Caleb Eberhardt (left) and James Udom in "Primary Trust."                                   Photo by Rich Soublet II

            “Primary Trust” is a quiet play. So quiet that on opening night its silences made audible the squeak of patrons shifting in their seats inside La Jolla Playhouse’s Mandell Weiss Forum Theatre. So quiet that I couldn’t help but hear the woman sitting next to me sniffling and stifling sobs as the contemplative tale wound toward its denouement.
            Eboni Booth’s Pulitzer Prize-winning play is a beautiful piece of writing that just in places translates to compelling live theater. Its protagonist Kenneth, a sensitive but (as we will learn) broken man residing in his thoughts, comes alive only when he’s at his regular hangout, Wally’s, a neighborhood tiki bar. There, he downs Mai Tai’s and converses with his friend Bert – who no one else can see. The rest of the time it’s sssh! Kenneth is in his head. Do not disturb.
            This makes for very slow going.
           There is a story here. Kenneth (Caleb Eberhardt) of fictitious Cranberry, N.Y. loses the job he’s toiled away at (presumably in quiet) for 20 years in service of the chain-smoking owner of a bookstore. That is but half of Kenneth’s life, the other being his perpetual happy hours spent with Bert (James Udom, whom we can see) and all the Mai Tai’s at Wally’s. When a server there, Corrina (Rebecca S’manga Frank), befriends the out-of-work Kenneth, she affably steers him toward a possible opening at the town’s Primary Trust bank. In spite of a mightily awkward interview there with the bank boss Clay (James Urbaniak), Kenneth is hired and his “new life” begins.
            Sort of.
            As the bank teller job and the growing platonic friendship with Corrina inch Kenneth somewhat out of his shell, the presence of Bert – his buddy, his confidante, his conscience, his source of calm and succor – begins to lessen.
            Kenneth, who discovers humbly that he’s good at bank telling, is entering the world. The question Booth poses is: Does he really wish to?
            I’m not certain this question is truly answered. “Primary Trust” in its soft, deliberate way takes us to the point of Kenneth’s reckoning, to the self-determination we want for him, but no further.
            Knud Adams, who directed “Primary Trust” in its Roundabout Theatre Company Off-Broadway premiere last year, directs again at the Playhouse. I’m sure he’s true to Booth’s script, but the pace of this production is much too slow for me. A character study such as this naturally can be more inward, more measured in its evolution, but “Primary Trust” demands keen and patient attention from the audience, and faith that it’s headed somewhere fruitful.
            The bell recurringly rung by musician Luke Wygodny onstage, perhaps to suggest that we are going in and out of, or out and in of, Kenneth’s head, feels like a contrivance. No quarrel otherwise with his nearly muted musical accompaniment.
            I will say this: Eberhardt’s is an expressive, deep-toned voice that pierces the silences of “Primary Trust” sublimely. It’s most effective midway through the 95 minutes when he ascends the steps up into the Forum audience for a revealing monologue. By necessity he’s required to reveal, often without even speaking; this is best accomplished during an awkward (though sweet) scene with Corrina over martinis at a swank boite – undoubtedly the only swank boite in Cranberry.
            Urbaniak is given the play’s one openly comedic moment at that boite as a waiter cautiously delivering the martinis as if he’s carrying glasses of nitroglycerin.
            For her part, Frank must morph instantly from one server at Wally’s to another when not playing the kind and sympathetic Corrina. She also gets to incite Kenneth’s one uncharacteristic lapse in interiority when portraying a cranky customer at the teller’s window.
            The set by Marsha Ginsburg reflects in miniature scale the buildings of little Cranberry and accentuates the very smallness of the world Kenneth occupies, a world from which he’s never traveled.
            This aside, the most telling prop of “Primary Trust” is the ubiquitous Mai Tai. It has been Kenneth’s comfort, his life’s routine, his conduit to Bert. Its exotic floral presentation, its party-down connotations are everything Kenneth is not.
            But Kenneth isn’t as alone as he thinks he is. That could be what Booth has to say for all of us during those times when even our most sanguine selves feel like retreating deep inside or escaping into a Mai Tai world.
            “Primary Trust” runs through Oct. 20 at La Jolla Playhouse’s Mandell Weiss Forum Theatre.

