Me and Julio (and Dany)

I've been pretty light on the blogging, admittedly, but listen for me today at noon on KPFK, 90.7 FM, on Julio Martinez's radio show, looking back at 2004 onstage with my colleague Dany Margolies.

Filing From Phoenix

Finishing up what amounts to a vacation in Phoenix, AZ, my hometown, which begins to look more and more like the San Fernando Valley every year--sprawl, freeways, strip malls, white people in dependent denial about the huge Latino population around them.

It's hard to find non-Republicans here, even among folks, like an ex-Marine I spoke to, who are seriously disillusioned about the Iraq war. Why did these people vote for Bush, then? I like Josh Marshall's explanation, which makes sense particularly in light of the relative surge of post-election criticism of the administration from the right. So now they tell us? That otherwise smart conservatives chose to bite their collective lips and fall in line behind "their" man, and either sincerely believed or cynically chose to countenance obscene distortions about the admittedly rather hapless Kerry, is an outrage that puts the final nails in the coffin of the neocons' intellectual integrity. They've revealed themselves, if there remained any doubt, as party hacks to a man--OK, except perhaps this man...

Catching up with a backlog of old New Yorkers, I came across an excellent profile of Michael Frayn, the writer of my favorite political play of the moment. Unfortunately, this is the only way you can read the whole article online, but John Lahr's review more or less captures what's special about the play (and does so for its definitive London production, not the one on Broadway, which has received more mixed reviews). As for the article, which addresses both Frayn's novels and his plays, I was struck particularly by a few lucid quotes, first this one about farce:

"You refuse to let yourself identify with the characters, or feel their feelings. You reject absolutely the idea that it could be you up there, so idiotically embarrassed, so transparently mendacious... This is what gives farce its hysterical edge. Your refusal to recognize yourself has an element of violence in it... Farce is a brutally difficult form. It is also of course a despised one. In laughing at it you have lost your moral dignity, and you don't like to admit it afterwards."

This insight is all the more extraordinary because Frayn has written only one enduring farce, Noises Off--and it just happens to be the last word on the form. A similar kind of detachment, as the article points out, is almost a philosophical position for Frayn, who believes that we are essentially unknowable except by our actions and our words. This creates the tension in his best work, specifically his political work, in which good intentions and bad are hopelessly tangled up together in the inexorable complications of action and reaction. His statement on this matter could almost be a credo, nigh a theology, for the kind of political theatre I like most:

"The German playwright Freidrich Hebbel said that in a good play everyone is right. I don't suppose he meant that you had to morally approve of everyone, but I take it he meant that drama is people presenting themselves with the same force as they do in life, and feeling as justified about themselves as they do in life. If the playwright is taking sides, it's not very interesting, because in life it's not like that--there's no directorial figure, no writer, no God figure saying this guy's right and this guy's wrong. I have always tried to respect Hebbel's dictum."

...This is most definitely not the m.o. of an auteur like Martin Scorsese, whose new film The Aviator is being quite predictably over-rated, at least partly for not being as operatically excruciating as The Gangs of New York, and centrally for playing so nicely and neatly into the hands of awards voters. This is classy awards bait, certainly, but it's got that prestige stink all over it. Its homages to Welles' Citizen Kane are obvious and only slightly embarrassing (Howard Hughes' anti-Rosebud is "quarantine"), but the film reminded me most of Coppola's modest, undistinguished, straight-arrow biopic, Tucker. Cate Blanchett's embodiment of Kate Hepburn, on the other hand, is quite justly being over-praised; it's among the movie's few signs of real, pulsing life and glamour, and as such throws it way out of balance--it dawned on me about an hour in that this wasn't a Kate Hepburn biopic, and that I sorely wished it were.

Still, I look forward to the New Beverly's inevitable revival pairing of The Aviator and Melvin and Howard...

Finally, here is a link to my most recent theatre review. Tomorrow: Back to the City of Angels.

Kick Your RSS

Thanks to advice from Colleen Wainwright and Jonathan Winn, I've figured out the whole RSS feed subscription thing, for those who want to keep track of this blog that way. The url to paste into your news aggregator is http://thewickedstage.blogspot.com/atom.xml. Then you'll have something that looks a little bit like this:

Mee Me

I knew I liked Chuck Mee’s politics, even though the playwright has seldom come out and stated them as directly as he does in last weekend’s curious LA Times Magazine piece. I guess I could sense, from his Brecht revision The Berlin Circle on, that here was a man steeped in left-of-center thinking who had nevertheless moved beyond leftist cant and score-keeping, and who was alert to the contradictions of politics as they’re actually practiced, both between individuals and groups. A typical liberal dramatist—David Edgar, for instance—might have strained to show us how the triumph represented by the fall of the Berlin Wall was really a loss, a Western invasion, the rape of a valid (a more valid?) way of organizing the world. While certainly not portraying it as an unambiguous triumph, Mee saw it correctly as a kind of hinge of history, overturning old paradigms and alignments in ways that were, and still are, inherently dramatic.

And I recall fondly the Q&A between Mee and director Matt Wilder, printed in the program of Songs of Joy and Destituion, Wilder’s stridently anti-war staging of two Mee adaptations (The Trojan Women and The Oresteia) at the Open Fist months before the war on Iraq began. Wilder kept trying to get Mee to join in his de rigeuer critique of Western imperialism and warmongering, but Mee was remarkably circumspect and measured about his opinion, without sounding wishy-washy.

Which is why the Times magazine piece, by a Washington political writer rather than an arts journalist, is such a tantalizing glimpse into the politics behind Mee's plays. The headline, “A ’60s Lefty Reconsiders,” is a little misleading, since Mee doesn’t seem to have revised his progressive views so much as stayed awake to the ways they’ve proved unexpectedly durable, renewable, even in our flawed democracy.

Compare Mee’s closing thoughts on the Constitutional Convention, for instance, with Howard Zinn’s disgraceful chapter on same, in his overrated A People’s History of the United States, and you’ll see the difference between a playwright/historian with a lively open mind and a hollow, one-worldview-fits-all-times polemicist:

"If you go back to the Constitutional Convention," Mee says, "what you find is, oh, yeah, a bunch of white guys got together and conspiratorially designed this system that didn't give women the vote or blacks citizenship and so forth. But if you look at it in detail, really what you find is that the slave-owning interests of the South fought the merchant-banking system of the North, and there were dozens of other similar conflicts in such a way that they forced each other to resort to general principles in order to defend their own interests, and those general principles set up amendments that gave citizenship to blacks, the vote to women and so forth."

Mee’s work is one reason I sometimes think, pace Eric Bentley, that because the best playwrights embrace and rehearse conflict, ambiguity, contradiction, and catharsis for us, they sometimes make the most challenging and inspiring political thinkers. And, as I’ve mentioned before, the best “political” playwrights don’t toe any party line.

Splish Splash

Whatever you think of Gordon Davidson, there's no way you can look at this picture (from yesterday's LA Times Calendar valediction) and not smile.

As for Mike Boehm's piece, it was a fitting tribute with a raft of well-quoted sources--and not a mention of Davidson's notorious napping (at performances, at rehearsals, in meetings). Where it counted, of course, the guy has never been asleep at the wheel, even when he wasn't always the fastest or most adventurous driver. A man who gives as much as he has for so long to the art of the theatre without burning or selling out deserves every moment of tribute he's got and is getting this final season.

