The moral instruction begins from the moment you enter the theatre to find the walls strewn with edifying dictums:  “Don’t masturbate during the day, it means you’re a loser and have no job.”  “Don’t hook up with someone who’s out of your league, you won’t feel good about yourself in the end.”

Once in the theater, a deceptively Disney-esque set lulls you into the same mindset Custer probably had before he rode over the crest at Greasy Grass.

Out comes our droll, moonstruck, but ever so “fabulous” fabulist Percy Rutherford (J. Michael Feldman) who informs us that this evening of fairytales will be geared to teaching invaluable lessons to adults such as “If your mother’s not your biological mother she’s probably a sadistic bitch,” and will attempt to answer life’s pressing questions like “Am I too old to buy Ikea furniture?”

What follows is a raucous, madcap eighty-minute evening of very naughty allegories and rather psychotic parables, like “The Squirrel and the Squirrel”, “The Bi-Polar Bear and the Co-Dependent Eskimo”, “The Bee Who Didn’t Want to Hurt Anybody”, “Kurt the Spider”, “The Centipede Who Had to Make it There in One Day”, “The Monkeys and their Pets”, concluding with a squalling sockdolager of a finale in “The Cloud who was into Weird Shit”.

We are treated to characters from assorted phyla of the animal kingdom: gay termites (nicely played by Jess McKay and Matt Cook), amorous spiders (Feldman and the soooo precious Tina Huang), in addition to cumulonimbus clouds that are into “moisture sports” during sex (Feldman again and the delightful Courtney Pauroso who could rain on my parade any time she wanted), as well as a talking glacier, blood puking hound, and a grasshopper possessed of a legendary “gay radar”.

The cast (which also includes Eileen Mulanee, Corey Podell and Kimrie Lewis-Davis) is uniformly young as I imagine Annie McVey the director is as well, so the show suffers from some looseness in staging.  J. Michael Feldman, the writer, displays a flavorsome sense of the absurd and a wit sharp enough that hemophiliacs best avoid sharing a time zone with him.  Feldman takes center stage in most of the sketches and accounts himself admirably, but is at his weakness in the persona of the show’s tale-teller Percy Rutherford, where it seems the effort at creating a distinct character ended at the choice of a silly name.

However this flaw is soon lost in the overall harum-scarum silliness of the evening.  And don’t be confused by the “Fairy Tale” and “puppet” business, I wouldn’t suggest bringing children to this one unless while you watch the show you plan on locking them in the car trunk.

Fairy Tale Theatre 18 +

The Matrix Theatre
7657 Melrose Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90046
(310) 551-0918

January 19 – February 11
Thursday thru Saturday at 8 p.m.

Tickets:
$12.50 – $25.00

1)                  Used to express an emotion (as surprise or desire) or in response to physical stimuli.
(This is definitely the audience’s response to this surprising cross mix of dance and theater.)

2)                  Used in direct address.
(As in “Oh will you look at this” which the audience certainly does.)

3)                  Used to express acknowledgment or understanding of a statement.
(If the statement is the “nature of dance” Casebolt and Smith, who are both professors, unequivocally present this.)

4)                  Used to introduce an example or approximation.
(Which is what the show’s overall premise is.)

Also as I recall, “OH” is the medical abbreviation for “omni hora,” or “hourly” which is just about the running time of this show, which, other than the lack of a program footnote explaining its title, I found flawlessly delightful as well as refreshingly provocative.

Describing this show is somewhat challenging, but let’s for now just call it a “satirical stream of consciousness, modern stand-up theatrical dance.” More or less. Casebolt and Smith cavort about the stage, both physically and linguistically as they impishly deconstruct with humor and insight the langue of “modern dance” via the pragmatics of “performing”, “performer”, “speech”, “movement”, “company” and “theatre”.

The focus of the evening is finally on the limitation that these terms embody; the finite steps for a dancer, the boundaries of time, of expression, of venue (excellently evoked by Predock Frane’s minimal set), even of themselves. (Can “two” be a company?)

But Casebolt and Smith embrace and invert those “limitations” using the implicit confines instead to define and delineate themselves. This is obvious from the evening’s first number “What you won’t see in this show” a satirical Mulligan Stew of overused dance movements with over lapping commentary by both (“I’m representing the working class – which is really in right now!”).

The LA Times, in reviewing this same production, labeled Casebolt and Smith “…the Nichols and May of dance.” Other than fearing the reference may be lost on most outside the “Baby Boomer” generation, (and being more of a “Colvin and Wilder” fan personally) I feel that designation. For my money, by their use of simple language ensconced in humor to treat complex ideas, Casebolt and Smith are, if anything, the “Beckett and Beckette of dance.” And they’re far more graceful than either Gogo or Didi.

“O(h)” explores and toys with our notions of what constitutes the relationships of performer to choreography, audience to performance, dancer to dancer, managing not merely to blur the line between “dance” and “theater” but nuking it.

Throughout, the show probes and challenges how our “conventions” can constrict concepts. With the finale, “This way I fumble to the exit”, they flip the narrative sequence on its paradigmatic axis exposing the difference in relationships of “ending” to “finishing” as well as proving how originality can topple all forms of conceptual containment.

The appeal of this show is utterly across all the boards. Lovers of dance, as well as dancers, theater aficionados, comedy club patrons, and anyone who appreciates their funny bone being tickled without the necessity of first having to put their gray matter into “park” would find an evening amid the grace and giggles “O(h)” offers to be time very well spent.

According to playwright Robert Bolt, Thomas Moore was “A Man For All Seasons.” Well according to me, Casebolt and Smith are a duo for all audiences.

