The Edge of the World Theater Festival runs Oct. 10-20. We'll include as many EdgeFest reviews as we can assign during the festival, so look for this review section again next week. For more information, go to www.edgeoftheworld.org or see the Oct. 3 issue of Back Stage West.
An asterisk under the title indicates a Critic's Pick.
ABOUT A BED
In the old days beds were used for sleeping. Nowadays—at least judging from this trio of mostly amusing one-act plays—the last thing you'd want to do with a bed is snooze on it. Far better to use your mattress as a contextual backdrop for argument, philosophy, meditation, and, yes, the old shtup-a-roo. The poor bed that serves as the dramatic focus of the three playlets winds up being the repository of so much rage, energy, and lust it's a wonder the thing doesn't come to life, sprout legs, and walk out of the theatre.
In playwright/director Marni Ayers' drama Weekender, married couple Karin (Debi Meyer Cox) and Tyler (William H. Brady) debate the flaws of their marriage while on a brief coastal holiday. High-powered publishing executive Karin picks holes in unemployed actor Tyler, accusing him of being lazy and unambitious. Tyler retorts that he's happy with his life and is not going to change just to suit someone else's idea of what he should be. Their arguments escalate—and before long all the truths are on the table, begging the question of whether the pair can possibly reconcile. Ayers' play offers a dynamic character portrait of two people who have grown so distant from each other it's hard to understand precisely why they're still together. Neither character here is particularly likable, but the performances are strikingly vivid and multidimensional. Ayers' direction could establish a brisker pace, but the writing's emotional pain rings true, and the situations are powerful and involving.
In Valerie Hurt's more offbeat and quirky Mr. Blue, spacey young Clara (Hurt) precariously balances on the razor-sharp apex of a bizarre love triangle, wooed by handsome lawyer yuppie Gregory (Paul Tifford Jr.) and burly blue-collar goon Joe (Mark Salamon). Complications ensue when Gregory and Joe decide to move into Clara's place, and Clara lets them without telling either paramour about the other's existence. Hurt's comedy has a cartoonish feel that's daffy and bizarre, and, in director Katyana Farzanrad's gleefully spiteful production, situations are played broadly and punctuated with commendably dark irony. Hurt's astonishingly passive and apathetic Clara is downright spooky—while Tifford's uptight yuppie and Salamon's borderline-abusive doofus provide hilarious variations on different, equally horrible potential boyfriends.
Weakest of the bill is Natural History, playwright Anastasia Traina's routine and rather soap-operatic gay riff on Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune. Following their Christmas Eve one-night stand, Mark (Joe Kirkendall) and Steve (Tifford) argue about whether Steve may stay the night. The intimacy-hating Mark wants his ex-trick out of the apartment post haste, but the emotionally clingy Steve sees potential for a relationship with the alarmingly repressed man. Kirkendall and Tifford offer intermittently sweet and touching performances, but the actors' chemistry is off: We're never convinced they're right for each other, nor that each has something the other needs. Director Rhonda Reynolds' staging is unobtrusively workmanlike, if unexceptional, and does little to elevate the work's predictable narrative trajectory.
—Paul Birchall
"About a Bed," presented by Nailing the Kipper at the Zephyr Theatre, 7456 Melrose Ave., W. Hollywood. Sun. 2 p.m., Mon. 8 p.m. Oct. 13-28. $10 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (323) 969-4814.
AMERIKAFKA
This is that challenging sort of show that points out just where the holes in your cultural education lie. It's thoroughly enjoyable, but if you know someone who has done post-graduate work on Kafka, modernism, or even Jewish mysticism, it might be a good idea to take that piece of brain candy as your date. The production isn't quite as sprawlingly fantastic as director Loren Rubin's previous outing, The Master and Margarita, but it's still in no way to be confused with simple narrative theatre.
Ken Prestininzi's multilayered script pivots on an encounter between a consumptive Franz Kafka (a charmingly diffident Silas Weir Mitchell, whose gangly frame and distinctive way of pressing his lips against his teeth evoke a young John Lithgow) and a traveling Jewish troupe. This vibrant ensemble, led by the opportunistic Itzak Löwy (a winning turn by David Razowsky), inspires Kafka to get in touch with his Jewish roots. Or look back over his life from death's waiting room. Or finish his play from beyond the grave. You see, it's not a good idea to sit down with too many preconceived notions, otherwise you'll start to feel weak by the time you encounter Kafka's three dead sisters in a rowboat casting the baby Moses into New York harbor only to see him rescued by G.I. Joe.
The show is backed by a wonderful klezmer band, although the nature of the music (songs and score by Brenda Varda with Beth Bergman) makes it clear why there are few klezmer musicals. The notion of singing on-key seems faintly quaint when the music is slithering about the scale, and even the best of efforts is like being dragged along and eventually crushed beneath the wheels of a rattletrap yet very determined vehicle. Brian Fretté's choreography is well-matched in its singularity, the fly-swatter number being perhaps the most memorable.
The sizable cast (17, count 'em!) provides some fine performances in addition to the leads, especially Nicole Gabriella Scipione as the winsome seamstress Mary Anne; the character later shows up as a beguiling angel in Omaha but the how and why of it eluded me. The sisters Kafka are portrayed by Kristine Dickson, Jordana Berliner, and Dawn Worrall, each a distinct personality yet still functioning as a family bloc. Skip Moore has a fresh-faced appeal as the idealized Kafka, Frankie K., who is Jewish in the Ralph Lauren sense.
The lights (Bo Crowell) and costumes (Robert Hensley) never draw attention to themselves by being anything other than well-integrated. Rubin contains, but just barely, the whole amorphous mass, creating something that will amaze and delight and, just as likely, confound and confuse. It's theatre as life.
—Wenzel Jones
"AmeriKafka," presented by and at the Met Theatre, 1089 N. Oxford Ave., Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 2 p.m. Oct. 11-Nov. 17. $20 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (323) 957-1152.
COCK TALES
It had to happen sooner or later: Following the success of The Vagina Monologues, you knew some dudes were eventually going to get together to rhapsodize, in monologue form, their li'l friend Phallus. Fortunately the results of letting these gentlemen loose to reflect on their penises are surprisingly uplifting and endearing, not cheesily squalid. And, also happily, the penis-reflecting occurs totally on a cerebral level: Puppetry of the Penis, with its organs waving in the breeze, this ain't. Director Debra DeLiso's intimate—albeit fully clad—production offers a varied collection of vignettes about the unit, ranging from the humorous to the introspective, and then to the angry and sad.
