AUSTIN FILM FESTIVAL 2013: ENZO AVITABILE MUSIC LIFE

Enzo Avitabile in Enzo Avitabile Music Life.

Still making sense

By Don Simpson

 

Somewhat similar in approach to Stop Making Sense and Storefront Hitchcock, Jonathan Demme focuses on the uniqueness of the performances of Enzo Avitabile’s music. A Neapolitan saxophonist and vocalist who creates intricate, multiethnic jazz compositions, Avitabile possesses a level of songwriting genius that exists on a comparable intellectual plane to David Byrne. Like Byrne, Avitabile’s greatest strength is in his ability to choose teams of collaborators from around the world, then fuse them together in the recording of a song. Avitabile is well known for his thorough knowledge of world music — specifically the instruments and rhythmic structures — and ability to use that information in the development of intriguing collaborations. Whether or not you recognize names such as Eliades Ochoa, Naseer Shamma, Daby Touré, Trilok Gurtu and Amal Murkus does not really matter, Avitabile is about the magic that happens when Avitabile creates music with these talented people.

 

After documenting songwriters such as Byrne, Robyn Hitchcock and Neil Young, Demme’s artistic attraction to Avitabile is obvious. Demme has repeatedly revealed a certain fondness for capturing unique creative processes in the act. He either assumes that we already know the backgrounds of these artists, or he does not think that matters when it comes to their genius. He makes a fleeting exception for Avitabile, however, considering his strong ties to his Naples. Though, interestingly enough, Demme opts to allow Avitabile the chance to revisit his past at the end of the documentary, practically as an afterthought.

 

What surprises me most about Envo Avitabile is Demme’s apparent disinterest in the visual elements of the film. This is an incredibly intimate production shot primarily with handheld cameras; there are no lighting rigs, it is all just point and shoot camerawork. Curbing his auteurism, Demme lets Avitabile provide all of the glitz and eccentricities of the film. Luckily, Avitabile possess more than enough charisma to distract from the gritty production.

AUSTIN FILM FESTIVAL 2013: HELLAWARE

A scene from Hellaware.

Nada dada

By Don Simpson

When Lexie (Kate Lyn Sheil) breaks up with Nate (Keith Poulson) for an untalented pastel artist in pigtails, Nate decides to try to [re]discover himself as an artist. Drowning in a world of “incestuous New York City socialite shit” where untalented hacks are deemed successful by the highbrow elite, Nate must find a way to carve out his own niche.

By cocaine-fueled happenstance, Nate stumbles upon a no-budget rap-rock video by Young Torture Killaz, a group of high school kids from rural Delaware. With outsider art still very much en vogue, Nate travels to Delaware to photograph the band in their natural element. In a half-hearted attempt to legitimize the endeavor, he approaches the excursion like an ethnographic study, striving to immerse himself into their culture.

Nate’s friend Bernadette (Sophia Takal) hesitantly goes along for the ride. Unlike her incredibly naive friend who thinks high school kids can do no harm, Bernadette is rightfully frightened about venturing into the basement hangout of a bunch of drug-addled teens donning psychotic clown make-up who have penned such violently shocking songs as “I’ll Cut Yo Dick Off.” Functioning as the film’s voice of reason, Bernadette sees right through Nate’s intentions even if Nate remains totally oblivious to everything that he is doing.

Distracted by the potential fame that a solo show could quickly provide him, Nate quickly evolves into just another selfish, pretentious and condescending New York City artist. Human relationships no longer matter to him since a successful show will provide him with all of the love and attention that he needs. As he sees it, everything hinges on this one show and establishing himself as an artist is much more important than any friendship.

Writer-director Michael Bilandic's Hellaware teeters the fine line between satire and caricatures, poking fun at art culture and white rap-rock, specifically the significant role that shock value has taken in the creative industry. Visual art and music focus so much on inciting a reaction and judgment rather than promoting creativity and talent. Even more embarrassing is the tendency in creative industries to reward bad art for being so bad it’s good.

