Chaz Bono Has a Little Rednecked Fun

After Dirty Dancing made Patrick Swayze a huge star, he appeared in a string of films that didn't fare as well, before Ghost put him temporarily back on top.  One of those movies, Road House, which managed to make a little money at the box-office, went on to become a cult classic.  Now, Secondline Productions, which specializes in producing a series of 30 Minute Musicals, has spoofed the cheesy flic with an extra, fatted layer of good fun and tongue firmly planted in cheek (while trying to lodge out extra bits of cheddar).  Like the Hollywood star Swayze in 1989, Matt McConkey (Michael in The Boys in the Band at the Coast Playhouse in 2010) plays James Dalton a mysterious "cooler" (glorified version of a bouncer)  from NYC who moves to small town Missouri and takes employment at the Double Deuce as head of security.  He attracts the unwanted attention of Brad Wesley (a fully committed Todd Buonopane who is one part Silva from Skyfall and the other part Francis from Pee Wee's Big Adventure), a local tycoon whose animosity for the newcomer is layered with homoerotic overtones.  The production is full of comical bar brawls and easy, clueless coke whores.  Almost sung the entire way through, backed up by a small band, the more accurately forty-five minute endeavor is packed with hilariously filthy lines perfect for a house ready to laugh and be entertained.  The talented, energetic cast includes Chaz Bono as Tinker, one of Wesley's henchman.  Adapted and directed by Brooke Seguin (who also plays Carrieann), with music cowritten by Dan Wessels, the production runs through April 20th, with a 10:30 PM curtain.  You can find tickets here.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: Rock of Abandon

I've never seen a Greek comedy-drama-noir before, but The Elephant's Lillian Stage has temporarily opened its doors to CSI: Athens (circa 440 BCE) in Fierce Backbone's The Rock of Abandon.  The marvelous Jim Hanna (his turn is worth the price of admission) takes on the role of playwright Euripides, who, in the case of playwright Stephen Blackburn's purposes, is also a master sleuth getting on in the years.  He reluctantly accepts the task to solve the mystery of a murdered prostitute and old lover Celine, whose body is left at the title setting.  With the law perpetually on his tale, he must rely on his instincts and set his emotions aside to filter through the agendas of various state officials in his quest for the truth.  War and backdoor dealings serve as the canvass to the story, which is also a thinly veiled examination of power in politics today.  To be perfectly honest, the fleet of actors, exposition, and initial affected language was overwhelming at first, but once Blackburn's scenes secure a more intimate focus with his characters, it's much easier to appreciate what the production is shooting for.  However, I couldn't help but lament the volumes of information that slipped through the cracks of my brain during the first twenty minutes or so.  After the wonky start (at first, the vocal styles are inexplicably, perhaps unintentionally, extremely flamboyant, where every other male character seems to have a purse falling out of their mouths, only to strangely disappear), certain actors stand out and add some really panache to the proceedings like Monica Martin and Carolina Espiro.  Ann Ryerson gives what seems like a mannered, scattered performance, but comes full circle in Abandon's final moment with a ridiculous gag that has somewhat of a payoff.  Matt Richter provided the lighting and sound design for Tiger Reel's various directorial flourishes, which, along with Armando Norte's stark set (imagine a sea of black inscribed with red Chinese-style lightning, with a pentacle-ish centerpiece surrounded by a few column-busts), add an eclectic gravitas to the more essential moments.  I'm sure there was a great deal I missed which warrants a second viewing in a production that is likely to improve through the run.  The play closes November 18th and you can find tickets here.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: Room 105 (at the MACHA Theatre)

MACHA Theatre/Films offers balcony seats in a venue that is reminiscent of the Troubadour down the street (which is actually referenced in the performance). I’m not sure there is a bad seat in this charming space. The stage looks like a bedroom full of trunks draped in feathered boas and bathed in orange, purples, and pinks, but we’re warned, “Enter at your own risk! This play takes place inside the mind of Janis Joplin.” The band (Josh Sklair, Corey Coverstone, Ed Roth, Daniel Pearson), veiled by a diaphanous black curtain, takes the stage and Jimi Hendrix’ version of the “Star Spangled Banner” pulsates every fiber of the Macha while a couple of monitors flash images of Woodstock. Then, Writer/director Gigi Gaston smartly takes a page out of Melissa Etheridge’s memorable Grammy performance from almost a decade ago and presents “Piece of My Heart” with Sophie B. Hawkins exploding onto stage as Joplin, as that is what the rock standard demands.

Gaston’s Room 105 (The Highs and Lows of Janis Joplin)--Joplin's place of death at the Hollywood Landmark Motor Hotel--is set in the 21st-century and has the singer waking up as if she finished a long hibernation rather than died of an overdose. Regardless, the tiny, fit Hawkins doesn’t look unlike Joplin’s 27 years when she passed. She has a hot mess of dirty blonde hair and traipses around stage barefoot in velvet bellbottoms, swigging Southern Comfort. Supported by a small cast, this rock musical or concert-play hybrid (in the vein of Jersey Boys or Hedwig & the Angry Inch) offers biographical sketches of ghosts from Joplin’s past paying her visits between breaking into song, touching on various highlights of Joplin’s short life including Woodstock, her high school reunion, and her relationship with Peggy Caserta. Joplin is portrayed as a woman who was ostracized as an unattractive kid, so when her talent and hard work afforded her success, she became an unrepentant hedonist. Yet, never figuring out how to deal with her insecurities in the face of fame, Joplin dulled her pain with hard drugs, leaving her demons unreconciled in a world which only revolved around her. There are some comical moments. When Joplin brings up Anna Nicole, she asks, “Where was my Nancy Grace when I needed her?”

