Jacqueline Wright, Albert Dayan (photo: Darrett Sanders)

“Blueberry Toast” Slices Deep into our Fantasies

Edward Albee isn’t dead.  And Antonin Artaud is laughing in his grave.

Because Mary Laws is alive and well and writing plays, and the Echo Theater Company is producing them.

In Blueberry Toast, world-premiering at the Atwater VillageTheatre, Laws answers the Frenchman’s  call for a “theatre of cruelty” like Joan of Arc taking up arms for the archangel Michael.  And she presses the American master’s lacerating satire to places even he didn’t go.

It starts simply enough.  A bright, cute kitchen (scene design: Amanda Knehans) and perky music (sound design: Jeff Gardner) gently mock the suburban dream, suggesting where we’re going.  Enter Walt and Barb.  He’s floating in satisfaction, she’s smiling and attentive.

Soon, though, he casts yearning glances outside their cozy domicile,  and she looks at unguarded moments as if she’s swallowed the Franco-Prussian War and been unable to digest it.  She cajoles him into having breakfast; he asks for blueberry pancakes; she serves him blueberry compote on toast.  The glove has been thrown down.

As their marital tete-a-tete escalates to mano-a-mano and beyond, their two children, Jill and Jack, rush in and out.  They’re excited to show off a play they’re creating, one act at a time, and — except for a hilarious TMI moment  when they interrupt violent sex — fail to grasp what’s happening.

Through all three acts of the children’s play, and the brutal crescendo of their parents’ warfare, the audience is laughing helplessly, loud and long — even at the end, when Jill mourns like Electra and Jack sits stunned, an infant Orpheus descending into madness.

In Laws’ hands, the layers of wishing and pretending peel off of the suburban fantasy at breakneck speed, leaving only the dark matter of blood.  What’s remarkable is that on this ride from Disneyland into hell, she has us laughing all the way.

Laws has a precise eye and ear, and a wonderful sense of rhythm and structure.  She lets every syllable mean.  Her writing gifts are amplified by Dustin Wills’ deft, relentless direction, and by the unstinting work of the actors.

Alexandra Freeman’s Jill bounces effervescently, and Michael Sturgis as Jack follows diffidently in her wake.  Neither role could be played by a child,  and these two subtly remind us of how we infantilize our offspring, teaching them not to trust what they see or know.

As Walt, Albert Dayan is delightfully self-centered, remaining blithely clueless about anyone else’s feelings to the bitter end.  His monolog about himself (a  gentle parody of his namesake Whitman?) skewers men everywhere, and his self-righteous woundedness is a joy to behold, even as we wince with recognition.  Masterfully underplayed.

Of course, the demon in this lovely machine, the unfailing source of its energy, is Barb.  And Jacqueline Wright is a virtuoso, taking us through fifty shades of crazy without missing a nuance.   As Barb allows herself to feel  indignity after indignity, then unleashes anger after anger, we howl with laughter — in anticipation of her next act, and in her execution of it.  We know her pain too well, and feel ourselves released when she lets fly.  Barb is a brilliant but terrifyingly difficult role, and Wright gives it one of this year’s great comic performances.

Artaud wanted theatre to shock audiences out of their complacency; Albee wanted it to show us the truth beneath the stories we tell  ourselves.  Mary Laws wants to be “a badassmotherfuckingwriter.”  Echo Theater Company’s production of Blueberry Toast grants all their wishes, and presents American theater with a dark jewel.
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Blueberry Toast, by Mary Laws, directed by Dustin Wills.
Presented by the Echo Theater Company, at Atwater Village Theatre,  3269 Casitas Ave., LA 90039.

Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00,
Sundays at 4:00,
through October 24th.
Mondays (September 19th and 26th, and  October 24th only) at 8:00.

Tickets:   <www.echotheatercompany.com>  or  (310) 307-3753.

 

 

“Mexican Trilogy” Artfully Tells Vital American Story

Three full-length plays in one evening?  That’s ambitious.

A century in a family’s life, spanning four generations and two cultures?  Ambitious again.

The Latino Theater Company pulls it off with panache in its newest  creation, A Mexican Trilogy: An American Story. The three plays – Faith, Hope and Charity — are onstage at downtown’s LA Theatre Center.  Using a bold scenic design (by Francois-Pierre Couture) that stacks a half-dozen playing areas in an upstage box wall; powerfully dramatic projections (by Yee Eun Nam); and a daring sound design (by John Zalewski), the LTC troupe unfolds its panoramic tale with wit and warmth, punctuating the story with adroitly chosen popular songs.

