THE LADIES OF THE CORRIDOR
at the Tamarind Theatre
Reviewed by Polly Warfield
When Geo Hartley opens a show it's not just an opening, it's an occasion. For Dorothy Parker's rueful comedy/drama The Ladies of the Corridor, the first play Hartley has produced and directed since the lamented closing of his Theatre Geo two years ago, the Tamarind Theatre has become a sort of glorious reincarnation of the late great playhouse on Highland Avenue.
Parker, the celebrated pet of the Algonquin Round Table's famous assemblage of wits and raconteurs, was petite and cute as a bug's ear-she was Little Miss Muffet with the sting of her spider. How could she dare put her own play onstage, fair game for critics, when her own theatrical criticism had been so merciless? (To wit: "House Beautiful is play lousy," or the famous dismissal of The Lake: "Go to the Martin Beck Theatre and watch Katharine Hepburn run the gamut of emotions from A to B.")
But as the darling of the elite, Parker dared (her play was co-written with the underappreciated Arnaud d'Usseau). It's a supreme stroke of bitter irony that Dorothy Parker ended her life drinking herself to death alone in her hotel room, the most pathetic of her own ladies of the corridor. Corridor is filled with a dread of precisely that lonely alcoholic fate, which gives it an eerie sense of foreboding; Parker is so clearly in each of its main characters, as they were in her.
While the play has plenty of funny moments and well-drawn comic characters, it is inescapably about women at the end of the road, in varying degrees of disintegration and despair, who have found sanctuary, and what comfort and company they can, in Manhattan's genteel residential Hotel Marlowe. It's a kind of purgatory, a fact of which Lulu Ames-a well-heeled, attractive Ohio widow thrilled to shake off the dust of Akron and hit New York-is unaware.
As Lulu, Patty McCormack is a delight: wonderfully warm, humorous, charming, skilled in all the social graces, and so admirably self-controlled that it's a shock to see her come unhinged when she falls in love with a younger man who can't give her all she wants. Parker knew about this predicament; no one makes us squirm more with embarrasment, chagrin, and downright pain for women in such a fix.
First enchanted, now perplexed and eager to get away, Scott Connell has the right attractive look and light touch as Lulu's inamorata, Paul. But this is very much a woman's play, and P.B. Hutton, a Theatre Geo find, could just about break your heart as poor down-on-her-luck alcoholic Mildred, a good-time girl whose good times are over. Diana Bellamy commands the stage from a wheelchair as Mrs. Nichols, whose wealth is apparent from the diamond as big as the Ritz on her finger; less apparent is the ruthlessness with which she intends to keep her son Charles under her thumb for the rest of her life. Nick Salamone is touchingly gentle and helpless as the son doomed to be his mother's handmaiden while he's having the life squeezed out of him.
Kathryn Joosten and Roz Witt are great fun as a couple of aging inmates who were born to be old biddies. Joosten's face wears a permanent look of disapproval; she couldn't be better, and Witt is her perfect sidekick. Outstanding in a small role is Dolorita Noonan as Puerto Rican maid Rita, who can tell fortunes and speak volumes with the curl of her lip or the swing of her hip. Babs Lindsay is the kind of friend everyone should have as Lulu's steadfast pal Connie, a career woman and the play's most well-adjusted person. Tyler Christopher is Lulu's well-meaning son, who'd like to be more solicitous than she'll let him, and Ursula Whittaker is his rather ineffectual wife. David Risotto makes a strong showing as the macho bellman Harry, and even the smallest roles are played with care-Richard Herlan as hotel manager Mr. Humphries and Josh Harrell as a bellboy.
Director Hartley keeps the tempo sprightly and the scene changes smooth, with such choice vintage recordings as Blossom Dearie's "I'll Take Manhattan" and Sarah Vaughan's silken "My Funny Valentine." Bill Gregory's hotel set is readily adaptable, and Joe Witt's lighting serves it well. Buffy Snyder's costumes deserve special praise: Where on earth did she get those stockings with seams, and even clocks, for goodness' sake? The gosh-awful bathrobe Joosten wears while hobnobbing in the corridor deserves listing with the cast.
Dorothy Parker fans should not miss The Ladies of the Corridor. Nor should Theatre Geo fans.
"The Ladies of the Corridor," presented by Theatre Geo at the Tamarind Theatre, 5919 Franklin Ave., Hollywood. Mon.-Tues. 8 p.m. Mar. 13-Apr. 18. $12-15. (323) 662-0553.
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THE AMAZING BRENDA STRIDER
at Glaxa Studios
Reviewed by Madeleine Shaner
In the noir tradition of Hammett, Chandler, and Mickey Spillane, The Amazing Brenda Strider is a love story wrapped in a mystery inside a conundrum. But despite the homage intended, there's nothing traditional about this play. And as such it's funny, engrossing, intriguing, often quite ridiculous, convoluted, weird, and just plain good. Playwright Al Austin has deliriously reinvented an art form that continues to give pleasure long after Bogart has left the building.
The love story is between Jerry (Michael McNeill) and Gene (Martin East), two young writing partners who've had some success collaborating on what sound like B-minus noir films. Again, untraditionally according to contemporary theatrical themes, this isn't a homosexual relationship. Both men are stridently hetero, but built into their difficult partnership is that perfect unity of opposites that makes for a relationship that matters. Where Jerry is an open book, a profligate borderline alcoholic, a would-be layabout with a dysfunctional moral compass, Gene is tightly zippered, a closet intellectual, removed from the emotional epicenter of real life, unable to locate or even allow anyone else to glimpse his heart and soul.