Sometimes touching, other times a bit wonky, the acting scenes may be in need of some minor retooling, but, man, when Hawkins starts singing, she sings the shit out of those songs. And, even with Joplin’s unmistakably, distinctive voice, Hawkins’ heart colors each note and vocal gymnastic. She really outdoes herself here. Additional songs include “Me and Bobby McGee,” “Summertime,” “Ball ‘n’ Chain, “Try (Just a Little Bit Harder),” “Get It While You Can,” “Little Girl Blue,” “A Woman Left Lonely,” “Down on Me,” and “To Love Somebody.” As well, members of the cast perform the sultry choreography of Bonnie McMahan to an instrumental.  You can find tickets here.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: Reclining Nude on La Cienega

Festive music greeted the freshly open house of the Lillian Theatre.  Bright lights shined down on comedian Jann Karam already bopping around on stage, doing stretches here and there, full of giddy excitement.  Her hair is clipped up, the smell of paint is in the air, as she makes final touches on the set that serves as her residential work loft, populated by canvasses spread across the stage at various levels, surrounded by ladders and windows.  Light grey photographer umbrellas hang from the ceiling in abstract clusters.  The whole set blends fantastically with the exposed brick and vaulted ceiling of The Lillian. There’s an openness and liveliness one might expect at the opening of a new art exhibition, as the jubilant Karam dances, jumps around, and interacts with the packed house on closing night. 

After the lights dim on the audience, she splashes some beige paint and comments, “Superior, that’s superior.”  Of course, she is at least partly referring to her hometown of Superior, Arizona and the splotch of taupe is one of many strokes to come via brush, hands, or lobbing a $0.99 teddy bear smothered in black paint, which lands with a dark, comical thud on one of her works in progress.  The details of her paintings are pretty blunt, to say the least, but the verbal elements of her childhood in a rural desert town are expressive and nuanced.  She first describes her life in the form of a poem, as she inexhaustibly flits about the stage.  But, as she delves deeper, she extinguishes the romance once imagined as a young girl who was quickly shaped by outside forces with no insight into her true needs.  She employs hand-puppets (and hand-paintbrushes) and peaks from behind any space she can fit her little body into; as well, lighting cues spotlight stand-up comedy asides, which play into her trade as a comic. 

In lesser hands, her self-deprecation may be too much of a weight for the audience to carry.  She treads on very awkward and uncomfortable territory that many people fear confronting, yet her effervescent personality keeps you hooked and engaged.  The staging feeds her kinetic energy, both literally and figuratively.  She’s full of feisty mannerisms as she adeptly thumbs through her list of loser boyfriends while likening them to metaphors like frozen yogurt.  She’s too much of a storyteller to make the play all about her, even though, on the surface, that’s exactly what it is, as she diagnoses her repeated behaviors while seeking reconciliation with the past. 

As the performance progresses, naturally, both the stage and Karam accumulate more and more paint.  She recounts the misinformation imposed on her growing up as well as the patterns that set her well into one failed relationship after another as an adult.  As already referenced, the final paintings are quite crude in appearance.  However, in the course of over ninety minutes, the audience has the full history and can identity with something in each one.  There aren’t many actors doing what she is.  And, in the space of Reclining Nude, Karam is able to spread her wings and realize her true potential as an artist.  This venue fits her like a glove (at one point, she even ties an OJ Simpson joke to her history with domestic abuse).  

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: LORCAbaret

Aptly described in the program as, “A cross between play, performance art, and poetry reading,” LORCAbaret (subtitled Six Scenes and a Murder) explores the titular Spanish writer’s (Federico Garcia Lorca) political and sexual persona, examining a very specific point in his young adult life. A child of privilege, with a circle of friends including Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dalí, his family sent the poet and playwright to the US right before the Great Depression. While abroad, he also sojourned to Cuba. His assassination in his 30s during the Spanish Civil War followed shortly.  Simone Nardini wrote and directed this piece set in a club with an emcee (Alain Washnevsky) in the vein of the Kander/Ebbs icon, who is everything you might expect: crazy, aloof, mildly sadistic in tone. He runs the show with a tight whip, as he introduces his girls: a motley crew of four guys clad in only tighty-whities and bowler hats. The only linearity in these nontraditional biographic snapshots is that they're broken up into one hour’s worth of scenes, each a reimagining of one of Lorca’s pieces of work (poems and scenes from plays). One of the first images we see is of Lorca (Dario Soler) wearing nothing but a small theatrical mask over his crotch, with his head popping out of a huge book.  Things then get much more complicated.

Some emotions are telegraphed, while others deeply expressive and raw, each new scene carries with it a cryptic mythology confronting sexual relationships and imposed puritanical values. Throughout the struggle with erotic oppression are controversial imagery related to the KKK, Hitler’s salute, etc. “I wish I had my freedom,” pines a lost and confused Lorca towards the end. The tone runs from creepy to haunting to flamboyant to bittersweet. Despite the random style and symbolism of this avant-garde production, LORCA achieves a lyrical beauty generally not found in today’s theatre. Its subject matter is often difficult to wrap one’s head around, but there is a degree of simplicity which makes its profound effects strangely accessible. With a talented international cast (Mexico, Argentina, Brazil, Cuba, France, Iran), you may recognize some of the actors from Promenade Players Theatre Company's recent production of Six Characters in Search of an Author (i.e. Rodrigo Brand, Edgardo Gonzales), many of whom have bodies that are just sick and will make you feel guilty for not hitting the gym.

