Steven Leigh MorrisThis week's THEATER FEATURE on Pasadena Playhouse's demise, and what it means for the arts community.
THE 31ST ANNUAL L.A. WEEKLY THEATER AWARDS NOMINEES
NEW REVIEW GO WHY TORTURE IS WRONG, AND THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE THEM
Photo by Rick Baumgartner
Christopher Durang's Loony Tunes aesthetic – with the help of Daniel Henning's perfectly modulated direction – gets swashed onto our so-called war on terror. Thank goodness Durang has moved beyond family dysfunction. Still, you'd think our recent history, propelled by some deranged Might Makes Right cabal from a powerful coven of loons, has been exhausted by American playwrights by now. Durang's outrage and piety, however, get channeled into breaths of comedic napalm, something like a cross between The Marriage of Bette and Boo and Dr. Strangelove. Durang has now joined ranks with Dario Fo. Sweet Felicity (stylish Rhea Seehorn, trying to be sensible in a world with no sense) wakes up in bed with a stranger, Zamir (Sunil Malhotra), after a night out at a bar. Turns out, Zamir slipped her a drug, raped and married her — none of which she remembers. The “priest” was Zamir's friend, porno film maker Reverend Mike (Nicholas Brendon, sort of like Owen Wilson with a slow-mo brain). Zamir has anger management issues and feels badly that most of the women in his family are dead. This is cold comfort for Felicity. Yet she finds herself compelled to defend her “husband” when her Dick Cheney-emulating father, Leonard (Mike Genovese) – a volunteer in the “shadow government” — drags Zamir into the torture chamber that he's been claiming is a private closet for his butterfly collection. Narrator and power-drill wielding torture-room assistant Loony Tunes (Alec Mapa) encourages Leonard to “bweak a finger, bweak a finger” — all of which is based on a misunderstanding by Leonard's spy, Hildegard (Catherine Hicks, spending a good portion of the play with underwear swishing around her ankles), that Zamir's overheard conversation about a porno movie was actually a terrorist plot. Durang re-runs the ending a couple of times, trying to capture the moment where it all — “it” being the sad plight of our country – went so wrong. I particularly enjoyed Christine Estabrook as Leonard's blissed-out seething wife, Luella, who can't stop talking about the theater, even while torture is being committed upstairs, because theater is what's “real.” And what has she seen lately? “250 plays by Martin McDonagh and David Hare.” Britain of course dominates our theater's new plays, obviously because “Americans are stupid.” Durang is getting a lot off his chest, and off ours. The laughter he generates is from nonsense about nonsense, unnervingly true and cathartic, and beautifully performed. Stella Adler Theatre, 6773 Hollywood Blvd. (2nd floor), Hollywood; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; through March 14. (323) 661-9827 https://theblank.com A Blank Theatre Company production. (Steven Leigh Morris)
For the latest NEW REVIEWS reviewed over the weekend, press the More tab directly below
NEW THEATER REVIEWS scheduled to be published February 11, 2010
NEW REVIEWS COOL NEGROES The opening tableau
of writer-director Tony Robinson's “dramedy of generational proportion”
is a tumbledown city park circa 1972, where a raucous cadre of black
militants is protesting segregation. The revolutionary banter and
posturing is soon silenced by police gunfire and the dropping of
bodies. After this jarring scene, a flash forward takes us to the
present day where the park is a haunt for a group of regulars: college
professor Louis(Sammie Wayne, IV); Deborah(Teressa Taylor) a former
flower child; Joe(Alex Morris), a city bureacrat; a gay cop named
Mod(Mark Jones); the only caucasian in the group, Eric(Tom Hyler); a
Buppie named Al( Dane Diamond); and the irrepressible Mother Barnes
(the fine Diane Sellers), a blind sage. Not much transpires here; there
is a lot of talking, which, thanks to Robinson's wit and ear for
dialogue, somewhat allays the static structure of the play. But one
gets the feeling that these entertaining characters overstay their
welcome, thanks to a script that is overwritten and languorous. From
the mix, Robinson constructs a flimsy storyline about black
advancement, interracial romance, political correctness, spiritual
redemption, the burden of guilt, and generational angst and conflict.