It's only a pity that there's no one at any newspaper in town who can step back and sum up his career critically, except perhaps the Weekly's thoughtful, indispensable Steven Leigh Morris. The Times' Don Shirley has the background to do it but isn't likely to be asked. In short, Gordon has outlasted not only most of his peers but the critics as well--which is partly a tribute to his longevity, and partly a tragedy, since one role of critics, particularly in the ephemeral art of the theatre, is to record, reflect, and remember what they saw onstage. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Gordon's career is lost to history--no one who's touched as many people as he has over 37 years will or should be quickly forgotten. But there has long been an unmistakable gap between the state of the art and the state of arts coverage in Los Angeles, at least when it comes to the theatre, that hasn't been the case in, say, Chicago, where the Tribune's Richard Christiansen was around to witness of Steppenwolf's birth and stayed on until the end of 2001 to watch his hometown become a stage mecca.

Davidson doesn't need the validation of us ink-stained scribes, of course. It's really more the other way around: We in the critical profession could use a longer and wider view of the art form we cover. The career of this former stage manager from Brooklyn towers over the career of any theatre journalist I've ever met, and as such is a good place to start (but not end) our study of the theatre in Los Angeles.

In the absence of critical authority, in other words, Gordon Davidson has been, for better and worse, L.A. theatre's founding father, taste maker, and leader. He's no longer so alone as he was for most of his years on Bunker Hill--there are many more LORT theatres now than there were even at the start of the 1990s, when I began covering local theatre in earnest, not to mention a vibrant theatrical scene outside the regional theatre model in storefronts and mid-sized houses all over the Southland.

All this--Gordon's central role in a drama that will outlive him, and that unfolding drama itself--is cause for celebration, no matter the scarcity of official celebrants in the print media.

Theatrical Literacy Watch

Just went to see Part 1 of The Groundlings Box Set, on assignment for the Times, and while I'm contractually bound not to review it here, I did want to report on one illuminating improv, which I may not have room to mention in my upcoming review.

Director Karen Maruyama came out and asked the audience to suggest a "predicament" for three actors. She settled on "fixing a broken toilet" and let them begin. She then periodically froze the actors and called out to the audience for the names of playwrights in whose "style" the actors should continue the scene. The first was Mamet, which elicited a barrage of f-word-spiked abuse in New York mook accents (interesting how this Chicago playwright's reputation has morphed into something closer to The Sopranos). Then came the inevitable Tennessee Williams, which knocked the actors down to a lazy drawl and talk of juleps and heat and Mardi Gras. The next name suggested was John Patrick Shanley--oops. This led the performers to start speaking in Lucky Charms Irish accents; they clearly sensed this was wrong but couldn't figure out how to parody a writer who's better known in the larger culture for the film Moonstruck than for any of his plays (even the currently running Doubt).

The next moment was telling: Maruyama cut the brogue meandering short and asked the audience to suggest the names of famous film directors instead. This was immediately easier for both the actors and the audience--there was the inevitable David Lynch, the slightly unexpected Tim Burton, and a big Bob Fosse closer.

Says something about the non-centrality of theatrical voices in our popular culture, doesn't it? What if audience members had suggested Tony Kushner, Suzan-Lori Parks, Athol Fugard, Michael Frayn, Paula Vogel? This isn't a diss of the Groundlings' own cultural literacy but an observation about the collective pool of references from which comedy, particularly improv comedy, must often draw for its laughs.

Of course, one could argue that our inability to boil down most contemporary writers for the stage down to a handful of instantly recognizable clichés is a tribute to their inimitable originality. Yeah--one could argue that. But I think it's also inarguable that the number of people who can intelligently compare the plays of Genet to the plays of Ionesco, or distinguish the respective styles of Jon Robin Baitz and Richard Greenberg, or hold forth on the debt August Wilson owes to O'Neill--let alone get a laugh from such juxtapositions--is an ever smaller group of people.

We few. We happy few.

This Consensus Reality

Slate's always entertaining David Edelstein, after quoting a particularly terrible line in his largely dismissive review of Kevin Spacey's Bobby Darin biopic Beyond the Sea, invited readers to send in the worst biopic dialogue they could find, and he's posted the results here.

His top spot goes to this overheated monologue from the Belushi biopic Wired, which gets extra points on this blog for having a pretentious theatre reference:

John, there's a light within you. I want you to burn it out. BURN IT OUT! BURN IT OUT! In Vietnam, monks set themselves on fire. Artaud. Artaud said that actors should perform like they are on fire. Signaling through the flames ... THAT'S our job as comedians! To burn brightly and stand as a symbol. I will not give in to this consensus reality! Cut the demons loose, John! Let 'em loose! That's were your characters come from.

Speaking of Wired: Does anyone remember how star Michael Chiklis was personally threatened by Dan Aykroyd for taking the lead role? The late funnyman's former partner basically implied that Chiklis would never work in this town again. Hmm, remind me--what was the last Emmy Aykroyd won?

Last Hurrahs and Second Chances

For my final Review of Reviews Tally of 2004, I've summed up the offerings that close this weekend first--good luck choosing what, if anything, to spend your time and money on. Below that are the shows that have a few more weeks, even more than a month more of performances. Each listing orders the shows in sequence of best- to worst-reviewed, give or take.

Happy theatregoing...

CLOSING THIS WEEKEND:

EXITS AND ENTRANCES at the Fountain Theatre through Dec. 18. Four rave reviews (and probably more) for Athol Fugard’s memory play.

A VERY MERRY UNAUTHORIZED CHILDREN’S SCIENTOLOGY PAGEANT at the Powerhouse Theatre through Dec. 19. Four raves, one mixed-negative review. "A provocative mix of Christmas-pageant sincerity, Christopher Durang-like irony, and unexpected rage.”

OUROBOROS at the Road Theatre through Dec. 18. Three rave reviews for Tom Jacobson’s play about couples on a spiritual quest in Italy. ”An enchanting metaphysical etude.”

PEACE SQUAD GOES 99 at the Evidence Room through Dec. 19. Two rave and one mixed-positive review for this holiday extravaganza. This troupe's most inventive, therapeutic round of 99-cent necromancy yet.”

BASIC TRAINING at the 2nd Stage Theatre through Dec. 19. Two strongly positive reviews and two mixed-positive reviews. ”Nonstop energy and world-class humor.”

DEALING WITH CLAIR at the Matrix Theatre through Dec. 19. Two strongly positive reviews and one mixed-positive review for Martin Crimp's mysterious drama. "A production that shames us, shakes us... makes us think.”

BOLD GIRLS at the Matrix Theatre through Dec. 17. One rave, one mixed-positive review, and one all-around mixed review for Rona Munro's play about women in Belfast. “Artfully mingles the pedestrian and the profound… alternately wrenchingly funny and just plain wrenching.”

MODERN DANCE FOR BEGINNERS at the Little Victory through Dec. 19. Two strongly positive reviews, one mixed-positive review, and one mixed-negative review for Sarah Phelps’ sex comedy. “An abbreviated La Ronde, with more laughs.”

QUIET, PLEASE at Hollywood’s Sacred Fools Theatre through Dec. 17. One strongly positive review and one mixed-positive review Corey Klemow’s staging of two classic radio plays. “Succeeds in transporting us back [in] time.