Evelina Fernandez, Olivia Cristina Delgado; (rear) Sal Lopez, Sam Golzari, Esperanza America (photo: Grettel Cortes)

Evelina Fernandez, Olivia Cristina Delgado; (rear) Sal Lopez, Sam Golzari, Esperanza America (photo: Grettel Cortes)

The cycle begins in a Mexico swept by revolution, moves to an Arizona mining town and then to Phoenix, and ends in the Los Angeles of 2005.  We follow la familia as it evolves, with the twelve actors shifting characters along the way.   Yet as family members grow and change and die, we also see how some things endure, like traditions, or keep showing up, like genes or habits.

One danger in such an ambitious undertaking is overwhelm — will we lose track of the many-stranded story, or lose interest over the six hours of its telling?  We don’t.  Every element of the production is handled so skilfully that we stay effortlessly engaged, even over the break for dinner (or as we did, from one evening to the next).

Another danger is stereotyping — moving through an entire century and 30 characters in six hours, can each person appear individual and real?  Will historic events be merely quick cartoons? Again, no problem.  As swiftly as the story moves, the playwright gives each character time to reveal inner layers, and the actors make it happen.  And the projections and sound design make each crucial moment echo long after it has passed, as such moments do in memory.

In an ensemble production of such uniformly high quality, it’s nearly impossible to single out artists. Whether handling one role (as Lucy Rodriguez does throughout, and Robert Beltran does in Charity) or several (as everyone else does), the actors demonstrate  impressive  range and versatility.  Even the playwright, Fernández, steps into four roles across the three plays.

Nothing about A Mexican Trilogy leads us to expect a musical.  So we are surprised early on when the sisters Faith, Hope and Elena manage a credible imitation of the Andrews Sisters; then they get even better; and then later, we are stunned by the solos of Ella Saldaña North and Esperanza America.  Sal Lopez — who handles a handful of roles, from young priest to aged paterfamilias to a burned-out veteran — also croons romanticos; and Julio Macias and Kenneth Miles Ellington step into power rock classics with ease.

Now three decades old, the Latino Theater Company under founder José Luis Valenzuela has matured into a troupe that can take on any challenge, as their masterful handling of this epic demonstrates.  A Mexican Trilogy: An American Story is not only a dynamic theatrical  experience, it’s a vital cultural record.  It deserves to be seen all over  this country — and perhaps Mexico as well. The only question is how many companies can match LTC’s bold artistry, or will dare to try.
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A Mexican Trilogy: An American Story, by Evelina Fernández, directed by José Luis Valenzuela.
Presented by the Latino Theater Company, at the LA Theatre Center, 514 S. Spring St., Los Angeles 90013.

Thursdays (Part A) and Fridays (Part B) at 8:00,
Saturdays at 5:00 (Part A) and 8:30 (Part B),
Sundays at 3:00 (Part A) and 6:30 (Part B),through October 9th.

Tickets: <www.TheLATC.org> or (866) 811-4111.

 

 

 

“Anais”: New Wine Bursts the Old Goatskins

When Anaïs Nin began writing, almost 100 years ago, the literary world had no way to deal with her.

To be sure, there were liberated women in Paris after World War I — performers, writers, sexual adventurers who littered the Left Bank cafés and shone at Gertrude Stein’s salons.  But none wrote as frankly and freely about the sensual life as Nin, who claimed the same liberty — in her personal life as well as her writing– that Henry Miller was carving out for men.

anais 1

Nin had to write anonymous dollar-a-page porn to support herself.  Later, as her own works were published, readers who avidly followed her tempestuous sexual odyssey denounced her in public, punishing her with puritan prudery for daring to live an unplanned, embodied life.

Not until the “sexual revolution” of the 1960s did Nin receive more than grudging respect as an artist — and still, thirty years later, she was savaged by her first biographer.  Only now are her stormy life and work appearing onstage.

To capture this whirlwind, librettist/composer Cindy Shapiro and director/choreographer Janet Roston devised a new theatrical form — a dance opera.   “Eternal Anaïs,” a narrator  garbed like the Interlocutor of a burlesque show, weaves together 17 scenes, with a song for each; meanwhile “Anaïs,” a dancer, enacts each episode.  They’re supported by a versatile five-member troupe who dance, sing and act as needed, and by the constant flow of images and words — which were Nin’s lifeblood — on the upstage screen.