Warning: There is nudity in this play, as it’s a frank presentation of themes of a sexual nature. If male genitalia out front and center bothers you, then you especially should see this play as to explore why that is.  LORCAbaret runs through December 14th with Friday-only performances (8 PM) in Santa Monica. You can find tickets here.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: By the Way, Meet Vera Stark (At the Geffen Playhouse)

The Geffen Playhouse has opened their new season with a bang. Their opening play Lynn Nottage’s By the Way, Meet Vera Stark reaches back to the 1930s to dig up a few fictional relics of Pre-Code Hollywood. Gloria Mitchell (Amanda Detmer) is an actress looking for a comeback role and Vera Stark (Sanaa Lathan) is struggling for just a part to get her foot in the door. The difference? The platinum blond Caucasian Gloria enjoys resting on the privileges of her white laurels, while black Vera is willing to take any crumbs that will come her way to fulfill her burning desire to perform on celluloid. The latter lives in a boarding house with actress friends of hers sailing in the same African-American boat. There’s a new production about to go up called the Belle of New Orleans which details the relationship between a maid and a southern woman, who discovers she’s (gasp!) an octoroon.

The first act of Stark is a mad-cap send-up of black cliques, satirizing Tinsel Town and its continued quest to sell audiences on its primitive reality. The second act provides a Clybourne Park twist, going full-on meta, complete with crafty technical choices while mixing mediums in a presentation of how time and society have regarded both Gloria and Vera.  While the success of the change-over is mixed, its merits are extremely high. The versatile group of actors return mostly recast in new roles in a deconstruction of race and gender, specifically black women. There’s even a secret revealed that isn’t so much a surprise, but adds thematic support. 

The cast plays off each other musically, as their spoken words are more like songs. Merle Dandridge as Anna Mae’s social-climber is a firecracker and Kimberly Hébert Gregory’s Lottie, a heavyset actress who has been in the business long enough to have tired of all the games, is dynamite. Detmer as the temperamental, lazy, struggling starlet hoping to regain her mantle of “America’s “sweetie pie” is a card. The men are given a chance to have some fun of their own, offering technically diverse characterizations from Spencer Garrett and Mather Zickel, accents and all. The chemistry, especially between Lathan and Kevin T. Carroll (who plays Vera’s love interest Leroy) is palpable. And it’s film and TV actress Lathan who holds the whole venture together with her tough and hungry Vera. The grand set pieces including a soundstage and Gloria’s setting room adorned with a chandelier and full ornate bar are interchanged inventively between the carefully orchestrated scene changes with an eye for the visual. ESosa’s costumes are exquisite including some eye-popping gowns. 

Sanaa Lathan reprises her role of Vera Stark

Some of the second act roles are talking-head cartoons presenting matters of import. Yet, the play encourages the viewer to look passed their one-dimensional surfaces, and examine their baggage, not ignoring that the whole circus is quite cyclical.  The present-day nuances aren’t always discernible.  Stark is all about the double edged sword of pushing the envelope while subscribing to the rules: getting your truth out in the open in an albeit limited and predesignated capacity in a world where the ruling race self-satisfyingly appropriates style and art from the groups it oppresses. How even a “progressed” society that has self-congratulatingly moved beyond the ills of its past, unknowingly discloses its shortcomings and bloated perceptions of its gains by over-romanticizing bygone (and current) eras. One second act panel member asserts that “Vera breathed life into aged stereotypes”; the actress herself shares that her work was both her “shame and my glory.” We all pay a price for success, but we can still choose how we color in the details on the way up. One character comments that Vera’s eventual choices and contributions to society were both “problematic and indelible.”

Hollywood, in general, especially today, has limited its interests to straight white males and very little has changed over the years, with the exception of examples like Will Smith and Denzel Washington, bringing to light the state of black women in Hollywood 2013. Angela Bassett has come and gone, and even Halle Berry is left working on the fumes of her Best Actress get from a decade ago, bringing to the forefront Viola Davis. Last year’s The Help begs the question just how far have we come when in the 2010s, the best we can do is an actress injecting all the humanity she can muster into the role of a maid in 1960s so mainstream America can self-righteously pat itself on the back for doing nothing. In Stark’s Hollywood, one character may refer to the recent movie’s Civil Right’s backdrop as “wallpaper.” The juxtaposition is ironic and Jo Bonney’s smart direction brings it all home. The play confesses that we’re all products of our time, but we have the choice not only with how we deal with our present, but what lens we use to judge the past. Please, by all mean, do yourself a favor and Meet Vera Stark.  You can start by going here.  

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: Silence! The Musical

The Silence of the Lambs won the Oscar for Best Picture over twenty years ago and is one of the few films for which I emphatically concur with the AMPAS. I’m obnoxiously picky when it comes to favorite movies, and, though two of its main characters are serial killers (one who eats his victims, the other who wears them as costumes), without care of perception, it IS unashamedly my all-time favorite (and that politically-motivated movie-spoiler Michael Medved disdains it makes me only hold it in higher esteem). It’s the movie I’d choose if forced to live with only one on a deserted island. I can quote this perfect classic and tirelessly watch in repeat viewings.  Maybe that makes me sick and demented, but I believe it blends an earnest coming-of-age tale of redemption with high camp and you can watch two completely separate movies, depending on what frame of mind you’re in through choice or circumstance. It’s either an engrossing, terrifying suspense-thriller or an over-the-top unintentional horror comedy (or both simultaneously).

Nearly a decade ago, genius brothers Jon and Al Kaplan were able to take the outlandish version and shape it into an internet musical, which has grown and evolved over time (thanks to the book by Hunter Bell) and collected a series of awards. Like the recent Jersey Shoresical at The Hayworth Theatre, Silence! is a musical based on TV/Film pop culture, where the latter has the luxury of a premade plotline. The Kaplans rip memorable dialogue and just about every scene from the movie, twisting the famous dialogue to fit their extreme brilliance. For the uninitiated, in the film version, Jodie Foster played FBI agent-in-training Clarice Starling whose interviews with Anthony Hopkins’ criminally insane Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter augment the search for Ted Levine’s serial killer Jame Gumb.

