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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STAGE REVIEW: 1969

A scene from 1969.

 

Back in black

By Ed Rampell

 

One of the great things about the theater is that it can dramatize history, and the people who make it and shake it. Actual events can be given shape and form when expressed in the theatrical medium. Playwright Barbara White Morgan attempts to do this by taking on the heady late sixties, when revolution was in the year, with the Towne Street Theatre world premiere production of 1969.

 

In it, Ajamu (Jaimyon Parker) wears the era’s obligatory uniform of black leather jacket, shades (even indoors and at night) and Afro, which were de rigeur for the period’s black militants. His comrade, Lewis (Lamar Usher) also even dons a beret. Ajamu is the leader of the Afro-centric Blacks United group, which occupies a building that the city government, led by City Councilman Ernest Butler (Kenny Cooper), wants to redevelop and turn into a youth center. This sets the two -- both African American but from different sides of the ideological tracks -- on a collision course.

 

In doing so, this two-acter directed by Kim Harrington poses and dramatizes questions that were very much in the air circa 1969. How will the oppressed advance and attain liberation? By staying within the system or by straying outside of the prevailing established ways of doing things? In Morgan’s play, integration collides with black nationalism, nonviolence with militancy, civil rights with black power, the ballot with the bullet.

 

While Blacks United is a fictional group, it seems like a synthesis of, or suggested by, actual organizations, such as the Philadelphia-based MOVE and the Black Panthers (although they were actually Marxist Leninists, not what Huey Newton and Bobby Seale mocked as “pork chop nationalists”). Indeed, the staged standoff at the Blacks United headquarters calls to mind the similar impasse at MOVE’s HQ, which resulted in the U.S. government’s only domestic aerial firebombing of the 20^th century. In any case, SNCC (the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) is also alluded to, while Ajamu seems like a composite character composed of Stokely Carmichael, H. Rap Brown, Huey, etc.

 

The earnest Ernest believes in more incremental change through the electoral process, and seems emblematic of the wave of African-American politicians who attained office in the wake of the Civil Rights movement and the Voting Rights Act, which saw the late sixties elections of Carl Stokes and Richard Hatcher as the black mayors of Cleveland and Gary. 1969 ponders whether these changes at the top will engender true black empowerment -- or the creation of a new African-American establishment. The fact that the drama’s city councilman’s last name is “Butler” -- long a stereotypical and subservient role for blacks -- may indicate where Morgan stands on that issue.

 

Megan Weaver is fetching as Ernest’s wife, Grace Butler; has the city councilman’s wife, with her Afro wigs and fur coat, gone bourgie? Grace’s (presumably) younger, less together sister Edna (Lina Green) is trying to pull herself together. As 1969 was rather famously also when Woodstock took place, no play about that year would be complete without a flower child, and Samantha Clay has some scene stealing fun as the stoned out hippie chick, Joyce, which displays her background with the Groundlings improve troupe. In a double role she also plays Mayor Evans’ (Jonathan Harrison) bourgeois wife Sylvia, who may well be the flip side of her countercultural alter ego. Another Caucasian thesp, Andy Ottenweller, portrays Dave Epstein, radical host of a talk show in, perhaps, the David Susskind mode (although Epstein’s Dave is hipper, younger and to the liberal Susskind’s left), who sympathizes with Ajamu and his cause.

 

All of the elements are here for a combustible concoction set against the background of the sizzling sixties. Alas, this Molotov cocktail never explodes. Although your reviewer was intellectually absorbed by 1969 it rarely became emotionally engaging, even when high stakes were being played. Perhaps this was due to the acting, directing or maybe the writing -- or perhaps all three? For one thing, the staging is a bit repetitious. The play’s credits do not list a set designer per se, and it shows, considering the very standard artwork that decorates the Butlers’ apartment (although it may be meant to cleverly reveal the couple’s being divided between their black sides and the bland middle class values they seem to aspire to). In any case, this is supposed to be live theatre, not a pamphlet or leaflet.