FILM REVIEW: LET THE FIRE BURN

A scene from Let the Fire Burn.

Bloodhound cops

By Don Simpson

 

May 13, 1985 was a pivotal moment in my childhood. I remember watching the local Philadelphia news that evening, mesmerized that a city’s police force would drop two pounds of military explosives onto a city row house, knowing that innocent women and children were inside the building. This was before 24-hour cable television news channels were the norm, so the fact that all three local news stations were so fixated on this event for the evening was equally fascinating. News reporters were broadcasting live from the scene, giving their firsthand accounts of the events. I specifically recall that my 12-year-old self felt like I was watching war correspondents, as explosions, fire and gun fire erupted. There was an unreal level of urgency and mayhem. I had recently discovered the word, "anarchy," and on May 13, 1985, I finally understood what that word meant. This was total chaos, and it was all incredibly frightening to me; but what frightened me the most was, as far as I could tell, the local police force initiated the chaos and they had no control over the rapidly escalating situation.

 

It really was a war. Philadelphia police acknowledged firing over 10,000 rounds of ammunition. The leader of MOVE, John Africa, was one of six adults who died in the fire; but even more disheartening, five innocent children died. In the end, 65 West Philly homes were burned to the ground by the six-alarm fire. Even if the few men inside the MOVE compound were as dangerous as the police would lead us to believe, the working class people who lived in the other 64 homes were totally innocent. So, why did Mayor Wilson Goode authorize this bombing? More importantly, why did he give the infamous command to “let the fire burn”?

 

Admittedly, I was quite naive, especially in the realm of race and politics. Prior to that evening, I had no idea that MOVE even existed. It was not until years later that I began to learn more about MOVE; but the more I learned about MOVE, the more confused I became about the events of May 13, 1985.

 

Founded by John Africa in 1972, MOVE was a predominantly African-American communal Christian society that opposed science, medicine and technology; preferring a Neo-Luddite, hunter-gatherer lifestyle. The confrontations between these anarcho-primitivists and the police became legendary, mainly because it seemed as though no one would ever tell the real truth about any of the events.

 

The years of violent confrontations between MOVE and the police culminated on May 13, 1985, and even though a few local news affiliates were recording everything live, the information available to the public seemed inherently biased. This is where Jason Osder’s documentary, Let the Fire Burn, comes in. Twenty-eight years after Philadelphia became known as “The City that Bombed Itself,” Osder premiered an artfully-edited archival footage documentary about MOVE at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York City. Assembled primarily from news footage and video recordings collected by an mayor-appointed investigative commission, Let the Fire Burn avoids any heavy-handed narration or directorial voice. Instead, Osder presents the audience with a riveting 88-minutes of firsthand documentation and allows us to come to our own conclusions. Regardless, it is difficult to avoid the obvious roles that prejudice, intolerance and fear played in the decisions made by Mayor Goode and the Philadelphia Police on May 13, 1985.

 

This is a part of Philadelphia history that is rarely acknowledged. I hope the reverberations of Let the Fire Burn will haunt Goode for the rest of his life; but, first and foremost, I hope the truth behind these events continues to bubble towards the surface.

THEATER REVIEW: CIRQUE DU SOLEIL'S TOTEM

A scene from Cirque du Soleil's Totem.

Flying high on cultural reified

By Ed Rampell

Beholding Cirque du Soleil’s spectacle of the senses I had the sensation Dorothy had when, after being tornado-tossed from the black and white Midwest skyward, she crash lands and glimpsing the Technicolor land of Oz, gasps and says to her dog: “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

Totem is one of the most challenging shows I’ve ever had to review because Cirque’s out-of-this-world lollapalooza, now under the Big Top at San Pedro, staggers the imagination and defies description. I’ve simply never seen anything quite like this colorful combination of costumed acrobatics, aerial athleticism, aural expressionism, cinematic imagery, live stagecraft verging on witchcraft, derring-do, dance and daffiness. The closest facsimile I’ve encountered is the equestrian extravaganza Odysseo by Cavalia, the psychedelic circus/cabaret production Teatro ZinZanni and Philip Glass’ operatic Einstein on the Beach.