The most outright hilarious piece on the bill is Felix Pire's adroit "Penis Patter," a description of a gay man's attempt to sleep with a woman. In "The Weight of a Word," blind, African-American performance artist Lynn Manning offers a charming reminiscence about the language children use to describe the genitalia. Dressed in an outlandish sari and clanging a Buddhist bell, Eric Trules' bizarre performance-art piece, "a cock tale from borneo," is a drolly witty and offbeat ghost story about a man who winds up cursed to have a penis on his forehead. Jeremy Lawrence's creepy performance of Leon Katz's monologue about a self-justifying pedophilic priest is elementally disturbing and harrowing.
One would probably wish that a few of the monologues had been slightly pruned to weed out the occasional self-indulgent digression. However, each piece provides a stiff act for the next to follow. With some of the units being meaty, some slender, and still others so slight they're almost invisible, it's easy to see that there are as many ways to look at a penis as there are, um, performers willing to showcase them.
—Paul Birchall
"Cock Tales," presented by Cock Tales Productions at M Bar and Restaurant, 1253 N. Vine Street, Hollywood. Tues.-Thurs. 8 p.m. Through Oct. 17. 90 min. $10 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). (323) 856-0036.
COTILLION
Writer/director Jeanette Scherrer's teen coming-of-age comedy is amazingly conventional fare for an EdgeFest entry. It plays out like a watered-down variation on Alfred Uhry's overrated Tony winner The Last Night of Ballyhoo, with a glossy veneer that recalls Ross Hunter's vintage women's pictures. The easygoing narrative gingerly tiptoes through themes of racial bigotry and suppressed lesbianism, but never at the expense of feel-good sentiments.
In 1957 Alabama, 18-year-old tomboy Becky (Shannon Nelson) resists the self-serving machinations of her socially ambitious new stepmother (Tina Gloss), as well as the romantic advances of sweet, sensitive Johnny (Robert Porch), the boy next door. Along for the ride are the family's longtime African-American maid Celie (Kila Kitu), Celie's mulatto daughter (Sarah Culberson), and the pivotal character of Johnny's slightly wild sibling (Sara Weller).
Scherrer guides a solid cast thorough a deftly paced production that fulfills the script's modest aims. Nelson's portrait of adolescent angst is engaging; the same applies to Culberson as Becky's spunky pal. Kitu capably handles the limited demands of the kindly nanny role, and Porch is charming as the ever-patient lovestruck suitor. Gloss has good moments in what could be an interesting role, but she's hampered by the abrupt fairy-tale character switch that Scherrer has provided—from subtly vile racist to bitch-with-a-heart-of-gold. James Grabowski's nostalgic soundtrack of easy-listening chart toppers from the Eisenhower era is a bonus for baby boomers. One could quibble about certain things, such as the uneven Southern dialects, but what's the point of attacking a cream puff?
—Les Spindle
"Cotillion," presented by Lucid by Proxy at the Village, 1125 N. McCadden Pl., Hollywood. Oct. 10, 12, 19 at 8 p.m. Also Oct. 26 at 8 p.m. 105 min. $15 (or see both Cotillion and In Real Life for $20 or see either show for $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.lucidbyproxy.com. (818) 786-2229.
DEAR CHARLOTTE
Admire a writer who can put together a descriptive passage. Admire her more when the passage has import and effect. Charlotte Brontë's adolescent prose was an unwieldy bouquet of hothouse flowers; the mature novelist wrote striking arrangements of wildflowers that captured her century in its middle age, notably culminating in Jane Eyre, which still enthralls its young and young-at-heart readership more than 150 years after its publication. Playwright Joy Gregory's study of Brontë's early life stylishly exemplifies the two ideals Brontë hoped to epitomize: truth and beauty.
Director Tracy Hudak evokes the world of Victorian Yorkshire—chilling, insulated, upright—and then lets her cast melt that world with indivisible sibling affection and incontrovertible literary influences. The center of that world is young Charlotte, keenly portrayed by the indomitable Kim Weild as nearsighted, uncomfortable, outwardly unsensual, but possessed of a spirit of fiery sentimentality—embodied by Charlotte's imaginary character Zamora (Rebecca Rasmussen), the only vibrant color in the staging's striking landscape of leaden gray (set design by Melissa Ficociello, lighting by Wes Wyse).
Charlotte's life unfolds in narration, dialogue, and movement. Repetition of patterns become breathtakingly textured as young students study, eat gruel, wash their faces, say their prayers, and go to dark, icy bed in a dismal cycle made otherworldly by the rendering here. But like Brontë's, the human voice becomes celestial when inspired; an a cappella quartet sings "Jerusalem" as part hopeful, part ironic commentary on the fate of the Victorian female.
Costume consultant Gleason Bauer and seamstress Karolyn Kiisel dress the women in utilitarian sheaths to which are added bodices, collars, aprons, and the like to aid the actors in efficiently creating multiple roles. Among them, each actor crafts a particularly effective portrayal. Charlotte's surviving sisters, later published authors in their own rights, are here in their incipient states: Amber Skalski as feisty Emily, Tina Van Berckelaer as lovely Anne. Rasmussen's sibling Maria is companionate, Brian Stanton's Branwell a perceptive portrait of the tortured artistic, and Mandy Freund hauntingly Old World as sister Elizabeth. Peggy Flood incarnates the maternal forces, David LM Mcintyre the paternal, and Robert Patrick Brink the très Gallic French teacher.
Seeming to set Brontë on her most noble path was the reply to a fan letter she sent to England's poet laureate Robert Southey. He warned her, "Literature cannot be the business of a woman's life; and it ought not to be." Like the play's opening and closing images of figures reading books lit from within, the advice lit an unexpected, long-lasting glow—in Brontë, Gregory, and this production's audience.
—Dany Margolies
"Dear Charlotte," presented by Nom de Plume/ Powerhouse Theatre at Powerhouse Theatre, 3116 2nd St., Santa Monica. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m. Oct. 11-Nov. 16. $20 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (866) 633-6246.
EASY TARGETS
Two years ago we saw what can happen when the abundantly talented members of Burglars of Hamm combined wits to produce the ingeniously clever piece Resa Fantastiskt Mystisk (co-presented with Ghost Road Theater Company, of course). Here the troupe takes aim at the rash-like phenomenon of bad one-person shows, which prove to be just what the title promises: easy targets. These targets are a little too easy to be interesting for very long, however. The production instead is a sometimes funny look at a stable of worn-out types and topics: the self-absorbed actress who writes a show about becoming an actress, Abe Lincoln, coming out, cancer, an annoying mime, and the geeky standup who thinks he's giving you the real deal on the opposite sex.
