Stage Raw: Free Man of Color

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STAGE FEATURE on Opus, at the Fountain Theatre

NEW REVIEW GO FREE MAN OF COLOR

Photo by Michael Lamont

A young, well-spoken and highly educated black

man is tapped to become the leader of a nation. But it's not who you

think. The year is 1828, the place is Athens, Ohio, and the man is John

Newton Templeton (Kareem Ferguson), a freed slave whose education is

facilitated by the Rev. Robert Wilson (Frank Ashmore). Wilson, a

strictly principled man, enrolls John in Ohio University. Wilson's

wife, Jane (Kathleen Mary Carthy), initially cold to Templeton when he

comes to live with them, softens over time; however, she plants doubts

in Templeton's head about Wilson's plan to make him the governor of

Liberia. Charles Smith's spare three-character study unfolds through

intimate moments and intellectual discourse, powerfully examining the

issues of its day, as well as questions surrounding citizenship and

belonging, which continue to occupy us. The dialogue is especially

refreshing for its crisp diction, for which the credit goes to both the

cast and director Dan Bonnell. The show also appeals visually, as David

Potts' set, consisting of stark silhouettes, brings to mind both the

popular 18th century portraiture and African woodcuts. Similarly, A.

Jeffrey Schoenberg's authentically plain costumes avoid the dual

pitfalls of theatrical period garb, which is often either too showy or

simply looks fake. The cast is stellar all around, taking us on a

journey that stresses the urgency of fulfilling the promises upon which

our country was built. The Colony Theater, 555 North Third St.,

Burbank; Thurs.-Fri., 8 p.m.; Sat., 3 p.m. & 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.;

through September 12. (818) 558-7000, ext. 15; colonytheatre.org

(Mayank Keshaviah)

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NEW THEATER REVIEWS, scheduled for publication August 19, 2010

NEW REVIEW 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)

NEW REVIEW ENGAGEMENT

Photo by Ed Krieger

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-spirit 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 soul mate with whom she

has a deep connection. And, while each partner sees the other's flaws,

they also think that they will be able to change him or her 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 each 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)

NEW REVIEW THE EXERCISE

Photo by Wynsolo Photography

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)

NEW REVIEW 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)

NEW REVIEW GO FREE MAN OF COLOR