 

Having said that, Morgan’s plot does have some twists and turns which your reviewer did not see coming down the road, which is to the dramatist’s credit. As is the effort to render a play with characters who embody the social struggles of 1969, and a story that dramatizes that era’s almost revolution. (Alas, our side lost and we must soldier on.) Especially as the civil unrest unfolds in Missouri, showing that, beneath the surface, America remains a powder keg ready to blow. 1969 is presented by the Towne Street Theatre, which was created after the 1992 L.A. riots “to create, develop and produce original work that is reflective of the African-American experience and perspective…”

 

Perhaps next stop for TST’s 1969 is Ferguson? The fire next time!

 

 

1969 runs through Nov. 2 at the Stella Adler Theatre, Main Stage, 6773 Hollywood Blvd., 2^nd Floor, Hollywood, California, 90028. For info: (213)712-6944; www.townestreetla.org. For online tickets go to: 1969.

 

STAGE REVIEW: CHOIR BOY

(Michael Shepperd) in Choir Boy. Photo by Michael Lamont.

 

Hit that perfect beat boy

 

By Ed Rampell

 

Choir Boy’s setting -- Charles R. Drew Prep School for Boys -- is, for this reviewer, the most interesting, unique aspect of Tarell Alvin McCraney’s gay-themed drama. Historically-black educational institutions have, on occasion, been featured in productions, such as Denzel Washington’s superb 2007 movie, The Great Debaters. But for your Caucasian critic this milieu is relatively untraveled terrain and of keen interest, especially as his father taught in Boys High High School, an all-black and Latino facility in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn.

 

But Drew is very different from Boys High, a public school that’s part of the New York City school system. In addition to being private, Drew is also a religious school. So, just as, say, New York is a character in Woody Allen’s 1979 Manhattan, Drew’s ambiance hovers over Choir Boy -- although institutionally, not so much geographically.

 

The title character is Pharus Jonathan Young (Jeremy Pope), who aspires to becoming the prestigious choir master of Drew, which seems largely dependent for its economic survival on an annual fundraiser featuring the all male singers. Pharus must chart a tricky, precarious path as a gay youth completely surrounded by boys and men (alas, no female characters trod the boards in this play). This includes not only in the classroom, but in his dormitory in general, dorm room in particular, locker room and showers. Scenic designer David Zinn’s understated sets go with the flow, morphing from one scene to another depending upon their location requirements.

 

The play focuses on five young men attending the school, Headmaster Marrow (Michael Shepperd) and Mr. Pendleton (Leonard Kelly-Young has the role which was played by Austin Pendleton at Choir Boy’s Broadway premiere last year). He is this one-acter’s token white character. Pendleton is one of those archetypal (or stereotypical -- take your pick), rumpled Caucasians who has picked up the proverbial “white man’s burden” and is dedicated to educating minorities and Civil Rights. When he’s introduced, Pendleton goes verbally overboard, trying to impress the lads by getting down with the homies (or at least trying to). But later, with an impassioned speech about the “N” word which the homophobic, diffident Bobby Marrow (Donovan Mitchell) insists on using in full, Pendleton reveals his true colors as a Civil Rights crusader who’d marched with Dr. King.

 

(BTW, according to urban mythology, the physician and researcher Charles R. Drew helped invent the process of blood transfusions and died, when the hospital he was taken to after a car accident supposedly refused to give him a blood transfusion because they only had plasma from white people on hand. In any case, Drew did resist racial segregation when it came to donating blood. About a dozen schools are named after this medical pioneer, including a prep school, but none seem to be named the Charles R. Drew Prep School for Boys.)

 

The playwright does a good job providing back stories for the five young men, especially through their long distance phone calls back home. These provide insights into their characters, what makes them tick and why these scholarship or full-tuition-paying students are attending this private prep school. For most, it is perceived as their ticket to advancing on to university and achieving in modern America.