O(h)

The Actors Company Theatre
916a N Formosa Ave
West Hollywood, CA 90046
800-838-3006
www.caseboltandsmith.com

Performances: January 13 through February 19:
Fridays @ 8 pm: Jan. 13 (Opening), 20; 27; Feb. 3, 10, 17
Saturdays @ 8 pm: Jan. 14, 21, 28; Feb. 4, 11, 18
Sundays @ 5 pm: Jan. 15, 22, 29; Feb. 5, 12, 19

TICKETS:
General admission: $30
Students and Seniors: $22

So, when an actress friend invites O’Callaghan to join her on a trip to Uganda where she is doing a documentary on an orphanage there, O’Callaghan accepts and ten vaccinations later is bound for the East African AIDS ravaged nation, twice the size of Pennsylvania. And therein lies a tale, for arriving at the House of Hope Orphanage in the small city of Kasese, Uganda, O’Callaghan meets the last person he ever expected he would – a three year old orphan named Odin who he knew immediately was his son. In “Who’s Your Daddy?” we are shown through a rocket’s red glare of heartbreak and devastating wit, the epic battle of a Gay Irish L.A. actor’s fight to adopt his Ugandan “son”.

The world O’Callaghan hauls us through is one part Alice Through the Looking Glass and two parts Kafka’s The Castle. No, make that one part Looking Glass and six parts Kafka’s Castle. O’Callaghan, perhaps best known for his recurring role of Niam on the TV series Stargate Atlantis, makes us feel every jerk and jolt of the nine-month rollercoaster ride from the Hell that was his life as he struggled against the corruption, bureaucracies and prejudices of Uganda. A near demonic presence on stage, O’Callaghan fills every moment of the evening with nail-biting suspense and fierce humor, keeping his audience on the edge of its seat. And what he gives his audience at the show’s end is a tale of love, hope and courage that will warm them as they walk to their parked cars on even the coldest evening.

Tom Ormeny has seen to it that O’Callaghan plays his score with all the keys available to him, thereby keeping repeated scenes of frustration with the various Ugandan agencies fresh and not repetitious. Ormeny also succeeds, superbly on the Victory’s small stage, in shifting scenes worlds apart with both clarity and distinction, ably helped in this by Lucan Melkonian’s set and lighting design by Carol Doehring.

In the final run, what O’Callaghan discovers in his ordeal, is the most compelling truth of all, which sadly, our world seems to have forgotten: that it is in giving all towards the saving of others that we find salvation ourselves.

Who’s Your Daddy?

The Little Victory Theatre
3326 W Victory Blvd
Burbank, CA 91505
818-841-5422
www.thevictorytheatrecenter.org

Performances: November 11 through December 18
Fridays at 8 pm: Nov. 25; Dec. 2, 9, 16
Saturdays at 8 pm: Nov. 26; Dec. 3, 10, 17
Sundays at 4 pm: Nov. 20, 27; Dec. 4, 11, 18

TICKETS:
$24-$34

He arrived in this country a thin, sickly 17-year-old, speaking little English with only three years of formal education. Wherever he traveled in the United States, racism awaited him. He would be demeaned for his skin color, marginalized for his nationality. In California he’d lose half a lung to tuberculosis, bosses exploited him in Alaska; the FBI targeted him In Oregon. In 1956, broke and jobless, Bulosan returned to Seattle to live with his brother. On the night of September 10 he went out drinking. At dawn the next morning he was discovered, comatose sprawled over the steps of City Hall. He died that same day. He was 43.

Now Seattle has, as it were, staked a claim to Bulosan. The city was stage to his first entrance and final exit, and Seattle’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery his final resting place. All of which makes Seattle a contender to throw those “Carlos Bulosan Day” celebrations. But I think the brass ring goes to the city of his birth, and by that I mean Los Angeles.

You see the operation in which Bulosan lost half his lung was done in L.A. The surgery was highly invasive. (They removed most of the ribs from the right side of his chest.) Afterwards he was confined to the Los Angeles County Sanitarium, now the USC Medical Center, for two years of monitored convalesce.

To fill his time someone brought Bulosan a book from the Public Library, and with that the migrant worker with three years of schooling was suddenly front row center as a new universe flared into existence before his eyes, a universe of literature. Bulosan went into hyper drive, reading a book every day, often more. He devoured the novels of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Twain; Shakespeare’s plays and Dickinson’s poetry; poured over the works of Freud, Plato and Gandhi. Then he took up the pen himself…and Carlos Bulosan was born.

Today he is one of the most widely read Asian-American writers, of interest not only as one of the first Asian to gain literary acceptance on the national level, but due also to his first hand commentary on racism in 20^th century America. His poems and short stories are widely regarded as the preeminent voice of the Filipino experience in America, the nation he called “our unfinished dream.”

Clearly director Bernardo Bernardo together with Lonnie Carter, who adapted this Obie-Awarded play in 2002, were equally resolved on being faithful to Bulosan’s work, but never subservient. They run Bulosan’s characters strictly through the length of the play, then nearing the end, when one is confident the “photo finish” is framed, there is a slight divergence effected, the only alteration I believe Carter imposes, giving the play’s conclusion fresh resonance. But Carter is a playwright of great gifts, who employs them in ways that leaves audiences in slack-jarred astonishment. For example Carter, who calls himself “a middle-class white guy”, has an ear for the nuances of language that is staggering.

In “The Sovereign State of Boogedy Boogedy” he flings the language of the play at the feet of the audience like a gauntlet, almost daring them to understand the verbal swamp gas of “Language Lunacy” that he puts in the mouths of the characters.