When Gene is stricken with cancer, Jerry finds himself at odds with his wallet, since his producer knows that with the magic synergy between the two writers disabled, the resulting product would have no shelf life. Unable to get Gene's collaboration, Jerry begins to spin a tale about a chance meeting with a woman in the hospital, the mysterious Brenda Strider (Tara Stewart). Gene cottons to Jerry's graphic description of his escapades, living the exaggerated moments vicariously, and so keenly that the tale develops a life of its own and Gene's hospital room becomes the stage for a very noir, Maltese Falcon kind of drama that curls around the two men in a swirl of hallucinogenic gallimaufrey.
What's real and what's imagined-what you see isn't always what you get-unfold hilariously into a... well, without giving it away, one doozy of a play that's as ridiculous as it is confusing, funny, and moving, with splendid performances by the affectedly cranky Martin East and the wannabe happy-go-lucky Michael McNeill.
Stewart wings in a sexy, swinging turn as Brenda-temptress, foil, and obligatory mystery woman. Caroline Siemers makes a very realistic Nurse Betty. Gene's ex-wife is essayed by the lovely Linda Shing who, unfortunately, can't be heard, which does damage to information we really need about the hapless Gene. Alex Daulton is an eccentric, detail-oriented gumshoe, replete with the wrong kind of raincoat. David White, while not as deadly as he might be, is the requisite bad guy of the piece, Brenda's manipulative husband, and Chris Austin makes a few appearances as everybody else.
Director John Linton gets out of his show what he obviously put into it-a lot of dedication, hard work, some inspired lunacy, and a dizzy cast of experts.
"The Amazing Brenda Strider," presented by JAT productions in Association with Glaxa Studios at Studio K of Glaxa Studios, 3707 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m. Mar. 2-Apr. 1. $14. (323) 462-4976.
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CHEKHOV PROJECT 2000: AN ODE TO THE GROUP THEATER
at the Globe Theatre
Reviewed by Madeleine Shaner
The treat of the week has to be three terrific Chekhov plays performed by a near-perfect cast for 11 performances only. Performed by movie and TV actors who are giving back their best to the theatre, they are rip-roaring, laugh-out-loud, painfully funny romps.
The Marriage Proposal is a riotous exercise in gender warfare, as a feisty Stephanie Venditto holds a hapless Enrico Colantoni at psychological pistol point when he comes to ask her father (Frank Medrano) for her hand. The play has never been in such good hands. Absurdly, marvelously funny, all the actors are superb. Colantoni has amazing control of his instrument, keeping his performance beautifully balanced on the edge of what could easily become slapstick.
Summers in the Country is a harassed husband's diatribe against the unworkable system of working husbands traveling down to the country to join their families for "relaxing" weekends. His burden of the things he has to deliver has Colantoni crawling on his knees as the train jolts its way to weekend paradise. His friend, played by Luke Toma, is deeply sympathetic-but also has a couple of things he needs delivering. Deeply funny stuff, again beautifully handled by two excellent actors.
The Bear brings unexpected passion, in the form of a furious creditor, played by Toma, into the life of a widow (Venditto) mourning the death of her unfaithful husband. Medrano here is the put-upon manservant, crazily dressed in a pink wool shawl bunched into a bow at his back.
Sara Pratter is the eloquent director of all three pieces, and Debra-Ann Smith is the producer. The star-studded opening night was a benefit for the Actors' Fund of America, a nonprofit agency providing social welfare for all entertainment professionals.
"Chekhov Project 2000: an Ode to The Group Theatre," presented by Debra Ann Smith at the Globe Playhouse, 1107 N. Kings Rd., W. Hollywood. Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 2 p.m., Sun. 8 p.m. March 18-30. $12. (323) 761-6439.
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THE PEOPLE VS. MONA
at the Pasadena Playhouse
Reviewed by Polly Warfield
Though Mona Mae Katt and her personable gentleman defense attorney, Jim Summerford, are beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of mutual romance, the future doesn't look good for either. Mona is accused of murdering her record producer husband, C.C. Katt, who was found battered to death with Mona's personalized steel guitar shortly after their wedding at Tippo City Hall. Could Mona be guilty of such a crime? No way. You know it, I know it, Jim knows it. But the finger of suspicion rests on Mona. Though everyone in Tippo had reason to hate Katt, it looks like Mona's goose is cooked. Still, as Jim observes hopefully, "Maybe the ending will be a surprise." You can bet on it.
Mona sings the blues in her jail cell: "I'm falling in love with my lawyer/And he's never won a case." More cause for blues: Jim is engaged to sharpshooting prosecutor Mavis Frye, and she's never lost a case. Worse yet, Mavis has been jealous of Mona ever since Mona was Miss Tippo High. Now Mavis is pushing to tie the knot with Jim and get it over with, since eight years is long enough for any engagement. Professionally, he's no hotshot, but he's so squeaky-clean, so irresistibly ingratiating, so boyishly attractive. She's lawyer enough for both of them.
Mona may be over-generous, she may have a reputation as the town bad girl-in fact, she has-but it's only because she has such a big heart, not to mention a voluptuous body without one mean bone and more curves than the Pasadena Freeway. Mona plays a lot of musical instruments, too-not just guitar but trombone, tuba, tambourine, and washboard as well.
Musical prowess is apparently a condition of Tippo citizenship. Not only do these folks accompany themselves on a variety of musical instruments while going about their daily tasks, they never talk when they can sing. They all sing very well, as is abundantly clear in this high-spirited, good-natured musical caper with music and lyrics by Jim Wann and book by Wann, Ernest Chambers, and Patricia Miller, which is mounted in the "Musician's Theatre" style of Wann's popular Pump Boys and Dinettes, only with more story on this outing. Kelli Maguire as Mona Mae and Scott Waara as her winless defender from the "Euple R. Pugh walk-up law school" head the cast of musician performers.