It helps to have a basic familiarity with the film (though not entirely necessary) to enjoy the multitude of inside jokes. The overall detail in the production’s content is striking and the execution inventive (Gumb’s View-Master attached to a bicycle helmet is masterful, as well as Starling’s childhood recollections filtered through Kabuki). A little patience is abundantly rewarded for the 90+ minute-running time sans intermission, thanks to multiple applause holds and the rich mine of its 2-hour award-winning source of killer lines and iconic scenes. The humor and tone are deliciously lewd and that’s being polite. They go there. And there. And there. Etc. This show isn’t for the easily offended or faint-of-heart when it comes to the sexual and scatological. It’s The Family Guy by way of HBO (or perhaps Cinemax) or the Mad magazine material that’s too risqué for publication. But, if your threshold for jizz jokes and the use of the word “cunt” is high, you are in for one entertaining ride.  Christopher Gattelli's assured direction (as well as choreography) keeps the momentum clipping along.

As Clarice, with her spotless accent, Christine Lakin (best known from the 1990s sitcom Step By Step) blew me away. She just doesn’t miss a beat. David Gaines as Hannibal Lecter is ruthlessly and unforgivingly great; he’ll have you begging for mercy. Stephen Bienskie as Gumb (aka Buffalo Bill) is mind-numbingly authentic. Jeff Skowron adds a little Uncle Arthur to his Dr. Chilton, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg as he escorts and flirts with Agent Starling in a song-and-dance number down to Lecter’s dungeonous quarters. Silence! hemorrhages comic and improvisational talent of a top-tier cast, which isn’t limited to an obscenely talented Greek chorus of lambs (with priceless small black condiment containers as hoofs used for multiple effect) who improv, mug, and perform gymnastics whether they’re the center of attention or off on the sidelines. There is always more than one direction to be looking.  Enough cannot be said of every little flourish each member adds to the proceedings, including American Idol Season 3’s Latoya London as Ardelia Mapp (she has a gloriously predictable, but necessary moment towards the end) and So You Think You Can Dance Season 5’s Melissa Sandvig, who performs a showstopping pas de deux in a way I imagine she never expected to in her years of training as a ballerina.

Before curtain, digital moths project on some massive monolithic face slabs (the names of the scene locations also appear in the font from the film). The surprisingly utilitarian and simple set is stitched with a collage of indented imagery spray-painted silver.

I wholeheartedly approve of this musical take on my all-time favorite film.  Take that for what it’s worth. But, if you remotely liked the movie and have an appreciation for X-rated cringe-inducing humor and wit, you must treat yourself and your friends to Silence! The Musical.  You can find tickets here.  

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: Xanadu (at DOMA)

When you enter DOMA Theatre Co’s lobby for their latest production Xanadu, bubbles cascade down the stairwell and the smell of cotton candy wafts through the air.  The producers and creative team have gone the extra step to not only put on a show, but provide its audience with an overall experience. Shelf tables allows for in-house drinks, and as viewers young and old take their seats, cast members nonchalantly enter the stage in 70s workout gear and begin stretching to Pretenders music.  Soon, the angelically-themed orchestra sets up, poetically enough, above the white rainbow-marbled (of course!) stage. The story itself involves a muse who travels down to early 1980s Los Angeles for one last quest to earn her place in heavenly Xanadu, but jeopardizes her mission by falling in love with an artist who hopes to build a roller disco.

Smartly retaining the bulk of the panned original film’s (which has become a cult classic of sorts) Olivia Newton-John/ELO songbook, the stage musical appropriately adds a few more tunes from the era, as well as a Clash of the Titan’s plot flourish. As a first-time viewer of this show, the songs work much better into the plot than its progenitor Mamma Mia! (the potpourri of ABBA songs were like bright squares being shoved through round holes). With everything which its time era offers, as well the found-pop-song musical itself, one might consider Xanadu as the new benchmark for such endeavors, if it’s not already. Douglas Carter Beane writes each scene at just the right length with a song around every corner; even the timing of each act is perfect. He sprinkles a light sarcasm throughout the tongue-in-cheek tone. And the original production team imbue the fantasia with some magical moments which include a roller-skating duet incorporating a mobile telephone booth.

While DOMA Theatre Co. doesn’t offer a Broadway production, it’s still bursting at the seams with fun and glitter. (Ironic that the company puts on this gay affair and shares its acronym with the unconstitutional 1996 federal law which defines marriage between one man and one woman) As the lead Kira/Clio, Lovlee Carroll leads the cast as Kira/Clio.  She’s quite charismatic and effortlessly displays her abilities through song, scat, tap, roller-skating, all while sporting an Australian accent. Veronica Scheyving adds some gusto to the proceedings as the necessary villain.  The actors invest 110%, the dancing is excellent, and the orchestra, quite frankly, rocks. The two chorus-dancers Allyson Blackstone and Morgan Gallant are infectiously adorable with their beaming smiles, youthful energy, and revolving closest of outfit changes. And those costumes are ridiculously fabulous, to say the least, as one might expect for a musical that skirts across various styles of fashion. But designer Michael Mullen really went the whole nine yards of fabric here. He deserves an award of some kind. By the end, this audience-pleaser had a full house standing ovation waving around a sea of glow sticks as the company bows to one of the best uses of one of the best pop songs of all time after the eponymous finale.  You can find tickets here, but, good luck, as I imagine word is getting around.  Xanadu only lasts until October 7th.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: The Year of Magical Thinking

