It's very difficult to write a play. It's exceedingly difficult to write a good play. It's even more difficult than that to write a good play based on actual events, because the writer should stick to the reality of what made the story compelling to begin with, but the writer also needs to create a piece of theater that will entertain, as well as -- with any luck -- inform.
In the case of "How Katrina Plays" by Judi Ann Mason -- a mosaic of vignettes about the disaster in New Orleans after the landfall of Hurricane Katrina in 2005 -- what you have is none of the above.
The play was developed from the postings of Ms. Mason's brother, B.J. Mason, during the whole debacle. B.J. was a journalist and activist in Louisiana and wanted to let the world know about what the hell was going on down there as the American government's non-response shocked the world. So he collected every story he heard and emailed them to everyone he knew. It seems that in the process of doing this very noble work, B.J. had a heart attack while sitting at his desk. So, to celebrate his life and work, and I guess to remind the theatre world of the tragedy, Judi Ann Mason (an LA -based writer, herself, who has now also passed, sadly) put together a number of these pieces of her brother's and assembled them into something intended to pass as drama.
I have spent too much of my life on this show, already (two-and-a-half-plus eternal hours, thank you), that I really don't want to waste even more of my time pointing out every single problem with this production. Because there is a LIST.
But, in brief and in no order of grievousness: the pace was slow; the directing was "concept"-based, and not actors'-performance-based (read: lots of shouting, empty emoting and other masturbation); and the writing was awful. To be fair, it was awful in a few ways. It was terribly repetitive, for starters. There were times I actually thought the actors had gotten lost and improvised their way back around to the top of the scene...only it just kept happening! (A sample I am paraphrasing only slightly: a character is on her way out of New Orleans to move to Philadelphia, about which she says "I am never going back to New Orleans again! Never! Never, ever, ever! No, not ever! Not ever, ever, ever, ever! Not going back there ever! Not ever!" and so on. Now imagine this kind of writing over several scenes, with people not only saying the same thing over and over, but ideas getting covered over and over again, and never in a new way). Next up: many of her characters were in situations that made no logical sense; for example, the kid and mom who got separated and couldn't find each other (in one of the few arcing stories of the night, making the dialog both repetitive AND redundant) got in their predicament because the mother had sent her son out for milk...even though the town had already started evacuating two days before and there was a hurricane outside. (The only possible explanation was if the mother was supposed to be so strung out she didn't know the difference -- but if that's the case, then that, too, was a failing of the writer and director.) Another questionable story revolved around a couple who was spending their wedding night in their attic...meaning we're to believe that anyone would actually marry them during an evacuation, rather than put it off a few days.
But the worst of the many grievances I have against this production is the simple fact that clearly NO ONE did anything resembling fact-checking, as there any number of glaring errors. So many that my partner in theater-going (a New Orleans native) was furious by the end of the evening. Again, I won't list them all, but here are a few: the name of the bridge over the Mississippi that people unsuccessfully used to try and escape to the next parish was wrong. Yes -- people at the far end did point rifles at the fleeing crowd to keep them from crossing over, but they were not wearing KKK hoods, as this show insisted. One woman refers to where she lives as "on the hill", while Southern Louisiana is completely, utterly flat -- so flat that they built a hill at the New Orleans Zoo for the kids to see what a hill looks like!
On and on the mistakes rolled, making a mockery of both B.J. Mason and the memory of the horror Hurricane Katrina created and the deadly incompetence its response exposed.
This is a subject very much in need of a great play. With its sub-standard directing and acting (although there were a few stand-outs who clearly did their homework), bland-at-best writing, smug air of significance, and lack of both logic and correct information, "How Katrina Plays" isn't it. Not by a long shot.
Til next time!
--HDSQ, Jr.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
"Equus" at The Production Company
It's been a long time since I felt the need -- the burning, burning NEED -- to post a new review for this blog, although I've seen a goodly amount of theater in Los Angeles in the last many months. But coming out of the year-old Production Company's production of Peter Shaffer's influential and highly theatrical play "Equus" I knew I had to say something because I could see what was going to be coming from the critics of Los Angeles and I wanted to give another perspective.
In short, this production, has everything it appears the majority of LA critics want to see in a play -- that is, a deep sense of its own importance, some clever gimmickry, and a naked boy (female nudity has never, in my experience, helped the reviews of bad shows here). Not to say that the show doesn't have more substantial things going for it, but to my mind not enough.
Let's start with the positives, assuming you all know the story of the psychiatrist bent on helping a DEEPLY troubled teenager who has blinded some horses. First and foremost, Jim Hanna's Dr. Dysart is superb. It is thoughtful, sensitive, deeply felt and absorbing performance, despite the fact that his fair-at-best English accent waivers consistently (more on this in a moment). There are some small holes that seem more the fault of the director, August Viverito. Why specifically, for example, is the doctor talking to the audience? Are we at a lecture? Are we in his head? Also, the arc of Hanna's character works well up to his final monologue, which feels like a sudden lurch of emotion for no solid reason, despite the "explanation" for it in the script. But, Viverito uses the tiny stage very cleverly much of the time, creating a number of locations simply and smartly.
