After a couple of so-so cinematic versions with screenplays by Dale Launer, Stanley Shapiro, and Paul Henning—more recently in 1988, and earlier under the title Bedtime Story in 1964—this farce about rival Riviera confidence tricksters now finds its funniest incarnation onstage, where it finally seems right at home. Jeffrey Lane's book is full of twisty plot zigzags and merry vulgarities, and David Yazbek's music ranges through several peppy styles, enhanced by his witty lyrics and amusing rhymes. A rip-roaring hoedown parody called "Oklahoma?" satisfyingly rhymes that state with "melanoma," and another number, "Like Zis, Like Zat," romps outrageously through French-accent forced rhymes such as prince/dance.
Traces of its original 1960s sexual attitudes—rather like those of Playboy magazine during that decade—cling to the script, giving it a retro feel. But the story also harks back to older, even ancient, stage traditions of oily charlatans and hungry Harlequins, disguises and mistaken identities, fake doctors, pretend madmen, deceptions, and double-double crosses that came out of commedia and earlier to shape the 17th and 18th century Italian, French, and English comic theatre.
John Lithgow most amusingly plays the older, established con man, Lawrence Jameson, with a physical and vocal languor reminiscent of the graceful leonine suavity and depravity that George Sanders once brought to similar roles. Jameson's contrastingly homuncular young challenger is played by Leo Norbert Butz with a simian crassness pointed out in the scornful song "Chimp in a Suit," sung by Jameson's sneering French police accomplice (Gregory Jbara). Sherie Rene Scott winningly plays Christine Colgate, a toothsome and seemingly innocent ingénue with some tricks up her sleeve. Joanna Gleason—as ever a joy and a delight—plays Muriel Eubanks, and, somewhat surprisingly after a first act that seems self-consciously unsure how to employ her considerable talents, turns out to be this show's equivalent to a soubrette. Sara Gettelfinger makes a brief but showy splash as the hilariously hick-ish menace. And an ensemble of 15 materializes every so often, singing (under music director Ted Sperling) and dancing (under choreographer Jerry Mitchell) to beat the band (under conductor Fred Lassen).
Jack O'Brien has directed a production—gorgeous to look at, with the scenic design of David Rockwell, the lighting of Kenneth Posner, and the costumes of Gregg Barnes—that will most likely go on pleasing crowds from here to Broadway.
"Dirty Rotten Scoundrels," presented by and at the Old Globe Theatre, 1363 Old Globe Way, San Diego. Tue.-Wed. 7 p.m., Thu.-Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 2 & 8 p.m., Sun. 2 & 7 p.m. Sept. 22-Oct. 24. (Dark Oct. 9 at 8 p.m. & Oct. 10 at 2 p.m.) $45-70. (619) 234-5623.
THE LOVE OF THREE ORANGES
at the Mandell Weiss Forum
Reviewed by George Weinberg-Harter
Carlo Gozzi's unique and whimsical blending of commedia dell'arte and oriental fairy tales created works that have continued to charm audiences and inspire adapters. That his play The Love of Three Oranges (1761) was conceived in a semi-improvisational form lends justification to Nona Ciobanu's admittedly free adaptation of it for her Romanian troupe, the Bucharest-based Toaca Cultural Foundation, and to its further slangy Americanization by James Magruder from Mihnea Mircan's English translation. Ciobanu has directed this La Jolla Playhouse production as well, sharing scenic and costume credits with her longtime collaborator Iulian Baltatescu, who also designed the lighting and composed the music.
Ciobanu and Baltatescu have devised much ingenious stage magic to enhance their streamlined—90 minutes, no intermission—Three Oranges, employing balloons, bubbles, a flying rig, a big puppet bird, and, their pièce de résistance: a huge golden-yellow backdrop of fabric so strong and malleable you can do anything under the sun with it—the Silly Putty of cycloramas. The chief interest in the show turns into watching to see what new thing can be done with that backdrop as it gets raised, lowered, tightened, billowed, made to extrude persons and objects, bounced on like a trampoline, slid down upon like a slide, cocooned in, expressed from behind by faces and hands like the rubber walls in Polanski's Repulsion, and transformed into a big-breasted giantess.