In his more somber work he employs his skills in spinning spoken silk that delineate the speaker’s ethnicity with laser precision. At times backgrounds of the characters he populates his play with are obvious from the titles – “Bollywood”, “China Calls” – but the lion’s share of his characters is African-American as in “Trim” his play about Tiger Woods. Or they’re African-Africans like you find in his best historical work “Lost Boys of Sudan”.

In a master stroke, Director Bernardo distinguishes his production by turning to the heritage of the Philippines. Non Filipino audiences may have their first exposure to “Balagtasan”. This verbal dueling of sing-song rhyming taunts derives its name from the 19^th century Filipino poet Francisco Balagtas, who choose to compose in Tagalog over Spanish.

Bernardo encompasses Eskrima as well the traditional martial arts of the Philippines with a beautifully choreographed sequence by Felix Roiles. By engaging these classical “methods” to serve the narrative Bernardo adroitly shifted the play from a simple tale of a simple man into a celebration of Filipino culture. He has also, I believe, given amplification of Bulosan’s own intent. This is the “New World,” the only non-immigrants on the continent are the bison. It doesn’t matter if you were brought here on the Mayflower or a slave ship, were fleeing the potato famine or the pogrom, Magno Rubio’s story is all our stories and ours his. Director Bernardo “methods” has also endowed the play with a distinctly American phrasing: we are all simple men, but epics flow in our veins.

A top notch cast has assembled for this production. Muni Zano as the old man looking back on events provides the evening with a firm foundation. Giovanni Ortega as Nick the college boy personifies the individual who persists in standing tall while the world wishes to keep him small. Elizabeth Rainey as the blond and buxom El Dorado of Magno Rubio’s passions dances the tightrope stretched from “beloved” to “bitch” with panache; and kudos to Ed Ramolete who seems to find inspiration in his hat, a frying pan or anywhere else he looks.

But the brightest star to flare across the night’s sky is Jon Jon Briones as Magno Rubio. “Filipino boy. Four-foot six inches tall. Dark as a coconut. Head small on a body like a turtle’s.” Not only does Briones fill that bill to a tee, but he brings an intensity to his portrayal of this gentle soul who looks out at his life from a prison of hope. If you’re leaving a performance unable to imagine any other actor in the role, when you’ve seen it played by half a dozen others before, it’s a pretty sure indicator you’ve just been in the presence of talent.

Seeing work this exceptional, I get the urge to tear though the city ringing doorbells and snatch up in my arms anyone answering and carry them to the Ford Theatre. But if you can get there on your own, I promise, you won’t be sorry you did.

The Romance of Magno Rubio/Ang Romansa ni Magno Rubio

[Inside] the Ford
2580 Cahuenga Blvd. East
Hollywood, CA  90068
(just off the 101, across the freeway from the Hollywood Bowl and south of Universal Studios)
(323) 461-3673 (GO 1-FORD)
www.FordTheatres.org

Performances: Nov. 4 through Dec. 11
Thursdays @ 8 pm (English): Dec. 1, 8 (dark Nov. 24)
Fridays @ 8 pm (English): Nov. 4 (Open), 25; Dec. 2, 9
Saturdays @ 3 pm (Tagalog): Nov. 19, 26; Dec. 3, 10
Saturdays @ 8 pm (Tagalog): Nov. 5 (Open), 19, 26; Dec. 3, 10
Sundays @ 3 pm (English): Nov. 20, 27; Dec. 4*, 11
*The performance on Sunday, Dec 4 will be signed for the hearing impaired

PARKING:
FREE on-site (non-stacked)

There are however evenings which one wishes could be enshrined, performances one would want to have preserved forever in golden amber. For me The Antaeus Company’s production of Noël Coward’s “Peace in Our Time” will be one.

Today, Coward (1899 – 1973) is best remembered as the flamboyant playwright of charming and lithe comedies such as “Hey Fever”, “Blithe Spirit”, and the ever popular “Private Lives”. But Coward also had a serious side, a side which found its best expression in his patriotism during World War II. One can see this in the war time film, “In Which We Serve” by David Lean which Coward both wrote the screenplay for, and appears in, as Captain Kinross (a role loosely based on Lord Louis Mountbatten.)

It was this film, as well as his homosexuality, that likely earned Coward a place, along with such notables as Bertrand Russell, Virginia Woolf, H.G. Wells and Paul Robeson, in the Nazi’s Black Book: a roster of those marked for arrest and probable liquidation after the “inevitable” German victory. “Peace in Our Time”, which was Coward’s first post-war play, opened in 1947 at the Lyric Theater in London and  addresses that possibility.

Proceeding such works as Len Deighton’s “SS-GB”, Philip K. Dick’s “The Man In the High Castle”, and more recently Robert Harris’ “Fatherland”, Coward presents his audience with an alternate history – the “what if?” scenario of a German victory in the Battle for Britain leading to a Nazi occupation of England.

The play opens after the end of the Battle of Britain in November of 1940; the Antaeus production uses well edited and slightly doctored news photos of the day to establish the passing of time. The play focuses on the patrons of a London pub, using them as a microcosm to explore how different individuals react to being a “conquered people.”

The original 1947 play starring Kenneth More and Bernard Lee (best known as “M” in the first 11 James Bond films), was a moderate hit, but has been seldom staged since. Barry Creyton’s adaption, being used by the Antaeus, seeks to remedy that by addressing the hindrances to a production while increasing the appeal.

