OBSERVE THE SONS OF ULSTER MARCHING TOWARDS THE SOMME
at the Phoenix Theatre
Reviewed by Kerry Reid
For most Americans, the horrors of World War I pale in our collective consciousness when compared to the unthinkable evil of the Holocaust and the lingering wounds of the Vietnam conflict. Yet the sheer carnage of the "War to End All Wars" can be made clear with just one statistic: Namely, that on the first day alone of the Battle of the Somme, more than 60,000 British soldiers died--more than the total U.S. casualties in Vietnam.
Viaduct Theatre's lovely, breathtaking, and heartbreaking production of Frank McGuinness' 1985 play, Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme (originally reviewed at Kate O'Brien's pub, now re-opening at the Phoenix Theatre) provides a portrait of eight young Protestant Northern Irish soldiers, seven of whom will die at the Somme.
The play opens with a long monologue by the lone survivor, Kenneth Pyper, confronting the memories of his lost comrades and his rage at the stupidity and cupidity behind the war. As performed by Earll Kingston, the elder Pyper takes on shadings of Samuel Beckett's Krapp, fighting off the ghosts in his mind even as he acknowledges the need for remembrance as tribute, and as defiance. Kingston captures every nuance of this tortured and complex character--an aging gay veteran remembering youthful love and friendship and stoking the fires of his hate for the Irish Republic in an astounding aria.
McGuinness' script is a bit overwritten. But the incredible performances of director Naomi Gibson's cast carry the day. Indeed, I can't remember when I have been as awestruck by the passion, generosity, skill, and intelligence of an ensemble. This small production manages to evoke a sense of the epic as well as the deeply personal--the latter particularly in the sensual love scenes between the caustic, nihilistic Pyper the younger (Clive Worsley) and the fresh-faced, likeable David Craig (Alex Moggridge).
Suzanne Olmsted's fabric photography is used to great effect for both the set--stark battlefield photographs hang at the back of the stage--and the costumes. Each of the soldiers fated for death has a portrait of himself with his eyes shut screened on the back of his khaki uniform jacket. (Costumes are credited to Crawford McKenzie).
There are scenes from this production that I will remember for a long time. It's the one show I've seen this year that makes me want to grab everyone I know by the lapels and insist they see it. It's simply splendid and not to be missed.
"Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme," presented by Viaduct Theatre at the Phoenix Theatre, 301 Eighth St., San Francisco. Aug. 28-Sept. 14. (510) 540-5554.
TRUE FICTION
MAGAZINE
at the Hudson Theater
Reviewed by Paul Birchall
One pitfall of reviewing an entirely improvised show is that there's no guarantee that the funny, wry, inventively quick-witted performance I saw will be anything like the one you get to see. In this sort of production, a great deal depends on what can only be called uncontrollable vagaries: a feeble original suggestion from the audience, an unresponsive crowd, or a performer who had too much coffee just before curtain--any of these could undermine a potentially funny show.
Still, True Fiction Magazine, a San Francisco-based troupe making its L.A. debut with this self-titled offering, presents a raucously imaginative show that is both quirky and comical. At the start of the production, a cast member asks for a mock movie title from the audience. The proferred premise is then tweaked, stretched, and manipulated into a series of connected comic sketches that are ultimately woven together to form a kind of bizarro cinematic narrative.
No one onstage really knows what's going to happen at any given moment; part of the fun comes from watching the cast members leap bravely into situations which they invent as they go along. In the end, it's delightful to watch all of the loosely organized elements fall briskly into place.
On the evening reviewed, the audience movie title was Nightmare at the Casino, and the ensemble spun a near-hysterical and deftly creative tale of gleefully campy black humor. The cast worked together with an enthralling crispness and a cohesion that has clearly been tightly honed over years of performing together.
Regina Saisi, as a woman agreeing to a Catherine the Great-like "indecent proposal" in Las Vegas involving a horse (Stephen Kearin, demonstrating a cleverly show-stopping weirdness in a number of brief but hysterical appearances) was gleefuly offbeat. Also winning was a mock-corny subplot involving a man (Rafe Chase) who agreed to kill gold-digging cocktail waitress Lorna (Paul Killam), a gal with a sinister past of her own. In contrast, True Fiction Magazine is clearly with a troupe with a fruitful and productive past, and an accordingly bright future.
