation of the Muslim faith, his realization he wants more out of a college education than just an NBA contract, and his growing affection for Tamana (Ulka Simone Mohanty), another Muslim follower.
Abdullah so strongly focuses on the Lou-Hakeem saga, he leaves the ladies somewhat undefined, especially Nika. Beeman unabashedly and wantonly thrusts this college girl into every self-centered nook and cranny of Lou’s life, giving evidence she is more than just a party girl. Because she eventually manages to crack through Lou’s almost impenetrable façade, it would be useful to know more about her. Mohanty is appealingly poignant, yet she internalizes Tamana’s agenda to a fault, spending most her time with Hakeem in a state of confused angst. What is learned about her comes mostly from other characters. It would be more satisfying if their relationship would evolve while they are onstage together.
Filling out the life and times of Lou and Hakeem are Bilal (Rickie Peete), Hakeem’s Muslim mentor, impressively evoking a quiet strength that just might be much more than Lou could handle if put to the test; and all-purpose newscaster Jim (Brice Harris), perfectly cast as the quintessential “white bread” sports commentator to the hoops journey of these two basketball wunderkinds.
The true star of this production is Mendieta, who has entwined a fine script, an excellent cast, Jeff McLaughlin’s brilliantly executed all-purpose set and lights, Kelly Bailey’s costumes, Hana Kim’s projections, and Spencer Lee’s videography into a seamless artwork that trumpets the arrival of a worthy new playwright to the LA theater community. Kudos also to Skylight Theatre’s INKubator workshop program that nurtured this talent to fruition.
Skylight Theatre
In imagining the dramatic arc of Pray to Ball, first-time playwright Amir Abdullah initiated quite a task for himself: to fashion a play that requires the two main protagonists to not only portray all-star level collegiate basketball players but to also place them in situations where they have to believably display basketball skills as a vital requirement of the thematic throughline. Fortunately, Abdullah’s Lou and Y’Lan Noel’s Hakeem pull it off quite nicely, thanks in great measure to their well-honed skills, complemented by helmer Bill Mendieta’s and basketball choreographer Micaal Stevens’s astute attention to onstage veracity.
Elevating this work to a higher level of stagecraft is Abdullah’s finely crafted tale of the evolution of the humor-filled friendship between “two bros from the projects.” Emotionally bombarded by ego-inflating co-ed adulation and sex, as well as the media-fueled relentless quest for the “holy grail” of first-round NBA recruitment, the two must confront their ever-widening individual paths to maturity and fulfillment. Abdullah is guilty of thematic redundancy in making his case, but there is no faulting his ability to craft a great story.
Lou is the epitome of the “one-and-done” star athlete, swaggering his way to the NBA with little regard for either his school, which, he sneers, is “makin’ money off our black asses,” or his girlfriend Nika (Lindsey Beeman), a socio-sexual satellite he uses and abuses with an aura of mocking entitled indifference. But through it all, Lou exudes the deep-rooted dependency he feels for Hakeem, believing they are tied together in this journey to fame and fortune, forged out of a lifetime of mutual support, underscoring the desperate rage Lou eventually displays when he believes his friend is rejecting him.
Noel travels an impressive emotional journey as Hakeem—equally excited to play and party with Lou, yet more grounded in his sense of social obligation and purpose. When a family tragedy alters Hakeem’s state of mind, Noel believably allows the conflicted star athlete to gradually awaken to the possibilities inherent in changing the direction of his life: his tentative investigation of the Muslim faith, his realization he wants more out of a college education than just an NBA contract, and his growing affection for Tamana (Ulka Simone Mohanty), another Muslim follower.
Abdullah so strongly focuses on the Lou-Hakeem saga, he leaves the ladies somewhat undefined, especially Nika. Beeman unabashedly and wantonly thrusts this college girl into every self-centered nook and cranny of Lou’s life, giving evidence she is more than just a party girl. Because she eventually manages to crack through Lou’s almost impenetrable façade, it would be useful to know more about her. Mohanty is appealingly poignant, yet she internalizes Tamana’s agenda to a fault, spending most her time with Hakeem in a state of confused angst. What is learned about her comes mostly from other characters. It would be more satisfying if their relationship would evolve while they are onstage together.
Filling out the life and times of Lou and Hakeem are Bilal (Rickie Peete), Hakeem’s Muslim mentor, impressively evoking a quiet strength that just might be much more than Lou could handle if put to the test; and all-purpose newscaster Jim (Brice Harris), perfectly cast as the quintessential “white bread” sports commentator to the hoops journey of these two basketball wunderkinds.
The true star of this production is Mendieta, who has entwined a fine script, an excellent cast, Jeff McLaughlin’s brilliantly executed all-purpose set and lights, Kelly Bailey’s costumes, Hana Kim’s projections, and Spencer Lee’s videography into a seamless artwork that trumpets the arrival of a worthy new playwright to the LA theater community. Kudos also to Skylight Theatre’s INKubator workshop program that nurtured this talent to fruition.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
June 4, 2014
June 4, 2014
Dorian’s Descent
DOMA Theatre Company and Requiem Media Productions, LLC at MET Theatre
Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray has exerted a powerful fascination for both the general public and later generations of artists, ever since it was written in 1890. Its publication was controversial, and, even in a heavily censored version, it was widely condemned on moral grounds. But scandal has never been an impediment to success. The novel has consistently remained in print, in numerous editions, and there have been many stage versions. A 1945 film starred Hurd Hatfield as Dorian, George Sanders as the elegantly sinister hedonist-aesthete Lord Henry Wotton, and Angela Lansbury as the ill-fated Sybil Vane. Since then, it has been repeatedly remade for film and for television. And there have been at least three stage versions produced in LA alone in the last few years.
This current, musicalized version—with book by Marco Gomez, Michael Gray, and Chris Raymond; lyrics by Gomez and Raymond; and music by Raymond—is based loosely, very loosely, on Wilde’s novel.
When the piece begins, the wealthy and beautiful young Dorian (Michael D’Elia) is sitting for a portrait by artist Basil Hallward (Jeremy Saje), while Henry Wotton (Kelly Brighton) looks on. Henry laments that youth and beauty are transitory, inspiring Dorian to express the wish that the portrait might age in his stead and leave him to cherish his youth and good looks. Mysteriously, this is what happens. The portrait becomes a graphic record of Dorian’s increasing corruption. And Dorian, given the gift of seemingly eternal youth, can give free rein to his vices and character flaws—his narcissism, selfishness, ruthlessness, and amoral nature—and allow them to flower unimpeded.
In the novel, Wilde wisely left the cause of these strange events shadowy and unexplained. But his adapters seem obsessed with providing explanations. In the 1945 film, lingering shots of a stone statue of an Egyptian sacred cat were added to suggest that somehow ancient magic was involved. Here, the writers take that a step further and invent a character called The Demon (Toni Smith), who hovers over the action in a whole series of glitzy gowns, laughing fiendishly over her own wickedness in leading Dorian astray—and reducing the character of Dorian to a cipher, destroyed by supernatural forces. Thus the richness and texture of Wilde’s novel are reduced to simple-minded, bare-bones melodrama.
Further damage is done to the tale by updating the story to contemporary times, robbing it of context, atmosphere, and coherence. Lord Henry becomes simply Henry—not an eloquent nobleman-aesthete but merely an obnoxious, pretentious snob. Sybil Vane (Cassandra Nuss) is altered from a Shakespearean actress, famous for her lyrical Juliet, to a cabaret singer who’s being pushed into a career by her ambitious stage mother (Michelle Holmes). And there are numerous nightclub scenes, allowing costume designer Michael Mullen to create an endless and ultimately distracting array of feathered, sequined, beaded outfits that seem more appropriate for an edition of the Ziegfeld Follies than for a book musical.
All of this might not matter if the score were brilliant enough. And in the few more-operatic numbers, it generates some excitement, but the score is woozily eclectic—including a number evoking Dreamgirls, as well as rather goofy power ballads presumably intended to add depth to the character of Dorian. The final silliness comes with a song toward the end, in which Dorian— after seducing and abandoning Sybil and driving her to suicide, haunting opium dens, and committing a couple of murders—wonders, “Is it the picture or is it me?” Face it, kid: It’s you.
Also on the minus side is the fact that the first act is an interminable one hour and fifty-odd minutes. The second act is considerably shorter but still too long. On the plus side, the music direction by Chris Raymond is solid, and the ensemble is lively and able. The production is undeniably spectacular and expensive. Nuss has a nice voice as Sybil, and Lauren Hill lends a fresh note as Madeline Hallward, despite that her character has no real function in the story. And the set, by John Iacovelli, is splendid enough for a production of Follies.
DOMA Theatre Company and Requiem Media Productions, LLC at MET Theatre
Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray has exerted a powerful fascination for both the general public and later generations of artists, ever since it was written in 1890. Its publication was controversial, and, even in a heavily censored version, it was widely condemned on moral grounds. But scandal has never been an impediment to success. The novel has consistently remained in print, in numerous editions, and there have been many stage versions. A 1945 film starred Hurd Hatfield as Dorian, George Sanders as the elegantly sinister hedonist-aesthete Lord Henry Wotton, and Angela Lansbury as the ill-fated Sybil Vane. Since then, it has been repeatedly remade for film and for television. And there have been at least three stage versions produced in LA alone in the last few years.
This current, musicalized version—with book by Marco Gomez, Michael Gray, and Chris Raymond; lyrics by Gomez and Raymond; and music by Raymond—is based loosely, very loosely, on Wilde’s novel.
When the piece begins, the wealthy and beautiful young Dorian (Michael D’Elia) is sitting for a portrait by artist Basil Hallward (Jeremy Saje), while Henry Wotton (Kelly Brighton) looks on. Henry laments that youth and beauty are transitory, inspiring Dorian to express the wish that the portrait might age in his stead and leave him to cherish his youth and good looks. Mysteriously, this is what happens. The portrait becomes a graphic record of Dorian’s increasing corruption. And Dorian, given the gift of seemingly eternal youth, can give free rein to his vices and character flaws—his narcissism, selfishness, ruthlessness, and amoral nature—and allow them to flower unimpeded.
In the novel, Wilde wisely left the cause of these strange events shadowy and unexplained. But his adapters seem obsessed with providing explanations. In the 1945 film, lingering shots of a stone statue of an Egyptian sacred cat were added to suggest that somehow ancient magic was involved. Here, the writers take that a step further and invent a character called The Demon (Toni Smith), who hovers over the action in a whole series of glitzy gowns, laughing fiendishly over her own wickedness in leading Dorian astray—and reducing the character of Dorian to a cipher, destroyed by supernatural forces. Thus the richness and texture of Wilde’s novel are reduced to simple-minded, bare-bones melodrama.
Further damage is done to the tale by updating the story to contemporary times, robbing it of context, atmosphere, and coherence. Lord Henry becomes simply Henry—not an eloquent nobleman-aesthete but merely an obnoxious, pretentious snob. Sybil Vane (Cassandra Nuss) is altered from a Shakespearean actress, famous for her lyrical Juliet, to a cabaret singer who’s being pushed into a career by her ambitious stage mother (Michelle Holmes). And there are numerous nightclub scenes, allowing costume designer Michael Mullen to create an endless and ultimately distracting array of feathered, sequined, beaded outfits that seem more appropriate for an edition of the Ziegfeld Follies than for a book musical.
All of this might not matter if the score were brilliant enough. And in the few more-operatic numbers, it generates some excitement, but the score is woozily eclectic—including a number evoking Dreamgirls, as well as rather goofy power ballads presumably intended to add depth to the character of Dorian. The final silliness comes with a song toward the end, in which Dorian— after seducing and abandoning Sybil and driving her to suicide, haunting opium dens, and committing a couple of murders—wonders, “Is it the picture or is it me?” Face it, kid: It’s you.
Also on the minus side is the fact that the first act is an interminable one hour and fifty-odd minutes. The second act is considerably shorter but still too long. On the plus side, the music direction by Chris Raymond is solid, and the ensemble is lively and able. The production is undeniably spectacular and expensive. Nuss has a nice voice as Sybil, and Lauren Hill lends a fresh note as Madeline Hallward, despite that her character has no real function in the story. And the set, by John Iacovelli, is splendid enough for a production of Follies.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
June 2, 2014
June 2, 2014
Death of the Author
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Steven Drukman’s Death of the Author is, hands down, one of the very best plays of the year. A mystery wrapped within a psychological portrait gallery within a stinging critique of academic politics, it satisfies on every level during its completely gripping 90 minutes. Angelenos lucky enough to catch it at the Geffen will steal a mark on audiences in, trust me, many, many cities around the United States in years to come.
The inciting incident seems benign enough and indeed seems startlingly reminiscent of Wendy Wasserstein’s Third (at the Geffen in 2007): At a distinguished eastern university, a raffish liberal professor (in this play, named Jeff, and played by David Clayton Rogers) calls plagiarism on a blond, studly son of privilege (Bradley here, played by TV name Austin Butler). For both Drukman and Wasserstein, part of the conflict hinges on the leftie’s kneejerk preconceptions about frat types; both plays bring in older academic colleagues facing health crises (here it’s Prof. Sykes, a world-famous academic and Jeff’s mentor, assayed by Orson Bean), and both make time for romantic interludes (Bradley’s ex is the brainy Sarah, played by Lyndon Smith).
That’s where the resemblances end. As moving as Third was—not least because it was a posthumous premiere from its well-loved author—it was an older person’s play, consumed with reflections on mortality and the ‘fessing up to prejudices petrified by the passage of years. Death of the Author, however, exudes youthful energy and discovery from its opening tête-à-tête between sunny student and walking-on-eggshells prof; indeed, the fun begins with the punny title. (The English Department has Jeff teaching post-Modernism, in which the authorship of a work is co-owned, if not downright appropriated, by the reader. In other words, ding-dong, the author’s dead.)
Adjunct lecturer Jeff is just beginning his academic career, while Bradley is about to graduate: In short, both await commencement, in every sense of the word. For that matter, Sykes is about to commence his retirement, and Sarah wants to commence a life post-Bradley, for whom she feels too much like an enabler. All four characters’ dialogue is replete with references to “beginning,” “getting past this,” “starting over,” but they never feel like forced expressions of theme. Not inappropriately for a play concerned with exploring the power of the word, the characters’ needs are simultaneously expressed, deepened, and deterred by the things they say. Death of the Author is one of those plays that’s as much a joy to listen to—every bit as stimulating—as it is to watch.
In another rarity, the work gets verbally and visually more complex as it moves along. Plagiarism gains a new definition, and Jeff learns how the deck in academe is stacked against the lone faculty member and toward the “sensitive, victimized” student, even as he (and we) learn that there’s much more to this particular student than victimization, a cocky affect, and naked ambition. Drukman poses plot twists that keep surprising even as they feel right. While every play is contrived to some extent, this play’s moments “click” in a way that makes you not care about any contrivance, so real and welcome is each new development.
When all the pieces mesh so well, the director deserves, but often fails to get, due credit. Bart DeLorenzo puts another notch in a career gun that’s rather notch-filled by this point. His swirling staging, around various offices and dorm rooms, is often witty and always reflective of character dynamics. He brings out all of Rogers’s Paul Rudd–like charm, which is considerable, and establishes Smith as both grounded and ethereal, sexy and smart. He gets an accomplished, subtle, increasingly layered performance out of young Butler, who has stepped on many sound stages but never a legit one before, though you’ll have trouble believing that. Most memorably of all, DeLorenzo has wisely cast Bean as the play’s comedy relief and conscience, a sly, miraculous turn by this amazing veteran.
DeLorenzo and designer Takeshi Kata place the action in the midst of fully mirrored walls and a mirrored ceiling. It’s not entirely clear why—the play’s themes seem to have more to do with revealed deception than reflected truth—but if the net effect is to see ourselves not only in the set’s reflection but also in the characters’ hearts and minds, then good on them. It works. As does the play.
Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater at Geffen Playhouse
Steven Drukman’s Death of the Author is, hands down, one of the very best plays of the year. A mystery wrapped within a psychological portrait gallery within a stinging critique of academic politics, it satisfies on every level during its completely gripping 90 minutes. Angelenos lucky enough to catch it at the Geffen will steal a mark on audiences in, trust me, many, many cities around the United States in years to come.
The inciting incident seems benign enough and indeed seems startlingly reminiscent of Wendy Wasserstein’s Third (at the Geffen in 2007): At a distinguished eastern university, a raffish liberal professor (in this play, named Jeff, and played by David Clayton Rogers) calls plagiarism on a blond, studly son of privilege (Bradley here, played by TV name Austin Butler). For both Drukman and Wasserstein, part of the conflict hinges on the leftie’s kneejerk preconceptions about frat types; both plays bring in older academic colleagues facing health crises (here it’s Prof. Sykes, a world-famous academic and Jeff’s mentor, assayed by Orson Bean), and both make time for romantic interludes (Bradley’s ex is the brainy Sarah, played by Lyndon Smith).
That’s where the resemblances end. As moving as Third was—not least because it was a posthumous premiere from its well-loved author—it was an older person’s play, consumed with reflections on mortality and the ‘fessing up to prejudices petrified by the passage of years. Death of the Author, however, exudes youthful energy and discovery from its opening tête-à-tête between sunny student and walking-on-eggshells prof; indeed, the fun begins with the punny title. (The English Department has Jeff teaching post-Modernism, in which the authorship of a work is co-owned, if not downright appropriated, by the reader. In other words, ding-dong, the author’s dead.)
Adjunct lecturer Jeff is just beginning his academic career, while Bradley is about to graduate: In short, both await commencement, in every sense of the word. For that matter, Sykes is about to commence his retirement, and Sarah wants to commence a life post-Bradley, for whom she feels too much like an enabler. All four characters’ dialogue is replete with references to “beginning,” “getting past this,” “starting over,” but they never feel like forced expressions of theme. Not inappropriately for a play concerned with exploring the power of the word, the characters’ needs are simultaneously expressed, deepened, and deterred by the things they say. Death of the Author is one of those plays that’s as much a joy to listen to—every bit as stimulating—as it is to watch.
In another rarity, the work gets verbally and visually more complex as it moves along. Plagiarism gains a new definition, and Jeff learns how the deck in academe is stacked against the lone faculty member and toward the “sensitive, victimized” student, even as he (and we) learn that there’s much more to this particular student than victimization, a cocky affect, and naked ambition. Drukman poses plot twists that keep surprising even as they feel right. While every play is contrived to some extent, this play’s moments “click” in a way that makes you not care about any contrivance, so real and welcome is each new development.
When all the pieces mesh so well, the director deserves, but often fails to get, due credit. Bart DeLorenzo puts another notch in a career gun that’s rather notch-filled by this point. His swirling staging, around various offices and dorm rooms, is often witty and always reflective of character dynamics. He brings out all of Rogers’s Paul Rudd–like charm, which is considerable, and establishes Smith as both grounded and ethereal, sexy and smart. He gets an accomplished, subtle, increasingly layered performance out of young Butler, who has stepped on many sound stages but never a legit one before, though you’ll have trouble believing that. Most memorably of all, DeLorenzo has wisely cast Bean as the play’s comedy relief and conscience, a sly, miraculous turn by this amazing veteran.
DeLorenzo and designer Takeshi Kata place the action in the midst of fully mirrored walls and a mirrored ceiling. It’s not entirely clear why—the play’s themes seem to have more to do with revealed deception than reflected truth—but if the net effect is to see ourselves not only in the set’s reflection but also in the characters’ hearts and minds, then good on them. It works. As does the play.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014
Educating Rita
Theatre 40, in the Reuben Cordova Theatre
Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell put it this way: “Ignorance is like a delicate, exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.” Wilde clearly intended this to be fatuous nonsense, and a dig at the intellectual pretensions of the upper middle class. But Frank, the hero of this Willy Russell play, discovers that it’s quite literally true.
Frank (Adrian Neil) is a professor at a university in Northern England, circa 1980, and something of a burnt-out case. He’s bored to death and no longer has much belief in his calling or the potential of his students, or the educational system he works in, and takes refuge all too often in alcohol. When a young woman named Rita (Murielle Zuker) breezes into his office, demanding that he serve as her tutor, he’s both dismayed and annoyed. He attempts to discourage her, but she knows what she wants and won’t accept his refusal. Gradually he becomes intrigued by her. She’s an exuberant naïf, who works as a beautician. But she wants to learn, as she puts it, “Everything!”
She may be ignorant and naïve, but she has a sharp mind and a shrewd natural intelligence. When he sets her an essay question, as to how one might overcome the exorbitant physical demands of producing Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, her answer is short and sweet: “Do it on the radio.” When he asks her to defend her proposition, she rises to the occasion, pointing out that Ibsen said he was not writing the piece for theatrical production, and that if radio had existed in Ibsen’s time, he would probably have chosen it. (In fact, The Old Vic did a terrific radio version of the play in the 1940s.)
Rita’s education progresses by leaps and bounds, but the results are not what Frank expected. He’s appalled to discover that along with the things he has tried to teach her, she has also learned the dogmatic pedantry of the intellectual and critical establishment, and ceased to trust her own very real instincts. He must now teach her to distrust the received wisdom he has taught her. And along the way, her growing knowledge and awareness have proved fatal to her marriage: Her blue-collar husband first suspects her of having an affair with her tutor, then decides that he doesn’t want a critical, educated wife. She takes off on her own for summer school, and when she returns to Frank, she has acquired a new independence and sophistication. (Michele Young’s costumes cannily reflect her progress through life, and the changes it inspires.)
Like George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, Russell’s play examines the educational process and the role it plays in transforming the heroine, opening new horizons and new perceptions for her. And the teacher must also learn a few lessons. The romantic subtext is never really the focus of the piece. It happens, instead, between the lines, and almost without either the audience or the lovers being entirely aware of it.
Director Robert Mackenzie adroitly sketches the shifting intellectual and emotional developments, and stages the piece with delicacy and perception. Neil’s Frank is a wonderfully relaxed and understated performance that proceeds at its own pace. We never see the actor working, yet the work gets done with grace and considerable charm. Zuker, as the more flamboyant Rita, must work a little harder, and the effort sometimes shows. But it’s nevertheless an engaging and funny portrayal.
The set, by designer Jeff G. Rack, is probably far larger and more comfortable than offices in Northern England’s universities tend to be, but it’s attractive and observed in great detail, with scores of books—and scores of bottles of alcoholic beverages Frank hides behind them.
Theatre 40, in the Reuben Cordova Theatre
Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell put it this way: “Ignorance is like a delicate, exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.” Wilde clearly intended this to be fatuous nonsense, and a dig at the intellectual pretensions of the upper middle class. But Frank, the hero of this Willy Russell play, discovers that it’s quite literally true.
Frank (Adrian Neil) is a professor at a university in Northern England, circa 1980, and something of a burnt-out case. He’s bored to death and no longer has much belief in his calling or the potential of his students, or the educational system he works in, and takes refuge all too often in alcohol. When a young woman named Rita (Murielle Zuker) breezes into his office, demanding that he serve as her tutor, he’s both dismayed and annoyed. He attempts to discourage her, but she knows what she wants and won’t accept his refusal. Gradually he becomes intrigued by her. She’s an exuberant naïf, who works as a beautician. But she wants to learn, as she puts it, “Everything!”
She may be ignorant and naïve, but she has a sharp mind and a shrewd natural intelligence. When he sets her an essay question, as to how one might overcome the exorbitant physical demands of producing Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, her answer is short and sweet: “Do it on the radio.” When he asks her to defend her proposition, she rises to the occasion, pointing out that Ibsen said he was not writing the piece for theatrical production, and that if radio had existed in Ibsen’s time, he would probably have chosen it. (In fact, The Old Vic did a terrific radio version of the play in the 1940s.)
Rita’s education progresses by leaps and bounds, but the results are not what Frank expected. He’s appalled to discover that along with the things he has tried to teach her, she has also learned the dogmatic pedantry of the intellectual and critical establishment, and ceased to trust her own very real instincts. He must now teach her to distrust the received wisdom he has taught her. And along the way, her growing knowledge and awareness have proved fatal to her marriage: Her blue-collar husband first suspects her of having an affair with her tutor, then decides that he doesn’t want a critical, educated wife. She takes off on her own for summer school, and when she returns to Frank, she has acquired a new independence and sophistication. (Michele Young’s costumes cannily reflect her progress through life, and the changes it inspires.)
Like George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, Russell’s play examines the educational process and the role it plays in transforming the heroine, opening new horizons and new perceptions for her. And the teacher must also learn a few lessons. The romantic subtext is never really the focus of the piece. It happens, instead, between the lines, and almost without either the audience or the lovers being entirely aware of it.
Director Robert Mackenzie adroitly sketches the shifting intellectual and emotional developments, and stages the piece with delicacy and perception. Neil’s Frank is a wonderfully relaxed and understated performance that proceeds at its own pace. We never see the actor working, yet the work gets done with grace and considerable charm. Zuker, as the more flamboyant Rita, must work a little harder, and the effort sometimes shows. But it’s nevertheless an engaging and funny portrayal.
The set, by designer Jeff G. Rack, is probably far larger and more comfortable than offices in Northern England’s universities tend to be, but it’s attractive and observed in great detail, with scores of books—and scores of bottles of alcoholic beverages Frank hides behind them.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014
Beijing Spring
East West Players at David Henry Hwang Theater
With this dual commemoration of this piece’s original 1999 production and its source material—the 25th anniversary of the uprising at Tiananmen Square—director Tim Dang and company offer a bewitching step back in time. Relying far more on Dang’s lyrics set to the musical stylings of composer Joel Iwataki than on the intermittently spoken word, the structure is similar to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s Evita. Likewise, this tale of disgruntled university students set against the backdrop of the communist Chinese government’s perhaps most infamous display of human rights abuses bears more than a passing resemblance to France’s citizenry depicted in Les Misérables. And yet, Beijing Spring is a tale made all the more fitting given current struggles for freedom and self-determination around the globe.
Running throughout is a subplot involving three generations of male family members, each seeking some way to bring about change in a motherland they see as being strangled by the then-current regime. Grandfather Yeh Yeh (Marc Oka) and his son, Ba (Radmar Agana Jao), reminisce about failed attempts at freedom. Meanwhile, grandson Xian (Daniel May) is unwilling to take no for an answer from either his elders or his contemporaries. Anchored by this trio of actors’ rock-solid performances—including Jao’s awe-inspiring turn as the students’ arch nemesis, Deng Xiaoping—this extended one-act charges forward to the uprising’s fateful conclusion.
Musical direction by Noriko Olling Wright, who also leads an upstage musical combo of five, is superb, as the production’s ensemble electrifies this venue with soaring pop vocalizations and impressive treatment of Iwataki’s often complicated harmonic convergences. Equally rousing is the flawlessly executed choreography, devised by Marcus Choi. Accenting current dance physicality with traditional Asian movement, Choi’s work floods the stage with a palpable energy, particularly in the students’ call to arms in “Meeting Tonight” and in the provocative body language brought to life by the government leaders in “Harden the Hardline.”
Scenic design by Christopher Scott Murillo is remarkable in its scale and authenticity. When the students roll onstage a virtually identical re-creation of the “Goddess of Democracy,” originally created by the protestors out of foam and papier-mâché, the effect is breathtaking. Murillo’s multistoried set offers countless playing spaces, lit beautifully by designer Guido Girardi. Making this production more accessible to audiences of all backgrounds, subtitled Chinese characters, credited to designer Nick Drashner, are continuously projected across the center of the set. It’s a fitting acknowledgment of a tale that grips one’s heart with the realization that had the world’s democracies done their duty, the aftermath of this moment might have been quite different.
East West Players at David Henry Hwang Theater
With this dual commemoration of this piece’s original 1999 production and its source material—the 25th anniversary of the uprising at Tiananmen Square—director Tim Dang and company offer a bewitching step back in time. Relying far more on Dang’s lyrics set to the musical stylings of composer Joel Iwataki than on the intermittently spoken word, the structure is similar to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s Evita. Likewise, this tale of disgruntled university students set against the backdrop of the communist Chinese government’s perhaps most infamous display of human rights abuses bears more than a passing resemblance to France’s citizenry depicted in Les Misérables. And yet, Beijing Spring is a tale made all the more fitting given current struggles for freedom and self-determination around the globe.
Running throughout is a subplot involving three generations of male family members, each seeking some way to bring about change in a motherland they see as being strangled by the then-current regime. Grandfather Yeh Yeh (Marc Oka) and his son, Ba (Radmar Agana Jao), reminisce about failed attempts at freedom. Meanwhile, grandson Xian (Daniel May) is unwilling to take no for an answer from either his elders or his contemporaries. Anchored by this trio of actors’ rock-solid performances—including Jao’s awe-inspiring turn as the students’ arch nemesis, Deng Xiaoping—this extended one-act charges forward to the uprising’s fateful conclusion.
Musical direction by Noriko Olling Wright, who also leads an upstage musical combo of five, is superb, as the production’s ensemble electrifies this venue with soaring pop vocalizations and impressive treatment of Iwataki’s often complicated harmonic convergences. Equally rousing is the flawlessly executed choreography, devised by Marcus Choi. Accenting current dance physicality with traditional Asian movement, Choi’s work floods the stage with a palpable energy, particularly in the students’ call to arms in “Meeting Tonight” and in the provocative body language brought to life by the government leaders in “Harden the Hardline.”
Scenic design by Christopher Scott Murillo is remarkable in its scale and authenticity. When the students roll onstage a virtually identical re-creation of the “Goddess of Democracy,” originally created by the protestors out of foam and papier-mâché, the effect is breathtaking. Murillo’s multistoried set offers countless playing spaces, lit beautifully by designer Guido Girardi. Making this production more accessible to audiences of all backgrounds, subtitled Chinese characters, credited to designer Nick Drashner, are continuously projected across the center of the set. It’s a fitting acknowledgment of a tale that grips one’s heart with the realization that had the world’s democracies done their duty, the aftermath of this moment might have been quite different.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014
Gruesome Playground Injuries
Rogue Machine Theatre
Rogue Machine has turned itself into the go-to organization for provocative two-handers. If Rajiv Joseph’s Gruesome Playground Injuries lacks the dread of 2011’s Blackbird or the contemporary relevance of 2013’s Dying City, this production, directed by Larissa Kokernot, demonstrates anew the Pico Boulevard company’s knack for finding something precious in the confrontation of one man and one woman in space and time. (Or “times,” in this case, as the Injuries occur over a period of 32 years.)
Off-again, on-again romances between people on different trajectories are a familiar trope in popular entertainment. Yet Joseph—who had a captive jungle beast narrate his Cook’s tour of war-torn Iraq in Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo—is nothing if not ingenious in presenting fresh twists.
For Doug (Brad Fleischer), the titular injuries are real. We first see him when he is age 6 with a big gash on his head, and at every subsequent encounter he has sliced his eye or banged himself up in some comical mishap or other. In the case of Kayleen (Jules Willcox), the injuries are more interior and revealed to us gradually, and they keep prompting her to encourage or repulse Doug’s romantic advances at exactly the wrong moments.
Is there anything extraordinary about these two mismatched pals? Not really, and that seems to be a deliberate playwriting choice. The obstacles to their happiness are mundane, as well, notably their constant use of the word “stupid” (as in “That’s stupid” or “Don’t be stupid”) to deflect any sensitive gesture or genuine emotion. Who among us can’t relate to an offhanded verbal rebuttal as a means of avoiding confrontation? Once you get past Doug’s cavalcade of catastrophes, you’re left with a simple story of two ordinary people who, for random reasons, keep failing to get in sync.
That’s rather universal. It’s the theatrical trappings that render their adventures remarkable. The action shuttles back and forth in time, a blackboard indicating what age Doug and Kayleen will assume in the scene that follows. The fractured chronology leads to great fun as Joseph sets up hints with a big payoff later, or late pieces of information that resonate from years before. Would telling these same events in chronological order be nearly as involving? Almost certainly not. Theatre/Theater’s intimate second stage is set up like an operating theater such that we peer down at a gurney, plenty of hospital gear, and makeup tables as Doug and Kayleen join the ranks of the halt, weak, and lame in Technicolor blood, bruises, and bandages.
Both performers are excellent. If Joseph seems to do better by his heroine, it’s probably because she has more to reveal over time, whereas Doug essentially wears his heart on his sleeve from kindergarten on. Willcox seems slightly more successful playing different ages convincingly, whereas Fleischer’s directness of emotional expression grounds the play in reality.
Some have found the scene changes irritating. Granted, there’s a sameness to the rhythm as the lights shift, poignant music plays, and the actors change dress (and dressings) before rearranging their space.
What makes the shifts work for this reviewer, at least, is the way they’re bookended: Each time, Fleischer and Willcox stop to lock eyes, just for a moment, just long enough to put a period on the action and carry themselves to the next encounter. It’s an exciting choice on director Kokernot’s part, a metatheatrical recognition that only when two actors establish a solid connection can they go on to portray people with an endless, aching inability to connect.
Rogue Machine Theatre
Rogue Machine has turned itself into the go-to organization for provocative two-handers. If Rajiv Joseph’s Gruesome Playground Injuries lacks the dread of 2011’s Blackbird or the contemporary relevance of 2013’s Dying City, this production, directed by Larissa Kokernot, demonstrates anew the Pico Boulevard company’s knack for finding something precious in the confrontation of one man and one woman in space and time. (Or “times,” in this case, as the Injuries occur over a period of 32 years.)
Off-again, on-again romances between people on different trajectories are a familiar trope in popular entertainment. Yet Joseph—who had a captive jungle beast narrate his Cook’s tour of war-torn Iraq in Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo—is nothing if not ingenious in presenting fresh twists.
For Doug (Brad Fleischer), the titular injuries are real. We first see him when he is age 6 with a big gash on his head, and at every subsequent encounter he has sliced his eye or banged himself up in some comical mishap or other. In the case of Kayleen (Jules Willcox), the injuries are more interior and revealed to us gradually, and they keep prompting her to encourage or repulse Doug’s romantic advances at exactly the wrong moments.
Is there anything extraordinary about these two mismatched pals? Not really, and that seems to be a deliberate playwriting choice. The obstacles to their happiness are mundane, as well, notably their constant use of the word “stupid” (as in “That’s stupid” or “Don’t be stupid”) to deflect any sensitive gesture or genuine emotion. Who among us can’t relate to an offhanded verbal rebuttal as a means of avoiding confrontation? Once you get past Doug’s cavalcade of catastrophes, you’re left with a simple story of two ordinary people who, for random reasons, keep failing to get in sync.
That’s rather universal. It’s the theatrical trappings that render their adventures remarkable. The action shuttles back and forth in time, a blackboard indicating what age Doug and Kayleen will assume in the scene that follows. The fractured chronology leads to great fun as Joseph sets up hints with a big payoff later, or late pieces of information that resonate from years before. Would telling these same events in chronological order be nearly as involving? Almost certainly not. Theatre/Theater’s intimate second stage is set up like an operating theater such that we peer down at a gurney, plenty of hospital gear, and makeup tables as Doug and Kayleen join the ranks of the halt, weak, and lame in Technicolor blood, bruises, and bandages.
Both performers are excellent. If Joseph seems to do better by his heroine, it’s probably because she has more to reveal over time, whereas Doug essentially wears his heart on his sleeve from kindergarten on. Willcox seems slightly more successful playing different ages convincingly, whereas Fleischer’s directness of emotional expression grounds the play in reality.
Some have found the scene changes irritating. Granted, there’s a sameness to the rhythm as the lights shift, poignant music plays, and the actors change dress (and dressings) before rearranging their space.
What makes the shifts work for this reviewer, at least, is the way they’re bookended: Each time, Fleischer and Willcox stop to lock eyes, just for a moment, just long enough to put a period on the action and carry themselves to the next encounter. It’s an exciting choice on director Kokernot’s part, a metatheatrical recognition that only when two actors establish a solid connection can they go on to portray people with an endless, aching inability to connect.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014
Maurice Hines Is Tappin’ Thru Life
Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in the Bram Goldsmith Theater—a co-production with Arena Stage, Alliance Theatre, and Cleveland Play House
Bringing a decidedly different vibe to the dance offerings at the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in Beverly Hills this month, veteran song-and-dance man Maurice Hines sang, pattered, and tapped his way through this slick but personal 90 minutes. Like many tap greats, Hines, now age 70, can still do everything he used to do—well, except for the splits, perhaps—only he can’t do as much of it. Consequently, the show was at least 80 percent autobiography and music, with tapping relegated mostly to the final 20 minutes of the show—something of a disappointment to dance aficionados (at least to one).
Nonetheless, it was a beautifully produced Las Vegas type show, the talent was top drawer, the set (by Tobin Ost) inventive, and the direction by Jeff Calhoun superb. Showman extraordinaire Hines kept the pace charging ahead, and his descriptions of some of the most dramatic events of his life were heartbreaking as well as amusing. As half of the Hines Brothers Tapping Duo, he says his inspiration for doing this show was to remind people of his brother’s (Gregory Hines) influence on the art. In homage, he did an effective piece with himself and a spotlight and the sound of tapping representing Gregory.
But their mother, Alma, received the most touching tributes of the evening, credited as the person most responsible for the brothers’ success. Beautifully manipulated screens moved across the stage with pictures of the family from their early years to later periods of their lives. Who knew family photos could be so fascinating?
Behind the screens was a handsome white stairway, leading up to the DIVA Jazz Orchestra members, who not only provided sensitive backup for Hines’s vocal numbers but also were given the spotlight throughout the program. Music director Sherrie Maricle wowed with a spectacular percussion set, as did bassist Nedra Wheeler. The brass ensemble members got turns to shine, and keyboardist Karen Hammack was not neglected.
And then there was the sensational tapping. Hines is enough of a dancer to pepper his vocal and narrative offerings with very effective poses and tap steps—all of them worked and made up for the somewhat meager amount of dancing in the show. But everyone in the audience seemed to be pleased when the dancing began.
In addition to very spiffy footwork by Hines, three young comers joined him in serious trades, illustrating that there’s a new generation following hard on the heels of the Hines boys, Honey Coles, the Nicholas Brothers, and other greats of the late 20th century. The Manzari brothers, John and Leo, have got to be the tallest tap dancers on the planet—a striking combination of size and agility that sets them apart. They not only held their own in the competitive trades but, if their amusing backwards tapping off stage isn’t as impossibly difficult as it looks, they can fool most of us.
At the other end of the dancers’ size was the featured wunderkind, Luke Spring, a petit 11-year-old with very original choreography, which he nailed impressively. What appeared to be rubber feet and ankles permitted him to use the sides of his feet in various scrapes and shuffles, adding a whole vocabulary of sounds to his tapping. Big careers predicted for all these young artists.
The Bram Goldsmith Theater at the Annenberg is ideal for dance concerts: 500 seats nicely raked so sightlines are good throughout are dream specifications.
Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in the Bram Goldsmith Theater—a co-production with Arena Stage, Alliance Theatre, and Cleveland Play House
Bringing a decidedly different vibe to the dance offerings at the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in Beverly Hills this month, veteran song-and-dance man Maurice Hines sang, pattered, and tapped his way through this slick but personal 90 minutes. Like many tap greats, Hines, now age 70, can still do everything he used to do—well, except for the splits, perhaps—only he can’t do as much of it. Consequently, the show was at least 80 percent autobiography and music, with tapping relegated mostly to the final 20 minutes of the show—something of a disappointment to dance aficionados (at least to one).
Nonetheless, it was a beautifully produced Las Vegas type show, the talent was top drawer, the set (by Tobin Ost) inventive, and the direction by Jeff Calhoun superb. Showman extraordinaire Hines kept the pace charging ahead, and his descriptions of some of the most dramatic events of his life were heartbreaking as well as amusing. As half of the Hines Brothers Tapping Duo, he says his inspiration for doing this show was to remind people of his brother’s (Gregory Hines) influence on the art. In homage, he did an effective piece with himself and a spotlight and the sound of tapping representing Gregory.
But their mother, Alma, received the most touching tributes of the evening, credited as the person most responsible for the brothers’ success. Beautifully manipulated screens moved across the stage with pictures of the family from their early years to later periods of their lives. Who knew family photos could be so fascinating?
Behind the screens was a handsome white stairway, leading up to the DIVA Jazz Orchestra members, who not only provided sensitive backup for Hines’s vocal numbers but also were given the spotlight throughout the program. Music director Sherrie Maricle wowed with a spectacular percussion set, as did bassist Nedra Wheeler. The brass ensemble members got turns to shine, and keyboardist Karen Hammack was not neglected.
And then there was the sensational tapping. Hines is enough of a dancer to pepper his vocal and narrative offerings with very effective poses and tap steps—all of them worked and made up for the somewhat meager amount of dancing in the show. But everyone in the audience seemed to be pleased when the dancing began.
In addition to very spiffy footwork by Hines, three young comers joined him in serious trades, illustrating that there’s a new generation following hard on the heels of the Hines boys, Honey Coles, the Nicholas Brothers, and other greats of the late 20th century. The Manzari brothers, John and Leo, have got to be the tallest tap dancers on the planet—a striking combination of size and agility that sets them apart. They not only held their own in the competitive trades but, if their amusing backwards tapping off stage isn’t as impossibly difficult as it looks, they can fool most of us.
At the other end of the dancers’ size was the featured wunderkind, Luke Spring, a petit 11-year-old with very original choreography, which he nailed impressively. What appeared to be rubber feet and ankles permitted him to use the sides of his feet in various scrapes and shuffles, adding a whole vocabulary of sounds to his tapping. Big careers predicted for all these young artists.
The Bram Goldsmith Theater at the Annenberg is ideal for dance concerts: 500 seats nicely raked so sightlines are good throughout are dream specifications.
Reviewed by Helen Peppard
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014
The Ghost of Gershwin
The Group Rep at Lonny Chapman Theatre
Wrought by Wayland Pickard (music and lyrics), Doug Haverty (book), and Laura Manning (lyrics), this retro showbiz tuner spiritually harkens back to such 1930s Broadway fare as the Gershwin brothers’ Girl Crazy and Cole Porter’s Anything Goes. Unfortunately, a simplistic 17-number score and woefully convoluted book renders The Ghost of Gershwin underwhelming musical theater, despite the capable efforts of Group Rep’s seven-member ensemble and Jules Aaron’s briskly paced staging, economically choreographed by Michele Bernath.
Set in the present-day Brooklyn apartment—impressively realized by Chris Winfield and Aaron)—of struggling composer wannabe Grant (Andrew Bourgeois), the action swirls around Grant’s frantic efforts to complete a film-scoring assignment arranged by his friend and accountant Dennis (Gregory Guy Gorden). Unfortunately, Grant is creatively blocked and can think only about his love of George Gershwin’s music and his desire to compose like him. Meanwhile, Dennis’s marriage to Grant’s former fiancée, singer-dancer Nessa (Emma-Jayne Appleyard), is on the rocks. So, is that why Nessa’s choreographer Wilfred (Kyle Bares) is now paying so much attention to Dennis?
Complicating matters further is landlady Coronelia (Suzy London), who is desperate to collect Grant’s three-months-in-arrears rent or she will be forced to evict him. Adding more plot fodder is the sudden arrival of Gershwin’s ghost (Daniel Lench), determined to straighten out Grant’s priorities. And one of those priorities just might be Mel (Jean Altadel), a comely handylady who has come to retile Grant’s kitchen and bathroom before he is evicted.
The fact that it takes this much space to explain the plot setup is also why the energy of the show becomes so dissipated. Too much is happening with not enough payoff. Naturally, the show opens with the requisite group tap number (“Time”)—nicely crafted by Bernath—and, despite all the plot complications, everything eventually gets settled quickly in song and dance. Even by 1930s standards, it isn’t enough.
Lench is properly fatherly as Gershwin, who doesn’t think Grant needs help with his chord progressions but instead believes the lad needs a romance (“This Girl Called Mel”). The chemistry between Bourgeois’s Grant and Altadel’s Mel provides the most palpable energy in the show, highlighted by their duets (“I’ll Take It From There” and “Meant for You”), as well as Mel’s solo, “The Blues,” which is the musical highlight of the evening. Another attention getter is Bares’ suggestive “Spice Guy,” backed up by London, Appleyard, and Altadel. Unfortunately, the Bares-Gorden duet, “Something Sleeping,” introducing the newfound romance between Wilfred and Dennis, comes off as more self-conscious than revelatory.
Pickard knows how to create melodies but fails to develop them beyond their exposition. One exception is the instrumental, “A New Beginning,” which shows off Appleyard’s dance talents quite nicely. If attention were paid to lightening the plot machinations and further developing the musical score, The Ghost of Gershwin could possibly have another life.
The Group Rep at Lonny Chapman Theatre
Wrought by Wayland Pickard (music and lyrics), Doug Haverty (book), and Laura Manning (lyrics), this retro showbiz tuner spiritually harkens back to such 1930s Broadway fare as the Gershwin brothers’ Girl Crazy and Cole Porter’s Anything Goes. Unfortunately, a simplistic 17-number score and woefully convoluted book renders The Ghost of Gershwin underwhelming musical theater, despite the capable efforts of Group Rep’s seven-member ensemble and Jules Aaron’s briskly paced staging, economically choreographed by Michele Bernath.
Set in the present-day Brooklyn apartment—impressively realized by Chris Winfield and Aaron)—of struggling composer wannabe Grant (Andrew Bourgeois), the action swirls around Grant’s frantic efforts to complete a film-scoring assignment arranged by his friend and accountant Dennis (Gregory Guy Gorden). Unfortunately, Grant is creatively blocked and can think only about his love of George Gershwin’s music and his desire to compose like him. Meanwhile, Dennis’s marriage to Grant’s former fiancée, singer-dancer Nessa (Emma-Jayne Appleyard), is on the rocks. So, is that why Nessa’s choreographer Wilfred (Kyle Bares) is now paying so much attention to Dennis?
Complicating matters further is landlady Coronelia (Suzy London), who is desperate to collect Grant’s three-months-in-arrears rent or she will be forced to evict him. Adding more plot fodder is the sudden arrival of Gershwin’s ghost (Daniel Lench), determined to straighten out Grant’s priorities. And one of those priorities just might be Mel (Jean Altadel), a comely handylady who has come to retile Grant’s kitchen and bathroom before he is evicted.
The fact that it takes this much space to explain the plot setup is also why the energy of the show becomes so dissipated. Too much is happening with not enough payoff. Naturally, the show opens with the requisite group tap number (“Time”)—nicely crafted by Bernath—and, despite all the plot complications, everything eventually gets settled quickly in song and dance. Even by 1930s standards, it isn’t enough.
Lench is properly fatherly as Gershwin, who doesn’t think Grant needs help with his chord progressions but instead believes the lad needs a romance (“This Girl Called Mel”). The chemistry between Bourgeois’s Grant and Altadel’s Mel provides the most palpable energy in the show, highlighted by their duets (“I’ll Take It From There” and “Meant for You”), as well as Mel’s solo, “The Blues,” which is the musical highlight of the evening. Another attention getter is Bares’ suggestive “Spice Guy,” backed up by London, Appleyard, and Altadel. Unfortunately, the Bares-Gorden duet, “Something Sleeping,” introducing the newfound romance between Wilfred and Dennis, comes off as more self-conscious than revelatory.
Pickard knows how to create melodies but fails to develop them beyond their exposition. One exception is the instrumental, “A New Beginning,” which shows off Appleyard’s dance talents quite nicely. If attention were paid to lightening the plot machinations and further developing the musical score, The Ghost of Gershwin could possibly have another life.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014
Frozen
Critical Action Theatre Company at The Dorie Theatre at The Complex
British playwright Bryony Lavery’s 1998 three-hander, Frozen, was inspired by case studies of a real-life serial killer of young girls and a husband-and-wife murdering team who preyed on young women. Lavery distills the facts down to a searing dramatic throughline, funneled through the interactions of Ralph (John Pirkis), a jailed-for-life but unrepentant murderous pedophile; Nancy (Troy Titus-Adams), the grieving mother of one of Ralph’s victims; and Agnetha (Serena Berné), an American criminal psychologist who has devoted herself to finding the root cause of Ralph’s behavior and that of others like him.
Recently founded Critical Action Theatre Company admirably inhabits this dark work that has no action or plot. The murder of Nancy’s daughter is a frozen memory. The psychological/emotional evolution of the characters is the action, spanning many years but played out here in one lengthy act, set predominantly in a sterile prison conference room in Midlands, England—effectively wrought by Gregg Rainwater. Director Anthony Mark Barrow patiently underscores the internal warfare being waged by each character. At times, this patience creates tedium in the audience, as emotional themes are recapitulated, but the actors take no short cuts in making viable the journey of each character.
Pirkis’s Ralph is so believably isolated within himself, it is unexpected when he offers any response to the soft-spoken but ever-probing Agnetha. The depth of his hatred is revealed in odd moments, almost as non-sequiturs, occasionally offering vulgar sexual suggestions to Agnetha or matter-of-factly stating that the killing of young girls should be made legal. But when Ralph finally meets Nancy, he has no defense against this gentle woman. Pirkis is always surprising, yet believable in his reactions, making Ralph a memorable personality, somehow locked within the darkness of his depravity.
Berné offers a compelling portrait of a middle-aged, single New Yorker whose personal life can rightfully be labeled as sad. Her phobia-plagued Agnetha must hitch up every ounce of emotional grit just to get herself out of her apartment to do her job. What drives her is her commitment to uncovering the basis of Ralph’s deeds and that of other serial killers like him. Is it due to innate inbred evil, or is it a mental illness that somehow has been inflicted on him? Berné keeps Agnetha on an emotional tightrope, in command of her relationship with Ralph, while teetering occasionally from her own psychological demons.
Titus-Adams’s portrait of a British mother follows the longest path—from the moment catatonically distraught Nancy first learns that her child is truly gone to her evolution as a transcendent soul who desires to meet with Ralph. The early scenes suffer from an almost incomprehensible mashup of Titus-Adams’s not-always-easy-to-decipher British accent and the anguish of Nancy’s trauma. The actor comes into her own in her scene with Ralph and the play-closing encounter with Agnetha.
Enhancing the proceedings are the wordless presences of two prison guards (Nicklaus Von Nolde and John Delbarian)—somber, no-nonsense specters that leave no doubt as to the status of Ralph in the prison. This is a worthy initial outing for Critical Action Theatre Company, whose stated mandate is to produce “critically acclaimed pieces of work, both modern and classical, by writers from the four corners of the globe.”
Critical Action Theatre Company at The Dorie Theatre at The Complex
British playwright Bryony Lavery’s 1998 three-hander, Frozen, was inspired by case studies of a real-life serial killer of young girls and a husband-and-wife murdering team who preyed on young women. Lavery distills the facts down to a searing dramatic throughline, funneled through the interactions of Ralph (John Pirkis), a jailed-for-life but unrepentant murderous pedophile; Nancy (Troy Titus-Adams), the grieving mother of one of Ralph’s victims; and Agnetha (Serena Berné), an American criminal psychologist who has devoted herself to finding the root cause of Ralph’s behavior and that of others like him.
Recently founded Critical Action Theatre Company admirably inhabits this dark work that has no action or plot. The murder of Nancy’s daughter is a frozen memory. The psychological/emotional evolution of the characters is the action, spanning many years but played out here in one lengthy act, set predominantly in a sterile prison conference room in Midlands, England—effectively wrought by Gregg Rainwater. Director Anthony Mark Barrow patiently underscores the internal warfare being waged by each character. At times, this patience creates tedium in the audience, as emotional themes are recapitulated, but the actors take no short cuts in making viable the journey of each character.
Pirkis’s Ralph is so believably isolated within himself, it is unexpected when he offers any response to the soft-spoken but ever-probing Agnetha. The depth of his hatred is revealed in odd moments, almost as non-sequiturs, occasionally offering vulgar sexual suggestions to Agnetha or matter-of-factly stating that the killing of young girls should be made legal. But when Ralph finally meets Nancy, he has no defense against this gentle woman. Pirkis is always surprising, yet believable in his reactions, making Ralph a memorable personality, somehow locked within the darkness of his depravity.
Berné offers a compelling portrait of a middle-aged, single New Yorker whose personal life can rightfully be labeled as sad. Her phobia-plagued Agnetha must hitch up every ounce of emotional grit just to get herself out of her apartment to do her job. What drives her is her commitment to uncovering the basis of Ralph’s deeds and that of other serial killers like him. Is it due to innate inbred evil, or is it a mental illness that somehow has been inflicted on him? Berné keeps Agnetha on an emotional tightrope, in command of her relationship with Ralph, while teetering occasionally from her own psychological demons.
Titus-Adams’s portrait of a British mother follows the longest path—from the moment catatonically distraught Nancy first learns that her child is truly gone to her evolution as a transcendent soul who desires to meet with Ralph. The early scenes suffer from an almost incomprehensible mashup of Titus-Adams’s not-always-easy-to-decipher British accent and the anguish of Nancy’s trauma. The actor comes into her own in her scene with Ralph and the play-closing encounter with Agnetha.
Enhancing the proceedings are the wordless presences of two prison guards (Nicklaus Von Nolde and John Delbarian)—somber, no-nonsense specters that leave no doubt as to the status of Ralph in the prison. This is a worthy initial outing for Critical Action Theatre Company, whose stated mandate is to produce “critically acclaimed pieces of work, both modern and classical, by writers from the four corners of the globe.”
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014
The Hollow
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
This Agatha Christie play might be a classic murder mystery, but the legendary author underpins the script with her perceptiveness about human behavior. As directed by George Kondreck, Kentwood Players’ production, pretty much finds the undercurrents. They flow while the characters spend a long weekend in 1948 at an English country manor, where embers of old loves are fanned into flames—albeit British ones.
The Hollow is the home of Sir Henry Angkatell (Jack Winnick) and his wife, the ditzy Lady Lucy (Elaine Arnett). Over the course of the play, their houseguests include a trio of their younger cousins, each distantly related: the sturdy sculptress Henrietta (Jennifer Sperry), the gentle landowner Edward (David Tracq), and the sweetly independent Midge (Heather Barnett).
For decades, Edward has loved Henrietta from afar, while Midge has loved him from afar. Henrietta, however, has recently taken up with the married John Cristow (Dylan Bailey), presumably unbeknownst to his seemingly slow-witted wife, Gerda (Kiah Gordon). The Cristows, as it happens, are also invited to The Hollow this weekend. A neighbor drops by, with troublemaking in mind. She is famed movie star Veronica Craye (Samantha Barrios), who apparently seeks to rekindle her long-ago affair with John, though this is clearly observed by the perceptive Henrietta and the simmering Gerda.
When a murder occurs, as they inevitably do in Christie’s works, the perpetrator and the victim are the onstage characters we’ve been watching. Could the jealous wife be involved? The needy movie-star neighbor? Or, as we might wonder in the midst of the third act of this nearly three-hour play, did the butler (Harold Dershimer) do it?
Missing here, however, is any satisfying sense of suspense. In part, that could be the fault of most audiences’ familiarity with Christie mysteries. She always provides a reveal near the end of each of her stories. So, we’ll sit back and wait, meanwhile imagining ourselves living in The Hollow, appealingly designed by Drew Fitzsimmons in harmony with Christie’s given circumstances.
There could be other issues that distract the audience from the action. Here, English accents range from barely there—not counting Barrios, who plays the American—to charming, particularly that of Barnett, who, among this cast, best evokes the 1940s.
Gordon’s dull-witted Gerda probably has the most range to work with. But the actor seems stuck in “silly” mode, perhaps restricted by the costume design that gives her a comical little hat and a leatherwork bag—a key prop in which a weapon may or may not be hidden—that is decorated with clashing fabric patches.
Kondreck either lost control of or misled his actors playing Gudgeon the butler and Inspector Colquhoun (Darryl Maximilian Robinson), turning their portrayals into commedia dell’arte. Even though Lady Lucy terms the inspector a “gentleman,” Robinson gives his policeman the most upper-class of tones, heading into Terry-Thomas territory.
But, Christie gave clear subtext to the characters whose romantic paths have crossed, and Sperry, Bailey, Tracq, and Barnett ply that subtext beautifully. The audience can feel the aches of each soured relationship, each unfulfilled longing. Still, as Sperry’s Henrietta astutely notes, “One can’t go back.”
Henrietta’s large sculpture is never seen by the audience yet seems to conjure deep emotional reactions in the characters who gaze on it. It thus remains the biggest mystery of the evening—even after “whodunit” is revealed.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
This Agatha Christie play might be a classic murder mystery, but the legendary author underpins the script with her perceptiveness about human behavior. As directed by George Kondreck, Kentwood Players’ production, pretty much finds the undercurrents. They flow while the characters spend a long weekend in 1948 at an English country manor, where embers of old loves are fanned into flames—albeit British ones.
The Hollow is the home of Sir Henry Angkatell (Jack Winnick) and his wife, the ditzy Lady Lucy (Elaine Arnett). Over the course of the play, their houseguests include a trio of their younger cousins, each distantly related: the sturdy sculptress Henrietta (Jennifer Sperry), the gentle landowner Edward (David Tracq), and the sweetly independent Midge (Heather Barnett).
For decades, Edward has loved Henrietta from afar, while Midge has loved him from afar. Henrietta, however, has recently taken up with the married John Cristow (Dylan Bailey), presumably unbeknownst to his seemingly slow-witted wife, Gerda (Kiah Gordon). The Cristows, as it happens, are also invited to The Hollow this weekend. A neighbor drops by, with troublemaking in mind. She is famed movie star Veronica Craye (Samantha Barrios), who apparently seeks to rekindle her long-ago affair with John, though this is clearly observed by the perceptive Henrietta and the simmering Gerda.
When a murder occurs, as they inevitably do in Christie’s works, the perpetrator and the victim are the onstage characters we’ve been watching. Could the jealous wife be involved? The needy movie-star neighbor? Or, as we might wonder in the midst of the third act of this nearly three-hour play, did the butler (Harold Dershimer) do it?
Missing here, however, is any satisfying sense of suspense. In part, that could be the fault of most audiences’ familiarity with Christie mysteries. She always provides a reveal near the end of each of her stories. So, we’ll sit back and wait, meanwhile imagining ourselves living in The Hollow, appealingly designed by Drew Fitzsimmons in harmony with Christie’s given circumstances.
There could be other issues that distract the audience from the action. Here, English accents range from barely there—not counting Barrios, who plays the American—to charming, particularly that of Barnett, who, among this cast, best evokes the 1940s.
Gordon’s dull-witted Gerda probably has the most range to work with. But the actor seems stuck in “silly” mode, perhaps restricted by the costume design that gives her a comical little hat and a leatherwork bag—a key prop in which a weapon may or may not be hidden—that is decorated with clashing fabric patches.
Kondreck either lost control of or misled his actors playing Gudgeon the butler and Inspector Colquhoun (Darryl Maximilian Robinson), turning their portrayals into commedia dell’arte. Even though Lady Lucy terms the inspector a “gentleman,” Robinson gives his policeman the most upper-class of tones, heading into Terry-Thomas territory.
But, Christie gave clear subtext to the characters whose romantic paths have crossed, and Sperry, Bailey, Tracq, and Barnett ply that subtext beautifully. The audience can feel the aches of each soured relationship, each unfulfilled longing. Still, as Sperry’s Henrietta astutely notes, “One can’t go back.”
Henrietta’s large sculpture is never seen by the audience yet seems to conjure deep emotional reactions in the characters who gaze on it. It thus remains the biggest mystery of the evening—even after “whodunit” is revealed.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014
110 in the Shade
Actors Co-op’s Crossley Theatre
You’d think that in a musical titled 110 in the Shade, the one ingredient that would for sure be omnipresent, no matter what else went right or wrong in the execution, would be heat. (Especially in Los Angeles during a merciless May 2014, for pity’s sake.)
But in the current Actors Co-op revival, following the “Another Hot Day” opening number in which hats are ceaselessly fanned and brows dutifully mopped, Richard Israel’s actors seem to have decided by unanimous consent to cease playing any awareness of high temperatures and desiccation thereafter. Julie Hall’s dances, for instance, are lively and high-stepping, but nobody ever breaks a sweat in them, or ends them with a sense of exhaustion.
This careless treatment of a given circumstance is most unfortunate, and not just because N. Richard Nash’s adaptation of his play The Rainmaker hinges on whether a charismatic stranger can bring forth a needed deluge. Drought happens to be Nash’s central metaphor for the life-suppressing urges from which the characters yearn for relief. Without a sense of lives becoming more and more dried up by the hour, the Jones-Schmidt (The Fantasticks) vehicle comes across like a merely derivative yarn in the Music Man or Oklahoma! vein, right down to the main plot of a con man and virginal skeptic, plus a comical “second couple.”
There’s much to admire and enjoy here anyway, starting with Bryan Blaskie’s six-man down-home combo doing beautifully by the lightly countrified score. Treva Tegtmeier clearly understands the romantic dreams of spinster Lizzie Curry, whose superior education puts off most of the eligible males she meets. The actor needs more worldly bitterness to offset her natural sweetness, especially in the first act; and there’s just no combatting the distastefulness of a gal’s doing the hootchy-koo in her father’s presence during a number called “Raunchy.” But Tegtmeier’s glow, as she finds true love for the first time, is positively magical.
Playing the two men vying for Lizzie’s hand are two spirited thesps: likeable Skylar Adams as dreamer Starbuck (he’s marvelous on the score’s best ballad, “Evening Star”) and solid Michael Downing as shy, dogged Sheriff File. David Crane and Rachel Hirshee make the most of their comic “Little Red Hat” number, and, as the Curry patriarch, Tim Hodgin provides the evening’s finest acting, authentically country and richly human at every juncture.
Actors Co-op’s Crossley Theatre
You’d think that in a musical titled 110 in the Shade, the one ingredient that would for sure be omnipresent, no matter what else went right or wrong in the execution, would be heat. (Especially in Los Angeles during a merciless May 2014, for pity’s sake.)
But in the current Actors Co-op revival, following the “Another Hot Day” opening number in which hats are ceaselessly fanned and brows dutifully mopped, Richard Israel’s actors seem to have decided by unanimous consent to cease playing any awareness of high temperatures and desiccation thereafter. Julie Hall’s dances, for instance, are lively and high-stepping, but nobody ever breaks a sweat in them, or ends them with a sense of exhaustion.
This careless treatment of a given circumstance is most unfortunate, and not just because N. Richard Nash’s adaptation of his play The Rainmaker hinges on whether a charismatic stranger can bring forth a needed deluge. Drought happens to be Nash’s central metaphor for the life-suppressing urges from which the characters yearn for relief. Without a sense of lives becoming more and more dried up by the hour, the Jones-Schmidt (The Fantasticks) vehicle comes across like a merely derivative yarn in the Music Man or Oklahoma! vein, right down to the main plot of a con man and virginal skeptic, plus a comical “second couple.”
There’s much to admire and enjoy here anyway, starting with Bryan Blaskie’s six-man down-home combo doing beautifully by the lightly countrified score. Treva Tegtmeier clearly understands the romantic dreams of spinster Lizzie Curry, whose superior education puts off most of the eligible males she meets. The actor needs more worldly bitterness to offset her natural sweetness, especially in the first act; and there’s just no combatting the distastefulness of a gal’s doing the hootchy-koo in her father’s presence during a number called “Raunchy.” But Tegtmeier’s glow, as she finds true love for the first time, is positively magical.
Playing the two men vying for Lizzie’s hand are two spirited thesps: likeable Skylar Adams as dreamer Starbuck (he’s marvelous on the score’s best ballad, “Evening Star”) and solid Michael Downing as shy, dogged Sheriff File. David Crane and Rachel Hirshee make the most of their comic “Little Red Hat” number, and, as the Curry patriarch, Tim Hodgin provides the evening’s finest acting, authentically country and richly human at every juncture.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014
A Streetcar Named Desire
Los Angeles Opera at Dorothy Chandler Pavilion
Having once had the extreme honor as a teenager to personally observe Tennessee Williams create one of his most-enduring plays during its pre-Broadway tryout, I kept imagining Tenn sitting in the very last row of the cavernous Dorothy Chandler Pavilion for the opening of Los Angeles Opera’s mounting of A Streetcar Named Desire, featuring an eloquently evocative score by Andre Previn and a libretto reverently adapted by Phillip Littell. Those many years ago, Tenn spent each day onstage with the cast, rewriting and adding scenes daily to overcome dastardly out-of-town reviews before the production transferred to New York. This week, I pictured the great man seated again in the anonymity of his favored last row, cackling and squealing loudly in the silenced auditorium at every imaginative turn brought to the stage by director Brad Dalton, gasping audibly with every gossamer strain from Previn’s breathtaking score and, of course, whinnying like a mare in heat whenever Stanley (Ryan McKinny) and his crew of poker buddies stripped off their wife-beaters.
Initially, praise has to go to Previn and his first opera score (debuting in 1998), especially one created around such a familiar seminal masterwork as Streetcar. His composition varies wildly in style, from traditional classical lyricism to Brechtian impressionistic bawdiness to quietly haunting arias performed with richness by soprano Renée Fleming. Previn’s segues have the help of the source material, as he utilizes random strains of sultry New Orleans jazz to bridge the gap between conventional operatic mores and some of Tennessee’s most fucked-up and angst-ridden 20th-century antiheroes. Tradition is perfectly matched with the starkly off-kilter poetry Williams brought back to dramatic literature.
Dalton has staged the project with bold austerity—using only a blank stage; a wall of wooden chairs, which Stanley’s buddies move along with the occasional bed or poker table; and conductor Evan Rogister and the glorious LA Opera Orchestra clearly visible onstage behind the performers. This concert mounting is a bang-up idea, especially as Dalton brings along the ghosts of the DuBois sisters’ mother and Blanche’s young, young man (Cullen Gandy, who also beautifully voices the newspaper collector boy in one of the production’s most-memorable scenes) to walk amid the action, often entering and exiting through the orchestra.
None of this, of course, could have worked so seamlessly without this dynamic cast. Seeing Fleming, who all but absorbs the tortured skin of Blanche DuBois, is almost as much of a privilege as seeing Jessica Tandy as Blanche in a rare filmed appearance (in the 1973 documentary Tennessee Williams’ South). Fleming uses her magnificent voice as the tool to dip and soar jarringly with Blanche’s emotional states, but Fleming never over-emotes. McKinny is her perfect foil as the boorish, strident Stanley. His voice is also superb, astonishingly bringing his skilled resonant baritone to Stanley’s raspy “Stellaaaaaa!” and blustery beer-swilling admonishments.
Stacey Tappan is notable as Stanley’s adoring wife, Stella, likewise impressive in her ability to straddle two established forms of performance with ease, effectively mining the quintessential amalgamation between Stella’s inherent sweetness and her obsessively erotic desire for Stanley’s hot hands. Victoria Livengood and Joshua Guerrero are right in character as the upstairs neighbors Eunice and Steve, the embodiment of the dead-end lifestyle sure to grab Stanley and Stella long after this story ends. And as Mitch, Stanley’s clumsy friend and Blanche’s dorky intended suitor, tenor Anthony Dean Griffey is magnificent, finding the comedic nature of his character to make him initially lovable, then sharing the production’s most connected scene later on as Mitch drunkenly confronts Blanche with all the secrets she has kept from him.
Although only mentioned as “supernumeraries” in the program, included in this stellar cast are Danny Belford, Brendan Bradley, KC Coy, Steve Polites, JD Snyder, Patrick Stoffer, and Brett Michael Zubler, who do far more than hang around shirtless and move a few chairs. These basically unsung (literally) castmembers linger on the periphery of the action throughout the piece, sometimes becoming Stanley’s co-workers and poker buds, sometimes morphing into a clump of good ol’ boys catcalling at Stella as she walks across the stage, and the seven are invaluably utilized in the highly theatrical re-creation of A Streetcar Named Desire’s most horrifying moment: the rape of Blanche. As Fleming and McKinny writhe and struggle on the floor of the squalid Elysian Fields apartment, the seven supernumeraries form a tight semi-circle around the lovers with backs to the audience, their sinewy, knotted bodies moving subtly as they crouch and sway to the action we can only imagine. It is a magical moment; Tennessee, had he been sitting in that aforementioned back row, would have shrieked and cooed like a New Jersey resident at a Springsteen concert.
Los Angeles Opera at Dorothy Chandler Pavilion
Having once had the extreme honor as a teenager to personally observe Tennessee Williams create one of his most-enduring plays during its pre-Broadway tryout, I kept imagining Tenn sitting in the very last row of the cavernous Dorothy Chandler Pavilion for the opening of Los Angeles Opera’s mounting of A Streetcar Named Desire, featuring an eloquently evocative score by Andre Previn and a libretto reverently adapted by Phillip Littell. Those many years ago, Tenn spent each day onstage with the cast, rewriting and adding scenes daily to overcome dastardly out-of-town reviews before the production transferred to New York. This week, I pictured the great man seated again in the anonymity of his favored last row, cackling and squealing loudly in the silenced auditorium at every imaginative turn brought to the stage by director Brad Dalton, gasping audibly with every gossamer strain from Previn’s breathtaking score and, of course, whinnying like a mare in heat whenever Stanley (Ryan McKinny) and his crew of poker buddies stripped off their wife-beaters.
Initially, praise has to go to Previn and his first opera score (debuting in 1998), especially one created around such a familiar seminal masterwork as Streetcar. His composition varies wildly in style, from traditional classical lyricism to Brechtian impressionistic bawdiness to quietly haunting arias performed with richness by soprano Renée Fleming. Previn’s segues have the help of the source material, as he utilizes random strains of sultry New Orleans jazz to bridge the gap between conventional operatic mores and some of Tennessee’s most fucked-up and angst-ridden 20th-century antiheroes. Tradition is perfectly matched with the starkly off-kilter poetry Williams brought back to dramatic literature.
Dalton has staged the project with bold austerity—using only a blank stage; a wall of wooden chairs, which Stanley’s buddies move along with the occasional bed or poker table; and conductor Evan Rogister and the glorious LA Opera Orchestra clearly visible onstage behind the performers. This concert mounting is a bang-up idea, especially as Dalton brings along the ghosts of the DuBois sisters’ mother and Blanche’s young, young man (Cullen Gandy, who also beautifully voices the newspaper collector boy in one of the production’s most-memorable scenes) to walk amid the action, often entering and exiting through the orchestra.
None of this, of course, could have worked so seamlessly without this dynamic cast. Seeing Fleming, who all but absorbs the tortured skin of Blanche DuBois, is almost as much of a privilege as seeing Jessica Tandy as Blanche in a rare filmed appearance (in the 1973 documentary Tennessee Williams’ South). Fleming uses her magnificent voice as the tool to dip and soar jarringly with Blanche’s emotional states, but Fleming never over-emotes. McKinny is her perfect foil as the boorish, strident Stanley. His voice is also superb, astonishingly bringing his skilled resonant baritone to Stanley’s raspy “Stellaaaaaa!” and blustery beer-swilling admonishments.
Stacey Tappan is notable as Stanley’s adoring wife, Stella, likewise impressive in her ability to straddle two established forms of performance with ease, effectively mining the quintessential amalgamation between Stella’s inherent sweetness and her obsessively erotic desire for Stanley’s hot hands. Victoria Livengood and Joshua Guerrero are right in character as the upstairs neighbors Eunice and Steve, the embodiment of the dead-end lifestyle sure to grab Stanley and Stella long after this story ends. And as Mitch, Stanley’s clumsy friend and Blanche’s dorky intended suitor, tenor Anthony Dean Griffey is magnificent, finding the comedic nature of his character to make him initially lovable, then sharing the production’s most connected scene later on as Mitch drunkenly confronts Blanche with all the secrets she has kept from him.
Although only mentioned as “supernumeraries” in the program, included in this stellar cast are Danny Belford, Brendan Bradley, KC Coy, Steve Polites, JD Snyder, Patrick Stoffer, and Brett Michael Zubler, who do far more than hang around shirtless and move a few chairs. These basically unsung (literally) castmembers linger on the periphery of the action throughout the piece, sometimes becoming Stanley’s co-workers and poker buds, sometimes morphing into a clump of good ol’ boys catcalling at Stella as she walks across the stage, and the seven are invaluably utilized in the highly theatrical re-creation of A Streetcar Named Desire’s most horrifying moment: the rape of Blanche. As Fleming and McKinny writhe and struggle on the floor of the squalid Elysian Fields apartment, the seven supernumeraries form a tight semi-circle around the lovers with backs to the audience, their sinewy, knotted bodies moving subtly as they crouch and sway to the action we can only imagine. It is a magical moment; Tennessee, had he been sitting in that aforementioned back row, would have shrieked and cooed like a New Jersey resident at a Springsteen concert.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014
Unorganized Crime
Unorganized Crime, LLC., at Lillian Theatre
The murderous Sicuso crime family in this dark comedy by Kenny D’Aquila make the Corleone clan seem like pillars of domestic peace and tranquility: at least the Corleones kept their murderous activities outside the home. But with the Sicusos, it seems, home is where the hits happen.
When the play begins, Gino Sicuso (playwright D’Aquila) is involved in exercises to improve his powers of self-assertion. And he needs them. As the youngest son in a prominent gang family, he disgraced himself on his first hit by being unable to pull the trigger, jeopardizing not only the mission but also his own safety and that of his fellow hit men. Since then, Gino’s father (Carmen Argenziano) refuses to see or talk to him, and Gino is persona non grata in his own home and family.
Now he’s working as a waiter and swallowing the guff of his rude customers. So his spunky wife, Rosie (Elizabeth Rodriguez), has been trying to instill intestinal fortitude in him. Meanwhile, Gino has also developed a secret cocaine habit—and because cocaine is expensive, he can’t always come up with the rent money, and Rosie must settle the debt by sleeping with Haakim the randy landlord (Jack Topalian). She seems perfectly willing to be shtupped by Haakim, but if you call her a slut, you’re asking for trouble. In the middle of this unorthodox transaction, Sal (Chazz Palminteri) arrives, ominously clad in black leather. He’s Gino’s elder brother, the family hit man, and a stone-cold killer. And at the moment, he’s hauling a prisoner, bound and gagged, with a bag over his head.
D’Aquila’s play is grimly funny—a concise and cleverly constructed comedy melodrama—and David Fofi directs it with a sure hand. D’Aquila’s Gino is a hopeless wimp who’s hell-bent on overcoming his own wimpiness. Palminteri generates a palpable sense of menace and a dangerously whimsical unpredictability. Rodriguez’s Rosie is a feisty portrait of a woman who’s perfectly willing to shift her alliances to be on the winning side. Argenziano displays the bullying, stone-faced sangfroid one expects from a mob boss. And Topalian is wonderfully sleazy as the hypocritical landlord who claims to be a respectable married man but is perfectly willing to accept a bit on the side so long as it’s on the down-low. Designer Joel Daavid provides the spacious and handsome two-leveled interior set.
Unorganized Crime, LLC., at Lillian Theatre
The murderous Sicuso crime family in this dark comedy by Kenny D’Aquila make the Corleone clan seem like pillars of domestic peace and tranquility: at least the Corleones kept their murderous activities outside the home. But with the Sicusos, it seems, home is where the hits happen.
When the play begins, Gino Sicuso (playwright D’Aquila) is involved in exercises to improve his powers of self-assertion. And he needs them. As the youngest son in a prominent gang family, he disgraced himself on his first hit by being unable to pull the trigger, jeopardizing not only the mission but also his own safety and that of his fellow hit men. Since then, Gino’s father (Carmen Argenziano) refuses to see or talk to him, and Gino is persona non grata in his own home and family.
Now he’s working as a waiter and swallowing the guff of his rude customers. So his spunky wife, Rosie (Elizabeth Rodriguez), has been trying to instill intestinal fortitude in him. Meanwhile, Gino has also developed a secret cocaine habit—and because cocaine is expensive, he can’t always come up with the rent money, and Rosie must settle the debt by sleeping with Haakim the randy landlord (Jack Topalian). She seems perfectly willing to be shtupped by Haakim, but if you call her a slut, you’re asking for trouble. In the middle of this unorthodox transaction, Sal (Chazz Palminteri) arrives, ominously clad in black leather. He’s Gino’s elder brother, the family hit man, and a stone-cold killer. And at the moment, he’s hauling a prisoner, bound and gagged, with a bag over his head.
D’Aquila’s play is grimly funny—a concise and cleverly constructed comedy melodrama—and David Fofi directs it with a sure hand. D’Aquila’s Gino is a hopeless wimp who’s hell-bent on overcoming his own wimpiness. Palminteri generates a palpable sense of menace and a dangerously whimsical unpredictability. Rodriguez’s Rosie is a feisty portrait of a woman who’s perfectly willing to shift her alliances to be on the winning side. Argenziano displays the bullying, stone-faced sangfroid one expects from a mob boss. And Topalian is wonderfully sleazy as the hypocritical landlord who claims to be a respectable married man but is perfectly willing to accept a bit on the side so long as it’s on the down-low. Designer Joel Daavid provides the spacious and handsome two-leveled interior set.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014
Holding the Man
Australian Theatre Company at Matrix Theatre
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
The newly formed Australian Theatre Company was launched April 23 (Shakespeare’s birthday) by producers Nick Hardcastle and Nate Jones, with the intention of creating opportunities for Australian actors, directors, and writers living in LA, and introducing the work of Australian writers to American audiences. (The company is quick to add that non-Australians will also be welcome.)
For its first production, it has chosen Holding the Man, based on the nonfiction memoir by Timothy Conigrave, deftly adapted for the stage by Tommy Murphy. The piece achieved great success at home, racking up substantial runs in Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane, before moving on to London’s West End.
Tim (Nate Jones) is the play’s central character. He’s an eager-beaver gay boy, who knows exactly what he wants, even though he’s only in prep school. And what he wants is the captain of his school’s football team, John Caleo (Adam J. Yeend), with whom he’s secretly in love. He thinks he doesn’t stand a chance with John, fears rejection, and virtually goes into shock when he discovers that John reciprocates his feelings.
John seems to have no doubts about his sexual orientation—though the same can’t be said of his parents, who are appalled and enraged. They do everything they can to separate the boys, including threatening to sue Tim’s parents over their son’s “corrupting” John. But their attempts only strengthen the boys’ bond. So begins a lyrical 15-year love affair, which will survive almost everything life can throw at it.
And that’s just the first act. Thus far, the play seems slightly farcical, fast-moving, and very funny, much of the comedy stemming from sharp satire of gay folkways down under—which don’t seem to be that different from those in the US. (The largely gay opening-night audience reacted with hearty laughter of recognition.) But in Act 2, the piece turns darker, as the specter of AIDS raises its ugly head.
John is essentially monogamous, but Tim wants to play around. He persuades a reluctant John to agree to a “trial separation.” And Tim makes maximum use of his new freedom. When the two finally decide it’s time to take a test, both men are HIV positive, and Tim must face the strong probability that he has passed the disease on to John, who’s developing AIDS. And at that time AIDS could not be checked.
In real life, Conigrave also succumbed to AIDS, but clung to life long enough to finish his anguished memoir, and died in a hospice shortly after it was completed. That’s not included in the play but the theatre program includes photos of the real-life Tim and John, adding to the poignancy of the occasion.
The piece is very much an actor-driven ensemble work, with a mere handful of actors—all Australian—playing scores of characters. In addition to the splendidly able Jones and Yeend is an ensemble of four actors—Cameron Daddo, Luke O’Sullivan, Adrienne Smith, and Roxane Wilson—who, with dazzling virtuosity, play some 40-odd roles.
American director Larry Moss has given the piece a stunningly sensitive, athletic production, on a nearly bare stage. He makes startling use of the transformative power of wigs, and employs wonderful puppets, made by Alex “Jurgen” Ferguson. The other designers—John Iacovelli (set), Jeremy Pivnick (lighting), Shon LeBlanc (costumes), and Cricket S. Myers (sound), tactfully retreat into the background, putting the focus where it belongs: on the actors.
Australian Theatre Company at Matrix Theatre
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
The newly formed Australian Theatre Company was launched April 23 (Shakespeare’s birthday) by producers Nick Hardcastle and Nate Jones, with the intention of creating opportunities for Australian actors, directors, and writers living in LA, and introducing the work of Australian writers to American audiences. (The company is quick to add that non-Australians will also be welcome.)
For its first production, it has chosen Holding the Man, based on the nonfiction memoir by Timothy Conigrave, deftly adapted for the stage by Tommy Murphy. The piece achieved great success at home, racking up substantial runs in Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane, before moving on to London’s West End.
Tim (Nate Jones) is the play’s central character. He’s an eager-beaver gay boy, who knows exactly what he wants, even though he’s only in prep school. And what he wants is the captain of his school’s football team, John Caleo (Adam J. Yeend), with whom he’s secretly in love. He thinks he doesn’t stand a chance with John, fears rejection, and virtually goes into shock when he discovers that John reciprocates his feelings.
John seems to have no doubts about his sexual orientation—though the same can’t be said of his parents, who are appalled and enraged. They do everything they can to separate the boys, including threatening to sue Tim’s parents over their son’s “corrupting” John. But their attempts only strengthen the boys’ bond. So begins a lyrical 15-year love affair, which will survive almost everything life can throw at it.
And that’s just the first act. Thus far, the play seems slightly farcical, fast-moving, and very funny, much of the comedy stemming from sharp satire of gay folkways down under—which don’t seem to be that different from those in the US. (The largely gay opening-night audience reacted with hearty laughter of recognition.) But in Act 2, the piece turns darker, as the specter of AIDS raises its ugly head.
John is essentially monogamous, but Tim wants to play around. He persuades a reluctant John to agree to a “trial separation.” And Tim makes maximum use of his new freedom. When the two finally decide it’s time to take a test, both men are HIV positive, and Tim must face the strong probability that he has passed the disease on to John, who’s developing AIDS. And at that time AIDS could not be checked.
In real life, Conigrave also succumbed to AIDS, but clung to life long enough to finish his anguished memoir, and died in a hospice shortly after it was completed. That’s not included in the play but the theatre program includes photos of the real-life Tim and John, adding to the poignancy of the occasion.
The piece is very much an actor-driven ensemble work, with a mere handful of actors—all Australian—playing scores of characters. In addition to the splendidly able Jones and Yeend is an ensemble of four actors—Cameron Daddo, Luke O’Sullivan, Adrienne Smith, and Roxane Wilson—who, with dazzling virtuosity, play some 40-odd roles.
American director Larry Moss has given the piece a stunningly sensitive, athletic production, on a nearly bare stage. He makes startling use of the transformative power of wigs, and employs wonderful puppets, made by Alex “Jurgen” Ferguson. The other designers—John Iacovelli (set), Jeremy Pivnick (lighting), Shon LeBlanc (costumes), and Cricket S. Myers (sound), tactfully retreat into the background, putting the focus where it belongs: on the actors.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014
different words for the same thing
Kirk Douglas Theatre
Kimber Lee’s different words for the same thing, directed by Neel Keller, seems intended as an Our Town for our time. Like the Thornton Wilder classic, it takes a cross-section of a little burg to investigate themes of love, death, and community, though Lee’s strategy is more tightly focused on a single catastrophic event, and she brings in issues of race, ethnicity, and class on which Wilder was mute.
A cast of 12, rare in this parsimonious theatrical age, portrays 12 characters without doubling (that’s equally rare). One of them is dead but constantly on the minds of the other 11. Pieces of multiple settings in the town of Nampa, Idaho—a family restaurant, a funeral parlor, the local Catholic Church—slide in and out for brief sequences that turn the play’s movement into a fugue in which the survivors try to come to terms with their loss and the conflicts it caused among themselves.
It takes awhile to figure all that out, mind you. So intent is Lee on not spelling out her themes or actions explicitly, more than a third of the play’s intermissionless 110 minutes are needed just to work out the relationships among the living and the dead, and the given circumstances. Thereafter, Lee ladles out incident and meaning sparingly, as if with an eyedropper; this is of course her right, though at potential cost to spectator engagement. When the mystery of the dead character is revealed at the eleventh hour, it involves two people we’ve never heard of before and don’t care about. The solution fails to tie up any plot strands, and there appears to be no interior reason why the death couldn’t have been explained much earlier.