Fascinating as this can be, it tends to overshadow Gozzi's tale of Prince Tartaglia (a sulky Jim Parsons) of the Kingdom of Lugubria and his wacky quest after a trio of enchanted citrus fruits. Playing three dozen endlessly antic roles, the cast of nine performs very skillfully and with exemplary vigor, although the characterizations tend toward the artificial. A story so unrealistic is better served the more sincere the acting. Notable are Tina Benko as an endlessly posing minx and Time Winters as the vexed and foreshortened King. John Altieri, Pascale Armand, Colette Beauvais, Donald Corren, Carmen Gill, and Owisa Odera excellently embody the rest of the dizzying parade of zanies, several of whom suggest waddling Teletubbies.
"The Love of Three Oranges," presented by La Jolla Playhouse at the Mandell Weiss Forum, 2910 La Jolla Village Dr., USCD campus, La Jolla. Tue.-Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 2 & 8 p.m., Sun. 2 & 7 p.m. Sept. 19-Oct. 17. $28-52. (858) 550-1010.
THE DISPOSAL
at Company of Angels
Reviewed by Dave DePino
Jess (Seamus Dever), a seemingly nice young man, sits in prison for the senseless murder of his pregnant wife—a crime for which he cannot come up with a reason. Tonight, at the stroke of 10, justice will have been served, and he will be dead. Set in the Midwest sometime in the late 1950s, this dark scenario, which sharply brings into focus the death penalty, comes from one of theatre's most prolific playwrights, William Inge, and is a sharp departure from his usual work. This rarely staged play is aptly titled. As written, the piece doesn't advocate for either side of the issue.
Jess shares Death Row with two other men. There's Archie (Christian Arroyo), a blatant, dislikeable, psychotic, and annoying queen. Arroyo plays him just that way but sadly pretty much on one annoying note. The actor tries and almost finds other levels, but he hasn't quite gotten there yet. The other row mate is Luke (Tony Gatto), a large man with a minor mental disorder. In a nice turn, Gatto's Luke—who cares for Jess and doesn't care for Archie—runs from calm to anger, and shows a tender side during a brief visit from his emotionally detached wife (Tricia Allen). The balance of the cast is varied in quality.
Christopher Nelson's direction of the drama is taut and mostly fine; however, his staging is inconsistent in defining—on one open stage—three claustrophobic prison cells separated by imaginary walls.
Though perhaps a bit melodramatic now, The Disposal is still powerful and controversial 40-plus years later. With this production, most, if not all, of its power comes from Dever's absolutely stunning performance. As Jess, he shares the "pretty world of his youth," his frenzied fear of death, his rejection of religion—"I don't want life everlasting, I want it now"—and his desperate need to have his earthly father's (Scot Renfro) forgiveness.
"Disposal," presented by and at Company of Angels, 2106 Hyperion Blvd., Silverlake. Thu.-Sat. 8 p.m. Sept. 24-Oct. 30. $15. (323) 883-1717.
THEATRE TRIBE'S FIRST ANNUAL PLAYWRIGHTS' FESTIVAL
PROGRAM 1: LOVE
at Theatre Tribe Studio Theatre
Reviewed by Terri Roberts
The Beatles claimed all you need is love, but, as this collection of six original one-acts demonstrates, love usually needs a little help—and a great deal of persistence. In this context, however, love is also one of three rotating topics—the others include show business and loss—that make up the basis for this inaugural festival of new works. Each topic is addressed by half a dozen original shorts, each of which is written, directed, and performed by members of Theatre Tribe.
The strongest piece in the love bunch is Dance, inspired by a story by Jon Cellini, directed by CB Brown, and danced/performed by the entertaining Doug Lowry and the graceful Christie Greer. This piece takes one step further the current musical theatre trend of placing existing songs in such an order as to tell a story. These songs come from a variety of composers and use only snippets of lyrics to advance the story. Though in need of some judicious editing, the song and dance in Dance work in ways that words could not in such a piece yet still makes it quite fulfilling. Come Out Virginia, written and directed by Stuart Rogers, also scores high marks for its comedic and somewhat tender telling of uncertain romance blooming between a nerdy young man (Cellini) and his nervous, prospective girlfriend (Mary Thornton), who's desperate to lose her virginity. Rogers has less success in Eden, which he also wrote and directed, the winding tale of a couple (Rachel Brenna, Gabriel Byer) set up on a date by friends (Beth Anne Garrison, Craig Neigh). Focus is lost, the story falls apart, and performances are pushed to unnecessary levels.
