THEATER REVIEW: RED HOT PATRIOT

Molly Ivins (Kathleen Turner) in Red Hot Patriot, The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins.

Bush-hells of fun

By Ed Rampell

Kathleen Turner can’t say that, can she? Oh, but the star of 1981’s Body Heat most certainly can – at least while she’s in character as the outspoken journalist Molly Ivins in Red Hot Patriot. The tall Texan, who was one of America’s leading literary lights of lefty letters, has tall boots to fill. But in what is essentially a one woman show Turner fully embodies Ivins, tossing off zesty zingers, one liners and cuss words that afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted with Ivins-esque aplomb.

The bioplay, lovingly written by Allison and Margaret Engel -- two sisters with reportorial backgrounds – covers Ivin's life, lost loves (thank you Vietnam War!), journalistic career, politics and illness in a production imbued with Ivins’ kick-sass atty-tude and humor, which always skewered the high and mighty on behalf of the lowly and powerless. Subtitled The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins, the action takes place in scenic designer John Arnone’s set depicting a newsroom from a bygone era that has seen better days. Projection designer Maya Ciarrocchi’s images enliven the subject matter, including visuals of Ivins herself at various points in her life and career.

In this pre-digital newsroom Turner’s co-stars are a decidedly old fashioned AP machine that periodically delivers Associated Press bulletins, breaking news about historic events Ivins covered or, imaginatively, from the hard drinking Ivins’ own personal life. Matthew Van Oss occasionally appears briefly onstage as a copyboy who hands the news flashes to Turner in a non-speaking part (Van Oss should have been cast in the silent film The Artist).

The work shirt-clad Turner who scintillated the screen as a sultry siren in 1980s hits such as the classic film noir Body Heat (a brilliant parable of the Reagan era’s slimy corruption and venality), Romancing the Stone and The War of the Roses, is stouter now, but she’s more or less within the Geneva Conventions’ in terms of Ivins’ own physical presence. Turner’s Texas twang, delivery and ironic inflections captures Ivin’s manner of speaking (which I was lucky to hear in person in 2000 at the so-called Shadow Convention, a sort of left-leaning counterpart to the Democratic Party’s National Convention that took place nearby in Downtown L.A.). Although she’s no longer a sexy ingénue sizzling the screen, as directed by David Esbjornson, Turner’s Ivins generates plenty of brain heat.

The story, as told by Turner, recounts Ivins’ stints as a reporter for Texan dailies and as a co-editor of the Texas Observer. The Lone Star State’s political hi jinks provided great journalistic grist for Ivin's mill, but more importantly, helped place her on the national stage, with her firsthand knowledge and insights into Texan politicians, from the similarly witty Gov. Ann Richards to the Bushes, who put the nasty into dynasty. It was Ivins who coined George W. Bush’s rather fitting nickname – “Shrub” – which became the title of the first of her two biographies about this pretender to the presidential throne. The second of Ivins' Bush bios was, appropriately, called Bushwhacked, and it’s fair to say that Bush Jr. became this populist’s bête noir.

While the play makes much of Ivins’ Elvis obit for The New York Times, Ivins' longtime collaboration with her Texas Observer colleague, Lou DuBose, who also co-authored the Bush bios with her, is never mentioned. Nor are the lefty publications Ivins was long associated with, notably The Nation and The Progressive. These curious oversights by the sisters Engel are odd omissions vis-à-vis the columnist’s oeuvre.

However, the Engels’ script is strongest when describing the personal side of Ivins which impelled her into the fray on behalf of underdogs everywhere. Her relations with both parents were conflicted, especially with her militaristic, domineering, conservative father, whom his daughter caustically called “the General” and frequently clashed with. The death of a lover in Indochina further poured fuel on the fire of Ivins’ ire. The play correctly puts its finger on what motivates writers such as Ivins: a sense of outrage. Happily, for we, the people, Ivins expressed that outrage against the rich and powerful while defending the least of these among us. By the way, written as it is (well, obviously) by professional writers, Ivin Red Hot Patriot has lots of witty literary insights into the creative process of scribbling and doodling, and into we ink stained wretches who ink out a living, dipping quills into bottles of ink or pecking on keyboards.

Ivin's mortality, as she comes to grips with a fatal disease, is also movingly depicted by the ever quipping Turner. Death, where is thy zinger? Although Turner acquits herself well throughout this one act one woman show, she, and the play itself, is best in the final moments as a spectral Ivins delivers one final rabblerousing riposte from beyond the grave to the common people she so loved and had such a profound belief in and respect for. Turner’s final battle cry as Ivins is reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin’s speech in his 1940 anti-fascist masterpiece, The Great Dictator. The audience at the Geffen applauded and gave Turner -- and her character -- a well-deserved standing ovation. Author! Author!

Red Hot Patriot, The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins runs through Jan. 12 at the Geffen Playhouse, 10886 Le Conte Ave., Westwood Village, CA 90024. For more information: 310/208-2028; www.GeffenPlayhouse.com.