A GIFT FROM HEAVEN at the Beverly Hills Playhouse through Dec. 19. Two positive reviews and one mixed-positive review for David Steen’s Southern tale. “Unadulterated Southern Gothic.”

THE MAIDS at Stage 52 through Dec. 18. Two positive reviews and one mixed review for this staging of Genet’s s/m power play. ”Kinetic and continuously visionary.”

CARROLLING at A Noise Within through Dec. 19. Two positive reviews for this cabaret-style anthology of Lewis Carroll stories, poems, and songs. “An elegant ensemble piece.”

URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL: DEAN CAMERON’S NIGERIAN SPAM SCAM SCAM at Sacred Fools Theatre through Dec. 18. Two positive reviews for this satire of an actual ongoing email exchange between a con artist and an actor. “Doubly hilarious for being true.”

ANATOL VS. at the Met Theatre through Dec. 19. Two positive reviews, one mixed review for L. Flint Esquerra’s boxing-ring adaptation of Schnitzler’s Anatol. The LA Weekly’s Deborah Klugman found the tweaking “Delightfully unpredictable.”

THAT MAY WELL BE TRUE at the Hudson Mainstage through Dec. 19. One positive review and two mixed-positive reviews for Jay Reiss’s play about a friendship strained by an authorship dispute. “High concept… for the most part stays airborne.”

THE NISEI WIDOWS CLUB at East West Players through Dec. 19. One positive review and one mixed review for this crowd-pleasing holiday tradition. ”Enjoyable for any culture, chocolate mochi for its targeted demographic.”

LAST SUMMER AT BLUEFISH COVE at the Davidson/Valenti Theatre through Dec. 18. One positive review and one mixed-positive review for this revival of Jane Chambers’ 1980 play about lesbian pals on holiday. “Exceptionally strong… ensemble work.”

FIREFLOW at the Ivy Substation through Dec. 19. Three mixed-positive reviews for Bottom’s Dream’s production of two Erik Ehn adaptations of Hans Christain Andersen tales. ”Invigorating viewing.”

THE CIRCLE at the Stella Adler Theatre through Dec. 18. One strongly positive review, one mixed-positive, and one mixed-negative for Shem Bitterman’s anguished post-Columbine drama. “A huge, almost unbearable concept… daring in execution, fierce in intention.”

2 ACROSS at the Santa Monica Playhouse through Dec. 19. One strongly positive review, one mixed-positive review, and one mixed-negative review for Jerry Mayer's romantic comedy. "Comically well-timed staging and two undemonstrative yet heartfelt performances.”

KITH AND KIN at the Hudson Guild through Dec. 18. One strongly positive, one positive, and one negative review for Oliver Hailey’s white-trash funeral comedy. “A specialized yet satisfying immorality play.”

CATERPILLAR SOUP at the Ruskin Group Theatre through Dec. 18. One positive review and one mixed-negative review for Lyena Strelkoff’s solo show. “Straightforward, pragmatic, cautionary.”

UNDERWEAR FOR CHRISTMAS at the Elephant Lab Theatre through Dec. 18. One positive and one negative review for this play about a dysfunctional blue-collar family holiday. ”Raucous taste of figgy pudding.”

A WORD WITH ORLANDO at the Odyssey Theaetre through Dec. 19. One mixed-negative and one negative review for David T. Chantler’s play about an American couple in Sicily. Little more than an exercise in dialogue writing.”
FREEDOMLAND at the Sidewalk Studios in Burbank through Dec. 18. Two negative reviews and one mixed-negative review for this revival of Amy Freed’s play about a multigenerational family. “Neither particularly funny nor insightful.”

SEARCHING FOR AMERICANA at the Hunger Artists Theatre through Dec. 19. One pan and one mixed-negative review for this play about a documentary film crew. ”A desperate let's-put-on-a-show exercise.”

CLOSING NEXT WEEK OR NEXT MONTH:

CAROLINE, OR CHANGE at the Ahmanson Theatre through Dec. 25.
Four raves, one mixed-positive, and one mixed-negative review. “A whompin’ American hymn: half gospel, half davening, an ode to despair and a prayer for deliverance.”

LIKE A DOG ON LINOLEUM at the Elephant Asylum Theatre through Jan. 30, 2005. Three rave reviews for Leslie Jordan’s solo show. "House-shaking hilarity and heart-tugging candor.”

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL at the Mark Taper Forum through Jan. 23, 2005. Three raves and one positive review for Brian Bedford’s revival of this 18th century comedy. “Woundingly witty.”

THE PARIS LETTER at the Kirk Douglas Theatre through Jan. 2, 2005. Three rave reviews and one mixed-positive review for Jon Robin Baitz’s big new play about an investment banker who can’t suppress his sexuality, with tragic results. “A resonant tragicomedy.”

LES MISÉRABLES at the Pantages Theatre through Jan. 1, 2005. Two raves for this touring revival of the 1980s musical hit. “Spectacular.”

DRY CLEANING at the 24th Street Theatre through Jan., 2005. One rave and two strongly positive reviews for Kronis and Alger’s espionage-styled retelling of the Orpheus/Eurydice myth. “Jaw-dropping performance art at its finest.”

LETTING GO OF GOD at the Hudson Backstage through jan. 23, 2005. Two raves and one mixed-positive review for Julia Sweeney’s solo show about losing her religion. “Brave, hilarious, and ultimately moving.”

A CHRISTMAS CAROL at South Coast Rep through Dec. 26. One rave and one positive review for this 25th anniversary rendition. “An agreeably traditional model.”

THE LESSON at City Garage through Jan., 2005. Three strongly positive reviews. “If you've never seen any Ionesco, this serves as a great introduction.”

SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO MOTOWN at the Falcon Theatre through Dec. 23. One rave and one positive review for this latest Troubadour Theatre romp. “Audacious, hyperactive and entirely over the top.”

FELLOWSHIP at NoHo’s El Portal Theatre through Jan. 22, 2005. Two strongly positive reviews for this musical Tolkien sendup. “You haven't lived until you've seen hobbits tap dance.”

HEY! I’M THE MAMA! at the Tamarind Theatre through Jan. 23, 2005. One positive review and one mixed review for this mother/daughter cabaret featuring Spanky Wilson and Angela Teek. ”An intimate and charming evening.”

CHRISTMAS TIME IS QUEER 3: NAKED CHRISTMAS at the Celebration Theatre through Dec. 31. One positive review and one mixed review for this revue of holiday fabulousness. “Zany, raunchy, hilarious and spiced with ‘festive nudity.’ ”

A F**KIN’ CHRISTMAS CAROL at the Stella Adler Theatre through Dec. 29. Two mixed-positive reviews for this foul-mouthed update of Dickens. “Precociously adolescent”

THE FOREIGNER at the Odyssey Theatre through Jan. 30, 2005. Two mixed-positive reviews for Larry Shue’s comedy. “Charm prevails.”.

PAINT YOUR WAGON at the Geffen Playhouse through Jan. 9, 2005. Three mixed-positive reviews, one mixed review, and one mixed-negative review for this reworking of Lerner and Leowe’s Gold Rush musical. “Far from bad theatre.”