Now, on to the shameful rest. The accent work varies from the pretty good to the seriously horrible -- this latter being the majority of the cast. Supposedly the cast had a dialect coach, which just makes me wonder what they were like before I saw them. (My biggest issue with this is unrelated to this specific show, but the ongoing problem that the critics of LA wouldn't know a good British accent if it served them tea and scones every fortnight; so, since no one in the theater community is being called out on bad accents, most of the dialect work in LA theatre is simply awful.)
Now, this glaring problem aside, the larger issue of the acting is also a mixed bag: other than Mr. Hanna, most of the cast is serviceable, but some of them are as wooden as the posts that make up the corners of the set pieces that stood in for stable beams. Worse, one of the least tolerable performances in my book was Patrick Stafford, who plays the mentally unstable young Alan Strang, around whom the story unfolds. Mr. Stafford speaks all of his lines in a tinny head-voice that makes him hard to understand, even in a room with only about 40 seats. Not helping this is his impossibly annoying habit of dropping off the last word from almost every sentence he utters. And again, on accents: his father seems to be Cockney, his mother educated London (okay so far), yet for some reason Mr. Stafford sounds like he's from way up North. This is akin to a person having a father from (randomly selected, here) rural Alabama, a mother from Connecticut, but somehow sounding like he's from Canada. In a culture where accents mean everything -- in a way that they just don't, here in the States -- this is a major issue that further adds to the ineffectiveness of the play's second lead. Is it the actor's fault or the show's dialect coach? The long and the short of all this is that since I could find no way to connect with the unbelievable actor, the character of poor Alan Strang seemed less sad and deeply troubled, and instead more merely psychotic and incurable; thus, ruining the stakes for me, the audience.
So, the score so far: this production of "Equus" has very, very mixed acting and terrible accent work, making the dense and wordy script hard to follow or care about.
But then the set spins at the "climax" of Act I, Mr. Stafford gets naked in Act II (yes, this is in the script), and this seems enough to have the LA critics hail it as a great show. And the thing is, I knew that this would be the case when I left the theater -- I could feel it, despite the hole in my stomach that opens up whenever I see less-than-acceptable art.
This production was less an evening of theater to me than it was a devious marvel of critical engineering.
Bottom Line: B-
Till next time!
HDSQ, Jr
In short, this production, has everything it appears the majority of LA critics want to see in a play -- that is, a deep sense of its own importance, some clever gimmickry, and a naked boy (female nudity has never, in my experience, helped the reviews of bad shows here). Not to say that the show doesn't have more substantial things going for it, but to my mind not enough.
Let's start with the positives, assuming you all know the story of the psychiatrist bent on helping a DEEPLY troubled teenager who has blinded some horses. First and foremost, Jim Hanna's Dr. Dysart is superb. It is thoughtful, sensitive, deeply felt and absorbing performance, despite the fact that his fair-at-best English accent waivers consistently (more on this in a moment). There are some small holes that seem more the fault of the director, August Viverito. Why specifically, for example, is the doctor talking to the audience? Are we at a lecture? Are we in his head? Also, the arc of Hanna's character works well up to his final monologue, which feels like a sudden lurch of emotion for no solid reason, despite the "explanation" for it in the script. But, Viverito uses the tiny stage very cleverly much of the time, creating a number of locations simply and smartly.
Now, on to the shameful rest. The accent work varies from the pretty good to the seriously horrible -- this latter being the majority of the cast. Supposedly the cast had a dialect coach, which just makes me wonder what they were like before I saw them. (My biggest issue with this is unrelated to this specific show, but the ongoing problem that the critics of LA wouldn't know a good British accent if it served them tea and scones every fortnight; so, since no one in the theater community is being called out on bad accents, most of the dialect work in LA theatre is simply awful.)
Now, this glaring problem aside, the larger issue of the acting is also a mixed bag: other than Mr. Hanna, most of the cast is serviceable, but some of them are as wooden as the posts that make up the corners of the set pieces that stood in for stable beams. Worse, one of the least tolerable performances in my book was Patrick Stafford, who plays the mentally unstable young Alan Strang, around whom the story unfolds. Mr. Stafford speaks all of his lines in a tinny head-voice that makes him hard to understand, even in a room with only about 40 seats. Not helping this is his impossibly annoying habit of dropping off the last word from almost every sentence he utters. And again, on accents: his father seems to be Cockney, his mother educated London (okay so far), yet for some reason Mr. Stafford sounds like he's from way up North. This is akin to a person having a father from (randomly selected, here) rural Alabama, a mother from Connecticut, but somehow sounding like he's from Canada. In a culture where accents mean everything -- in a way that they just don't, here in the States -- this is a major issue that further adds to the ineffectiveness of the play's second lead. Is it the actor's fault or the show's dialect coach? The long and the short of all this is that since I could find no way to connect with the unbelievable actor, the character of poor Alan Strang seemed less sad and deeply troubled, and instead more merely psychotic and incurable; thus, ruining the stakes for me, the audience.
So, the score so far: this production of "Equus" has very, very mixed acting and terrible accent work, making the dense and wordy script hard to follow or care about.
But then the set spins at the "climax" of Act I, Mr. Stafford gets naked in Act II (yes, this is in the script), and this seems enough to have the LA critics hail it as a great show. And the thing is, I knew that this would be the case when I left the theater -- I could feel it, despite the hole in my stomach that opens up whenever I see less-than-acceptable art.
This production was less an evening of theater to me than it was a devious marvel of critical engineering.