Shapiro’s music is unconventional and daring, and creates a world that flows steadily through the scenes; Roston’s energetic and often lyrical choreography similarly sustains the tone throughout. And the projections, by Joe LaRue and James Levy, are a marvel — yet they always serve the story.

Still, it’s up to two bravura performers to carry the show.  Marisa Matthews (“Eternal Anaïs”) almost never leaves the stage, singing her way — often at full belt — through a solid hour and a half.  Her focus and clarity, her ability to charm the audience, and her ease at synchronizing with recorded tracks are simply astounding.  Micaela De Pauli (Anaïs) dances a full-length modern ballet with hardly a moment’s break; she creates a character we know and follow through every subtle change, and leaves us gasping.

The multi-talented ensemble members — Denise Woods, Jacqueline Hinton, Mathew D’Amico, Quinn Jaxon, and Michael Quiett — meet equally fierce demands (and handle the scene changes) with grace. In addition, Jaxon creates Nin’s first husband, a shy banker; D’Amico blusters on as her second, a film actor and outdoorsman; and Quiett shakes her world as Henry Miller, her great mentor and lover.

Putting a whole life onstage is a nearly impossible challenge:  There’s so much to tell, and so little time.  Anaïs takes us into an incredibly complex life, and does it more effectively — and poetically — than any theatrical biography I can recall.

When you arrive the Greenway Court Theatre, you may expect to be shocked by Anaïs Nin’s sexual frankness, as generations have been. Then again, in our polygendered, polyamorous era, you may not be. But you definitely will meet her — and be stunned by the artistry of the storytelling.
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Anaïs: A Dance Opera, by Janet Roston and Cindy Shapiro, directed by Janet Roston.
Presented by Mixed eMotion Theatrix and Diana Raab, at the Greenway Court Theatre, 544 N. Fairfax Ave., LA 90036.

Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00,
Sundays at 7:00,
through September 18th.

Tickets:  <www.GreenwayCourtTheatre.org> .

 

“Farragut North”: A Taut, Timely Political Tragedy

‘Tis the season to be cynical.

Election season, when billions of dollars flood the country in search of votes, when TV and internet screens are clogged with ads and arguments.

Just the time for a slick, smart play about politics.  And that’s what Farragut North seems to promise. We’re in Iowa, days before the caucuses, with the campaign team of the Democratic front-runner, a progressive from Vermont.

At first, it’s hard not to look for the real-world parallels.  The governor is raising his money from small donations. Sounds a lot like Bernie Sanders — or Howard Dean (also from Vermont), who pioneered populist funding in his 2004  White House bid.  And our playwright, Beau Willimon, worked on Dean’s staff.

So the first half of Farragut North weaves the frantic, tangled web of high-stakes politics.  We follow press secretary Stephen Bellamy as he angles for coverage from a New York Times reporter, takes an intern to bed, then gets a secret call from the opposing camp.

The call turns everything upside down.  We now see the seamy side of the process — the fakery, the backroom deals, the dirty tricks.  But we see Stephen do the right thing: He tells his boss.

So Act I sketches a swift, savvy picture of politics — its bright, busy surface and its dark, mean underside.  Act II gives us an equally swift, equally dark tragedy: The fall of a man undone by the flaw in his character.  Each scene reveals a surprise, and by the end there’s nothing left of Stephen, not even a lesson learned.

Willimon can show the dark side — he’s the creator of the bleak Netflix hit, House of Cards, about a Macbeth-like couple who reach the White House by stepping over corpses.  But he also shows us more — the deep, complex story of human yearnings and failings beneath the cynical shell. We care about Stephen, even as we loathe his weakness, and what it drives him to do.

Staging this fast-moving, many-layered drama is far from easy.   But Conejo Players Theatre, known for big musicals, does a crisp, compelling job.  Designer John Eslick starts us off with a set that looks simple and familiar — yet eerily foreboding.  Director Elissa Anne Polansky puts it all in motion and keeps it there, never letting the pace or focus drop; she makes juggling knives look easy.

The players rise to the occasion commendably.  Eslick, as the opposing campaign manager, uses his power gently but firmly, a helpful uncle who’s seen it all yet hasn’t become bitter.  Bryan White, as Stephen’s harried boss, nicely hints that he may be in a tad deep, then delivers the first of Act II’s hammer blows in a strong, finely balanced monolog.  And Allison Klinker creates a polished pro of a reporter who’s comfortable sinking to any level.

