OTHERWISE ENGAGED
at the Pacific Resident Theatre
Reviewed by Paul Birchall
In director Michael Rothhaar's subtly nuanced production of Simon Gray's darkly comic drama, all London publisher Simon (Kevin Quinn) wants to do is spend the day listening to his new recording of Wagner's Parsifal. Fat chance. Instead, he's beset by odious visitors, all of whom take Simon further and further away from the solitude he seeks and bring him to heartbreak, emotional isolation, and tragedy.
Simon's oafish schoolteacher brother Stephen (Stuart W. Howard) wants sympathy because he fears he has lost an important promotion, while journalist/critic friend Jeff (Stephen Hoye), a vile racist boor, drops by to complain about the affair he's having with his now-remarried ex-wife. Just when Simon gets these people's issues resolved, in comes Jeff's ambitious girlfriend (Andi Carnick), who tries to seduce Simon to get her book published. She's followed by an old school friend who suspects Simon of a misdeed with his fianc e.
Ultimately, we find ourselves thinking that this is the sort of play which could never be set in America: We keep expecting Simon to tell the endless procession of guests to go away, but he's hamstrung by an intensely British quality of polite, passive acceptance. Still, what is powerful about the play is how artfully Gray communicates the banality of Simon's shallow interest in his friends' welfare-it's clear he doesn't care about anyone else at all but is mouthing platitudes to get them out of his house, even when the things he's being told are horrifying.
Rothhaar's staging shrewdly emphasizes personality and motivational underpinnings over the vagaries of blocking. Although the inhabitants of Gray's elegant play are a steadfastly unpleasant collection of self-absorbed monsters dripping with ego and appetite-especially erstwhile protagonist Simon, whose false sincerity masks a terrifyingly cold and monstrously detached personality-this is a powerfully moral drama about emotional isolation and the nature of denial.
The ensemble work crackles with overt civility and internal malice, with Quinn's performance being especially tight and cool. The more we learn about the seemingly civilized, educated, and restrained Simon, the more we realize how hollow his life is-and how much he has repressed his rage and despair. Also compelling are Howard's weaselly Stephen, Carnick's loathsomely sleazy Davina, and Stacie Chaiken, as Simon's desperate wife.
"Otherwise Engaged," presented by Andi Carnick and Darren Kelley at the Pacific Resident Theatre, 705 1/2 Venice Blvd., Venice. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 3 p.m. Nov. 18-Jan. 16, 2000. $20-22. (310) 822-8392.
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BASH, LATTERDAY PLAYS
at the Canon Theatre
Reviewed by Scott Proudfit
As the premier postmodern moralist of the independent film scene, Neil LaBute has confused a lot of people. Much has been made-and justifiably so-of the writer's Mormon background, which stands in juxtaposition, or perhaps illuminates, the brutally homophobic and sexist attitudes of his white, middle-class characters. LaBute has been accused of sadistic sensationalism in his morality fables In the Company of Men and Your Friends and Neighbors. The real problem for his critics seems to be that the evil that men do in these tales goes unpunished. And in fact, unlike the chaotic world view of existentialism, not only does evil sometimes prosper in LaBute's world, it nearly always does so. If judgement comes for these despicable creatures, it's not in this lifetime.
At the dark heart of the modern American, LaBute sees a failure to take responsibility for actions and a blindness to the animalistic impulses that continue to drive us. With bash, latterday plays, the two monologues and duologue which recently made the trip West from Broadway, LaBute further examines human frailty along these lines.
Like his films, these pieces-played typically by a seated actor contained in a bright spotlight-lean toward the static. Yet the power of LaBute's words is undeniable, and the dark vision he creates is chillingly reflective of the world we live in.
Director Joe Mantello attempts to energize certain key moments in these stories with varying degrees of success. For example, at the end of the first section-a modern take on the Medea myth, with Calista Flockhart as a young woman seduced and duped by her junior high teacher who exacts revenge on their love child-the actress' voice is amplified, as she wails, "Why?," joylessly imagining her lover suffering for his crimes. It's a jarring and powerful moment-the perfect cap after the matter-of-fact description of the child's murder.
But in Flockhart's duologue with Paul Rudd, the performers rise from their chairs to dance to cheesy music, enacting a party in Manhattan that these two young lovers from Boston College attend before Rudd's character goes off wilding and gay-bashing in Central Park with his buddies. This kind of occasional theatricalization seems unnecessary and actually pulls us out of the moment, if only briefly.
Still, Mantello understands the strengths of LaBute's material and coaxes some beautiful performances from his three actors. And design elements are impeccable, from James Vermeulen's laser-sharp lighting to Scott Pask's suggestive and stark sets.
The most compelling of the three performances, perhaps because it is the least flashy, is Ron Eldard as the traveling businessman who confesses to the ultimate sacrifice-or cruelest crime-he has committed to ensure the standard of living to which his family has become accustomed. Eldard completely inhabits this morally blind character, infusing him with a pathetic charm. Experiencing the moment the audience turns against this murderer is priceless.
Flockhart tends to be a bit actorly with her first monologue, occasionally commenting on the character's education and social background rather than revealing it. But she truly shines in the second act as the oh-so-subtly bloodthirsty young woman who supports-if only through her drowsily obscured vision-her boyfriend's cruelty. Rudd, in addition, does wonders at capturing the cavalier attitude of this young, educated thug, though he plays early moments in the scene strictly for laughs. (Considering the darkness of the material, the audience seemed all too relieved to provide the laughter.)
Considering the steep ticket price and the star power behind this black examination of the American psyche, tickets will be hard to come by, but it's worth the effort. How often do you get a chance to witness one of the most important and original moral voices in drama today?
"Bash, latterday plays," presented by Stephen Pevner and Canon Theatricals at Canon Theatre, 205 N. Canon Dr., Beverly Hills. Sat. 3 & 8 p.m., Sun. 3 & 7 p.m. Nov. 27-Dec. 19. $60-75. (310) 859-2830.