Rachael VanWormer and Brian Mackey in "The Importance of Being Earnest." Photo courtesy of Lamb's Players Theatre

            In a little play called “Hamlet,” Polonius opined that “brevity is the soul of wit.”
            Obviously, Shakespeare never met Oscar Wilde.
            Yeah, yeah, they lived and wrote in different centuries, but the point is this: While perhaps no one composed wittier one-liners than did Wilde, he also crafted a language all its own that politely resounded with sharp-tongued humor and sophisticated repartee.
            There’s no greater demonstrate of this ingenuity than in “The Importance of Being Earnest,” the quintessential Wilde drawing-room farce that’s more delicious than the cucumber sandwiches man-about-town Algernon Moncrieff devours in Act One.
            Lamb’s Players Theatre, which has staged Wilde’s “A Woman Of No Importance” and “An Ideal Husband,” is presenting “The Importance of Being Earnest” for the first time, with Kerry Meads directing. Meads couldn’t have asked for an ensemble more game for the fanciful fun of this spoof of Victorian properness. Brian Mackey and Michael Louis Cusimano are brisk and spirited as the benignly adversarial friends Jack Worthing and Algie Moncrieff, both of whom will covet the name “Earnest” as a ruse to win the hands of Gwendolen Fairfax (Rachael VanWormer) and Cecily Cardew (Lauren King Thompson) respectively. The latter pair’s initial meeting, the catalyst for the men’s device ultimately coming a cropper, is one of the best played scenes in the production.
            It’s David McBean, stealing every moment as Gwendolen’s snobbish mother Lady Bracknell, who takes the last bow at show’s end. He more than earns his due. I dare you not to laugh out loud. McBean knows he’s the audience pleaser, too, facing the house to deliver many of Lady Bracknell’s most elitist and patronizing pronouncements.
            Deborah Gilmour Smyth is a perfect Miss Prism here, and Brian Salmon sputters superbly as the country reverend Dr. Chasuble for whom Miss Prism yearns.
            Meads’ direction ensures that every moment counts in this wordy (though what words!) affair -- even the set changes, accompanied by the music of Chopin, handled by house servants Merriman (Geno Carr) and Lane (John Rosen). If the cast members overplay their hands at times, this can be forgiven. The principals of “The Importance of Being Earnest” are extravagant and theatrical. These actors deserve plaudits for handling the daunting complexity of Wilde’s banter and humorous oratory.
            Lamb’s’ Jeanne Reith has the cast lushly costumed, right down to the set-striking man servants. That set, designed by Sean Fanning, is a drawing-room delight as well.
            There’s no escaping the fact that “The Importance of Being Earnest” is a period piece. Audiences today that gorge on streaming sitcoms and more contemporary-minded live theater might regard Wilde’s classic as a snooty anachronism. If so, they should pay heed to the subtitle he gave this play: “A Trivial Comedy for Serious People.”
            So there.
            “The Importance of Being Earnest” runs through Nov. 10 at Lamb’s Players Theatre in Coronado.

George Krissa (left) and Brady Dalton Richards in "Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors."     Photo by Jim Cox

            Of the three shows by Gordon Greenberg and Steve Rosen that have been produced at the Old Globe, “Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors" is by far the funniest. Like “Ebenezer Scrooge’s BIG San Diego Christmas Show” and “Crime and Punishment, A Comedy” this one is drawn from a famous work of literature. In this case it’s Bram Stoker’s 1897 gothic novel “Dracula.” Greenberg, who directs, and Rosen send up the Count and the entire vampire genre – alas, it’s become a genre – with madcap ingenuity that could only play out in the Globe’s Sheryl and Harvey White Theatre.
            What stands out for me with Greenberg’s and Rosen’s “Dracula” are the golden opportunities for the quick-changing, fast-moving little cast to demonstrate physical comedy at its bloody finest. Yes, the script is sharp and cleverly contemporary at times, rife with sexual innuendoes that would gladden fans of “True Blood” and double entendres enough to fill two 90-minute plays. You have to have game actors to make it all work.
            Greenberg and Rosen have them.
            At the forefront is Drew Droege, whose double duty (each time dressed as woman) as man-hungry Mina Westfeldt and vampire hunter Jean Van Helsing soars over the top, but why not? Droege comically rules the stage.
            A charismatic Drac is a requirement, of course, and George Krissa carries the day as a dashing Transylvanian Count in black leather pants, flexing his muscles, suggestively stalking his prey and at the climax of the story actually making Dracula a semi-sympathetic character. We don’t want him staked to death.
            Brady Dalton Richards’ Jonathan Harker is a proper English solicitor at first, the timid half of a romance with gutsy and beautiful Lucy Westfeldt (Gizel Jimenez). Bitten by the Count later in the going, he becomes something entirely different (and much more to Lucy’s liking).
            Like all of the others except for Krissa playing multiple characters, Linda Mugleston alternates with audience-pleasing alacrity between Lucy and Mina’s stuffy dad Dr. Westfeldt and the lunatic Renfield who as in the novel becomes Dracula’s raving foot soldier.
            As usual, the White Theatre proves versatile when it comes to staging a wild comedy. Here it can be neon disco one minute, haunted castle the next, all without utilizing bulky or intrusive props. The inventive cast under Greenberg’s direction believably and quite hilariously simulates rides in horse-drawn carriages, exhausting descents down castle steps, frantic flights from flitting bats and peeks inside coffins in search of Drac.
            Greenberg and Rosen have taken narrative liberties with Stoker’s novel, reimagining some of the characters and shifting gender with a couple. But within their spoof is a healthy respect for the motif and legend that Stoker created. Laughs are more integral than frights to their “Dracula,” but remember – it is titled “A Comedy of Terrors.”
            “Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors” runs through Nov. 3 at the Old Globe’s Sheryl and Harvey White Theatre.

