"CURTAIN CALLS"
By Pat Launer
02/16/05
Once upon a time, ‘When the World Was Green,’
‘The Clouds, the Ocean and Everything in Between’
Were visible from “Golda’s Balcony;’
It was just ‘As You Like It,’ for all to see.
But something went awry with the Master Plan…
In the hopes of a fix, I ‘Stopped By to See the
A
slick, smooth outer surface. But underneath, it’s juicy and complex. If you’re
not careful, it turns to mush. But if you handle it right, it’s a delicious
treat. The same could be said of the mango which takes center stage in the
final scene, and the play itself. Director Kirsten Brandt knows how to handle
them both. For her final production as
artistic director of Sledgehammer Theatre, she’s given us a beautiful,
masterfully understated parting gift.
“When the World Was Green:
A Cook’s Fable,”
is an enigmatic, elegiac play. It’s lyrical and haunting, a perfect combination
of the bleak, poetic work of Sam Shepard and the stark, staccato post-stroke
communication of Joseph Chaikin. Set in a prison cell, on death row, in an
unknown place, the play intersperses tales of perfect climates and perfect
meals, tantalizing rivers and titillating treats, with talk of Hitler and
torture, terror and destruction, murder and revenge. The Old Man was once a
fabulous chef; he savored the smell, taste, touch and essence of food. But he
spent his life in pursuit of his cousin, fulfilling his destiny to kill,
perpetuating the family vendetta that has lasted for seven generations. After
all his plotting and planning, in the end, he murdered the wrong man. Now,
sitting in death row, he’s just exhausted; he can’t sleep, won’t eat, just
waits for the end.
The
young Interviewer who visits him is seeking a story, searching for her own
truth. She never knew her father, and she’s also on a lifelong quest. The
mistaken murder victim may or may not be her father. She is capable of putting
an end to the killing and vengeance, just with the wave of her hand. Or she can
seek retribution.
The
imagination, we’re told, is as varied as the stars. So we each bring our own
interpretation to the play. As The Old Man recounts the horrors around him, he
says, by way of justifying decades of annihilation: “This is the story they
told me; what else could I believe?” That line should send a shiver down our
collective spine… What stories have been told over time -- to others, to us --
to explain away war or persecution, devastation or death? How many
generations-old conflicts are there in history or the present (or in 1996 when
the play was written) whose roots can only be described mythologically? .No
surprise that The Old Man is done in. But when he thinks about the land of his
birth and its rich bounty, when he remembers meals he’s cooked and eaten, he
enters a rhapsodic, poetic trance-state. As the Interviewer recalls her own
past, the intertwined memories form a joint narrative of regret and loss,
through which the two transcend the past and find mutual forgiveness and
redemption.
Brandt
and her cast have brought exquisite sensitivity to this brief, elliptical piece
of theater. The direction is spare and meticulous. Jim Chovick is wonderfully
unassuming and empty as the broken Old Man, a true poet when he talks about
food, an artist when he touches it, ending the play with the slow, sensual
peeling of that mango. Laura Lee Juliano is straightforward, both direct and
indirect, as the Interviewer, hurt but willing to heal. Ruff Yaeger underscores
the piece with his original compositions of tinkly, New Age piano music.. He
can be seen periodically, provocatively behind a scrim, not just as
accompanist, but as the pianist cousin, or perhaps the lost father. Very
powerful stage pictures, abetted by Nick Fouch’s stark prison wall, with just a
sliver of window, and Jennifer Setlow’s shadowy lighting. It’s a short, stark
piece of theater, an ideal parting shot from the gifted Brandt: personal and
political, mythical and lyrical. A bittersweet send-off indeed.
At
Sledgehammer Theatre, through March 13.
There
was Robert Johnson and the legendary crossroads. And there were blues-players,
white and black, inspired and influenced by him. White guys who made a fortune off the musical
anguish of African Americans. And American blacks who rejected the blues,
because it was the voice of the past and of pain. It’s all there in “I Just Stopped By to See the
It’s
1975. Jesse, an aging bluesman, is dead for all intents and purposes. He’s let
the world believe that he perished in a car crash with his wife years ago. Now
he’s hung up his guitar and retreated to a spartan shack in the Mississippi
Delta, buried in the Bible and in a church that considers blues ‘the devil’s
music.’ One night, a swaggering, doped-up English rocker comes smashing through
window. Karl is a superstar who’s made a truckload of money from Jesse’s music.