Maggie Hollinbeck is so fiercely resolute as demon prosecutor Mavis it should come as no surprise at play's end to learn she "has established residence in New York and is running for the U.S. Senate." Touch ! Ritt Henn as a law clerk, also Officer Bell, is a long tall chap with a quirky look who plays the big bass viol and has a big bass voice that can soar to treble; he is perfectly wonderful. William Thomas Jr. is the golf-addicted judge in robe and two-tone shoes. He also plays Blind Willy Carter, whose sense of scent sniffed Mona's perfume at the crime scene. As a rhythmic departure from the show's bluegrass/ Country & Western and melodic ballads, his song has a calypso beat.
Joe Joyce switches from bailiff to coroner/dentist to moribund Litigator Pugh. Joyce is also a smiling immigrant motel proprietor with combination East Indian and Deep South accent. The terrific Michele Mais combines her vocal expertise with her percussion hot licks as court recorder, sexy journalist, and swinging Rev. Rosetta Purify of the Little Church of Kingdom Come. The clever down-home set is by Lawrence Miller, with lighting by Michael Gilliam, costumes by Nancy Konrardy, and sound by Tim Metzger. Brad Ellis is musical supervisor and vocal arranger of the eminently listenable tunes.
Paul Lazarus directed the intermissionless piece with a lot of TLC, dedication to "nothin' but fun," and intention to amuse, please, and entertain, and the results do all of the above. If this frisky, friendly, playful little show had a tail it would be wagging.
"The People vs Mona," presented by Sheldon Epps and Lyla L. White at the Pasadena Playhouse, 39 S. El Molino St., Pasadena. Tues.-Fri. 8 p.m, Sat. 5 & 9 p.m., Sun. 2 & 7 p.m. Mar. 12-Apr. 16. $15-42.40. (800)233-3123
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KING HEDLEY II
at Seattle Repertory Theatre
Reviewed by David-Edward Hughes
There is a fine play at the core of August Wilson's darkly tragic King Hedley II, though at an excessive length of nearly three and a half hours, the world premiere production at the Seattle Repertory Theatre needs some skillful script editing to make it all it ought to be. Marion Isaac McClinton's passionate direction and a stellar ensemble cast ensure our rapt attention for a great deal of the evening, and much of what Wilson has written stands with his best work, and there is every reason to think the playwright's more indulgent and talky excesses will disappear from the play before it reaches Broadway.
A sequel of sorts to Wilson's Seven Guitars, King Hedley II revisits the same Pittsburgh neighborhood in which Guitars took place, 35 years later, in 1985, in a now crime-ridden, decaying Hill District. Hedley, an ex-con, resides with his ex-blues singer mother Ruby and his unhappily pregnant wife Tonya, making a desperate living selling hijacked refrigerators and robbing local businesses with his pal Mister. Ruby's old love Elmore, a charming but volatile gambler, returns to renew their romance, but knows the secret of Hedley's true paternity, which, when revealed, sets off an explosive and shattering, if inevitable, climax.
The characters who populate King Hedley II are a complex lot of broken dreamers, none of them all good or all bad, and in the midst of their despair Wilson gives them all at least a few moments of welcome humor, lightness, and warmth before their world comes tumbling down. In the title role, Tony Todd etches a searing portrait of a man who has reached the last threads of his rope, dissolving further and further into madness. Marlene Warfield as Hedley's estranged mother Ruby matches Todd's performance, creating the play's most sympathetic character, and certainly the most put-upon.
Charles Brown's complex Elmore is the personification of the devil in disguise, while Ella Joyce's rueful and knowing Tonya seems like the one person who may somehow be able to make a better life for herself. Russell Andrews provides most of the play's humor and light as Mister, and Mel Winkler as Stool Pigeon, who takes the Lord's name in vain as often as he praises it, does his best with the play's most increasingly grating, least necessary character.
The production values could hardly be bettered, from David Gallo's staggering withered-urban-rubble setting to the hauntingly effective lighting design by Donald Holder, and superbly realized costumes by Toni-Leslie James. Sound designer Rob Milburn underscores Wilson's dialogue with pitch-perfect jazz and blues motifs.
King Hedley II as it now stands is a diamond in the rough, and is likely to get the necessary polishing to reside proudly in Wilson's theatrical canon.
"King Hedley II," presented by and at Seattle Repertory Theatre, 155 Mercer St., Seattle. Mar. 13-Apr. 8. Tues.-Sun. 7:30 p.m., Sat.-Sun. 2 p.m. $10-42. (206) 443-2222.
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DID ANYONE EVER TELL YOU-YOU LOOK LIKE HUEY P. NEWTON?
at the Eureka Theatre
Reviewed by Kerry Reid
Let's get this out of the way first: Michael Gene Sullivan does look like Huey P. Newton. In fact, he once played the Minister of Defense for the Black Panthers onstage-in Robert Alexander's Servant of the People at Lorraine Hansberry Theatre, which I never saw.
But this solo piece, which Sullivan has been developing locally and on the Fringe circuit for the past few years, goes beyond commenting on that coincidence. What Sullivan has set forth in this engaging, intelligent, funny, occasionally quite moving show is a thumbnail sketch of growing up activist-and growing aware of the cracks and flaws in the heroes of one's youth. We don't necessarily learn a whole lot about Newton-and as Sullivan enacts his frustrating search for material about the Panther in bookstores and libraries, we realize that Huey's ignominious death in a crack deal gone bad has overshadowed his once legendary revolutionary aura. But we learn a great deal about Sullivan, and about how the radical influences of his childhood have informed his subsequent work.
A longtime member of the San Francisco Mime Troupe, Sullivan also frequently appears at A.C.T. and on television. His life on the tightrope of seeking success as an actor without losing his political passion is one of the subthemes interwoven into this show-most clearly demarcated by his own Huey-like outbursts at what he sees as the willful ignorance and incompetence of some of his colleagues on the Alexander show. But what comes through most clearly is a fervor for a time when being an activist was a good thing. Admirably, Sullivan makes this point over and over again with wit, charm, and self-deprecating grace. He even makes an analogy between the acting styles of William Shatner's 1960s-era Captain Kirk and the cool, contained Picard of the techno-'80s. "Passionate times call for overacting," Sullivan maintains.