Totem’s theater in the three quarters round is beneath a blue and yellow 66-foot-high tent-like pavilion, 167 feet in diameter called the Big Top, or le Grand Chapiteau(Cirque was created by French Canadians), that seats 2,600 gobsmacked spectators. On the oval-shaped stage is a turtle-like pod with reeds in the rear, where singers and musicians playing string, woodwind and percussion instruments lurk in a jungle-y ambiance. Upside down, with arms outstretched, the Crystal Man, in a skin tight silvery outfit and suspended from a cable, languidly, lithely descends from the Big Top’s apex towards the turtle, and its “shell” is removed. From out of the turtle’s skeletal structure, like so many clowns emerging from a Volkswagen, springs much of the cast of up to 47 performers from 15 countries. Amphibian-like performers launch into a parallel bars act, and Totem is off and running.

Two hours-plus of jaw dropping, death defying agility and mirthfulness ensue, with one intermission (complimentary Cuppies’ cupcakes and popcorn were served on the nearly-sold out opening night). There is hand balancing by a sinewy yet rubbery man atop an hourglass framed platform. Female foot jugglers twirl swathes of glittering spinning material atop their tippy toes. A Mongolian quintet precariously balances atop five elongated unicycles, unerringly tossing and juggling metallic bowls precariously perched upon their skulls.

A male-female duet enact a kind of aerial eroticism, performing a stylized Kama Sutra of sorts on a trapeze, with the greatest of ease -- and tease --  as they give the term “swingers” a whole new meaning. Ten jumpers go Cape Canaveral as they nimbly launch upwards, ever upwards, from what are called Russian bars.

As the title Totem -- which can refer to an emblem invested with spiritual significance by “primitive” people -- indicates, the Cirque show references traditional tribal cultures. This includes comical Cro-Magnon male entertainers who, among other things, have a droll bit wherein they encounter a 21^st century man with a smart phone, and as culture clash ensues all hell breaks loose. My favorite acts featured Eric Hernandez of the Lumbee tribe who, clad in stylish aboriginal apparel and so-called “war paint,” performs a rousing, age-old Hoop Dance.

In another very sensual number, through a combination of projected imagery, special effects and stagecraft wizardry Hernandez arrives via canoe and woos Shandien Larance, a female Hopi Hoop Dancer. The duet perform a rollicking roller skating routine that involves a striptease wherein Ms. Larance sheds much of her buckskins. Totem’s troupe includes at least one other North American Native, lead singer Christian Laveau, of Canada’s Huron-Wendat tribe.

Given all the controversy about the name of Washington’s NFL team, the so-called “Redskins,” I’ll leave it to others more knowledgeable than I regarding tribal customs as to how culturally “correct” and accurate these Cirque numbers (one involving skates) are. But I will say that as a general rule it is up to the people who are being depicted and identified to determine whether or not a portrayal and identification is insulting -- not up to members of the dominant majority culture and other ethnic groups. Self determination is when the self -- not outsiders -- determines how it is portrayed in public. Call it totem and taboo.

In any case, another important element of Totem are its clowns, who warm up the crowd prior to show time and then enact a series of comic skits that involve motor boats, waterskiing and other visually inventive vignettes. Along with the free floating devil-may-care athleticism above and onstage the overall sensation is one of sheer playfulness. The phenomenal Cirque du Soleil pageant epitomizes the sensibility of what another Flying Circus -- Monty Python -- used to refer to as “And now for something completely different.” Indeed. A splendid time was had by all the ladies, gentlemen and children of all ages in the enthralled, enraptured audience. Bravo!