So the opacity of the storytelling will frustrate some. So will the production’s condescension toward people in the heartland generally, and heartlanders of faith in particular. Believers are all portrayed as careless bigots or weak-kneed nitwits—catnip for easy, smug laughs when a young man agonizes over whether he can portray Jesus in an Easter pageant, or a matron proudly serves green Jell-O for dessert, or her husband simply says, “Anyhoo.”
It’s typical of Lee’s tactics that the church organist’s swelling rendition of an old hymn is followed by a ringing cellphone and instructions on defrosting the night’s roast. Simple, tasteful effects are not much in evidence here, despite the superficial piety hung on the production like black crepe.
At one point the dead character complains—to the local priest, mystically available for consultation—about the irritating questions asked at funerals: “How are you/What do you need/Are you okay…And the endless questions/About food/Would you like chicken or beef/Shall I bring pie or cake…One endless brutal siege of churchy neighborly love/Designed to drive you mad.” The padre is not permitted to make any of the obvious retorts: that that neighborly love may be genuine, that survivors’ questions are an anguished effort to convey empathy, that offering food is the one concrete contribution to well-being that others can make. All he can lamely reply is, “This will pass.” On the evidence of different words, Lee isn’t one of those playwrights who walks around in others’ moccasins to find out how they feel. She just looks at their footwear and deems it tacky.
Keller directs his actors as if they and he were all wearing black armbands. There’s barely a lighthearted moment in almost two dirge-like hours, and the parade of set pieces (punctuated by the same bluegrass plunking) sets up a rhythm more of monotony than gravity.
Yet it must be reported that the opening night audience at the Kirk Douglas received this play with rapture. Even granting that first nighters often behave more like a claque than is good for anybody, these folks seemed genuinely moved by the dignified dinner table tableau, reminiscent of the finale of the 1984 film Places in the Heart in which friend and foe alike come to an unexpected communion. (The sequence is accentuated by the smells of real food, as in David Cromer’s recent Our Town revival.)
Viewing this work as excruciatingly self-conscious may well be a minority opinion. But perhaps solemnity and pretentiousness are just different words for the same thing.
Kirk Douglas Theatre
Kimber Lee’s different words for the same thing, directed by Neel Keller, seems intended as an Our Town for our time. Like the Thornton Wilder classic, it takes a cross-section of a little burg to investigate themes of love, death, and community, though Lee’s strategy is more tightly focused on a single catastrophic event, and she brings in issues of race, ethnicity, and class on which Wilder was mute.
A cast of 12, rare in this parsimonious theatrical age, portrays 12 characters without doubling (that’s equally rare). One of them is dead but constantly on the minds of the other 11. Pieces of multiple settings in the town of Nampa, Idaho—a family restaurant, a funeral parlor, the local Catholic Church—slide in and out for brief sequences that turn the play’s movement into a fugue in which the survivors try to come to terms with their loss and the conflicts it caused among themselves.
It takes awhile to figure all that out, mind you. So intent is Lee on not spelling out her themes or actions explicitly, more than a third of the play’s intermissionless 110 minutes are needed just to work out the relationships among the living and the dead, and the given circumstances. Thereafter, Lee ladles out incident and meaning sparingly, as if with an eyedropper; this is of course her right, though at potential cost to spectator engagement. When the mystery of the dead character is revealed at the eleventh hour, it involves two people we’ve never heard of before and don’t care about. The solution fails to tie up any plot strands, and there appears to be no interior reason why the death couldn’t have been explained much earlier.
So the opacity of the storytelling will frustrate some. So will the production’s condescension toward people in the heartland generally, and heartlanders of faith in particular. Believers are all portrayed as careless bigots or weak-kneed nitwits—catnip for easy, smug laughs when a young man agonizes over whether he can portray Jesus in an Easter pageant, or a matron proudly serves green Jell-O for dessert, or her husband simply says, “Anyhoo.”
It’s typical of Lee’s tactics that the church organist’s swelling rendition of an old hymn is followed by a ringing cellphone and instructions on defrosting the night’s roast. Simple, tasteful effects are not much in evidence here, despite the superficial piety hung on the production like black crepe.
At one point the dead character complains—to the local priest, mystically available for consultation—about the irritating questions asked at funerals: “How are you/What do you need/Are you okay…And the endless questions/About food/Would you like chicken or beef/Shall I bring pie or cake…One endless brutal siege of churchy neighborly love/Designed to drive you mad.” The padre is not permitted to make any of the obvious retorts: that that neighborly love may be genuine, that survivors’ questions are an anguished effort to convey empathy, that offering food is the one concrete contribution to well-being that others can make. All he can lamely reply is, “This will pass.” On the evidence of different words, Lee isn’t one of those playwrights who walks around in others’ moccasins to find out how they feel. She just looks at their footwear and deems it tacky.
Keller directs his actors as if they and he were all wearing black armbands. There’s barely a lighthearted moment in almost two dirge-like hours, and the parade of set pieces (punctuated by the same bluegrass plunking) sets up a rhythm more of monotony than gravity.
Yet it must be reported that the opening night audience at the Kirk Douglas received this play with rapture. Even granting that first nighters often behave more like a claque than is good for anybody, these folks seemed genuinely moved by the dignified dinner table tableau, reminiscent of the finale of the 1984 film Places in the Heart in which friend and foe alike come to an unexpected communion. (The sequence is accentuated by the smells of real food, as in David Cromer’s recent Our Town revival.)
Viewing this work as excruciatingly self-conscious may well be a minority opinion. But perhaps solemnity and pretentiousness are just different words for the same thing.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014
The Last Romance
Torrance Theatre Company
Late in their lives, a man and woman meet-cute at a New Jersey dog park. He’s an easygoing, teasing but overly friendly chap. She’s a dignified, pretty but fearful gal. “Oh, no,” one thinks. “Don’t let this oil-and-water twosome end up together. They’ll make each other miserable.”
This Joe DiPietro play recounts the romantic escapade of 80-year-old widower Ralph. Years before, as soon as his wife died, his sister Rose moved in. She still overprotects him, but she also cooks ample batches of his favorite Italian foods. One day, he breaks out of his usual routine and wanders into a Hoboken park. There, the moment he spots Carol, Cupid’s arrow strikes him. Carol, however, seems more interested in her Chihuahua than in Ralph. On the other hand, why doesn’t she walk the heck away?
Ralph was an opera singer, adept enough to merit a callback at the Met. His siblings ruined that opportunity for him, however, and he became a railroad worker and devoted family man. Carol’s husband suffered a debilitating stroke, and she devotedly tended to him. Ralph and Carol now have a chance at romance—at least until Rose steps in.
The script could be dismissed as slight. Indeed, the brief but electrifying scene in which Ralph describes his audition for the Metropolitan Opera, singing Silvio’s aria from Pagliacci, might have served as the basis for a more thrilling story. But The Last Romance focuses on the little moments in life that impact us the most, as well as the lies people tell themselves and others in hopes of easing pain.
Also giving the script heft, Perry Shields directs his cast so each character reflects real life. Scot Renfro plays Ralph, giving him a good-natured bounce—though Renfro is clearly decades younger than his character. We know this person, we’ve probably sat next to him on a park bench, but we’ve also probably never let him tell his story so thoroughly.
Shields balances Renfro’s awkward eagerness with the cool elegance of Daryl Hogue France’s Carol. She’s not a likeable character, but in France’s hands she’s very real, professing honesty when she’s not honest, but admitting the fears that propel people into those lies. The writing turns Rose somewhat stereotypical, as well as giving her the funniest lines, but Geraldine Fuentes makes her at least self-aware and genuinely protective of her brother. Rose, too, gets a character arc, and Fuentes plays it tenderly.
Two more characters appear onstage. One is a surprise best left to those who see the show. The other is young Ralph, the person who might have been a star, and Matthew Ian Welch sings that role magnificently and could be a star. Most of the scenes take place at the park, appealingly created by Bradley Allen Lock with a mesmerizing panorama of the New York skyline across the Hudson River, a tree spreading over the park bench.
Lock also costumed the cast thoughtfully. Ralph’s “best” outfit looks decades old, because he probably hasn’t dressed up to go out for that long. Carol’s outfits reflect refinement and appropriateness. Rose’s attire is clean and carefully pressed but appropriate only for the kitchen. All is bathed in Katy Streeter and SteveGDesign’s golden light, which over the play’s course turns tarnished and perhaps a bit blanched.
Bill Froggatt prerecorded the accompaniment, but you couldn’t prove it isn’t live. Welch sings bits of opera (including Massenet) and Italian folk song (the lovely “Torna a Surriento”), but the most meaningful is Silvio’s aria, symbolizing Ralph’s—and all of our—postponed plans and lost opportunities. The play’s ending might disappoint some, but it should remind all to smell the roses now.
Torrance Theatre Company
Late in their lives, a man and woman meet-cute at a New Jersey dog park. He’s an easygoing, teasing but overly friendly chap. She’s a dignified, pretty but fearful gal. “Oh, no,” one thinks. “Don’t let this oil-and-water twosome end up together. They’ll make each other miserable.”
This Joe DiPietro play recounts the romantic escapade of 80-year-old widower Ralph. Years before, as soon as his wife died, his sister Rose moved in. She still overprotects him, but she also cooks ample batches of his favorite Italian foods. One day, he breaks out of his usual routine and wanders into a Hoboken park. There, the moment he spots Carol, Cupid’s arrow strikes him. Carol, however, seems more interested in her Chihuahua than in Ralph. On the other hand, why doesn’t she walk the heck away?
Ralph was an opera singer, adept enough to merit a callback at the Met. His siblings ruined that opportunity for him, however, and he became a railroad worker and devoted family man. Carol’s husband suffered a debilitating stroke, and she devotedly tended to him. Ralph and Carol now have a chance at romance—at least until Rose steps in.
The script could be dismissed as slight. Indeed, the brief but electrifying scene in which Ralph describes his audition for the Metropolitan Opera, singing Silvio’s aria from Pagliacci, might have served as the basis for a more thrilling story. But The Last Romance focuses on the little moments in life that impact us the most, as well as the lies people tell themselves and others in hopes of easing pain.
Also giving the script heft, Perry Shields directs his cast so each character reflects real life. Scot Renfro plays Ralph, giving him a good-natured bounce—though Renfro is clearly decades younger than his character. We know this person, we’ve probably sat next to him on a park bench, but we’ve also probably never let him tell his story so thoroughly.
Shields balances Renfro’s awkward eagerness with the cool elegance of Daryl Hogue France’s Carol. She’s not a likeable character, but in France’s hands she’s very real, professing honesty when she’s not honest, but admitting the fears that propel people into those lies. The writing turns Rose somewhat stereotypical, as well as giving her the funniest lines, but Geraldine Fuentes makes her at least self-aware and genuinely protective of her brother. Rose, too, gets a character arc, and Fuentes plays it tenderly.
Two more characters appear onstage. One is a surprise best left to those who see the show. The other is young Ralph, the person who might have been a star, and Matthew Ian Welch sings that role magnificently and could be a star. Most of the scenes take place at the park, appealingly created by Bradley Allen Lock with a mesmerizing panorama of the New York skyline across the Hudson River, a tree spreading over the park bench.
Lock also costumed the cast thoughtfully. Ralph’s “best” outfit looks decades old, because he probably hasn’t dressed up to go out for that long. Carol’s outfits reflect refinement and appropriateness. Rose’s attire is clean and carefully pressed but appropriate only for the kitchen. All is bathed in Katy Streeter and SteveGDesign’s golden light, which over the play’s course turns tarnished and perhaps a bit blanched.
Bill Froggatt prerecorded the accompaniment, but you couldn’t prove it isn’t live. Welch sings bits of opera (including Massenet) and Italian folk song (the lovely “Torna a Surriento”), but the most meaningful is Silvio’s aria, symbolizing Ralph’s—and all of our—postponed plans and lost opportunities. The play’s ending might disappoint some, but it should remind all to smell the roses now.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014
Jeremy Jordan: Breaking Character
Catalina Bar & Grill
It’s no wonder Jeremy Jordan is one of the most talked-about Broadway Babies these days. First making waves as the dastardly Mr. Barrow himself in the ill-fated musical Bonnie & Clyde in 2011, Jordan survived even if the infamous anti-hero—and the musical he and his girlfriend inspired—did not, generating a huge surge of media attention in the role and winning him the Theatre World Award for his performance. This notoriety quickly catapulted Jordan into another star-making turn in the lead role of Jack Kelly in the hit musical Newsies, a role he had originated at Paper Mill Playhouse in New Jersey the year before and won him a Tony nomination for Best Actor in a Musical and a Grammy for the cast album.
Making his Los Angeles debut for a too-brief run at Catalina Bar & Grill in Hollywood, Jordan greeted a sold-out house and added performances to appease his many new West Coast fans, most of whom surely discovered his rapidly rising star from his turn as a series regular on NBC’s adult
Glee-clone series Smash. Beginning his set with “Anthem” from the musical Chess, recalling his nervous beginning fresh out of Corpus Christi, Texas, to audition for a college arts program, his raw clumsiness soon gives way to what is making him a major star: a voice of grand proportions.
Along the way, Jordan soon drops the conceit of his goofy first fumblings at performing live to knock his grateful audience on its proverbial ear. Among the treats in his dynamic cabaret show Breaking Character are “Moving Too Fast” from Jason Robert Brown’s cult-classic musical The Last Five Years, which Jordan has just wrapped as a movie opposite Anna Kendrick; a hilariously irreverent “Chipotle,” the number he rewrote from “Purpose” when auditioning for Avenue Q some years ago; the gorgeous “Bonnie” from Bonnie & Clyde; and a showstopping “Losing My Mind” from Follies. Amid one incredible number after another, he also brings to life two songs he performed on Smash: the aptly-titled “Broadway, Here I Come!” and the haunting ballad that introduced his character on his first episode, “I Heard Your Voice in a Dream,” as well as offering a guest duet of “Heart-Shaped Wreckage” with his series co-star Krysta Rodriguez.
And speaking of guests, there’s a heartwarming visit from Ashley Spencer, another Broadway Babe very near and dear to Jordan’s heart, joining for duets of the Beatles’s enduring “Maybe I’m Amazed” and a knockout medley of “Heaven/More Than Words/To Be With You” from Rock of Ages, a musical in which they both performed in New York and which led to Spencer becoming Mrs. Jordan in September 2012. With the invaluable aid of accompanist Ben Rauhala—and Jordan seems playfully intent on finding him a mate from among the many single males gathered in the Catalina audience—the versatile future megastar grabs his guitar to perform three incredibly tuneful original songs he wrote.
Still, Jordan saves the best for last, making it abundantly clear why he was nominated for that Tony, by re-creating his turn as Jack Kelly, sending the incredible longing ballad “Santa Fe” from Newsies out onto McCadden Place, and retuning for an encore, after a spirited standing ovation, that proved to be a brilliant mashup of two songs that would make Dorothy Gale leave Kansas all over again: “Over the Rainbow” from The Wizard of Oz melded perfectly with “Home” from The Wiz.
There’s no doubt that Jeremy Jordan’s career is only at the very beginning, on that roller coaster ride to stardom that is bound to send him careening into the hearts of everyone before you can raise your arms over your head to enhance the experience. Our town welcomed Jordan in true style during his local cabaret debut at Catalina; next time around, he will probably be packin’ ‘em in at the Hollywood Bowl.
Catalina Bar & Grill
It’s no wonder Jeremy Jordan is one of the most talked-about Broadway Babies these days. First making waves as the dastardly Mr. Barrow himself in the ill-fated musical Bonnie & Clyde in 2011, Jordan survived even if the infamous anti-hero—and the musical he and his girlfriend inspired—did not, generating a huge surge of media attention in the role and winning him the Theatre World Award for his performance. This notoriety quickly catapulted Jordan into another star-making turn in the lead role of Jack Kelly in the hit musical Newsies, a role he had originated at Paper Mill Playhouse in New Jersey the year before and won him a Tony nomination for Best Actor in a Musical and a Grammy for the cast album.
Making his Los Angeles debut for a too-brief run at Catalina Bar & Grill in Hollywood, Jordan greeted a sold-out house and added performances to appease his many new West Coast fans, most of whom surely discovered his rapidly rising star from his turn as a series regular on NBC’s adult
Glee-clone series Smash. Beginning his set with “Anthem” from the musical Chess, recalling his nervous beginning fresh out of Corpus Christi, Texas, to audition for a college arts program, his raw clumsiness soon gives way to what is making him a major star: a voice of grand proportions.
Along the way, Jordan soon drops the conceit of his goofy first fumblings at performing live to knock his grateful audience on its proverbial ear. Among the treats in his dynamic cabaret show Breaking Character are “Moving Too Fast” from Jason Robert Brown’s cult-classic musical The Last Five Years, which Jordan has just wrapped as a movie opposite Anna Kendrick; a hilariously irreverent “Chipotle,” the number he rewrote from “Purpose” when auditioning for Avenue Q some years ago; the gorgeous “Bonnie” from Bonnie & Clyde; and a showstopping “Losing My Mind” from Follies. Amid one incredible number after another, he also brings to life two songs he performed on Smash: the aptly-titled “Broadway, Here I Come!” and the haunting ballad that introduced his character on his first episode, “I Heard Your Voice in a Dream,” as well as offering a guest duet of “Heart-Shaped Wreckage” with his series co-star Krysta Rodriguez.
And speaking of guests, there’s a heartwarming visit from Ashley Spencer, another Broadway Babe very near and dear to Jordan’s heart, joining for duets of the Beatles’s enduring “Maybe I’m Amazed” and a knockout medley of “Heaven/More Than Words/To Be With You” from Rock of Ages, a musical in which they both performed in New York and which led to Spencer becoming Mrs. Jordan in September 2012. With the invaluable aid of accompanist Ben Rauhala—and Jordan seems playfully intent on finding him a mate from among the many single males gathered in the Catalina audience—the versatile future megastar grabs his guitar to perform three incredibly tuneful original songs he wrote.
Still, Jordan saves the best for last, making it abundantly clear why he was nominated for that Tony, by re-creating his turn as Jack Kelly, sending the incredible longing ballad “Santa Fe” from Newsies out onto McCadden Place, and retuning for an encore, after a spirited standing ovation, that proved to be a brilliant mashup of two songs that would make Dorothy Gale leave Kansas all over again: “Over the Rainbow” from The Wizard of Oz melded perfectly with “Home” from The Wiz.
There’s no doubt that Jeremy Jordan’s career is only at the very beginning, on that roller coaster ride to stardom that is bound to send him careening into the hearts of everyone before you can raise your arms over your head to enhance the experience. Our town welcomed Jordan in true style during his local cabaret debut at Catalina; next time around, he will probably be packin’ ‘em in at the Hollywood Bowl.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014
A Delicate Balance
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble
The first of Edward Albee’s Pulitzer Prize–winning trifecta (along with Seascape and Three Tall Women), often overshadowed by his more-widely known yet unawarded Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, this piece relies on many of Woolf’s integral components. Dysfunctional relationships traced back to dark family secrets are heavily laced with the nearly constant consumption of alcohol. Although the levels of violence are tempered somewhat here, the end result is once again a paralytic logjam of emotions and hopelessness.
This household of the damned comprises a husband, a wife, her alcoholic sister, and the couple’s adult daughter who has returned home in the wake of her fourth failed marriage. On the surface, it’s the sort of squabbling one might find in any family, but Robin Larsen’s direction of this deceptively angst ridden drama draws one in slowly until it’s impossible to look away. And given the almost antiseptically organized layout of scenic designer Tom Buderwitz’s beautifully crafted living room set, it’s all the more gasp-inducing when things go very wrong very fast.
Given their previous professional credits as a married couple on the 1980s long-running primetime soap Falcon Crest, it’s not surprising that actors David Selby and Susan Sullivan bring such an immediately believable chemistry to their roles here as Tobias and Agnes. Theirs is a marriage that has, on its surface, stood the tests of time and, as it turns out, trauma. Sullivan keys in perfectly on Agnes’s philosophically based need to control her surroundings and family. Meanwhile, Selby expertly unpeels Tobias’s layers of repressed irritation via otherwise uncharacteristic flashes of anger. Sullivan’s and Selby’s first-rate performances reveal that despite their characters’ seemingly comfortable existence, this is a union dependent on an almost constant sense of masked conflict.
Supporting roles are given top-shelf due by the remainder of Larsen’s well-picked cast. As their daughter Julia, Deborah Puette balances her character’s spoiled sense of entitlement with a sympathetic need for stability. Arriving home to find her childhood room usurped by her parents’ closest married friends, who are suffering from an almost surrealistic episode of anxiety attacks, Julia’s progressive unhinging drives most of the play’s action. Puette excellently avoids a one-dimensional portrayal, thereby inspiring support for her in this clash of wills.
As Harry and Edna, Julia’s godparents and the source of her frustration, Mark Costello and Lily Knight are the perfect foils in this tale of familial disintegration. Their characters are oblivious to their imposition, and Costello and Knight, like Puette, skirt the possibility of becoming more than just a little annoying.
In perhaps the most pivotal role Albee created for this darkly toned drama, O-Lan Jones is a sarcastic breath of fresh air as Agnes’s inebriated houseguest of a sister, Claire. Jones picks up the baton of uncensored commentary and swaggers, ever a drink in hand, to the finish line. Kudos to her for crafting a performance that demonstrates Claire’s place in the family hierarchy while simultaneously providing Albee’s intended comic release.
And yet as the Act 3 lights fade on Larsen’s well-framed family tableau, it’s painfully obvious that despite all that has gone on, what has been witnessed is nothing more than an unalterably cyclical tragedy.
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble
The first of Edward Albee’s Pulitzer Prize–winning trifecta (along with Seascape and Three Tall Women), often overshadowed by his more-widely known yet unawarded Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, this piece relies on many of Woolf’s integral components. Dysfunctional relationships traced back to dark family secrets are heavily laced with the nearly constant consumption of alcohol. Although the levels of violence are tempered somewhat here, the end result is once again a paralytic logjam of emotions and hopelessness.
This household of the damned comprises a husband, a wife, her alcoholic sister, and the couple’s adult daughter who has returned home in the wake of her fourth failed marriage. On the surface, it’s the sort of squabbling one might find in any family, but Robin Larsen’s direction of this deceptively angst ridden drama draws one in slowly until it’s impossible to look away. And given the almost antiseptically organized layout of scenic designer Tom Buderwitz’s beautifully crafted living room set, it’s all the more gasp-inducing when things go very wrong very fast.
Given their previous professional credits as a married couple on the 1980s long-running primetime soap Falcon Crest, it’s not surprising that actors David Selby and Susan Sullivan bring such an immediately believable chemistry to their roles here as Tobias and Agnes. Theirs is a marriage that has, on its surface, stood the tests of time and, as it turns out, trauma. Sullivan keys in perfectly on Agnes’s philosophically based need to control her surroundings and family. Meanwhile, Selby expertly unpeels Tobias’s layers of repressed irritation via otherwise uncharacteristic flashes of anger. Sullivan’s and Selby’s first-rate performances reveal that despite their characters’ seemingly comfortable existence, this is a union dependent on an almost constant sense of masked conflict.
Supporting roles are given top-shelf due by the remainder of Larsen’s well-picked cast. As their daughter Julia, Deborah Puette balances her character’s spoiled sense of entitlement with a sympathetic need for stability. Arriving home to find her childhood room usurped by her parents’ closest married friends, who are suffering from an almost surrealistic episode of anxiety attacks, Julia’s progressive unhinging drives most of the play’s action. Puette excellently avoids a one-dimensional portrayal, thereby inspiring support for her in this clash of wills.
As Harry and Edna, Julia’s godparents and the source of her frustration, Mark Costello and Lily Knight are the perfect foils in this tale of familial disintegration. Their characters are oblivious to their imposition, and Costello and Knight, like Puette, skirt the possibility of becoming more than just a little annoying.
In perhaps the most pivotal role Albee created for this darkly toned drama, O-Lan Jones is a sarcastic breath of fresh air as Agnes’s inebriated houseguest of a sister, Claire. Jones picks up the baton of uncensored commentary and swaggers, ever a drink in hand, to the finish line. Kudos to her for crafting a performance that demonstrates Claire’s place in the family hierarchy while simultaneously providing Albee’s intended comic release.
And yet as the Act 3 lights fade on Larsen’s well-framed family tableau, it’s painfully obvious that despite all that has gone on, what has been witnessed is nothing more than an unalterably cyclical tragedy.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014
The Lion in Winter
Colony Theatre
Strong performances benefit Colony Theater’s production of The Lion in Winter. Having to walk in shoes most famously worn by Katharine Hepburn (who won a 1968 Oscar for her performance in the film version) must have been a daunting task for Mariette Hartley, but Hartley’s self-assured assessment of Eleanor of Aquitaine is sharp and memorable. She leads a strong ensemble, including Ian Buchanan as the cocky King Henry II and her real-life daughter, Justine Hartley, as Henry’s aggravated mistress.
Based on historical characters but mostly formed with conjecture, James Goldman’s play follows the king of England and his duplicitous family during Christmas 1183. Henry desperately wants to choose an heir to his throne, more out of ego than respect for his constituents. He has released his wife Eleanor from prison for the holidays, having locked her up in the first place for conspiring against him several times. Though Henry cherishes his nitwit youngest, John (Doug Plaut), and wishes the pimply boy to be king, Eleanor prefers their eldest, Richard (Brendan Ford). Their middle child, Geoffrey (Paul Turbiak), resents being no one’s favorite and makes sure that everyone is miserable. With each plotting against the other while spewing lies and intrigue, this historical tale resembles a soap opera more than it does a segment from a high school history book.
The Lion in Winter is populist historical fare for those who usually don’t enjoy dry historical dramas like A Man for All Seasons. Filled with sarcasm and farcical elements found in sitcoms, the play keeps audiences alert. The dialogue stings as the characters wield their lines like sabers. One scene, involving several characters hiding in closets listening to others conspire against them, is more apropos of Noises Off than it is of Anne of the Thousand Days. Goldman’s script drags a bit in Act 2 when audiences, fully aware at this point that there is no truth in anyone’s words, may find the backstabbing repetitive.
Director Stephanie Vlahos brings an operatic sensibility to the work. The mostly Celtic music—a combination of classical, folk and the modern sounds of Björk and The Velvet Underground—sets the mood of something foreign and yet contemporary. She blocks the actors like chess pieces, something each is compared to at different moments in the text. She allows the actors to be grand in their gestures to enunciate their characters’ flagrant fallaciousness. This works mostly with the more-seasoned stars. Vlahos could have reigned in the nonverbal techniques of several of the younger actors, particularly Turbiak, with his constant glare that resembles a cartoon villain’s, and Plaut, whose sloe-eyed glances are reminiscent of a helium balloon about to pop.
But Turbiak and Plaut boldly convey their characters through dialogue, revealing a cunning twisted sense of humor and immaturity perfect for the spoiled sons. As the more heroic Richard the Lionheart, Ford commands the stage, projecting the stalwartness of a military leader but with the insecurity of one who knows daddy doesn’t love him. As the 18-year-old King Philip, Paul David Story adeptly plays a man-child given responsibility too early, who saw how leadership destroyed his beloved father. He uses his floppy hair and playground smugness to portray a bratty ruler. Justine Hartley, as the mistress being used as a pawn to broker a deal with France, has striking stage presence. She carries her scenes like a veteran, treating Alais like a human being surrounded by lethal toy soldiers.
Buchanan bellows orders and connives like a man who knows his whims are the law of the land; if he wanted to make everyone walk on their hands 24 hours a day, he has that power. He also expresses the plutocratic posturing of someone who betrays everyone but is crestfallen when they strike back. Hartley plays Eleanor manipulatively like a viper, wrapping her body around her prey, comforting them with her warmth while secretly crushing them. She seems to delight in conspiring, treating it like a competitive sport.
Kate Bergh’s costumes, with robes and shawls, aptly place the audience in the 12th-century setting. The dress for Plaut and Story look pajama-like, reminding audiences this future king and current king are no more than children. David Potts’s set, with curtain rods to separate the rooms and three layers of arches, gives the small stage depth of field.
Colony Theatre
Strong performances benefit Colony Theater’s production of The Lion in Winter. Having to walk in shoes most famously worn by Katharine Hepburn (who won a 1968 Oscar for her performance in the film version) must have been a daunting task for Mariette Hartley, but Hartley’s self-assured assessment of Eleanor of Aquitaine is sharp and memorable. She leads a strong ensemble, including Ian Buchanan as the cocky King Henry II and her real-life daughter, Justine Hartley, as Henry’s aggravated mistress.
Based on historical characters but mostly formed with conjecture, James Goldman’s play follows the king of England and his duplicitous family during Christmas 1183. Henry desperately wants to choose an heir to his throne, more out of ego than respect for his constituents. He has released his wife Eleanor from prison for the holidays, having locked her up in the first place for conspiring against him several times. Though Henry cherishes his nitwit youngest, John (Doug Plaut), and wishes the pimply boy to be king, Eleanor prefers their eldest, Richard (Brendan Ford). Their middle child, Geoffrey (Paul Turbiak), resents being no one’s favorite and makes sure that everyone is miserable. With each plotting against the other while spewing lies and intrigue, this historical tale resembles a soap opera more than it does a segment from a high school history book.
The Lion in Winter is populist historical fare for those who usually don’t enjoy dry historical dramas like A Man for All Seasons. Filled with sarcasm and farcical elements found in sitcoms, the play keeps audiences alert. The dialogue stings as the characters wield their lines like sabers. One scene, involving several characters hiding in closets listening to others conspire against them, is more apropos of Noises Off than it is of Anne of the Thousand Days. Goldman’s script drags a bit in Act 2 when audiences, fully aware at this point that there is no truth in anyone’s words, may find the backstabbing repetitive.
Director Stephanie Vlahos brings an operatic sensibility to the work. The mostly Celtic music—a combination of classical, folk and the modern sounds of Björk and The Velvet Underground—sets the mood of something foreign and yet contemporary. She blocks the actors like chess pieces, something each is compared to at different moments in the text. She allows the actors to be grand in their gestures to enunciate their characters’ flagrant fallaciousness. This works mostly with the more-seasoned stars. Vlahos could have reigned in the nonverbal techniques of several of the younger actors, particularly Turbiak, with his constant glare that resembles a cartoon villain’s, and Plaut, whose sloe-eyed glances are reminiscent of a helium balloon about to pop.
But Turbiak and Plaut boldly convey their characters through dialogue, revealing a cunning twisted sense of humor and immaturity perfect for the spoiled sons. As the more heroic Richard the Lionheart, Ford commands the stage, projecting the stalwartness of a military leader but with the insecurity of one who knows daddy doesn’t love him. As the 18-year-old King Philip, Paul David Story adeptly plays a man-child given responsibility too early, who saw how leadership destroyed his beloved father. He uses his floppy hair and playground smugness to portray a bratty ruler. Justine Hartley, as the mistress being used as a pawn to broker a deal with France, has striking stage presence. She carries her scenes like a veteran, treating Alais like a human being surrounded by lethal toy soldiers.
Buchanan bellows orders and connives like a man who knows his whims are the law of the land; if he wanted to make everyone walk on their hands 24 hours a day, he has that power. He also expresses the plutocratic posturing of someone who betrays everyone but is crestfallen when they strike back. Hartley plays Eleanor manipulatively like a viper, wrapping her body around her prey, comforting them with her warmth while secretly crushing them. She seems to delight in conspiring, treating it like a competitive sport.
Kate Bergh’s costumes, with robes and shawls, aptly place the audience in the 12th-century setting. The dress for Plaut and Story look pajama-like, reminding audiences this future king and current king are no more than children. David Potts’s set, with curtain rods to separate the rooms and three layers of arches, gives the small stage depth of field.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014
Six Dance Lessons in Six Weeks
Laguna Playhouse
A special sort of magic occurs when a celebrated and much-loved star takes on a role in live theater. Such is the atmosphere at Laguna Playhouse’s current offering, starring Leslie Caron and the multitalented David Engel. The two-person vehicle sets up a sure-fire storyline. Lily, a former teacher and the widowed wife of a Southern Baptist preacher, hires a young dance instructor to provide the lessons of the title.
Their first encounter is rocky, as instructor Michael is brash and crude, and only an emotional appeal from the young man allows the lessons to continue. As the lessons progress, both characters begin an exchange of intimacies that furthers their burgeoning friendship.
Playwright Richard Alfieri has established two elements that make the play work. The first is the intriguing complexity of the byplay between the characters. There is humor, sorrow, and an increasing undercurrent of tenuous mistrust that has to be overcome. The second is the opportunity for the characters to demonstrate their facility in dance: swing, tango, waltz, foxtrot, cha cha, and modern.
Considering Caron’s work over a long and lauded career in musicals (An American in Paris, Daddy Longlegs, Lili, Gigi), seeing this winsome octogenarian rise to the occasion as she dances with Engel, who gives as good as he gets, is captivating.
Director Michael Arabian wisely allows Engel a few charming solo moments, as all eyes gravitate to Caron as she executes the dances with her teacher. The technical aspects of the show enhance the pleasure in the production.
Set designer John Iacovelli’s fashionable ocean-front Florida condo easily establishes the dichotomy of the separate worlds of the pair as the play opens. Costume designer Kate Bergh pulls out all the stops for each of the dance segments. The petite Caron’s gowns, reminiscent of Hollywood’s Golden Era, are colorful, glamorous, and eye-catching. In particular, a black lace gown for the tango and a filmy full-length dress for the waltz are standouts. Not to be outdone, Engel is stylishly shod and outfitted with appropriate clothing for each of the dance styles. His handsome good looks are a perfect complement to Caron’s graceful chic.
Lighting designer D Martyn Bookwalter creates a romantic mood with soft lights and an ever-changing sky beyond the wrap-around condo windows. His lighting design for the conclusion of the show speaks to the mood created by Alfieri’s life-affirming ending.
Aside from the play’s musical dance lessons, sound designer Philip G. Allen’s background music references a happy past with such tunes as the Andrews sisters “Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen” and Dean Martin’s “Mambo Italiano.” Sound, music, costumes, and lighting are well-synchronized. The original choreographer and musical stager, Broadway’s Donna McKechnie, makes the most of the lessons, and Engel and Caron are shown at best advantage.
The demanding nature of the dialogue and dance are a challenge to any actor. There are a number of endearing moments when Caron uses her considerable dramatic and comedic prowess to enhance a scene, and Engel shows his vulnerability and humanity. Arabian’s direction makes realistic the somewhat improbable nature of the story.
While the ending is tinged with sadness, Alfieri leaves the audience with a sense of hope for the future of the characters. Caron and Engel capture both the fragility and tenacity of the human condition.
Laguna Playhouse
A special sort of magic occurs when a celebrated and much-loved star takes on a role in live theater. Such is the atmosphere at Laguna Playhouse’s current offering, starring Leslie Caron and the multitalented David Engel. The two-person vehicle sets up a sure-fire storyline. Lily, a former teacher and the widowed wife of a Southern Baptist preacher, hires a young dance instructor to provide the lessons of the title.
Their first encounter is rocky, as instructor Michael is brash and crude, and only an emotional appeal from the young man allows the lessons to continue. As the lessons progress, both characters begin an exchange of intimacies that furthers their burgeoning friendship.
Playwright Richard Alfieri has established two elements that make the play work. The first is the intriguing complexity of the byplay between the characters. There is humor, sorrow, and an increasing undercurrent of tenuous mistrust that has to be overcome. The second is the opportunity for the characters to demonstrate their facility in dance: swing, tango, waltz, foxtrot, cha cha, and modern.
Considering Caron’s work over a long and lauded career in musicals (An American in Paris, Daddy Longlegs, Lili, Gigi), seeing this winsome octogenarian rise to the occasion as she dances with Engel, who gives as good as he gets, is captivating.
Director Michael Arabian wisely allows Engel a few charming solo moments, as all eyes gravitate to Caron as she executes the dances with her teacher. The technical aspects of the show enhance the pleasure in the production.
Set designer John Iacovelli’s fashionable ocean-front Florida condo easily establishes the dichotomy of the separate worlds of the pair as the play opens. Costume designer Kate Bergh pulls out all the stops for each of the dance segments. The petite Caron’s gowns, reminiscent of Hollywood’s Golden Era, are colorful, glamorous, and eye-catching. In particular, a black lace gown for the tango and a filmy full-length dress for the waltz are standouts. Not to be outdone, Engel is stylishly shod and outfitted with appropriate clothing for each of the dance styles. His handsome good looks are a perfect complement to Caron’s graceful chic.
Lighting designer D Martyn Bookwalter creates a romantic mood with soft lights and an ever-changing sky beyond the wrap-around condo windows. His lighting design for the conclusion of the show speaks to the mood created by Alfieri’s life-affirming ending.
Aside from the play’s musical dance lessons, sound designer Philip G. Allen’s background music references a happy past with such tunes as the Andrews sisters “Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen” and Dean Martin’s “Mambo Italiano.” Sound, music, costumes, and lighting are well-synchronized. The original choreographer and musical stager, Broadway’s Donna McKechnie, makes the most of the lessons, and Engel and Caron are shown at best advantage.
The demanding nature of the dialogue and dance are a challenge to any actor. There are a number of endearing moments when Caron uses her considerable dramatic and comedic prowess to enhance a scene, and Engel shows his vulnerability and humanity. Arabian’s direction makes realistic the somewhat improbable nature of the story.
While the ending is tinged with sadness, Alfieri leaves the audience with a sense of hope for the future of the characters. Caron and Engel capture both the fragility and tenacity of the human condition.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014
Be a Good Little Widow
Caroline Aaron & Larisa Oleynik at NoHo Arts Center
Playwright Bekah Brunstetter offers a finely detailed, deeply affecting sojourn within the socio-emotional evolution of Melody (Larisa Oleynik), a young woman who was struggling to adjust to marriage and must now figure out how to cope with life after the sudden death of her husband Craig (Donovan Patton), complicated by the relentless disapproval of her rigidly stoic mother-in-law, Hope (Caroline Aaron). Helmer Sara Botsford admirably guides a four-member ensemble through every evolution in Melody’s journey, hindered only by Lacey Anzelc’s crowded living room setting that looks like it belongs in a different play.
Brunstetter creates a compelling setup for the tragedy that follows. Still getting used to being yanked away from the comfortable Colorado environs of her childhood, Melody tries to make the best of living in a cramped little house in Connecticut, mostly going solo while her upwardly mobile corporate lawyer groom jets his way around the country, making deals. Although the couple’s limited together time is often challenged by the competing demands of hubby’s BlackBerry, Oleynik and Patton exude an attractive, humor-filled romanticism that gives every evidence of achieving lasting success. Even mother-in-law Hope’s blatant dismissal of Melody as being not ready for primetime marriage is just another stitch in the fabric of this couple’s promising future life together.
The plane crash that takes Craig’s life not only reduces Melody to the level of babbling catatonia, it unleashes the monster that is Craig’s grieving mother, who has spent a lifetime stifling her emotions and now has no other way of coping but to take charge of everything, including her son’s incapable young widow. Botsford masterfully guides the evolution of both these women to the reconciliation that saves both their lives. Of course, she has masterful talent to work with.
In a finely layered portrayal, Oleynik’s Melody poignantly evolves from callow child bride, struggling to find comfort in her own skin and achieve stability as a wife, to a mature, worthy soul, transcending the grief of losing her husband while managing to bring comfort and solace to her formerly disapproving mother-in-law.
Without saying a word, Aaron’s Hope projects disapproval and condescension like a laser, achieving its intended objective of overpowering Melody and turning her son into an apologetic boy. But when at last the weight and depth of this horrific finality of life overcomes her, Aaron achieves a level of bottomless sorrow that emanates from a place beyond Hope’s consciousness.
Patton exudes the confident exuberance of the one person who doesn’t have to live through the tragedy that befalls the people he loves. His Craig also achieves a delicate balance between just enough emotional superiority over Melody to keep her slightly off-balance and a mild diffidence to his mother to make her believe he really cares about her concerns.
Although this is a uniformly fine ensemble, special mention must go to Trey McCurley’s captivating portrayal of Craig’s pseudo-goofy office assistant Brad, who incorporates all the assets of being an adult without the emotionally maturity to back it up. His portrayal serves as a measuring stick to the growth of Melody, who at first treats him like a pal and then is forced to put him in his place when she recognizes his unabashed attraction to her.
Be A Good Little Widow gives every evidence of Brunstetter as an emerging playwriting talent. The only flaw in this work is the overuse of deceased Craig as a clarifying specter in Melody’s mind. It isn’t needed. And, the strangely decorated living room setting looks more like one of the close-up card-trick rooms in Magic Castle than like the residence of a young married couple.
Caroline Aaron & Larisa Oleynik at NoHo Arts Center
Playwright Bekah Brunstetter offers a finely detailed, deeply affecting sojourn within the socio-emotional evolution of Melody (Larisa Oleynik), a young woman who was struggling to adjust to marriage and must now figure out how to cope with life after the sudden death of her husband Craig (Donovan Patton), complicated by the relentless disapproval of her rigidly stoic mother-in-law, Hope (Caroline Aaron). Helmer Sara Botsford admirably guides a four-member ensemble through every evolution in Melody’s journey, hindered only by Lacey Anzelc’s crowded living room setting that looks like it belongs in a different play.
Brunstetter creates a compelling setup for the tragedy that follows. Still getting used to being yanked away from the comfortable Colorado environs of her childhood, Melody tries to make the best of living in a cramped little house in Connecticut, mostly going solo while her upwardly mobile corporate lawyer groom jets his way around the country, making deals. Although the couple’s limited together time is often challenged by the competing demands of hubby’s BlackBerry, Oleynik and Patton exude an attractive, humor-filled romanticism that gives every evidence of achieving lasting success. Even mother-in-law Hope’s blatant dismissal of Melody as being not ready for primetime marriage is just another stitch in the fabric of this couple’s promising future life together.
The plane crash that takes Craig’s life not only reduces Melody to the level of babbling catatonia, it unleashes the monster that is Craig’s grieving mother, who has spent a lifetime stifling her emotions and now has no other way of coping but to take charge of everything, including her son’s incapable young widow. Botsford masterfully guides the evolution of both these women to the reconciliation that saves both their lives. Of course, she has masterful talent to work with.
In a finely layered portrayal, Oleynik’s Melody poignantly evolves from callow child bride, struggling to find comfort in her own skin and achieve stability as a wife, to a mature, worthy soul, transcending the grief of losing her husband while managing to bring comfort and solace to her formerly disapproving mother-in-law.
Without saying a word, Aaron’s Hope projects disapproval and condescension like a laser, achieving its intended objective of overpowering Melody and turning her son into an apologetic boy. But when at last the weight and depth of this horrific finality of life overcomes her, Aaron achieves a level of bottomless sorrow that emanates from a place beyond Hope’s consciousness.
Patton exudes the confident exuberance of the one person who doesn’t have to live through the tragedy that befalls the people he loves. His Craig also achieves a delicate balance between just enough emotional superiority over Melody to keep her slightly off-balance and a mild diffidence to his mother to make her believe he really cares about her concerns.
Although this is a uniformly fine ensemble, special mention must go to Trey McCurley’s captivating portrayal of Craig’s pseudo-goofy office assistant Brad, who incorporates all the assets of being an adult without the emotionally maturity to back it up. His portrayal serves as a measuring stick to the growth of Melody, who at first treats him like a pal and then is forced to put him in his place when she recognizes his unabashed attraction to her.
Be A Good Little Widow gives every evidence of Brunstetter as an emerging playwriting talent. The only flaw in this work is the overuse of deceased Craig as a clarifying specter in Melody’s mind. It isn’t needed. And, the strangely decorated living room setting looks more like one of the close-up card-trick rooms in Magic Castle than like the residence of a young married couple.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014
Into the Woods
3D Theatricals at Plummer Auditorium
3D Theatricals has been pulling off ambitious offerings in its spacious Plummer Auditorium digs in Fullerton. I wasn’t able to catch 2013’s acclaimed Parade, though early this year I thoroughly enjoyed a fresh and clever The Producers. The Dawsons—the family who are the 3 D’s—seem to be smart, well-funded, and committed to revisiting musicals with integrity, taste, and talent, characteristics amply present in their current offering of James Lapine and Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods. Indeed, several of the choice roles in this musical classic were played better than I’ve ever seen them, out of six or seven productions.
Nonetheless, a certain amount of overreach may have set in. The most obvious problem is Julie Ferrin’s sound design, which at Sunday’s matinee turned Sondheim’s intricate, tongue-twisty, rap-influenced lyrics into word-and-sound puzzles even the most skillful cryptologist would be hard-pressed to unravel on the fly. Producer-director TJ Dawson spoke with understandable pride during the preshow about Julie Lamoureux’s 15-piece orchestra, though the balance is way off, and accompaniment and singers often seem to be fighting each other to a draw. (If you already know the words, you have a leg up, but any first timer to the score had better wait for the December movie version.)
The physical production seems out of control as well, judging by Sunday’s mistimed lighting cues and tentative, ill-timed set changes. (Some of the shadowy night creatures in this fairy tale pastiche wore all-black outfits and headsets, put it that way.) Much is made of a huge, central set piece with ramps and levels spinning on a turntable, yet the stage space is hardly transformed thereby. Throughout the show’s almost three hours, there are major disjunctions between the efforts expended and the results obtained.
Of course there are beautiful effects as well: Designer Tom Buderwitz and lighting whiz Jean-Yves Tessier always have visual jaw-droppers readily up their sleeves. But what’s the effect on a show when the ensemble clearly has so much to deal with, beyond the sheer demands of acting and singing? Actors’ footing—already made tenuous by the need to cope with the complexities of Lapine’s book and Sondheim’s songs—is imperiled when trees are sliding in and out seemingly at random or a turntable gets stuck. Add in all the massive costume changes and prop concerns, and blocking that sends actors all over the auditorium, and it becomes most difficult for the spectator to sit back and relax with full confidence in the show’s machinery.
For whatever reasons, reliables like Bets Malone and Jeff Skowron seem off their game in this context: She never gets a fix on the Witch’s complicated emotional motivations; and the moment late in Act 2, when the hearty Baker’s optimism fails him and he lashes out at his friends, lacks the expected crackle.
On the other hand, Jeanette Dawson (they’re everywhere, those D’s) is a heartbreakingly real Cinderella, and winning Julie Morgentaler and dashing Jordan Lamoureux make the most of every moment as, respectively, Red Riding Hood and Jack (of beanstalk fame). These three performances in particular seemed remarkably relaxed and centered; it’s to be hoped that as the production settles into its full run through May 18, all of the gifted cast will settle in with similar effectiveness.
The point, though, is that overproduction is by no means a requirement for an effective Into the Woods. After the huge and star-studded 1987 original, a 2002 revival gave director Lapine the opportunity to scale everything back except emotionality and clarity, which in turn were both greatly enhanced. For my money, the show’s virtues shone as never before, but at the very least 2002 proved that this particular musical could be successfully mounted with economy of means yet expanse of vision.
I so wish 3D had followed that second production’s lead and invested more of its once-upon-a-time in simply telling the story.
3D Theatricals at Plummer Auditorium
3D Theatricals has been pulling off ambitious offerings in its spacious Plummer Auditorium digs in Fullerton. I wasn’t able to catch 2013’s acclaimed Parade, though early this year I thoroughly enjoyed a fresh and clever The Producers. The Dawsons—the family who are the 3 D’s—seem to be smart, well-funded, and committed to revisiting musicals with integrity, taste, and talent, characteristics amply present in their current offering of James Lapine and Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods. Indeed, several of the choice roles in this musical classic were played better than I’ve ever seen them, out of six or seven productions.
Nonetheless, a certain amount of overreach may have set in. The most obvious problem is Julie Ferrin’s sound design, which at Sunday’s matinee turned Sondheim’s intricate, tongue-twisty, rap-influenced lyrics into word-and-sound puzzles even the most skillful cryptologist would be hard-pressed to unravel on the fly. Producer-director TJ Dawson spoke with understandable pride during the preshow about Julie Lamoureux’s 15-piece orchestra, though the balance is way off, and accompaniment and singers often seem to be fighting each other to a draw. (If you already know the words, you have a leg up, but any first timer to the score had better wait for the December movie version.)
The physical production seems out of control as well, judging by Sunday’s mistimed lighting cues and tentative, ill-timed set changes. (Some of the shadowy night creatures in this fairy tale pastiche wore all-black outfits and headsets, put it that way.) Much is made of a huge, central set piece with ramps and levels spinning on a turntable, yet the stage space is hardly transformed thereby. Throughout the show’s almost three hours, there are major disjunctions between the efforts expended and the results obtained.
Of course there are beautiful effects as well: Designer Tom Buderwitz and lighting whiz Jean-Yves Tessier always have visual jaw-droppers readily up their sleeves. But what’s the effect on a show when the ensemble clearly has so much to deal with, beyond the sheer demands of acting and singing? Actors’ footing—already made tenuous by the need to cope with the complexities of Lapine’s book and Sondheim’s songs—is imperiled when trees are sliding in and out seemingly at random or a turntable gets stuck. Add in all the massive costume changes and prop concerns, and blocking that sends actors all over the auditorium, and it becomes most difficult for the spectator to sit back and relax with full confidence in the show’s machinery.
For whatever reasons, reliables like Bets Malone and Jeff Skowron seem off their game in this context: She never gets a fix on the Witch’s complicated emotional motivations; and the moment late in Act 2, when the hearty Baker’s optimism fails him and he lashes out at his friends, lacks the expected crackle.
On the other hand, Jeanette Dawson (they’re everywhere, those D’s) is a heartbreakingly real Cinderella, and winning Julie Morgentaler and dashing Jordan Lamoureux make the most of every moment as, respectively, Red Riding Hood and Jack (of beanstalk fame). These three performances in particular seemed remarkably relaxed and centered; it’s to be hoped that as the production settles into its full run through May 18, all of the gifted cast will settle in with similar effectiveness.
The point, though, is that overproduction is by no means a requirement for an effective Into the Woods. After the huge and star-studded 1987 original, a 2002 revival gave director Lapine the opportunity to scale everything back except emotionality and clarity, which in turn were both greatly enhanced. For my money, the show’s virtues shone as never before, but at the very least 2002 proved that this particular musical could be successfully mounted with economy of means yet expanse of vision.
I so wish 3D had followed that second production’s lead and invested more of its once-upon-a-time in simply telling the story.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014
Cats
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts & McCoy Rigby Entertainment
Andrew Lloyd Webber and Trevor Nunn’s revue didn’t live up to its promise, or was it threat, to run “now and forever” at Broadway’s Winter Garden. However, as long as there are cat fanciers among theatergoers, and young dancers willing to challenge their limbs and joints to the limit, the musical setting of T.S. Eliot’s cat-celebration poems won’t soon come to the end of its nine lives.
Dana Solimando’s staging at La Mirada is about as lavish and enjoyable as Cats gets, on a grand junkyard setting from Peter Barbieri Jr. that’s lit by Jean-Yves Tessier to maximize the magic and bring out the tiny details. John Glaudini’s 14-piece orchestra does lovingly by Lloyd Webber’s Puccini-esque melodies and familiar orchestrations.
If there doesn’t seem to be much variation among the feline behaviors exhibited by the cast of 23, at least they all seem 110 percent committed to what they’re doing. (Nothing kills Cats faster than the campy detachment of a snobbish ensemble who can’t be bothered to hide their disdain for the material.) No weak links here, and a few are definite standouts: American Idol finalist (Season 9) Todrick Hall is a shaggy showstopper as Rum Tum Tugger; Dane Wagner dazzles as Mr. Mistoffelees; and Steven Agdeppa’s Mungojerrie and Hannah Jean Simmons’s Rumpleteazer milk every possible bit of wit out of their sneaky double act.
This production won’t change any Cats-haters’ minds. What version could? But it could inspire quite a few theatergoers—not to mention dancers—in the years ahead, judging by the glowing eyes and irrepressible grins of the numerous youngsters in attendance.
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts & McCoy Rigby Entertainment
Andrew Lloyd Webber and Trevor Nunn’s revue didn’t live up to its promise, or was it threat, to run “now and forever” at Broadway’s Winter Garden. However, as long as there are cat fanciers among theatergoers, and young dancers willing to challenge their limbs and joints to the limit, the musical setting of T.S. Eliot’s cat-celebration poems won’t soon come to the end of its nine lives.
Dana Solimando’s staging at La Mirada is about as lavish and enjoyable as Cats gets, on a grand junkyard setting from Peter Barbieri Jr. that’s lit by Jean-Yves Tessier to maximize the magic and bring out the tiny details. John Glaudini’s 14-piece orchestra does lovingly by Lloyd Webber’s Puccini-esque melodies and familiar orchestrations.
If there doesn’t seem to be much variation among the feline behaviors exhibited by the cast of 23, at least they all seem 110 percent committed to what they’re doing. (Nothing kills Cats faster than the campy detachment of a snobbish ensemble who can’t be bothered to hide their disdain for the material.) No weak links here, and a few are definite standouts: American Idol finalist (Season 9) Todrick Hall is a shaggy showstopper as Rum Tum Tugger; Dane Wagner dazzles as Mr. Mistoffelees; and Steven Agdeppa’s Mungojerrie and Hannah Jean Simmons’s Rumpleteazer milk every possible bit of wit out of their sneaky double act.
This production won’t change any Cats-haters’ minds. What version could? But it could inspire quite a few theatergoers—not to mention dancers—in the years ahead, judging by the glowing eyes and irrepressible grins of the numerous youngsters in attendance.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014
Man in a Case
Broad Stage
The works of Anton Chekhov, arguably one of the greatest writers of short fiction, have been twisted and bent into countless play productions, attempting either to capture the soul of the work or to find an inventive approach that speaks to theatrical craft. Baryshnikov Productions’s conception of the stories at Broad Stage appears to be trying to do both and have moderate success in the main. The two stories chosen are “Man in a Case” and “About Love,” lasting 75 minutes without an intermission.
The stage is open, men sitting at a long table, stage right. Their conversation leads to the story of a stiff and unappealing schoolteacher, Belikov (Mikhail Baryshnikov), whose apartment inhabits stage left and is imaginatively depicted (set by Peter Ksander) with multiple door locks and television monitors adorning the space. A bed is central, overhung by a white curtain that can engulf it to further isolate Belikov. His rigid posture and austere manner cause other teachers and students to fear him, but he is captivated by a whimsical young woman (Tymberly Canale) on a bicycle, leading to Chekhov’s melancholy and predictable end.
Directed by Annie-B Parson and Paul Lazar (who also co-adapted the stories), the stagecraft almost overwhelms the storyline as video projections scattered around the stage demand attention, and it is only Baryshnikov’s disciplined star quality that keeps the focus on him. Other actors—Jess Barbagallo, Chris Giarmo, and Aaron Mattocks—flesh out the story and add to the well-choreographed (Parson) movements of each character.
“About Love” is much simpler, a tale of a man in love with a married woman and their unrequited love. Though it has a lesser impact, it is more lyrical and sympathetic.
The production is enjoyable, probably due more to Baryshnikov’s skillful stage presence than the work itself. Watching from a distance in the large space leads to a detachment from the work. It might carry a greater impact in a smaller theater. Nonetheless, it is pleasurable to watch Baryshnikov work, and the theatricality of the work is an interesting take on Chekhov’s stories.
Broad Stage
The works of Anton Chekhov, arguably one of the greatest writers of short fiction, have been twisted and bent into countless play productions, attempting either to capture the soul of the work or to find an inventive approach that speaks to theatrical craft. Baryshnikov Productions’s conception of the stories at Broad Stage appears to be trying to do both and have moderate success in the main. The two stories chosen are “Man in a Case” and “About Love,” lasting 75 minutes without an intermission.
The stage is open, men sitting at a long table, stage right. Their conversation leads to the story of a stiff and unappealing schoolteacher, Belikov (Mikhail Baryshnikov), whose apartment inhabits stage left and is imaginatively depicted (set by Peter Ksander) with multiple door locks and television monitors adorning the space. A bed is central, overhung by a white curtain that can engulf it to further isolate Belikov. His rigid posture and austere manner cause other teachers and students to fear him, but he is captivated by a whimsical young woman (Tymberly Canale) on a bicycle, leading to Chekhov’s melancholy and predictable end.
Directed by Annie-B Parson and Paul Lazar (who also co-adapted the stories), the stagecraft almost overwhelms the storyline as video projections scattered around the stage demand attention, and it is only Baryshnikov’s disciplined star quality that keeps the focus on him. Other actors—Jess Barbagallo, Chris Giarmo, and Aaron Mattocks—flesh out the story and add to the well-choreographed (Parson) movements of each character.
“About Love” is much simpler, a tale of a man in love with a married woman and their unrequited love. Though it has a lesser impact, it is more lyrical and sympathetic.
The production is enjoyable, probably due more to Baryshnikov’s skillful stage presence than the work itself. Watching from a distance in the large space leads to a detachment from the work. It might carry a greater impact in a smaller theater. Nonetheless, it is pleasurable to watch Baryshnikov work, and the theatricality of the work is an interesting take on Chekhov’s stories.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014
The Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess
Ahmanson Theatre
George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess (with libretto and lyrics by Dorothy and Dubose Heyward and Ira Gershwin) has an astonishingly long and varied production history, and it has repeatedly been sliced and diced according to the taste of its producers and directors. George Gershwin’s orchestrations have been adapted and tampered with, and the original recitatives have often been replaced with spoken dialogue, making hash of Gershwin’s leitmotifs. Gershwin called his work a folk opera, but snobbish classical music critics derided the notion, at least until the Houston Grand Opera production in 1976 restored the original score (including elements Gershwin had cut prior to the 1935 Broadway production) and forced a reassessment.
The piece stirred up racial controversy, as well, as some black writers and performers considered it racially impure, declaring that a white composer had no right to write about black characters and claiming it demeaned the race. But somehow the sheer indestructible beauty of the score, and the vitality of its productions, have kept it afloat and popular, and allowed it to survive its critics.
The Gershwin estate and others have long wanted to see it produced as a Broadway musical rather than an opera—a desire that seems to be rooted as much in economics as in artistic considerations—and now they have gotten their wish. Under the aegis of director Diane Paulus, Suzan-Lori Parks has adapted the piece, replacing the recitatives with spoken dialogue of her own, and Diedre L. Murray has adapted the score. This version made a successful return trip to Broadway and no doubt has introduced the work to many new audiences. But the price has been high, and many of the values of the original have been lost.
The first casualty is the set. Here’s how it was described in the Heyward’s 1927 play Porgy, one of the original sources for the work: “…the court of Catfish Row, now a Negro tenement in a fallen quarter of Charleston, but in Colonial days one of the finest buildings of the aristocracy.” Most earlier productions have been more or less faithful to that description, providing sets of faded grandeur, which gave atmosphere, beauty, and a richly varied environment. In the 1952 touring production—which starred William Warfield, Leontyne Price, and Cab Calloway—the set was not only gorgeous but it was also an active participant in the action, particularly during the arrival of the hurricane, when it was pervaded by the eerie stillness of the calm before the storm, followed by the light wind that rattled the shutters and stirred the hanging sign over Mariah’s cook-house, and building into the electrifying crescendo of the storm. But here we must settle for Riccardo Hernandez’s drab, uninteresting, two-dimensional backdrop of blank panels and what look like photos of a warehouse for old furniture. The acting area is reduced to a single plane, forcing conventional groupings in the ensemble scenes.
Perhaps most disconcerting is the overlaying of showbiz pizzazz on the piece, with musical-comedy staging, timing, and lighting at the end of the numbers, replacing the flow of the score with a series of set pieces.
Act 1 survives all the tampering with many of its values intact, despite peculiarly lush costumes by ESosa. In a milieu where contributions from the whole community fail to provide enough money for a funeral, the ladies turn up in stylish floral prints for the picnic on Kittiwah Island. But in Act 2, the action seems unfocused, and, given the decision by Paulus and Parks to play most of the action in the square, we’re not always sure where we are. Staging in the later scenes seems muddled and confusing, spoken dialogue is often obscured by storm effects and orchestrations, and songs and arias of proven power seem curiously inconsequential.
Nevertheless, despite these reservations, the production is worth seeing. The beauty of the score can’t be obscured, and some of the performances and ensembles have genuine power, as in “Gone, Gone, Gone,” and “Fill Up the Saucer Till It Overflows.” Nathaniel Stampley as Porgy and Alicia Hall Moran as Bess provide a stirring rendition of “Bess, You Is My Woman Now.” Sumayya Ali, as Clara, delivers a soaring “Summertime,” and, as Serena, Denisha Ballew brings vocal and dramatic power to “My Man’s Gone Now.” Danielle Lee Greaves is an energetic Mariah. And Kingsley Leggs delivers a lively Sportin’ Life, though he’s a bit short on charisma.
Ahmanson Theatre
George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess (with libretto and lyrics by Dorothy and Dubose Heyward and Ira Gershwin) has an astonishingly long and varied production history, and it has repeatedly been sliced and diced according to the taste of its producers and directors. George Gershwin’s orchestrations have been adapted and tampered with, and the original recitatives have often been replaced with spoken dialogue, making hash of Gershwin’s leitmotifs. Gershwin called his work a folk opera, but snobbish classical music critics derided the notion, at least until the Houston Grand Opera production in 1976 restored the original score (including elements Gershwin had cut prior to the 1935 Broadway production) and forced a reassessment.
The piece stirred up racial controversy, as well, as some black writers and performers considered it racially impure, declaring that a white composer had no right to write about black characters and claiming it demeaned the race. But somehow the sheer indestructible beauty of the score, and the vitality of its productions, have kept it afloat and popular, and allowed it to survive its critics.
The Gershwin estate and others have long wanted to see it produced as a Broadway musical rather than an opera—a desire that seems to be rooted as much in economics as in artistic considerations—and now they have gotten their wish. Under the aegis of director Diane Paulus, Suzan-Lori Parks has adapted the piece, replacing the recitatives with spoken dialogue of her own, and Diedre L. Murray has adapted the score. This version made a successful return trip to Broadway and no doubt has introduced the work to many new audiences. But the price has been high, and many of the values of the original have been lost.
The first casualty is the set. Here’s how it was described in the Heyward’s 1927 play Porgy, one of the original sources for the work: “…the court of Catfish Row, now a Negro tenement in a fallen quarter of Charleston, but in Colonial days one of the finest buildings of the aristocracy.” Most earlier productions have been more or less faithful to that description, providing sets of faded grandeur, which gave atmosphere, beauty, and a richly varied environment. In the 1952 touring production—which starred William Warfield, Leontyne Price, and Cab Calloway—the set was not only gorgeous but it was also an active participant in the action, particularly during the arrival of the hurricane, when it was pervaded by the eerie stillness of the calm before the storm, followed by the light wind that rattled the shutters and stirred the hanging sign over Mariah’s cook-house, and building into the electrifying crescendo of the storm. But here we must settle for Riccardo Hernandez’s drab, uninteresting, two-dimensional backdrop of blank panels and what look like photos of a warehouse for old furniture. The acting area is reduced to a single plane, forcing conventional groupings in the ensemble scenes.
Perhaps most disconcerting is the overlaying of showbiz pizzazz on the piece, with musical-comedy staging, timing, and lighting at the end of the numbers, replacing the flow of the score with a series of set pieces.
Act 1 survives all the tampering with many of its values intact, despite peculiarly lush costumes by ESosa. In a milieu where contributions from the whole community fail to provide enough money for a funeral, the ladies turn up in stylish floral prints for the picnic on Kittiwah Island. But in Act 2, the action seems unfocused, and, given the decision by Paulus and Parks to play most of the action in the square, we’re not always sure where we are. Staging in the later scenes seems muddled and confusing, spoken dialogue is often obscured by storm effects and orchestrations, and songs and arias of proven power seem curiously inconsequential.
Nevertheless, despite these reservations, the production is worth seeing. The beauty of the score can’t be obscured, and some of the performances and ensembles have genuine power, as in “Gone, Gone, Gone,” and “Fill Up the Saucer Till It Overflows.” Nathaniel Stampley as Porgy and Alicia Hall Moran as Bess provide a stirring rendition of “Bess, You Is My Woman Now.” Sumayya Ali, as Clara, delivers a soaring “Summertime,” and, as Serena, Denisha Ballew brings vocal and dramatic power to “My Man’s Gone Now.” Danielle Lee Greaves is an energetic Mariah. And Kingsley Leggs delivers a lively Sportin’ Life, though he’s a bit short on charisma.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
April 28, 2014
April 28, 2014
The Drowsy Chaperone
The Norris Center for the Performing Arts
If you have never seen a musical and hoped you never would, perhaps it’s time to venture into the world of The Drowsy Chaperone, a charmer of nonstop pep. If, however, you are mad for musicals and not only spot the tropes but also relish them, this luscious spoof is for you, too.
Our host for the evening, so self-effacing he’s known only as Man in Chair, shares with us his mania for musical theater, particularly the (fictitious) 1928 musical The Drowsy Chaperone. Man in Chair, however, is no shallow bit of fluff, nor is this show (book by Bob Martin and Don McKellar, music and lyrics by Lisa Lambert and Greg Morrison).
Man immediately proclaims, “I hate theater.” What this slightly but humorously depressed gentleman hates, it turns out, are annoying audience members. He prefers listening to cast recordings from the comfort of his well-worn easy chair in his dull-grey studio apartment. As he listens to a scratchy vinyl version of Drowsy and begins to recount the plot, the show comes to life in his room.
And, under the direction of James W. Gruessing Jr. at the Norris, it springs to a glorious, Technicolor, whirlwind of life. The show is cast beautifully, and, for the most part, Gruessing pulls perfectly calibrated, perfectly over-the-top portrayals from his many-threat performers.
Obviously spoofing 1920s and ’30s musicals, the scrumptiously convoluted plot of Drowsy as described by Man (Larry Raben) centers on musical-theater star Janet (Jessica Ernest), who seeks to retire from show business, to the distress of her producer, Feldzieg (Greg Nicholas), so she can marry her beau, Robert (Eric Michael Parker).
Janet is monitored by a chaperone (Tracy Lore), who, due to a fondness for vodka, is drowsy. Why a chaperone? No other character can belt those anthems, explains Man in Chair. Meanwhile, Robert is supported by his friend George (Chris Daniel), primarily so the two men can share a tap-dance number.
Feldzieg’s investors want the wedding called off, according to two gangsters, uh, pastry chefs (Adam Trent and John Wailin). To lure Janet away from Robert, Feldzieg sends in world-famous Latin lover Adolpho (Jeff Max). Even more eager to shove Janet out of showbiz is Feldzieg’s girlfriend Kitty (Noelle Marion). The shebang takes place at the opulent home of Mrs. Tottendale (Lindsay Brooks), tended by her faithful butler Underling (Danny Michaels).
Man explains the backstories, mocks the weak plot points, discounts the lame lyrics, debates the racism, and in general offers a clear-eyed commentary on the genre. Raben is acerbic yet welcoming as Man in Chair, who is fully aware of how much he geeks out over this musical, fully aware that his personal history will raise a few eyebrows. Get over it, Raben seems to tell us. Man is there to introduce us to the sacred and profane joys of art.
Ernest nicely handles the many skills required to play the übertalented Janet, but on opening night her voice was shrill and seemed to battle the otherwise excellent pit orchestra. Parker was in good voice, and he shows pleasing musicality. But two lovely surprises emerge here. Lindsay Martin sparkles in her dea ex machina role, arriving last-minute to belt the obligatory happy-ending song. And Marion astonishes as the ditzy Kitty, the skilled comedienne totally immersed in her role and delivering a solid vocal performance. Choreography by Ann Myers displays enchanting originality yet hews to the period.
For those who want a light evening out, this production hits the spot. But, for those who delight in a message, Drowsy provides them, too. Finding one’s passion, understanding one’s preferences for the virtual over real life, properly treasuring our history, knowing the difference between actors and the characters they play, and more—you can dig even deeper for the nuggets here and still walk away with a gladdened heart.
The Norris Center for the Performing Arts
If you have never seen a musical and hoped you never would, perhaps it’s time to venture into the world of The Drowsy Chaperone, a charmer of nonstop pep. If, however, you are mad for musicals and not only spot the tropes but also relish them, this luscious spoof is for you, too.
Our host for the evening, so self-effacing he’s known only as Man in Chair, shares with us his mania for musical theater, particularly the (fictitious) 1928 musical The Drowsy Chaperone. Man in Chair, however, is no shallow bit of fluff, nor is this show (book by Bob Martin and Don McKellar, music and lyrics by Lisa Lambert and Greg Morrison).
Man immediately proclaims, “I hate theater.” What this slightly but humorously depressed gentleman hates, it turns out, are annoying audience members. He prefers listening to cast recordings from the comfort of his well-worn easy chair in his dull-grey studio apartment. As he listens to a scratchy vinyl version of Drowsy and begins to recount the plot, the show comes to life in his room.
And, under the direction of James W. Gruessing Jr. at the Norris, it springs to a glorious, Technicolor, whirlwind of life. The show is cast beautifully, and, for the most part, Gruessing pulls perfectly calibrated, perfectly over-the-top portrayals from his many-threat performers.
Obviously spoofing 1920s and ’30s musicals, the scrumptiously convoluted plot of Drowsy as described by Man (Larry Raben) centers on musical-theater star Janet (Jessica Ernest), who seeks to retire from show business, to the distress of her producer, Feldzieg (Greg Nicholas), so she can marry her beau, Robert (Eric Michael Parker).
Janet is monitored by a chaperone (Tracy Lore), who, due to a fondness for vodka, is drowsy. Why a chaperone? No other character can belt those anthems, explains Man in Chair. Meanwhile, Robert is supported by his friend George (Chris Daniel), primarily so the two men can share a tap-dance number.
Feldzieg’s investors want the wedding called off, according to two gangsters, uh, pastry chefs (Adam Trent and John Wailin). To lure Janet away from Robert, Feldzieg sends in world-famous Latin lover Adolpho (Jeff Max). Even more eager to shove Janet out of showbiz is Feldzieg’s girlfriend Kitty (Noelle Marion). The shebang takes place at the opulent home of Mrs. Tottendale (Lindsay Brooks), tended by her faithful butler Underling (Danny Michaels).
Man explains the backstories, mocks the weak plot points, discounts the lame lyrics, debates the racism, and in general offers a clear-eyed commentary on the genre. Raben is acerbic yet welcoming as Man in Chair, who is fully aware of how much he geeks out over this musical, fully aware that his personal history will raise a few eyebrows. Get over it, Raben seems to tell us. Man is there to introduce us to the sacred and profane joys of art.
Ernest nicely handles the many skills required to play the übertalented Janet, but on opening night her voice was shrill and seemed to battle the otherwise excellent pit orchestra. Parker was in good voice, and he shows pleasing musicality. But two lovely surprises emerge here. Lindsay Martin sparkles in her dea ex machina role, arriving last-minute to belt the obligatory happy-ending song. And Marion astonishes as the ditzy Kitty, the skilled comedienne totally immersed in her role and delivering a solid vocal performance. Choreography by Ann Myers displays enchanting originality yet hews to the period.
For those who want a light evening out, this production hits the spot. But, for those who delight in a message, Drowsy provides them, too. Finding one’s passion, understanding one’s preferences for the virtual over real life, properly treasuring our history, knowing the difference between actors and the characters they play, and more—you can dig even deeper for the nuggets here and still walk away with a gladdened heart.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 28, 2014
April 28, 2014
Arsenic and Old Lace
Surf City Theatre Company at 2nd Story Theater, Hermosa Beach Playhouse
An apparently well-intentioned production of this black comedy came apart at its seams opening night, but it’s doubtful even time and the settling of nerves can ever pull it together.
In the play, New York theater critic Mortimer Brewster stops by the home of his two elderly aunts, Abby and Martha. He brings with him legal documents to institutionalize his brother Teddy, who fully believes he’s President Theodore Roosevelt. But Mortimer soon learns that his loveable aunts have been killing their boarders with arsenic-laced elderberry wine.
When third brother Jonathan arrives after a decades-long absence, Mortimer realizes Jonathan, too, is homicidal. Mortimer decides he and his family will endanger his wholesome girlfriend Elaine. Meanwhile, the police officers parading through the home are as outrageously inept as the family is deranged.
Joseph Kesselring’s script, penned in 1939, reworked by the successful writing team of Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, and first produced on Broadway in 1941, still has something to say about xenophobia, mental illness, and the generational effects of child abuse—if a director lets it. Unfortunately, Regan D. Floria neither burnishes the comedy nor lets the darkness come through.
This is an inescapably period piece, yet her actors perform without even a nod to the era. Her front door with its inset window would have served the actors well when called upon to see who’s outside, but Floria asked her actors to peer through a knick-knack on the wall instead, particularly troubling when the aunts hide behind that wall, clearly indicating it’s solid and not providing a view of the outside world.
And, yes, the running joke about Jonathan’s resemblance to Boris Karloff would have been a laugh-riot on Broadway, where said role was indeed played by Karloff. But here it falls flat, each and every time.
On opening night, the actor playing Abby couldn’t be counted on to remember her character’s name, let alone the names of other characters. That’s not merely forgetting lines, which happens in theater (probably more often than even avid theatergoers can spot), but instead a reflection of a lack of work with her director on characterization.
And so forth. And as if to prove the cast would have been better off with no director: James Jeffrey Caldwell was a late replacement, reportedly allowed a mere nine days to learn the role of Mortimer, and yet Caldwell is by far the most prepared, most comfortable actor on that stage.
Surf City Theatre Company at 2nd Story Theater, Hermosa Beach Playhouse
An apparently well-intentioned production of this black comedy came apart at its seams opening night, but it’s doubtful even time and the settling of nerves can ever pull it together.
In the play, New York theater critic Mortimer Brewster stops by the home of his two elderly aunts, Abby and Martha. He brings with him legal documents to institutionalize his brother Teddy, who fully believes he’s President Theodore Roosevelt. But Mortimer soon learns that his loveable aunts have been killing their boarders with arsenic-laced elderberry wine.
When third brother Jonathan arrives after a decades-long absence, Mortimer realizes Jonathan, too, is homicidal. Mortimer decides he and his family will endanger his wholesome girlfriend Elaine. Meanwhile, the police officers parading through the home are as outrageously inept as the family is deranged.
Joseph Kesselring’s script, penned in 1939, reworked by the successful writing team of Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, and first produced on Broadway in 1941, still has something to say about xenophobia, mental illness, and the generational effects of child abuse—if a director lets it. Unfortunately, Regan D. Floria neither burnishes the comedy nor lets the darkness come through.
This is an inescapably period piece, yet her actors perform without even a nod to the era. Her front door with its inset window would have served the actors well when called upon to see who’s outside, but Floria asked her actors to peer through a knick-knack on the wall instead, particularly troubling when the aunts hide behind that wall, clearly indicating it’s solid and not providing a view of the outside world.
And, yes, the running joke about Jonathan’s resemblance to Boris Karloff would have been a laugh-riot on Broadway, where said role was indeed played by Karloff. But here it falls flat, each and every time.
On opening night, the actor playing Abby couldn’t be counted on to remember her character’s name, let alone the names of other characters. That’s not merely forgetting lines, which happens in theater (probably more often than even avid theatergoers can spot), but instead a reflection of a lack of work with her director on characterization.
And so forth. And as if to prove the cast would have been better off with no director: James Jeffrey Caldwell was a late replacement, reportedly allowed a mere nine days to learn the role of Mortimer, and yet Caldwell is by far the most prepared, most comfortable actor on that stage.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 28, 2014
April 28, 2014
A Coffin in Egypt
Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
The legendary (it says so on the lobby cards) mezzo Frederica von Stade reasserts her claim to being the greatest actor among contemporary opera stars in Ricky Ian Gordon’s chamber piece A Coffin in Egypt, in town for a too-limited run. Horton Foote’s 1998 virtual monodrama for grande dame is as fertile a source for dramatization as was Jean Cocteau’s The Human Voice, musicalized by Francis Poulenc, and has much the same impact. Both, perhaps unsurprisingly for the medium, have adultery as a main plot concern. But Foote in Coffin also puts racial attitudes and murder front and center for added excitement, to which von Stade’s technique and wisdom are ideally suited.
In neither stage play nor opera is Myrtle Bledsoe a solo performer, though the few spoken encounters with others never threaten her ownership of the narrative. We meet her when she is age 90 in 1970 (1968, in Foote’s original text), a wealthy matriarch still restlessly occupying her late husband Hunter’s family home in Egypt, Texas. The mansion is the living “coffin” in which she paints and putters to pass the time, constantly turning back to reflect on key circumstances: unloving daughters, a serial-cheating husband, the killing for which he got off scot-free, years of exotic travel in Europe far from Hunter and his dusty plains, and, above all, a chance 1910 encounter with real-life theatrical impresario Charles Frohman.
The great man’s off-the-cuff compliment, that Myrtle was so lovely she should go on the stage, is the single recollection that, in her slowly unraveling mind, comes to stand in for the transcendence that went missing in her long, impossibly empty life. “We write our story,” she observes, “on the moments we let pass,” and “the problem with moments is that they usually don’t linger.” No, moments don’t. But hurts and heartaches and betrayals surely do.
Von Stade understands that Myrtle cannot be wholly sympathetic. The widow Bledsoe cops to being sexually and emotionally cold, and never seems to recognize the tenuousness of Frohman’s long-ago encouragement. More important, she consistently refers to Hunter’s longest-standing mistress as “Maude Jenkins the mulatto,” as though racial classification were inextricably bound to perfidy. Von Stade embodies all of Myrtle’s blindness and stubbornness while granting her the essential humanity of one for whom others’ betrayals were her daily cross to bear. Von Stade switches effortlessly among moods and ages. As lovely as Glynis Johns must have been in the play’s premiere (directed by the opera’s librettist and helmer Leonard Foglia), von Stade captures the special radiance unique to exquisite musical drama.
Gordon’s appropriately unpretentious music winds along melodically in the manner of Myrtle’s thoughts. It’s not especially Southern-flavored, which seems a missed opportunity, though he provides down-home flavor in the numbers assigned to gospeleers Cheryl D. Clansy, Laura Elizabeth Patterson, James M. Winslow, and Jawan CM Jenkins. Wandering in and out in choir robes, they don’t directly comment on the action but keep reminding us that life offers more potential for grace and fulfillment than Myrtle’s sorry saga might suggest. David Matranga (playing Hunter), Carolyn Johnson, and Adam Noble offer strong support in brief speaking roles, and Cecilia Duarte is a silent but beautifully eloquent presence as Myrtle’s helpmeet.
Foglia’s production is gorgeous, thanks to Riccardo Hernandez’s stunning set (rolling cotton fields displayed on giant curved scrolls) and Brian Nason’s sensitive lighting effects. Kathleen Kelly conducts skillfully and in evident mind-melding with her diva.
Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
The legendary (it says so on the lobby cards) mezzo Frederica von Stade reasserts her claim to being the greatest actor among contemporary opera stars in Ricky Ian Gordon’s chamber piece A Coffin in Egypt, in town for a too-limited run. Horton Foote’s 1998 virtual monodrama for grande dame is as fertile a source for dramatization as was Jean Cocteau’s The Human Voice, musicalized by Francis Poulenc, and has much the same impact. Both, perhaps unsurprisingly for the medium, have adultery as a main plot concern. But Foote in Coffin also puts racial attitudes and murder front and center for added excitement, to which von Stade’s technique and wisdom are ideally suited.
In neither stage play nor opera is Myrtle Bledsoe a solo performer, though the few spoken encounters with others never threaten her ownership of the narrative. We meet her when she is age 90 in 1970 (1968, in Foote’s original text), a wealthy matriarch still restlessly occupying her late husband Hunter’s family home in Egypt, Texas. The mansion is the living “coffin” in which she paints and putters to pass the time, constantly turning back to reflect on key circumstances: unloving daughters, a serial-cheating husband, the killing for which he got off scot-free, years of exotic travel in Europe far from Hunter and his dusty plains, and, above all, a chance 1910 encounter with real-life theatrical impresario Charles Frohman.
The great man’s off-the-cuff compliment, that Myrtle was so lovely she should go on the stage, is the single recollection that, in her slowly unraveling mind, comes to stand in for the transcendence that went missing in her long, impossibly empty life. “We write our story,” she observes, “on the moments we let pass,” and “the problem with moments is that they usually don’t linger.” No, moments don’t. But hurts and heartaches and betrayals surely do.
Von Stade understands that Myrtle cannot be wholly sympathetic. The widow Bledsoe cops to being sexually and emotionally cold, and never seems to recognize the tenuousness of Frohman’s long-ago encouragement. More important, she consistently refers to Hunter’s longest-standing mistress as “Maude Jenkins the mulatto,” as though racial classification were inextricably bound to perfidy. Von Stade embodies all of Myrtle’s blindness and stubbornness while granting her the essential humanity of one for whom others’ betrayals were her daily cross to bear. Von Stade switches effortlessly among moods and ages. As lovely as Glynis Johns must have been in the play’s premiere (directed by the opera’s librettist and helmer Leonard Foglia), von Stade captures the special radiance unique to exquisite musical drama.
Gordon’s appropriately unpretentious music winds along melodically in the manner of Myrtle’s thoughts. It’s not especially Southern-flavored, which seems a missed opportunity, though he provides down-home flavor in the numbers assigned to gospeleers Cheryl D. Clansy, Laura Elizabeth Patterson, James M. Winslow, and Jawan CM Jenkins. Wandering in and out in choir robes, they don’t directly comment on the action but keep reminding us that life offers more potential for grace and fulfillment than Myrtle’s sorry saga might suggest. David Matranga (playing Hunter), Carolyn Johnson, and Adam Noble offer strong support in brief speaking roles, and Cecilia Duarte is a silent but beautifully eloquent presence as Myrtle’s helpmeet.
Foglia’s production is gorgeous, thanks to Riccardo Hernandez’s stunning set (rolling cotton fields displayed on giant curved scrolls) and Brian Nason’s sensitive lighting effects. Kathleen Kelly conducts skillfully and in evident mind-melding with her diva.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 27, 2014
April 27, 2014
Five Mile Lake
South Coast Repertory
It can’t be easy to pen a remarkable play about unremarkable people whose main concern is how unremarkable their lives are. (Ask Chekhov.) Yet, Rachel Bonds has pulled it off handily with Five Mile Lake, whose central figures have solid reasons for doubting their own choices and equally solid reasons for coveting the lives of all the others. At the same time, Bonds breathes new life into the overfamiliar “homecoming play”—you know, the one where the successful city mouse drops by to hang with the country mice with whom he grew up and rakes over old coals.
This particular reunion is considerably more complex and interesting than most, thanks to Bonds’s precise observation of character. Jamie (Nate Mooney) is a fixture in his woebegone hometown outside Scranton, Pa., holding down a 9-to-5 bakery managership while refurbishing his family’s old lake house as a hobby. Whenever, that is, he’s not squiring mom to her medical appointments, or mooning after fellow school chum and bakery employee, no-eyes-for-him Mary (Rebecca Mozo). Jamie’s life might seem fuller than some, until you scope out brother Rufus (Corey Brill), a Manhattanite taking time off from his dissertation (on the classy topic of Greek tragic lamentations, don’t you know) to catch up with the loved ones—his ravishing, worldly, British-educated girlfriend Peta (Nicole Shalhoub) in tow. Rufus was last seen in a brief swing-by of their grandpa’s funeral years ago, so the current visitation is unexpected and distinctly mysterious.
Mysteries are gradually revealed, of course, clicking into place without smacking of contrivance. In plays, there are secrets that are withheld and sprung because the writer needs to keep things going; and there are secrets that exist and flower out of the logic of character and events. Bonds’s are decidedly of the latter type, especially those held by the visiting golden couple, whose sangfroid is hiding some pretty deeply held demons. For all that, they’re nothing compared with the PTSD demons Mary’s brother Danny (Brian Slaten) has been battling since his return from Afghanistan. His inability to hold a job or find himself is a principal reason why Mary, whose college major was French, hasn’t puttered off to Paris to lead la vie bohémienne. At least, she says he’s the reason: Bonds is masterful at ladling her characters with rationalizations that seem fishy while carrying the whiff of truth. In any event, the simultaneous dumping by her longtime swain and the arrival of the glamorous Rufus signal a genuine moment of decision for Mary, which the adoring Jamie can only observe in mute ache.