 

Against this complicated background, Pharus is trying to come of age. As the eponymous choir boy strives to become a choir man, the effeminate Pharus must navigate his emerging sexuality and the strict code of conduct of the prep school, with its official school song of “Trust and Obey” --Presbyterian hymn. There is some full frontal (and back) nudity in Choir Boy, and McCraney takes on the stereotypes relating to the anatomy of black males. If you listen closely to the dialogue, he may be trying to debunk that myth, not simply reinforcing it. As the well-endowed AJ, Pharus’ roommate, Grantham Coleman strikes the right tone as a big brother figure watching out for the confused Pharus as he strives to make and find his way in the moral universe of the religious school and beyond its presumably ivy covered walls. (Both Coleman and Pope reprise the roles they previously played on Broadway.)

 

The play ran for almost two hours without an intermission. Its ensemble is well-directed by Trip Cullman, who also helmed Choir Boy on the Great White Way.

 

 

 

Choir Boy runs through Oct. 26 at the Gil Gates Theater at the Geffen Playhouse, 10886 Le Conte Ave., Westwood Village, CA 90024. For tickets: 310208-5454; www.GeffenPlayhouse.com.

 

L.A.-based reviewer Ed Rampell co-authored The Hawaii Movie and Television Book. (See: http://hawaiimtvbook.weebly.com/.) Rampell and co-author Luis Reyes will be signing books at 7:30 p.m., Oct. 6 at the bookstore Distant Lands, 20 S. Raymond Avenue, Pasadena, CA 91105.  (See:Meet Ed..)     

 

STAGE REVIEW: THE GOAT OR, WHO IS SYLVIA?

A scene from The Goat or, Who is Sylvia?

Ewe, sex

By Ed Rampell

Let’s just cut to the chase: This production of Edward Albee’s The Goat Or, Who Is Sylvia? is simply one of the best plays this reviewer has seen in, well, a dog’s age. The acting is riveting, Ken Sawyer’s direction taut and Albee’s writing letter perfect. Late in his career, the now 86-year-old playwright who gave us Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf-- with its scathing, scalding critique of (heterosexual) marriage -- way back in 1961, conjured up this pushing-the-envelope drama (albeit one with lots of laughs) in 2002.

The Goat Or, Who Is Sylvia? is just ideal to present on the Los Angeles LGBT Center’s boards: As homosexuality and gay marriage increasingly gain acceptance and tolerance in 21^stcentury America, Albee the gadfly moves the goalposts. Note the plural, for in The Goat Or, Who Is Sylvia? the daring dramatist explores several types of sexual relationships that are universally considered to simply be beyond the pale of polite society. To find out what taboo forms of sexuality Albee alludes to, you’ll just have to hoof it down to the Center’s Davidson/Valentini Theatre yourself -- and unless you’re a puritanical, patriarchal overzealous proponent of heterosexual monogamous sex (preferably only after marriage for procreative purposes), you’ll likely be glad you did.

Ann Noble is absolutely stellar as Stevie who, on the surface, has the ideal marriage to award winning architect Martin (Paul Witten, who, in a bit of copasetic casting, played a makeup artist in HBO’s 2013 Liberace biopic Behind the Candelabra). In The Goat Or, Who Is Sylvia? our favorite Martin is turning 50 -- and has the über-midlife crisis to end them all. Martin’s outrageous acting out at the mid-century mark makes buying a Lamborghini, or pursuing a trophy woman half his age, seem tame in comparison.

Needless to say, Martin’s unorthodox (to say the least) choice completely disrupts his life and household. Best friend Ross (Matt Kirkwood) goes ape shit. Son Billy (Spencer Morrissey) now finds coping with being gay the least of his problems as his formerly idyllic family life comes to a screeching halt. And as for the wronged woman, for wife Stevie it’s literally up against the wall, motherfucker! (You’ll see what this critic means. BTW ticket buyer: If you value your personal safety your ever considerate scribbler recommends that you do not sit in the first row, which is about as safe as front row seats at a Samoan fire knife dance show. You have been warned, Dear Reader!)