“It will happen to you,” Judy Jean Berns informs the audience as she walks onto the Elephant Stage as Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking, based on the famous author’s book. A lit white backstage wall is the canvass for her oxford grey cardigan layered over a lavender dress. Her silver hair is cropped and she wears a locket around her elegant neck.  With only a wicker rocking chair upholstered with floral cushions next to a small table holding a glass of water and a medical book, in her mild, but heightened voice, she has a story to tell.  She briefs us on every raw detail of what has just happened to her family, as if we have just walked into the emergency waiting room.  It's an environment which Didion controls, only after this autobiography had taken place years ago.  Her experience is pretty incredible: she lost her husband while her only child lay in coma, who, a short time later, also succumbed to death.  The writer takes the audience through her processing of the events, approaching situations clinically, as if she were describing a crime scene. She takes nothing for granted and everything at face value, looking for irrefutable proof in every nook and cranny for the truth of her situation. “Is a lie a story the hearer only disbelieves?” she questions. As she measures every little detail while revisiting elements from different periods of her life, she manipulates the facts as a coping mechanism to lead her through the unimaginable (when contemplating calling friends in California immediately after her husband had just passed in New York, she considers the notion that he may not be yet dead Pacific Standard Time). Her literal contemplations lead to many poignant observations, as she entertains her alternate reality while avoiding falling into a vortex. The upper-class liberal atheist's (?) sobering account serves as a cerebral answer to others who turn to religion or God in time of great tragedy. Berns’ compelling line-readings appropriately supplement the story of a woman whose life was ripped away from her in only the autumn of her life. You can find tickets here.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: A Brooklyn Love Story (formerly known as Emergency Used Candles)

Sometimes, the remarkable disguises itself unassumingly. Generally, as one ages and perhaps relents to the throws of the jaded populace, to have one’s socks truly knocked off is accompanied by a loud, showy obviousness, which occurs once in a blue moon. That’s a very specific predicament I often find myself contending with, which, to be quite honest, is stifling and too restrictive. Chiara Montalto’s one-woman show A Brooklyn Love Story (formerly titled Emergency Used Candles), now playing at Theatre 68, is a reminder that life’s pleasures are quite simple and plain, and, essentially, it's all about the ability to relate. The autobiographical comedy centers on her life with her Brooklyn grandparent. They’re a May-December couple with this version of herself as a green, college-aged youth juxtaposed with her 92-year-old forefather. He’s a happy-go-lucky type who fondly refers to his granddaughter as “sweetheart.” Her eloquent observations find a voice in his Bensonhurst-bred tongue. He has his routine beset with an assortment of quirks, which provide a background of sorts to Montalto’s dating life at the time. The exceptionally young and bright actor offers the audience a quaint flavor that has all but disappeared from our social culture, channeling her granddad, as well as a choice few others. It feels like Radio Days, even if Law & Order is on the tube.  The set is a little haphazard, with boxes encircling a jukebox and random radiators lying about, but the centerpiece of the stage is a huge net plastered with loose pages on both sides (it looks like paper machete), spiraling down to an armchair at its base. The image creates a movement as if Montalto has been whisked into Los Angeles for a short time only in this whimsical valentine to her grandfather. You can find tickets here.

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Broadway in Burbank Review

Bright Eyes Productions presented Broadway In Burbank last night at the Colony. I was actually running late getting into the Valley and Waze took me on a route I had never experienced before (using Outpost to get to Mullholland taking me down to Cahuenga).  Pretty nifty!  Despite the slow polks in front of me on the short-cut, I nabbed a princess parking spot right across from the theatre and arrived after 8:05 PM only to realize that no one was in any rush to get started. So, I immediately slowed down, got my bearings, and relaxed in the stadium-style 300-seat or so theatre. The air-conditioning was quite a lovely change from the 82-degree Burbank evening. Richard Kilroy directed the benefit concert, with musical accompaniment by Ron Snyder and Dave Bass. Greg Stickroth and Diane Pancel led this musical revue as two characters in a rather elaborate office setting self-referentially brainstorming ideas for a fundraiser. The premise is pretty light-weight and negligible. Singers appear from the wings and each present a pair of solos to document the progress, cobbling together an eclectic mix of songs. David Johnson first comes on to sing Funny Girl's "Dont Rain on My Parade"unannounced. Having a momentary lapse, the pianist fills his in-character request for the first couple of words to Pal Joey's "If I Could Write a Book," and he's off and running.  Pancel then gives a little Rodgers & Hart "Manhattan."

Second to take the stage is Helene McCardle, who conspicuously saunters in with her strawberry blonde asymmetrical cut to give her rendition of "Mack the Knife" in German. In English, she sang Jacques Brel's "Amsterdam," made popular by David Bowie. After McCardle, the towering Kathleen Ingle soaked up the spotlight to belt out the title song of Light in the Piazza. She cut loose with Chicago's "When You're Good to Mama," engaging in a few barely naughty thrusts and gestures to titillate the older-skewing crowd. Next was Larry Davis, whose jazzy "Get Me to the Church on Time" from My Fair Lady was almost as cool as the syncopated and elongated phrasing he offered on "Anything Goes." Jessica Buda then solemnly emerged with the somber "Millworker" from Working and soaks her heart into Pippin's "Kind of Woman." Before she exits, she engages in a duet with Stickroth from Follies. He plays a character who claims to lack singing talent, which he quickly disproves with "Too Many Mornings." Pat Whiteman whimsically whisks the audience away with "I'd Rather Be Sailing" from A New Brain and then sings a song about nerves and jitters, which I was unfamiliar with.

