When Love’s Out of Time – “Only the Moon Howls”

Many an internet meme exhorts us to tell the people we love that we love them, to do the little things that help keep love alive. And a play currently enjoying a second successful run in Eagle Rock examines in detail How Love Lasts [see my review, below].

Theatre Unleashed, in North Hollywood, is taking a darker look. They’re re-staging Only the Moon Howls (originated by Boys With Dogs Theatricals at last summer’s Hollywood Fringe Festival).

This tight, spare drama by Dean Farell Bruggeman looks at how love doesn’t last.

Kate Dyler, Michael Lutheran

Kate Dyler, Michael Lutheran

It has three characters — an unlikely couple who meet and find their way into marriage, and time. Throughout the play, so quietly you may not even notice it, a clock ticks, laying the ground-bass. Onstage, four shades set each new scene and remind the characters what is to happen, and that there isn’t much time.

The scenes are moments in their relationship. From their meeting in a coffee shop, she drives, he rides; she climbs the corporate ladder, he sells a few short stories.  They decide not to have children. She is always arguing with the guiding shades, wanting to tell the story her way, but losing. He observes that they have all the time in the world.

But they don’t. They have only the  years time gives them. As those  fly by, it becomes painfully clear these two aren’t cultivating their intimacy, aren’t planting the little flowers — nor turning the earth with deeper conversations. As the time shortens, they both become anxious, try to bargain; then it ends.

What’s left is questioning: “Was it worth it?” “Did they dig deep enough to find at least some of the treasure?” Questioning, and regret.

This is not an easy tale to watch. Anyone who has tried to love knows these failures, these shortcomings. The Biblical term  translated as “sin” actually means a more human “falling short,” and this play feels like a medieval morality play, in which humans find their arms too short to wrestle with God. Or a Greek tragedy, where we are overwhelmed by the Fates.

The Unleashed company tells this tale as it must be told. They cause us to feel connection, and pain.  Every element cooperates, almost invisibly: director/designer Eric Cire’s nearly naked stage, with the wall ripped off the scene shop; Gregory Crafts’ swift, precise lighting; Aaron Lyons’ evocative sound design; Brandie June’s spot-on costumes.

And of course, the actors. Kate Dyler creates a Whitney whose acid tongue and untiring ambition fail to mask her uncertainties, making us feel with her across a distance. Michael Lutheran’s Jake wins us quickly, but keeps nearly losing us with his passivity. And the brisk, no-nonsense Guides (led by Margaret Glaccum) keep us unsettled by pushing things forward to an end we, too, feel unready for.
(Note: This cast alternates with another, which I have not seen; but Theatre Unleashed’s bench is so deep you will not be disappointed.)

Artistic director Jenn Scuderi Crafts and the team who selected Only the Moon Howls for a second production chose wisely. And Theatre Unleashed’s artists do themselves proud, in as fine a modern love tragedy as you can hope to see.
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Only the Moon Howls, by Dean Farell Bruggeman, directed by Eric Cire.
Presented by Theatre Unleashed at the Belfry Stage, 11031 Camarillo St., North Hollywood 91602.

Mondays at 8:00,
Thursdays through Saturdays at 8:00,
through March 12.

Tickets: <www.theatreunleashed.org> or (818) 849-4039.

“Criers”: A Comic Tale Makes Pinoys Visible

Imagine you’re a member of America’s second-largest Asian ethnic group, yet you — and your people — are almost invisible.

That’s the plight of pinoys, people whose families have moved from the Philippines to the US in the 100-plus years since the two lands became connected.

Well, East West Players (the nation’s leading Asian-American theatre company) is doing something about that.  Criers for Hire, getting its world premiere on their LA stage, is written and directed by Filipinos and and acted by Filipinas (and one guy). It tells the story of a family stretched across the Pacific between Manila and LA.

Joan Almedilla, Giselle "G" Tongi, Samantha Cutaran

Joan Almedilla, Giselle “G” Tongi, Samantha Cutaran

Baby (Joan Almedilla), leaving her newborn daughter with her mother, has followed low-entry jobs to Japan and then America, earning whatever she can to support her child. Gaya (Nicole Barredo) grows up reading her mother’s loving letters, believing their optimistic exaggerations.

Amid the glamor of Hollywood, Baby earns part of her income as a hired crier, loudly mourning at Chinese-American funerals. The scrappy sisterhood of criers, led by Meding (Giselle “G” Tongi) are her American family.