And now a word about Noble: Your erstwhile scribe last had the pleasure of seeing her roam the moors and heaths of Antaeus Company’s 2012 Macbeth wherein, his review singled out “Noble as Lady MacBeth …the ultimate henpecker, ever prodding her beleaguered husband on. She’s more terrifying than Scotland’s other infamous horror, the Loch Ness Monster. Noble is positively harrowing with her crimson locks and reddish period outfit, all redolent of her blood obsessed psyche…” Considering the twists and turns The Goat takes one could say, with tongue planted firmly in cheeky cheek, that Noble is in “danger” of being typecast. What’s next? Starring as “Norma Bates” in a female version of Hitchcock’s classic, re-titled Psycho’s Psyche?

What makes Marty run? Noble’s performance, sculpted with the finesse of a Rodin or Michelangelo, provides clues. Her Stevie (hmm, odd choice of names selected by the gay bard, eh wot?) seems like a person full of artifice, who acts out roles in her daily life, such as dutiful wife or urbane sophisticate. For instance, in a vignette full of Albee’s dazzling wordplay, she and Martin partake in well-rehearsed (that is, by the characters -- although these polished thesps obviously all worked their tails off) banter, expertly parodying a British comedy of manners.

So the role playing, persona-wearing Stevie stands in sharp contrast to her husband’s devastating, off-kilter choice, which is to pursue a totally (literally) natural partner, who, as Martin says, is completely “guileless.” Noble, by the way, has lovely thighs and a heaving bosom; although this may strike some as sexist, this is important to note as it makes Martin’s actions seem even stranger and more bafflingly incomprehensible. The fact that we’re repeatedly informed that, as husband and wife for 20-ish years, Stevie and Martin never strayed and maintained a fulfilling, even exciting sex life, all conspires to make hubby’s philandering all the more mystifyingly puzzling.

Albee is asking a simple yet profound question: Do we have the right to love who we want and in our own ways? Especially if said love is consensual? Do you remember how much outrage Woody Allen’s defense of his romance with his wife’s much younger (and shall we add non-white -- let alone non-Jewish) daughter was? “The heart wants what the hearts wants.” Well, The Goat Or, Who Is Sylvia? takes the Woodman’s notion to the nth degree. What is especially telling is Martin’s honest response when he attends a 12-step type program for those “suffering” from similar afflictions.

Robert Selander’s stylish set -- or what’s left of it by the end of this one-acter -- also merits mention as it succinctly expresses the personalities of the play’s chic urbanites. The entire deftly directed ensemble is spot on, with the Noble savage the standout, proving once again -- as she did when portraying Lady Macbeth -- that: “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Seriously fellow theatergoers, please roll out a wheelbarrow full of Ovation, Tony, Obie, etc., awards for this actress, as Ann Noble deserves a flock of theatrical accolades while she leads the lyrical lambs to slaughter. Those who love great theater should gallop -- on all fours -- down to see this hilariously provocative dramedy from one of our boundary-pushing peerless bards.



The Goat Or, Who Is Sylvia? runs through Nov. 23 at the Davidson/Valentini Theatre at the Los Angeles LGBT Centerat Ed Gould Plaza,1125 McCadden Place, Hollywood, CA, 90038 through Nov. 23. Free onsite parking. For more info: www.lalgbtcenter.org/theatre; (323) 860-7300. 

 

L.A.-based reviewer Ed Rampell co-authored The Hawaii Movie and Television Book. (See: http://hawaiimtvbook.weebly.com/.) Rampell and co-author Luis Reyes will be signing books at 7:30 p.m., Oct. 6 at the bookstore Distant Lands, 20 S. Raymond Avenue, Pasadena, CA 91105.  (See: http://www.distantlands.com/events-calendar/.)     