The quintet is assigned numerous moments of brash wit, as well as of heartbreak, and Daniella Topol’s cast handles all demands with easy aplomb. Both late night drinking bouts, and morning-after battles with hangover and freezing cold, seem perfectly paced, and Topol never permits them to veer into melodrama.
This play is deceptively simple, its relationships converging and breaking apart with extraordinary force despite the placid exterior and mere 90-minute running time. As an inspired side touch, Bonds sets all of the action during the Winter Olympics, so every night the characters may observe people vying to demonstrate to the world how extraordinary they are.
Pained as a result of their own lost dreams, Bonds’s characters are frozen and drowning in the cold light of day. Still, folks trapped in small towns—or trapped in small lives in large cities—aren’t doomed to be lifeless or dull. Five Mile Lake provides triumphant evidence to that effect.
South Coast Repertory
It can’t be easy to pen a remarkable play about unremarkable people whose main concern is how unremarkable their lives are. (Ask Chekhov.) Yet, Rachel Bonds has pulled it off handily with Five Mile Lake, whose central figures have solid reasons for doubting their own choices and equally solid reasons for coveting the lives of all the others. At the same time, Bonds breathes new life into the overfamiliar “homecoming play”—you know, the one where the successful city mouse drops by to hang with the country mice with whom he grew up and rakes over old coals.
This particular reunion is considerably more complex and interesting than most, thanks to Bonds’s precise observation of character. Jamie (Nate Mooney) is a fixture in his woebegone hometown outside Scranton, Pa., holding down a 9-to-5 bakery managership while refurbishing his family’s old lake house as a hobby. Whenever, that is, he’s not squiring mom to her medical appointments, or mooning after fellow school chum and bakery employee, no-eyes-for-him Mary (Rebecca Mozo). Jamie’s life might seem fuller than some, until you scope out brother Rufus (Corey Brill), a Manhattanite taking time off from his dissertation (on the classy topic of Greek tragic lamentations, don’t you know) to catch up with the loved ones—his ravishing, worldly, British-educated girlfriend Peta (Nicole Shalhoub) in tow. Rufus was last seen in a brief swing-by of their grandpa’s funeral years ago, so the current visitation is unexpected and distinctly mysterious.
Mysteries are gradually revealed, of course, clicking into place without smacking of contrivance. In plays, there are secrets that are withheld and sprung because the writer needs to keep things going; and there are secrets that exist and flower out of the logic of character and events. Bonds’s are decidedly of the latter type, especially those held by the visiting golden couple, whose sangfroid is hiding some pretty deeply held demons. For all that, they’re nothing compared with the PTSD demons Mary’s brother Danny (Brian Slaten) has been battling since his return from Afghanistan. His inability to hold a job or find himself is a principal reason why Mary, whose college major was French, hasn’t puttered off to Paris to lead la vie bohémienne. At least, she says he’s the reason: Bonds is masterful at ladling her characters with rationalizations that seem fishy while carrying the whiff of truth. In any event, the simultaneous dumping by her longtime swain and the arrival of the glamorous Rufus signal a genuine moment of decision for Mary, which the adoring Jamie can only observe in mute ache.
The quintet is assigned numerous moments of brash wit, as well as of heartbreak, and Daniella Topol’s cast handles all demands with easy aplomb. Both late night drinking bouts, and morning-after battles with hangover and freezing cold, seem perfectly paced, and Topol never permits them to veer into melodrama.
This play is deceptively simple, its relationships converging and breaking apart with extraordinary force despite the placid exterior and mere 90-minute running time. As an inspired side touch, Bonds sets all of the action during the Winter Olympics, so every night the characters may observe people vying to demonstrate to the world how extraordinary they are.
Pained as a result of their own lost dreams, Bonds’s characters are frozen and drowning in the cold light of day. Still, folks trapped in small towns—or trapped in small lives in large cities—aren’t doomed to be lifeless or dull. Five Mile Lake provides triumphant evidence to that effect.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 23, 2014
April 23, 2014
The Tallest Tree in the Forest
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
Noted monodrama writer and performer Daniel Beaty has clearly invested considerable emotion in researching his two-hour portrait of the great Paul Robeson (1898–1976), whose race, progressive politics, and insistence on doing and saying anything and consequences be damned literally demolished his career and reputation. Beaty’s labors are backed up at the Mark Taper Forum by a ton of stagecraft marshaled by director Moisés Kaufman, including a giant projection wall (like American Idiot’s, only with fewer lights) and a three-piece live combo accompanying 15 signature Robeson numbers. Despite all these efforts, however, The Tallest Tree in the Forest ends up illuminating no more, and cutting no deeper, than a filmstrip from junior high civics class.
The lack of credibility is only partly due to the fact that Robeson was a world-famous bass while Beaty is a natural tenor leaning towards baritone, so he never comes close to capturing that inimitable rich, rolling sound. More problematic is that in portraying all the characters in the artist’s life, from intimates (wife, father, and younger brother) and newspaper critics to FBI investigators and President Harry Truman, Beaty offers a cavalcade of stock, overdentalized voices and one-dimensional personalities, which simply doesn’t convince.
Robeson comes across as earnest and impassioned throughout, and that’s it for that character. All of his critics, meanwhile, British and American alike, are voiced as fruity phonies. Government opponents are all reedy pests. Wife Essie is conveyed with a slight hitch of the head and hip such that it’s never clear whether Beaty (or, indeed, Robeson) is satirizing her, sympathizing with her, or something in between.
Beaty may have intended his portrait to be warts-and-all multifaceted, but his technique doesn’t incline that way. Does Robeson—famously supportive of the USSR in onsite concert visits—regret his refusal to criticize Stalin’s regime once back in the US, thus essentially turning his back on Jewish friends and dissidents there? Maybe; the script suggests he might be; but we get no clear signals from the stolid Beaty.
When Paul confesses to Essie not just serial infidelities with Broadway co-stars but his frank intention to continue sowing wild oats hither and yon hereafter, we can’t tell whether the playwright wants us to applaud or condemn Paul, or share in Essie’s shame, or indeed decide that she’s content with things as they are. The entire matter becomes a matter of information. Even the dialogue keeps veering into the sheerly expositional, as in this none-too-believable intimate moment: “No, Essie, my love, we have to head back to America. What we saw in Berlin is just the beginning. Fascism is taking over the world—Hitler, Mussolini. America is going to play a crucial role in the struggle against fascism that is to come. I want to be there for that. We must go back home.”
This is the second of two one-person Robeson portraits currently on view in town. I have not been able to catch Keith David’s incarnation of the late Phillip Hayes Dean’s Paul Robeson play, but I retain vivid memories of James Earl Jones’s performance of it, which was captured by TV cameras and should go right onto your Netflix queue. Equally available for easy consultation are the 1979 Oscar-winning short Paul Robeson: Tribute to an Artist, with a stirring commentary from Sidney Poitier; and a longer documentary from 1999, Paul Robeson: Here I Stand, narrated by Harry Belafonte.
With so much evidence of the man’s talent, politics, and humor at hand, The Tallest Tree in the Forest would have to be ever so much bolder and more true to life than it is, to stand tall in their company.
Center Theatre Group at Mark Taper Forum
Noted monodrama writer and performer Daniel Beaty has clearly invested considerable emotion in researching his two-hour portrait of the great Paul Robeson (1898–1976), whose race, progressive politics, and insistence on doing and saying anything and consequences be damned literally demolished his career and reputation. Beaty’s labors are backed up at the Mark Taper Forum by a ton of stagecraft marshaled by director Moisés Kaufman, including a giant projection wall (like American Idiot’s, only with fewer lights) and a three-piece live combo accompanying 15 signature Robeson numbers. Despite all these efforts, however, The Tallest Tree in the Forest ends up illuminating no more, and cutting no deeper, than a filmstrip from junior high civics class.
The lack of credibility is only partly due to the fact that Robeson was a world-famous bass while Beaty is a natural tenor leaning towards baritone, so he never comes close to capturing that inimitable rich, rolling sound. More problematic is that in portraying all the characters in the artist’s life, from intimates (wife, father, and younger brother) and newspaper critics to FBI investigators and President Harry Truman, Beaty offers a cavalcade of stock, overdentalized voices and one-dimensional personalities, which simply doesn’t convince.
Robeson comes across as earnest and impassioned throughout, and that’s it for that character. All of his critics, meanwhile, British and American alike, are voiced as fruity phonies. Government opponents are all reedy pests. Wife Essie is conveyed with a slight hitch of the head and hip such that it’s never clear whether Beaty (or, indeed, Robeson) is satirizing her, sympathizing with her, or something in between.
Beaty may have intended his portrait to be warts-and-all multifaceted, but his technique doesn’t incline that way. Does Robeson—famously supportive of the USSR in onsite concert visits—regret his refusal to criticize Stalin’s regime once back in the US, thus essentially turning his back on Jewish friends and dissidents there? Maybe; the script suggests he might be; but we get no clear signals from the stolid Beaty.
When Paul confesses to Essie not just serial infidelities with Broadway co-stars but his frank intention to continue sowing wild oats hither and yon hereafter, we can’t tell whether the playwright wants us to applaud or condemn Paul, or share in Essie’s shame, or indeed decide that she’s content with things as they are. The entire matter becomes a matter of information. Even the dialogue keeps veering into the sheerly expositional, as in this none-too-believable intimate moment: “No, Essie, my love, we have to head back to America. What we saw in Berlin is just the beginning. Fascism is taking over the world—Hitler, Mussolini. America is going to play a crucial role in the struggle against fascism that is to come. I want to be there for that. We must go back home.”
This is the second of two one-person Robeson portraits currently on view in town. I have not been able to catch Keith David’s incarnation of the late Phillip Hayes Dean’s Paul Robeson play, but I retain vivid memories of James Earl Jones’s performance of it, which was captured by TV cameras and should go right onto your Netflix queue. Equally available for easy consultation are the 1979 Oscar-winning short Paul Robeson: Tribute to an Artist, with a stirring commentary from Sidney Poitier; and a longer documentary from 1999, Paul Robeson: Here I Stand, narrated by Harry Belafonte.
With so much evidence of the man’s talent, politics, and humor at hand, The Tallest Tree in the Forest would have to be ever so much bolder and more true to life than it is, to stand tall in their company.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 21, 2014
April 21, 2014
Ruth Draper’s Monologues
Geffen Playhouse
There aren’t very many truly unique figures in the whole history of the theater. There are the noble Greeks: Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. There are Shakespeare, Molière, Ibsen, Chekhov, and Bernard Shaw. And possibly we might include Strindberg and Tennessee Williams. But there was only one woman in the crew: Ruth Draper, celebrated as a distinguished writer, performer, and monologist.
She never became an international celebrity in the vein of modern movie stars, and the world may never have been at her feet. But many of its most gifted citizens admired and revered her. Writer Henry James advised her about her early career choices, saying, “My dear young friend, you have woven yourself a magic carpet—stand on it!” John Singer Sargent drew and painted her, and Shaw said of her, “That’s not acting. That’s life.”
Draper (1884–1956) was born into a large, wealthy, and distinguished family. In her youth, it was considered unthinkable for a woman of good family to go on the stage, so she began her career as a gifted amateur, performing her character-driven monodramas in the drawing-rooms of Mrs. Franklin Roosevelt, Mrs. Waldorf Astor, and other notables. She was invited to Windsor Castle to perform for Queen Mary and King George V, and later King George VI would proclaim her an honorary Commander of the British Empire. But the world was changing, and, after the death of her mother, she began to pursue a professional career. In the 1920s she wrote and perfected many of her most famous sketches, including The Italian Lesson, considered by many to be her finest work, Three Women and Mr. Clifford, and several shorter pieces. She performed short Broadway seasons every year and died in 1956, just three days after her last Broadway appearance.
The current program at Geffen Playhouse, directed by and starring the able and versatile Annette Benning, includes three of the shorter pieces. A Class in Greek Poise features a dance teacher with cultural pretentions who attempts to instill “graceful” movement in a class of hefty ladies, and, not incidentally, aid them in their attempts to lose weight. A Debutante at a Dance zeros in on a feather-headed flapper who is determined to be taken seriously as a deep thinker. Doctors and Diets depicts a society woman who takes three friends to luncheon at a fine restaurant, only to discover that all of them, including herself, are on absurdly restricted diets prescribed by their faddish doctors. The short pieces are funny and entertaining, but they’re not that different from the popular theater of their day. Draper’s longer pieces, like The Italian Lesson, included here, cement her claim to theatrical artistry.
In it, Draper once again features a society matron—and one of the most many-faceted characters in theatrical literature. She’s studying Dante’s Divine Comedy with the Signorina, whom she treats as cavalierly as her manicurist. And the lesson is constantly interrupted. She must give instructions to the cook and Mamselle, her children’s governess and general dogsbody. She pretends to be a lover of culture but declares resignedly that the philharmonic concerts seem to come so often.
She treats her underlings with high-handed lack of consideration but finds time to minister to the needs of her old piano teacher (to whom she gives those unwelcome concert tickets), and the night watchman’s little son who is ill. She responds to her husband’s phone call with barely disguised contempt and impatience, though she dutifully ministers to his needs. Later, she melts and comes to life upon receiving a call from her lover—though one wonders how long he will last against the demands of her compulsively overscheduled life. She seems like a scatterbrain but reveals formidable executive skills in keeping track of her multitudinous commitments and duties, including her service as president of the hospital committee. She finds time for her children and their new puppy, exchanges scandalous gossip with a friend, and persuades a celebrity portrait painter to make “improvements” in his painting of her daughter.
The piece bubbles along hilariously but rests on the desperation of a woman who, like Dante, in the middle of her life has lost her way. In a telling detail, she describes a colorless young man whose name appears high on her list of “eligible men.” He, she says, “is always free and he likes everybody and everything, and always gives me a feeling of hope.”
The role makes fiendish demands on any actor who plays her, requiring long and unflagging concentration, keeping track of a host of imaginary characters, and somehow revealing her relation to each of them. And she must keep the laughs coming constantly, so that it’s only by degrees we perceive the empty busyness of her life. Bening rises splendidly to the occasion with a performance that is skillful, graceful, and rich. If she is occasionally less nuanced than Draper (as evidenced by Draper’s recordings, still available online), that’s inevitable, because Draper spent a lifetime honing her performances.
Geffen Playhouse
There aren’t very many truly unique figures in the whole history of the theater. There are the noble Greeks: Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. There are Shakespeare, Molière, Ibsen, Chekhov, and Bernard Shaw. And possibly we might include Strindberg and Tennessee Williams. But there was only one woman in the crew: Ruth Draper, celebrated as a distinguished writer, performer, and monologist.
She never became an international celebrity in the vein of modern movie stars, and the world may never have been at her feet. But many of its most gifted citizens admired and revered her. Writer Henry James advised her about her early career choices, saying, “My dear young friend, you have woven yourself a magic carpet—stand on it!” John Singer Sargent drew and painted her, and Shaw said of her, “That’s not acting. That’s life.”
Draper (1884–1956) was born into a large, wealthy, and distinguished family. In her youth, it was considered unthinkable for a woman of good family to go on the stage, so she began her career as a gifted amateur, performing her character-driven monodramas in the drawing-rooms of Mrs. Franklin Roosevelt, Mrs. Waldorf Astor, and other notables. She was invited to Windsor Castle to perform for Queen Mary and King George V, and later King George VI would proclaim her an honorary Commander of the British Empire. But the world was changing, and, after the death of her mother, she began to pursue a professional career. In the 1920s she wrote and perfected many of her most famous sketches, including The Italian Lesson, considered by many to be her finest work, Three Women and Mr. Clifford, and several shorter pieces. She performed short Broadway seasons every year and died in 1956, just three days after her last Broadway appearance.
The current program at Geffen Playhouse, directed by and starring the able and versatile Annette Benning, includes three of the shorter pieces. A Class in Greek Poise features a dance teacher with cultural pretentions who attempts to instill “graceful” movement in a class of hefty ladies, and, not incidentally, aid them in their attempts to lose weight. A Debutante at a Dance zeros in on a feather-headed flapper who is determined to be taken seriously as a deep thinker. Doctors and Diets depicts a society woman who takes three friends to luncheon at a fine restaurant, only to discover that all of them, including herself, are on absurdly restricted diets prescribed by their faddish doctors. The short pieces are funny and entertaining, but they’re not that different from the popular theater of their day. Draper’s longer pieces, like The Italian Lesson, included here, cement her claim to theatrical artistry.
In it, Draper once again features a society matron—and one of the most many-faceted characters in theatrical literature. She’s studying Dante’s Divine Comedy with the Signorina, whom she treats as cavalierly as her manicurist. And the lesson is constantly interrupted. She must give instructions to the cook and Mamselle, her children’s governess and general dogsbody. She pretends to be a lover of culture but declares resignedly that the philharmonic concerts seem to come so often.
She treats her underlings with high-handed lack of consideration but finds time to minister to the needs of her old piano teacher (to whom she gives those unwelcome concert tickets), and the night watchman’s little son who is ill. She responds to her husband’s phone call with barely disguised contempt and impatience, though she dutifully ministers to his needs. Later, she melts and comes to life upon receiving a call from her lover—though one wonders how long he will last against the demands of her compulsively overscheduled life. She seems like a scatterbrain but reveals formidable executive skills in keeping track of her multitudinous commitments and duties, including her service as president of the hospital committee. She finds time for her children and their new puppy, exchanges scandalous gossip with a friend, and persuades a celebrity portrait painter to make “improvements” in his painting of her daughter.
The piece bubbles along hilariously but rests on the desperation of a woman who, like Dante, in the middle of her life has lost her way. In a telling detail, she describes a colorless young man whose name appears high on her list of “eligible men.” He, she says, “is always free and he likes everybody and everything, and always gives me a feeling of hope.”
The role makes fiendish demands on any actor who plays her, requiring long and unflagging concentration, keeping track of a host of imaginary characters, and somehow revealing her relation to each of them. And she must keep the laughs coming constantly, so that it’s only by degrees we perceive the empty busyness of her life. Bening rises splendidly to the occasion with a performance that is skillful, graceful, and rich. If she is occasionally less nuanced than Draper (as evidenced by Draper’s recordings, still available online), that’s inevitable, because Draper spent a lifetime honing her performances.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
April 21, 2014
April 21, 2014
Rest
South Coast Repertory’s Segerstrom Stage
A skeleton staff and a few hanger-on residents are the last occupants of the dilapidated Northern Idaho rest home in Samuel D. Hunter’s Rest. This hardy little band must cope with two impending catastrophes—the facility’s closing and a monstrous blizzard—and a dozen or more personal bumps. The South Coast Rep design department does well by the former in the play’s world premiere, but helmer Martin Benson and his fine cast have problems with the intimate travails. The playwright hasn’t done much to help out.
Set designer John Iacovelli does an incisive, detailed job in crafting the institutional environment of a depressing nursing home lobby. Special kudos for the cruddy gray paint which clearly someone chose as calming, but which makes the heart sink the more one has to look at it. Donna Ruzika’s lighting and Michael Roth’s sound convey the growing darkness and dimensions of the snowstorm, with an amusing special effect as the sliding glass doors never open when egress is desired, but magically, periodically float apart unbidden. The latter is especially amusing during the period when a patient goes missing: Every time the doors open, the entire cast turns as one to see whether it’s this guy, come back.
That missing patient, Gerald (Richard Doyle), the Alzheimer’s-afflicted hubby of Etta (Lynn Milgrim), is but one of the aforementioned crises that befall this septet; or two, if you count his mental state and disappearance. The list goes on to encompass one surrogate pregnancy, now repented; two marriages in trouble; one messy divorce; one extreme case of achluophobia (fear of darkness); one increasingly empty larder; and an across-the-board sense of dislocation as everyone, employee and resident alike, will have to pack up and ship out in a very short time.
Being locked in, out of touch with the outside world, would seem to offer a lot of opportunity for action and for reflection. Yet, when you come right down to it, how often have characters provided exciting drama while trapped by a blizzard? The Mousetrap and Murder on the Orient Express, I guess; maybe The Shining; but all of those involved playing cat-and-mouse murder games. Here, there’s nothing much to do except poke around for the missing patient, which no one does very vigorously. The play’s barely two hours but it feels double that; it becomes quite stultifying.
That leaves reflection as the main pastime. But look at how Hunter has set things up. The pregnancy is made four months advanced, taking abortion off the table. The divorce has already gone through, and the displaced patients have already arranged for new lodgings, so those are nonissues. And one member of the most at-risk marriage isn’t present, so we can’t get any couple discord. In other words, the playwright has deliberately placed all of his characters off the hook in terms of urgency, immediacy, and decision-making. No one has anything to decide or do, so they sit. And talk. About very, very little indeed.
Also objectionable is the shaky morality as applied to one of the characters. Without spoiling anything, suffice it to say that people’s lives are unnecessarily and deliberately set at risk, and an awful crime is committed, yet the perp is given both a Get Out of Jail Free card (from the others, which seems wrong) and a moral free pass (from the author, which is even more egregious).
But the biggest problem with Rest is that too much is at rest. A talented cast and respectful director (perhaps too respectful; it wouldn’t hurt if Benson would light a fire under these folks) simply can’t perform enough CPR to keep the evening from flatlining.
South Coast Repertory’s Segerstrom Stage
A skeleton staff and a few hanger-on residents are the last occupants of the dilapidated Northern Idaho rest home in Samuel D. Hunter’s Rest. This hardy little band must cope with two impending catastrophes—the facility’s closing and a monstrous blizzard—and a dozen or more personal bumps. The South Coast Rep design department does well by the former in the play’s world premiere, but helmer Martin Benson and his fine cast have problems with the intimate travails. The playwright hasn’t done much to help out.
Set designer John Iacovelli does an incisive, detailed job in crafting the institutional environment of a depressing nursing home lobby. Special kudos for the cruddy gray paint which clearly someone chose as calming, but which makes the heart sink the more one has to look at it. Donna Ruzika’s lighting and Michael Roth’s sound convey the growing darkness and dimensions of the snowstorm, with an amusing special effect as the sliding glass doors never open when egress is desired, but magically, periodically float apart unbidden. The latter is especially amusing during the period when a patient goes missing: Every time the doors open, the entire cast turns as one to see whether it’s this guy, come back.
That missing patient, Gerald (Richard Doyle), the Alzheimer’s-afflicted hubby of Etta (Lynn Milgrim), is but one of the aforementioned crises that befall this septet; or two, if you count his mental state and disappearance. The list goes on to encompass one surrogate pregnancy, now repented; two marriages in trouble; one messy divorce; one extreme case of achluophobia (fear of darkness); one increasingly empty larder; and an across-the-board sense of dislocation as everyone, employee and resident alike, will have to pack up and ship out in a very short time.
Being locked in, out of touch with the outside world, would seem to offer a lot of opportunity for action and for reflection. Yet, when you come right down to it, how often have characters provided exciting drama while trapped by a blizzard? The Mousetrap and Murder on the Orient Express, I guess; maybe The Shining; but all of those involved playing cat-and-mouse murder games. Here, there’s nothing much to do except poke around for the missing patient, which no one does very vigorously. The play’s barely two hours but it feels double that; it becomes quite stultifying.
That leaves reflection as the main pastime. But look at how Hunter has set things up. The pregnancy is made four months advanced, taking abortion off the table. The divorce has already gone through, and the displaced patients have already arranged for new lodgings, so those are nonissues. And one member of the most at-risk marriage isn’t present, so we can’t get any couple discord. In other words, the playwright has deliberately placed all of his characters off the hook in terms of urgency, immediacy, and decision-making. No one has anything to decide or do, so they sit. And talk. About very, very little indeed.
Also objectionable is the shaky morality as applied to one of the characters. Without spoiling anything, suffice it to say that people’s lives are unnecessarily and deliberately set at risk, and an awful crime is committed, yet the perp is given both a Get Out of Jail Free card (from the others, which seems wrong) and a moral free pass (from the author, which is even more egregious).
But the biggest problem with Rest is that too much is at rest. A talented cast and respectful director (perhaps too respectful; it wouldn’t hurt if Benson would light a fire under these folks) simply can’t perform enough CPR to keep the evening from flatlining.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 17, 2014
April 17, 2014
The Optimist
Elephant Stages
Jason Chimonides’s three-hander The Optimist developed something of a reputation back east in 2008 and has gotten quite a few stagings around the country since, probably not least because it is an affordable piece that offers meaty roles for three attractive 20-somethings. The West Coast premiere at Elephant Stages has corralled just such a trio. Would that the play were better.
The premise is a little forced but not wholly implausible. Two fraternal twins—neurotic, career-less Noel (Chris Bellant) and cynical, devil-may-care Declan (Aaron David Johnson)—arrive at a motel in Tallahassee for two concurrent events: the funeral of a female friend their age committed suicide, and the remarriage of their widowed father, to a middle-aged Greek lady. Also on the scene is Nicole (Sarah Jes Austell), whose engagement to an upstanding fellow named Jackson suggests she is well over the painful breakup with Noel, who by contrast loses sleep because he knows in his gut that she is his soul mate.
Unbelievable, and eventually downright annoying, are the ways in which Chimonides builds the action from there. The unseen characters—Pop, known as Hambone; Elena, his intended; Jackson; even the dead mother and the suicide—are one and all more interesting and dimensional than the three pinheads who occupy the stage. Noel’s whiny self-pitying grates early on; Declan stays on the sidelines, needling Nicole (Chimonides seems to be cribbing a lot from Sexual Perversity in Chicago here); and Nicole keeps coming back for more and more abuse in sharp contrast to the smarts she otherwise demonstrates.
The chief bit of suspense, I kid you not, is what will happen when Hambone accepts Noel’s challenge to take a beating for how shabbily the old man treated mom while she was dying. Noel and Declan set up the entire room as a boxing arena, complete with side-wall mattresses and duct tape, and every time the doorbell rings, there’s huge anticipation: “Here he is, it’s Hambone! “ “No, I won’t let you do it!” “Let go of me, I’ll kill him!” And so on. But since Hambone is not in the cast of characters, we know he’ll never appear, and the person on the other side of that door is always the cast member not on stage. This is truly dumb storytelling. The jaw drops each time Chimonides tries to build tension with such a lame setup.
Director Will Wallace does the best he can to paper over the play’s flaws, though he does indulge the pauses in the final third, and the kids are excellent, Austell in particular. She helps Nicole score one significant point, that the always morose and negative Noel is actually an incurable optimist. He has to be; only someone who in his gut believes everything will turn out fine could be so let down time and again when things go kerflooey. That's a nice, fresh character insight. But as authentic as the performances are, they can’t single-handedly turn a phony play real.
Elephant Stages
Jason Chimonides’s three-hander The Optimist developed something of a reputation back east in 2008 and has gotten quite a few stagings around the country since, probably not least because it is an affordable piece that offers meaty roles for three attractive 20-somethings. The West Coast premiere at Elephant Stages has corralled just such a trio. Would that the play were better.
The premise is a little forced but not wholly implausible. Two fraternal twins—neurotic, career-less Noel (Chris Bellant) and cynical, devil-may-care Declan (Aaron David Johnson)—arrive at a motel in Tallahassee for two concurrent events: the funeral of a female friend their age committed suicide, and the remarriage of their widowed father, to a middle-aged Greek lady. Also on the scene is Nicole (Sarah Jes Austell), whose engagement to an upstanding fellow named Jackson suggests she is well over the painful breakup with Noel, who by contrast loses sleep because he knows in his gut that she is his soul mate.
Unbelievable, and eventually downright annoying, are the ways in which Chimonides builds the action from there. The unseen characters—Pop, known as Hambone; Elena, his intended; Jackson; even the dead mother and the suicide—are one and all more interesting and dimensional than the three pinheads who occupy the stage. Noel’s whiny self-pitying grates early on; Declan stays on the sidelines, needling Nicole (Chimonides seems to be cribbing a lot from Sexual Perversity in Chicago here); and Nicole keeps coming back for more and more abuse in sharp contrast to the smarts she otherwise demonstrates.
The chief bit of suspense, I kid you not, is what will happen when Hambone accepts Noel’s challenge to take a beating for how shabbily the old man treated mom while she was dying. Noel and Declan set up the entire room as a boxing arena, complete with side-wall mattresses and duct tape, and every time the doorbell rings, there’s huge anticipation: “Here he is, it’s Hambone! “ “No, I won’t let you do it!” “Let go of me, I’ll kill him!” And so on. But since Hambone is not in the cast of characters, we know he’ll never appear, and the person on the other side of that door is always the cast member not on stage. This is truly dumb storytelling. The jaw drops each time Chimonides tries to build tension with such a lame setup.
Director Will Wallace does the best he can to paper over the play’s flaws, though he does indulge the pauses in the final third, and the kids are excellent, Austell in particular. She helps Nicole score one significant point, that the always morose and negative Noel is actually an incurable optimist. He has to be; only someone who in his gut believes everything will turn out fine could be so let down time and again when things go kerflooey. That's a nice, fresh character insight. But as authentic as the performances are, they can’t single-handedly turn a phony play real.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 17, 2014
April 17, 2014
Henry V
Pacific Resident Theatre
Shakespeare spread the story of King Henry V over four plays. We first hear of him, but don’t see him, in Richard II, as Prince Hal, the wastrel prodigal son of King Henry IV. In Henry IV, Part 1, we see Prince Hal’s adventures among the London lowlife and his friendship with the fat rogue Sir John Falstaff. Hal saves the life of King Henry in the war against the rebel lords, kills the warrior Hotspur in single combat, and begins to earn the respect of the king and restore his tainted reputation. In Henry IV, Part 2, King Henry dies, and Hal is crowned as King Henry V. He repudiates the fat night and assumes the responsibilities of kingship.
Shakespeare, relying on his audience’s knowledge of English history, felt no need to recapitulate the events of the earlier plays, but modern audiences may be thrown for a loss without a sense of the earlier events. Here, director Guillermo Cienfuegos and actor Joe McGovern—who also plays Prince Hal/Henry V—have deftly remedied this by inserting choice scenes from Henry IV to give us a hint of the needful background, and the two introduce us to the major characters, including King Henry IV and Falstaff. They have also cut through the forest of rhetoric to give us the essential facts of the story, played it in modern dress to give it immediacy, and assembled a versatile cast of 11 to play the 40-odd characters of the original.
McGovern gives us a Henry, still young and boyish, who loves practical jokes and disguises, delights in battles of wits with his adversaries and hoisting his enemies on their own petards, but, when called upon to lead his troops into battle, can rise spectacularly to the occasion, as at the battle of Harfleur: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more/or close the wall up with our English dead!” He has kingly authority, but he’s modest enough, before the battle of Agincourt, to circulate incognito among his soldiers to give them “a touch of Harry in the night.” And he’s capable of tongue-tied sweetness in his funny, touching wooing of the French-speaking Princess Katharine, deliciously played by Carole Weyers.
McGovern is backed up by a splendid array of actors. Alex Fernandez is an eloquent Chorus, as well as an earnest Henry IV. Dennis Madden, bearded and portly, is a convincing Falstaff and a palsied King of France. Oscar Best lends massive authority and strength to the Duke of Exeter. Joan Chodorow shines as Mistress Quickly, with her moving account of Falstaff’s death, and as Alice, Princess Katharine’s sly lady-in-waiting. Terrance Elton is agreeably obnoxious as the arrogant Dauphin of France, and Michael Prichard is a sententious Canterbury and a wily Fluellen. And one mustn’t forget the dog, a clever and handsome Airedale, who adds humor to the preshow. He gets no program credit but wins a place of honor in the curtain call.
Cienfuegos has assembled his production so adroitly that it seems almost a new work in its own right. With the simplest of means, he suggests the pomp of court life, as well as the chaos and fog of war. And, most important, he gives us a show that’s always fun to watch.
Pacific Resident Theatre
Shakespeare spread the story of King Henry V over four plays. We first hear of him, but don’t see him, in Richard II, as Prince Hal, the wastrel prodigal son of King Henry IV. In Henry IV, Part 1, we see Prince Hal’s adventures among the London lowlife and his friendship with the fat rogue Sir John Falstaff. Hal saves the life of King Henry in the war against the rebel lords, kills the warrior Hotspur in single combat, and begins to earn the respect of the king and restore his tainted reputation. In Henry IV, Part 2, King Henry dies, and Hal is crowned as King Henry V. He repudiates the fat night and assumes the responsibilities of kingship.
Shakespeare, relying on his audience’s knowledge of English history, felt no need to recapitulate the events of the earlier plays, but modern audiences may be thrown for a loss without a sense of the earlier events. Here, director Guillermo Cienfuegos and actor Joe McGovern—who also plays Prince Hal/Henry V—have deftly remedied this by inserting choice scenes from Henry IV to give us a hint of the needful background, and the two introduce us to the major characters, including King Henry IV and Falstaff. They have also cut through the forest of rhetoric to give us the essential facts of the story, played it in modern dress to give it immediacy, and assembled a versatile cast of 11 to play the 40-odd characters of the original.
McGovern gives us a Henry, still young and boyish, who loves practical jokes and disguises, delights in battles of wits with his adversaries and hoisting his enemies on their own petards, but, when called upon to lead his troops into battle, can rise spectacularly to the occasion, as at the battle of Harfleur: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more/or close the wall up with our English dead!” He has kingly authority, but he’s modest enough, before the battle of Agincourt, to circulate incognito among his soldiers to give them “a touch of Harry in the night.” And he’s capable of tongue-tied sweetness in his funny, touching wooing of the French-speaking Princess Katharine, deliciously played by Carole Weyers.
McGovern is backed up by a splendid array of actors. Alex Fernandez is an eloquent Chorus, as well as an earnest Henry IV. Dennis Madden, bearded and portly, is a convincing Falstaff and a palsied King of France. Oscar Best lends massive authority and strength to the Duke of Exeter. Joan Chodorow shines as Mistress Quickly, with her moving account of Falstaff’s death, and as Alice, Princess Katharine’s sly lady-in-waiting. Terrance Elton is agreeably obnoxious as the arrogant Dauphin of France, and Michael Prichard is a sententious Canterbury and a wily Fluellen. And one mustn’t forget the dog, a clever and handsome Airedale, who adds humor to the preshow. He gets no program credit but wins a place of honor in the curtain call.
Cienfuegos has assembled his production so adroitly that it seems almost a new work in its own right. With the simplest of means, he suggests the pomp of court life, as well as the chaos and fog of war. And, most important, he gives us a show that’s always fun to watch.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
April 16, 2014
April 16, 2014
Everything You Touch
The Theatre @ Boston Court and Rattlestick Playwrights Theater at Boston Court
Wise men of some distant generation insisted true beauty is more than skin deep, but in the jarring world premiere of Sheila Callaghan’s most recent whimsical yet disquieting exploration of youthful 21st-century angst, a less-than-perfect-sized young urbanite desperately tries to swim among the sharks inhabiting the image-conscious world of the fashion industry.
As Jess (Kirsten Vangsness) wonders if the only thing she’ll ever be good at is longing, she shoves mounds of Chipotle fast food into her mouth to approximate gratification as easily and quickly as possible, while contemplating her consumer-perfect surroundings: “The music is globally responsive, the patrons are coiffed, and all the brushed-metal trimmings and exposed ductwork and blond wood and track lighting is not like you’re just buying a subpar Mexican meal—you're buying a lifestyle.” Below Jess’s calloused surface and grungy flannel-and-army surplus exterior, she is clinging to life, gasping for breath, and fighting off a healthy dose of self-loathing with studied self-deprecation.
Even after three days spent in bed with the most recent in a long string of utilitarian anonymous sex partners, Jess has yet to figure out what makes her tick, getting turned on by her new lover’s vicious string of verbal insults about the size of her ass (“It looks like Orson Welles in a tank top,” he croons amorously) as a warped substitute for emotion. She shrugs, takes a pull on her turkey jerky, and tells him with an indifferent air, “I don't have friends, I don't date, I just fuck. I’m like your mother’s worst nightmare. Self-employed, self-destructive, and omnivorous.”
Skipping back and forth in time, the unraveling story of how Jess’s monumental cynicism turned potentially deadly is told in tandem with the tale of Victor (Tyler Pierce), a struggling 1970s haute fashion designer who, bored with his own century, looks for artistic inspiration in the kind of person who “eats leather, roots, and feces.” Although the gorgeous, physically perfect Esme (Kate Maher) has been the muse for Victor’s current controversial early Christian Lacroix–esque haute couture line, elevating him from making clothes for himself and “designing costumes for an impoverished theater company,” she is soon replaced by Louella (Amy French), a plain suburban Midwestern spinster who comes to his salon looking like Ethel Mertz dressed to go to Ricky’s club, a Tupperware container of homemade cupcakes in hand for her idol after winning a radio contest to meet him.
As the two stories intersect and collide, somehow Jess, living in the present, and Victor, stuck in the 1970s, weave together in what at first seems a mystifying, confusing manner. Eventually, however, how these two miserable creatures connect is what makes this play so amazingly provocative and so twisted, so monumentally disturbing, and eventually so poignantly human.
Vangsness is a force of life as Jess, her performance without filter, without hesitation, and visually incredibly courageous; hers is the most arresting performance by an actor on any LA stage so far this year. French and Maher are also exceptional, as is Arthur Keng as Lewis, Jess’s terminally nerdy co-worker whose undying love for her is expressed as only he knows how: bringing up the resailing of the World War II ship Saratoga, blurting out a few scattered fart jokes, and stating that he’d “rather gag himself with an insulated chip insertion extraction clipper than make out with the fembots in the sales department” of their company. As Jess goes off with her latest random pump, Lewis obviously pines for that position, warning her by voice message not to let him stay for more than four days or “he’ll sell your bike and leave pit stains in your T-shirts.”
Callaghan’s bizarre, penetratingly poetic dialogue must be a challenge for any director, which is why this play is lucky to be in the capable deft hands of director Jessica Kubzansky. François-Pierre Couture designed the stunningly sparse set, and John Burton created the Dali-like props from mannequin parts. Other design elements include wildly painterly projections by Adam Flemming; creamy yet stark lighting by Jeremy Pivnik; and an echoing, clanky sound design by John Zalewski, who also contributes a quiet but haunting original music score.
Above all, though, the most obvious design star here is Jenny Foldenaur’s 130-plus costumes, some of which are seen for only moments in runway parades, worn by three gorgeous model types (Allegra Rose Edwards, Chelsea Fryer, and Candice Lam), who double throughout as stagehands to change scenes, often staying around to play towel racks, bubblegum machines, and telephones, crazy props and accessories placed over their leotards scored to look as if they were window dummy parts that could be detached at will.
Seldom does anything make such a spirited and elaborate point while telling a story so simple at its core. Callaghan is the theatrical poet laureate of her generation, and we are lucky to be around as she continues to make clear what a mess our species has become with such delicate grace camouflaged by her wicked, unpredictable, wonderfully dark humor.
The Theatre @ Boston Court and Rattlestick Playwrights Theater at Boston Court
Wise men of some distant generation insisted true beauty is more than skin deep, but in the jarring world premiere of Sheila Callaghan’s most recent whimsical yet disquieting exploration of youthful 21st-century angst, a less-than-perfect-sized young urbanite desperately tries to swim among the sharks inhabiting the image-conscious world of the fashion industry.
As Jess (Kirsten Vangsness) wonders if the only thing she’ll ever be good at is longing, she shoves mounds of Chipotle fast food into her mouth to approximate gratification as easily and quickly as possible, while contemplating her consumer-perfect surroundings: “The music is globally responsive, the patrons are coiffed, and all the brushed-metal trimmings and exposed ductwork and blond wood and track lighting is not like you’re just buying a subpar Mexican meal—you're buying a lifestyle.” Below Jess’s calloused surface and grungy flannel-and-army surplus exterior, she is clinging to life, gasping for breath, and fighting off a healthy dose of self-loathing with studied self-deprecation.
Even after three days spent in bed with the most recent in a long string of utilitarian anonymous sex partners, Jess has yet to figure out what makes her tick, getting turned on by her new lover’s vicious string of verbal insults about the size of her ass (“It looks like Orson Welles in a tank top,” he croons amorously) as a warped substitute for emotion. She shrugs, takes a pull on her turkey jerky, and tells him with an indifferent air, “I don't have friends, I don't date, I just fuck. I’m like your mother’s worst nightmare. Self-employed, self-destructive, and omnivorous.”
Skipping back and forth in time, the unraveling story of how Jess’s monumental cynicism turned potentially deadly is told in tandem with the tale of Victor (Tyler Pierce), a struggling 1970s haute fashion designer who, bored with his own century, looks for artistic inspiration in the kind of person who “eats leather, roots, and feces.” Although the gorgeous, physically perfect Esme (Kate Maher) has been the muse for Victor’s current controversial early Christian Lacroix–esque haute couture line, elevating him from making clothes for himself and “designing costumes for an impoverished theater company,” she is soon replaced by Louella (Amy French), a plain suburban Midwestern spinster who comes to his salon looking like Ethel Mertz dressed to go to Ricky’s club, a Tupperware container of homemade cupcakes in hand for her idol after winning a radio contest to meet him.
As the two stories intersect and collide, somehow Jess, living in the present, and Victor, stuck in the 1970s, weave together in what at first seems a mystifying, confusing manner. Eventually, however, how these two miserable creatures connect is what makes this play so amazingly provocative and so twisted, so monumentally disturbing, and eventually so poignantly human.
Vangsness is a force of life as Jess, her performance without filter, without hesitation, and visually incredibly courageous; hers is the most arresting performance by an actor on any LA stage so far this year. French and Maher are also exceptional, as is Arthur Keng as Lewis, Jess’s terminally nerdy co-worker whose undying love for her is expressed as only he knows how: bringing up the resailing of the World War II ship Saratoga, blurting out a few scattered fart jokes, and stating that he’d “rather gag himself with an insulated chip insertion extraction clipper than make out with the fembots in the sales department” of their company. As Jess goes off with her latest random pump, Lewis obviously pines for that position, warning her by voice message not to let him stay for more than four days or “he’ll sell your bike and leave pit stains in your T-shirts.”
Callaghan’s bizarre, penetratingly poetic dialogue must be a challenge for any director, which is why this play is lucky to be in the capable deft hands of director Jessica Kubzansky. François-Pierre Couture designed the stunningly sparse set, and John Burton created the Dali-like props from mannequin parts. Other design elements include wildly painterly projections by Adam Flemming; creamy yet stark lighting by Jeremy Pivnik; and an echoing, clanky sound design by John Zalewski, who also contributes a quiet but haunting original music score.
Above all, though, the most obvious design star here is Jenny Foldenaur’s 130-plus costumes, some of which are seen for only moments in runway parades, worn by three gorgeous model types (Allegra Rose Edwards, Chelsea Fryer, and Candice Lam), who double throughout as stagehands to change scenes, often staying around to play towel racks, bubblegum machines, and telephones, crazy props and accessories placed over their leotards scored to look as if they were window dummy parts that could be detached at will.
Seldom does anything make such a spirited and elaborate point while telling a story so simple at its core. Callaghan is the theatrical poet laureate of her generation, and we are lucky to be around as she continues to make clear what a mess our species has become with such delicate grace camouflaged by her wicked, unpredictable, wonderfully dark humor.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
April 15, 2014
April 15, 2014
Romeo & Juliet
Independent Shakespeare Co. at Atwater Crossing Arts + Innovation Complex
Whenever a production of a classic is touted as a “new adaptation,” in this case incorporating “dynamic choreography” and “imaginative staging,” not to mention paring the original cast number down to only eight players, there is engendered a certain level of reservation. Well, let it be said that from start to finish, director Melissa Chalsma and this octet of storytellers live up to every bit of preperformance advertising. This production is so sharply constructed that its sense of immediacy literally keeps one on the edge of one’s seat.
Chalsma has crafted a show that flows seamlessly even with the occasional textual excising required to facilitate certain actors’ role-doubling duties. Choreographer J’aime Morrison-Petronio has added remarkably intricate touches, given this venue’s intensely intimate size. Physical manifestations of grief and the consummation of the title characters’ clandestine marriage are effective. Likewise, fight director David Melville’s superbly executed stage combat at the conclusion of Act 2 sets this tragic tale spinning toward its inevitable conclusion.
Clearly commanding the stage whenever present is Erika Soto as Juliet. Hers is a performance worthy of multiple viewings, given her handling of Shakespeare’s lyrical prose. Soto’s grasp of the language gives it such clarity that it’s hard to imagine why anyone would interpret it any other way. What she accomplishes in the balcony scene alone is worthy of praise, but the range she exhibits running from the teenage bounciness of first love to the utter despair over Romeo’s banishment is exceptionally impressive. And the scene in which she ingests the coma-inducing drug to counterfeit death is spine-tingling.
Nikhil Pai brings a more presentational although serviceable style to Romeo. Though his Romeo is clearly as excited as his child bride, he has that look in the eye that betrays his actually seeing the audience when delivering what otherwise should be a soul-searching soliloquy. Kudos, though, to Pai and Soto for a beautifully restrained first encounter and kiss during the Capulet party scene.
Providing first-rate support to the pair are Bernadette Sullivan as Juliet’s Nurse, and Evan Lewis Smith who runs the gamut playing Friar Lawrence and Juliet’s hotheaded cousin Tybalt. Sullivan’s Nurse is a bawdy, eyebrow-arching integral part of the Capulet brood, seemingly entranced by anything in pants. Smith’s priest is a character driven by heartfelt concern, while his Tybalt is a physical beast untamed by logic. As his foil, Mercutio, André Martin is a scene-stealer of major proportions. Foppish and outrageously funny, Martin chews the scenery—in a good way, mind you—of designer Cat Sowa’s set consisting of rough-hewn fencing. Martin also plays Juliet’s father as a smoking-jacket-festooned and brandy-swilling homage to the matinee idols of the 1930s.
Lovelle Liquigan provides a bit of gender-bending as Romeo’s sidekick Benvolio, and Juliet’s mother, while clearly demonstrating a stronger background in dance technique than most of the cast. Rounding out this noteworthy ensemble are Xavier Watson as the Prince and Juliet’s intended suitor Paris; and Kevin Rico Angulo as Romeo’s father and as Friar John, whose missed appointment with Romeo in Mantua is the point at which the story’s outcome becomes irreversible.
Independent Shakespeare Co. at Atwater Crossing Arts + Innovation Complex
Whenever a production of a classic is touted as a “new adaptation,” in this case incorporating “dynamic choreography” and “imaginative staging,” not to mention paring the original cast number down to only eight players, there is engendered a certain level of reservation. Well, let it be said that from start to finish, director Melissa Chalsma and this octet of storytellers live up to every bit of preperformance advertising. This production is so sharply constructed that its sense of immediacy literally keeps one on the edge of one’s seat.
Chalsma has crafted a show that flows seamlessly even with the occasional textual excising required to facilitate certain actors’ role-doubling duties. Choreographer J’aime Morrison-Petronio has added remarkably intricate touches, given this venue’s intensely intimate size. Physical manifestations of grief and the consummation of the title characters’ clandestine marriage are effective. Likewise, fight director David Melville’s superbly executed stage combat at the conclusion of Act 2 sets this tragic tale spinning toward its inevitable conclusion.
Clearly commanding the stage whenever present is Erika Soto as Juliet. Hers is a performance worthy of multiple viewings, given her handling of Shakespeare’s lyrical prose. Soto’s grasp of the language gives it such clarity that it’s hard to imagine why anyone would interpret it any other way. What she accomplishes in the balcony scene alone is worthy of praise, but the range she exhibits running from the teenage bounciness of first love to the utter despair over Romeo’s banishment is exceptionally impressive. And the scene in which she ingests the coma-inducing drug to counterfeit death is spine-tingling.
Nikhil Pai brings a more presentational although serviceable style to Romeo. Though his Romeo is clearly as excited as his child bride, he has that look in the eye that betrays his actually seeing the audience when delivering what otherwise should be a soul-searching soliloquy. Kudos, though, to Pai and Soto for a beautifully restrained first encounter and kiss during the Capulet party scene.
Providing first-rate support to the pair are Bernadette Sullivan as Juliet’s Nurse, and Evan Lewis Smith who runs the gamut playing Friar Lawrence and Juliet’s hotheaded cousin Tybalt. Sullivan’s Nurse is a bawdy, eyebrow-arching integral part of the Capulet brood, seemingly entranced by anything in pants. Smith’s priest is a character driven by heartfelt concern, while his Tybalt is a physical beast untamed by logic. As his foil, Mercutio, André Martin is a scene-stealer of major proportions. Foppish and outrageously funny, Martin chews the scenery—in a good way, mind you—of designer Cat Sowa’s set consisting of rough-hewn fencing. Martin also plays Juliet’s father as a smoking-jacket-festooned and brandy-swilling homage to the matinee idols of the 1930s.
Lovelle Liquigan provides a bit of gender-bending as Romeo’s sidekick Benvolio, and Juliet’s mother, while clearly demonstrating a stronger background in dance technique than most of the cast. Rounding out this noteworthy ensemble are Xavier Watson as the Prince and Juliet’s intended suitor Paris; and Kevin Rico Angulo as Romeo’s father and as Friar John, whose missed appointment with Romeo in Mantua is the point at which the story’s outcome becomes irreversible.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
April 15, 2014
April 15, 2014
Taste
Sacred Fools Theater
The premise of Benjamin Brand’s Taste, as the management of Sacred Fools Theater Company has been unabashedly eager to trumpet in preopening publicity, is a compact made between two men to meet for dinner, at which the guest is to be killed, butchered, cooked, and eaten by the host in what must qualify as the most unusual, and surely the most potentially savory, assisted suicide of all time. The Fools’s frankness is prudent and smart: prudent in that no one can say she wasn’t warned, and smart because knowing what is going to happen allows the audience to concentrate with rapt attention on just how it’s going to happen.
As to the latter question, I wouldn’t dream of giving away too much, except to say that there’s hardcore video imagery on display and effectively executed gore effects, none of which is recommended for the squeamish. One only need note that Stuart (Re-Animator) Gordon, king of the red-dye mixed with corn-syrup effects, is at the helm, to pick up on the caveat emptor. However, even more interesting than the what and how is the why of the play, TV writer Brand’s first and a remarkably nuanced piece of work.
Ingrained connections between sex and food, and between sex and death, are legion in literature dating back centuries: There’s that forbidden fruit in Eden, of course, and who can say when the orgasm began to be known as le petit mort? Equally pervasive is the belief that ingesting a creature means incorporating part of its soul into oneself, a tenet held by pagans and Christians alike. Is it accident, or producer perversity, that the opening of Taste happens to coincide with Holy Week?
All of these themes are explicitly incorporated into Brand’s carefully modulated, even suave, plotting, in which it’s easy to believe that the Internet chatting between awkward, self-conscious Vic (Chris L. McKenna) and wealthy, self-possessed Terry (Donal Thoms-Cappello) has all been a prelude to a nuit d’amour. It’s a source of continual amusement that the highly charged dynamic between the two men would proceed pretty much the same whether Vic came here for dinner or as dinner.
Then, as the preparations mount, we realize that this odd couple is clearly attempting to carry out a solemn ritual whose specifics they’ve painstakingly worked out in advance online. Of course, real life’s messy accidents keep intruding, which results in even more mirth. Yet Taste sends a continuous series of chills up the spine as Vic and Terry, separately and together, take steps we instantly recognize to be preplanned milestones along the way, from appetizer to entrée, carried out with near-religious rigor and even exaltation. A rite is a rite, Brand seems to be saying—whether enacted in a cathedral apse or a comfortable Chicago apartment, and however mundane or macabre it may appear to the observer.
Yet, beyond all of these dimensions, Taste strikes me as a maturely observed meditation on contemporary urban life, a notion that begins with the panorama of high-rise apartments across the street, eerily peeking through designer DeAnne Millais’s breathtaking picture windows. There are millions of stories in the naked city, the set tells us, and this is one of them—a really weird one of them.
It’s commonplace to decry Internet obsession as a crippling phenomenon that tends to alienate far too many from lives lived in person. Not so in Taste, where Vic and Terry have specifically made the leap from chatroom to living room to follow E.M. Forster’s injunction to “only connect.” Each man’s reasons for keeping this appointment, only gradually revealed in the course of the play’s riveting 90 minutes, prove to be fraught with resonance in terms of the loneliness of modern existence. What these poor souls are looking for remains painfully familiar, no matter how Grand Guignol the trappings become.
Gordon does an excellent job of seamlessly weaving Brand’s serious concerns into all the Guignol excess. I wish he had pushed Thoms-Cappello to even more pronounced vulnerability in the play’s final third, but the actor nicely balances the urbane and the unhinged throughout. And McKenna is simply a revelation, bumbling and then staggering his way through what he hopes will be both his first, and last, meaningful encounter with another human being. The play requires him to carry the lion’s share of humor and poignancy, and he does so with memorable distinction.
Taste, I fear, is destined to be disrespected and even dismissed because of the wacky chances it takes, and that would be a shame. The play’s central metaphor may be extreme, but it provides much to chew on. Um, hang on, what I mean to say is, there’s food for thought here. Yeah, that’s it. From soup to nuts. Literally.
Sacred Fools Theater
The premise of Benjamin Brand’s Taste, as the management of Sacred Fools Theater Company has been unabashedly eager to trumpet in preopening publicity, is a compact made between two men to meet for dinner, at which the guest is to be killed, butchered, cooked, and eaten by the host in what must qualify as the most unusual, and surely the most potentially savory, assisted suicide of all time. The Fools’s frankness is prudent and smart: prudent in that no one can say she wasn’t warned, and smart because knowing what is going to happen allows the audience to concentrate with rapt attention on just how it’s going to happen.
As to the latter question, I wouldn’t dream of giving away too much, except to say that there’s hardcore video imagery on display and effectively executed gore effects, none of which is recommended for the squeamish. One only need note that Stuart (Re-Animator) Gordon, king of the red-dye mixed with corn-syrup effects, is at the helm, to pick up on the caveat emptor. However, even more interesting than the what and how is the why of the play, TV writer Brand’s first and a remarkably nuanced piece of work.
Ingrained connections between sex and food, and between sex and death, are legion in literature dating back centuries: There’s that forbidden fruit in Eden, of course, and who can say when the orgasm began to be known as le petit mort? Equally pervasive is the belief that ingesting a creature means incorporating part of its soul into oneself, a tenet held by pagans and Christians alike. Is it accident, or producer perversity, that the opening of Taste happens to coincide with Holy Week?
All of these themes are explicitly incorporated into Brand’s carefully modulated, even suave, plotting, in which it’s easy to believe that the Internet chatting between awkward, self-conscious Vic (Chris L. McKenna) and wealthy, self-possessed Terry (Donal Thoms-Cappello) has all been a prelude to a nuit d’amour. It’s a source of continual amusement that the highly charged dynamic between the two men would proceed pretty much the same whether Vic came here for dinner or as dinner.
Then, as the preparations mount, we realize that this odd couple is clearly attempting to carry out a solemn ritual whose specifics they’ve painstakingly worked out in advance online. Of course, real life’s messy accidents keep intruding, which results in even more mirth. Yet Taste sends a continuous series of chills up the spine as Vic and Terry, separately and together, take steps we instantly recognize to be preplanned milestones along the way, from appetizer to entrée, carried out with near-religious rigor and even exaltation. A rite is a rite, Brand seems to be saying—whether enacted in a cathedral apse or a comfortable Chicago apartment, and however mundane or macabre it may appear to the observer.
Yet, beyond all of these dimensions, Taste strikes me as a maturely observed meditation on contemporary urban life, a notion that begins with the panorama of high-rise apartments across the street, eerily peeking through designer DeAnne Millais’s breathtaking picture windows. There are millions of stories in the naked city, the set tells us, and this is one of them—a really weird one of them.
It’s commonplace to decry Internet obsession as a crippling phenomenon that tends to alienate far too many from lives lived in person. Not so in Taste, where Vic and Terry have specifically made the leap from chatroom to living room to follow E.M. Forster’s injunction to “only connect.” Each man’s reasons for keeping this appointment, only gradually revealed in the course of the play’s riveting 90 minutes, prove to be fraught with resonance in terms of the loneliness of modern existence. What these poor souls are looking for remains painfully familiar, no matter how Grand Guignol the trappings become.
Gordon does an excellent job of seamlessly weaving Brand’s serious concerns into all the Guignol excess. I wish he had pushed Thoms-Cappello to even more pronounced vulnerability in the play’s final third, but the actor nicely balances the urbane and the unhinged throughout. And McKenna is simply a revelation, bumbling and then staggering his way through what he hopes will be both his first, and last, meaningful encounter with another human being. The play requires him to carry the lion’s share of humor and poignancy, and he does so with memorable distinction.
Taste, I fear, is destined to be disrespected and even dismissed because of the wacky chances it takes, and that would be a shame. The play’s central metaphor may be extreme, but it provides much to chew on. Um, hang on, what I mean to say is, there’s food for thought here. Yeah, that’s it. From soup to nuts. Literally.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 14, 2014
April 14, 2014
S’Wonderful
Musical Theatre West at Carpenter Performing Arts Center
It would seem that producing a musical featuring the melodies of George Gershwin with the lyrics of his elder brother, Ira, would be simplicity itself, as their work has been acknowledged as among the greatest collaborations in musical theater history. The work has been recognized universally as remarkable for its breadth of style and sophisticated musicality. It was said that the music had “one foot in Tin Pan Alley and the other in Carnegie Hall.” Conceived and written by director Ray Roderick, this production is an ambitious undertaking, attempting to elevate the work beyond the standard, plain-wrap musical revues so common in musical theater.
One of the successes of this production is its casting. The five principals—Rebecca Johnson, Damon Kirsche, Ashley Fox Linton, Jeff Skowron, and Rebecca Spencer—have much experience collectively in musical theater, with well-trained voices suited to Roderick’s choices of the Gershwins’s works.
The show is broken up into five mini-plays—beginning with New York City, 1928, showcasing selections including the popular “Nice Work If You Can Get It,” “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” and “Stairway to Paradise.” Roderick also features lesser-known works from early plays, such as “Boy Wanted” and “Soon.” A clever montage in which the actors pretend to be typing to “I’ve Got Rhythm” is a highlight. The second section takes place in New Orleans, 1957, and includes more-serious pieces “Summertime” and “The Man I Love,” powerfully delivered by Spencer. As a contrast, “By Strauss” with Spencer, Johnson, and Skowron has a comic moment with clever Viennese costumes.
Paris, 1939 is the third segment, with impressionistic French paintings as a backdrop for “Fascinating Rhythm,” with Linton and Kirsche, and An American in Paris montage followed by “Our Love Is Here to Stay” with all five cast members. The wartime setting adds a nice touch to Kirsche’s “Somebody Loves Me” and Linton and Kirsche’s “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.”
Originally written as a 90-minute cabaret revue for the Pittsburgh Civic Light Opera, this production has been reworked and expanded to its present two-plus hours with the intent of developing a storyline. The last two vignettes after intermission have arguably less impact than the first three; one is set in Hollywood, 1948, and the last in the present. Though the music of this portion features well-known numbers “Funny Face,” “Do, Do, Do,” and “Swanee,” and standards “They Can’t Take That Away From Me,” and “Embraceable You,” there may be a bit of music fatigue by this time with such a panoply of more than 40 tunes.
Choreography by Charlie Williams is spirited and greatly enhances the numbers. Skowron and Linton are standouts, though all five performers acquit themselves well in the many dancing scenes. Costumes by Deborah Roberts are many and varied, jazzing up the storyline, again far exceeding a typical showcase. Musical director Bret Simmons and combo provide the excitement of live music accompanying the Gershwin canon. Musical arrangements by Rick Hip-Flores are notable. Set design by Kevin Clowes, lighting by Jeff Warner, and sound by Brian S. Hsieh work well in concert on the large stage at the Carpenter Performing Arts Center.
From the lovely clarinet intro from “Rhapsody in Blue” at the beginning to the reprise of “I Got Rhythm” at the conclusion, older folks can appreciate a revival of Gershwin tunes and a new generation can see first-hand why the brothers have been so revered. One can only imagine what future music might have been produced if George had not suffered an untimely death at age 38.
Musical Theatre West at Carpenter Performing Arts Center
It would seem that producing a musical featuring the melodies of George Gershwin with the lyrics of his elder brother, Ira, would be simplicity itself, as their work has been acknowledged as among the greatest collaborations in musical theater history. The work has been recognized universally as remarkable for its breadth of style and sophisticated musicality. It was said that the music had “one foot in Tin Pan Alley and the other in Carnegie Hall.” Conceived and written by director Ray Roderick, this production is an ambitious undertaking, attempting to elevate the work beyond the standard, plain-wrap musical revues so common in musical theater.
One of the successes of this production is its casting. The five principals—Rebecca Johnson, Damon Kirsche, Ashley Fox Linton, Jeff Skowron, and Rebecca Spencer—have much experience collectively in musical theater, with well-trained voices suited to Roderick’s choices of the Gershwins’s works.
The show is broken up into five mini-plays—beginning with New York City, 1928, showcasing selections including the popular “Nice Work If You Can Get It,” “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” and “Stairway to Paradise.” Roderick also features lesser-known works from early plays, such as “Boy Wanted” and “Soon.” A clever montage in which the actors pretend to be typing to “I’ve Got Rhythm” is a highlight. The second section takes place in New Orleans, 1957, and includes more-serious pieces “Summertime” and “The Man I Love,” powerfully delivered by Spencer. As a contrast, “By Strauss” with Spencer, Johnson, and Skowron has a comic moment with clever Viennese costumes.
Paris, 1939 is the third segment, with impressionistic French paintings as a backdrop for “Fascinating Rhythm,” with Linton and Kirsche, and An American in Paris montage followed by “Our Love Is Here to Stay” with all five cast members. The wartime setting adds a nice touch to Kirsche’s “Somebody Loves Me” and Linton and Kirsche’s “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.”
Originally written as a 90-minute cabaret revue for the Pittsburgh Civic Light Opera, this production has been reworked and expanded to its present two-plus hours with the intent of developing a storyline. The last two vignettes after intermission have arguably less impact than the first three; one is set in Hollywood, 1948, and the last in the present. Though the music of this portion features well-known numbers “Funny Face,” “Do, Do, Do,” and “Swanee,” and standards “They Can’t Take That Away From Me,” and “Embraceable You,” there may be a bit of music fatigue by this time with such a panoply of more than 40 tunes.
Choreography by Charlie Williams is spirited and greatly enhances the numbers. Skowron and Linton are standouts, though all five performers acquit themselves well in the many dancing scenes. Costumes by Deborah Roberts are many and varied, jazzing up the storyline, again far exceeding a typical showcase. Musical director Bret Simmons and combo provide the excitement of live music accompanying the Gershwin canon. Musical arrangements by Rick Hip-Flores are notable. Set design by Kevin Clowes, lighting by Jeff Warner, and sound by Brian S. Hsieh work well in concert on the large stage at the Carpenter Performing Arts Center.
From the lovely clarinet intro from “Rhapsody in Blue” at the beginning to the reprise of “I Got Rhythm” at the conclusion, older folks can appreciate a revival of Gershwin tunes and a new generation can see first-hand why the brothers have been so revered. One can only imagine what future music might have been produced if George had not suffered an untimely death at age 38.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
April 14, 2014
April 14, 2014
Sovereign Body
The Road Theatre Company at the Historic Lankershim Arts Center
Myriad thematic vignettes are introduced during first act of Emilie Beck’s sojourn within the complicated social structure of an upper-middle-class Pasadena family ruled over by matriarch Anna (Taylor Gilbert)—a workaholic restaurant owner and master chef who is determined to infuse her rigid sense of order and propriety into the family’s preparations for Thanksgiving dinner. It is soon revealed that all the familial shenanigans are merely fodder for Beck’s subsequent assault on Anna’s physical and psychological being, followed by Anna’s painful second-act journey to make viable the remnants of her body and mind.
As played out in this world premiere, helmed by Scott Alan Smith, Beck is guilty of piling too many theatrical ingredients into her dramaturgical stew: naturalism, surrealism, breaking the fourth wall, Ingmar Bergman-esque film clips, socio-political commentary, religious debate, and generous helpings of poetry that flow relentlessly within the dialogue.
Smith marshals his competent troupe capably through Beck’s morass of styles and agendas that obscure rather than illuminate the play’s central thematic throughline—the horrific pas de deux between Anna and the invader (personified by Jack Millard) who is matter-of-factly determined to devour her. Anna’s struggle for survival is made even more ironic when juxtaposed with the intermittent film clips (effectively wrought by Daryl Johnson) that reveal a much younger Anna hesitantly marrying into the invader’s master plan. Through it all, Millard exudes the confident charm of an inevitable winner, thoroughly relaxed in his mission, even when he is physically pummeling and ravaging Anna—choreographed with graphic veracity by Matt Glave.
In essence, this is the Anna show, and Gilbert rams the protagonist relentlessly forward, inhabiting every painful twist and turn in Anna’s ordeal. It is also to Gilbert’s credit that in the throes of Anna’s most painful physical deterioration, this master chef can still project a captivating low-keyed humor when she is given a Crock-Pot as a present from her forever-clueless sister-in-law, Zoe (Anna Carini).
Revolving like satellites around this action—each darting in and out to project his or her own truths—are Anna’s anti-establishment sculptor husband Tal (Kevin McCorkle); her misanthropic 20-year-old daughter Callie (Dani Stephens); Callie’s mother-earth-in-embryo 16-year-old sister Evie (Hannah Mae Sturges); Anna’s own mother, Vivian (Bryna Weiss), fearful that her time is short and that Anna is unprepared to live the rest of her life; Anna’s state senator brother Ben (John Cragen), thoroughly frustrated that he is not living up to anybody’s expectations, which he freely explains directly to the audience; and Ben’s wife, the aforementioned Zoe, a wonderfully entertaining malaprop-spouting devout Christian, who approaches Anna’s household like a stranger in a strange land.
The design elements are dominated by Stephen Gifford’s finely executed Tuscan-inspired eat-in kitchen. The only puzzling set piece is the faux stove, or rather a table substituting as a stove.
The Road Theatre Company at the Historic Lankershim Arts Center
Myriad thematic vignettes are introduced during first act of Emilie Beck’s sojourn within the complicated social structure of an upper-middle-class Pasadena family ruled over by matriarch Anna (Taylor Gilbert)—a workaholic restaurant owner and master chef who is determined to infuse her rigid sense of order and propriety into the family’s preparations for Thanksgiving dinner. It is soon revealed that all the familial shenanigans are merely fodder for Beck’s subsequent assault on Anna’s physical and psychological being, followed by Anna’s painful second-act journey to make viable the remnants of her body and mind.
As played out in this world premiere, helmed by Scott Alan Smith, Beck is guilty of piling too many theatrical ingredients into her dramaturgical stew: naturalism, surrealism, breaking the fourth wall, Ingmar Bergman-esque film clips, socio-political commentary, religious debate, and generous helpings of poetry that flow relentlessly within the dialogue.
Smith marshals his competent troupe capably through Beck’s morass of styles and agendas that obscure rather than illuminate the play’s central thematic throughline—the horrific pas de deux between Anna and the invader (personified by Jack Millard) who is matter-of-factly determined to devour her. Anna’s struggle for survival is made even more ironic when juxtaposed with the intermittent film clips (effectively wrought by Daryl Johnson) that reveal a much younger Anna hesitantly marrying into the invader’s master plan. Through it all, Millard exudes the confident charm of an inevitable winner, thoroughly relaxed in his mission, even when he is physically pummeling and ravaging Anna—choreographed with graphic veracity by Matt Glave.
In essence, this is the Anna show, and Gilbert rams the protagonist relentlessly forward, inhabiting every painful twist and turn in Anna’s ordeal. It is also to Gilbert’s credit that in the throes of Anna’s most painful physical deterioration, this master chef can still project a captivating low-keyed humor when she is given a Crock-Pot as a present from her forever-clueless sister-in-law, Zoe (Anna Carini).
Revolving like satellites around this action—each darting in and out to project his or her own truths—are Anna’s anti-establishment sculptor husband Tal (Kevin McCorkle); her misanthropic 20-year-old daughter Callie (Dani Stephens); Callie’s mother-earth-in-embryo 16-year-old sister Evie (Hannah Mae Sturges); Anna’s own mother, Vivian (Bryna Weiss), fearful that her time is short and that Anna is unprepared to live the rest of her life; Anna’s state senator brother Ben (John Cragen), thoroughly frustrated that he is not living up to anybody’s expectations, which he freely explains directly to the audience; and Ben’s wife, the aforementioned Zoe, a wonderfully entertaining malaprop-spouting devout Christian, who approaches Anna’s household like a stranger in a strange land.
The design elements are dominated by Stephen Gifford’s finely executed Tuscan-inspired eat-in kitchen. The only puzzling set piece is the faux stove, or rather a table substituting as a stove.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
April 9, 2014
April 9, 2014
White Marriage
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble
Why would Bianca, a seemingly normal young woman, want to contract a “white”—i.e., unconsummated—marriage? That’s the question raised by Polish poet-playwright Tadeusz Różewicz’s surreal 1974 play. (The translation is by Adam Czerniawaki.) It’s set in an insular Polish town around the turn of the 19th century. On the surface it looks like a Chekhov play, with its family gatherings, picnics, and intimate conversations. But it blows the lid off Chekhov by examining the sexual underpinnings in a way no 19th century-writer could have done. And the family at the center of the play—we’re never told its last namecertainly—has its sexual kinks.
The Father (John Apicella) is a ruthless sexual predator for whom any woman is fair game, whether it’s the Cook (Sharon Powers), the Milk Maid (Sarah Lydden), or a passing Nun (Yulia Moiseenko). He roars like a lion and charges like a maddened bull. The Mother (Diana Cignoni) is a bitter woman, who loathes the man her family chose for her and is therefore essentially frigid. The Grandfather (Mark Bramhall) is an onanistic fetishist and child molester, with a penchant for sadistic games. The Aunt (Beth Hogan) is a romantic figure whose husband died of a seizure while attempting to consummate their marriage, and now, she declares, she doesn’t wear bloomers in either winter or summer.
The nubile eldest daughter, Bianca (Kate Dalton), is traumatized by the fact that she can’t look at a man without seeing, in her mind’s eye at least, his penis. The younger daughter, Pauline (Emily Goss), with a voracious appetite for food and—prospectively, at least—for sex, extorts presents from her Grandfather in exchange for allowing him to act out his fantasies with her, and she launches a flamboyant attempt to seduce Bianca’s naïve fiancé Benjamin (Austin Rogers). So perhaps it’s understandable that Bianca wants a white marriage.
Różewicz tells his story objectively, without explaining or passing judgement. But he utilizes vivid Rabelaisian fantasies to dramatize the split between our high-minded morality and our baser instincts. The Father sometimes appears with the head of a bull and is repeatedly seen in hot pursuit of the Cook, a bare-breasted woman, and the aforementioned nun. And in a familiar expressionist trope, the guests at the wedding banquet wear grotesque animal masks and gobble their delicacies like hogs at a trough.
White marriages are not exactly a hot-button issue in the US in the 21st century, but the piece is fascinating in its own right and as a historical document. Director Ron Sossi gives it a bizarre, colorful, uninhibited production on Gary Guidinger’s handsome black-and-white set, with art nouveau interiors set against a backdrop of trees in an ominous-looking forest. Costumer A. Jeffrey Schoenberg provides handsomely demure 19th-century gowns for the ladies and sober, Victorian coats for the men. The specialty props—presumably including the many penises, masks, and the phallic wedding cake—are by Leah N. Olbrich.
Sossi has cast the piece beautifully, with bold performances by Dalton and Goss, and sharp, crisp character work by the entire ensemble.
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble
Why would Bianca, a seemingly normal young woman, want to contract a “white”—i.e., unconsummated—marriage? That’s the question raised by Polish poet-playwright Tadeusz Różewicz’s surreal 1974 play. (The translation is by Adam Czerniawaki.) It’s set in an insular Polish town around the turn of the 19th century. On the surface it looks like a Chekhov play, with its family gatherings, picnics, and intimate conversations. But it blows the lid off Chekhov by examining the sexual underpinnings in a way no 19th century-writer could have done. And the family at the center of the play—we’re never told its last namecertainly—has its sexual kinks.
The Father (John Apicella) is a ruthless sexual predator for whom any woman is fair game, whether it’s the Cook (Sharon Powers), the Milk Maid (Sarah Lydden), or a passing Nun (Yulia Moiseenko). He roars like a lion and charges like a maddened bull. The Mother (Diana Cignoni) is a bitter woman, who loathes the man her family chose for her and is therefore essentially frigid. The Grandfather (Mark Bramhall) is an onanistic fetishist and child molester, with a penchant for sadistic games. The Aunt (Beth Hogan) is a romantic figure whose husband died of a seizure while attempting to consummate their marriage, and now, she declares, she doesn’t wear bloomers in either winter or summer.
The nubile eldest daughter, Bianca (Kate Dalton), is traumatized by the fact that she can’t look at a man without seeing, in her mind’s eye at least, his penis. The younger daughter, Pauline (Emily Goss), with a voracious appetite for food and—prospectively, at least—for sex, extorts presents from her Grandfather in exchange for allowing him to act out his fantasies with her, and she launches a flamboyant attempt to seduce Bianca’s naïve fiancé Benjamin (Austin Rogers). So perhaps it’s understandable that Bianca wants a white marriage.
Różewicz tells his story objectively, without explaining or passing judgement. But he utilizes vivid Rabelaisian fantasies to dramatize the split between our high-minded morality and our baser instincts. The Father sometimes appears with the head of a bull and is repeatedly seen in hot pursuit of the Cook, a bare-breasted woman, and the aforementioned nun. And in a familiar expressionist trope, the guests at the wedding banquet wear grotesque animal masks and gobble their delicacies like hogs at a trough.
White marriages are not exactly a hot-button issue in the US in the 21st century, but the piece is fascinating in its own right and as a historical document. Director Ron Sossi gives it a bizarre, colorful, uninhibited production on Gary Guidinger’s handsome black-and-white set, with art nouveau interiors set against a backdrop of trees in an ominous-looking forest. Costumer A. Jeffrey Schoenberg provides handsomely demure 19th-century gowns for the ladies and sober, Victorian coats for the men. The specialty props—presumably including the many penises, masks, and the phallic wedding cake—are by Leah N. Olbrich.
Sossi has cast the piece beautifully, with bold performances by Dalton and Goss, and sharp, crisp character work by the entire ensemble.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
April 9, 2014
April 9, 2014
Sans Merci
The Garage Theatre
Johnna Adams’s Gidion’s Knot, as presented by the Furious Theater Company in Pasadena, was one of the more scintillating local attractions of 2013. It brought together two women under great strain—a mother whose little boy had committed suicide, and the teacher charged with looking out for him—and in the course of 90 gripping minutes led them into solving a mystery and reaching an epiphany.
Adams’s new play is another confrontation between women in extremis: A Midwestern mom, whose daughter was murdered by Central American guerrillas, pays a visit to the daughter’s lesbian lover who survived the deadly encounter. Yet, as staged by Long Beach’s Garage Theater, Sans Merci is every bit as flaccid and maladroit as the earlier work was taut and accomplished.
There’s no urgency to the mutual investigation this time—the fateful trip is long behind the characters by the time the play begins—and almost no sparks are set off over two and a half hours’ worth of benign clashes. Flashbacks to the daughter’s political awakening seem all too obviously based on, and exploitative of, the real life drama of Rachel Corrie, while the sexual awakening, played at snail’s pace, comes across as extraneous. The three actors—Cassie Vail Yeager as survivor Kelly; Paige Polcene as mom Elizabeth; Ashley Elizabeth Allen as the dead girl—work hard and tear many passions to tatters, but without creating suspense or weight.
As heavy-handed as the writing is, blame for the outcome must rest on the shoulders of helmer Katie Chidester. Adams just indicates it’s raining, but it’s the director who chooses to run a loud, nonstop loop of monsoon sounds beneath the action. Though the play is set in LA, there’s more deluge than in Noah; after a while you literally can’t hear yourself think.
Adams insists on having Elizabeth quote Keats at length (don’t ask), but it’s the director who sees to it that the recitations are flat and lifeless. In Act 2, the playwright asks for a lengthy silent sequence as Elizabeth divvies up her daughter’s possessions. It’s a poor idea, especially because Kelly has already recited the contents chapter and verse, but it’s the director who blocks the action so far upstage that we can’t possibly get anything out of it. These and other dubious staging choices defer any possibility of our becoming involved in, or moved by, a piteous situation.
It’s a disappointing outing for a hungry and ambitious company, but one hopes the company recoups next time.
The Garage Theatre
Johnna Adams’s Gidion’s Knot, as presented by the Furious Theater Company in Pasadena, was one of the more scintillating local attractions of 2013. It brought together two women under great strain—a mother whose little boy had committed suicide, and the teacher charged with looking out for him—and in the course of 90 gripping minutes led them into solving a mystery and reaching an epiphany.
Adams’s new play is another confrontation between women in extremis: A Midwestern mom, whose daughter was murdered by Central American guerrillas, pays a visit to the daughter’s lesbian lover who survived the deadly encounter. Yet, as staged by Long Beach’s Garage Theater, Sans Merci is every bit as flaccid and maladroit as the earlier work was taut and accomplished.
There’s no urgency to the mutual investigation this time—the fateful trip is long behind the characters by the time the play begins—and almost no sparks are set off over two and a half hours’ worth of benign clashes. Flashbacks to the daughter’s political awakening seem all too obviously based on, and exploitative of, the real life drama of Rachel Corrie, while the sexual awakening, played at snail’s pace, comes across as extraneous. The three actors—Cassie Vail Yeager as survivor Kelly; Paige Polcene as mom Elizabeth; Ashley Elizabeth Allen as the dead girl—work hard and tear many passions to tatters, but without creating suspense or weight.
As heavy-handed as the writing is, blame for the outcome must rest on the shoulders of helmer Katie Chidester. Adams just indicates it’s raining, but it’s the director who chooses to run a loud, nonstop loop of monsoon sounds beneath the action. Though the play is set in LA, there’s more deluge than in Noah; after a while you literally can’t hear yourself think.
Adams insists on having Elizabeth quote Keats at length (don’t ask), but it’s the director who sees to it that the recitations are flat and lifeless. In Act 2, the playwright asks for a lengthy silent sequence as Elizabeth divvies up her daughter’s possessions. It’s a poor idea, especially because Kelly has already recited the contents chapter and verse, but it’s the director who blocks the action so far upstage that we can’t possibly get anything out of it. These and other dubious staging choices defer any possibility of our becoming involved in, or moved by, a piteous situation.
It’s a disappointing outing for a hungry and ambitious company, but one hopes the company recoups next time.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 9, 2014
April 9, 2014
The Last Act of Lilka Kadison
The Falcon Theatre, Abbie Phillips and Jan Kallish in Association With Lookingglass Theatre Company at Falcon Theatre
Everyone suffers from ghosts, either the memories of past decisions that haunt them or the people with whom they never had closure. A Jewish survivor of Hitler’s invasion, the title character here has many lingering phantoms in this moving tale of love, loss, and buried secrets.
In her cluttered home, the exasperating 87-year-old Lilith Fisher (Mindy Sterling) lies dormant on her chair, recovering from a broken hip. Her husband recently died, and her son has hired a Pakistani healthcare worker (Usman Ally) as a caregiver, much to her chagrin. As the world commemorates the 70th anniversary of Poland’s fall to the Nazis, Lilith confronts her past when the apparition of her childhood love returns to remind her of long-locked-away memories.
Just before the tanks bulldozed into her homeland, the 17-year-old Lilith (Brittany Uomoleale), whose European maiden name was Lilka Kadison, meets a beguiling performer who expands her limited education. Lilka has grown up in a religious home, responsible for caring for her younger siblings, drawing her strength of purpose from Bible stories as infallible gospel truth. Ben Ari (Nicholas Cutro) satirizes the biblical stories she loves, to her consternation. He begs her to write his new puppet show, based on the tale of Solomon and the queen of Sheba. Lilka discovers love with this handsome young suitor, only to have World War II too soon split them apart. The specter Ben returns to Lillian these many years later, touching her heart again and pleading to be acknowledged. But can Lillian expose the painful secret she has held concealed for 70 years?
Director Dan Bonnell has launched a poignant, lyrical, and visually clever production. The cast is impeccable. Sterling’s depth as a woman 27 years older than herself will pleasantly surprise those who know the actor only from the Austin Powers movies as the comically insane Frau Farbissina. She manages to be cranky and irascible, but also grounded in a deep sadness and loneliness. As the caregiver, Ally holds his own, never allowing this angry lady to steal his self-esteem but also being a conduit for Lillian to unleash her sorrow when she’s ready to confront her past. Uomoleale manages to be both naïve and wise as the young girl who never realized she was hungry for life. Her chemistry with the charismatic Cutro makes the flashback scenes all the more illuminating.
With set designer Melissa Ficociello and toy designer Susan Simpson, Bonnell utilizes props with panache, having a room full of boxes turned into a graveyard with just the flip of a foot. The puppet shows are striking, both the shadow images and the tableaus. With costumer Ann Closs-Farley, Bonnell even visually pays homage to Grimm’s fairy tales while the characters work on Bible tales. Lilka wears a red dress (like Red Riding Hood) as her young “wolf” leads her off the expected path. Instead of death, the image evokes burgeoning sexuality.
The script—by Nicola Behrman, David Kersnar, Abbie Phillips, Heidi Stillman, and Andy White—has a cohesiveness and a singular voice that is often not found in projects written by multiple people. The dialogue is poignant and bolsters the audience’s understanding of the characters’ motives. The writers consciously left Lilka’s journey from 1939 to present day murky, which is a valid choice. This writer, however, spent so much time being distracted by guessing (based on the limited information) how she got from point A to point B, that a little clarification may have constructed—not hindered—the audience’s connection to her plight.
A different take on the Holocaust, The Last Act of Lilka Kadison brings memories, magic, toys, and a touch of the supernatural to a tale that in the end is universal for any audience; a life in review, one filled with happiness and regret that must be confronted before one can die in peace.
The Falcon Theatre, Abbie Phillips and Jan Kallish in Association With Lookingglass Theatre Company at Falcon Theatre
Everyone suffers from ghosts, either the memories of past decisions that haunt them or the people with whom they never had closure. A Jewish survivor of Hitler’s invasion, the title character here has many lingering phantoms in this moving tale of love, loss, and buried secrets.
In her cluttered home, the exasperating 87-year-old Lilith Fisher (Mindy Sterling) lies dormant on her chair, recovering from a broken hip. Her husband recently died, and her son has hired a Pakistani healthcare worker (Usman Ally) as a caregiver, much to her chagrin. As the world commemorates the 70th anniversary of Poland’s fall to the Nazis, Lilith confronts her past when the apparition of her childhood love returns to remind her of long-locked-away memories.
Just before the tanks bulldozed into her homeland, the 17-year-old Lilith (Brittany Uomoleale), whose European maiden name was Lilka Kadison, meets a beguiling performer who expands her limited education. Lilka has grown up in a religious home, responsible for caring for her younger siblings, drawing her strength of purpose from Bible stories as infallible gospel truth. Ben Ari (Nicholas Cutro) satirizes the biblical stories she loves, to her consternation. He begs her to write his new puppet show, based on the tale of Solomon and the queen of Sheba. Lilka discovers love with this handsome young suitor, only to have World War II too soon split them apart. The specter Ben returns to Lillian these many years later, touching her heart again and pleading to be acknowledged. But can Lillian expose the painful secret she has held concealed for 70 years?
