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 .

 

THEATER REVIEW: CARMEN





Carmen (Patricia Bardon) in Carmen. Photo by Robert Millard.

 

 

Safety net

By Ed Rampell

LA Opera has launched its 2013/2014 season with a glorious Carmen. Experiencing the eye catching sets and costumes, the breathtaking mass spectacle and dramatic story and, above all, Georges Bizet’s entrancing, mellifluous music, aficionados might briefly feel what John Lennon called “instant karma.” When in Act I Irish mezzo-soprano Patricia Bardon as Carmen sings her “Habanera” aria in a Seville square or Italian bass-baritone Ildebrando D’Arcangelo as the bullfighter Escamillo performs Act II’s rousing “Toreador Song” in Lillas Pastia’s tavern, spectators may have a transcendental sense that there’s no better place to be in the entire universe at that moment than in his/her seat at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

This could impart a rapturous sensibility of well-being, that all’s well with the world -- but such is not so with the title character (played by Serbian mezzo-soprano Milena Kitic on Sept. 28). Carmencita, Spain’s sultry cigarette factory girl, is a sensuous free spirit, one of the original femme fatales, who lives and loves as she pleases. The high spirited Carmen perfectly expresses her philosophy in the lilting “Habanera” singing: 'Love is a rebellious bird nobody can tame.' But in patriarchal 19^th century Spain this sets Carmen, with her “gypsy” mentality, on a collision course with her soldier lover, Don Jose (tenor Brandon Jovanovich alternates in the role with Brazilian Thiago Arancom, who played the part on Oct. 1 and 4) and the dashing toreador Escamillo (baritone Dwayne Croft played the role Sept. 28), who vie for the enticing Carmen’s affections. Like Jezebel, Juliet and an endless number of film noir dolls, the coquettish Carmen must be punished by the patriarchy for daring to enjoy sex.

The current rendition of this perennial favorite is similar to LA Opera’s 2008 Carmen production by Emilio Sagi, reprising the period costumes by designer Jesus del Pozo, choreography (including some stirring, stylized flamenco numbers, castanets and all) by Nuria Castejon and bravura sets designed by Gerardo Trotti. The latter include a stunning Seville plaza, Lillas Pastia’s watering hole, a mountain set (perhaps in the Pyrenees) and the exterior of a bullfighting ring. There Carmen meets her destiny, but a sharp eyed observer might note that the ending of the previous production is, perhaps, significantly different than in the current version. Whereas in 2008 Carmen seemed to seal her fate by her own hand, in the 2013 rendition it seems to be carried out by another.

The non-traditional multi-culti casting of this opera composed by Bizet in 1875 with a libretto by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halevy, based on Prosper Merimee’s novel that takes place in 1820-ish Spain includes the aptly named South African soprano Pretty Yende as Micaela (Kentuckian Amanda Woodbury tackles the role Sept. 28) and South Korean soprano Hae Ji Chang as Frasquita, one of Carmen’s cohorts. When he entered the orchestra pit to wield the baton maestro, Placido Domingo was met with spontaneous ovations by the genuinely adoring crowd. Trevere Ross expertly directs the spectacle, which at times includes the tricky mise-en-scene of 60-ish performers moving onstage at once.

A number of senoritas in the audience wore red gowns and shawls to pay homage to their operatic heroine, the “scarlet lady.” Although set in Spain, Carmen is actually sung in French -- which may be appropriate, as this is sometimes called “the language of lovers.” Carmenhas four acts and is more than three hours long, with two intermissions. Plenty of time for theatergoers to willingly suspend their disbelief and ascend to opera heaven. Judging by this splendid premiere, Angelino opera fans are in for a stellar season. Instant Carmen’s gonna get you, as LA Opera shines on!

Carmen runs through Oct. 6 at 2:00 p.m. at the LA Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 135 N. Grand Ave. For more info: 213-972-8001; www.laopera.com.

 

The new book co-authored by reviewer Ed Rampell, The Hawaii Movie and Television Book, premieres November 20.

FILM REVIEW: GMO OMG

A scene from GMO OMG.

Corn-you-and-dystopia

By Miranda Inganni

From the director of DIVE!, Living Off of America’s Waste, Jeremy Seifert’s latest documentary, GMO OMG, delves into the subject of GMOs, or genetically modified organisms, and how they are affecting our planet, our bodies and our culture.