Unfortunately, these motifs are neither skillfully nor insightfully
probed. The acting is mostly passable, and Sellers is outstanding.
Rounding out the cast are Prema Rosaura Cruz, Tené Carter Miller, and
Leslie La'Raine. Stella Adler Theatre, 6773 Hollywood Blvd (2nd floor),
Hollywood; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m., Sun., 3 p.,m.; thru Feb. 28. (213)
624-4796 A Towne Street Theatre production. (Lovell Estell III)
NEW REVIEW GO COUSIN BETTE
Photo by Michele K. Short
Drawn from Balzac's La Comedie Humaine, playwright Jeffrey
Hatcher's adaptation revolves around a cunning woman's campaign to
revenge herself on the rich relatives who have callously dismissed her
as shabby and unimportant. Sheltered, and fed with scraps of food off
her pretty cousin's plate, poor-relation Bette Fischer (Nike Doukas)
grows up nurturing her hate, eventually evolving into a plain-faced
spinster who is everybody's confidante and nobody's friend. Brilliantly
Machiavellian, Bette's fastidious plot to destroy the family involves
arranging a liaison between her attractive neighbor and abused wife
Valerie (Jen Dede), and Hector (John Prosky) the lecherous and
profligate husband of her virtuous cousin, Adeline (Emily Chase ).
Bette also acquires wealth (and thus power) by promoting the work of a
young Polish sculptor, Steinbock (Daniel Bess), whom she's fallen in
love with – unfortunately for her, since he ends up betrothed to
Adeline's daughter, Hortense (Kellie Matteson). Directed by Jeanie
Hackett, the production purposefully underscores the source material's
melodramatic elements; for example, heightening the narrative's key
points with the melancholy refrains of Chopin. At least one key
performance is over laden with shtick, and some fine-tuning of others
is in order. Still, Doukas is terrific, delivering a consummate
performance that arouses, for her long-suffering deceitful character ,
pity, disdain — and admiration. Tony Amendola's licentious merchant is
also top-notch. And alongside the story's bathos is its salient
reminder of what cruelty, indifference and injustice can do to the
human spirit. (The show is double-cast.) Deaf West Theatre, 5112
Lankershim Blvd., North Hollywood; Thurs.-Sat., 7:30 p.m.; Sun., 4
p.m.; thru March 21. (818) 506-5436. An Antaeus Company production.
(Deborah Klugman)
NEW REVIEW GO HAMLET
Photo courtesy of The Porters of Hellsgate
When this Hamlet (Charles Pasternak) says he'll “put an antic
disposition on,” he really means it. Pasternak's Prince is sometimes
maniacal, bounding around and turning somersaults. He brandishes his
wit savagely and at times — as in the closet scene with Gertrude
(Jessica Temple) — he can be downright brutal. He's particularly good
in the comic scenes with Rosencrantz (director Thomas Bigley) and
Guildenstern (Gus Krieger). There's not much of the “sweet prince”
about him, but it's a performance that works. He receives solid support
from Temple, Jack Leahy, doubling as Claudius and the Ghost, Jamey
Hecht as Polonius, and Taylor Fisher as Ophelia. Director Bigley
provides a mostly direct and straightforward production, despite a few
gaffes: the First Actor's speech about Pyrrhus is so tricked out with
superfluous business that it's both awkward and absurd. On the plus
side, Bigley gives us a generous portion of the text, tactfully edited.
Costumer Jessica Pasternak is clearly battling budgetary limitations,
but her decision to try to convert modern men's suits into period
costumes is more distracting than helpful. It's a long evening (over 3
hours) but an engrossing one. The Flight Theatre, 6472 Santa Monica
Boulevard. Produced by The Porters of Hellsgate. Thurs. & Sat., 8
p.m.; thru Feb. 13. Playing in repertory with Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern Are Dead. (951) 262-3030 (Neal Weaver)
NEW REVIEW PARADISE STREET
Photo courtesy of Title3
Title3 is a new company dedicated to giving women strong, unusual,
fascinating roles. For their first production, they've chosen Constance
Congdon's dark sociological piece about class resentment and privilege.
