Arts In LA
Runs have ended for these shows.
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.
Reviewed by Bob Verini
April 23, 2013
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
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
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
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’ 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’ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
November 11, 2012
The Muesli Belt
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.
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
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
Patrick Quinlan, Sean O'Hanan, Austin Hébert, Joe Pacheco, and Scott Conte
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
Patrick Quinlan, Sean O'Hanan, Austin Hébert, Joe Pacheco, and Scott Conte
Photo by Ron Sossi
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
Emily Yetter and Harry Groener
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
Emily Yetter and Harry Groener
Michael Lamont
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
Gary Patent and Dana Shaw
West Coast Jewish Theatre at Pico Playhouse
Gary Patent and Dana Shaw
Michael Lamont
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 [show closed]
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 [show closed]
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
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
Natalie Sutherland and April Lang
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
Natalie Sutherland and April Lang
Photo by Numa Perrier
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