MARVIN AND MEL at the Whitefire Theatre through Jan. 9, 2005. One mixed-positive review and one negative review for this revival of this comedy about scriptwriters battling ageism. “Sweet sitcom.”

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE at the Met Theatre through Jan. 22, 2005. One pan, one mixed-negative review and one mixed review for this contemporary rendition of the Bard’s problematic comedy. “An object lesson in how not to play Shakespeare.”

TESHUVAH at the Write Act Theater through Jan. 25, 2005. Two mixed-negative reviews for this drama about Poland under Nazi occupation. ”Stilted.”

Bottoming Out 2004

And now we enter some unduly sensitive territory. In listing my least favorite shows of 2004, I must recognize that, though I will have seen upwards of 120 shows by the time the last calendar page is torn off on this year, that’s less than half the number of some of my peers. Many of the shows I’m sent to cover wouldn’t be my choice on any night of the week. And I’m sure there were worse shows on local stages than these.

All those disclaimers aside, these were the bleakest of the bleak for me, personally:

29 Things To Do on a Rainy Day: Based loosely on Chuck Mee’s bobrauschenbergamerica, this SOB Theatre production at Theatre/Theater was a haphazard hodgepodge that confused youthful curiosity with synchronicitous profundity—a forgiveable fault if you’re not charging admission and inviting the critics.

The Days When Cocaine Was King: This wannabe guilty pleasure, styled as a staged rock mockumentary, ended up inadvertently skewering itself on its own dimwitted petard.

Deconstructing the Torah: Circus Theatricals made an uncharacteristic lapse in programming this strenuously unfunny series of battle-of-the-sexes sketches, whose relationship to the title was, shall we say, apocryphal.

Dorian at the NoHo Arts Center: Let it be said that I’m in the minority, but I found this musicalization of Oscar Wilde’s novel ludicrous and bloated.

Embedded at Actors’ Gang: I know, this premiered last year, but I didn’t catch it until its brief revival this fall, prior to its national tour. All I can say is: Satire earns its right to be vicious and exaggerated by being funny. Nuff said.

Four Dervishes at 29th Street Theatre: Seldom has a play been so upstaged by its lobby prologue, in which Victorian explorer Richard Burton laid out for us a rich feast of historical parallels and ironies… and then led us into watch a muddled, often silly anti-war fable.

Freedomland at Sidewalk Studios: Amy Freed’s generation-gap comedy/drama isn’t such great shakes to start with, but this production barely made a single moment credible.

Mirror Mirror at 29th Street Theatre: Turning the Snow White story into a supernatural dumb show, director Debbie Devine managed to make even magic and evil boring.

Mixed Messages at East West Players: Cherylene Lee’s talky play about archaeology and racial identity was preposterous enough without the disastrously shallow lead performance of Mia Riverton.

The Oedipus Tree at Plummer Park: Tony Tanner’s underachieving examination of the pyschology behind the famous Greek tragedy played like Fortinbras without the jokes.

Robert Johnson: Trick the Devil at the Group Repertory Theatre: Advice to theatres casting the parts of musical legends: Get someone who can play and sing a little.

Shel’s Shorts at Kuttingroom: Based on these half-baked “adult” sketches, we might conclude that Shel Silverstein is best remembered for his children’s books and novelty songs, after all.

The Talking Cure at the Mark Taper Forum: Christopher Hampton’s staged teleplay about Freud and Jung offered little more than talking.

True Story at the Coronet Upstairs: Self-involved psychodrama about a misunderstood young man and the family that’s in denial about his problems, proving once again that therapy isn’t theatre.

Expert Opinions

Critics, being critics, are often wont to disagree. They're hired for their positions not only due to the strength of their writing and the depth of their knowledge but also for the vehemence and diversity of their opinions. This difference leads to myriad distinct critical voices pronouncing on a given subject at any given time, a chaotic chorus of judgment that can at times provide more of a cacophony than a help to the consumer.

So writes my colleague Terry Morgan in this week’s Back Stage West. It’s the lead for his story handicapping the nominees in the upcoming awards race—with an eye on the Oscars, ultimately, but in the case of BSW, the Screen Actors Guild Actor Awards are the big kahuna. And who can disagree with him? But then he writes:

Separating the wheat from the chaff in determining award nominees ahead of time is an especially tricky business, and, to that end, Back Stage West spoke with four of the most cogent and well-informed critics in the field to handicap the upcoming SAG Awards race… (emphasis mine)

And who, pray tell, are these “critics”? “Leonard Maltin, film critic/historian for Entertainment Tonight; David Poland, author of TheHotButton.com and editor at MovieCityNews.com; Dave Karger, senior writer at Entertainment Weekly; and Tom O'Neil, host of GoldDerby.com.” Well, Maltin we know—but has anybody read any film reviews by any of these other experts? No, because they’re not critics per se—they’re self-styled awards-season pundits who track the races and the awards campaigns with a thoroughness that rivals coverage of politics, particularly on the Internet. As such, they’re excellent, tapped-in sources for a story like Morgan’s, which aims to find out what the buzz is about films that haven’t even had wide release, let alone the meager big-city releases they need to qualify for the Oscars.

I just can’t figure out why it’s touted as a story about what “film critics” have to say about the awards race. And if you’re wondering why a publication like Back Stage West is lavishing so much attention on the subject, you need look no further than the plentiful full-color ads throughout the issue—aimed, ostensibly, at the many Screen Actors Guild award voters who read the paper.

Meanwhile, the town is gearing up for another cutthroat pilot season (it’s actually already underway in earnest, with the one-hour dramas starting to fill their casts), and casting directors are openly talking about striking for union recognition. Oh, and AFTRA recently cut back on its health plan coverage. I think I saw something about these items somewhere in the actors’ trade paper I used to run…

Topping Off 2004

Last night someone asked me what my favorite shows of the year were. I could only name the Fountain’s Exits and Entrances off the top of my head. As I’ve mentioned here before, I freeze up when I have to make these impromptu lists—at least, thanks to this weblog, I can more easily summon the names of current shows that I or my peers are recommending.

So what was the topography of my theatregoing year—the peaks, the valleys, the bumps? I’ve looked over the list of shows I’ve seen (totalled up here, minus the shows I’ve seen since that post) and recalled which I loved and touted, which I deplored, and which I thought were overrated by my peers.

My top 20:

Caroline, or Change at the Ahmanson Theatre: The best new American musical since Ragtime is better here than it was on Broadway. Seldom has a lead character driven by such pure, irredeemable rage driven an entertainment so ebullient—Gypsy and Sweeney Todd are about the closest analogues I can think of. Even less frequently do we hear a sung-through score of such grit and substance.

Enchanted April at Pasadena Playhouse: I can still see lead Nancy Bell centerstage, standing against a grim, staid London backdrop and dreaming out loud of an Italian getaway, and then taking us there. This was escapism of a purity and sweetness we seldom see onstage.

Exits and Entrances at the Fountain Theatre: That Athol Fugard chose to have the Fountain mount the premiere of this supple chamber drama already makes this a bona fide world-class event. What elevates it to one L.A. theatre’s shining moments is the sensitivity and crispness of Stephen Sachs’ direction, the acting of the alert William Dennis Hurley, and, above all, the performance-of-a-lifetime by Morlan Higgins—a virtuoso actor playing a virtuoso actor and making the union seamless and searing.