Director Dan Bonnell has launched a poignant, lyrical, and visually clever production. The cast is impeccable. Sterling’s depth as a woman 27 years older than herself will pleasantly surprise those who know the actor only from the Austin Powers movies as the comically insane Frau Farbissina. She manages to be cranky and irascible, but also grounded in a deep sadness and loneliness. As the caregiver, Ally holds his own, never allowing this angry lady to steal his self-esteem but also being a conduit for Lillian to unleash her sorrow when she’s ready to confront her past. Uomoleale manages to be both naïve and wise as the young girl who never realized she was hungry for life. Her chemistry with the charismatic Cutro makes the flashback scenes all the more illuminating.
With set designer Melissa Ficociello and toy designer Susan Simpson, Bonnell utilizes props with panache, having a room full of boxes turned into a graveyard with just the flip of a foot. The puppet shows are striking, both the shadow images and the tableaus. With costumer Ann Closs-Farley, Bonnell even visually pays homage to Grimm’s fairy tales while the characters work on Bible tales. Lilka wears a red dress (like Red Riding Hood) as her young “wolf” leads her off the expected path. Instead of death, the image evokes burgeoning sexuality.
The script—by Nicola Behrman, David Kersnar, Abbie Phillips, Heidi Stillman, and Andy White—has a cohesiveness and a singular voice that is often not found in projects written by multiple people. The dialogue is poignant and bolsters the audience’s understanding of the characters’ motives. The writers consciously left Lilka’s journey from 1939 to present day murky, which is a valid choice. This writer, however, spent so much time being distracted by guessing (based on the limited information) how she got from point A to point B, that a little clarification may have constructed—not hindered—the audience’s connection to her plight.
A different take on the Holocaust, The Last Act of Lilka Kadison brings memories, magic, toys, and a touch of the supernatural to a tale that in the end is universal for any audience; a life in review, one filled with happiness and regret that must be confronted before one can die in peace.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
April 9, 2014
April 9, 2014
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Bristol Old Vic in association with Handspring Puppet Company at The Broad Stage
Something is unusual about a production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream in which Hippolyta is the most interesting character on the stage. While the audience enters the theater in this Bristol Old Vic touring production directed by Tom Morris (one of the original directors of War Horse), Saskia Portway, who plays Hippolyta, is onstage, laboring in what appears to be a weather-beaten atelier. Portway is engrossed in sculpting or fixing something. The lack of this reviewer’s certainty results less from the intensity and specificity of her work than from the cavernous nature of the Broad Stage, paired with Philip Gladwell’s moody but ocularly unhelpful lighting. That the Broad leaves “emergency” lighting on in its aisles during the production also dims the view of the stage.
So, Hippolyta works while other characters from the play (it’s not clear who they are, because eventually all of the actors play several roles) wander through the audience, goofing off and trying to make friends. Hmm, possibly this production’s point of view is feminist. When Hippolyta’s fiancé, Theseus (David Ricardo-Pearce), launches in on Hermia (Akiya Henry), telling Hermia she’s under her father Egeus’s (Miltos Yerolemou) power and must marry whomever Egeus tells her to, Portway’s Hippolyta grows disgusted and silently infuriated—a truthful performance that obeys the text. Theseus then says to her, “Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?” She glares, tosses her head back, and storms out without him. Yes, we can expect a feminist take on the play. Or, perhaps the through-line here will be about the making of art.
Eventually, however, it becomes clear there’s no take on the play, other than to weave in use of “puppets” by Handspring Puppet Company (who created the horse and other animals of War Horse). The setting remains the atelier for the first few scenes, which Morris moves along without breaks—thanks to the modern-day clothing for each character. Soon the workroom furniture moves out, but a large multistory tarp hanging upstage right and even larger broken latticework upstage left remain onstage for the duration.
The actors create the woods with wood—planks of wood, which they hold upright and motionless or bob and weave to form a tableau. A set piece is introduced at the play’s end, when the mechanicals need a stage for the play-within-a-play Pyramus and Thisby. Yes, this play is about the puppetry.
Morris reaches for a few other ideas. Henry is a black actor, so when Hermia’s beloved Lysander (Alex Felton) asks why her cheek is so pale, there’s a slight gasp from the audience. Yerolemou also plays Bottom, and plays him as an Italian immigrant—not far from Athens, and why wouldn’t laborers come from other nations, as does Saikat Ahamed’s Snug, perhaps the reason Snug is “slow of study.” But Yerolemou’s Chico Marx–like accent disappears into Received Pronunciation when Yerolemou plays Pyramus. Perhaps Morris mocks the ironing-out of regional accents by the English drama schools.
The actors playing the Athenian royals then play Oberon and Titania. With no costume changes, the visual cues to the fairy characters are large masks, which Ricardo-Pearce as Oberon and Portway as Titania hold overhead so the fairies are larger than the other characters. Ricardo-Pearce also wields a massive mechanized puppet hand, which might have but did not lead back to that male-domination theme. Puck is voiced by three actors—Ahamed, Fionn Gill, and Lucy Tuck—and embodied by a basket for his body, hand tools for his limbs, and an oilcan-like sculpture for his head, all manipulated by the three actors. Occasionally his scampering can convince us he’s a living creature, but the conceit loses its power quickly and certainly never rises to the living, breathing creature the horse Joey is in War Horse. Other puppets include jellyfish.
But presumably the pièce de résistance here is the contraption that turns Bottom into an ass. To be precise, it turns Bottom’s bottom into an ass, producing gleeful laughter from the audience. Yerolemou’s bare bum, warts and all as they say, becomes the animal’s cheeks. The actor’s feet are clad in footwear that flops to create the ears, and around his ankles are strapped objects that resemble eyes. Effortful squinting and a struggling imagination might possibly help the viewer figure out where the mouth was. Yerolemou faces backwards on the apparatus, a tail attached to his cap. As the actor pedals with his hands, metal bars move like asinine limbs.
Once the mechanicals put on their play, Morris turns to commedia. The chink in the wall is the space between Snout’s legs. Every time Pyramus and Thisby get near the chink, Snout (Gill) gets bopped in the nuts, to gleeful laughter anew. The once-again bare-bottomed Bottom turns around to reveal a massive merkin; more juvenile titters ensue.
Then, at this production’s very end, a towering Oberon and Titania (puppetry again) walk upstage, holding the hands of a tiny figure between them. The figure is presumably the “Indian Boy,” and he’s played, conveniently, by Ahamed. Once again, the last moment of this comedy, this magical script, in this production, is clearly a visual with perhaps a point. But the story is lost in all the concept and ambiguity.
Bristol Old Vic in association with Handspring Puppet Company at The Broad Stage
Something is unusual about a production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream in which Hippolyta is the most interesting character on the stage. While the audience enters the theater in this Bristol Old Vic touring production directed by Tom Morris (one of the original directors of War Horse), Saskia Portway, who plays Hippolyta, is onstage, laboring in what appears to be a weather-beaten atelier. Portway is engrossed in sculpting or fixing something. The lack of this reviewer’s certainty results less from the intensity and specificity of her work than from the cavernous nature of the Broad Stage, paired with Philip Gladwell’s moody but ocularly unhelpful lighting. That the Broad leaves “emergency” lighting on in its aisles during the production also dims the view of the stage.
So, Hippolyta works while other characters from the play (it’s not clear who they are, because eventually all of the actors play several roles) wander through the audience, goofing off and trying to make friends. Hmm, possibly this production’s point of view is feminist. When Hippolyta’s fiancé, Theseus (David Ricardo-Pearce), launches in on Hermia (Akiya Henry), telling Hermia she’s under her father Egeus’s (Miltos Yerolemou) power and must marry whomever Egeus tells her to, Portway’s Hippolyta grows disgusted and silently infuriated—a truthful performance that obeys the text. Theseus then says to her, “Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?” She glares, tosses her head back, and storms out without him. Yes, we can expect a feminist take on the play. Or, perhaps the through-line here will be about the making of art.
Eventually, however, it becomes clear there’s no take on the play, other than to weave in use of “puppets” by Handspring Puppet Company (who created the horse and other animals of War Horse). The setting remains the atelier for the first few scenes, which Morris moves along without breaks—thanks to the modern-day clothing for each character. Soon the workroom furniture moves out, but a large multistory tarp hanging upstage right and even larger broken latticework upstage left remain onstage for the duration.
The actors create the woods with wood—planks of wood, which they hold upright and motionless or bob and weave to form a tableau. A set piece is introduced at the play’s end, when the mechanicals need a stage for the play-within-a-play Pyramus and Thisby. Yes, this play is about the puppetry.
Morris reaches for a few other ideas. Henry is a black actor, so when Hermia’s beloved Lysander (Alex Felton) asks why her cheek is so pale, there’s a slight gasp from the audience. Yerolemou also plays Bottom, and plays him as an Italian immigrant—not far from Athens, and why wouldn’t laborers come from other nations, as does Saikat Ahamed’s Snug, perhaps the reason Snug is “slow of study.” But Yerolemou’s Chico Marx–like accent disappears into Received Pronunciation when Yerolemou plays Pyramus. Perhaps Morris mocks the ironing-out of regional accents by the English drama schools.
The actors playing the Athenian royals then play Oberon and Titania. With no costume changes, the visual cues to the fairy characters are large masks, which Ricardo-Pearce as Oberon and Portway as Titania hold overhead so the fairies are larger than the other characters. Ricardo-Pearce also wields a massive mechanized puppet hand, which might have but did not lead back to that male-domination theme. Puck is voiced by three actors—Ahamed, Fionn Gill, and Lucy Tuck—and embodied by a basket for his body, hand tools for his limbs, and an oilcan-like sculpture for his head, all manipulated by the three actors. Occasionally his scampering can convince us he’s a living creature, but the conceit loses its power quickly and certainly never rises to the living, breathing creature the horse Joey is in War Horse. Other puppets include jellyfish.
But presumably the pièce de résistance here is the contraption that turns Bottom into an ass. To be precise, it turns Bottom’s bottom into an ass, producing gleeful laughter from the audience. Yerolemou’s bare bum, warts and all as they say, becomes the animal’s cheeks. The actor’s feet are clad in footwear that flops to create the ears, and around his ankles are strapped objects that resemble eyes. Effortful squinting and a struggling imagination might possibly help the viewer figure out where the mouth was. Yerolemou faces backwards on the apparatus, a tail attached to his cap. As the actor pedals with his hands, metal bars move like asinine limbs.
Once the mechanicals put on their play, Morris turns to commedia. The chink in the wall is the space between Snout’s legs. Every time Pyramus and Thisby get near the chink, Snout (Gill) gets bopped in the nuts, to gleeful laughter anew. The once-again bare-bottomed Bottom turns around to reveal a massive merkin; more juvenile titters ensue.
Then, at this production’s very end, a towering Oberon and Titania (puppetry again) walk upstage, holding the hands of a tiny figure between them. The figure is presumably the “Indian Boy,” and he’s played, conveniently, by Ahamed. Once again, the last moment of this comedy, this magical script, in this production, is clearly a visual with perhaps a point. But the story is lost in all the concept and ambiguity.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
April 4, 2014
April 4, 2014
La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts
One of the most ambitious art musicals of recent years, Floyd Collins by Adam Guettel (music and lyrics) and Tina Landau (book and additional lyrics) is receiving an outstanding mounting from helmer Richard Israel and the management of the La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts. The producers, who regularly bring you the likes of Peter Pan and Cats, have blocked off their huge auditorium to place Rich Rose’s multilevel black-box set onto a three-quarter thrust with intimate seating. Gorgeously lit by Lisa D. Katz, it proves an excellent space to recount, with delicate artistry, the ordeal of a real-life spelunker caught in a Kentucky cave-in in 1925.
Many know the Collins saga, if at all, from Billy Wilder’s fictionalized 1951 movie, which was variously released under two different but equally apt titles. The ambitious backwoodsman thought the vast, scenic cave he stumbled upon would serve as his Ace in the Hole, his ticket to becoming an entrepreneur of an underground theme park, until he found his foot irreparably trapped by debris far below the land’s surface. Up above, national media hounds and random gawkers gathered for The Big Carnival, an orgy of breathless exploitation of the Collins family and jacked-up suspense over whether rescuers would free Floyd in time.
In its day, Wilder’s satire made fresh, cynical hay of newspaper and radio jackals. But now that La Dolce Vita, the stage and film musical Chicago, and tons of reality TV have made heartless media exploitation of tragedy such a cliché, Guettel and Landau are wise virtually to ignore it in their retelling. They toss in a brief sequence of mob overkill along the way, but otherwise they’re far more interested in the personal and existential dimensions of a man in Floyd’s predicament. They concentrate on his relationships with the family members he leaves behind, the few rescuers who make an effort to get to know him, and the God he may very well be meeting in a matter of hours.
As Floyd (Mark Whitten) lies immobile, fearful and hallucinating on an inclined plane that stands in for his underground prison, it’s difficult not to think of the real-life protagonists of 127 Hours and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, or the fictional ones of Whose Life Is It Anyway? and the movie Gravity. All of them—all of us—at one point or another feel stuck in an impersonal cosmos; this aloneness isn’t an especially new idea. But there’s enhanced empathy and dread when we’re asked to watch someone living out that solitude, over time, in enforced imprisonment, and given the invitation to wonder how we would fare if sentenced to the same terrifying fate. By keeping the focus on the internal torment suffered by Floyd and those near and dear to him, Guettel and Landau—and in this sensitive production, Israel—carve out a truly memorable emotional experience.
Israel has cast a remarkable troupe of local luminaries notable for their great pipes and acting chops, particularly Whitten, who creates a full-blown portrait out of what in other hands could easily become a convenient abstraction, and Kim Huber as his “tetched” sister, back from the nuthouse with enhanced psychic connections. Coming in for special commendation is Matt Magnusson, who settles in to strum “The Ballad of Floyd Collins” with uncommon grace.
There’s also the improbably named Josey Montana McCoy as “Skeets” Miller, the intrepid cub reporter who was resourceful and tiny enough to burrow his way down to Floyd for interviews, and came out with a Pulitzer Prize for his pains. McCoy never overdoes the callowness, yet he carefully crafts the process by which the two-week rescue effort turns him into a real mensch. He and Whitten, more than anyone, see to it that Floyd Collins is able to touch the heart without devolving into easy sentimentality.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 2, 2014
April 2, 2014
How I Learned To Drive
Illyrian Players at The Lab at Theatre Asylum
Paula Vogel’s 1998 Pulitzer winning sojourn within the complicated relationship of a young girl and her middle-aged sexual molester is given an impressively nuanced outing by Illyrian Players, helmed by Carly D. Weckstein. Set in 1960s rural Maryland, Vogel’s text follows a dramatically enticing scrambled chronology as 32-year-old Li’l Bit (Elitia Daniels) recalls her ragingly dysfunctional working-class family history, highlighted by her seven-year secret friendship with her aunt’s husband, Uncle Peck (Thaddeus Shafer), beginning when she was 11, when soft-spoken and genteel Peck gives L’il Bit her first driving lesson.
The playwright doesn’t provide vulnerable but perceptive Li’l Bit many options, establishing the utter vulgarity of her family—performed with clownish lustiness by the Greek chorus trio of Anna Walters, Jonny Taylor, and Cassandra Gonzales. The girl is also challenged at school, embarrassed by the adolescent ogling she endures due to her prematurely well-developed bosom. The courtly attention Peck gives her is a relief from the emotional chaos she endures away from him. As adult L’il Bit explains, once her preteen self realized what her relationship with Peck would continue to be, her emotional awareness “retreated above the neck.”
Each scene is prefaced by a spoken chapter title from a driving manual, further emphasizing the importance of these episodes in this girl’s crooked path to womanhood. Performed with no intermission, played out on Will Herder’s simple, easy-access, all-purpose set, Weckstein’s staging—complemented by Colleen Dunleap’s lights—places a profound emphasis on the evolving relationship of two flawed human beings who choose to not do the right thing, especially increasingly manipulative Li’l Bit, who is usually placed front and center, fully lit, emphasizing her command of the proceedings. Peck has to literally approach her from a darker area of the stage.
Daniels offers an indelible portrayal of a victim and predator as Li’l Bit navigates her seven-year journey through pedophilia, purposefully insinuating herself into her uncle’s warped psyche as he cravenly assaults hers. Her inherent physical sensuality is neither emphasized or avoided. It is simply there. Shafer’s impeccably realized Uncle Peck harkens to the Tennessee Williams’s genre of faded Southern aristocracy, infusing all the failures and disappointments of his life into justification for this tangible realization of the corruption of his soul. His skills at persuasion and enticement are as effective as they are creepy.
Weckstein relegates the supporting roles to the status of caricatures, especially the over-the-top redneck shenanigans of Li’l Bit’s grandparents (Taylor and Gonzales). Walters offers an effectively bitter monologue as Peck’s long-suffering but ultimately complicit wife. Gonzales is haunting as the terrified inner voice of 11-year-old Li’l Bit, suffering her first unnatural attention from her uncle.
Illyrian Players at The Lab at Theatre Asylum
Paula Vogel’s 1998 Pulitzer winning sojourn within the complicated relationship of a young girl and her middle-aged sexual molester is given an impressively nuanced outing by Illyrian Players, helmed by Carly D. Weckstein. Set in 1960s rural Maryland, Vogel’s text follows a dramatically enticing scrambled chronology as 32-year-old Li’l Bit (Elitia Daniels) recalls her ragingly dysfunctional working-class family history, highlighted by her seven-year secret friendship with her aunt’s husband, Uncle Peck (Thaddeus Shafer), beginning when she was 11, when soft-spoken and genteel Peck gives L’il Bit her first driving lesson.
The playwright doesn’t provide vulnerable but perceptive Li’l Bit many options, establishing the utter vulgarity of her family—performed with clownish lustiness by the Greek chorus trio of Anna Walters, Jonny Taylor, and Cassandra Gonzales. The girl is also challenged at school, embarrassed by the adolescent ogling she endures due to her prematurely well-developed bosom. The courtly attention Peck gives her is a relief from the emotional chaos she endures away from him. As adult L’il Bit explains, once her preteen self realized what her relationship with Peck would continue to be, her emotional awareness “retreated above the neck.”
Each scene is prefaced by a spoken chapter title from a driving manual, further emphasizing the importance of these episodes in this girl’s crooked path to womanhood. Performed with no intermission, played out on Will Herder’s simple, easy-access, all-purpose set, Weckstein’s staging—complemented by Colleen Dunleap’s lights—places a profound emphasis on the evolving relationship of two flawed human beings who choose to not do the right thing, especially increasingly manipulative Li’l Bit, who is usually placed front and center, fully lit, emphasizing her command of the proceedings. Peck has to literally approach her from a darker area of the stage.
Daniels offers an indelible portrayal of a victim and predator as Li’l Bit navigates her seven-year journey through pedophilia, purposefully insinuating herself into her uncle’s warped psyche as he cravenly assaults hers. Her inherent physical sensuality is neither emphasized or avoided. It is simply there. Shafer’s impeccably realized Uncle Peck harkens to the Tennessee Williams’s genre of faded Southern aristocracy, infusing all the failures and disappointments of his life into justification for this tangible realization of the corruption of his soul. His skills at persuasion and enticement are as effective as they are creepy.
Weckstein relegates the supporting roles to the status of caricatures, especially the over-the-top redneck shenanigans of Li’l Bit’s grandparents (Taylor and Gonzales). Walters offers an effectively bitter monologue as Peck’s long-suffering but ultimately complicit wife. Gonzales is haunting as the terrified inner voice of 11-year-old Li’l Bit, suffering her first unnatural attention from her uncle.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
April 1, 2014
April 1, 2014
For the Record: Tarantino
DBA
For the record, For the Record: Tarantino has safely made the transition from the small and cramped Rockwell’s in Los Feliz Village to the larger but also cramped DBA, former site of the Peanuts nitery, in WeHo. The sightlines are better, but the booze is still flowing and the fun is no less infectious.
The “For the Record” series formula begins with the selection of a noted filmmaker whose work leans heavily on distinctive pop music. (As examples, auteurs previously honored to date include Baz Luhrmann, Martin Scorsese, the Coen brothers, and Garry Marshall.) The chosen oeuvre is pored over for iconic speeches and scenes, which are then spliced ’n’ diced and Cuisinarted along with solo and group performances of soundtrack songs by a company of nine, in pursuit of what it says here is “a live music immersive concert experience.”
I would’ve thought “an immersive live music experience” was itself a definition of a “concert,” but why quibble? However you define the revues devised by adapter-director Anderson Davis, they’re always light on their feet and propulsively musical, the more so depending on the nature of the films and their given tunes. Which is to say that For the Record: Tarantino is hard to beat as a source, given the psychedelic characters and unforgettable musical set pieces from the likes of Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, and Reservoir Dogs. The cast at DBA, as if set afire by the excitement of the material handed to it, does it up brown. (Jackie Brown, that is.)
Those familiar with the movies will be best able to appreciate the crazily twisted musical settings (the torturer and victim of Reservoir Dogs engage in a duet to “Stuck in the Middle With You”), and witty character transformations (the O.D.ing Uma Thurman of Pulp doesn’t have to move a muscle to become the assaulted Black Mamba of Kill Bill). On the other hand, who isn’t immersed in the Tarantino filmography nowadays—especially, youthful crowds inclined to a rowdy good time on a Saturday night? And probably even the snobbiest buff, one who wouldn’t be caught dead at the likes of Death Proof, couldn’t help but enjoy the talent and energy bouncing off all four walls of the expanded performance space. He’d be lost as the various mishmashed plots start to come together in the second act, but he’d be entertained for sure.
Photographic evidence indicates that the celebrated “Q” himself has been in appreciative attendance accompanied by Demi Moore, and surely both were amused to see Moore’s daughter Rumer Willis take on the Thurman role in papa Bruce’s Pulp Fiction. You never know who’ll be “on” any given night; the producers keep some two-dozen troupe members on call so that the show never has to go dark. Willis’s pipes aren’t the strongest, but she’s game and wields a mean Hattori Hanzo sword, you betcha. As a matter of fact, on opening night all the women seemed to have more fun, and more to do, than the men—not surprisingly, given Tarantino’s predilection for giving ladies the lion’s share of his juiciest action.
Fair warning: Some will find problematic, and even disturbing, the inclusion of material from Inglourious Basterds and, especially, Django Unchained: Wacky shootings of mobsters are one thing, but when the victims are Jews hidden under the floorboards and the N-word is carelessly tossed around, you may find your hilarity choked off a bit.
DBA
For the record, For the Record: Tarantino has safely made the transition from the small and cramped Rockwell’s in Los Feliz Village to the larger but also cramped DBA, former site of the Peanuts nitery, in WeHo. The sightlines are better, but the booze is still flowing and the fun is no less infectious.
The “For the Record” series formula begins with the selection of a noted filmmaker whose work leans heavily on distinctive pop music. (As examples, auteurs previously honored to date include Baz Luhrmann, Martin Scorsese, the Coen brothers, and Garry Marshall.) The chosen oeuvre is pored over for iconic speeches and scenes, which are then spliced ’n’ diced and Cuisinarted along with solo and group performances of soundtrack songs by a company of nine, in pursuit of what it says here is “a live music immersive concert experience.”
I would’ve thought “an immersive live music experience” was itself a definition of a “concert,” but why quibble? However you define the revues devised by adapter-director Anderson Davis, they’re always light on their feet and propulsively musical, the more so depending on the nature of the films and their given tunes. Which is to say that For the Record: Tarantino is hard to beat as a source, given the psychedelic characters and unforgettable musical set pieces from the likes of Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, and Reservoir Dogs. The cast at DBA, as if set afire by the excitement of the material handed to it, does it up brown. (Jackie Brown, that is.)
Those familiar with the movies will be best able to appreciate the crazily twisted musical settings (the torturer and victim of Reservoir Dogs engage in a duet to “Stuck in the Middle With You”), and witty character transformations (the O.D.ing Uma Thurman of Pulp doesn’t have to move a muscle to become the assaulted Black Mamba of Kill Bill). On the other hand, who isn’t immersed in the Tarantino filmography nowadays—especially, youthful crowds inclined to a rowdy good time on a Saturday night? And probably even the snobbiest buff, one who wouldn’t be caught dead at the likes of Death Proof, couldn’t help but enjoy the talent and energy bouncing off all four walls of the expanded performance space. He’d be lost as the various mishmashed plots start to come together in the second act, but he’d be entertained for sure.
Photographic evidence indicates that the celebrated “Q” himself has been in appreciative attendance accompanied by Demi Moore, and surely both were amused to see Moore’s daughter Rumer Willis take on the Thurman role in papa Bruce’s Pulp Fiction. You never know who’ll be “on” any given night; the producers keep some two-dozen troupe members on call so that the show never has to go dark. Willis’s pipes aren’t the strongest, but she’s game and wields a mean Hattori Hanzo sword, you betcha. As a matter of fact, on opening night all the women seemed to have more fun, and more to do, than the men—not surprisingly, given Tarantino’s predilection for giving ladies the lion’s share of his juiciest action.
Fair warning: Some will find problematic, and even disturbing, the inclusion of material from Inglourious Basterds and, especially, Django Unchained: Wacky shootings of mobsters are one thing, but when the victims are Jews hidden under the floorboards and the N-word is carelessly tossed around, you may find your hilarity choked off a bit.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
March 31, 2014
March 31, 2014
A Song at Twilight
Pasadena Playhouse
Noël Coward’s A Song at Twilight first saw the light of day as the centerpiece of 1966’s Suite in Three Keys, a two-night triptych of works set in a single luxurious Swiss hotel suite. Eight years later, with one play jettisoned, Song reached Broadway as part of Noël Coward in Two Keys. Now it stands by itself at Pasadena Playhouse, though there’s nothing one-key, or one-note for that matter, about Art Manke’s incisively acted production.
The interesting thing about this play is how old-fashioned and remote it feels throughout Act 1, and how gripping and even relevant it becomes after intermission. Upon arrival in the playhouse, the heart sinks at Tom Buderwitz’s massive, impersonal, pointlessly elaborate sitting-room set, and at the first signs of endless brittle patter between cranky, snobby Sir Hugo (Bruce Davison) and bumbling, heavily German-accented frau Hilde (Roxanne Hart).
He’s been ill. She’s long-suffering, slapping back his browbeating with grim efficiency. Her pointed exit opens the door to glamorous ex-mistress Carlotta (Sharon Lawrence), a thespienne of evidently indifferent gifts, armed with more artificial backchat she exchanges with Hugo while a dashing waiter (Zach Bandler) wheels in caviar and pink champagne. Her mission is to negotiate permission to quote Hugo’s love letters in her memoirs, and I’m exhausted, already, describing what feels like a logy time machine visit back to the most daring dramaturgy 1928 had to offer.
So what is it that succeeds in wrenching this creaky, corny spectacle into the 21st century? Certainly not the melodramatic act-ending cliffhanger announcement, whose effect if not topic—the threat to expose Hugo’s homosexual past—would’ve been familiar to Henry Irving and Mrs. Fiske when they toured in Victoria’s time. No, the immediacy the play achieves is a kind of alchemy, in which the characters’ behavior and reactions are gradually revealed to possess a heartbeat everyone can recognize. The trappings may be Old World, but the detail work is here and now.
Coward was hardly closeted by the standards of his theatrical day. But as an intimate of the likes of Somerset Maugham, Terrence Rattigan, and Emlyn Williams, he was singularly well placed to observe the dilemma of those grand old men of English letters who saw their same-sex orientation as officially criminalized, professionally risky, and personally humiliating, and too often sought shelter in a hetero façade and a rejection—usually rude, sometimes cruel—of the males they cherished. Sir Hugo of A Song at Twilight stands in for them in all their complexity, torn between reputation and the genuine love that dare not speak its name.
This lofty peer is convinced Carlotta is trying to blackmail him with his correspondence to Perry Shelton, a one-time beloved who died fruitlessly begging Hugo to come to his aid. Yet he cannot comprehend that what Carlotta wants is some expression of genuine feeling out of him: She (and we) are shocked to discover that Hugo would far rather be unmasked as a callow bastard who tossed an old friend aside than be seen as a sentimental fluff who years ago lost his heart to a dear employee. The man’s moral obtuseness almost rises to the level of an Ibsen character study—especially in the hands of Davison, who inhabits Hugo’s outward crotchets and inner vulnerability like a second skin.
At the same time, Carlotta is no selfless crusader for a dead friend and gay pride; her own conflicted motives get a thoroughgoing examination, not least at the hands of Hilde, who returns to the suite to reveal she knows a lot more than anyone suspects about the underlying situation and the participants therein. In short, all three protagonists reveal unexpected depths that feel absolutely right at the moment they emerge—which is exactly what one hopes will happen in the course of a truly serious play. And truly serious is what A Song at Twilight finally becomes with its exchanges of dialogue of unforced wit and wisdom, sometimes laced with terse subtext that seems almost Pinteresque.
All of the acting is first-rate, beginning with Davison at his possible career best. Lawrence and Hart provide style and heart in equal measure, while Bandler wheels in a little more silky mystery with each new course. Manke’s blocking, meanwhile, subtly reflects the various cat and mouse games being played. He makes sure the pacing remains measured and civilized even as the emotional stakes rise, for the sort of assured direction that tends to go unappreciated precisely because it’s so unshowy. Moreover, one feels that neither Manke nor Coward would have it any other way.
Pasadena Playhouse
Noël Coward’s A Song at Twilight first saw the light of day as the centerpiece of 1966’s Suite in Three Keys, a two-night triptych of works set in a single luxurious Swiss hotel suite. Eight years later, with one play jettisoned, Song reached Broadway as part of Noël Coward in Two Keys. Now it stands by itself at Pasadena Playhouse, though there’s nothing one-key, or one-note for that matter, about Art Manke’s incisively acted production.
The interesting thing about this play is how old-fashioned and remote it feels throughout Act 1, and how gripping and even relevant it becomes after intermission. Upon arrival in the playhouse, the heart sinks at Tom Buderwitz’s massive, impersonal, pointlessly elaborate sitting-room set, and at the first signs of endless brittle patter between cranky, snobby Sir Hugo (Bruce Davison) and bumbling, heavily German-accented frau Hilde (Roxanne Hart).
He’s been ill. She’s long-suffering, slapping back his browbeating with grim efficiency. Her pointed exit opens the door to glamorous ex-mistress Carlotta (Sharon Lawrence), a thespienne of evidently indifferent gifts, armed with more artificial backchat she exchanges with Hugo while a dashing waiter (Zach Bandler) wheels in caviar and pink champagne. Her mission is to negotiate permission to quote Hugo’s love letters in her memoirs, and I’m exhausted, already, describing what feels like a logy time machine visit back to the most daring dramaturgy 1928 had to offer.
So what is it that succeeds in wrenching this creaky, corny spectacle into the 21st century? Certainly not the melodramatic act-ending cliffhanger announcement, whose effect if not topic—the threat to expose Hugo’s homosexual past—would’ve been familiar to Henry Irving and Mrs. Fiske when they toured in Victoria’s time. No, the immediacy the play achieves is a kind of alchemy, in which the characters’ behavior and reactions are gradually revealed to possess a heartbeat everyone can recognize. The trappings may be Old World, but the detail work is here and now.
Coward was hardly closeted by the standards of his theatrical day. But as an intimate of the likes of Somerset Maugham, Terrence Rattigan, and Emlyn Williams, he was singularly well placed to observe the dilemma of those grand old men of English letters who saw their same-sex orientation as officially criminalized, professionally risky, and personally humiliating, and too often sought shelter in a hetero façade and a rejection—usually rude, sometimes cruel—of the males they cherished. Sir Hugo of A Song at Twilight stands in for them in all their complexity, torn between reputation and the genuine love that dare not speak its name.
This lofty peer is convinced Carlotta is trying to blackmail him with his correspondence to Perry Shelton, a one-time beloved who died fruitlessly begging Hugo to come to his aid. Yet he cannot comprehend that what Carlotta wants is some expression of genuine feeling out of him: She (and we) are shocked to discover that Hugo would far rather be unmasked as a callow bastard who tossed an old friend aside than be seen as a sentimental fluff who years ago lost his heart to a dear employee. The man’s moral obtuseness almost rises to the level of an Ibsen character study—especially in the hands of Davison, who inhabits Hugo’s outward crotchets and inner vulnerability like a second skin.
At the same time, Carlotta is no selfless crusader for a dead friend and gay pride; her own conflicted motives get a thoroughgoing examination, not least at the hands of Hilde, who returns to the suite to reveal she knows a lot more than anyone suspects about the underlying situation and the participants therein. In short, all three protagonists reveal unexpected depths that feel absolutely right at the moment they emerge—which is exactly what one hopes will happen in the course of a truly serious play. And truly serious is what A Song at Twilight finally becomes with its exchanges of dialogue of unforced wit and wisdom, sometimes laced with terse subtext that seems almost Pinteresque.
All of the acting is first-rate, beginning with Davison at his possible career best. Lawrence and Hart provide style and heart in equal measure, while Bandler wheels in a little more silky mystery with each new course. Manke’s blocking, meanwhile, subtly reflects the various cat and mouse games being played. He makes sure the pacing remains measured and civilized even as the emotional stakes rise, for the sort of assured direction that tends to go unappreciated precisely because it’s so unshowy. Moreover, one feels that neither Manke nor Coward would have it any other way.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
March 26, 2014
March 26, 2014
Tartuffe
A Noise Within
For Tartuffe to achieve maximum comic, emotional, and thematic impact, the privileged Orgon must serve as the central figure. He must be a misanthrope (a type not unknown to Molière) well and truly disgusted with the world’s vanities as typified by his frivolous, feckless family. Orgon’s profound despair explains his retreat into excessive piety, and it’s what renders him vulnerable to the spell of a seemingly holy visionary.
Moral blindness is the theme, echoed again and again in the text. It’s a universal theme that’s especially relevant to our time, as we see so many people escaping from what they perceive as a relentlessly cruel existence to seek comfort in all manner of cults and wing nuts. The bottom line is, as it always is in theater, emotional reality. If Molière’s characters and situations are played for real, then the comedy comes through along with real terror, and Tartuffe may even succeed in holding a mirror up to the audience’s own follies.
On the other hand, if Tartuffe is too obviously insincere and Orgon too witlessly credulous, audiences are allowed, even encouraged, to wriggle off the hook: “Oh, well,” they tell themselves, “that foolish man isn’t me; I wouldn’t fall for a con man’s line.” Indeed, the more farcical the stage business overall, the more likely the spectator will be blinded to what Molière has to say.
The current, handsome revival at A Noise Within, directed by Julia Rodriguez-Elliott, captures the fripperies of the household well enough (in large measure thanks to Angela Balogh Calin’s divinely over-the-top costumes). And in Freddy Douglas’s Tartuffe they have an eminently sinister Rasputin, who teeters tantalizingly on the edge between saint and charlatan. But with an Orgon (Geoff Elliott) tippy-toeing around in a huge Groucho mustache and metallic eyeglasses that might’ve belonged to Rue McClanahan during the Golden Girls years, and farcical biz that keeps sending the characters tripping over each other, the guts are excised from the drama, pure and simple.
A Noise Within’s Tartuffe is far from the first to interpret Orgon as a blithering idiot and to litter the stage with pratfalls. But that fact doesn’t make it any easier to witness.
A Noise Within
For Tartuffe to achieve maximum comic, emotional, and thematic impact, the privileged Orgon must serve as the central figure. He must be a misanthrope (a type not unknown to Molière) well and truly disgusted with the world’s vanities as typified by his frivolous, feckless family. Orgon’s profound despair explains his retreat into excessive piety, and it’s what renders him vulnerable to the spell of a seemingly holy visionary.
Moral blindness is the theme, echoed again and again in the text. It’s a universal theme that’s especially relevant to our time, as we see so many people escaping from what they perceive as a relentlessly cruel existence to seek comfort in all manner of cults and wing nuts. The bottom line is, as it always is in theater, emotional reality. If Molière’s characters and situations are played for real, then the comedy comes through along with real terror, and Tartuffe may even succeed in holding a mirror up to the audience’s own follies.
On the other hand, if Tartuffe is too obviously insincere and Orgon too witlessly credulous, audiences are allowed, even encouraged, to wriggle off the hook: “Oh, well,” they tell themselves, “that foolish man isn’t me; I wouldn’t fall for a con man’s line.” Indeed, the more farcical the stage business overall, the more likely the spectator will be blinded to what Molière has to say.
The current, handsome revival at A Noise Within, directed by Julia Rodriguez-Elliott, captures the fripperies of the household well enough (in large measure thanks to Angela Balogh Calin’s divinely over-the-top costumes). And in Freddy Douglas’s Tartuffe they have an eminently sinister Rasputin, who teeters tantalizingly on the edge between saint and charlatan. But with an Orgon (Geoff Elliott) tippy-toeing around in a huge Groucho mustache and metallic eyeglasses that might’ve belonged to Rue McClanahan during the Golden Girls years, and farcical biz that keeps sending the characters tripping over each other, the guts are excised from the drama, pure and simple.
A Noise Within’s Tartuffe is far from the first to interpret Orgon as a blithering idiot and to litter the stage with pratfalls. But that fact doesn’t make it any easier to witness.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
March 24, 2014
March 24, 2014
Top Girls
Antaeus Theatre Company
Written in 1982 when the concerns of the feminist movement and the role of women in society were often at their most controversial
—and, at times, the most overstated and sometimes even abrasive—Caryl Churchill’s absurdist theatrical polemic might seem a tad shopworn three decades later. In less-skilled hands than those of director Cameron Watson and the venerable members of Antaeus Theatre Company, today Top Girls might have stayed on the bottom. Instead, however, the production is vital, sometimes disturbing, and totally smashing.
Churchill bursts through the issues of women’s right by presenting women through the ages dealing with all the standard topics facing those ambitious enough to want equal footing in our still male-dominated society. These include ageism and an equal place in the workplace somewhere below a shattered glass ceiling, the expectations of motherhood versus the desire for career, and what are perceived as the standard opportunities afforded that half of our society, who only over the last 95 years have been able to vote.
The first attention-grabbing farcical scene in Churchill’s classic begins in a posh London restaurant, where Marlene (Sally Hughes), the one consistent character throughout the play and a woman who has abandoned her child for a career in business, has invited several time-traveling historical women to sup and get plastered enough to tell the sorrowful stories of their individual struggles in a man’s world.
Gathered are Pope Joan (Elizabeth Swain) who, disguised as a man, is said to have been pontiff from 854 to 856 AD before her unplanned pregnancy outed her deception; Lady Nijo (Kimiko Gelman), grossly mistreated 13th-century mistress to the emperor of Japan and later a Buddhist nun; 19th-century English explorer and strong-willed naturalist Isabela Bird (Karianne Flaathen); Dull Gret (Abigail Marks), a Brunhilde-like peasant from Flemish folklore, said to have led an army of women to pillage Hell; and the long-enduring Patient Griselda (Shannon Lee Clair) from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, whose husband tests her loyalty in a series of bizarre torments based upon the Book of Job.
Although Hughes plays Marlene throughout, each other actor plays several characters, including the employees and clients of Top Girls, an old-style 1980s employment agency managed by Marlene. These include Swain as Louise, an older applicant who wants a change after many years of being ignored for her loyalty on one job; Flaathen as Mrs. Kidd, the pleading wife of a man overlooked for promotion; and Alexandra Goodman as Shona, a job seeker whose impressive résumé proves to be a fraud. Yet it is the intertwining story of Marlene’s dimwitted abandoned daughter Angie (Marks) and her badly defeated estranged sister Joyce (Flaathen), who raised the troubled child as her own, that tugs the hardest at our heartstrings.
This Magnificent Seven of exquisitely determined actors (all double-cast with what surely in Antaeus tradition are seven magnificent others) makes Churchill’s old warhorse come to life without a glitch. Flaathen is particularly memorable as Joyce, who, fulfilling what is surely one bravely risky directorial decision, is at one point left alone onstage, sitting quietly at a table, silently contemplating how her life sucks for a far longer time than anyone else would deem comfortable. Still, the truly indelible performance is by Marks as the sweetly lost and desperately needy Angie, falling somewhere between Chaplin’s Tramp and Bette Davis as Baby Jane, bringing to haunting fruition a character you want to climb onstage and comfort.
Still, the most apparent contributor to the success of this production and the guy who clearly encouraged this exceptional ensemble cast to soar is Watson, whose sturdy yet diaphanous, austere yet elegant leadership is so consistent throughout that it’s almost as though the director is an eighth performer. With the invaluable contribution of his gifted designers—especially Stephen Gifford’s incredibly simple yet astoundingly versatile set and Terri A. Lewis’s knockout costuming—Watson subtly guides the action as though choreographing a timeless ballet, while plainly giving his actors plenty of room to individualize.
What could have been a dry and dated excursion back visiting the familiar polemics of 30 years ago is instead a magnificent achievement for Antaeus, worthy of the toast delivered by the six historic women gathered for their fantasy meal in Top Girls’s first scene: “To our courage, the way we’ve changed our lives, and our extraordinary achievements.” I’ll drink to that.
Antaeus Theatre Company
Written in 1982 when the concerns of the feminist movement and the role of women in society were often at their most controversial
—and, at times, the most overstated and sometimes even abrasive—Caryl Churchill’s absurdist theatrical polemic might seem a tad shopworn three decades later. In less-skilled hands than those of director Cameron Watson and the venerable members of Antaeus Theatre Company, today Top Girls might have stayed on the bottom. Instead, however, the production is vital, sometimes disturbing, and totally smashing.
Churchill bursts through the issues of women’s right by presenting women through the ages dealing with all the standard topics facing those ambitious enough to want equal footing in our still male-dominated society. These include ageism and an equal place in the workplace somewhere below a shattered glass ceiling, the expectations of motherhood versus the desire for career, and what are perceived as the standard opportunities afforded that half of our society, who only over the last 95 years have been able to vote.
The first attention-grabbing farcical scene in Churchill’s classic begins in a posh London restaurant, where Marlene (Sally Hughes), the one consistent character throughout the play and a woman who has abandoned her child for a career in business, has invited several time-traveling historical women to sup and get plastered enough to tell the sorrowful stories of their individual struggles in a man’s world.
Gathered are Pope Joan (Elizabeth Swain) who, disguised as a man, is said to have been pontiff from 854 to 856 AD before her unplanned pregnancy outed her deception; Lady Nijo (Kimiko Gelman), grossly mistreated 13th-century mistress to the emperor of Japan and later a Buddhist nun; 19th-century English explorer and strong-willed naturalist Isabela Bird (Karianne Flaathen); Dull Gret (Abigail Marks), a Brunhilde-like peasant from Flemish folklore, said to have led an army of women to pillage Hell; and the long-enduring Patient Griselda (Shannon Lee Clair) from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, whose husband tests her loyalty in a series of bizarre torments based upon the Book of Job.
Although Hughes plays Marlene throughout, each other actor plays several characters, including the employees and clients of Top Girls, an old-style 1980s employment agency managed by Marlene. These include Swain as Louise, an older applicant who wants a change after many years of being ignored for her loyalty on one job; Flaathen as Mrs. Kidd, the pleading wife of a man overlooked for promotion; and Alexandra Goodman as Shona, a job seeker whose impressive résumé proves to be a fraud. Yet it is the intertwining story of Marlene’s dimwitted abandoned daughter Angie (Marks) and her badly defeated estranged sister Joyce (Flaathen), who raised the troubled child as her own, that tugs the hardest at our heartstrings.
This Magnificent Seven of exquisitely determined actors (all double-cast with what surely in Antaeus tradition are seven magnificent others) makes Churchill’s old warhorse come to life without a glitch. Flaathen is particularly memorable as Joyce, who, fulfilling what is surely one bravely risky directorial decision, is at one point left alone onstage, sitting quietly at a table, silently contemplating how her life sucks for a far longer time than anyone else would deem comfortable. Still, the truly indelible performance is by Marks as the sweetly lost and desperately needy Angie, falling somewhere between Chaplin’s Tramp and Bette Davis as Baby Jane, bringing to haunting fruition a character you want to climb onstage and comfort.
Still, the most apparent contributor to the success of this production and the guy who clearly encouraged this exceptional ensemble cast to soar is Watson, whose sturdy yet diaphanous, austere yet elegant leadership is so consistent throughout that it’s almost as though the director is an eighth performer. With the invaluable contribution of his gifted designers—especially Stephen Gifford’s incredibly simple yet astoundingly versatile set and Terri A. Lewis’s knockout costuming—Watson subtly guides the action as though choreographing a timeless ballet, while plainly giving his actors plenty of room to individualize.
What could have been a dry and dated excursion back visiting the familiar polemics of 30 years ago is instead a magnificent achievement for Antaeus, worthy of the toast delivered by the six historic women gathered for their fantasy meal in Top Girls’s first scene: “To our courage, the way we’ve changed our lives, and our extraordinary achievements.” I’ll drink to that.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
March 24, 2014
March 24, 2014
God Only Knows
Theatre 40 in the Reuben Cordoba Theatre
Here’s an explanation for why it has taken so long for acclaimed British playwright Hugh Whitemore’s (Pack of Lies, Breaking the Code) 2001 “mystery thriller” God Only Knows to receive a US production: It is a dramaturgical nightmare. The game five-member ensemble here might have been capable of instilling at least some emotional texture into this turgid march through Christianity’s wobbly history, but the actors are hampered by helmer David McClendon’s static staging.
Played out on designer Jeff G. Rack’s attractive Tuscan farmhouse veranda, the opening scene begins to lay out the promising social dynamic between two vacationing middle-aged English couples. Tightly wound architect Charles (Chet Grissom) and cheerful wife, Eleanor (Pippa Hinchley) are involved in the final stages of a Monopoly game with determined-to-get-soused screenwriter Vin (David Hunt Stafford) and his mildly disapproving spouse, Kate (Wendy Radford).
The four are engaging enough to make the audience wonder where the characters might have taken us if we had been allowed to follow the early stages of friction that appears to be building between always-in-command Charles and softly resentful Vin. Instead, Whitemore thrusts the four into the background as the rest of play is completely taken over by a dazed Humphrey Biddulph (Ron Bottitta), who stumbles onto the veranda after smashing his car into a tree at the entrance to the farmhouse.
Once it is haltingly established that obviously paranoid Humphrey is a British scholar, recently employed by the Vatican, and that he has come into possession of a document showing that the biblical account of the resurrection of Christ was a hoax and Humphrey now fears for his life, all semblance of an ensemble play disappears. It is now the Humphrey show, disseminating reams of historical information for most of the play, occasionally swatting away any attempts at refutation by his four-member captive audience. Botttitta’s pitifully life-beaten Biddulph commands this work, as certain of his atheism as he is that the powers of religious orthodoxy will never allow him to survive. He appears more sad than self-righteous as he deals with the ignorant prattling of his hosts.
McClendon fails to capitalize on the inherent humor of the situation. It is established that the vacationers are well-educated and have distinct personalities, yet they embody deer-in-the-headlights catatonia for most of the play, further anaesthetized by endless pourings of wine. Even when the second act turns into a pseudo debate on the existence of God—pitting Humphrey’s raging atheism against assertions of the four about salvation—it is reduced to personality-less academic bantering.
Under McClendon’s guidance, this would have been a perfect situation for the members of the quartet to enliven the proceedings. Yet they are ultimately defeated. The most moving moment comes when Radford’s Kate timidly asks, “Doesn’t it frighten you: nothingness?”
The show’s ending underscores the mystery aspect of this one-sided affair. After all, the whole exercise is based on the premise that Humphrey is who he claims to be and that his life is truly in danger from powerful people who can’t afford to have him reveal what he knows. Mercifully, the production’s ending provides an answer to that mystery.
Theatre 40 in the Reuben Cordoba Theatre
Here’s an explanation for why it has taken so long for acclaimed British playwright Hugh Whitemore’s (Pack of Lies, Breaking the Code) 2001 “mystery thriller” God Only Knows to receive a US production: It is a dramaturgical nightmare. The game five-member ensemble here might have been capable of instilling at least some emotional texture into this turgid march through Christianity’s wobbly history, but the actors are hampered by helmer David McClendon’s static staging.
Played out on designer Jeff G. Rack’s attractive Tuscan farmhouse veranda, the opening scene begins to lay out the promising social dynamic between two vacationing middle-aged English couples. Tightly wound architect Charles (Chet Grissom) and cheerful wife, Eleanor (Pippa Hinchley) are involved in the final stages of a Monopoly game with determined-to-get-soused screenwriter Vin (David Hunt Stafford) and his mildly disapproving spouse, Kate (Wendy Radford).
The four are engaging enough to make the audience wonder where the characters might have taken us if we had been allowed to follow the early stages of friction that appears to be building between always-in-command Charles and softly resentful Vin. Instead, Whitemore thrusts the four into the background as the rest of play is completely taken over by a dazed Humphrey Biddulph (Ron Bottitta), who stumbles onto the veranda after smashing his car into a tree at the entrance to the farmhouse.
Once it is haltingly established that obviously paranoid Humphrey is a British scholar, recently employed by the Vatican, and that he has come into possession of a document showing that the biblical account of the resurrection of Christ was a hoax and Humphrey now fears for his life, all semblance of an ensemble play disappears. It is now the Humphrey show, disseminating reams of historical information for most of the play, occasionally swatting away any attempts at refutation by his four-member captive audience. Botttitta’s pitifully life-beaten Biddulph commands this work, as certain of his atheism as he is that the powers of religious orthodoxy will never allow him to survive. He appears more sad than self-righteous as he deals with the ignorant prattling of his hosts.
McClendon fails to capitalize on the inherent humor of the situation. It is established that the vacationers are well-educated and have distinct personalities, yet they embody deer-in-the-headlights catatonia for most of the play, further anaesthetized by endless pourings of wine. Even when the second act turns into a pseudo debate on the existence of God—pitting Humphrey’s raging atheism against assertions of the four about salvation—it is reduced to personality-less academic bantering.
Under McClendon’s guidance, this would have been a perfect situation for the members of the quartet to enliven the proceedings. Yet they are ultimately defeated. The most moving moment comes when Radford’s Kate timidly asks, “Doesn’t it frighten you: nothingness?”
The show’s ending underscores the mystery aspect of this one-sided affair. After all, the whole exercise is based on the premise that Humphrey is who he claims to be and that his life is truly in danger from powerful people who can’t afford to have him reveal what he knows. Mercifully, the production’s ending provides an answer to that mystery.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
March 24, 2014
March 24, 2014
Forgotten
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Fishamble: The New Play Company at Odyssey Theatre
Ultimately, this solo piece, written and performed by Pat Kinevane, directed by Jim Culleton, comes together into a surprisingly moving whole. Until then, though, the mind doggedly tries assembling the pieces instead of surrendering to the mad method.
The first element of Culleton’s stagecraft assaults the audience upon entry to the theater. The theatrical “fog” is so thick, one must squint at the seat numbers. “This piece is going to be overdirected,” is the first thought to come to mind. Frankly, it is a bit overdirected. Culleton goes for high style. When the lights dim to start the evening, Irish writer-performer Kinevane emerges in a red and black kimono, moving percussively to tsuke accompaniment.
He strips to tattered black cargo pants, and continues to physicalize—like a skilled modern dancer evoking Japanese dance. Then he starts verbalizing his stories, and as he speaks, his open voice and Irish (and English) accents soothe yet captivate. His narrative is more Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood than it is The Belle of Amherst. Kinevane’s poetry takes a willing ear and relatively quick mind to catch its meaning and musicality.
At its core, it introduces the audience to four characters, ages 80 to 100, two male and two female. Kinevane embodies each. He dresses the English upper-class Dora in a long flowing scarf, which the performer wears toga-like, sitting downstage left at a tea table. To play Gustus, he sits upstage, facing away but wearing a mask on the back of his head with eyes that stare; this character’s story is told via a recording. Eucharia, obsessed with cosmetics and hairstyles, sits upstage right at a vanity table, dabbing makeup on her face, wearing a black velvet scarf across her forehead or draped over her shoulder, its rhinestone brooch keeping the eye fascinated. Flor scrubs the floor downstage center, never quite ridding it of the red petals scattered across it like drops of blood.
Two of the characters chat with the audience, each finding a willing conversationalist in the front row, asking their names, occasionally asking them for approval or just happy to connect with them. Indeed, connection, attention, a need to not be forgotten are at the heart of these four people, each of whom seems to be living in an old-age home or otherwise institutionalized.
Why the Japanese theme? One possible connection peeks out toward the evening’s end, when Kinevane mentions that Japan treats its elderly with care and respect. He had to reach halfway around the world to find a culture that contrasts with the shameful way Westerners treat “the forgotten.” The mere fact of trying so hard to piece his message together might help his audience not forget his purpose and cast a thought upon our cherished tribal elders.
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Fishamble: The New Play Company at Odyssey Theatre
Ultimately, this solo piece, written and performed by Pat Kinevane, directed by Jim Culleton, comes together into a surprisingly moving whole. Until then, though, the mind doggedly tries assembling the pieces instead of surrendering to the mad method.
The first element of Culleton’s stagecraft assaults the audience upon entry to the theater. The theatrical “fog” is so thick, one must squint at the seat numbers. “This piece is going to be overdirected,” is the first thought to come to mind. Frankly, it is a bit overdirected. Culleton goes for high style. When the lights dim to start the evening, Irish writer-performer Kinevane emerges in a red and black kimono, moving percussively to tsuke accompaniment.
He strips to tattered black cargo pants, and continues to physicalize—like a skilled modern dancer evoking Japanese dance. Then he starts verbalizing his stories, and as he speaks, his open voice and Irish (and English) accents soothe yet captivate. His narrative is more Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood than it is The Belle of Amherst. Kinevane’s poetry takes a willing ear and relatively quick mind to catch its meaning and musicality.
At its core, it introduces the audience to four characters, ages 80 to 100, two male and two female. Kinevane embodies each. He dresses the English upper-class Dora in a long flowing scarf, which the performer wears toga-like, sitting downstage left at a tea table. To play Gustus, he sits upstage, facing away but wearing a mask on the back of his head with eyes that stare; this character’s story is told via a recording. Eucharia, obsessed with cosmetics and hairstyles, sits upstage right at a vanity table, dabbing makeup on her face, wearing a black velvet scarf across her forehead or draped over her shoulder, its rhinestone brooch keeping the eye fascinated. Flor scrubs the floor downstage center, never quite ridding it of the red petals scattered across it like drops of blood.
Two of the characters chat with the audience, each finding a willing conversationalist in the front row, asking their names, occasionally asking them for approval or just happy to connect with them. Indeed, connection, attention, a need to not be forgotten are at the heart of these four people, each of whom seems to be living in an old-age home or otherwise institutionalized.
Why the Japanese theme? One possible connection peeks out toward the evening’s end, when Kinevane mentions that Japan treats its elderly with care and respect. He had to reach halfway around the world to find a culture that contrasts with the shameful way Westerners treat “the forgotten.” The mere fact of trying so hard to piece his message together might help his audience not forget his purpose and cast a thought upon our cherished tribal elders.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 23, 2014
March 23, 2014
Lend Me a Tenor
David Schall Theatre at Actors Co-op
The central character in Ken Ludwig’s farce is famous Italian tenor Tito Merelli (Floyd Vanbuskirk), who’s scheduled to appear in the title role in Verdi’s Otello for the Cleveland Opera Company. But Tito is well-known for his heavy drinking, womanizing, and general troublemaking. On the day of the performance, Tito has overindulged at lunch and is at loggerheads with his fiery and tempestuous wife, Maria (Gina D’Acciaro). To keep him out of trouble and persuade him to take a nap, he’s plied with a few too many phenobarbitals and goes out like a light, leading the opera’s producer, Saunders (Bruce Ladd), to think he’s dead.
In desperation, Saunders demands that his hapless assistant—and amateur tenor—Max (Nathan Bell) put on the Otello costume and pretend to be Tito. Fortunately Max has learned the role by watching rehearsals. But as soon as they have left for the opera house, Tito wakes up and, fearful of being late for the performance, puts on his costume (he always carries a spare), wig, and makeup, and heads for the theater.
So, in Act 2, there are two identically dressed Otellos wandering around, leading to massive confusion and multiple mistaken identities. And it’s Max who winds up onstage while Tito is pursued by the police, who believe he’s a demented impostor trying to break into the opera house. Max, who has never been a hit with the ladies, finds himself besieged by amorous hero-worshipping females when they think he’s Tito. But all’s well that ends well, and everything culminates in a loony epilogue, in which all the characters wildly pursue one another in and out of the set’s six doors.
Moosie Drier directs with verve and a wealth of comic invention. Bell skillfully navigates the changes as Max is transformed from nebbish to newly confident faux-star. Ladd is a whirlwind of motion as the frantic producer, and Vanbuskirk is hilarious as the much put-upon Tito. Tannis Hanson is a vivacious Maggie, Max’s love-interest, who brushes him off when he’s just plain Max but is all over him when he pretends to be Tito. Selah Victor is flamboyantly predatory as a soprano who sets out to seduce Max/Tito in the hopes that he’ll help secure her a position with the Metropolitan Opera.
Deborah Marlowe offers a stylish turn as Saunders’s wife, Julia, who’s searching for romantic adventure and hopes to find it with Tito. D’Acciaro makes an imposing figure of the jealous and temperamental Maria. And Stephen Van Dorn offers a spectacularly screwball performance as the pushy, eccentric bellhop, who worships Tito, and demonstrates his operatic savvy by bursting into a rousing rendition of Figaro’s famous aria from The Barber of Seville.
Designer Karen Ipock provides the handsome hotel-suite set, and Wendell C. Carmichael has created wonderfully glittery gowns for the ladies of the ensemble.
David Schall Theatre at Actors Co-op
The central character in Ken Ludwig’s farce is famous Italian tenor Tito Merelli (Floyd Vanbuskirk), who’s scheduled to appear in the title role in Verdi’s Otello for the Cleveland Opera Company. But Tito is well-known for his heavy drinking, womanizing, and general troublemaking. On the day of the performance, Tito has overindulged at lunch and is at loggerheads with his fiery and tempestuous wife, Maria (Gina D’Acciaro). To keep him out of trouble and persuade him to take a nap, he’s plied with a few too many phenobarbitals and goes out like a light, leading the opera’s producer, Saunders (Bruce Ladd), to think he’s dead.
In desperation, Saunders demands that his hapless assistant—and amateur tenor—Max (Nathan Bell) put on the Otello costume and pretend to be Tito. Fortunately Max has learned the role by watching rehearsals. But as soon as they have left for the opera house, Tito wakes up and, fearful of being late for the performance, puts on his costume (he always carries a spare), wig, and makeup, and heads for the theater.
So, in Act 2, there are two identically dressed Otellos wandering around, leading to massive confusion and multiple mistaken identities. And it’s Max who winds up onstage while Tito is pursued by the police, who believe he’s a demented impostor trying to break into the opera house. Max, who has never been a hit with the ladies, finds himself besieged by amorous hero-worshipping females when they think he’s Tito. But all’s well that ends well, and everything culminates in a loony epilogue, in which all the characters wildly pursue one another in and out of the set’s six doors.
Moosie Drier directs with verve and a wealth of comic invention. Bell skillfully navigates the changes as Max is transformed from nebbish to newly confident faux-star. Ladd is a whirlwind of motion as the frantic producer, and Vanbuskirk is hilarious as the much put-upon Tito. Tannis Hanson is a vivacious Maggie, Max’s love-interest, who brushes him off when he’s just plain Max but is all over him when he pretends to be Tito. Selah Victor is flamboyantly predatory as a soprano who sets out to seduce Max/Tito in the hopes that he’ll help secure her a position with the Metropolitan Opera.
Deborah Marlowe offers a stylish turn as Saunders’s wife, Julia, who’s searching for romantic adventure and hopes to find it with Tito. D’Acciaro makes an imposing figure of the jealous and temperamental Maria. And Stephen Van Dorn offers a spectacularly screwball performance as the pushy, eccentric bellhop, who worships Tito, and demonstrates his operatic savvy by bursting into a rousing rendition of Figaro’s famous aria from The Barber of Seville.
Designer Karen Ipock provides the handsome hotel-suite set, and Wendell C. Carmichael has created wonderfully glittery gowns for the ladies of the ensemble.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
March 22, 2014
March 22, 2014
Cinnamon Girl
Playwrights’ Arena in association with Greenway Arts Alliance at Greenway Court Theatre
The heroine of this world premiere musical, with book and lyrics by Velina Hasu Houston and music by Nathan Wang, is the beautiful adolescent Salani (Jennifer Hubilla), who was born and raised on a cinnamon plantation in Ceylon. Her life becomes unmoored and she is set adrift when her mother is killed in a mysterious fire. Salani seems to be unaware that her mother was the mistress of the master of the plantation, Ranil (Dom Magwilli), but Salani suspects that he is responsible for her mother’s death. When Salani accuses him, Ranil insists it was an accident. And now, having been obsessed with the mother, he transfers the obsession to the daughter.
This ought, by rights, to be a powerfully dramatic tale. But Houston sabotages her own efforts by employing a confusing fractured timeline, shifting constantly between past to present. Focus is further scattered when Salani flees Ranil’s rapacious attentions and takes a job as a maid in the house of the wealthy owner of a neighboring tea plantation. She’s hired by the family’s son, Wendell (Peter Mitchell), a racist and chauvinistic Brit, to look after his drunken mother with the curious name of Empress (Leslie Stevens). Empress has been reduced to boozing by her absent and remote husband, who has abandoned her on the remote plantation. Empress conceives of Salani’s role as a sex toy for Wendell.
A further subplot deals with Praveena, a Ceylonese cinnamon peeler, who reluctantly befriends Salani after the fire, and who lives with Tourmaline (Byron Arreola), who is supposedly her sister but is clearly a man in women’s attire. His story is withheld, in what seems a meaningless bit of mystification, until almost the very end. Eventually, stretching the long arm of coincidence, Praveena and Tourmaline wind up going to work on Empress’s plantation.
Cause and effect are rendered haphazardly or not at all. The characters all undergo astonishing changes of personality, and almost all the major events occur either offstage or between the scenes. The transitions that might explain the changes go undramatized and are improbable, and we’re left with little information as to what actually happened. And at the end, Salani sings a joyous anthem about how she’s going to make it on her own—despite that she has no home, no job, no money, she’s pregnant by the evil Ranil, and she’s threatened by the encroaching events of World War II.
Director Jon Lawrence Rivera has given the piece a handsome production, with set by Christopher Scott Murillo and costumes by Mylette Nora. And Rivera struggles valiantly to make sense of the events of the play, though his efforts are often thwarted by the structural flaws in the script. Hubilla is an attractive and winsome presence as Salani. Kerry K. Carnahan, as Praveena, contributes the evening’s strongest vocal performance. Mitchell musters considerable charm as the feckless Wendell. Stevens stylishly and skillfully renders the plight of the lonely Empress. Magwilli gives a passionate edge to the ruthless Ranil, who is driven by an obsession he has neither the will nor ability to resist.
The songs are not particularly memorable, and they fail to become dramatic events, tending to obstruct the action rather than furthering it.
Playwrights’ Arena in association with Greenway Arts Alliance at Greenway Court Theatre
The heroine of this world premiere musical, with book and lyrics by Velina Hasu Houston and music by Nathan Wang, is the beautiful adolescent Salani (Jennifer Hubilla), who was born and raised on a cinnamon plantation in Ceylon. Her life becomes unmoored and she is set adrift when her mother is killed in a mysterious fire. Salani seems to be unaware that her mother was the mistress of the master of the plantation, Ranil (Dom Magwilli), but Salani suspects that he is responsible for her mother’s death. When Salani accuses him, Ranil insists it was an accident. And now, having been obsessed with the mother, he transfers the obsession to the daughter.
This ought, by rights, to be a powerfully dramatic tale. But Houston sabotages her own efforts by employing a confusing fractured timeline, shifting constantly between past to present. Focus is further scattered when Salani flees Ranil’s rapacious attentions and takes a job as a maid in the house of the wealthy owner of a neighboring tea plantation. She’s hired by the family’s son, Wendell (Peter Mitchell), a racist and chauvinistic Brit, to look after his drunken mother with the curious name of Empress (Leslie Stevens). Empress has been reduced to boozing by her absent and remote husband, who has abandoned her on the remote plantation. Empress conceives of Salani’s role as a sex toy for Wendell.
A further subplot deals with Praveena, a Ceylonese cinnamon peeler, who reluctantly befriends Salani after the fire, and who lives with Tourmaline (Byron Arreola), who is supposedly her sister but is clearly a man in women’s attire. His story is withheld, in what seems a meaningless bit of mystification, until almost the very end. Eventually, stretching the long arm of coincidence, Praveena and Tourmaline wind up going to work on Empress’s plantation.
Cause and effect are rendered haphazardly or not at all. The characters all undergo astonishing changes of personality, and almost all the major events occur either offstage or between the scenes. The transitions that might explain the changes go undramatized and are improbable, and we’re left with little information as to what actually happened. And at the end, Salani sings a joyous anthem about how she’s going to make it on her own—despite that she has no home, no job, no money, she’s pregnant by the evil Ranil, and she’s threatened by the encroaching events of World War II.
Director Jon Lawrence Rivera has given the piece a handsome production, with set by Christopher Scott Murillo and costumes by Mylette Nora. And Rivera struggles valiantly to make sense of the events of the play, though his efforts are often thwarted by the structural flaws in the script. Hubilla is an attractive and winsome presence as Salani. Kerry K. Carnahan, as Praveena, contributes the evening’s strongest vocal performance. Mitchell musters considerable charm as the feckless Wendell. Stevens stylishly and skillfully renders the plight of the lonely Empress. Magwilli gives a passionate edge to the ruthless Ranil, who is driven by an obsession he has neither the will nor ability to resist.
The songs are not particularly memorable, and they fail to become dramatic events, tending to obstruct the action rather than furthering it.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
March 20, 2014
March 20, 2014
Fiddler on the Roof
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
The score of the classic Fiddler on the Roof is among American musical theater’s best. In this production, the music and lyrics get top-tier treatment. But the direction misses opportunities, while so tightly cramming performers into scenes that the audience may fear for the performers’ safety. Among those squandered elements, a too-glib protagonist and his happy-go-lucky wife fail to develop any historical and personal gravitas.
Based on tales by Sholem Aleichem, with book by Joseph Stein, the story follows Tevye the dairyman in an early 1900s tsarist Russian village. He thinks he rules the roost, but his wife and five daughters show him otherwise. Over the musical’s course, one after the other of his daughters breaks with Jewish tradition, causing Tevye to reassess his beliefs.
The highlight of this production is its musicality. The score (music by Jerry Bock, lyrics by Sheldon Harnick) of deservedly well-known classics starts with “Tradition,” describing the prescribed roles of Jewish fathers, mothers, sons and daughters. And from the start, the music direction, by Catherine Rahm, is the star of this show. These are not the best singing voices currently on Los Angeles stages. But when they join together, the harmonies sound lush and plentiful. The chorus works together with astonishing precision, considering that conductor Daniel Gledhill is backstage with the band. The soloists show beautiful phrasing and clarity of expression.
Less successful is Harold Dershimer’s direction and the choreography by Isabella Olivas. While the steps of the dances hew to Russian Jewish tradition—or at least the tradition of Fiddler performances—the group dances mob the stage. Unless the dancers are in precisely the right place, they squeeze by one another at best, bump into each other, or knock bits of costuming off one another at worst.
Dershimer has let Teyve be so carefree, the musical’s poignancy is lost. In addition, let’s hope the set is kosher, because this Tevye chews plenty of it. Portraying him, Bradley Miller constantly winks at the audience. Throughout, Tevye is completely blithe about pulling his milk cart since his horse became lame. Ultimately forced from his town because of religious hatred, Tevye reacts with a shrug.
Likewise, Susie McCarthy gives Tevye’s wife none of life’s scars. Golde raised five girls in a hardscrabble environment. She has tolerated Tevye’s, and society’s, patriarchy. And yet she’s sunny and oblivious. Accordingly, there’s no surprise at the end of the couple’s duet, “Do You Love Me?” when indeed she reveals her love.
Fortunately their three eldest daughters are played by actors apparently willing to delve into the reality of their characters’ lives. The glowing Kelsey Nisbett plays the eldest, Tzeitel, with completely fresh reactions to every occurrence in Tzeitel’s life. Her scenes with Nathan Fleischer, playing the hardworking Motel the tailor, are a pleasure to watch as they craft their characters’ longtime devotion to each other.
Carly Linehan plays second daughter Hodel, who reluctantly but quickly falls for the intellectual, very modern Perchik the student, played by Spencer Johnson. The two actors create visible chemistry, whether gazing at each other across the stage or dancing a forbidden but bouncy polka. Jessica D. Stone seems to understand the weight on third daughter Chava, as she moves farthest from tradition, marrying a Cossack. But because these women are so good onstage, Miller does his best work opposite them, particularly with Stone.
The fiddler of the title, Tevye tells us, represents their precarious lives. Here the fiddler is middle-schooler Paul Callender-Clewett. If the figure also symbolizes survival and hope, this young violinist suits the role. His tone, precision and focus make his playing one of the production’s highlights as he bookends the show.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
The score of the classic Fiddler on the Roof is among American musical theater’s best. In this production, the music and lyrics get top-tier treatment. But the direction misses opportunities, while so tightly cramming performers into scenes that the audience may fear for the performers’ safety. Among those squandered elements, a too-glib protagonist and his happy-go-lucky wife fail to develop any historical and personal gravitas.
Based on tales by Sholem Aleichem, with book by Joseph Stein, the story follows Tevye the dairyman in an early 1900s tsarist Russian village. He thinks he rules the roost, but his wife and five daughters show him otherwise. Over the musical’s course, one after the other of his daughters breaks with Jewish tradition, causing Tevye to reassess his beliefs.
The highlight of this production is its musicality. The score (music by Jerry Bock, lyrics by Sheldon Harnick) of deservedly well-known classics starts with “Tradition,” describing the prescribed roles of Jewish fathers, mothers, sons and daughters. And from the start, the music direction, by Catherine Rahm, is the star of this show. These are not the best singing voices currently on Los Angeles stages. But when they join together, the harmonies sound lush and plentiful. The chorus works together with astonishing precision, considering that conductor Daniel Gledhill is backstage with the band. The soloists show beautiful phrasing and clarity of expression.
Less successful is Harold Dershimer’s direction and the choreography by Isabella Olivas. While the steps of the dances hew to Russian Jewish tradition—or at least the tradition of Fiddler performances—the group dances mob the stage. Unless the dancers are in precisely the right place, they squeeze by one another at best, bump into each other, or knock bits of costuming off one another at worst.
Dershimer has let Teyve be so carefree, the musical’s poignancy is lost. In addition, let’s hope the set is kosher, because this Tevye chews plenty of it. Portraying him, Bradley Miller constantly winks at the audience. Throughout, Tevye is completely blithe about pulling his milk cart since his horse became lame. Ultimately forced from his town because of religious hatred, Tevye reacts with a shrug.
Likewise, Susie McCarthy gives Tevye’s wife none of life’s scars. Golde raised five girls in a hardscrabble environment. She has tolerated Tevye’s, and society’s, patriarchy. And yet she’s sunny and oblivious. Accordingly, there’s no surprise at the end of the couple’s duet, “Do You Love Me?” when indeed she reveals her love.
Fortunately their three eldest daughters are played by actors apparently willing to delve into the reality of their characters’ lives. The glowing Kelsey Nisbett plays the eldest, Tzeitel, with completely fresh reactions to every occurrence in Tzeitel’s life. Her scenes with Nathan Fleischer, playing the hardworking Motel the tailor, are a pleasure to watch as they craft their characters’ longtime devotion to each other.
Carly Linehan plays second daughter Hodel, who reluctantly but quickly falls for the intellectual, very modern Perchik the student, played by Spencer Johnson. The two actors create visible chemistry, whether gazing at each other across the stage or dancing a forbidden but bouncy polka. Jessica D. Stone seems to understand the weight on third daughter Chava, as she moves farthest from tradition, marrying a Cossack. But because these women are so good onstage, Miller does his best work opposite them, particularly with Stone.
The fiddler of the title, Tevye tells us, represents their precarious lives. Here the fiddler is middle-schooler Paul Callender-Clewett. If the figure also symbolizes survival and hope, this young violinist suits the role. His tone, precision and focus make his playing one of the production’s highlights as he bookends the show.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 17, 2014
March 17, 2014
Tartuffe
Theatre Unleashed in association with Mad Magpie at The Belfry
Theatre Unleashed offers an energetic but awkwardly staged rendering of Molière’s 17th- century skewering of religious hypocrisy, Tartuffe aka The Imposter or The Hypocrite. Helmer Jeff Soroka, working from the 2002 translation by British-born Ranjit Bolt, marshals a 10-member ensemble through the machinations of this arch manipulator, hitting all the salient plot points while failing to establish a consistent comedic flow within the action. This is due in part to an uneven ensemble, many members of which struggle to give veracity to the rhymed verse. Also at fault is Soroka’s static staging, complicated by badly placed set pieces that impede the play’s progress rather than facilitating it.
Soroka’s staging appears to be hindered by The Belfy’s narrow stage area, offering limited opportunity for comedia-esque stage business. The comedy has to come from the interactions of the ensemble. Unfortunately, Orgon’s mother Madame Pernelle (Tracy Collins), brother-in-law Cléante (Jim Martyka), daughter Mariane (Caroline Sharp), son Damis (Corey Lynne Howe), and Mariane’s suitor Valère (Lee Pollero) do not rise to the occasion.
The production does have its pluses. Three characters that decidedly enhance the proceedings are cowardly but ever-opportunistic villain Tartuffe (Phillip Kelly), his arrogant but bumbling foil Orgon (J. Anthony McCarthy), and Orgon’s wily wife Elmire (Julia Plostnieks).
Kelly’s pious hypocrite invades Orgon’s home like odorous sewer water, insinuating himself into every crevice of opportunity. Tartuffe’s placid façade of piety seems to evolve with every word spoken in his presence: it’s a craven coward when he thinks he has been unmasked, a super-charged bull in heat when attempting have his carnal way with his host’s wife, then a sneering, imperious victor when he believes he has robbed this host of all his possessions.
McCarthy exudes an admirable balance of comedic pomposity when dealing with his family and abject adoration when in the presence of houseguest Tartuffe. McCarthy’s ability to envelope Bolt’s rhymed dialogue within a finely defined characterization does much to give veracity to Molière’s dramatic throughline. Plostnieks is equally adept in her portrayal of a confident woman who knows how to manipulate a man who is always thinking more with his groin than his brain when in her presence. Also managing to elevate the proceedings are Heather Lake’s scheming maid Dorine and Gregory Crafts’s small outing as arresting bailiff Monsieur Loyal.
Theatre Unleashed in association with Mad Magpie at The Belfry
Theatre Unleashed offers an energetic but awkwardly staged rendering of Molière’s 17th- century skewering of religious hypocrisy, Tartuffe aka The Imposter or The Hypocrite. Helmer Jeff Soroka, working from the 2002 translation by British-born Ranjit Bolt, marshals a 10-member ensemble through the machinations of this arch manipulator, hitting all the salient plot points while failing to establish a consistent comedic flow within the action. This is due in part to an uneven ensemble, many members of which struggle to give veracity to the rhymed verse. Also at fault is Soroka’s static staging, complicated by badly placed set pieces that impede the play’s progress rather than facilitating it.
Soroka’s staging appears to be hindered by The Belfy’s narrow stage area, offering limited opportunity for comedia-esque stage business. The comedy has to come from the interactions of the ensemble. Unfortunately, Orgon’s mother Madame Pernelle (Tracy Collins), brother-in-law Cléante (Jim Martyka), daughter Mariane (Caroline Sharp), son Damis (Corey Lynne Howe), and Mariane’s suitor Valère (Lee Pollero) do not rise to the occasion.
The production does have its pluses. Three characters that decidedly enhance the proceedings are cowardly but ever-opportunistic villain Tartuffe (Phillip Kelly), his arrogant but bumbling foil Orgon (J. Anthony McCarthy), and Orgon’s wily wife Elmire (Julia Plostnieks).
Kelly’s pious hypocrite invades Orgon’s home like odorous sewer water, insinuating himself into every crevice of opportunity. Tartuffe’s placid façade of piety seems to evolve with every word spoken in his presence: it’s a craven coward when he thinks he has been unmasked, a super-charged bull in heat when attempting have his carnal way with his host’s wife, then a sneering, imperious victor when he believes he has robbed this host of all his possessions.
McCarthy exudes an admirable balance of comedic pomposity when dealing with his family and abject adoration when in the presence of houseguest Tartuffe. McCarthy’s ability to envelope Bolt’s rhymed dialogue within a finely defined characterization does much to give veracity to Molière’s dramatic throughline. Plostnieks is equally adept in her portrayal of a confident woman who knows how to manipulate a man who is always thinking more with his groin than his brain when in her presence. Also managing to elevate the proceedings are Heather Lake’s scheming maid Dorine and Gregory Crafts’s small outing as arresting bailiff Monsieur Loyal.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
March 17, 2014
March 17, 2014
A Man of No Importance
Torrance Theatre Company
“A movie is cold comfort for a man who loves the theater,” says Alfie Byrne, this musical’s hero. That pretty much sets the tone for the character and for this show. Its major themes will be the making of art and admitting who we are. And the art here will be made by actors who, from star to supporting player, could be working in Hollywood but chose to be onstage in Torrance.
With book by Terrence McNally (based on the 1964 film written by Barry Devlin), music by Stephen Flaherty, and lyrics by Lynn Ahrens, this show shares a pedigree with the expansive Ragtime. Importance is more of a chamber piece than its sister is, telling a smaller story with fewer characters. However, it packs no less of a punch.
In it, Alfie (Mark Torreso) is a middle-aged bus conductor in 1960s Dublin. He may have no importance, but he has poetry in his heart and a passion for the writing of Oscar Wilde. What he really wants to do, though, is direct. He puts on Wilde’s plays in the social hall of St. Imelda’s Church, his troupe composed of the bus riders he tends to every day.
Alfie lives with his sister Lily (Amy Glinskas), who regrets having sacrificed her romantic opportunities to tend to him. Meantime, he has at least tried to bring culture—good food, literature, art—to her and to Dublin.
Alfie breaks out of his and his church’s comfort zone, ditching yet another rendition of The Importance of Being Earnest for a production of Salome (rhymed, in these Irish accents, with baloney). He can do so now because he has found his princess (Abby Bolin) to go with his hoped-for John the Baptist (Eric Michael Parker). The church, however, considers Wilde’s Salome unacceptably immodest. Alfie knows art must be made for art’s sake and not to bring in the big audiences. This sets off the big-picture battle, between religion and art.
The small-picture battle, though, is as universal as it gets: Alfie’s struggle with his true self. We can be our own worst enemies, as he shows by living in denial and fear. And, yes, we come up against haters and horrible people. But, for the most part, true friends accept us for who we are.
Alfie and his theater troupe are brave. Maybe Torrance Theatre Company took a lesson from them. There are happier, funnier musicals in American literature, but this one reflects taste and a willingness to step out and take a stand.
It presumes its audience knows something of Oscar Wilde: at least the Irishman’s writings, homosexuality (and lover Alfred Douglas, known as Bosie), and the meaning of Wilde’s green carnation. It also presumes tolerance.
Meantime, its music is of clearly modern lineage. The score includes no particularly hummable tunes, unless the hummer is quite the musician. But memorable for their importance are “Welcome to the World,” where, to borrow from Sondheim, no one is alone, and the anthemic “Love Who You Love.”
Glenn Kelman directs this production, with the emphasis on “direct.” He doesn’t hide the heart of the show behind showiness. He doesn’t hide who Alfie is until a big theatrical reveal. Kelman’s bravery is rewarded by his actors’ truthfulness, whether they are singing in a group on a bumpy bus or sharing a personal moment with the crushingly gentle Torreso’s utterly modest Alfie.
As it turns out, Alfie is a man of great importance, treasured by his friends for being himself. A Man of No Importance is a love letter to art, a paean to acceptance.
Torrance Theatre Company
“A movie is cold comfort for a man who loves the theater,” says Alfie Byrne, this musical’s hero. That pretty much sets the tone for the character and for this show. Its major themes will be the making of art and admitting who we are. And the art here will be made by actors who, from star to supporting player, could be working in Hollywood but chose to be onstage in Torrance.
With book by Terrence McNally (based on the 1964 film written by Barry Devlin), music by Stephen Flaherty, and lyrics by Lynn Ahrens, this show shares a pedigree with the expansive Ragtime. Importance is more of a chamber piece than its sister is, telling a smaller story with fewer characters. However, it packs no less of a punch.
In it, Alfie (Mark Torreso) is a middle-aged bus conductor in 1960s Dublin. He may have no importance, but he has poetry in his heart and a passion for the writing of Oscar Wilde. What he really wants to do, though, is direct. He puts on Wilde’s plays in the social hall of St. Imelda’s Church, his troupe composed of the bus riders he tends to every day.
Alfie lives with his sister Lily (Amy Glinskas), who regrets having sacrificed her romantic opportunities to tend to him. Meantime, he has at least tried to bring culture—good food, literature, art—to her and to Dublin.
Alfie breaks out of his and his church’s comfort zone, ditching yet another rendition of The Importance of Being Earnest for a production of Salome (rhymed, in these Irish accents, with baloney). He can do so now because he has found his princess (Abby Bolin) to go with his hoped-for John the Baptist (Eric Michael Parker). The church, however, considers Wilde’s Salome unacceptably immodest. Alfie knows art must be made for art’s sake and not to bring in the big audiences. This sets off the big-picture battle, between religion and art.
The small-picture battle, though, is as universal as it gets: Alfie’s struggle with his true self. We can be our own worst enemies, as he shows by living in denial and fear. And, yes, we come up against haters and horrible people. But, for the most part, true friends accept us for who we are.
Alfie and his theater troupe are brave. Maybe Torrance Theatre Company took a lesson from them. There are happier, funnier musicals in American literature, but this one reflects taste and a willingness to step out and take a stand.
It presumes its audience knows something of Oscar Wilde: at least the Irishman’s writings, homosexuality (and lover Alfred Douglas, known as Bosie), and the meaning of Wilde’s green carnation. It also presumes tolerance.
Meantime, its music is of clearly modern lineage. The score includes no particularly hummable tunes, unless the hummer is quite the musician. But memorable for their importance are “Welcome to the World,” where, to borrow from Sondheim, no one is alone, and the anthemic “Love Who You Love.”
Glenn Kelman directs this production, with the emphasis on “direct.” He doesn’t hide the heart of the show behind showiness. He doesn’t hide who Alfie is until a big theatrical reveal. Kelman’s bravery is rewarded by his actors’ truthfulness, whether they are singing in a group on a bumpy bus or sharing a personal moment with the crushingly gentle Torreso’s utterly modest Alfie.
As it turns out, Alfie is a man of great importance, treasured by his friends for being himself. A Man of No Importance is a love letter to art, a paean to acceptance.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 17, 2014
March 17, 2014
Harmony
Center Theatre Group and Alliance Theatre at Ahmanson Theatre
There are prominent Harmony-us elements to Barry Manilow and Bruce Sussman’s big and well-appointed new musical, but, sadly, they don’t survive until final curtain. Is there promise here? You bet. But as is, it’s still a sketchy work-in-progress, not ready for primetime despite elaborate production values, feisty choreography by JoAnn M. Hunter, and an occasionally excellent yet often oddly too-familiar score by Manilow that blatantly evokes riffs of composers from Jacques Brel to Kander and Ebb—with a little Fiddler on the Roof and Richard Wagner thrown in for historical measure.
The musical starts like gangbusters, refreshingly reminiscent of the Golden Age of old-style musical theater at its loudest and brassiest. The six main characters—real-life German Weimer-era do-wop vocal group The Comedian Harmonists, half of whom are Jewish—could be engaging if we really got to know them and their story went somewhere beyond the excruciatingly obvious. Their first huge production number, aptly titled “Harmony,” and Act Two’s raucous Cabaret-clone “Come to the Fatherland” make one hope for fireworks, but instead, two hours later, the sparkers have fizzled in wet grass. It’s not hard from the beginning to anticipate that eventually Harmony will mutate into something disharmonious, but what results is even more disappointing than one could imagine as bookwriter-lyricist Sussman resorts to every trick in the book in a vain attempt to find an ending.