He also offers a running series of tips for revolutionaries. After an emotional recounting of Robert Kennedy's assassination (Sullivan's mother was in the ballroom where it happened), he muses: "Why is it our side never just gets wounded? Reagan and Wallace got wounded. Here's a tip: Learn to duck."
Sullivan is ably directed by his wife and fellow Mime Trouper Velina Brown on a spare, simple set, with nothing more than a wooden desk and a screen with projections of Newton's image and of agitprop paintings by Sullivan's mother. He moves with fluid ease from a tender recounting of his father prepping them for their first protest march (where even the family bunny played its part) to a hilarious impersonation of an uptight Irish schoolteacher, leading the audience/classroom in rousing renditions of "My Country 'Tis of Thee" and "Marching to Pretoria" (a songbook is helpfully included with the program). Sullivan's recounting of the time a cop pulled a gun on him as he sat in his own car is chilling, particularly after the Amadou Diallo verdict. And seeing him assume positions supine and supplicating during the incident hammers home the ongoing humiliation faced by black men every day-the humiliation that Newton addressed with ballsy courage, conviction, and unblinking dedication.
Newton's fall from grace has obviously left its mark on Sullivan. But as he gently reminds us toward the end of the show, the important thing is to "listen to the message, and let the messenger be human."
"Did Anyone Ever Tell You-You Look Like Huey P. Newton?," presented by the AfroSolo Performing Arts Company and the Z Space Studio at the Eureka Theatre, 215 Jackson St., San Francisco. Wed.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 3 p.m. Mar. 16-Apr. 9. $20-25. (415) 788-7469.
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NOT ABOUT HEROES
at the Stage
Reviewed by Judy Richter
Stephen MacDonald based his Not About Heroes on the letters and poetry of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, two poets who wrote movingly about war based on their experiences during World War I. Sassoon (Charles Shaw Robinson) was the older of the two, an established English poet who had been decorated for heroism, then threw his medal into a river as a protest against the war and wound up at Craiglockhart War Hospital for Nervous Disorders in Scotland in 1917. There he met Owen (Paul Sulzman), a younger aspiring poet who also had been sent there after serving at the front. Although Sassoon was an aristocrat and Owen came from more humble origins, the two struck up a strong friendship based on poetry and their shared feelings about the horrors of war.
Although MacDonald's play is talky, especially during the first act, it slowly takes hold, thanks in large part to the power of those first-act words and the men's subsequent experiences, leading to the sad irony of Owen's being killed at the front in France exactly one week before the Nov. 11, 1918, armistice that ended the war. This production by San Jos Stage Company also owes its success to sensitive staging by Michael Butler, who stresses the friendship, indeed the love, that the two men developed. Butler also has two excellent actors to work with. Sulzman endows Owen with a youthful awkwardness at first, then allows him to blossom into a self-confident man as his poems gain critical praise. Robinson's Sassoon is sarcastic when he meets the stammering, eager Owen, but the younger man's sincerity and obvious talent win him over. Robinson's performance is intelligent and richly textured.
Ardith Ann Gray's costumes are just right, especially Sassoon's well-tailored suits. Daniel E. Gaylord's sparsely furnished set works well, with a low platform serving as Owen's room, writing on the floor, and books strewn about the edge of the thrust stage. Ellen Shireman's lighting is effective, as is Robert A. Havlice's sound design, except for a few times when music momentarily intrudes.
Ultimately, the play and the production are involving and moving, leaving one to mourn the loss of a talented poet and to speculate how many other talented men died in that costly, terrible war.
"Not About Heroes," presented by the San Jos Stage Company at the Stage, 490 South First St., San Jos . Wed.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 2 p.m. Mar. 11-Apr. 2. $16-25. (408) 283-7142.
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ROLLIN' ON THE T.O.B.A.
at the El Portal Center Mainstage
Reviewed by Les Spindle
The Off-Broadway revue Rollin' on the T.O.B.A. is fascinating-albeit more as a sociological and cultural treatise than a musical entertainment. Though less rousing than one might expect, this fast-paced show impressively recreates a particular style of black vaudeville that trod its segregated path across the U.S. during the 1920s and '30s on the T.O.B.A. (Theatre Owners Booking Association) circuit. Kudos are due to the El Portal Center for importing what one presumes is essentially the same production that premiered in New York last year, bringing along original cast members Ronald "Smokey" Stevens (the director/choreographer), Sandra Reaves-Phillips, and the superb piano accompanist David Alan Bunn. New to the cast is Ted Levy in the role of Stevens' late collaborator Jaye Stewart. The result is an enjoyable show that is sometimes hampered by the new theatre's ongoing acoustical problems.
Though Stevens' work includes subtle undercurrents of anger surrounding the plight of oppressed African-Americans, it is lighthearted song, dance, and comedy that dominate the endeavor. The revue is conceived by Stevens, based on earlier stagings with co-conceiver Stewart, incorporating skits based on a series of newspaper pieces by Langston Hughes. Though the male characters use the names of the show's creators and there is a molecule of a story about three black performers touring the country for a meager living while their white producers prosper, the show is essentially plotless.
The versatile and talented cast is more entertaining than their material. As a brassy, sassy chanteuse called Bertha Mae, red-hot mama Reaves-Phillips out-Dollys Carol Channing, decked out in Michele Reish's glittery red gown and boa, and other dazzling costumes. Reaves-Phillips coaxes the you-know-what right out of the classic "St. Louis Blues" and, in "Let the Good Times Roll," does exactly what the song title promises. She is equally adept at comedy, most notably her uproarious turn as a blowsy, uncooperative waitress.