Nathan Madden as Frank 'N' Furter in "Richard O'Brien's The Rocky Horror Show."   Karli Cadel Photography

            I’ve seen “Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show” so many times now, including twice at Cygnet Theatre, that I find myself looking at the crowd as much as I watch the action onstage. It’s fascinating. There are the longtime, diehard “Rocky Horror” fans who dress in drag and glitter. There are the longtime, diehard “Rocky Horror” fans who shout out “asshole” when Brad is mentioned or “slut” when Janet is mentioned – as well as other lines, some of which I can’t repeat here. Then there are the “virgins,” as narrator Linda Libby called them at Cygnet: folks seeing this show for the first time who sit there, arms folded, heads cocked, eyes glazed, unable to process what they’re seeing and hearing.
            If “Rocky Horror” was ever shocking – maybe it was 50 years ago when it premiered – it certainly isn’t shocking now. Guys in leather, in teddies, in high heels? Been there, seen that. Simulated sex? Even puppets and cartoons went there a long time ago. Audience participation? Today they call it “immersive.”
            None of this is to suggest that “The Rocky Horror Show,” back at Cygnet in Old Town, is anything less than silly, nostalgic fun. For those longtime diehards, neither the characters nor the music-filled story will ever get old. For people like me who’ve seen the show a couple of times and don’t care if I ever see it again, I have to admit that there’s a lot to laugh and smile about with “Rocky Horror” and that the costumes alone (bravo, Jennifer Brawn Gittings!) are worth paying to see. (Full disclosure: I didn’t have to pay the other night.) Plus O’Brien’s catchy songs don’t get the respect they really deserve. “Rocky Horror’s” is a damned fine score. Most remember only the dance-along “Time Warp” ditty, but there are several well-crafted tunes, from the cleva “Dammit Janet” to “Science Fiction/Double Feature” that opens and closes the show.
            Is there any of you reading this who don’t know the “Rocky Horror Show” story line? That two goody two shoeses, Brad (Drew Bradford, in nerdy glasses) and Janet (Audrey Deubig, she of the darling Dorothy Hamill haircut), run out of gas and wander unknowingly into the castle of the omnipotent transvestite from another planet, Frank ‘N’ Further (Nathan Madden, who’s terrific)? That they witness the high-heeled, corseted mad scientist bringing to life his own version of Frankenstein’s monster – the buff, golden-locked Rocky (Josh Bradford)? That B & J get lessons in pleasure (how’s that for a PG euphemism?) from Frank?
            There. That’s about it.
            Cygnet, which stylishly staged “Rocky Horror” a few years ago with Artistic Director Sean Murray as Frank ‘N’ Furter, does so stylishly again, this time with Murray directing. The cast is horribly good: Besides Madden, Bradfords Drew and Josh, and Deubig, Jasmine January, Shanyeyah White and Allen Lucky Weaver are aces as Frank’s lackeys Columbia, Magenta and Riff Raff. Jacob Caltrider rolls into the action late in the going as the wheelchaired scientist Dr. Scott, and Libby narrates/presides with a twinkle in her eyes.
            Nods also to Luke H. Jacobs’ choreography and the projection design by Blake McCarty that recalls those beloved sci-fi flicks from the ‘50s. I get a wistful charge out of seeing a glimpse of Robby the Robot from “Forbidden Planet” or Gort from “The Day the Earth Stood Still” or Gene Barry and Ann Robinson shocked by a Martian in “The War of the Worlds.”
            See? I have a soft spot for sci-fi. Drag, not so much, but there’s just enough sci-fi in “Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show” that I keep going to see it even after I’ve told myself the previous time “Enough already.”
            “Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show” runs through Nov. 2 at Cygnet Theatre in Old Town.

