| THEATER TIMES REVIEWS NOVEMBER 2006 |
The 60s
by Trish Soodik, directed by Paul Linke World Premiere
Pacific Resident Theater • September - October world premiere
WITH Steve Vinovich, Mariette Hartley, Jerry Sroka, William Lithgow, Dana Dewes, Kevin Rahm, Neil
McGowan, Austin Highsmith, Mariah Shipley reviewed, covering for Samantha Thomson PRODUCTION
Claire Bennett, set; Audrey Eisner, costumes; Dan Howe, lights; Jeff Henry, sound; Myrna Gawryn,
choreography. Producers: Melissa Weber Bales, Bryan Chesters, Marcia Firesten
This is the year that Baby Boomers – born 1946 through 1964 – enter their 60s. Trish
Soodik writes of this rite of passage in a new 'rheumatic' comedy. The 60s is a
humorous and heartfelt fly-over of that spot down the long and winding road where one
couple has broken down. With the central character right out of Moliere, his saintly
wife out of the Old Testament, and his damaged son out of Arthur Miller, The 60s could
be a muddle were it not for the seminal production the Pacific Resident Theatre
(Venice, California) has mounted for its world premiere. Mariette Hartley, Dana Dewes
and an indispensable Steve Vinovich lead a cast to make one overlook the fact that
Soodik’s play, like its central character, merely flirts with serious issues in pursuit of
a good time. Still, this look at the 60s is a very good time.
To be clear, this is the 60s and not the ‘60s. It’s about the decade of life, not the decade of history. The crux
of the biscuit, as Zappa said, is the apostrophe. And, despite how much fun this production is, the view
here of old age is pretty bleak. The three central 60-year-olds live alone and unfulfilled while a fourth has
only his worn Zoloft prescription keeping him above ground.
Driving the story for better and worse is Norman’s (Vinovich) sex drive. He’s a sixty-something divorcee
whose ex-wife, Grace (Hartley) – the character names reflect the yin-yang of common and divine –
tolerates his need to think of her as his best friend, although she refuses to socialize with him. Still beautiful,
Hartley telegraphs without trying that Grace chooses to stay connected to Norman by continuing to run the
pharmacy they owned and operated through their marriage. Her willingness to work it full-time without
complaint frees him to pursue beautiful young women more avidly than before it led to the break-up.
Meanwhile, their thirty-something son Adam (Kevin Rahm) is still as traumatized by his father’s behavior as
Biff was by his. Adam actually might be more at home in Salesman, where he wouldn’t be constantly
bumping up against Neil Simon characters unable to help him. That he eventually decides to pursue the same
woman his father is helping - with equal parts Samaritan and ulterior motives – shows a bit of denial on
Adam’s part. Not to mention that he only has a shot at her because Norman has stationed her in the
pharmacy. This will lead to a father-son showdown in which Norman’s pathetic advances yield any moral
high ground to a son who didn’t earn it.
Norman’s compulsions and denial are what is most interesting here: his conflicted feelings for his ex-wife,
his immature predilection for young women (Dewes and Austin Highsmith, as well as Mariah Shipley at this
performance, in for Samantha Thomson), his disinterest in his best friend’s (Jerry Sroka) woes, or what’s
really eating his grumpy son. But, he’s only going to examine them if Soodik makes him. And she doesn’t.
When tragedy strikes Grace, Norman is quick to help and just as quick to get back on the prowl. A choppy
time-lapse flashback section takes us back to the ‘60s – really the ‘70s, since their first conversation
references a song that wasn’t popular until 1973 – for a history lesson in Norman and Grace’s high times.
The flashback ends at the final tableau where, as if slipping the governor's clemency under the chamber
door as the switch is pulled, Vinovich deftly redeems Norman as lights fade with a smile of willing
resignation. Vinovich, with the kind of acting chops one hopes to see on such a night out, may in that sly
grace note also have redeemed the play.
by Trish Soodik, directed by Paul Linke World Premiere
Pacific Resident Theater • September - October world premiere
WITH Steve Vinovich, Mariette Hartley, Jerry Sroka, William Lithgow, Dana Dewes, Kevin Rahm, Neil
McGowan, Austin Highsmith, Mariah Shipley reviewed, covering for Samantha Thomson PRODUCTION
Claire Bennett, set; Audrey Eisner, costumes; Dan Howe, lights; Jeff Henry, sound; Myrna Gawryn,
choreography. Producers: Melissa Weber Bales, Bryan Chesters, Marcia Firesten
This is the year that Baby Boomers – born 1946 through 1964 – enter their 60s. Trish
Soodik writes of this rite of passage in a new 'rheumatic' comedy. The 60s is a
humorous and heartfelt fly-over of that spot down the long and winding road where one
couple has broken down. With the central character right out of Moliere, his saintly
wife out of the Old Testament, and his damaged son out of Arthur Miller, The 60s could
be a muddle were it not for the seminal production the Pacific Resident Theatre
(Venice, California) has mounted for its world premiere. Mariette Hartley, Dana Dewes
and an indispensable Steve Vinovich lead a cast to make one overlook the fact that
Soodik’s play, like its central character, merely flirts with serious issues in pursuit of
a good time. Still, this look at the 60s is a very good time.