A Flea in Her Ear at A Noise Within: Farce is a delicate form, but when your cast is as scandalously good as directors Geoff and Julia Rodriguez Elliots’ was, you earn the license to break a little china. Indeed, what distinguished this uproarious, surefooted rendition was not lapidarian precision but lip-smacking relish for low-comedy chaos. There wasn’t a dry seat in the house, as they say.

Golden Prospects at the Powerhouse Theatre: Telling early L.A. history as a classic mellerdrama was a serviceable enough idea on its own, but in Colin Campbell’s marvelous production, the cast and designers’ spot-on mimicry gave these urban legends a pop-up-storybook appeal and gentle ripples of unforced irony.

Hairspray at the Pantages Theatre: So Bruce Vilanch was no Harvey Fierstein. This infectious hunk of mind candy still had the irresistible Marissa Janet Winokur as its tasty center, and it retained just enough of the original John Waters tone—that distinctive cocktail of innocence and irreverence that makes him so essential.

Hard Times at Evidence Room: I found Bart DeLorenzo’s straightforward adaptation surprisingly rich and moving, particularly in the performances of stalwart Ames Ingham, cherubic Colleen Kane, blustery Don Oscar Smith (who’s really been coming into his own of late as an Evidence Room treasure), and heartsick Michael A. Sheppard. It’s not only A Noise Within that can button up these costume dramas.

Holy Days at Theatre 40: The year’s most under-considered gem (though it did get some Ovation nominations, almost no critics saw it). You could almost taste the dust and despair, and feel the terrible strain on the farm family ties, in director Ann Hearn’s letter-perfect rendering of this modest, affecting Sally Nemeth drama.

An Infinite Ache at the Black Dahlia Theatre: It’s no wonder major and emerging playwrights want their work done at this tiny black box theatre. This production of David Schulner’s affecting relationship drama had a deceptively effortless feel and a surprisingly resourceful set by Craig Siebels.

Letting Go of God at the Hudson Backstage: Julia Sweeney’s solo show about losing her religion isn’t just screamingly funny, particularly for anyone with any fealty, however faded, to a faith. Once disarmed by laughter, we feel the seriousness of Sweeney’s inquiry in a heart-deep place no erudite essay on belief.net could penetrate.

Like a Dog on Linoleum at the Elephant Asylum Theatre: Tiny, white-haired Leslie Jordan could reduce a funeral party to helpless laughter with his endless supply of David Sedaris-like tales of debauched delight. But they take on a cathartic arc when shaped into this searching show about Jordan’s recovery from substance abuse and his late-blooming sobriety about his faith, his family, and his sexuality.

M Butterfly at East West Players: The big news of this revival wasn’t so much director Chay Yew’s single-mindedly stark vision of David Henry Hwang’s play—this rusty-prison-grate approach did eventually pay off, after some rough going along the way—but the strength of the play, which emerges as a late-20th-century classic about the complications of post-imperial desire.

Bitter Bierce and Miss Margarida’s Way at the Zephyr Theatre: This matched pair of solo performances by John Billingsley and Bonita Friedericy delivered stingingly sharp, witty, and haunting reflections on the illiberal impulses of a real-life muckraker and a fictional pedagogue, respectively. It’s a shame we don’t see these two fierce, outsized acting talents on L.A. stages more often.

Peace Squad Goes 99 at the Evidence Room: Ken Roht has a captive, ready-to-rock audience for these annual holiday hullaballoos. So it’s stunning how far beyond our expectations he and his partner in crime, costumer Ann Closs-Farley, bother to go each year, joyfully layering in so many ironies, homages, and filigrees into this cartoon fable that we’re still sated and surprised. Can this ER tradition possibly keep getting better?

The School for Scandal at the Mark Taper Forum: This one is still fresh in my memory, so it may loom larger than it ought to in my year-end reflections. Still, it’s likely that this unfailingly enjoyable entertainment will remain high on my list of deft classical revivals, not least because this is a play that’s never much excited me. Director/star Brian Bedford here makes its warmth glow and its wit stick.

Self-Defense at the Actors’ Gang: A dramatic return to form for this troupe. Not that it hasn’t done some good work in the years since Tim Robbins returned to the helm--just that Carson Kreitzer’s striking gonzo examination of serial killer Aileen Wournos felt, under Beth Milles’ direction, like a bracing shot of the old vintage. It didn’t hurt that Cynthia Ettinger, Dina Platias, and Gary Kelley, among others, seemed as edgy and fearless as ever.

Summertime, Theatre @ Boston Court: A minor Chuck Mee piece, surely, but much better than the reviews suggested (and much better than the recent A Perfect Wedding). I won’t soon forget Tom Buderwitz’s autumnal set, or Bjorn Johnson’s droll striptease, or Elizabeth Huffman’s hilariously passionate effusions. Under Michael Michetti’s direction, Mee’s theme-and-variations musings on romantic folly had a distinctly Chekhovian flair.

Topdog/Underdog at the Mark Taper Forum: This justly acclaimed masterwork by Suzan-Lori Parks is like a racial vaudeville with real blood, and the performances of Larry Gilliard Jr. and Harold Perrineau did it full, pent-up justice.

Waking Up in Lost Hills, Cornerstone Theater Company at Lost Hills School Auditorium: The first rural residency by Cornerstone in more than a decade was worth the two-hour drive. Here, at last, we saw this troupe in the element whence it came: a middle-of-nowhere town, an adaptation of a familiar folk tale to the local setting, an all-age cast of community members, a high school auditorium. Perhaps most heartening was that this looked for all the world like the Cornerstone we Angelenos already know and love—and it was a good sign that, while the company has taken on ever more ambitious subject matter and professional collaborations, it hasn’t lost touch with its original inspiration.

Wonder of the World at West Coast Ensemble: This shaggy-dog picaresque by David Lindsay-Abaire struck me as a more user-friendly cousin to Christopher Durang’s Betty’s Summer Vacation, and while it doesn’t come close to Lindsay-Abaire’s moving Kimberly Akimbo, it’s at least as good as his Fuddy Meers, and director Richard Israel handled its cruelty and absurdity with just the right breezy touch.

NEXT: My worst nights at theatre in 2004, and plays I liked just fine but not as much as my peers.

Unrealpolitik

Are Republicans fascists? The short answer would be no, but that doesn’t stop theatremakers from using this cheap analogy as a kind of shorthand, as does the City Garage’s otherwise fine, incisive production of Ionesco’s The Lesson, which, as Paul Birchall has noted, substitutes a GOP insignia for a Nazi swastika on the armband strapped on by a murderous professor as she leaves the house.

“Wait, if you’re afraid, wear this, then you won’t have anything more to be afraid of,” her butler tells her as puts the armband on to calm her down. “That’s good politics,” he says with an unctuous smile. This is a permissible liberty—after all, Ionesco’s gnomic stage directions say only that the armband bears “an insignia, perhaps a Nazi swastika,” as if this were a mere arbitrary trifle, and surely his absurdist comedy is open to more interpretations than as a mere anti-fascist screed—but it’s a distracting one. It’s a minor footnote but the intention is clear.

I’m unfortunately used to this kind of reductive comparison among my theatre-making acquaintances, some of whom I've actually heard wondering aloud—hopefully?—if their unspeakably subversive work might get them arrested.