The play begins as Gaya comes to join Baby and the sisterhood. She barely has time to register her dismay at their subsistence-level existence before she is off to school, where a classmate, Narciso (Rudy Martinez), helps her adapt to the confusing LA teen world. The youngest of the criers, Henny (Samantha Cutaran), also takes Gaya under her wing.

Gaya discovers the grim realities behind the fantasy woven by the letters; and Baby discovers that she has never learned how to be a mother. Nonetheless, this is a comedy — with resilience and a little homespun wisdom from Meding, the mother and daughter reach past their confusions to embrace each other. And a family is born.

Criers for Hire moves briskly, under Jon Lawrence Rivera’s direction, and it’s filled with laughter, even for those who don’t catch every Taglish (Tagalog-English) joke. Playwright Giovanni Ortega faces his hopeful characters squarely with life’s bad news, then lets them find the resources to overcome it.

The actors  earn the laughs — and the tears — by creating characters who are alive as individuals. Tongi, an multi-media star in the Philippines, and Martinez, who’s worked all over the Southland, are particularly artful. Almedilla (the closest thing to a pinay star in American theatre), gives Baby many layers and makes us, like her daughter, want to love her; Barredo, an award-winner in LA theatre, nicely displays the emotions of a teen caught in crossing tides. And Cutaran captures an emerging adult who still remembers high school well enough to become a mentor.

With Criers for Hire, East West moves from the Philippines we’ve seen in the news (Imelda, The Musical) to the Filipino- and Filipina-Americans who live among us largely unseen. Let’s hope this untold story circulates widely in American theatre, and is the first of many.
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Criers for Hire, by Giovanni Ortega, directed by Jon Lawrence Rivera.
Presented by East West Players, in community partnership with the Asia Society and FilAm Arts, at the Performing Arts Theatre, 120 Judge John Aiso St., LA 90012.

Saturdays at 8:00, Sundays at 2:00, through March 13.

Tickets: <https://eastwestplayers.secure.force.com/ticket> or
(213) 625-7000.

You’ve Not Seen “Tempest” ’til You See It “Redux”

Staging Shakespeare starts with scissors.

We cut and trim and snip, maybe fold a little, until we have a form that fits the time. Or the company’s resources, or the  audience’s patience.

In Tempest Redux, John Farmanesh-Bocca fearlessly takes the shears to Shakespeare’s final masterwork. The result is — well, sheer magic.
His reduced and re-ordered version amps up the play’s sense of wonder, and focuses its emotional intensity like a crystal focusing a laser.

Briana Price, Jack Stehlin, Shea Donovan, Emily Yetter

Briana Price, Jack Stehlin, Shea Donovan, Emily Yetter (photo: Enci Box)

While reducing the text, Farmanesh-Bocca also amplifies it with movement, using dance as a major mode of telling the tale. Thanks to his 10 years as founding artistic director of Not Man Apart Physical Theatre Ensemble, even the wordless interludes advance the story.

The performers rise to Farmanesh-Bocca’s demands with energy and grace.  As Prospero, master actor Jack Stehlin lets the fierce  magus now and then stumble — a moment’s hesitation, a slight uncertainty. This apparent flaw unsettles us, but with it Stehlin lights our way to a most startling interpretive choice at the play’s end.

In another bold choice, the island’s two non-human inhabitants are multi-person entities. Caliban is played by two men (Dash Pepin and Willem Long) constantly twining and tumbling over one another as if they were one body, creating the monster’s not-quite human form. Ariel is three women (Emily Yetter, Briana Price and Shea Donovan); perfectly synchronized yet never touching, they create an airy sprite who indeed can be several places at once.

At the same time, four actors (Pepin, Long, Dennis Gersten and Gildart Jackson) inhabit nine characters. Their creations are clear and often delightful, so we never lose track of who’s who.

But the result of all this — several actors playing one character, while single actors become several characters — is a sense of instability. We feel there’s shape-shifting  going on all around us, all the time.

Our anchors are Prospero, his daughter Miranda (Mimi Davila), and her beloved Ferdinand (Charles Hunter Paul). And Prospero’s main project is not revenge — as in most Tempests — but drawing the two lovers together. We hold onto this through line like a rope in a storm.