Parker Harris brings to Stephen the troubling combination of intelligence and unthinking privilege, wielding his wits with charisma but little wisdom.  And Katy Jarvis’ precocious, coltish Molly circles him like a moth entranced by a flame.  Both make us wince at what their characters don’t know they don’t know.

Fred Saliba also deserves a word for his humble monolog as the Waiter, and Beth Glasner for costumes that are invisibly apt, even when clothes become part of the story.

This is a play that leaves you thinking — and talking.  Beyond the razzle-dazzle of power flowing back and forth, there’s the real point of it all: Whom does the power serve?  Beneath the snappy cynicism, there’s a timeless question:  What is virtue, and how do we live it?

Farragut North is as tight and deep a political drama as we’ve had in decades.  Conejo Players are doing it proud.  See it before you vote.
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Farragut North, by Beau Willimon, directed by Elissa Anne Polansky.
Presented by Conejo Players Theatre, 351 S. Moorpark Rd., Westlake Village 91361.

Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00,
Sundays at 2:00,
through September 17th.

Tickets: <www.conejoplayers.org> or (805) 495-3715.

 

 

 

 

Horror Shot: ZJU Serves 2,400-year-old “Medea”

The ancient Greeks wrote tragedies and comedies, right?

Medea is neither — it’s a horror story, pure and simple.  And it may be the world’s oldest one, having debuted in Athens some 2,400 years ago.

For its most recent appearance — at Zombie Joe’s Undergound — director Denise Devin has pared Euripides’ full-length play down to a swift and sudden hour of terror.

Medea is not about a man who, like Oedipus, tries to counter his fate and loses to the gods. It’s about a woman who is betrayed by a man, and plans a terrible revenge.

Medea, a princess in a “barbarian” land, is swept away by her husband Jason to the Greek city of Corinth.  After they’re settled long enough to have two sons, Jason has the opportunity to wed the daughter of King Creon, removing the stain of foreignness his wife has brought.

But this will reduce Medea to the status of a concubine, and she will lose her sons to the royal family. She refuses, but cannot change the plan. So she vows revenge on all concerned.

Surprisingly, the gods don’t get in her way, or punish her afterward. Medea swiftly accomplishes her plans, and we are horrified — by her increasingly inhuman actions, and by her apotheosis as a superhuman figure at the end.

By compressing this drama into a single hour, Devin has created a superhuman challenge. The actor who plays Medea must be at a high pitch of ferocity from start to finish, swelling to a climax beyond human — and  with no “recovery time” between scenes, while the Chorus and others debate the action (as in the original).

Fortunately, ZJU has Jonica Patella.  A force on any stage, Patella drives toward her revenge with operatic power, yet along the way reveals a full range of emotions (and dynamics, from triple forte to pianissimo). She is by turns confused, contrite, reasonable, seductive, and overcome by love  — yet implacable in her hatred. Patella’s Medea is so human we can’t help but feel her sufferings; yet so obsessed that by the end, we feel we’re losing our contact with her.  As we should: She has become a monster.

As her well-intentioned but clueless mate Jason, Alex Walters delivers an accurate, almost comic portrait of the privileged male who works hard to get ahead and can’t imagine what all the fuss is about. The ensemble weaves the world around the ill-fated pair: Dale Sandler’s adamant Creon bends nicely at the crucial moment; Louise Claps delivers a stolid Nurse who can’t hide her affections; Larray Grimes’ Messenger makes us feel his shock at the horrid climax; and a Comforters/Chorus trio, led by Dawn Davis, keep Corinth real.

The staging, in Zombie Joe’s tiny black box, is artful and very effective.  From the taiko drums (Xandra-Marie Gabucan and Isaku Kageyama) to Medea’s shocking makeup, to the deft way the Comforters turn into the Chorus and back, we are made to feel the swift story’s incredibly high stakes.  And Medea’s final moment — as a dragonlike apparition (kudos to Devlin and Cristina Brunet) — perfectly translates for a modern audience the awe and horror of Euripides’ ending.

On opening night one or two nerves were noticeable, but that’s ironed out by now.  If you like horror — and are strong enough to take it straight, no sweet mixer, no ice — then step up to NoHo for Medea.  You’ll be shaken, but you won’t be sorry.
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Medea, by Euripides, adapted, directed and choreographed by Denise Devin.
Presented by Zombie Joe’s Underground Theatre Group, at the ZJU Theatre, 4850 N. Lankershim Blvd., North Hollywood 91601.

Fridays at 8:30,
Sundays at 7:00,
through September 11th.