Megan Carmitchel and Nick Apostolina in "Constellations."    Photo courtesy of Chalk Circle Collective

            The first time I saw a production of Nick Payne’s “Constellations” a few years ago, I found it annoying: two characters before, during and after a romantic relationship replaying over and over, swiftly, moments in time with each other. This after a meet-cute between the physicist, Marianne, and a beekeeper, Roland. Underlying all the relationship drama were high-handed scientific concepts like quantum mechanics, cosmology and string theory.
            But now that I’ve seen “Constellations” again, this time a Chalk Circle Collective production co-starring Megan Carmitchel and Nick Apostolina, I think I understand the play: It’s about time. How it’s constant. How it’s inscrutable. How there is no past or present, there’s just time. Always there, always moving. Ever precious. The moments we pass together may seem mercurial but they are anything but, especially when you pass them with someone you care about. When you’re in a relationship, you have all the time in the world – until you don’t.
            One reason I appreciated “Constellations” this time around was the intimate setting that is Liberty Station’s Light Box Theater. It’s not an impressive space at all, but for an hourlong two-hander as focused and intimate as this play is, it just works. The lighting by Annelise Salazar and the sound effects from Steven Leffue are both subtle and unobtrusive.
            Mainly though it’s the performances of Carmitchel, the fledgling Chalk Circle’s co-founder, and Apostolina, most recently seen in a supporting role in North Coast Rep’s “Camelot,” that illuminate this “Constellations.”
            Carmitchel is one of the most giving, passionate actors in town and that’s on wondrous, affecting display in this production directed by Hannah Meade, who has associate-directed several superb shows at Backyard Renaissance. For all of the gimmickry of Payne’s script, Carmitchel succeeds throughout in making Marianne a very real human being, by turns strong and vulnerable and, as a physicist would be, keenly intelligent.
            Apostolina’s character is the more reactive of the two. His mien is very natural and Roland comes off as almost always likable, even at times when perhaps he shouldn’t be.
            As for the reinvention on the fly of lines and situations with which Payne’s play is peppered they are probably more entertaining for the actors themselves than for the audience. You’ve got to be patient with the construction of “Constellations.” Focus on the characters rather than on the repetitions.
            At the risk of giving away too much, “Constellations” does take a dark turn as it nears its denouement, one that to some extent feels at odds with the arc of the play. Carmitchel’s performance at this juncture, however, is particularly powerful.
            I may be wrong about Payne is trying to say with “Constellations,” but I’m sticking to it and holding fast to the idea that we are captives of time only if we allow ourselves to be.
            “Constellations” runs through Sept. 29 at Liberty Station’s Light Box Theater.

Nathan Madden as Dr. Frank 'N' Furter in "Richard O'Brien's The Rocky Horror Show."   Karli Cadel Photography

            I’ve seen “Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show” so many times now, including twice at Cygnet Theatre, that I find myself looking at the crowd as much as I watch the action onstage. It’s fascinating. There are the longtime, diehard “Rocky Horror” fans who dress in drag and glitter. There are the longtime, diehard “Rocky Horror” fans who shout out “asshole” when Brad is mentioned or “slut” when Janet is mentioned – as well as other lines, some of which I can’t repeat here. Then there are the “virgins,” as narrator Linda Libby called them at Cygnet: folks seeing this show for the first time who sit there, arms folded, heads cocked, eyes glazed, unable to process what they’re seeing and hearing.
            If “Rocky Horror” was ever shocking – maybe it was 50 years ago when it premiered – it certainly isn’t shocking now. Guys in leather, in teddies, in high heels? Been there, seen that. Simulated sex? Even puppets and cartoons went there a long time ago. Audience participation? Today they call it “immersive.”
            None of this is to suggest that “Richard O'Brien's The Rocky Horror Show,” back at Cygnet in Old Town, is anything less than silly, nostalgic fun. For those longtime diehards, neither the characters nor the music-filled story will ever get old. For people like me who’ve seen the show a couple of times and don’t care if I ever see it again, I have to admit that there’s a lot to laugh and smile about with “Rocky Horror” and that the costumes alone (bravo, Jennifer Brawn Gittings!) are worth paying to see. (Full disclosure: I didn’t have to pay the other night.) Plus O’Brien’s catchy songs don’t get the respect they really deserve. “Rocky Horror’s” is a damned fine score. Most remember only the dance-along “Time Warp” ditty, but there are several well-crafted tunes, from the cleva “Dammit Janet” to “Science Fiction/Double Feature” that opens and closes the show.
            Are there any of you reading this who don’t know the “Rocky Horror Show” story line? That two goody two shoeses, Brad (Drew Bradford, in nerdy glasses) and Janet (Audrey Deubig, she of the darling Dorothy Hamill haircut), run out of gas and wander unknowingly into the castle of the omnipotent tranny from another planet, Frank ‘N’ Further (Nathan Madden, who’s terrific)? That they witness the high-heeled, corseted mad scientist bringing to life his own version of Frankenstein’s monster – the buff, golden-locked Rocky (Josh Bradford)? That B & J get lessons in pleasure (how’s that for a PG euphemism?) from Frank?
              There. That’s about it.
            Cygnet, which stylishly staged “Rocky Horror” a few years ago with Artistic Director Sean Murray as Frank ‘N’ Furter, does so stylishly again, this time with Murray directing. The cast is horribly good: Besides Madden, Bradfords Drew and Josh, and Deubig, Jasmine January, Shanyeyah White and Allen Lucky Weaver are aces as Frank’s lackeys Columbia, Magenta and Riff Raff. Jacob Caltrider rolls into the action late in the going as the wheelchaired scientist Dr. Scott, and Libby narrates/presides with a twinkle in her eyes.
            Nods also to Luke H. Jacobs’ choreography and the projection design by Blake McCarty that recalls those beloved sci-fi flicks from the ‘50s. I get a wistful charge out of seeing a glimpse of Robby the Robot from “Forbidden Planet” or Gort from “The Day the Earth Stood Still” or Gene Barry and Ann Robinson shocked by a Martian in “The War of the Worlds.”
            See? I have a soft spot for sci-fi. Drag, not so much, but there’s just enough sci-fi in “Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show” that I keep going to see it even after I’ve told myself the previous time “Enough already.”
            “Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show” runs through Nov. 2 at Cygnet Theatre in Old Town.