The One That Got Away, written by Corie Vickers and directed by Cellini, examines the anxious reunion between ex-lovers now married to other people. Vickers plays the young woman with low-key assurance, but Francis Fallon suffers from a case of the cutesies in trying to show us the unease of his character. More restraint and less nose crinkling would balance things out a bit. Love takes multiple forms in Beth Navarro's Seeing Me, directed by Brown and starring Moira Squier as a mother anxiously trying to prevent her trashy-dressing teenage daughter (Sara Shapely) from making the same mistakes she did. Harrison Snider is appealing as the college frat boy who takes advantage of mom in a flashback sequence. Finally, Chemical Balance, written and directed by Jeff Kerr McGivney, involves a blind date in which the couple (Daniele Ferraro, Alexander Chance) rely on booze and pot to overcome their insecurities. Thankfully the understated performance of Lowry as the comically put-upon waiter redeems the piece.
"Theatre Tribe's First Annual Playwrights' Festival, Program 1—Love," presented by Theatre Tribe at Theatre Tribe Studio Theatre, 5267 Lankershim Blvd., North Hollywood. Thu.-Sat. 8 p.m. Sept. 17-Oct. 2. Also 8 p.m. on Sat. Nov. 20, Fri. Dec. 3, & Thu. Dec. 9. $15. (866) 811-4111.
THE MOST HAPPY FELLA
at the Crossley Terrace Theatre
Reviewed by Les Spindle
Many consider Frank Loesser's seriocomic 1956 musical to be the renowned songwriter/librettist's masterpiece, surpassing Guy and Dolls and How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Blending elements of opera, lighthearted romance, and heart-wrenching drama, this zesty glimpse at the Italian/American vineyard community of Napa Valley in the 1920s is like a heaping plate of heavily seasoned pasta, followed by a rich tiramisu, leaving one overstuffed but sated. Despite some rough edges, Actors Co-op's staging of this classic is a delectable treat.
Leading a generally first-rate ensemble, Scott Weintraub plays warmhearted vintner Tony with gusto. Suggesting an Italian Tevye, he boisterously shakes, rattles, and rolls his way through the rousing title song. Weintraub exudes a larger-than-life quality while tugging at the heartstrings with a down-to-earth vulnerability. An equally colorful performance comes from Maria Lay as the sidekick character, Cleo, a cheeky waitress from Dallas. A high point is the buoyant "Big D," which Cleo shares with her newfound amour, Herman, played with irresistible charm by Matt Lutz.
As a trio of warbling comic chefs, Stephen Van Dorn, Miguel Villahermosa, and John Seitzer stop the show with their tuneful harmonizing and goofy high jinks. As Tony's foreman Joey, Robert Standley offers soaring renditions of evergreen Loesser ballads ("Don't Cry," "Joey, Joey, Joey"). Jill Van Velzer, a last-minute cast replacement, does fine work in a role well beyond her years as Tony's protective sister Marie. The weak link is, regrettably, in the female lead role of Rosabella, the new bride who discovers that her husband, 60-year-old Tony, misrepresented himself during their mail courtship by sending her Joey's photo. Denise Scarms sings disarmingly, but her characterization is disconcertingly flat, giving neither of her leading men much to play off of. This is epitomized in one scene in which she apologizes for having been angry. We never saw the anger.
Design elements are attractive and atmospheric, though Bill E. Kickbush's lighting is occasionally uneven. Daniel Gary Busby's music direction and piano accompaniment are satisfactory, and Cate Caplin's choreography is joyful. Director Gary Lee Reed delivers a tasty crowd-pleaser.
"The Most Happy Fella," presented by the Actors Co-op at the Crossley Terrace Theatre, 1760 N. Gower St., Hollywood. Thu.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 2:30 p.m. Sept. 24-Nov. 14. $22-27. (323) 462-8460.
TAKE ME OUT
at the Brentwood Theatre
Reviewed by Madeleine Shaner
Richard Greenberg's play makes several assumptions not backed by evidentiary truth, the chief being that baseball-ese is everyone's first language. Nonetheless, under Randall Arney's pacey direction, a top-notch cast delivers Greenberg's homage to baseball in style. The playwright's dialogue has little to do with the way jocks, or anyone without a script, talk, but it's poetry for the literary senses, and when it gets real in Act Two, it's as stirring as a winning homer.