Cirque du Soleil’s Totem is playing through Nov. 10 at Berth 46, Miner Street, the Port of Los Angeles, San Pedro, CA 90731. For tickets see: Totem

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

THEATER REVIEW: THE SUNSHINE BOYS

Willie Clarke (Danny DeVito) and Al Lewis (Judd Hirsch) in The Sunshine Boys.

Tax/i-ng times

By Ed Rampell

The best thing about Center Theatre Group’s revival of Neil Simon’s The Sunshine Boys is its canny casting. At the heart of this comedy is the reunion of a hit vaudeville team, Lewis and Clark, who were  known during their 43 year-long run as “the Sunshine Boys,” haven’t performed together -- or seen one another -- for 11 years. It’s therefore a stroke of casting genius to reunite Danny DeVito (Willie Clark) and Judd Hirsch (Al Lewis) -- who co-starred in the beloved, long-running TV sitcom Taxi -- as the estranged vaudevillians. The problem is getting this divided duo back together again is more difficult than the reunification of North and South Korea.

Although I don’t think that DeVito and Hirsch had a rupture similar to that which led to the breakup of Lewis and Clark and their act, this production of The Sunshine Boys at the Ahmanson Theatre marks the first time they’ve worked together since Taxi rode off into the sunset of TV-land in 1983.

This is very much DeVito’s show, as Clark appears in more scenes and has more lines. He performs the schtick audiences have come to love and which he patented and perfected from 1978 to 1983 on ABC and in its final season on NBC as the opportunistic, irascible (and short!) taxi dispatcher, Louie De Palma. One could say that the flamboyant DeVito is playing a version of his screen persona, and he does so with verve and wit. There’s a hint of the reticent, morose, philosophical cabbie (and tall!) Alex Reiger in Hirsch’s portrayal of Lewis, but this seems to be more of depiction tailored specifically for the role Simon wrote.

Their onstage bickering, badgering and bantering is for the most part, amusing and it’s good to see these two old television favorites back together again. (Taxi alumna Marilu Henner and Rhea Perlman attended the premiere, as did Sunshine’s86-year-old bard himself, Neil Simon.) The playwright’s forte and specialty are love/hate relationships, as what is probably his biggest hit -- on the stage, big screen and little screen -- The Odd Couple and its various permutations attests to, as do Simon works such as 1977’s The Goodbye Girl, for which Richard Dreyfuss struck Oscar gold while the film received four other Academy Award noms, including for Best Picture, Simon for Best Writing and Marsha Mason for Best Actress.

The problem is, other than DeVito and Hirsch’s inspired casting, redolent of their offstage back story that mirrors the play’s reunification theme, this production of The Sunshine Boys has little else to commend it. The East Coast Jewish humor is very stale and dates back to 1972, when I saw it on Broadway with Jack Albertson. The opening night crowd at the Ahmanson laughed a lot, but your humble reviewer only smiled at around half the jokes and laughee out loud just a handful of times. Whereas in 1972, the play -- which is not updated -- did not strike me then as being passé and anachronistic, it does now. While the welcome mat is still out for Shakespeare’s far older comedies, this simple Simon play may have  worn out its welcome.

The play really comes alive when Lewis and Clark reteam and perform one of their old vaudeville routines, which within the play’s context they had probably premiered during the 1920s or 1930s. For some reason, the 1970s dialogue is far less funny than the humor from the much earlier period. The bit is enlivened by Annie Abrams’ leggy, busty Miss MacKintosh (get the apples reference?), although some might look askance at this caricature of a sexually attractive woman. With the jokes about the buxom blonde’s derriere and her skimpy outfit Miss MacKintosh might be more at home in a burlesque house or, perhaps, at the Spearmint Rhino, than on a vaudeville stage. Some may also feel that Johnnie Fiori’s turn as an African American nurse has stereotypical elements.

The sets by Hildegard Bechtler, which only change once in this two-acter, are likewise lackluster and Thea Sharrock’s direction is serviceable.