I would have thought an old hand like Sam Shepard would be a little wiser. Indeed, reading accounts of his new play The God of Hell, it almost seems the old crank is having us on—the thing sounds for all the world like a wan parody of lefty paranoia. Culling from Ben Brantley’s New York Times review, we open on a dilapidated Midwestern farm house…

…the home of Frank (Dennis Quaid), a dairy farmer, and his wife, Emma (J. Smith-Cameron), whose family has lived here for generations. Heck, you can't get more American than these folks, can you? But it soon emerges that they belong to a dying species, the only people in their area who still farm, since the government pays their neighbors not to. What's more, their quiet self-sufficiency is about to be exploded, thanks to the presence of the man sleeping in their basement.

That's Frank's old friend Haynes (Frank Wood), a cagey fellow who has the disturbing habit of sending off flashes of lightning whenever he touches another person. Haynes is apparently on vacation -- or is it on the run? -- from a government research project. So it can't be a coincidence when a slick man with a briefcase named Welch (Tim Roth) shows up on the doorstep, ostensibly to sell patriotic paraphernalia.

The plot, which speaks to the worst fears of both Blue State Bush bashers and Red State militia men, also allows Mr. Shepard to introduce some disturbing images that suggest the American war on terror turned on itself. The hooded specter of the tortures at Abu Ghraib, for instance, materializes in Emma's and Frank's living room. And the American flag, seen in a variety of sizes and forms, becomes a dizzying emblem of aggression.

…As played by Mr. Roth... with an undulating walk, pageant smile and distracting English accent, Welch is more an opera buffa villain than the sinister government henchman he needs to be. ''We're in the driver's seat,'' he announces, a bit tediously. ''Haven't you noticed? There's no more of that nonsense of checks and balances.''

…As for those poetic, Whitmanesque arias that Mr. Shepard is famous for, there's really only one example here. It's delivered toward the play's end by Mr. Quaid as he stands on a sofa and clutches his groin, and it turns out to be a priceless parody of the Shepardesque ode to a vanishing America. Its nostalgic punch line is as hilarious as it is sobering: ''I miss the cold war so much."

And New York’s John Simon breathlessly reports the following dialogue as if it’s revelatory:

“He’s from the government!”
“What government?”
“Our government.”
“I don’t know what ‘our government’ is anymore, do you? What does that mean, ‘our government’?”
“That means he knows more than us. He’s smarter than us. He knows the Big Picture, Emma. He’s got a plan.”

Really, now, Shepard has got to be joking—having a good laugh at the election-damaged liberals who lap up this kind of punishment like so much pabulum. Oops—apparently not. In some interviews, Shepard has called his play “a takeoff on Republican fascism,” and he offered such faux-naif pearls as the following to The Village Voice:

"I really wanted to write a black farce, so I went back and studied Joe Orton. Nobody wrote better farce than him, and he was very dark. Not being as witty and clever as Joe Orton, I used Entertaining Mr. Sloane as a jumping-off place. I started with three characters, the couple and the stranger who comes to stay with them. The notion of somebody coming from out of nowhere and disturbing the peace. It fit perfectly with the Republican invasion. The whole storm that built up after 9-11."

Or this:

"The sides are being divided now. It's very obvious. So if you're on the other side of the fence, you're suddenly anti-American. It's breeding fear of being on the wrong side. Democracy's a very fragile thing. You have to take care of democracy. As soon as you stop being responsible to it and allow it to turn into scare tactics, it's no longer democracy, is it? It's something else. It may be an inch away from totalitarianism."

Oy. I’ve got to say I have very little patience with this line of argument from American artists, whose freedom of expression is about as endangered as Donald Rumsfeld’s job but who, rather than mounting meaningful challenges to the real dynamics of authority or exploring the terrible and inherently dramatic contradictions of our bloated, unwieldy, but still functioning democracy, would rather use their unfettered speech to give us reports from the front lines of their distracted imaginings. Even the intermittently briliant Tony Kushner has been dining out on a play, Only We Who Guard the Mystery Shall Be Unhappy, in which Laura Bush apologizes to the ghosts of Iraqi children who died as a result of UN sanctions; it apparently hasn’t occurred to Kushner that among the dubious byproducts of the U.S. invasion of Iraq has been the lifting of those onerous sanctions, along with the introduction of some rather more immediate sources of mortal danger.

In the face of such reflexively simple-minded politics, I look to our allies the Brits, who’ve brought the docu-play Guantanamo: Honor Bound to Defend Freeom to Off-Broadway. This London import zeroes in on a genuine ongoing disgrace of the war on terror—and, incidentally, makes the imagined tortures of Shepard seem almost offensively absurd, given what’s actually been going on among the “non-combatant” detainees at Gitmo. I’ve also read with fascination David Hare’s Stuff Happens, a sort of hybrid of journalism and theatre portraying the diplomatic lead-up to the war that’s blessedly free of cant.


My favorite play of the moment, though, is Michael Frayn’s Democracy, which I had the privilege of seeing in London in the spring. I’ve heard mixed reviews of its current New York run, and indeed James Naughton sounds all wrong for the lead role of Willy Brandt (played in London by Roger Allam, above), the visionary West German chancellor who made the first strides, in the early 1970s, toward rapprochement with the East. Somehow, by portraying backroom parliamentary struggles that stand at some remove from our current situation, Frayn is able to make the play’s complicated questions—about the frightening impotence of liberal democracy in the face of illiberal foes both within and without, and about the sort of flawed characters, like Brandt, who are actually able to lead without demagoguery—resonate and ripple throughout recent history, from the Cold War to today.

The old East-West divide, of course, was a fraternal squabble among Western powers, which persists today in a much-mutated form along NATO and non-aligned lines. The hot issue of our current historical moment, it seems, is the fraught entanglement of this unresolved Western debate with the much bloodier civil war going on in Muslim societies. But we’ll leave it to future plays to dramatize the internecine struggles among Allawi, Chalabi, and Sistani, for instance, and the ways their machinations reflect and refract our own internal debates.

I just won’t expect such searching dramas from American theatremakers.

FOOTNOTE: Compare Shepard's awkward obviousness with the insinuating brilliance of Tracy Letts' harrowing Bug, an authentically paranoid play about a man who may be on the run from a secret government project, or may simply be an escaped mental patient. Like Frayn's work, it's open to interpretation and fairly crackling with suspense about what's really going on, and what's going to happen--something that's markedly absent from plays that wear their politics on their sleeve like, well, an armband.

The Home Stretch

Apologies for the light blogging in recent days. The holidays are a weird mix of catch-up and slow-down, which makes corned-beef hash of my already tenuous time (mis)management. I'm actually sitting at a Barnes and Noble coffeeshop at South Coast Plaza--an appropriately purgatorial destination for a late critic. I was scheduled to review South Coast Rep's A Christmas Carol at 2:30 p.m. but only gave myself an hour and 15 minutes to get there from Los Feliz. The 5 freeway had other ideas, so I've been roaming the vicinity, biding time till the 7:30 p.m. show. Gives me some time for the beginning of an update...