During intermission, some of the actors mingled with the audience members munching on plates of pretzels and cheese squares. I checked out the endless walls of photos from past productions dating all the way back to the 1970s. In Act II, Stickroth gets a little more comfortable and delightfully droll. His speaking voice is monotone and benefits from an off-handed tone. His character, as well as Pancel, are late for some appointment and they need money fast. Kurt Weill gets another shout out with "Speak Low" from Bill Hemmer, whose powerful vocals effortlessly segue into a spunky "Before the Parade Passes By" from Hello, Dolly! Pancel finally gets her moment to shine with an admirable crack at "Don't Cry For Me Argentina," from, of course, Evita. Stickroth fits in his own solo with the moving A Little Night Music's "Send in the Clowns." He joins Pancel in an electric "Music of the Night" from The Phantom of the Opera. The entire cast joins the duo to close out the show with A Chorus Line's "What I Did for Love."  Absent from the program was Ruby Lewis.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: To Quiet the Quiet at the Elephant Stages

Lisa Richards, Stephen Mendillo

To Quiet the Quiet premiered in the Elephant Space of the Elephant Stages last night to a full house and standing ovation. Barbara Bain directed the three person production starring Lisa Richards, Michael Friedman, and Stephen Mendillo. The timeless setting involves protagonist Kathy (Richards) in the security of her kitchen, "central to a home and a woman's life," Bain recently shared with me. On the surface, the daffy spinster has a bit of an attention deficit disorder and there's nothing like a good breathing exercise to keep her focus in check--something many of us can relate to. Luckily for her, she has Quinn (Michael Friedman with his deep, resonant voice), a strapping, young hunk of a man who is her red-suspendered counselor of sorts. He's her point of reference when her memory clouds over--her beacon of light to regain her footing. Details about her life are impressed upon, finely tuned, and revisited often much to Kathy's chagrin. But, everything rides on her endurance if, as Bain put it, she is to "get everything she wants." The ending is a real jaw-dropper and for those unjaded types, a bit shocking--something The Exorcist recently attempted.

Michael Friedman, Lisa Richards 

There are clues aplenty buried in this slowly unfolding tale. Nothing more can really be said about the plot that one can't find out for themselves by going to see the show. Richards captures Kathy's distracted, nervous energy from the get-go. Her comic timing is shrewd and she has a sexiness that is both tender and desperate. Every now and then, the playful minx will cop a feel or steal a whiff of masculine scent as if it's the closest she'll ever get to the real thing. She's like a magnet in search of something to attach herself to. Her success depends on which side she uses that attracts or repels. Her more emotional deliveries are riveting and heartbreaking, and, rather swiftly, she can erase all traces of fragility with her dismissive laugh. Richards' husband Mendillo plays good man Todd to a "T." The cast is solid and, together, share wonderful chemistry. Matt Richter's sly lighting is simple and unobtrusive, complete with a soundless soundtrack. Joel Daavid's abstract Santa Fe-ish color schemed kitchen is quite a little marvel. The clearly domestic set has no specific setting (as none is really required), other than being post-World War II, with a fractured background, topped off with puzzle-like end pieces. And it's director Bain who deserves accolades for putting them all together to fit just so perfectly together.

Lisa Richards on Joel Daavid's set

Playwright Christy Hall yearned to make a mystery that harkens back to plays of yesteryear like The Mousetrap and The Woman in Black. And, she wanted to hold the audience's attention for ninety minutes without intermission, before sending them on their merry (or stunned) way. She has certainly accomplished everything she set out to do and, additionally, one might say, created a sinister valentine to an all too commonly marginalized part of our society. She even manages to add a cherry on top of the sundae for the theatregoer--a whole bowl of them, actually. Get thee to the Elephant, so you can experience Hall's brilliance for yourself. You have until August 12th to buy tickets here. Not to would be a crime, or, at the very least, a misdemeanor.

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Los Angeles Theatre Review: The Exorcist (at the Geffen Playhouse)

In 1971, William Peter Blatty came out with The Exorcist, a novel inspired by a real-life event from the 1940s.  The book was a bestseller and Hollywood immediately pounced on the property releasing the film version only two years later.  William Friedkin's chiller scared the Hell out of a nation and was a huge hit (one of the highest grossers of the 1970s), scoring multiple Oscar nominations, including Best Picture.  The story dealt with a crisis of faith and the unreliability of science to explain spiritual phenomenon.  John Pielmeier, the playwright who adapted the book for the stage, has had experience in dealing with religious myths and the unexplainable.  He adapted his own play for the feature length film Agnes of God back in 1985, which garnered him an AMPAS nod.  His Exorcist steers as far away from the film as possible, but there is only so much embellishment of smaller details in the book which can produce anything new or surprising content-wise.  The play treads through the plot-points while fully absorbed in the theological struggles of the characters.  Chris MacNeil (Brooke Shields, with her amazing bone structure and cascading brunette locks) is a mother who searches for answers to save her girl Regan (Emily Yetter) whose body is inhabited by a demon.  Exhausted of options, she's lead to Father Damien Karras (David Wilson Barnes), who wrestles with his own conscience, having allowed his mother to die lonely and improperly attended.  Tony-winner John Doyle provides sobering direction for the clerical figure and mother so helpless in their own plights, most emotions are quite inaccessible.  Many of the conversations take place in a clinical fashion across almost the entire length of the Geffen stage.  Also in the cast is Richard Chamberlain, who performs the role of Father Merrin in the finale, after spending the entire production reminding the audience through several asides about the likely existence of the devil.  As well, Harry Groener plays the unexamined flamboyant film director Burke Dennings, in a role beefed up for the stage.  


Scenic Designer Scott Pask created a gorgeous Gothic set which accentuates the sweeping gestures of the play's grand Catholic themes.  A thick life-size cross hung from chains lords over the single-set stage comprised of an altar which doubles as a a bed surrounded by tall wrought-iron walls.  The grandiose fixture envelops the proceedings and provides a rest area for actors not in a scene (no one ever leaves the stage).  Jane Cox's lighting bathes the proceedings in high contrast, sometimes decorated by a wall of thick lit-up ribbons and fog emanating from the wings.  Aside from Regan levitating (I have no idea how they pulled it off) and a surprise in the finale (which you won't see in the film), the minimalist production has little special effects other than some sound-distortions, including moments when the possessed Regan speaks.