The Sunshine Boys runs through Nov. 3 at the Ahmanson Theatre, 135 N. Grand Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90012. For more info: www.centertheatregroup.org/; 213-972-4400.

 

    

FILM REVIEW: THE SUMMIT

Pemba Gyalje in The Summit.

Too high to handle the truth

By Ed Rampell

The eyebrow-raising The Summit provokes many questions, but is a film that should appeal to aficionados of adventure (in particular mountaineering), jaw-dropping nature cinematography, armchair travelers and even mystery buffs.

The Summit is about the 2008 expeditions to the peak of K2, the second highest mountain on Earth (after Mt. Everest), located in a remote region between Pakistan and China in the Himalayas. One out of every four voyagers who ascend to the peak of the so-called “Savage Mountain” never makes it back down to live and tell the tale. In August (known to be a month when melting ice causes increased hazards) 18 climbers -- including members of various European, Asian and international teams, their Sherpa guides and a solo adventurer or two -- reached K2’s pinnacle. But then, in one of the deadliest episodes in mountaineering history, 11 of those who had ascended K2 mysteriously perished on the way down.

Director-producer Nick Ryan and writer Mark Monroe (whose screen credits include the outstanding documentaries The Cove and Chasing Ice) use various film techniques to try and unravel the unsolved mystery as to what really happened on those icy, snowy slopes that would have perplexed sleuths from Sherlock Holmes to Miss Marple to Inspector Maigret to Jessica Fletcher and beyond. The filmmakers artfully utilize archival footage, in particular of an earlier 1954 Italian expedition to K2, which similarly resulted in controversy for climber Walter Bonatti. There are also lots of original interviews with the survivors -- except for the South Korean team leader who declined to be interviewed.

Arguably the best thing about The Summit is its stunning cinematography, much of it gorgeous aerial footage shot with a hand held camera and gyro-stabilized Cineflex from a helicopter that, according to press notes, ascended as high as 24,300 feet. The starry, starry night sky lensed from the rooftop of the world is nothing short of epic in its celestial exquisiteness, and many of the Himalayan vistas, as one awestruck interviewee says, are “almost heaven.”

The Summitalso uses amateur video shot by a number of the climbers using various recording devices to document their ascents and descents. While watching a significant slice of the sequences I wondered exactly how the filmmakers were able to get that footage -- was it possible that due to the innovations in lightweight, reasonably priced video equipment that all of the scenes were authentic and shot by the summiteers? If so, The Summit might be pushing the envelope of documentary-making.

Unfortunately, according to the film’s credits, press notes and a KPFK interview with Monroe that aired Oct. 2, a substantial portion of the motion picture is composed ofreenactments. In fact, Ryan took a camera crew more than a continent away from Pakistan to shoot at the Eiger Mountain (where the great 2008 feature North Face was shot on location) near the Jungfrau, with the Bernese Alps doubling as the Himalayas. (Or should we say the “Hima-liars”?)

The thorny issue of recreations in films that purport themselves to be “documentaries” (a term coined by British documentarian John Grierson in the early 1930s) has bedeviled cinema since the 1920s, when Robert Flaherty poetically shot his ethnographic films Nanook of the North and Moana of the South Seas, which seemed to be realistic records of his far-flung indigenous subjects’ way of life. But, as it turned out, Flaherty’s Inuits and Polynesians reenacted various activities, as opposed to their merely being captured by his poetic camera eye.

Although The Summit notes reenactments in the end credits and press notes, a strong case can be made that its failure to do so in a disclaimer at the top of the film, and to clearly label staged films as such, especially those shot thousands of miles away in Switzerland doubling for Pakistan (just as it often does on many Bollywood movies shot on location in the Swiss Alps), undercuts the film’s veracity, and whatever conclusions one may draw regarding the mysterious deaths of the 11 climbers. So rather than being strictly a documentary, The Summit is debatably a combination of feature and documentary filmmaking, where elements of fiction and nonfiction films mingle. Flaherty’s own works, in particular his post-Moana movies, may be more properly defined as docudramas instead of as documentaries -- or, perhaps, White Shadows in the South Seas, Tabu, The Elephant Boy, etc., with their scripted stories enacted on location often (but not always!) with indigenous performers, may be a cross between the two.

