GO BRONZEVILLE Tim Toyama and Aaron Woolfolk’s drama centers around the Goodwins, a black family looking for a new life and respite from Southern racism in Los Angeles during the early years of World War II. After their move to a home (an artfully designed set piece by J.P. Luckenbach) formerly occupied by a Japanese family that was forced to relocate to an internment camp, all seems well. Mama Jane (CeCe Antoinette) is the sharp-tongued, devout matriarch who loves to garden and has vivid memories of life as a slave. Her young and angry son Felix (Larry Powell) has hopes of becoming a musician, while his brother Jodie (Dwain A. Perry) is a simple working man with a devoted wife (Adenrele Ojo) and teen daughter (Candice Afia). But the Goodwins soon discover that they have a “guest,” when Henry (Jeff Manabat) tumbles into their midst, forming a bond with his new family but also forcing Jodie to make a troubling, fateful decision that has consequences for everyone. Director Ben Guillory does a fine job directing this provocative piece. Woolfolk and Toyama’s script is well-written and subtly explores philosophical and moral issues that are as relevant today as they were then. Los Angeles Theater Center, 514 S. Spring St., L.A.; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 3 p.m.; through May 17. (213) 489-0994. A Robey Theatre Company production. (Lovell Estell III)
DEAD, THEREFORE I AM Writer-director Max Leavitt’s furious passion project tracks a suicidal 30-year-old named John (Leavitt), who lives in his parents’ garage, where he’s haunted by the obsessive goth girl next door, Sophie (Karen Jean Olds), and the sniping Egyptian god Anubis (Nicholas Tucci). John’s depressed, and since he enters the play with his head severed by a guillotine, we know things aren’t going to end well, especially as his coping mechanisms are booze, pills, and screaming at Sophie and Anubis. Both have John in their bondage: Sophie, because she and John are furtively, allegedly in love (though tenderness is missing from all of their interactions), while Anubis has John on a physical and emotional choke chain to train him into thinking his miserable life is nothing more than a doorway to the underworld. With its subtleties overwhelmed in histrionics, and its comedy made glum by Leavitt’s sincere agony, this is still a work in progress — a play fumbling through the stressful business of discovering its strengths, just like its protagonist. East Theatre at the Complex, 6468 Santa Monica Blvd., L.A.; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 3 p.m.; through May 24. (323) 960-7714. (Amy Nicholson)
Ed Krieger
Bronzeville
Ed Krieger
Apple
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DOOMSDAY KISS As you enter the Bootleg Theater’s lobby, you’re greeted by an art installation that reflects the theme of nuclear annihilation, complete with a performance from a live band featuring a USO-style chanteuse. The ambiance sets up an evening of four short plays centered on visions of postapocalyptic worlds. While three are standalone pieces, the fourth, “Who is Randall Maxit,” about the crisis of conscience faced by a retired nuclear scientist, is interwoven throughout, though a bit haphazardly. “You Might Be Waking Up,” the first of the trio, takes place in an office building–turned–Survivor set, where the workers scrounge for food, reveal their sexual fantasies, and riff on aging, bodily functions and relationships — among other things. In “Fun Days at Sea,” the most entertaining of the lot, a pair of newlyweds and a pair of swingers are lubricated by a steady stream of alcohol from the cruise ship’s bartender and try to enjoy themselves despite constant radio transmissions about the crumbling world outside the vessel. Finally, “The Class Room” features a teacher in a remote country schoolhouse, who is being interviewed by a strangely sexual reporter about her success in improving the temperament of young children. While the concept is interesting, and there are funny moments along the way (especially from Michael Dunn and Jessica Hanna, who play the swingers in “Fun Days”), most of the evening lacks the stakes that go along with doomsday scenarios, as well as the character development that would create audience engagement. Bootleg Theater, 2200 Beverly Blvd., L.A.; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m.; through May 10. (213) 389-3856. A Repo Division Production. (Mayank Keshaviah)
L.A. VIEWS II: TALES OF PRESENT PAST A hundred years ago the Alexandria Hotel in downtown L.A. played glamorous host to presidents and movie stars; now faded, it’s home to the Equity-waiver Company of Angels. Their current offering — 15 short plays and/or monologues written and directed by company members — takes the hotel as a common thread, claiming inspiration from the silent screen luminaries who once graced its corridors. In fact, the link between the material and the concept is mostly tangential. Crisply introduced by bellhops Juanita Chase and Joshua Lamont, the show opens with a promise that unfortunately wanes. The pieces, a hodgepodge of lightweight segments set in both past and present, offer some biographical information but don’t provide much revelation or insight. (The dead celebs are talked about but not depicted.) Closeted homosexuality is a recurring, though not exclusive, theme. In “Weekend Getaway,” by S. Vasanti Saxena, directed by Tony Gatto, two married celebrities (Brian Rohan and Onyay Pheori) bicker incessantly between photo ops; we soon learn they’re both gay. In Kyle T. Wilson’s “El Conquistador,” directed by Lui Sanchez, the spirit of Ramon Navarro hovers over an encounter in a contemporary gay bar between two friends (Eric Martig and Maurice Compte), climaxing in a proposal of marriage (indignantly rejected). In “Fresh Cream Pie,” by Damon Chua, directed by Gatto, two heterosexual security guards (Mel Rodriguez and Xavi Moreno) share their sexual fantasies, one of which involves a cream pie. Overall, this showcase fare is mildly entertaining, with some performers, including Chase, Lamont and Rodriguez, displaying assurance. Alexandria Hotel, 501 S. Spring St., L.A.; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 3 & 7 p.m.; through May 10. (323) 883-1717. A Company of Angels Production. (Deborah Klugman)