While playing a nearby gig, he followed his nose and his hunches and found
Jesse out. Now he needs the master again. His career is flagging, his group is
disbanding, and he wants Jesse to pick up that old untouched guitar and come
back up onstage with him. It’s tempting, but in addition to his own doubts,
Jesse has to deal with his silent, seething daughter. The Angela Davis-looking
offspring seems like a convenient foil or contrivance, but she’s got something
of an interesting story, too.
She’s
an activist on the lam, betrayed by her male counterparts and by the Movement,
taking refuge with her father. If he goes public, she’s a goner. There’s a
whole lotta manipulation going on here. Who’s using whom and who reaps the
benefits? Director Seret Scott has teased marvelously subtle performances from
her terrific cast. Henry Afro-Bradley lets the wonderfully layered character of
Jesse unfold slowly and crescendo. When, late in the play, he breaks into the
blues, it’s a joyful noise, full of heart, soul and decades of loss and
suppression. Tracey A. Leigh makes the most of Della’s less fleshed-out
character, and she takes a lovely little turn at the blues herself. Manoel
Felciano is kinetic and charismatic as Karl, the hyper-rich, hyperactive
rock-man who plays a mean guitar and can really wail those blues. The costumes
(Charlotte Devaux) are pitch-perfect for Jesse and Karl but surprisingly frumpy
and unmatched for Della. Robert Mark Morgan’s scenic design is excellent;
there’s a rough emptiness to this cabin, a detailed lack of sentimentality. The
play has a bracingly indefinite ending. It isn’t quite clear how these
characters will end up. But something has happened to them here, and they may
never be the same for it. That slightly untidy wrap-up gives the piece an
enticing verisimilitude. We’re struck by the power of the blues to touch the soul
and change lives. Theater does that, too.
On
the Globe’s Cassius Carter Centre Stage, through March 13.
For
the opener of its 2005 season, Asian American Repertory Theatre is presenting “The Clouds, the Ocean and Everything in
Between.” Michael Premsrirat’s first full-length play won the 2000 East
West Players New Voices Playwriting Competition and received a reading at the
Public Theater’s New Work Now! Festival in 2001. It’s still a work in progress,
according to AART producing artistic director Andy Lowe, whose outstanding
program notes tell you everything you need to know about the mindset of the
piece. When he first read it, Lowe writes, “I was struck by its raw edge and
youthful energy, grounded in its characteristically Gen-X characters who mask
hope and idealism with angst and cynicism.” In truth, there’s a lot more of the
latter than the former in the play, but it’s an unblinking look at a
disturbingly lost generation. Their language use (not to mention their drug and
alcohol use), their fragile sense of connection and identity, their
intellectual and professional flailing, their lack of depth and soul – they’re
all here, in profusion. There’s even a character who self-mutilates with a
razor blade so she can feel something. On top of all their generational angst,
this group adds Asian minority status, and the endless assaults of racism,
stereotypes and intolerance.
Lowe
plays Boy, an eternal adolescent, the head of his college graduating class who
gets lost in real life. His childhood best-buddy is Tuesday (April Doctolero),
equally snarky, smart, sarcastic and adrift. And then Ceilidh (Jyl Kaneshiro)
comes into their lives; she’s wild, unpredictable, unreliable, unfettered. They
both fall in love with her, but after a senior year of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’
roll, she disappears, for a long time. There are some surprises and
revelations, even an interaction with her Midwestern boyfriend (Bill George).
At the end, something changes, but we’re not sure how things will turn out.
Also
not clear, and somewhat more grating, is how much of the repetition, redundancy
and foreshadowing are attributable to the play or to the direction (Rhys
Green). The central trio’s acting is excellent, at times unnervingly,
disturbingly real. But the production is overly fussy; there’s too much
unnecessary rearrangement of set pieces (scenic design by Chris Kennedy), too
much reiteration of special lighting effects (Eric Lotze). The sound design
(Stephanie Celustka) is fine until the end, when we need it most, to establish
the locale of a potentially life-changing meeting (is it a nursery? An
orphanage? A playground? A fantasy?).
This
young playwright has a way with dialogue and a voice worth listening to. For
Gen-Xers, he holds a starkly familiar mirror up for self-scrutiny; for
non-Xers, this is a startling introduction or elucidation of the sensibilities
of these thirty-somethings. To AART, I’d just like to say: Less is often more.
Simplicity can be profound. Stillness and silence can speak volumes. Trust your
audience. They’re smart and savvy, too.
At
the Playhouse on Plaza in National City, through March 5.