Available science has made “conventional” farmers (i.e. non-organic farmers) in the US comfortable in their choice to use pesticides and herbicides to make a “safe and abundant” food supply. (Safe and abundant in this context means a food supply that would reduce hunger around the world, but that is obviously not the case.) The companies producing the pesticides and herbicides are the same companies that are producing the GMO seeds: Monsanto, Dow, Bayer, DuPont, etc.  The corn or soy that grows from these seeds becomes, in and of itself, a pesticide. Subsequently, lack of regulation allows these pesticides to be food, or get into our food. 85 percent of all US grown corn is GMO corn, which means that consumers are ingesting a lot of these chemicals.

The impact of GMO farming on small farmers cannot be overlooked, either. If an organic farmer is growing corn, for example, next to a GMO corn field and some of the pollen or seeds from the GMO farm cross-pollinates, or seeds itself, the organic farmer can be sued by the GMO farm due to the fact that the GMO plant had a patent. Sadly this happens far too often. Yet another way that huge corporations can keep independent businesses down.

Additionally, much like how antibiotics have helped to create the superbugs that now exist as a threat to humans and animals, GMOs are assisting in the creation and/or production of super weeds and super insects that are resistant to herbicides and pesticides. To combat these problems, farmers have to use these chemicals in greater abundance. And so the cycle continues ad infinitum.

While the physical effects of GMO products have not been definitively proven to be harmful or not (the companies supporting the research stating that GMOs are not harmful just so happen to be the companies making the GMOs and will not release the raw data for peer review), we do know that these chemicals are in our bodies, our food source and our water system.

Seifert clearly believes strongly that GMOs need to be brought to the public’s attention, but the way he goes about it in GMO OMG feels a bit off. While his family is very photogenic (even if I really did want to reach through the screen and brush the hair out of those boys’ eyes!), they are too much of the focus of the film. The scare tactics he uses – like making his kids don hazmat suits and breathing masks before running through a corn field -- feels like exploitation. And while he may care what cattle on a farm are being fed, he does not seem to care about the condition the cattle are in. When Seifert learns that his beloved mountain fishing ponds are being stocked with fish from fisheries that were being fed pellets made with GMOs, his concern seems to be more about the loss of his pastime than the fish’s health. If Seifert is going to get up in arms about his family eating healthfully and being concerned about the future of the worlds’ agriculture, he might start thinking about sustainable farming, among other things. (And, hey, try vegetarianism!)

Nonetheless, there is a lot of frightening information about GMOs in Seifert’s film and this is an important subject demanding discussion.

FILM REVIEW: AFTER TILLER

A scene from After Tiller.

When choice is not just a word

By John Esther

On May 31, 2009, while serving as an usher at his church in Wichita, Kansas, 67-year-old Dr. George Tiller was shot through the eye and killed. One of a very few doctors who performed late-term abortions in America, Tiller was killed by an anti-choice activist.

(In 1993, Tiller had been shot five times by another anti-choice activist. Tiller's murderer received a life sentence plus 50 years.)

Since his death there are only four doctors in the U.S. who provide third trimester abortions and they are the subjects of co-directors Martha Shane and Lana Wilson’s informative documentary, After Tiller.

Constantly terrorized, confronted with moral dilemmas, and constrained by legal requirements, Dr. Leroy Carhart, Dr. Warren Hern, Dr. Susan Robinson and Dr. Shelly Sella perform what seems a rare, usually revered, occasionally reviled, public service.

What late-term abortion critics do not understand (among many other things) is that women and couples come to these doctors under very dire circumstances. The women or couple is at a point in the pregnancy where the fetus is unwanted, usually not because it was unplanned or the result of incest or rape, but because after its birth the child is destined to live under unbearable circumstances due to some horrific fetal anomaly. Why bring a child in this world if his or her future is predetermined to do nothing else but suffer – especially for the child, but for the mother or parents, too?

The patients come to these doctors because they are at wit's end. They do not come here lightly. It is a painful decision and not a pleasant procedure if the good doctors agree (which is hardly a given response). If the doctors agree to terminate the pregnancy the mother must deliver a stillborn. There are no happy endings here.