With their amusing banter and expert physical comedy, the rubber-faced and nimble Stevens and Levy are masters at the sort of shtick that we always hear died along with the great vaudeville comics. A fellow critic who predates me by at least two decades assured me that this show presents a fastidious facsimile of the T.O.B.A. style. Larry W. Brown's charming proscenium-within-a-proscenium set adds to the ambience, as does Jim Moody's crisp lighting.
Perhaps it's a cultural gap, or maybe it's the antiquity of the style, but several of the jokes don't seem very funny, and the occasional moments of serious reflection are somewhat jarring amid the jovial skits that surround them. Other bits, such as Stevens' lament about not being able to find soul food in white-dominated restaurants, successfully mix humor with social outrage. An engaging rap-flavored talk/sing exchange called "I'm Still Here," as the performers express their survival against the odds, is a fascinating precursor to Stephen Sondheim's song from Follies. Reservations aside, the show is a must-see for anyone interested in the evolution of American theatrical styles.
"Rollin' on the T.O.B.A." presented by and at El Portal Center for the Arts on the Mainstage, 5269 Lankershim Blvd., N. Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m., Sat.-Sun. 2 p.m. Mar. 17-Apr. 9. $35-42. (800) 233-3123.
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THE KING AND I
at the Redondo Beach Performing Arts Center
Reviewed by Les Spindle
Margaret Landon's 1944 novel Anna and the King has had more incarnations than Shirley MacLaine. Foremost among them is the vintage 1951 Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway musical The King and I. There's also the 1946 Rex Harrison/Irene Dunne non-musical film, the 1956 film adaptation of the stage musical, and the short-lived 1972 CBS sitcom (yes, sitcom). Add in two regurgitated film disasters from last year (an anemic animated musical version and a deadly dull Jodie Foster costume epic), and this property begins to rival the novel Auntie Mame for sheer number of theatrical lives.
So why do theatre companies perpetually trot out such a warhorse? Simple. It happens to be a perennially popular and damn entertaining warhorse. The Civic Light Opera of South Bay Cities' revival beats Downey CLO to the punch by a few months, while lagging Fullerton CLO's staging by almost a year. South Bay's efforts yield a sumptuously mounted and gorgeously sung production that falls a bit short in its dramaturgy. Unlike last year's superior Fullerton mounting, this by-the-book interpretation glosses over some of the passionate dramatic encounters that make this musical play more substantial than most.
As the spunky governess Anna, who travels to 19th-century Siam to educate the multiple children of the egomaniacal king (Ronald M. Banks), Sarah Tattersall boasts a divine soprano voice and a sophisticated, gracious presence befitting this role. Banks matches her in singing ability and energy, playing the king in a slightly less domineering style than one usually encounters. It's a valid approach-or it least it would be if the clash between these two iron-willed characters had the requisite spark. Since the battles between these characters fuel the storyline and underline the themes of changing social order, the lack of chemistry between these two actors becomes a liability.
Except for the slightly stiff interpretation of Ivan Hernandez as Lun Tha (the ill-fated suitor of young Tuptim), supporting performances are solid. Iwama sings gracefully and elicits empathy as Tuptim, the king's new "property," who yearns for love and fulfillment. Kerry K. Carnahan connects strongly as the king's devoted Lady Thiang, making the most of the sublime "Something Wonderful" ballad. As in the Fullerton production, credibility is enhanced by the casting of many Asian-American actors.
Choreography and staging by director/choreographer Sha Newman (who triumphed at year's Ovations for SBCLO's West Side Story) match her usual impeccable standards. Her lovely dances are highlighted by the show's shimmering centerpiece, the "Small Cabin of Uncle Tom" ballet. Musical director/conductor Steven Smith's take on the masterful score is reverential but vibrant. The physical design is also breathtaking, thanks to the vibrant colors and textures of the stylish rented sets, Thomas G. Marquez's ravishing costumes, and Liz Stillwell's atmospheric lighting. Though it's not flawless, there are pleasures fit for a king in this classy retread of an old favorite.
"The King and I," presented by Civic Light Opera of South Bay Cities at the Redondo Beach Performing Arts Center, 1935 Manhattan Beach Blvd., Redondo Beach. Tues.-Sat., 8 p.m., Sat.-Sun. 2 p.m. (also 7 p.m. on Mar. 19 & 26). Mar. 11-26. $30-45. (310) 372-4477.
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BRIGHTON BEACH SCUMBAGS
at the Lillian Theatre
Reviewed by Paul Birchall
Playwright Steven Berkoff's hilarious little nugget of nastiness concerns several London working-class yobs who decide to take a brief holiday on Brighton Beach, where they hope to get away from it all. But while you might be able escape a place, you can't get away from yourself: If you're a foul-mouthed, beer-guzzling, lazy, good-for-nothing skank when you leave the house, presumably you'll be the same when you're on vacation. Or at least that's the ostensible, drolly articulated theme of Berkoff's ironic if minor comedy.
For the four loathsome "heroes" who provide the play's portrait of 21st-century Britain, the day out is an opportunity to smoke, toss empty beer cans all over the beach, and screech things like, "What d'ya want on your sodding hamburgers?" at each other. We're introduced to grotesques such as slack-jawed, bigoted Derek (Ron Bottitta), who is suffering in marriage to the shrieking, bovine Dinah (Jacquie Barnbrook). Also along for the ride is Derek's cheerfully boorish pal Dave (Brye Cooper) and Dave's doe-eyed, emotionally gushy wife Doreen (Emma Stafford). Conflict is provided by the arrival of gay Tom (Field Blauvelt), who had the gall to giggle at fat Dinah in a pub, which earns him a beating from Derek. The beating comes less for homophobic reasons than from the self-loathing Derek's own feelings of being trapped in a horrible life.