Left to right: Coby Rogers, Richard Baird and Marie Zolezzi in "A View from the Bridge" at North Coast Repertory Theatre.                                                                                                      Photo by Aaron Rumley

            The view from this bridge is of a man being wrenchingly and utterly consumed by his inner demons.
            That would be the tormented Eddie Carbone in Arthur Miller’s searing drama “A View from the Bridge,” now onstage at North Coast Repertory Theatre. It’s a tense, explosive production expertly directed by David Ellenstein and starring Richard Baird in an all-stops-out performance.
            This was my first time seeing “A View from the Bridge,” and I won’t soon forget it. Theater has the uncanny ability to make one thoughtful but also uncomfortable. That this is accomplished so completely in North Coast Rep is the result of Miller’s trenchant script and his story redolent of a Greek tragedy, and also a superior cast immersed in the play’s sharp edges and detonations.
            The chorus of this Greek tragedy is narrator Alfieri, an Italian-American lawyer played with the sublime eloquence befitting a seasoned barrister by Frank Corrado. It is Alfieri who sets the scene (and throughout tries to steer Eddie’s wayward thinking and conscience in the proper direction).
            The scene Alfieri sets: Residing in the hardscrabble Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn, longshoreman Eddie is most comfortable in his favorite chair with a beer in hand. It’s push/pull with his struggling wife Beatrice (Margot White) and co-dependency – and suggestively more than that simmering deep inside Eddie – with 17-year-old niece Catherine (Marie Zolezzi). The anxiety from the outset is ramped up soon when two of Bea’s cousins, family man Marco (Lowell Byers) and young Rodolpho (Coby Rogers), illegal immigrants from Italy, arrive to be indefinite house guests at the Carbones’.  
            Catherine, who has been sheltered her entire life by the doting but over-protective Eddie, immediately sparks to the blonde-haired, uninhibited Rodolpho – and the attraction is mutual. This preoccupies and infuriates the scrutinizing and discomfited Eddie. Bea wants to know why. Catherine wants to know why. Alfieri, Eddie’s counsel, wants to know why.
            All Eddie will say is that the flamboyant Rodolpho “isn’t right.” Code for: He likes to sing, likes to dance, likes to cook, likes to sew.
            As Catherine and Rodolpho grow closer, with physical intimacy between them looming, Eddie’s objections to anyone who will listen become more virulent.
            Hold on for Act Two.
             Eddie Carbone is a complicated character, to put it mildly. Baird told me in an interview I did with him for the San Diego Union-Tribune that Eddie would have benefited from psychotherapy. That’s about the last thing Eddie would have acceded to. From beginning to end – and what an end – he believes he’s right, believes that Rodolpho isn’t right, believes that he knows himself. That he doesn’t, or won’t acknowledge what he does know, is the starkest tragedy of the man.
            This is of course a meaty role for Baird, and his commitment to and passion for the portrayal is deep in the heart of this exceptional production. His Eddie is a man who possesses foundational decency even as he himself is possessed by so many hard realities and contradictions.
            Not to be underestimated is White’s support as the stalwart but desperate Beatrice. Her appeal to Eddie to face himself is the emotional counterpoint to the stern, dignified Alfieri’s sincere but measured appeals.
            Zolezzi’s Catherine is sympathetic without seeming a victim. After Eddie she may be the drama’s most complex character – growing up yet unable, until she can’t wait any longer, to get out of her tender trap.
            The shocks of the play’s second act make sense in retrospect, but Miller’s ingenuity is in scarcely, if at all, telegraphing them ahead of time. Or maybe it’s just that as Eddie starts to spiral we brace ourselves for just about anything.
            Concurrent with the inter-relationship flares of this play is its McCarthy-era ugliness.
            Though written and set in the ‘50s, “A View from the Bridge” is all too contemporary in its undercurrent of paranoiac anti-immigration. That my friends is another tragedy.
            “A View from the Bridge” runs through Oct. 13 at North Coast Repertory Theatre in Solana Beach.

