t the Groundling Theatre
Reviewed by Brad Schreiber
The current mainstage show by the Groundlings starts off decidedly in your face with a biting tribute to Johnnie Cochran: Jordan Black makes outrageous demands on whites and pulls his "Race Card" out, trumping them every time, like a haughty lawyer pulling out a gold card in a 99-cent store. It's indicative of the snappy, outrageous humor that primarily graces this offering, interspersed with improvisations conducted by director Deanna Oliver, who asks for suggestions and introduces the players at the speed of light.
Moving a little more slowly but with methodical hilarity is Kevin Ruf, who portrays Al Gore in an improv with stunning accuracy. In the improv reviewed, the veep's renowned love of the environment went off on a bizarre tangent as he announced he's tired of the bald eagle as an American icon and instead wants the giraffe to be put on U.S. currency.
Looking like a Russian apple doll left too long in the sun, Karen Maruyama plays a playfully senile old woman left in the care of a man (Steven Pierce) running an underpatronized shoe store. His attempts to placate her absurd demands for entertainment, punctuated by the phrase "hoo-hoo," make for one of the evening's flat-out funniest sketches.
Ruf kicks some more comedic booty, not only as a cowboy in a bar who shows a couple of obnoxious patrons who's boss by bearhugging them, with little result, but also as the most inspired character of the evening. In "Morning Danish," Ruf takes on the persona of a gawky Dane who speaks fractured English and bothers the hell out of straight man Pierce, who is preparing to do some diving at a resort. Ruf's frightening wig, pallid skin, and squeaky voice are irresistible, especially when combined with totally committed fractured syntax: "I would say goodbye because I can't swim as fast as a squid."
Oliver inexplicably has an intermission with a shorter and less successful second act, although Amy Von Freymann shine in an extended improv section in which a young woman proselytized about the advantages of sexual abstinence, while obviously salivating over the people she invited up from the audience. Oliver's direction and pacing as usual are expert; one only wishes it had all been performed straight through.
Regarding the superfluous second act, one might quote the marvelous Ruf as the not-very-melancholy Dane, "You make a good point. I only wish I knew what it was."
"Groundlings Vs. the State of California," presented by and at the Groundling Theatre, 7307 Melrose Ave., West Hollywood. Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 8 & 10 p.m. June 9-Sept. 9. $18.50. (323) 934-9700.
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NO EXIT
at the Jewel Box Theatre Center
Reviewed by Terri Roberts
Hell, like life, is pretty much what you make it-at least according to existentialist philosopher, novelist, and playwright Jean-Paul Sartre. In his stunning 1944 one-act, No Exit, Sartre postulates that the freedom of choice enjoyed in life carries with it consequences that follow a person even into death and eternity.
Tiny Theatre #3 of the Jewel Box Theatre Center is the perfect environmental setting for Theatre Tribe's production of this intensely introspective, philosophical examination of three people's personal hell. The theatre is a stuffy, sweaty, windowless little room with 22 seats backed up against three black walls. Three small divans-one red, one purple, and one green-are in the center of the room, secured to the floor. Nothing moves here (including the stifling air); nothing can be changed. Two doors, always locked, are on opposing walls. There is no escape.
Forever condemned to the room are Garcin (David Shackelford, alternating weekends with Derek Anthony), a temperamental journalist for a pacifist newspaper; Inez (Rebecca Clark), a blunt-talking postal clerk with a cruel streak in her, and Estelle (MariaElena Laas), a spoiled young socialite who expects her every whim to be instantly indulged. As the trio begins to learn about each other, the terrible things they did in their lives-and thus the reasons they landed Down Below instead of Up Above-are gradually revealed.
Garcin and Inez are already trying to adapt when the deadpan Valet (Gabriel Byer, an unblinking wonder) escorts Estelle into the room and slams the door shut. Estelle, who recently died of pneumonia, is dressed in a formal beige gown and insists on taking the green divan because it's the most compatible color for her dress. The green also suits her youth and obvious monied background. Passionate, hot-tempered Inez, who was gassed in her sleep by her female lover, assumes the red divan for herself and tries to lure Estelle over to it. The royal color of purple goes to Garcin, shot 12 times in the chest. He was the first to arrive, is the only man, and is the one who makes a critical decision that affects them all.
Director Jeff Scrivner generally keeps the show quick-paced; the show runs a little over an hour. There are times, however, when a more stealthy approach prevails, as when he has Garcin and Inez stalking each other like angry, caged animals. Shackelford and Clark are both high-energy performers who go full throttle in their performances. It's fascinating to watch them circle their prey (at times the sweet Estelle, other times each other), looking for just the right vulnerable spot to go in for the kill.