Aside from a conspicuous lack of character development, there is an eye-rolling predictability in the play’s outcome that drags it down into the overcrowded depths of musical-theater wannabe status. As Tracy Letts reminds us in his journey to Osage County, “Who doesn’t fucking hate the Nazis?” Having stormtroopers and SS officers come onstage to announce declarations of the Hitler regime’s increasingly more-horrifying decries and atrocities is enough of a tawdry ploy to further the plot, but when the leading character, Josef “Rabbi” Cykowski (Shayne Kennon), finishes the last third of the second act playing a Jersey Boys-esque narrator telling us the individual destinies of each of the troupe members and their significant others, we feel we could have gone home 45 minutes earlier and read about their fates in program notes.
Tobin Ost’s sets and costumes are spectacular, as are Darrel Maloney’s projections, Jeff Croiter and Seth Jackson’s lighting, John O’Neill’s spirited musical direction, and Doug Walter’s orchestrations. The staging of the large cast, by director Tony Speciale, is notably fluid, but his work is dampened by what appears to be an inability to elicit any honest passion from his ensemble. Manilow’s score has fun moments and a couple of gorgeous ballads, particularly the lovely duet “Where You Go,” dynamically sung by Leigh Ann Larkin and Hannah Corneau as the long-suffering wives of the group’s married members.
In general—though ensemble numbers by the Harmonists are highlights—the acting is glaringly uneven. Larkin and Corneau are major assets to the cast, and Chris Dwan gives a standout performance as troupe member Erich Collin, instantly bringing to mind a young Donald O’Connor at his most infectiously energetic. But Kennon’s at-first impressive voice devolves into annoying, sounding as though he were singing into a megaphone, perhaps due to John Shivers and David Patridge’s over-miked sound design. Even more important, Kennon doesn’t have the acting chops to successfully play the conflicted “Rabbi,” especially obvious during that final narration when he must age to octogenarian, something Kennon accomplishes with all the subtlety of a Monty Python sketch comic.
Then there’s Will Blum as Ari “Lesh” Leshnikoff, playing the guy so broadly effeminately that when a high-ranking Nazi leader visits the troupe backstage and assures them he’s not there to weed out Jews, instead assigned by the Third Reich only to round up abortionists and homosexuals, it’s surprising he doesn’t cart Lesh away to the camps right then.
All is not lost in finding what’s needed to bring Harmony to Broadway. But, for now, it should be back to the drawing boards for yet another attempt to fulfill what Manilow tearfully told the opening night crowd was his great dream. It’s hard enough for the ’70s pop-god to be taken seriously; in its current incarnation, this chapter of his long career could only add to the negative perceptions. And most of the problems aren’t even his. Anyone know a good script doctor? What’s Marshall Brickman doing these days?
Center Theatre Group and Alliance Theatre at Ahmanson Theatre
There are prominent Harmony-us elements to Barry Manilow and Bruce Sussman’s big and well-appointed new musical, but, sadly, they don’t survive until final curtain. Is there promise here? You bet. But as is, it’s still a sketchy work-in-progress, not ready for primetime despite elaborate production values, feisty choreography by JoAnn M. Hunter, and an occasionally excellent yet often oddly too-familiar score by Manilow that blatantly evokes riffs of composers from Jacques Brel to Kander and Ebb—with a little Fiddler on the Roof and Richard Wagner thrown in for historical measure.
The musical starts like gangbusters, refreshingly reminiscent of the Golden Age of old-style musical theater at its loudest and brassiest. The six main characters—real-life German Weimer-era do-wop vocal group The Comedian Harmonists, half of whom are Jewish—could be engaging if we really got to know them and their story went somewhere beyond the excruciatingly obvious. Their first huge production number, aptly titled “Harmony,” and Act Two’s raucous Cabaret-clone “Come to the Fatherland” make one hope for fireworks, but instead, two hours later, the sparkers have fizzled in wet grass. It’s not hard from the beginning to anticipate that eventually Harmony will mutate into something disharmonious, but what results is even more disappointing than one could imagine as bookwriter-lyricist Sussman resorts to every trick in the book in a vain attempt to find an ending.
Aside from a conspicuous lack of character development, there is an eye-rolling predictability in the play’s outcome that drags it down into the overcrowded depths of musical-theater wannabe status. As Tracy Letts reminds us in his journey to Osage County, “Who doesn’t fucking hate the Nazis?” Having stormtroopers and SS officers come onstage to announce declarations of the Hitler regime’s increasingly more-horrifying decries and atrocities is enough of a tawdry ploy to further the plot, but when the leading character, Josef “Rabbi” Cykowski (Shayne Kennon), finishes the last third of the second act playing a Jersey Boys-esque narrator telling us the individual destinies of each of the troupe members and their significant others, we feel we could have gone home 45 minutes earlier and read about their fates in program notes.
Tobin Ost’s sets and costumes are spectacular, as are Darrel Maloney’s projections, Jeff Croiter and Seth Jackson’s lighting, John O’Neill’s spirited musical direction, and Doug Walter’s orchestrations. The staging of the large cast, by director Tony Speciale, is notably fluid, but his work is dampened by what appears to be an inability to elicit any honest passion from his ensemble. Manilow’s score has fun moments and a couple of gorgeous ballads, particularly the lovely duet “Where You Go,” dynamically sung by Leigh Ann Larkin and Hannah Corneau as the long-suffering wives of the group’s married members.
In general—though ensemble numbers by the Harmonists are highlights—the acting is glaringly uneven. Larkin and Corneau are major assets to the cast, and Chris Dwan gives a standout performance as troupe member Erich Collin, instantly bringing to mind a young Donald O’Connor at his most infectiously energetic. But Kennon’s at-first impressive voice devolves into annoying, sounding as though he were singing into a megaphone, perhaps due to John Shivers and David Patridge’s over-miked sound design. Even more important, Kennon doesn’t have the acting chops to successfully play the conflicted “Rabbi,” especially obvious during that final narration when he must age to octogenarian, something Kennon accomplishes with all the subtlety of a Monty Python sketch comic.
Then there’s Will Blum as Ari “Lesh” Leshnikoff, playing the guy so broadly effeminately that when a high-ranking Nazi leader visits the troupe backstage and assures them he’s not there to weed out Jews, instead assigned by the Third Reich only to round up abortionists and homosexuals, it’s surprising he doesn’t cart Lesh away to the camps right then.
All is not lost in finding what’s needed to bring Harmony to Broadway. But, for now, it should be back to the drawing boards for yet another attempt to fulfill what Manilow tearfully told the opening night crowd was his great dream. It’s hard enough for the ’70s pop-god to be taken seriously; in its current incarnation, this chapter of his long career could only add to the negative perceptions. And most of the problems aren’t even his. Anyone know a good script doctor? What’s Marshall Brickman doing these days?
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
March 17, 2014
March 17, 2014
Reunion
South Coast Repertory
Gregory S Moss’s Reunion at South Coast Rep is a capable production of a mostly derivative, predictable text, one most likely to be enjoyed by those with a real appetite for late ’80s nostalgia and a high tolerance for characters’ wild mood swings into and out of melodrama. A lot of theatergoers possess both, of course.
The play concerns three long-out-of-touch high school buddies from suburban Boston, motivated—each for his own reasons—to reconvene in the very same generic, seedy motel room where they celebrated their graduation a quarter-century ago. If that setup rings a bell, small wonder, because bringing together old acquaintances to settle lingering scores is a task that has attracted many a previous playwright. Echoes of That Championship Season, Tape, Vanities, and the musical Glory Days permeate the escalation from howdy-do reminiscences about the opposite sex to painful confessions, boozy power games, and physicality that gets out of hand, all culminating in secrets revealed in the cold light of dawn.
Not only does the arc of Reunion’s long night’s journey into day proceed more or less as anticipated, but the character palette feels familiar as well. Moss’s trio will not come as a shock to anyone who recalls American Buffalo or Small Engine Repair: Max (Michael Gladis) is the portly, seen-it-all melancholic; Mitch (Tim Cummings) the menacing, hair-trigger provocateur; and Petey (Kevin Berntson) the youthful, ingenuous acolyte of the other two.
All three roles are performed with conviction. Cummings in particular invests Mitch with the compelling mixture of delicacy and brute strength that characterized his Ned Weeks in Fountain Theatre’s The Normal Heart last season. But none of them ever does or says much to take one aback. Honestly, when Max avers he’s given up drinking, if you don’t figure he’ll be tossing ’em back almost immediately; when Mitch initiates some playful slaps, if you aren’t waiting for the blows suddenly to become real and painful; or if Petey’s return from a booze run surprises you when he bursts in with a fifth of Scotch, yelling, “Now we can get this party started!” (blackout; intermission), well, you haven’t been seeing the same plays I have, that’s for sure.
The script calls for multimedia-enhanced nightmarish transitions in the course of the boys’ bacchanal. They’re dutifully staged by Adrienne Campbell-Holt, but you sort of sense her heart’s not really in them.
South Coast Repertory
Gregory S Moss’s Reunion at South Coast Rep is a capable production of a mostly derivative, predictable text, one most likely to be enjoyed by those with a real appetite for late ’80s nostalgia and a high tolerance for characters’ wild mood swings into and out of melodrama. A lot of theatergoers possess both, of course.
The play concerns three long-out-of-touch high school buddies from suburban Boston, motivated—each for his own reasons—to reconvene in the very same generic, seedy motel room where they celebrated their graduation a quarter-century ago. If that setup rings a bell, small wonder, because bringing together old acquaintances to settle lingering scores is a task that has attracted many a previous playwright. Echoes of That Championship Season, Tape, Vanities, and the musical Glory Days permeate the escalation from howdy-do reminiscences about the opposite sex to painful confessions, boozy power games, and physicality that gets out of hand, all culminating in secrets revealed in the cold light of dawn.
Not only does the arc of Reunion’s long night’s journey into day proceed more or less as anticipated, but the character palette feels familiar as well. Moss’s trio will not come as a shock to anyone who recalls American Buffalo or Small Engine Repair: Max (Michael Gladis) is the portly, seen-it-all melancholic; Mitch (Tim Cummings) the menacing, hair-trigger provocateur; and Petey (Kevin Berntson) the youthful, ingenuous acolyte of the other two.
All three roles are performed with conviction. Cummings in particular invests Mitch with the compelling mixture of delicacy and brute strength that characterized his Ned Weeks in Fountain Theatre’s The Normal Heart last season. But none of them ever does or says much to take one aback. Honestly, when Max avers he’s given up drinking, if you don’t figure he’ll be tossing ’em back almost immediately; when Mitch initiates some playful slaps, if you aren’t waiting for the blows suddenly to become real and painful; or if Petey’s return from a booze run surprises you when he bursts in with a fifth of Scotch, yelling, “Now we can get this party started!” (blackout; intermission), well, you haven’t been seeing the same plays I have, that’s for sure.
The script calls for multimedia-enhanced nightmarish transitions in the course of the boys’ bacchanal. They’re dutifully staged by Adrienne Campbell-Holt, but you sort of sense her heart’s not really in them.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
March 16, 2014
March 16, 2014
Slowgirl
Geffen Playhouse in the Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater
Two very human, rather intriguing characters reveal their wounds and their coping mechanisms in this Greg Pierce play. Under Randall Arney’s direction, their story plays out with universality and specificity. But the crux of the work is in the seconds when nothing is said, building to an electrifying moment of crushing silence.
In large part, Pierce paints with the banal conversations people have in real life. So when Becky, a few months shy of age 18, gets shipped off to her Uncle Sterling in Costa Rica, the two characters chat realistically about “remember when” and “who gets the cot.”
Yet the playwright highlights the conversations with metaphor. Iguanas sharpen their claws on the roof of Sterling’s hut, upsetting Becky (Richard Woodbury’s surround-sound design). What are these herbivores—harmless to man, reminders of Tennessee Williams’s play—meant to communicate to the characters and to the audience?
Sterling has removed the doors from his abode (the skeletal walls of Takeshi Kata’s scenic design also help the audience see all of the action). For the claustrophobic Becky and the self-punishing, self-soothing Sterling, the removal of doors is a practical decision with side benefits. Pierce gives Sterling an eyesight condition: conversion insufficiency, in which one’s eyes can’t turn in toward each other. Sterling does eye exercises for this, staring at an object as he brings it closer to his nose. Becky asks how he knows when to stop. “You stop when you start to see two images,” says Sterling. He’ll stop suffering when he starts to see two sides to the events that drove him to escape his life in the US and live in the jungle.
The introspective Sterling gets a quiet, deeply felt portrayal by William Petersen. Sterling can’t be happy that his routines, including his repentant and consoling daily walk through an outdoor labyrinth, are disrupted, but Petersen lets the avuncular relationship trump any disturbance Sterling may feel. Rae Gray limns Becky, playing a teenager caught between childlike energy and young-adult angst, but reflecting Becky’s deep unhappiness: feeling unloved by her parents, abandoned by her boyfriend, apparently mistreated by the juvenile justice system.
Indeed, both characters have spent time with the American justice system. Sterling practiced law, until his partner was found guilty of wrongdoing over client funds. Becky is currently facing charges in connection with a party at which a neighborhood teen, the girl of the play’s title, met with catastrophe.
Neither character directly caused the harm. But, couldn’t each of them have stepped in more firmly to prevent it? Each saw warning signs, each had premonitions. So, posits Pierce, should they suffer the guilt for the rest of their lives? How many of us have a “Slowgirl” weighing on our hearts?
Pierce’s script is not flawless. One character is a liar, and once that’s established, it’s hard for the audience to believe any late-in-the-game confessions. And there are moments of obvious exposition. But Pierce’s ingenious element is to keep Sterling still and silent when Becky reveals her final bit of information. Watching him struggle with himself, rather than express himself verbally, goes against our expectations, as there is no “me, too” monologue for closure.
Though Pierce keeps the character silent, Arney and Petersen let Sterling’s reactions and emotions roil within, thus letting each audience member decide how deep Sterling’s guilt goes. Besides, he may have found a better way of helping his niece.
The writing also often references, but does not hammer us with, familial discord. Parents are not fulfilling their obligations here. According to Becky, her mother (Sterling’s sister) has distanced herself from Becky—though, clearly Becky lies and sneaks. Becky’s father has distanced himself from Sterling, perhaps in part to break the deep bond the siblings shared as children. But where were the parents of “Slowgirl” when she most needed them?
Arney uses transverse staging, so at all times we see the other half of the audience as it watches the play, despite Daniel Ionazzi’s narrowly concentrated, hazy lighting. What good comes of this staging? Bigger audiences, for a work that deserves them.
Geffen Playhouse in the Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater
Two very human, rather intriguing characters reveal their wounds and their coping mechanisms in this Greg Pierce play. Under Randall Arney’s direction, their story plays out with universality and specificity. But the crux of the work is in the seconds when nothing is said, building to an electrifying moment of crushing silence.
In large part, Pierce paints with the banal conversations people have in real life. So when Becky, a few months shy of age 18, gets shipped off to her Uncle Sterling in Costa Rica, the two characters chat realistically about “remember when” and “who gets the cot.”
Yet the playwright highlights the conversations with metaphor. Iguanas sharpen their claws on the roof of Sterling’s hut, upsetting Becky (Richard Woodbury’s surround-sound design). What are these herbivores—harmless to man, reminders of Tennessee Williams’s play—meant to communicate to the characters and to the audience?
Sterling has removed the doors from his abode (the skeletal walls of Takeshi Kata’s scenic design also help the audience see all of the action). For the claustrophobic Becky and the self-punishing, self-soothing Sterling, the removal of doors is a practical decision with side benefits. Pierce gives Sterling an eyesight condition: conversion insufficiency, in which one’s eyes can’t turn in toward each other. Sterling does eye exercises for this, staring at an object as he brings it closer to his nose. Becky asks how he knows when to stop. “You stop when you start to see two images,” says Sterling. He’ll stop suffering when he starts to see two sides to the events that drove him to escape his life in the US and live in the jungle.
The introspective Sterling gets a quiet, deeply felt portrayal by William Petersen. Sterling can’t be happy that his routines, including his repentant and consoling daily walk through an outdoor labyrinth, are disrupted, but Petersen lets the avuncular relationship trump any disturbance Sterling may feel. Rae Gray limns Becky, playing a teenager caught between childlike energy and young-adult angst, but reflecting Becky’s deep unhappiness: feeling unloved by her parents, abandoned by her boyfriend, apparently mistreated by the juvenile justice system.
Indeed, both characters have spent time with the American justice system. Sterling practiced law, until his partner was found guilty of wrongdoing over client funds. Becky is currently facing charges in connection with a party at which a neighborhood teen, the girl of the play’s title, met with catastrophe.
Neither character directly caused the harm. But, couldn’t each of them have stepped in more firmly to prevent it? Each saw warning signs, each had premonitions. So, posits Pierce, should they suffer the guilt for the rest of their lives? How many of us have a “Slowgirl” weighing on our hearts?
Pierce’s script is not flawless. One character is a liar, and once that’s established, it’s hard for the audience to believe any late-in-the-game confessions. And there are moments of obvious exposition. But Pierce’s ingenious element is to keep Sterling still and silent when Becky reveals her final bit of information. Watching him struggle with himself, rather than express himself verbally, goes against our expectations, as there is no “me, too” monologue for closure.
Though Pierce keeps the character silent, Arney and Petersen let Sterling’s reactions and emotions roil within, thus letting each audience member decide how deep Sterling’s guilt goes. Besides, he may have found a better way of helping his niece.
The writing also often references, but does not hammer us with, familial discord. Parents are not fulfilling their obligations here. According to Becky, her mother (Sterling’s sister) has distanced herself from Becky—though, clearly Becky lies and sneaks. Becky’s father has distanced himself from Sterling, perhaps in part to break the deep bond the siblings shared as children. But where were the parents of “Slowgirl” when she most needed them?
Arney uses transverse staging, so at all times we see the other half of the audience as it watches the play, despite Daniel Ionazzi’s narrowly concentrated, hazy lighting. What good comes of this staging? Bigger audiences, for a work that deserves them.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 15, 2014
March 15, 2014
Talhotblond
Ruskin Group Theatre
Playwright Kathrine Bates bases this world premiere on the true story of middle-aged factory worker Thomas Montgomery’s deranged, murderous Internet chatroom obsession with a supposed teenage girl—as chronicled in Barbara Schroeder’s 2009 film documentary, talhotblond. Since all the tawdry, cold-blooded facts of this case have been well-chronicled, it is expected that Bates would imbue her play with insights that go beyond the mere events leading up to the 2006 murder of Montgomery’s 22-year-old co-worker and Internet rival for this provocative teen’s online affections. As realized by helmer Beverly Olevin and a struggling ensemble, Bates’s straight-ahead dramatic throughline offers no intriguing, revelatory twists or turns; it simply gets there.
The 90-minute intermissionless piece establishes that 47-year-old Thomas (Mark Rimer) and factory office-mate/part-time college student Alan (John-Paul Lavoisier, alternating with Lane Compton) enjoy an amiable workplace relationship, sharing a mutual attraction to online gaming and casual Internet chatroom distractions to relieve the boredom of the job. Interjecting himself into mix is sarcastic young office clerk Pete (Oscar Cain Rodriguez). When online hottie Jennie (Erin Elizabeth Patrick), AKA talhotblond, insinuates her presence onto his screen and eventually into his psyche, emotionally fragile Thomas’s civil façade begins to crumble.
Rimer works hard at bringing to life the often-redundant scenarios in Thomas’s frustrating courtship of provocatively elusive Jennie; his self-destructive relationship with wife, Cheryl (Kathleen O’Grady), and teenage daughter, Gwen (Julia Arian); and his deep-seated regret about his youthful, failed service in the US Marines—as indicated by his online alter ego, Tommy Marine Sniper (Ben Gavin). But by play’s end, Rimer’s Thomas runs out of material on which to base his angst, so he plows ragingly forward to Bates’s tragic conclusion.
The playwright provides a few interesting plot points along Thomas’s path of destruction—Cheryl’s discovery of Thomas’s online improprieties and her spiteful communication with Jennie, resulting in Jennie’s vengeful pursuit of Alan—that offer other members of the cast colorful levels to play. O’Grady segues impressively from confused, conciliatory hausfrau to steely-eyed protector of the home front. Patrick conveys a comical pouty resentment when she learns she has been investing her sultry online assets on an aging fraud. And, Arian’s Gwen knows how to be a teenager, exuding the decreasing allegiance of a daughter who has who has reached a maturity that emotionally distances her from her father.
Lavoisier’s Alan appears more confused than alarmed by Thomas’s increasing irrationalism and never establishes a level of veracity when Alan also becomes ensnared by Jennie’s online-transcending allure. Because Jennie’s continuing evasiveness isn’t credible, neither are Alan’s reactions. Rodriguez is properly irreverent as wisecracking Pete but hasn’t quite mastered the supposedly easy flow of Pete’s dialogue. Gavin’s woodenness as Marine Sniper should be alleviated by more time with the role. And Mary Carrig’s Rose Shieler—the middle-aged Internet deceiver who actually ensnared the hearts of these two fallible men—projects a believable smug pride in being able to pull it off.
Jeff Faeth’s set, Mike Reilly’s lighting, and Marc Olevin’s sound do much to establish the complicated environments surrounding this Internet-age tragedy within the limited playing area of the Ruskin.
Ruskin Group Theatre
Playwright Kathrine Bates bases this world premiere on the true story of middle-aged factory worker Thomas Montgomery’s deranged, murderous Internet chatroom obsession with a supposed teenage girl—as chronicled in Barbara Schroeder’s 2009 film documentary, talhotblond. Since all the tawdry, cold-blooded facts of this case have been well-chronicled, it is expected that Bates would imbue her play with insights that go beyond the mere events leading up to the 2006 murder of Montgomery’s 22-year-old co-worker and Internet rival for this provocative teen’s online affections. As realized by helmer Beverly Olevin and a struggling ensemble, Bates’s straight-ahead dramatic throughline offers no intriguing, revelatory twists or turns; it simply gets there.
The 90-minute intermissionless piece establishes that 47-year-old Thomas (Mark Rimer) and factory office-mate/part-time college student Alan (John-Paul Lavoisier, alternating with Lane Compton) enjoy an amiable workplace relationship, sharing a mutual attraction to online gaming and casual Internet chatroom distractions to relieve the boredom of the job. Interjecting himself into mix is sarcastic young office clerk Pete (Oscar Cain Rodriguez). When online hottie Jennie (Erin Elizabeth Patrick), AKA talhotblond, insinuates her presence onto his screen and eventually into his psyche, emotionally fragile Thomas’s civil façade begins to crumble.
Rimer works hard at bringing to life the often-redundant scenarios in Thomas’s frustrating courtship of provocatively elusive Jennie; his self-destructive relationship with wife, Cheryl (Kathleen O’Grady), and teenage daughter, Gwen (Julia Arian); and his deep-seated regret about his youthful, failed service in the US Marines—as indicated by his online alter ego, Tommy Marine Sniper (Ben Gavin). But by play’s end, Rimer’s Thomas runs out of material on which to base his angst, so he plows ragingly forward to Bates’s tragic conclusion.
The playwright provides a few interesting plot points along Thomas’s path of destruction—Cheryl’s discovery of Thomas’s online improprieties and her spiteful communication with Jennie, resulting in Jennie’s vengeful pursuit of Alan—that offer other members of the cast colorful levels to play. O’Grady segues impressively from confused, conciliatory hausfrau to steely-eyed protector of the home front. Patrick conveys a comical pouty resentment when she learns she has been investing her sultry online assets on an aging fraud. And, Arian’s Gwen knows how to be a teenager, exuding the decreasing allegiance of a daughter who has who has reached a maturity that emotionally distances her from her father.
Lavoisier’s Alan appears more confused than alarmed by Thomas’s increasing irrationalism and never establishes a level of veracity when Alan also becomes ensnared by Jennie’s online-transcending allure. Because Jennie’s continuing evasiveness isn’t credible, neither are Alan’s reactions. Rodriguez is properly irreverent as wisecracking Pete but hasn’t quite mastered the supposedly easy flow of Pete’s dialogue. Gavin’s woodenness as Marine Sniper should be alleviated by more time with the role. And Mary Carrig’s Rose Shieler—the middle-aged Internet deceiver who actually ensnared the hearts of these two fallible men—projects a believable smug pride in being able to pull it off.
Jeff Faeth’s set, Mike Reilly’s lighting, and Marc Olevin’s sound do much to establish the complicated environments surrounding this Internet-age tragedy within the limited playing area of the Ruskin.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
March 11, 2014
March 11, 2014
Five Small Fires
Poor Dog Group at Bootleg Theater
Poor Dog Group’s ambitious Five Small Fires explores the phenomenon of cults, particularly the behavior of those who find a haven within them. The Cal Arts–rooted collective professes to have been exploring cults and ritual for a long time, though if it has been thinking much about the types and motivations of people who join up, and how cult living changes them, such musings don’t enter into the scope of this new work.
Neither, really, does narrative coherence, which of course most avant-garde theater companies tend to disdain as a rule, but a few glimmers of incident do come through. Five members—each character identified by the actor’s real first name—have been to Costa Rica, where Something Bad Happened, though no one seems in a rush to recall what, or its details.
Now they’re holed up in a Glendale public meeting place–cum–video studio, passing the time by recording recruiting appeals and first-person testimony on camera. They also indulge in the sorts of activities to which cultists are evidently prone—shared meals; singing; uninhibited dance; groping and coupling—while awaiting the arrival of the local constabulary whom someone in the group has apparently called, though again there’s not a lot of concern about a Quisling in their midst nor the consequences should a raid go down.
In its current state—almost surely, the development work continues—Five Small Fires is marked above all by tension but not always the good kind. The prevailing tension is between spontaneity and predetermination—or, if you will, between behavior that seems prompted by the moment to well up from a group member’s psyche, versus behavior director Jesse Bonnell has worked out precisely and in advance.
As an example, at one point “Jonney” (Jonney Ahmanson) sits facing upstage to reflect on a woman he was with—or fantasized about, I didn’t quite catch the details—but anyway, he talks about the interaction in an extremely realistic and believable way. Yet at the same time, “Andrew” (Andrew Gilbert), the group’s music man, is edging his way to his makeshift audio table downstage right, where he sets a turntable arm to a specific place on a record and picks up a handheld keyboard to strike a calculated note. And it’s not as if Andrew is hearing Jonney speak for the first time and deciding, “Hey, he could use some accompaniment” or “Wow, this is inspiring me, man!” Or even, “Oh, right, this is that part of our ritual; time to do X.” His move down right, and his tasks there, are clearly preordained.
Over and over during the 75-minute running time, we are presented with robotic movements and actions here, and apparently spontaneous reactions there, but they don’t add up; we’re never sure exactly what the event is we’re supposed to be watching. In the same vein, Bonnell has actors periodically announce “Part One,” “Part Two,” with a brief Brecht-like synopsis of what is to occur, a device designed to strip away any illusion that we’re actually seeing a cult in its natural state, as opposed to some sort of theatrical representation of a cult.
Also contributing to the alienation effect are devices that even their originators seem to have wearied of: a soundtrack of nonsense words and non-sequiturs borrowed from Richard Foreman; fun with video equipment à la Elizabeth LeCompte and The Wooster Group. Late in the story—when supposedly the cops are en route, though with no ratcheting-up of excitement—the actors engage in nowadays-obligatory partial nudity and aforementioned groping and same-sex kissing. But none of it is spontaneous; it’s all preprogrammed, which is to say, not very believable nor compelling.
Having grown up during the heyday of the likes of Bread and Puppet Theater, and the Grotowski troupe and Peter Brook’s staging of Marat/Sade, I found myself wishing all of Poor Dogs’s observation and exploration of cults and cultish ritual had resulted in something purer and less calculated; that the company had eschewed all the self-referential, ironical, alienating commentary and just pulled aside a veil to reveal what it had learned.
Certainly the company, individually and as a collective, is talented and bold enough to pull off any kind of theatrical event it has a mind to. As for the music, when Gilbert grabs the drumsticks and establishes a voodoo beat, the effect on cast and audience alike is electric. But then Five Small Fires too quickly douses the flames with more robotic, academic ploys. The show is less interested in being electric than electronic, and I found that regrettable.
I couldn’t help but think that if the cops actually did show up at the Glendale meeting place, the chief would likely peek in, close the door and say to his men, “Never mind, fellas, it’s just a bunch of theater students having some fun.”
Poor Dog Group at Bootleg Theater
Poor Dog Group’s ambitious Five Small Fires explores the phenomenon of cults, particularly the behavior of those who find a haven within them. The Cal Arts–rooted collective professes to have been exploring cults and ritual for a long time, though if it has been thinking much about the types and motivations of people who join up, and how cult living changes them, such musings don’t enter into the scope of this new work.
Neither, really, does narrative coherence, which of course most avant-garde theater companies tend to disdain as a rule, but a few glimmers of incident do come through. Five members—each character identified by the actor’s real first name—have been to Costa Rica, where Something Bad Happened, though no one seems in a rush to recall what, or its details.
Now they’re holed up in a Glendale public meeting place–cum–video studio, passing the time by recording recruiting appeals and first-person testimony on camera. They also indulge in the sorts of activities to which cultists are evidently prone—shared meals; singing; uninhibited dance; groping and coupling—while awaiting the arrival of the local constabulary whom someone in the group has apparently called, though again there’s not a lot of concern about a Quisling in their midst nor the consequences should a raid go down.
In its current state—almost surely, the development work continues—Five Small Fires is marked above all by tension but not always the good kind. The prevailing tension is between spontaneity and predetermination—or, if you will, between behavior that seems prompted by the moment to well up from a group member’s psyche, versus behavior director Jesse Bonnell has worked out precisely and in advance.
As an example, at one point “Jonney” (Jonney Ahmanson) sits facing upstage to reflect on a woman he was with—or fantasized about, I didn’t quite catch the details—but anyway, he talks about the interaction in an extremely realistic and believable way. Yet at the same time, “Andrew” (Andrew Gilbert), the group’s music man, is edging his way to his makeshift audio table downstage right, where he sets a turntable arm to a specific place on a record and picks up a handheld keyboard to strike a calculated note. And it’s not as if Andrew is hearing Jonney speak for the first time and deciding, “Hey, he could use some accompaniment” or “Wow, this is inspiring me, man!” Or even, “Oh, right, this is that part of our ritual; time to do X.” His move down right, and his tasks there, are clearly preordained.
Over and over during the 75-minute running time, we are presented with robotic movements and actions here, and apparently spontaneous reactions there, but they don’t add up; we’re never sure exactly what the event is we’re supposed to be watching. In the same vein, Bonnell has actors periodically announce “Part One,” “Part Two,” with a brief Brecht-like synopsis of what is to occur, a device designed to strip away any illusion that we’re actually seeing a cult in its natural state, as opposed to some sort of theatrical representation of a cult.
Also contributing to the alienation effect are devices that even their originators seem to have wearied of: a soundtrack of nonsense words and non-sequiturs borrowed from Richard Foreman; fun with video equipment à la Elizabeth LeCompte and The Wooster Group. Late in the story—when supposedly the cops are en route, though with no ratcheting-up of excitement—the actors engage in nowadays-obligatory partial nudity and aforementioned groping and same-sex kissing. But none of it is spontaneous; it’s all preprogrammed, which is to say, not very believable nor compelling.
Having grown up during the heyday of the likes of Bread and Puppet Theater, and the Grotowski troupe and Peter Brook’s staging of Marat/Sade, I found myself wishing all of Poor Dogs’s observation and exploration of cults and cultish ritual had resulted in something purer and less calculated; that the company had eschewed all the self-referential, ironical, alienating commentary and just pulled aside a veil to reveal what it had learned.
Certainly the company, individually and as a collective, is talented and bold enough to pull off any kind of theatrical event it has a mind to. As for the music, when Gilbert grabs the drumsticks and establishes a voodoo beat, the effect on cast and audience alike is electric. But then Five Small Fires too quickly douses the flames with more robotic, academic ploys. The show is less interested in being electric than electronic, and I found that regrettable.
I couldn’t help but think that if the cops actually did show up at the Glendale meeting place, the chief would likely peek in, close the door and say to his men, “Never mind, fellas, it’s just a bunch of theater students having some fun.”
Reviewed by Bob Verini
March 11, 2014
March 11, 2014
Closely Related Keys
Lounge Theatre
Two strong women come to grips with their shared family history in this world premiere by Wendy Graf. But in comparing and contrasting their reactions to the play’s events, Graf packs in so many ideas that each idea starts to feel superficially presented. In addition, Graf makes one of the women so in need of an arc, the audience can predict where their story is going.
Julia (Diarra Kilpatrick) is an African-American power lawyer, living alone in a swanky section of New York, having a supposedly secret affair with a white colleague at her firm (Ted Mattison). Neyla (Yvonne Huff) has escaped Iraq and arrives on Julia’s doorstep, violin case in hand, supposedly interested in pursuing music studies at Juilliard. These two half-sisters share a father, who had worked as an American chemist in Iraq and fallen for Neyla’s mother. Neyla has known of Julia since childhood. Julia hears of Neyla early in Act 1.
Julia drinks, Neyla can’t. The Muslim Neyla covers up, while the lapsed-Catholic Julia wears skin-baring dresses (the cast is beautifully costumed by Naila Aladdin Sanders). One sister even works on a white MacBook, the other sister on a black PC. But both live with damaged psyches, suffering from the violent deaths of their mothers and abandonment by their father (Brent Jennings). He’s no peach, however, but some of that may be the maneuverings of director Shirley Jo Finney. Dad is a bumbler, yet he rearranges Julia’s furniture, unbidden.
Likewise, Julia comes off as shrill. Resenting the newly discovered sibling who now splits their father’s attention, Julia behaves like a toddler asked to share a toy. She may just be overworked, though, as she practices litigation and transactional law. She says the wrong things at the wrong times, she misplaces her priorities, and Kilpatrick makes her twitchy and petulant.
Julia also reveals a cultural ignorance that seems improbable in someone so urban and educated. She seems not to know that Neyla can’t imbibe, can’t wear revealing clothing. It’s possible Julia is taunting her, but that possibility gets no further development.
As a probably unintended consequence, this leaves the audience to root for Neyla. Fortunately, she is played by Huff—an interesting, unmannered actor. Huff always finds the right emotion for the moment and the natural motivation for her blocking. She keeps us interested in the storytelling. If she believes a man named Tariq (Adam Meir), so must we.
On the other hand, Graf clearly dares her audience to jump to prejudiced conclusions. We don’t. Indeed, we know early on what’s going on with Neyla, precisely because we feel that dare and because, to borrow from 1776, she plays the violin. Neyla tells Julia they have much in common—in musical terms, she says, they are closely related keys.
Hana Sooyeon Kim’s black, grey, and brick set is pleasing to look at while being metaphoric, and Finney uses the theater’s relatively small playing space on a diagonal to add room for entrances from the side of the seating area. Finney creates various settings through Kim’s projections, such as high-rise offices and sunset skylines, as well as a particularly striking Skype session.
Still, it’s the sisters’ shared heartaches that should be the focus of our attentions, yet it’s heartbreaking that Graf went for so much additional material, distracting us from her fascinating main melody.
Lounge Theatre
Two strong women come to grips with their shared family history in this world premiere by Wendy Graf. But in comparing and contrasting their reactions to the play’s events, Graf packs in so many ideas that each idea starts to feel superficially presented. In addition, Graf makes one of the women so in need of an arc, the audience can predict where their story is going.
Julia (Diarra Kilpatrick) is an African-American power lawyer, living alone in a swanky section of New York, having a supposedly secret affair with a white colleague at her firm (Ted Mattison). Neyla (Yvonne Huff) has escaped Iraq and arrives on Julia’s doorstep, violin case in hand, supposedly interested in pursuing music studies at Juilliard. These two half-sisters share a father, who had worked as an American chemist in Iraq and fallen for Neyla’s mother. Neyla has known of Julia since childhood. Julia hears of Neyla early in Act 1.
Julia drinks, Neyla can’t. The Muslim Neyla covers up, while the lapsed-Catholic Julia wears skin-baring dresses (the cast is beautifully costumed by Naila Aladdin Sanders). One sister even works on a white MacBook, the other sister on a black PC. But both live with damaged psyches, suffering from the violent deaths of their mothers and abandonment by their father (Brent Jennings). He’s no peach, however, but some of that may be the maneuverings of director Shirley Jo Finney. Dad is a bumbler, yet he rearranges Julia’s furniture, unbidden.
Likewise, Julia comes off as shrill. Resenting the newly discovered sibling who now splits their father’s attention, Julia behaves like a toddler asked to share a toy. She may just be overworked, though, as she practices litigation and transactional law. She says the wrong things at the wrong times, she misplaces her priorities, and Kilpatrick makes her twitchy and petulant.
Julia also reveals a cultural ignorance that seems improbable in someone so urban and educated. She seems not to know that Neyla can’t imbibe, can’t wear revealing clothing. It’s possible Julia is taunting her, but that possibility gets no further development.
As a probably unintended consequence, this leaves the audience to root for Neyla. Fortunately, she is played by Huff—an interesting, unmannered actor. Huff always finds the right emotion for the moment and the natural motivation for her blocking. She keeps us interested in the storytelling. If she believes a man named Tariq (Adam Meir), so must we.
On the other hand, Graf clearly dares her audience to jump to prejudiced conclusions. We don’t. Indeed, we know early on what’s going on with Neyla, precisely because we feel that dare and because, to borrow from 1776, she plays the violin. Neyla tells Julia they have much in common—in musical terms, she says, they are closely related keys.
Hana Sooyeon Kim’s black, grey, and brick set is pleasing to look at while being metaphoric, and Finney uses the theater’s relatively small playing space on a diagonal to add room for entrances from the side of the seating area. Finney creates various settings through Kim’s projections, such as high-rise offices and sunset skylines, as well as a particularly striking Skype session.
Still, it’s the sisters’ shared heartaches that should be the focus of our attentions, yet it’s heartbreaking that Graf went for so much additional material, distracting us from her fascinating main melody.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
March 11, 2014
March 11, 2014
Alligator Tails
Theatre/Theater
Six generations of the sprawling Munroe clan endowed the small rural Southern town of Quincy, Fla., with enough wacky stories to choke a horse. Indeed it wouldn’t be at all surprising if monologist and raconteur extraordinaire Jan Munroe had at least one tale about his family that involved horse-choking. There are tales about water moccasins and a somewhat friendly alligator named Lou who lives in Munroe’s aunt’s pond, after all, so if anyone could spin an endearing yarn about a dead horse, it would surely be Munroe. Why, even as his onstage disclaimer goodnaturedly warns, some of the stories he shares in a bang-up 60 minutes—anecdotes handed down from Munroe to Munroe over the decades—might even be true. Some of them.
This is a revival of Munroe’s 1983–84 entry into the annals of LA theater history—a much-heralded production that won him Drama-Logue and LA Weekly awards, as well as a published place in the 1985 volume of West Coast Plays. This monologue is Munroe’s tender and somewhat bittersweet homage to the late director Steven Keats, who originally staged the piece, as well as Munroe’s many quirky family members who have since shuffled off to that vast friendly-alligator-filled pond in the sky. An uncle whose eccentricities rock Alligator Tails died at age 100 just before Munroe’s performance last Saturday, and the irony is not lost on the actor. One of the major differences between the 1980s version and talking about his family 30 years later is the writer-performer’s comprehension that “we are now them.” As that realization sinks in, for the first time during the performance Munroe’s face grows weary, and he ever-so briefly shows his age.
It’s apparent that things have become a bit more complicated and sophisticated in the shared confessions of solo artists since 1983, something certainly due to the kind of brave, physically embellished delivery pioneered back then by artists such as Munroe. The man is a world-class storyteller, weaving his charming tales with a delivery landing somewhere between Spalding Gray and Fredric March as Mark Twain, yet Munroe moves with incredible grace and strikes poses evoking one of those uncannily limber members of Cirque du Soleil.
One of the most amazing results of revisiting this material 30 years later is how little this guy has changed over the decades beyond the whitening of his hair and deepening timbre at the ends of his sentences. Somewhere, there’s probably a steadily deteriorating portrait of Jan Munroe stashed in some forgotten closet that must really be going to hell.
Theatre/Theater
Six generations of the sprawling Munroe clan endowed the small rural Southern town of Quincy, Fla., with enough wacky stories to choke a horse. Indeed it wouldn’t be at all surprising if monologist and raconteur extraordinaire Jan Munroe had at least one tale about his family that involved horse-choking. There are tales about water moccasins and a somewhat friendly alligator named Lou who lives in Munroe’s aunt’s pond, after all, so if anyone could spin an endearing yarn about a dead horse, it would surely be Munroe. Why, even as his onstage disclaimer goodnaturedly warns, some of the stories he shares in a bang-up 60 minutes—anecdotes handed down from Munroe to Munroe over the decades—might even be true. Some of them.
This is a revival of Munroe’s 1983–84 entry into the annals of LA theater history—a much-heralded production that won him Drama-Logue and LA Weekly awards, as well as a published place in the 1985 volume of West Coast Plays. This monologue is Munroe’s tender and somewhat bittersweet homage to the late director Steven Keats, who originally staged the piece, as well as Munroe’s many quirky family members who have since shuffled off to that vast friendly-alligator-filled pond in the sky. An uncle whose eccentricities rock Alligator Tails died at age 100 just before Munroe’s performance last Saturday, and the irony is not lost on the actor. One of the major differences between the 1980s version and talking about his family 30 years later is the writer-performer’s comprehension that “we are now them.” As that realization sinks in, for the first time during the performance Munroe’s face grows weary, and he ever-so briefly shows his age.
It’s apparent that things have become a bit more complicated and sophisticated in the shared confessions of solo artists since 1983, something certainly due to the kind of brave, physically embellished delivery pioneered back then by artists such as Munroe. The man is a world-class storyteller, weaving his charming tales with a delivery landing somewhere between Spalding Gray and Fredric March as Mark Twain, yet Munroe moves with incredible grace and strikes poses evoking one of those uncannily limber members of Cirque du Soleil.
One of the most amazing results of revisiting this material 30 years later is how little this guy has changed over the decades beyond the whitening of his hair and deepening timbre at the ends of his sentences. Somewhere, there’s probably a steadily deteriorating portrait of Jan Munroe stashed in some forgotten closet that must really be going to hell.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
March 9, 2014
March 9, 2014
Derby Day
Elephant Theatre
You might call this one Arkansas Racetrack Gothic. Samuel Brett Williams’s play centers on the irascible Ballard clan of Hot Springs, Ark., whose hard-drinking and internecine warfare give a bad name to dysfunction. As one of the characters observes, “We don’t play well with others.” The father of the family, unaffectionately known as Big Bastard, was a pro football player and boozehound who regularly beat and brutalized his three sons. Mom’s life was apparently a living hell ending in suicide.
Now Big Bastard, too, is dead, and his sons have gone straight from his funeral to the Oak Lawn Racetrack, where the favored delicacy is fried pickles. They’ve rented a sky box–style private room on the top tier of the bleachers, and they settle in for a day’s hard betting and even harder drinking.
The three brothers are hopelessly locked in love-hate relationships: They bait, taunt, goad, and attack each other mercilessly, and they specialize in vengefully bedding one another’s wives. They knock one another down, charge like raging bulls, hurl each other into walls, and smash up the furniture until we wonder how Joel Daavid’s astonishingly durable set can survive. But as soon as real blood is spilled, they’re reminded of their brotherhood, and make up—until the next fight.
Though they’re always convinced they’re going to make a killing on the next race, they lose consistently, and if by chance they win, they keep betting until they lose their winnings. The eldest son, Frank (Robert M. Foster), who has a complicated but unreliable system for picking winners, has apparently been sober for a few years but falls off the wagon with a resounding crash. Ned (Malcolm Madera), the middle brother, is the touchiest and most-arrogant, seeming to regard the world as his trashcan: Anything he finishes with, doesn’t like, or finds annoying gets tossed recklessly over his shoulder. But he nurses an improbable ambition to become a florist.
Johnny, the youngest brother (Jake Silbermann), has spent time in prison and has a dangerous habit of racking up gambling debts he can’t pay. He’s also intent on hitting on the spunky waitress, Becky (Kimberly Alexander), who must bring them their endless supply of drinks and endure their boorish behavior. She, an independent single mother, serves as their foil until she, too, is reduced to violence in self-defense. By the end of the day, the room is trashed and the brothers are smashed. And just when you things can’t possibly get any worse, they get—well—worse.
Williams writes pungent dialogue, his characters are drawn with wit and sure strokes, and all four actors make the most of their material, though one fears for their safety amid the seemingly reckless abandon of Edgar Landa’s fight choreography. How you respond to this play probably depends on your ability to tolerate/enjoy drunkenness and hideously bad behavior. But however you feel about it, it makes for a lively evening.
Elephant Theatre
You might call this one Arkansas Racetrack Gothic. Samuel Brett Williams’s play centers on the irascible Ballard clan of Hot Springs, Ark., whose hard-drinking and internecine warfare give a bad name to dysfunction. As one of the characters observes, “We don’t play well with others.” The father of the family, unaffectionately known as Big Bastard, was a pro football player and boozehound who regularly beat and brutalized his three sons. Mom’s life was apparently a living hell ending in suicide.
Now Big Bastard, too, is dead, and his sons have gone straight from his funeral to the Oak Lawn Racetrack, where the favored delicacy is fried pickles. They’ve rented a sky box–style private room on the top tier of the bleachers, and they settle in for a day’s hard betting and even harder drinking.
The three brothers are hopelessly locked in love-hate relationships: They bait, taunt, goad, and attack each other mercilessly, and they specialize in vengefully bedding one another’s wives. They knock one another down, charge like raging bulls, hurl each other into walls, and smash up the furniture until we wonder how Joel Daavid’s astonishingly durable set can survive. But as soon as real blood is spilled, they’re reminded of their brotherhood, and make up—until the next fight.
Though they’re always convinced they’re going to make a killing on the next race, they lose consistently, and if by chance they win, they keep betting until they lose their winnings. The eldest son, Frank (Robert M. Foster), who has a complicated but unreliable system for picking winners, has apparently been sober for a few years but falls off the wagon with a resounding crash. Ned (Malcolm Madera), the middle brother, is the touchiest and most-arrogant, seeming to regard the world as his trashcan: Anything he finishes with, doesn’t like, or finds annoying gets tossed recklessly over his shoulder. But he nurses an improbable ambition to become a florist.
Johnny, the youngest brother (Jake Silbermann), has spent time in prison and has a dangerous habit of racking up gambling debts he can’t pay. He’s also intent on hitting on the spunky waitress, Becky (Kimberly Alexander), who must bring them their endless supply of drinks and endure their boorish behavior. She, an independent single mother, serves as their foil until she, too, is reduced to violence in self-defense. By the end of the day, the room is trashed and the brothers are smashed. And just when you things can’t possibly get any worse, they get—well—worse.
Williams writes pungent dialogue, his characters are drawn with wit and sure strokes, and all four actors make the most of their material, though one fears for their safety amid the seemingly reckless abandon of Edgar Landa’s fight choreography. How you respond to this play probably depends on your ability to tolerate/enjoy drunkenness and hideously bad behavior. But however you feel about it, it makes for a lively evening.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
March 9, 2014
March 9, 2014
Disassembly
Theatre of NOTE
All the world’s a stage and all the wildly off-kilter families in it merely fodder for dramatists such as Steve Yockey. And that’s a good thing. From Ibsen to Chekhov, O’Neill to Kaufman and Hart, Tennessee Williams to Neil Simon, Christopher Durang to Sheila Callaghan, dysfunctional families have been the richly flowing lifeblood for some of our most noteworthy past and present playwrights, providing a subject sure to delight audiences who, if nothing else, are relieved to know families are out there who are even more screwed up than their own.
To further bastardize ol’ Will, the players inhabiting Yockey’s fantastically over-the-top latter-day farce Disassembly “have their exits and their entrances” in a somewhat claustrophobic Grand Central Station of an apartment belonging to the unusually accident-prone Evan. In this setting, people seem to drop by with infuriating regularity, especially today when Evan (Alexis DeLaRosa) is recovering from a knife wound and has steadfastly refused medical attention.
The story given to those gathered is that the poor guy was the victim of a mugging. Only two people besides him know better: Evan’s anxious fiancée, Diane (Alina Phelan), and his frantic sister, Ellen (Esther Canata), who explains to her concerned co-worker Tessa (Grace Eboigbe) and her friend Stanley (Travis Moscinski) that Evan has always been ridiculously unlucky, something that the horrendous scars on his torso from earlier experiences seem to verify. The trouble is, Ellen appears to believe her own lie.
Also arriving to add to Yockey’s farcical circus are Jerome (Tony DeCarlo), an über-nerd who wants desperately for Ellen to love him as passionately he does her, and Mirabelle (Channing Sargent), the world’s most annoying neighbor, who in turn has a major thing for Evan that in real life might see her carted off in a straitjacket. Then again, if one was to order a straitjacket for any of Evan’s companions here, maybe ordering all seven at once could assure a substantial discount from the manufacturer.
This is a supremely bizarre mix of young urbanites, all-too-easily recognizable by anyone living in an apartment in a big city, and what the playwright manages to wring out of his distressed and distressing creations is a thing of great comedic wonder. The acting here could not be better—particularly Phelan, who plays Diane as existing somewhere between a stoic Chekhov heroine and the physical embodiment of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” and Moscinski, who with Eboigbe manages to make what could be unnecessary peripheral characters as worthy of existence as any of the others.
A lot of the credit surely goes to Yockey, but without the unstoppably boundless comedic dexterity and breakneck-speed staging provided by director Tom Beyer, neither this play nor those performing it could succeed so seamlessly. This kind of humor works because Beyer knows whence it comes: deep in a sense of reality, with which he’s been able to uniformly infect his entire cast. These actors obviously were encouraged to try anything and everything, without a moment’s concern that their choices would too broad or outrageous. The boundlessly excessive playing style stays rooted in each actor’s individual truth—something not easily attainable unless the cast has the permission and expert nurturance of a leader like Beyer.
Bring on the Kool-Aid, misters Yockey and Beyer; we could all benefit from taking a sip.
Theatre of NOTE
All the world’s a stage and all the wildly off-kilter families in it merely fodder for dramatists such as Steve Yockey. And that’s a good thing. From Ibsen to Chekhov, O’Neill to Kaufman and Hart, Tennessee Williams to Neil Simon, Christopher Durang to Sheila Callaghan, dysfunctional families have been the richly flowing lifeblood for some of our most noteworthy past and present playwrights, providing a subject sure to delight audiences who, if nothing else, are relieved to know families are out there who are even more screwed up than their own.
To further bastardize ol’ Will, the players inhabiting Yockey’s fantastically over-the-top latter-day farce Disassembly “have their exits and their entrances” in a somewhat claustrophobic Grand Central Station of an apartment belonging to the unusually accident-prone Evan. In this setting, people seem to drop by with infuriating regularity, especially today when Evan (Alexis DeLaRosa) is recovering from a knife wound and has steadfastly refused medical attention.
The story given to those gathered is that the poor guy was the victim of a mugging. Only two people besides him know better: Evan’s anxious fiancée, Diane (Alina Phelan), and his frantic sister, Ellen (Esther Canata), who explains to her concerned co-worker Tessa (Grace Eboigbe) and her friend Stanley (Travis Moscinski) that Evan has always been ridiculously unlucky, something that the horrendous scars on his torso from earlier experiences seem to verify. The trouble is, Ellen appears to believe her own lie.
Also arriving to add to Yockey’s farcical circus are Jerome (Tony DeCarlo), an über-nerd who wants desperately for Ellen to love him as passionately he does her, and Mirabelle (Channing Sargent), the world’s most annoying neighbor, who in turn has a major thing for Evan that in real life might see her carted off in a straitjacket. Then again, if one was to order a straitjacket for any of Evan’s companions here, maybe ordering all seven at once could assure a substantial discount from the manufacturer.
This is a supremely bizarre mix of young urbanites, all-too-easily recognizable by anyone living in an apartment in a big city, and what the playwright manages to wring out of his distressed and distressing creations is a thing of great comedic wonder. The acting here could not be better—particularly Phelan, who plays Diane as existing somewhere between a stoic Chekhov heroine and the physical embodiment of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” and Moscinski, who with Eboigbe manages to make what could be unnecessary peripheral characters as worthy of existence as any of the others.
A lot of the credit surely goes to Yockey, but without the unstoppably boundless comedic dexterity and breakneck-speed staging provided by director Tom Beyer, neither this play nor those performing it could succeed so seamlessly. This kind of humor works because Beyer knows whence it comes: deep in a sense of reality, with which he’s been able to uniformly infect his entire cast. These actors obviously were encouraged to try anything and everything, without a moment’s concern that their choices would too broad or outrageous. The boundlessly excessive playing style stays rooted in each actor’s individual truth—something not easily attainable unless the cast has the permission and expert nurturance of a leader like Beyer.
Bring on the Kool-Aid, misters Yockey and Beyer; we could all benefit from taking a sip.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
March 9, 2014
March 9, 2014
The
Ugly One
Ensemble Studio Theatre/LA at The Speakeasy at Atwater Village Theatre
Trite as the old saying may seem, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And woe to anyone who suffers the bluntness heaped upon the object of the beholding in this delightfully acerbic piece penned by German playwright Marius von Mayenburg. Given a sharply engaging English translation by Maja Zade, this West Coast premiere, directed with verve by Gates McFadden, is a cornucopia of visual treats and fantastic performances.
Von Mayenburg’s hero, Lette, is a brilliant corporate worker who has designed a groundbreaking piece of electronic widgetry. Slated to appear before a European conference of some sort, he discovers that a nearly uninvolved underling is being sent in his place. Upon pushing for the truth behind his boorish supervisor’s explanatory dodges, Lette is hit, for lack of a better term, “smack in the face” with the revelation that his widely perceived unattractiveness would deter anyone from purchasing this product. Further follow-up with his wife confirms this societal diagnosis, sending him on a spiraling descent into the realm of plastic surgery and the world’s reaction to his newly acquired, unparalleled good looks.
As the play’s hangdog everyman, Robert Joy is a marvel to watch throughout the production’s fast-paced 70-minute running time. His Lette is annoyingly obsessive yet imbued with such a sympathetic air that one can’t help but root for his success whichever fork in the road he encounters. Rather than allowing the focus of Lette’s troubles to become maudlin, Joy highlights his character’s almost childlike naiveté, thus maintaining a refreshing believability despite the script’s clearly surrealistic nature.
Supporting characters of all stripes are created by the remaining members of this über-talented ensemble. Tony Pasqualini, in a pair of brilliantly blustering performances, brings to life Lette’s boss, consummately justifying his flip-flopping at every turn, and the surgeon who transforms him from a duckling into a swan. Meanwhile, in what might otherwise be described as merely the yeoman’s job, Peter Larney spins gold as the backstabbing assistant and in his exquisitely smarmy turn as the gay son of an oversexed society matron who sets her sights on Lette. And in a trio of precision-like characterizations, Eve Gordon pulls out all the stops as Lette’s wife who has only ever looked into his one eye, the surgeon’s by-the-book medical assistant, and the aforementioned grande dame whose hip-oriented walking tic is priceless.
Additionally, McFadden employs tremendously clever scenic elements to prove that excellent theater can exist in almost any arena. Converting a large rectangular office into a transverse staging is ingenious. A self-contained rolling unit, reminiscent of a walk-through metal detector, credited to designer Hana Sooyeon Kim, doubles as everything needed here, from a men’s room to the surgical theater. But it’s Kim’s astonishingly creative use of projections on the end walls of this venue to set moods, create locales, and add just the right amount of psychedelic effects that turns this really good show into a first-rate production.
Ensemble Studio Theatre/LA at The Speakeasy at Atwater Village Theatre
Trite as the old saying may seem, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And woe to anyone who suffers the bluntness heaped upon the object of the beholding in this delightfully acerbic piece penned by German playwright Marius von Mayenburg. Given a sharply engaging English translation by Maja Zade, this West Coast premiere, directed with verve by Gates McFadden, is a cornucopia of visual treats and fantastic performances.
Von Mayenburg’s hero, Lette, is a brilliant corporate worker who has designed a groundbreaking piece of electronic widgetry. Slated to appear before a European conference of some sort, he discovers that a nearly uninvolved underling is being sent in his place. Upon pushing for the truth behind his boorish supervisor’s explanatory dodges, Lette is hit, for lack of a better term, “smack in the face” with the revelation that his widely perceived unattractiveness would deter anyone from purchasing this product. Further follow-up with his wife confirms this societal diagnosis, sending him on a spiraling descent into the realm of plastic surgery and the world’s reaction to his newly acquired, unparalleled good looks.
As the play’s hangdog everyman, Robert Joy is a marvel to watch throughout the production’s fast-paced 70-minute running time. His Lette is annoyingly obsessive yet imbued with such a sympathetic air that one can’t help but root for his success whichever fork in the road he encounters. Rather than allowing the focus of Lette’s troubles to become maudlin, Joy highlights his character’s almost childlike naiveté, thus maintaining a refreshing believability despite the script’s clearly surrealistic nature.
Supporting characters of all stripes are created by the remaining members of this über-talented ensemble. Tony Pasqualini, in a pair of brilliantly blustering performances, brings to life Lette’s boss, consummately justifying his flip-flopping at every turn, and the surgeon who transforms him from a duckling into a swan. Meanwhile, in what might otherwise be described as merely the yeoman’s job, Peter Larney spins gold as the backstabbing assistant and in his exquisitely smarmy turn as the gay son of an oversexed society matron who sets her sights on Lette. And in a trio of precision-like characterizations, Eve Gordon pulls out all the stops as Lette’s wife who has only ever looked into his one eye, the surgeon’s by-the-book medical assistant, and the aforementioned grande dame whose hip-oriented walking tic is priceless.
Additionally, McFadden employs tremendously clever scenic elements to prove that excellent theater can exist in almost any arena. Converting a large rectangular office into a transverse staging is ingenious. A self-contained rolling unit, reminiscent of a walk-through metal detector, credited to designer Hana Sooyeon Kim, doubles as everything needed here, from a men’s room to the surgical theater. But it’s Kim’s astonishingly creative use of projections on the end walls of this venue to set moods, create locales, and add just the right amount of psychedelic effects that turns this really good show into a first-rate production.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
March 3, 2014
March 3, 2014
The Trip Back Down
Bella Vita Entertainment at Whitefire Theatre
Actor-director John Bishop launched his playwriting career with the 1977 Broadway debut of this two-and-a-half-hour panoramic chronicle of washed-up stock-car racer Bobby Horvath (Nick Stabile), who returns to his hometown of Mansfield, Ohio, to try to find answers and a possible resolution to his unrequited life. Helmer Terri Hanauer’s well-designed staging certainly realizes the plethora of cathartic pit stops marking Bobby’s downward journey to professional and personal angst, told in the present day and in flashbacks covering 20 years. But Hanauer fails to elevate this dramaturgically flawed work to any level of relevance other than giving a capable 15-member ensemble ample time on stage.
Although this script was Bishop’s debut stage work, it reads like a redundant screenplay that would be much more effective if edited. Utilizing Tom Buderwitz’s imaginatively wrought partition-like setting, Hanauer fluidly moves the characters inhabiting Bobby’s odyssey in and out of the action, generating a slew of barroom confrontations, motel room meltdowns, and hometown confessionals, and ample samplings of open-throttle race car videography (effectively wrought by Corwin Evans). Unfortunately, the total arc of this dramatic throughline focuses solely on Bobby’s slowly evolving decision to stay or to leave.
Along the way, the audience is subjected to myriad recapitulations of Bobby’s self-expressed failures as a NASCAR driver, a husband to hometown girl Joann (Eve Danzeisen), and a father to teenage daughter Jan (Lily Nicksay). And if a scene needs a change of direction, it us usually accomplished by some cast member uttering some variation of, “Have another beer.” That stated, Bishop—who grew up in Mansfield—reveals an insightful understanding of the social interactions of the denizens of this economy-challenged factory town, which surround but fail to penetrate our protagonist’s total self-absorption.
Stabile projects the proper brooding ambivalence of a former local celebrity who knows he will never rise to the heights of success he sought when he left town yet has no other plan for the future. The actor is particularly effective in the scenes recounting the history of his relationship with Danzeisen’s Joann, who melds into him, impressively reflecting every shifting dynamic in their relationship.
Swirling about Bobby’s journey of self-discovery are nicely realized interjections by locals who are living through their own crises, including Bobby’s beer-swilling, life-defeated older brother Frank (Kevin Brief); Frank’s quietly suffering wife, Barbara (Meredith Thomas), who didn’t get the man she really wanted; and Bobby’s father, Will (Larrs Jackson), who lived the best part of his life 30 years earlier, fighting in the Pacific. Instilling much-needed positive energy into the proceedings is Bobby’s fellow barnstorming NASCAR gypsy, Super Joe Weller (Robb Derringer), who glories in his lifestyle, whether he succeeds or not.
Bella Vita Entertainment at Whitefire Theatre
Actor-director John Bishop launched his playwriting career with the 1977 Broadway debut of this two-and-a-half-hour panoramic chronicle of washed-up stock-car racer Bobby Horvath (Nick Stabile), who returns to his hometown of Mansfield, Ohio, to try to find answers and a possible resolution to his unrequited life. Helmer Terri Hanauer’s well-designed staging certainly realizes the plethora of cathartic pit stops marking Bobby’s downward journey to professional and personal angst, told in the present day and in flashbacks covering 20 years. But Hanauer fails to elevate this dramaturgically flawed work to any level of relevance other than giving a capable 15-member ensemble ample time on stage.
Although this script was Bishop’s debut stage work, it reads like a redundant screenplay that would be much more effective if edited. Utilizing Tom Buderwitz’s imaginatively wrought partition-like setting, Hanauer fluidly moves the characters inhabiting Bobby’s odyssey in and out of the action, generating a slew of barroom confrontations, motel room meltdowns, and hometown confessionals, and ample samplings of open-throttle race car videography (effectively wrought by Corwin Evans). Unfortunately, the total arc of this dramatic throughline focuses solely on Bobby’s slowly evolving decision to stay or to leave.
Along the way, the audience is subjected to myriad recapitulations of Bobby’s self-expressed failures as a NASCAR driver, a husband to hometown girl Joann (Eve Danzeisen), and a father to teenage daughter Jan (Lily Nicksay). And if a scene needs a change of direction, it us usually accomplished by some cast member uttering some variation of, “Have another beer.” That stated, Bishop—who grew up in Mansfield—reveals an insightful understanding of the social interactions of the denizens of this economy-challenged factory town, which surround but fail to penetrate our protagonist’s total self-absorption.
Stabile projects the proper brooding ambivalence of a former local celebrity who knows he will never rise to the heights of success he sought when he left town yet has no other plan for the future. The actor is particularly effective in the scenes recounting the history of his relationship with Danzeisen’s Joann, who melds into him, impressively reflecting every shifting dynamic in their relationship.
Swirling about Bobby’s journey of self-discovery are nicely realized interjections by locals who are living through their own crises, including Bobby’s beer-swilling, life-defeated older brother Frank (Kevin Brief); Frank’s quietly suffering wife, Barbara (Meredith Thomas), who didn’t get the man she really wanted; and Bobby’s father, Will (Larrs Jackson), who lived the best part of his life 30 years earlier, fighting in the Pacific. Instilling much-needed positive energy into the proceedings is Bobby’s fellow barnstorming NASCAR gypsy, Super Joe Weller (Robb Derringer), who glories in his lifestyle, whether he succeeds or not.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
March 3, 2014
March 3, 2014
A Nice Indian Boy
East West Players at David Henry Hwang Theater at the Union Center for the Arts
This world premiere by playwright Madhuri Shekar uses the subject of gay marriage to bring to the table a convergence of racial, cultural, generational, and gender issues. Yes, it involves an Indian family, hence the title. Yes, it has a great number of truly touching moments as hearts and minds find common ground concerning a very personal topic. Yes, the Indian-related scenic elements, lighting design, and costuming are lovely to observe. But, groundbreaking it is not. And there are times when this topical comedy strays off into The Carol Burnett Show sketch land, raising the question as to what style of show director Snehal Desai intended to present.
One of the nicer aspects is Shekar’s eschewing of the stereotypical. The young men involved in this relationship, one a Caucasian adopted by a now-deceased Indian couple and the other Indian by birth, are just two guys who happen to meet in a San Francisco–area temple. Surprised to discover that his otherwise Wonder Bread white counterpart, Keshav, knows more about the Indian culture than he does, Naveen, is smitten, and a relationship blossoms. Six months go by and they’re now engaged, so it’s time to meet Naveen’s family—consisting of his parents, Archit and Megha, and his elder sister, Arundhathi, who happens to be on the scene when they arrive because her 6-year-old marriage is on the rocks.
The rest of the production, however, is fairly typical, irrespective of the cultural background of the characters. Indeed, it seems pretty much a repackaging of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Everyone deals with the unexpected, and after an intermissionless hour and 40 minutes, which would run faster if lengthy choreographed scene changes were tightened up, all is resolved and it’s time to call in the Pandit for the wedding. Along the way, spit takes, pratfalls, and high-pitched squeals of surprise get the desired laughs but for perhaps the wrong reasons.
As Naveen and Keshav, Andy Gala and Christian Durso craft a believable chemistry. This relationship is one like any other: flirtation, common interests, love, conflict, arguing, and even indecisiveness as to whether this is going to last. Their scenes together demonstrate Shekar’s skill in crafting witty dialogue without going over the top.
Likewise, Shekar’s scenes in which Naveen’s parents, played by Anjul Nigam and Rachna Khatau, speak individually to any of the younger characters are very poignant as they present their feelings through wisdom and experience. That said, Nigam has the gravitas to play a father of this age, but Khatau is clearly playing much older than her true years. Her choice to include an exaggerated hip malady and employ a heavy accent sometimes serves to distract rather than support her character, especially during moments of agitation.
Meanwhile, Mouzam Makkar does her best as Naveen’s sister despite a storyline that feels forced. It’s as though Shekar needed to provide her two main characters with a generational ally while demonstrating that marriage can result in the same potential outcomes regardless of which genders are involved.
East West Players at David Henry Hwang Theater at the Union Center for the Arts
This world premiere by playwright Madhuri Shekar uses the subject of gay marriage to bring to the table a convergence of racial, cultural, generational, and gender issues. Yes, it involves an Indian family, hence the title. Yes, it has a great number of truly touching moments as hearts and minds find common ground concerning a very personal topic. Yes, the Indian-related scenic elements, lighting design, and costuming are lovely to observe. But, groundbreaking it is not. And there are times when this topical comedy strays off into The Carol Burnett Show sketch land, raising the question as to what style of show director Snehal Desai intended to present.
One of the nicer aspects is Shekar’s eschewing of the stereotypical. The young men involved in this relationship, one a Caucasian adopted by a now-deceased Indian couple and the other Indian by birth, are just two guys who happen to meet in a San Francisco–area temple. Surprised to discover that his otherwise Wonder Bread white counterpart, Keshav, knows more about the Indian culture than he does, Naveen, is smitten, and a relationship blossoms. Six months go by and they’re now engaged, so it’s time to meet Naveen’s family—consisting of his parents, Archit and Megha, and his elder sister, Arundhathi, who happens to be on the scene when they arrive because her 6-year-old marriage is on the rocks.
The rest of the production, however, is fairly typical, irrespective of the cultural background of the characters. Indeed, it seems pretty much a repackaging of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Everyone deals with the unexpected, and after an intermissionless hour and 40 minutes, which would run faster if lengthy choreographed scene changes were tightened up, all is resolved and it’s time to call in the Pandit for the wedding. Along the way, spit takes, pratfalls, and high-pitched squeals of surprise get the desired laughs but for perhaps the wrong reasons.
As Naveen and Keshav, Andy Gala and Christian Durso craft a believable chemistry. This relationship is one like any other: flirtation, common interests, love, conflict, arguing, and even indecisiveness as to whether this is going to last. Their scenes together demonstrate Shekar’s skill in crafting witty dialogue without going over the top.
Likewise, Shekar’s scenes in which Naveen’s parents, played by Anjul Nigam and Rachna Khatau, speak individually to any of the younger characters are very poignant as they present their feelings through wisdom and experience. That said, Nigam has the gravitas to play a father of this age, but Khatau is clearly playing much older than her true years. Her choice to include an exaggerated hip malady and employ a heavy accent sometimes serves to distract rather than support her character, especially during moments of agitation.
Meanwhile, Mouzam Makkar does her best as Naveen’s sister despite a storyline that feels forced. It’s as though Shekar needed to provide her two main characters with a generational ally while demonstrating that marriage can result in the same potential outcomes regardless of which genders are involved.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
March 3, 2014
March 3, 2014
Cry, Trojans! (Troilus and Cressida)
The Wooster Group at REDCAT
NYC’s The Wooster Group, which created this production, has always tended toward the highbrow and intellectual. In trying to describe the company, two words come to mind: brilliant and wayward. Brilliant because whatever the company does is done with great skill and polish, and wayward because its approach to the material is often freewheeling and eccentric—and sometimes just plain off-the-wall.
In the group’s early take on Frank Wedekind’s Lulu Plays, the heroine was converted to a male hustler, and the piece was acted on a set featuring a massive bank of electronic equipment. Its version of Racine’s Phèdre presented Phèdre as a fashionista, and the conflict between Hippolytus and Theseus was reduced to an electronically enhanced badminton game. And, reportedly, in its version of Tennessee Williams’s Vieux Carre, some male characters were equipped with prominent rubber phalluses, which would seem to undermine any subtlety in the writing.
Cry, Trojans! is a version of Troilus and Cressida, Shakespeare’s tale of the Trojan War. The text has been pretty much respected, despite cuts and despite the reduction of several major characters, like Ulysses and Thersites, to mere passing presences. The shape of the original play is preserved. But, curiously, director Elizabeth LeCompte has chosen to present the Trojans as a fictional tribe of Native Americans. This makes for a visually interesting production, complete with war dances, pow-wows, and Andromache (Jennifer Lim) as a squaw with a papoose on her back. But it leaves us with interesting questions. Why do Amerindian braves keep invoking the Greek gods? Why are they armed with lacrosse sticks? And why, on the overhead screens, are we treated to footage from Splendor in the Grass? Is there really a parallel here?
Why do the lovers, Troilus (Scott Shepherd) and Cressida (Kate Valk), keep bopping each other on the noggin in their love scene? (To demonstrate that violence is the dark underside of romance? Or to suggest that falling in love is like being conked on the head?) Why does Cressida’s father, Calchas (Shepherd again), have a long Pinocchio-like dowel nose? Why, amid a stage-full of Native Americans, does Cassandra (Suzzy Roche) wear what appears to be a chicly contemporary blue cocktail dress? And why do Hector (Ari Fliakos) and Troilus wear capes sporting three-dimensional images of their original Greco-Trojan counterparts?
Director LeCompte often seems to be indulging in innovation for its own sake and to be more interested in applying intellectual decorations to the text than in illuminating it. She provides us with an athletic and dynamic production, but it tells us nothing we don’t already know about the play, and it obscures many things that are perfectly clear in it. The design elements, by Folkert de Jong and Delphine Courtillot, the staging, and the performances are impressive in their way. But the final result seems curiously unsatisfying.
This is probably a minority view of the production. The opening-night audience seemed genuinely excited by it, and it received the by-now de rigueur standing ovation at its end. What the company does is indeed rather brilliant. But why do they do it?
The Wooster Group at REDCAT
NYC’s The Wooster Group, which created this production, has always tended toward the highbrow and intellectual. In trying to describe the company, two words come to mind: brilliant and wayward. Brilliant because whatever the company does is done with great skill and polish, and wayward because its approach to the material is often freewheeling and eccentric—and sometimes just plain off-the-wall.
In the group’s early take on Frank Wedekind’s Lulu Plays, the heroine was converted to a male hustler, and the piece was acted on a set featuring a massive bank of electronic equipment. Its version of Racine’s Phèdre presented Phèdre as a fashionista, and the conflict between Hippolytus and Theseus was reduced to an electronically enhanced badminton game. And, reportedly, in its version of Tennessee Williams’s Vieux Carre, some male characters were equipped with prominent rubber phalluses, which would seem to undermine any subtlety in the writing.
Cry, Trojans! is a version of Troilus and Cressida, Shakespeare’s tale of the Trojan War. The text has been pretty much respected, despite cuts and despite the reduction of several major characters, like Ulysses and Thersites, to mere passing presences. The shape of the original play is preserved. But, curiously, director Elizabeth LeCompte has chosen to present the Trojans as a fictional tribe of Native Americans. This makes for a visually interesting production, complete with war dances, pow-wows, and Andromache (Jennifer Lim) as a squaw with a papoose on her back. But it leaves us with interesting questions. Why do Amerindian braves keep invoking the Greek gods? Why are they armed with lacrosse sticks? And why, on the overhead screens, are we treated to footage from Splendor in the Grass? Is there really a parallel here?
Why do the lovers, Troilus (Scott Shepherd) and Cressida (Kate Valk), keep bopping each other on the noggin in their love scene? (To demonstrate that violence is the dark underside of romance? Or to suggest that falling in love is like being conked on the head?) Why does Cressida’s father, Calchas (Shepherd again), have a long Pinocchio-like dowel nose? Why, amid a stage-full of Native Americans, does Cassandra (Suzzy Roche) wear what appears to be a chicly contemporary blue cocktail dress? And why do Hector (Ari Fliakos) and Troilus wear capes sporting three-dimensional images of their original Greco-Trojan counterparts?
Director LeCompte often seems to be indulging in innovation for its own sake and to be more interested in applying intellectual decorations to the text than in illuminating it. She provides us with an athletic and dynamic production, but it tells us nothing we don’t already know about the play, and it obscures many things that are perfectly clear in it. The design elements, by Folkert de Jong and Delphine Courtillot, the staging, and the performances are impressive in their way. But the final result seems curiously unsatisfying.
This is probably a minority view of the production. The opening-night audience seemed genuinely excited by it, and it received the by-now de rigueur standing ovation at its end. What the company does is indeed rather brilliant. But why do they do it?
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
March 3, 2014
March 3, 2014
50 Shades! The Musical
Kirk Douglas Theatre
Two facts should be noted right off the bat about this hit New York and Chicago import. First of all, an extension of its LA run was announced even before it opened. Secondly, the official opening night was filled with an audience who almost unanimously howled and hooted at every turn. Granted, 95 percent of those gathered were middle-aged suburban-looking women one might suspect had never been to a play before. The other 5 percent were members of the LA press corps. You do the math.
There is absolutely nothing to recommend about this parody of the bestselling novel—not even if one had read it. All this script offers is infantile bodily-function and creepily sexual humor at its most unnecessarily offensive. This is again stated with the disclaimer that 95 percent of the audience seemed wildly entertained. Adding insult to wasting the time of those in the other 5 percent is the fact that there is virtually no set whatsoever, making this the cheesiest and most surprising tenant to play the Douglas since it opened.
The score is unmemorable, the book is predictable and lame, and the cast is desperately in need of a better director to keep it working in more-uniform style. There are some good voices here, but the performances in general are abysmally broad and the actors give off the sense that they wish they were anywhere else in the world. Then again, when stuck with lyrics that attempt to rhyme “douche” with “big bush,” who could blame them?
It’s likely 50 Shades! The Musical is destined to be the Nunsense or Menopause the Musical of 2014: a long-running cash cow for its creators and producers, sure to fill houses from off-off the Vegas strip to the backroom of some random bowling alley in Downers Grove, Ill., for years to come, no matter what any critic or discerning audience member could possibly say against it.
Editor’s note: Writing, lyric-writing, music-writing, directing, co-directing, tour-directing, NY choreography, tour choreography, and the like are credited to Mindy Cooper, Amanda B. Davis, Emily Dorezas, Joanna Greer, Brad Landers, Rob Lindley, Al Samuels, Jody Shelton, and Ashley Ward, and Dan Wessels. Apparently the whole shebang is based on a novel by E.L. James.
Kirk Douglas Theatre
Two facts should be noted right off the bat about this hit New York and Chicago import. First of all, an extension of its LA run was announced even before it opened. Secondly, the official opening night was filled with an audience who almost unanimously howled and hooted at every turn. Granted, 95 percent of those gathered were middle-aged suburban-looking women one might suspect had never been to a play before. The other 5 percent were members of the LA press corps. You do the math.
There is absolutely nothing to recommend about this parody of the bestselling novel—not even if one had read it. All this script offers is infantile bodily-function and creepily sexual humor at its most unnecessarily offensive. This is again stated with the disclaimer that 95 percent of the audience seemed wildly entertained. Adding insult to wasting the time of those in the other 5 percent is the fact that there is virtually no set whatsoever, making this the cheesiest and most surprising tenant to play the Douglas since it opened.
The score is unmemorable, the book is predictable and lame, and the cast is desperately in need of a better director to keep it working in more-uniform style. There are some good voices here, but the performances in general are abysmally broad and the actors give off the sense that they wish they were anywhere else in the world. Then again, when stuck with lyrics that attempt to rhyme “douche” with “big bush,” who could blame them?
It’s likely 50 Shades! The Musical is destined to be the Nunsense or Menopause the Musical of 2014: a long-running cash cow for its creators and producers, sure to fill houses from off-off the Vegas strip to the backroom of some random bowling alley in Downers Grove, Ill., for years to come, no matter what any critic or discerning audience member could possibly say against it.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
March 2, 2014
March 2, 2014
Editor’s note: Writing, lyric-writing, music-writing, directing, co-directing, tour-directing, NY choreography, tour choreography, and the like are credited to Mindy Cooper, Amanda B. Davis, Emily Dorezas, Joanna Greer, Brad Landers, Rob Lindley, Al Samuels, Jody Shelton, and Ashley Ward, and Dan Wessels. Apparently the whole shebang is based on a novel by E.L. James.
A
Steady Rain
Odyssey Theatre
A steady rain falls on the lives of two Chicago cops, but it can’t wash away the pain and hatred and guilt that live in them. Though one seems to be the “good cop” and the other “bad,” nothing is clear-cut in this Keith Huff play.
We hope pilots aren’t fretting about their stock portfolios and heart surgeons aren’t fuming over a fight they had with their spouses the night before, at the time when we need their attention the most. But the two beat cops here were clearly distracted while ostensibly patrolling. Frustration has been simmering in Joey and Denny because they’ve been passed over for promotions to detective. Denny is intent on crushing the dealer/pimp whom Denny believes threw a rock into the front window of his family home. And one of the cops is in love with the other one’s wife. Distractions, indeed. When the pair misses clear signals that a young boy needs the help of the police, theatrical tragedy strikes.
There are a few moments here when director Jeff Perry overdoes. At one point, seemingly to differentiate time and place and purpose, he puts one of his actors under only a single light, the rest of the stage in blackness, and then never does it again. Either one of us among the audience missed the point, or Perry didn’t trust his audience to get the import of the moment. This script does not need ornamentation. It needs the kind of subtle work he and his cast do the rest of the time.
And so, Perry and actors Thomas Vincent Kelly and Sal Viscuso immerse themselves in this cold, dark, rainy world for an engrossing hour and a half. The actors play best friends from childhood, cops who toe a thin blue line between law enforcement and vigilantism, men who watch over each other but perhaps aren’t the best guardians. Viscuso seethes and Kelly shrinks. Kelly melts and Viscuso congeals. Viscuso gets defensive and Kelly defends. For the most part, Viscuso’s Denny is the “bad cop,” but he acts out of misplaced loyalty and out of stubbornness born of prejudices, so we pity more than loathe him. Kelly’s Joey acts out of loneliness, filling a void where he sees one, landing a bit of right-place-right-time luck whether or not he deserves it.
With Perry’s direction here at its best, the actors, sharply focused and painting in small strokes, create a world the audience can clearly feel. And what a relief it is when the actors take their bows and we can leave that dangerous, brother-against-brother, world behind and get in out of the rain.
Odyssey Theatre
A steady rain falls on the lives of two Chicago cops, but it can’t wash away the pain and hatred and guilt that live in them. Though one seems to be the “good cop” and the other “bad,” nothing is clear-cut in this Keith Huff play.
We hope pilots aren’t fretting about their stock portfolios and heart surgeons aren’t fuming over a fight they had with their spouses the night before, at the time when we need their attention the most. But the two beat cops here were clearly distracted while ostensibly patrolling. Frustration has been simmering in Joey and Denny because they’ve been passed over for promotions to detective. Denny is intent on crushing the dealer/pimp whom Denny believes threw a rock into the front window of his family home. And one of the cops is in love with the other one’s wife. Distractions, indeed. When the pair misses clear signals that a young boy needs the help of the police, theatrical tragedy strikes.
There are a few moments here when director Jeff Perry overdoes. At one point, seemingly to differentiate time and place and purpose, he puts one of his actors under only a single light, the rest of the stage in blackness, and then never does it again. Either one of us among the audience missed the point, or Perry didn’t trust his audience to get the import of the moment. This script does not need ornamentation. It needs the kind of subtle work he and his cast do the rest of the time.
And so, Perry and actors Thomas Vincent Kelly and Sal Viscuso immerse themselves in this cold, dark, rainy world for an engrossing hour and a half. The actors play best friends from childhood, cops who toe a thin blue line between law enforcement and vigilantism, men who watch over each other but perhaps aren’t the best guardians. Viscuso seethes and Kelly shrinks. Kelly melts and Viscuso congeals. Viscuso gets defensive and Kelly defends. For the most part, Viscuso’s Denny is the “bad cop,” but he acts out of misplaced loyalty and out of stubbornness born of prejudices, so we pity more than loathe him. Kelly’s Joey acts out of loneliness, filling a void where he sees one, landing a bit of right-place-right-time luck whether or not he deserves it.
With Perry’s direction here at its best, the actors, sharply focused and painting in small strokes, create a world the audience can clearly feel. And what a relief it is when the actors take their bows and we can leave that dangerous, brother-against-brother, world behind and get in out of the rain.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
February 27, 2014
February 27, 2014
The Wrong Man
Skylight Theatre Company
Ross Golan’s world premiere solo tuner is, as self-styled, “an underground musical about the justice system gone wrong.” From the moment Golan emerges on stage, picking through a somber arpeggio chord sequence on his steel-string acoustic guitar, declaring, “The wrong man is singing this song man, the wrong man,” the smooth-voiced introspective songsmith proceeds to burrow relentlessly for 60 minutes straight down to oblivion (“Fade to Black”).
Golan’s melodically and rhythmically inventive 14-song cycle takes no side trips, offers no subplots. What turns this into viable theater are the synergistic contributions of helmer-choreographer Lee Martino, an adroit six-member design team, and the transcendent onstage presence of dancer Jennifer Brasuell.
Golan chronicles in song the plight of Duran, an aimless young man who “meets the wrong girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Once he is framed for her murder, Duran becomes grist for the mill of justice that is automatically programmed to grind along the course of least resistance. From beginning to end, Golan doesn’t give Duran a fighting chance. He doesn’t even offer much hope that the final countdown vigil of anti–death penalty protesters (effectively wrought by Mike Hoy’s videography and Adam Fleming’s video design) can or ever will cause a change in what he avows to be a deeply flawed process of imperfect humans determining the fate of other imperfect humans.
Martino wisely allows Golan to concentrate mainly on being a one-man band, staging him in the center of each development in the dramatic throughline but making sure his environment fills out the story. This is emphatically true when hapless Duran is enveloped by Mariana, who flows around and through him to the rhythm of Golan’s words and music (“What Happens Here Stays Here,” “Take Off Your Clothes,” “Walk of Shame”).
Brasuell’s Mariana offers such a seductive presence, she gives tangible credence to the havoc that eventually smashes the lives of two men: Duran and her murderous ex-husband (scene in video). Aside from lasciviously insinuating herself into Duran’s life, Brasuell also projects the frailty of a lonely soul who comes to realize this callow young man does not have enough substance to take responsibility for his actions.