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BARRIO BABIES
at the Ricketson Theatre
Reviewed by Dianne Zuckerman
Fresh, funny, and filled with appealing characters, Barrio Babies, in its world premiere by the Denver Center Theatre Company, is a welcome change from familiar, recycled musical fare. Luis Santeiro's book, about five Hispanics trying to find their niche in films, is bright, and his lyrics are witty. Fernando Rivas' tuneful songs are performed well by the strong cast backed by a rhythmic ensemble. Director Susana Tubert, assisted by musical director Douglas Coates and choreographer A.C. Ciulla, turns these elements into an upbeat show that left me smiling.
Barrio Babies is a new take on the old Hollywood-or-bust tale. Ray Reyes is a promising Latino screenwriter with high hopes for a story based on his New York upbringing. Trying to be all things to all studio execs, he's soon jumping through multicultural hoops as his script is recast in everyone else's image.
While the show-which also benefits from stylish design work-prefers humor to handwringing, it makes its points about ethnic typecasting and Hollywood's penchant for turning life experiences into loony extravaganzas. Philip Anthony is charismatic as Ray, his smooth voice and energetic delivery propelling numbers such as "L.A. Is Calling." As Josie, Ray's ex-girlfriend, who is trying to make that painful progress from commercials to feature films, Sara Ramirez has a powerful voice, showcased on the lovely "Close Your Eyes to See Me." Josie also has been given the greatest emotional range, along with a nifty comedic bit as a court translator frantically trying to close a case to check on her audition.
Edgar Garcia shines in "The Line Up," a litany of one-note parts from domestics to desperadoes. April Ortiz has some hilarious scenes as the exotic Lola, whose on-location recollections include "Love Among the Lepers." Annie Kozuch adds to the fun as Madelin, a Cuban who can't get cast because she doesn't look Latino enough and retaliates by starting her own zany production company. Completing the cast, Steve Routman is a hoot as various off-the-wall producer types.
The show, which has its sights set on New York, still needs work: There are a few songs too many, and several of the characters need more depth. But in an era in which musical revivals have become a mainstay, this one sparkles with originality.
"Barrio Babies," presented by the Denver Center Theatre Company at the Ricketson Theatre, Helen Bonfils Theatre Complex, 24th and Curtis Streets, Denver. Mon.-Wed. 6:30 p.m., Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sat. 1:30 p.m. Nov. 18-Dec. 30. $31-36. (800) 641-1222.
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ALMOST PERFECT
at the Santa Monica Playhouse
Reviewed by Polly Warfield
Marital discord is delightful, a husband's infidelity is unadulterated enjoyment, protracted adolescent egocentrism and delayed coming-of-age are endearing-when they happen to someone else, in a comedy as almost perfect as Almost Perfect. Jerry Mayer's engagingly candid autobiographical mea culpa had its world premiere at the Santa Monica Playhouse in 1986, next opened Off-Broadway, then went on to successful national and international tours. It's even lovelier the second time around.
All ye who would be playwrights, prepare to bare thy souls. Like Neil Simon, whose comedies this somewhat resembles (some might venture to say excels), playwright Mayer explores his past and finds thespic treasure there. He admits that the character of wayward husband Buddy Apple-selfish, mendacious, impractical, and as played by Albie Selznick irresistible-is based on himself, and that this is a true story of his marriage.
Buddy, as did the youthful Mayer, dreams of being a writer, while trying to fit in to his family's profitable St. Louis construction business. His heart isn't in it. He's writing a screenplay about Gershwin, his hero. (In one of his frequent asides to the audience he muses, "You hear George Gershwin, you want to kill Barry Manilow.") And he's decided he's not in love with Jenny, his wife, who wears baggy Laura Ashleys and is so organized and efficient, he notes, "It's like being married to a Volvo." Anyway, his domineering Jewish dad pushed him into marriage with this nice Jewish girl in the first place.
Temptation finds Buddy ripe when it enters, in the svelte, seductive, shiksa form of a radio ad exec with the tantalizing name of Boots. Boots adores Buddy's humor, laughs at his jokes, loves his writing. She thinks "Jews are so creative!" As forbidden fruit is famously appealing, Buddy is smitten and headed for divorce. But he can't bring himself to tell Jenny. And by the time it comes to that, a funny thing happens.
Directed this time around by Chris DeCarlo, Almost Perfect's cast is perfect as need be. Selznick's bemused, bewitched, belatedly adolescent Buddy is so appealing and his humor-as written and as played-is so abundant and effervescent that we must forgive him everything. He is an able actor and, as Mayer's surrogate, a Buddy Apple even more credible than the excellent Charles Levin, who originated the role. Wendy Michaels doesn't make us forget Alley Mills' almost perfect Jenny, nor should she, but Michaels comes on easy, ends up strong, and delivers comic zingers with dead-on timing. Wait till you see Jenny's inner enchantress emerge. Cool.
Heidi Anderson's chic and savvy Boots would be formidable competition for any Laura Ashley-clad stay-at-home housewife. Even better, to her credit and the playwright's, Boots is no bimbo but a genuinely nice person. Donald Bishop's craftily domineering Dad Apple is a cozy paradigm of Jewish patriarchy. Susan Davis as Mom Apple earned spontaneous applause on opening night for her rousing "tell "em off and set "em straight" scene. Bill Ackerman offers good contrast as Mike, Buddy's more construction-work-compatible, gum-chewing brother.
The set by Chris Beyries and James Cooper is a cleverly adaptable industrial-looking affair suggestive of a construction site underway. And their lighting lets us know when Buddy's mode turns introspective, as it so often does. Costumes by Ashley Hayes make character definition their first priority.
The play's humor comes without sting or barb and, solidly rooted in character and situation, it generates a steady accompaniment of spontaneous laughter. Mayer, whose list of television writing credits is impressive, needs no laugh track. His dialogue is delicious, his characters are truly drawn, and his play is a warm life- and wife-embracing tribute to his real-life spouse, Emily.
"Almost Perfect," presented by and at Santa Monica Playhouse, 1211 Fourth St., Santa Monica. Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 6:30 & 9 p.m, Sun. 6:30 p.m. Nov. 21-Jan. 9. $18-20. (310) 394-9779, x. 1.