Bottom Line: B-
Till next time!
HDSQ, Jr
Saturday, October 11, 2008
"It's the Housewives!" at the Whitefire Theater
First: sorry to my readers (if any) for the long recess. I have seen a number of plays and just didn’t get that kick in the pants to write about any of them.
Until now.
If I had a dollar for every missed opportunity in It’s the Housewives I would be able to ignore the current economic crisis. Then I would spend that money on a different show.
But to begin: It’s the Housewives –book by Hope Juber and Ellen Guylas, music by Hope Juber and her husband, Wings guitarist Laurence Juber—is a pop musical about the rise of a celebrated musical trio, The Housewives, made of (you guessed it) housewives, apparently based on a “comedy rock group” Ms. Juber had been involved with at one time. The story is told mostly as a big flashback, as one of the Housewives is recognized by her plumber and is cornered into telling the story of the band. The songs—all numbers performed for one reason or another by the trio—are ‘80s-style pop tunes with lyrics on topics like washing, ironing and childcare.
That said, there are oodles of fun directions this set up could take. You have the opportunity here to poke fun at the wide range of ‘80s pop musical styles. You have the opportunity to talk about the real and true nobility of being a stay-at-home mom. You have the opportunity to talk about how times changed to force middle-class families to abandon the single-earner life. You have the potential to parody any number of rock band break-up stories (a Yoko moves them apart, they all pursue solo careers, the drummer keeps exploding…). Unfortunately none of this is dealt with (apart from two songs—one in the style of Devo and one rap ala the Fresh Prince, easily the two most effective in the show) and what you end up with is two hours and one joke. Discounting rim-shot moments ruminating on cutting-edge targets such as Michael Jackson.
They sing at a PTA meeting, move up to a Laundromat, become famous and along the way have a little personal tension. But there’s no real arc to this story, it just moves in a straight line, giving us nothing to root for or even against. There is an attempt in Act II to bring some danger to their lives, as one of the Housewives is struck by an addiction to All My Children. Which she of course sings about (there are 18 songs in this show. There should have been 10.) but even then the dilemma is woefully weak and the lyrics so dated that even my theatre-going Second—an AMC nut for decades (yes, plural)—didn’t get them.
On top of this, the dialog clangs like ‘70s sit-com reject material, with weak puns based on cleaning product names, and dumb sexual innuendo based on cleaning product names. Not really surprising, I suppose, considering the book writers association with a number of ‘70s sit-coms, according to the long, long bios. The jokes are often set up, delivered and then explained. And the reacted to. The horse is crying mercy through most of this show.
Now, despite this, the three leads—Connie Dekker, Jamey Hood and Jayme Lake—have the talent to make the most of it, aided by a respectable supporting cast of Roger Cruz, Anthony DeSantis, Susan Mullen and (the sadly underused) Jed Alexander. Vince Cefalu is charming and effective as the plumber, out-acting the energetic but posy Terri Homberg-Olsen in the present-day scenes. They all make it just this side of bearable, as often does Kelly Ann Ford’s direction and Kay Cole’s fun choreography.
But this brings me to another big weakness of this show: there is mention of time passing, but no real consideration of it. The housewives gain success, go on tour, cut numerous CDs, get pregnant, have these kids and go on to have their own TV show. But along the way their children and husbands are almost never mentioned (one is a character), and the only time they are is when the women have strollers on stage or babies in their arms. So it seems as if the kids never age—as they are only dealt with repeatedly as infants. This is problem in itself, but for my money another huge hole in the commentary of motherhood: dealing with aging children. Or husbands, for that matter. Likewise, it seems they manage to accomplish all this while still in the ‘80s, as the musical styles don’t ever really change (other than become more generic as the show winds on). Nor really do the costuming or the references. And despite The Housewives enormous success, money and influence, it appears they still go home and do chores and complain about it. (And again: another missed opportunity: couldn’t they have gotten all this fame and fortune only to learn that they missed being “just housewives”? Hardly original, but least then there would be a point.)
A further issue: the sound design was awful. All the women were miked when they sang. Fine. But despite the fact that there were effects used on the voices from time to time, there never seemed to be any consideration of these effects to illuminate where they were singing—the Laundromat sounded the same as the TV show as the stadium tour. Except where there seemed to be something “funny” in an echo or whatever. Further, they were body-miked, but they sometimes had hand-held mikes on stage, only they weren’t practical. So when they walked away from hand-held mikes, they sounded the same…and the guy standing right in front of the same “live” mike two seconds later sounded like he was on a small stage in Sherman Oaks. Likewise, the Housewife telling the story in the present was miked while she talked PART of the time. Maybe there was a new sound man in the booth. In any case: lazy, sloppy sound.
But wait, as the commercial says, there’s more! The night I went started nearly 20-minutes late. The house was about 99% full (it’s amazing what heavy advertising can do, I guess), so by any standard this was insulting to those of us who bothered to show up on time. During the wait a parody of The Who’s landmark Tommy was played, with the lyrics swapped out to be about kids, cleaning products, etc. Quite funny for about 5 minutes, if you bothered to listen. After 10 it was wearing. After 20 you wanted to find Pete Townshend and ask him if he knew and could he please sue them to never do it again. So, basically it was a prefect preface for the evening. I hope they don’t do that every night. It’s cruel.