Upon entering the theatre we are given "ammunition" to hurl at the characters when we feel like it—and we certainly do feel like it. All the pieces are adequate parodies, if a little overly long and perhaps a bit one-note. Todd Merrill is delightfully cornball in "An Evening with Abraham Lincoln." Selina Woolery Smith is perfectly grating as our actress in "All About Me." Jon Beauregard attracts more audience ammo than anyone in "Hi Dad, I'm Gay." The truth is, we have as much fun watching these folks perform as we do pummeling them with balled-up socks. Though perhaps that's the point.
—Laura Weinert
"Easy Targets," presented by Burglars of Hamm at Actor's Lab Theatre, 1514 N. Gardner St., Hollywood. Fri.-Sat. 10:30 p.m., Sun. 8 p.m. Through Oct. 20. 120 min. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.burglarsofhamm.com. (323) 769-6334.
FREAK STORM
Talented playwright Matt Pelfrey continues his creative association with the Lodestone Theatre Ensemble with this long one-act—a dark morality tale about the haunting consequences of the sins of the past. Lynn (Esperanza Catubig) and Adam (Michael Ordona) have decided to take the plunge into marriage after a four-year relationship. On the night before their wedding, all their prenuptial jitters are exacerbated by an unexpected storm that threatens to soak the ceremony.
Things get worse with the arrival of Adam's old friends from high school, Gil (Ray Chang) and Ian (Chil Kong), who bring not only bad weather but bad vibes. Both are agitated and quickly get drunk and abusive, not only to each other but also to Adam and Lynn. As the evening unfolds, the cause of Gil and Ian's agitation becomes clear: Years ago in high school the three friends lost their virginity in a night of drunken revelry with a girl at the beach. Now the girl has returned to stalk them, sending them what she claims is the evidence of their night of debauchery: two fetuses gruesomely preserved in bottle of formaldehyde.
While the friends debate what to do about the stalker and the horrific wedding gifts, Lynn discovers what has happened and demands an explanation from her soon-to-be husband. Adam then recounts—in what seems to be a spurt of honesty—the events of that night. Even in Adams' retelling, it is clear that everyone was drunk, including the girl, and that whatever consent she gave to sex was heavily influenced by her drunken state. Confronted with this shocking revelation, Lynn is left with an agonizing decision: forgive Adam and marry him, or accept that she was all wrong about him and call off the wedding. In the skilled hands of playwright Pelfrey, this is a classic, dramatic moral dilemma that goes not to the head but right to the guts.
While date rape and other kinds of non-consensual sex spark high-profile newspaper articles and TV movies, they are rarely presented with the primal force and power that Pelfrey musters here. The performances are excellent. Catubig is especially appealing and empathetic as the wronged bride, and Kong, while straining a bit in the role of heavy, is nonetheless convincing. Ordona is solid as a man on the moral edge, and Chang is also good as the chronic follower. Direction by Kipp Shiotani is crisp and well paced. Add Freak Storm to the list of fine works by Pelfrey.
—Hoyt Hilsman
"Freak Storm," presented by Lodestone Theatre Ensemble at the Victory Theatre, 3326 Victory Blvd., Burbank. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Oct. 10-Nov. 17. $12-14 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (323) 993-7245.
HOT PROPERTY
There is no funnier, more prolific playwright writing about suburban Southern California today than Justin Tanner. (Is there any other contemporary playwright writing about the SoCal suburbs?) We Angelenos may recognize the unique freakiness of, for example, the Tustin nuclear family, but who besides Tanner can capture this strangest of animals? Purely theatrical to the point of stylization, filled with slightly larger-than-life characters, Tanner's comedies nevertheless always seem oddly realistic—as if we were peeking through that fourth wall. Perhaps truth in L.A. is just a little bigger and therefore requires a bit of heightened presentation.
It seems Tanner has found a home at the Evidence Room after his recent contributions to its late-night The Strip. We're relieved, because when his company left the Cast Theatre a couple of years ago, it seemed one of our unique homegrown theatre voices had left behind a profound silence. And while it's true Hot Property, Tanner's first full-length new play in four years, is not his most consistent, it's still a nice introduction to his work for anyone fresh on the scene. Those more familiar with the Tanner brand will recognize this one as slightly half-baked.
Brett (a sweet though uncompelling Matt Huhn) is a cut above his fellow 99-Seat theatre-producing, pot-smoking compadres. But just a cut—enough to land him a pilot shoot in Canada, leading to much resentment among his former friends. Perhaps writing closer to his experience than ever is not such a good thing for Tanner, who also directs. The scenes between Brett and his theatre buddies are tepid. Alicia Adams nails the essence of the embittered, lascivious washed-up-before-her-time actor; Darin Anthony captures the squirm-inducing desperation and meager talent of Brett's aspiring screenwriter pal; Dean Biasucci is appropriately shallow as Brett's agent, and Beata Swiderska has an amusing running gag as a new-to-the-country hopeful who can't seem to shake her accent. But a combination of flat writing and characterizations that don't quite turn the curve lead to amusing but uninspiring exposition.
How different are the scenes between Brett and his cloyingly abusive family, who, concerned about Brett's drug use, conspire to detain him for an intervention. This is Tanner when he gets rocking. Laurel Green is sheer genius as Brett's sister Sissy. Bone-thin but on a steady diet of SlimFast, Sissy rebels against the bullying of her family and revels in her martyrdom, eventually telling Brett that the only reason she's still single is because he's on drugs. Also terrific is Nick Offerman as Brett's older, retail-managing, God-fearing, cake-snarfing brother Chuck. Offerman shows impressive range here, taking to Tanner's material like he's been doing it for years, proving that E.R. actors and Tanner will be a nice match in the years to come. Jayne Taini is perfectly cast as Brett's domineering mom, but she has yet to settle into the piece and still seems a tad tentative in her commitment.
With Brett in handcuffs, Sissy and Chuck read from their intervention worksheets about how he's ruined their lives. In terms of acting and writing, this is Tanner at his finest: outrageous yet frighteningly believable.
Also on the plus side: squalor has never been more impressive than as executed by scenic designers Jason Adams and Andy Daley. He captures the shag-carpet, wood-paneled grunginess of the most unimpressive of Hollywood apartments, complete with a courtyard a pool upstage. Clearly E.R. is putting care into this production, and, though it may not seem so throughout some of this play, Tanner's work deserves it.
—Scott Proudfit
"Hot Property," presented by and at the Evidence Room, 2220 Beverly Blvd., Los Angeles. Playing in repertory. Oct. 12-Dec. 15. $15-20 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (213) 381-7118.
IRL (IN REAL LIFE)
Writer/director Rick Robinson has crafted a bittersweet comedy about the lost and lonely addicts of Wizard's Exile, an online role-playing fantasy game, who come together at a computer gaming convention. After spending 30 hours a week for months as their proxy characters, expectations for expanding their relationships in real life are as unrealistic as the characters into whom they have morphed.
