Chilina Kennedy, center, stars as Billie Jean King in "Love All." Photo by Rich Soublet Growing up, the first female athlete I became aware of was Billie Jean King. As the years went by, I came to admire and respect her for much more than her dominance on the tennis court. She was and is a woman of courage, conviction and flat out guts.
So what a thrill to see her in person at La Jolla Playhouse on opening night of “Love All,” the world-premiere play by Anna Deavere Smith based on the 79-year-old King’s extraordinary life. When she was introduced from in front of the stage before the show by Playhouse Artistic Director Christopher Ashley, the audience gave her a loud standing ovation. Standing o’s are rife at most theater productions in town AFTER the performance, but this was the first time I’d ever seen one (or been part of one) before the performance even began. It’s a shame that this was the highlight of the evening. “Love All” looks and sounds like one of those television docudramas of a famous person’s life. King’s passions – for tennis, for fair pay for and equal treatment of woman athletes, for social justice, for the man (and women) she loved – feel overly scripted, hurried, expressed in bromides that I found surprising coming from the pen of the deservedly respected Anna Deavere Smith. King’s story, from childhood into the early 1970s, is dramatized in short mini-scenes directed as if for economy of time by Marc Bruni. (It’s a strange dynamic given that the play overall feels too long.) The while, projections above the stage (by S. Katy Tucker) chronicle the socio-political turmoil that paralleled King’s rise to tennis heights and her championing of critical causes. There’s the JFK assassination, the killing of Dr. Martin Luther King, the prelude to the assassination of Robert Kennedy, the Vietnam War. There’s Muhammad Ali explaining his refusal to kill in Vietnam. There’s the war itself. There’s Kent State. It’s a newsreel that at times overshadows the personal dramas of Billie Jean King being portrayed onstage, such as her relationship with husband Larry King and her exploration of her sexuality. The trip through history, onstage and on the screen, is tiring. A rewritten “Love All” might focus on any of several significant aspects of King’s life rather than trying to Tell It All. Throughout the play and at different ages, the role of King is entrusted to Chilina Kennedy, who is very righteous and quite good. Much as King’s doubles partner and friend Rosie Casals was the brash yin to King’s more serious yang, Elena Hurst, making her Playhouse debut, is just as strident for the cause but a lot more fun. She’s the kind of pal everyone would like to have. As King’s business-minded spouse Larry, John Kroft never seemed dynamic enough for me, while Nancy Lemenager as King’s manager Gladys Heldman, Bianca Amato as young Billie Jean’s coach/mentor Alice Marble and Ben Jacoby as men’s tennis icon Jack Kramer all border on caricaturization. One scene in the second act, which finds a soul-searching King at a retreat, is just silly, complete with misfired Bob Dylan/acid bartender joke. It also serves to weaken what ensues – a telling reunion between King and the “rock star” hairdresser she’d encountered earlier. What “Love All” gets right is its portrayal of the prejudice that Black tennis champion Althea Gibson was subject to – King’s outraged discovery of Gibson having to play a maid in a John Wayne western is one of the production’s few urgent moments – and of otherwise-revered icon Arthur Ashe’s dismissal of women players’ demand for equal pay. There is a lot of tennis history in “Love All,” and it certainly helps to be familiar with it. (King had significant involvement in the crafting of this script.) I find it engrossing, but non-buffs may not. Surprisingly, “Love All” references but does not revisit or act out the famous King vs. Bobby Riggs “Battle of the Sexes.” Instead, it ends with the dedication of the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, home of the U.S. Open Championship. Then actors, including Amato as King’s wife Ilana Kloss, break character and address the audience as though wrapping up the docudrama. Not ideal. Billie Jean King is worthy of many epic tellings of her life, such an important American figure has she been and still is. “Love All,” at least right now, is not worthy of her. “Love All” runs through July 2 at La Jolla Playhouse’s Mandell Weiss Theatre.
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Left to right: Lenne Klingaman, Chilina Kennedy and Elena Hurst in "Love All." Photo by Rich Soublet Growing up, the first female athlete I became aware of was Billie Jean King. As the years went by, I came to admire and respect her for much more than her dominance on the tennis court. She was and is a woman of courage, conviction and flat out guts.