Christopher Murillo gives us a stripped, dark stage with confusions — tree stumps (some with colored cords that rise to the ceiling), head-size rocks, a tiny model ship, a rift in the platform with something suggesting water in it. Bosco Flanagan’s lighting gives us storms, daylight, half-light, some poetic projection sequences and disorienting blackouts. Denise Blasor’s costumes mix eras and styles wonderfully. And the sound design (Farmanesh-Bocca and Adam Phalen) gives us everything from waves lapping and thunder crashing to Dinah Washington crooning love songs.

The whole company together creates a storm-tossed, uncertain yet magical world in which we, the audience, are shipwrecked and amazed. And at the end, when even what we hold to is stripped away, our hearts are broken.

This is an elegant, eloquent distillation of The Tempest — lyrical and lovely, fierce and terrible, and deeply, deeply human. A masterpiece in its own right. I have no doubt Shakespeare would weep with joy to see the heart of his most personal work so radiantly revealed.
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Tempest Redux, by William Shakespeare; adapted, directed and choreographed by John Farmanesh-Bocca.
Presented by The New American Theatre and The Odyssey Theatre Ensemble, at the the Odyssey Theatre, 2055 South Sepulveda Blvd., LA 90025.

Wednesdays (March 9 and 30) at 8:00;
Thursdays (March 3, 17 and 24, April7) at 8:00;
Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00, Sundays at 2:00, through April 10.

Extended through April 23.

Tickets: <newamericantheatre.com> or <odysseytheatre.com>
or 310) 477-2055.

 

 

 

 

A Fine Modern Tragedy: Road’s “Broken Fences”

Eight or nine years ago, two American playwrights had the same idea: “What if a white family moves into a black neighborhood?”
Of course, that’s the reverse of the classic Raisin in the Sun, where the black Younger family buys a house in a white Chicago suburb.

One of the two writers built his play around Raisin. Bruce Norris’ Clybourne Park (which won the Pulitzer and a Tony) first shows the white families joining to keep out the Youngers; then, 50 years later, the all-black neighborhood tries to block a white family from buying a home to tear it down and build a new one.

The other writer, Steven Simoncic, made his play a stand-alone.  Broken Fences doesn’t refer to Raisin at all (it doesn’t need to; few could miss the kinship). Simoncic also focuses on what happens after the move-in, instead of before.

Ben Theobald, Bruce A. Lemon Jr., Mia Fraboni, Coronado Romero.

Ben Theobald, Bruce A. Lemon Jr., Mia Fraboni, Coronado Romero.

Broken Fences takes place in two back yards. One is behind Hoody’s aging family home, the other behind Czar and April’s sparkling new house, built where Hoody’s aunt used to live. Czar and the pregnant April are bringing new lives into their ultramodern dwelling; Hoody and his fiancée D are trying to sustain old ones in their worn-out abode —  Hoody’s own past, his drop-in brother Marz, the memories of their mother, a live-in hustler named Esto.

Surrounding these people, as they struggle to discover each other and build relationships, is the fast-moving, money-driven world of gentrification. Starbuck’s, Red Lobster and other advance agents of pirate capitalism have seized outposts in Garfield Park, and neither the longtime residents nor the newcomers fully grasp the changes.

Broken Fences successfully brings a big, complex social issue down to its actual shape in the lives of individuals. Yet as cruelly as social and economic changes impinge on these folks, gentrification isn’t what matters most — it’s the people. As they try to learn one another and find ways to connect, each of them also struggles to find a way forward in a world they don’t control, or even understand very well.

There’s not a happy ending here, and there shouldn’t be. The fact that we wish for one is a testimony to the fine work these artists do — Simoncic writes real people, and the actors breathe full life into each one.

Hoody anchors the piece — it’s his world we (and the new neighbors) enter, his faith that has gathered his improvised family into the old home, and his crisis we sit with at the play’s end. Bruce A. Lemon Jr. gives a subtle yet commanding performance, connecting us to Hoody at once, and keeping us with him through thick and thin.

Donna Simone Johnson lets D’s power emerge more slowly. She seems almost marginal at first, yet gradually reveals herself as a force holding faith and family together as firmly as Hoody. Johnson also has a lyrical gift that makes Simoncic’s lines sing.

As the new neighbors, Coronado Romero (Czar) and Mia Fraboni (April) journey from an almost-confident innocence — in which they think they know more than they do — through painful learning. Romero nicely shows the role of paterfamilias suddenly unhinging a man; Fraboni peels away the young mother’s layers carefully, and holds them in a fragile but fierce balance.