Central is Reyes (winningly played by James Paul Xavier), a sweetly simple nerd who brings an engagement ring to his weird but very savvy online mistress Michelle (Joanna Senatore in a recognizable characterization). Gary Karp jubilantly portrays an obnoxiously ridiculous Gavin the Black, who isn't exactly what he seems. Breaking the romantic code of the mystical fantasy realm is Nathan (in a blithe portrayal by David Nett), an almost married man who has left his estranged fiancée in order to meet Amy, the lady of his cyber-dreams, who is a no-show. This inspires the absurdly funny "quest" this trio undertakes into the Arizona desert in search of the missing role-player. Economically staged by Nett, the slight but psychologically weighty play, directed with a comfortably loose realism by Robinson, creatively dressed by Rachel Myers, with sound design by James Grabowski and evocative digital projections by Jim Robinson, is a fetching fable for our times.
—Madeleine Shaner
"IRL (In Real Life)," presented by the Village, 1125 N. McCadden Pl., Hollywood. Oct. 11, 15, 17 at 8 p.m. Also Oct. 25 at 8 p.m. 90 min. $15 (or see both Cotillion and In Real Life for $20 or see either show for $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.lucidbyproxy.com. (818) 786-2229.
MADONNA, McVEIGH & ME
This is my idea of a definitive EdgeFest show, a distinctive amalgam of big idea, great heart, short running time, and dicey execution. Lisa Dowda has a great premise here: Five women watch the televised execution of Timothy McVeigh, primarily because a man with ideals who's willing to act on them is kinda hot.
Dowda essays all the roles with varying degrees of success. Her one quiet character is marvelously disturbing, a serene façade that turns out to be closer to catatonia in light of the character's experiences. The other four, one of whom is barely there, are angry, but not in terribly distinctive ways. The costuming choice is rather dubious considering it's supposed to function on some level for each woman. Each of the five chairs that are the set represents a character and, presumably, functions as a reference to the memorial in Oklahoma City.
Director Bryan McHenry tries to keep things clear, though if a woman goes wandering away from her chair it's sometimes difficult to figure out which one she is. This is a bold piece well worth developing further. The image of dry ice evaporating on a television set throughout the production is wonderful, though I've no idea what it means.
—Wenzel Jones
"Madonna, McVeigh & Me," presented by ReVoltation Theatre at Lankershim Arts Center, 5108 Lankershim Blvd., N. Hollywood. Fri.-Sat. 10:30 p.m., Sun. 3 p.m. Through Oct. 19. 75 min. $10 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.geocities.com/madonnamcveighandme. (818) 623-8121.
THE MOUND BUILDERS
Lanford Wilson's Obie-award winning play about contemporary archaeologists on a dig uncovering ancient Indian civilizations in Southern Illinois is full of challenging ideas and intellectual theories. The site is in danger of being paved over by the interstate highway, becoming a shopping mall, and covered by a rising lake. A college professor and his assistant come to the same area every year to continue their pursuit of the past. With them come their wives, a child, and an unexpected sibling. It's difficult for them to focus. The rain, some college groupies, and the unstable local man who has his own plans for the land impede their progress.
Bart Tangredi is Professor August Howe, whose narrative gives the play structure. His slides show us what's going on at the Indian mounds—but the arc of the play is inside the cabin. For such an important character, Tangredi plays it flat. Howe is cynical and uninteresting, as is his posing, sarcastic wife, portrayed by Hope Shapiro. Mary Ann Springer is fine as the Howe's intelligent young daughter. Things pick up considerably with the arrival of Howe's literary sister, Delia, embodied by Jennifer Pennington. She is a world-weary, amusing earth mother; the other characters are drawn to her like a magnet. This is a full-body performance. When Kevin T. McCarthy as the assistant, and his physician wife, Amy Watt, have scenes with Pennington, the play soars.
McCarthy's Dr. Dan Loggins loves his mission in life—he digs digs. He's passionate about smoking weed, fishing, getting drunk, and we can see why he would lap up Delia's books when read aloud in his literature class at Columbia. He is smart, and this is a smart performance. Watt is also wonderful explaining her transition from loving musical organs to loving human organs, and when revealing her troubled childhood as a spelling whiz who couldn't stop spelling everything anyone said to her. Ryan Honey as the landowner's troubled son is especially powerful toward the explosive conclusion of the play when he feels betrayed by the presence of the archaeologist he thought was a friend. He is somewhat sexually ambivalent, making him a walking question mark and time bomb. He and McCarthy try on the newly found copper death mask—you can guess the rest.
Credit goes to director Martin Bedoian for serving Wilson's play well and Donna Marquet's fine set design.
—Var Smith
"The Mound Builders," presented by and at the Open Fist Theatre Company, 1625 N. La Brea Ave., Hollywood. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Oct. 11-Nov. 16. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (323) 882-6912.
PROGRESSIVE CHAIN BOWLING
Even if room permitted, it would be impossible to fully explain the story behind author Haynes Brooke's Progressive Chain Bowling. What can be said is that in a time in which many writers mistake pretension for art, Brooke has come up with a witty, hysterical script that tells a fairly conventional story in a totally unique way. Bowling manages to send up the pseudo-intellectualism that plagues so much entertainment while also turning a trained eye on modern love, self-help gurus, and mathematics. There's even some catchy musical numbers thrown in for good measure.
Director John Sylvain doesn't miss a step in the fast and fluid staging, as adept with parody as with some genuinely tender moments. He is aided by a trio of remarkable actors. Brooke is cast as the leader of a mysterious self-help institute, who portrays a lovesick mathematician in the play-within-the-play. Elizabeth Dement is both smart and sexy as the object of his affection, pulling off a role few actors can: a nebbishy ball of fire. Rounding out this love triangle is the phenomenal Ken Palmer, an actor of such presence he can reduce the audience to hysterics with the slightest change in expression.
When the worst thing you can say about a show is that you wish it ran longer, you know you're watching something special. More than that, it's some of the best L.A. theatre I've ever seen.
—Jenelle Riley
"Progressive Chain Bowling," presented by San Fernando Valley Life Studies Institute at Actors' Gang El Centro, 6201 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. 8 p.m. Every night, Oct. 13-16. 75 min. $10 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). (323) 769-5650.
THE ROOM
The Theatre District has constructed playwright Max Riley's work with care. The imaginative box set by Two Blue Chairs expands beyond the claustrophobic room when lighted, providing a welcome glimpse beyond the confines of the room. Indeed, the setting stands as a monument to all property masters in the piles of lived junk artistically arranged to overflowing. What the excellent actors do with this treasure trove, then, becomes the crucial issue.