Addressing an issue many Americans are uncomfortable with, After Tiller sheds light and humanity on reproductive rights in this country. For these doctors, choice is not just a word or a political meme, but an action to be taken with the utmost seriousness, sincerity and solemnity.

THEATER REVIEW: LOST GIRLS

Mommy weirdest

By Ed Rampell

John Pollono’s witty, poignant one-act play, Lost Girls, is an extremely realistic slice of life, from the actors’ wicked New England, where the playwright hails from, accents to how this drama shows, among other things, that a continuum of character “flaws” can be passed down from one generation to another. In this case, it’s like-grandmother-like-mother-(maybe?)-like- granddaughter/daughter, as unwed mothers beget unwed mothers with unplanned and unwanted pregnancies.

Thirty-something Maggie (Jennifer Pollono) awakes one blustery Derry, New Hampshire morning to find her daughter missing -- and along with her, Maggie’s means of transportation. Minus her Honda during the snowstorm, Maggie is unable to get to her job at a store. The type of nine-to-five Maggie does is never specifically defined, but the fact that this blue collar position is what stands between survival and her household being plunged into poverty is an astute observation of the reality of daily life for millions of hard pressed Americans.

The well-being of Maggie’s mother, the 50-ish out-of-work Linda (Peggy Dunne), who is dependent on some sort of (presumably) government checks to survive, is also at stake if Maggie loses her job. But the main drama revolves around Maggie’s missing daughter, the third angry young woman, who may have run away from home, been abducted, killed in a car crash or who knows what

Desperate, Maggie turns to her ex-hubby, Lou (Joshua Bitton), a former policeman who now works for the state troopers. Lou uses his law enforcement connections to search for their missing daughter and in the process bringing his new wife to Maggie’s home during much of the hunt for the vanished teenager.

The pretty, blonde, pert Penny (Kirsten Kollander) may not exactly be a trophy wife, but Lou’s latest is an upgrade from Maggie in the looks and class departments -- which the ex knows and resents. This inevitably sets off sparks and Kollander does an expert acting job as an attractive woman who is discriminated against because she has committed the “crime” of being desirable, and must prove that she’s more than just a pretty face from a higher income bracket. Confronted by Maggie’s biting wit, Penny counters: “I don’t really do sarcasm.”

The scenes with the grownups are intercut with vignettes of two teens on the run holed up in a motel, as they are ostensibly en route to the young lady’s (Anna Theoni DiGiovanni) older lover (can you say “daddy issues”?) in Florida, where she is being driven to by a male classmate (Jonathan Lipnicki).

Your plot spoiler adverse critic won’t ruin the surprises for you, but suffice it to say that while Pollono’s drama unspools, it has the air of a naturalistic work for the thee-a-tuh. In fact, in terms of structure Lost Girls is more cinematic and theatrical in a couple of ways.

One reason is the rapid scenic transitions from the motel room to Maggie’s home and back and forth, thanks to the graceful, clever sets of scenic designer David Mauer, plus some yeoman (and yo! woman) actor/ stagehand moves faster than a speeding bullet by cast members. There is also a good use of rock songs, such as the Rolling Stones’ ode to revolt, “Street Fightin’ Man,” which literally helps set the stage for this proletarian drama.

Rogue Machine’s Artistic Director John Perrin Flynn flies again in another hit by this agile theatre company that is generating buzz across L.A.’s legit stage scene -- fresh from its long extended (and well-deservedly so) One Night in Miami triumph. Flynn deftly directs the taut ensemble acting and tight mise-en-scène of a flawless cast who never miss a beat in convincing audiences of the believability of their characters and situations. Pollono’s dialogue is often crisp, cutting, clever and comical -- sperm, for instance, is referred to as “baby batter” -- and always effectively delivered. Enhancing the play’s realism are frequent vulgarities, partial nudity and (presumably) simulated sex acts. But hey, that’s real life.

The finale will have many theatergoers scratching their noggins as they realize that all is not as it seems as seen, and that the unpredictable dramatist had a few clever tricks up his narrative sleeve, making for an extremely satisfying artistic experience.

 

Lost Girls runs through Nov. 4 at Rogue Machine Theatre, 5041 Pico Blvd., L.A., CA 90019. For more info: 855-585-5185; www.roguemachinetheatre.com.