The final insult for me was the last number in the show, called “(Ain’t No) T.V. Housewife,” where the trio sings about how they’re real people and not those moms you see on T.V. …um…dammit! The things is, for two hours all we saw of these three women was just that: them being shallow, silly, often stupid representations of middle-class moms. Maybe that’s how they’re not T.V. housewives – the ones on T.V. are usually the bright ones in the family.
There were a few real laughs in the show. But even more yawns –and not just from me. It’s a cute idea, really, but a better skit or one-act than full-blown show. So, to borrow a phrasing likely to be found in this show: divorce yourself from “It’s the Housewives”.
Bottom line: C- …because the performers bring the score up.
Til next time!
HDSQ, Jr.
Until now.
If I had a dollar for every missed opportunity in It’s the Housewives I would be able to ignore the current economic crisis. Then I would spend that money on a different show.
But to begin: It’s the Housewives –book by Hope Juber and Ellen Guylas, music by Hope Juber and her husband, Wings guitarist Laurence Juber—is a pop musical about the rise of a celebrated musical trio, The Housewives, made of (you guessed it) housewives, apparently based on a “comedy rock group” Ms. Juber had been involved with at one time. The story is told mostly as a big flashback, as one of the Housewives is recognized by her plumber and is cornered into telling the story of the band. The songs—all numbers performed for one reason or another by the trio—are ‘80s-style pop tunes with lyrics on topics like washing, ironing and childcare.
That said, there are oodles of fun directions this set up could take. You have the opportunity here to poke fun at the wide range of ‘80s pop musical styles. You have the opportunity to talk about the real and true nobility of being a stay-at-home mom. You have the opportunity to talk about how times changed to force middle-class families to abandon the single-earner life. You have the potential to parody any number of rock band break-up stories (a Yoko moves them apart, they all pursue solo careers, the drummer keeps exploding…). Unfortunately none of this is dealt with (apart from two songs—one in the style of Devo and one rap ala the Fresh Prince, easily the two most effective in the show) and what you end up with is two hours and one joke. Discounting rim-shot moments ruminating on cutting-edge targets such as Michael Jackson.
They sing at a PTA meeting, move up to a Laundromat, become famous and along the way have a little personal tension. But there’s no real arc to this story, it just moves in a straight line, giving us nothing to root for or even against. There is an attempt in Act II to bring some danger to their lives, as one of the Housewives is struck by an addiction to All My Children. Which she of course sings about (there are 18 songs in this show. There should have been 10.) but even then the dilemma is woefully weak and the lyrics so dated that even my theatre-going Second—an AMC nut for decades (yes, plural)—didn’t get them.
On top of this, the dialog clangs like ‘70s sit-com reject material, with weak puns based on cleaning product names, and dumb sexual innuendo based on cleaning product names. Not really surprising, I suppose, considering the book writers association with a number of ‘70s sit-coms, according to the long, long bios. The jokes are often set up, delivered and then explained. And the reacted to. The horse is crying mercy through most of this show.
Now, despite this, the three leads—Connie Dekker, Jamey Hood and Jayme Lake—have the talent to make the most of it, aided by a respectable supporting cast of Roger Cruz, Anthony DeSantis, Susan Mullen and (the sadly underused) Jed Alexander. Vince Cefalu is charming and effective as the plumber, out-acting the energetic but posy Terri Homberg-Olsen in the present-day scenes. They all make it just this side of bearable, as often does Kelly Ann Ford’s direction and Kay Cole’s fun choreography.
But this brings me to another big weakness of this show: there is mention of time passing, but no real consideration of it. The housewives gain success, go on tour, cut numerous CDs, get pregnant, have these kids and go on to have their own TV show. But along the way their children and husbands are almost never mentioned (one is a character), and the only time they are is when the women have strollers on stage or babies in their arms. So it seems as if the kids never age—as they are only dealt with repeatedly as infants. This is problem in itself, but for my money another huge hole in the commentary of motherhood: dealing with aging children. Or husbands, for that matter. Likewise, it seems they manage to accomplish all this while still in the ‘80s, as the musical styles don’t ever really change (other than become more generic as the show winds on). Nor really do the costuming or the references. And despite The Housewives enormous success, money and influence, it appears they still go home and do chores and complain about it. (And again: another missed opportunity: couldn’t they have gotten all this fame and fortune only to learn that they missed being “just housewives”? Hardly original, but least then there would be a point.)
A further issue: the sound design was awful. All the women were miked when they sang. Fine. But despite the fact that there were effects used on the voices from time to time, there never seemed to be any consideration of these effects to illuminate where they were singing—the Laundromat sounded the same as the TV show as the stadium tour. Except where there seemed to be something “funny” in an echo or whatever. Further, they were body-miked, but they sometimes had hand-held mikes on stage, only they weren’t practical. So when they walked away from hand-held mikes, they sounded the same…and the guy standing right in front of the same “live” mike two seconds later sounded like he was on a small stage in Sherman Oaks. Likewise, the Housewife telling the story in the present was miked while she talked PART of the time. Maybe there was a new sound man in the booth. In any case: lazy, sloppy sound.