She
had no more than an eighth grade education, but she went on to help found a nation
and serve as its Prime Minister. She was a powerhouse, an indomitable,
indefatigable force of nature. Golda Meir, with all her magnetism and
truculence, her personality and personal failings, is brought to us, frenetic,
energetic and larger than life, in “Golda’s
Balcony.” Last fall, the play became the longest-running one-woman show in
Broadway history. Tovah Feldshuh’s heart-stopping performance garnered a Tony
nomination (Best Actress), the Drama Desk Award for Best Solo Performance and
the Lucille Lortel Award for Best Actress.
Written
by William Gibson (an Irish Catholic), the play is a soul-stirring evocation of
the birth of Israel and its never-ending struggles for survival. We meet Golda
at the end of her life, sick, ailing, hacking and smoking non-stop, recalling
her birth in Russia, her childhood in Milwaukee, her early zeal for Zionism, to
the dismay of her parents and her young husband. But she finally fulfills her
destiny, emigrates to Palestine, lives on a kibbutz, has two children, and
meets David Ben Gurion. When he (reluctantly) sends her to the U.S. to raise
funds for the fledgling country, she gives a speech so thrilling and inspiring,
it’s amazing that the L.A. audience didn’t rise from its seats, checkbook in
hand. The play flip-flops backward and forward in time, returning over and over
to the harrowing Yom Kippur War of 1973, when Israel nearly unleashed its
nuclear capability. The anguish, the decisions, the last-minute contacts from
Kissinger; we get swept up in the madness, held in edge-of-the-seat suspense.
Feldshuh’s
performance is brilliant; she’s a whirlwind of pronouncements, accents,
dialects, characters and memories. She’s neurotic, excitable, intransigent,
maternal (more, apparently to her country than her kids). The design work is a
bit schmaltzy at times, but it aptly evokes an era and an area: the
desert-toned, irregular stone wall supports occasional projections of Golda’s
family and Jewish leaders; the silence is repeatedly punctured by the
ear-splitting sound of bombs. The direction is impressive, the makeup/wig work
outstanding. The story is both unnerving and irresistible. The acting is
unforgettable. Don’t miss this rare opportunity to see someone and something
truly amazing. Hurry, though. Feldshuh won’t be playing the role for long;
rumor has it that Patty Duke is taking over for the rest of the national tour.
She may do a fine job, but the character is obviously in Feldshuh’s heart and
gut. When she came out onstage at the end, she spoke warmly to the standing-O
audience, concluding with the following hopeful exhortation: “If in our
lifetimes, we could witness the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of Communism
and the dismantling of apartheid, then surely we can see peace in the Middle
East.” Amen to that.
Limited run at the Wadsworth Theatre in L.A.,
just extended through February 26; 213-365-3500, www.ticketmaster.com.
Sir
Peter Hall is a theatrical legend. His Theater Royal Bath production of “As You Like It” came to L.A. bearing
the laurels of triumph and success. So it was with extreme excitement that I
made the northbound trek, thrilled to get another chance to see Hall at work.
The extra bonus here was that the director’s daughter, 22 year-old Rebecca
Hall, was playing the gender-bending Rosalind. I was prepared for the darkness
of the proceedings, the undertone of love as torment, life as unpredictable and
often cruel. But I was taken aback by the blandness – in the colors, costumes,
set, pace, even the performances. They were all competent and convincing; the
language, not surprisingly, well handled. But nothing was stellar, outstanding,
breathtaking. This isn’t an “As You like It” I’ll remember for the rest of my
days. In fact, disappointingly, I’ve forgotten most of it already. As startling
as it may seem, I enjoyed many elements of UCSD’s recent production more.
Director Larissa Kokernot and her designers made more imaginative, inventive
choices.
To
be sure, neither production was all sweetness and light. A dark undercurrent
runs through the play. Life in the court of the Duke is capricious; brothers
hate and banish their siblings; love is unrequited. One character (Jaques) is a
melancholy misanthrope. And, especially in the bleak-but-magical Forest of
Arden, things change in a flash. In a nanosecond, the nasty Oliver comes to
love his heretofore detested brother, and he falls head over heels for Celia
(the diminutive but powerful Rebecca Callard); he’s a new man. The malevolent
Duke has a sudden reversal, too; he goes off to a monastery and hands over the
reins of power to his banished brother.
The
stage is nearly bare at first. The court is more desolate than the Forest. But
later, as winter gives way to spring, there’s a lovely greening of the lacy
forest leaves. The costumes veer from English raingear to shapeless hopsack
(John Gunter is credited as general ‘designer’). The courtiers wear black
shirts and slacks, though Rosalind and Celia sport bright, simple gowns. My
companion asked if all English productions are so minimalist. Indeed, this one
takes ‘unfussy’ to the extreme.