For this reviewer, it would have been more rewarding if Golan—who has already garnered impressive credits as a music maker—had ventured further out as a storyteller, offering more than this straight-ahead indictment of capital punishment. But the production deserves kudos for its seamless incorporation of so many fine talents, including Hoy, Fleming, Jeff McLaughlin (sets), Jared A. Sayeg (lights), Kate Bergh (costumes), and Dean Mora (sound).
Skylight Theatre Company
Ross Golan’s world premiere solo tuner is, as self-styled, “an underground musical about the justice system gone wrong.” From the moment Golan emerges on stage, picking through a somber arpeggio chord sequence on his steel-string acoustic guitar, declaring, “The wrong man is singing this song man, the wrong man,” the smooth-voiced introspective songsmith proceeds to burrow relentlessly for 60 minutes straight down to oblivion (“Fade to Black”).
Golan’s melodically and rhythmically inventive 14-song cycle takes no side trips, offers no subplots. What turns this into viable theater are the synergistic contributions of helmer-choreographer Lee Martino, an adroit six-member design team, and the transcendent onstage presence of dancer Jennifer Brasuell.
Golan chronicles in song the plight of Duran, an aimless young man who “meets the wrong girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Once he is framed for her murder, Duran becomes grist for the mill of justice that is automatically programmed to grind along the course of least resistance. From beginning to end, Golan doesn’t give Duran a fighting chance. He doesn’t even offer much hope that the final countdown vigil of anti–death penalty protesters (effectively wrought by Mike Hoy’s videography and Adam Fleming’s video design) can or ever will cause a change in what he avows to be a deeply flawed process of imperfect humans determining the fate of other imperfect humans.
Martino wisely allows Golan to concentrate mainly on being a one-man band, staging him in the center of each development in the dramatic throughline but making sure his environment fills out the story. This is emphatically true when hapless Duran is enveloped by Mariana, who flows around and through him to the rhythm of Golan’s words and music (“What Happens Here Stays Here,” “Take Off Your Clothes,” “Walk of Shame”).
Brasuell’s Mariana offers such a seductive presence, she gives tangible credence to the havoc that eventually smashes the lives of two men: Duran and her murderous ex-husband (scene in video). Aside from lasciviously insinuating herself into Duran’s life, Brasuell also projects the frailty of a lonely soul who comes to realize this callow young man does not have enough substance to take responsibility for his actions.
For this reviewer, it would have been more rewarding if Golan—who has already garnered impressive credits as a music maker—had ventured further out as a storyteller, offering more than this straight-ahead indictment of capital punishment. But the production deserves kudos for its seamless incorporation of so many fine talents, including Hoy, Fleming, Jeff McLaughlin (sets), Jared A. Sayeg (lights), Kate Bergh (costumes), and Dean Mora (sound).
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
February 27, 2014
February 27, 2014
White
Catherine Wheels Theatre Company at Lovelace Studio Theater at Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
In Scottish children’s theater company Catherine Wheels’s charming 35-minute theater piece, Cotton and Wrinkle take nurturing care of an all-white world. The two are clad in white, head to toe. They live in a white tent. They tend white birdhouses, grooming and dusting them, and then they carefully put a white egg in each tidy little abode. And so go their days. When a scrap of color happens to appear, they firmly drop it into a white trash bin (shades of Beckett’s Endgame) and press the lid closed.
Directed by Gill Robertson, and devised by Andy Manley, who plays Cotton, and Ian Cameron, who plays Wrinkle, this piece is designed for children ages 2 to 4. It’s wonderfully gentle, with a core of steely purposefulness. If the adults in the audience are as attentive as the young theatergoers were, they can’t miss the story of tolerance and acceptance of change.
Yes, the colors are moving into the neighborhood. The layering of metaphor in White probably goes even deeper, but forgetting the cosmic and divine symbolism, this story is about letting go of prejudice, seeing the beauty outside our personal boundaries, and perhaps even finding out our best friends can be tolerant, too.
The black box of the Lovelace is made less scary by shrinking the playing area via gauzy white curtains. We’re in a safe world, where Cameron and Manley move softly and delicately as Wrinkle and Cotton go about their day. Not to say the adults won’t see bits of commedia and sleight of hand. And the story has a bit of suspense: what are they doing, and what will happen? But the arc of the two as change comes to town is tenderly thrilling. Their neighborhood gets integrated, and what a glorious rainbow it is.
The presence of young theatergoers is thrilling, too. One audience dad proudly noted to his son, “This is your first play, isn’t it.” Another took a photo of his infant grasping his ticket, wanting a memento of his child’s first time as a theatergoer. If we want theater in America to continue, we need to bring children to it—doing so with a sense of occasion and showing them how to behave. This crowd was ruly and rapt. And all certainly saw high-quality theatermaking, which bodes well for a similar outing and then a lifelong love of the art.
Catherine Wheels Theatre Company at Lovelace Studio Theater at Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
In Scottish children’s theater company Catherine Wheels’s charming 35-minute theater piece, Cotton and Wrinkle take nurturing care of an all-white world. The two are clad in white, head to toe. They live in a white tent. They tend white birdhouses, grooming and dusting them, and then they carefully put a white egg in each tidy little abode. And so go their days. When a scrap of color happens to appear, they firmly drop it into a white trash bin (shades of Beckett’s Endgame) and press the lid closed.
Directed by Gill Robertson, and devised by Andy Manley, who plays Cotton, and Ian Cameron, who plays Wrinkle, this piece is designed for children ages 2 to 4. It’s wonderfully gentle, with a core of steely purposefulness. If the adults in the audience are as attentive as the young theatergoers were, they can’t miss the story of tolerance and acceptance of change.
Yes, the colors are moving into the neighborhood. The layering of metaphor in White probably goes even deeper, but forgetting the cosmic and divine symbolism, this story is about letting go of prejudice, seeing the beauty outside our personal boundaries, and perhaps even finding out our best friends can be tolerant, too.
The black box of the Lovelace is made less scary by shrinking the playing area via gauzy white curtains. We’re in a safe world, where Cameron and Manley move softly and delicately as Wrinkle and Cotton go about their day. Not to say the adults won’t see bits of commedia and sleight of hand. And the story has a bit of suspense: what are they doing, and what will happen? But the arc of the two as change comes to town is tenderly thrilling. Their neighborhood gets integrated, and what a glorious rainbow it is.
The presence of young theatergoers is thrilling, too. One audience dad proudly noted to his son, “This is your first play, isn’t it.” Another took a photo of his infant grasping his ticket, wanting a memento of his child’s first time as a theatergoer. If we want theater in America to continue, we need to bring children to it—doing so with a sense of occasion and showing them how to behave. This crowd was ruly and rapt. And all certainly saw high-quality theatermaking, which bodes well for a similar outing and then a lifelong love of the art.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
February 27, 2014
February 27, 2014
The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee
Monroe Forum Theatre at El Portal Theatre
The intimate confines of NoHo’s Monroe Forum Theatre offers an apt setting for this little tuner that managed to garner a number of Tony nominations during its 2005 Broadway run. Conceived by Rebecca Feldman, wrought by William Finn (music and lyrics) and Rachel Sheinkin (book), with additional material by Jay Reiss, the show takes a relentlessly innocent, mildly satirical look at the Americana tradition of the small-town community spelling bee competition without leaving even a flesh wound on anybody’s psyche.
Helmer Kristin Towers-Rowles guides her onstage ensemble through over-the-top portrayals that underscore the eccentricity of each contestant, as well as the judges. In her solo song, diminutive Marcy Park (Nicole Santiago-Barredo) pugnaciously declares, “I Speak Six Languages,” and then executes a perfect split. Santiago-Barredo’s Marcy appealingly balances overachieving determination and innate sadness, knowing that, for her family, second place is never an option.
Name-challenged William Barfee (Erik Scott Romney)—he insists it rhymes with parfait—projects a misanthropic facade of superiority due to his use of his pedal extremity (“Magic Foot”) to spell out his words on the floor. For Romney, it is also an opportunity to incorporate nifty dance moves, imaginatively staged by choreographer Samantha Whidby. The most endearing contestant is underachiever Leaf Coneybear (“I’m Not That Smart”), played to the latent-flower-child hilt by Craig McEldowney.
The most woebegone speller is drab little Olive Ostrovsky (Kimberly Hessler), who can’t even get her parents to attend the contest let alone fork up the $25 contestant fee. Vocally adroit Hessler offers a memorable ballad to her only dependable ally (“My Friend the Dictionary”). And Travis Dixon’s portrayal of crowd favorite Chip Tolentino scores comedic points when Chip is done in by an errant physiological manifestation (“My Unfortunate Erection”).
To insert a semblance of the tension inherent in this type of contest, the production include audience participation in the form of four contestants selected before the show. Onstage, they take turns spelling until eliminated and serve as good-natured improvisational interaction fodder for the cast.
The hardest-working character onstage is indomitable, always smiling, spelling administrator Rona Lisa Perretti (Emily King Brown). Brown not only takes part in every production number, she belts all the really high notes. Chuck McCollum offers a much-appreciated understated outing as spelling arbitrator Vice Principal Douglas Panch.
Set designer Erik Austin executes a properly tacky meeting hall environment for the spelling fest. Also effective is the understated instrumental underscoring of music director Joe Lawrence.
Monroe Forum Theatre at El Portal Theatre
The intimate confines of NoHo’s Monroe Forum Theatre offers an apt setting for this little tuner that managed to garner a number of Tony nominations during its 2005 Broadway run. Conceived by Rebecca Feldman, wrought by William Finn (music and lyrics) and Rachel Sheinkin (book), with additional material by Jay Reiss, the show takes a relentlessly innocent, mildly satirical look at the Americana tradition of the small-town community spelling bee competition without leaving even a flesh wound on anybody’s psyche.
Helmer Kristin Towers-Rowles guides her onstage ensemble through over-the-top portrayals that underscore the eccentricity of each contestant, as well as the judges. In her solo song, diminutive Marcy Park (Nicole Santiago-Barredo) pugnaciously declares, “I Speak Six Languages,” and then executes a perfect split. Santiago-Barredo’s Marcy appealingly balances overachieving determination and innate sadness, knowing that, for her family, second place is never an option.
Name-challenged William Barfee (Erik Scott Romney)—he insists it rhymes with parfait—projects a misanthropic facade of superiority due to his use of his pedal extremity (“Magic Foot”) to spell out his words on the floor. For Romney, it is also an opportunity to incorporate nifty dance moves, imaginatively staged by choreographer Samantha Whidby. The most endearing contestant is underachiever Leaf Coneybear (“I’m Not That Smart”), played to the latent-flower-child hilt by Craig McEldowney.
The most woebegone speller is drab little Olive Ostrovsky (Kimberly Hessler), who can’t even get her parents to attend the contest let alone fork up the $25 contestant fee. Vocally adroit Hessler offers a memorable ballad to her only dependable ally (“My Friend the Dictionary”). And Travis Dixon’s portrayal of crowd favorite Chip Tolentino scores comedic points when Chip is done in by an errant physiological manifestation (“My Unfortunate Erection”).
To insert a semblance of the tension inherent in this type of contest, the production include audience participation in the form of four contestants selected before the show. Onstage, they take turns spelling until eliminated and serve as good-natured improvisational interaction fodder for the cast.
The hardest-working character onstage is indomitable, always smiling, spelling administrator Rona Lisa Perretti (Emily King Brown). Brown not only takes part in every production number, she belts all the really high notes. Chuck McCollum offers a much-appreciated understated outing as spelling arbitrator Vice Principal Douglas Panch.
Set designer Erik Austin executes a properly tacky meeting hall environment for the spelling fest. Also effective is the understated instrumental underscoring of music director Joe Lawrence.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
February 25, 2014
February 25, 2014
The Music Man
Musical Theatre West at Carpenter Performing Arts Center
How prescient was Meredith Willson to recognize the valuable gift we give our children when we expose them to the arts? In his 1957 musical The Music Man, the kids—and their parents—focus on forming a band, and the gangs and gossips find common ground and a better way to spend their days. Or, is there just one small problem? In the words of the infuriated town mayor, “Where’s the band?”
Each song in Willson’s score is a classic—
perennially tuneful and lyrically delectable—including the chestnuts “Trouble,” “Wells Fargo Wagon,” and “Seventy-Six Trombones.” His storytelling charms, starting with the train full of traveling salesmen that pulls into River City, expelling flimflammer Harold Hill into this Midwestern turn-of-the-last-century town. Hill charms all but Mayor Shinn and the town librarian, Marian Paroo. But once “Professor” Hill’s ebullience and talk of a marching band coaxes Marian’s baby brother out of his extreme shyness, Marian changes her mind. By the time Hill is ready to skedaddle, the River Citians, and the audience, have learned how joyous it is to live in anticipation and excitement, even momentarily.
Directed by Jeff Maynard, music directed by Corey Hirsch, the production runs smoothly and swiftly. Maynard cleverly brings singers far downstage for the last few verses of their songs, dropping the curtain behind them so he can change the scene behind it but also making the characters appear as if they’ve gone into an inner monologue, singing their most personal thoughts to only us instead of to the other characters. An odd depiction of the pockets in a pool table and the conductor who shouts “Aboard!” to the passengers already in the train might ruin the concentration of the persnickety audience members at the top of the show. But Maynard’s appealing staging and John Todd’s choreography that borrows respectfully from Onna White’s film version keep the production buoyant.
But to borrow from the mayor, where’s the musicality? At the production reviewed (a matinee), the orchestra ran sour more than once. The singers weren’t always on pitch, but, more problematically, they weren’t in time or pleasingly playing with time.
Appreciation of the performances will depend on one’s preference for the familiar or for the original. Davis Gaines “does” Robert Preston’s Harold Hill, in timing and vocal quality, so the audience seems at home in his scenes. Gail Bennett does not “do” Shirley Jones as Marian Paroo, so the audience gets to meet a new character—and Bennett’s voice is lovely and operatic, like Jones’s.
The lean blond Matt Walker is the physical antithesis of the rotund dark Buddy Hackett, but Walker shares an easygoing sense of humor with the late comedian. Playing “anvil salesman” Charlie Cowell, Christopher Utley may have surpassed his film counterpart in ever-increasing levels of exasperation.
This sun-dappled River City (lighting design by Jean-Yves Tessier) is populated by multitalented child performers—particularly, portraying piano student Amaryllis, one small Maggie Balleweg who is focused and powerful in conversations with the adults. And where the film was blessed with the skilled-ahead-of-his-time Timmy Everett in the dance scenes, this production boasts groups of young male dancers who jeté and pirouette prodigiously and in time.
Note to patrons: The theater is wheelchair-accessible, but the request for accessible seating must be made at time of ticket purchase. The rest of the theater is accessed by stairways, and many patrons using walkers had difficulty navigating up and down the steps. Also, whether this is good or bad for you, the theater is air-conditioned to a bracing chill. In February. We’re just saying.
Musical Theatre West at Carpenter Performing Arts Center
How prescient was Meredith Willson to recognize the valuable gift we give our children when we expose them to the arts? In his 1957 musical The Music Man, the kids—and their parents—focus on forming a band, and the gangs and gossips find common ground and a better way to spend their days. Or, is there just one small problem? In the words of the infuriated town mayor, “Where’s the band?”
Each song in Willson’s score is a classic—
perennially tuneful and lyrically delectable—including the chestnuts “Trouble,” “Wells Fargo Wagon,” and “Seventy-Six Trombones.” His storytelling charms, starting with the train full of traveling salesmen that pulls into River City, expelling flimflammer Harold Hill into this Midwestern turn-of-the-last-century town. Hill charms all but Mayor Shinn and the town librarian, Marian Paroo. But once “Professor” Hill’s ebullience and talk of a marching band coaxes Marian’s baby brother out of his extreme shyness, Marian changes her mind. By the time Hill is ready to skedaddle, the River Citians, and the audience, have learned how joyous it is to live in anticipation and excitement, even momentarily.
Directed by Jeff Maynard, music directed by Corey Hirsch, the production runs smoothly and swiftly. Maynard cleverly brings singers far downstage for the last few verses of their songs, dropping the curtain behind them so he can change the scene behind it but also making the characters appear as if they’ve gone into an inner monologue, singing their most personal thoughts to only us instead of to the other characters. An odd depiction of the pockets in a pool table and the conductor who shouts “Aboard!” to the passengers already in the train might ruin the concentration of the persnickety audience members at the top of the show. But Maynard’s appealing staging and John Todd’s choreography that borrows respectfully from Onna White’s film version keep the production buoyant.
But to borrow from the mayor, where’s the musicality? At the production reviewed (a matinee), the orchestra ran sour more than once. The singers weren’t always on pitch, but, more problematically, they weren’t in time or pleasingly playing with time.
Appreciation of the performances will depend on one’s preference for the familiar or for the original. Davis Gaines “does” Robert Preston’s Harold Hill, in timing and vocal quality, so the audience seems at home in his scenes. Gail Bennett does not “do” Shirley Jones as Marian Paroo, so the audience gets to meet a new character—and Bennett’s voice is lovely and operatic, like Jones’s.
The lean blond Matt Walker is the physical antithesis of the rotund dark Buddy Hackett, but Walker shares an easygoing sense of humor with the late comedian. Playing “anvil salesman” Charlie Cowell, Christopher Utley may have surpassed his film counterpart in ever-increasing levels of exasperation.
This sun-dappled River City (lighting design by Jean-Yves Tessier) is populated by multitalented child performers—particularly, portraying piano student Amaryllis, one small Maggie Balleweg who is focused and powerful in conversations with the adults. And where the film was blessed with the skilled-ahead-of-his-time Timmy Everett in the dance scenes, this production boasts groups of young male dancers who jeté and pirouette prodigiously and in time.
Note to patrons: The theater is wheelchair-accessible, but the request for accessible seating must be made at time of ticket purchase. The rest of the theater is accessed by stairways, and many patrons using walkers had difficulty navigating up and down the steps. Also, whether this is good or bad for you, the theater is air-conditioned to a bracing chill. In February. We’re just saying.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
February 25, 2014
February 25, 2014
My Name Is Asher Lev
Fountain Theatre
The novel My Name Is Asher Lev, by the late Chaim Potok, is a bildungsroman about the youth and coming of age of a young artist, whose vocation as a painter puts him at odds with his religious faith, his family, and his community. The novel offers an interior drama, as well as an expansive view covering a period of 20 years with a multitude of characters.
This left Aaron Posner, who was adapting the novel for the stage, with a dilemma. “…I wanted the focus to be on Asher,” Posner has said. “His passionate perspective had to be at the center. Yet…I felt sure that a sprawling, multicharacter realistic drama would not successfully portray Asher’s particular struggle.” Posner’s solution, after much thought and work, was to pare away everything except the crux of the story and to employ only three actors: one to play Asher, and the other two to play his parents and all the other important people in his life.
Asher is born into the narrow, strict, passionately devout Hasidic Jewish community in Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, N.Y. He is, almost from infancy, dedicated to drawing, arousing anger and resentment in his father, who can’t understand why the boy wants to waste his time on that nonsense instead of working and cultivating his faith. The mother, Rivka, is more sympathetic, but she’s forced to become a buffer between her strong-willed husband and her equally stubborn son.
Things come to a head when the embattled father discovers that his son is drawing pictures of naked women and, worse still, of the Crucifixion. It seems to the old man that his son has gone over to the enemy, embracing everything that is forbidden, evil, and inimical to the Jewish cause. Asher is able to able to partially mollify his father by invoking the traditions of the art world. “I understand tradition,” the old man says. But the gap between them continues to widen as the demands of an artist’s life are increasingly at odds with the values he grew up with. Finally, Asher is forced to realize that there is no way to reconcile the conflicting points of view, and he must make a gut-wrenching choice.
All too often, theater has treated art and religious belief facilely and simplistically, but Posner, and Potok, have pondered these matters long and hard, and accord them the dignity and complexity they deserve.
Director Stephen Sachs has assembled a terrific trio of actors for his production, and he directs them with sensitivity and finesse. Jason Karasev etches a persuasive portrait of Asher, from his childhood as a willful but winning kid, to his shy and puritanical adolescence as a young Hasid who’s terrified of the prospect of doing a life drawing of a naked woman, to his growing worldliness as a gifted and successful artist.
Anna Khaja reveals her versatility as the anguished mother Rivka, an insouciant but tactful artist’s model, and a rich, sophisticated, and knowledgeable gallery owner. Joel Polis skillfully plays an even greater variety of roles, including the hide-bound, fiercely protective father; Rivka’s bon vivant brother; the elderly Rebbe who is the Hasidic community’s spiritual leader; and the secular Jew and dedicated painter who teaches Asher that his art makes demands that are just as fierce as those of his religion.
Fountain Theatre
The novel My Name Is Asher Lev, by the late Chaim Potok, is a bildungsroman about the youth and coming of age of a young artist, whose vocation as a painter puts him at odds with his religious faith, his family, and his community. The novel offers an interior drama, as well as an expansive view covering a period of 20 years with a multitude of characters.
This left Aaron Posner, who was adapting the novel for the stage, with a dilemma. “…I wanted the focus to be on Asher,” Posner has said. “His passionate perspective had to be at the center. Yet…I felt sure that a sprawling, multicharacter realistic drama would not successfully portray Asher’s particular struggle.” Posner’s solution, after much thought and work, was to pare away everything except the crux of the story and to employ only three actors: one to play Asher, and the other two to play his parents and all the other important people in his life.
Asher is born into the narrow, strict, passionately devout Hasidic Jewish community in Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, N.Y. He is, almost from infancy, dedicated to drawing, arousing anger and resentment in his father, who can’t understand why the boy wants to waste his time on that nonsense instead of working and cultivating his faith. The mother, Rivka, is more sympathetic, but she’s forced to become a buffer between her strong-willed husband and her equally stubborn son.
Things come to a head when the embattled father discovers that his son is drawing pictures of naked women and, worse still, of the Crucifixion. It seems to the old man that his son has gone over to the enemy, embracing everything that is forbidden, evil, and inimical to the Jewish cause. Asher is able to able to partially mollify his father by invoking the traditions of the art world. “I understand tradition,” the old man says. But the gap between them continues to widen as the demands of an artist’s life are increasingly at odds with the values he grew up with. Finally, Asher is forced to realize that there is no way to reconcile the conflicting points of view, and he must make a gut-wrenching choice.
All too often, theater has treated art and religious belief facilely and simplistically, but Posner, and Potok, have pondered these matters long and hard, and accord them the dignity and complexity they deserve.
Director Stephen Sachs has assembled a terrific trio of actors for his production, and he directs them with sensitivity and finesse. Jason Karasev etches a persuasive portrait of Asher, from his childhood as a willful but winning kid, to his shy and puritanical adolescence as a young Hasid who’s terrified of the prospect of doing a life drawing of a naked woman, to his growing worldliness as a gifted and successful artist.
Anna Khaja reveals her versatility as the anguished mother Rivka, an insouciant but tactful artist’s model, and a rich, sophisticated, and knowledgeable gallery owner. Joel Polis skillfully plays an even greater variety of roles, including the hide-bound, fiercely protective father; Rivka’s bon vivant brother; the elderly Rebbe who is the Hasidic community’s spiritual leader; and the secular Jew and dedicated painter who teaches Asher that his art makes demands that are just as fierce as those of his religion.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
February 24, 2014
February 24, 2014
Noël Coward’s Brief Encounter
Kneehigh Theatre at the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
After an entertaining stroll through the audience delivering pleasant ditties of the 1920s and the ’30s, most either written by Noël Coward or with lyrics by him set to new original music by Stu Barker, ragtag band members period-appropriately dressed as theater ushers wander into the area in front of the stage where café tables and chairs have been set up. Walking from there onto the stage to offer even more spirited songs from the era, the musicians and singers morph into the actors performing Emma Rice’s inventive and admiring adaptation of the classic 1945 David Lean film Brief Encounter, itself adapted by Coward from his lesser-known 1936 play Still Life.
Bandleader–spoon player Joe Alessi (doubling as stationmaster Albert and our heroine’s less-than-ideal husband Fred), addresses the audience about all the usual housekeeping, from avoiding the use of cellphones to the taking of flash photography, and finally offering airline stewardess arm waves identifying the theater’s exits in case of emergency. “After all,” he warns with a sly portending smile, “this is theater and anything can happen.” And then it does.
Laura (Hannah Yelland), the aforementioned heroine who will by chance meet an intriguing stranger named Alec (Jim Sturgeon) in a teashop near the train station and enter into an illicit romance, moves from one of those café tables to the stage. She stares at a huge screen, where her drab daily life is unfolding as an appropriately grainy black-and-white film. She says a teary goodbye to her afternoon lover, walks directly toward the screen, disappears through it, and instantly reappears trapped in the film itself. Yes, anything can happen, and thanks to adaptor-director Rice, everything that happens for the next 90 minutes is absolutely mindblowing.
Most of the actors and musicians play multiple supporting roles hovering around the central story of the love affair between Laura and Alec. All of these performers share limitless, boundless talent. As endearing as the work of Sturgeon and Yelland is, it’s fascinating to watch their vaudevillian-like cohorts bringing to life delightfully comedic characters of their own. These performers, most transported from the original West End and Broadway productions, look perfectly cast as the cockney blue-collar Brits.
Each actor also seems to reflect extensive dance and movement training—though it’s hard to imagine Ben Kingsley/Bob Hoskins–clone Alessi in this regard until he suddenly breaks into a perfectly executed apache dance with Atkinson, herself a performer well able to transform with remarkable skill and alacrity from scooter-riding café busser to nose-wiping diner waitress to ancient dog-walker to loquacious busybody. Damon Daunno is also wonderfully infectious as Stanley, a railroad worker with a sweet tooth for Atkinson’s barmaid, and Annette McLaughlin is charming as the alternately horny and officious owner of the café.
These energetic performers, along with musicians James Gow and David Brown, race around the stage, moving furniture and attacking a vast variety of musical instruments, all of which completes Rice’s wildly unpredictable barrage of live-action and filmed scene changes on Neil Murray’s incredibly simple yet strikingly adaptable set. Jon Driscoll and Gemma Carrington’s projection designs and filmed segments are dynamic, especially the towering walls of crashing waves that underscore the poignant interludes of Laura and Alec’s doomed rendezvous.
Still, the true star here is obviously the inexhaustible imagination of Rice. She has not only taken a dry old story and reconstructed it to become a raucously manic tale of unconsummated love without the need for a lacy hanky to dab one’s eyes, she has managed to pay loudly worshipful homage to the great Sir Noël. He, of course, was a versatile artist who could go from creating serious drama to writing sly drawing-room comedy to composing and performing charmingly clever popular songs such as “Mad About the Boy” and “Go Slow, Johnny”—numbers added to this production at the most surprising, and most inventive, times.
Coward was always ready and eager to send up the pompous attitudes of England in his day. Beneath his enduring chronicles depicting the manners of his times, he had a wicked sense of humor and no patience for posturing—unless he was doing it himself—once referring to his visit to Lee Strasberg’s class at the Actors Studio as “pretentious balls.” Rice’s work here has everything he adored, and he probably would have squealed with delight that someone so clearly understood his humor and his intentions with such startlingly fresh acuity.
Kneehigh Theatre at the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
After an entertaining stroll through the audience delivering pleasant ditties of the 1920s and the ’30s, most either written by Noël Coward or with lyrics by him set to new original music by Stu Barker, ragtag band members period-appropriately dressed as theater ushers wander into the area in front of the stage where café tables and chairs have been set up. Walking from there onto the stage to offer even more spirited songs from the era, the musicians and singers morph into the actors performing Emma Rice’s inventive and admiring adaptation of the classic 1945 David Lean film Brief Encounter, itself adapted by Coward from his lesser-known 1936 play Still Life.
Bandleader–spoon player Joe Alessi (doubling as stationmaster Albert and our heroine’s less-than-ideal husband Fred), addresses the audience about all the usual housekeeping, from avoiding the use of cellphones to the taking of flash photography, and finally offering airline stewardess arm waves identifying the theater’s exits in case of emergency. “After all,” he warns with a sly portending smile, “this is theater and anything can happen.” And then it does.
Laura (Hannah Yelland), the aforementioned heroine who will by chance meet an intriguing stranger named Alec (Jim Sturgeon) in a teashop near the train station and enter into an illicit romance, moves from one of those café tables to the stage. She stares at a huge screen, where her drab daily life is unfolding as an appropriately grainy black-and-white film. She says a teary goodbye to her afternoon lover, walks directly toward the screen, disappears through it, and instantly reappears trapped in the film itself. Yes, anything can happen, and thanks to adaptor-director Rice, everything that happens for the next 90 minutes is absolutely mindblowing.
Most of the actors and musicians play multiple supporting roles hovering around the central story of the love affair between Laura and Alec. All of these performers share limitless, boundless talent. As endearing as the work of Sturgeon and Yelland is, it’s fascinating to watch their vaudevillian-like cohorts bringing to life delightfully comedic characters of their own. These performers, most transported from the original West End and Broadway productions, look perfectly cast as the cockney blue-collar Brits.
Each actor also seems to reflect extensive dance and movement training—though it’s hard to imagine Ben Kingsley/Bob Hoskins–clone Alessi in this regard until he suddenly breaks into a perfectly executed apache dance with Atkinson, herself a performer well able to transform with remarkable skill and alacrity from scooter-riding café busser to nose-wiping diner waitress to ancient dog-walker to loquacious busybody. Damon Daunno is also wonderfully infectious as Stanley, a railroad worker with a sweet tooth for Atkinson’s barmaid, and Annette McLaughlin is charming as the alternately horny and officious owner of the café.
These energetic performers, along with musicians James Gow and David Brown, race around the stage, moving furniture and attacking a vast variety of musical instruments, all of which completes Rice’s wildly unpredictable barrage of live-action and filmed scene changes on Neil Murray’s incredibly simple yet strikingly adaptable set. Jon Driscoll and Gemma Carrington’s projection designs and filmed segments are dynamic, especially the towering walls of crashing waves that underscore the poignant interludes of Laura and Alec’s doomed rendezvous.
Still, the true star here is obviously the inexhaustible imagination of Rice. She has not only taken a dry old story and reconstructed it to become a raucously manic tale of unconsummated love without the need for a lacy hanky to dab one’s eyes, she has managed to pay loudly worshipful homage to the great Sir Noël. He, of course, was a versatile artist who could go from creating serious drama to writing sly drawing-room comedy to composing and performing charmingly clever popular songs such as “Mad About the Boy” and “Go Slow, Johnny”—numbers added to this production at the most surprising, and most inventive, times.
Coward was always ready and eager to send up the pompous attitudes of England in his day. Beneath his enduring chronicles depicting the manners of his times, he had a wicked sense of humor and no patience for posturing—unless he was doing it himself—once referring to his visit to Lee Strasberg’s class at the Actors Studio as “pretentious balls.” Rice’s work here has everything he adored, and he probably would have squealed with delight that someone so clearly understood his humor and his intentions with such startlingly fresh acuity.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
February 23, 2014
February 23, 2014
Sex and Education
Colony Theatre
Scripter Lissa Levin has set up a perfect storm for mano-a-mano combat when disillusioned high school English teacher Miss Edwards (Stephanie Zimbalist) and academically underachieving star athlete Joe (William Reinbold) collide on Edwards’s final day of teaching and Joe’s derisive farewell to small-town life before launching himself into University of North Carolina on a full-boat basketball scholarship.
Miss Edwards’s weapon of choice is the profanity-strewn note she intercepts that Joe was attempting pass to girlfriend Hannah (Allison Lindsey) during final exams. Displaying neither shock nor insult upon reading Joe’s vulgar epistle, Edwards calmly informs her charge that he must rewrite his free-form scatological missive—establishing a clear thesis and three statements of support, all written in complete sentences. If he fails, he flunks English, does not graduate, and kisses his scholarship goodbye.
At the outset, it appears Levin stacks the battle too heavily in Edwards’s favor. After 25 frustrating years toiling in small-town academia, Edwards is now completely unencumbered and has nothing to lose. Joe, at the dawn of the rest of his life, has everything to lose. Yet, Joe exhibits a quick-witted ability to perceive and exploit his opponent’s weaknesses—honed from years spent preparing himself for athletic stardom. Under Andrew Barnicle’s well-balanced staging, neither combatant is allowed to completely overpower the other.
Unfortunately, Zimbalist and Reinbold do not yet inhabit their characters to the level where they can do true justice to the combat.
Zimbalist’s teacher exudes an impressively textured amalgam of humor and intractability, caring less about the vulgarity of her student’s text than its poor sentence structure. However, as she cold-bloodedly dissects the note and Joe’s motives in writing it, Zimbalist appears to be rushing Miss Edwards through the process, sounding more like she is spouting rehearsed dictums rather than formulating spontaneous reactions to this unique situation.
Reinbold’s Joe has no problem projecting the relaxed confidence of a young man who has been relentlessly praised for most of his life; but he fails to communicate the boy who has been caught doing something wrong and fears he is not going to get away with it. When he contemptuously puts Miss Edwards in the roll of student as he diagrams and extols the sophistication of the “triangle offense” in basketball, Reinbold sets Joe up as being his teacher’s peer rather a child making a desperate attempt to prove his worthiness.
Zimbalist and Reinbold probably need to spend more time with the material and each other onstage as adult and child. They could also use added guidance from Barnicle, helping them through the process of living together beyond the level of just scoring points and going on the defensive.
Levin utilizes Joe’s girlfriend Hannah—a sensually low-keyed Lindsey—as a cheerleading Greek chorus to the ongoing teacher-student classroom fracas and as the direct object of Joe’s sexual frustration. The cheerleading does nothing to edify or amplify the proceedings. It is a distraction from the central action and should be eliminated. But the sidebar Joe-Hannah moments give added credence to why this horny athlete would be passing a sexually explicit note to the hot girlfriend who has been constantly telling him, “I’m not ready.”
Trefoni Michael Rizzi’s realistically rendered classroom-imposed-upon-a-basketball-court setting does much to enhance the validity of the playwright’s premise.
Colony Theatre
Scripter Lissa Levin has set up a perfect storm for mano-a-mano combat when disillusioned high school English teacher Miss Edwards (Stephanie Zimbalist) and academically underachieving star athlete Joe (William Reinbold) collide on Edwards’s final day of teaching and Joe’s derisive farewell to small-town life before launching himself into University of North Carolina on a full-boat basketball scholarship.
Miss Edwards’s weapon of choice is the profanity-strewn note she intercepts that Joe was attempting pass to girlfriend Hannah (Allison Lindsey) during final exams. Displaying neither shock nor insult upon reading Joe’s vulgar epistle, Edwards calmly informs her charge that he must rewrite his free-form scatological missive—establishing a clear thesis and three statements of support, all written in complete sentences. If he fails, he flunks English, does not graduate, and kisses his scholarship goodbye.
At the outset, it appears Levin stacks the battle too heavily in Edwards’s favor. After 25 frustrating years toiling in small-town academia, Edwards is now completely unencumbered and has nothing to lose. Joe, at the dawn of the rest of his life, has everything to lose. Yet, Joe exhibits a quick-witted ability to perceive and exploit his opponent’s weaknesses—honed from years spent preparing himself for athletic stardom. Under Andrew Barnicle’s well-balanced staging, neither combatant is allowed to completely overpower the other.
Unfortunately, Zimbalist and Reinbold do not yet inhabit their characters to the level where they can do true justice to the combat.
Zimbalist’s teacher exudes an impressively textured amalgam of humor and intractability, caring less about the vulgarity of her student’s text than its poor sentence structure. However, as she cold-bloodedly dissects the note and Joe’s motives in writing it, Zimbalist appears to be rushing Miss Edwards through the process, sounding more like she is spouting rehearsed dictums rather than formulating spontaneous reactions to this unique situation.
Reinbold’s Joe has no problem projecting the relaxed confidence of a young man who has been relentlessly praised for most of his life; but he fails to communicate the boy who has been caught doing something wrong and fears he is not going to get away with it. When he contemptuously puts Miss Edwards in the roll of student as he diagrams and extols the sophistication of the “triangle offense” in basketball, Reinbold sets Joe up as being his teacher’s peer rather a child making a desperate attempt to prove his worthiness.
Zimbalist and Reinbold probably need to spend more time with the material and each other onstage as adult and child. They could also use added guidance from Barnicle, helping them through the process of living together beyond the level of just scoring points and going on the defensive.
Levin utilizes Joe’s girlfriend Hannah—a sensually low-keyed Lindsey—as a cheerleading Greek chorus to the ongoing teacher-student classroom fracas and as the direct object of Joe’s sexual frustration. The cheerleading does nothing to edify or amplify the proceedings. It is a distraction from the central action and should be eliminated. But the sidebar Joe-Hannah moments give added credence to why this horny athlete would be passing a sexually explicit note to the hot girlfriend who has been constantly telling him, “I’m not ready.”
Trefoni Michael Rizzi’s realistically rendered classroom-imposed-upon-a-basketball-court setting does much to enhance the validity of the playwright’s premise.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
February 18, 2014
February 18, 2014
Going to St. Ives
Crossley Theatre at Actors Co-op
Lee Blessing’s taut and subtle two-character drama proves that a play with a small cast can deal with large issues. Cora Gage (Nan McNamara) is a British ophthalmologist, living in St. Ives, who is approached for treatment by May N’Kame (Inger Tudor), the empress of an unidentified African nation and the mother of its bloody, ruthless emperor/dictator. Gage’s liberal principles rebel at the idea of helping a member of a murderous and unscrupulous family, but she hopes that by agreeing to perform surgery on the empress, she can save the lives of four doctors the corrupt and vicious emperor has—presumably unjustly—sentenced to death.
The first meeting of the two women is unexpectedly volatile. There is a clash of values, as well as personalities. The empress is forceful, implacable, and determined. She has lived her life in the violent and dangerous world of Realpolitik, and she isn’t governed by the English good manners Gage lives by. Gage finds herself constantly on the defensive. She performs the successful surgery to preserve the empress’s sight, then requests help in freeing the beleaguered doctors. But the empress wants something in return—something that is shocking and morally repugnant to Gage. The doctor reluctantly does what the empress requests, and they make a sort of devil’s bargain, which will have serious consequences for each of them.
In Act 2, the action moves to Africa. We learn that the four doctors have been freed, but the emperor has died and the new dictator is as ruthless and corrupt as the old one. He regards the former empress as a threat to his regime and tries her on bogus charges. She, now reduced to plain May N’Kame, has been sentenced to death and is a prisoner in her own home. Gage has also suffered losses—of her peace of mind and of her husband, who has sued her for divorce. She has come to Africa in an attempt to rescue May; but this proves harder than she expected, because May doesn’t want to be saved.
Blessing’s play explores the collision between politics and personal morality, and between two widely different approaches to life. The first act, which presents us with densely layered portraits of two strong women, each angling for something from the other, is impeccably written. The second act, while always engrossing, is less successful because it’s essentially a standoff between opposing points of view. But any writer who can wrest gasps of shock at the breaking of a teacup is obviously doing something right.
McNamara skillfully explores the pride and vulnerability of a woman who finds herself challenged on her own ground by a woman she didn’t expect to respect. But in Act 2, she allows herself to become too strident too soon. Tudor provides an almost iconic portrait of the tough but compassionate African woman who must confront the fact that the son she loves has grown into a vicious, amoral dictator and a public menace. She shows us the imperiousness of the empress and, later, the stoicism of a woman who has been stripped of status and wealth, as well as liberty.
Crossley Theatre at Actors Co-op
Lee Blessing’s taut and subtle two-character drama proves that a play with a small cast can deal with large issues. Cora Gage (Nan McNamara) is a British ophthalmologist, living in St. Ives, who is approached for treatment by May N’Kame (Inger Tudor), the empress of an unidentified African nation and the mother of its bloody, ruthless emperor/dictator. Gage’s liberal principles rebel at the idea of helping a member of a murderous and unscrupulous family, but she hopes that by agreeing to perform surgery on the empress, she can save the lives of four doctors the corrupt and vicious emperor has—presumably unjustly—sentenced to death.
The first meeting of the two women is unexpectedly volatile. There is a clash of values, as well as personalities. The empress is forceful, implacable, and determined. She has lived her life in the violent and dangerous world of Realpolitik, and she isn’t governed by the English good manners Gage lives by. Gage finds herself constantly on the defensive. She performs the successful surgery to preserve the empress’s sight, then requests help in freeing the beleaguered doctors. But the empress wants something in return—something that is shocking and morally repugnant to Gage. The doctor reluctantly does what the empress requests, and they make a sort of devil’s bargain, which will have serious consequences for each of them.
In Act 2, the action moves to Africa. We learn that the four doctors have been freed, but the emperor has died and the new dictator is as ruthless and corrupt as the old one. He regards the former empress as a threat to his regime and tries her on bogus charges. She, now reduced to plain May N’Kame, has been sentenced to death and is a prisoner in her own home. Gage has also suffered losses—of her peace of mind and of her husband, who has sued her for divorce. She has come to Africa in an attempt to rescue May; but this proves harder than she expected, because May doesn’t want to be saved.
Blessing’s play explores the collision between politics and personal morality, and between two widely different approaches to life. The first act, which presents us with densely layered portraits of two strong women, each angling for something from the other, is impeccably written. The second act, while always engrossing, is less successful because it’s essentially a standoff between opposing points of view. But any writer who can wrest gasps of shock at the breaking of a teacup is obviously doing something right.
McNamara skillfully explores the pride and vulnerability of a woman who finds herself challenged on her own ground by a woman she didn’t expect to respect. But in Act 2, she allows herself to become too strident too soon. Tudor provides an almost iconic portrait of the tough but compassionate African woman who must confront the fact that the son she loves has grown into a vicious, amoral dictator and a public menace. She shows us the imperiousness of the empress and, later, the stoicism of a woman who has been stripped of status and wealth, as well as liberty.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
February 18, 2014
February 18, 2014
Love, Noël: The Letters and Songs of Noël Coward
Lovelace Studio Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
While the depths of the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts are given over to a magical reinvention of Noël Coward’s bourgeois romantic melodrama Brief Encounter, a black-box studio space on the ground floor brings out his brittle, witty, demimonde side in Love, Noël. This intimate revue cozily features two music stands, two stools, and a baby grand in an environment surely not unlike the fancy Vegas showroom in which Coward made such a huge and unexpected success in 1955. The cabaret setting proves most congenial for his particular, one-of-a-kind appeal.
What Barry Day, editor of Coward’s letters, has devised here is so much more interesting than many a tired jukebox-style entertainment (Oh Coward! and Cowardy Custard, to name but two), because it focuses on the man rather than the oeuvre. Day strings together correspondence to and from a variety of sources, mostly the showbiz women with whom Coward performed and bonded (Esme Wynne, Gertrude Lawrence, Marlene Dietrich, Daphne du Maurier), more or less chronologically.
It’s narrated by the stars—Judy Kuhn and John Glover, in the present instance—almost like a bedtime story for grownups, punctuated like glass beads between a rosary’s decades by key musical numbers. This framework insists that we see the familiar “Mad About the Boy,” “I’ll See You Again,” and “If Love Were All” not as arch set-pieces of long-forgotten operettas but, refreshingly, as the direct reflection of a deep, rich, complex temperament.
Day makes no case for the so-called “Master” as one of the great talents of the past century (though Coward was unquestionably one of the most prolific and versatile). Day is more convincing that Coward was one of the world’s great companions: funny, empathetic, industrious, and above all loyal to friends and country alike. Loyalty is an underappreciated virtue in these days of instant gossipy tweets, widely distributed rude selfies, and carelessly leaked secrets. Yet, for Coward and his set, loyalty seems to have been the one unshakable rule of conduct. There’s tremendous satisfaction in seeing it played out, again and again, over this revue’s 90 minutes.
Coward carefully coaxes Marlene to get over a miserable love affair with Yul Brynner (yes, it gets that dishy, but never mean) and presents his tireless propagandizing, not to mention a little light spying, during World War II as the acts not of a glib dilettante but of a committed patriot. The typical image of Coward may be that of a narcissistic, dandifed fop looking down his nose at the hoi polloi (defined as anyone for whom he decides to show disdain). But Day’s scrapbook cuts past libelous stereotypes to reveal, for once, a man of true feeling and honor.
Helmer Jeanie Hackett, maintaining a zippy pace, is blessed in her cast. Broadway vet Kuhn provides stalwart musicianship and convincing accents for Coward’s various confidantes and intimates, while Glover eschews snotty superciliousness to bring out the joy in the man. Behind them, pianist David O creates a rippling cantata of romance and whimsy to carry everything pleasingly along. Hackett probably wishes she’d had more time with her stars, as opening night offered bobbled cues and tongue-ties from thesps peering closely at scripts in the dark. But somehow the mess-ups were a source of fun rather than frustration. One might imagine the legendary Coward uttering a tart denunciation of colonials mangling his words. But the Coward we get to know here would surely laugh it off, confident that the overall homage was being executed with respect and love.
Lovelace Studio Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
While the depths of the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts are given over to a magical reinvention of Noël Coward’s bourgeois romantic melodrama Brief Encounter, a black-box studio space on the ground floor brings out his brittle, witty, demimonde side in Love, Noël. This intimate revue cozily features two music stands, two stools, and a baby grand in an environment surely not unlike the fancy Vegas showroom in which Coward made such a huge and unexpected success in 1955. The cabaret setting proves most congenial for his particular, one-of-a-kind appeal.
What Barry Day, editor of Coward’s letters, has devised here is so much more interesting than many a tired jukebox-style entertainment (Oh Coward! and Cowardy Custard, to name but two), because it focuses on the man rather than the oeuvre. Day strings together correspondence to and from a variety of sources, mostly the showbiz women with whom Coward performed and bonded (Esme Wynne, Gertrude Lawrence, Marlene Dietrich, Daphne du Maurier), more or less chronologically.
It’s narrated by the stars—Judy Kuhn and John Glover, in the present instance—almost like a bedtime story for grownups, punctuated like glass beads between a rosary’s decades by key musical numbers. This framework insists that we see the familiar “Mad About the Boy,” “I’ll See You Again,” and “If Love Were All” not as arch set-pieces of long-forgotten operettas but, refreshingly, as the direct reflection of a deep, rich, complex temperament.
Day makes no case for the so-called “Master” as one of the great talents of the past century (though Coward was unquestionably one of the most prolific and versatile). Day is more convincing that Coward was one of the world’s great companions: funny, empathetic, industrious, and above all loyal to friends and country alike. Loyalty is an underappreciated virtue in these days of instant gossipy tweets, widely distributed rude selfies, and carelessly leaked secrets. Yet, for Coward and his set, loyalty seems to have been the one unshakable rule of conduct. There’s tremendous satisfaction in seeing it played out, again and again, over this revue’s 90 minutes.
Coward carefully coaxes Marlene to get over a miserable love affair with Yul Brynner (yes, it gets that dishy, but never mean) and presents his tireless propagandizing, not to mention a little light spying, during World War II as the acts not of a glib dilettante but of a committed patriot. The typical image of Coward may be that of a narcissistic, dandifed fop looking down his nose at the hoi polloi (defined as anyone for whom he decides to show disdain). But Day’s scrapbook cuts past libelous stereotypes to reveal, for once, a man of true feeling and honor.
Helmer Jeanie Hackett, maintaining a zippy pace, is blessed in her cast. Broadway vet Kuhn provides stalwart musicianship and convincing accents for Coward’s various confidantes and intimates, while Glover eschews snotty superciliousness to bring out the joy in the man. Behind them, pianist David O creates a rippling cantata of romance and whimsy to carry everything pleasingly along. Hackett probably wishes she’d had more time with her stars, as opening night offered bobbled cues and tongue-ties from thesps peering closely at scripts in the dark. But somehow the mess-ups were a source of fun rather than frustration. One might imagine the legendary Coward uttering a tart denunciation of colonials mangling his words. But the Coward we get to know here would surely laugh it off, confident that the overall homage was being executed with respect and love.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
February 17, 2014
February 17, 2014
Villon
Padua Playwrights Productions at Odyssey Theatre
This play is more about storytelling than story. It is about the way we make theater and observe theater. It is about words and how they are enhanced by a theatrical production. And yet, as the title character tells us in a surprisingly emotion-stirring moment at the play’s end, our story remains behind when we are long gone.
Longtime local legend Murray Mednick directs his own world-premiere script. He has admittedly suffered no fools over the years. Likewise, this production is not for audiences who want a straight biography of Villon, the 15th-century Frenchman known primarily for his poetry—though Mednick provides exactly that for the first few minutes of this work. “Uh, oh,” we think, “Murray’s gone off the deep end, doing a school-tour presentation about the poet.” He hasn’t. He reveals just enough bio to satisfy that portion of the audience’s mind. And then he heads off on his particular brand of theatrical explorations.
His production is handsome, designed by Keith Mitchell in rustic hewn wood, lit dustily by Matt Richter and Christina Robinson, costumed by Adriana Lambarri so realistically that we think we can smell the characters. Sound designer John Zalewski provides comedic effects such as knocking at doors and bodily functions; he also includes the disquieting, nearly imperceptible murmur he loves to paint with.
Mednick’s production is humorous, energetic, and highly physical as befits his custom of choreographing every moment of the plays he directs. Here he seats his actors at the sides of the stage, from where they watch the action until they step into the playing area. This of course keeps the audience aware at all times that this is a play being put on for our benefit. The script reminds us, too. The characters frequently point out they’re telling their tales for a presumably teenage and stupid audience. That’s Mednick’s joke. He knows most of those in attendance will be hip to his opaque style, most will be long past the teenage years.
Mednick also toys with our patience while playing games. He uses deliberate, if not deliberately annoying, repetitiveness, as the characters remind themselves that they’re performing for dunces. But the dunces are observing differing means of storytelling. One character uses a chamber pot. We “see” it visually (minus the stream). Mednick also gives us descriptive, aural, and analytical versions of it.
Mednick has said an entire one of his plays can be inspired by a word or line. Of Villon, he has said, “He could write great religious poetry alongside the bawdiest of ballads.” And so, the character who enacts Villon here reminds us of the need for contrast—just as Mednick has, in the past, said that to appreciate comedy, one must have experienced sorrow. At the end of this play, he surprises us with stingingly delicate beauty, as Villon recognizes his, and everyone’s, ultimate fate.
Mednick’s cast comprises LA stage vets who play actors who play characters: Peggy A. Blow as Villon’s mother; Alana Dietze as “a prostitute”; Troy Emmet Dunn and Geoffrey Dwyer as itinerant priests; Carl J. Johnson as the landlord and King Charles VII; Gray Palmer as Villon’s mentor; Christopher Rivas as a swordsman and voice of common sense; and Kevin Weisman as Villon. Like Villon’s troupe, these actors make sturdy, faithful companions to Mednick and his kaleidoscopic theatermaking.
Padua Playwrights Productions at Odyssey Theatre
This play is more about storytelling than story. It is about the way we make theater and observe theater. It is about words and how they are enhanced by a theatrical production. And yet, as the title character tells us in a surprisingly emotion-stirring moment at the play’s end, our story remains behind when we are long gone.
Longtime local legend Murray Mednick directs his own world-premiere script. He has admittedly suffered no fools over the years. Likewise, this production is not for audiences who want a straight biography of Villon, the 15th-century Frenchman known primarily for his poetry—though Mednick provides exactly that for the first few minutes of this work. “Uh, oh,” we think, “Murray’s gone off the deep end, doing a school-tour presentation about the poet.” He hasn’t. He reveals just enough bio to satisfy that portion of the audience’s mind. And then he heads off on his particular brand of theatrical explorations.
His production is handsome, designed by Keith Mitchell in rustic hewn wood, lit dustily by Matt Richter and Christina Robinson, costumed by Adriana Lambarri so realistically that we think we can smell the characters. Sound designer John Zalewski provides comedic effects such as knocking at doors and bodily functions; he also includes the disquieting, nearly imperceptible murmur he loves to paint with.
Mednick’s production is humorous, energetic, and highly physical as befits his custom of choreographing every moment of the plays he directs. Here he seats his actors at the sides of the stage, from where they watch the action until they step into the playing area. This of course keeps the audience aware at all times that this is a play being put on for our benefit. The script reminds us, too. The characters frequently point out they’re telling their tales for a presumably teenage and stupid audience. That’s Mednick’s joke. He knows most of those in attendance will be hip to his opaque style, most will be long past the teenage years.
Mednick also toys with our patience while playing games. He uses deliberate, if not deliberately annoying, repetitiveness, as the characters remind themselves that they’re performing for dunces. But the dunces are observing differing means of storytelling. One character uses a chamber pot. We “see” it visually (minus the stream). Mednick also gives us descriptive, aural, and analytical versions of it.
Mednick has said an entire one of his plays can be inspired by a word or line. Of Villon, he has said, “He could write great religious poetry alongside the bawdiest of ballads.” And so, the character who enacts Villon here reminds us of the need for contrast—just as Mednick has, in the past, said that to appreciate comedy, one must have experienced sorrow. At the end of this play, he surprises us with stingingly delicate beauty, as Villon recognizes his, and everyone’s, ultimate fate.
Mednick’s cast comprises LA stage vets who play actors who play characters: Peggy A. Blow as Villon’s mother; Alana Dietze as “a prostitute”; Troy Emmet Dunn and Geoffrey Dwyer as itinerant priests; Carl J. Johnson as the landlord and King Charles VII; Gray Palmer as Villon’s mentor; Christopher Rivas as a swordsman and voice of common sense; and Kevin Weisman as Villon. Like Villon’s troupe, these actors make sturdy, faithful companions to Mednick and his kaleidoscopic theatermaking.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
February 16, 2014
February 16, 2014
Lysistrata Jones
Chance Theater
When Aristophanes penned Lysistrata in 411 BC, he could hardly have imagined that his play would have spawned the many innovative modifications that have taken place over the centuries. The concept is irresistible: A group of women band together and withhold sex from their menfolk until the men have taken action to end a war. In this case, a group of college cheerleaders make a pact to forgo “giving it up” until their losing Athens University basketball team wins a game.
The catalyst for change comes in the form of a spunky blonde, Lysistrata Jones (Devon Hadsell). Pep talks don’t seem to work, so she hatches the scheme of denying the boys their pleasure to prompt increased commitment to winning. There are many rocks along this path, but, as expected, she triumphs.
A nod to Aristophanes comes in the form of Hetaira (Camryn Zelinger), a goddess who is injected into the mix in song and commentary, functioning as a one-person Greek chorus. The rest of the cheerleaders are played by Ashley Arlene Nelson, Klarissa Mesee, Danielle Rosario, and Chelsea Baldree. Their racially diverse counterparts are J. D. Driskill, Robert Wallace, Michael Dashefsky, Darian Archie, Ricky Wagner, and Jackson Tobiska, adding a greater dimension to the storyline and good humor to boot.
The ancient Greeks liked bawdy innuendo, and this play capitalizes on that with animated songs and bump-and-grind choreography by Kelly Todd. Performing on the larger stage of the new Chance Theater (the company moved a few doors down), the youthful cast takes advantage of the space with spirited enthusiasm and a few kick-ass moves. Ably backed by a four-man combo (music director Rod Bagheri, Garrett Hazen, James McHale, and Jorge Zuniga), standouts are “No More Givin’ It Up,” “Change the World,” and “Right Now: Operetta.” In particular, Hadsell and Zelinger are notable for their acting, as well as singing. Wallace also adds a nice comic touch in his characterization. The ensemble is uniformly accomplished.
Director Kari Hayter makes the most of Christopher Scott Murillo’s multilevel set design, making the action more dynamic. Douglas Carter Beane’s book and lyrics are comic, satiric, and just the right mix for Lewis Flinn’s contemporary music. Lighting by Matt Schleicher, sound by Ryan Brodkin, and costumes by Bradley Lock are also effective.
With the advent of shows like Rent, In the Heights, and Bring It On, theatrical musicals aren’t just revivals of old favorites these days. They speak to a new generation of playgoers and capture the essence of the present-day culture.
Chance Theater
When Aristophanes penned Lysistrata in 411 BC, he could hardly have imagined that his play would have spawned the many innovative modifications that have taken place over the centuries. The concept is irresistible: A group of women band together and withhold sex from their menfolk until the men have taken action to end a war. In this case, a group of college cheerleaders make a pact to forgo “giving it up” until their losing Athens University basketball team wins a game.
The catalyst for change comes in the form of a spunky blonde, Lysistrata Jones (Devon Hadsell). Pep talks don’t seem to work, so she hatches the scheme of denying the boys their pleasure to prompt increased commitment to winning. There are many rocks along this path, but, as expected, she triumphs.
A nod to Aristophanes comes in the form of Hetaira (Camryn Zelinger), a goddess who is injected into the mix in song and commentary, functioning as a one-person Greek chorus. The rest of the cheerleaders are played by Ashley Arlene Nelson, Klarissa Mesee, Danielle Rosario, and Chelsea Baldree. Their racially diverse counterparts are J. D. Driskill, Robert Wallace, Michael Dashefsky, Darian Archie, Ricky Wagner, and Jackson Tobiska, adding a greater dimension to the storyline and good humor to boot.
The ancient Greeks liked bawdy innuendo, and this play capitalizes on that with animated songs and bump-and-grind choreography by Kelly Todd. Performing on the larger stage of the new Chance Theater (the company moved a few doors down), the youthful cast takes advantage of the space with spirited enthusiasm and a few kick-ass moves. Ably backed by a four-man combo (music director Rod Bagheri, Garrett Hazen, James McHale, and Jorge Zuniga), standouts are “No More Givin’ It Up,” “Change the World,” and “Right Now: Operetta.” In particular, Hadsell and Zelinger are notable for their acting, as well as singing. Wallace also adds a nice comic touch in his characterization. The ensemble is uniformly accomplished.
Director Kari Hayter makes the most of Christopher Scott Murillo’s multilevel set design, making the action more dynamic. Douglas Carter Beane’s book and lyrics are comic, satiric, and just the right mix for Lewis Flinn’s contemporary music. Lighting by Matt Schleicher, sound by Ryan Brodkin, and costumes by Bradley Lock are also effective.
With the advent of shows like Rent, In the Heights, and Bring It On, theatrical musicals aren’t just revivals of old favorites these days. They speak to a new generation of playgoers and capture the essence of the present-day culture.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
February 16, 2014
February 16, 2014
The
Whipping Man
West Coast Jewish Theatre at Pico Playhouse
This Matthew Lopez play would have made a fascinating two-hander. But the playwright added a third character and ratcheted up the intrigue, conflict, and shaping, making it an even more fascinating play. Like a fine puppeteer, director Howard Teichman pulls strings to alter the balance among the characters, adding even more to the interplay.
The story is set in Richmond, Va., in April 1865, immediately after General Lee’s surrender. Into a battle-damaged home crawls a wounded, disheveled white man. A black man, protecting the home, charges into the room, rifle in hand. The two are former slave Simon and his owner’s son Caleb. Simon wears a yarmulke, the skullcap worn by men of the Jewish faith. Caleb has been fighting for the Confederacy. How’s that for a setup?
This was, and still is, a Jewish home, for all of its residents. It’s now Passover, the week in the faith to celebrate the freeing of the Jewish slaves in Egypt, thousands of years earlier, and the Israelites’ crossing back into the kingdom of Israel. How’s that for a theme?
Simon and Caleb get reacquainted—as much as possible, considering the excruciating pain Caleb is in. Simon insists Caleb’s infected leg must be sawed off, or else gangrene will kill Caleb. Fortunately, also returning home is John, a young former slave in the household. John is street smart, able to bring back endless supplies of whiskey and other essentials. But the three men don’t quite know who is in charge there these days. How’s that for conflict?
The men benefit from one another’s presence, they care about one another, they reveal secrets past and present. In Talmudic style, they debate whether it’s less kosher to steal food or eat a horse. Meanwhile, the whipping man remains a historic figure—the professional who “disciplined” the slaves—as well as a metaphor for man’s inhumanity to man. Caleb, who as a boy watched the whipping man, grew enlightened. John, who felt the whip, grew empowered.
The way Kirk Kelleykahn plays him, not even the horrors of slavery could douse the fire in John. The character is smart, self-protective, literate, and a dreamer. Kelleykahn also makes him the much-needed, adorably comic relief.
Shawn Savage plays Caleb, bedridden for most of the play, yet Savage keeps him interesting and vibrant, even as Caleb sleeps off the anesthetic supply of whiskey. Caleb is allowed a tender scene, and Savage excels here, when he reads aloud his letter to his beloved, though it’s never to be read by her.
Ricco Ross plays Simon. With no other responsible adults left on the premises, Simon takes the reins. Bringing out his home-cooked Passover dinner to feed the family, Ross’s Simon becomes a Jewish mother, proud of his cooking, intent on maintaining a warm but disciplined home for his figurative children, proving that a black man and a Jewish mother are differently hued blossoms on the same tree.
The play’s one unsuccessful moment comes at the beginning here, when Caleb crawls along the floor and remains there while Simon tends to him. A substantial number of audience members couldn’t see the action, craning and shifting in their seats to at least try. It’s a credit to the director and cast that, even at that early stage, we were so invested, we wanted to stay with the action.
Are better days to come? Next year in Jerusalem? History may tell us otherwise, but we always have hope.
West Coast Jewish Theatre at Pico Playhouse
This Matthew Lopez play would have made a fascinating two-hander. But the playwright added a third character and ratcheted up the intrigue, conflict, and shaping, making it an even more fascinating play. Like a fine puppeteer, director Howard Teichman pulls strings to alter the balance among the characters, adding even more to the interplay.
The story is set in Richmond, Va., in April 1865, immediately after General Lee’s surrender. Into a battle-damaged home crawls a wounded, disheveled white man. A black man, protecting the home, charges into the room, rifle in hand. The two are former slave Simon and his owner’s son Caleb. Simon wears a yarmulke, the skullcap worn by men of the Jewish faith. Caleb has been fighting for the Confederacy. How’s that for a setup?
This was, and still is, a Jewish home, for all of its residents. It’s now Passover, the week in the faith to celebrate the freeing of the Jewish slaves in Egypt, thousands of years earlier, and the Israelites’ crossing back into the kingdom of Israel. How’s that for a theme?
Simon and Caleb get reacquainted—as much as possible, considering the excruciating pain Caleb is in. Simon insists Caleb’s infected leg must be sawed off, or else gangrene will kill Caleb. Fortunately, also returning home is John, a young former slave in the household. John is street smart, able to bring back endless supplies of whiskey and other essentials. But the three men don’t quite know who is in charge there these days. How’s that for conflict?
The men benefit from one another’s presence, they care about one another, they reveal secrets past and present. In Talmudic style, they debate whether it’s less kosher to steal food or eat a horse. Meanwhile, the whipping man remains a historic figure—the professional who “disciplined” the slaves—as well as a metaphor for man’s inhumanity to man. Caleb, who as a boy watched the whipping man, grew enlightened. John, who felt the whip, grew empowered.
The way Kirk Kelleykahn plays him, not even the horrors of slavery could douse the fire in John. The character is smart, self-protective, literate, and a dreamer. Kelleykahn also makes him the much-needed, adorably comic relief.
Shawn Savage plays Caleb, bedridden for most of the play, yet Savage keeps him interesting and vibrant, even as Caleb sleeps off the anesthetic supply of whiskey. Caleb is allowed a tender scene, and Savage excels here, when he reads aloud his letter to his beloved, though it’s never to be read by her.
Ricco Ross plays Simon. With no other responsible adults left on the premises, Simon takes the reins. Bringing out his home-cooked Passover dinner to feed the family, Ross’s Simon becomes a Jewish mother, proud of his cooking, intent on maintaining a warm but disciplined home for his figurative children, proving that a black man and a Jewish mother are differently hued blossoms on the same tree.
The play’s one unsuccessful moment comes at the beginning here, when Caleb crawls along the floor and remains there while Simon tends to him. A substantial number of audience members couldn’t see the action, craning and shifting in their seats to at least try. It’s a credit to the director and cast that, even at that early stage, we were so invested, we wanted to stay with the action.
Are better days to come? Next year in Jerusalem? History may tell us otherwise, but we always have hope.
Reviewed by
Dany Margolies
February 15, 2014
February 15, 2014
Bill & Joan
Sacred Fools Theater
It followed a “perfectly ordinary day, filled with perfectly ordinary dread,” occurring at a drunken all-night party in Mexico City in 1951. Amid the mariachi music, limitless drugs, and free-flowing booze, William S. Burroughs did his heroin-fueled William Tell routine and fatally shot his common-law wife, Joan Vollmer, directly between the eyes. The incident changed Burroughs’s life and began his previously stalled career as one of the great counterculture writers of the last century.
In playwright Jon Bastian’s dense stage version of the incident, chronicling a dreamlike, partially fictionalized account of the death of Vollmer and its influence on the earthly afterlife of Burroughs’s latter-day, arresting, wordsmith-ery pieces of the writer’s tortured mind are personified by a gamely unstoppable band of some of LA’s best underground actors, playing ghosts of the lingering, loudly demanding demons that haunted the man.
As Burroughs (Curt Bonnem) is grilled by two wonky Mexican cops (Richard Azurdia and Alexander Matute), he relives his life with Vollmer (Betsy Moore) as the others circle him endlessly, each and every seemingly simple movement expertly choreographed by director Diana Wyenn. There’s Lauren Campedelli as the sultry Billie Holiday-esque temptress Burroughs might like to have been, Matt Valle as the randy homosexual he aspired to emulate, Donelle Fuller as the embodiment of his trusty ever-present smack-filled syringe, Will McMichael as the dumb Joe Buck of a cowboy one would expect the writer might have liked to absorb and master, and Bart Tangredi as a private detective–type right out of a Sam Spade novel.
But the relationship examined here through all these side trips is the one between Burroughs and Vollmer, he a junkie and she a speedfreak, both from overly privileged families from whom they worked desperately to distance themselves. “It’s like all the lights go away in there,” Joan whines to her stupefied lover. “That’s the general idea,” he croaks in return. “I need you to behave as normally as possible,” she admonishes him before the fatal party. “Which neither of us knows how to do,” he counters.
The production is exquisitely mounted, with an uncredited but versatile set design, moody lighting by Matt Richter and Christina Robinson, and knockout costuming by Lauren Oppelt. Wyenn’s hand is everywhere, paying obvious homage to Bastian’s masterwork—which of course, in turn, pays obvious homage to the work of Burroughs. How many of the quotable lines are directly from the author and how many from the playwright would take a more dedicated Burroughs scholar than yours truly. Either way, the play is crafty, fascinating in its boldness and ability to evoke the musty, gritty pages of a Burroughs novel.
“If language is a virus,” Burroughs surmises here, “maybe metaphors are the vaccine.” Burroughs spent a lifetime looking for that cure—and Bastian has spent years working and reworking this play in a mirror of that brilliantly twisted literary cry for any small morsel in understanding his fucked-up world. Thanks to Wyenn and her exemplary cast and design team, the result is well-worth that effort.
Sacred Fools Theater
It followed a “perfectly ordinary day, filled with perfectly ordinary dread,” occurring at a drunken all-night party in Mexico City in 1951. Amid the mariachi music, limitless drugs, and free-flowing booze, William S. Burroughs did his heroin-fueled William Tell routine and fatally shot his common-law wife, Joan Vollmer, directly between the eyes. The incident changed Burroughs’s life and began his previously stalled career as one of the great counterculture writers of the last century.
In playwright Jon Bastian’s dense stage version of the incident, chronicling a dreamlike, partially fictionalized account of the death of Vollmer and its influence on the earthly afterlife of Burroughs’s latter-day, arresting, wordsmith-ery pieces of the writer’s tortured mind are personified by a gamely unstoppable band of some of LA’s best underground actors, playing ghosts of the lingering, loudly demanding demons that haunted the man.
As Burroughs (Curt Bonnem) is grilled by two wonky Mexican cops (Richard Azurdia and Alexander Matute), he relives his life with Vollmer (Betsy Moore) as the others circle him endlessly, each and every seemingly simple movement expertly choreographed by director Diana Wyenn. There’s Lauren Campedelli as the sultry Billie Holiday-esque temptress Burroughs might like to have been, Matt Valle as the randy homosexual he aspired to emulate, Donelle Fuller as the embodiment of his trusty ever-present smack-filled syringe, Will McMichael as the dumb Joe Buck of a cowboy one would expect the writer might have liked to absorb and master, and Bart Tangredi as a private detective–type right out of a Sam Spade novel.
But the relationship examined here through all these side trips is the one between Burroughs and Vollmer, he a junkie and she a speedfreak, both from overly privileged families from whom they worked desperately to distance themselves. “It’s like all the lights go away in there,” Joan whines to her stupefied lover. “That’s the general idea,” he croaks in return. “I need you to behave as normally as possible,” she admonishes him before the fatal party. “Which neither of us knows how to do,” he counters.
The production is exquisitely mounted, with an uncredited but versatile set design, moody lighting by Matt Richter and Christina Robinson, and knockout costuming by Lauren Oppelt. Wyenn’s hand is everywhere, paying obvious homage to Bastian’s masterwork—which of course, in turn, pays obvious homage to the work of Burroughs. How many of the quotable lines are directly from the author and how many from the playwright would take a more dedicated Burroughs scholar than yours truly. Either way, the play is crafty, fascinating in its boldness and ability to evoke the musty, gritty pages of a Burroughs novel.
“If language is a virus,” Burroughs surmises here, “maybe metaphors are the vaccine.” Burroughs spent a lifetime looking for that cure—and Bastian has spent years working and reworking this play in a mirror of that brilliantly twisted literary cry for any small morsel in understanding his fucked-up world. Thanks to Wyenn and her exemplary cast and design team, the result is well-worth that effort.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
February 15, 2014
February 15, 2014
Above the Fold
Pasadena Playhouse
For a frustrated New York Times–y lifestyles reporter named Jane (Taraji P. Henson), a huge and controversial story falling into her lap could be life-changing as she desperately tries to rid herself of critiquing Manhattan restaurants and be assigned a plum reporting job stationed in Afghanistan. But as her editor (Arye Gross) comments on the tenuous future for any newspaper correspondent struggling to keep afloat in these days of the Internet, “We’re all standing on the deck of the Titanic.” The Sunday book section of their paper is being merged onto the movie pages, and the theater critic, who has been with the publication for 30 years, has been unceremoniously canned.
Getting ahead as a journalist is all but impossible in these changing times, but, for Jane, who stumbles upon a hot lead when she has been sent to the South to interview a smalltime politician running for the Senate, there may just be hope—as long as she squashes her ideals and goes directly for the glaringly obvious sensationalism.
Playwright and former Times reporter Bernard Weinraub’s indictment of the state of journalism is based on the real-life 2006 case that made Nancy Grace and her fellow flesh-picking, sensation-mongering, terminally Botoxed vultures drool with excitement, when a group of privileged white Duke University lacrosse team members were accused of beating and gang-raping a black stripper called to their frat house to do a little dance at a beer-bong party. “What a story!” Marvin marvels. “Race, sex, violence!” Yup, everything Jane needs to get a career-boosting byline above the fold—until she begins to question who is telling the truth and who is not.
The biggest problem with Weinraub’s tale is that you’d have to be living under a rock not to know how the story ends, but thanks to heartfelt performances by a stellar cast and crisp, wonderfully spare direction by Steven Robman, the journey is still revelatory. Henson is suitably torn as our heroine, Gross is suitably smarmy as her editor, and Kristopher Higgins, Joe Massingill, and Seamus Mulcahy are right on the mark as the three frightened kids accused of the heinous crime.
Still, it is Kristy Johnson as Monique, the bipolar sociopath who turns her pimp’s beating into her ill-gotten 15 minutes of fame, and Mark Hildreth as Lorne, the aw-shucks, cornfed contender whose ruthless ambition to become a Senator is at first camouflaged by the metaphorical well-chewed hayseed in his mouth, who turn in the most-memorable performances. Both are arresting in their subtlety and slickly successful in all the things each of them risks to show us who these coldblooded and greedy people are.
With three skeletal tables and three simple chairs as the only set pieces utilized to create space and time, Jeffrey P. Eisenmann’s set design and Jason H. Thompson’s provocative projections add to the clever high-tech austerity of the production, which smartly rises above what could be a very predicable journey.
Above the Fold is like a eulogy for the demise of print journalism—and the final scene in the women’s restroom at a Manhattan nightclub, in which we learn what might have become of the two female characters accidentally joined in the twisted mess of a headline-making story, is enough to make your blood chill.
Pasadena Playhouse
For a frustrated New York Times–y lifestyles reporter named Jane (Taraji P. Henson), a huge and controversial story falling into her lap could be life-changing as she desperately tries to rid herself of critiquing Manhattan restaurants and be assigned a plum reporting job stationed in Afghanistan. But as her editor (Arye Gross) comments on the tenuous future for any newspaper correspondent struggling to keep afloat in these days of the Internet, “We’re all standing on the deck of the Titanic.” The Sunday book section of their paper is being merged onto the movie pages, and the theater critic, who has been with the publication for 30 years, has been unceremoniously canned.
Getting ahead as a journalist is all but impossible in these changing times, but, for Jane, who stumbles upon a hot lead when she has been sent to the South to interview a smalltime politician running for the Senate, there may just be hope—as long as she squashes her ideals and goes directly for the glaringly obvious sensationalism.
Playwright and former Times reporter Bernard Weinraub’s indictment of the state of journalism is based on the real-life 2006 case that made Nancy Grace and her fellow flesh-picking, sensation-mongering, terminally Botoxed vultures drool with excitement, when a group of privileged white Duke University lacrosse team members were accused of beating and gang-raping a black stripper called to their frat house to do a little dance at a beer-bong party. “What a story!” Marvin marvels. “Race, sex, violence!” Yup, everything Jane needs to get a career-boosting byline above the fold—until she begins to question who is telling the truth and who is not.
The biggest problem with Weinraub’s tale is that you’d have to be living under a rock not to know how the story ends, but thanks to heartfelt performances by a stellar cast and crisp, wonderfully spare direction by Steven Robman, the journey is still revelatory. Henson is suitably torn as our heroine, Gross is suitably smarmy as her editor, and Kristopher Higgins, Joe Massingill, and Seamus Mulcahy are right on the mark as the three frightened kids accused of the heinous crime.
Still, it is Kristy Johnson as Monique, the bipolar sociopath who turns her pimp’s beating into her ill-gotten 15 minutes of fame, and Mark Hildreth as Lorne, the aw-shucks, cornfed contender whose ruthless ambition to become a Senator is at first camouflaged by the metaphorical well-chewed hayseed in his mouth, who turn in the most-memorable performances. Both are arresting in their subtlety and slickly successful in all the things each of them risks to show us who these coldblooded and greedy people are.
With three skeletal tables and three simple chairs as the only set pieces utilized to create space and time, Jeffrey P. Eisenmann’s set design and Jason H. Thompson’s provocative projections add to the clever high-tech austerity of the production, which smartly rises above what could be a very predicable journey.
Above the Fold is like a eulogy for the demise of print journalism—and the final scene in the women’s restroom at a Manhattan nightclub, in which we learn what might have become of the two female characters accidentally joined in the twisted mess of a headline-making story, is enough to make your blood chill.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
February 15, 2014
February 15, 2014
Passion Play
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Evidence Room
Doesn’t it gently smack of hubris when people play Christ and the Virgin Mary, whether onstage in the safety of a theater, or in communally staged Passion plays, or in the re-enactments the fervently religious attempt? Because, as Sarah Ruhl repeatedly shows in her Passion Play, most of us are deeply flawed. The man who enacts the Son of God may be a weak-minded innocent, or he may be in love with his brother’s wife. The woman who plays Mary may have an opportunistically wandering eye. Does this say more about human nature or the nature of theater?
Passion Play is structurally simple: Each act follows a theater troupe putting on a Passion play to re-enact an event in the life of Christ or related biblical stories. The first act of Ruhl’s play takes place in Elizabethan England, the second in Nazi Germany, and the third in small-town South Dakota in the latter half of the 20th century. The actors play nearly the same roles in each act, making this production as a whole feel like a theater troupe’s brave struggle over the years to keep theater alive in nontheater towns.
But Passion Play is thematically complex. It touches on the differences between faith and religion, leadership and politics, family and ardor. It makes the audience think about humankind’s relationship with God, our concept of miracles, the effects of war, the results of collective guilt, and more. The play demands that its audience be open-minded, as well as able to focus for nearly three hours (including intermission) without need to snack or check texts. But as the play seems to say, good luck finding someone to cast that first stone.
Bart DeLorenzo directs. Immediately apparent is his stylish staging. Between him and Ruhl, no confusion arises over time and place. The costumes (Raquel Barreto) and speech patterns grow less formal with each act. Less apparent, and good for DeLorenzo in this case for not spoon-feeding his audience, is the reaction he wants. Clearly the play has comedic elements, but he doesn’t suck laughter out of us and then jerk us into the drama. Clearly the play is allegorical, but he gives us characters very much like us.
Adding a layer to the theater-troupe element, he has cast actors he has relied upon in other of his productions over the years. Daniel Bess (Margo Veil) plays the actors playing Jesus in the three eras, Christian Leffler (Ivanov) plays the actors playing Pontius Pilate. The “actors” playing Jesus and Pilate are cousins in Elizabethan times, closeted homosexuals in Germany, and brothers in South Dakota, with deep subtext in each case. Bess’s characters seem the lucky ones; Leffler’s were born to do all the dirty jobs, gutting fish and getting sent into battle.
Among DeLorenzo’s female muses, Dorie Barton (Messalina) plays the actors playing the Virgin Mary whose “real life” personages seem to grow in awareness over the eras. Brittany Slattery (Attempts on Her Life) plays the “village idiot,” who not surprisingly may have the purest soul and keenest insights into life, present and future. Shannon Holt (Ruhl’s Dead Man’s Cell Phone) plays Queen Elizabeth I, Adolf Hitler, and Ronald Reagan, and does so with rich comedy that’s drenched in sadness for the effects her characters had on history.
Bill Brochtrup plays the outsiders who try to comfort/document/analyze the townsfolk. Amanda Troop plays the second-fiddles to the popular girls.
Of note are Michael Gend’s probably dozens of lighting cues, the evocative original music and sound design by John Ballinger, and Barreto’s costumes that include stunners for Elizabeth and Reagan, whimsy for the community productions.
With a script this dense and complex, it would be a miracle if everything were obvious and all questions answered. During intermission, the cast hands out “small red fish candies” on platters. Does DeLorenzo intend it to feel like communion? What’s making the sky turn red in each act: miracles or bombs or the blood of enemies of the state? Indeed, is it turning red, or are the townsfolk experiencing hysteria? What’s with the actor who stutters, whose director tries to terrify him into stopping the stutter, and yet who lives in eras when free speech is a fantasy?
What are we to make of “miracles” in more-modern times, when changing technology allowed Reagan to call a baseball game he wasn’t at? And does his ability to do so hearken to men who wrote about the birth and life of a man they never knew, yet they called their writing “gospel truth.”
Whatever the case, it’s lovely to be able to sit at a play and be absorbed and think for nearly three hours, then to continue thinking well into the following week.
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble and Evidence Room
Doesn’t it gently smack of hubris when people play Christ and the Virgin Mary, whether onstage in the safety of a theater, or in communally staged Passion plays, or in the re-enactments the fervently religious attempt? Because, as Sarah Ruhl repeatedly shows in her Passion Play, most of us are deeply flawed. The man who enacts the Son of God may be a weak-minded innocent, or he may be in love with his brother’s wife. The woman who plays Mary may have an opportunistically wandering eye. Does this say more about human nature or the nature of theater?
Passion Play is structurally simple: Each act follows a theater troupe putting on a Passion play to re-enact an event in the life of Christ or related biblical stories. The first act of Ruhl’s play takes place in Elizabethan England, the second in Nazi Germany, and the third in small-town South Dakota in the latter half of the 20th century. The actors play nearly the same roles in each act, making this production as a whole feel like a theater troupe’s brave struggle over the years to keep theater alive in nontheater towns.
But Passion Play is thematically complex. It touches on the differences between faith and religion, leadership and politics, family and ardor. It makes the audience think about humankind’s relationship with God, our concept of miracles, the effects of war, the results of collective guilt, and more. The play demands that its audience be open-minded, as well as able to focus for nearly three hours (including intermission) without need to snack or check texts. But as the play seems to say, good luck finding someone to cast that first stone.
Bart DeLorenzo directs. Immediately apparent is his stylish staging. Between him and Ruhl, no confusion arises over time and place. The costumes (Raquel Barreto) and speech patterns grow less formal with each act. Less apparent, and good for DeLorenzo in this case for not spoon-feeding his audience, is the reaction he wants. Clearly the play has comedic elements, but he doesn’t suck laughter out of us and then jerk us into the drama. Clearly the play is allegorical, but he gives us characters very much like us.
Adding a layer to the theater-troupe element, he has cast actors he has relied upon in other of his productions over the years. Daniel Bess (Margo Veil) plays the actors playing Jesus in the three eras, Christian Leffler (Ivanov) plays the actors playing Pontius Pilate. The “actors” playing Jesus and Pilate are cousins in Elizabethan times, closeted homosexuals in Germany, and brothers in South Dakota, with deep subtext in each case. Bess’s characters seem the lucky ones; Leffler’s were born to do all the dirty jobs, gutting fish and getting sent into battle.
Among DeLorenzo’s female muses, Dorie Barton (Messalina) plays the actors playing the Virgin Mary whose “real life” personages seem to grow in awareness over the eras. Brittany Slattery (Attempts on Her Life) plays the “village idiot,” who not surprisingly may have the purest soul and keenest insights into life, present and future. Shannon Holt (Ruhl’s Dead Man’s Cell Phone) plays Queen Elizabeth I, Adolf Hitler, and Ronald Reagan, and does so with rich comedy that’s drenched in sadness for the effects her characters had on history.
Bill Brochtrup plays the outsiders who try to comfort/document/analyze the townsfolk. Amanda Troop plays the second-fiddles to the popular girls.
Of note are Michael Gend’s probably dozens of lighting cues, the evocative original music and sound design by John Ballinger, and Barreto’s costumes that include stunners for Elizabeth and Reagan, whimsy for the community productions.
With a script this dense and complex, it would be a miracle if everything were obvious and all questions answered. During intermission, the cast hands out “small red fish candies” on platters. Does DeLorenzo intend it to feel like communion? What’s making the sky turn red in each act: miracles or bombs or the blood of enemies of the state? Indeed, is it turning red, or are the townsfolk experiencing hysteria? What’s with the actor who stutters, whose director tries to terrify him into stopping the stutter, and yet who lives in eras when free speech is a fantasy?
What are we to make of “miracles” in more-modern times, when changing technology allowed Reagan to call a baseball game he wasn’t at? And does his ability to do so hearken to men who wrote about the birth and life of a man they never knew, yet they called their writing “gospel truth.”
Whatever the case, it’s lovely to be able to sit at a play and be absorbed and think for nearly three hours, then to continue thinking well into the following week.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
February 13, 2014
February 13, 2014
Firemen
The Echo Theater Company at Atwater Village Theatre
The Echo Theater Company has gone to some lengths to sidestep, in its pre-opening publicity, the subject matter of Tommy Smith’s remarkable new play titled Firemen. The world premiere drama is described as “a different kind of love story” that “explores an unthinkable love relationship,” though what proves unthinkable is discussing the work without giving away what’s at its heart: namely, the extended sexual intimacy between a 14-year-old middle schooler and his school’s main-office secretary.
Which is not to say this play is “about” a teenager’s affair with an adult any more than Othello is “about” a lost handkerchief. The dicey sexuality—and as staged by Chris Fields with delicacy that nonetheless pulls no punches, it certainly does discomfit—is simply the inciting incident, the spark that sets off a dense investigation of complex human desire. Psychological, emotional, and physical needs come in many forms on the Atwater Village stage, and Smith presents them all nakedly, with nonjudgmental empathy.
No actual fires are set in the course of Firemen, but each of its five characters is, in a manner of speaking, standing at a window in desperate hope of somebody’s holding a safety net below.