But wait, as the commercial says, there’s more! The night I went started nearly 20-minutes late. The house was about 99% full (it’s amazing what heavy advertising can do, I guess), so by any standard this was insulting to those of us who bothered to show up on time. During the wait a parody of The Who’s landmark Tommy was played, with the lyrics swapped out to be about kids, cleaning products, etc. Quite funny for about 5 minutes, if you bothered to listen. After 10 it was wearing. After 20 you wanted to find Pete Townshend and ask him if he knew and could he please sue them to never do it again. So, basically it was a prefect preface for the evening. I hope they don’t do that every night. It’s cruel.
The final insult for me was the last number in the show, called “(Ain’t No) T.V. Housewife,” where the trio sings about how they’re real people and not those moms you see on T.V. …um…dammit! The things is, for two hours all we saw of these three women was just that: them being shallow, silly, often stupid representations of middle-class moms. Maybe that’s how they’re not T.V. housewives – the ones on T.V. are usually the bright ones in the family.
There were a few real laughs in the show. But even more yawns –and not just from me. It’s a cute idea, really, but a better skit or one-act than full-blown show. So, to borrow a phrasing likely to be found in this show: divorce yourself from “It’s the Housewives”.
Bottom line: C- …because the performers bring the score up.
Til next time!
HDSQ, Jr.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
"Dog Sees God" from Havok Theatre Company at the Hudson Backstage Theatre
Bert V. Royal's "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead" was first produced in 2004 as part of the New York Fringe Festival, where apparently it was very well received. Then it moved to off-Broadway, where it tanked. Seeing Havok Theatre Company's expensive-looking production here in Los Angeles, my first response is: yeah, I can see that.
It's a clever concept: the "Peanuts" kids spun forward to be angry, confused adolescents, with the Schultz characters' names shifted to initials or nicknames to (mostly) avoid copyright issues. And while there are some lovely moments in the show, ultimately it isn't a play, so much as it is a long, self-aware piece of competent sketch comedy...you know, with "meaningful" parts to make it a Piece of Theatre.
Havok Theatre's production has a lot going for it, not the least of which is an excellent (and gorgeous!) cast, featuring a number of TV/Film up-n'-comers and some really superior "unknowns". Nick DeGruccio's direction is smart and lively, and all the technical elements are rock-solid. All of which is terrific and certainly gets the audiences in. But the thing is, once you get past these elements...you need something to hold you there, that drives your interest forward, but the writing ultimately just isn't there. There's not much plot, rather a lot of character-revealing conversation. All of which is well-written and entertaining enough, but with not much at stake and no real spine to the story it's tough to care. Further, some of the young-adult versions of the original characters simply don't track from their cartoon origins (sorry: Peppermint Patty as a party girl slut? Nope.). And there's another of my pet peeves in evidence, seen in a number of first-time playwright's works: when one character comes out of the closet (and good for him)...we find out that nearly *everyone* in the show is secretly gay! Seriously...? Moments like these when I can see the playwright's personal issues--instead of the play--just annoy me as an audience member. Pulls me right out of the experience. And there's a moment at the end of the play when we find out who "CB"'s pen pal is, which I think is sweet but also left me feeling that it was a (forgive the expression) "royal" cop-out as to why the play's characters aren't *exactly* the "Peanuts" characters.
It's a fun night, all in all, and there's a lot worth liking. But much like the play's title--a cute palindrome that really has little to do with the story--it sets you up for greatness and smarts, but then doesn't satisfy.
Bottom line: B.
Til Next Time!
--HDSQ, Jr.
It's a clever concept: the "Peanuts" kids spun forward to be angry, confused adolescents, with the Schultz characters' names shifted to initials or nicknames to (mostly) avoid copyright issues. And while there are some lovely moments in the show, ultimately it isn't a play, so much as it is a long, self-aware piece of competent sketch comedy...you know, with "meaningful" parts to make it a Piece of Theatre.
Havok Theatre's production has a lot going for it, not the least of which is an excellent (and gorgeous!) cast, featuring a number of TV/Film up-n'-comers and some really superior "unknowns". Nick DeGruccio's direction is smart and lively, and all the technical elements are rock-solid. All of which is terrific and certainly gets the audiences in. But the thing is, once you get past these elements...you need something to hold you there, that drives your interest forward, but the writing ultimately just isn't there. There's not much plot, rather a lot of character-revealing conversation. All of which is well-written and entertaining enough, but with not much at stake and no real spine to the story it's tough to care. Further, some of the young-adult versions of the original characters simply don't track from their cartoon origins (sorry: Peppermint Patty as a party girl slut? Nope.). And there's another of my pet peeves in evidence, seen in a number of first-time playwright's works: when one character comes out of the closet (and good for him)...we find out that nearly *everyone* in the show is secretly gay! Seriously...? Moments like these when I can see the playwright's personal issues--instead of the play--just annoy me as an audience member. Pulls me right out of the experience. And there's a moment at the end of the play when we find out who "CB"'s pen pal is, which I think is sweet but also left me feeling that it was a (forgive the expression) "royal" cop-out as to why the play's characters aren't *exactly* the "Peanuts" characters.
It's a fun night, all in all, and there's a lot worth liking. But much like the play's title--a cute palindrome that really has little to do with the story--it sets you up for greatness and smarts, but then doesn't satisfy.
Bottom line: B.
Til Next Time!
--HDSQ, Jr.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
"Compleat Female Stage Beauty" from Rogue Machine at Theatre/Theater
Jeffery Hatcher's play "Compleat Female Stage Beauty" is the first show produced by fledgling theatre company Rogue Machine, a troupe made up largely of PRT talent who were looking to do their own thing. And as solid as PRT work can be, all I can say is "lucky us!"