Normally the job of “adaptor” is a chance proposition at best, but Creyton has shown an astute understanding of his material and its history. First, about ten characters were cut and so were some material that would be obscure to modern audiences (however it was nice that he left intact a reference to Lord Haw-Haw, Germany’s equivalent of Tokyo Rose), but the true stroke of brilliance on Creyton’s part was the choice to add music to the play. It was after all the era of the Music Hall, when sing-along in the cinema house and pubs were common features. Creyton uses the inclusion of 13 of Coward’s own songs as a means to counterpoint the hopes, fears and anxieties of the pub patrons themselves. The songs are some of Coward’s best but least known, perhaps the exception being London Pride. Some pre-date the play such as Don’t Be Beastly to the Germans, a satirical little ditty Coward penned in 1943, whose subtle humor was lost on some and lead to the BBC banning it. Others like London is a Little Bit of All Right, and Come the Wild, Wild Weather date from the sixties. Their addition, like Creyton’s edits have been rendered seamlessly into the fabric of the play. Creyton’s adaption could, and perhaps should, become a standard for all future productions of this work.

But a strong adaptation does not a successful play make; needed also is a company capable of meeting the dramatic demands placed on it, and it is difficult to imagine any better in this capacity than the talented folks at The Antaeus Company. Since 1991 they have been regarded as one of the jewels in L.A.’s theatrical crown, and “Peace in Our Time” is a superb illustration of why.

From the moment you walk into the theater you can tell you’re in the presence of people who care about their craft. The pub set by Tom Buderwitz is so stunningly authentic one must fight the urge to walk up to the bar and order a pint of bitters. Jessica Olson’s costumes contribute in no small way to the reality of the show, while Jeremy Pivnick’s lighting design and John Zalewski’s sound serve to capture the mood and sense of a city in wartime.

Director Casey Stangl hurls us deftly into the action of the play and keeps us there right to the end, aided by acting that is peerless throughout. We feel the force of the storm by how it batters the characters, all of whom come seeking in the Shy Gazelle some brief respite from its fury. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Grainger (expertly played by John Wallace Combs and Amelia White) whose son is a POW being held at a concentration camp and who find a release from their fears for him in their visits to the pub. Lyia Vivian, (Raleigh Holmes with the perfect voice and glamour required) is a star of the music halls, who also finds release at the pub in the shows she sings.

There’s Janet Braid the authoress whose tenacious patriotism can only be unbridled in the safety of the bar (skillfully portrayed by Emily Chase). She has her nemesis in Chorley Bannister, the effete intellectual who has accepted the occupation as a fact and can see no reason why one shouldn’t try to get along as best they can, and who Coward has perversely made a critic. JD Cullum in the role comes close to stealing the show, and among lesser talents would have done so with the ease of swiping candy from a baby.

At the center of the storm the play presents the Shattock family; Fred, the pub’s proprietor (Steve Hofvendahl) and his wife Nora (Lily Knight) and their two children Doris (Danielle K. Jones) and Stevie (Jason Dechert). As the play’s symbolic “everyman and his missus” Hofvendahl and Knight shine. In Fred, Hofvendahl skillfully gives us a man who faces adversity shielded by an unwavering sense of decency. He is the embodiment of Arthur Ashe’s definition of heroism as “the urge to serve others at whatever cost.” Knight, as his wife who never wavers in her support of him, regardless of suffering that befalls the family, is truly heart rendering.

Richard Levinson as Archie the piano player, Christopher Guilmet as George Bourne who wears the mask of a bon mot to disguise a greater purpose, Jason Henning as the ever watchful Gestapo officer excels, as do the rest of the entire cast. The only reason I hesitate to identify them all individually is for fear of over taxing my thesaurus on synonyms for “excellent.” Let it just be said, that Stangl and the actors of Antaeus have given us an opportunity of experiencing theater at its finest. Don’t let the opportunity slip by. (Note this show is double cast, but with the high standard of the Antaeus ensemble I’m sure if together in a ring it would be like Cassius Clay matched against Muhammad Ali.)

Peace In Our Time

Deaf West Theatre
(818) 506-1983
www.antaeus.org

5112 Lankershim Blvd.
North Hollywood CA 91601
(one block south of Magnolia; free parking available in Citibank lot on Lankershim Blvd. South of Otsego St.)

Performances: Oct. 20 – Dec. 11:
Thursdays @ 8 pm: Nov. 3, 10, 17; Dec. 1, 8 (dark Nov. 24)
Fridays @ 8 pm: Nov. 4, 11, 18, 25; Dec. 2, 9
Saturdays @ 8 pm: Nov. 5, 12, 19, 26; Dec. 3, 10
Sundays @ 2:30 pm: Nov. 6, 13, 20, 27; Dec. 4, 11 (no. 2:30 perf. on Oct. 23)

TICKETS:
Thursdays and Fridays: $30
Saturdays and Sundays: $34

The play opens the morning after a fierce thunderstorm had battered the area. There is a casualty of the storm’s fury in the Keller’s backyard, a fallen apple tree that had been planted in the missing brother’s memory. The Keller’s are excited by a houseguest, Ann Deever (Linda Park), daughter of Joe’s imprisoned partner. To escape the shame of their father’s crime, her family sold their home next door to the Keller’s and moved to New York City. Neither she nor her brother George (James Hiroyuki Liao) have had contact with him since.

Kate is overjoyed, finding in Ann’s surprise visit, who she still regards as “Larry’s girl,” and the falling of the tree, signs of her missing son’s imminent arrival. What Kate doesn’t know is she and Chris have been corresponding the past two years and that she’s there at his invitation where he plans to ask her to marry him.

A “midpoint” is defined as “a position midway between two extremes,” and that is where Arthur Miller’s “All My Sons” begins, the midpoint for two families between the two extremes of the past and the future.

Miller’s first play failed, closing less than a week after opening. He resolved to try his hand at playwriting once more, vowing he’d give it up and “find some other line of work” if it didn’t meet with better success.