"True Fiction Magazine," presented by and at the Hudson Theater, 6539 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Aug. 28-Oct. 5. (888) 566-8499.
I SIGHT
at the Copperview Theatre
Reviewed by Scott Proudfit
New playwrights often unwittingly write films and stick them onstage without understanding the theatre's unique strengths or how to exploit them. Fortunately, this is not the case with I Sight, four terrifically theatrical, exciting new one-acts offered by Copperview Theatre Company.
First up is Francis Stokes' Feeding Time, about the ruthlessness of the themed restaurant experience. Stokes takes too long focusing in on a central story, but her waiter/customer exchanges are hysterically accurate. Stokes, who also directs, compensates for text problems with her purely theatrical staging. Her direction is assisted, in particular, by the hilarious characterization by Stephen Falk of an actor at the restaurant stuck with the embarrassing role of safari leader.
Clifford Broadway's Elevator, like Stokes' piece, is set in a workplace and offers a number of short scenes around a single theme--in this case, it's the stifling restriction of corporate America, and it's more successfully realized than Feeding Time. The action, directed by Melinda Hall, exploits the theatrical device of the elevator, allowing for both public and private moments. The snappy writing makes room for a standout performance by the talented Richard Plaugher as a self-obsessed actor who's into pithy meditations, and for fine work by Anne Brunell as a quietly confused victim of divorce.
Next up is Jack in the Box, written and directed by Anthony Tanner, a dark meditation on one-night stands. Todd Buteaux is delightfully creepy as Jack, the man you wouldn't want to wake up next to. But the writing slips early on into unsupported comedy, and the tension of the piece is unfortunately dissipated.
The Coldest War by Stephen Falk is evening's high point. Falk examines the schizophrenic condition of the media-obsessed American family unit. His characters change genres with each scene, enacting the audience's channel-surfing through theatrical conventions. Andrew Barth's direction is creative, particularly his choreography of the Son's jazz poems. The cast is pliable and smart. Shining again in their performances are Falk as the morose Russian butler and Plaugher as the hipster Son. Also fantastic is Paula Stinson as Mother, a demented amalgam of Joan Crawford's ghost and Sam Shepard's nightmares.
Falk's writing, though at times too loose, has brilliant moments of insight into the contemporary human condition. And it's the perfect theatrical capper to an evening which confirms that there remain good writers writing especially for the stage in L.A., after all.
"I Sight," presented by Copperview Theatre Co. at the Copperview Theatre at the Complex, 6468 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Aug. 21-Sept. 26. (213) 851-2075.
AFTER HOURS
at the Acme Comedy Theatre
Reviewed by Brad Schreiber
"We have standup comedians who perform as well as what we have on right now," brags Teddy Towne (Ted Hardwick), the host of After Hours' first segment, staged as a variety show called Acme Late Night. This brave emcee is unafraid either to wear a garish patchwork tuxedo jacket, sing a smarmy lounge version of "God Bless the Child," or admit to having his career ruined after grabbing Jean Kasem's breasts.
Sure, Hardwick's delightfully cheesy persona is as refreshing as a cold blast of Cheese Whiz down one's pants on a hot day. Also on the bill of this "variety extravaganza" are Jack Thomas, a very charming and polished standup; Bill Berry, who has that Phil-Ochs-sly-political-folk-guitar thing down, and Bonnie Cahoon and Kelly Goodman, who are apparently quite good Shakespearean rap performers--if only we could hear them (word to Lady McB and Ophelia Allover: Use mikes to compete with the taped hip-hop on your amusing musical summation of the carnage of Hamlet, embodied by dropping puppet characters into a basket marked R.I.P.)
The final half hour of After Hours is reserved for the Transformers, an all-male long-form improv troupe which takes one suggestion and ties various sketches together with silent physical segues. On the night I attended, it was more like two Transformers and one Transgressor, the latter looking a bit lost and too willing to play a servant a number of times. But the troupe also hit some hilarious highs, most notably as three absurdist playwrights bickering over their inherent talent. There was also an uproarious court scene in which one character, who pronounced himself both Judge and Courtroom Artist, declared, "You are found guilty and I sentence you to death but I will give you this sketch."
The Transformers gave us a lot of sketches, in fact, providing the finishing touches on this pleasant late-night confection.