Tickets: <www.ZombieJoes.com> or (818) 202-4120.

 

 

Seeking a Smart Comedy? Try “One of the Nice Ones”

For 25 years, David Mamet’s Oleanna has reigned as the queen of dark comedies about gender roles and power in American society.

Meet the new queen.

One of the Nice Ones, by LA playwright Erik Patterson, has sharp dialog in the Noel Coward tradition, lots of lively theatricality, and more sudden switchbacks than a mountain road. And you can see it this weekend in Atwater, where The Echo Theater is giving it a world premiere.

Graham Hamilton, Rebecca Gray

Graham Hamilton, Rebecca Gray

The comic conflict occurs in the offices of a weight-loss program, between a call-room worker and her male supervisor.  She’s floridly neurotic, he’s a blooming  sociopath, and both are devilishly clever.

I won’t tell you the story.  But I will tell you that this sparkling script gets a full-speed, often effervescent performance. Rebecca Gray, as the caller, shifts shape swiftly and subtly, managing to keep her suffering real while making us laugh; and Graham Hamilton gets us almost liking a guy we wish we’d never met.  Rodney To, the hapless foil, nimbly tumbles down the steps of decompensation; and Tara Karsian brings sanity into the room twice, first as a bewildered customer and then as an Athena-like judge of the furies.

Of course, a soufflé needs whipping, and director Chris Fields keeps things astir with a steady hand.  Scenic designer Amanda Knehans captures the mood with a complex visual puzzle of a set that reveals itself bit by bit, usually in the brisk scene changes; her playfully unfolding mystery creates a fine analog of the story’s action.

The Echo always delivers strong acting and high production values. In this play, they’re working with a script that’s painfully relevant yet laugh-out-loud risible, and the result is a timely comedy that deserves to be around a long time — it really is One of the Nice Ones.

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One of the Nice Ones, by Erik Patterson, directed by Chris Fields.
Presented by The Echo Theater Company, at Atwater Villlage Theatre, 3269 Casitas Ave., LA 90039.

Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00,
Sundays at 4:00 and 7:00,
through August 21st.

Tickets: <www.EchoTheaterCompany.com> or (310) 307-3753.

 

Wicked Wit, Rending Tragedy in “The Suitcase”

“What if we do a vaudeville routine about the Holocaust?”
“No, no.”  “Bad taste.  Insensitive.”  “That’d never work.”

Never say never to a Polish playwright.  One of that country’s most accomplished comic writers, Malgorzata Sikorska-Miszczuk, has packed vaudeville and death camps into The Suitcase — and it works.

How?  You’ve got to see it to believe it.  And luckily, you can.  Two of LA’s best theatre companies, Echo Theatre Company and The West, are giving Sikorska’s wry tale its American premiere, and it’s an experience you won’t soon forget.

Alexandra Freeman, Vincent Castellanos (photo: Eric Keitel)

Alexandra Freeman, Vincent Castellanos (photo: Eric Keitel)

It all looks so simple.  Before a patchwork curtain, the stage is bare, save an odd object that looks like leftover pegboard bits stuck together.  An ingratiating narrator sings, tells a joke or two, then offers the tale of Franswa Jackoh, a fellow at loose ends in his retirement whose wife tells him to get out of the house.

At her suggestion, he goes to a museum.  Turns out it’s a museum of the Holocaust.  Turns out (as a lively quasi-musical number reveals) that while an art museum contains art, there’s no Holocaust here. Just photographs, names, film clips, piles of shoes …

I don’t remember the last time a joke made me laugh and cry.
But Sikorska’s piercing wit — in Artur Zapalowski’s deft translation, with the troupe’s skillful delivery — does it again and again.

Ultimately, Franswa encounters the suitcase.  Like Rilke standing before the headless bust of Apollo, he realizes that he must change his life.  But that’s all the story I’ll give away.

What I’ll say instead is that this piece of art — pared down to theatre’s bare beginnings — will tickle and shock and sting and, yes, console you.  It may even make you think about changing your life.

Director Sam Hunter keeps the actors to the simplest outlines of movement, while encouraging them to find the complexity of character Sikorska’s sketches suggest.

