STAGE REVIEW: COCK

Blow job

By Ed Rampell

Ticket buyers who love their theater pure will be suckers for Cock. British playwright Mike Bartlett’s stellar one-acter is pared down to the theatrical essence of dialogue and acting -- no special effects, dance numbers or storyline derived from comic books, Hollywood blockbusters, other plays, etc. (although Bartlett did win a 2013 National Theatre Award for a work named Bull -- so one can honestly report that he’s written Cock and Bull stories). The cast is flawlessly directed by the award winning Cameron Watson, and the four actors hold forth in a cleverly designed space (per the dramatist’s intent) on a stage surrounded by seating at the Rogue Machine that suggests a cockpit (or cock ring), giving a whole new meaning to theater-in-the-round.

Be that as it may, there’s nothing square about this up-to-date drama with laughs that takes a, uh, cockeyed view of sexuality. In a series of rapid scenic transitions signaled by the lights, the story, such as it is, unfolds. As Cock opens John (Patrick Stafford) and M (Matthew Elkins) are mulling over their relationship.

As the tale evolves we see that the handsome, if slightly built John, has also become sexually involved with W (which stands for “Woman”?), a lonely 28-year-old who has fallen for him (Rebecca Mozo). So the play quickly unfolds into a not-so-classic triangle saga, with a tug of war ensuing for John’s affections and attention (and of course for the play’s titular member of the cast). (BTW, W’s witty term for the female equivalent of a “hard on” is almost worth the price of admission alone -- well wordplay-ed, Ms. Mozo and Mssr. Bartlett.)

John is the central character at the apex of Cock’s triangle and the nature of his sexuality is at the heart of the play’s theme. Is he gay, straight, bisexual? Or is his sexuality not predicated upon gender but on the individual he is involved with, no matter what his/her sex? Bartlett seems to be asking: If sexuality is a matter of pleasure and intimacy does the gender of one’s partner(s) really matter?

Of course, for some, there’s more to sex than that, such as playing power games of control, dominance and manipulation. Such seems to be the case for M, who is far bigger than John and in addition to being physically domineering, can be psychologically overbearing. M seems to be henpecking John, and some pro-gay rights advocates may read an anti-gay theme into Cock, in that M is coercing John to choose homosexuality over heterosexuality. Although repeatedly alluding to John’s job, it is never disclosed and he seems to be a confused man unsure of himself. On the other hand, M’s career is revealed, and of course he’s some sort of capitalist. Plus there’s no question re: M’s sexual preference. While this reviewer has no idea if it was the playwright’s intent to consciously or unconsciously insert an anti-gay POV into Cock, a reasonable viewer could assume that this is a point the play makes.

Not all love, of course, is sexual (Freud calls various platonic types of relationships “aim inhibited” because they don’t result in orgasm), and towards the end of Cock Bartlett tosses yet another ingredient into this roiling stew, which could be filed under the “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?” heading: Enter M’s dad, who is called F -- perhaps for “Father”? -- played by Gregory Itzin.

F injects the whole parent-child, father-son nexus into an already complex relationship. F is commendable in that he stands by his son, no matter what his sexual preference. But as Itzin sort of indicated to this critic after the play, this “no matter what” stance can prove to be problematic. Because if love is completely unconditional, one is not constrained by disapproval and the like from loved ones for perpetrating bad behavior. Which can lead to acting with impunity, minus any fear of being held accountable for one’s actions -- you know, sort of like the way Attorney General Eric Holder hasn’t imprisoned a single Wall Street big shot, even after these banksters wrecked the economy (although Holder has no hesitation throwing the book at whistleblowers and low level offenders, but that’s another gruesome story).

The play is meant to take place in Britain and all of the thesps have what sounds to this Yank’s untutored ear authentic British accents, although none of the actors seem to actually be Brits. (Indeed, Mozo is a Jersey Girl -- and I don’t mean from the isle off Normandy’s coast but from the Garden State off of Manhattan’s west coast.) To tell you the truth, although the Oxford-born Bartlett who studied drama at the University of Leeds is British, this reviewer doesn’t know whether setting Cock’s action in not-so-merry olde England makes a difference compared to simply staging it in the not-so-good ol’ USA, but that’s beside the point.