The distress of moody Ben (Ian Bamberg), in the throes of raging puberty, is the most familiar, though his way of expressing it—leaving around explicit love notes directed at the principal’s assistant Susan (Rebecca Gray)—is extreme even by the standards of normal coming-of-age narratives. (The absence of any conversation with the lady about those notes is one of the weaknesses in Smith’s plotting.) It’s easy to see why the lad might be drawn to 40-ish Susan, who’s so warm and friendly and knows all the pupils by name. Yet, as Gray plays her, she’s clearly on the edge of dark foreboding. During her self-description as a loner who cut herself in her own school days, you get the feeling those razor blades are still probably close at hand.
Susan’s brainy, sensitive, fatherless 12-year-old (Zach Collison) clearly has issues of his own, while, over at Ben’s house, single mom Annie (Amanda Saunders) can barely keep herself together, let alone minister to a distant troubled child. It’s all she can do to avoid getting fired from volunteer work for an antiwar campaign. (The play is set in the early 1990s at the height of the first Gulf conflict.) Smith’s single voice of reason is sane, practical-minded substitute teacher Gary (Michael McColl), yet even he lives a lonely, bitter solo existence with little ambition to break out of his shell.
How Smith sets all this psychic energy in motion, causing these tortured souls to clash so brutally, is something by no means to be revealed here. What must be emphasized is that as raw and uncomfortable as the action becomes, it is never exploitative or careless; even better, it rarely goes exactly where you expect it to go, except ever more deeply into the hearts and minds of its five flawed, complicated people.
The acting is exemplary, as finely tuned an ensemble as you’d hope to see. The boys are understandably “cast up,” noticeably older than they’re written, though their reactions and behavior are right on the money. And the three adults keep you on the edge of your seat, wondering how far they’ll go in the name of easing their pain.
The Echo Theater Company at Atwater Village Theatre
The Echo Theater Company has gone to some lengths to sidestep, in its pre-opening publicity, the subject matter of Tommy Smith’s remarkable new play titled Firemen. The world premiere drama is described as “a different kind of love story” that “explores an unthinkable love relationship,” though what proves unthinkable is discussing the work without giving away what’s at its heart: namely, the extended sexual intimacy between a 14-year-old middle schooler and his school’s main-office secretary.
Which is not to say this play is “about” a teenager’s affair with an adult any more than Othello is “about” a lost handkerchief. The dicey sexuality—and as staged by Chris Fields with delicacy that nonetheless pulls no punches, it certainly does discomfit—is simply the inciting incident, the spark that sets off a dense investigation of complex human desire. Psychological, emotional, and physical needs come in many forms on the Atwater Village stage, and Smith presents them all nakedly, with nonjudgmental empathy.
No actual fires are set in the course of Firemen, but each of its five characters is, in a manner of speaking, standing at a window in desperate hope of somebody’s holding a safety net below.
The distress of moody Ben (Ian Bamberg), in the throes of raging puberty, is the most familiar, though his way of expressing it—leaving around explicit love notes directed at the principal’s assistant Susan (Rebecca Gray)—is extreme even by the standards of normal coming-of-age narratives. (The absence of any conversation with the lady about those notes is one of the weaknesses in Smith’s plotting.) It’s easy to see why the lad might be drawn to 40-ish Susan, who’s so warm and friendly and knows all the pupils by name. Yet, as Gray plays her, she’s clearly on the edge of dark foreboding. During her self-description as a loner who cut herself in her own school days, you get the feeling those razor blades are still probably close at hand.
Susan’s brainy, sensitive, fatherless 12-year-old (Zach Collison) clearly has issues of his own, while, over at Ben’s house, single mom Annie (Amanda Saunders) can barely keep herself together, let alone minister to a distant troubled child. It’s all she can do to avoid getting fired from volunteer work for an antiwar campaign. (The play is set in the early 1990s at the height of the first Gulf conflict.) Smith’s single voice of reason is sane, practical-minded substitute teacher Gary (Michael McColl), yet even he lives a lonely, bitter solo existence with little ambition to break out of his shell.
How Smith sets all this psychic energy in motion, causing these tortured souls to clash so brutally, is something by no means to be revealed here. What must be emphasized is that as raw and uncomfortable as the action becomes, it is never exploitative or careless; even better, it rarely goes exactly where you expect it to go, except ever more deeply into the hearts and minds of its five flawed, complicated people.
The acting is exemplary, as finely tuned an ensemble as you’d hope to see. The boys are understandably “cast up,” noticeably older than they’re written, though their reactions and behavior are right on the money. And the three adults keep you on the edge of your seat, wondering how far they’ll go in the name of easing their pain.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
February 12, 2014
February 12, 2014
Nocturne
Gregory Mayo and Irma Productions at The Other Space @ The Actors Company
Adam Rapp’s haunting solo-drama startles with its very first line: “Fifteen years ago I killed my sister.” Then the narrator, who is identified only as The Son (Belgian actor George Regout), goes on to reveal the circumstances of the death. When he was 19, he was driving home on a dark night and suddenly saw the figure of his little sister looming up before him. He tried frantically to stop, but his brake-line was broken. The car hit his sister and decapitated her. The incident was ruled involuntary manslaughter, but the effects on The Son and his family are shattering. His father, blaming him, goes into a murderous rage and threatens to shoot him, until the mother intervenes. She then sinks into an impenetrable depression and retreats into a sanitarium.
The Son abandons the career as a concert pianist that his parents had planned for him—and the grand piano they had bought for him. He takes off for New York City, where he takes a job as a sales clerk in a bookstore on the Lower East Side and loses himself in reading. (There is a virtual aria about the books he bought and read.) Eventually he meets a girl who interests him, but he has sexual performance problems and the relationship fades away. He writes a novel titled Nocturne, which is published, though sales are disappointing. It’s only years later, after a touchingly inarticulate reconciliation with his estranged father, that he begins to find a glimmer of hope.
Rapp’s play is devoid of plot, in the usual sense of the word, and remains in essence a meditation on the devastation a single hideous event can have on the lives of all concerned. It’s skillfully written, and Rapp’s language is compelling. Justin Ross’s direction is delicately nuanced, but his production seems designed to distance the play emotionally. The simple set consists entirely a bare stage occupied only by a large and groaning bookshelf, a table containing published copies of the play—or is it a copy of The Son’s novel?—a couple of chairs, and three abstract architectural forms that are lit in ever-changing colors to reflect the play’s shifting moods. Regout periodically reads from the published volume.
Fortunately Regout possesses enough authority and emotional resources to keep us interested and involved in the relentlessly low-keyed, downbeat tale. His performance is elegant, restrained, and rich.
Gregory Mayo and Irma Productions at The Other Space @ The Actors Company
Adam Rapp’s haunting solo-drama startles with its very first line: “Fifteen years ago I killed my sister.” Then the narrator, who is identified only as The Son (Belgian actor George Regout), goes on to reveal the circumstances of the death. When he was 19, he was driving home on a dark night and suddenly saw the figure of his little sister looming up before him. He tried frantically to stop, but his brake-line was broken. The car hit his sister and decapitated her. The incident was ruled involuntary manslaughter, but the effects on The Son and his family are shattering. His father, blaming him, goes into a murderous rage and threatens to shoot him, until the mother intervenes. She then sinks into an impenetrable depression and retreats into a sanitarium.
The Son abandons the career as a concert pianist that his parents had planned for him—and the grand piano they had bought for him. He takes off for New York City, where he takes a job as a sales clerk in a bookstore on the Lower East Side and loses himself in reading. (There is a virtual aria about the books he bought and read.) Eventually he meets a girl who interests him, but he has sexual performance problems and the relationship fades away. He writes a novel titled Nocturne, which is published, though sales are disappointing. It’s only years later, after a touchingly inarticulate reconciliation with his estranged father, that he begins to find a glimmer of hope.
Rapp’s play is devoid of plot, in the usual sense of the word, and remains in essence a meditation on the devastation a single hideous event can have on the lives of all concerned. It’s skillfully written, and Rapp’s language is compelling. Justin Ross’s direction is delicately nuanced, but his production seems designed to distance the play emotionally. The simple set consists entirely a bare stage occupied only by a large and groaning bookshelf, a table containing published copies of the play—or is it a copy of The Son’s novel?—a couple of chairs, and three abstract architectural forms that are lit in ever-changing colors to reflect the play’s shifting moods. Regout periodically reads from the published volume.
Fortunately Regout possesses enough authority and emotional resources to keep us interested and involved in the relentlessly low-keyed, downbeat tale. His performance is elegant, restrained, and rich.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
February 11, 2014
February 11, 2014
The Different Shades of Hugh
The Road on Magnolia
The world premiere of this Clete Keith play was a proper step for the venerated Road Theatre Company at its new second playing space with a piece that originally surfaced as part of the company’s Summer Playwrights Festival two years ago. It’s well in keeping with the Road’s mission to develop provocative new works for the stage and easy to see why that first look at Keith’s play inspired this well-appointed production. That said, like so many of life’s best-laid-plan moments, the exceptional talents conspiring to make this happen are obvious, and the Road’s loyalty and ambition are admirable, but the result is not entirely successful.
Hugh (Coronado Romero) is a troubled wannabe artist living across the street from a prospering art gallery in a shabby downtown loft. His torturous struggle to create has crushed his soul and, from what we can tell right off the bat, destroyed his romantic relationship with his ex-fiancée Diane (Whitney Dylan). There’s clearly something more than initially meets the eye about Hugh, who carefully places the contents of his refrigerator full of water bottles at specified areas across his floor when he is alone, hitting them with a red laser beam in some ritual that takes awhile to understand.
Diane still cares enough to stay around to help Hugh through his days and nights, but that motherly attention gets turned on end when he spends the night with Maris (Ellie Jameson), the assistant to the owner of the neighboring gallery. Along the way, Hugh’s artwork suddenly evolves from what everyone refers to as uninspired to newer brilliant stuff—although the paintings created for this production are equally uninspired both before and after the artist’s transformation, making it unintentionally funny at times when characters praise his latter-day genius.
The direction by Sam Anderson is sturdy and surprisingly kinetic in such a claustrophobic situation as Hugh’s life, and Anderson is ably aided by a knockout production team, particularly Adam Flemming’s lofty loft design and his projections. Romero effectively walks a tightrope between not enough and too much, any untrue moments not in his performance but in how stereotypically the character is written. Dylan also does her best with an ex right out of a daytime soap opera, while Stephan Smith Collins, as the odious gallery owner, does everything but twirl his moustache as the play’s upscale resident villain.
Playing two infamous phantoms conjured as Hugh’s mind begins to wander when he abandons his psychotropic meds for artistic freedom, Tom Musgrave and Zachary Mooren also slip quickly into caricature, playing the ghosts of Paul Gaugin and Vincent van Gogh more like visitors from a Keystone Cop short featuring Stan and Ollie. This is especially true of Musgrave, whose exaggerated physicality and over-projection seems as though he were teleported directly from a mounting of A Midsummer Night’s Dream’s play-within-a-play performing in some gigantic outdoor summer venue. Only Jameson manages to stealthily avoid the writing’s inherent pitfalls, contributing a lovely, lyrical, understated performance that makes one wish everyone else involved would work toward adopting her restraint.
It’s not hard to see the promise of The Different Shades of Hugh, especially considering Keith’s knack for creating fresh and urbanely witty dialogue but, at this stage of development, his work is dragged down by the predictability of the storyline and his need to hit us over the head with its themes when a gentle nudge would be sufficient. And again, the problems here are with the text—not the talents of Anderson, his cast, the designers, nor in the company’s wonderful new playing space. All involved deserve better material to explore and a chance not to work so hard trying to bring their art to life.
The Road on Magnolia
The world premiere of this Clete Keith play was a proper step for the venerated Road Theatre Company at its new second playing space with a piece that originally surfaced as part of the company’s Summer Playwrights Festival two years ago. It’s well in keeping with the Road’s mission to develop provocative new works for the stage and easy to see why that first look at Keith’s play inspired this well-appointed production. That said, like so many of life’s best-laid-plan moments, the exceptional talents conspiring to make this happen are obvious, and the Road’s loyalty and ambition are admirable, but the result is not entirely successful.
Hugh (Coronado Romero) is a troubled wannabe artist living across the street from a prospering art gallery in a shabby downtown loft. His torturous struggle to create has crushed his soul and, from what we can tell right off the bat, destroyed his romantic relationship with his ex-fiancée Diane (Whitney Dylan). There’s clearly something more than initially meets the eye about Hugh, who carefully places the contents of his refrigerator full of water bottles at specified areas across his floor when he is alone, hitting them with a red laser beam in some ritual that takes awhile to understand.
Diane still cares enough to stay around to help Hugh through his days and nights, but that motherly attention gets turned on end when he spends the night with Maris (Ellie Jameson), the assistant to the owner of the neighboring gallery. Along the way, Hugh’s artwork suddenly evolves from what everyone refers to as uninspired to newer brilliant stuff—although the paintings created for this production are equally uninspired both before and after the artist’s transformation, making it unintentionally funny at times when characters praise his latter-day genius.
The direction by Sam Anderson is sturdy and surprisingly kinetic in such a claustrophobic situation as Hugh’s life, and Anderson is ably aided by a knockout production team, particularly Adam Flemming’s lofty loft design and his projections. Romero effectively walks a tightrope between not enough and too much, any untrue moments not in his performance but in how stereotypically the character is written. Dylan also does her best with an ex right out of a daytime soap opera, while Stephan Smith Collins, as the odious gallery owner, does everything but twirl his moustache as the play’s upscale resident villain.
Playing two infamous phantoms conjured as Hugh’s mind begins to wander when he abandons his psychotropic meds for artistic freedom, Tom Musgrave and Zachary Mooren also slip quickly into caricature, playing the ghosts of Paul Gaugin and Vincent van Gogh more like visitors from a Keystone Cop short featuring Stan and Ollie. This is especially true of Musgrave, whose exaggerated physicality and over-projection seems as though he were teleported directly from a mounting of A Midsummer Night’s Dream’s play-within-a-play performing in some gigantic outdoor summer venue. Only Jameson manages to stealthily avoid the writing’s inherent pitfalls, contributing a lovely, lyrical, understated performance that makes one wish everyone else involved would work toward adopting her restraint.
It’s not hard to see the promise of The Different Shades of Hugh, especially considering Keith’s knack for creating fresh and urbanely witty dialogue but, at this stage of development, his work is dragged down by the predictability of the storyline and his need to hit us over the head with its themes when a gentle nudge would be sufficient. And again, the problems here are with the text—not the talents of Anderson, his cast, the designers, nor in the company’s wonderful new playing space. All involved deserve better material to explore and a chance not to work so hard trying to bring their art to life.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
February 10, 2014
February 10, 2014
Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike
Mark Taper Forum
So you’re a distinguished playwright in your early 60s: a very Chekhovian age; an age when the mind drifts toward dreams once grasped, then compromised, then lost, and fixates on memories of simpler, happier times. You look around your Bucks County farmhouse and think, “Gosh, this looks a lot like one of those summer homes to which Chekhov’s characters retire to brood and despair and make one last lunge toward life.” There are even a few cherry trees—why, almost an orchard!—out back. And you say to yourself, “What if some modern Chekhovian characters lived here? What if a brother and adopted sister—named Vanya and Sonia by academically minded parents—had spent their whole lives on that estate without ever ‘going to Moscow,’ so to speak, without doing much of anything, absent true emotional contacts with the outside world? And what if a third sister named Masha had broken free to become an internationally famous movie star, yet, on a rare visit home, she too reveals aches for what she never had?” How’s that for an idea?
Good as far as it goes, most might say. But when the playwright in question is world-class satirist Christopher Durang, you have to figure he’d push it further to find weird but oddly apt intersections between Chekhov’s universe and our own. You can hear those intersections in the very title of what ended up his as most successful play to date, Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike: the three Russian names followed by the comical clunk of the contemporary. (The lad turns out to be Masha’s much younger boy-toy, an aspiring actor with a penchant for disrobing for appreciative audiences.) You can hear it, too, in the opening dialogue, right out of a Chekhov play until the punch line hits with a modern badump-bump:
The opening-night LA audience roared at all of the verbal and visual intrusions of modern life on the carefully created mood of regret and loss, especially all the mordant quips at the industry’s expense. No surprise there. What astonished many—and will surely continue to do so in what bodes to be the Taper’s biggest sellout hit in years, and deservedly so—was the palpable emotionality of the piece, running parallel to all the Durangian wackiness. Somehow, the convergence of Durang’s personal concerns, Chekhov’s perennial themes, and beautiful playing and direction have created a little marvel of stagecraft that empathizes with and pokes fun at its characters and, by extension, the rest of us.
The production is something of a hybrid, in essence duplicating Nicholas Martin’s Lincoln Center and Broadway original but under the direction of the first Vanya, David Hyde Pierce, who gives over his role to Mark Blum as part of a mix of new and holdover performers. Three of the latter are marvelous, starting with Christine Ebersole’s placing her expert comic timing in service of Masha’s all-too-aware self-absorption. She carries herself with red carpet sangfroid, but a throaty screech and cackle are always at the ready to remind us how desperate our Masha truly is. David Hull’s easy narcissism makes the most of Spike, and Liesel Allen Yeager glows as the young nymph from across the pond (she’s named Nina, natch), who sets off sparks in jealous Masha, humpy Spike, and the dear old duck Vanya she dubs “Uncle” (natch).
Two of the performances need fine-tuning. A holdover in Durang’s nuttiest conceit of cleaning woman Cassandra who, like her namesake, traffics in prophesy, Shalita Grant is physically engaging, and we welcome every appearance. However, her Butterfly McQueen voice and the Taper’s acoustics conspire to turn much of her dialogue into frustrating mush.
And while Blum uncannily (and likably) channels Pierce in look, manner, and line readings, there’s an inner fire within the character that Blum has yet to stoke. As yet he lacks the unbridled, if repressed, lust for Spike that incites Vanya to start peeping up from his virtual coma. And while the actor ably delivers Vanya’s rant—a hilarious eight-minute indictment of the modern world’s lack of community and addiction to technology, as seen through the prism of a child of the 1950s—it doesn’t seem to emerge from a frustration that should be building up from the first scene. The speech achieves rage eventually, but it’s not born of rage; not yet.
But the best work of all comes from the original production’s shiningest light: Kristine Nielsen as ignored, put-upon, self-pitying, gloriously alive-under-a-bushel Sonia. To be sure the actor has a competitive advantage among all these power players, in that she’s a veteran of dozens of Durang roles, many of which were written for her specifically. She knows in her gut, in her DNA, how to navigate the high wire this playwright continually strings up between emotional truth and off-kilter punch lines. But pedigree, of course, can only carry one so far. An actor must deliver in the here and now, and deliver Nielsen does, in a performance that starts amazing us in the opening moments and never quits. She is a heartbreaking comic marvel. So is the play.
Mark Taper Forum
So you’re a distinguished playwright in your early 60s: a very Chekhovian age; an age when the mind drifts toward dreams once grasped, then compromised, then lost, and fixates on memories of simpler, happier times. You look around your Bucks County farmhouse and think, “Gosh, this looks a lot like one of those summer homes to which Chekhov’s characters retire to brood and despair and make one last lunge toward life.” There are even a few cherry trees—why, almost an orchard!—out back. And you say to yourself, “What if some modern Chekhovian characters lived here? What if a brother and adopted sister—named Vanya and Sonia by academically minded parents—had spent their whole lives on that estate without ever ‘going to Moscow,’ so to speak, without doing much of anything, absent true emotional contacts with the outside world? And what if a third sister named Masha had broken free to become an internationally famous movie star, yet, on a rare visit home, she too reveals aches for what she never had?” How’s that for an idea?
Good as far as it goes, most might say. But when the playwright in question is world-class satirist Christopher Durang, you have to figure he’d push it further to find weird but oddly apt intersections between Chekhov’s universe and our own. You can hear those intersections in the very title of what ended up his as most successful play to date, Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike: the three Russian names followed by the comical clunk of the contemporary. (The lad turns out to be Masha’s much younger boy-toy, an aspiring actor with a penchant for disrobing for appreciative audiences.) You can hear it, too, in the opening dialogue, right out of a Chekhov play until the punch line hits with a modern badump-bump:
SONIA: I brought you coffee, dearest Vanya.
VANYA: I have some.
SONIA: Oh. But I bring you coffee every morning.
VANYA: Well, yes, but you weren’t available.
SONIA: Well, I was briefly in the bathroom, you couldn’t wait?
The opening-night LA audience roared at all of the verbal and visual intrusions of modern life on the carefully created mood of regret and loss, especially all the mordant quips at the industry’s expense. No surprise there. What astonished many—and will surely continue to do so in what bodes to be the Taper’s biggest sellout hit in years, and deservedly so—was the palpable emotionality of the piece, running parallel to all the Durangian wackiness. Somehow, the convergence of Durang’s personal concerns, Chekhov’s perennial themes, and beautiful playing and direction have created a little marvel of stagecraft that empathizes with and pokes fun at its characters and, by extension, the rest of us.
The production is something of a hybrid, in essence duplicating Nicholas Martin’s Lincoln Center and Broadway original but under the direction of the first Vanya, David Hyde Pierce, who gives over his role to Mark Blum as part of a mix of new and holdover performers. Three of the latter are marvelous, starting with Christine Ebersole’s placing her expert comic timing in service of Masha’s all-too-aware self-absorption. She carries herself with red carpet sangfroid, but a throaty screech and cackle are always at the ready to remind us how desperate our Masha truly is. David Hull’s easy narcissism makes the most of Spike, and Liesel Allen Yeager glows as the young nymph from across the pond (she’s named Nina, natch), who sets off sparks in jealous Masha, humpy Spike, and the dear old duck Vanya she dubs “Uncle” (natch).
Two of the performances need fine-tuning. A holdover in Durang’s nuttiest conceit of cleaning woman Cassandra who, like her namesake, traffics in prophesy, Shalita Grant is physically engaging, and we welcome every appearance. However, her Butterfly McQueen voice and the Taper’s acoustics conspire to turn much of her dialogue into frustrating mush.
And while Blum uncannily (and likably) channels Pierce in look, manner, and line readings, there’s an inner fire within the character that Blum has yet to stoke. As yet he lacks the unbridled, if repressed, lust for Spike that incites Vanya to start peeping up from his virtual coma. And while the actor ably delivers Vanya’s rant—a hilarious eight-minute indictment of the modern world’s lack of community and addiction to technology, as seen through the prism of a child of the 1950s—it doesn’t seem to emerge from a frustration that should be building up from the first scene. The speech achieves rage eventually, but it’s not born of rage; not yet.
But the best work of all comes from the original production’s shiningest light: Kristine Nielsen as ignored, put-upon, self-pitying, gloriously alive-under-a-bushel Sonia. To be sure the actor has a competitive advantage among all these power players, in that she’s a veteran of dozens of Durang roles, many of which were written for her specifically. She knows in her gut, in her DNA, how to navigate the high wire this playwright continually strings up between emotional truth and off-kilter punch lines. But pedigree, of course, can only carry one so far. An actor must deliver in the here and now, and deliver Nielsen does, in a performance that starts amazing us in the opening moments and never quits. She is a heartbreaking comic marvel. So is the play.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
February 10, 2014
February 10, 2014
Bunny Bunny Gilda Radner: A Sort of Romantic Comedy
Falcon Theatre
TV comedy writer Alan Zweibel (Saturday Night Live, It’s Garry Shandling’s Show) has distilled his 14-year pseudo-platonic/quasi-romantic relationship with the late comedic actor Gilda Radner into a sentimental, episodic stage piece that fails to illuminate either the friendship or the unrequited romance. Originally premiering Off-Broadway in 1997, Bunny Bunny Gilda Radner: A Sort of Romantic Comedy—based on his 1994 book of the same name—chronicles the Zweibel-Radner duo from their first meeting as founding members of Saturday Night Live in 1975 to Radner’s death of ovarian cancer in 1989. Under helmer Dimitri Toscas’s fluid, fast-paced staging, Alan (Brendan Hunt) and Gilda (Erin Pineda) certainly establish a quirky bond of friendship, but there is no sense of the inventive and volatile artistic synergism that permeated and solidified their relationship.
Zweibel avoids the nitty-gritty of the interactions of a creative duo that fostered such memorable SNL Radner characters as hilariously vulgar Roseanne Roseannadana and elderly hard-of-hearing TV news commentator Emily Litella, as well as Radner’s 1979 Broadway sojourn, Gilda Live. Instead, the production concentrates on their ongoing professional and personal insecurities, including Zweibel’s early attempts to get Radner to think of him as a romantic partner, Radner’s chaotic adjustments to becoming a celebrity, and their mutual, angst-ridden forays into romantic relationships with others.
Their eventual bond as soul mates appears arbitrary rather than crucial to their individual survivals. This lessens the impact of the second act, as Zweibel emotionally wraps himself around his terminally ill friend as she bravely attempts to continue her life as an artist and a wife (to Gene Wilder).
Hunt is an amiable nebbish as Zweibel, a thoroughly nonthreatening ally to Radner during the early stages of their relationship. In the second act, he exudes much more empathy and vitality, offering greater evidence that this man truly has invested himself in the life of his friend.
Pineda displays a zesty physical vitality but fails to project Radner’s edgy, in-your-face spontaneity. Her few attempts to duplicate Radner’s raspy vocal characterizations are forced and brief. What works is Pineda’s hilarious take on Radner as she jubilantly extols the sexual prowess of Zweibel when the two are confronted on a train by an imperious former childhood classmate of Zweibel (Tom Fonss). Pineda also makes viable Radner’s humor-filled acceptance of her fate as her life is finally taken over by her cancer.
Billed as Everyone Else, Fonss morphs effortlessly into whatever character is needed—a slew of fawning Radner fans, a sensually aggressive Andy Warhol, Alan’s new bride, Gene Wilder, and beyond—providing cement to Zweibel and Radner’s 14-year journey.
Also complementing the proceedings are the imaginative modular set pieces and projections of Adam Flemming, as well as the evocative lights and sounds of Jeremy Pivnick and Robert Arturo Ramirez, respectively.
Falcon Theatre
TV comedy writer Alan Zweibel (Saturday Night Live, It’s Garry Shandling’s Show) has distilled his 14-year pseudo-platonic/quasi-romantic relationship with the late comedic actor Gilda Radner into a sentimental, episodic stage piece that fails to illuminate either the friendship or the unrequited romance. Originally premiering Off-Broadway in 1997, Bunny Bunny Gilda Radner: A Sort of Romantic Comedy—based on his 1994 book of the same name—chronicles the Zweibel-Radner duo from their first meeting as founding members of Saturday Night Live in 1975 to Radner’s death of ovarian cancer in 1989. Under helmer Dimitri Toscas’s fluid, fast-paced staging, Alan (Brendan Hunt) and Gilda (Erin Pineda) certainly establish a quirky bond of friendship, but there is no sense of the inventive and volatile artistic synergism that permeated and solidified their relationship.
Zweibel avoids the nitty-gritty of the interactions of a creative duo that fostered such memorable SNL Radner characters as hilariously vulgar Roseanne Roseannadana and elderly hard-of-hearing TV news commentator Emily Litella, as well as Radner’s 1979 Broadway sojourn, Gilda Live. Instead, the production concentrates on their ongoing professional and personal insecurities, including Zweibel’s early attempts to get Radner to think of him as a romantic partner, Radner’s chaotic adjustments to becoming a celebrity, and their mutual, angst-ridden forays into romantic relationships with others.
Their eventual bond as soul mates appears arbitrary rather than crucial to their individual survivals. This lessens the impact of the second act, as Zweibel emotionally wraps himself around his terminally ill friend as she bravely attempts to continue her life as an artist and a wife (to Gene Wilder).
Hunt is an amiable nebbish as Zweibel, a thoroughly nonthreatening ally to Radner during the early stages of their relationship. In the second act, he exudes much more empathy and vitality, offering greater evidence that this man truly has invested himself in the life of his friend.
Pineda displays a zesty physical vitality but fails to project Radner’s edgy, in-your-face spontaneity. Her few attempts to duplicate Radner’s raspy vocal characterizations are forced and brief. What works is Pineda’s hilarious take on Radner as she jubilantly extols the sexual prowess of Zweibel when the two are confronted on a train by an imperious former childhood classmate of Zweibel (Tom Fonss). Pineda also makes viable Radner’s humor-filled acceptance of her fate as her life is finally taken over by her cancer.
Billed as Everyone Else, Fonss morphs effortlessly into whatever character is needed—a slew of fawning Radner fans, a sensually aggressive Andy Warhol, Alan’s new bride, Gene Wilder, and beyond—providing cement to Zweibel and Radner’s 14-year journey.
Also complementing the proceedings are the imaginative modular set pieces and projections of Adam Flemming, as well as the evocative lights and sounds of Jeremy Pivnick and Robert Arturo Ramirez, respectively.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
February 10, 2014
February 10, 2014
A Cat Named Mercy
Casa 0101 Theater
Playwright Josefina López confronts myriad issues in this impressively panoramic but thematically overburdened chronicle of Catalina Rodriguez (Alex Ximenez), a young Latina nursing-home vocational nurse whose work hours are unfairly cut, disqualifying her from receiving health insurance, rendering her unable to receive a critical operation needed to save her own life. The playwright further complicates Catalina’s dilemma: incorporating media flashes on the controversial Affordable Care Act; delving into the morally debated concept of assisted suicide; touching on racism, parental abuse, pedophilia; and incorporating a spiritually transcendent feline to delve into the supernatural in regards to death and the afterlife.
Utilizing a 14-member ensemble, López’s approach is near-cinematic, segueing to many locations as Catalina is emotionally and spiritually challenged to the point where she believes there is only one choice she can make to save her own life. Helmer Hector Rodriguez admirably choreographs Catalina’s complicated journey, complemented by Marco De Leon’s well-executed multipurpose setting, the mood-enhancing lights and sound of Vincent A. Sanchez, and the character-accurate costuming of Dorothy Amos.
The total effect would have been even more illuminating if the playwright and the director had collaborated on editing the thematic throughline. This is especially true of the wordy interactions with the head of the nursing home and the health insurance agent (both played by Rebecca Davis), as well as the social worker (Belinda Ortiz). These fact-giving sessions detract from the flow of the drama.
Ximenez’s Catalina exudes an endearing ambivalence as she struggles with the potentially soul-damning decision she needs to make in order to save her own life. Ximenez appears to be carrying the weight of the world on her constantly stooped shoulders, as Catalina is forced into confrontations with her life-battered Mama (Blanca Araceli), bureaucratically insensitive supervisor (Minerva Vier), racially abusive elderly patient Kitty (Susan Davis), and relentless series of elderly patients who insist it is God’s plan that Catalina assist them in their desire to move on to the glorious afterlife that has been revealed to them. In this latter issue, less would have certainly been more, even though the stagings of their individual departures into eternity are executed with impressive flair.
The inclusion of two men in Catalina’s life is welcome relief from our heroine’s ongoing struggle with life and death. Michael Cota is properly callow as the ineptly flirtatious 911 operator who always answers Catalina’s calls when she has an emergency. And Alex Denney exudes a cold-blooded charm as Kitty’s self-serving grandson. Henry Aceves Madrid and Maria G. Martinez are memorable as two elders who argue quite effectively for their right to leave this world according to their own schedule. And dancer Beatriz Eugenia Vasquez is quite evocative as the wielder of Mercy the Cat, who always seems to show up at the bedside of someone who is about to die.
Casa 0101 Theater
Playwright Josefina López confronts myriad issues in this impressively panoramic but thematically overburdened chronicle of Catalina Rodriguez (Alex Ximenez), a young Latina nursing-home vocational nurse whose work hours are unfairly cut, disqualifying her from receiving health insurance, rendering her unable to receive a critical operation needed to save her own life. The playwright further complicates Catalina’s dilemma: incorporating media flashes on the controversial Affordable Care Act; delving into the morally debated concept of assisted suicide; touching on racism, parental abuse, pedophilia; and incorporating a spiritually transcendent feline to delve into the supernatural in regards to death and the afterlife.
Utilizing a 14-member ensemble, López’s approach is near-cinematic, segueing to many locations as Catalina is emotionally and spiritually challenged to the point where she believes there is only one choice she can make to save her own life. Helmer Hector Rodriguez admirably choreographs Catalina’s complicated journey, complemented by Marco De Leon’s well-executed multipurpose setting, the mood-enhancing lights and sound of Vincent A. Sanchez, and the character-accurate costuming of Dorothy Amos.
The total effect would have been even more illuminating if the playwright and the director had collaborated on editing the thematic throughline. This is especially true of the wordy interactions with the head of the nursing home and the health insurance agent (both played by Rebecca Davis), as well as the social worker (Belinda Ortiz). These fact-giving sessions detract from the flow of the drama.
Ximenez’s Catalina exudes an endearing ambivalence as she struggles with the potentially soul-damning decision she needs to make in order to save her own life. Ximenez appears to be carrying the weight of the world on her constantly stooped shoulders, as Catalina is forced into confrontations with her life-battered Mama (Blanca Araceli), bureaucratically insensitive supervisor (Minerva Vier), racially abusive elderly patient Kitty (Susan Davis), and relentless series of elderly patients who insist it is God’s plan that Catalina assist them in their desire to move on to the glorious afterlife that has been revealed to them. In this latter issue, less would have certainly been more, even though the stagings of their individual departures into eternity are executed with impressive flair.
The inclusion of two men in Catalina’s life is welcome relief from our heroine’s ongoing struggle with life and death. Michael Cota is properly callow as the ineptly flirtatious 911 operator who always answers Catalina’s calls when she has an emergency. And Alex Denney exudes a cold-blooded charm as Kitty’s self-serving grandson. Henry Aceves Madrid and Maria G. Martinez are memorable as two elders who argue quite effectively for their right to leave this world according to their own schedule. And dancer Beatriz Eugenia Vasquez is quite evocative as the wielder of Mercy the Cat, who always seems to show up at the bedside of someone who is about to die.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
February 4, 2014
February 4, 2014
The Producers
3–D Theatricals at Plummer Auditorium
Preposterously silly, Mel Brooks and Thomas Meehan’s The Producers comes to Fullerton and Redondo Beach via 3-D Theatricals season opener. It is another hit in the theater company’s chain of musicals that last season included Shrek the Musical and Parade. In this one, Max Bialystock’s (Jay Brian Winnick) Broadway play, Funny Boy: A Musical Version of Hamlet, has opened and closed in one night, as have his other recent efforts.
He is desperate. When his accountant, Leo Bloom (Jeff Skowron), says people make more money with a flop than with a hit, Bialystock wheedles Bloom into joining him in producing a surefire loser, Springtime for Hitler. From this moment on, a series of outrageous characters come to life via Brooks’s farcical sensibilities.
Springtime has been written by Neo-Nazi Franz Liebkind (Norman Large), a crazy German who raises carrier pigeons. A scene on a roof with “Der Guten Tag Hop Clop” and the syncopated pigeons is one of the highlights of the production. Next, Bloom goes after gay failed director Roger De Bris (David Engel), whose entourage includes his assistant, Carmen Ghia (Leigh Wakeford, in a showstopping swish), and a production team of outrageous characters doing “Keep It Gay.” Engel proves his star power as the extravagant director.
Next comes Ulla Inga Hansen-Bensen-Yanson-Tallen-Hallen-Svaden-Swanson (Hillary Michael Thompson), a knockout leggy Swedish blonde who becomes their secretary and cast member after an audition with a dynamite “When You Got It, Flaunt It.” Raising money from rich old ladies who want a bit of hanky-panky from Max comes easily. Headed by Hold-Me-Touch-Me (Tracy Lore), they do a clever production number with their walkers, and Lore delivers a hilarious randy oldster.
Winnick and Skowron follow easily in the footsteps of Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick, who were praiseworthy for their Broadway performances. With high-quality vocals and comic sensibilities perfectly in sync, Winnick and Skowron give standout performances. In particular, Winnick’s delivery of “Betrayed,” a synopsis of the whole show, is great comedy. The ensemble is splendid.
Adapting this show from the original direction is a feat to accomplish with a large cast playing multiple parts, but the creative team gives it an artful interpretation. Worth complimenting for high style is the entire troop: Kim Arnett, Danny Blaylock, Katelyn Blockinger, Chris Duir, Jessica Ernest, Casey Garritano, Annie Hinskton, Bonnie Kovar, Adam Mantell, Leslie Miller, Eric Michael Parker, Justin Matthew Segura, Caleb Shaw, Laura Thatcher, and Stephanie Wolfe.
Musical director–conductor David Lamoureux successfully re-creates Susan Stroman’s original direction, and Linda Love Simmons tackles Stroman’s choreography with panache. Set and costumes are provided by Networks, giving the show its professional glamour. Lighting by Steven Young and sound design by Julie Ferrin are also fine.
The obligatory all-cast production number, in this case “Springtime for Hitler,” pulls out all the stops with high-stepping dancers and two tanks thrown in for good measure. Mel Brooks is a national treasure for absurd, goofy comedy, and the 3 D’s—T. J., Daniel, and Gretchen—are producing very welcome musical theater.
3–D Theatricals at Plummer Auditorium
Preposterously silly, Mel Brooks and Thomas Meehan’s The Producers comes to Fullerton and Redondo Beach via 3-D Theatricals season opener. It is another hit in the theater company’s chain of musicals that last season included Shrek the Musical and Parade. In this one, Max Bialystock’s (Jay Brian Winnick) Broadway play, Funny Boy: A Musical Version of Hamlet, has opened and closed in one night, as have his other recent efforts.
He is desperate. When his accountant, Leo Bloom (Jeff Skowron), says people make more money with a flop than with a hit, Bialystock wheedles Bloom into joining him in producing a surefire loser, Springtime for Hitler. From this moment on, a series of outrageous characters come to life via Brooks’s farcical sensibilities.
Springtime has been written by Neo-Nazi Franz Liebkind (Norman Large), a crazy German who raises carrier pigeons. A scene on a roof with “Der Guten Tag Hop Clop” and the syncopated pigeons is one of the highlights of the production. Next, Bloom goes after gay failed director Roger De Bris (David Engel), whose entourage includes his assistant, Carmen Ghia (Leigh Wakeford, in a showstopping swish), and a production team of outrageous characters doing “Keep It Gay.” Engel proves his star power as the extravagant director.
Next comes Ulla Inga Hansen-Bensen-Yanson-Tallen-Hallen-Svaden-Swanson (Hillary Michael Thompson), a knockout leggy Swedish blonde who becomes their secretary and cast member after an audition with a dynamite “When You Got It, Flaunt It.” Raising money from rich old ladies who want a bit of hanky-panky from Max comes easily. Headed by Hold-Me-Touch-Me (Tracy Lore), they do a clever production number with their walkers, and Lore delivers a hilarious randy oldster.
Winnick and Skowron follow easily in the footsteps of Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick, who were praiseworthy for their Broadway performances. With high-quality vocals and comic sensibilities perfectly in sync, Winnick and Skowron give standout performances. In particular, Winnick’s delivery of “Betrayed,” a synopsis of the whole show, is great comedy. The ensemble is splendid.
Adapting this show from the original direction is a feat to accomplish with a large cast playing multiple parts, but the creative team gives it an artful interpretation. Worth complimenting for high style is the entire troop: Kim Arnett, Danny Blaylock, Katelyn Blockinger, Chris Duir, Jessica Ernest, Casey Garritano, Annie Hinskton, Bonnie Kovar, Adam Mantell, Leslie Miller, Eric Michael Parker, Justin Matthew Segura, Caleb Shaw, Laura Thatcher, and Stephanie Wolfe.
Musical director–conductor David Lamoureux successfully re-creates Susan Stroman’s original direction, and Linda Love Simmons tackles Stroman’s choreography with panache. Set and costumes are provided by Networks, giving the show its professional glamour. Lighting by Steven Young and sound design by Julie Ferrin are also fine.
The obligatory all-cast production number, in this case “Springtime for Hitler,” pulls out all the stops with high-stepping dancers and two tanks thrown in for good measure. Mel Brooks is a national treasure for absurd, goofy comedy, and the 3 D’s—T. J., Daniel, and Gretchen—are producing very welcome musical theater.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
February 3, 2014
February 3, 2014
The Light in the Piazza
South Coast Repertory
The Light in the Piazza’s cross-cultural love story, in which red-state Americans fall victim to the allure of Florence circa the early 1950s, is musically alluring, although helmer Kent Nicholson eschews the glamorous spectacle that characterized Bartlett Sher’s Broadway original. With the NY chorus halved, and musical director Dennis Castellano strongly marshaling a pared-down orchestra, Craig Lucas and Adam Guettel’s romantic passeggiata is brought closer to its more modest roots in its long-ago Seattle premiere.
Here, as there, the focus is on personalities over presentation, for which the revival is gifted with such accomplished vets as Patti Cohenour (a Broadway Christine in Phantom, not to mention Piazza’s first Signora Naccarelli), David Burnham (an ex-Piazza chorister, and last year’s sizzling Joe Gillis in Musical Theatre West’s Sunset Boulevard), and Erin Mackey (of Broadway’s Wicked, Chaplin, and Sondheim on Sondheim). Cohenour’s repressed yet yearning Southern matron Margaret exudes total emotional truth, and an iron will to which original novelist Elizabeth Spencer would give a crisp thumbs-up.
Burnham and Mackey, meanwhile, are the best Fabrizzio and Clara I’ve seen in five productions, with their endless supply of youth, great pipes, and believable innocence. Burnham is also linguistically perfect in both fluent Italian and broken English.
Neil Patel’s set is uncharacteristically drab and blah for South Coast Rep: You can see the thematic ideas behind a single-wash wall broken up by louvered windows, some open, some shut, but it resembles a scene in an Italian neorealist movie you wish would end soon and go to a prettier location. Patel’s sliding columns are also kind of boring. But no carping should deter fans of musicals from experiencing this Piazza anew.
South Coast Repertory
The Light in the Piazza’s cross-cultural love story, in which red-state Americans fall victim to the allure of Florence circa the early 1950s, is musically alluring, although helmer Kent Nicholson eschews the glamorous spectacle that characterized Bartlett Sher’s Broadway original. With the NY chorus halved, and musical director Dennis Castellano strongly marshaling a pared-down orchestra, Craig Lucas and Adam Guettel’s romantic passeggiata is brought closer to its more modest roots in its long-ago Seattle premiere.
Here, as there, the focus is on personalities over presentation, for which the revival is gifted with such accomplished vets as Patti Cohenour (a Broadway Christine in Phantom, not to mention Piazza’s first Signora Naccarelli), David Burnham (an ex-Piazza chorister, and last year’s sizzling Joe Gillis in Musical Theatre West’s Sunset Boulevard), and Erin Mackey (of Broadway’s Wicked, Chaplin, and Sondheim on Sondheim). Cohenour’s repressed yet yearning Southern matron Margaret exudes total emotional truth, and an iron will to which original novelist Elizabeth Spencer would give a crisp thumbs-up.
Burnham and Mackey, meanwhile, are the best Fabrizzio and Clara I’ve seen in five productions, with their endless supply of youth, great pipes, and believable innocence. Burnham is also linguistically perfect in both fluent Italian and broken English.
Neil Patel’s set is uncharacteristically drab and blah for South Coast Rep: You can see the thematic ideas behind a single-wash wall broken up by louvered windows, some open, some shut, but it resembles a scene in an Italian neorealist movie you wish would end soon and go to a prettier location. Patel’s sliding columns are also kind of boring. But no carping should deter fans of musicals from experiencing this Piazza anew.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
February 3, 2014
February 3, 2014
James
Joyce’s The Dead
Open Fist Theatre Company at Greenway Court Theatre
For this chamber musical, Shaun Davey and Richard Nelson have crafted Irish faux folk tunes that rely more on vocal brio than beauty. And let’s face it, the characters’ increasing insobriety lowers the bar on singing quality as the play’s Christmastime celebration progresses. But the adaptation of James Joyce’s brilliant, deep novella—possibly the best of its kind in the English language—is a bitch to stage, with its tonal shifts, huge cast, multiple settings, and thematic ambiguities.
Open Fist Theatre Company has brought back this production from several years ago with multiple cast changes, new costumes, and directorial consultation (credited to Charles Otte), which make for an uneven but earnest and moving show. Best of all is Rob Nagle, whose tenures as a staple of Antaeus and Troubadour theater companies didn’t prepare me for the simplicity and sheer rightness of his Gabriel Conroy, who must function as narrator, emcee, party host, and emotional victim before the 90-minute drama is through. Nagle brings nuance and weight to a character that in other hands might be a bland Everyman.
The cast is certainly game; many of its thesps are quite gifted, and no one is an out-and-out weak link, which with this many folks around is damned good. But it must be said that they never quite gel and meld into a true ensemble. We don’t get the sense of a party shifting—as parties in real life do—from early enthusiasm to drunken glee to melancholy and back again; there’s a sameness to the dynamic at Greenway Court that is palpable, even at such a brief length.
But complaints aside, it’s worth seeing, particularly for fans of musical theater.
Open Fist Theatre Company at Greenway Court Theatre
For this chamber musical, Shaun Davey and Richard Nelson have crafted Irish faux folk tunes that rely more on vocal brio than beauty. And let’s face it, the characters’ increasing insobriety lowers the bar on singing quality as the play’s Christmastime celebration progresses. But the adaptation of James Joyce’s brilliant, deep novella—possibly the best of its kind in the English language—is a bitch to stage, with its tonal shifts, huge cast, multiple settings, and thematic ambiguities.
Open Fist Theatre Company has brought back this production from several years ago with multiple cast changes, new costumes, and directorial consultation (credited to Charles Otte), which make for an uneven but earnest and moving show. Best of all is Rob Nagle, whose tenures as a staple of Antaeus and Troubadour theater companies didn’t prepare me for the simplicity and sheer rightness of his Gabriel Conroy, who must function as narrator, emcee, party host, and emotional victim before the 90-minute drama is through. Nagle brings nuance and weight to a character that in other hands might be a bland Everyman.
The cast is certainly game; many of its thesps are quite gifted, and no one is an out-and-out weak link, which with this many folks around is damned good. But it must be said that they never quite gel and meld into a true ensemble. We don’t get the sense of a party shifting—as parties in real life do—from early enthusiasm to drunken glee to melancholy and back again; there’s a sameness to the dynamic at Greenway Court that is palpable, even at such a brief length.
But complaints aside, it’s worth seeing, particularly for fans of musical theater.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
February 3, 2014
February 3, 2014
Night Watch
Theatre 40 at Reuben Cordova Theatre
Prolific playwright Lucille Fletcher is best known for the suspense drama Sorry, Wrong Number—which began life as prizewinning 1948 radio play, starring Agnes Morehead, and in 1950 was made into a film noir that garnered an Oscar nomination for its star, Barbara Stanwyck.
Fletcher’s Night Watch is also a suspense drama, in which nothing is quite what it appears. Elaine Wheeler (Jennifer Lee Laks) is a wealthy heiress who lives with her husband in a posh apartment in the Kips Bay neighborhood of Manhattan. But she is a chronic insomniac, and during one of her sleepless vigils, standing at her window, she sees something alarming in the supposedly abandoned building across the way: a dead man, with blood trickling from his mouth, sprawled in a green brocade wing-chair. Her terrified screams rouse her husband, John (Martin Thompson); the German housekeeper, Helga (Judy Nazemetz); and the beautiful blonde, Blanche (Christine Joelle), who is Elaine’s best friend and former nurse. But they can see nothing out of the ordinary, and the shade is drawn over the window in which she claims she saw the dead man.
Though they try to calm her, she insists on calling the police, who can find nothing in the abandoned building but the green brocade armchair. Elaine keeps insisting that she saw a corpse, until the opinionated police lieutenant (David Hunt Stafford) decides she’s just a crazy lady with an overdeveloped imagination.
At first it seems that Elaine is a spoiled, hysterical neurotic, and all those around her are simply trying to rescue her from her own paranoia. But something is fishy about the situation, and gradually it appears that something sinister is afoot: Elaine is the potential victim of a plot carried out, à la Gaslight, by all those around her. Then a final surprise twist proves that neither of these scenarios is quite true. And it proved highly gratifying to the opening-night audience.
Fletcher’s plot takes a bit too long to unravel, and she relies too heavily on offstage action. But she had a real knack for planting red herrings, ginning up suspense, and making us suspect every character. Director Bruce Gray fine-tunes the action to keep us guessing until the very end.
The suspense genre offers an interesting challenge to the actors, who must practice a studied ambiguity, suggesting both innocence and guilt, with enough credibility to keep the game afloat.
Laks exhibits skill and panache as she navigates the tale’s ever-shifting sands, and Thompson adds a strong touch of menace to the seemingly solicitous husband. Nazemetz stalks balefully through the scenes as the housekeeper who may know more than she’s telling, and Lary Ohlson contributes a stylish turn as a flamboyant, pushy gay neighbor. Stafford is bluff and boorish as the skeptical policeman, and the able Joelle seems wasted in an undeveloped role. Jonathan Medina, Leda Siskind, and John McGuire are effective in supporting roles.
Theatre 40 at Reuben Cordova Theatre
Prolific playwright Lucille Fletcher is best known for the suspense drama Sorry, Wrong Number—which began life as prizewinning 1948 radio play, starring Agnes Morehead, and in 1950 was made into a film noir that garnered an Oscar nomination for its star, Barbara Stanwyck.
Fletcher’s Night Watch is also a suspense drama, in which nothing is quite what it appears. Elaine Wheeler (Jennifer Lee Laks) is a wealthy heiress who lives with her husband in a posh apartment in the Kips Bay neighborhood of Manhattan. But she is a chronic insomniac, and during one of her sleepless vigils, standing at her window, she sees something alarming in the supposedly abandoned building across the way: a dead man, with blood trickling from his mouth, sprawled in a green brocade wing-chair. Her terrified screams rouse her husband, John (Martin Thompson); the German housekeeper, Helga (Judy Nazemetz); and the beautiful blonde, Blanche (Christine Joelle), who is Elaine’s best friend and former nurse. But they can see nothing out of the ordinary, and the shade is drawn over the window in which she claims she saw the dead man.
Though they try to calm her, she insists on calling the police, who can find nothing in the abandoned building but the green brocade armchair. Elaine keeps insisting that she saw a corpse, until the opinionated police lieutenant (David Hunt Stafford) decides she’s just a crazy lady with an overdeveloped imagination.
At first it seems that Elaine is a spoiled, hysterical neurotic, and all those around her are simply trying to rescue her from her own paranoia. But something is fishy about the situation, and gradually it appears that something sinister is afoot: Elaine is the potential victim of a plot carried out, à la Gaslight, by all those around her. Then a final surprise twist proves that neither of these scenarios is quite true. And it proved highly gratifying to the opening-night audience.
Fletcher’s plot takes a bit too long to unravel, and she relies too heavily on offstage action. But she had a real knack for planting red herrings, ginning up suspense, and making us suspect every character. Director Bruce Gray fine-tunes the action to keep us guessing until the very end.
The suspense genre offers an interesting challenge to the actors, who must practice a studied ambiguity, suggesting both innocence and guilt, with enough credibility to keep the game afloat.
Laks exhibits skill and panache as she navigates the tale’s ever-shifting sands, and Thompson adds a strong touch of menace to the seemingly solicitous husband. Nazemetz stalks balefully through the scenes as the housekeeper who may know more than she’s telling, and Lary Ohlson contributes a stylish turn as a flamboyant, pushy gay neighbor. Stafford is bluff and boorish as the skeptical policeman, and the able Joelle seems wasted in an undeveloped role. Jonathan Medina, Leda Siskind, and John McGuire are effective in supporting roles.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
February 2, 2014
February 2, 2014
On the Money
The Big Victory at The Victory Theatre Center
Any work of art is most appropriately examined for how it will stand up in time, how future generations will view the circumstances people endured during the era when it was first presented. With that in mind, it’s hard not to wonder if playwright Kos Kostmayer and the production team that originally mounted his On the Money at the Victory Theatre Center 30 years ago contemplated how relevant the piece would be three decades later. Kostmayer’s jarringly caustic comedy, exploring the desperation of people forced into a dangerous corner while trying to earn a decent living and keep themselves alive, might be even more germane in 2014, an era when ruthless greed and Tea Party politics have widened the economic divide between the haves and the have-nots more clearly than ever before in our lifetimes.
The play follows a dark day in the lives of three employees of a comfy Manhattan bar, each of whom is in desperate financial trouble for his or her own personal reasons. Beginning the day with waitress Nancy (Maria Tomas) getting mugged on her way to work, her gambling-addicted cohort Benny (David Fraioli) losing at the track, and good-natured bartender Jack (Jonathan Kells Phillips) wondering if his floundering acting career will ever be enough to take care of his young family, the tension and anxiety radiating from Kostmayer’s trio of blue-collar everymen is palpable right from the very start.
What unfolds is the planning and disastrous results of a toxic scheme hatched by the shifty, ever-twitching Benny to have a less-than-savory friend of a friend rob the place that evening and share the spoils, just after their abusive boss (Vincent Guastaferro) returns with the day’s cash proceeds from his other three other neighborhood watering holes. Along the way, a series of colorful loonies drops in for alcoholic fortification and, perhaps, a little dollop of human compassion. As our heroes talk themselves into Benny’s folly, they’re interrupted by a series of ragtag locals, including a rambling cowboy off his meds (Jeff Kober) and a quietly slimy loan shark (Tony Maggio) sniffing around for Jack’s late payment.
What’s most arresting about Kostmayer’s sometimes ominous, surprisingly hilarious study of the lengths basically good people go to when struggling to keep from drowning in the cesspool of the tragically waterlogged American dream is how quickly the conflict escalates—and how fast everything in the lives of these people goes to hell. A heap of this timely revival’s success can obviously be attributed to the gritty, tautly wound direction of Tom Ormeny and his stellar cast, each emoting with passion and skill on D Martyn Bookwalter’s beautifully detailed set.
Although on opening night some of the players seemed to still be finding their sea legs, perhaps initially working a little too hard to be totally at ease in their characters’ skins, by the second act everyone had settled in completely, each and every one contributing remarkable performances that could define what ensemble acting is all about. Kober and Maggio are particularly arresting in their portrayals, both exquisite veteran actors able to find layers and layers of subtle nuance in what could otherwise be glaringly stereotypical roles.
Above everything, of course, is Kostmayer’s tightly wound rat-a-tat-tat dialogue, which loudly trumpets an almost logical explanation as to why these people have chosen such a dastardly means to pull themselves out of their individual jams. It somehow makes us want to shout to them not to do it, and we would be right to try to stop it, although the ending, no matter how the failure of the employees’ plan might be expected, is still a bombshell.
If anything might be changed from 30 years ago, it might be in pruning. There’s a lot of repetition in the script about people getting money, needing money, hating money, not to mention hating those who have it, all of which could be eliminated—along with the 1980s-style need for an intermission. If any play could run seamlessly from first lights up to final shocker without a pee break and quick gulp of Two-Buck Chuck, it’s Kostmayer’s in-your-face On the Money.
The Big Victory at The Victory Theatre Center
Any work of art is most appropriately examined for how it will stand up in time, how future generations will view the circumstances people endured during the era when it was first presented. With that in mind, it’s hard not to wonder if playwright Kos Kostmayer and the production team that originally mounted his On the Money at the Victory Theatre Center 30 years ago contemplated how relevant the piece would be three decades later. Kostmayer’s jarringly caustic comedy, exploring the desperation of people forced into a dangerous corner while trying to earn a decent living and keep themselves alive, might be even more germane in 2014, an era when ruthless greed and Tea Party politics have widened the economic divide between the haves and the have-nots more clearly than ever before in our lifetimes.
The play follows a dark day in the lives of three employees of a comfy Manhattan bar, each of whom is in desperate financial trouble for his or her own personal reasons. Beginning the day with waitress Nancy (Maria Tomas) getting mugged on her way to work, her gambling-addicted cohort Benny (David Fraioli) losing at the track, and good-natured bartender Jack (Jonathan Kells Phillips) wondering if his floundering acting career will ever be enough to take care of his young family, the tension and anxiety radiating from Kostmayer’s trio of blue-collar everymen is palpable right from the very start.
What unfolds is the planning and disastrous results of a toxic scheme hatched by the shifty, ever-twitching Benny to have a less-than-savory friend of a friend rob the place that evening and share the spoils, just after their abusive boss (Vincent Guastaferro) returns with the day’s cash proceeds from his other three other neighborhood watering holes. Along the way, a series of colorful loonies drops in for alcoholic fortification and, perhaps, a little dollop of human compassion. As our heroes talk themselves into Benny’s folly, they’re interrupted by a series of ragtag locals, including a rambling cowboy off his meds (Jeff Kober) and a quietly slimy loan shark (Tony Maggio) sniffing around for Jack’s late payment.
What’s most arresting about Kostmayer’s sometimes ominous, surprisingly hilarious study of the lengths basically good people go to when struggling to keep from drowning in the cesspool of the tragically waterlogged American dream is how quickly the conflict escalates—and how fast everything in the lives of these people goes to hell. A heap of this timely revival’s success can obviously be attributed to the gritty, tautly wound direction of Tom Ormeny and his stellar cast, each emoting with passion and skill on D Martyn Bookwalter’s beautifully detailed set.
Although on opening night some of the players seemed to still be finding their sea legs, perhaps initially working a little too hard to be totally at ease in their characters’ skins, by the second act everyone had settled in completely, each and every one contributing remarkable performances that could define what ensemble acting is all about. Kober and Maggio are particularly arresting in their portrayals, both exquisite veteran actors able to find layers and layers of subtle nuance in what could otherwise be glaringly stereotypical roles.
Above everything, of course, is Kostmayer’s tightly wound rat-a-tat-tat dialogue, which loudly trumpets an almost logical explanation as to why these people have chosen such a dastardly means to pull themselves out of their individual jams. It somehow makes us want to shout to them not to do it, and we would be right to try to stop it, although the ending, no matter how the failure of the employees’ plan might be expected, is still a bombshell.
If anything might be changed from 30 years ago, it might be in pruning. There’s a lot of repetition in the script about people getting money, needing money, hating money, not to mention hating those who have it, all of which could be eliminated—along with the 1980s-style need for an intermission. If any play could run seamlessly from first lights up to final shocker without a pee break and quick gulp of Two-Buck Chuck, it’s Kostmayer’s in-your-face On the Money.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
February 1, 2014
February 1, 2014
The
Strange Undoing of Prudencia Hart
National Theatre of Scotland at the Edye at Broad Stage
Theatricality, that broad and vague but unmistakable quality, comes in many forms. When it’s embraced, and when the devices are wholly appropriate to the material at hand, it can offer excitement like almost no other entertainment source.
The National Theater of Scotland, which blew everyone’s socks off during its 2007 tour of Black Watch, is back with The Strange Undoing of Prudencia Hart, currently occupying the smaller space at Santa Monica’s Broad Stage. Though the two productions are very different, both are marked by the same components of theatrical magic: that is, they delight us by putting to use the full range of technical means at their disposal; and they drive human actors to their vocal, physical, and emotional limits in order to get a story told.
That story, as expressed mostly in jaunty rhyme by playwright David Greig, is that of a lonely, repressed, somewhat starchy scholar of folk ballads (a terrific Melody Grove) who has traveled to Scotland’s Border Country for a conference in her specialty. There she will be transformed, or if you like, strangely undone: humiliated, made drunk, sent to Hell and back, and inspired to find true love. And anyone who tells you more about the synopsis than that, or why most of the text is rhymed, is doing you no favors.
The NT of S must conduct many a jolly session back there in Edinburgh, brainstorming new ways of confounding spectators upon their arrival at each project. Black Watch sat us on both sides of what turned out to be the battlefield of the ages: Fallujah in modern Iraq first, yes, but eventually a cavalcade of the titular regiment’s engagements from 1743 on down. Prudencia is distinguished by its exuberant dissociation from the playhouse environment altogether.
We enter what is to all intents and purposes a Scottish pub: long bar and stools along the far wall with spirits for sale; clunky wooden tables everywhere; a table to the left aheap with musical instruments—guitar, recorder, squeezebox, and yes, even the requisite bagpipes—which the cast of five is merrily playing and singing along to as we get settled.
The warm, friendly (our cast members swarm about to introduce themselves and preset props for later), relaxed environment isn’t unlike the opening of Once, which, Pantages Theatre audiences will discover later this year, invites them to get up on stage and toss a few back during preshow and intermission. The difference is that Once employs the pub as a charming device, whereas in Prudencia it’s an actual setting. It’s the post-prandial hangout of folk scholars on the make, and it will be the debarkation point for Prudencia’s journey to what she thinks will be a bed-and-breakfast but actually is…no, I won’t say it. You’ll just have to go.
The five thesps couldn’t be more musically gifted, versatile, or winning, and helmer Wils Wilson truly does grab every poor-theater means at her disposal to charm us. (A car racing through the snow is built out of five actors and a few hand props, for instance.) There’s also considerable audience engagement, some of it hands-on (let them know in advance if you’d just as soon not be felt up), and all of it weirdly appropriate to a play that is determined to celebrate living life full-out, inhibitions be damned.
Truth be told, Greig and Wilson could profitably cut some of Act Two’s repetition and a surfeit of slo-mo balletic movement. But by then, both you and Prudencia may be too drunk—on balladeering, on imagery, on sheer theatricality, not to mention on free shots of sponsor Benromach’s single malt—to care.
National Theatre of Scotland at the Edye at Broad Stage
Theatricality, that broad and vague but unmistakable quality, comes in many forms. When it’s embraced, and when the devices are wholly appropriate to the material at hand, it can offer excitement like almost no other entertainment source.
The National Theater of Scotland, which blew everyone’s socks off during its 2007 tour of Black Watch, is back with The Strange Undoing of Prudencia Hart, currently occupying the smaller space at Santa Monica’s Broad Stage. Though the two productions are very different, both are marked by the same components of theatrical magic: that is, they delight us by putting to use the full range of technical means at their disposal; and they drive human actors to their vocal, physical, and emotional limits in order to get a story told.
That story, as expressed mostly in jaunty rhyme by playwright David Greig, is that of a lonely, repressed, somewhat starchy scholar of folk ballads (a terrific Melody Grove) who has traveled to Scotland’s Border Country for a conference in her specialty. There she will be transformed, or if you like, strangely undone: humiliated, made drunk, sent to Hell and back, and inspired to find true love. And anyone who tells you more about the synopsis than that, or why most of the text is rhymed, is doing you no favors.
The NT of S must conduct many a jolly session back there in Edinburgh, brainstorming new ways of confounding spectators upon their arrival at each project. Black Watch sat us on both sides of what turned out to be the battlefield of the ages: Fallujah in modern Iraq first, yes, but eventually a cavalcade of the titular regiment’s engagements from 1743 on down. Prudencia is distinguished by its exuberant dissociation from the playhouse environment altogether.
We enter what is to all intents and purposes a Scottish pub: long bar and stools along the far wall with spirits for sale; clunky wooden tables everywhere; a table to the left aheap with musical instruments—guitar, recorder, squeezebox, and yes, even the requisite bagpipes—which the cast of five is merrily playing and singing along to as we get settled.
The warm, friendly (our cast members swarm about to introduce themselves and preset props for later), relaxed environment isn’t unlike the opening of Once, which, Pantages Theatre audiences will discover later this year, invites them to get up on stage and toss a few back during preshow and intermission. The difference is that Once employs the pub as a charming device, whereas in Prudencia it’s an actual setting. It’s the post-prandial hangout of folk scholars on the make, and it will be the debarkation point for Prudencia’s journey to what she thinks will be a bed-and-breakfast but actually is…no, I won’t say it. You’ll just have to go.
The five thesps couldn’t be more musically gifted, versatile, or winning, and helmer Wils Wilson truly does grab every poor-theater means at her disposal to charm us. (A car racing through the snow is built out of five actors and a few hand props, for instance.) There’s also considerable audience engagement, some of it hands-on (let them know in advance if you’d just as soon not be felt up), and all of it weirdly appropriate to a play that is determined to celebrate living life full-out, inhibitions be damned.
Truth be told, Greig and Wilson could profitably cut some of Act Two’s repetition and a surfeit of slo-mo balletic movement. But by then, both you and Prudencia may be too drunk—on balladeering, on imagery, on sheer theatricality, not to mention on free shots of sponsor Benromach’s single malt—to care.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
January 28, 2014
January 28, 2014
Let’s Misbehave
International City Theatre
Let’s Misbehave culls many of Cole Porter’s hits and some of his rarities to create a surprisingly touching love triangle. A winning cast of three takes what could have just been a revue of hit-parade songs and makes the audience believe these songs are originating from the characters’ hearts.
After a wild party, hostess Dorothy (Lindsey Alley) invites her two friends Walter (Marc Ginsburg) and Alice (Jennifer Shelton) to continue the party with a nightcap. The three sing, dance, and become romantically entangled. Their friendship hangs in the balance when both girls admit they’re in love with Walter. But Walter only has eyes for one of them.
Any Porter fan will delight in hearing favorites “Anything Goes,” “So In Love,” and “De-Lovely” alongside numbers not often sung, including “The Physician” and “Find Me a Primitive Man.” Writer Karin Bowersock and music arranger Patrick Young combine several songs, creating heartfelt medleys. All the songs have an intimacy when played with a lone pianist on stage.
The script could have been written in the 1930s during Porter’s heyday. It captures breezy, low-stakes plot lines similar to Porter’s early musicals. Yet, Bowersock’s book also invests in the characters’ emotions, so audiences care if these three swells find true love, turning Let’s Misbehave into more than just a compilation of Porter’s hits.
Ginsburg has a beautiful voice and moves with finesse. Alley, as the wisecracking redhead (similar to the roles Porter wrote for Ethel Merman) is delightfully saucy. Shelton, as the wistful Alice, gives the show its gravitas. All her character’s emotions—her fascination with Walter, her fear of losing her friends, her agony of being played for a fool—are painfully apparent on her face. She makes Alice a contemplative woman who guilelessly considers each option before moving forward.
Director Todd Nielsen keeps the evening light and free. This is a sugarcoated world where starving artists still dress impeccably and have the funds to cruise to exotic locales and where you can drink martinis, champagne, and old-fashioneds and still be capable of dancing the morning away. Nielsen’s choreography is simple but cultured, lending itself to the moves of Porter’s Gay Divorce stars Adele and Fred Astaire.
Kim DeShazo’s classy costumes enhance the style of the era. Ginsburg looks dashing in his tuxedo, while Shelton exudes elegance in her red cocktail dress. The sexy, revealing black outfit for Alley, encrusted with jewels in front and behind, is ravishing.
A rollicking good time, Let’s Misbehave reminds audiences why a Porter tune can make one fall in love.
International City Theatre
Let’s Misbehave culls many of Cole Porter’s hits and some of his rarities to create a surprisingly touching love triangle. A winning cast of three takes what could have just been a revue of hit-parade songs and makes the audience believe these songs are originating from the characters’ hearts.
After a wild party, hostess Dorothy (Lindsey Alley) invites her two friends Walter (Marc Ginsburg) and Alice (Jennifer Shelton) to continue the party with a nightcap. The three sing, dance, and become romantically entangled. Their friendship hangs in the balance when both girls admit they’re in love with Walter. But Walter only has eyes for one of them.
Any Porter fan will delight in hearing favorites “Anything Goes,” “So In Love,” and “De-Lovely” alongside numbers not often sung, including “The Physician” and “Find Me a Primitive Man.” Writer Karin Bowersock and music arranger Patrick Young combine several songs, creating heartfelt medleys. All the songs have an intimacy when played with a lone pianist on stage.
The script could have been written in the 1930s during Porter’s heyday. It captures breezy, low-stakes plot lines similar to Porter’s early musicals. Yet, Bowersock’s book also invests in the characters’ emotions, so audiences care if these three swells find true love, turning Let’s Misbehave into more than just a compilation of Porter’s hits.
Ginsburg has a beautiful voice and moves with finesse. Alley, as the wisecracking redhead (similar to the roles Porter wrote for Ethel Merman) is delightfully saucy. Shelton, as the wistful Alice, gives the show its gravitas. All her character’s emotions—her fascination with Walter, her fear of losing her friends, her agony of being played for a fool—are painfully apparent on her face. She makes Alice a contemplative woman who guilelessly considers each option before moving forward.
Director Todd Nielsen keeps the evening light and free. This is a sugarcoated world where starving artists still dress impeccably and have the funds to cruise to exotic locales and where you can drink martinis, champagne, and old-fashioneds and still be capable of dancing the morning away. Nielsen’s choreography is simple but cultured, lending itself to the moves of Porter’s Gay Divorce stars Adele and Fred Astaire.
Kim DeShazo’s classy costumes enhance the style of the era. Ginsburg looks dashing in his tuxedo, while Shelton exudes elegance in her red cocktail dress. The sexy, revealing black outfit for Alley, encrusted with jewels in front and behind, is ravishing.
A rollicking good time, Let’s Misbehave reminds audiences why a Porter tune can make one fall in love.
Reviewed by Jonas Schwartz
January 27, 2014
January 27, 2014
The 39 Steps
Norris Center for the Performing Arts
Let’s say the police are after you, but you’re innocent, and they’re actually not police but enemy spies, and your only means of escape is to jump out of a window. But you’re actually an actor, and your window is a picture frame, and your show is filled with delicious silliness. You have no choice but to drop the frame over your head and “slip out” by stepping over it, thus escaping your pursuers and getting laughs.
That’s only one of many close shaves and one of many laughs in this production. The film by Alfred Hitchcock, based on John Buchan’s novel, somehow bears up under this telling, adapted by Patrick Barlow. In it, handsome, comfortably situated Richard Hannay (Jeffrey Cannata) complains of deep boredom in 1930s London. Adventure finds him. After a glamorous secret agent (Karen Jean Olds) begs shelter in his flat, she is fatally stabbed, but not before instructing him to disband an enemy spy ring and handing him geography’s hugest map.
Per her last words, Hannay heads for Scotland, land of chilly homes and impenetrable accents. On his trip, he encounters a beautiful, spirited woman (Olds again), as well as undergarment salesmen, policemen, a professed professor and his very icy wife, two decrepit country squires and dozens more characters—all played by Kenny Landmon and Louis Lotorto. Half the fun of this production is watching the actors dance in and out of the versatile costumes (design and coordination by Diana Mann) as they switch voices and accents and walks and still keep flawless comedic timing.
Despite its pedigree and setup, this is not a director-proof play. Ken Parks balances the Hitchcockian thriller with British comedy. He sets his production on a bare stage, where every tension-building scene gets created with minimal props. As the police chase Hannay atop hurtling railway carriages, the actors are leaping from suitcase to suitcase, rapidly flapping their topcoats. A squeaking door is created with just the handle. Scotland’s iconic Forth Bridge is created with just three ladders.
Parks choreographs his actors to fumble with recalcitrant props and adjust pieces of the set that don’t arrive in time—all permitted by Barlow’s script, which gives directors much creative license. Parks embellishes the script via accents that grow thicker over the evening. Someone embellished the script via updates, substituting, for a list of towns passed, such locales as Gosford Park and Downton Abbey, as the strangers on a train hurtle northwards, if not exactly north by northwest.
Beyond the excellent sound-effects design (Chris Warren Murry), and despite opening-night microphone issues, the actors voice many of the effects—including bleating sheep and squealing doors. The quartet of actors, though each possesses manifold and prestigious credits, works as a longtime team, evidencing either very long hours of rehearsal or very smart work by all.
There are morals in the storytelling here, too. One might be about perils of believing people and of not believing them. Another is probably about the joy of finding just the right co-adventurer in life, so both of you can end up sitting at home by your twinkling Christmas tree.
Norris Center for the Performing Arts
Let’s say the police are after you, but you’re innocent, and they’re actually not police but enemy spies, and your only means of escape is to jump out of a window. But you’re actually an actor, and your window is a picture frame, and your show is filled with delicious silliness. You have no choice but to drop the frame over your head and “slip out” by stepping over it, thus escaping your pursuers and getting laughs.
That’s only one of many close shaves and one of many laughs in this production. The film by Alfred Hitchcock, based on John Buchan’s novel, somehow bears up under this telling, adapted by Patrick Barlow. In it, handsome, comfortably situated Richard Hannay (Jeffrey Cannata) complains of deep boredom in 1930s London. Adventure finds him. After a glamorous secret agent (Karen Jean Olds) begs shelter in his flat, she is fatally stabbed, but not before instructing him to disband an enemy spy ring and handing him geography’s hugest map.
Per her last words, Hannay heads for Scotland, land of chilly homes and impenetrable accents. On his trip, he encounters a beautiful, spirited woman (Olds again), as well as undergarment salesmen, policemen, a professed professor and his very icy wife, two decrepit country squires and dozens more characters—all played by Kenny Landmon and Louis Lotorto. Half the fun of this production is watching the actors dance in and out of the versatile costumes (design and coordination by Diana Mann) as they switch voices and accents and walks and still keep flawless comedic timing.
Despite its pedigree and setup, this is not a director-proof play. Ken Parks balances the Hitchcockian thriller with British comedy. He sets his production on a bare stage, where every tension-building scene gets created with minimal props. As the police chase Hannay atop hurtling railway carriages, the actors are leaping from suitcase to suitcase, rapidly flapping their topcoats. A squeaking door is created with just the handle. Scotland’s iconic Forth Bridge is created with just three ladders.
Parks choreographs his actors to fumble with recalcitrant props and adjust pieces of the set that don’t arrive in time—all permitted by Barlow’s script, which gives directors much creative license. Parks embellishes the script via accents that grow thicker over the evening. Someone embellished the script via updates, substituting, for a list of towns passed, such locales as Gosford Park and Downton Abbey, as the strangers on a train hurtle northwards, if not exactly north by northwest.
Beyond the excellent sound-effects design (Chris Warren Murry), and despite opening-night microphone issues, the actors voice many of the effects—including bleating sheep and squealing doors. The quartet of actors, though each possesses manifold and prestigious credits, works as a longtime team, evidencing either very long hours of rehearsal or very smart work by all.
There are morals in the storytelling here, too. One might be about perils of believing people and of not believing them. Another is probably about the joy of finding just the right co-adventurer in life, so both of you can end up sitting at home by your twinkling Christmas tree.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 27, 2013
January 27, 2013
Se Llama Cristina
The Theatre @ Boston Court
At its start, this Octavio Solis play is not easy to watch. The couple at its center is a mess: drugged, abused, irresponsible. The storytelling is unhelpful, as the characters seem not to know who they are. Then, too, the production, directed by Robert Castro, taxes the eyes if not the patience of the audience. Is it ultimately worth experiencing?
At the top of the play, the couple lies entwined on the ground for a relatively long time. That’s not the swift welcome an audience hopes for. Soon, Ben Zamora’s lighting design slashes our retinas. At eye level for audience members in the front rows, a fluorescent bulb shines outward, diminishing our ability to see the actors and even completely barring our view of them when they’re prone. On the upstage wall, a slightly dimmer fluorescent band seems to delineate landscapes of the Southwest. The rest of the visible lighting plot blasts white light on the actors and the front rows. Can Solis and the actors engage us after all this?
They can and do. We humans are a mess, often unaware of our potential, let alone our identities. Yet, out of the darkness of this play, at its very last moments, Solis posits hope and optimism.
The pair, called Man and Woman, though eventually each goes through several names, is in a drug-induced stupor. On the floor near them is a seemingly empty straw bassinette. They seem not to know each other. Over the course of the deliberately ambiguous script, they make various efforts to do so. He certainly evidences a poetic soul, though he currently works as a “sucky band” music reviewer. So he tells Woman, “I see the shape of your face, that smudge of woe in your eyes, eyes that keep catching grief and trouble wherever they land, but I can’t come up with a title for you.” She replies, “What the fuck are you talking about?” Well, so it goes with many couples.
Justin Huen plays him, Paula Christensen plays her. They’re probably following Castro’s instructions to keep it crisp, but they’re most affecting when other characters show up. One of those characters is a brutish man who was probably her previous husband, played by Christian Rummel in a frightening and haunting portrayal.
And putting in a last-minute appearance is Girl, played by Amielynn Abellera. Girl is sturdy and independent. And yet she’s clearly her parents’ child. The storytelling is so fractured, we’ll never know if she is real or the hope of her parents. In a way, that doesn’t matter. She gives the audience hope, too: that anyone can become a decent parent, that anyone can overcome the mistakes our parents made.
And yet, Girl is truly a self-reliant, savvy person, a child anyone could be proud of. So, are Man and Woman in a drug-addled state, or are they merely characters symbolic of every couple whose lives are upended by a brand-new baby and a complete lack of confidence in their parenting skills? Like a good parent, Solis knows, but he’s letting us find our own way.
The Theatre @ Boston Court
At its start, this Octavio Solis play is not easy to watch. The couple at its center is a mess: drugged, abused, irresponsible. The storytelling is unhelpful, as the characters seem not to know who they are. Then, too, the production, directed by Robert Castro, taxes the eyes if not the patience of the audience. Is it ultimately worth experiencing?
At the top of the play, the couple lies entwined on the ground for a relatively long time. That’s not the swift welcome an audience hopes for. Soon, Ben Zamora’s lighting design slashes our retinas. At eye level for audience members in the front rows, a fluorescent bulb shines outward, diminishing our ability to see the actors and even completely barring our view of them when they’re prone. On the upstage wall, a slightly dimmer fluorescent band seems to delineate landscapes of the Southwest. The rest of the visible lighting plot blasts white light on the actors and the front rows. Can Solis and the actors engage us after all this?
They can and do. We humans are a mess, often unaware of our potential, let alone our identities. Yet, out of the darkness of this play, at its very last moments, Solis posits hope and optimism.
The pair, called Man and Woman, though eventually each goes through several names, is in a drug-induced stupor. On the floor near them is a seemingly empty straw bassinette. They seem not to know each other. Over the course of the deliberately ambiguous script, they make various efforts to do so. He certainly evidences a poetic soul, though he currently works as a “sucky band” music reviewer. So he tells Woman, “I see the shape of your face, that smudge of woe in your eyes, eyes that keep catching grief and trouble wherever they land, but I can’t come up with a title for you.” She replies, “What the fuck are you talking about?” Well, so it goes with many couples.
Justin Huen plays him, Paula Christensen plays her. They’re probably following Castro’s instructions to keep it crisp, but they’re most affecting when other characters show up. One of those characters is a brutish man who was probably her previous husband, played by Christian Rummel in a frightening and haunting portrayal.
And putting in a last-minute appearance is Girl, played by Amielynn Abellera. Girl is sturdy and independent. And yet she’s clearly her parents’ child. The storytelling is so fractured, we’ll never know if she is real or the hope of her parents. In a way, that doesn’t matter. She gives the audience hope, too: that anyone can become a decent parent, that anyone can overcome the mistakes our parents made.
And yet, Girl is truly a self-reliant, savvy person, a child anyone could be proud of. So, are Man and Woman in a drug-addled state, or are they merely characters symbolic of every couple whose lives are upended by a brand-new baby and a complete lack of confidence in their parenting skills? Like a good parent, Solis knows, but he’s letting us find our own way.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 26, 2014
January 26, 2014
An Evening With Chita Rivera: A Legendary Celebration
Valley Performing Arts Center at CSUN
In my old neighborhood, any 81-year-old woman in a black dress is usually known as la strega (the witch), sporting chin hair and a warty nose and fixing il malocchio (evil eye) on terrified passers-by. Nobody back there would know what to make of a slim cougar with a dress ending above her knees and bedecked with fringe, all the better for shaking her booty and everything else while making musical amore to an enthralled throng. And never missing a lyric.
Make no mistake, though, Chita Rivera is a strega for sure. How else could she remain this devastating, after all these years and punishing shows under the agonizing tutelage of Fosse and Robbins, not to mention an auto accident that left her famous legs in shambles?
Whatever her black arts stem from, she turned them to pure gold in an 80-minute supper club–like appearance at Cal State Northridge’s lovely Valley Performing Arts Center on Jan. 25. There was a minimum of patter and a maximum dosage of numbers from her branded shows—including Bye Bye Birdie, West Side Story, The Rink, Kiss of the Spider Woman, and of course Chicago—from which she performed “All That Jazz” and the “Nowadays” duet (for the latter she kept dropping, hilariously, into a spot-on imitation of partner Gwen Verdon’s unmistakable throaty, scratchy vibrato). Musical director–percussionist Michael Croiter, pianist Michael Patrick Walker, and bassist Jim Donica backed her up subtly and deftly.
If you missed this one night attraction, fear not: She says she’s scheduled to star in yet another new Kander and Ebb effort. (Lyricist Fred Ebb’s death in 2004 certainly hasn’t slowed his career down any.) The Visit will play the Williamstown Theater Festival this summer, and probably Broadway or the Ahmanson thereafter. No matter what happens to that vehicle, Saturday night made it clear Ms. Rivera will continue to reign as AARP’s Queen of Latter-year Accomplishments, the Energizer Bunny of showbiz. She just keeps going…and going…and going….
Valley Performing Arts Center at CSUN
In my old neighborhood, any 81-year-old woman in a black dress is usually known as la strega (the witch), sporting chin hair and a warty nose and fixing il malocchio (evil eye) on terrified passers-by. Nobody back there would know what to make of a slim cougar with a dress ending above her knees and bedecked with fringe, all the better for shaking her booty and everything else while making musical amore to an enthralled throng. And never missing a lyric.
Make no mistake, though, Chita Rivera is a strega for sure. How else could she remain this devastating, after all these years and punishing shows under the agonizing tutelage of Fosse and Robbins, not to mention an auto accident that left her famous legs in shambles?
Whatever her black arts stem from, she turned them to pure gold in an 80-minute supper club–like appearance at Cal State Northridge’s lovely Valley Performing Arts Center on Jan. 25. There was a minimum of patter and a maximum dosage of numbers from her branded shows—including Bye Bye Birdie, West Side Story, The Rink, Kiss of the Spider Woman, and of course Chicago—from which she performed “All That Jazz” and the “Nowadays” duet (for the latter she kept dropping, hilariously, into a spot-on imitation of partner Gwen Verdon’s unmistakable throaty, scratchy vibrato). Musical director–percussionist Michael Croiter, pianist Michael Patrick Walker, and bassist Jim Donica backed her up subtly and deftly.
If you missed this one night attraction, fear not: She says she’s scheduled to star in yet another new Kander and Ebb effort. (Lyricist Fred Ebb’s death in 2004 certainly hasn’t slowed his career down any.) The Visit will play the Williamstown Theater Festival this summer, and probably Broadway or the Ahmanson thereafter. No matter what happens to that vehicle, Saturday night made it clear Ms. Rivera will continue to reign as AARP’s Queen of Latter-year Accomplishments, the Energizer Bunny of showbiz. She just keeps going…and going…and going….
Reviewed by Bob Verini
January 26, 2014
January 26, 2014
A Word or Two
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
As the lights come up, seated at the foot of a massive, twisting, tornado spout of piled books reaching from the stage floor almost to the nosebleed-high grid of the Ahmanson Theatre, sits a comparatively small white-haired man perusing an oversized hardcover manuscript. It doesn’t take long for the already appreciative audience to respond to his presence, an ovation so enthusiastic and long that Christopher Plummer breaks his concentration on his book and responds, without ever looking up, by simply breaking into an amused yet obviously appreciative smile.
A Word or Two, written and performed by Plummer, is the acclaimed 84-year-old thespian’s solo tribute to what he discovered early in life when he first picked up Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: that he was instantly hooked and knew in his lifetime “words would be my master and I their humble slave.” Forever, his world changed. He was no longer just the “Dutch elm disease on my family tree,” bored with the solemnity of growing up in his native Toronto, a place, he tells us, so square even the female impersonators are women. From his adolescent windmill-searching quest to drink in all the wonders of the world offered in books, beginning with Carroll and J.M. Barrie and Kenneth Grahame, would emerge one of the most distinguished actors of our time. Today, all these decades later, not an ounce of his youthful exuberance has perceptibly dimmed.