Rogue Machine has taken the somewhat ungainly Theatre/Theater space and turned it into an intimate uneven 3/4 thrust. Under the sharp direction of John Perrin Flynn, Hatcher's play of the last days of men playing women's roles during the English Restoration is a riveting look at artists who must change with the times or die. The tight, no-weak-links ensemble is lead by the exceptional Micheal Traynor as Ned Kynaston, the last of the male actors to specialize in playing female roles. I can't imagine an actor alive who doesn't see something of himself in Traynor's Kynaston -- one part star, one part whore, one part expert, and all-parts child forced to grow up. He is both delicate and fierce, much as the women who come to replace him are. But really everyone on stage is pitch-perfect, with special kudos to the foppish, but edgy performance turned in by Jaxon Gwillam as King Charles II. (And may I add *everyone* nailed the British accents--thank you!)
In this particular production the director and design team decided to turn this period piece into a work that is set in its own universe of the 17th Century by way of today's runway. Mostly the costumes look like something out of a "Vogue" shoot, with an emphasis on a 21st-C. retro-high-fashion feel, down-selling to jeans only once our hero has hit bottom. This is a bold choice, which I understood was to make the audience understand that the story is as fresh as this week's "Variety" (and with TV actors losing jobs to movie stars and "reality" "celebrities", and voice over artists losing work to TV stars these days, seems utterly on the money). But even while well-intentioned, I found this a little distracting, as the concept was not quite as solidified as it might have been: is this a look only sported by the rich? And if so, then at what financial point is the look abandoned to a lack of cash-flow, since everyone--no matter what their status--seems to be sporting some version of it most of the time, but not always? But I applaud the bigness and bravery of the choice, whereas so many companies would have done half-assed period clothing.
The show also had a single live musician in back and above the house, who played guitar and recorder during the scene breaks. Her singing and playing were lovely and the pieces appropriate, and I always love live musicians in a theatre setting, but truth be told I found a lone musician too small a sound to really fill the space. Not for volume so much as scale--this piece of theatre seemed larger than any one musician could balance. But this is a minor consideration considering the achievement of this new company in this, their debut production.
They have extended the run two weeks to June 15, by popular demand. I highly recommend you catch these folks while you can.
Bottom line: a solid A.
'Til next time!
--HDSQ, Jr
Rogue Machine has taken the somewhat ungainly Theatre/Theater space and turned it into an intimate uneven 3/4 thrust. Under the sharp direction of John Perrin Flynn, Hatcher's play of the last days of men playing women's roles during the English Restoration is a riveting look at artists who must change with the times or die. The tight, no-weak-links ensemble is lead by the exceptional Micheal Traynor as Ned Kynaston, the last of the male actors to specialize in playing female roles. I can't imagine an actor alive who doesn't see something of himself in Traynor's Kynaston -- one part star, one part whore, one part expert, and all-parts child forced to grow up. He is both delicate and fierce, much as the women who come to replace him are. But really everyone on stage is pitch-perfect, with special kudos to the foppish, but edgy performance turned in by Jaxon Gwillam as King Charles II. (And may I add *everyone* nailed the British accents--thank you!)
In this particular production the director and design team decided to turn this period piece into a work that is set in its own universe of the 17th Century by way of today's runway. Mostly the costumes look like something out of a "Vogue" shoot, with an emphasis on a 21st-C. retro-high-fashion feel, down-selling to jeans only once our hero has hit bottom. This is a bold choice, which I understood was to make the audience understand that the story is as fresh as this week's "Variety" (and with TV actors losing jobs to movie stars and "reality" "celebrities", and voice over artists losing work to TV stars these days, seems utterly on the money). But even while well-intentioned, I found this a little distracting, as the concept was not quite as solidified as it might have been: is this a look only sported by the rich? And if so, then at what financial point is the look abandoned to a lack of cash-flow, since everyone--no matter what their status--seems to be sporting some version of it most of the time, but not always? But I applaud the bigness and bravery of the choice, whereas so many companies would have done half-assed period clothing.
The show also had a single live musician in back and above the house, who played guitar and recorder during the scene breaks. Her singing and playing were lovely and the pieces appropriate, and I always love live musicians in a theatre setting, but truth be told I found a lone musician too small a sound to really fill the space. Not for volume so much as scale--this piece of theatre seemed larger than any one musician could balance. But this is a minor consideration considering the achievement of this new company in this, their debut production.
They have extended the run two weeks to June 15, by popular demand. I highly recommend you catch these folks while you can.
Bottom line: a solid A.
'Til next time!
--HDSQ, Jr
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
"Safe" at Circus Theatricals
Creepy, disturbing, imperfect, but absolutely affecting.
Chuck Rose's "Twilight Zone"-for-the-Bush-II-years play is a nicely crafted piece of solid science fiction, and as such delivers a social commentary punch to the gut. Set in what the old show "Max Headroom" called "15 minutes in the future", this is a "No Exit" for today: several people--industrialists, Captains of Industry and entertainers--peruse a new, high-tech fallout shelter when the worst happens and they're all locked in by the corporation who designed it, supposedly for their own good.