So what a thrill to see her in person at La Jolla Playhouse on opening night of “Love All,” the world-premiere play by Anna Deavere Smith based on the 79-year-old King’s extraordinary life. When she was introduced from in front of the stage before the show by Playhouse Artistic Director Christopher Ashley, the audience gave her a loud standing ovation. Standing o’s are rife at most theater productions in town AFTER the performance, but this was the first time I’d ever seen one (or been part of one) before the performance even began. It’s a shame that this was the highlight of the evening. “Love All” looks and sounds like one of those television docudramas of a famous person’s life. King’s passions – for tennis, for fair pay for and equal treatment of woman athletes, for social justice, for the man (and women) she loved – feel overly scripted, hurried, expressed in bromides that I found surprising coming from the pen of the respected Anna Deavere Smith. King’s story, from childhood into the early 1970s, is dramatized in short mini-scenes directed as if for economy of time by Marc Bruni. (It’s a strange dynamic given that the play overall feels too long.) The while, projections above the stage (by S. Katy Tucker) chronicle the sociopolitical turmoil that paralleled King’s rise to tennis heights and her championing of critical causes. There’s the JFK assassination, the killing of Dr. Martin Luther King, the prelude to the assassination of Robert Kennedy, the Vietnam War. There’s Muhammad Ali explaining his refusal to kill in Vietnam. There’s the war itself. There’s Kent State. It’s a newsreel that at times overshadows the personal dramas of Billie Jean King being portrayed onstage, such as her relationship with husband Larry King and her exploration of her sexuality. The trip through history, onstage and on the screen, is tiring. A rewritten “Love All” might focus on any of several significant aspects of King’s life rather than trying to Tell It All. Several actors portray King as she grows up before the role is entrusted to Chilina Kennedy, who is very righteous and quite good. Much as King’s doubles partner and friend Rosie Casals was the brash yin to King’s more serious yang, Elena Hurst, making her Playhouse debut, is just as strident for the cause but a lot more fun. She’s the kind of pal everyone would like to have. As King’s business-minded spouse Larry, John Kroft never seemed dynamic enough for me, while Nancy Lemenager as King’s manager Gladys Heldman, Bianca Amato as young Billie Jean’s coach/mentor Alice Marble and Ben Jacoby as men’s tennis icon Jack Kramer all border on caricaturization. One scene in the second act, which finds a soul-searching King at a retreat, is just silly, complete with misfired Bob Dylan/acid bartender joke. It also serves to weaken what ensues – a telling reunion between King and the “rock star” hairdresser she’d encountered earlier. What “Love All” gets right is its portrayal of the prejudice that Black tennis champion Althea Gibson was subject to – King’s outraged discovery of Gibson having to play a maid in a John Wayne western is one of the production’s few urgent moments – and of otherwise-revered icon Arthur Ashe’s dismissal of women players’ demand for equal pay. There is a lot of tennis history in “Love All,” and it certainly helps to be familiar with it. (King had significant involvement in the crafting of this script.) I find it engrossing, but non-buffs may not. Surprisingly, “Love All” references but does not revisit or act out the famous King vs. Bobby Riggs “Battle of the Sexes.” Instead, it ends with the dedication of the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, home of the U.S. Open Championship. Then actors, including Amato as King’s wife Ilana Kloss, break character and address the audience as though wrapping up the docudrama. Not ideal. Billie Jean King is worthy of many epic tellings of her life, such an important American figure has she been and still is. “Love All,” at least right now, is not worthy of her. “Love All” runs through July 2 at La Jolla Playhouse’s Mandell Weiss Theatre. Gerilyn Brault (left) and Lauren King Thompson in "Head Over Heels." Photo by Andrea Agosto To fully enjoy “Head Over Heels,” it is necessary to accept the incongruity of characters speaking in blank verse one moment, then breaking into ‘80s Go-Go’s lyrics the next.