Another thing about Cock’s British-ness -- most Yankees have preconceived ideas about the Brits as being Caucasian. But at some point during the 85-minute or so play it dawned upon your humble scribe that Mozo is not a stereotypical white Anglo Saxon, and indeed, it turns out that this gifted actress is half-Brazilian, half-American. This may be merely coincidental or just could be a bit of clever casting in that it further complicates and raises Cock’s main theme.

Like the current movie, Dear White People, Cock is largely about the notion of identity. Who am I? How do I identify? This is the quest that John is on, and his lack of knowing the answer is at the root of his lack of self-assuredness.

Although Cock is not for the squeamish it is yet another reason why L.A. theatergoers are going Rogue. Producer and artistic director John Perrin Flynn’s Rogue Machine remains one of L.A.’s best theaters, presenting topnotch, thought provoking, entertaining works of art on the live stage. Experiencing Stafford, Mozo, Elkins and Itzin have at it gave this critic the same sensation he has when watching a magic show: How do theydo it? From the accents to their intensity in character, how do these actors conjure up this spell that their dramatis personae are real? Of course, deft directing and superb scripting while keenly commenting upon the human condition help, but this is what great ensemble acting and theatre are all about. It’s enough to make Rogue Machine act, well, cocky.

 

Cock runs through Nov. 3 at Rogue Machine, 5041 Pico Blvd., L.A., CA 90019. For info: 855-585-5185; Cock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THEATER REVIEW: END OF THE RAINBOW



Judy Garland (Tracie Bennet) in End of the Rainbow.

 Live at Rainbow's End

By Ed Rampell

The star playing Judy Garland (Tracie Bennett), playwright (Peter Quilter) and director (Terry Johnson) of the Tony Award nominated End of the Rainbow are all Brits, and this Judy Garland bio-play is appropriately set in London.

After a series of show biz and personal setbacks, Garland sought a career reboot there in 1968. The action takes place in Garland’s suite -- which, the diva repeatedly gripes, is too munchkin sized -- at the Ritz Hotel and the Talk of the Town nightclub, with the sets convincingly designed by William Dudley. Although this is the sizzling sixties at the swinging London town of Sgt. Peppers and the Rolling Stones, Garland -- who’d become a movie star 30 years earlier in Love Finds Andy Hardy and The Wizard of Oz -- still commands a loyal following.

But offstage -- and sometimes on- -- the oft-married Garland is beset by personal demons, bedeviled by financial problems and relationship woes. Worst of all, Garland is in the grips of alcoholism and an addiction to amphetamines and barbiturates that greatly heighten her torment, whether performing in public before a nightclub or radio audience or in the privacy of her quarters.

The gay icon’s fifth husband to be, Mickey Deans (Erik Heiger), is a former club owner and jazz pianist who seeks to control Judy’s substance abuse -- and possibly the out-of-control Garland herself. It’s interesting that toward the end of her life Garland hooked up with a beau who bore the same first name as Mickey Rooney, her co-star in nine Andy Hardy movies. Was this handsome lounge singer a dozen years younger than Garland really in love with her or using Judy as his meal ticket?

The star’s gay pianist, Anthony (Michael Cumpsty), thinks so, and there is even an allusion to Mickey’s writing a book about Garland in order to cash in (indeed, Deans' co-authored 1972’s Weep No More, My Lady). As Anthony and Mickey duel over Garland’s well-being, performances and affections, there’s an exchange about Judy’s gay fans that’s brief but intriguing.

The self-absorbed Garland is alternately touching, lusty, witty, desperate and pathetic during the offstage scenes at the Ritz. While trodding the boards at the Talk of the Town, accompanied (when they can follow her!) by a live five piece band, the onetime superstar alternates between the commanding stage presence of a truly immense talent and a drug addled performer one step away from becoming a has been, as the years and decades of substance abuse catch up with her, along with an unfulfilled private life.

