Caleb Foote (left) and Joshua Echebiri in "King James."                                          Photo by Rich Soublet II

        As you may have read in advance of seeing “King James” at the Old Globe’s White Theatre, Clevelander Rajiv Joseph’s two-handed play is NOT about basketball. It’s about friendship.
        That’s true enough. Over the course of two-plus hours and four scenes played out against the backdrop of monumental moments in the career of NBA great LeBron James, Matt (Caleb Foote) and Shawn (Joshua Echebiri) manfully evolve their bromance. They meet, they bond, they break up, they reconcile … sounds like a lot of relationships, doesn’t it?
         The glue that holds the two Clevelanders together is their devotion to the hometown Cavaliers and, more so, the growing legend that is James, the transcendent athlete who would bring the downtrodden sports city its first championship in more than 50 years.
          I guess it’s possible to appreciate “King James” if you have little to zero knowledge of or interest in pro basketball or in LeBron James himself. But it would be nowhere near as satisfying. Personally speaking, I remember vividly the LeBron highlights referenced or heard via sound effects throughout the play: the drafting by the Cavaliers in 2003 of the high school phenom out of nearby Akron; 2010’s “The Decision,” in which James went on national television to reveal what team, as a free agent, he was leaving his beloved Cleveland for (it would be the Miami Heat); the announcement in 2014 that James, after his hiatus, would be returning to once again play for the Cavs; and the delivery two years later of his promise  to the city – to bring home a championship – with an epic Game 7 victory in Oakland over the supposedly indomitable Golden State Warriors.
         Still get chills remembering James blocking Andre Igoudala’s layup in the incredibly tense, waning moments of that contest.
           I didn’t get chills from “King James,” which is not to say I didn’t enjoy the production. Foote and Echebiri are strictly first-string in this show, creating believable and likable characters. Their camaraderie is more interesting than their destinies, but then only Echebiri’s Shawn really has a destiny – to become a television writer (though he wants to be a writer writer). Foote’s Matt, we get the sense, will be a Cleveland bar or shop owner all his life, and he can be impulsive and lunkheaded at times, but we like him anyway.
          Though directed with spirit throughout by Justin Emecka, “King James” doesn’t really discover much dramatic tension until Act 2 when Matt and Shawn confront, at times explosively, their differences and their disconnects. The first act is a might slow and talky, engaging though the two Ohio fans and their banter is.
         The magic (not the Lakers’ Earvin or the Orlando Magic) of this play is its evocation of LeBron James’ career without showing even one highlight on a TV screen. The audio is enough, and honestly, hearing Matt and Shawn so vividly reliving the King’s feats would have been enough. I’ve somewhat lost interest in the NBA over the years, but this show made me want to sit down in the den, pop open a cold one and turn on TNT or ESPN. That would, of course, be more fun with a buddy sitting beside me to abet my cheering and amateur analyzing.
        “King James” runs through April 7 at the Old Globe’s Sheryl and Harvey White Theatre in Balboa Park

Bruce Turk (lying down) and Bo Foxworth in "Tartuffe."                                         Photo by Aaron Rumley