Once you’re past that, s’all good. Diversionary Theatre had planned to stage “Head Over Heels,” written by Jeff Whitty (“Avenue Q”) and adapted from Sidney’s text by James MacGruder, in the spring of 2020. Three years after the official acknowledgement of the COVID-19 pandemic, “Head Over Heels” is closing Diversionary’s 2022-2023 season. It also happens to be the swan song for Executive Artistic Director Matt Morrow, who’s departing to become artistic director at Center Repertory Company in Northern California. Morrow co-directed “Head Over Heels” with Steven Brotebeck, who directed a previous show built upon pop songs – “Girlfriend” with the music of Matthew Sweet – at Diversionary in 2019. Make no mistake: the Go-Go’s are more pop band than anything else, which is why their songs work so well in “Head Over Heels.” “Heaven Is A Place On Earth,” for one, has show tune written all over it. This is a strange but completely likable show. It’s based on Sir Philip Sidney’s 16th-century pastoral romance “Arcadia,” of all things. Basilius, king of the realm (Scott Ripley), is warned of by an oracle (Faith Carrion) that the “Beat” that keeps the kingdom intact is threatened. At the same time, he’s trying to marry off his older daughter Pamela (Gerilyn Brault) to a worthy suitor while shunning the shepherd swain (Joey Kirkpatrick) who’s eyeing younger daughter Philoclea (Adelaida Martinez). Basilius’ strong-willed queen Gynecia (Amanda Naughton) is frustrated by most of this and especially frustrated by her blowhard of a husband. When the shepherd is persuaded by the nonbinary oracle to dress in women’s clothes and Pamela learns that her handmaid Mopsa (Lauren King Thompson) is in love with her, two foundations of “Head Over Heels” become clear: The story has all the wild complications of a Shakespearean romp. And playwright Whitty is making a trenchant comment on gender identity, otherness and acceptance, which thrusts this show emphatically into the now. Throughout, Go-Go’s tunes propel the storytelling – at times appropriately, lyrically speaking; at other times apparently at random. I’m not a fan, per se, so some of the songs in “Head Over Heels” were foreign to me. About all of them, though, are accessible and compatible with the spirit of the show. The musical begins with the band’s best remembered tune of all – “We’ve Got the Beat,” setting the tone for not only the soundtrack of “Head Over Heels,” but the high-spirited choreography (by Katie Banville), well executed by the show’s large ensemble. There were some sporadic sound problems on opening night which undoubtedly will be corrected, though the five-member onstage band led by Patrick Marion rocked with nary a moment of unwanted feedback. The Diversionary cast is exceptional, starting with Brault, whose Pamela is a hoot and a holler. The high wig she wears in the first half of the show, looking like something Elton John borrowed from Effie in “The Hunger Games,” doesn’t detract from her comic timing or lovely singing voice. Twenty-three-year-old Martinez is a sweet and sweet-voiced presence throughout, and Naughton as always can do no wrong onstage. Berto Fernandez and Carrion wring maximum effect from their character roles. It seemed as if “Head Over Heels” never completely balanced its messaging with its antics. Both are very obvious, but in a show like this one, that’s okay. Call it a terrible cliché, but there really is something for everybody in this crowd-pleaser of a show. “Head Over Heels” runs through June 18 at Diversionary Theatre in University Heights. The scene-stealing Bianca Marroquin in "Destiny of Desire." Photo by Jim Cox Let’s get this understood from the very beginning: NOTHING in “Destiny of Desire” is to be taken seriously. That’s not a trigger warning. Karen Zacarias’ play with music at the Old Globe Theatre isn’t offensive in the least. What it is, however, is a tribute to the anything goes/wildly emotional telenovelas that make American soap operas look like a deadpan episode of “Dragnet” by comparison.