 

 

STAGE REVIEW: EQUIVOCATION



Sharpe (Dane Oliver) and Nate (Alan Blumenfeld) in Equivocatoin. Photo by Ian Flanders.



Anonymous anyone?

 

By Ed Rampell

 

This summer, to celebrate the 450^th anniversary of the playwright and poet from Stratford-upon-Avon’s birth, Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum presented an all-Shakespeare-all-the-time repertory season at its leafy amphitheater perched in Topanga Canyon. (Usually WGTB varies its annual program with a mixture of Shakespearean, other classic and original plays.) The final work of the lot is not by, but rather about, the Bard -- or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

 

Ted Barton, who’d previously portrayed the dramatist at WGTB’s July ceremony honoring William Shakespeare’s birth, plays a similarly named wordsmith, “Shagspeare,” in award winning palywriter Bill Cain’s Equivocation. This two-act drama with some humorous touches imagines a Shakespeare-like playwright receiving what is literally a command performance: A royal commission to write about Guy Fawkes and England’s 1605 Gunpowder Plot, a piece of agitprop that presents the government’s point of view, to be performed by the theatre company Shagspeare belongs to.

 

The Gunpowder Plot was an actual conspiracy to blow up King James and the Houses of Parliament that took place while Shakespeare was still alive. In any case, it’s beyond the scope of this review to go into details about the revolutionary scheme, but many readers will be familiar with Guy Fawkes masks, which depict a smirking face with a mustache upturned at each end and a goatee. These masks were popularized in the 2006 movie Vendetta and more recently have adorned the faces of protesters, from Occupy Wall Street to Anonymous, et al.

 

Shagspeare -- or “Shag”, as he is called for short (or perhaps in homage to the Tiki Pop artist of that name?) -- is, as stated, a member of a theatre company. Equivocation is at its thought provoking best when it ponders the role of theater and politics, plays and propaganda, or, to paraphrase Lenin, “the stage and revolution.” There is swordplay as well as wordplay, including a definition of what equivocation means that this reviewer had never considered before.

 

The work, which lasts about two and a half hours or so, is extremely complex, even convoluted, and this critic found it difficult to follow. This complexity is compounded by a play within a play, as at one point the troupe of thesps performs a truncated version of Macbeth. Although the cast consists of only six (small by Theatricum standards), it seems that at least some of the actors play multiple roles. If this reviewer understood that aspect of the production correctly, the playbill (say, were these publications named after Shakespeare? inquiring minds want to know) only listed one role per thesp, which only adds to the confusion. One can guess that all of the above reflects the fact that Bill Cain is, literally, a Jesuit priest.

 

In addition to probing the role of art vis-à-vis politics, nine years after the 400^th anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot the play’s plot has interesting references to our 21^st century world. There is the torture that has filled the stage and screen (think, for example, 24 and Jack Bauer) since the Cheney-Bush regime got into the euphemistically named “enhanced interrogation” biz at Guantanamo and “black sites” that straddle (and strangle) the globe. Indeed, this is the second WGTB production this summer wherein torture is a plot point.

 

Even more ominously, like Aeschylus’ Persians-- which is on the boards at WGTB’s neighbor down the long and winding road a bit at Malibu -- Equivocation also depicts a beheading. Both of these decapitations are occurring onstage just as ISIS maniacs are making videos (with “high production values”, as newscasters/propagandists for some reason rarely fail to point out) of the poor Western journalists and aid workers whose heads these terrorists are busy chopping off.

 

Furthermore, Equivocation was launched shortly before the referendum on independence for Scotland which, like the Gunpowder Plot, had the potential to greatly alter what is now call the United Kingdom. Even more eerie is the fact that as previously mentioned, Equivocation stages bits of Macbeth, which is nicknamed “the Scottish play.”