To be clear, this is the 60s and not the ‘60s. It’s about the decade of life, not the decade of history. The crux
of the biscuit, as Zappa said, is the apostrophe. And, despite how much fun this production is, the view
here of old age is pretty bleak. The three central 60-year-olds live alone and unfulfilled while a fourth has
only his worn Zoloft prescription keeping him above ground.
Driving the story for better and worse is Norman’s (Vinovich) sex drive. He’s a sixty-something divorcee
whose ex-wife, Grace (Hartley) – the character names reflect the yin-yang of common and divine –
tolerates his need to think of her as his best friend, although she refuses to socialize with him. Still beautiful,
Hartley telegraphs without trying that Grace chooses to stay connected to Norman by continuing to run the
pharmacy they owned and operated through their marriage. Her willingness to work it full-time without
complaint frees him to pursue beautiful young women more avidly than before it led to the break-up.
Meanwhile, their thirty-something son Adam (Kevin Rahm) is still as traumatized by his father’s behavior as
Biff was by his. Adam actually might be more at home in Salesman, where he wouldn’t be constantly
bumping up against Neil Simon characters unable to help him. That he eventually decides to pursue the same
woman his father is helping - with equal parts Samaritan and ulterior motives – shows a bit of denial on
Adam’s part. Not to mention that he only has a shot at her because Norman has stationed her in the
pharmacy. This will lead to a father-son showdown in which Norman’s pathetic advances yield any moral
high ground to a son who didn’t earn it.
Norman’s compulsions and denial are what is most interesting here: his conflicted feelings for his ex-wife,
his immature predilection for young women (Dewes and Austin Highsmith, as well as Mariah Shipley at this
performance, in for Samantha Thomson), his disinterest in his best friend’s (Jerry Sroka) woes, or what’s
really eating his grumpy son. But, he’s only going to examine them if Soodik makes him. And she doesn’t.
When tragedy strikes Grace, Norman is quick to help and just as quick to get back on the prowl. A choppy
time-lapse flashback section takes us back to the ‘60s – really the ‘70s, since their first conversation
references a song that wasn’t popular until 1973 – for a history lesson in Norman and Grace’s high times.
The flashback ends at the final tableau where, as if slipping the governor's clemency under the chamber
door as the switch is pulled, Vinovich deftly redeems Norman as lights fade with a smile of willing
resignation. Vinovich, with the kind of acting chops one hopes to see on such a night out, may in that sly
grace note also have redeemed the play.
Autobahn
by Neil LaBute, directed by Amanda Weier West Coast Premiere
Open Fist Theatre Company October 13 through November 25, 2006
WITH Ben Burdick, David Castellani, Daryl Dickerson,Bruce Dickinson, Heather Fox, Michael Franco, Lisa
Glass, Pam Heffler, Niki Hersh, Jimmy Kieffer, Lawrence Lowe, Dylan Maddalena, Maia Madison, Kristin
Mochnick PRODUCTION David Castellani, Jeff G. Rack, Amanda Weier, Set; Cricket Sloat, lights; Peter
Carlstedt, sound; Jennifer Haire, stage manager; produced by Castellani
Neil LaBute’s ‘Autobahn,’ currently in its West Coast premiere at The Open Fist
Theatre Company in Hollywood, is a two-hour road trip in seven parts. Each leg
begins with a new driver and passenger engaged in a new conversation. The audience,
as if blindfolded and eavesdropping from the backseat, begins each new scene with no
idea of who they’re with or where they’re going. LaBute has an illusionist’s sense of
suspense, hiding his exposition in seemingly unrevealing conversations. But
imperceptibly he is raising those blindfolds, serving the story and its mystery.
In a program introduction, the playwright recalls the stifling family drives that inspired this format, rides in
which the dead silence was more telling than the conversations. LaBute's unique theatrical voice provoked
controversy some years ago when a star-studded production of his ‘Bash’ came to town. In that, the
seated actors -- Calista Flockhart, Ron Eldard and Paul Rudd – performed two monologues and a dialogue
that took us into very dark territory. Here the destinations are much less troubling.