Jeff Alan-Lee balances the narrator’s antics between amusing and irritating, slowly letting us sense what he’s trying to balance inside; Claire Kaplan, as his pierrette, juggles forcefulness and flirtation, hinting at what may be love as she nudges the story onward.  Alexandra Freeman, the “Miserable Tour Guide,” shines at the edge of sanity, struggling to hold (and hold off) the history she’s immersed in; Sigute Miller, a psychic cafe poet, wears a many-colored coat of implied stories.  Eric Keitel’s stillness lets a single gesture be a climax; and Vincent Castellanos contains so much in Franswa’s mild manner that we both hope and fear to find what’s locked inside.

The Suitcase‘s exterior is unassuming; but within lives a powerful and provocative work of theatre.  Brilliantly written and delicately performed, this play joins wicked comedy and piercing tragedy to help us confront and deal with who we are, what we have done, and whether we dare to remember.
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The Suitcase, by Malgorzata Sikorska-Miszczuk, directed by Sam Hunter.
Presented by Echo Theatre Company and The West, at Atwater Village Theatre, 3269 Casitas Ave., LA 90039.

Wednesdays and Thursdays at 8:00,
through August 18.

Tickets:  <www.echotheatre.com> or (310) 307-3753

[Note:  Hunter and Kaplan, the two troupe members from The West, have collaborated before — most notably in their stunning Lady Into Fox, seen on several LA stages last winter.  (My review is below.)]

 

 

Living & Dying in a War Theater: “Ajax in Iraq”

Throughout our nation’s history, large numbers of Americans have lived in war zones as active combatants.  Of course, the rest of us wonder what it’s like — what living inside a war does to people, how they deal with it.

But most veterans don’t talk about it much.  Fortunately, some do — and when they do, some folks listen.  In 1994, psychiatrist Jonathan Shay’s book Achilles in Vietnam compared what US veterans told him with what Homer said about a war 2,700 years earlier; surprisingly, he found, the Greek poet’s picture of life at war was still painfully accurate, and even helpful in finding ways for soul-scarred survivors to heal.

Ellen McLaughlin’s 2011 play Ajax in Iraq sets the experience of a new generation of American soldiers alongside another ancient war story, Sophocles’ Ajax.  She does it to inquire about Americans living and dying in the Middle Eastern conflict and finds, like Shay, that the Greeks knew war with a horrible intimacy.

Ajax (Aaron Hendry) surrounded by American GIs (photo: Sean Deckert)

Ajax (Aaron Hendry) surrounded by American GIs (photo: Sean Deckert)

This month, LA’s Not Man Apart troupe is re-staging McLaughlin’s drama.  “After 15 years of deployments,” notes director John Farmanesh-Boca — this war is now longer than the American Revolution — “the Pentagon is bracing for things to get much worse.  Our veterans cannot be ignored.”

McLaughlin interweaves the experiences of a company of GIs (mostly women) with large fragments of Sophocles’ play. This may seem odd at first — the goddess Athena onstage amid grunts wielding automatic weapons — but it turns out to be a powerful way for us to understand what our soldiers experience, and how impossibly much we expect of them.

The most powerful thing we learn is that aside from the weapons, so little has changed.

Today, just as in the ancient world, war is a place where half the people are trying to kill you, and the other half are sending you out into harm’s way.  It’s a place where you quickly feel more attached to the person fighting next to you — if you can trust them — than to anyone else in the world.

It’s also a place where some people abandon ethics and rules, and put everyone else at even greater risk.  Where some officers abuse their power freely, since there’s no recourse from their authority. Where no one who’s not in the thick of it has any idea — not even the officers back at field headquarters, who make the plans and order the attacks.

These things erode the sanity of Ajax, one of the Greek army’s greatest soldiers.  And they eat away at A.J., an American soldier who is the first of her unit to arrive in Iraq.

As the Greeks’ “lightning attack” on Troy turns into a grinding 10-year siege, Ajax watches friends slain day after day, and struggles to hang on to the code of honor. Then a high-ranking officer steals his dead friend’s armor, and Ajax snaps.

A.J. is forced into sex slavery by her psychopathic sergeant, and withdraws into a deep depression.  Her buddies worry about her, and admire — but don’t understand — the way she rushes fiercely into the most dangerous assignments.

When Ajax breaks, he goes on a “berserk raid,” killing everything he can see.  A.J., pushed beyond her limit, does the same.  When this kind of psychotic break happens to a soldier — and it often does — it wins medals … if the rage falls on an enemy position.  If it falls on a local village, it usually gets hushed up.

Both Ajax and A.J. kill symbolically, however; they slaughter animals.  When Ajax realizes he is mad, and has destroyed the Greek army’s only food supply, he kills himself.  When A.J. sees what she’s done, she also commits suicide.