What comes of this is a somewhat transparent, but nonetheless taut and well-seen allegory of tensions over the neo-con notion of "security": don't ask questions, trust your keepers, sacrifice without thought. Thrown in to this mix through various references and voice-overs (from the little corporate-cleared "news" this poor lot can receive on their TV monitor) is the notion that the corporation who runs this zoo (and possibly others, unseen) is working with the government to bring things back to "normal". Just like Mussolini would have liked. Or the Bush administration.
The play is not without some plot holes, and some of the character arcs you can see coming (and personally I felt that Rose could have been even harder on the fascists running the show). But the superb ensemble and tight direction from Kappy Kilburn manage keep these in the background, maintaining your focus on the action. Only the amateurish sound design reminds you that this is low-tech, small LA theatre. Otherwise, the knot in your stomach as you leave tells you that this is as solid a theatre experience as you get.
Good, bad or indifferent, I would be hard pressed to tell you the last time I left the theater and had such a heated conversation with my theater-going partner. And I'm still digesting this thought-provoking production. Surely there's something to be said for that in Los Angeles!
Bottom line: A-
Til next time!
--HDSQ, Jr
Chuck Rose's "Twilight Zone"-for-the-Bush-II-years play is a nicely crafted piece of solid science fiction, and as such delivers a social commentary punch to the gut. Set in what the old show "Max Headroom" called "15 minutes in the future", this is a "No Exit" for today: several people--industrialists, Captains of Industry and entertainers--peruse a new, high-tech fallout shelter when the worst happens and they're all locked in by the corporation who designed it, supposedly for their own good.
What comes of this is a somewhat transparent, but nonetheless taut and well-seen allegory of tensions over the neo-con notion of "security": don't ask questions, trust your keepers, sacrifice without thought. Thrown in to this mix through various references and voice-overs (from the little corporate-cleared "news" this poor lot can receive on their TV monitor) is the notion that the corporation who runs this zoo (and possibly others, unseen) is working with the government to bring things back to "normal". Just like Mussolini would have liked. Or the Bush administration.
The play is not without some plot holes, and some of the character arcs you can see coming (and personally I felt that Rose could have been even harder on the fascists running the show). But the superb ensemble and tight direction from Kappy Kilburn manage keep these in the background, maintaining your focus on the action. Only the amateurish sound design reminds you that this is low-tech, small LA theatre. Otherwise, the knot in your stomach as you leave tells you that this is as solid a theatre experience as you get.
Good, bad or indifferent, I would be hard pressed to tell you the last time I left the theater and had such a heated conversation with my theater-going partner. And I'm still digesting this thought-provoking production. Surely there's something to be said for that in Los Angeles!
Bottom line: A-
Til next time!
--HDSQ, Jr
Friday, May 16, 2008
"Proof", produced by Rosalind Productions at the Odyssey Theatre Ensemble
I have seen many productions of David Auburn's clever and touching play, and from the get-go, I have to say up front that this was my very least favorite.
Now, I know it's not fair to compare one production to another, and that a good critic analyzes a piece on its own merits. So putting aside even the ify workshop version of "Proof" I once saw that still put this expensive production to shame, I will attempt to do just that.
For those of you who don't know the plot of this gem, it's (very basically) the story of a young girl who has just missed out on her college years for single-handedly taking care of her mentally ill mathematics genius of a father. The play jumps back and forth in time, showing moments of their relationship before his death and her attempts to cope with his loss, exposing the possibility that she inherited not only his brilliance but his insanity.
The main character of this drama, Catherine, is repeatedly mentioned to be 25 years-old -- which considering the story's time-line makes sense. She can still go back to school without feeling like she's missed too much time -- a point of some discussion. So perhaps someone can explain to me why the actress cast in this lead role -- Abigail Rose Solomon -- looks, sounds and acts like a 36-year-old soccer mom. It is a CONSTANT distraction. She just doesn't fit. And worse: on the night I saw her she just didn't know how to act. Apart from getting character's names wrong and bobbling lines (the show was weeks into opening, so there really was no excuse), she spat out her lines as if she had utterly no interest in using them to respond to what was being said to her. No stakes (but for the occasional bout of shouting), no connection, no sense of back story, no relish in the wonderfully dry wit of the character. Basically she played one note the whole night: loud. Maybe it was one of those "bad nights" actors can have. REALLY bad. Still, the casting was simply awful here. How did no one notice this?? And then my theatre-going partner noticed this little item in the program: Abigail Rose Solomon is not only the star...she's one of the PRODUCERS of Rosalind Productions, who is renting out the space at the Odyssey to present this play.
So now it's clear: this is a vanity production thrust upon Los Angeles theatre goers!
Moving on:
Ariana Johns as her sister Claire fares little better. Drab, uninspired and devoid of stakes, she wandered around the set seeming to have strayed into the wrong production, like the "actor's nightmare", and stuck on stage now had to make the best of it. And again, casting issues: even if we were to believe that Catherine was actually 25, her sister, as played by Ms. Johns would be close to 15-20 years her senior. I know this can happen in families, but it seemed a poor choice for the show. She ALSO blew lines.