Like ‘Bash,’ ‘Autobahn’s scenes alternate between monologues and dialogues – even though there are two
actors present for each. Bringing this to life, director Amanda Weier displays a great ear for LaBute’s
language. She expertly guides her 14 actors – who sadly outnumbered the audience on this night. Among
the stand-outs among the generally excellent cast are Daryl Dickerson and Heather Fox. Dickerson’s
character gets to drive her scene with Benjamin Burdick, ostensibly seeking to correct some deficiency in
her taciturn companion. Still, she and Weier provide enough indications that the real trouble may lie with
her. Similarly, Fox, in one of the monologue efforts, keeps us guessing as to who’s responsible and who’s
trying to improve things. Lisa Glass and Michael Franco, in the evening’s only scene that takes too long to
get to the point, keep their energy up, as Glass rides the fence between forgetting and stonewalling.
Special kudos to Lawrence Lowe and Kristin Mochnick for a beautifully played scene that is the evening’s
most haunting.
The monologue device works better in some cases than others. Bruce Dickinson’s old married man, for
instance, is perfectly believable holding his tongue throughout his wife lays out her simplistic opinions in
great detail. But, to no fault of the actor, it’s hard to believe Pam Heffler’s character would do the same in
the face of her daughter’s barrage. Similarly, Maia Madison has more to gain by letting David Castellani hang
himself in ‘All Apologies,’ while Dylan Maddalena might be expected to contribute more to Jimmy Kieffer’s
diatribe that a mere street name.
‘Autobahn’ is further proof that LaBute loves language. Not so much for its poetry as for its power to
create. Weier’s excellent staging shows his creation for all its beautiful ambiguities. Are these people
unable to communicate or do they not want to? Do they choose not to understand or are they really
confused? It’s a thoroughly entertaining and illuminating ride. And, for those put off by ‘Bash,’ be assured
that only one here gets anywhere close to being that creepy, and LaBute exits that route long before we
have to pull the blindfolds back down.
by Neil LaBute, directed by Amanda Weier West Coast Premiere
Open Fist Theatre Company October 13 through November 25, 2006
WITH Ben Burdick, David Castellani, Daryl Dickerson,Bruce Dickinson, Heather Fox, Michael Franco, Lisa
Glass, Pam Heffler, Niki Hersh, Jimmy Kieffer, Lawrence Lowe, Dylan Maddalena, Maia Madison, Kristin
Mochnick PRODUCTION David Castellani, Jeff G. Rack, Amanda Weier, Set; Cricket Sloat, lights; Peter
Carlstedt, sound; Jennifer Haire, stage manager; produced by Castellani
Neil LaBute’s ‘Autobahn,’ currently in its West Coast premiere at The Open Fist
Theatre Company in Hollywood, is a two-hour road trip in seven parts. Each leg
begins with a new driver and passenger engaged in a new conversation. The audience,
as if blindfolded and eavesdropping from the backseat, begins each new scene with no
idea of who they’re with or where they’re going. LaBute has an illusionist’s sense of
suspense, hiding his exposition in seemingly unrevealing conversations. But
imperceptibly he is raising those blindfolds, serving the story and its mystery.
In a program introduction, the playwright recalls the stifling family drives that inspired this format, rides in
which the dead silence was more telling than the conversations. LaBute's unique theatrical voice provoked
controversy some years ago when a star-studded production of his ‘Bash’ came to town. In that, the
seated actors -- Calista Flockhart, Ron Eldard and Paul Rudd – performed two monologues and a dialogue
that took us into very dark territory. Here the destinations are much less troubling.
Like ‘Bash,’ ‘Autobahn’s scenes alternate between monologues and dialogues – even though there are two
actors present for each. Bringing this to life, director Amanda Weier displays a great ear for LaBute’s
language. She expertly guides her 14 actors – who sadly outnumbered the audience on this night. Among
the stand-outs among the generally excellent cast are Daryl Dickerson and Heather Fox. Dickerson’s
character gets to drive her scene with Benjamin Burdick, ostensibly seeking to correct some deficiency in
her taciturn companion. Still, she and Weier provide enough indications that the real trouble may lie with
her. Similarly, Fox, in one of the monologue efforts, keeps us guessing as to who’s responsible and who’s
trying to improve things. Lisa Glass and Michael Franco, in the evening’s only scene that takes too long to
get to the point, keep their energy up, as Glass rides the fence between forgetting and stonewalling.
Special kudos to Lawrence Lowe and Kristin Mochnick for a beautifully played scene that is the evening’s
most haunting.
The monologue device works better in some cases than others. Bruce Dickinson’s old married man, for
instance, is perfectly believable holding his tongue throughout his wife lays out her simplistic opinions in
great detail. But, to no fault of the actor, it’s hard to believe Pam Heffler’s character would do the same in
the face of her daughter’s barrage. Similarly, Maia Madison has more to gain by letting David Castellani hang
himself in ‘All Apologies,’ while Dylan Maddalena might be expected to contribute more to Jimmy Kieffer’s
diatribe that a mere street name.