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ACME THE VAMPIRE SLAYER
at the Acme Comedy Theatre
Reviewed by Hoyt Hilsman
Acme Comedy Theatre, now in its 10th season under artistic director M.D. Sweeney, is a bright light in the otherwise pallid landscape of sketch comedy. Its latest offering, Acme the Vampire Slayer, with excellent writing and fine performances, is a solid cut above the competition.
It takes a talented pen as well as considerable acting gifts to succeed in sketch comedy, and the troupe of Joanna Daniels, Josh Gilbert, Ted Hardwick, Danielle Hoover, Jamie Kalmer, Kristen Trucksess, Billy Wright, and Robert Yasumura are strong in both departments. Unlike run-of-the-mill sketch comedy, which falls back on the outrageous, easy laugh, the Acme players rely more on a quirky, skewed point of view than on reality. From a girls' slumber party to a high school tiff or a family dinner, the subject matter is everyday life, in all its bizarre and hilarious incarnations.
Competitive sex talk is the centerpiece of "We All Do It" (written by Trucksess), in which two women who are bragging about their exploits in bed with their boyfriends are matched orgasm for orgasm by a third woman who does it all by herself. A nuclear prison family is lovingly and hilariously portrayed in "Cool Hand Nuclear Family" (written by Yasumura). And a love letter to alcohol written by a country music singer is the premise of "Dear Alcohol" (written by Wright).
A standout sketch is "A Friend in Need" (written by Kaler), in which a man cries on his roomate's shoulder-and cries and cries and cries. The not-so-cute meeting of two lesbian construction workers is the offbeat premise of "Diggin' It" (written by Hoover and Daniels), while "Buddies" (written by Gilbert) is about the friendship between a boy and the frog he is about to dissect in biology class.
As actors, the Acme players are gifted and versatile. They embrace a more naturalistic brand of performance than the self-conscious aping seen in most television and film comedy, preferring the uproariously understated glance to outrageous mugging. The best performances-Josh Gilbert's nosy dad at the slumber party, Danielle Hoover's sweetly innocent construction worker, Ted Hardwick's goofy guidance counselor, Kristen Trucksess's auto-erotic girlfriend, and Jamie Kaler's weeping roomate, among others-are all clearly drawn from real situations. Each of the actors in the company, under Sweeney's gifted direction, creates carefully drawn characters, finding moments both of humor and pathos.
Above all, what's refreshing about this evening of sketch comedy is that it derives its material largely from real life rather than pop culture. While the humor is in a familiar vein, it has neither the self-referential humor nor the tired gross-out tone of most work in the genre. The situations, though often stretched for laughs, feel grounded in reality, and therefore have vastly more punch. Although there is no evidence here of a resurgence of topical political humor-still sadly lacking in current Los Angeles theatre-the evening is a welcome return to the genuine roots of comedy.
"Acme the Vampire Slayer," presented by and at the Acme Comedy Theatre, 135 N. La Brea, Hollywood. Sat. 8 p.m. Nov. 13-indefinite. $14. (323) 525-0202.
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FAME-THE MUSICAL
at the Pantages Theater
Reviewed by Les Spindle
More nimble than Footloose and almost as slick as Grease, the new touring edition of Fame-The Musical generates enough energy to light up Hollywood Boulevard and then some. Unlike the harder-edged 1980 Alan Parker film from which it originated, this Fame lite version aims to do little more than allow a talented cast to strut their stuff in a succession of exuberant production numbers. Under the electric direction of Lars Bethke (based on David De Silva's concepts), that proves to be more than enough. The show is composed of equal parts MTV splash and Broadway pizzazz, with both parts firing on all cylinders.
The pulsating pop/rock score by Steve Margoshes (music) and Jacques Levy (lyrics) is well served by Bethke's dazzling choreography, Jo Lynn Burks' fine musical direction, and the vibrant orchestrations of Margoshes and Harold Wheeler. (The only song included from the film is the title tune by Dean Pitchford and Michael Gore.) Indeed, the musical elements of the show are so satisfying that Jos Fernandez's thin book seems almost beside the point. The story integrates a series of disparate plot strands, charting the ups and downs of a group of fresh-faced youths attending New York City's High School of Performing Arts between 1980 and 1984. The early scenes suggest Chorus Line redux, as the nervous school applicants sing about their anxieties, and a sardonic Latino youth (the delightful Jos Restrepo) delivers a racy ditty about youthful hormones. But the show quickly hits its own stride, thanks to a colorful array of likable characters and sublime musical sequences.
The most engaging performance in a universally accomplished ensemble is Sheri Sanders' humorous and touching turn as Serena, the plain but spunky school wallflower, setting her sights-against all odds-on the serious-minded actor-to-be Nick (the charming Darren Ritchie), whom she fears might be gay. She shines in her comic moments and mesmerizes in her tour-de-force solo number, "Think of Meryl Streep." Other standouts include Nastasha Neary as a restless and reckless Latina singer, over-anxious to make her way to the top, and the hilarious Catrice Joseph as an overweight student who eloquently belts out "Mabel's Prayer," a soulful plea for divinely inspired will power.
The production is also visually arresting. Norbert U. Kolb's versatile, multi-leveled schoolhouse set is impressive, and Richard Winkler's sharp, multi-hued lighting effects add to the excitement. Early in Act One, the rousing song "I Want to Make Magic" is tellingly introduced, and the company proceeds to fulfill the promise of those lyrics throughout the course of a tuneful and utterly beguiling evening.
"Fame-The Musical," presented by Broadway L.A. at the Pantages Theatre, 6233 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood. Tues.-Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 2 & 8 p.m., Sun. 2 & 7:30 pm. Nov. 23-Dec. 5. $22-47. (213) 365-3500.
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DREAM BOY
at New Conservatory Theatre Center
Reviewed by Kerry Reid
New Conservatory's Pride Season won raves and awards last year with Beautiful Thing, a gay coming-of-age tale of two teenage boys in an English housing estate. Now, with Eric Rosen's Dream Boy (adapted from the 1995 novel of the same title by Jim Grimsley), they revisit the same theme, with a Southern Gothic twist.