It could be argued that “Destiny of Desire” is as much a spoof of as tribute to the telenovela archetype, and the way the opening night audience at the Globe was howling with laughter and cheers, that’d be a fair point. But Zacarias will tell you she’s not making fun of telenovelas; rather, she’s written one of her own to honor the fact that, as she told me in an interview I did with her for the San Diego Union-Tribune, telenovelas are grounded in real-life situations and people with humanity. The Old Globe, which produced Zacarias’ “Native Gardens” a few years ago in its theater-in-the-round space, is aiming “Destiny of Desire” toward Broadway and as such is giving it the “big show” treatment. It’s staged in the main theater with a slick two-story set by Rachel Hauck, the top of which is occupied by a live band under the direction of Ricky Gonzalez. Costumes, always a Globe asset, are by Karen Perry here, and there’s flawless lighting by Jane Cox. If “Destiny of Desire” has a future on the Great White Way, though, it will mainly be because of its crazy tale with its many exaggerated twists and turns and an array of flawed but irresistible characters guaranteed to play on an audience’s sympathies and emotions. None of Zacarias’ “good” people are 100 percent good, and at least one of her “bad” characters is so shamelessly bad that she no question walks away with the show. That would be Fabiola Castillo, played to the hilt by Bianca Marroquin. In the scheming-baddie tradition of Alexis Carrington or J.R. Ewing, Fabiola arranges for the sick, undersized baby born to her and husband Armando (Al Rodrigo) to be swapped at the hospital for the healthy newborn of a poor couple, Ernesto del Rio (Luis Villabon) and his wife Hortensia (Mandy Gonzalez). As if that’s not enough, Fabiola is playing around with her husband’s grown son, hunky Sebastian (James Olivas). This melodrama all goes down in the fictional Mexican desert town of Bellarica. Naturally the two girls grow up quickly – like within the first 15 minutes of the show – and are 18 year olds living very different if parallel lives. “Destiny of Desire” brings them together in outlandish ways, though if you’re a telenovela fan …. maybe not that outlandish. There are far too many plot deviations and detours to chronicle here. Watching “Destiny of Desire” is like bingeing a telenovela’s entire season accelerated into one magnum episode. If along the way you’re wondering what’s what and who’s who and why’s this, that evidently is intended to be part of the fun. At over two and a half hours in length, that’s more fun that I needed given the material, but that’s because I could see where Zacarias and director Ruben Santiago-Hudson were going with “Destiny of Desire” very early on. Those who become more invested than I in the fate of switched-at-birth girls Pilar (Yesenia Ayala) and Victoria Maria (Emilia Suarez) won’t mind the production’s length one bit. Part of the explanation for the run time is the inclusion of the play’s original songs. They’re fine, but they don’t add anything substantial to the storytelling. Their chief contribution is giving Marroquin more to do, which I certainly applaud, and providing Olivas the opportunity to beefcake it up. It’s hard to visualize an actual telenovela cast being as talented as this one is, though. Besides Marroquin, Ayala and Suarez are delightful as the young women, Rodrigo explodes with machismo as Armando and, as a nun (told you this show had everything), Nancy Ticotin intervenes throughout as snide Sister Sonya. A couple of imaginative touches are inter-scene round cards (like at a boxing match) that foretell what’s to come and intermittent announcements of statistical factoids about American culture, Mexican culture and human nature, some of which are attempts at more serious commentary about societal or political issues. Catch your breath. That’s a helluva lot going on in a single production. “Destiny of Desire” is overloaded, but it is never, ever dull. Like a cracking good telenovela, it sucks you in and you’re a goner. “Destiny of Desire” runs through June 25 at the Old Globe Theatre in Balboa Park. Richard Bermudez (kneeling), Monika Pena and Brian Justin Crum (far right) in "Jesus Christ Superstar." Photo by Fred Tracey After more than half a century, “Jesus Christ Superstar” is still the finest musical in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s – excuse me, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber’s – canon. From my personal experience with it, the original London recording that starred Murray Head as Judas Iscariot and Deep Purple’s Ian Gillan as Jesus Christ has never been bettered on stage or screen. But that’s neither here nor there. “JCS” is always an entertaining and thoughtful theatrical piece and, needless to say, its story is timeless.