Laas seems more a debutante than a woman old enough to be married and have a child and a lover (at least in 1944). Though there's a level of sophistication missing, her youth and na™vet about the world at large give her an endearing charm.
Most likely because of the (no pun intended) dead air, the dialogue occasionally sounds garbled; acoustics aren't much here. It is, after all, hell. If you come, be sure to bring a fan and a spritzer bottle. The heat is on.
"No Exit," presented by John Lant, Stuart Rogers, and Theatre Tribe at the Jewel Box Theatre Center (Theatre #3), 1951-1959 Chauenga Blvd., Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. June 24-July 15. $12. (213) 692-7107.
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THE CUTTING ROOM FLOOR
at the Complex
Reviewed by Angela Phipps Towle
A tangle of chairs goes up one side of the stage; a wig bust and mismatched furniture are strewn about. We are in the back hollows of an old prop room, or perhaps Dorian Gray's attic, where twisted versions of The Wizard of Oz, Twelve Angry Men, and Charlie's Angels grew and mutated.
The Cutting Room Floor is rough around the edges, but deliberately so (a dim stage light is even left on between sets for us to see the actors donning new costumes or getting in position for the next scene). Steve Silverman directs himself and four others in 11 short one-act spoofs that are clever in their 21st-century take on familiar classics; the majority are laugh-out-loud funny, though a few fail to ignite.
The show opens with one of the best sketches of the night: Dorothy Gale is being cross-examined on the witness stand. She's charged with murder (Mrs. Gulch, a.k.a. the Wicked Witch) and taking drugs (remember the poppies?) and also of having psychotic delusions (with friends like a lion, a tinman, and a good witch, the prosecution argues, it's an open-and-shut case). Here Dorothy has a bad attitude, and instead of Toto, she's got her cigarettes in that little basket.
Kirsten Vangsness, as Dorothy and in many other incarnations, stands out in the ensemble cast. Expressive and versatile, she has great timing and is fun to watch. In "Acceptance Speech," she grasps a golden statuette and accepts an (imaginary) award for playing a character with 93 personalities. My only criticism of Vangsness is that her delivery in this sketch goes overboard and could be reeled in.
Jeff Scott's sound design is clever and most appreciated in a MovieFone spoof in which Danny Casillas plays the Recorded Voice, giving descriptions of such films as Funny Girl, Interrupted (starring Barbra Streisand and Angelina Jolie), and Sixth Sense and Sensibility.
All in all, it's a playful, if haphazard, evening, and a fun mid-week summer diversion.
"The Cutting Room Floor," presented by Good Dog Productions at the Complex, 6476 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Wed. 8 p.m. June 28-Aug. 16. $10. (323) 243-4488
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ELECTRA... I HATE MY MOMMA & STEPDADDY
at the Sierra Stage
Reviewed by Wenzel Jones
It's the House of Atreus meets Jerry Springer (or, in this case, Larry Winters), and I can't say either benefits from the acquaintance. It seems like a good idea, moving a family known for matricide, infidelity, blood sacrifice, and just plain bad luck to a double-wide and then sticking them on a televised talk show, but it's a premise that never transcends its initial joke.
You'll need to break out your Edith Hamilton, because the lurid details of the family saga are not going to be easy to separate from the ambient screaming. Electra (Kirsten Roeters), a girl who testifies with every breath and treats her body as a temple to be admired, has come on national television to expose the calumny of her "sinning whore" of a mother, Clytemnestra (Terri Power), and her mother's no-account lover Aegisthus (Matt Godecker). Talk-show host Larry (Will Collins) makes lots of cooing noises as Electra reveals each new chink in the family armor. I almost wish the names had been updated to something regionally believable, as watching these characters wrangle with names like Aegisthus and Agamemnon is silly. On the other hand, I had never considered the nickname to which Clytemnestra would lend itself.
The actors have to be admired for their commitment to the genre. The women are willing to enter into innumerable catfights (the flowered thong on the mother was an especially nice touch), and Godecker has perfectly captured the character of the worthless layabout who feels his biggest problem is he's such a sex magnet. Only the possession of all his teeth rings false.
It's just that everything is yelled. It's a small room, and the set, which looks like a carpeted men's room with seating, is not filled with deadening surfaces, so at times it's all you can do to keep from standing up and suggesting they all just shut up. Which maybe is what they want you to do. The staging is somewhat interactive, and I'll admit that the night I attended the house was both small and-tasteful. Nancy Lantis is responsible for practically everything (writing, directing, set, costumes-again, nice thong), and I wish her the best of luck when she decides to turn this into the five-minute sketch it was supposed to be.
