Theater Reviews: The Mystery Plays, The Arsonists, There Is Truth, Love Is Real

GO  THE ARSONISTS In Max Frisch's trenchant work of surreal irony, which may be better known by its alternate (and perhaps more whimsically satisfying) title, Biedermann and the Firebugs, decent people invite evil into their homes, try to befriend it, ignore its obvious nature — and, by doing nothing, are ultimately complicit in its wicked goals. When Frisch wrote the dark comedy in 1958, he was clearly attempting to craft a metaphor for the rise of Nazis amongst the otherwise sensible German population one to two decades prior. Alistair Beaton's new translation amplifies certain of the text's thematic undercurrents of moral blindness to put us in mind of the paranoia and impotence suffusing the so-called War on Terror. Mild-mannered hair-tonic dealer Biedermann (Norbert Weisser) has been told to be on the lookout for a band of diabolical arsonists sweeping through the neighborhood, setting houses ablaze. Yet, this doesn't stop him from inviting into his home a brutish goon named Schmitz (John Achorn), who shows up on his doorstep asking for food and lodging. We quickly deduce that Schmitz has a certain pyromaniacal bent — and even Biedermann and his primly brittle, suburban wife (Beth Hogan) start to twig that something is wrong when Schmitz and his seemingly psychotic pal, Eisenring (Ron Bottitta), move huge barrels of fuel and bomb detonators into their home's attic. Yet, Biedermann, complacent in his "it can't happen to me" attitude, refuses to see what's happening right in front of him. The performances, as well as the flames, crackle in Ron Sossi's slyly sardonic staging — performances that combine perfect comic timing with dense, rich personalities. Weisser's nervous (and increasingly delusional) Biedermann and Hogan's uptight wife are hilarious — but the true scene-stealers are Achorn's rubber-faced, diabolical Schmitz and Bottitta's ghoulish Eisenring, who are simultaneously so chillingly funny and matter of fact, you almost want to invite them to dinner yourself, despite the potentially blazing ramifications. Set designer Birgitte Moos' beautiful two-level set (1950s-style living room and attic) is ingenious, while Sean Kozma's eerie sound design adds a beautifully sinister atmosphere to the goings-on. Odyssey Theater Ensemble, 2055 South Sepulveda Blvd., West Los Angeles; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m. (some Wednesdays and Sundays, call for schedule); through May 22. (310) 477-2055, odysseytheatre.com/ KOAN Ensemble. (Paul Birchall)

THE DRAWER BOY When a production leaves you not once, but twice, surreptitiously wiping tears from the corners of your eyes, it's difficult to speak against it. Despite the surge of emotion director Melanie MacQueen's cast elicits, this staging of Michael Healey's quiet, pastoral 1999 play is just too rolling — so rolling there are moments you wish you could lie down in the Canadian hay with Angus (Daniel Leslie) and doze off staring at the stars, too. Angus' and longtime friend Morgan's (Robert Mackenzie) military service during World War II led them to London during the Blitz, which left Angus with a head injury: "Before [the doctor] could close it up, his memory escaped." Thirty years later, in 1972, Miles (Kris Frost), a wide-eyed lamb of an actor who moves in to work and research life on their Ontario farm for a new play, threatens to crack the friends' carefully constructed peaceful existence. Hold actors Leslie and Mackenzie responsible for the waves of emotion that sneak up and knock you over. Mackenzie's recitation of his and Angus' story is done with the delicate delivery and calm joy of a father telling his child a bedtime story. Leslie carefully builds the gentle giant Angus, playing neither for laughs nor tears; so when he tumbles, you're desperate to gather up all the pieces and put him together again. The pace in between, however, is so drowsy it makes the already too-hastily tied-with-a-bow ending feel even more drastic and improbable. Theatre 40, 241 Moreno Drive (on the Beverly Hills High School campus), Beverly Hills; Wed.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; through April 25. (310) 364-0535. (Rebecca Haithcoat)

GETTING FRANKIE MARRIED . . . AND AFTERWARDS The setting for Horton Foote's bittersweet comedy is the town of Harrison, Texas, where 43-year-old bachelor Fred Willis (John Lacy) shares a home with his ailing, demanding, control freak of a mother (Judith Scarpone). His painfully ordinary girlfriend of decades, Frankie (Martha Demson), has hung in there with him, much to the consternation of her gossipy friends Isabel (Teresa Willis), Laverne (Laura Richardson) and Constance (Stephanie Erb), who feel that he should marry her. One day, out of the blue, he does just that — despite a sexual dalliance with gorgeous Helen (Laetitia Leon), who, incidentally, is suing him for breach of promise. The marital bliss, however, is short-lived after both Frankie and Helen reveal that they're each pregnant. Stir in a friend named Carlton (Bjorn Johnson), who may be Fred's half brother, plus a couple of strange plot twists, and things get really fuzzy. Though Foote's writing, true to his form, comes laced with humor and sadness and an atmosphere that inspires gentle reflection, this clearly isn't one of his sharper works, and director Scott Paulin's leisurely pacing makes sitting through the stasis something of an endurance test. The performances are uniformly good, and set designer James Spencer's living room mock-up is stellar. Open Fist Theatre, 6209 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun. 2 p.m.; through May 15. (323) 882-6912. (Lovell Estell III)