The secondary characters have, as usual, less backstory and fewer conflicts, but the actors serve them well. Ben Theobald creates a simmering Esto, full of drug- and anxiety-fueled energy, clueless about how to survive; as Marz, James Holloway shows us a similarly besieged man who’s smart enough to seek an angle, some way to work the system to his — and his family’s — advantage.

Ivy Khan and Kris Frost play a couple raising their child in the white suburbs, who are appalled at what their friends are doing. Both do lovely, understated work. Frost gives us an eager, insensitive Spence who keeps hearing what he’s said and then feeling abashed; Khan’s Barb is sharper (Simoncic’s pun, not mine), frank with judgments, quick to retract points that wound, always with an eye on keeping the peace.

Master set designer John Iacovelli creates a crowded, lively and easy-to-read world out of two back yards. Michele Young’s costumes are flawless and expressive. Derrick McDaniel’s lighting shifts subtly with moods, and his graffiti projections are a delight, half realistic, half magical. That “magical realism” is part of the storytelling, and director Andre Barron moves us seamlessly from true grit to poetic truth and back.

Under Barron’s practiced hand (he led the Road’s earlier staging of the play, in the 2013 Summer Playwrights Festival), this troupe shows Broken Fences at its best — topical yet human, fast-moving yet deep, a lively piece of theatre that’s also something to reckon with. Go. You’ll be glad you did.

A (Long) Note on Race, Sex & Writing:
Raisin in the Sun was written by a black woman, Lorraine Hansberry. Broken Fences and Clybourne Park were  both written by white men.

Hansberry tells the story of a black family’s crisis-cum-opportunity, a topic she knew well. In 1937, her parents bought a house in a white Chicago suburb, and she lived through the bullying and violence that ensued.

Simoncic has said (in a 2009 interview) that Broken Fences arose from his concerns as a new parent thinking about where to raise his children. He added that “being a man” was an issue he had lived and also wanted to explore.  Both of these have indeed shaped the play.

We begin with Czar (whose name is a bit much — but Hansberry named a young black woman “Beneatha”), and it seems he will be the central character. To Simoncic’s credit, he is not: Hoody soon takes just as much space and power, if not more (it is, after all, his turf).

Each of the four main characters — Czar, Hoody, April, D — has a monolog that lets us into their experience and establishes their perspective. But the play focuses on struggle of the two men to deal with the forces descending upon them, and with their own choices.

Czar and Hoody are patriarchal men; they are the decision-makers. April and D must exert their influence carefully, suggesting and cajoling more often than stating or arguing. (The same imbalance exists between Spence and Barb, though he is overmatched.)

Broken Fences does not call this patriarchalism into question.

Simoncic does a better job at working against racism, creating both black and white perspectives. I should say he seems to — since all my knowledge of black Americans’ experience is secondhand. In Broken Fences, I feel the fated collision of two whole worlds, each with its own integrity, and the almost futile attempt of the individuals in those worlds to cope with the collision, and with each other.

Broken Fences is full of humor, but it’s a tragedy. Not in the classical sense, that someone’s tragic flaw brings them down, but in the modern sense — that the fates are bigger and stronger than we are, and with them in control, our personal hopes and dreams will not be realized. This modern tragedy, by making us care about its people, lets us feel its force.
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Broken Fences, by Steven Simoncic, directed by Andre Barron.
Presented by The Road Theatre Company, at NoHo Senior Arts Colony,  10747 W. Magnolia Blvd., North Hollywood 91601.

Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00, Sundays at 2:00, through April 3.

Tickets: <www.roadtheatre.org>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Mountaintop” Takes Us There — and Beyond

This is an important play, about a very important subject. (Yawn …) But wait! It’s also funny, and great theatre.

That’s because Katori Hall, already an acknowledged major playwright (Hoodoo Love, Night/Sunday Morning, Hurt Village, Children of Killers), decided to tackle a daunting subject. The last night alive of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

For those of us with grey hair, or white, or none, just reading those words can be jarring, can bring tears. We still know where we were, what we were doing, when we heard the news from Memphis.