‘Autobahn’ is further proof that LaBute loves language. Not so much for its poetry as for its power to
create. Weier’s excellent staging shows his creation for all its beautiful ambiguities. Are these people
unable to communicate or do they not want to? Do they choose not to understand or are they really
confused? It’s a thoroughly entertaining and illuminating ride. And, for those put off by ‘Bash,’ be assured
that only one here gets anywhere close to being that creepy, and LaBute exits that route long before we
have to pull the blindfolds back down.
Phaedra
by Jean Racine, translated by Richard Wilbur, directed by Sabin Epstein
A Noise Within. Previews September 9, opens September 16, closes November 19
WITH Mark Bramhall, Jenna Cole, J. Todd Adams, Dorothea Harahan, Robertson Dean, June Claman, Sarah
Rincon, Charlotte Miserlis PRODUCTION Michael Smith, set; Jennifer Brawn Gittings, costumes; Peer
Gottlieb, lights; Robert Wyand, sound; Laura Karpman, music
How nice to be back pursuing an education at A Noise Within after summer vacation.
The Fall semester of repertory theater has begun with a focused, finely tuned
production of ‘Phaedra,’ Jean Racine’s 17th Century tragedy that might be subtitled
‘The Gods Must be Crazy.’ There’s plenty of drama in this script and Jenna Cole’s title
character, June Claman’s Oenone, and J. Todd Adam’s Hippolytus manage to push the
drama for all its over the top intensity without ever going over the top.
As they did with ‘Ubu Roi’ last season, A Noise Within is offering a play of historic import that has little
chance of regional revival, let alone commercial mounting. Yet here in all its glory is French poet-
playwright's version Greek tragedy – rendered into English by Richard Wilbur, the uncanny adaptor who
manages to translate a play's intensity and poetry along with it words.
The story really boils down to what Amy Freed's 'Beard' might call ‘an opera most soapy.’ Phaedra, thinking
her husband-king Theseus (Mark Bramhall) dead, uncages some unholy passions for her stepson
Hippolytus. No sooner has she laid her heart on the line – and had it promptly handed back by the otherwise
obsessed prince – that Theseus proves the rumors of his death to have been premature. Unable to put
passion back in the paddock, Phaedra pins the near-incestuous tale on Theseus’ son, where it manages to
stick for the addled head of Athens. Now convinced his son had designs on his dowdy spouse during her
open-and-shut widowhood, Theseus refuses to hear the lad's protestations. Frustrated and angry, the
would-be heir storms off to face down death in a losing battle with a tsunami-surfing Sea Monster.
As inexplicable as this wacky Olympian chess game sounds, it's mere dysfunctional child's play to us
modern audiences, who must constantly question the actions (or inaction) of our Gods – Christian, Hebrew
and Muslim -- in a world where cartoons justify killings and kidnappings warrant the destruction of entire
regions. Rather than investing our attentions in the follies of Greek gods, it's better to simply enjoy the
investment these dedicated actors put into bringing this bit of theater history to life.
The positive reviews were already handed in before curtain call. At our performance at least, rows of
student groups flanked the thrust stage like shackled oarsmen along a galley walkway. While they would
have no doubt been happy to snigger behind the backs of the actors, they remained a captive audience,
their silence the true measure of this production’s weight. They were certainly speechless at the wordy
confessions of love required of Hippolytus to win over Aricia (Dorothea Harahan), his real romantic
interest.
Michael Smith's set is a lovely low-walled rectangle that contains the action without trapping it. It provides
the actors plenty of seating area without intruding. Above it floats a paneless mirror frame. It does require
that the actors walk some distance from their upstage reveal before they engage in conversation. But that
is just one of the little challenges director Sabin Epstein easily overcomes with a variety of unobtrusive
ploys. Some tall, thin upstage stalks -- starting to look familiar -- lean left or right to give the set its energy,
and short rows of barbered reeds outline the playing area. Jennifer Gittings' costumes provide the one real
opening for interpretation. While Phaedra's gown appears close to period, the other women cover their
shiftless forms in formless shifts and Theseus sports a uniform for the ages. In contrast, Hippolytus alters --
in hair and threads -- between modern neatnik and beatnik while Robertson Dean's Teramenes is suited
right out of the Glendale Mens' Wearhouse (I guarantee it). I leave the meaning of this time-spanning line of
clothing to your night ride home.