"After Hours," presented by and at Acme Comedy Theatre, 135 N. La Brea Ave., Hollywood. July 5-indefinitely. (213) 525-0202.
THE ILIAD
at the 24th Street Theatre
Reviewed by Sally Johnson
What an heroic idea: to stage The Iliad! Kent Minault's ambitious dramatization of Homer's classic epic has solid potential and some fine scenes--and in this recent, short-run production under Minault's direction, it boasted interesting, Star Trek-ish costumes (compliments of Elizabeth Huffman). But at three hours in length, Minault's script--based on Richard Lattimore's translation, and billed as a work in progress--needs further abridgement.
The adaptation's biggest problem is that it lacks dramatic unity--which seems inevitable, since it covers just the first five of 24 books of the great lyric poem. The sticky problem of how best to dramatize the narrative was addressed by dividing the stage between rhapsodes (storytellers) who addressed the audience, and actors--more than 30 of them--who brought the poem's characters to life.
As might be expected with such a large cast, the acting was hit-and-miss. On the positive side: Ron Canada's Agamemnon lit up the stage with his imperious but pouty presence. Marie Chambers prickled as war-loving Athene. John Achorn's Zeus sweated mightily under the weight of the heavens and tongue lashings from his ungodly fishwife Hera, played by Nancy Jeris. William H. Bassett intoned convincingly as wise and loyal Nestor, John Prosky looked crafty as Odysseus, and Robert Aberdeen made a sublime Apollo.
Agamemnon's bug-eyed wrath in his quarrel with Achilleus (an oddly groveling James Parks), propelled the first act forward forcefully. But the battle scenes between the Trojans and the Achaians, which made up much of the rest of the evening, were weak. Minault elected to have the action dictated by the tempo of the narration: As the actors mimed the throwing of spears, the rhapsodes recited Homer's grisly damage report. This allowed us to hear the text clearly, but failed to fully dramatize the surprise, horror, and glory of battle.
What's more, placing Olympus on a platform against the upstage back wall didn't do justice to the gods' stature. They seemed static and distinctly smaller than the mortals.
Minault deserves great credit for attempting such a daunting task. But if he decides to do the remaining 19 books, he would do well to grace the words with stronger directorial choices. Jonathan Sacks contributed original music, with Ron George providing percussive accompaniment.
"The Iliad," presented by the Classical Theatre Lab at the 24th Street Theatre, 1117 24th St. Aug. 28-31. (213) 960-5691.
THE TREES DON'T BLEED IN TUSKEGEE
at the Miracle Theater
Reviewed by Daryl H. Miller
Heaven only knows how many horrors have been committed in the name of a greater good. Surely one of the most chilling examples in U.S. history was the so-called Tuskegee experiment, which left about 400 African-American men in that Alabama town untreated for syphilis from 1932 to 1972 so that government doctors could study the disease's bodily progression.
The tragedy makes for powerful drama, whether chronicled in the nation's newspapers (as it was again this year, when President Clinton issued a government apology) or fictionalized in David Feldshuh's play and television movie Miss Evers' Boys. Emerging playwright Duane Chandler revisits the topic in The Trees Don't Bleed in Tuskegee, the premiere of which also marks the debut of the Unity Players Ensemble, which devotes itself to theatre with an African-American perspective.
Chandler has written an earnest and often lyrical story, and the Unity Players rise to the challenge, delivering some fine performances, but the result isn't as powerful as it might be. The story rambles at times, stretching the proceedings, in Spencer Scott's slack staging, to a numbing three hours.
The bulk of the story unfolds in 1972, as news of the study builds into a national scandal. For three buddies who were unwitting subjects, it's a painful situation, perhaps just as well forgotten. But try as he might, Arthur Shaw (Lou Beatty Jr.), a poor farmer who lost his wife and infant son to the disease, can't forget. A nightmare jars him awake each night--and then there's the eager young reporter (Ronnie Robinson) who has shown up, implying he's the son of Shaw's late brother and hounding the men with questions. Past sorrows rush back, reenacted in the men's collective memories.
Performance quality varies widely, but Beatty holds the production together with a portrayal that fuses dignity and barely contained grief into something at once epic and unassuming, like King Lear in the form of an Alabama dirt farmer. Lee Harris delivers the comic relief as Shaw's pal Speedy Jones, whose outspokenness and quirky behavior make him a lightning rod for the others' playful put-downs. And Marcus Aurelius is a captivating presence as the mischievous, grinning memory of the friends' long lost buddy Plano "Paint" Johnson. Several roles, including Paint, are double cast.