Moonlight Stage Productions’ “Jesus Christ Superstar” honors Lloyd Webber’s music (and Tim Rice’s lyrics) beautifully, with an orchestra conducted by Lyndon Pugeda and passionate vocalists in both Brian Justin Crum (as Judas) and Richard Bermudez (as Jesus). “JCS” is a totally sung-through musical and while its two best-known songs, “Superstar” and “I Don’t Know How To Love Him,” are the most enthusiastically received by audiences, there are no throwaway tunes in the score. Each song with possibly the exception of the Act 2 “Could We Start Again Please” (written for the Broadway stage debut and not on the original album) dramatically propels the story ahead, that Greatest Story Ever Told. Moonlight’s production directed by Steven Glaudini is from the outset in forward motion, though the choreography by Jimmy Locust is excessive in the first act. Too many disciples looking like balletic commune hippies dancing around on the pretext of being in Christ’s charismatic sphere. The campy “King Herod” ragtime number starring an excusably outrageous Dallas McLaughlin is more justifiable as is a Vegas-ready treatment of the penultimate “Superstar” number. Projections by Blake McCarty don’t seem to add anything significant to the proceedings, though they were worth a try with a show that’s been produced as zillions of times as this one has. Amid the occasional over-production, Moonlight’s staging of Judas’ suicide, the flogging of Jesus and the crucifixion are visually potent and visceral. The crucifixion scene, by the way, includes a device I’ve never seen in my many viewings of “JCS.” See what you think. San Diego-born Crum, who performed at Moonlight in “My One and Only” when he was but 16 years old, is the most impressive member of this large “Superstar” cast. He finds the humanity and the self-torture in Judas Iscariot, a critical component of the show. Rather than just singing his part, Bermudez acts his way through as well. It’s a smart approach considering most of the second act of “JCS” conveys without vocals the suffering and strength of Jesus Christ at the hands of his persecutors. While I didn’t especially connect with Monika Pena’s by-the-book Mary Magdalene, I found Jeffrey Ricca’s percolating Pilate among the best if not the best I’ve seen and heard. “Jesus Christ Superstar” is that rare show at Moonlight that’s over in less than two hours. Also that rare show at Moonlight that doesn’t boast the happily-ever-after ending. Or does it? “Jesus Christ Superstar” runs through May 27 at Moonlight Amphitheatre in Vista. Left to right: Patrick Marron Ball, Biko Eisen-Martin and Korey Jackson in "The XIXth." Photo by Rich Soublet II Thank you, Kemp Powers. Your new play “The XiXth” will remind people of a significant moment in sports and civil rights history that many have forgotten or overlooked: the 200-meter medal ceremony at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City in which winner Tommie Smith and silver medalist John Carlos raised black-gloved fists to the sky during the playing of the national anthem.
I was just a child at the time and I don’t remember whether I even understood what Smith and Carlos were doing. But as I grew older and more educated about Black Americans’ struggle for equality, freedom and dignity, I came to appreciate the bravery that the two American sprinters showed that day in Mexico City. Powers’ play, getting its world premiere at the Old Globe Theatre, recounts what preceded Smith’s and Carlos’ protest and what followed in the days and years afterward. Not unlike Powers’ “One Night in Miami,” “The XIXth” imagines the convergence of major, related figures in the Black American experience. In real life and in this play, it did happen that 1936 Olympics hero Jesse Owens met with Smith ahead of the gold-medal race and implored him not to do anything risky. Smith’s attempt at reconciliation for rebuffing his idol’s advice (on the basis of Owens’ relationship with International Olympic Committee chair (and known racist) Avery Brundage, did not actually happen, though in this tense drama it’s one of the more revealing scenes. Perhaps “The XIXth,” like Powers’ “One Night in Miami,” will go from stage to screen one day. It should. More people need to learn the intricacies of this story. And to a greater extent than “One Night,” “The XIXth” might work better on film than it does on the stage, where intimations of running a race are difficult to reproduce in a theater and the sudden arrival of monologues (from Korey Jackson as Smith and Biko Eisen-Martin as “Los”) while in the starting block don’t feel very organic. Time periods shift back and forth in this lengthy one-act directed by Carl Cofield. The play opens in 2006 with an older Smith and Los at a funeral service in Australia for the Aussie runner, Pete Norman (Patrick Marron Ball), who won the silver in Mexico City and joined the two Americans in protest on the medal stand, thereby becoming friends with both of them. Soon it’s back to the ‘60s, with young Smith and Los college track stars and (at least in Los’ case at the outset) disciples of educator and civil rights activist Harry Edwards. Even with all the time tripping, the focal period of the story are the days and hours leading up to the 200-meter finals in Mexico City. Avery Brundage, played as utterly despicable by Mark Pinter, tries to enlist Aussie Norman as a kind of great white hope. It doesn’t work. As for Tommie Smith and John Carlos, there’s a tug-o-war about going through with the protest, almost right up until the race. Eisen-Martin most definitely has the showier part in “The XIXth.” Los’ passion is unrelenting and he enjoys being a big personality. The inner conflict resides mostly in Smith. Jackson, reflecting the gamut of the emotions this man must have been feeling, is the heart and conscious of this production. Ball is sincere and principled as Norman though his Down Under accent is difficult to decipher. As the elder Jesse Owens, Michael Early is stalwart. As is customary with Globe main theater productions, the technical accoutrements are exceptional and the transitional music (and sound design) by David R. Molina exciting. “The XIXth” runs through April 23 at the Old Globe Theatre in Balboa Park. Richard Baird and Amanda Evans in "The Cherry Orchard." Photo by Ken Jacques By most reputable accounts, Anton Chekhov regarded the last play he wrote, “The Cherry Orchard,” as a comedy. Or at least as more of a comedy than a brooding drama in the fashion of much of his earlier work.