The repertory continues with Eugene O'Neill's 'A Touch of the Poet' (previews September 23, opens
September 30, and Shakespeare's 'As You Like It,' previews October 21, opens October 28.
by Jean Racine, translated by Richard Wilbur, directed by Sabin Epstein
A Noise Within. Previews September 9, opens September 16, closes November 19
WITH Mark Bramhall, Jenna Cole, J. Todd Adams, Dorothea Harahan, Robertson Dean, June Claman, Sarah
Rincon, Charlotte Miserlis PRODUCTION Michael Smith, set; Jennifer Brawn Gittings, costumes; Peer
Gottlieb, lights; Robert Wyand, sound; Laura Karpman, music
How nice to be back pursuing an education at A Noise Within after summer vacation.
The Fall semester of repertory theater has begun with a focused, finely tuned
production of ‘Phaedra,’ Jean Racine’s 17th Century tragedy that might be subtitled
‘The Gods Must be Crazy.’ There’s plenty of drama in this script and Jenna Cole’s title
character, June Claman’s Oenone, and J. Todd Adam’s Hippolytus manage to push the
drama for all its over the top intensity without ever going over the top.
As they did with ‘Ubu Roi’ last season, A Noise Within is offering a play of historic import that has little
chance of regional revival, let alone commercial mounting. Yet here in all its glory is French poet-
playwright's version Greek tragedy – rendered into English by Richard Wilbur, the uncanny adaptor who
manages to translate a play's intensity and poetry along with it words.
The story really boils down to what Amy Freed's 'Beard' might call ‘an opera most soapy.’ Phaedra, thinking
her husband-king Theseus (Mark Bramhall) dead, uncages some unholy passions for her stepson
Hippolytus. No sooner has she laid her heart on the line – and had it promptly handed back by the otherwise
obsessed prince – that Theseus proves the rumors of his death to have been premature. Unable to put
passion back in the paddock, Phaedra pins the near-incestuous tale on Theseus’ son, where it manages to
stick for the addled head of Athens. Now convinced his son had designs on his dowdy spouse during her
open-and-shut widowhood, Theseus refuses to hear the lad's protestations. Frustrated and angry, the
would-be heir storms off to face down death in a losing battle with a tsunami-surfing Sea Monster.
As inexplicable as this wacky Olympian chess game sounds, it's mere dysfunctional child's play to us
modern audiences, who must constantly question the actions (or inaction) of our Gods – Christian, Hebrew
and Muslim -- in a world where cartoons justify killings and kidnappings warrant the destruction of entire
regions. Rather than investing our attentions in the follies of Greek gods, it's better to simply enjoy the
investment these dedicated actors put into bringing this bit of theater history to life.
The positive reviews were already handed in before curtain call. At our performance at least, rows of
student groups flanked the thrust stage like shackled oarsmen along a galley walkway. While they would
have no doubt been happy to snigger behind the backs of the actors, they remained a captive audience,
their silence the true measure of this production’s weight. They were certainly speechless at the wordy
confessions of love required of Hippolytus to win over Aricia (Dorothea Harahan), his real romantic
interest.
Michael Smith's set is a lovely low-walled rectangle that contains the action without trapping it. It provides
the actors plenty of seating area without intruding. Above it floats a paneless mirror frame. It does require
that the actors walk some distance from their upstage reveal before they engage in conversation. But that
is just one of the little challenges director Sabin Epstein easily overcomes with a variety of unobtrusive
ploys. Some tall, thin upstage stalks -- starting to look familiar -- lean left or right to give the set its energy,
and short rows of barbered reeds outline the playing area. Jennifer Gittings' costumes provide the one real
opening for interpretation. While Phaedra's gown appears close to period, the other women cover their
shiftless forms in formless shifts and Theseus sports a uniform for the ages. In contrast, Hippolytus alters --
in hair and threads -- between modern neatnik and beatnik while Robertson Dean's Teramenes is suited
right out of the Glendale Mens' Wearhouse (I guarantee it). I leave the meaning of this time-spanning line of
clothing to your night ride home.
The repertory continues with Eugene O'Neill's 'A Touch of the Poet' (previews September 23, opens
September 30, and Shakespeare's 'As You Like It,' previews October 21, opens October 28.
Ridiculous Fraud
by Beth Henley, directed by Sharon Ott West Coast premiere
South Coast Repertory October 20 through November 19, 2006
WITH Ian Fraser, Matt McGrath, Betsy Brandt, Matt Letscher, Randy Oglesby, Eliza Pryor, Nike Doukas, Paul
Vincent O’Connor PRODUCTION Hugh Landwehr, sets; Joyce Kim Lee, costumes; Peter Maradudin, lights;
Stephen LeGrand, sound; Randall K. Lum, stage manager
To the opening notes of Louis Armstrong’s “A Kiss to Build a Dream On,” Ridiculous
Fraud paddles us back into the brackish backwaters of the Beth Henley South. Along
these banks, dysfunction darkens family trees like clots of moss. Fathers miss their
sons’ weddings while serving time for fraud, one-legged girls adopt false identities and
abandon their children, and love teases like a drunken party guest, tapping someone's
right shoulder then ducking to the left.
