Oh dear, how can I do this without sending seven little girls into therapy? [Punkin', put the paper down; a not-very-nice man is going to be unkind to some of your new best friends. You, personally, were terrific. Now put the paper down. I can't be responsible if you read any further.]
OK. Now that it's just us grownups I have to question the wisdom of even doing a show like this in such an ill-suited space. Had Erik Austin attempted a stripped-down approach it would be one thing, but he's simply trying to restage a large show on a small stage leading to some real logistical nightmares, especially set changes. It's like watching the theatre explode and re-assemble every few minutes, including the sight of cowering orphans trying to avoid being trampled by the set crew. The orphanage itself (two beds) is so shallow it forces everyone into a straight line and leads to lots of choreographic movement that is little more than marching or jumping (Cassandra Daurden, Renee Travelli, and Austin are sharing the blame on this one).
But why dwell on the negative? Why not learn from the eponymous moppet and see an empty pocket as a godsend for the gloveless hand? And so in this spirit I tell you that the large and poorly directed cast models some really well done costumes (Keith Wenzel, Christina Lupica, and Austin). Daddy Warbucks' secretary, Grace (Ursina Amsler), is a '30s fashion plate, while the orphans sport such skillfully distressed outfits that they look as if they smell bad. The only real misstep is Miss Hannigan (Travelli), whose costumes, while unfashionable, are so bright and fresh looking that, combined with her manicure, ruby lipstick, and freshly colored hair, she looks more like a madam than the worn-out head of an orphanage. And thank you to Austin for retaining the "Hooverville" number, a piece apparently deemed too bleak by the recent national tour and televised Disney versions; it's funny and by far the best realized in the production.
Grant George as the shyster Rooster Hannigan manages to overcome the encumbrances of direction and choreography and still look good. His dancing displays a lanky charm that makes me want to see him in something much better. Donald Scott Smyth has a lovely, almost self-deprecating quality as Oliver Warbucks that works quite well, but I wish someone had just told him to talk through his songs. He's not just singing badly up there, he's practically warping the time-space continuum. Amsler, on the other hand, has a pretty singing voice, but it's the sort you encounter in church: small and clear and utterly without character.
Sacci Lupica is quite the Little Mermanoid as she shoulders the burden of heading the cast. She's big, she's loud, and she apologizes to no one. The pivotal role of Sandy is played by Alex, a grandchild of Mary Tyler Moore's dog, raising the bleak possibility that even in canine performance nepotism counts in this town. Perhaps the best example of how limited resources are sinking this show is when Roosevelt wheels himself out. Slender patricians being in short supply, I guess, they've gone with a portly actor sporting a bushy mustache who inadvertently derails the scene while your brains screams, "Franklin! Franklin! Not Teddy!"
"Annie," presented by Kelrik Productions at Excalibur Theater, 12655 Ventura Blvd., Studio City. Fri.-Sat. 7 p.m., Sun 3 & 7 p.m. Jan. 5-21. $15. (818) 760-7529.