Another noggin-scratching factor regarding The Summit is the motivation of the climbers. Why would anybody risk life and limb to ascend a death-defying mountain nicknamed the “Savage or “Killer,” where a quarter of those who make the top will never make it down? Especially during a time of the year when optimal conditions for what’s already a bad situation have already passed? The reason for this passion for peaks piques one’s interest. One of The Summit’sinterviewees blithely says: “The bigger the dream, the bigger the risk.” And the wife of the doomed Irish summiteers, Ger McDonnell, who is a focal point of this semi-doc tells the camera: “He knew he could climb it and climb it safely.”

Well, without intending to be cruel or flippant, apparently not, because McDonnell, along with 10 others, did not make it back alive. There are only a few fleeting moments in The Summit following the 2008 debacle that raises the eyebrow-raising question as to why anyone would undergo this personal torture and risk, and what state of mind such devil-may-care risk takers possess? Even among the survivors, two of them reportedly lost toes due to frostbite.

The 2008 deaths at K2 made international news, and a headline questioning the intelligence of these mountainous counterparts to madcap motorcyclist Evel Knievel is briefly glimpsed. Elsewhere, a female interviewee remarks: “People think we’re mad,” but then the film uncritically marches on. The biggest failure of The Summit is to not critically analytically try to get under the skins of its thrill seekers and to find out what makes them tick. Are their routine lives back home so boring, uneventful, empty, meaningless and devoid of purpose that they try to fill up the void with these dubious deathly enterprises, in order to give them a rush of adrenalin to prove to them that they are still alive, and that life has a purpose? Are they sexually dysfunctional? Inquiring minds want to know -- but apparently not the filmmakers, who may have lost the cooperation of their subjects if they pursued a less admiring and more objective, even critical line of questioning. Who knows what deals Ryan, Monroe and company may have cut with the climbers so they would literally cut them some slack?

Having said all this, The Summit depicts admirable -- as well as despicable -- qualities. While some are so hell bent on their quest to conquer K2 that they decline to help endangered climbers in their moments of need, others, such as McDonnell and I believe a Serbian solo summiteer, display courage and compassion in their efforts to help and rescue others. Above all there are the Sherpas, the Nepalese guides who are professional mountaineers. The intrepid Pemba Gyalje appears to be a genuinely heroic and capable figure. Gyalje, along with the awe-inspiring scenic cinematography, are the best things about The Summit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THEATER REVIEW: THE LION IN THE WINTER

 

Henry II (John Rafter Lee) and Eleanor (Diane Hurley) in The Lion in the Winter.

The roar-all arse court

By Ed Rampell

The latest production from the Sierra Madre Playhouse, James Goldman’s The Lion in Winter is an actor’s actor piece of theater. John Rafter Lee and Diane Hurley -- two veteran legit thespians -- deliver bravura performances as the Henry II and his imprisoned, estranged wife Eleanor, whom Henry has permitted to leave her house arrest during the Christmas holidays of 1183. She joins Henry at the royal court in his castle in Chinon, France (the French-born British monarch presided over an empire), where their three sons are gathered as the 50-year-old grapples with the thorny issue of succession. The lads vie with one another to become the heir to the throne -- the eldest, Richard Lionheart (Adam Burch); the overlooked middle child Geoffrey (Clay Bunker); and teenaged John (James Weeks). Despite being the youngest and the least sharp rapier in the scabbards, John for some reason seems to be the affection-starved Henry’s favorite. (Of course, it never crosses their noggins that maybe the peasants should, you know, like vote on who shall lead them.)