Ridiculous Fraud – in its West Coast premiere at South Coast Repertory in Costa Mesa through November 19
– mixes its comedy with observations of the fragmenting American family. Deception is both funny and not
so funny as the silly and sentimental vie for our affections. But don't expect bureaucratic fraud among the
foibles. The New Orleans of this pre-Katrina script is FEMA-free.
Several elements generally flavor a Henley play: characters angled off-center trying to straighten out or
come to terms with their aberrance in families struggling for unity in the face of strange challenges against a
crazy world backdrop with a Southern accent. Fraud’s central trio of Clay brothers mirrors the sisters in
Henley’s Crimes of the Heart, the play that earned the playwright a Pulitzer Prize more than two decades
ago.
The apparently adjusted Andrew (Matt McGrath) – the only brother with a wife, a career and a normal name
– has the eldest brother syndrome of being a placater, which should help his negotiating if he wins his
political race. McGrath has mastered the paste-on grin of the politician. When he snaps that on that face-
widener, he looks like John Edwards. Middle brother Kap (Matt Letscher) is a “’tweener,” smarter and less
responsible than his older brother; infinitely more focused and appealing than his younger brother. Last and
least is Lafcad (Ian Fraser), the short post on this three-legged stool.
The Clays are tangled up with the Chrystals, the family of Andrew’s wife Willow (Betsy Brandt) and an
obvious step up the food service chain. If there’s much to daddy Ed Chrystal, Paul Vincent O’Connor isn’t
getting it. He's relying on the dialogue to be funnier than it is and clomps his lines down. Nike Doukas, on the
other hand, in a break from her usual SCR headline responsibilities, is Maude. As Ed’s second wife and
Willow’s stepmom, she is the play’s only sympathetic character – and not just because she’s dying. She
wears her weariness well, understandably not tortured about her inability to give up the cigarettes that are
killing her. Doukas shows that Maude may be the spot in the play where Henley’s heart lies. The script’s
subconscious seems to want to refocus things in Maude's POV: as if gathering up the cracked dishes of
both families in a checkered picnic blanket and carting them off to Maude's kitchen for a good spray down.
The remaining characters are the reliable Randy Oglesby’s Uncle Baites and Eliza Pryor’s Georgia. Pryor
and Ott haven’t figured out how to give the gimpy Georgia balance between her troubled past and her
present daffy quest. In fact, Ott does not seem to have found the right carburetor settings at which to blend
the play’s meaning and craziness. The mixed blessing of having fraud and deception as message and motif
is that plot twists that cut in to surprise have already been undercut by the early establishment of a world
where everybody’s hiding something that eventually will come out.
by Beth Henley, directed by Sharon Ott West Coast premiere
South Coast Repertory October 20 through November 19, 2006
WITH Ian Fraser, Matt McGrath, Betsy Brandt, Matt Letscher, Randy Oglesby, Eliza Pryor, Nike Doukas, Paul
Vincent O’Connor PRODUCTION Hugh Landwehr, sets; Joyce Kim Lee, costumes; Peter Maradudin, lights;
Stephen LeGrand, sound; Randall K. Lum, stage manager
To the opening notes of Louis Armstrong’s “A Kiss to Build a Dream On,” Ridiculous
Fraud paddles us back into the brackish backwaters of the Beth Henley South. Along
these banks, dysfunction darkens family trees like clots of moss. Fathers miss their
sons’ weddings while serving time for fraud, one-legged girls adopt false identities and
abandon their children, and love teases like a drunken party guest, tapping someone's
right shoulder then ducking to the left.
Ridiculous Fraud – in its West Coast premiere at South Coast Repertory in Costa Mesa through November 19
– mixes its comedy with observations of the fragmenting American family. Deception is both funny and not
so funny as the silly and sentimental vie for our affections. But don't expect bureaucratic fraud among the
foibles. The New Orleans of this pre-Katrina script is FEMA-free.
Several elements generally flavor a Henley play: characters angled off-center trying to straighten out or
come to terms with their aberrance in families struggling for unity in the face of strange challenges against a
crazy world backdrop with a Southern accent. Fraud’s central trio of Clay brothers mirrors the sisters in
Henley’s Crimes of the Heart, the play that earned the playwright a Pulitzer Prize more than two decades
ago.
