Theater Reviews: Parasite Drag, Free Man of Color, Witch Ball

Also, Groundlings River Adventure, Flat, The Exercise, Engagementand more

Comments (0) By L.A. Weekly Theater Critics Thursday, Aug 19 2010

BOYS' LIFE Watching director Dan Velez's uninspired production, it might seem hard to believe that Howard Korder's acerbic vignettes of slackers and their caddish sexcapades was a Pulitzer finalist in 1988. Which is not to denigrate either the judgment of the Pulitzer committee or the efforts of a clearly capable cast, but merely to question the vision behind a revival that steamrolls the pathos and ulterior probing of an astute script into a pancake-flat excuse for sketch-comedy laughs. Jack (Ben Rovner), Don (David Rispoli) and Phil (Jason Karasev) are a trio of 30-something buddies stuck on the pot-addled threshold between perennial adolescence and defining themselves as men. The group's enabler is the married, albeit savagely cynical Jack, who goads his bachelor comrades into misadventures with women who invariably prove more than their equal. Phil is the most plaintively romantic of the bunch and therefore the most tragically susceptible to Jack's self-serving manipulations. Only slightly more resilient is Don, who surmounts a potentially fatal infidelity to finally break free of Jack's corrupting influence, thanks mainly to the understanding and maturity of his fiancée (Tori Ayres Oman). Rovner gives a standout performance, but Jack's underlying strains of fear and despair — the comedy's critical dramatic ballast — are too often lost in the saucy surfaces of Velez's staging. Tanya Apuya's costumes lend occasional wit, but barely perfunctory (and uncredited) lighting and Sarah Kranin's impoverished set prove more hindrance than help. Crown City Theatre, 11031 Camarillo St., N.Hlywd.; Thurs. & Sun., 8 p.m.; through Sept. 12. (818) 745-8527, brownpapertickets.com. (Bill Raden)

PHOTO BY SHAWN BISHOP

Groundlings River Adventure

More About

ENGAGEMENT In writer-director Allen Barton's unexpectedly sour romantic comedy, you can tell that the love match made in hell between smart, emotionally withholding, Republican commitment-phobe Mark (Everette Wallin) and warm, free-spirited, liberal Nicole (Audrey Moore) is careening off the rails when Mark tries to propose to her at a fancy restaurant but must instead run from the table to vomit. Mark is glib, funny and negative, while Nicole dreams of a soulmate with whom she has a deep connection. And, while each partner sees the other's flaws, each also thinks he or she will be able to change the other into the perfect mate — an operation that ends, predictably, in tears. Barton's play intends to skewer the notion of modern romance — e.g., the characters' dealings are interspersed with complaints about Facebook and Twitter, and the inevitable diminishment of the need for human contact that these devices bring. However, more than a commentary about the superficial technical devices that add clutter to our own emotional confusion, the piece's theme truly explores a more timeless concept: the emptiness of valuing being clever over feeling. That said, Barton's writing is not always up to the challenge: The dialogue is talky and repetitious while sometimes being so stridently mean, we can't understand why either of the two lovers would stay in the same room with the other. One problem may be that Barton's coolly ironic, snarky staging never builds any sense of a love that can so quickly change to hate — it's just hate that turns into more hate. The show is double-cast, but on the night reviewed, Wallin's snarky man-boy was strangely moving while still being thoroughly bilious, and Moore offered a nicely melancholic turn as the increasingly wearied Nicole. As her venomously embittered roomie who finds an unexpected lover herself, Ellie Schwartz delivers the show's most ferocious yet emotionally nuanced performance. Beverly Hills Playhouse, 254 S. Robertson Blvd., Beverly Hills; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m.; through August 22. (310) 358-9936. Katselas Theatre Company (Paul Birchall)

THE EXERCISE Lewis John Carlino's 1968 play centers on a series of improvisations, conducted by the Actor (Daniel LaPratt, alternating with Keith Wyffels) and the Actress (Anadel Baughn, alternating with Susan Hanfield) in an attempt to solve some troubling acting problems. Initially it seems they're only casual acquaintances, but as they work, it becomes clear that they have had a traumatic personal relationship. Soon, they are at loggerheads in an age-old conflict: He's concerned with simulating emotion to show the audience, while she wants to use her acting to explore her own identity and achieve gut-level emotional truth. He regards her as a self-indulgent emotional masturbator, and she sees him as a coward who can never allow himself to lose control. Eventually, she challenges him to meet her on her terms. Though the premise is a fascinating one, the production doesn't always work. Baughn is constantly convincing, but it's not until Act 2 that LaPratt achieves the same emotional conviction. And there's something murky here, whether it's inherent in the script or due to a lack of clarity in director Kenn Schmidt's production. Nevertheless, the piece is always interesting to watch, and there's excellent work from both actors. The Lounge Theatre, 6201 Santa Monica Blvd., Hlywd.; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m., Sun., 3 p.m.; indef. (323) 960-7724, plays411.com/theexercise. (Neal Weaver)

FLAT In a tween's world, having or not having breasts is usually the first experience of the grass being greener. For every generously gifted fifth grader covertly and desperately binding her rapidly blooming chest with an Ace bandage, there's a Judy Blume character begging God for "something" to fill her training bra. Ellen Clifford never received that something. Heavily influenced by Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues, Clifford's autobiographical show recounts past and present episodes, most of which gleefully celebrate her breasts, or lack thereof. The problems arise less from the subject matter — several of the monologues could run as essays on the popular sort-of feminist Web site Jezebel — than with the adolescent-awkward construction and execution. She employs accents where none are needed (the "these my ho boots" bit, confusing in that it's supposed to introduce her struggle with anorexia, is especially cringe-inducing, bordering on offensive) and interacts with the audience by passing around the gel inserts from her push-up bra. Given that this is a show about, well, her, Clifford seems surprisingly uncomfortable throughout the performance, which is exacerbated by a clenched-teeth gaiety. Neither do the two unnecessary performers accompanying her — the precise, talented mime Mitchel Evans and director Lora Ivanova, who only serve to slow the already bumpy pace — benefit her. Though some refreshing confessionals ("I'm a terrible Dolly Parton impersonator," she says after lip-synching "9 to 5") provide a smile here and there, ultimately the show feels as artificial as a boob job. The Black Box Theater, 12420 Santa Monica Blvd., L.A.; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; through August 28. (310) 622-4482. (Rebecca Haithcoat)