For 90 glorious minutes, Plummer offers far more than a word or two. From his bursts of childhood excitement tumbling along with Alice and the rabbit on her adventure through the looking glass, to transferring into full classically trained voice to celebrate his old pal the Bard, to honoring passages from Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas, Kipling, Milne, Byron, Auden, Nabokov, and Dickenson, the speed with which he conjures each passage, subtly capturing each mood and vocal pattern from one character to the next, is uncanny in its total seamlessness.
No matter how many times one might have heard some of these pieces spoken with traditional reverence and solemnity, Plummer finds a fresh, electric, zealous new approach in his presentation of each passage. This is further demonstrated by breaking into a Gallic boyhood song accompanied by a jaunty little dance, morphing into a conflicted but deliciously urbane Devil from Shaw’s Man and Superman, commemorating the dryly humorous musings of Stephen Leacock, or donning oversized sunglasses and a fluttery fan to morph into a fey Southern-accented King Herod—perhaps the first time anyone has breathed real life into the Bible in this critic’s lifetime.
A Word or Two is a testament to the “music, the color, the intoxication of words,” as Plummer preaches to his already rapt choir. Director Des McAnuff’s austere staging complements Plummer’s quiet eloquence at every turn without ever getting in the way of his ability to sweep us into his stories without need of costumes and props. Robert Brill’s spare but elegant set adds perfectly to the minimalism, dominated by that huge, almost kinetic tower of cascading books instantly reminiscent of that old Twilight Zone episode with Burgess Meredith as a despondent lone survivor wandering through a destroyed world until he discovers the book-strewn steps of a bombed-out library.
Plummer’s impressively constructed personal homage to the written word is certainly magnificent—and it’s also thrilling he can so successfully share his lifelong fervency for literature with those fortunate enough to experience it live. But it is also just by osmosis a tribute to one of our era’s greatest actors, a man whose shy smile when greeted with enthusiastic extended applause makes it clear he appreciates his audience as well, proving once again that in its purest form, the wonder of storytelling is our species’ most universally passionate method of collaboration.
Center Theatre Group at Ahmanson Theatre
As the lights come up, seated at the foot of a massive, twisting, tornado spout of piled books reaching from the stage floor almost to the nosebleed-high grid of the Ahmanson Theatre, sits a comparatively small white-haired man perusing an oversized hardcover manuscript. It doesn’t take long for the already appreciative audience to respond to his presence, an ovation so enthusiastic and long that Christopher Plummer breaks his concentration on his book and responds, without ever looking up, by simply breaking into an amused yet obviously appreciative smile.
A Word or Two, written and performed by Plummer, is the acclaimed 84-year-old thespian’s solo tribute to what he discovered early in life when he first picked up Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: that he was instantly hooked and knew in his lifetime “words would be my master and I their humble slave.” Forever, his world changed. He was no longer just the “Dutch elm disease on my family tree,” bored with the solemnity of growing up in his native Toronto, a place, he tells us, so square even the female impersonators are women. From his adolescent windmill-searching quest to drink in all the wonders of the world offered in books, beginning with Carroll and J.M. Barrie and Kenneth Grahame, would emerge one of the most distinguished actors of our time. Today, all these decades later, not an ounce of his youthful exuberance has perceptibly dimmed.
For 90 glorious minutes, Plummer offers far more than a word or two. From his bursts of childhood excitement tumbling along with Alice and the rabbit on her adventure through the looking glass, to transferring into full classically trained voice to celebrate his old pal the Bard, to honoring passages from Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas, Kipling, Milne, Byron, Auden, Nabokov, and Dickenson, the speed with which he conjures each passage, subtly capturing each mood and vocal pattern from one character to the next, is uncanny in its total seamlessness.
No matter how many times one might have heard some of these pieces spoken with traditional reverence and solemnity, Plummer finds a fresh, electric, zealous new approach in his presentation of each passage. This is further demonstrated by breaking into a Gallic boyhood song accompanied by a jaunty little dance, morphing into a conflicted but deliciously urbane Devil from Shaw’s Man and Superman, commemorating the dryly humorous musings of Stephen Leacock, or donning oversized sunglasses and a fluttery fan to morph into a fey Southern-accented King Herod—perhaps the first time anyone has breathed real life into the Bible in this critic’s lifetime.
A Word or Two is a testament to the “music, the color, the intoxication of words,” as Plummer preaches to his already rapt choir. Director Des McAnuff’s austere staging complements Plummer’s quiet eloquence at every turn without ever getting in the way of his ability to sweep us into his stories without need of costumes and props. Robert Brill’s spare but elegant set adds perfectly to the minimalism, dominated by that huge, almost kinetic tower of cascading books instantly reminiscent of that old Twilight Zone episode with Burgess Meredith as a despondent lone survivor wandering through a destroyed world until he discovers the book-strewn steps of a bombed-out library.
Plummer’s impressively constructed personal homage to the written word is certainly magnificent—and it’s also thrilling he can so successfully share his lifelong fervency for literature with those fortunate enough to experience it live. But it is also just by osmosis a tribute to one of our era’s greatest actors, a man whose shy smile when greeted with enthusiastic extended applause makes it clear he appreciates his audience as well, proving once again that in its purest form, the wonder of storytelling is our species’ most universally passionate method of collaboration.
Reviewed by Travis Michael Holder
January 25, 2014
January 25, 2014
An Iliad
The Broad Stage
An Iliad, at Santa Monica’s Broad Stage, is a staggering theatrical event, and if you’re reading this you doubtless have an interest in such things and should purchase a ticket without delay. Actor Denis O’Hare (American Horror Story; True Blood; Broadway’s Take Me Out) and director Lisa Peterson (The Geffen’s The Escort and CTG’s Water & Power) have distilled a crackerjack 100-minute narrative out of Homer’s epic, one which yields potent commentary on war and the men who fight wars, even as it just plain enthralls.
The enveloping conceit is O’Hare as a wandering storyteller, an eternal Homer forced by the gods to keep retelling his tale until such time as humanity turns away from its deadly belligerence, and you can guess how soon that’s likely to be. Wearily bitter at having to recount the same sorry events over and over, he still can’t help but get caught up in their excitement; and the resulting tension—between his divine curse and the thrills of the moment—makes An Iliad more than just a historical monodrama. It’s a genuine portrait of a tormented soul touching all emotional bases, and coming to epiphany before he’s through.
He focuses on a period late in the Greeks’ assault on Troy, though we’re treated to flashbacks of exactly how the conflict began, the better to contrast its early optimism with the doldrums of a years-long siege. The main tale takes in the vain quarrel between Greek commanders Agamemnon and Achilles, and the latter’s snotty refusal to continue fighting, which opens the door to Trojan battle advantages. Then follow in mournful succession the deaths of Achilles’s favorite Patroclus and Troy’s favorite son Hector, and the climactic event: Trojan King Priam’s humbling of himself before Achilles to win for his son a proper burial.
Troy screenwriter David Benioff found this sequence of events tailor-made for drama, and it continues to work magic here. O’Hare and Peterson find opportunities to dramatize war’s follies and its thrills, highlighting incidents in which the battlefield brings out both the best and the worst in people.
At the same time, they are quite willing to depart from Robert Fagles’s beautiful translation at key junctures, to hit a 2014 audience between the eyes with why this classic remains relevant to us, as when our Homer substitutes American cities and towns, giving their boys to a glorious cause, for Greek ones. Most affectingly, the narrator lurches into a chronological litany of every major and minor war since Paris stole Helen from Menelaus; the sheer number takes our breath away. Most wittily, he illustrates why monarchs can’t easily stop the conflicts they start with analogy to stubborn shoppers stuck in a supermarket queue, who refuse to move because if they do, what did all of that previous waiting mean?
O’Hare is an indefatigable narrator, and those who know him as an actor will both notice some of his characteristic tics (that self-deprecating head shake, for instance) and admire how much he stretches in these roles. He works his ass off, though Olympus takes pity on him and permits the assistance of bassist-percussionist Brian Ellington. No relation to Duke, presumably, but the sideman brings first-class musicianship to enhance the drama. The spellbinder of “Take the ‘A’ Train” would be proud of his namesake.
The Broad Stage
An Iliad, at Santa Monica’s Broad Stage, is a staggering theatrical event, and if you’re reading this you doubtless have an interest in such things and should purchase a ticket without delay. Actor Denis O’Hare (American Horror Story; True Blood; Broadway’s Take Me Out) and director Lisa Peterson (The Geffen’s The Escort and CTG’s Water & Power) have distilled a crackerjack 100-minute narrative out of Homer’s epic, one which yields potent commentary on war and the men who fight wars, even as it just plain enthralls.
The enveloping conceit is O’Hare as a wandering storyteller, an eternal Homer forced by the gods to keep retelling his tale until such time as humanity turns away from its deadly belligerence, and you can guess how soon that’s likely to be. Wearily bitter at having to recount the same sorry events over and over, he still can’t help but get caught up in their excitement; and the resulting tension—between his divine curse and the thrills of the moment—makes An Iliad more than just a historical monodrama. It’s a genuine portrait of a tormented soul touching all emotional bases, and coming to epiphany before he’s through.
He focuses on a period late in the Greeks’ assault on Troy, though we’re treated to flashbacks of exactly how the conflict began, the better to contrast its early optimism with the doldrums of a years-long siege. The main tale takes in the vain quarrel between Greek commanders Agamemnon and Achilles, and the latter’s snotty refusal to continue fighting, which opens the door to Trojan battle advantages. Then follow in mournful succession the deaths of Achilles’s favorite Patroclus and Troy’s favorite son Hector, and the climactic event: Trojan King Priam’s humbling of himself before Achilles to win for his son a proper burial.
Troy screenwriter David Benioff found this sequence of events tailor-made for drama, and it continues to work magic here. O’Hare and Peterson find opportunities to dramatize war’s follies and its thrills, highlighting incidents in which the battlefield brings out both the best and the worst in people.
At the same time, they are quite willing to depart from Robert Fagles’s beautiful translation at key junctures, to hit a 2014 audience between the eyes with why this classic remains relevant to us, as when our Homer substitutes American cities and towns, giving their boys to a glorious cause, for Greek ones. Most affectingly, the narrator lurches into a chronological litany of every major and minor war since Paris stole Helen from Menelaus; the sheer number takes our breath away. Most wittily, he illustrates why monarchs can’t easily stop the conflicts they start with analogy to stubborn shoppers stuck in a supermarket queue, who refuse to move because if they do, what did all of that previous waiting mean?
O’Hare is an indefatigable narrator, and those who know him as an actor will both notice some of his characteristic tics (that self-deprecating head shake, for instance) and admire how much he stretches in these roles. He works his ass off, though Olympus takes pity on him and permits the assistance of bassist-percussionist Brian Ellington. No relation to Duke, presumably, but the sideman brings first-class musicianship to enhance the drama. The spellbinder of “Take the ‘A’ Train” would be proud of his namesake.
Review by Bob Verini
January 24, 2014
January 24, 2014
The
Gospel According to Thomas Jefferson, Charles Dickens, and Count Leo
Tolstoy: Discord
Noho Arts Center
History’s great minds might agree on some things. But that wouldn’t make a very interesting play, and they probably wouldn’t agree on much. In this world premiere script, playwright Scott Carter postulates a meeting among—as his title indicates—our Constitution’s main framer, 19th-century England’s most-celebrated male novelist, and Russia’s perhaps greatest novelist ever. Heady stuff, right?
Speaking of heady, Carter introduces the play’s three characters via the sound of a pounding pulse and blasts of redness, as each enters a locked chamber. If we were looking for hints, we might suspect we were watching a stroke of geniuses.
Each man claims to be dead, each insisting this is the instant after his interment. Each, as history and the play tell us, died 40 or so years apart. Each enters this vast, brightly lit room, wondering aloud where he is and what’s expected of him.
They don’t politely introduce themselves. Again, not an interesting play. More tellingly, however, each possesses a massive ego, so shouldn’t the others know him? Their bantering getting them nowhere, they agree to try to agree about where they are and why. As long as they’re stuck together, they may as well continue a project each began long ago. So the three men of thought will collaborate on a joint gospel, telling the “true” story of Christ. Each is a detailed wordsmith, and it’s only 2,000 years after the fact. That ought to go well.
They can’t even agree on the first word. Does the Greek logos translate as word or spirit or reason? As they debate and insult and debunk and create, they reveal a bit about the creative process, a bit about religion, and a great deal about human frailty. The three editors chopping at it, without the joys of creativity and poetic license, their first draft is dry as dust, if factual.
Along their way, they turn to self-scrutiny and realize each appears here not on the eve of his death but at a point in his life when there’s still time to “do the right thing.” It turns out self-awareness is a mighty powerful spiritual tool. As consciousness dawns, each writes freely—confessing, if you will, or journaling.
Directed by Matt August, a superb ensemble brings the three men to vivacious life. Larry Cedar’s Jefferson preens and ponders as he chips away at his ego and that of the others. David Melville’s Dickens is exactly as we’d picture him: a wordsmith of many words, friendly as long as he can be the alpha writer. Armin Shimerman’s Tolstoy is forced to face his own dualities, intellectual and impish, crusty and hilarious.
The intriguing setting is designed by Takeshi Kata, lit to happy brightness by Luke Moyer. Costume designer Ann Closs-Farley tells us nearly as much as Carter about the men—the diplomatic Jefferson, the theatrical Dickens, and the wannabe-peasant Tolstoy—writers, thinkers, influencers, who are nonetheless susceptible to life.
Noho Arts Center
History’s great minds might agree on some things. But that wouldn’t make a very interesting play, and they probably wouldn’t agree on much. In this world premiere script, playwright Scott Carter postulates a meeting among—as his title indicates—our Constitution’s main framer, 19th-century England’s most-celebrated male novelist, and Russia’s perhaps greatest novelist ever. Heady stuff, right?
Speaking of heady, Carter introduces the play’s three characters via the sound of a pounding pulse and blasts of redness, as each enters a locked chamber. If we were looking for hints, we might suspect we were watching a stroke of geniuses.
Each man claims to be dead, each insisting this is the instant after his interment. Each, as history and the play tell us, died 40 or so years apart. Each enters this vast, brightly lit room, wondering aloud where he is and what’s expected of him.
They don’t politely introduce themselves. Again, not an interesting play. More tellingly, however, each possesses a massive ego, so shouldn’t the others know him? Their bantering getting them nowhere, they agree to try to agree about where they are and why. As long as they’re stuck together, they may as well continue a project each began long ago. So the three men of thought will collaborate on a joint gospel, telling the “true” story of Christ. Each is a detailed wordsmith, and it’s only 2,000 years after the fact. That ought to go well.
They can’t even agree on the first word. Does the Greek logos translate as word or spirit or reason? As they debate and insult and debunk and create, they reveal a bit about the creative process, a bit about religion, and a great deal about human frailty. The three editors chopping at it, without the joys of creativity and poetic license, their first draft is dry as dust, if factual.
Along their way, they turn to self-scrutiny and realize each appears here not on the eve of his death but at a point in his life when there’s still time to “do the right thing.” It turns out self-awareness is a mighty powerful spiritual tool. As consciousness dawns, each writes freely—confessing, if you will, or journaling.
Directed by Matt August, a superb ensemble brings the three men to vivacious life. Larry Cedar’s Jefferson preens and ponders as he chips away at his ego and that of the others. David Melville’s Dickens is exactly as we’d picture him: a wordsmith of many words, friendly as long as he can be the alpha writer. Armin Shimerman’s Tolstoy is forced to face his own dualities, intellectual and impish, crusty and hilarious.
The intriguing setting is designed by Takeshi Kata, lit to happy brightness by Luke Moyer. Costume designer Ann Closs-Farley tells us nearly as much as Carter about the men—the diplomatic Jefferson, the theatrical Dickens, and the wannabe-peasant Tolstoy—writers, thinkers, influencers, who are nonetheless susceptible to life.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 23, 2014
January 23, 2014
Changes in the Mating Strategies of White People
The Lounge Theatre
In an evolving world of technological gadgetry, it’s only natural that mankind would use such tools to replace the old-fashioned routine known as “courting.” Here, debuting playwright Solange Castro follows the tribulations of two diametrically opposed couples at a Seattle-based, coffee-chain outlet. Texting, cellphone calls, and the requisite laptop replace initial human interaction. The result is a journey of extremes. On one hand, sharply crafted, extremely witty dialogue highlights one of Castro’s stories, while the other seems almost, if not completely, unnecessary in its banality.
Director Craig Anton makes the best of this somewhat blurry pair of plotlines throughout this one-act’s 70 minutes. His choice of leading actors works very well for the tale of Jade and John, who, having met online, are coming face to face for the first time. Abigail Marlowe and William Nicol play off each other with excellent timing and chemistry. Here, Castro’s dialogue couldn’t be better as the two spar. Adding fuel to the fire, she introduces John’s boss, Dirk, a self-described “adoring alpha male,” brought to life with delicious abandon by Brian Cousins. The conflict among these three characters would have been basis enough for an entire script.
On the flip side however, Gloria Charles and Kim Estes play a middle-aged couple on the precipice of a divorce. He asked for it. She signed the papers. Now, he has changed his mind. Despite the obvious talents of these two actors, the story goes nowhere, even with the rather amusing cameo appearance of the couple’s therapist-in-need-of-a-therapist, portrayed by Sarah Underwood Saviano. And given the fact that it’s never made clear what race has to do with this change in mating strategies, Charles’s and Estes’s African-American heritage seems obligatory in order to justify Castro’s lengthy title for her piece. Young people, maybe, but white?
Amanda Knehans’s scenic design works as well as it can, considering that this supposedly public setting is devoid of employees and the customers retrieve their obviously empty cups from a side table. And although Charles’s character makes it clear that the liquid she tosses at her husband is water, all credulity is lost when Jade tosses a newly made espresso, again clearly water, in John’s face without scalding him. On a welcome high note are the musical interludes chosen by Anton and sound designer Peter Carlstedt. Upbeat and snappy, these segues assist greatly in covering rather lengthy breaks between scenes.
The Lounge Theatre
In an evolving world of technological gadgetry, it’s only natural that mankind would use such tools to replace the old-fashioned routine known as “courting.” Here, debuting playwright Solange Castro follows the tribulations of two diametrically opposed couples at a Seattle-based, coffee-chain outlet. Texting, cellphone calls, and the requisite laptop replace initial human interaction. The result is a journey of extremes. On one hand, sharply crafted, extremely witty dialogue highlights one of Castro’s stories, while the other seems almost, if not completely, unnecessary in its banality.
Director Craig Anton makes the best of this somewhat blurry pair of plotlines throughout this one-act’s 70 minutes. His choice of leading actors works very well for the tale of Jade and John, who, having met online, are coming face to face for the first time. Abigail Marlowe and William Nicol play off each other with excellent timing and chemistry. Here, Castro’s dialogue couldn’t be better as the two spar. Adding fuel to the fire, she introduces John’s boss, Dirk, a self-described “adoring alpha male,” brought to life with delicious abandon by Brian Cousins. The conflict among these three characters would have been basis enough for an entire script.
On the flip side however, Gloria Charles and Kim Estes play a middle-aged couple on the precipice of a divorce. He asked for it. She signed the papers. Now, he has changed his mind. Despite the obvious talents of these two actors, the story goes nowhere, even with the rather amusing cameo appearance of the couple’s therapist-in-need-of-a-therapist, portrayed by Sarah Underwood Saviano. And given the fact that it’s never made clear what race has to do with this change in mating strategies, Charles’s and Estes’s African-American heritage seems obligatory in order to justify Castro’s lengthy title for her piece. Young people, maybe, but white?
Amanda Knehans’s scenic design works as well as it can, considering that this supposedly public setting is devoid of employees and the customers retrieve their obviously empty cups from a side table. And although Charles’s character makes it clear that the liquid she tosses at her husband is water, all credulity is lost when Jade tosses a newly made espresso, again clearly water, in John’s face without scalding him. On a welcome high note are the musical interludes chosen by Anton and sound designer Peter Carlstedt. Upbeat and snappy, these segues assist greatly in covering rather lengthy breaks between scenes.
Reviewed by Dink O’Neal
January 22, 2014
January 22, 2014
Funny Money
Torrance Theatre Company
For those who like protracted-lie farces, British playwright Ray Cooney is a master, and this one is a classic. In it, an average Joe weaves a tangled web, which gets unwound some two hours later, minus the intermission. The action is set in 1982 London, where Henry Perkins (Tom Juarez) arrives home from work on the evening of his birthday. In his hand is a briefcase he mistakenly grabbed instead of his own. It contains £735,000 (well over $1 million).
Cash in hand, Henry wants to immediately flee, preferably to Barcelona. His wife, Jean (Jennifer Faneuff), however, is a homebody with no interest in leaving their comfy life. Besides, says the practical and not yet inebriated Jean, “It’s not our money.” So the dreamer and the realist are poised for theatrical battle. This battle would make a fascinating discussion if recounted by a playwright like, say, Arthur Miller. But this is farce, so Cooney needs the arrival of outsiders to introduce mainstays of the genre: mistaken identities, much swapping of briefcases, people sequestered in various rooms, and funny foreign accents.
Surprisingly amenable to any of Henry’s plans are the Perkins’s friends Vic (Rene Scheys) and Betty (Kristina Teves). Sure, they’ll pretend to be in-laws and relatives of in-laws from Australia or wherever—in Betty’s case because this is more fun than watching these things on the telly, and in Vic’s case because that’s what friends are for. Ramping up the action is the arrival of police detective Davenport (David McGee). He, however, thinks Henry is guilty of “solicitation” in the men’s restroom of a pub, not theft.
Next comes cabbie Bill (Ben Hackney), primed to take someone, anyone, to the airport, whether bound for Barcelona or Australia, but who sticks around to pop in when playwright Cooney needs him. A second police detective, Slater (Josh Aguilar), then arrives to inform Jean that one Henry Perkins has been fished out of the river, presumably killed gangland style. Slater brings with him Henry’s briefcase, the one with paperwork and half a sandwich. Desperate to keep the money, the very much alive Henry concocts lie upon lie, making up names and familial relationships for those in the room.
By the end of the evening, Jean still wants to stay home. But someone else might want to go with Henry. This brings up care of the Perkins’s cat, which itself leads to innumerable puns about a female body part.
Despite director Margaret Schugt’s work to ensure the evening builds at a perfectly shaped pace and remains lively, indeed manic, the plot drags at this point. Various briefcases end up being moved around like an outsized game of Monty. Schugt choreographs the physical comedy to fine detail, including gunshots that pop artwork off the walls. She handles sightlines for the two-sided seating arrangement of the audience without making any of the blocking look forced.
The “family” members tend to jump under a blanket on the couch to hide the various briefcases. This leads to Cooney’s rather overworked refrain, “hanky-panky under the blanky.” Fortunately, the goofily guilty expressions of those under the blanket can make the joke funny.
Indeed, those expressions carry the night, including Juarez’s Cheshire grin because Henry thrives on the discord, and Faneuff’s slightly pained mien because Jean must self-medicate. Scheys seems to have been taught acting by Monty Python, while Aguilar remains comedically imperturbable as Slater despite being clad in a frilly apron and clutching a flowery tea set.
Still, one question remains unanswered: Why do so many guests in that house presume the right to answer the ringing phone? Forgive them, it’s farce.
Torrance Theatre Company
For those who like protracted-lie farces, British playwright Ray Cooney is a master, and this one is a classic. In it, an average Joe weaves a tangled web, which gets unwound some two hours later, minus the intermission. The action is set in 1982 London, where Henry Perkins (Tom Juarez) arrives home from work on the evening of his birthday. In his hand is a briefcase he mistakenly grabbed instead of his own. It contains £735,000 (well over $1 million).
Cash in hand, Henry wants to immediately flee, preferably to Barcelona. His wife, Jean (Jennifer Faneuff), however, is a homebody with no interest in leaving their comfy life. Besides, says the practical and not yet inebriated Jean, “It’s not our money.” So the dreamer and the realist are poised for theatrical battle. This battle would make a fascinating discussion if recounted by a playwright like, say, Arthur Miller. But this is farce, so Cooney needs the arrival of outsiders to introduce mainstays of the genre: mistaken identities, much swapping of briefcases, people sequestered in various rooms, and funny foreign accents.
Surprisingly amenable to any of Henry’s plans are the Perkins’s friends Vic (Rene Scheys) and Betty (Kristina Teves). Sure, they’ll pretend to be in-laws and relatives of in-laws from Australia or wherever—in Betty’s case because this is more fun than watching these things on the telly, and in Vic’s case because that’s what friends are for. Ramping up the action is the arrival of police detective Davenport (David McGee). He, however, thinks Henry is guilty of “solicitation” in the men’s restroom of a pub, not theft.
Next comes cabbie Bill (Ben Hackney), primed to take someone, anyone, to the airport, whether bound for Barcelona or Australia, but who sticks around to pop in when playwright Cooney needs him. A second police detective, Slater (Josh Aguilar), then arrives to inform Jean that one Henry Perkins has been fished out of the river, presumably killed gangland style. Slater brings with him Henry’s briefcase, the one with paperwork and half a sandwich. Desperate to keep the money, the very much alive Henry concocts lie upon lie, making up names and familial relationships for those in the room.
By the end of the evening, Jean still wants to stay home. But someone else might want to go with Henry. This brings up care of the Perkins’s cat, which itself leads to innumerable puns about a female body part.
Despite director Margaret Schugt’s work to ensure the evening builds at a perfectly shaped pace and remains lively, indeed manic, the plot drags at this point. Various briefcases end up being moved around like an outsized game of Monty. Schugt choreographs the physical comedy to fine detail, including gunshots that pop artwork off the walls. She handles sightlines for the two-sided seating arrangement of the audience without making any of the blocking look forced.
The “family” members tend to jump under a blanket on the couch to hide the various briefcases. This leads to Cooney’s rather overworked refrain, “hanky-panky under the blanky.” Fortunately, the goofily guilty expressions of those under the blanket can make the joke funny.
Indeed, those expressions carry the night, including Juarez’s Cheshire grin because Henry thrives on the discord, and Faneuff’s slightly pained mien because Jean must self-medicate. Scheys seems to have been taught acting by Monty Python, while Aguilar remains comedically imperturbable as Slater despite being clad in a frilly apron and clutching a flowery tea set.
Still, one question remains unanswered: Why do so many guests in that house presume the right to answer the ringing phone? Forgive them, it’s farce.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 20, 2014
January 20, 2014
Day Trader
Bootleg Theater & Small American Productions
The shenanigans surrounding the life of failed LA comedy writer Ron (playwright Eric Rudnick at the performance reviewed, replacing Danton Stone) can be likened to a more low-keyed version of Henri-Georges Clouzot’s macabre 1955 French film classic, Les Diaboliques. Finally having hit bottom in all aspects of his life, Ron’s self-flagellating narcissism finally has led him to concoct a jaundiced plan to create a successful existence for himself, which entails manipulating the lives of his wife (unseen); his 14-year-old daughter, Juliana (Brighid Fleming); his best friend, Phil (Tim Meinelschmidt); and his winsome mistress, Bridget (Murielle Zucker). This 90-minute one-act plays out as if it were meant more for the screen than the stage.
While cleverly executed, Rudnick’s dramatic throughline fails to generate enough thematic substance to justify the outcome. There is just too much exposition that has to be revealed by play’s end in order to fill in the gaps. A complementary underscore to the proceedings is Ron’s recurring audio lessons in the risky world of financial securities day trading (voiced by Mo Gaffney) that adds an aura of impending doom. Also punctuating the action and adding tension are the offstage percussive accents of drummer Josh Imlay.
Under helmer Steven Williford’s astute, cleanly paced staging, the cast offers impressive credibility to Ron’s chaotic journey. Although Rudnick had a few timing issues with his lines, he exudes a perfect amalgam of wimpish insecurity and dogged determination as Ron insinuates himself into, rather than taking command of, the situations at hand. He is counterbalanced by screenwriter pal Phil, portrayed to the glib hilt by Meinelschmidt, who prides himself in always being in command.
However, it is the ladies in the ensemble who steal the spotlight. Zuker’s Bridget molds herself into Ron’s psyche, seamlessly taking on whatever role necessary to make viable his risky plan. She then segues into a tangible portrayal of a soul in crises when having to deal with Ron’s teenage daughter who has weapons of emotional warfare Bridget is not prepared to combat.
It is easy to believe that Fleming’s Juliana has lived a life of constant emotional confusion, existing within a monumentally unhappy marriage. Her every utterance is infused with doubt and distrust. But when she is sure of her ground, Juliana glows within the process of totally vanquishing her foe. Even while triumphing, however, Fleming gives sad credence to the playwright’s inference that Ron’s biggest failure is robbing Juliana of the ability to be a viable human being.
Day Trader plays out on Stephen Gifford’s attention-getting modular set pieces that morph into various environments with the assistance of four hardworking stagehands, complemented by the moody lighting of Jared Sayeg.
Bootleg Theater & Small American Productions
The shenanigans surrounding the life of failed LA comedy writer Ron (playwright Eric Rudnick at the performance reviewed, replacing Danton Stone) can be likened to a more low-keyed version of Henri-Georges Clouzot’s macabre 1955 French film classic, Les Diaboliques. Finally having hit bottom in all aspects of his life, Ron’s self-flagellating narcissism finally has led him to concoct a jaundiced plan to create a successful existence for himself, which entails manipulating the lives of his wife (unseen); his 14-year-old daughter, Juliana (Brighid Fleming); his best friend, Phil (Tim Meinelschmidt); and his winsome mistress, Bridget (Murielle Zucker). This 90-minute one-act plays out as if it were meant more for the screen than the stage.
While cleverly executed, Rudnick’s dramatic throughline fails to generate enough thematic substance to justify the outcome. There is just too much exposition that has to be revealed by play’s end in order to fill in the gaps. A complementary underscore to the proceedings is Ron’s recurring audio lessons in the risky world of financial securities day trading (voiced by Mo Gaffney) that adds an aura of impending doom. Also punctuating the action and adding tension are the offstage percussive accents of drummer Josh Imlay.
Under helmer Steven Williford’s astute, cleanly paced staging, the cast offers impressive credibility to Ron’s chaotic journey. Although Rudnick had a few timing issues with his lines, he exudes a perfect amalgam of wimpish insecurity and dogged determination as Ron insinuates himself into, rather than taking command of, the situations at hand. He is counterbalanced by screenwriter pal Phil, portrayed to the glib hilt by Meinelschmidt, who prides himself in always being in command.
However, it is the ladies in the ensemble who steal the spotlight. Zuker’s Bridget molds herself into Ron’s psyche, seamlessly taking on whatever role necessary to make viable his risky plan. She then segues into a tangible portrayal of a soul in crises when having to deal with Ron’s teenage daughter who has weapons of emotional warfare Bridget is not prepared to combat.
It is easy to believe that Fleming’s Juliana has lived a life of constant emotional confusion, existing within a monumentally unhappy marriage. Her every utterance is infused with doubt and distrust. But when she is sure of her ground, Juliana glows within the process of totally vanquishing her foe. Even while triumphing, however, Fleming gives sad credence to the playwright’s inference that Ron’s biggest failure is robbing Juliana of the ability to be a viable human being.
Day Trader plays out on Stephen Gifford’s attention-getting modular set pieces that morph into various environments with the assistance of four hardworking stagehands, complemented by the moody lighting of Jared Sayeg.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
January 19, 2014
January 19, 2014
The Twilight of Schlomo
Elephant Theatre Company
The antihero of Timothy McNeil’s play, the third work in his Hollywood Trilogy, is Richard (Jonathan Goldstein), a former standup comedian who abandoned his profession seven years ago—or perhaps it abandoned him. Now he lives in a drab one-bedroom apartment in east Hollywood and works as a wine salesman. He has a wry and skewed sense of humor, but he’s in retreat from the pain of living, devoting himself to the consumption of bourbon, wine, weed, and cocaine—but no heroin.
He calls himself Richard in his professional and private life, but confides that his real name is Schlomo. His parents met as prisoners in the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau, and they named him after a loyal fellow prisoner who helped his ailing father maintain enough of a semblance of health to save him from the ovens. Richard is also his own worst enemy: He muffed his best chance as a comic—an appearance on a late-night talk-show—from which he got himself bumped by dropping acid in the NBC limousine on the way to Burbank. He can’t deal with Burbank, he says.
In the hands of a lesser actor, Richard might seem merely an annoying, drugged-out loser with no redeeming qualities, but every time we start to feel like writing him off, Goldstein reveals enough charm, wit, vulnerability, and depth of feeling to keep us rooting for him. And there are fine performances from the rest of the cast. Lilan Bowden shines as Jonathan’s spunky stepdaughter RFK (her mother was obsessed with Bobby Kennedy), who wants to be a Jew and who tries to bring it off despite a rather unorthodox approach to Jewish ritual.
Danny Parker is persuasively—and appropriately—obnoxious as Jackson, Jonathan’s wife-beating, cocaine-dealing next-door neighbor. Nikki McCauley makes a touching figure of Lydia, Jackson’s much-abused spouse—a natural-born care-giver whose eagerness to please is not enough to protect her from his anger and violence, though it manages to penetrate Jonathan’s defenses. And Vera Cherny (alternating with Kelly Hill) brings a touch of world-weary wisdom to Jonathan’s part-time mistress, who tries to remain loyal to him, until his remote and cavalier behavior drives her away.
Director David Fofi gives the piece an impeccable and finely modulated production, on the grim black, gray, and Prussian blue set by Elephant Stageworks Design.
McNeil’s play includes his signature blend of skill, gritty realism, rueful humor, and quirky characters. How you feel about it depends ultimately on how much patience you have for the pervasive and constant onstage (presumably simulated) drug use.
Elephant Theatre Company
The antihero of Timothy McNeil’s play, the third work in his Hollywood Trilogy, is Richard (Jonathan Goldstein), a former standup comedian who abandoned his profession seven years ago—or perhaps it abandoned him. Now he lives in a drab one-bedroom apartment in east Hollywood and works as a wine salesman. He has a wry and skewed sense of humor, but he’s in retreat from the pain of living, devoting himself to the consumption of bourbon, wine, weed, and cocaine—but no heroin.
He calls himself Richard in his professional and private life, but confides that his real name is Schlomo. His parents met as prisoners in the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau, and they named him after a loyal fellow prisoner who helped his ailing father maintain enough of a semblance of health to save him from the ovens. Richard is also his own worst enemy: He muffed his best chance as a comic—an appearance on a late-night talk-show—from which he got himself bumped by dropping acid in the NBC limousine on the way to Burbank. He can’t deal with Burbank, he says.
In the hands of a lesser actor, Richard might seem merely an annoying, drugged-out loser with no redeeming qualities, but every time we start to feel like writing him off, Goldstein reveals enough charm, wit, vulnerability, and depth of feeling to keep us rooting for him. And there are fine performances from the rest of the cast. Lilan Bowden shines as Jonathan’s spunky stepdaughter RFK (her mother was obsessed with Bobby Kennedy), who wants to be a Jew and who tries to bring it off despite a rather unorthodox approach to Jewish ritual.
Danny Parker is persuasively—and appropriately—obnoxious as Jackson, Jonathan’s wife-beating, cocaine-dealing next-door neighbor. Nikki McCauley makes a touching figure of Lydia, Jackson’s much-abused spouse—a natural-born care-giver whose eagerness to please is not enough to protect her from his anger and violence, though it manages to penetrate Jonathan’s defenses. And Vera Cherny (alternating with Kelly Hill) brings a touch of world-weary wisdom to Jonathan’s part-time mistress, who tries to remain loyal to him, until his remote and cavalier behavior drives her away.
Director David Fofi gives the piece an impeccable and finely modulated production, on the grim black, gray, and Prussian blue set by Elephant Stageworks Design.
McNeil’s play includes his signature blend of skill, gritty realism, rueful humor, and quirky characters. How you feel about it depends ultimately on how much patience you have for the pervasive and constant onstage (presumably simulated) drug use.
Reviewed by Neal Weaver
January 19, 2014
January 19, 2014
I’ll Go On
Gate Theatre at Kirk Douglas Theatre
An interesting irony about Samuel Beckett is that while he wrote brilliantly about everybody’s anguish, that writing is hardly to everybody’s taste. This is especially true of his seminal trio of novels from the 1950s, variously dealing with man’s relationship to death and the infinite. Malloy; Malone Dies; and The Unnamable are long, dense, and largely unparagraphed, tough for even the most fanatical of English majors to work their way through. But their first-person prose has proved catnip to many an adapter or performer. It seduces them, then emboldens them; “Isn’t there some way to bring these allusive, even cryptic texts to full life on a stage?” they ask themselves.
The answer is frequently “Yes.” Eight years ago, during the Beckett centenary, the gifted Irish actor Conor Lovett, aided and directed by his wife Judy Hegarty, reduced The Beckett Trilogy, as they called it, to a single evening of three hours and 25 minutes, which they brought to UCLA’s Freud Playhouse. At the time, I wrote that I found it “an unmissable marathon solo performance that brings out all the themes and poignancy of this supreme poet of mankind at its lowest ebb.”
Poignant and fascinating it was, but I can’t say that at less than half the length (90 minutes) of the Lovett Trilogy, Barry McGovern’s new theater piece—currently on display at the Kirk Douglas Theatre under the title I’ll Go On—lacks any of the qualities that were on display among the Bruins. Indeed, 45 minutes of Malloy, followed by an intermission, followed by 15 to 20 minutes of each of the other novels—shaved rigorously by the actor and Gerry Dukes—proves just enough to get an adequate taste of the Beckett worldview, including most of the jokes and a goodly amount of the key imagery.
So wonderful in his tag teaming with Alan Mandell last year in the Taper’s Waiting for Godot, McGovern possesses a masterful command of Beckett’s words, which begin tart and descriptive in Molloy and turn manic and practically logorrheic by the time the otherworldly Unnamable comes along. His breath control and phrasing are a lesson in acting in themselves, let alone the uses to which they’re put as he introduces us, in order, to three distinctive men.
Molloy is a mother’s boy who retains a wee bit o’ faith in mankind, as evidenced by a continued, if reluctant, willingness to interact with them. Next, the cranky Malone fidgets on his deathbed, eager to consign the human race to oblivion but uneasy with the slowness with which his own oblivion seems to be swallowing him up. Finally, an unnamed, undefined speaker stands, or crouches, at some seeming abyss, gradually letting go of all sense of humanity and self altogether.
Does it sound like effort, like homework, to watch? It really shouldn’t. Especially at this length and with this storyteller in full control, in an evening shaped dexterously by Colm Ó Briain, I suspect that most theatergoers will find a taste of this 20th-century master not just palatable but downright delicious.
Gate Theatre at Kirk Douglas Theatre
An interesting irony about Samuel Beckett is that while he wrote brilliantly about everybody’s anguish, that writing is hardly to everybody’s taste. This is especially true of his seminal trio of novels from the 1950s, variously dealing with man’s relationship to death and the infinite. Malloy; Malone Dies; and The Unnamable are long, dense, and largely unparagraphed, tough for even the most fanatical of English majors to work their way through. But their first-person prose has proved catnip to many an adapter or performer. It seduces them, then emboldens them; “Isn’t there some way to bring these allusive, even cryptic texts to full life on a stage?” they ask themselves.
The answer is frequently “Yes.” Eight years ago, during the Beckett centenary, the gifted Irish actor Conor Lovett, aided and directed by his wife Judy Hegarty, reduced The Beckett Trilogy, as they called it, to a single evening of three hours and 25 minutes, which they brought to UCLA’s Freud Playhouse. At the time, I wrote that I found it “an unmissable marathon solo performance that brings out all the themes and poignancy of this supreme poet of mankind at its lowest ebb.”
Poignant and fascinating it was, but I can’t say that at less than half the length (90 minutes) of the Lovett Trilogy, Barry McGovern’s new theater piece—currently on display at the Kirk Douglas Theatre under the title I’ll Go On—lacks any of the qualities that were on display among the Bruins. Indeed, 45 minutes of Malloy, followed by an intermission, followed by 15 to 20 minutes of each of the other novels—shaved rigorously by the actor and Gerry Dukes—proves just enough to get an adequate taste of the Beckett worldview, including most of the jokes and a goodly amount of the key imagery.
So wonderful in his tag teaming with Alan Mandell last year in the Taper’s Waiting for Godot, McGovern possesses a masterful command of Beckett’s words, which begin tart and descriptive in Molloy and turn manic and practically logorrheic by the time the otherworldly Unnamable comes along. His breath control and phrasing are a lesson in acting in themselves, let alone the uses to which they’re put as he introduces us, in order, to three distinctive men.
Molloy is a mother’s boy who retains a wee bit o’ faith in mankind, as evidenced by a continued, if reluctant, willingness to interact with them. Next, the cranky Malone fidgets on his deathbed, eager to consign the human race to oblivion but uneasy with the slowness with which his own oblivion seems to be swallowing him up. Finally, an unnamed, undefined speaker stands, or crouches, at some seeming abyss, gradually letting go of all sense of humanity and self altogether.
Does it sound like effort, like homework, to watch? It really shouldn’t. Especially at this length and with this storyteller in full control, in an evening shaped dexterously by Colm Ó Briain, I suspect that most theatergoers will find a taste of this 20th-century master not just palatable but downright delicious.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
January 17, 2014
January 17, 2014
Jason and the Argonauts
Visible Fictions at Lovelace Studio Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
Stagecraft and education combine here, as two performers from Scotland’s Visible Fictions theater company reenact the myth of the orphaned ancient Greek prince and the brave sailors who went with him to the ends of the Earth, looking to bring their nation peace, justice, freedom, and, Jason hopes, fun. The myth, needless to say, is shortened, simplified, and sanitized here, as written by Robert Forrest, directed by Douglas Irvine.
At the top of the show, Josh (Neil Thomas) arrives onstage at a run, full of energy and excitement. This show, he promises his audience, will include action, adventure, heartache, and monsters. Andy (Tim Settle) arrives onstage, too, to Josh’s surprise. Josh had planned to play around alone. But isn’t it better to share escapades with a best friend? Andy promises the audience that Jason and the princess will kiss. “We got rid of that part,” says Josh. Whew! No icky stuff!
Andy and Josh playact, just like kids do, with imagination and intensity, using dolls—er, action figures—to represent other characters, using a fantastic cart (designed by Robin Peoples) as their wagon and palace and ship and ocean where clashing rocks clash. Yes, the lighting (Paul Ancell) exquisitely bathes the action, sound effects and music (Daniel Padden) crisply augment the suspense, and the actors’ swordplay, though done with sticks, is likely better than a child can manage. But the childlike sense of play on this stage is immensely welcoming, relatable, and fun for all to watch, in the best of old-fashioned ways.
Settle and Thomas use the slightest of vocal variations and subtle changes in physicality to differentiate kings from princesses, to delineate the various Argonauts. The actors’ use of shtick, or lazzi if you prefer, has the children in the audience laughing because it’s all so new, the adults in the audience laughing because it’s all so old. Beyond the fun, there are lessons to be learned here. Even princes and heroes have self-doubts and seek the help of higher powers when they’re scared.
But if you’re not afraid, you can’t be brave, we learn. And does a person succeed because of destiny, as in Jason’s case, or hard work, as in Hercules’s case?
In 65 minutes, this event packs in lively but elegant fun, an easily absorbed class in literature, gently phrased philosophical discourse, myriad modern references and sight gags, and unforgettable stagecraft. And yet, all in all, it’s just storytelling. That’s the magic of good theater.
Visible Fictions at Lovelace Studio Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts
Stagecraft and education combine here, as two performers from Scotland’s Visible Fictions theater company reenact the myth of the orphaned ancient Greek prince and the brave sailors who went with him to the ends of the Earth, looking to bring their nation peace, justice, freedom, and, Jason hopes, fun. The myth, needless to say, is shortened, simplified, and sanitized here, as written by Robert Forrest, directed by Douglas Irvine.
At the top of the show, Josh (Neil Thomas) arrives onstage at a run, full of energy and excitement. This show, he promises his audience, will include action, adventure, heartache, and monsters. Andy (Tim Settle) arrives onstage, too, to Josh’s surprise. Josh had planned to play around alone. But isn’t it better to share escapades with a best friend? Andy promises the audience that Jason and the princess will kiss. “We got rid of that part,” says Josh. Whew! No icky stuff!
Andy and Josh playact, just like kids do, with imagination and intensity, using dolls—er, action figures—to represent other characters, using a fantastic cart (designed by Robin Peoples) as their wagon and palace and ship and ocean where clashing rocks clash. Yes, the lighting (Paul Ancell) exquisitely bathes the action, sound effects and music (Daniel Padden) crisply augment the suspense, and the actors’ swordplay, though done with sticks, is likely better than a child can manage. But the childlike sense of play on this stage is immensely welcoming, relatable, and fun for all to watch, in the best of old-fashioned ways.
Settle and Thomas use the slightest of vocal variations and subtle changes in physicality to differentiate kings from princesses, to delineate the various Argonauts. The actors’ use of shtick, or lazzi if you prefer, has the children in the audience laughing because it’s all so new, the adults in the audience laughing because it’s all so old. Beyond the fun, there are lessons to be learned here. Even princes and heroes have self-doubts and seek the help of higher powers when they’re scared.
But if you’re not afraid, you can’t be brave, we learn. And does a person succeed because of destiny, as in Jason’s case, or hard work, as in Hercules’s case?
In 65 minutes, this event packs in lively but elegant fun, an easily absorbed class in literature, gently phrased philosophical discourse, myriad modern references and sight gags, and unforgettable stagecraft. And yet, all in all, it’s just storytelling. That’s the magic of good theater.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 17, 2014
January 17, 2014
Foxfinder
Furious Theatre Company in association with Artists Repertory Theatre at Carrie Hamilton Theatre at Pasadena Playhouse
Dawn King’s play is set in Britain, in the near future. As with all good literature, it’s meant to represent the here and now. So when an inspector arrives at a struggling farm, interrogating the farmers too inappropriately and searching the home too thoroughly, a certain Notorious Safety Administration may come to American minds. Never fear, though: The word government appears only once in King’s script.
If the accents aren’t flawless in this “rolling” US premiere—shared with Oregon’s Artists Repertory Theatre, both versions directed by Dámaso Rodriquez—at least the accents clearly delineate Irish farmers from English inspectors. Rodriguez seems to have set his production in Ireland—or Northern Ireland, if that distinction still exists in the future—with English institutional intrusion. Or perhaps farmers have been displaced and are living wherever the government tells them to. It’s that kind of world.
At the farmhouse door of Samuel and Judith Covey, on a gelid rainy night, appears William, a “foxfinder.” Since age 5, he has been trained to thoroughly search the countryside for foxes so he can rid his nation of this terrible blight. As is revealed, however, no one in the area has seen a fox in years. Nor, it seems, does valid evidence exist to show that foxes have caused the damages alleged, despite Williams pronouncements that “the beast” has endangered “the security of England’s food supply.”
At the top of the play, William insists that the Coveys show him their identification before he enters their home through that unmistakably askew doorway. For how long will the audience tolerate this machine of a man, let alone can the Coveys survive him? Before long, we want him gone, and indeed he goes, of a fashion. By then, the audience is stirred to abhor the icy intrusiveness and remorseless manipulation. Would we be strong enough to resist?
Seating is transverse, meaning the two halves of the audience face each other across the playing area, but the tension Rodriguez builds may keep eyes from wandering. The audience is quickly plunged into the sparely furnished farmhouse and its surrounding, rain-soaked woods. Lighting designer Kristeen Willis Crosser keeps the atmosphere cold and misty, at one moment bathing William in a red-orange light as he becomes a figurative fox.
This means, however, that the actors are at times barely a yard away from some of the audience members, who press in like the watchful eyes of the play’s totalitarian future. The acting work, then, is filmic: A flicker of an eye, a tightening of the throat, gives hints of the turmoil within. In portraying Judith, Sara Hennessy is almost translucent, every emotion playing gently across her face. Frail yet eternally strong, savvy yet desperate and crumbling, Judith must save the life she loves. She does so by falling into a very human trap in this dark allegory.
Shawn Lee makes Samuel tautly strung, already broken by his life, ready to latch on to any available life raft, nearly crazed—or crazy like a fox—at play’s end. Amanda Soden is a strong actor playing the seemingly weak, seemingly self-protecting neighbor. Joshua Weinstein chills as William, a figure who has undergone a lifetime of discipline to be mechanical, but who nonetheless remains human.
One thorny aspect of the evening: Furious Theatre Company has done much to make its audiences feel we are sitting in a field in Britain’s formerly green and pleasant land. The restaurant below, however, blasts sounds pretending to be music, which invades our space and continually distracts from the theatrical experience. (The sound level inside the restaurant must be intolerably high.) Ultimately, though, the artistry of Doug Newell’s sound designs and compositions triumphs, tugging us back into the horrifying totalitarian world of the play.
***We have been reliably informed that in this production the action is set in in England’s West Country.
Furious Theatre Company in association with Artists Repertory Theatre at Carrie Hamilton Theatre at Pasadena Playhouse
Dawn King’s play is set in Britain, in the near future. As with all good literature, it’s meant to represent the here and now. So when an inspector arrives at a struggling farm, interrogating the farmers too inappropriately and searching the home too thoroughly, a certain Notorious Safety Administration may come to American minds. Never fear, though: The word government appears only once in King’s script.
If the accents aren’t flawless in this “rolling” US premiere—shared with Oregon’s Artists Repertory Theatre, both versions directed by Dámaso Rodriquez—at least the accents clearly delineate Irish farmers from English inspectors. Rodriguez seems to have set his production in Ireland—or Northern Ireland, if that distinction still exists in the future—with English institutional intrusion. Or perhaps farmers have been displaced and are living wherever the government tells them to. It’s that kind of world.
At the farmhouse door of Samuel and Judith Covey, on a gelid rainy night, appears William, a “foxfinder.” Since age 5, he has been trained to thoroughly search the countryside for foxes so he can rid his nation of this terrible blight. As is revealed, however, no one in the area has seen a fox in years. Nor, it seems, does valid evidence exist to show that foxes have caused the damages alleged, despite Williams pronouncements that “the beast” has endangered “the security of England’s food supply.”
At the top of the play, William insists that the Coveys show him their identification before he enters their home through that unmistakably askew doorway. For how long will the audience tolerate this machine of a man, let alone can the Coveys survive him? Before long, we want him gone, and indeed he goes, of a fashion. By then, the audience is stirred to abhor the icy intrusiveness and remorseless manipulation. Would we be strong enough to resist?
Seating is transverse, meaning the two halves of the audience face each other across the playing area, but the tension Rodriguez builds may keep eyes from wandering. The audience is quickly plunged into the sparely furnished farmhouse and its surrounding, rain-soaked woods. Lighting designer Kristeen Willis Crosser keeps the atmosphere cold and misty, at one moment bathing William in a red-orange light as he becomes a figurative fox.
This means, however, that the actors are at times barely a yard away from some of the audience members, who press in like the watchful eyes of the play’s totalitarian future. The acting work, then, is filmic: A flicker of an eye, a tightening of the throat, gives hints of the turmoil within. In portraying Judith, Sara Hennessy is almost translucent, every emotion playing gently across her face. Frail yet eternally strong, savvy yet desperate and crumbling, Judith must save the life she loves. She does so by falling into a very human trap in this dark allegory.
Shawn Lee makes Samuel tautly strung, already broken by his life, ready to latch on to any available life raft, nearly crazed—or crazy like a fox—at play’s end. Amanda Soden is a strong actor playing the seemingly weak, seemingly self-protecting neighbor. Joshua Weinstein chills as William, a figure who has undergone a lifetime of discipline to be mechanical, but who nonetheless remains human.
One thorny aspect of the evening: Furious Theatre Company has done much to make its audiences feel we are sitting in a field in Britain’s formerly green and pleasant land. The restaurant below, however, blasts sounds pretending to be music, which invades our space and continually distracts from the theatrical experience. (The sound level inside the restaurant must be intolerably high.) Ultimately, though, the artistry of Doug Newell’s sound designs and compositions triumphs, tugging us back into the horrifying totalitarian world of the play.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 15, 2014
January 15, 2014
***We have been reliably informed that in this production the action is set in in England’s West Country.
Trudy and Max in Love
South Coast Repertory
This Zoe Kazan world premiere amounts to maybe three episodes’ worth of a romantic sitcom expanded into a 150-minute play. It would be something of a slog at any length.
The titular affair involves a bubbly, 30-ish purveyor of young-adult fiction (Aya Cash) and her soul mate, a 40-ish serious novelist (Michael Weston) who has always feared commitment and now craves it, except that his Ms. Right is already happily married to someone else. This familiar but promising premise doesn’t even get going until the very end of a long Act One. Before that comes a lot of flirtation and talk; after it follows a lot of angst and talk.
And make no mistake, talk is the key here. Kazan seems most interested in ingesting her story with every rumination about the existence, nature, and purpose of love that she’s ever come up with or derived from self-help tomes, which would be fine if something human and urgent were going on in and around the chatter.
But even the attractive, talented quartet of skilled thesps rounded up by helmer Lila Neugebauer can’t jump-start this material. Trudy and Max tack close to each other, then drift apart, then collide again with little for us to concentrate on but philosophizing and reminiscence; when the characters take action, it’s half-hearted and contrived. The straw that breaks the camel’s back for Trudy, late in Act Two, is particularly limp.
The pity of it is, Cash and Weston know how to bring literary types alive on stage. In 2012 alone, she shone as the privileged student in Seminar at the Ahmanson, while he was magnificent as the genially world-weary TV showrunner in the Taper’s Other Desert Cities. You sense their chemistry and find yourself rooting for them.
Yet, Kazan never really provides a reason for making Trudy and Max writers. Certainly they never discuss their own work or compare ideas or processes the way people in similar careers do. Their given profession seems mainly a means of having them meet and flirt in one of those clubrooms at which subscribers can get WiFi, coffee, and quiet. By the same token, Trudy’s husband, Cliff, is made an operative in a presidential campaign without inspiring any conversations about politics. His job mainly serves to keep him out of the way while she and her paramour get in some canoodling, and, of course, discussion about canoodling.
Tate Ellington and Celeste Den pop in as various Manhattan, waiters, waitresses, and tangential figures within Trudy and Max’s orbit. They’re excellent, but the one leg of the triangle we really want to see—Cliff—never appears, furthering the suspicion that Kazan doesn’t care much about exploring the full dimensionality of her given circumstances.
South Coast Repertory
This Zoe Kazan world premiere amounts to maybe three episodes’ worth of a romantic sitcom expanded into a 150-minute play. It would be something of a slog at any length.
The titular affair involves a bubbly, 30-ish purveyor of young-adult fiction (Aya Cash) and her soul mate, a 40-ish serious novelist (Michael Weston) who has always feared commitment and now craves it, except that his Ms. Right is already happily married to someone else. This familiar but promising premise doesn’t even get going until the very end of a long Act One. Before that comes a lot of flirtation and talk; after it follows a lot of angst and talk.
And make no mistake, talk is the key here. Kazan seems most interested in ingesting her story with every rumination about the existence, nature, and purpose of love that she’s ever come up with or derived from self-help tomes, which would be fine if something human and urgent were going on in and around the chatter.
But even the attractive, talented quartet of skilled thesps rounded up by helmer Lila Neugebauer can’t jump-start this material. Trudy and Max tack close to each other, then drift apart, then collide again with little for us to concentrate on but philosophizing and reminiscence; when the characters take action, it’s half-hearted and contrived. The straw that breaks the camel’s back for Trudy, late in Act Two, is particularly limp.
The pity of it is, Cash and Weston know how to bring literary types alive on stage. In 2012 alone, she shone as the privileged student in Seminar at the Ahmanson, while he was magnificent as the genially world-weary TV showrunner in the Taper’s Other Desert Cities. You sense their chemistry and find yourself rooting for them.
Yet, Kazan never really provides a reason for making Trudy and Max writers. Certainly they never discuss their own work or compare ideas or processes the way people in similar careers do. Their given profession seems mainly a means of having them meet and flirt in one of those clubrooms at which subscribers can get WiFi, coffee, and quiet. By the same token, Trudy’s husband, Cliff, is made an operative in a presidential campaign without inspiring any conversations about politics. His job mainly serves to keep him out of the way while she and her paramour get in some canoodling, and, of course, discussion about canoodling.
Tate Ellington and Celeste Den pop in as various Manhattan, waiters, waitresses, and tangential figures within Trudy and Max’s orbit. They’re excellent, but the one leg of the triangle we really want to see—Cliff—never appears, furthering the suspicion that Kazan doesn’t care much about exploring the full dimensionality of her given circumstances.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
January 14, 2014
January 14, 2014
Waiting for Johnny Depp
Sabrina Goodall and K.I.S.S Theatricals at Secret Rose Theatre
The program-stated goal of K.I.S.S. Theatricals is to “present entertaining musicals with inspired stories and catchy, memorable songs.” Sadly, its presentation of this premiere one-woman tuner does not fulfill that mandate. Co-created by and starring Deedee O’Malley as career-challenged New York actor Rita Donatella, this quasi-autobiographical musical is certainly spirited, energetic, and heartfelt. Unfortunately, it is also fraught with thematic missteps, mostly unimaginative songs, and outlandish and unnecessary choreography, all underscored by a cutesy, cartoonish conceit that is strangely jarring.
The premise of Rita’s chaotic career journey (co-created by director Janet Cole Valdez) rings true. The struggling thesp, who holds down a tedious day job working in a lab, has been offered a role in an upcoming Johnny Depp film, but details remain to be work out. She just needs to keep herself available. Naturally, Rita is letting nothing stand in her way, including her dead end job (“Kiss My Ass”), selling off her belongings to stay afloat (“Craigslist”), and rationalizing the myriad excuses being offered by her agent (“Anything for My Craft”).
These songs may programmatically facilitate the storyline, but they are mere plot fodder with no inherent melodic value. It doesn’t help that music director Bettie Ross’s accompanying electronic keyboard sounds more like a tonal synthesizer than like a musical instrument. Also off-putting are the outlandishly inappropriate dance moves (staged by Zonnie Bauer) that might work with a full chorus line but not a solo performer.
A charismatic performer with good comic timing and an appealing singing voice, O’Malley is weighted down by Valdez’s overly exuberant staging, which allows the progression of scenes to beat against each other without benefit of a tonal through-line. An example of this is occurs when an abject Rita begs her unseen brother Tony for a loan to keep her from being evicted, followed by a jarringly cartoonish scene where a radiant Rita has blown the money on a shopping spree. O’Malley is also ill-served by a series of ill-fitting, unattractive costumes and a supposed New York apartment interior that looks like it was designed for a Hello Kitty display.
The pleasantly surprising moments of this production occur when O’Malley’s Rita steps out of the production cartoon and allows the audience to finally relax and be a part of her emotional journey. This occurs in Act One, when Rita is surprised by a gift bouquet of flowers from her unseen boyfriend (“Flowers From Phoenix”). However, the highlight of the work occurs in Act Two, when Rita comes to terms with her ill-conceived showbiz journey, singing a poignant duet with Tony (a prerecorded Michael Duff) about “What Really Matters” in life. In this case, having another voice to connect with is a plus for Rita and the audience.
Sabrina Goodall and K.I.S.S Theatricals at Secret Rose Theatre
The program-stated goal of K.I.S.S. Theatricals is to “present entertaining musicals with inspired stories and catchy, memorable songs.” Sadly, its presentation of this premiere one-woman tuner does not fulfill that mandate. Co-created by and starring Deedee O’Malley as career-challenged New York actor Rita Donatella, this quasi-autobiographical musical is certainly spirited, energetic, and heartfelt. Unfortunately, it is also fraught with thematic missteps, mostly unimaginative songs, and outlandish and unnecessary choreography, all underscored by a cutesy, cartoonish conceit that is strangely jarring.
The premise of Rita’s chaotic career journey (co-created by director Janet Cole Valdez) rings true. The struggling thesp, who holds down a tedious day job working in a lab, has been offered a role in an upcoming Johnny Depp film, but details remain to be work out. She just needs to keep herself available. Naturally, Rita is letting nothing stand in her way, including her dead end job (“Kiss My Ass”), selling off her belongings to stay afloat (“Craigslist”), and rationalizing the myriad excuses being offered by her agent (“Anything for My Craft”).
These songs may programmatically facilitate the storyline, but they are mere plot fodder with no inherent melodic value. It doesn’t help that music director Bettie Ross’s accompanying electronic keyboard sounds more like a tonal synthesizer than like a musical instrument. Also off-putting are the outlandishly inappropriate dance moves (staged by Zonnie Bauer) that might work with a full chorus line but not a solo performer.
A charismatic performer with good comic timing and an appealing singing voice, O’Malley is weighted down by Valdez’s overly exuberant staging, which allows the progression of scenes to beat against each other without benefit of a tonal through-line. An example of this is occurs when an abject Rita begs her unseen brother Tony for a loan to keep her from being evicted, followed by a jarringly cartoonish scene where a radiant Rita has blown the money on a shopping spree. O’Malley is also ill-served by a series of ill-fitting, unattractive costumes and a supposed New York apartment interior that looks like it was designed for a Hello Kitty display.
The pleasantly surprising moments of this production occur when O’Malley’s Rita steps out of the production cartoon and allows the audience to finally relax and be a part of her emotional journey. This occurs in Act One, when Rita is surprised by a gift bouquet of flowers from her unseen boyfriend (“Flowers From Phoenix”). However, the highlight of the work occurs in Act Two, when Rita comes to terms with her ill-conceived showbiz journey, singing a poignant duet with Tony (a prerecorded Michael Duff) about “What Really Matters” in life. In this case, having another voice to connect with is a plus for Rita and the audience.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
January 14, 2014
January 14, 2014
Rx
Lost Studio
We take pills to sleep, pills to stay awake, pills to diet, pills to prevent pregnancy. Why not a pill to help you like your job? Such is playwright Kate Fodor’s premise in the witty and very contemporary cautionary tale about our societal desire for chemicals to make life easier. The Fodor-concocted Schmidt Pharma is conducting a controlled drug study that could make millions of dollars if successful.
As the story opens (with Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” as background), Meena Pierotti (Mina Badie) is being interviewed by Dr. Phil Gray (Jonathan Pessin) for such a study. She pleads desperation, and something in her manner prompts Dr. Phil to want a more personal relationship. It’s hard to imagine why, as her coping method is to go twice a day to the local department store’s elder-ladies’ underwear department to cry.
On one such a day she meets Frances (the quintessentially sweet K Callan), who tries to give Meena moral support while realizing that her own life needs doctoring. Frances confesses, “I was terribly lonely after I fell in love and got married.” She suddenly professes a desire to go to the Galapagos Islands or take a jazz-dance class. She might even want to fall in love. While this makes for a nice characterization, it seems added on rather than integral.
As Phil and Meena become lovers, Meena’s pills seem to be working. She spends more time at work, sacrificing time with Phil. He becomes angry and sets out to find a pill of his own.
Two standouts make this slight soap opera-esque story a hoot. The first is Phil’s immediate superior at Schmidt, Allison Hardy (Kirsten Kollender). She is a corporate cheerleader determined to run a tight ship and produce lucrative results from these tests. No matter Phil’s protestations about problems, she quashes them with a near insanely comic frenzy.
The second is Michael Dempsey’s portrayals of two humorously satirical characters. Richard is a particularly thin-skinned, toupee-topped ad exec who dreams of calling the pill SP 925 (enhanced by Dolly Parton’s mega-hit “9 to 5”) Thriveon—You can thrive 9 to 5. Ed is a fellow doctor to Phil, but his bizarre (think Jonathan Winters) behavior and carefree pill-dispensing puts Phil in a coma, but not until Pessin goes through expressively comic gyrations. Dempsey’s shtick with a pair of rubber gloves undoes Badies’s ability to keep a straight face.
In a funny cameo, Simon (James Donovan), Meena’s boss at American Cattle and Swine magazine, delivers a rousing sexual encounter with her that belies her normal reserve. This play is a mixed bag. On one hand it suffers from a surfeit of blackouts and scene changes. On the other, it has a terrific cast and humor that makes serious inroads into pointing out the foibles of our feel-good society.
Direction by John Pleshette maintains just the right tone for this lighthearted comedy, though his two principal actors’ line delivery might be amped up to greater effect.
In the final analysis, Fodor makes a case for love as a defining emotion that has no need for external enhancements. In theatrical seasons when many plays are billed as comedies and fall short, this lively play adds a slightly campy edge to the satire, making it a worthwhile outing.
Lost Studio
We take pills to sleep, pills to stay awake, pills to diet, pills to prevent pregnancy. Why not a pill to help you like your job? Such is playwright Kate Fodor’s premise in the witty and very contemporary cautionary tale about our societal desire for chemicals to make life easier. The Fodor-concocted Schmidt Pharma is conducting a controlled drug study that could make millions of dollars if successful.
As the story opens (with Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” as background), Meena Pierotti (Mina Badie) is being interviewed by Dr. Phil Gray (Jonathan Pessin) for such a study. She pleads desperation, and something in her manner prompts Dr. Phil to want a more personal relationship. It’s hard to imagine why, as her coping method is to go twice a day to the local department store’s elder-ladies’ underwear department to cry.
On one such a day she meets Frances (the quintessentially sweet K Callan), who tries to give Meena moral support while realizing that her own life needs doctoring. Frances confesses, “I was terribly lonely after I fell in love and got married.” She suddenly professes a desire to go to the Galapagos Islands or take a jazz-dance class. She might even want to fall in love. While this makes for a nice characterization, it seems added on rather than integral.
As Phil and Meena become lovers, Meena’s pills seem to be working. She spends more time at work, sacrificing time with Phil. He becomes angry and sets out to find a pill of his own.
Two standouts make this slight soap opera-esque story a hoot. The first is Phil’s immediate superior at Schmidt, Allison Hardy (Kirsten Kollender). She is a corporate cheerleader determined to run a tight ship and produce lucrative results from these tests. No matter Phil’s protestations about problems, she quashes them with a near insanely comic frenzy.
The second is Michael Dempsey’s portrayals of two humorously satirical characters. Richard is a particularly thin-skinned, toupee-topped ad exec who dreams of calling the pill SP 925 (enhanced by Dolly Parton’s mega-hit “9 to 5”) Thriveon—You can thrive 9 to 5. Ed is a fellow doctor to Phil, but his bizarre (think Jonathan Winters) behavior and carefree pill-dispensing puts Phil in a coma, but not until Pessin goes through expressively comic gyrations. Dempsey’s shtick with a pair of rubber gloves undoes Badies’s ability to keep a straight face.
In a funny cameo, Simon (James Donovan), Meena’s boss at American Cattle and Swine magazine, delivers a rousing sexual encounter with her that belies her normal reserve. This play is a mixed bag. On one hand it suffers from a surfeit of blackouts and scene changes. On the other, it has a terrific cast and humor that makes serious inroads into pointing out the foibles of our feel-good society.
Direction by John Pleshette maintains just the right tone for this lighthearted comedy, though his two principal actors’ line delivery might be amped up to greater effect.
In the final analysis, Fodor makes a case for love as a defining emotion that has no need for external enhancements. In theatrical seasons when many plays are billed as comedies and fall short, this lively play adds a slightly campy edge to the satire, making it a worthwhile outing.
Reviewed by Melinda Schupmann
January 13, 2014
January 13, 2014
Becky’s New Car
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
The audience plays an active part in Becky’s New Car, and Becky is very much the hostess of this evening of theater. She greets us immediately, hospitably offers a beverage, and shows us around her world. She also asks for our help, but if her ethics are not our own, our help may be hard to come by. Steven Dietz has penned this play about our need to peek around for greener pastures. In her case, Becky has decided to experiment with an extramarital affair. She asks for volunteers from the audience to assist her in this quest. On opening night at Kentwood Players, she got two spirited gals, upward of middle age, to play along, but most of the audience clearly urged Becky to stop.
It’s a different ride when Becky is portrayed as a free spirit. Then, audiences are more likely to become entranced and follow her anywhere. Here, director Susan Stangl keeps the action relatively realistic, so this Becky, played by Cherry Norris, subtly reveals personal sadness as well as the perky hostess side, though it’s a choice supported by the text. At Kentwood, the play’s resolution (not to be revealed here) is less of a surprise but is perhaps more satisfying.
Why does Becky want to stray? She works as a title clerk and office manager at a car dealership. Perhaps she finds work uninspiring, but she seems to make a nice living. Her husband, Joe, is rather nice here, played by Bob Grochau. He’s wise, humorous, attentive, capable around the house. Okay, so he’s a roofer who has failed to patch his own home. Her son, Chris, is kind of messy, kind of self-absorbed. But he’s in grad school, for heaven’s sake, studying psychology, so he’s not a wastrel, and it appears he has learned much and is applying most of what he learned. We also like the tenderly youthful portrayal by Jaymie Bellous.
When Walter appears at Becky’s desk late one night in fairy-tale fashion, Becky lets herself become ensnared in that shiny new trap. He’s wealthy, he’s connected, he offers something new and different. Played by the handsomely silver-fox Dylan Brody, Walter is metaphorically a sparkling new car, with that new car smell. But like every car, at some point won’t he start breaking down?
So, why have an affair? Dietz presents a teetering balance between stay and go, fidelity and excitement, and it keeps the audience involved. To Stangl’s credit, the comedic highlight here is not Becky’s various predicaments but instead the scene in which Joe and Walter agree to give Becky a what-for. Grochau and Brody go “big” comedically but keep the moment tethered and plausible, creating a peak in the play’s action, then bringing focus back on Becky’s choices.
Drew Fitzsimmons’s handsome set design allows the action to flow easily and features a palette of black, grey, and white. Sheridan Cole’s costumes follow suit, adding splashes of sinful red. The lighting design, however, fails to set time and place and at times even fails to adequately illuminate the actors.
Rounding out the lively cast, Craig Bruenell gives a dryly droll portrayal of Becky’s co-worker; Jacqueline Borowski plays Walter’s daughter, who finds her way into Becky’s family; and Maria Pavone plays Walter’s lonely-heart neighbor and, for those with good eyesight, one of Becky’s customers.
Kentwood Players at Westchester Playhouse
The audience plays an active part in Becky’s New Car, and Becky is very much the hostess of this evening of theater. She greets us immediately, hospitably offers a beverage, and shows us around her world. She also asks for our help, but if her ethics are not our own, our help may be hard to come by. Steven Dietz has penned this play about our need to peek around for greener pastures. In her case, Becky has decided to experiment with an extramarital affair. She asks for volunteers from the audience to assist her in this quest. On opening night at Kentwood Players, she got two spirited gals, upward of middle age, to play along, but most of the audience clearly urged Becky to stop.
It’s a different ride when Becky is portrayed as a free spirit. Then, audiences are more likely to become entranced and follow her anywhere. Here, director Susan Stangl keeps the action relatively realistic, so this Becky, played by Cherry Norris, subtly reveals personal sadness as well as the perky hostess side, though it’s a choice supported by the text. At Kentwood, the play’s resolution (not to be revealed here) is less of a surprise but is perhaps more satisfying.
Why does Becky want to stray? She works as a title clerk and office manager at a car dealership. Perhaps she finds work uninspiring, but she seems to make a nice living. Her husband, Joe, is rather nice here, played by Bob Grochau. He’s wise, humorous, attentive, capable around the house. Okay, so he’s a roofer who has failed to patch his own home. Her son, Chris, is kind of messy, kind of self-absorbed. But he’s in grad school, for heaven’s sake, studying psychology, so he’s not a wastrel, and it appears he has learned much and is applying most of what he learned. We also like the tenderly youthful portrayal by Jaymie Bellous.
When Walter appears at Becky’s desk late one night in fairy-tale fashion, Becky lets herself become ensnared in that shiny new trap. He’s wealthy, he’s connected, he offers something new and different. Played by the handsomely silver-fox Dylan Brody, Walter is metaphorically a sparkling new car, with that new car smell. But like every car, at some point won’t he start breaking down?
So, why have an affair? Dietz presents a teetering balance between stay and go, fidelity and excitement, and it keeps the audience involved. To Stangl’s credit, the comedic highlight here is not Becky’s various predicaments but instead the scene in which Joe and Walter agree to give Becky a what-for. Grochau and Brody go “big” comedically but keep the moment tethered and plausible, creating a peak in the play’s action, then bringing focus back on Becky’s choices.
Drew Fitzsimmons’s handsome set design allows the action to flow easily and features a palette of black, grey, and white. Sheridan Cole’s costumes follow suit, adding splashes of sinful red. The lighting design, however, fails to set time and place and at times even fails to adequately illuminate the actors.
Rounding out the lively cast, Craig Bruenell gives a dryly droll portrayal of Becky’s co-worker; Jacqueline Borowski plays Walter’s daughter, who finds her way into Becky’s family; and Maria Pavone plays Walter’s lonely-heart neighbor and, for those with good eyesight, one of Becky’s customers.
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
January 13, 2014
January 13, 2014
Human Identity
Lounge Theatres
Writer-performer Christopher Vened almost apologetically walks onto a bare stage - sans props, programmed lighting, or any other accoutrements of theatrical presentation. His somewhat halting opening remarks inform the audience that he is a former member of Poland’s Wroclaw Pantomime Theater of Henryk Tomaszewski, that he defected to the West in 1981 and made his way to the US in 1984.
Vened’s measured, overly long exposition explains his years in the US as a performer, director, choreographer, and educator, including the publishing of his book on acting: In Character: An Actor’s Workbook for Character Development (2000). He states that in essence, “The purpose of acting is to reveal human identity.” Then, in the midst of this discourse, Vened admits that he really doesn’t know who he is as a human being but wants to share his ongoing journey of discovery.
At times Vened’s thickly accented discourse gives the illusion that one is listening to a lecture by a gentler Count Dracula. Then he begins to move, literally using his body as a flesh-and-blood power-point presentation. Over the course of 90 minutes, this graceful and insightful performer gives ample evidence that physical movement is worth more than a thousand words.
Vened’s skill as a mime enables him to intricately reveal the complex physical organization that makes us human and how it transcends all other life forms on Earth. To give the audience a frame of reference, Vened divides his excursion into four sections: the phenomenon of being a standing creature; the uniqueness of the human hand; the ability to reason and figure things out; and the inevitable Homo sapiens quest to be God.
As he delves into the animal kingdom’s richly varied world of two-footed walking creatures, Vened tellingly demonstrates the innate abilities and liabilities of being an ostrich, kangaroo, ape, and, inevitably, human being. One highlight is Vened’s representation of the ambulatory differences between human males and females, as well as the subtle variations demonstrated in gender confusion.
Vened’s perusal of the human hand is revelatory, showing how it has enabled humans to rise and rule so spectacularly over Earth’s animal kingdom. His extended fingers create miniature dances as they transform into the varied grips and clasps that have been the principal tools in the invention of civilization.
Throughout Vened’s solo journey, he exudes mild confusion as to the presence or lack of presence of a divine creator in the human story. He holds up for examination the workings of the human brain that cannot conceive of not existing into infinity. He offers totally paralyzed and speechless Dr. Stephen Hawking—lacking the basic physical tools that have been responsible for human progress, but possessing a mind that has revealed many secrets of the universe.
Vened leaves the stage as simply as he enters, not even using a blackout to officially end his show. As he admits, this is a work in progress. Vened now needs to edit and organize his material. At this point, the objective viewpoint of a director would be useful to facilitate the staging and a more fluid progression of the dramatic throughline. Vened is too valuable a resource to waste.
Lounge Theatres
Writer-performer Christopher Vened almost apologetically walks onto a bare stage - sans props, programmed lighting, or any other accoutrements of theatrical presentation. His somewhat halting opening remarks inform the audience that he is a former member of Poland’s Wroclaw Pantomime Theater of Henryk Tomaszewski, that he defected to the West in 1981 and made his way to the US in 1984.
Vened’s measured, overly long exposition explains his years in the US as a performer, director, choreographer, and educator, including the publishing of his book on acting: In Character: An Actor’s Workbook for Character Development (2000). He states that in essence, “The purpose of acting is to reveal human identity.” Then, in the midst of this discourse, Vened admits that he really doesn’t know who he is as a human being but wants to share his ongoing journey of discovery.
At times Vened’s thickly accented discourse gives the illusion that one is listening to a lecture by a gentler Count Dracula. Then he begins to move, literally using his body as a flesh-and-blood power-point presentation. Over the course of 90 minutes, this graceful and insightful performer gives ample evidence that physical movement is worth more than a thousand words.
Vened’s skill as a mime enables him to intricately reveal the complex physical organization that makes us human and how it transcends all other life forms on Earth. To give the audience a frame of reference, Vened divides his excursion into four sections: the phenomenon of being a standing creature; the uniqueness of the human hand; the ability to reason and figure things out; and the inevitable Homo sapiens quest to be God.
As he delves into the animal kingdom’s richly varied world of two-footed walking creatures, Vened tellingly demonstrates the innate abilities and liabilities of being an ostrich, kangaroo, ape, and, inevitably, human being. One highlight is Vened’s representation of the ambulatory differences between human males and females, as well as the subtle variations demonstrated in gender confusion.
Vened’s perusal of the human hand is revelatory, showing how it has enabled humans to rise and rule so spectacularly over Earth’s animal kingdom. His extended fingers create miniature dances as they transform into the varied grips and clasps that have been the principal tools in the invention of civilization.
Throughout Vened’s solo journey, he exudes mild confusion as to the presence or lack of presence of a divine creator in the human story. He holds up for examination the workings of the human brain that cannot conceive of not existing into infinity. He offers totally paralyzed and speechless Dr. Stephen Hawking—lacking the basic physical tools that have been responsible for human progress, but possessing a mind that has revealed many secrets of the universe.
Vened leaves the stage as simply as he enters, not even using a blackout to officially end his show. As he admits, this is a work in progress. Vened now needs to edit and organize his material. At this point, the objective viewpoint of a director would be useful to facilitate the staging and a more fluid progression of the dramatic throughline. Vened is too valuable a resource to waste.
Reviewed by Julio Martinez
January 13, 2014
January 13, 2014
Why I Died, A Comedy!
Atwater Village Theatre
Why I Died, A Comedy! is an example of the vast and ever-growing subgenre of autobiographical monodrama that might be called Self-Help Theater, works evidently constructed either in lieu of therapy or in tandem with it. In any such entertainment—a word I hope isn’t too frivolous for the sensibilities of the artists involved—the performer details one or more pivotal life events, often though not always wrapped up in some sort of spiritual quest, and fills us in on how he or she has struggled and changed and come out on the other side. In the very best of these—and I’m thinking of the likes of Alex Knox’s No Static at All, or Martin Moran’s Catholic abuse reminiscences The Tricky Part and All the Rage—we are struck by the subject’s candor and specificity, while marveling that a story so personal and unique can still yield such resonance for our own selves. At their worst, such tell-all memoirs teem with self-indulgence, showing all signs of having been assembled not for our benefit but solely for the storyteller’s mental health.
Why I Died tacks toward the former category, though it never quite coheres as a confessional: Too many elements don’t hold together well. But as a showcase for the talents of its confessioneuse, Katie Rubin, it could hardly be bettered.
Resembling a sharper and more grounded Mary-Louise Parker, the doll-faced Rubin possesses an infectious if nervous smile, an unbounded amount of stage chutzpah, crackerjack comedy timing, and a huge repertoire of character voices in and out of which she drifts as she describes her efforts to lift a weight of—what? Pain? Guilt? Memory?—off her chest through dalliances with Sufism and other sources of spiritual healing. Her confidantes in the course of 80 minutes are (a) us, and (b) someone called Stan, an agent or manager or producer figure, voiced like a Damon Runyon cardsharp who keeps reminding her that audiences want to laugh and he wants to see pages.
The struggle to knock out pages of funny stuff, in light of the grief and dismay that keep wearing her down, is a potent subtext within everything that follows. She imagines her mom as an enabling mugger, and enacts a contentious video shoot, playing both a syrupy Southern belle infomercial spokesperson and her burqa-clad Muslim producer. Neither sketch seems to have much to do with her personal quest, and both go on too long, but at least they serve to cater to Stan’s, and frankly our own, desire to laugh deep from the gut. As a self-described “liberal Jew” who professes to have believed in little in her life, she charmingly describes a series of circumstances she cannot label as anything but “miracles” and proves herself open to a wide variety of experiences and insights.
As directed by Victor Bumbalo, Rubin is always likable, watchable, and listenable, though overall, the piece doesn’t yet jell. I can’t say I ever really felt the arc of her story lift that weight of pain off her chest, and some of the show’s content, beyond the extraneous sketch material, is arguable. Late in the evening she lists among her obstacles “sexual abuse at the hands of a stranger,” a shocking but gratuitous admission that should either have been followed up on or omitted altogether. Right now it begs the question of whether she’s saving up that set of events for another show or somehow feels that its mere mention is likely to deepen our bond with her; either way it pulls us out of the constructed “Katie Rubin” character into something darker, something that the play as currently constituted doesn’t support.
Still, though, and contrary to the title, Rubin is far from dead, and that’s a reason to cheer. We want to see a lot more of her before she and we slip this mortal coil.
Atwater Village Theatre
Why I Died, A Comedy! is an example of the vast and ever-growing subgenre of autobiographical monodrama that might be called Self-Help Theater, works evidently constructed either in lieu of therapy or in tandem with it. In any such entertainment—a word I hope isn’t too frivolous for the sensibilities of the artists involved—the performer details one or more pivotal life events, often though not always wrapped up in some sort of spiritual quest, and fills us in on how he or she has struggled and changed and come out on the other side. In the very best of these—and I’m thinking of the likes of Alex Knox’s No Static at All, or Martin Moran’s Catholic abuse reminiscences The Tricky Part and All the Rage—we are struck by the subject’s candor and specificity, while marveling that a story so personal and unique can still yield such resonance for our own selves. At their worst, such tell-all memoirs teem with self-indulgence, showing all signs of having been assembled not for our benefit but solely for the storyteller’s mental health.
Why I Died tacks toward the former category, though it never quite coheres as a confessional: Too many elements don’t hold together well. But as a showcase for the talents of its confessioneuse, Katie Rubin, it could hardly be bettered.
Resembling a sharper and more grounded Mary-Louise Parker, the doll-faced Rubin possesses an infectious if nervous smile, an unbounded amount of stage chutzpah, crackerjack comedy timing, and a huge repertoire of character voices in and out of which she drifts as she describes her efforts to lift a weight of—what? Pain? Guilt? Memory?—off her chest through dalliances with Sufism and other sources of spiritual healing. Her confidantes in the course of 80 minutes are (a) us, and (b) someone called Stan, an agent or manager or producer figure, voiced like a Damon Runyon cardsharp who keeps reminding her that audiences want to laugh and he wants to see pages.
The struggle to knock out pages of funny stuff, in light of the grief and dismay that keep wearing her down, is a potent subtext within everything that follows. She imagines her mom as an enabling mugger, and enacts a contentious video shoot, playing both a syrupy Southern belle infomercial spokesperson and her burqa-clad Muslim producer. Neither sketch seems to have much to do with her personal quest, and both go on too long, but at least they serve to cater to Stan’s, and frankly our own, desire to laugh deep from the gut. As a self-described “liberal Jew” who professes to have believed in little in her life, she charmingly describes a series of circumstances she cannot label as anything but “miracles” and proves herself open to a wide variety of experiences and insights.
As directed by Victor Bumbalo, Rubin is always likable, watchable, and listenable, though overall, the piece doesn’t yet jell. I can’t say I ever really felt the arc of her story lift that weight of pain off her chest, and some of the show’s content, beyond the extraneous sketch material, is arguable. Late in the evening she lists among her obstacles “sexual abuse at the hands of a stranger,” a shocking but gratuitous admission that should either have been followed up on or omitted altogether. Right now it begs the question of whether she’s saving up that set of events for another show or somehow feels that its mere mention is likely to deepen our bond with her; either way it pulls us out of the constructed “Katie Rubin” character into something darker, something that the play as currently constituted doesn’t support.
Still, though, and contrary to the title, Rubin is far from dead, and that’s a reason to cheer. We want to see a lot more of her before she and we slip this mortal coil.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
January 7, 2014
January 7, 2014