Bennett’s Garland is often salty; she slings some humorous zingers about her sex life (or lack of) with husband Vincent Minnelli, and more. (In the play there’s little if any mention of Liza Minnelli, the daughter she had with this director.) In the interests of full disclosure this reviewer/film historian should reveal he is no expert in all things Judy, but having said that it seems that Bennett does a superb job incarnating -- rather than merely “impersonating” -- a 46-ish year old Garland. Bennett, who’s the right age for the role, seems to capture and express Judy’s mannerisms and movements, minus any trace of Tracie’s English accent. The actress also looks remarkably like Garland, who in her post-Dorothy years was no conventional beauty. Most importantly, Bennett can belt out a tune worthy of the character she is inhabiting and depicting. Bennett’s portrayal is nothing short of uncanny.

However, End of the Rainbow shares a problem with other biopics/bioplays that portray the later years of actual historical personages, such as the 2000 film Pollock starring Ed Harris as action painter Jackson Pollock. The playwright does not provide enough back story for viewers unfamiliar with the subjects being depicted to explain their self destructive behavior. In Quilter’s script there is only a very brief allusion to Judy’s youth that explains where her drug habit began, but there needs to be a bit more info for the uninitiated and younger auds. After all, Garland became a star back in the 1930s and died more than 40 years ago.

Yip Harburg, who wrote the lyrics of Judy’s signature tune, “Over the Rainbow” and other songs in the beloved 1939 classic, The Wizard of Oz (a blockbuster spin off was just released), was a socialist who was later blacklisted. In that spirit, it would have been interesting to pursue the angle of Louis B. Mayer, MGM and even Judy’s mom mercilessly exploiting the labor of this phenomenal child artist, using uppers and downers to squeeze every drop of talent and sweat out of her during her waking moments. Indeed, this lifelong drug addiction enabled the studio powers that be to control the singer-actress part of her life, and arguably to ruin the rest. Although this aspect of exploitation is raised vis-à-vis the Mickey Deans character, and how he comes to cope with her addictions to love and substances, the playwright could have more fully explored this theme in End of the Rainbow.

I mean, how is a star of screen, clubs, live concerts, television and recordings reduced to avoiding a hotel manager in order to beat bills? As great as Bennett’s live numbers performed during the nightclub scenes are -- and her singing and hoofing is worthy of Garland in all her glory -- End of the Rainbow is a cautionary tale. Fame is no substitute for a rewarding personal life offstage and offscreen, with loving family, friends, lovers/spouses. For Garland, celebrity and adulation proved to be empty intoxicants: There was no man behind the curtain for troubled Judy. Like amphetamines, renown may give one a temporary perk and high, but being a legend cannot replace the need for flesh and blood true love.

Why is it that the happiness some artists give to so many eludes them? You’d have to be a Tin Man with no heart to not be moved by this dramatization of the last days of the late, not-so-great Judy Garland.


End of the Rainbow runs through April 21 at the Ahmanson Theatre, 135 N. Grand Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90012. For more info: www.centertheatregroup.org/; 213/972-4400.

 

    

SF INDIEFEST 2013: SIGHTSEERS

Tina (Alice Lowe) in Sightseers.

Edgy comedy

By Don Simpson

Chris (Steve Oram) and Tina (Alice Lowe) have only been dating for a few months when Chris suggests that they drive across the rolling countryside of Britain for a week-long vacation. Chris wants to show Tina his “world,” which basically means taking her to various sites of historical significance that he holds dear to his heart. The trip will also whisk Tina away from her emotionally manipulative mother (Eileen Davies), who has kept Tina from doing much of anything with her life.

It is not long after they hitch up Chris’ Abbey Oxford Caravan and hit the road that their getaway takes on other connotations. It quickly becomes apparent that Chris has anger management issues, and Tina’s mental state is no less fragile. The claustrophobic space inside the caravan serves as a boiling pot for their emotions; either one of them can snap at any time.

Ben Wheatley’s Sightseershumorously observes masculine and feminine aggression, sticking with (and possibly satirizing) the gender stereotypes of men being overly-methodical and women being overly-emotional. Violence for each of the characters is triggered and unleashed much differently, and they both rationalize their violent acts in different ways as well. Whether it is purposeful or not, Wheatley’s film becomes an intriguing -- and comical -- social commentary on aggression; yet, simultaneously, the violence is totally rationalized by the characters’ irrationality. So by making the characters “crazy,” this differentiates them from “normal” society and fully explains their abnormal behavior. That, of course, also makes the violence much easier for us — the audience — to laugh at without any pesky moral dilemmas to burden us with guilt.