More report cards are in on Brian Bedford’s THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL at the Taper, and they give unanimously high marks. I’ve already noted my hearty approval (my Downtown News review is up here. Both the Daily News’ Evan Henerson and the LA Times’ Daryl H. Miller saw contemporary parallels for Sheridan’s gossip-fueled world, with Henerson calling the play “as fresh and exciting as Paris Hilton's latest reported escapade” (I’d have to counter that Scandal is rather more exciting, and arguably less calculated for public consumption, than anything that weird sister has ever done), while Miller compared the show’s gossip network of late 18th century London” to Celebrity Justice and Inside Edition, and reference the character’s “lifestyles of the rich and famous.” These references, it seems to me, are a tribute to the supreme accessibility of Bedford’s experty trimmed and shaped rendition; as Henerson puts it, “We're laughing and involved before we even realize, ‘Hey, isn't this supposed to be a stuffy classic?’ ” For his part, Variety’s Joel Hirschhorn did remark that “the show's indictment of vicious, poisonously gleeful gossip is remarkably contemporary," but otherwise praised it on its own “woundingly witty” terms, without recourse to pop-culture touchstones. After all, if a wise and witty play well done isn’t the best sort of popular culture, what is?

Is this guy’s name really Tom D’Angora? That seems a little too on-the-nose for his oh-so-gay tribute to DIVAS I’VE DONE at Room 5 Lounge in Hollywood, in which D’Angora gives tribute to a rather eclectic list of icons: Jane Wyman, Princess Di, Fran Drescher, Liza, Ellen Greene, and, natch, The Golden Girls. (What, no Tammy Faye? And with a name like D’Angora, no Jayne Mansfield or Betty Page?) The Weekly’s Neal Weaver was indulgent, admitting that “it’s a slender premise to build a show around, and one unlikely to thrill those who don’t share D’Angora’s tastes” but writing that D’Angora “performs with flair and insistent charm.” Back Stage West’s Les Spindle was a lot more enthusiastic, hailing D'Angora's “captivatingly warm sense of humor and… ability to hold a capacity audience in the palm of his hand,” and saluting the show’s novelty tunes as “some of the funniest song parodies this side of Forbidden Broadway.” He also noted with pleasure the encore by the real-life Greene, singing Little Shop’s “Somewhere That’s Green” and a new composition by her husband, Christian Klikovits—another great name that doesn’t quite sound real to me.

Playwright/performer/director Marty Barrett has made a bit of a splash with DOMESTIC DISTURBANCE, three one-acts that highlight his “very sharp, strange, and clever writing,” as Back Stage West’s Jennie Webb put it. Her mixed-positive review conceded that it’s a “blissfully short, low-tech evening” with “a kind of offhand, in-your-face intellectual inaccessibility that's miss-or-hit but also oddly charming.” The Weekly’s Martín Hernández was less charmed, opining that “mere oddity… is not enough to hit a satisfactory comedic note.”

Still to come: More reviewed reviews, a year-end wrap-up (yes, I do plan to post more than just a list on this count), and a rant about the intellectual poverty of so much "political" theatre--you know, just the usual holiday fare.

Scandalous Successes

Romantic folly has seldom produced more satisfying comic confections than A Noise Within's still-running A FLEA IN HER EAR, which I finally caught last weekend, or the Taper's new THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, which I saw last night. Both productions are perfectly proportioned combinations of absurdity, witticism, and pathos--though I should offer the important note that not everyone who's seen the latter production has been as enhtusiastic as I. The lead of my forthcoming review in the Downtown New says as much:

In a spirit of full disclosure worthy of Mrs. Candour, one of playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan's more indelible comic creations, I feel duty-bound to offer these disclaimers right upfront: I know of at least one discerning acquaintance who did not return after the intermission... and my theatregoing companion later described her state throughout much of the play as “antsy.”

A further confession: I myself have been known to doze and nod through productions of this 18th century classic about intriguing gossip-mongers in London high society.

So why did I--and much of the audience around me--have such a roaring good time?

I attribute it to Brian Bedford, naturally. He's not only the show's star, in the frumpish role of cuckold-waiting-to-happen Sir Peter Teazle, but its director and virtual adapter--this is a lean, clean two-act version that keeps it light without skimping on the heart. Catherine Zuber's costumes and Gerald Altenburg's wigs are practically co-stars, but I was particularly keen on Kate Fry's performance as Lady Teazle, which she manages to infuse with a disarming degree of warmth. Her scenes with Bedford are the play's highlights, though there's plenty of competition from Edward Hibbert and Scott Parkinson as a pair of simpering fops in ruffles, cuffs, and buckled heels.

Flea, meanwhile, is practically Farrelly Bros.-esque in its rude slapstick shenanigans. It's far and away the best farce I've seen in a long time, and certainly the best ever at A Noise Within, with the much-noted Louis Lotorto giving his speech-impeded flunky more shades than would seem possible and Dorthea Harahan making a positively perfect jealous flirt as Mrs. Chandel (a cousin to Lady Teazle, actually). I was disappointed to see that Jenna Cole, billed in the program as the proprietress of the Pretty Pussy Inn, was not at the performance I saw--she's among my favorite actors around--but it turns out she has a three-line bit in the Taper's Scandal and thus couldn't stay with Flea through its extension. That this powerhouse actress is in a tiny part at the Taper should give some idea how overqualified that cast is, but ANW's Flea is scarcely less impressive on that score: In the typically thankless roles of servants and other supporting players are such brilliant thesps as Alan Blumenfeld, Michael Manuel, Stephen Rockwell, and Mark Bramhall, who give their scenes serious snap and tickle. On the night I attended, I noticed seasoned ANW player Joel Swetow in the audience, script on his lap; he's going on next weekend for Richard Soto, a highlight of the show as a hot-blooded Latin husband. That's a big moustache to fill but I know Joel will offer his own leonine take on the role.

With this much first-rate theatrical talent around L.A. (Bedford told me, in fact, that he had better luck casting for Scandal here than in New York), it's a real gift to see these actors getting a chance to strut their stuff in a pair of pure entertainments. If so-called "classical" theatre were always this much fun, I doubt we'd hear many more sobering discussions about the future of the performing arts. When these artists build it, the people come.

Extending, Etc.

Leslie Jordan's LIKE A DOG ON LINOLEUM isn't the only hit show that's announced an extension into 2005. Julia Sweeney's LETTING GO OF GOD will run through Jan. 23, and City Garage's THE LESSON will reopen Jan. 15 and run for six more weeks.

And MODERN DANCE FOR BEGINNERS, previously listed as having an "indefinite run," has posted a closing date of Dec. 19.

To see how these shows were reviewed, check my most recent Review of Reviews Tally (new dates not included).

"Spam" Report

My piece on Dean Cameron's Nigerian Spam Scam Scam show is in today's Times. Subscription required, as usual. I can report one exclusive here: Why's he holding a standup bass in the Times photo?

Turns out, when he's not scamming scammers on the Internet or making plays about same, Dean plays bass in a band called The Thornbirds (so named, he told me, because he and his bandmates are huge Richard Chamberlain fans).

Missing "Dog"

Oops--missed Heart of a Dog--it's been added to my most recent tally of reviewed reviews.