His mother-in-law had shown him an article about a daughter, who discovering her manufacturer father sold defective equipment to the US military during the war, had reported him to the government. This newspaper clipping was the basis for Miller’s second play “All My Sons.”

In it he embraces the classic Greek unities unfolding the drama on a single set over a single day. But these limitations don’t serve to restrict the sweep of his creativity. Most notably, Miller, drawing on the Old Testament, places in the Keller’s garden a fallen apple tree, struck down by a bolt of lightning, both echoing and foreshadowing the destruction and liberation that knowledge offers.

“All My Sons” premiered in January of 1947 and ran for 328 performances. Miller stayed with playwriting. The work presents with unsullied clarity the prowess which the young playwright possessed as well as his promise, and can be seen as a “first draft” to Miller’s 1949 masterwork “Death of a Salesman”.

Cameron Watson’s splendid staging of “All My Sons” now playing at the Matrix Theatre could well serve as a textbook example for demonstrating what the essence of good direction is. He has presented the work in the best light of its strengths, he has added relevance but not imposed it, and has guided his cast over the treacherous terrain that a “classic” challenges a director with giving his audience not a museum piece, but theater that breathes.

The first and greatest hurdle to any director is casting. Any time I see a show that is well cast across the board I know it means one of two things. Either the director has a keen eye for talent and deep respect for those who endure eight weeks of labor pains to end in a delivery spread over six weeks with matinees on Sunday; or the director got damn lucky; with this cast I suspect both.

Morris, Byrd and Murtadha infuse their performances with those nuances of agony the intimacy of families engenders. As Joe, Morris skillfully conveys the common man’s uncommon potential for good and evil. Park’s Ann is a study in sincerity. We feel her love for the Keller family and her brother, and we feel her immense loneliness establishing the internal conflicts justifying the lateness of her third act revelation which serves as the play’s peripeteia. Television viewers will remember Park best as Hoshi Sato from Star Trek: Enterprise. (And that oughta put some Klingons in the audience.)

The play’s other characters function as voices of a chorus in division. Neighbor Frank (Arman Vasquez) like the Delphic Oracle, is trying to provide Kate with Larry’s horoscope as proof he couldn’t have died on the day he disappeared. Taylor Nichols portrays Doctor Bayliss with the honest humanity of one who wishes to heal all and suffers for his inability to. Anita Barone as his wife deftly shifts from sweet face nurse to money obsessed nag, personifying the Erinyes the paired furies sent by the Gods to torment “whomever has sworn a false oath.”

Deserving special notice is Liao, for a standout performance in a standout cast. The character of George Deever can be compared to that of Tiresias, the blind prophet tortured by the truth he knows and which when told is not believed. The role poises two difficulties: Its character’s arc counterpoints a pivotal shift in the dramatic narrative of the play, and the character’s stage time is brief. Faced by such a double whammy many actors falter. But Liao accomplishes this and more, bringing to the stage the stark suffering resulting from a sin not yet known. In this he is excellently aided by Maritxell Carrero as Lydia, once George’s sweetheart and now married to Frank. Their short moments on stage are mesmerizing and heartbreaking as each contends with what might have been once, and now is lost.

Going into the production I was troubled by the notion of its non-traditional casting – the Kellers are an interracial couple, the Deevers Asian. This is 1947 after all, Executive Order 9102 had been nullified for less than year, the armed services still remained segregated and I feared this would somehow jar my “suspension of disbelief.” Well I stand corrected. Producer Joseph Stern (“Stick Fly”, “Neighbors”, “The Birthday Party” and others – many others!) is far too gifted and experienced to arrive at such a decision offhandedly or merely for the sake of expedience. By his choice of an ethnically diverse cast, Stern has brought to the forefront of our receptiveness the play’s profound “universal truth” in the shadow of which the loss of a “historical reality” went all but unnoticed.

Part of Miller’s genius was his ability to see beyond the illusion of the contemporaneous. “History always repeats itself,” the saying goes, and the saying is dead wrong. It’s not history but man, who unwilling or unable to learn from his past mistakes, keeps repeating them over and over. It’s a question of perspective. Miller recognized this and so perceived in the events of his own day, whether in HUAC hearings or a businessman’s betrayal, the same tragic issue found in the drama of Sophocles and Euripides, the failure of human beings to be humane.

Near the close of “All My Sons” one character cries out in his own defense, “A man can’t be a Jesus in this world.” In this statement you hear the first note of a reframe which will reoccur throughout Miller’s body of work: that one cannot be his own redeemer cleansing away the sin by self-forgiveness. A man is what his choices make him, and it is by our decisions “in this world” that we decide our own damnation or salvation. Considering these troubled times we are in, perhaps we need to be reminded of that.

All My Sons

The Matrix Theatre
7657 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90046
323-960-7773
www.matrixtheatre.com

Performances: October 22 – December 18
Thursdays @ 8 pm: Oct. 13, 20 (previews), 27; Nov. 3, 10, 17; Dec. 1, 8, 15 (dark Nov. 24)
Fridays @ 8 pm: Oct. 14, 21 (previews), 28; Nov. 4, 11, 18, 25; Dec. 2, 9, 16
Saturdays @ 8 pm: Oct. 15 (preview), 22 (Opening), 29; Nov. 5, 12, 19, 26; Dec. 3, 10, 17
Sundays @ 2 pm: Oct. 16 (preview), 23, 30; Nov. 6, 13, 20, 27; Dec. 4, 11, 18

TICKETS:
$25

The production of Michael Teoli and Joe Fria’s “CarnEvil – A Gothic Horror Rock Musical” now at the Sacred Fools Theater, like Welles’ Voodoo Macbeth, throws everything at you but the kitchen sink. Grand Guignol, singers in the rafters, sex, Balinese Wayang kulit techniques, human sacrifice, thundering drums, blood, lesbian lovers, Siamese twins, David Copperfield magic tricks, star-crossed lovers, monstrous puppets, sideshow freaks, fire eaters, alligators, S&M bondage, a cute furry bunny rabbit, depraved killers, big dance numbers and Lovecraftian horrors. With music even!