The apparently adjusted Andrew (Matt McGrath) – the only brother with a wife, a career and a normal name
– has the eldest brother syndrome of being a placater, which should help his negotiating if he wins his
political race. McGrath has mastered the paste-on grin of the politician. When he snaps that on that face-
widener, he looks like John Edwards. Middle brother Kap (Matt Letscher) is a “’tweener,” smarter and less
responsible than his older brother; infinitely more focused and appealing than his younger brother. Last and
least is Lafcad (Ian Fraser), the short post on this three-legged stool.
The Clays are tangled up with the Chrystals, the family of Andrew’s wife Willow (Betsy Brandt) and an
obvious step up the food service chain. If there’s much to daddy Ed Chrystal, Paul Vincent O’Connor isn’t
getting it. He's relying on the dialogue to be funnier than it is and clomps his lines down. Nike Doukas, on the
other hand, in a break from her usual SCR headline responsibilities, is Maude. As Ed’s second wife and
Willow’s stepmom, she is the play’s only sympathetic character – and not just because she’s dying. She
wears her weariness well, understandably not tortured about her inability to give up the cigarettes that are
killing her. Doukas shows that Maude may be the spot in the play where Henley’s heart lies. The script’s
subconscious seems to want to refocus things in Maude's POV: as if gathering up the cracked dishes of
both families in a checkered picnic blanket and carting them off to Maude's kitchen for a good spray down.
The remaining characters are the reliable Randy Oglesby’s Uncle Baites and Eliza Pryor’s Georgia. Pryor
and Ott haven’t figured out how to give the gimpy Georgia balance between her troubled past and her
present daffy quest. In fact, Ott does not seem to have found the right carburetor settings at which to blend
the play’s meaning and craziness. The mixed blessing of having fraud and deception as message and motif
is that plot twists that cut in to surprise have already been undercut by the early establishment of a world
where everybody’s hiding something that eventually will come out.
Dana Dewes
Steve Vinovich
JEFF LORCH
Steve Vinovich
JEFF LORCH
The 60s
Pacific Resident Theater
Open Fist Theater
Mark Taper Forum
A Noise Within
South Coast Repertory
Pacific Resident Theater
Open Fist Theater
Mark Taper Forum
A Noise Within
South Coast Repertory
Daryl Dickerson
Benjamin Burdick
Benjamin Burdick
Jenna Cole
June Claman
CRAIG SCHWARTZ
June Claman
CRAIG SCHWARTZ
Matt McGrath (top)
Matt Letscher
Betsy Brandt
HENRY DiROCCO
Matt Letscher
Betsy Brandt
HENRY DiROCCO
Nightingale
written and performed by Lynn Redgrave, directed by Joseph Hardy
Mark Taper Forum October 4 through November 19, 2006
WITH Lynn Redgrave PRODUCTION Tobin Ost, set; Candice Cain, costumes; Rui Rita, lights; Cricket S.
Myers, sound; Michelle Blair, stage manager
From arguably the most accomplished stage family to come out of Britain in the 20th
Century, Lynn Redgrave recreating the life of an ancestor harbingers an evening of
historic insights and secrets. That presumption may lead some to be disappointed
when they find that Ms. Redgrave’s ‘Nightingale,’ currently in its American Premiere
at the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles, is about a woman who, if she existed at all,
has been justifiably forgotten. Ms. Redgrave’s parents were Rachel Kempson and
Michael Redgrave – the latter the focus of her earlier one-woman effort, 'Shakespeare
for my Father.' This new script gets real footing by naming the Kempsons as well as
Vanessa and Corin Redgrave, Lynn's siblings. But facts get fuzzy as the story
recedes into history. Ms. Redgrave's grandmother's actress daughter is named Rose,
not Rachel, and Rose's husband is not Michael but a non-actor named Robert. These
'face value' questions are solved in Michael Ritchie’s candid program note, which
explains that Ms. Redgrave is in fact weaving three stories: hers, her real
grandmother's, and that of a fictional grandmother named Mildred. Because we have
no way of unraveling whether an incident is fabricated or recalled, we must take them
all as contrived in the interest of the point Ms. Redgrave seeks to make.
That point is a bittersweet one. In 2003, when Ms. Redgrave attended the funeral of her mother, the sight
of family grave markers with their names eroded away sparked these musings on what mark a life leaves
on the world. While her family has left many an indelible print, it still has its share of unknowns. Mildred’s
life is one: A youth spent without the suitors her sisters acquired, a marriage as cold and clumsy as if
arranged (but without the excuse of arrangement behind it), and children she seemed to distance herself
from. It was a life of depression and missed opportunities and yet it fed the emotional and genetic pools
downstream as fully as the famous. These chains of influence, Redgrave subtly asserts, impact us – for
better or worse – more than we can know. But what is the impact? What made Mildred so overcome by
the negative side? Where does this unnamed clinical depression come from? She does not explain it, but
gracefully reminds us that all ancestors live on in us, even those whose bequest is emptiness.