Joining this big, if not so happy family are France’s King Philip (Macleish Day) and Henry’s mistress, the French Princess Alais (Alison Lani, here making her auspicious L.A. stage debut), whom the conniving if convivial Henry hopes to marry off to one of his sons. Thrown into the mix, this makes for a most combustible concoction, as they scheme with one another over who will be the man who would be king, who will wed Alais and so on. Above all, the devious Eleanor and Henry match wits, as they eternally plot against one another.

It all plays out like a Eugene O’Neill drama set in the Middle Ages, although the relatives in question have vast powers and domains at their disposal, as their family business is a kingdom. So, in addition to love between spouses, parents and children and the like, the temporal stakes are far greater than, say, for the Tyrones in O’Neill’s masterpiece, Long Day’s Journey into Night. But beneath it all are all too human frailties, not least of all being the need to be loved, although it is all writ large because the throne is at stake.

This all makes for plenty of sparks a-flying and witty dialogue (the play is much funnier than the film version, which I remember as a drama). Although based on actual historic personages, Goldman’s lines sometimes seem very contemporary and ahistorical -- for example, did the English in 1183 really know there were apes in Africa? Perhaps, but I’m not so sure.

In any case, after almost three hours (with one intermission), the conspiratorial verbal one-upmanship becomes somewhat tedious. However, this is not the fault of the acting, as the ensemble is ably directed by Michael Cooper. I think the problem lies with the type of characters portrayed.

During the Middle Ages European royalty reigned due to “divine right monarchy,” which more or less held that those born of “noble blood” were pre-ordained to rule by god. (Well, la-de-dah!) But what The Lion in the Winter's action, characterizations and dialogue reveals is that, rather than somehow being superior to the rest of us mere mortals, the monarchs are instead merely more bloodthirsty and avaricious than ordinary people are. Like today’s one-percent, they may think they are our social betters because they are smarter than the 99 percent, while in reality they’re not more intelligent -- just more cunning than the masses because they’re motivated by greed, lust for power, etc. Ever has it been so, from before 1183 to our own Gilded Age of wild wealth disparity. What kind of person needs to constantly trump others, from King Henry, Eleanor of Aquitaine to Donald Trump? So, it does become tiresome to watch these “Type A”, alpha personalities compete for dominance for nearly three hours, because truth be told, they’re just a pack of royal assholes.

Albeit, as said, well-acted ones. Having vented the above tirade I nevertheless highly recommend this production on the boards of the new rake stage at the Sierra Madre Playhouse, which is sloped upwards away from the audience, making the players seem truly larger than life. After three Greek tragedies in a row without a toga in sight, the period costumes designed by Carlos Brown delight the eye.

Sammy Ross’ cleverly designed lighting imparts the sensation of flickering candlesticks, which is period appropriate. Gary Wissman’s set likewise helps audiences to willingly suspend disbelief, although the backdrop of a plain curtain becomes a bit dull, and a faux tapestry would serve better (wrote the blithe critic who doesn’t have to pay for it). Also, sitting near the front, when the actors “poured” wine it was apparent there was no actual liquid flowing into those handcrafted ceramic goblets by Joan Aebi, which undercuts the realism of an otherwise naturalistic show.

The play has a gay theme that I didn’t remember from the 1968 film -- perhaps because as a kid this just flew over my head. In any case, Cooper told this reviewer that it was indeed in the movie -- but “downplayed.” Like the movie I saw long ago, this theatrical production is memorable. This The Lion in the Winter's roars, providing lovers of live performance with a rip-roaring, uproarious night of theater that transforms the Sierra Madre Playhouse into a veritable lion’s den of drama amidst the jibes.


The Lion in Winter runs through Nov. 16 at the Sierra Madre Playhouse, 87 W. Sierra Madre Blvd., Sierra Madre, CA 91024 For more info: 626-355-4318; www.sierramadreplayhouse.org .