One of my (as well as Pauline Kael's) main beefs with the film was what the filmmakers put 13-year-old Linda Blair through.  While the movie is both shocking and effective, it's difficult to reconcile the price that had to be paid.  In the staged version, the able-bodied Yetter (who sounds like a little girl, but is of an indeterminate age) engages in contortionist moves that simulate the bulk of Regan's physical possession.  Even the nasty things that come out of her mouth are spoken by an ensemble of males, including a voice-over (similar to how Mercedes McCambridge provided the demon's vocals in the movie, but less insidious and more Zurg) and the urination scene is simulated.  The evil that lurks within her is telegraphed, perhaps convincingly enough for those who believe in supernatural evil.

The Exorcist is 95-minutes without intermission and plays through August 12th.  You can find out more information here.

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Theatre Review: A Missionary Position at the REDCAT

Ugandan gay politics have been receiving a great deal of attention lately or more so than most nations, African or otherwise.  Just a few weeks ago, one of the few gay-themed films at the LA Film Festival was the documentary Call Me Kuchu.  The brief history of the nation's gay struggle also served as a profile of David Kato, who was slain during production and detailed in the immediate aftermath.  Artist Ntare Guma Mbaho Mwine closed his four-performance weekend on Sunday at the REDCAT.  Emily Hoffman directed his distinctive characters, most of them out gays (as much as they can be), all with their own soliloquies.  Mwine has used his film/TV success (he's currently starring in HBO's Treme) as well as Kickstarter to produce his one-man show.  Additionally, the actor is a prominent filmmaker and turned his production into a multi-media show including photos and footage projected on a screen as well as sheer curtains waving gently at various points on the REDCAT stage.  

One of the main reasons Uganda has been in the news these past few years is because of MP David Bahati introducing his Anti-Homosexuality Bill in 2009.  Better known as the "Kill the Gays" bill, the euphemism perfectly spells out its intent, among other objectives, including three-year sentences to anyone who DOES NOT report someone they know to be gay within 24 hours.  The outlandishness of the proposed law is only topped by its imagined execution, both literally and figuratively.  Several world leaders, including President Barack Obama and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton have vocally opposed the bill.  When British PM Gordon Brown threatened to cut aid, the matter was tabled only to be reintroduced again.  Some of the more defiant proponents of the bill are prepared to choose poverty over "immorality," and a subsequent vote would likely result in its passing.  As it stands now, victories are defined by a court ruling that a couple's rights were violated when authorities busted into their home and physically harassed them, as well as awarding nominal damages to unassuming people who were outed by a nefarious public tabloid.

Ntare Guma Mbaho Mwine

The play is based on several interviews Mwine conducted on his trip back to his home country, creating composites which gave voice to the average gay Ugandan, who has gotten lost in the mix.  Dressed in a cap, shades, and boots, Mwine first enters as a military police officer and announces, "This is not part of the show business you came to see."  The title of the show is a double entendre, one of many used cheekily by this soldier in charge of infiltrating private homosexual activity of Ugandan citizens per its unfortunately inhumane penal code.  He accounts the unwarranted invasion and harassment of a lesbian couple informing the audience, "In order to be caught for conviction, you need to be caught in the act."  While a short clip plays, Mwine disrobes into drag and applies red lipstick.  His voice softens as Serena, the sex worker who "if you want to talk to her about her privates, you're going to have to buy her a drink."  Serena explains how gay gatherings were only socially-based before the government cracked down.  Only then were the seeds of political activism planted.  But, even then, the small, disparate community was a disjointed LGBTI.  "One who has diarrhea doesn't help one who vomits," as a humorous expression goes.  But, it was no laughing matter that the sex workers and trans who worked the front-lines of the Ugandan gay movement later became pawns in a media game, marginalized for the most part.  "Maybe they will come when I'm dead," she ruminates.  But, she speaks fondly of how her seemingly tragic life has uniquely opened up so many doors and opportunities since.  


One of his next characters is a refined minister whose inner sexual turmoil informs his spirituality.  He's a man without a foundation who has called into question even his Ugandan identity, as he is gay.  He shares how the Westernized import of Christianity ironically annihilated the country's originally progressive attitude towards gay relationships.  "If homosexuality is not Ugandan, then is Christianity?"  He theorizes the Original Sin was not Adam eating the apple, but God breaking up the first community, resulting in mankind struggling with this fractured sense of being ever since.  He subsequently endeavors a relationship with a limousine European liberal and laments that his fear of death stops him from doing more than David Kato.  

I visit Gay Patriot a great deal (a conservative political blog) and often share my thoughts on their comment threads.  I always get a kick out of those who over-criticize PRIDE and all of its debauchery and perceived irrelevancy.  Yet, the endless summer celebrations across the Westernized world have inspired other countries and inconspicuously affected change.  The entertainment industry has also played a role.  The L Word's random broadcasting in the early 2000s prompted a gathering for gays at a local Ugandan bar called Sapho Island, echoing the origins of Stonewall.  Such seemingly innocent events are what plant the seeds of progress.  To discredit or ignore this seems disingenuous.  The Nile ain't just a river that flows through Uganda.  Mwine demonstrates rather methodically, that standing up, no matter how seemingly insignificant, matters.  