Jane (Molly Leland), a brilliant, assured and beautiful professor of
gender and semiotics — who drops phrases like “The nomenclature of the
patriarchal case for hegemony” as easily as ordering a club sandwich —
has just moved to a small college town with her self-centered elderly
mother (Danielle Kennedy). Just before the semester starts, Jane's
battered into a coma by a homeless woman (Lane Allison, in a menacing
portrayal), who's bitter at being one of society's invisibles. As Jane
struggles to make at best a partial recovery from irreversible brain
damage, her attacker steals Jane's identity, and is delighted to find
that she's treated as an icon. (At conferences, she's paid $1000 to sit
on stage and grunt one word answers like Buddha — let the masses, or
the critics, figure out what she means. It's true: the Haves get more
while the Have-nots suffer. The mechanics of Congdon's plot don't make
a lick of sense, but we're hooked by the premise, and by director
Courtney Munch's great ensemble — filled out by Jiehae Park, Jane
Montosi and Lorene Chesley in a variety of roles. By intermission,
however, the play has made its point. It nonetheless continues to pad
along, wedging in scenes where a Puerto Rican social worker shows
Jane's mother how to use a Kegel exerciser, one of Montosi's characters
silently mops an entire floor, and the homeless attacker babysits her
publisher's drug-addicted daughter. To paraphrase a program note,
Congdon needs to appraise this two-and-a-half hour muddle and chip away
everything that doesn't look like the very smart play about class
tensions buried inside. The Attic Theatre and Film Center, 5429 W.
Washington Blvd., L.A.; opens Jan. 29; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.;
thru Feb. 21. (323) 525-0661. A Title3 production. (Amy Nicholson)
NEW REVIEW THE PEACOCK MEN
Photo courtesy of Company of Angels
Deconstructing American masculinity can be a sticky thicket even in
the best of analyses. Add issues of race and representation to the mix,
however, and its order of complexity increases exponentially. So it's
no surprise that playwright Ronald McCants' idea-packed, satiric foray
into the psychic minefield of black male identity can be as profoundly
disorienting as it is provocative. For McCants' hapless cast of
circus-performing Peacock Men — African-Americans who, like their
brilliantly plumed namesake, have been domesticated into gender-warped
docility — the ride is also downright deadly. One performer, Robert
Mapplethorpe's horse-hung The Man in the Polyester Suit (Hari
Williams), has already succumbed after his reduction to an erotically
objectified exhibit and his mysterious disappearance by the sadistic,
white-faced Ringmaster, Steve (Will Dixon). So when avaricious street
rapper Cash (Chris P. Daniels) signs on as a replacement, he finds
himself with a job both physically and existentially more perilous than
he bargained for. Turns out Steve's circus is more of a torture
funhouse in which Cash and his cohorts (John J. Jordan & Michael A.
Thompson) are subjected to humiliations and acts of violence scripted
right out of real-world headlines (Rodney King, Amadou Diallo, etc.).
And while Ayana Cahrr's staging loses crucial dramatic momentum during
some of the play's lengthier, overly didactic passages (the show could
easily benefit from a judicious, 30-minute trim), McCants' nightmare
vaudeville proves a field day for its terrifically talented ensemble.