 

Barton is fine as the pantalooned Shag, as is Taylor Jackson Ross as his daughter. Judith, who is, alas, the ensemble’s only female member (unless you include a brief drag sequence -- after all, in Shakespeare’s day, all of the roles were depicted at the Globe by males). The interplay between father and daughter has something of a Shakespearean quality, a bit in the mode of King Lear (which is also on the repertory’s roster this season). Alan Blumenfeld is able as the ailing Nate and full of the romping pomposity this seasoned actor emanates in his more comic roles. As Sharpe, Dane Oliver steals many of the scenes he’s in as a preternaturally hammy, preening “ac-teur!” Mike Peebler deftly directs this complicated stew that this reviewer, fan as he is of the Theatricum, only wishes he could more unequivocally recommend to avid amphitheatergoers. Until next summer, this erstwhile critic bids his favorite theatre company adieu!

 

Equivocation runs through Oct. 4 at Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum: 1419 N. Topanga Canyon Blvd., Topanga, California, 90290. For repertory schedule and other information: 310)-55-3723; www.Theatricum.com.

 

 

STAGE REVIEW: ABBAMEMNON

A scene from Abbamemnon.

Tragic disco

By Ed Rampell

There has been a trend afoot in musicals to weave a tapestry around a band’s unrelated songs that has absolutely nothing to do with the original numbers themselves. Unlike The Who’s classic rock opera Tommy or Pink Floyd’s concept album, The Wall, where the composers/lyricists designed the sound to express underlying ideas and plots, the stories and imagery for 1999’s Mamma Mia!, 2002’s We Will Rock You and Cirque du Soleil’s 2006 Love are spun completely out of whole cloth and then cleverly garbed in music by Abba, Queen and the Beatles, respectively. Audiences giggle in giddy recognition when the dramatis personae’s dialogue and derring-do wittily, organically, inexorably lead to the lyrics of one of these oldies but goodies (this vogue only works with vintage bands which have inculcated followings over the, uh, decades).

The Ovation Award-winning Troubador Theater Company’s Abbamemnon arguably has the cleverest conception of this theatrical tendency. Although Mamma Mia! had an insipid, uninspired plot enlivened by the Swedish disco band Abba’s 1970s ebullient beat, Abbamemnon has a brilliant premise: Uniting that mindless dance music with the Greek tragedy, Agamemnon. This extremely bloody drama is the first play in the ancient trilogy called The Oresteia by Aeschylus and its mingling with disco seems like it would be the most inspired combo since the invention of the BLT.

But a work of art requires more than a brainstorm -- it must be worked out and executed. Unfortunately, the Troubies’ genre spoofing mash up does not live up to the promise of its premise. First of all, the sung lyrics and sometimes the spoken dialogue are often difficult to discern. Whereas the combustible mixture of disco and Greek tragedy required a more subtle, satirical sensibility, as in the 1969’s James Garner Western, Support Your Local Sheriff!, the company as directed by Matt Walker opts for a more broad, vaudevillian, slapstick interpretation a la Mel Brooks’ 1974 Blazing Saddles.

To be sure, there is much romping and hoofing with music provided by a live band -- the Troubies are truly a pack of dancing queens and kings. Latecomers are serenaded by a Greek chorus who mock them as they take their seats (touché!). There are topical commentaries of the “get-the-joke?” kind, such as about the flood at UCLA or how expensive the food is at Gladstone’s restaurant in Malibu. The thesps actually wear togas (a bugaboo of this critic, who is skeptical of modern dress versions of plays originally produced in ancient Greece: beware of Greeks wearing shifts) and sandals, which enhances the ambiance of this period piece. The 90-minute one-acter does project lots of frenetic fun (if more for the large onstage cast than for audience members), but whoever wrote this is no Oscar Wilde. We Will Rock You, which is playing at the Ahmanson through Aug. 24, is far cleverer and much better. Perhaps this is why your reviewer was unable to find a playwright’s credit for Abbamemnon, which was mildly, if not wildly, amusing.