"Electra... I Hate My Momma & Stepdaddy!," presented by Eclipse Theatre at the Sierra Stage, 1444 N. Sierra Bonita, W. Hollywood. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m. June 16-July 29. $12. (818) 247-2884.
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ACME McBEAL
at the Acme Comedy Theatre
Reviewed by Zach Udko
As its title might suggest, Acme's newest collection of sketch comedy is thin-on laughs, that is. Six funny bits stand out of 16 to make for an uneven evening indeed. The verdict? Acme's been a lot worse and quite a bit better in the past, but this show could conceivably please the undiscriminating viewer.
Highlights include Jeff Lewis' "Review of a Lifetime," in which Gene Siskel and God review the lives of prospective admits to heaven. Danielle Hoover has a winner with her "Say What," in which she plays a widow trying to reach her dead husband in a s ance, who channels an arguing black couple in the process. And Kristen Trucksess and Paul Jackson end the evening on a grotesquely hilarious note with "Stigmata: The Musical." Sample lyrics: "My stigmata/He can hold me 'cause he's swell/But dry cleaning can be hell."
Jonna Tamases scores the biggest laughs in the best sketches. Her "Mail Female" introduces a reluctant Romanian mail-order bride to a lonely American's bachelor pad. "Penny's Song" is a naughty and irresistible ode to starstruck rock groupies, as a crazed hotel receptionist plans out her entire future with a lead singer she's been asked to quiet down. And "Mamma Mia" mocks the Italian grandmother eager to please in any way she can: You want drugs? Oral sex? Si, si, si.
The other 10 scenes are a disappointing display of unfulfilled comic potential. Joel Berti's "Hash Enema" depicts Tamases as a rock star trying to write a halfway decent song; the material is almost there but not quite funny. Travis Oates goes on for too long in "Bathroom Humor" about a man with a shy bladder trying to urinate.
Director M.D. Sweeney has a fine group of actors here, all with a nice sense of timing. It's just the material that's a bit hit and miss. On a more positive note, it's nice to see that Acme has decided to get rid of the senseless video interludes that used to bog down their shows in the past.
"Acme McBeal," presented by and at the Acme Comedy Theatre, 135 N. La Brea Ave., Hollywood. Sat. 8 p.m. Apr. 22-Indefinitely. $15. (323) 525-0202.
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WILD LIFE
at the Powerhouse Theatre
Reviewed by Anne Louise Bannon
Wild Life starts with blips of music, as if someone were rushing through the frequency spectrum on a radio, with the music getting louder and louder and more in your face, but there's nothing to grab onto. It's intensity, it's noise, but with no real substance.
That pretty much describes the rest of Bernardo Solano's play, as well. Ostensibly about the lives of seven people in Los Angeles and how they are affected by the brutal murder of a little girl, this disjointed slice-of-life collage might work if the lives were actually affected by this crime. As it is, the characters, for the most part, merely comment on the event and go on about their business.
Erik (Jeff Williams) is the young black cop who finds the murdered girl dismembered and stuffed in a suitcase. But he must leave the case to the detectives and spends the rest of the play occasionally grumbling that he can't do more to uncover the girl's identity. In the meantime, he takes up with junkie Wendy (Daisy McCrackin), who's trying to kick her habit. Erik also crosses paths with Joshua (Cliff Weissman), an accountant with a wife and twin daughters living in the Valley. Elbert (Tim Fox) is an abusive husband who spouts Bible verses while making love to his wife, Winona (Nancy Bell), who dreams of being a spokesperson on the shopping network. Kevin (Jf Pryor) is a white supremacist who nonetheless falls for Carmen (Monique Edwards), a black TV weather reporter from the Dominican Republic. Carmen, for her part, is slowly dying and doesn't want to face it.
The problem with the play is that nothing happens. The characters' changes are driven by their respective situations, as opposed to anything to do with the crime that's supposed to link them together-but we don't see these changes. We just see them moaning about their various issues, which gets pretty dull pretty quickly.
The acting is flat across the board as well, which makes one wonder where director Chris Fields was pointing the players. The intensity is there, but there is absolutely no subtext-nothing driving what little action there is. Kuo Lung Kai's lighting seems a tad darker than necessary, and Juliana von Haubrich's very spare set and rolling scrim create a sense of fantasy that alternately does and doesn't work.
Wild Life offers little of either wildness or life.
"Wild Life," presented by the Echo Theater Company in association with and at Powerhouse Theatre, 3116 2nd Street, Santa Monica. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 3 & 7 p.m. June 17-July 16. $9-15. (310) 396-3680.