Company of Angels, Alexandria Hotel, 501 S. Spring St., downtown;
Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m.; thru March 7. (323) 883-1717. (Bill
Raden)
Photo courtesy of Chalk Repertory Company
The idea of traipsing through a dark, damp graveyard on a weekend
night to watch a Shakespeare play may be a daunting prospect, but at
least audiences who attend director Jerry Ruiz's smooth and energetic
production will be assured of seeing a engaging rendition of one of the
Bard's jolliest comedies. The show is actually presented inside the
picturesque (and grave-free) Masonic Lodge on the cemetery property,
which provides a striking, dramatic backdrop for any play. (The
beautifully constructed, colorfully decorated ceiling beams of the
auditorium are worth seeing, even aside from the play.) Viola (Hilary
Ward) dresses in drag to serve Count Orsino (Owiso Odera) and falls in
love with him, but the woman Orsino has his eye on, beautiful Olivia
(Teri Reeves), falls for Viola. Meanwhile, Olivia's drunkard Uncle, Sir
Toby Belch (Matt Gaydos) and his ne'er do well pals play a mean
spirited prank on Olivia's prissy, Puritan steward Malvolio (Charles
Janasz). Ruiz's staging is both intelligently introspective and
energetic, even though some of the comic shtick doesn't seem to
naturally flow from the text and comes across as being weakly timed.
Still, the production possesses a commendable clarity, which itself
makes it a fine, competently rendered version of the show. It also
boasts some remarkably well defined character work. Reeves's nicely
brittle Olivia warms amusingly to Ward's befuddled Viola, while
Guilford Adams's glum fool Feste plays nicely off of Gaydos's decadent
Sir Toby. However, it's Janasz's brilliantly uptight Malvolio, and his
ghoulishly hilarious attempts to woo Olivia all cross gartered and
leering like a gassy Jack O'Lantern, that truly offers this show's
standout performance. Hollywood Forever Cemetery, 6000 Santa Monica
Blvd, Hollywood: Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m.; thru Feb. 28. (800)
838-3006. Chalk Repertory Company. (Paul Birchall)
NEW REVIEW WHO IS CURTIS LEE?
Photo by Lynne Conner
The titular question of this play by Ashford J. Thomas (who also
plays Curtis Lee) set in 1950s Greensboro, North Carolina is sparked by
the appearance of a young man in a ramshackle tavern who immediately
attracts the attention of regulars Herman (Gerrence George) and Otis
(Carl Crudup), as well as owner Joe (Logan Alexander). Despite his
shabby appearance, the visitor Curtis claims to be a songwriter for
radio icon Miss Wanda Denise (Kelley Chatman), as well as being a
boxer. Herman and Otis don't buy either story, but Curtis' buying them
drinks keeps them mollified. Unfortunately Curtis has no money,
bringing him into conflict with the normally staid Joe, who, after
threatening Curtis, takes pity on him and puts him to work.
Complicating this situation are Calvin Hunt (Richard Lewis Warren), a
greedy white developer trying to force Joe to sell the place, Mitchell
(James E. Hurd, Jr.), a black gangster to whom Curtis owes money, and
Angel (Paris Rumford), Otis' ironically-named promiscuous daughter.
Director L. Flint Esquerra skillfully mines the comedy in the text, and
Paul Koslo's weathered set provides an authentic mise-en-scène.
Alexander shines in his gruff, pained portrayal of Joe, Crudup and
George have solid comic timing, and Hurd, Jr. is menacing in his brief
appearance. Thomas delivers the sincerity and hotheaded anger of youth,
but his writing, characterized by powerful, resonant themes, doesn't
always cohere. MET Theatre, downstairs in the Great Scott Theatre, 1089
N. Oxford Ave., Hollywood; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 3 p.m.; thru
February 28. (323) 957-1152. www.themettheatre.com A Thought Collective
Productions Production. (Mayank Keshaviah)
NEW REVIEW GO WHY TORTURE IS WRONG, AND THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE THEM
Photo by Rick Baumgartner
Christopher Durang's Loony Tunes aesthetic – with the help
of Daniel Henning's perfectly modulated direction – gets swashed onto
our so-called war on terror. Thank goodness Durang has moved beyond
family dysfunction. Still, you'd think our recent history, propelled by
some deranged Might Makes Right cabal from a powerful coven of loons,
has been exhausted by American playwrights by now. Durang's outrage and
piety, however, get channeled into breaths of comedic napalm,
something like a cross between The Marriage of Bette and Boo and Dr. Strangelove.