Not surprisingly, that emptiness was greeted in kind, with a half-full house on our night, and the handful of
early departures (despite a show merely 85 minutes in length). Still, it is laudable that Redgrave, who could
have filled her 90 minutes with name-dropping and trunk tales, would dare instead to examine the absence
of the departed with a character who seems to have lived in absentia. She is keeping her promise to
“Mildred,” undoing the effect of a death that made her “like a nightingale, singing unheard in the tree at night.”
As expected, Ms. Redgrave’s performance is elegantly detailed. She glides between children and the
elderly with ease. In some cases, though, such as her portrayals of sisters in conversation, one can be
easy to lose track of who is speaking. But the point of the scene is always clear.
She is well served by the beautiful set design of Tobin Ost, inspired by a line about screens covered with
photographs. With Rui Rita’s light design, the screen allows us to see the images and see them fade to
transparency. Candice Cain has appointed her in a costume that could be quite appropriate in the lobby on
opening night, while also recalling shoe styles and fabrics of a century ago.
written and performed by Lynn Redgrave, directed by Joseph Hardy
Mark Taper Forum October 4 through November 19, 2006
WITH Lynn Redgrave PRODUCTION Tobin Ost, set; Candice Cain, costumes; Rui Rita, lights; Cricket S.
Myers, sound; Michelle Blair, stage manager
From arguably the most accomplished stage family to come out of Britain in the 20th
Century, Lynn Redgrave recreating the life of an ancestor harbingers an evening of
historic insights and secrets. That presumption may lead some to be disappointed
when they find that Ms. Redgrave’s ‘Nightingale,’ currently in its American Premiere
at the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles, is about a woman who, if she existed at all,
has been justifiably forgotten. Ms. Redgrave’s parents were Rachel Kempson and
Michael Redgrave – the latter the focus of her earlier one-woman effort, 'Shakespeare
for my Father.' This new script gets real footing by naming the Kempsons as well as
Vanessa and Corin Redgrave, Lynn's siblings. But facts get fuzzy as the story
recedes into history. Ms. Redgrave's grandmother's actress daughter is named Rose,
not Rachel, and Rose's husband is not Michael but a non-actor named Robert. These
'face value' questions are solved in Michael Ritchie’s candid program note, which
explains that Ms. Redgrave is in fact weaving three stories: hers, her real
grandmother's, and that of a fictional grandmother named Mildred. Because we have
no way of unraveling whether an incident is fabricated or recalled, we must take them
all as contrived in the interest of the point Ms. Redgrave seeks to make.
That point is a bittersweet one. In 2003, when Ms. Redgrave attended the funeral of her mother, the sight
of family grave markers with their names eroded away sparked these musings on what mark a life leaves
on the world. While her family has left many an indelible print, it still has its share of unknowns. Mildred’s
life is one: A youth spent without the suitors her sisters acquired, a marriage as cold and clumsy as if
arranged (but without the excuse of arrangement behind it), and children she seemed to distance herself
from. It was a life of depression and missed opportunities and yet it fed the emotional and genetic pools
downstream as fully as the famous. These chains of influence, Redgrave subtly asserts, impact us – for
better or worse – more than we can know. But what is the impact? What made Mildred so overcome by
the negative side? Where does this unnamed clinical depression come from? She does not explain it, but
gracefully reminds us that all ancestors live on in us, even those whose bequest is emptiness.
Not surprisingly, that emptiness was greeted in kind, with a half-full house on our night, and the handful of
early departures (despite a show merely 85 minutes in length). Still, it is laudable that Redgrave, who could
have filled her 90 minutes with name-dropping and trunk tales, would dare instead to examine the absence
of the departed with a character who seems to have lived in absentia. She is keeping her promise to
“Mildred,” undoing the effect of a death that made her “like a nightingale, singing unheard in the tree at night.”
As expected, Ms. Redgrave’s performance is elegantly detailed. She glides between children and the
elderly with ease. In some cases, though, such as her portrayals of sisters in conversation, one can be
easy to lose track of who is speaking. But the point of the scene is always clear.
She is well served by the beautiful set design of Tobin Ost, inspired by a line about screens covered with
photographs. With Rui Rita’s light design, the screen allows us to see the images and see them fade to
transparency. Candice Cain has appointed her in a costume that could be quite appropriate in the lobby on
opening night, while also recalling shoe styles and fabrics of a century ago.
Lynn Redgrave
CRAIG SCHWARTZ
CRAIG SCHWARTZ