Left to right: Taubert Nadalini, Nicholas Alexander, Anthony Carro and Noah Archibald in "Jersey Boys."                                                                                                         Photo courtesy of CCAE Theatricals

            When it was announced from the stage before the start of CCAE Theatricals’ production of “Jersey Boys” that it has been 20 years since the show world-premiered at La Jolla Playhouse I was like “What? Are you kidding me?” I won’t say it seems like yesterday that I saw “Jersey Boys” in La Jolla, but 20 years? Yikes.
            Once the show began, I forgot all about the passing of time and was very soon reminded why “Jersey Boys,” the musical story of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, is the undisputed king of jukebox musicals. Many try and few succeed in seamlessly integrating an artist or artists’ musical canons with a narrative that doesn’t feel strained or, worse doesn’t compete with rather than complement the songs. With its smart, gritty script by Marshall Brickman and Rick Elice, “Jersey Boys” is as narratively entertaining as an HBO limited series set in Joizy, minus any f-bombs (though it does have Joe Pesci) or bloodsport.
            But of course the music is marvelous – songs written by Four Seasons composer (and member) Bob Gaudio and record producer Bob Crewe. Funny … these are mostly songs that if they came on the radio – assuming you still listen to the radio – would jangle in one ear and out the other. To hear them live onstage, with a full band and an ensemble as stellar as CCAE Theatricals’ is frequently thrilling.
            Examples: The moment the guys perform Gaudio’s first hit, “Sherry.” The tenderness with which Frankie (Nicholas Alexander, in a knockout performance) croons “My Eyes Adored You.” The scintillating, deceptively simple pop fizz of “Walk Like A Man” or “Dawn (Go Away).” The second act “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” with brass from above that just about brought the opening night crowd to its feet in Escondido.
            Yeah, I kind of remembered all this from 2004, but in a way I’m glad it felt new to me. I’m able to appreciate it not only all over again, but more so.
            The CCAE Theatricals production is the first regional staging of “Jersey Boys.” There was a national touring production here in 2017 at the Civic Theatre downtown. It’s more immersive in a smaller space like Escondido’s. This cast, directed by T.J. Dawson, is top-shelf. Besides Alexander, who pulls off the remarkable feat of sounding much like Frankie Valli without imitating him, Anthony Carro is supreme swagger personified as Tommy DeVito, the Jersey boy who maintained – with some truth – that it was he who made the group happen. Taubert Nadalini and Noah Archibald complete the quartet as Gaudio and the laconic Nick Massi.
            Skyler Gaines and Lance Arthur Smith contribute nicely to multiple roles in the story, which transports our boys from struggling (and squabbling) dreamers to full-fledged pop stars, the latter coming with the strained and lost relationships, brushes with the mob and the kind of excesses that stardom brings with it.
            In Escondido, Janet Pitcher’s natty costuming and rhythmic choreography by Dana Solimando make the Four Seasons onstage much more than four guys singing at microphones. The show is alive in every sense of the word throughout its two hours and 30 minutes, which with lesser jukebox musicals can seem like an eon.
            A few sound glitches on opening night did not mar what had to be a joyous evening of Top 40 nostalgia for those in attendance, and perhaps more – a reminder of the towering talent of Valli and Gaudio in particular and a reminder too of why “Jersey Boys” is still big time 20 years after it arrived … and should be 20 years on.
            “Jersey Boys” runs through Oct. 6 at the California Center for the Arts, Escondido.