It would be a stretch to call North Coast Repertory Theatre’s new production of “The Cherry Orchard,” directed by David Ellenstein, a comedy, though it does deliver a few chuckles if not laughs in its two-plus-hours. Those are elicited more by a couple of supporting characters than by circumstances of the script itself (an adaptation by Jean-Claude van Itallie): the sotto voce mutterings of ancient manservant Firs (James Sutorius); the haplessness of clumsy clerk Yepikhodov (Jackson Goldberg); the magic tricks and ventriloquism of quirky governess Charlotta (Sofia Jean Gomez – always great to see her on the stage, by the way). But “The Cherry Orchard” is not a mere Chekhovian tale of ennui in a crowded household. It’s rooted in the convergence of the old and the new in the Russia of 1903, when the aristocracy began to find itself on the way out and the bourgeoisie was emerging. The cultural and societal implications of this shift are what are most fascinating, and most enduring, about “The Cherry Orchard.” It is, however, very deliberate storytelling. While the crux of the matter – prideful estate owner Lyubov Ranevskaya (Katie MacNichol) is on the verge of losing her property, including her beloved cherry orchard, to auction on account of unpaid debts – is articulated early in the going, there is more at stake. Much, much more. Lyubov is not only in these dire straits, but she’s home from France, where a lover had been taking advantage of her, and also home confronting the terrible memory of the son she lost to drowning. Daughter Anya (Riley Osborn), her “angel,” is home too, and in love with a perennial student, Peter Trofimov (Michael Raver), a leftist who pronounces amid all his revolutionary blather that he’s above love … though he isn’t. Adopted daughter Varya (Amanda Evans), stern head of the household, is a prig and. so she says. a wannabe nun – mostly because the man she loves, the wealthy merchant Lopakhin (Richard Baird), is unable to or won’t propose marriage to her. Lopakhin is really the central figure in “The Cherry Orchard,” a former serf on the estate who is now rich and powerful enough to be influencing the fate of the imperiled property. But wait. There’s more. The clumsy clerk is in love with wide-eyed housemaid Dunyasha (Katy Tang), who is in love with Yasha (Michael Louis Cusimano), a manservant and hanger-on of Lyubov’s who’s about as likable as a cherry pit. Pishchick (Ted Barton), another landowner in debt, is determined to pry money out of Lyubov. He is likable in spite of that. Intertwined and in conflict, they all parade on and off the North Coast Rep stage, complicating the story but doing so immaculately costumed (by Elisa Benzoni) and precisely directed (by Ellenstein). Strong performances abound, Baird chief among them. His Lopakhin exemplifies the societal transformation at the time, and his inner conflicts are expressed with an eloquence true to Chekhov. This “Cherry Orchard” is staged with veritable reverence for the play. It’s a classic produced with classical intentions. “The Cherry Orchard” runs through April 2 at the North Coast Repertory Theatre in Solana Beach. The Greasers in La Jolla Playhouse's "The Outsiders" musical. Photo by Rich Soublet II The poetry of Robert Frost I can see. But I never understood how Ponyboy Curtis, the tormented but cerebral teenage hero in S.E. Hinton’s ‘60s novel “The Outsiders,” drew inspiration from of all books Margaret Mitchell’s “Gone With the Wind.” That was supposed to teach a restless, orphaned boy about survival in a world where he felt alienated and threatened?