Riley brings us a roomful of characters: women who are united by blood and by the needs of their hospitalized mother. Susan (Alice Ensor) is the efficient one who has come to help clear up the clutter of her mother's life, made progressively smaller by incapacity. Her sister, Teresa (Nancy Peterson), seems much more fragile, unable to cope with the thoughts, much less the deed, of tackling the mound of memories. Her daughter, Jeannine (Shannon Hunt), sullenly hovers nearby, not quite committing to the task. Each finds a way to cope with the emotional as well as physical cleanup as each item evokes the past.
In his first full-length effort, Riley's talents appear to be characterization and dialogue. He has a fine ear for these people: The conversation rings almost a little too true. The sisters are imbued with typical sibling conflicts, and daughter Jeanine is typically arrogant but hungry for connection. Their conversation eddies and flows in concentric circles of our growing understanding. The trouble is, the conversation is so incessant it becomes a wallpaper of sound. Whether intended, Teresa sits motionless on the bed for two scenes. And all the actors pick at packing up, emphasizing the predominance of the words. To underlie the action, director Mario Lescot has chosen melodramatic music that serves only to underscore the schmaltziness of some moments.
There are a few times, though, when the play lights up. Contrary to popular wisdom that telephone calls are anathema onstage, the imaginary call from the unseen grandmother in Act Two sends a jolt of connection through the generations and on to the audience. The play is further lifted by the truthfulness the actors bring to their roles. Ensor contributes softness to her take-charge characterization, Peterson shows a steely defiance beneath the fragility of the part, and Hunt does well as a young woman struggling with her identity.
—Leigh Kennicott
"The Room," presented by and at the Theatre District at the Cast, 804 N. El Centro, Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Oct. 10-Nov. 24. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (323) 957-2343.
SUPREME BEING
Walking into a museum or gallery and spying an unfamiliar abstract painting, one might muse, "Well, that's very pretty, but what is it?" The lines, colors, shapes, and figures work beautifully visually, but put together they don't necessarily represent anything. The effect is often stunning, the shadings adroit, and there is often a subtle emotional effect. But in the end, most abstract paintings look like little more than designs for linoleum squares. That can also be said for a lot of what is sometimes loosely called avant-garde theatre.
Most of what passes for avant-garde today was new and startling decades ago. The styles are not new, and textual obscurity has been trundled out in earlier eras. The case in point, a short evening whose program says is "rearranged material from the notebooks of Richard Foreman," is not new in style, development, or effect. Some of its stylized moments look somewhat like Alfred Jarry's 1895 Ubu Roi—107 years later; part of its effect owes something to German expressionism. In Tanya Kane-Parry's adroit and vaguely interesting concept it depends on visual and movement shock for its theatrical effect, and her direction is visually stunning and often amusing, but as legendary character actor Lionel Stander once said about a rather shallow Broadway play he had just seen, "It ain't got no underneat'."
"Hello, this is a part of the Hotel Radio, and it all helps," a flat male voice intones unendingly until the lights go down. When the stage lights come up we see a figure encased in a geometric cage, presumably a womb, from which she reaches out her hands and her attention as the action develops. Maybe the womb is the Hotel Radio, in which the burgeoning child experiences only sounds, along with the subconscious reverberations of actors banging themselves against walls, rattling curtains in which they wind themselves up, and cavort as those indecipherable giants outside the womb carry on a life comprehensible to them but not to the little figure in the womb. Finally, at the end, the womb-figure slowly emerges headfirst into the outside world. Bravo.
Kane-Parry's images are imaginative, and Naomi Azar, Mari Garcia, Zeljka Gortinski, and Carla Melo are kinetic, precise actors, apparently submerging their whole beings into this microscopic world and looking like they're having a ball. The program also says Foreman's works have never been done more than once; the reason is clear in this example. It's glossy and attractive, like that linoleum square, but unfortunately it ain't got no underneat'.
—T.H. McCulloh
"Supreme Being," presented by Shumka Theatre Company at Stages Theater Center, 1540 N. McCadden Place, Hollywood. Thurs. 10 p.m., Fri. 11 p.m. Sat. 4 & 11 p.m., Sun. 1 & 8 p.m. (Oct. 10-20); Thurs. 8 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 11 p.m., Sun. 1 & 8 p.m. (Oct. 24-Nov. 3). Oct. 10-Nov. 3. $7-12 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (323) 465-1010.
SWEETEST TONGUE, SHARPEST TOOTH
Jennifer Li's deconstruction of "Little Red Riding Hood" is an engaging mix of dance and theatre, spiced with an impressionistic, feminist reinterpretation of the famous tale. Central to Li's retelling is the image of the predatory wolf—an icon of instinct and desire that is key not only to the traditional story but, in Li's view, to the identity of Red Riding Hood herself. As the heroine, played with an insouciant wisdom and grace by Jillian Brooke Robinson, engages in a physical and metaphorical dance with the wolf, the girl seems transformed into a wiser, more powerful soul. Li's rethinking of the fable also transforms it into a parable of empowerment.
The strength of the piece is in the attitude and physicality of the performers rather than in the text, which sometimes disappears into an abstract, ethereal mode. But the solid choreography and fine interpretations deliver Li's message clearly. In addition to Robinson, who is cheeky and fearless in her role, Matthew Haley delivers a fine performance in several roles, including one of the brothers Grimm. Julia Gabor is a feisty Grandmother and a perky Gretel, and Timothy Thomas Brown is a sexy and engaging Wolfe. Brad Golden, Bambi Liu, Donovan Oakleaf, and Tricia Patrick are also solid their roles. Li, who wrote, produced and directed the piece, brings a steady, original viewpoint both to the material and to the direction. While the script sometimes stumbles, the force and the focus of the evening never wavers.
—Hoyt Hilsman
"Sweetest Tongue, Sharpest Tooth," presented by not so soft productions at the Complex, 6476 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Oct. 10-13, 17-18 at 8 p.m. Sat. Oct. 19 at 2 & 8 p.m. 90 min. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). (323) 876-8662.
VENTRILOQUIST SEX
Rick Mitchell's new play attempts to be many things and succeeds on some level thanks to sharp direction and a winning cast. Part dark comedy, part surreal fantasy, the story follows the rise and fall of Bill, a hapless ventriloquist portrayed by John Hansen. While Bill's dummy, Ronny (billed in the program as played by "Rodney"), has big dreams of performing groundbreaking comedy, Bill is just trying to keep his cruise-ship entertainment job. At times Ronny seems to take on a life of his own, which sets up an intriguing premise that never pays off.