The tale unraveled in “CarnEvil” is straightforward enough. Danny Farinelli, (James Lynch,) the scion of a small family operated carnival, returns after his release from prison. His crime is never specified though murder is whispered. His cousin, Serena (Natascha Corrigan) welcomes him with open arms and the hope he can turn the fortunes of the struggling enterprise. A portentous meeting one dark night with the Mephistophelian and licentious Craven Moon (Jeff Sumner) who has assembled his own unique acts, among them the life sized “string-less marionettes,” leads to a partnership between the two. Soon the old school carnival with its acrobats and sideshow attractions has been transformed into a sleek, sexy and wildly successful “Cirque du Psychopathic.” Serena voices her distrust of Craven, but Danny dismisses her as being jealous of his triumph in turning the finances of the business around. But then the old carneys begin disappearing and Craven’s true intent oozes up revealing itself, invoking murder and torture all to appease his master – “a shapeless congeries of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming as pustules of greenish light…*” – Shoggoth and the other unspeakable Elder ones.

While “CarnEvil” has its highs (many) and lows (some) the principal obstruction to this production’s dramatic implementation is its own ambition. The show is on every level overlarge. The cast crowds the stage to the point of clutter. At 22 numbers the show seems song-heavy which is deceptive, as 22 is about the average for Broadway musicals: “Fiddler on the Roof” has 19, “Hello Dolly” 16, “Wicked” 24, “Oliver” 23, “West Side Story” 17 and “The Phantom of the Opera” has 21. The works of Rogers and Hammerstein however rarely exceed 13 songs per show. The actual problem is twofold, first, and most serious for the work itself, is the range of songs which lack the needed divergence in and of themselves; consider the contrast of the tunes from the following:.

From “Hello Dolly” – “Ribbons Down My Back”, “Before the Parade Passes By”, “Hello Dolly”, and “It Only Takes a Moment”.

From “Fiddler on the Roof” – “If I Were a Rich Man”, “Miracle of Miracles”, and “Sunrise, Sunset”.

Lastly, from “West Side Story” – “Maria”, “Tonight”, “I Like to Be in America”, “Somewhere” and “Gee, Officer Krupke”.

Secondly, and this relates directly back to my “overlarge” comment, the amplification overwhelms the audience and comes close to nearly bursting the venue’s seams. Teoli reveals in the program notes that he had been involved in L.A.’s Goth scene and his goal in writing the show was “…to bring some of that aesthetic to the Sacred Fools.” Herein lays another encumbrance; the Goth events I’ve attended were attuned to presenting “the spectacular” rather than “the dramatic.” The mixing of the two presents no problem in parody or camp. But in horror, especially that rarefied form of horror flowing from the strange genius of H.P. Lovecraft, what terrifies us is what is withheld, the languid motion, the muted dissonance.

Compare Robert Wise’s 1963 horror classic “The Haunting” to Jan de Bont’s 1999 remake. De Bont spent $80,000,000.00 bloating his film with state of the art special effects that provoked yawns. Wise’s original, filmed for $1.4 million, has no CGI, no tidal wave of gore or blood, and remains to this day one of the scariest films ever. And the most chilling moment? A close shot of Julie Harris’ hand holding onto nothing. That’s the key to genre. What makes “The Monkey’s Paw” so bloodcurdling is hearing the muffled knocking at the door, not seeing the knocker.

Nevertheless, it must be granted, that faulting a show for its reach exceeding its grasp is faint criticism indeed, and “CarnEvil” under the direction of Janet Roston manages to draw a fair number of “ooohhh’s,” “arghhhh’s,” and even a number of gasps from its audience. The show’s success though rests distinctly with its cast.

In a town where one can see some actors who are not only “telegraphing” their performances on stage, if not “smoke signaling” them, seeing the commitment in the actors of the Sacred Fools Company to give a 100% and then some is both invigorating and deserving of respect. Whatever other strengths or failings of this production there might be, the cast infused it with vitality.

David Haverty, as Albert, Serena’s hypertrichosis love interest, kicks off the show in superb fashion with the opening number, “Step Right UP.” Lynch and Sumner adroitly keep the ball in play and are admirably assisted by Lauren Teoli as Sasha the psychopathic psychic, Moon’s accomplice, who Teoli brings off as Diamanda Galás doing her best Norma Desmond impression. Joey Bybee does double duty. He opens as Abner, Serena’s doomed brother (one of the plays unneeded characters), but Bybee brings home the bacon as the sinister magician Vinchenzo, another of Moon’s cohorts. Giving their support as well are Geoffrey Dwyer, endearing as Jerry the Gator Man; Liza Baron and Whitney Avalon as conjoined succubi; Chairman Barnes as Torch; Shannon Macmillan as Skip the heroic dyke and the rest of the ensemble Katy Tang, Rachel Howe, Brian Wallis, Sondra Mayer, Dan Wingard, and the dance ensemble Erica Lyn Peña, Ceasar F. Barajas, Amanda Gamel,  and Anton Garsola. And let us not let the good work of Erika Salomon and Lisa Anne Nicolai, the puppet ensemble, pass unnoticed. (Told you it was a large cast!)