The ensemble cast is a delight in "Murder on the Orient Express."                                  Photo by Jim Cox

            I’m a major Agatha Christie fan, having read most if not all of her 66 mystery novels and 14 collections of short stories. So I believe I can propound with some authority (doesn’t that sound like one of her high-minded characters?) that the “Queen of Crime’s” 1934 novel “Murder on the Orient Express” is overrated. Sorry, Christiephiles. It’s grim, it’s claustrophobic (much of the action takes place aboard a snowbound, stalled train), its denouement smacks of “Are you kidding me?” and Christie’s most delicious detective, the little Belgian Hercule Poirot, ultimately acts out of character.
            A couple of films have been made of “Murder on the Orient Express” – forgettable films.
            Leave it to intrepid playwright Ken Ludwig, he of “Lend Me A Tenor” and “Crazy For You” and a master at updating with pizzazz a stuffy classic, to transform “Murder in the Orient Express” (originally titled by Christie “Murder in the Calais Coach”) into a sumptuous, thoroughly diverting two-act play that injects marvelous humor into the mystery without completely sacrificing the viscera of the murderous goings-on.
            For starters, the scenic design by Paul Tate dePoo III is among the most elegant, versatile and ambient of any I’ve seen at the Globe, indoors, in quite some time. A rotating set depicts various rooms and cars aboard the famed Orient Express of the ‘30s that traveled in total luxury from Istanbul to Paris. Every detail, from the glassware on the draped tables in the dining car, to the sconced lamps and formidable wooden paneling and doors of the train’s corridors, is thoughtfully conceived and presented. Murder or not, you’d WANT to be aboard and on your way to romance and adventure.
            Complementing dePoo’s opulent design is lighting by JAX Messenger that conveys the richness of the environs and also the closed-in discomfort when the railway trip is aborted by suffocating snow. The use of projections (designed by Greg Emetaz) accomplish the illusion of the train in motion and of the storm outside. For me, they’re less effective later on when utilized for close-up character flashbacks. In fact, I could have done without any of the production’s filmed touches, including its premise-setting opening. They aren’t necessary.
            Peter Amster directed this production of Ludwig’s 2017 play in Florida at Asolo Repertory Theatre in Saratoga and has brought the same costumes and sets to this West Coast premiere. The cast is new.
            First of all, give Andrew Sellon some love for portraying Christie’s inimitable Poirot without channeling David Suchet, the quintessential HP from the wonderful British television productions. Sellon’s Poirot, not the little fastidious Belgian with the egg-shaped head at all, is just as dandified as in other portrayals, but there are nuances. He’s more explosive than Poirot is usually shown to be, more emotional, and he even flirts in this adaptation with the alluring Countess Andrenyi (Ariella Kvashny). Poirot is rarely shown on television or in film as caring anything about the opposite sex.
            It’s a little hard, I admit, for me to accept anyone as Poirot other than Suchet, but that wouldn’t be fair to Sellon, who is quite good at the Globe. He’s the anchor among the large cast, the voice of reason even when he flares, and he’s believable as a brilliant private detective.
            The aforementioned Kvashny glimmers as the mysterious Countess, and there’s a moment late in the going when she shows herself to be the strongest dramatically among the supporting cast.
            Mylinda Hull is blessed with having the most crowd-pleasing role in the show, that of American tourist Helen Hubbard. Utilizing all of Ludwig’s exquisite gifts for high comedy, she gets to sing (anyone for “Lullaby of Broadway”?), crack wise, smart off and generally play it up BIG. The lion’s share of the laughs on opening night were at Hull’s antics.
            Not unlike in Christie’s novel, the other characters/suspects (there are eight in this play as opposed to 12 in the book) are somewhat one-note types, though Karole Foreman stands out as Princess Dragomiroff, late of Bolshevik-turned Russia.
            Everyone is dressed to the ten’s by costume designer Tracy Dorman.
            So what’s the story? Right. Forgot about that. A boorish American businessman, Samuel Ratchett (Matthew Patrick Quinn) is murdered after midnight aboard the train, and everyone is a suspect. Poirot’s problem? Everyone seems to have a solid alibi.
            That’s it.
            So why’s this production so much fun? You know Poirot will figure it out, and like most murder mysteries onstage, whodunit isn’t that critical to enjoying the proceedings.
            That’s because Ludwig’s “Murder on the Orient Express” is lavishly appointed, sophisticated fun in the throwback ‘30s. One would have to be a real stick-in-the-mud not to have a swell time.
            As a Christie purist I can forgive the narrative departures because, as I said, I was never wild about the novel in the first place. I’d see the Globe show again before I’d revisit the book.
            All apologies, Dame Agatha. Your genius otherwise speaks for itself.
            “Agatha Christie’s ‘Murder on the Orient Express’” runs through Oct. 13 at the Old Globe in Balboa Park.