For all its attempts to present something off-the-wall, Ventriloquist Sex fails to shock or surprise. Wacky characters come and go in amusing scenes that never add up to anything. Nevertheless, there's a lot of good work in the show's disparate parts. Brent Blair and Katrinka Wolfson play multiple roles, and it's a testament to these enormously talented performers and director Alexa Hunter that they manage to make each distinct and believable. Hansen seems too weak a ventriloquist to be playing the lead, until he starts to bring out the dark side of Ronny. As in the plot, Ronny starts to steal this show. Only thanks to Hansen do we buy his disintegrating sanity, having seen this bit before in The Twilight Zone or the ultimate dummy/ventriloquist film, Magic. But whereas these "classics" told one story, Ventriloquist Sex tries to tell several, none of which feel related or resolved.
—Jenelle Riley
"Ventriloquist Sex," presented by Urban Ensemble at the Cast, 804 North El Centro Ave., Hollywood. Thurs. 9 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Through Oct. 20. 75 min. $12 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). (323) 993-7160.
THE WOMAN IN BLACK
Like great farce, a successful horror production impresses most in the sheer mechanics of the thing. It's all in the timing. Much like the Black Forest clocks, with their precise revolving figurines, a thriller lives and dies in the suspenseful winding up of its exposition and the graceful running out of its plot. A show in which all the spine-tingling jolts are struck at just the right time is a rarity. How unique then is this production, which not only operates with exact timing but, because of its intimate staging, does so in miniature-a pocket watch of terror, as it were.
Unlike farce, theatrical spookers have been almost entirely replaced by film, in which the suspenseful visual and-more importantly-auditory elements can be more impressively manipulated. But Stephen Mallatratt's play, an adaptation of the Susan Hill ghost story, has proven in its decade-spanning London run and in this Los Angeles premiere that there is still nothing like the shocking immediacy of live horror-a knowledge upon which Disney's dark rides and our annual Halloween haunted houses is based. The point here is simply to delight and to scare, and the laughter and screams of the opening-night audience attested that director Ken Sawyer has done his job here and more.
Though written not long ago, Hill's tale is in the vein of the great turn-of-the-century British ghost stories from such writers as M.R. James and R.H. Malden. It's the chilling of blood not the spilling of blood that is of concern here. Mallatratt's clever theatricalization of the book operates on the conceit that a haunted gentleman (Joe Hart) has hired an eager young actor (Paul Witten) to help him get a story off his chest, one that has been troubling him for years. The actor, a bit desperate and ambitious as many actors are, sees this as not simply the opportunity for an elocution lesson but potentially for a great piece of theatre. He plans to turn the reluctant gent into "the next Irving," but once caught up in the yarn he may live to regret his enthusiasm. After all, the voracious woman in black is not discriminating about her victims.
Witten, as the appropriately melodramatic performer whose heightened emotions-at first absurd--eventually match the threatening situation at hand, is perfect. His work is surpassed only by the truly spectacular specificity and craft of Hart as the slightly buffoonish benefactor who ends up playing a bevy of Gothic characters in his own story. Hart and Witten avail themselves as master storytellers here.
In a rare event for Los Angeles 99-Seat theatre, the design elements meet, if not surpass, the fine talent onstage. The unimpressive black-box space has been transformed by set designer Desma Murphy and scenic artist David Burnham into a fascinatingly detailed, decrepit London backstage, filled with shadowy curtains, cobwebs, and intimidating, abandoned set pieces, all of which are of course put to use. David B. Marling's sound and Jeff Marsh's original music are to credit for most of the cloying atmosphere and a number of the scares in the show. Their work is impeccable. Most impressive, though, are Robert L. Smith's lights. Smith trusts that less is more, which is essential to igniting the audience's imagination.
All credit however must trace back to Sawyer, who had the faith to believe that this proven two-hander spectacle could work in a small space. Not only does it, but we wouldn't wish to see this production in any less intimate a setting. The evening has the feeling of the small group of friends gathering around the fire for a true chiller. This surely was Hill's intent and makes for the best of those unique brand of spooky October treats.
--Scott Proudfit
"The Woman in Black," presented by and at the Road Theatre Company, 5108 Lankershim Blvd., N. Hollywood. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Oct. 11-Dec. 21. $20 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (818) 759-3382, ext. 2#.
ESCAPE/ARTISTS
The first installment of Moving Arts' annual premiere one-act festival does not disappoint. These four new plays, each charming in its own right, and an ensemble of capable actors and directors make for a varied, agreeable evening. Rosemary Frisino Toohey's In the Tank follows the musings of two doomed lobsters in a seafood bistro tank. Their conversation turns metaphysical as they dissect the motivations of the creatures on the other side of the glass. D.G. Bannon does a good turn as the mature, thinking lobster's lobster, his whimsical voice expounding his theories with stern certitude. The piece is simple and one-joked, but it's a good joke.
In After Loyal, by Robyn Burland, two teenage girls pass the time drowning their angst in cheap beer. Melissa Marie Thomas directs with giddy detail, throwing absurd montages and cartoon-like characters into the mix and blending the ridiculous with the disturbing. The cast is excellent. Kathi Chandler plays the Barbie-doll blonde with a teenager's conceit and pathos, while Melissa Jones captures familiar youthful gawkiness and determination. But the highlight of the piece is Carolyn Hennesy as the manicured, overly dramatic mom in a pink suit, whose moans of self-pity grow from just plain funny into all-out hilarity under Hennesy's skillful control.
The Scream, by D.T. Arcieri, explores the crossover of three characters in an unconventional love triangle. Thomas brings her sense of the painfully absurd into her winning portrayal of a sniveling alcoholic temp. Directed by Paul Stein, the piece sometimes drags under the pressure of the themes but succeeds in finding melancholy and humor.
Finally, the play noted as the winner of the competition, Match, follows five characters as their lives cross over in unexpected ways. Writer Marc Chun dives into his characters' relationships, ferreting out complex motivations and desires. The play is a bit on the long side, but the cast is once again excellent. Again, Hennesy gives a standout performance. Playing an actor with a secret, she creates a character conceited yet humble, shallow yet deeply true in her desire to do the right thing. She is seriously watchable.
These new plays, although perhaps in need of some editing, merit attention. And with a talented group like this presenting them, they will no doubt get it.
--J.A. Eliason
"escape/artists-gallery 1," presented by Moving Arts at the Los Angeles Theatre Center, 514 S. Spring St., Downtown Los Angeles. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 2 p.m. Oct. 12-Dec. 1. $18 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (213) 473-0660.