Berkoff's talent is in creating characters who are steadfastly revolting yet strangely lovable in spite of it all: Even while we recognize these people as the ignorant, homophobic, and racist embodiment of English white trash, they're also startlingly recognizable and believable. The dialogue is both horrifyingly politically incorrect-with Derek roaring about "poofters," "Pakis," and "bints"-and deftly shrewd at conveying the heart and soul of a particular type of human animal. Director Paul Quinn's staging is nicely nuanced and comically tight, as is the ensemble work, from Bottitta's vile lout to Stafford's rather sad Doreen. Also evocative is Patrice Pitman Quinn's appropriately dirty-looking beachfront stage.
"Brighton Beach Scumbags," presented by Black Irish Productions at the Lillian Theatre, 6322 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 7 p.m. Mar. 17-Apr. 23. $15. (323) 692-7185.
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THE COMEDY OF OEDIPUS REX
at the Powerhouse Theatre
Reviewed by Laura Weinert
There's nothing funny about murder and incest. Or is there? Not even the oracle of Delphi could have predicted the delicious blend of slapstick and absurdity that this powerhouse duo might wrench out of Sophocles' grave tale about a man who murders his father and marries his mother. Yet here we have a brisk, hour-long romp through Greece, told by a couple of wisecracking clowns-Arlechino and Columbina-who attempt to meddle in Oedipus' tragic fate, only to meet their own terrible ends.
Riffing through vulgar puns and twisted songs, the soon-to-be-wedded Oded Gross and Regan Forman prove masters of comic counterpoint, diving from high wit into a base humor that turns on pee jokes and off-color references to sex and genitalia. Frantic fight scenes and fun with cheap props (a Styrofoam head bounces onto the stage as King Laius meets his maker) pick up the slack on any jokes that fall flat-we almost expect to hear a high hat and rimshot after some of these stinkers-but their inventive take on this tragedy is vibrant enough to keep us snickering to the end.
We learn that King Laius is looking to kill Arlechino, who failed to kill Oedipus to prevent Laius' gruesome fate. Their solution? Why, simply do away with Oedipus.
Our fiesty Columbina valiantly attempts to kill him with a poisonous snake monster in a paper bag, but suddenly finds her heart aflutter in the presence of fiery and flirtatious Oedipus Rex. Their love song hits the high note in this vaudevillian extravaganza: "I'm glad to be in love at last!" gushes Columbina. "I'm just as glad it's not incest!" her love replies. She plots to send his mother to a local dairy farm and pose as the queen herself to prevent the dreaded coupling, and yet, as Sophocles would have it, fate is not to be fooled with.
Flipping between roles at breakneck speed, this duo handles comedy and character with aplomb, and appears to have a hell of a time showing off what is ultimately a cracked but charismatic treat.
"The Comedy of Oedipus Rex," presented by Oded Gross at the Powerhouse Theatre, 3116 2nd St., Santa Monica. Fri.-Sun. 8 p.m. Mar. 10-25. $10. (310) 396-3680.
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THE HELLFIRE CAF
at the Renton Galleries
Reviewed by Hoyt Hilsman
The Pasadena Underground, founded by director Mark Kaplan to support original works by Los Angeles theatre artists, debuts with three intriguing one-acts featuring solid performances and interactive staging.
Yellow Wallpaper, the most traditional of the pieces, is an adaptation of an 1899 short story by Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman about a woman confined to a bedroom and suffering from post-partum depression. A long monologue, ably performed by Stephanie Valsamides and directed by Michele Zovak, the piece explores the psychological detioration of the woman through her perspective of the patterned yellow wallpaper that surrounds her prison cell.
Marriage in Venice, the most entertaining of the plays, is a modern spoof on Renaissance lust, written and directed by Kaplan. In the play, an older husband (Lance Wheeler), who has been cuckolded by his wife (Vanie Poyey) and her lover (Gregory Lee Kenyon), seeks revenge, with a little help from the audience. The result is a charming, hilarious romp that is both suggestive and fun.
Less successful is the longer piece which gives the evening its title, The Hellfire Caf , also written and directed by Kaplan, which uses an interactive technique that strains the audience's credulity. (It is better not to give away this particular device in a review.) In the play, a Mistress of Ceremonies (Dawn Smith), leads participants through a confessional ritual that involves revealing their shocking secrets. Although the performers-who include Layon, Doug Savercool, Gladys Hans, Erica Moore, Jeff Holsman, Emmett Jones and Kathleen McNearny-are energetic and intense in their revelatory performances, the piece becomes long and rambling, losing momentum at the midway point.
While the three plays make for an overlong evening, which could be enlivened by either trimming The Hellfire Caf or cutting the evening down to two plays, there are certainly bright spots, most notably Kaplan's faux-Renaissance adulterous romp. The production space is also entertaining itself, with the plays set in the upstairs gallery of an art/retail space.
"Hellfire Caf ," presented by the Pasadena Underground at the Renton Galleries, 95 N. Arroyo Parkway, in Old Town Pasadena. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 6 p.m. Mar. 9-Apr. 2. $8. (626) 792-0536.
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AGAINST THE GLASS
at the Court Theatre
Reviewed by Terri Roberts
When a bird is trapped in a house and tries to escape, the confused creature often ends up frantically beating its wings against the glass windows because it can't see the invisible barrier between where it is and where it wants to be. Not seeing the barrier, the bird will continue battering itself until it's either hurt or dead, or until someone steps in to physically redirect it to the outside world where it belongs. In editor/journalist-turned-playwright Marci Crestani's debut play, Against the Glass, now in its world premiere at the Court Theatre, the image is not only used literally on stage, but becomes a metaphor for the actions of her four characters.
Amy (Saxon Trainor) is a San Francisco-based artist who runs from a badly ended romance with a married man back to her grandparent's home in rural Illinois. There she's reacquainted with Peter (Doug Vogel), her unrequited high school love, who's now also married. The result of their mutual attraction becomes one of the falling dominoes in Amy's gradual realization that her grandparents, Ed (Joseph G. Medalis) and Zebe (Shannon Welles), don't have the rock-solid relationship she always thought they did. Through their 60-year marriage, Ed has had his share of lovers on the side, and Zebe has long held a torch for another man.