Rosen, who originally adapted the book for his gay and lesbian About Face Theatre in Chicago (where it received several Joseph Jefferson Awards), has a sure grasp of the black humor, sorrow, terror, and mystical redemption woven through the story of Nathan (Chris Jamba) and Roy (Scott Nordquist), two high-school students in the rural community of Potter's Lake, North Carolina. Nathan is bookish and shy, hiding a dark secret that is prefigured early on in the frightening presence of his brooding, alcoholic father (the fearsome Lee Corbett). Roy is easygoing, friendly-and in denial about his sexuality. (After one erotic encounter, he tells Nathan, "I'm not your boyfriend. I have a girlfriend and I don't have to do this if I don't want to.")
Faith forms a large part of the tale here, as expressed early on in the Bible passage about John, the disciple whom Jesus loved best. But Rosen's script, which Dan Oliverio directs here with intelligence and charm, is as much about the mysteries of the heart as it is those of a larger spiritual quest. As Roy teaches Nathan about algebra (in return for the latter helping him with his English themes), the Narrator (Leon Acord) notes, "X and Y hang in the air between them." And indeed, the link between Nathan and Roy seems as preordained as genetics.
Oliverio uses Rob Vogt's simple tri-level, weatherbeaten set to good effect, and his stripped-down staging allows the fluid, dreamlike quality of Rosen's text to come through. In combination with Justin Partier's atmospheric lighting, Vogt's bare-bones set believably stands in for the porches and bedrooms of the protagonists, as well as a gloomy cemetery, a railroad trestle, and-in the climactic second act-an abandoned plantation house as frightening as anything in The Blair Witch Project.
The performances are occasionally tentative, but Jamba and Nordquist have a truthful connection that is sometimes downright hypnotic. Acord's narrator is low-key almost to a fault at times, but his spare, pale, physical presence is just right as a guardian angel figure for Nathan. Sherry Al-Mufti is affectingly anguished as Nathan's mother, forced to cover up lies that tear her apart, while Kristi Scott is deliciously funny (particularly in her facial expressions) as Roy's goodhearted mom. Bully-boy Burke (Bill Johnson) telegraphs his intentions almost too early (as does Corbett's abusive father figure), but Lino Antonio gets laughs as follow-the-leader Randy. And in one brief scene, Katy Brown makes a comic impression as fast-talking school gossip Hannah.
Though the twists in Rosen's script don't really pack a surprise, the well-modulated performances, combined with Oliverio's sure hand at creating tension and revealing stage pictures, make this play a worthy back-country successor to Beautiful Thing, and an unexpectedly hopeful tale for this season of redemption and peace.
"Dream Boy," presented by and at New Conservatory Theatre Center, 25 Van Ness Ave., San Francisco. Wed.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 2 p.m. $15-22. Nov. 20-Jan. 1, 2000. (415) 861-8972.
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HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS
at the Old Globe Theatre
Reviewed by George Weinberg-Harter
It seems like everyone and his brother-in-law are producing new Christmas shows. In addition to the usual proliferation of Scrooges, along with several Amahls and other mixed offerings, now returns for the second year at the Old Globe a musical Grinch. Dr. Seuss' 1957 children's book told the anapestic tetrameter tale of a species of proactive Ebenezer Scrooge called the Grinch, who attempts to put the kibosh on the Christmas celebrations of a township of tiny creatures called Whos. (In Dr. Seuss' earlier tale, Horton Hears a Who, Whos were microscopic people who lived on a mote of dust, from whom we learned that "a person's a person, no matter how small.") Disguised as Santa Claus, the Grinch steals all their Christmas paraphernalia. But the Whos carry on celebrating regardless, leading to the Grinch's change of heart. The original story is told in 50 pages of 18-point type which are mostly illustrations, leaving a lot for a librettist to flesh out.
Timothy Mason, author of the show's book and lyrics (music composed by Mel Marvin) achieves this by expanding on Dr. Seuss' efficient tale. The Grinch's malignity is provided with more motive-particularly in the song "Whachama-Who," during which the Little Whos make enough racket with their toys to inspire some sympathy for the Grinch's noise-abatement program.
Grinch's conversion to Christmas spirit is also foreshadowed with more probability when tiny Cindy-Lou Who (Vanessa Anne Hudgens, alternating with Mary Frances McClay), surprising him during his Christmas Eve burglary, charms the Grinch's shrunken heart with her very sweetly sentimental song, "Santa for a Day." Also much augmented from the storybook is the role of the Grinch's pet dog Max, who appears here in both young (Rusty Ross) and old (Julian Gamble) incarnations, the latter providing a narrative frame from the perspective of his doggie dotage.
Continuous squeals of delight and uninhibited vocal interjections from the younger portion of the audience testify to the show's success with children. Grown-ups, however, may find it a bit longish, even at 80 intermission-free minutes. Kids seemed especially pleased with the mock-nastiness of Guy Paul's archly mannered Grinch, played mischievously to the house à la Captain Hook. Indeed, the young audience's relish to join in seemed to cry out for more of the sort of structured participation found in traditional English Christmas pantomimes.
The large ensemble of various shifts of young and old Whos (two thirds of whom are carry-overs from last year's production) is bolstered by Steven Gunderson, Melinda Gilb, Robert MacAulay, and Leigh Scarritt in key roles. John Lee Beatty's scenic design delightfully transforms Dr. Seuss' drawings into solid reality; Robert Morgan's costumes are thoroughly amusing, providing the Whos with dumpy insectoid thoraxes; lighting is by Pat Collins and sound by Jeff Ladman. It's a Christmas show, cleverly directed by Jack O'Brien, that presents the holiday to be mainly concerned with good cheer, gifts, shopping, and food, with a garnish of forgiveness and reconciliation.