The mess began, says commentator Kippy (Jeffrey Nordling), when Darren Lemming (Terrell Tilford), a big hitter for The Empires—already a black-and-white billboard for diversity—came out of the closet. Lemming's only reason for smashing the apple pie–and-motherhood myth seemingly sprang from an arrogant boredom with being rich, handsome, and worshipped. A roller-coasting series of events ensues: Lemming's business manager quits; his friend (Morocco Omari) becomes alienated; his teammates are uneasy around him in the locker room; and racial and homophobic slurs mount exponentially when a hillbilly pitcher (Jeremy Sisto) does a John Rocker number on television. Comedy quickly becomes tragedy, some of it improbable but definitely melodramatic.
Nordling is superb as Kippy—the narrator, den father, and resident intellectual. Carmen Argenziano makes a great team manager. Carlos Albert and Byron Quiros as Spanish-speaking teammates, Ryun Yu as a lonely Japanese pitcher, and Ian Barford and Bryce Johnson as their fellow teammates complete the talented roster. Jeffrey Hutchinson, as numbers-cruncher Mason Marzac, an unlikely fan who instantly catches a case of flaming orthodoxy, is agreeably nerdy and gets to single in two long monologues—both too long—in which he essentially becomes a stand-in for the playwright, mouthing Greenberg's philosophy of baseball as the secular religion of America.
What might be considered a surfeit of in-your-face male nudity, extreme wordiness, and flawed dramaturgy—which consists mainly of narration—lessen the play's effect, along with an anticlimactic add-on that belongs to Marzac, maybe the least relevant character, to close the case.
"Take Me Out," presented by the Geffen Playhouse at the Brentwood Theatre, 11301 Wilshire Blvd., Building 211, Veteran's Administration campus, Brentwood. Tue.-Thu. 7:30 p.m., Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 4 & 8:30 p.m., Sun. 2 & 7 p.m. Sept. 22-Oct. 24. $38-52. (310) 208-5454.
DARK RAPTURE
at Evidence Room
Reviewed by Terry Morgan
There are several terrific things about this new production, from a daring and talented ensemble to clever direction and impressive technical achievement, but Eric Overmyer's play unfortunately isn't one of them. It attempts to do a film noir in color, to modernize what is essentially dated, and ends up passive and talky where it should be crisp and vicious. Other than visual elements, the three themes common to all noir are generally sex, violence, and betrayal. This play features the first two but is so hazy and muted on the third—the visceral bloody heart of noir—that the show might as well just be a comedy. There is certainly humor in Overmyer's writing, but this show isn't an ironic tribute à la Tarantino. It's just a failed attempt at the genre.
After a fire—which he may or may not have set—guts his home, Ray (Nick Offerman) splits town, barhopping from Seattle to Key West to New Orleans. His wife, Julia (Katy Selverstone), in business with mobsters Lexington (Don Oscar Smith) and Vegas (Dylan Kenin), thinks Ray is the burned body left in her home's rubble and now has to account for the missing $7 million she was laundering. Does Ray have it? Does she?
Selverstone is a knockout noir femme fatale, a mixture of ice and fire, and deserves a better showcase for her talents. Offerman does a nice job as the likeable Ray, keeping the audience guessing as to his true nature. Smith and Kenin are amusing as the putative heavies but are hamstrung by Overmyer's overwritten dialogue. David Mersault makes a strong impression as a mysterious operative and a frightened used-car dealer, disappearing so completely into each role it's hard to believe they're done by the same actor. Larry Biederman's direction uses all of the tools available to him brilliantly and delivers a great production of a mediocre work. Keith Mitchell's scenic design is a two-leveled wonder of economy and style; Craig Pierce's lighting—particularly in the cracklingly evocative opening fire sequence—is dynamic; and John Zalewski's sound design is protean and vigorous.
"Dark Rapture," presented by and at Evidence Room, 2220 Beverly Blvd., L.A. Thu.-Sun. 8 p.m. Sept. 25-Oct. 30. $15-20. (323) 381-7118.