An ensemble cast at the Old Globe delights in "Murder on the Orient Express."           Photo by Jim Cox

            I’m a major Agatha Christie fan, having read most if not all of her 66 mystery novels and 14 collections of short stories. So I believe I can propound with some authority (doesn’t that sound like one of her high-minded characters?) that the “Queen of Crime’s” 1934 novel “Murder on the Orient Express” is overrated. Sorry, Christiephiles. It’s grim, it’s claustrophobic (much of the action takes place aboard a snowbound, stalled train), its denouement smacks of “Are you kidding me?” and Christie’s most delicious detective, the little Belgian Hercule Poirot, ultimately acts of character.
            A couple of films have been made of “Murder on the Orient Express” – forgettable films.
            Leave it to intrepid playwright Ken Ludwig, he of “Lend Me A Tenor” and “Crazy For You” and a master at updating with pizzazz a stuffy classic, to transform “Murder in the Orient Express” (originally titled by Christie “Murder in the Calais Coach”) into a sumptuous, thoroughly diverting two-act play that injects marvelous humor into the mystery without completely sacrificing the viscera of the murderous goings-on.
            For starters, the scenic design by Paul Tate dePoo III is among the most elegant, versatile and ambient of any I’ve seen at the Globe, indoors, in quite some time. A rotating set depicts various rooms and cars aboard the famed Orient Express of the ‘30s that traveled in total luxury from Istanbul to Paris. Every detail, from the glassware on the draped tables in the dining car, to the sconced lamps and formidable wooden paneling and doors of the train’s corridors, is thoughtfully conceived and presented. Murder or not, you’d WANT to be aboard and on your way to romance and adventure.
            Complementing dePoo’s opulent design is lighting by JAX Messenger that conveys the richness of the environs and also the closed-in discomfort when the railway trip is aborted by suffocating snow. The use of projections (designed by Greg Emetaz) accomplish the illusion of the train in motion and of the storm outside. For me, they’re less effective later on when utilized for close-up character flashbacks. In fact, I could have done without any of the production’s filmed touches, including its premise-setting opening. They aren’t necessary.
            Peter Amster directed this production of Ludwig’s 2017 play in Florida at Asolo Repertory Theatre in Saratoga and has brought the same costumes and sets to this West Coast premiere. The cast is new.
            First of all, give Andrew Sellon some love for portraying Christie’s inimitable Poirot without channeling David Suchet, the quintessential HP from the wonderful British television productions. Sellon’s Poirot, not the little fastidious Belgian with the egg-shaped head at all, is just as dandified as in other portrayals, but there are nuances. He’s more explosive than Poirot is usually shown to be, more emotional, and he even flirts in this adaptation with the alluring Countess Andrenyi (Ariella Kvashny). Poirot is rarely shown on television or in film as caring anything about the opposite sex.
            It’s a little hard, I admit, for me to accept anyone as Poirot other than Suchet, but that wouldn’t be fair to Sellon, who is quite good at the Globe. He’s the anchor among the large cast, the voice of reason even when he flares, and he’s believable as a brilliant private detective.
            The aforementioned Kvashny glimmers as the mysterious Countess, and there’s a moment late in the going when she shows herself to be the strongest dramatically among the supporting cast.
            Mylinda Hull is blessed with having the most crowd-pleasing role in the show, that of American tourist Helen Hubbard. Utilizing all of Ludwig’s exquisite gifts for high comedy, she gets to sing (anyone for “Lullaby of Broadway”?), crack wise, smart off and generally play it up BIG. The lion’s share of the laughs on opening night were at Hull’s antics.
            Not unlike in Christie’s novel, the other characters/suspects (there are eight in this play as opposed to 12 in the book) are somewhat one-note types, though Karole Foreman stands out as Princess Dragomiroff, late of Bolshevik-turned Russia.
            Everyone is dressed to the ten’s by costume designer Tracy Dorman.
            So what’s the story? Right. Forgot about that. A boorish American businessman, Samuel Ratchett (Matthew Patrick Quinn) is murdered after midnight aboard the train, and everyone is a suspect. Poirot’s problem? Everyone seems to have a solid alibi.
            That’s it.
            So why’s this production so much fun? You know Poirot will figure it out, and like most murder mysteries onstage, whodunit isn’t that critical to enjoying the proceedings.
            That’s because Ludwig’s “Murder on the Orient Express” is lavishly appointed, sophisticated fun in the throwback ‘30s. One would have to be a real stick-in-the-mud not to have a swell time.
            As a Christie purist I can forgive the narrative departures because, as I said, I was never wild about the novel in the first place. I’d see the Globe show again before I’d revisit the book.
            All apologies, Dame Agatha. Your genius otherwise speaks for itself.
            “Agatha Christie’s ‘Murder on the Orient Express’” runs through Oct. 13 at the Old Globe in Balboa Park.