            Moliere’s “Tartuffe” was first performed more than 350 years ago. So why did it feel, as I sat among the opening-nighters at the North Coast Repertory Theatre on Saturday night, as current-day, as urgent as it did?
            Couldn’t have been because of the rhyming couplets in which the actors speak. Couldn’t have been the 17th-century costumes and wigs they wore. No. But try this on for size: The titular character whom all the fuss is about in the household of Orgon is a despicable hypocrite feigning religious piety, one who makes predatory moves on the lady of the house and in whose spell both Orgon and his mother are so beguiled that they can’t – and refuse – to see the vileness of the man.
            Put Orgon and his mum Madame Pernelle in MAGA hats and you’ve got a play for the times. In an election year yet.
            Possibly because of this creepy relevance, I wasn’t distracted by the rhyming couplets Saturday as I have been in the past at other productions in which the actors speak thus, times when I sat there just listening and waiting for the next rhyming line.
            But it wasn’t just the currency of “Tartuffe” at work. This production directed by Richard Baird is broad but searing and most of all tremendous fun. Given those costumes designed by Elisa Benzoni, Peter Herman’s wigs and Marty Burnett’s posh-perfect set, this “Tartuffe” is a visual treat, yet that’s only part of this staging’s appeal. An exceptional cast is at work: Bruce Turk in the title role, in the bare feet of Tartuffe as different from his last NC Rep turn as Dr. Jekyll as different can be – it’s delicious odiousness. Bo Foxworth is a sputtering and duped Orgon of great merit, with the estimable Kandis Chappell as Madame Pernelle in a small but crucial role.
            Then there’s Katie Karel, who damned near walks away with the whole show as Orgon’s sardonic hired maid Dorine. The year is young, but Karel’s performance has to be one of the richest and certainly funniest supporting turns so far.
            For Moliere neophytes, “Tartuffe’s” story is a straightforward one – The naïve Orgon has brought the destitute character into his home, having succumbed to his feigned religiosity, and is praising and catering to him at the expense of everyone else, including his wife and children. Except for Madame Pernelle, all others in the house of Orgon see through Tartuffe’s posing and rightfully despise him. When Orgon takes his slavish devotion to the next level, insisting that his daughter Mariane (Shante DeLoach) wed Tartuffe instead of her beloved Valere (Jared Van Heel), things come to a head.
            That’s pretty much it. Well more than two hours is required to resolve this little crisis, but resolved it will be, and in a piece such as this one, you know just desserts will be served after the farcical feast.
            Its musical language aside, “Tartuffe” is a physical affair, and there’s plenty of that on display, whether it’s Turk stalking Melanie Lora as Orgon’s dignified wife Elmire, Foxworth bounding onto tables or sliding underneath them, Rogella Douglas III waving a sword as Orgon’s irate son Damis, or doors opening and closing with emphasis (a staple it seems of most NCR comedies, regardless of the time period in which they’re set).
            Both Turk and especially Baird are theater historians and as such conversant with the depths and nuances of Moliere and this play. It shows. There’s an uncanny balance in Solana Beach between respect for the source material and the knack for pleasing an audience that might not be partial to, say, rhyming couplets.
            There’s also the ability to execute visual comedy without resorting to so-called sight gags. Shakespeare knew how to do this. Moliere knew how to do this.
            You’re in fine company, Mr. Baird, Mr. Turk and the ensemble.
            “Tartuffe” runs through April 7 at North Coast Repertory Theatre in Solana Beach.

Roman Banks stars as Michael Jackson in "MJ the Musical."                             Photo by Matthew Murphy

           Guess who was sitting in the row in front of me at Wednesday night’s performance of “MJ the Musical”?
            Who else? Michael Jackson, complete with military jacket and sequined glove.
            All right. It wasn’t Michael Jackson. He died 15 years ago. This fan was done up to look as much like the King of Pop as possible, right down to each lock of hair. I assume he wasn’t the only would-be lookalike in the Civic Theatre either. “MJ” is a show for MJ fans, and 15 years after his passing, Jackson boasts them by the zillions.
            This uber-energetic, technically dazzling jukebox musical is touring after opening on Broadway just two years ago. (Its intended opening in 2020 was put off by the pandemic.) It’s packed with well-known songs, from the fledgling Jackson 5 days on through the 1992-‘93 “Dangerous” tour, preparation for which constitutes the plot line of the show’s book by the esteemed playwright Lynn Nottage (“Intimate Apparel,” “Ruined”). Some are, disappointingly, only performed in part, but then with so many in the score complete renditions would require a four-hour audience sit or longer. As it is, “MJ” runs more than two and a half hours.
            Nottage did not pen a warts-and-all depiction of Michael Jackson, and for a Broadway show catering to America at large, no one could have expected her to. There are references to Jackson’s drug dependency and skin pallor shoehorned into the “MJ” story via the pretext of an MTV reporter (Mary Kate Moore) behind the scenes to get the “one big interview” with the global icon as he prepares to launch the Dangerous World Tour.
            There is no treading the controversial ground of Jackson’s later life, the stuff of the explosive documentary “Leaving Neverland.” No, “MJ” is 95 percent a celebration of the charisma and musical genius of Jackson.
            This production presented here by Broadway San Diego features a young superstar of its own – 25-year-old Roman Banks. Far more than the fan sitting in front of me in the theater, Banks becomes Michael Jackson as much as anyone could be, from the look to the super-soft speaking voice to the signature dance moves. The vocals are close enough.
            Brandon Lee Harris shines as the “Thriller”-era Michael. Two young actors alternate as the boy whose dominating father (Devin Bowles) pushed him to the point of pain, literally.
            Aside from Banks’, however, the performances are secondary to the breathless choreography by Christopher Wheeldon and the show’s ensemble of young dancers, in toto worthy of a star who moved on stage as distinctively as anyone who’s ever done so in pop.
            The “Thriller” number in Act 2 is, frankly, thrilling, as are many of the production sequences after intermission. The first act is consumed heavily by the tale of Jackson’s emergence, with the “Soul Train” re-creation being the most memorable.
            Banks is given a fair amount of time alone onstage for quieter moments and the conveying of introspection. Nottage hints here at the drive for perfection, the love of music and possibly the torments within the inner man.
            But “MJ” does not echo as a tragi-musical. The furthest it reaches is a what-price-success? story set to unforgettable songs that became and still are parts of so many lives: “Billie Jean,” “Beat It,” “Bad,” “Human Nature,” et al.
            “MJ” is one of those shows that if you’d paid steeply for tickets to see it on Broadway, you would have walked out afterward telling yourself it was worth the dough. As noted earlier, those who loved Michael Jackson will be likely to love “MJ the Musical.” His spirit inhabits the best of this stage musical. The controversies around him have been chronicled elsewhere. That too is certainly the way his fans want it.
            “MJ the Musical” runs through March 10 at the Civic Theatre, downtown.
 