"How the Grinch Stole Christmas," presented by and at the Old Globe Theatre, Balboa Park, San Diego. Tues.-Sun. 7:30 p.m., Wed.-Thurs. 11 a.m., Sat.-Sun. 2 p.m. Nov. 21-Jan. 2, 2000. $37-42. (619) 239-2255.
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SHOOTING PORN
at the Zephyr Theatre
Reviewed by Wenzel Jones
Although many shows have stepped off of the silver screen and onto the stage-Little Shop of Horrors, Sunset Boulevard, Saturday Night Fever-this is not likely to be confused with any of them. Not for writer/director Ronnie Larsen the addition of music, gargantuan sets, or, for that matter, costumes (although Bosco DuChamp takes credit for what little is worn). This production, based on Larsen's filmed documentary of the gay male porn industry here in Los Angeles, makes the leap from two to three dimensions essentially intact, and the result is surprisingly entertaining. Larsen's cinematic cross-cutting style of direction is made possible by Michael Reeves' set, a cluttered conglomerate of about seven locations that only makes sense when it's broken into clearly delineated spaces by Big Man Lou's lights. The additional of a video wall, the images for which come from the camera being held by the actors, is inspired.
If there can be said to be a story, it's simply that of a filmmaker, engagingly played by Gabriel Macen, who wants to use his camera to capture a behind-the-scenes look at a world that admittedly holds a guilty fascination for many. He, and we, learn many many things. I hesitate to tell you exactly what goes on, as what might appear quite off-putting on the page is staged with such humor that you never find yourself squirming in embarrassment. The only thing that left me feeling slightly squeamish involved Kentucky Fried Chicken, but it was being employed in the usual fashion.
Larsen has cast himself in the pivotal role of Chi Chi LaRue, drag queen porn impresario of no small repute. Normally this would appear to be an act of unmitigated ego, but in this case it's a coup. The performance is too, too funny, and I'm assured by those who have had dealings with the real-life LaRue that the rather casual approach to sentence structure is true to the original. The performers around him (Chad Donovan, J.T. Sloan, and Peter Nevargic) are an appealing group, and Larsen works well with both their strengths and limitations. Porn director Gino Colbert plays himself, but probably not as well as somebody else might have.
If you find yourself in the front row, please have singles ready to add verisimilitude to the strip club scene.
"Shooting Porn," presented by and at the Zephyr Theatre, 7456 Melrose Ave., Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 7 & 10 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Nov. 12-Dec. 19. $25-30. (323) 852-9111.
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THE BEAUTY QUEEN OF LEENANE
at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre
Reviewed by Matthew Surrence
Martin McDonagh is the most celebrated of an atavistic group of young Irish playwrights delivering the non-news that Barry Fitzgerald has a dysfunctional flip side. These old-fashioned, slice-of-life kitchen-sink dramas studiously avoid innovations of form. But unlike the political undercurrents (or tidal waves) in Yeats, Synge and O'Casey, and unlike Brian Friel's spiritual and aesthetic dramatic experiments, these third-generation angry-young-man plays denude their distilled, repetitive language-larded with liberal doses of "shite" this and "feckin' " that-of lyrical flights in favor of a repetition of the obvious in an attempt to dive deep into the bog of contemporary Irish consciousness.
Beauty Queen, McDonagh's 1996 debut, charts the unraveling of Maureen (Michelle Morain), a mentally unbalanced 40ish spinster, and her mother, Mag (Angela Paton), the tyrannical old biddy she's stuck caring for. Maureen hopes for a last chance at romance with Pato (Jeffrey King), a good local sod Maureen's age, who's exchanged the hardscrabble rural existence in Leenane for a job in England and now wants to take Maureen to America. But that hinges, soap-operatically, on a letter Pato wrote to Maureen that Mag will certainly destroy, if the crafty crone can connive the letter away from Pato's goofball younger brother, Ray (Brandon Karrer).
Many elements of Richard Seyd's California-premiere production work well: the weathered realism of set designer William Bloodgood's shabby, grease-stained kitchen, with glittery strands of rain falling steadily behind the grimy windows; lighting designer Jack Carpenter's ominous orange glow from the peat bog-burning stove; costume designer Candice Cain's plain black flapper dress for Maureen the night she loses her virginity to Pato, and the haunted expressions managed by Morain, who suggests a female James Woods as she mingles hope, resignation, despair, and joy in one desperate look.
Nevertheless, the two-and-a-half-hour, two-act production doesn't cohere; the play feels more predictable than inevitable, in part because it is, but also because except for Morain, Seyd's cast hasn't found its soul. A Seyd show usually is distinguished by finely calibrated acting, but only Morain, who radiates poignancy from the ends of her scraggly, rain-frizzed auburn hair to her bandaged foot in a low-heeled black pump, has brought her character authentically to life. King is warmly engaging during Pato's letter-writing monologue, but he doesn't locate Pato's inner or outer life. Karrer delivers his lines energetically, but he hasn't created a character. Paton comes up with some sneaky and petulant expressions and inflections, but she doesn't show us Mag's complexities and motivations.
"The Beauty Queen of Leenane," presented by and at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre, 2025 Addison St., Berkeley. Nov. 17-Jan. 7. (510) 845-4700.
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SHEAR MADNESS
at the Portland Art Museum
Reviewed by Jeremy Kemp
It's been compared to a McDonald's hamburger for its homogenous "franchise theatre" runs in numerous cities. It's been called "critic proof" for its ability to please the crowds without delving even accidentally into meaningful material. And, with ludicrous appropriateness, the USO bestowed the high honor of "Outstanding Contribution in the Theatre Arts" upon this silliness. Granted, Shear Madness is amazingly successful. The Boston troupe passed the 8,000 performance mark this year. Yes, that's three zeros after the eight, folks! But naot even its founders would call this a contribution to anything but madcap entertainment. And that it is.
Played out in two acts, Shear Madness is a cartoonish murder mystery set in your hometown and filled with clich d characters, bone-jarring malapropisms, and some excellent physical comedy. You've got your gay stylist, your tough-doll hairdresser, your Mafioso antique dealer, your social pillar, and your heavyhanded, doltish detectives. Each actor has a simple task to begin: sashay about spewing lines and painting on as much of the "character" as broadly as possible without breaking props and scenery.