Danielle Truitt, Larry Bates

Danielle Truitt, Larry Bates

Katori takes us back to the innocent hours before, when King was a weary worker in the vineyards. After yet another day trampling out the grapes of wrath, with thousands marching behind, he is alone; bone-tired in a motel room, he’s somehow supposed to gather sleep and renewal for the next day’s labor.

He orders coffee from room service; he puts in a call to his wife; and he waits for Ralph Abernathy to return with his cigarettes. A knock at the door and room service enters in the person of Camae, a lively young maid.

After a moment of hero worship, her brief visit keeps failing to end. He bums a cigarette, they flirt, they spar over how best to advance the cause of “the Negro” … Then, in a flight of daring imagination, Katori lifts this story into another realm altogether, where even deeper issues are thrashed out and — after much turmoil — brought to a kind of resolution.

Although The Mountaintop premiered seven years ago, and won prizes in London and New York, nobody told me about the realm it enters, or what transpires there. (Recent controversy about a college theatre casting a white actor as King has helped keep the play itself discreetly hidden.) I will keep silent as well, because the surprise is so delightful and challenging.

This production, in a modest space, is abundantly artful. The motel room set (by John Iacovelli) is almost depressingly realistic. But it’s all white (like the context King lived and worked in), a diaphanous drape hangs up center, and the two outstage walls curve inward, enclosing the space not in rigid right angles but almost like hands, or wings.  Jose Lopez’s lighting similarly moves from realism through suggestion (lightning flashing in the room during a storm) and into the wider universe the story discovers.

Simple, period-precise costumes (by Anastasia Pautova) evoke the time and place, but more — they make us feel these human bodies straining to fit and stay contained by their social roles. The sound and projection design (Marc Anthony Thompson) enfolds us in the era’s music and deftly uses a small TV console — first, to locate us in the historical moment, and then later, to do much more.

Then there are the performances. Larry Bates (King) and Danielle Truitt (Camae) have played this before — in 2013 in San Diego, where Roger Guenver Smith also directed. Smith uses space and movement skillfully, and builds a steady crescendo of theatricality and intensity while letting us breathe and laugh along the way.

Bates meets his intimidating role by not giving us the King we’ve seen and heard, but by asserting himself as King. This not only makes the play workable, it grants us a climax — when, briefly,  he does let King’s rhythms overshadow his own — that pierces the heart.  Truitt’s character is unknown to us, yet the challenges of her role are, if anything, greater. She flies through a superhuman range of moods and tones like van Gogh flashing colors onto a canvas, yet we never lose our sense of who Camae is.  These two performances serve this brilliant play faithfully, and provide texts for other actors to learn from.

In The Mountaintop, this company — playwright, director, designers and actors — takes on an enormously difficult subject and makes of it a most human story, one that radiates beauty and integrity.  You may talk for weeks about Hall’s decisions; but you will never regret taking this journey.
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The Mountaintop, by Katori Hall, directed by Roger Guenver Smith.
Presented by The Matrix Theatre Company, at the Matrix Theatre, 7657 Melrose Ave., LA 90046.

Saturdays at 8:00;
Sundays at 3:00 and 7:00;Mondays at 8:00 (except March 7 and 21);
through April 4.

Tickets:  <www.plays411.net>  or (323) 852-1445

“Dryway”: A New Myth Rises from Ancient Depths

Ever since humans discovered seashores, we have told stories about beings half like us and half like the creatures of the sea.

Some say these tales express our feelings of kinship, especially with mammals like seals, dolphins. Some hear an undertone of longing, perhaps for the deeps of our first home, where our oldest ancestors lived before crawling up onto the land.

dryway

One of the four pieces incubated at Son of Semele’s Company Creation Festival this year is The Dryway: A Merfolk Opera. On the small blackbox stage, three women speak, enact and sing a tale of a mermaid queen’s three daughters, who are banished from the sea.

Palatyne is exiled to a jungle mountain, Melior to the polar ice, and Melusine to a desert motel.  Palatyne struggles to climb the mountain and survive; Melior forges a telepathic bond with a sailor frozen in the ice; and Melusine endures a series of lovers and abusers.

They tell their tale in poetry and song. The spoken words are sometimes choral, sometimes monologs; the songs (backed by varied instruments) are sometimes trios, sometime solos, and often ironic. The complex sound design (by Yiannis Christofides) holds all of this together. Simple, effective choreography (by Kestrel Farin Leah) keeps the story in constant motion, and the spare costumes (Kate Fry)  shift easily to mark changes.