A POSTCARD FROM L.A.
at the Elephant Theater
Reviewed by Paul Birchall
Ah, Los Angeles. The Big Orange, with its gorgeous, flashy peel surface, looks colorful and tempting, but the tawdry skin masks a sour and bitter fruit that will poison you if you eat too much. Or, at least, that is how the City of Angels is portrayed in co-writers Evan Bleiweiss and Dave Whatley's feather-light comedy.
A pair of doe-eyed young aspiring screenwriters—neurotic Neil (Eric Ladin) and naïve Charlie (Geoff Stults)—hit L.A., vowing to devour the town, but the town ends up eating them, instead. After moving into their seedy, ramshackle apartment, the boys are soon hard at work on their magnificent screen opus, while angling for just the right deal that shall catapult them to stardom. Instead, the sleazy distractions of Tinseltown overtake the innocent writers. They're soon hornswoggled by some waiter-cum–aspiring literary agent (Adam Zolotin). Then, both young writers are seduced and manipulated by the beautiful but scheming young actor (Andrea Bogart), who has her eyes on the prize: the boys' long, hard screenplay.
If L.A. were to write a postcard back to writers Bleiweiss and Whatley, it would probably say something like, "Beware of Tinseltown clichés." This comedy, while boasting sprightly dialogue and appealing characters, is undermined by stock situations of the "Isn't the movie biz hell?" quality. The writing is glib, but the situations are simple and recycled. Characters ably rattle off Neil Simon-esque one-liners, some of which are funny, but the story itself contains little of the bite you'd expect from this sort of tale.
Yet director Whatley stages the slight material with energy and genuinely crisp comic timing. The show crackles with funny performances. Ladin carries the play with his exuberantly anxious nebbish, who could best be described as Woody Allen lite. Also delightful is Bogart, equal parts sultry siren and irritating vixen, and Zolotin as the cheesy talent agent wannabe.
"A Postcard From L.A.," presented by Eleven Eleven Films at the Elephant Theater, 6322 Santa Monica Blvd., L.A. Thu.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 6 p.m. Sept. 25-Oct. 24. $20. (323) 960-7774.
WHATEVER
at the Whitmore-Lindley Theatre
Reviewed by Dink O'Neal
Sitcoms, soap operas, miniseries, and feature films—all have tackled storylines dealing with HIV and AIDS. Still, the overall vacuity demonstrated in the Los Angeles premiere of this whiny melodrama by playwright Julian Sheppard is smothering at times. Sheppard's piece follows a circuitously intertwined group of twentysomethings who have, for the most part, the sexual restraint of rabbits—and how they cope once it is revealed that a common bed partner has tested positive.
Vignettes play out in rapid-fire succession, mostly missing the mark, as these characters stumble through Sheppard's storyline. Perhaps considered contemporarily cutting-edge when first written, it now plays as stilting histrionics with the F-word gratuitously filling every known grammatical category. Considering the pain this subject can carry, Sheppard's script becomes superficially prurient as it culminates with an unintentionally ludicrous sendup of an Oprah Winfrey–type show, hosted by actor Caryn Ruby as the insensitive Margo Heathcote.
Partial credit to director Francine M. Sondelli and her merry band of nine for giving it their best shot, but when saddled with lines such as, "The real world is not a sprint, it's a journey," and "He was so slow it took him 30 minutes to make Minute Rice," the philosophical musings are hard to overcome. Gold stars, though, for believability and character commitment to John Paul Karliak as Roy, a gay man facing the depressing news of his positive status; Ruben Dario as Adam, Roy's blind date; and Kyle Whisner, whose four scene-stealing roles are blessed relief.
Additional problems emanate from a highly cluttered set depicting five different locations leading to distinctively distracting entrances and exits. Equally off-putting is Shawn J. Arteaga's front-oriented lighting design, which gives everything a flat appearance, ranging from oddly dim to totally washed out. The uncredited costuming is adequate. All in all, this extended one-act, with the remarkably ironic title, feels like an acting class final project. It's admirable that $1 from each ticket sold goes to the American Foundation for AIDS Research, but, artistically, this vehicle needs a major tuneup.
"Whatever," presented by Cedar Production at the Whitmore-Lindley Theatre, 11006 Magnolia Blvd., North Hollywood. Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7:30 p.m. Sept. 11-Oct. 10. $15. (310) 210-0910.