Obscure to Blunt

Catching up with Sunday's NY Times, I noted two contrasting portraits of women in the arts: Sarah Lyall's intriguing attempt to explain Caryl Churchill by talking to colleagues and parsing old interviews with the English playwright, who stopped talking to the press "some years ago" and whose work was most recently staged locally at the Odyssey Theatre. Most heartening was this summary from James C. Nicola, artistic director at the New York Theatre Workshop:

"If you look at the arc of her creative life, she's someone in her 60's who is as out on the edge and willing to reinvent herself as she was in her 20's," Mr. Nicola said. "Most artists - whether painters or novelists or composers - find some sense of what their voices and concerns are in their 20's and 30's, and in their 60's and 70's they're still doing variations on it. But it's not true of her. She's as fresh and new and unpredictable and inspiring now as she was at the beginning of her working life."

Then there was casting director Felicia Fasano's open letter to Hilary Swank, advising her to get out of "the he-she ghetto of Hollywood"--a netherworld in which I guess Fasano includes Swank's role in the soon-to-be-released Million Dollar Baby, in which Swank plays a female boxer. Somehow this seems to be worlds away from Swank's Osar-winning turn in Boys Don't Cry, but whatever. Fasano's counsel is, um, illuminating: No more period dramas à la The Affair of the Necklace, no more "frumpy parts (like that detective bit in Insomnia) until you're old and saggy," maybe some TV ("you could be the next Ally McBeal," or possibly even Wonder Woman!), maybe adding "two stone" for a part like Renée Zellweger. Oh, but keep the weight down for your main marketing effort. As Fasano puts it on behalf of her industry:

The whole town is eager to see your Calvin Klein underwear advertisements. The buzz says they're hot and that should land some great scripts on your doorstep. This means Hollywood noticed you have breasts again; it wants to see you looking sexy, so stay away from parts where you have to wear a corset or speak with an accent. You are a gorgeous American babe, be proud!

No, this isn't from The Onion. You do have to admire the shamelessness. Clearly there's another luxurious ghetto waiting for Swank once she escapes the "he-she" one.

Mission Drift

I respect Larry Aldrich’s attempts to defend the LA Stage Alliance in today’s Times’ Counterpunch. Aldrich is not just a longtime publicist for Theatre LA/LA Stage Alliance, he’s chairman of its board of governors*, and as such he represents the kind of passionate advocate for local theatre we could use more of.

But in responding to Don Shirley’s diss of the Alliance’s recent Ovation Awards for giving a clutch of awards to Performance Riverside’s 1776, Aldrich makes some strained arguments, if I may say so. To wit:

While LA Stage Alliance, which sponsors the Ovation Awards, is named after the city of Los Angeles, its charter is clearly broader. LA Stage Alliance seeks to promote live theater in Los Angeles and its environs. It never intended to limit its jurisdiction to L.A. proper. Riverside, Santa Barbara, Ventura, San Bernardino and Orange counties are intended to be under its mantle.

Really? With all due respect to Aldrich, that’s news to me. How “clearly” has that charter really been stated? His next argument rings a little closer to home:

Factors such as Actors' Equity's rules, commuting distance and the tendency of outlying areas to pull from the pool of Los Angeles-based professional talent were considered.

Thoughts along this line did cross my mind: After all, the Rubicon in Ventura taps a lot of first-rate L.A. talent, as did Steve Glaudini at Performance Riverside; Nick DeGruccio, a past master from the Colony Theatre, directed the award-decked 1776. And I take seriously the idea that artists who want to devote themselves to theatre in this film-dominated region should be recognized and rewarded for their efforts to keep that going from a Southern California home base; the model I always dream of is London, where actors move freely between thriving theatre, film, and TV industries. That’s got to be a healthier life, and may account as much as any other factor for British actors’ famous facility: They just get a chance to act more. If actors based here can keep the film and TV gigs going, while at the same increasingly finding good theatre contracts nearby--or near enough via the freeways--how can I argue with that?

But the key to the theatre element of that equation is the thriving part. For better or worse, Los Angeles theatre and its audience are way out of proportion—there’s a lot more of the former than there is of the latter. It may be too much to expect LA Stage Alliance to singlehandedly turn that around—nobody wants to eliminate Actors Equity’s 99-Seat Plan, which means the quantity of openings isn’t going down any time soon—but Shirley’s point, and mine (in a post last month), is that the Ovations above all should be a platform to exalt the best and brightest work in this community, so that audiences and potential audiences can see that great work more clearly, in hopes that one day this theatre “community” is also a theatre industry.

Aldrich goes on to say things like “Los Angeles County is the focus of LA Stage Alliance, not its limitation,” and adds, “It's certainly no different than The Times' coverage of theater in New York, San Diego and Orange County.” Well, yes, Larry, it ought to be. Does anyone think the Times’ theatre coverage offers a great model for clarifying and holding up the best of local theatre? That question answers itself.

I want to make clear that I’m completely on board for the mission Aldrich finally sums up thus:

LA Stage Alliance… promotes live theater in a town that has historically belittled the art form. In a community where the film industry is king, LA Stage Alliance has helped to keep live theater affordable, culturally stimulating, appealing to alternative and mainstream audiences and, above all, vibrant and exciting. It has done this by reminding itself and the Southern California community that small, intimate theater is just as valid as Broadway tours.

I consider myself on the same side of these goals. But it’s because I care so much about the welfare of local theatre and its artists (not out of altruism, mind you, but so that they stay here and thrive and keep doing great stage work I can enjoy and cover) that I’m calling out their most powerful aggregated advocate for what I see as lamentable mission drift.

May the healthy debate, and the Equity contracts, continue.

*: This initially read "he's on board of the organization."

UPDATE: I've been challenged on my statement that Theatre LA/LA Stage Alliance's mission was never "clearly" defined as serving "greater Los Angeles." Well, the definition of the latter term may be open to debate, but on LA Stage Alliance's website, there's a banner head that says simply "To Promote, Represent, and Support the Performing Arts of Los Angeles." And the only mission statement I can find reads: "It is the mission of LA Stage Alliance to increase advocacy, awareness, and audience attendance on behalf of our 210 member Performing Arts Organization in Los Angeles County by uniting, representing, and promoting the Performing Arts Community of the greater Los Angeles area." [emphasis mine] Another page on the LASA website says, "Our 210 member organizations span from Ventura to La Mirada, with 99% of them in Los Angeles County." [emphasis mine]

To me it's a stretch to say this "clearly" spells out that LA Stage Alliance's charter includes "Riverside, Santa Barbara, Ventura, San Bernardino and Orange counties." But look, we can split hairs on county lines all day. Here's my point: The headline for Aldrich's piece (which admittedly he probably didn't write) was "Theater doesn't end at L.A.'s city limits, does it?" That seems bass-ackwards for an organization whose main job would seem to be to convince LA audiences, civic leaders, and the press that theatre begins within L.A.'s city limits.

Laugh Lines

Three things from this past weekend of theatregoing that made me laugh, helplessly and hard.

“We’re gonna scare you till you pee!”
--Peace Squad Goes 99

Professor: You’ve not understood my example. Suppose that you have only one ear.
Pupil: Yes, and then?
Professor: If I gave you another one, how many would you have then?
Pupil: Two.
Professor: Good. And if I gave you still another ear, how many would you have then?
Pupil: Three.
Professor: Now, I take one away… and there remain… how many ears?
Pupil: Two.
Professor: Good. I take away still anoth