The perfectly detailed garage/kitchen set designed by Thomas Buderwitz instantly tells us who this couple is before anybody even walks onstage. And Dan Weingarten's sumptuous lighting, which floods the rooms with pale moonlight or casts subtle shadows over the garage clutter and kitchen table, adds mood and atmosphere to the set that is, unfortunately, missing from the show itself.
Though everyone looks perfect for their part, it's when the action begins that the illusion falls apart. Apart from stumbling over lines and appearing under-rehearsed, relationships are stiff and intentions are too carefully considered. Jenny Sullivan's flaccid direction does nothing to sharpen things up. Granted, a significant problem is the script. Crestani's journalistic training is evident in her play, creating an objective distance between her words and the audience rather than inviting a connection. While an occasional line or two hits exactly the right mark, overall this is an unsteady script of some promise that still needs much work.
The dialogue feels forced, and the setups are hackneyed and obvious. The sense of familiarity the story and characters engender in us comes from having seen this same scenario in countless books, movies, and TV shows. What helps elevate the best of such commonplace stories is the strength, confidence, and tone of an author's voice. And that's largely missing from Against the Glass. Though it has several things going for it-notably the metaphor of the title and the focus on an elderly couple's relationship (something not often seen)-Crestani still needs to find her own voice with this piece. As it is, her play is yet another humdrum story of broken families blind to what broke them in the first place.
"Against the Glass," presented by Johnick Art, Inc. at the Court Theatre, 722 N. La Cienega Blvd., W. Hollywood. Mar. 10-Apr. 9. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 3 p.m. $25. (310) 289-2999.
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A HUNTER'S OBITUARY
at Theatre West
Reviewed by Brad Schreiber
Jason McGaffey could seemingly write plays for children, for his rambling A Hunter's Obituary has as its focus a broad, silly, bigger-than-life character. Fernuckle McCragen (David Starwalt) has been shot and tells the tall tale of his life to pro obit writer Mel (Debra Henri), including flashbacks to living with Eskimos and pygmies and his nasty lifelong habit of biting the fingers off people he doesn't particularly like.
Yes, this could be a fine plea for racial tolerance and cultural diversity for younger ones-except that McGaffey seems to be obsessed with the "doggie style" position of sexual intercourse, not to mention the crudeness of a central character who offers a woman impregnated by him to eliminate the issue with a hunting knife.
If ever a play deserved an accolade for Dissociative Identity Disorder, it would be this one. One moment, the playwright has a group of pygmys adorably chanting nonsense, while in the next he has Fernuckle crony Joe Casey (the overly broad Douglas Gabrielle) screaming in agony due to elephantiasis of the testicles. Time and again, the lowbrow vulgarity which McGaffey brings to the fore undercuts what could have been a very sweet play.
With the exception of Gabrielle, the actors make the most of their often unbearably goofy roles, with Elizabeth Barrett standing out as a native and various other characters. Starwalt is a real trouper; his energy never flags as the gravel-voiced, Hemingwayesque adventurer who's as guileless as he is brave. The greatest frustration is that McGaffey shows the ability to write terrific dialogue-most notably in Fernuckle's monologue about why he cannot remain in New York City as the head of a line of furry fashions. Even with his character's absurd animal-skin bikini bottom, his words resonate well. Alas, it is only a matter of time before another sex act or bit of wacky stage business, orchestrated by director Larry Travis, buries the impact of the dialogue.
There is little interest in solving the mystery of who shot the lead character, for we take little seriously after sloppy pantomime is supposed to convince us that our hero has brought down a whale with a poison blow dart. As for the design, some characters are poorly illuminated in the second act and no one, not too surprisingly, is credited for the extremely simple set.
"You know what truth is?" Fernuckle bellows at one point, referring to a tussle with a bear. "Truth is being mauled." It is one version of the truth, certainly, but after this Obituary, we leave the theatre in a daze.
"A Hunter's Obituary," presented by and at Theatre West, 3333 Cahuenga Blvd., Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 3 & 7 p.m. Mar. 18-Apr. 9. $15. (323) 851-7977.
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PAINTING CHURCHES
at Theatre 40
Reviewed by Zach Udko
Theatre 40's solid but stale rendering of Tina Howe's 1979 dramedy Painting Churches might as well have been called "Portrait of the Artists in Need of a Nap." While talent shines through the performances in this able ensemble of three, everybody just seems to be going through the motions and exuding about as much freshness as you'd find in a can of sardines.
Howe's play does little to help these folks out. Her story is simple: Estranged artist Margaret Church (Ann Hearn) returns home to move her aging parents Fanny (Gloria Stroock) and Gardner (Michael Forest) out of the family house and get a chance to finally paint their portrait. Gardner was once a great poet laureate in the league of Robert Frost; now Alzheimer's is messing with his comfortable world. Issues of resentment between the underappreciated artist and her parents combine with longing for the past and a fear of the near future. The themes are similar to Amy Freed's far superior artist homecoming play Freedomland, the 1998 Pulitzer finalist.
Howe's play has the potential to strike a strong emotional chord, but because of the sometimes awkward way dialogue moves the plot along, a director must handle the material with kid gloves. Unfortunately director Anita Khanzadian Jones does little to liven up the show. Timing seemed to be the biggest problem on the night reviewed, making the whole evening lag. Hopefully, as the actors get a workout during their run, they'll loosen up and start communicating.
Much of the show's comedy rests on the shoulders of Fanny's neurotic character, and Stroock generally handles the shtick well when she isn't overdoing it. Hearn is stuck with many of the play's long monologues, and while her delivery is strong for the most part, she does hit some flat notes of melodrama from time to time. Forest is the anchor of the show, with a gentle rendering of a man lost in his literature.