For more info about the Troubador Theater Company see: Abbamemnon

THEATER REVIEW: PARFUMERIE

Miss Amalia Balash (Deobrah Ann Woll) in Parfumerie.

ssss

By Ed Rampell

There are quite a few reasons to see Parfumerie, an adaptation of the 1936 romatic comedy Illatszertar by Budapest-born playwright Miklos Laszlo, written by his nephew, E.P. Dowdall.

First of all, audiences will get to watch two top TV thespians trod the boards in this live production. Deborah Ann Woll, who plays the crazy, sexy, redheaded vampire Jessica Hamby in HBO’s True Blood series, portrays Miss Amalia Balash, an employee of a posh Budapest perfume shop, from whence the play’s title comes. Amalia feuds with her fellow shop clerk, Mr. George Horvath (Eddie Kaye Thomas), while carrying on a torrid love affair via the mail with a correspondent whose identity is unknown to her.

Moreover, Richard Schiff, who played the conscience of Martin Sheen’s -- uh, I mean Pres. Josiah Bartlet’s -- White House in NBC’s West Wing series, co-stars as Mr. Miklos Hammerschmidt, the owner of the titular Hungarian perfumery.

The two-acter takes place during the holiday season, and amidst the seasonal hubbub of buying and selling scents the usually even-keeled Hammerschmidt is especially high strung. At first your reviewer thought this was due to hard times the business might be experiencing during the Depression (not the one we’re in now -- Parfumerie is set during the last one, the 1930s). But of course, as this period piece is being staged in Beverly Hills, personal woes trump the economic ones. (Given that the cast includes little screen vets I can see it now: A new “reality” TV series called Shopkeepers of Beverly Hills!)

Allen Moyer’s set design is truly stellar. His evocation of a pre-WWII East European perfumery, so rich in lavish detail (with snowflakes falling outside the windows!), is the most sumptuous set this critic has ever seen on an L.A. stage -- with the sole exception of some of L.A. Opera’s onstage marvels. Indeed, this Tony and Drama Desk-nominated scenic designer has wrought his marvels for the Metropolitan and other opera houses, as well as for numerous Broadway and Off-Broadway shows. Bravo, Mr. Moyer, and thanks for your feast for the eyes (and noses!).

In addition, Parfumierie is the first play produced at the brand new Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts, a beautiful new addition to the Angeleno stage scene. From its original artwork by the likes of Roy Lichtenstein to its lovely architecture, it is all, well, very Beverly Hills. The Wallis is a worthy way to celebrate the centennial of this enclave of wealth in our city, which is -- lest we forget -- so beset by poverty.

As for the play itself: Well, Parfumerie may be a bit played out, long in the tooth and overly familiar to audiences, as it was adapted for the screen three times. Ernst Lubitsch directed 1940’s The Shop Around the Corner, with James Stewart and Margaret Sullavan as the star-crossed lovers. Following the invention of that newfangled email, Laszlo’s concoction about correspondence gone terribly wrong was updated by co-writer/director Nora Ephron in 1998’s You’ve Got Mail, co-starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

Mistaken identities has long been a convention of theater and opera, from Shakespeare to Mozart and, alas, beyond. This old saw of a plot device rears its ugly head in this letter writing themed comedy-drama. Some ticket buyers may be tickled by the ruse, while others might find the plot and play to be contrived, creaky and old fashioned. The second act is far better and more entertaining than the first. But, oh that glorious set, which reminded me of the interiors of Confiserie Sprüngli, the exquisite 19^th century chocolate shop and café at Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse! Overall, although it’s not exactly letter-perfect, most theatergoers will be entertained by this holiday fluff at a gorgeous new showcase for live theater.


Parfumerie runs through Dec. 22 in the Bram Goldsmith Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts, 9390 N. Santa Monica Blvd., Beverly Hills, CA 90210. For info: 310-746-4000; www.thewaillis.org.