Production values are minimal, for which the cash-strapped young company apologizes in its program notes. But in terms of heart, this group is rich.
"The Trees Don't Bleed in Tuskegee," presented by the Miracle Theater, the Unity Players Ensemble, and Spencer Scott at the Miracle Theater, 226 S. Market St., Inglewood. Aug. 21-Sept. 14. (213) 860-3208
THE SHINY APPLE
at the Metropole Theatre Works
Reviewed by Terri Roberts
The shiny apple, according to writer and director James Metropole, is what everyone wants: success, glamour, fame--all those glitzy rewards of the hardscrabble road to Hollywood. In his new play of that name, Metropole lays out that road as experienced by a beautiful, na•ve young actress named Maggi (admirably portrayed by Karen Geraghty), who discovers too late that the apple she longs for is riddled with worms.
The program notes explain that the play began as part of an evening of monologues. It probably should have stayed there. As a full-length production, the show is too flimsy--a sketchy series of scenes that play like snapshots of mostly stereotypical characters and events that culminate in Maggi's self-destruction.
Click! Here's Maggi's daughter, Betsy (an awkward Wendy Hunter), visiting Maggi's best friend, a photographer named Phillip (the capable Tom Pothoff), to collect photos of the mother she barely knew. Snap! Maggi innocently misses, then indignantly rejects, the advances of a lecherous manager (Chuck Harlander). Click! Now Maggi takes tips from a working girl (Deborah Lynn Hinderstein) on how to live the high life by using her body and the men who lust after it. Snap! Here's an example, as Maggi tests the waters with a horny businessman (Michael Craven Wells), but still comically checks with her conscience guide, Phillip, to make sure she doesn't actually cross into prostitution--i.e., look, but don't touch. Click! Now desperate for quick bucks, Maggi again consults Phillip when she considers becoming an egg donor.
As a whole, the quality of the cast--which also includes the lovely Debra Mayer--rises far above the show's thin, uneven script and poor production values. The set is amateurish, set changes are clumsy and distracting, and sound and lighting lacked any subtlety. This apple needs a lot of polishing if it's ever going to shine.
"The Shiny Apple," presented by and at the Metropole Theatre Works, 1277 N. Wilton Pl., Hollywood, July 26-indefinitely. (213) 969-4677.
ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST
at the Candlefish Theatre
Reviewed by Les Spindle
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is a venerable modern classic, best known as Milos Forman's multiple-Oscar-winning 1975 film, and eloquently preceded by Ken Kesey's gripping original novel and Dale Wasserman's lucid stage adaptation. Unfortunately, the Candlefish Theatre's uninspired production of Wasserman's play is a flaccid rendition of this familiar but fascinating tale.
Set in a mental institution, the tragicomic fable revolves around the cataclysmic conflict between the rebellious patient McMurphy (Blake Steury), who has feigned insanity to evade a prison sentence, and the Gestapo-like Nurse Ratched (Mary Schaffer). As McMurphy rabble-rouses his fellow patients into defiant behavior, control freak Ratched resorts to increasingly desperate measures to squash his feisty spirit.
The problems here start with Russell St. Clair's unfocused staging and reverberate through several superficial performances. Although Steury and Schaffer have effective moments, their one-note portrayals lack subtext and miss the fiery chemistry required to propel the narrative forward.
Nor has St. Clair elicited distinct characterizations from the large ensemble of inmate characters, who come across as a Greek chorus of crazy house clichƒs. The sole exception is John Ross Clark, who finds humor and irony in the role of the blustery patient Harding. Especially unconvincing are the frequently inaudible Colin Campbell as the catatonic Native American Chief Bromden, and Ryan Thomas Johnson as the neurotic Billy Bibbit, who--among other performance problems--fails to create a believable stutter.
St. Clair's lackadaisical pacing and claustrophobic blocking stifle the script's dramatic tension and humor. After two hours of mostly ineffective scenes, the production fizzles out in a limp finale. If you don't already know the play, you won't realize its climax has come and gone until the actors emerge to take bows.
"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," presented by and at the Candlefish Theatre, 1540 Cahuenga Blvd., Hollywood. Aug 22-Sept. 20. (213