For some, such as Alex Dudgeon playing the effete Tony Whitcomb, this Romper Room theatre is perfectly suited. Dudgeon, fresh off a two-year stint as the token gay in Tony 'n' Tina's Wedding, flits about making goo-goo eyes and slobbering on his mates at every chance. And Cherie Price as the worldly Barbara De Marco also thrives in her tight-fitting slit skirt and big hair.
Mark Homayoun as Detective Nick Rossetti has the hardest job of the evening, as audience wrangler for the second act. Equipped for the task with a coach's whistle dangling round his neck and a 9mm pistol strapped to his hip, Homayoun seems poorly matched to the ferocious front row of crazed Shear Madness groupies hellbent on tripping up the hapless cast. Homayoun leaves his sidearm holstered but does blow the shrill whistle a few times to stem the flow of abuse. Embarrassingly, the cast is not yet seasoned to the cast-iron toughness needed to deflect and focus this "audience participation."
Some actors seem entirely out of place here. Helena de Crespo misses the mark as the haughty socialite Mrs. Shubert, coming off more befuddled than comically grandiose, as intended. Ryan Moulder is also listless onstage as the less than sharp-witted detective Mike Thomas. He just doesn't project much presence here.
This current staging was not well-attended at a recent Saturday evening performance. But if the past experience of Cloud 9 Productions here in the Rose City continues true, word of mouth may soon have the theatre full and the run extended.
"Shear Madness," presented by Cloud 9 Productions at Portland Art Museum's Commandery Room, 1119 SW Park Avenue, Portland. Nov. 4-Jan. 30. (503) 790-2787.
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GIRLS TALK
at the Hudson Theatre
Reviewed by Madeleine Shaner
Fourteen short pieces, written and performed by the women of Theatre Neo, lay bare some fragile psyches, some home truths, and some universal female gripes. Although it's usually to be expected in a colloquy of this kind, happily the emphasis here is not on how rotten men are. Carrie Robinson directs the segments so that each flows into the next in a soothing rhythm, played on a few piercing strings, backed by a chorus of the converted.
But if there's a melody here, it teeters toward self-indulgence, echoing the sometimes tedious tunes of the let-it-all-hang-out generation. These sisters are talking about themselves more than they are speaking for women everywhere. Bonding is the key here-with the other women, with a partisan audience, but mostly with themselves. The universality at times comes across more like egocentricity, and from time to time one feels the urge to cry out, "Enough! This is more than I need to know!" There's a lot to be said for talking out one's insecurities; there'd be no therapy industry without it. Truth is truth, and honesty is still the best policy, but there's a fine line between struggling with recalcitrant bangs-a lively and funny "Hair Peace" written and performed by Carrie Robinson-and the "Look, Ma, I'm masturbating" concept that fuels Wendy Shapero's "Inspiration."
Fortunately, from a wrinkled old prude's point of view, the line isn't crossed too often, so it's still possible to enjoy the generally amusing, sometimes enlightening confessional. All the women are consummate performers. To mention only a few: Kirsten Vangsness, a winner on all scores, manages to bare all in the nicest possible way in two brilliant pieces: "Naked-Hi," in which she makes a fevered pass at a gorgeous guy in a singles' bar, and "Naked-Yukon Ho!" Miki Mootsey and Wendy Shapero keep it funny in "A Couple of Ovaries Sitting Around Talking." Rebecca O'Brien's "Couch," which she finds very hard to leave, will hit home to those who've paved their own road to hell with the very best intentions.
"No Copy," written and performed by Miki Mootsey, with Louise Claps, Aimee Young, Sarah Phillips, Phyllis Applegate, Ursula Whittaker, and Marla Cotovsky, takes a big fat slap at Hollywood's casting policies for non-existent projects. Laura Skill's "The Neighbor" is a delightful gem about an unbearably shy woman who finds herself actually being invited to a neighbor's party. Louise Claps has a particularly emotional moment while she's picking out tomatoes in a supermarket in "The Visitation."
Binding the pieces together is the lovely Toyin Fadop , who speaks of her one perfect love, and the sense memories of her African heritage in "The Dark Kalamazoo," a series of poetic soliloquies that bookend and wind through the other segments.
"Girls Talk," presented by Theatre Neo at the Hudson Avenue Theatre, 6537 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Tues. 8 p.m. Nov. 9-Dec. 14. $12. (323) 769-5858.
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A THIMBLE OF SMOKE
at the 24th Street Theatre
Reviewed by Rob Kendt
Things move fast in Owens Circle, a damp Mississippi gulch where Cupid seems to have awakened with a start and zapped whomever was around. In A Thimble of Smoke, Elroyce D. Jones' slight handful of vignettes, one mid-summer day in the 1950s proves to be almost absurdly momentous, with folks stopping by Miss Thelma Pearl Sykes' porch to settle disputes, return from long absences, and make love matches as quick as they can get through a bowl of homemade ice cream.
Thelma Pearl (Juanita Jennings), the careworn single mother of 13-year-old Rosena (Amber Green), has plans to get them out of their swampy, lowdown environs, and she's summoned a wise old widower, Monroe (Thomas Martell Brimm), to help her keep Rosena with the program. Before she can get to it, though, she plays host to a noisy neighborhood quarrel between Shoo Baby (Pamala Tyson) and Baby Tata (Roxanne Reese) over Tata's man, which is resolved when Shoo Baby denies the charges and appeals to collective sympathy for her economic hardship as a single mother of nine children. These women-fierce but weak, grasping for another break-are clearly not the models Thelma Pearl wants for her Rosena.
In a complete change of mood, Shoo Baby hones in on Snake Doctor (Roscoe C. Freeman), a nervous young man recently sprung from prison who has a new job and wants to keep it. This happy match is brokered with amusing speed and frankness by Tyson, and Freeman's bumbling can't-believe-his-luck gallantry is charming. There's another wrenching gear shift when Thelma Pearl finally gets down to motherly business with Rosena and Monroe-and, incredibly, a final denouement that comes out of nowhere like a dream, in the attractive form of Basil Wallace.