Ajax in Iraq premiered off-Broadway with some criticizing it as more programmatic than dramatic.  But the Not Man Apart company wears the title “Physical Theatre Ensemble” — and they earn it.  Under Farmanesh-Bocca’s intense, energetic direction, the company creates an ongoing melee of movement, noise and stress, punctuated by sudden, disorienting moments of quiet.

This production makes us feel the grinding pressure of a war zone more viscerally than a 3-D movie with blaring speakers can.  And the lead actors — Aaron Hendry and Courtney Munch — carve out blazingly individual characters, so there’s no sense of allegory.

What we’re left with is a grueling and disheartening vision of life in war.  We watch — and feel — the way it distorts and destroys human personalities, tearing individuals from their inner roots, making them strangers in their homes and families.

This is the price of war.  Not just the body bags, not just the visible wounds — but the countless young women and men for whom staying alive in a war zone makes life unliveable.  Watching Ajax in Iraq, we cannot look away from what we have done, and are still doing every day, to our fellow Americans.

The Greeks told these stories not to recruit more soldiers, nor to amuse audiences.  They told them to indict everyone, to make the whole community feel as deeply as possible the human and moral cost of policies they had voted for, or failed to oppose.   Not Man Apart, with its shocking, powerful production of Ajax in Iraq, would makes Sophocles proud.
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Ajax in Iraq, by Ellen McLaughlin, directed and choreographed by John Farmanesh-Bocca.
Presented by Not Man Apart Physical Theatre Ensemble, at Greenway Court Theatre, 544 N. Fairfax Ave., LA 90036.

Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00,
Sundays at 7:00,
through August 14th.

Tickets:  <www.notmanapart.com>

 

 

 

 

“right left with heels” steps on history’s toes

Who gets to tell the story?

That’s a hot question in American theatre.  The “melting pot”  is boiling over, and folks of every ethnic group, color, gender and identity are leaping up and seizing control of their narratives.  It’s a lively time.

Who tells the story is a hot question in Polish theatre, too. But there, it’s because a succession of regimes — Nazi, Soviet, and the post-Solidarity republic — have taken political power and with it, the power to tell Poland’s story.  Even in today’s democracy, when a new party wins a majority, history books get rewritten and plays get censored. It’s a dangerous time.

Enter playwright Sebastian Majewski. Trained in puppet theatre, he hit on the brilliant notion of not having human characters tell stories.  Not even puppets.  Just objects.  So right left with heels is recounted by a pair of shoes (portrayed by two gifted, tireless actors, Lindsay Plake and Alexa Yeames).  And it’s recounted twice in the 90 minutes we spend together.

Alexa Yeames, Lindsay Plake (photo: Paul Rubenstein)

Alexa Yeames, Lindsay Plake (photo: Paul Rubenstein)

The shoes, fancy and proud of it, spend their decades-long career entirely in Poland. Going from owner to owner, they experience the violent changes of war and of unstable peace.  They are simple. What does a shoe know, after all, except that it likes to dance, doesn’t want to die?  So we proceed through the first telling, charmed by their enthusiasm, laughing at their childlike boasting and the way they mock a boorish owner.

Then the story begins again.  Already, in the first telling, there were moments when the world challenged and confused them — when they were accused of being used in war crimes, or when the audience’s laughter suggested there was something the shoes didn’t know.

Now, their innocence goes from charming to chilling.  We learn that they are made for Magda Goebbels, the wife of Hitler’s propaganda minister — fashioned from human flesh at Auschwitz.  Like the child of a slave-plantation owner, they owe their very existence to monstrous crimes of which they are unaware.

As the second telling unfolds, the shoes’ ignorance collapses, no longer protecting them.  The sour-faced woman who bruises them with her elephantine dancing is in fact a secret police agent, stomping on prisoners’ faces.  The woman to whom she gives the shoes is one of her victims — unable to see their beauty because they have been used to blind her.

The light, fast story grows heavy with moral weight; and no simple certainty arrives to lift it.  As the shoes discover themselves, we discover the complex history they have lived.  They are innocent victims — and blood-spattered collaborators.   So, perhaps, are we.

In addition, right left with heels reveals how crucial it is who gets to tell the story.  An innocent vision misses so much — a revision can show a far more complicated tale of suffering and confusion.  Or, in the hands of a dogmatic regime, it can be as simple and useless as the shoes’ original telling.

