Theater Reviews: Joe's Garage, Sea Change, Fatboy

 
THE GREAT ELECTION The idea of staging Canadian humorist Stephen Leacock’s early 1900s comedy about a corrupt election in a small town seems like it should be a natural right now, what with all the chaos and turmoil of our own current national campaign. Unfortunately, though, director John Stark’s slapdash production of Leacock’s irritatingly dated play suffers from such a weak comic sensibility that it comes across as clumsy rather than timely. In Pahrump, Nevada, the townsfolk launch a recall election against sleazy state Senator Bagshaw (Martin Clark), a buggy-eyed old coot and multiterm-serving Democrat. The Pahrump Republicans desperately desire to steal the seat and put up local casino- and tavern-owner Josh Smith (John Combs), a cigar-chewing, whiskered reprobate who hypocritically runs on the Temperance and Prohibition platform. To promote his campaign, Smith temporarily turns his bar into a health-food restaurant — and he even wins an endorsement from the town’s pruny preacher (Lynn Wanlass). Much corrupt behavior ensues. Leacock’s attempts to evoke folksy satire come across as patronizing and steeped in tired “hick” stereotypes. The play’s hillbilly-lite atmosphere is so cheesy, Hee Haw looks like The West Wing by comparison. The plot’s a muddle that’s impossible to follow while director Stark’s unfocused direction has the performers shuffling through or mumbling over the work’s corny jokes so that they’re barely discernible. This may actually be an act of charity. Odyssey Theatre, 2055 S. Sepulveda Blvd., West L.A.; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; through Oct. 12. (310) 477-2055. John Stark Productions. (Paul Birchall)

 
GO  JOE’S GARAGE Joe (Jason Paige) wants to play music. But after a neighbor (Maia Madison) files a noise complaint with the cops on his garage band, Joe and his girl Mary (Becky Wahlstrom) fall prey to a domino chain of gang rape, venereal disease, wet T-shirt contests, prison time, cyborg threesomes and madness. What’s to blame? “Music,” hisses the Central Scrutinizer (Michael Dunn), a robot narrator dangling from the rafters — certainly not the religious and government figures who sure seem to be pulling the strings. Like novelist Terry Southern, Frank Zappa’s weapon against hypocrisy was to confront audiences with a circus mirror of their culture’s greed and lust. Some saw their reflection; others argued Zappa was warped. Pat Towne and Michael Franco’s world premiere staging of Zappa’s narrative album crackles with outrage and grief masked by a leer — Jennifer Lettelleir choreographs plenty of sex, but like Robert Crumb’s comics, it’s more repellent than titillating. Musical director Ross Wright and the seven-piece band help the snappy ensemble animize Zappa’s eclectic sound, which ranges from dissonant juggernauts to deceptively sweet ditties. Per Zappa’s request, the song “Watermelon in Easter Hay” plays once his hapless Everyman has succumbed to creative censorship; the band puts down their instruments, turns off the lights and cues Zappa’s original version. In that isolating darkness, Zappa’s limber guitar feels like a lifeline — we’re struck by our need for music, and our need for today’s apolitical musicians to break loose and write the next chorus. Open Fist Theatre, 6209 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m.; through Nov. 22. (323) 882-6912. (Amy Nicholson)

 
LITTLE BLACK LIES Playwright Steve Stajich’s tenuously directed and underproduced pair of one-acts respectively explores iniquities within the medical profession and the insurance business. In “The Ointment,” directed by Jane Taini, a dermatologist (Frank Noon) who’s been bought and paid for by the pharmaceutical companies, struggles with his conscience when a company rep (John Malone) pushes him to promote a largely untested product. Noon is quirky and interesting as the conflicted doctor coming up against Malone’s unabashedly Mephistophelean sales guy. But the play soon veers off track with the introduction of a shrilly neurotic patient (played without much calibration by Daisy Mullen) whose angry vengeance furnishes the climax to an increasingly surreal and meandering plot. In “Analog,” directed by Katherine James, the office staff at an insurance firm becomes discombobulated when their software is recalibrated and the technician discovers shocking material one of them has stored on the system. Much of the dialogue deals with the petty rivalries and resentments among the group. However, notwithstanding some interesting passages — true of both plays, actually — there’s little depth to the characters, and the story stirs up much ado about nothing. (That may be because the piece was written in one week as a companion piece to the first.) The standard of performance varies; Paul Tigue as the office nerd and Trevor Anthony as a guy into porno establish the most definitive personas. Avery Schreiber Theatre 11050 Magnolia Blvd, N. Hlywd.; Fri-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; through Oct. 19. (323) 960-5775. A Sphere Artists Production. (Deborah Klugman)

 
MADE ME NUCLEAR On March 1, 2006, singer-songwriter Charlie Lustman was informed by his doctor that he had a rare osteosarcoma (bone cancer) of the upper jaw. What followed was a grueling and painful siege of therapies, involving radiation injected into his body, surgery removing three-quarters of his jawbone, surgical reconstruction and extensive chemotherapy. When, after two years of treatment, he was declared cancer-free, he created this touching 12-song cycle. He sings about the bone-numbing shock and terror of being told he had cancer, his fear of death and sense of helplessness, the solace provided him by his loyal wife, his children and his doctors, memory problems caused by chemo (mercifully temporary), and so on. But the tone is more celebratory than grim: He’s determinedly life-affirming, full of hope and gratitude, and his songs are pitched in an intimate, jazzy, bluesy style. He’s an engaging and personable performer who brings rueful humor and mischief to a tale that might have been unrelievedly grim. If anything, he tries a bit too hard to keep things light. We need a bit of scarifying detail if we’re to appreciate his remarkable resilience and optimism. Santa Monica Playhouse, 1211 Fourth St., Santa Monica; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m., through Nov. 1. (866) 468-3399. (Neal Weaver)