The
performances are generally engaging, though mannered at times, and there’s a
surprising amount of face-slapping. I preferred Ms. Hall’s swaggering Ganymede
to her paler, less interesting Rosalind. She is “more than common tall” to be
sure, yet her voice is high and reedy, and it doesn’t change much with her
gender. Dan Stevens, a recent Cambridge grad, makes an endearing Orlando. Michael Siberry’sTouchstone, a jester dressed
in modern motley (an oversized, garish patchwork blazer with plaid knee sox) is
sometimes a bit over-zealous with his clever lines; he raced through them at
critical moments. Philip Voss’ Jaques seems more surly than melancholy, but he
takes great joy in the Fool; his impatience with the lovesick Orlando is
palpable. The country-men, William and Silvius, are played like dufuses; the
wenches are unmemorable (at UCSD they were wonderful to look at, bawdy in a
modern, Goth way). Both productions tended toward modern attire; neither was
consistent in its look. Both made the most of the “seven stages of man” speech,
giving it meaning but not undue heft. Both mined the humor as well as the
darkness of the play. Neither was thoroughly satisfying, though both had
elements to commend them. It speaks incredibly well of our local training
program that a student-directed production can be compared favorably to the
work of an international icon.
At the Ahmanson Theatre in LA, through March 27.
ATTENTION
HAS BEEN PAID
He was the conscience of the country. He wasn’t
afraid to take on the McCarthy witch-hunts (“The Crucible“) or immigration
informants (“A View from the Bridge”) or war profiteering (“All My Sons”). His
older plays still feel freshly significant and timely. He took the regal
operatic centerpiece of Greek tragedy, and transposed it into the simple,
whistled tune of the common man. Arthur Miller was a towering force in
the American theater – literally and figuratively. Last year, when he was in
town for the local premiere of “Resurrection Blues,” he still stood tall. In
every way. I felt privileged to have met him, talked to him, sat near him. He
was soft-spoken, self-effacing and ever-gracious. That was his reputation. His
legacy is his insight into human nature and behavior, and perhaps most of all,
his Pulitzer Prize-winning, pathetically unforgettable Everyman, Willy Loman
(“Death of a Salesman”) who became, like so many downsized American workers of
recent years, obsolete and useless. In his work, Miller strived to confront
what he called “profound social needs.” He may have seemed a little moralistic,
doctrinaire or old-fashioned to some, but he had an all-too-rare artistic soul,
a healthy distrust of social institutions, a frighteningly accurate
understanding of family dynamics and a deep, abiding belief in personal
responsibility. He was one of the greats of the American theater, and he holds
a significant place on the world stage. He had the uncommon fortune to have his
plays become classics during his lifetime. He will always represent the best
our country has to offer. We may not see
his like again. But for me, in the theater, it’ll always be Miller-time.
NOW, FOR THIS WEEK'S 'NOT
TO BE MISSED' LIST:
“Golda’s Balcony” – a brilliant, bravura performance; the story of a
powerhouse woman who helped birth a nation.
At the Wadsworth Theatre
in L.A., just extended through February 26.
“When the World Was Green” – Kirsten Brandt’s beautifully spare, precise farewell
to Sledge and San Diego. Understated, evocative design and performances.
At Sledgehammer Theatre,
through March 13.
“I Just Stopped By to See the Man” – Blues in the Night. Director Seret Scott has marshaled an outstanding cast – and they all sing the
blues. Lovely production.
On the Globe’s Cassius
Carter Centre Stage, through March 13.
“Wrinkles” – three generations of high-powered, hard-nosed Southern women reveal
secrets they didn’t know they shared. Outstanding performances.
At Diversionary Theatre,
through February 19.
“The Gin
Game” – alternating casts in
this taut, touching, funny, often brutal and unblinking look at old age. Cast B
is wonderful; I haven’t seen Cast A. But this is a show (perhaps even a
cautionary tale) for everyone, of any age.
At the Broadway Theatre
in
“Take Me Out” – funny, thought-provoking play about the coming-out of a sports
superstar… Baseball, comedy, drama -- and a big Bonus! -- all those naked men!
At the Old Globe
Theatre, EXTENDED through February 27.
It’s Presidents’ Week… so be a leader and take
your ‘throng’ to the theater!
©2005 Patté
Productions Inc.