Regrettably, at the time of this writing, unless extended, this show is scheduled to close soon, though one can hope for another staging somewhere down the line with some trimming and a tad re-thinking. If you like your entertainment vigorous and visceral rough theater then Sacred Fools might be to your taste. The worse sin a theater can be guilty of is boring their audience, and this is a fault Sacred Fools is never blemished by.

*H.P. Lovecraft, “At the Mountains of Madness”.
Sacred Fools Theater
660 N. Heliotrope Dr.
Hollywood, CA 90004
(310) 281-8337
www.sacredfools.org

Uniquely representative of this tread is “The Robber Bridegroom” now enjoying a rare mounting at Long Beach’s International City Theatre. Based on Eudora Welty’s 1942 debut novel of the same title, the book baffled admirers of Welty’s deeply psychological short stories; here was a confusing concoction of themes and characters plucked from works of the Grimm Brothers and retold folk tales of the humid and forested delta of 18^th century Mississippi. Fans of Welty usually gloss over “The Robber Bridegroom” much the same way your average bardolator is quick to dismiss “Pericles, Prince of Tyre”.

But Alfred Uhry and Robert Waldman it seemed were not among those dissenters. Uhry, a member of the Fellowship of Southern Writers, like Welty herself, is perhaps best known for his play “Driving Miss Daisy” and is one of the rare writers to be awarded an Oscar, a Tony and a Pulitzer.

He and Waldman had collaborated once before on the ill-fated 1968 musical “Here’s Where I Belong”. Based on John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden”, the show closed after opening night and is still considered by some Broadway aficionados to be among the worse musicals ever. Happily, their second effort, “The Robber Bridegroom” in 1975 met with greater success and began the careers of its young stars Kevin Kline and Patti LuPone (who received her first Tony Award nomination.)

Uhry provided book and lyrics, embracing both the whimsical and grotesque element of Welty’s novel while Waldman’s score manages to capture the ballads of the period soaked with the conjoined tonality of African and Irish heritages.

The plot of the play follows the exploits of Jamie Lockhart (a dashing and dancing Chad Doreck), the rapscallion Bandit of the Wood who befriends the rich plantation owner Clemment Musgrove, (a solid and outstanding upstanding Michael Stone Forrest) and plans, under the ruse of wooing his daughter Rosamund (an angelic Jamison Lingle) to rob him of his wealth. Rosamund however is decidedly cool to the courting of Jamie’s straight lace alter-ego, and feigns dim-wittedness while masking her physical allures because she has fallen in love with the Bandit of the Wood – she doesn’t recognize the disguised Lockhart, he doesn’t see thru Rosamund’s pretense. Confusing the issue further is Salome (Sue Goodman a perfectly “prickly pear”), Clemment’s second wife who conspires the demise of her detestable stepdaughter.

Lurking sinisterly in the shadows are the Harp brothers, Big Harp (Tyler Ledon) and the younger Little Harp (Michael Uribes). The “Bloody Harpes” brothers were actual personages, who during the American Revolution served in a Tory militia and under the facade of fighting for the crown, raped and murdered their way across North Carolina. Before finally coming to their just deserts, the older Micajah and younger Wiley Harpe were said to have murdered 40 to 50 men, women and children earning them the dubious distinction of the nation’s first serial killers.

In the play they are only marginally slightly less vile, always on the lookout for a throat to cut or maiden to deflower; however, Big Harp, the brains of the duo, does suffer from a slight disadvantage in his murderous inclination. At some point prior to the play his head was cut off from his body and now resides in a trunk that his younger brother totes about. Ledon and Uribes are deliciously dastardly and provide the show with its most amusing duet. Filling out the cast are Tatiana Mac as a talking Raven who succeeds in provoking the other characters even without a bust of Pallas to perch on. A rubber legged Adam Wylie excels as Goat the wrong half of a half-wit who Salome ensnares in her murderous plot. Finally, there’s also Teya Patt as the wonderfully wizen hag and mother of Goat.

The company is more than up to the musical demands of the show, and director-choreographer Todd Nielsen stages the show with a sure and skilled hand. Stephen Gifford’s set design, Donna Ruzika’s lighting, and Kim DeShazo’s costuming are all first rate, contributing to another production that the International City Theatre can be justly proud of and its audiences can be assured of delighting in.

The Robber Bridegroom

International City Theatre, Long Beach Performing Arts Center
300 East Ocean Boulevard
Long Beach, CA 90802

October 14^th thru November 6^th
Thursday – Saturday 8:00pm
Sunday 2:00 pm

Tickets $37.00 – $44.00

RESERVATIONS: (562) 436-4610

http://ictlongbeach.org

A few days later Horton added the “gag gift” to her yard sale where an art instructor from the local college approached her and voiced a cautious opinion that he thought it might be a “Jackson Pollock.” To which Horton shot back, “Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock?” Well she didn’t really employ jarns and nittles as her intensifier but you get the drift.

Horton’s fifteen year struggle to obtain substantiation from the art establishment that her painting is indeed a Pollock is the subject matter of Harry Moses’ 2006 documentary which takes its title from Horton’s initial interrogative expression, and which provided playwright and director Stephan Sachs with the basis for his new work “Bakersfield Mist” now playing at the Fountain Theatre.

Sachs’ play opens on Maude (Jenny O’Hara), a recently fired bartender, in her Bakersfield mobile home, whose thrift store décor would undoubtedly result in Good Housekeeping taking out a contract on her. She is anxiously awaiting the arrival of Lionel Percy (Nick Ullett), former curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, author of a dozen books on the subject, including “Art for Dummies”, and recognized authority on abstract expressionism. He travelled from New York to appraise her piece, and his blessing, “calling down from on high,” would affect the transubstantiation of Maude’s three dollar “gag gift” into a work with a market value of $100 million dollars.