As Palatyne, A’Raelle Flynn-Bolden becomes steadily more feral and mammalian, evolving from a fearful castaway to the apex predator. Megan Rippey’s sharp-tongued Melior grows more and more serene and accepting, almost beatific, in her frozen world. And as Melusine, writer/director Emma Zakes Green stumbles closer and closer to  wisdom among the humans (and does a wicked Johnny Cash).

Wit and comic insight decorate this tale like foam on a wave, but the ancient tides of yearning are always there. And when the crisis comes, these long-exiled sea women cannot simply dive back into innocence.

The Dryway has much to say about the trials of being a woman, and becoming fully human; much also about the way our wounds and limitations can become our gifts and strengths. But all of this runs silent, like the ocean’s currents, below a fast-moving and constantly entertaining surface.

The members of The Outpost came together fairly recently at Cal Arts.  I hope developing this play at Son of Semele has so enchanted them that they’ll continue collaborating.
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The Dryway: A Merfolk Opera, written and directed by Emma Zakes Green.
Presented by The Outpost at the Son of Semele Theater, 3301 Beverly Blvd., LA 90004.

Saturday, Feb. 13 at 8:00;
Sunday, Feb.14 at 5:00.

Tickets:  <https://sonofsemele.secure.force.com/ticket/>  or (213)351-3507.

Not a Review: But What If “The Room” Is at REDCAT?

[NOTE: Samuel French, the play publisher, has allowed The Wooster Group to perform Harold Pinter’s never before seen “The Room” — but has forbidden press to review the LA performances. So this is not a review, but something more like a daydream.]

What if Harold Pinter had penned a play — his very first attempt — and then shut it away in a drawer?  What if a daring and inventive  theatre company were to perform it?

Such a play could have a simple theme: say, a working-class English couple living in a  one-room apartment, facing a possible threat to their continued tenure. It might aptly be called The Room.

Suppose a company like, say, the Wooster Group (an award-winning off-Broadway troupe with a 40-year track record) got hold of it and decided to stage it.  And suppose that after a New York premiere, they wanted to show it in LA — they might do it at REDCAT, where   their Early Shaker Spirituals was a hit just a year ago.

Ari Fliakos, Kate Valk, Scott Renderer  (photo: Paula Court)

Ari Fliakos, Kate Valk, Scott Renderer (photo: Paula Court)

And their staging of it? Well, we’ve seen Pinter’s claustrophobic shabby households, filled with looming menace, for the last 50 years.  Maybe Wooster would open it up.  Maybe they’d blow away the walls, and put the light and sound desks right onstage instead. Maybe they’d scatter microphones among the worn furniture, and have actors speak through them, sometimes.

Maybe, at the same time — being hyper-faithful to the text even while they’re blowing it apart — they’d have one actor reading the stage directions. Maybe they’d take their inspiration for all this from a Paul Schmidt quote: “The author fixes the text in his own time, the director in his staging inscribes it in his.”

So, then, we’d have Pinter’s handful of semi-communicative folks, enclosed in a rather dingy 1950s living space, saying their banal remarks or being ominously silent — and every now and then letting their deep emotions burst through a commonplace phrase like a spurt of lava through a fumarole.

But we’d also have the post-2000 world, filled with electronics and gadgets and the transparency of private space (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram).  And these intrusive media — which mimic our intrusion as audience, peering through the fourth wall — might focus on and heighten Pinter’s famous pauses and silences.

All of this might be challenging to watch, yet fascinating.  It might feel almost as if we’re watching a composer transform folk song into a symphony. Or like we’re peering over a monk’s shoulder as he copies the text in precise letters, then fills the margins with colorful images of dragons.

It would definitely be an hour not to miss, for anyone who loves — and thinks about — theatre. Or for any Pinter fans who wouldn’t recoil at seeing the master’s work freely played with.

I sure hope it happens.
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The Room, (as we might call it), by Harold Pinter, directed (as we imagine it) by Elizabeth LeCompte.
Presented (if wishes were horses) by The Wooster Group at REDCAT, 631 W. 2nd St., downtown LA 90012.

Sunday, Feb. 7 at 3:00;
Tuesday through Saturday, Feb. 9-13, at at 8:30;
Sunday, Feb. 14 at 3:00.
(If you show up, who knows, the fantasy might take form.)

Tickets: (for everyone but the press) 213-237-2000.