While director Gregg Daniel has shaped the material and performances lovingly, and the production has an authentic back-porch atmosphere-courtesy of Mark Worthington's ramshackle set, Genny Wynn's sweet lighting, and Naila Aladdin-Sanders' telling costumes-Jones' play is so loosely, almost arbitrarily structured it's like staged notes toward a play, with a rich back-story and setting, ripe character turns, a few satisfying, well-acted exchanges, and the appealing wish fulfillment of the best happy endings, but so little dramatic action and such a halting, tentative rhythm that it's hard to get on board for the ride. The actors play the material like masters, with Jennings' guarded warmth, Brimm's wizened calm, Reese's razor-sharp turns, and Freeman's lanky discomfort especially standing out.
I suspect the solution may be to encourage Jones to open up his play, which runs just 70 minutes on the single set, and let it breathe. Not only might he find the room for real scenes to play out and for dramatic stakes to build, but he'd have room for his characters to sink into a convincingly lax summer-day mood of open-heartedness and occasional irritability-the sort of volatile blend that has made for some great plays about passion, frailty, and human striving.
"A Thimble of Smoke," presented by the Echo Theater Company in association with the 24th Street Theatre at the 24th Street Theatre, 1117 W. 24th St., Los Angeles. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 3 & 7 p.m. Nov. 13-Dec. 19. $9-15. (213) 745-6516.
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A CHRISTMAS CAROL
at Sacramento Theatre Company
Reviewed by Barry Wisdom
In her second season as artistic director of the Sacramento Theatre Company, Peggy Shannon has bowed to public demand and remounted the troupe's 13-year-old on-again, off-again Yuletide staging of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Adapted by Richard Hellesen specifically for STC-with music and lyrics composed (or adapted) by the late David de Berry-the familiar holiday chestnut has not simply been dusted off, however. Under Shannon's direction, this Carol has a distinctly fresh look courtesy of D. Martyn Bookwalter's new set and special effects.
But, and it's a big but, these cosmetic changes can't compensate for uneven performances and a script that offers little of the story's background concerning the choices Scrooge has made in life. Yes, the gliding, mid-air platform that transports the Ghost of Christmas Past (the far too young Elena Erwin) onto the stage is nifty, as is Scrooge's glowing tombstone, which rises from a trap. The strobe effects, too, are effective, but can hardly compensate for tentative line deliveries among the nearly 50 characters who appear onstage.
As Scrooge, Hassan El-Amin spends the bulk of the play speaking in a overly articulate, almost Shakespearean manner-as if every line were a royal pronouncement. Not only does this rarefied, artificial-sounding approach betray Scrooge's working-class background; it becomes aurally annoying as well. His post-transformation performance, however, is dead on-target, brimming with a general lightness of being and gentle-hearted humor that proves to be highly contagious. True, the distinction between the "old" and "new and improved" Scrooges has to be well delineated, but the former incarnation is so unnaturally delivered, it distracts from what is being said. This is clearly a case of a good actor taking the wrong path.
(If there is one faux pas among El-Amin's last scene, it's an ill-conceived bit of sitcom-like shtick, with Scrooge stuttering as he attempts to offer money to the boy who brings the poulterer around with his "prize turkey." Besides being hackneyed, it suggests an incomplete mission on the spirits' part-a shocking departure for us purists.)
Kurt Johnson's Bob Cratchit, however, never looks comfortable-his jittery, Everyman persona is never completely shed, even in the joyous surroundings of his own home and hearth. It's hard to imagine this Bob keeping a destitute family's spirits up. While the cast is otherwise light on Equity members, there are non-union standouts, including Michael Jenkinson as Scrooge's nephew Fred, Michael Tully as Fezziwig, and Eric Wheeler as the Ghost of Christmas Present (a terrific voice).
Though Bookwalter's tiered, all-in-one set is a marvel on a utilitarian level, it fails to evoke the Dickensian charm of STC's old two-story design by Ralph Fetterly and Mark Hopkins. The new set does feature a cut-out arch with a stylized bow and ribbon on top, which suggests a great Christmas tree ornament. This made for many lovely holiday tableaux when actors were caught centerstage. But, all in all, I prefer the old set. B. Modern's costumes have been retained, however, and are cheery reminders of productions past.
"A Christmas Carol," presented by and at the Sacramento Theatre Company, 1419 H St., Sacramento. Nov. 27-Dec. 24. $13-32. (888) 478-2849.
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A CHRISTMAS CAROL
at Theatre West
Reviewed by Terri Roberts
Just as Marley's ghost appears to warn Scrooge of the dangers awaiting him, so Steve Allen offered a caution to the audience attending last Sunday's matinee of his musicalized version of Charles Dickens' 1843 classic, A Christmas Carol. Despite the Theatre West marquee clearly proclaiming this production to be a world premiere (and thus a finished product), Allen explained during some jokey opening patter that this Christmas Carol-for which he is composer, lyricist, and librettist-is a work-in-progress. The announcement came as a warning light as bright and red as Rudolph's nose.
Allen also informed us that contrary to published newspaper reports (not to mention press kit materials and the program), he is not playing Charles Dickens. (He instead provides superfluous and sporadic narration.) Perhaps these declarations were to elicit seasonal feelings of forgiveness for what we were about to see. If so, it was probably a wise move. One needs a forgiving spirit to get through this muddled production, directed by producer John Gallogly.
Though the wonderful Harold Gould is well cast and often delightful as the miserly Scrooge, he alone cannot save the show, which suffers from a mediocre score, focus problems in the book, and a cast with varying degrees of vocal ability and fluency with English accents. This version gives an uncommon highlight to social moralities of the times and an unfortunate short shrift to the vital Christmas Past scenario. Presumably, Allen is relying on his audience's familiarity with the story to fill in the blanks he has left us-such as what exactly happened in Scrooge's youth to make him such a money-hungry fool. At best we get some sketchy background about four lonely years away at school as a child, followed by his proposal to his lady love, Elizabeth (Faith Salie) and her later rejection of him because of his preference for a golden mistress. Whatever made him so bitter and greedy is left to our imagination.