DEAR FATHER? A KAFKA CABARET
As a visiting production from Yale University and New Haven's environs, this work, billed as "a Kafka cabaret," mixes songs and book by Michael Goodfriend with the marvelously zippy klezmer music of Paul Libman. While the concept is novel and the music enchanting, the nominal storyline of the Czech writer (Goodfriend) being psychologically haunted by his father (Bruce Katzman) does not pack a punch. Perhaps that is because Goodfriend, while a capable actor, is way over his head with some stilted lyrics and a meandering story that features Kafka's unexplained and impromptu mood shifts. Esther Chae unfortunately contributes some goofy, hand-holding choreography. As both Mrs. Kafka and another female love interest, Janie Haddad has a singing voice far more frightening than the idea of a man awakening as a cockroach. Alan Goodson fares well as fellow writer Max Brod, and Katzman has a quite serviceable singing voice but it is too little, too late. But overall, there is no deep exploration of the psyche of Kafka, whose brilliantly twisted mind deserves more tribute than this relentlessly cheery approach to his life.
Trying to do shtick about Kafka is like doing a bouncy musical about Poe or Jerzy Kosinski. Sightlines are a problem when action wanders into the audience, and we cannot comprehend the central father/son relationship in any meaningful way. At one point Kafka's love interest bellows at him, "What a freak of nature!" Kafka suffered enough in his life. He doesn't deserve either that accusation-or this show.
--Brad Schreiber
"Dear Father... A Kafka Cabaret," presented by Yale Cabaret Blue at Blue, 1642 N. Las Palmas Ave., Hollywood. Mon.-Thurs. 7 p.m. Through Oct. 17. 75 min. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.dearfather.com. (818) 759-8144.
I'D RATHER BE WEIRD THAN DEAD
There is sometimes a thin line between the one-person show and public psychotherapy. Sophie Keller, while quirky and not untalented, has, alas, fallen into the second camp. It is her blessing that her diction and her tall, blonde, wan, piercingly bleak presence hold our attention, mostly, in this self-examination. That term is particularly appropriate for a show that includes such topics as having small breasts, wanting to have more of a career, resenting the boyfriends who have let her down, and hoping to put a patina of decency on the whole affair by talking about her guilt over having a father with cancer.
This last bit supposedly drives Keller to seek a rabbi to marry to make dying Dad proud. How she can possibly assume responsibility for his disease, as she claims, is never elucidated. Along the way are a number of verbal miscues and pauses that director Michael Neill has let sit. Keller's British take on Angeleno trends is quite fun when talking about Eileen, her 80-year-old "psychic nutritionist." She laments, after running out of a London plastic surgeon's office, "If I was in L.A., the doctor would be able to operate over the phone."
Keller's energy is generally far too muted for this kvetch-fest, and while she makes us sit up a bit with snippets about drinking her own urine and sexually coming on to her own brother, it seems idle titillation, minor diversions in a relentless flaunting of self-misery. By the time she cries on the phone to her father, she has achieved some sort of stasis, supposedly, and decides that she can be happy, in the here and now. If only it were that easy.
--Brad Schreiber
"I'd Rather Be Weird Than Dead," presented by and at Theatre of NOTE, 1517 Cahuenga Blvd., Hollywood. Oct. 13-15. And at the Powerhouse Theatre, 3116 2nd St., Santa Monica. Mon.-Tues. 7:30 p.m. Oct. 13-Nov. 12. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport, Oct. 10-20). (323) 856-8611 (Oct. 13-15 only) (866) 633-6246 x 10.
MOMENTS OF THOUGHT
Silent Echoes Mime Theatre's recent production encompassed seven disparate locations and a bevy of characters, all in a largely bare black box. The mime duo and co-artistic directors, Eg Mahan and Dennis Schaller, worked up quite a sweat bringing their interesting, if not always wholly successful, ideas to the stage.
The seven uneven pieces that making up Moments of Thought ranged from simple prop gags to complex ideological explorations. In "Please Sir? Take Mine," the first and weakest piece of the evening, Mahan and Schaller enacted a politeness battle. The piece's repetitiveness and generality quickly grew tiresome. "Black Elk's Prayer" was a confusing dance-like scene in which Schaller moved around with an American-flag tie, perhaps to demonstrate the nation's guilt over the destruction of the Sioux way of life.
The evening perked up with "The Circle Game." In this genuinely humorous work, Mahan moved nonstop in a circle as he went through the chores of everyday life, even finding a youthful glee in his escape from the everyday grind. Later, Schaller got his chance to shine as "Dracula," reinvented as a split personality, alternately timid and devilish, struggling through a night of bloodshed.
Overall, however, there were many needless-and unfortunately loud-costume changes, and the work sometimes lacked specificity. But with energetic performances, full of energy and a sense of fun, Mahan and Schaller, in a show of silent moments, created many that were truly enjoyable.
--J.A. Eliason
"Moments of Thought," presented by Silent Echoes Mime Theatre at Secret Rose Theatre, 11246 Magnolia Blvd., North Hollywood. Closed. 45 min. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.atheatreofmime.com. (310) 717-9094.
MORAL JUJITSU
Entering the performance space for this hour-long piece conjures up a celebratory, Fourth of July feel, but what follows is no picnic. Patrons are offered a cold beer, and the stage is cluttered with sundry red, white, and blue objects: napkins, paper cups, streamers, open cans of paint, flags. Yet it doesn't take long to realize that this laboriously assembled patriotic ambience has no meaningful link to anything that follows.
The show is billed as having something to do with a couple's relationship being defined by consumerism, but from what we perceived, it might as well be about hunting for whales in Timbuktu. There are precious few coherent moments and even fewer laughs as shrill writer/performers Joanna Senatore and Gordon Vandenberg indulge in unfocused sketches and monologues. For example, I'd love to know what a witless early sketch about a girl in Bible class speaking rapturously of her too-close-for-comfort relationship with her best friend has to do with consumerism.
Other bits do pull in ideas of consumerism, but to tedious and unintelligible effect: A man mutters about ways of removing stains with Tide; a dominatrix compares her hand-tied partner's blue shirt to various commodities, such as Gatorade (don't ask!). The nadir is reached in Vandenberg's interminable and futile attempt to find hilarity in describing a fast-food drive-through. Tellingly--or perhaps mercifully--the name of director Mady Schutzman (identified on the EdgeFest website) appears nowhere in the seven-page program.
--Les Spindle
"Moral Jujitsu," presented by Emperor Woodpecker at the Elephant Theater, 1076 Lillian Way, Hollywood. Sun. Oct. 20 at 8 p.m. 60 min. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). (818) 802-7963.