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Los Angeles Theatre Review My Romantic History

Dating is no cake walk, especially the older your baggage gets.  And dating in Los Angeles?  Forget about it.  Falling in love is much easier in one's youth before harsh realities begin to crowd their way in and attempt to hijack whatever is left of one's optimism.  By luck, lack of proximity, and timing, many, more so than ever, must contend with personal needs, preferences, and the nagging notion of settling.  In D.C. Jackson's self-described "profane comedy" US premiere (adapted from his 2010 Edinburgh Fringe production), My Romantic History explores the desires of two protagonists and challenges our assumptions, as it becomes soon clear that one's reality is someone else's mis-imagination.  It's a sexy, youthful workplace comedy that you would hope to find on television, but, alas, you must travel to the theatre to see.  Betina Mustain introduces the play in a top hat and jacket over leotard (she also cheekily serves shots of water between two of the acts).  The set is black with white furniture, including a water cooler that looks like a Greek bust.  We're then treated to the titular biography care of asides and flashbacks to the distant and near past.  This love story takes a Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus approach cataloging all of the insecurities which inform our judgments, as well as the clouded perspectives we impose on prospective partners.  While playing around with gender roles in the evolution of our confusing modern times where some bets are off and others in full-force, the characters struggle to start acting like adults and less from the idealized young adult mindset their choices in life have locked them into.  


The writing is sassy and adept.  Lines like, "I'd rather share an STD with a woman I slept with than a baby" and "I am thirty-three years of age and I have never been less married" constantly fall from the actor's lips.  As this is a play about dating, naturally, the leads dispense advice/commentary from both the male viewpoint ("The disadvantage of sleeping with coworkers is that they know your schedules") and female ("When boys take you home, it's like a tour of the shittiest museum in New York").  The language is lewd, but ultimately innocuous.  It's also refreshing to see a story take the kid-gloves off on a normally taboo subject that surfaces later in the story. 

Henderson Wade

History is smart, slick and moves like clockwork as Thomas (Henderson Wade) glides onto stage guiding the audience through impressions of his life.  He breaks the fourth wall immediately.  "I come across as a dick," informing the audience at one point.  He is confident, yet self-effacing.  Wade's blindingly wondrous good looks make it quite easy to buy him as a player, but a testament to his performance is that he is able to reveal a little bit more beyond the surface.  His comic timing is endless, extending to whistling the American anthem while simulating masturbation.  The chemistry he shares with Emily O'Meara is insane.  Her raven-haired Amy pretty much steals the show as the unapologetic Amy.  Sometimes unlikeable, she's manipulative, sarcastic, and real.  The ensemble performances are quite game.  Mike Maolucci, at one point, dressed as a housewife, reminds me of John Roberts from "Look at the tree" fame.  Mustain does a great bitchy, but sweet cheerleader and kind of stops the show when she tries to give Thomas a drunk blow-job during a passive-aggressive date.  Also in the cast are Wilson Better (who sports perhaps the best breakup tattoo ever), Sterling Ferguson, and Theodora Greece.  The actors whisk in and out of the efficiently staged production, which, granted, relies on a gimmick, that gets great mileage out of Alejandro Romero's assured direction.  

History plays at The Renegade Theatre (a super cute space right off Sunset on Gardner) through July 29th (with limited engagements).  You can find out more information by clicking here or on the logo to the left.  

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Los Angeles Theatre Review The Late Henry Moss

Sam Shepard is often concerned with digging up the past and getting real dirty with father/son relationships.  During the Fringe Festival this year, I caught the production of Fool for Love.  Two lovers must duke it out while two siblings must make amends with their father.  The 68 Cent Theatre dives into similar territory as brothers contend with their freshly deceased parent, The Late Henry Moss.  First staged in 2000 at the Magic Theatre in San Francisco, Shepard hoped it would be the final word on his oft-visited trope.  Twelve year later, Ronnie Marmo is restaging the memory play with Michael Blum (who has an earnest Mark Walhberg vocal quality) as his costar and David Fofi directing.  Moss is an alcoholic whose three-day old corpse becomes a catalyst for younger brother Ray (Blum) to investigate the circumstances of his father's passing.  As the play explores the tentacles of history, something doesn't smell right and it isn't just the decaying Moss.  Through a variety of ancillary characters, he pieces together events, much to his older brother Earl's (Marmo) dismay.  

Ronnie Marmo plays Earl; he's also the founder
of 68 Cent Theatre and produced Henry Moss

Both of the leads have some nice moments as the brothers, including a well-choreographed fight scene.  The cast is rich with supporting performances led by the gravely-voiced Gary Werntz (who looks like he could be related to Shepard), dressed in dirty jeans, who plays the burly, towering title character.  He has a serious hair across his ass and, as he informs everyone at any given moment of this fact, we can smell the fumes of his liquor-stained breath.  Joe Dalo brings a gumpy Jim Nabors' spin to his role.  He's adorable and heart-breaking as the Taxi Driver, as well as a blessed physical comedian; watching his facial gestures process the nuances of consuming a whole jalapeno was pure joy.  After trying to ingratiate himself unsuccessfully to Ray, he throws in a few pop shots that he carries out with a grand innocence.  Ivet Corvea as Moss' girlfriend Conchalla Lupina is appropriately a fire waiting to be put out.  As Moss' caring neighbor Estéban, Mark Adair Rios is solid.

There are some elegant interludes between acts involving an intimate dance between Moss and his girlfriend, where we see brief glimpses of a man when he was literally and figuratively alive.  As well, Fofi presses the pause button in the best moment of the play, allowing the image to soak in of past meeting present.  The director also adds some comical touches with Tweedle Dee and Dum coroners, dressed in shades, surgical masks, and lavender shirts.  Joel Daavid's southwestern adobe-styled set also exhibits a medieval flare with the exposed brick, lovely hanging wooden beams, and claw-foot tub (which later serves as a companion death bed), accentuated by Matt Richter's lighting design, including a distinctive dark neon blue presence ruminating outside Moss' home.  Shepard doesn't care to tell upbeat stories.  He fleshes out parts of his life and isn't too concerned with portraying reality or what results.  Peppered with clever lines here and there, Moss reflects this desired aimlessness and doesn't offer any tiding endings.  

The Late Henry Moss plays through July 28 at the 68 Cent Theatre.  You can find out more information by clicking on the Plays 411 logo or here.

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