Sean Nagle's scenic design is the main crime of the evening. It doesn't bother me that the show looks like it shares the stage with another production (which it does), but when curtains are written into the script, there's no reason why actors should have to mime opening them. No wonder it sometimes feels like the cast isn't always home.
"Painting Churches," presented by and at Theatre 40, 241 Moreno Dr., Beverly Hills. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 2 p.m. Mar. 18-Apr. 30. $15-18. (323) 936-5842.
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READER
at the Phoenix Theatre
Reviewed by Dianne Zuckerman
Good intentions fall short in HorseChart Theatre Company's disappointing American premiere of Ariel Dorfman's Reader, an Orwellian drama about a sanctimonious government official in charge of determining which literary and artistic works will be green-lighted for production. When an anonymous book surfaces with characters and events that parallel the bureaucrat's shameful past, he's forced to confront expedient choices that destroyed his family and devitalized his country.
Censorship has always been a seminal issue for Dorfman, who went into exile after Chile was taken over by a military dictatorship and has always been recognized as much for outspoken social criticism as for his literary and dramatic output. Although Reader doesn't have the emotional power or compelling story line of Dorfman's Death and the Maiden, it raises valid issues about intellectual and artistic freedom at a time when self-appointed moral-mongers continue to try to dictate societal standards.
While HorseChart's ongoing commitment to staging works that address important social and political issues is admirable, director Stephen Cosgrove's problematic execution of Reader, particularly some misguided casting, undermines the material. Played out on a simple set representing several locales, the show is sometimes confusing, as the action moves back and forth in time and cast members' multiple roles occasionally blur. The production does benefit from effective touches by lighting designer Dave Mazzeno and music and sound designers Aaron Langton and Neal Landauer.
As the hypocritical media official and his literary alter-ego, Charlie Grice frequently stumbles over his words, as does Martin McGovern, playing the pivotal role of the official's despotic boss, whose lines include some of the play's best-written passages. Worse, neither performer projects sufficient power or presence to justify other characters' submissive reactions to their positions and dictates.
Among the supporting roles, the most satisfying work is by Brett Aune, whose portrayals include a defiant writer and the official's son, a troubled man in search of the truth about his mother's death. Aune's work has an integrity and depth that involve us in a way the production as a whole does not. Gayle Galvez has some good moments as the official's receptionist and his mistress, but needs crisper diction. Kimberly Payetta is credible as the official's wife, who was institutionalized and tortured because she dared question the status quo, endangering her husband's career. And Philip A. Russell projects self-contained strength as the wife's cold-eyed guard, his shaven pate and crossed arms giving him the look of a malevolent Mr. Clean.
"Reader," presented by HorseChart Theatre Company at the Phoenix Theatre, 1124 Santa Fe Dr., Denver. Mar. 10-Apr. 15. (303) 458-0755.
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LOVE IN THE TITLE
at the Sobrato Auditorium
Reviewed by Judy Richter
San Jos Repertory Theatre had more than ample reason to celebrate St. Patrick's Day this year, for that was when it opened the American premiere of Hugh Leonard's Love in the Title, presented in conjunction with the Abbey Theatre of Dublin, Ireland. Directed by Patrick Mason and performed by three women from the Abbey, it marked the distinguished Irish company's first California appearance in 40 years. It had its inception starting in 1998 with sister-city exchange visits by San Jos Rep artistic director Timothy Near and Mason, then artistic director of the Abbey. On a 1999 visit to Dublin, Near and a San Jos Rep delegation saw Love in the Title, met Leonard, and agreed it would be the show for San Jos .
Leonard has an intriguing premise: An outing in a meadow at Corcamore by a grandmother, her daughter, and granddaughter is set in a time warp. They know what their generational relationships are, but the grandmother (Karen Ardiff) is the youngest character. She's 20, and her time frame is 1932, when she was still single. The mother (Catherine Walsh) is 30 in 1964. The granddaughter (Ingrid Craigie) is 37 and the oldest in 1999.
Each woman brings the perspective of her own era to the conversation, which starts with the energetic, mischievous grandmother describing her childhood and romantic adventures. The mother is appalled by her behavior, while the granddaughter seems amused. As the two-act play evolves, the older women ask the younger women what's ahead in their lives. The grandmother reveals some painful truths about her past, while the daughter and granddaughter have their mother/daughter confrontations. Leonard does a fairly good job with daughter/ granddaughter relationship, but doesn't explore the grandmother/ daughter relationship. Thus he fails to provide much insight into why the daughter is so uptight. The three women mostly bicker, though occasionally one says something amusing.
The Abbey's Joe Vanek has created a striking set dominated by a meadow with a large, jutting rock that figures into a Celtic myth related by the grandmother. In the distance, seemingly suspended against a dark sky, are ruins that also figure into the myth. Flanking the stage are gray panels with the corresponding years and photographs of dominant Irish figures from each year. Vanek's costumes are time- and character-specific. Lighting by Mick Hughes, music by Conor Linehan, and sound by Dave O'Brien of the Abbey and Jeff Mockus of San Jos Rep complement the effect.
Mason's direction offsets some of the play's lack of action, but the acting is uneven. Ardiff's grandmother seems superficial, while Walsh's daughter seems one-dimensional. Craigie creates the most interesting, involving character as the granddaughter. Her accent also is the easiest to understand. The other two women's accents cause American ears to miss some words. Taken together, it's hard to care much about these characters, for Leonard's script doesn't live up to the expectations of his premise and the occasion.
"Love in the Title," presented by the San Jos Repertory Theatre at the Sobrato Auditorium, 101 Paseo de San Antonio, San Jos . Tues.-Fri. 8 p.m., Sat. 3 & 8 p.m., Sun. 2 & 7 p.m. Mar. 17-Apr. 9. $17-35. (408) 367-7255.