Kevin Symons, as Scrooge's eternally optimistic nephew, Fred (and the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Yet to Come), is a welcome beacon of light with his energy and spirit. David Brandt and Mary Garripoli, as Bob Cratchit and his wife, share the most tender moment in the show when they sing "The Time of My Life," a tribute to the power of love to make the best of bad times (and one of the show's better songs).
Tom Giamario's workable set of sliding panels and unfolding walls moves the scene changes along (though the undisguised crew, with their 20th-century headsets, tend to distract as they make set and prop changes). Joe Morrissey's lights have occasionally nice atmospheric moments, but otherwise are as general and undistinctive as the rest of the show.
"A Christmas Carol," presented by and at Theatre West, 3333 Cahuenga Blvd. West, Hollywood. Tues.-Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 2 & 8 p.m., Sun. 3 & 7 p.m. Nov. 24-Jan. 9. $25. (888) 551-9378.
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VOICES OF THE 20th CENTURY
at the William Alderson Studio Theatre
Reviewed by Anne Louise Bannon
Let's review the concept of unevenness-as in some of it works, lots doesn't, or as in the William Alderson Studio Theatre's night of one-acts by prominent playwrights better known for their full-length plays. Director Barry Primus, who helmed all three plays here, is rumored to be a better actor than director, and it really shows. The emphasis here is clearly on the performances, and in some ways that's a good thing. In the first play, it isn't.
Tennessee Williams' The Long Goodbye is an earlier work which looks like a much shorter version of The Glass Menagerie, and not quite as strong. This time Mother has died, but appears in a flashback, and Sister is out to raise as much hell as possible. On the night reviewed, Don Bloomfield was understudying for Joe, the brother in the piece. I have to hope this was a bad night for the cast, because the performances were diffused, unfocused, and completely lacking in energy. Sondra Blake, as Mother, swallowed so many of her lines she couldn't be heard from two feet away. Bloomfield started out all right, but got so rocky that, given the impressive credits in the program, I can't imagine he's usually that out of it.
The play is set in a large Midwestern American city, and the script mentions St. Louis more than once, but oddly enough, most of the cast use New York accents. May I point out that the St. Louis accent is more like a fast Southern accent?
The performances are quite good in Caryl Churchill's Three More Sleepless Nights, though the script is one of those abysmal "life is pointless" exercises in miscommunication. Margaret (Laura Ramirez) and Frank (Christopher Nieman) spend their sleepless night screaming at each other about his drinking and philandering. Pete (Drew Wicks) is so out of touch, all he can do is talk about movies while his suicidal wife Dawn (Desiree Rhine) goes over the edge. Then Pete and Margaret get together and prove that while each wants to believe they've changed, they haven't. It's true to life, but mundane as hell, and even the excellent performances can't save it. People in bad relationships who show no signs of growth or change are just not that interesting.
To wrap up all this depression and cynicism comes a later work by Thornton Wilder, the Norman Rockwell of American theatre. Talk about jarring. The Rivers Under the Earth is all innocence and bittersweetness. Supposedly about middle age, it's a brief look at a family-Mom, Dad, son, and daughter-as they visit a rocky point on the edge of a lake. Dad even smokes a pipe and the teenage kids love the smell of his tobacco. Forget looking for a dark underbelly. There is none. This is the 1950s fantasy played out in all its innocent glory. As the dad, Mr. Carter, Tom Lenihan has the best sense of the piece's fantastic quality, and plays it for all it's worth. Lisa Clifton's Mrs. Carter is perfectly nice and a little wistful over choices she made, but Clifton has the good sense not to delve too deeply into it.
About the only consistent element of the evening is Tony Corbett's set, which works nicely for all three plays, and to dress it Linda Nielson did a good job scouring the vintage shops. It's just too bad the whole evening likewise feels like odds and ends.
"Voices of the 20th Century," presented by and at the William Alderson Studio Theatre, 817 1/2, N. Fairfax Ave., W. Hollywood. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. $15. Nov. 5-Dec. 19. (323) 852-1816.
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THEATRE HELL
at the American Renegade Theatre
Reviewed by Edward Shapiro
In 1994, the Northridge Earthquake destroyed the two-theatre complex that was home to the American Renegade Theatre. After five years of construction and a nomadic existence, the Renegade is at last ensconced in its own theatre space, at 11136 Magnolia Blvd. in North Hollywood. The 99-seat mainstage and the 45-seat second stage are both first-rate spaces and a welcome addition to the community.
That's the good news. Unfortunately, for its debut in its new space, the Renegade has opted to produce Craig Alpaugh's aptly titled Theatre Hell, in which a Broadway director is forced to produce Murder, It Hurts, a truly dreadful play with a truly dreadful cast at a community theatre in Kansas. Alpaugh's model, apparently, is Noises Off! meets Waiting for Guffman. The result is closer to Murder, It Hurts.
Completely bereft of laughs and played so broadly as to induce wincing, the play limps along for a solid two hours before releasing its audience. The actors seem to have been abandoned by their director, Lois Weiss, who allows even entrances and exits to be nonsensical. So confused is her direction that citing examples would be like emptying the ocean with an eye-dropper. (OK: She actually has one of her actors fan his erection in an effort to make it disappear.)
That leaves the actors pretty much stranded. And while a few of them should never have been cast to begin with, there are others who might have had a fighting chance given the opportunity. With neither text nor direction to support them, however, they're left to mug on Barry Thompson's ghastly set (who'd have thought that brown and blue could look quite that bad together?).
To name the actors seems an unfair exercise, given the handicaps. Hopefully all concerned can wrap this one up and move on to projects more worthy of the talents some of them possess.
"Theatre Hell," presented by and at the American Renegade Theatre, 11136 Magnolia Blvd. Fri.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Nov. 12-indefinite. $12-15. (818) 763-1834.