NO VACANCY
The Theatre District celebrates EdgeFest with seven 10-minute plays by Sessions at the Cast Artist's Workshop. All of them center on travelers and transients, whether emotional or spiritual, who find themselves in one motel room during the course of the evening. The show offers everything from comedy to avant-garde.
Of the seven, several stand out. "Monopoly Money" by Summer Spinks (directed by Sharia Lunt) examines the marriage of Raquel (Jessica Learned) who lives only for her husband Steve (Craig Swart) and his career, to her own detriment. In "Where Are We?," written and directed by Shannon Hunt, Learned and Rachel Shapiro play two friends whose love may have blossomed into something more. A gay couple (Mike Rubin and Drew Droege) hilariously discover and try to dispose of a gun they find under the motel mattress in "A Gift From a Friend," written and directed by David Colley. Suzie Kane adds to their fun. Many of the company members return for "Squeak in the Night," the piece de resistance of the evening. Written by Holiday and directed by Hunt, the comedy has two bank-robbing clowns (Learned and Craig Swart) hiding out in the room of Lance (Holiday). The clowns are a hilarious blend of tough talk and comedic ineptitude.
All the plays are well acted and competently produced, with the uncredited motel setting boasting a sagging bed and cheesy landscapes. Like any workshop exhibition, however, these are mostly interesting little snippets rather than fully realized works.
--Leigh Kennicott
"No Vacancy," presented by Theatre District at the Cast, 804 North El Centro Ave., Hollywood. Wed. Oct. 16 at 8 p.m. 120 min. $15 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.thetheatredistrict.com. (323) 957-2343.
THE PAINFUL DEATH OF SUE ELLEN FITCH
Company Rep's entry in the EdgeFest was an intriguing conundrum. The script's central figure is Dr. Jonathan Fitch, a psychiatrist as screwed up as his clients. He keeps the good thought but never explains himself, even to his long-suffering wife, Lisa. The murder of their daughter Sue Ellen is traumatic enough, but Lisa's wish for a real home instead of an apartment, and a family to boot, causes Jonathan further discomfort. Otherwise, the doctor's blase attitude toward patients seems a sort of self-treatment. His patients are an ordinary lot: Susan, traumatized by her relationship with her girlfriend; Cynthia, with her relationship terror, and Scott, who is afraid of his own shadow. Fitch's handling of their problems works out pretty disastrously, except for Susan, whose solution is simply to move out.
Tricia Gilfone as Susan gave the production's richest performance, her best moment the opening scene in a very funny torrent of tears and sobbing. Ron Slanina was very solid as Fitch, as was Lydia Lee Belvin as his wife and Melanie Ewbank as Cynthia. The second most notable performance was Darin Singleton's fractured Scott, who gets fractured in more ways than one. Playwright Thorin Alexander's direction gave shape and form to the tale, whose only flaw is the use of monologues for exposition, an undramatic device that doesn't match Alexander's sharp sense of dialogue and pacing.
--T.H. McCulloh
"The Painful Death of Sue Ellen Fitch," presented by the Company Rep at Circle Theatre at El Portal, 5269 Lankershim Blvd., North Hollywood. Closed. 75 min. $12 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). (818) 506-7550.
SONAMABITCH
All works of art have a story behind them, but the Watts Towers-that consistently awe-inspiring outsider masterpiece of steel rods and hoops, reinforced cement, and vintage detritus-are a virtual testament to the artist's life. The eccentric Italian bricklayer Simon Rodia, who built them in his Watts backyard for more than three decades, then simply walked away from them in the mid-1950s after a stroke, is as rich and mysterious a figure as his work would suggest.
But you won't find that rich figure in John Kafkaloff's flimsy docu-play, in which a now-dead Rodia (played frantically, sputteringly by Casey Mandel) emerges to regale us with such choice anecdotes and musings as "the towers-they be very big thing I build," and "33 years-that's a long time!" Apparently after death this Rodia lost his Italian accent, and is now able to pronounce such quaint dialect as "no make-a sense" with standard American diction. There's a sliver of revelation-when, after his wife dies, Rodia wanders all the way to the beach, picks up a seashell, and realizes what to do with his life, with a tragic clarity we can feel. And in one sequence dramatizing Rodia's feverish, improvised construction methods, Mandel and director Laura Jaoui make the most of a shiny Werner work ladder, otherwise a depressing stand-in for the towers. Sapphira Joseph's dance interludes are baffling and pedestrian, if mercifully brief.
But the worst thing I can say about Sonomabitch is that the short slide show of the Towers themselves, in all their crazy, lapidary beauty, shows up everything else onstage (even the blank white mannequins, racks of female separates, and vintage pinball games at the edge of the play's odd fashion-warehouse setting).
--Rob Kendt
"Sonamabitch," presented by L.A. Originals at Patrick Apparel Int'l Fashion Warehouse, 818 S. Broadway, Suite 701, Los Angeles. Wed.-Fri. 9:30 p.m. Through Oct. 18. 45 min. $7 suggested donation (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). (909) 626-2772.
TO REIGN IN HELL
Several moments of originality strove mightily to keep us from feeling we had been shanghaied to that titular place in writer/director Dave Hunsaker's one-woman piece about three disobedient earth goddesses: Lilith, Sedna, and Persephone. Otherwise, cliched visuals and rambling narratives erected impenetrable bars between the audience and actor Kim Gillingham, who, despite occasionally unconvincing, sometimes inward-directed work, seemed to fulfill the directives of the piece.
Kneeling downstage for far too long, Gillingham became a disembodied voice, lost to those not sitting in the front row. But when she climbed the centerstage rope ladder, the piece became about the suspension, not character or narrative, helped not at all by the meandering prose unfortunately tacked on after crisp exposition about each character.
Creating hell with unmitigated red lighting, showing suspension with a safety harness, handing flowers to audience members while exhorting us to appreciate Earth's abundance, were disappointingly literal conceits. Music by Heather Lockie-moody and earthy, as she bowed, plucked, tapped, her forbearing violin-did better to set the scene than much of the narration; sadly underused here, Lockie stood by silently as Gillingham was asked to create animal sounds or, worse, the voice of God-given an unfortunate reading as a bad Shakespearean actor.
But, as the bleeding Sedna, Gillingham became lit by specials that cast blood-red shadows, edging her body evocatively, simultaneously representational and symbolic. As Persephone, Gillingham broke open a dripping ripe pomegranate, the rich seeds freed, the juices sheeting down her hands. At least these particularly effective, imaginative moments sporadically brought the evening to theatrical life.
--Dany Margolies
"To Reign in Hell," presented by and at the Electric Lodge, 1416 Electric Ave., Venice. Closed. 75 min. $14 (or $5 with EdgeFest passport). www.electriclodge.org. (310) 306-1854.