Durang has now joined ranks with Dario Fo. Sweet Felicity (stylish Rhea
Seehorn, trying to be sensible in a world with no sense) wakes up in
bed with a stranger, Zamir (Sunil Malhotra), after a night out at a
bar. Turns out, Zamir slipped her a drug, raped and married her — none
of which she remembers. The “priest” was Zamir's friend, porno film
maker Reverend Mike (Nicholas Brendon, sort of like Owen Wilson with a
slow-mo brain). Zamir has anger management issues and feels badly that
most of the women in his family are dead. This is cold comfort for
Felicity. Yet she finds herself compelled to defend her “husband” when
her Dick Cheney-emulating father, Leonard (Mike Genovese) – a volunteer
in the “shadow government” — drags Zamir into the torture chamber
that he's been claiming is a private closet for his butterfly
collection. Narrator and power-drill wielding torture-room assistant
Loony Tunes (Alec Mapa) encourages Leonard to “bweak a finger, bweak a
finger” — all of which is based on a misunderstanding by Leonard's
spy, Hildegard (Catherine Hicks, spending a good portion of the play
with underwear swishing around her ankles), that Zamir's overheard
conversation about a porno movie was actually a terrorist plot. Durang
re-runs the ending a couple of times, trying to capture the moment
where it all — “it” being the sad plight of our country – went so
wrong. I particularly enjoyed Christine Estabrook as Leonard's blissed-out seething wife, Luella, who can't stop talking about the theater,
even while torture is being committed upstairs, because theater is
what's “real.” And what has she seen lately? “250 plays by Martin
McDonagh and David Hare.” Britain of course dominates our theater's new
plays, obviously because “Americans are stupid.” Durang is getting a
lot off his chest, and off ours. The laughter he generates is from
nonsense about nonsense, unnervingly true and cathartic, and
beautifully performed. Stella Adler Theatre, 6773 Hollywood Blvd. (2nd
floor), Hollywood; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; through March 14.
(323) 661-9827 https://theblank.com A Blank Theatre Company production.
(Steven Leigh Morris)
NEW REVIEW GO WRECKS
Photo courtesy of the Geffen Playhouse
The loaded situation in writer-director Neil LaBute's “love story”
allows for a kind of velvet glove to reach inside one's heart, and then
it swirls around the intestines for a while before making its
withdrawal. This leaves us, well, touched, but in a way that's far
from sentimental. Ed Harris stars in this monologue, set in a Northern
Illinois funeral home. His wife's casket forms the centerpiece of Sibyl
Wickersheimer's set – her photo perched on its lid. Cricket S. Meyers'
sound design offers the whispers and echoes of voices in an ante-room,
where our bereaved widower Ed Carr (Harris) ostensibly floats – that
would be his public self. But that's not what we're seeing. He refers
to himself being “back there” with “them” while he speaks to us through
the mirror of his subconscious. What we get is his real eulogy, with
the secrets he won't tell them, because he's a private person, he
insists. (There are some secrets, such as his wife's final four words,
that he won't tell us, either.) He has a blazingly clear reason to be
so private, and that's the melodramatic revelation near play's end that
forces us to confront the definition of love, and how that definition
rubs up against social propriety. I didn't buy that revelation, not
within the colloquial, ruminative and realistic confines of LaBute's
direction. But that's a small matter. The big matter is the gorgeous
combination of LaBute's digressive and piercingly insightful love
letter with Harris' tender-furious child-like and ultimately profound
interpretation. Ed Carr is a bit like a chain-smoking Dostoevskian
narrator, who, while drifting onto free-associated topics and bilious
commentary (on anti-smoking campaigns, for example), he is, finally, on
message. And his message about the essence of love is upsetting and
unimpeachable in the same breath. Geffen Playhouse, Tues.-Fri., 8 p.m.;
Sat, 3 & 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; thru March 7. (310) 208-5454.
(Steven Leigh Morris)
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