Comparatively, the work of the remaining two cast members -- veteran actor Greg Mullavey and Micah Freedman, as Catherine's father and almost-boyfriend, respectively -- was delightful. Mullavey brought real depth and a quiet center to the man facing his own slow demise, sadly needing to hang on to his daughter for sanity (and his acting chops made up for HIS line flubs). Still, he rarely really connected to the actress playing his daughter (then again, consider what he had to work with.) And Freedman was terrifically sweet, believably nerdy and well-meaning in what is probably the least interestingly written character in the piece -- a case when casting the right actor helps a role bloom. He might be the only actor who didn't stumble on lines that night -- or maybe merely by comparison to the others....
Adam Blumenthal's set was a beautifully-wrought back porch of a not-entirely well-maintained house. Sadly, the back of the set was not well insulated, so you could hear every movement of the cast backstage as the show went on. I noticed there was no sound designer listed, which makes me feel a little bit better about saying that the inter-scene music and sound was sloppy, unproduced sounding, unimaginative and bland. But still...they had the money to build this lovely set but NOT hire a sound designer? They sure could have used one, as the transitions from one scene and time to another felt clunky, awkward and choiceless (a word I feel applies to most of this production): none of the music told us anything about the tone of the show--the tracks were merely placeholders.
I have to say that I am actually quite astonished that this mess was directed by LA favorite Elina DeSantos, whose work I have admired for some time. Perhaps this was the best she could get out of this often amateurish cast. Perhaps she was a gun-for-hire who was paid by the producer/star to take the cast sight-unseen and make them look good. Despite her typically simple, clear staging, even Ms. DeSantos couldn't work that Herculean task.
Bottom line: D+
Till next time!
--HDSQ, Jr.
Now, I know it's not fair to compare one production to another, and that a good critic analyzes a piece on its own merits. So putting aside even the ify workshop version of "Proof" I once saw that still put this expensive production to shame, I will attempt to do just that.
For those of you who don't know the plot of this gem, it's (very basically) the story of a young girl who has just missed out on her college years for single-handedly taking care of her mentally ill mathematics genius of a father. The play jumps back and forth in time, showing moments of their relationship before his death and her attempts to cope with his loss, exposing the possibility that she inherited not only his brilliance but his insanity.
The main character of this drama, Catherine, is repeatedly mentioned to be 25 years-old -- which considering the story's time-line makes sense. She can still go back to school without feeling like she's missed too much time -- a point of some discussion. So perhaps someone can explain to me why the actress cast in this lead role -- Abigail Rose Solomon -- looks, sounds and acts like a 36-year-old soccer mom. It is a CONSTANT distraction. She just doesn't fit. And worse: on the night I saw her she just didn't know how to act. Apart from getting character's names wrong and bobbling lines (the show was weeks into opening, so there really was no excuse), she spat out her lines as if she had utterly no interest in using them to respond to what was being said to her. No stakes (but for the occasional bout of shouting), no connection, no sense of back story, no relish in the wonderfully dry wit of the character. Basically she played one note the whole night: loud. Maybe it was one of those "bad nights" actors can have. REALLY bad. Still, the casting was simply awful here. How did no one notice this?? And then my theatre-going partner noticed this little item in the program: Abigail Rose Solomon is not only the star...she's one of the PRODUCERS of Rosalind Productions, who is renting out the space at the Odyssey to present this play.
So now it's clear: this is a vanity production thrust upon Los Angeles theatre goers!
Moving on:
Ariana Johns as her sister Claire fares little better. Drab, uninspired and devoid of stakes, she wandered around the set seeming to have strayed into the wrong production, like the "actor's nightmare", and stuck on stage now had to make the best of it. And again, casting issues: even if we were to believe that Catherine was actually 25, her sister, as played by Ms. Johns would be close to 15-20 years her senior. I know this can happen in families, but it seemed a poor choice for the show. She ALSO blew lines.
Comparatively, the work of the remaining two cast members -- veteran actor Greg Mullavey and Micah Freedman, as Catherine's father and almost-boyfriend, respectively -- was delightful. Mullavey brought real depth and a quiet center to the man facing his own slow demise, sadly needing to hang on to his daughter for sanity (and his acting chops made up for HIS line flubs). Still, he rarely really connected to the actress playing his daughter (then again, consider what he had to work with.) And Freedman was terrifically sweet, believably nerdy and well-meaning in what is probably the least interestingly written character in the piece -- a case when casting the right actor helps a role bloom. He might be the only actor who didn't stumble on lines that night -- or maybe merely by comparison to the others....
Adam Blumenthal's set was a beautifully-wrought back porch of a not-entirely well-maintained house. Sadly, the back of the set was not well insulated, so you could hear every movement of the cast backstage as the show went on. I noticed there was no sound designer listed, which makes me feel a little bit better about saying that the inter-scene music and sound was sloppy, unproduced sounding, unimaginative and bland. But still...they had the money to build this lovely set but NOT hire a sound designer? They sure could have used one, as the transitions from one scene and time to another felt clunky, awkward and choiceless (a word I feel applies to most of this production): none of the music told us anything about the tone of the show--the tracks were merely placeholders.
I have to say that I am actually quite astonished that this mess was directed by LA favorite Elina DeSantos, whose work I have admired for some time. Perhaps this was the best she could get out of this often amateurish cast. Perhaps she was a gun-for-hire who was paid by the producer/star to take the cast sight-unseen and make them look good. Despite her typically simple, clear staging, even Ms. DeSantos couldn't work that Herculean task.
Bottom line: D+
Till next time!
--HDSQ, Jr.
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