WHO KILLED WOODY ALLEN?
at the Improv Olympic Theatre
Reviewed by Wenzel Jones
After sitting aghast through Deconstructing Harry I would gladly have numbered myself among the suspects, but that's beside the point. In this particular instance the suspects are recognizable celebrities gathered at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home to mourn the sudden passing of the Manhattan auteur. The arrival of Det. John Allman (a solid Jon Shaver), who reveals the deceased was poisoned, transforms the mourners into murderers, and the game is afoot.
The rule of three is sacred in comedy, but I don't know that it's applicable to the number of authors (Dan Callahan, Brendan Connor, and Tom Dunn). It's as if one wrote the funeral section, one wrote the murder mystery section, and one focused on the celebrity impersonation aspects. There's little sense of continuity as we jostle from one portion to the other, though Dunn's direction within each portion is unfailingly clever. Because the funeral and murder segments are, shall we say, homages, the production rises and falls primarily on mocking the well known. In this capacity, the production exceeds our wildest expectations and leaves us shaking our heads. Peter Loureiro does a Christopher Walken that makes us forget we're not watching the real thing. Not a line goes by that fails to dazzle. As a circa 1970s Diane Keaton, Jill Ann Dugan is as winsomely, exasperatingly charming as the original, albeit trapped in her Annie Hall persona. The middle ground is firmly held by Ed Moran, doing a refreshingly angry Alan Alda. The problem is that he looks and sounds more like Jack Paar (ask your mother). Brett Butler makes a fine Spike Lee insofar as he's black and angry; after that, what would I know? John Francis Mooney does double duty as Dianne Wiest and Conan O'Brien, succeeding primarily in the latter role. Carter Roy, Michael Somerville, Christopher Wisner, and Gregory Balaban complete the unbalanced cast. While they look to be fine performers, the resemblance to their intended targets—not unlike the willingness to sit through another Woody Allen film after Curse of the Jade Scorpion—is a function more of faith than of evidence.
"Who Killed Woody Allen?," presented by the Empty Stage Theatre Company at the Improv Olympic West, 6366 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood. Wed.-Sat. 8 p.m, Sun. 3 p.m. Sept. 22-Oct. 3. $18. (323) 960-4412.
THE DEATH OF GRIFFIN HUNTER
at Theatre of NOTE
Reviewed by Dany Margolies
Too much of a good thing can wear on the observer. Mix in too much of a bad thing and the result is a grinding down of even the most tolerant audience member. Kirk Wood Bromley's talent for writing in iambic pentameter is prodigious, and to that he adds epigrams worthy of Wilde. But in a badly directed three-and-a-half-hour production, the language wears thin before intermission and starts to play as arrogance not long into the second act. Also wearing thin are the many, many life-as-theatre references.
Director Adam Simon sets his actors on a wide, shallow stage, against a rusty corrugated iron wall. Actors fill the space single-file, whether a foursome that looks as if it were waiting for a bus or a full cast of partygoers uncomfortably shoulder to shoulder. The ensemble, otherwise seeming to have chops, is a self-conscious bunch, interacting by gazing intently at one another. A sense of sincerity, a sense of belief in the story, is lacking. And three hours into the show, the actors start slipping into long, lingering line deliveries. Not that the actors can't get over the iambs. Indeed, in monologues the leads come alive, as if stripped of directorial obligations. As Griffin Hunter, Adam LeBow is an Othello-esque politico: "What is the value of violence?" As his would-be assassin, Leveret, Dan Wingard smoothly renders a Hamlet-esque monologue: "To kill myself or kill the man I love?" The mesmerizing Lynn Odell laments the decline of her character's marriage: "I must survive that cyclone, Semion."
Otherwise, Simon debases the acting. Most egregiously, he allows horrible French accents. Don't let Griffin's French wife refer to Leveret as "Leverette." Certainly don't let the basic "J'ai"—or "I have"—spoken by a featured player, rhyme with "sky." Cast actors with passable accents, or get them a coach.
The plot? The least engaging element of the work, it centers on Hunter's attempts to enact the Hunter Accord—which will "ensure disarmament and nonproliferation of weapons worldwide"—and the attempts of enemies foreign (read, Arabic) and domestic (read, former male lover) to destroy his reputation. It's a tale of sound and fury, but its significance is lost in too much time and the wrong kinds of spaces.
"The Death of Griffin Hunter," presented by and at Theatre of NOTE, 1517 Cahuenga Blvd., Hollywood. Thu.-Sat. 8 p.m. Sept. 17-Oct. 31. $15. (323) 856-8611.