All this is a great deal for a 90-minute play to accomplish.  But Majewski and director/choreographer Frédérique Michel have the benefit of 50 years of deeply radical theatrics in Poland, ever since Jerzy Grotowski began working toward “poor theatre”.

So right left with heels does its huge task easily, on a simple pipe-frame platform with two chairs (and some pertinent projections) — all by Charles A. Duncombe.  Josephine Poinsot’s dance dresses, elegant heels, nylons and even hairbands are precise and perfect.

This is the kind of excellence we rely on City Garage to bring us.  A very Polish play, very radical in its theatrics, staged with elegance and clarity — and made bitingly relevant to Americans who may know little Polish history but know far too much about unearned privilege won by violence, and about the ignorance that protects it.

Spend an evening with right left with heels.  It will change the way you think about Europe’s history, and our own … and about how to tell a story.
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right left with heels, by Sebastian Majewski, directed (and choreographed) by Frédérique Michel.
Presented by City Garage, at Bergamot Station Arts Center, 2525 Michigan Ave., Santa Monica 90404.

Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00,
Sundays at 3:00 (“Pay What You Can”),
through Aug. 14.

Tickets: (310)453-9939 or <www.citygarage.org>

Warning:  Getting to Bergamot Station by car is not easy.  Coming west from the I-10, a small sign marks a lane on the right, not much larger than a driveway, as 26th Street.  Take it — then, just before the light-rail tracks, you must turn right into a narrow gate.  Coming by Metro rail, however, is easy — the 26th Street station is right in front of the theatre.

 

“Bill W. and Dr. Bob” — Real-Life Superheroes

We’re crazy for heroes these days. Superheroes everywhere, saving the world with their amazing powers. And their fans are beyond number, critiquing movies and comic books, cosplaying at cons.

Bill W. and Dr. Bob, now at the NoHo Arts Center, takes a different look at heroism. It’s a quiet play about two of the greatest heroes in the modern world. Bill was a New York stockbroker, and Bob was a physician in Akron, Ohio. They were a pair of helpless drunks, confirmed alcoholics for whom no treatment existed.

Somehow, they found each other.

Ronnie Marmo, Bill Lippincott

Ronnie Marmo, Bill Lippincott

Bill W. and Dr. Bob recounts in 22 brief scenes how these two less-than-ordinary guys struggled to help each other stay sober, relapses and all. Along the way they discovered, but by bit, the simple but powerful strategies that became the 12 Steps, the Big Book, and Alcoholics Anonymous. (Their wives created Al-Anon, the recovery program for people whose lives are linked to addicts and dominated by the disease.)

This is not a flashy dramatic tale — there are no rooftop rescues, no car chases, no knock-down drag-out fights. Just people battling an incredibly difficult disease, and centuries of cultural baggage blaming them for having it.

Theatre 68 does an admirable job of keeping it simple. The modest set and accurate costumes, and the subtle sound design, firmly tie us to the look and feel (and attitudes) of America in the 1920s and ’30s.

Brian Foyster* gives us a low-keyed Bill who can suddenly simmer with energy and burst into visionary enthusiasm — manic tendencies being among the demons he had to learn to fight — but never lets go. Bill Lippincott* creates a likeable, educated man who must daily pick his way through a marsh of self-loathing, yet also manages somehow to hang on.

Laura Lee,* as Bob’s wife Anne, bottles her despair inside the gentle  manners of a “perfect housewife,” while Melissa Kite* strains like a thoroughbred against the uncertain bonds linking her to her flailing husband, though she has a successful career of her own. Both actors fill their lightly written parts with such latent fire that when things break, and they start the conversations that will free generations of codependents, you don’t know whether to cheer or weep.

*There are alternating casts.

As 21st-century theatrical art, Bill W. and Dr. Bob seems vulnerable to criticism. It exemplifies the “kitchen-table realism” of the last century, and it never steps into fantasy or breaks the fourth wall. But it’s not about daring new techniques; like A.A. itself, it’s rooted in day-by-day simplicity. Really, how else could this most important story be told?
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Bill W. and Dr. Bob, by Stephen Bergman and Janet Surrey, directed by Ronnie Marmo.
Presented by Theatre 68, at the NoHo Arts Center, 11136 Magnolia Blvd., North Hollywood 91601.

Thursdays and Fridays at 8:00,
Saturdays at 3:00 and 8:00,
Sundays at 2:00 and 7:00,
through July 3rd.

EXTENDED through July 17th.

Tickets: (323) 960-5068, or <www.Theatre68.com>