           

Megan Carmitchel and Francis Gercke in "How I Learned to Drive."                        Photo by Daren Scott

            Hopefully in the 27 years since it was first produced and in the many performances of it since, Paula Vogel’s brutally candid “How I Learned to Drive” has given victims of sexual predators the courage to speak about their traumas as well as the resolve to survive. But they couldn’t help but be triggered by a play as explicit as this one is.
            The graphic nature of Vogel’s story about the relationship between Li’l Bit and her Uncle Peck is portrayed at the Tenth Avenue Arts Center downtown in a Backyard Renaissance production that is, to be quite honest, sometimes hard to watch. As Uncle Peck (Francis Gercke) teases and touches Li’L Bit (Megan Carmitchel), who in some scenes in the time-shifting drama is supposed to be as young as 11 years old, I felt the same sort of discomfort that I felt watching the pedophiliac father preying upon his son’s 11-year-old friend in Todd Solondz’s 1998 film “Happiness.”
            I don’t remember being that unnerved when I first saw “How I Learned to Drive,” more than 25 years ago when the San Diego Rep produced it. But that was admittedly a long, long time ago.
            The Backyard production directed by Anthony Methvin is dark and uncompromising with a fearless twosome in Carmitchel and Gercke at the forefront. The play’s Greek Chorus inhabiting multiple roles is Karson St. John (who’s excellent), Emilee Zuniga and William Huffaker. Whatever humor resides in “How I Learned to Drive,” probably intended as much-needed comic relief, comes from the side players, though little if any of it (and especially not the physical comedy) is much relief at all from the almost courtly but predacious Uncle Peck.
            The 100-minute “How I Learned to Drive” is intentionally non-linear. We don’t, for example, witness Uncle Peck’s first molestation of L’il Bit until near the very end. At times she is 13 years old, at others over 30. Uncle Peck never changes, whether it’s the metaphorical teaching Li’l Bit how to drive a car or taking photos of her (for Playboy, for when you’re older) or simply leering at her around the dinner table.
            In fact, every character seems to leer at L’il Bit at one point or another during the storytelling, ramping up the “ick” factor all the more.
            For an actor, playing either the abused Li’l Bit or abusing Uncle Peck has to be an onerous challenge. In Gercke’s case, you’re going to have an audience repelled by your character – I’ve read reviews of this play over the years that expressed some misguided sympathy for Uncle Peck, but I don’t understand why. In Carmitchel’s case, you’re going to have to allow yourself to be touched, even fondled, which has to be incredibly difficult onstage. Mary-Louise Parker and David Morse originated these roles off-Broadway in ’97 and returned to them 25 years later as well. But I feel like one could play the characters years on end and always feel some discomfort even while being true to the play and the craft.
            Vogel has said that the approach for “How I Learned to Drive” was inspired by Nabokov’s “Lolita,” calling it in a 1997 Playbill interview “so even-handed and so neutral.”
            It’s tough to be neutral about either one. If L’il Bit is in the end empowered by having survived her uncle’s molestations and can move on with her life, that’s some catharsis for the audience. As for being neutral, that’s something for driving a car but no more.
            “How I Learned to Drive” runs through March 16 at the Tenth Avenue Arts Center downtown.