I'VE BEEN LIED TO ALL MY LIFE
at the Hudson Avenue Theatre
Reviewed by Wenzel Jones
If Ibsen had taken the same approach to social observation that John Paul has in this production, Hedda Gabler would consist of a woman stalking about a stage, making keen observations such as, "I hated the hat! There, I've said it!" Paul is angry. He's angry at the same things I'm angry at. I'm the choir he's preaching to, and I found the entire experience off-putting.
He's in the wrong place, to begin with. Theatre tends to be about some sort of journey. Paul simply tells us what makes him mad. His delivery—George Carlin by way of (the former) Dennis Miller—suggests streaming KPFK with slightly better timing, but so what? Having facts and opinions hurled in one's face is what a bar is for. In this instance it's just trapped audience being subjected to a vented spleen.
The first act of three acts consists of a conservative newsreader being saddled with a switched script that declaims liberal shibboleths. As a theatre piece, the comedy needs to build as he keeps reading things he clearly doesn't believe. He just reads them. There's a break for a cookbook ad wherein the pitchman, Won Sik Phuk, cooks books, thus affording Paul an opportunity to lambaste Enron et al. Not merely stale, but why go with Hop Sing in full queue? Doesn't the Food Network offer a variety of celebrechefs to parody? My Asian-American date cringed, as did I. The second act has the only theatrical moment in the evening. Somewhere in the muddle of a Vietnam-vet-on-a-bench sketch, he tells a fantastic story that stands as the only glowing moment of contact between the performer and the audience. The final act is standup, which so rarely plays well as theatre unless they're handing out drinks with tickets. You don't get points for noting that Ollie North lied. Now, if you want to pursue the fact that he almost made a successful run for the Virginia governorship and is now a media pundit weighing in on ethics from time to time though we all (theoretically) know his history, that I'll stick around for.
"I've Been Lied to All My Life," presented by Shanahee Productions at the Hudson Avenue Theatre, 6539 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Wed.-Thu. 8 p.m. Sept. 10-Oct. 28. $15. (323) 960-7744.
CASTING BILLY'S COUCH
at Hudson Guild Theatre
Reviewed by Jeff Favre
What would happen if a struggling Midwestern writer living in Los Angeles purchased a couch that not only was once owned by directing icon Billy Wilder but also possessed anyone who sat on it? Any answer you can devise, whether or not you have writing talent or imagination, is bound to be more interesting and original than Casting Billy's Couch. Written by and starring David Zenor, who sadly is even less effective as an actor than he is as a writer, this premise for a two-minute skit has been stretched into a nearly 45-minute one-act play. His cast mates appear just as inept at comedy, though it's hard to tell whether their performances are due to a lack of talent or to the misguided direction of Jill Jacobson. Whoever is to blame, there isn't one funny or interesting moment in the entire production, which is a feat in itself.
There's not much more to the plot, except that it parodies characters in Sunset Boulevard and Some Like It Hot, two Wilder movies. When William Holden (Zenor) and roommate Alex (Jake Magnuson) bring the couch home, chaos reigns. When the brain-dead alcoholic actor next door named Marilyn (Heather Hopper) sits on the couch, she wants to have sex with whomever is sitting next to her. When Will's wacky agent Norma Desmond (Christina Lemmon) arrives, she sits on the couch and wants to have sex with whomever is on it. Alex and Will just want to have sex with whatever woman is sitting on the couch. And, yes, there is a scene in which Will dresses up a like a woman and reenacts the final moments of Some Like It Hot. As a humor gauge, it's safe to say none of the lines is funnier than when Marilyn asks Alex where Will is. "He's indisposed," Alex says. "I've never been there," Marilyn responds.
The actors speak so fast that they frequently trip over their lines. And Jacobson appears to have given the direction to ham it up as much as possible, because everyone is screaming, jumping, or flailing almost constantly. The one bright side is that Jacobson, Zenor, and the rest shouldn't have much trouble chalking this mess up to a case of mass delusion, taking a mulligan, and forgetting this production ever happened.
"Casting Billy's Couch," presented by and at the Hudson Guild Theatre, 6537 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Wed. 8 p.m. Sept. 22-Oct. 27. $10-12. (323) 960-4451.