SXSW 2011: THE DISH AND THE SPOON

Rose (Greta Gerwig) and Boy (Olly Alexander) in The Dish and the Spoon.

The woman with the thorns in her sides

By Don Simpson

We first meet Rose (Greta Gerwig) as she drives her car amidst some sort of intense emotional breakdown. Still clad in pajamas, Rose wanders into a convenience store located somewhere in Delaware to stock up on donuts and Dogfish Beer purchased with the change she scrounges from her car’s ashtray. Refueled with a hefty dose of sugar and alcohol, Rose continues her drive to the coastal town where her family’s vacation home is located.

Before heading to the shuttered house Rose climbs the spiral stairs of a cement lookout tower (used during World War II to search for German U-boats) where she meets an absurdly dislocated British manchild (Olly Alexander), a lost puppy of sorts who resembles a vaudevillian mash-up of Bob Dylan, Robert Smith, Oscar Wilde and Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp. It is not without purpose that a woman who has partially de-evolved into a sobbing, tantrum-throwing child meets an ambiguously-aged male who feeds her childlike tendencies, but also desires her love and affection. Whether that is the love and affection of a mother-figure, a lover or both has yet to be determined. The British lad represents the most simple and innocent form of love, but it also does not hurt matters that he has enough money to support Rose’s bender for a while.

It is not long before we learn the reason that Rose is in such a state of emotional disrepair: her husband has cheated on her, shagging one of Rose’s friends no less. The harlot in question just happens to live in the very same quaint seaside town where Rose’s bender has marooned her. Okay, it is not as much of a coincidence as it seems. It turns out Rose has arrived here quite purposefully to "kill the bitch." Rose and her Boy-friend thus proceed to alternate whimsical adventures with the development of their asexual romance with schemes to avenge the woman who slept with Rose’s hubby.

My unwavering love for Gerwig is pretty well known from sea to shining sea, but for those of you who have been residing under a rock since Hannah Takes the Stairs, let me warn you that I sometimes find myself a wee bit biased when it comes to reviewing films featuring Gerwig. That said, Gerwig’s unyieldingly emotional Tilt-a-Whirl of a performance in The Dish and the Spoon is by far the best of her career. Unleashing an endless plethora of emotions, Gerwig may totally let herself go at times (to transcendental results) but we never lose our sense of Rose’s reality as a human being. In Gerwig’s hands, Rose is a magnificent humanization of juxtapositions: juggling a dire sort of fragility with enduring strength, humor and beauty with ugly emotional breakdowns.

Alexander portrays the boy who fell to earth -- since Rose never once asks his name, we will never know what to call him (Alexander is credited as "Boy") -- with a frail and sweet persona, yet a mysterious presence. Alexander’s character seems to be not of the same time or place as Rose; and not just because of his accent and fashion sense, but his archaic taste in music and cultural naivete play into this as well. The Dish and the Spoon contemplates history in many literal manners (historical costumes, old-timey music, the characters’ discussion about Thanksgiving), but it is director and co-writer Alison Bagnall’s clever toying with the historical ambiguity of Alexander’s character -- who appears to be torn straight from a 19th-century novel -- that really turns any sense of reality on its head.

Bagnall, who co-wrote Buffalo ‘66 with Vincent Gallo, takes a fairly extreme risk allowing Gerwig to portray Rose’s turmoil and anguish with intense sincerity during some scenes while playing the same emotions for comedic affect in other scenes. Bagnall also reveals a real (or reel) knack for never allowing The Dish and the Spoon to veer too far into the realm of overly precious tweeness. Recalling Blue Valentine, an all-so-cute song and dance scene is one of the lighthearted highlights of an otherwise emotionally intense film. The Dish and the Spoon is incredibly sincere and brutally honest in its portrayal of the highs and lows of relationships -- especially in its representation of the rage and sadness that are closely associated with romance.