From the moment “The Great Man” rushes into Maude’s trailer, with her neighbor’s dogs fast on his heels, it is clearly a converging of matter and anti-matter, of mongoose and cobra, of white trash and tight ass.

Once the painting is brought out for his evaluation, his verdict is prompt: “Not a Pollock.”

Maude implores him to look again, that maybe he’ll change his mind if he looks at it a little longer. He dismisses her as offhandedly as a fly buzzing annoyingly about one’s head. He doesn’t require more time; his expertise enables his “knowing without thinking.” That is connoisseurship, he explains. That is horse shit, she replies. And the gloves are off!

Sachs’ play holds close to the actual events for the most part, basing the character of Percy on the late Thomas Hoving, a former director of the Metropolitan in New York, who was Horton’s main detractor. To show that Percy is not infallible, Sachs does attribute to the character the purchase of a fake archaic Greek kouros leading to his forced resignation by the museum’s board. In fact this was not a faux pas on the part of New York’s Met but of The Getty Museum in Malibu. (The statue is still on display there.)

Sachs’ direction is deft; the piece moves with readiness that encapsulates both Maude’s ever increasing angst that Percy may escape from her trailer without revising his ruling and Percy’s impatience to flee an environment where clown art is a prominent element of the décor scheme. The play itself is somewhat problematic for anyone familiar with the story in that it doesn’t really separate from the factual circumstance to establish a dramatic reality of its own until late into the second half. Then one is only given a sense of the possibilities which should have been entrenched much earlier on.

The most promising motif, which arrives too late in the score that Sachs conducts from, is the identification of Maude as Pollock’s art made flesh: raw, volatile, an outpouring fueled by alcoholism and inner demons.

Still Sachs’ script is to be admired. For one, he presents, through an impassioned Percy perhaps the most illuminating and insightful vindication of Pollock’s artistic intent I have ever encountered. For most, I suspect Pollock’s works remain inscrutable until they view the films of Hans Namuth which capture the intense purposefulness of Pollock at work and forever frees him from the slur “Jack the Dripper”.

Also Sachs provides an excellent arena for his two actors whose lively and meticulous performances are a celebration of that happy union of craft and talent. Let me also call attention to Jeff McLaughlin, for his exquisite set that expresses perfectly to an audience both the world the play inhabits and the kind of person inhabiting that world. Kudos.

Bakersfield Mist

The Fountain Theatre
www.FountainTheatre.com
(323) 663-1525
5060 Fountain Ave.
Los Angeles CA 90029
(Fountain at Normandie)

Performances: continue through Dec 18
Thursdays @ 8 pm: Oct 20, 27; Nov 3, 10, 17, Dec 1, 8, 15 (dark Nov, 24)
Fridays @ 8 pm: Oct 21, 28; Nov 4, 11, 18, 25; Dec 2, 9, 17
Saturdays @ 8 pm: Oct 22, 29; Nov 5, 12, 26; Dec 3, 10, 17
Sundays @ 2 pm: Oct 23, 30; Nov 6, 13, 27; Dec 4, 11, 18

General admission: $30
Seniors over 62 (Thursdays and Fridays only): $25
Students (Thursdays and Fridays only, with ID): $20

Secure, on-site parking: $5

Now if you don’t go to the theater frequently, are unsure of what delights it can offer, and have just the vaguest notion of who Noel Coward even was (didn’t he write a Joe Crocker song?) here is the chance not simply to “test the water” but to do a cannonball from the highest diving board with.

The plot is a simple one. Five years after ending their tempestuous and strife-filled marriage in divorce Elyot and Amanda by sheer misfortune discover their hotel rooms share a balcony. That’s bad luck. But when they realized that both of them are there with brand spanking new spouses on the first night of their honeymoons – well that’s bad luck wearing a hockey mask and wielding a chain saw.

At a time when the sun never set on the empire, one dressed for dinner and you carried your pound notes safety pinned together, Coward epitomized what it was to be British. Wit and charm were the order of the day and Coward was a master of each. First produced in 1930 Private Lives was an instant hit and happily when seen today you’re not left scratching your head and wondering why. It has lost none of its sparkle nor, in the pre-Stonewall usage, its sense of gaiety.

Capturing the period style and mastering the accents, without their stiff upper lips succumbing to rigor mortis, Caroline Kinsolving and Freddy Douglas are superb as the two star-screwed lovers. Jennice Butler as Sibyl, the squeaky new “Mrs. Elyot Chase,” springs and bounds between passion, petulance and pouting with the expertise of a Romanian gymnast. As Victor, Amanda’s squeaky new groom, Adam J. Smith brings to his character delightful levels of distinction which lesser actors would not even suspect existed. Lastly, Wendy Cutler, in the role of Louise the housekeeper, had me wishing I’d have stuck it out with high school French.

Perhaps director Luke Yankee can be faulted for allowing his thoroughbreds too much rein right outta the gate. The more Elyot and Amanda are tormented the more tickled is an audience at the enviable ending. But if a fault, it is a small one, for otherwise Yankee’s direction brings craft and clarity which polishes this theatrical gem to an even greater luster.

First-class venue, marvelous material, top notch production; the only thing that could have made it better was the cast and crew chipping in to help pay my mortgage.

INTERNATIONAL CITY THEATRE
Long Beach Performing Arts Center
300 East Ocean Blvd.
Long Beach, CA 90802

TICKETS:
August 26 – September 18
Friday, Saturday, Sunday performances $44
Thursday performances $37

CHARGE LINE/TICKET INFORMATION:
(562) 436-4610 or www.InternationalCityTheatre.org