In Adam Rapp’s stage book for La Jolla Playhouse’s “The Outsiders, A New Musical,” Ponyboy’s inspiration instead is Dickens’ “Great Expectations,” which is not only a more fitting text for the story but the source of one of this show’s best songs. That’s just one upgrade to “The Outsiders” story. This stage musical adaptation is an exciting, adult interpretation of Hinton’s novel. It’s a far superior telling of the tale of Ponyboy, Johnny Cade and their fellow Greasers to Francis Ford Coppola’s tepid and sentimental 1983 film, which will be most theatergoers’ reference point. “The Outsiders” is one of the most promising world-premiere musicals to debut locally in some time. Danya Taymor directs a young and passionate cast. Music composed by the Texas duo Jamestown Revival (Jonathan Clay and Zach Chance) along with Justin Levine, the show’s arranger, is of the No Depression variety with a couple of rousers (such as “Run, Run Brother”) incorporated in just the right spots. The choreography by Rick Kuperman and Jeff Kuperman is often spectacular, especially during a gang warfare sequence in the rain that is destined to be “The Outsiders’” onstage signature. While the animus between the protagonist Greasers and the spoiled rich socials (called the Socs) isn’t apt to make anyone forget “West Side Story,” it does provide a basis of conflict from the outset. It’s into this arena of tension and aggression that 14-year-old Ponyboy (Brody Grant) and his best friend Johnny (Sky Lakota-Lynch) find themselves without particularly asking for trouble. A violent scuffle and a killing ensue, after which the shell-shocked boys flee in panic. Their friend and mentor is Dallas Winston (Da’Von T. Moody), ex-con and veteran Greaser who’d be street-smart on any street in America, let alone one of Tulsa’s. Under his direction, the boys find a hideout far from town. Ponyboy has left behind not only his presence during the killing, one committed by Johnny who was trying to save him from being Soc-drowned, but also the two older brothers (Ryan Vasquez and Jason Schmidt) who love him and comprise the rest of his orphaned family. How the boys go from being the hunted to heroes (something that transpires with less than credible swiftness) and the price that they pay for that heroism defines a second act that is even more emotional than the first. Conveying the depth of feeling that Ponyboy feels both for Johnny and for his brothers is central to bonding with “The Outsiders,” and young Grant makes that happen. The moving songs “Great Expectations” and “Throwing in the Towel” express beautifully Ponyboy’s struggle between hope and surrender. Lakota-Lynch, as the hard-luck Johnny, sweetly exhorts his friend to “Stay Gold.” When the song is reprised, it will be hard for audiences to stay dry-eyed. Given the one-dimensionality of the Dallas played in Coppola’s film by Matt Dillon, there’s welcome depth and nuance to the iteration played by Moody. His ultimate fate is altered in this show from the novel and movie to one that feels uncharacteristic of the Dallas character, but there’s no questioning Moody’s fiercely felt performance or what we hear pouring out of him in the anguished “Little Brother” near show’s end. The various Socs are narrative ciphers. The most significant among them is Cherry (Piper Patterson), whose gesture of friendship to Ponyboy precipitates the deadly ambush near the jungle gym in which her drunken Soc boyfriend Bob (Kevin William Paul) is stabbed. She’s still somewhat of a one-note character. There’s no question that the plight of Ponyboy and Johnny propel “The Outsiders” toward its triumphs and tragedies. They are almost upstaged by that bare-fisted gang fight in the pouring rain, a feat of choreography like few I’ve seen. If the audience applauds when it’s over, you can’t blame them. Technically speaking in this scene and in others, “The Outsiders” is impressive. The projection design by Tal Yarden recurringly transforms the Mandell Weiss Theatre into a Tulsa moviehouse screening Paul Newman’s “Cool Hand Luke. The versatile set by AMP featuring Tatiana Kahvegian brings the warring Greasers and Socs together in a junkyard flanked on one side by a shiny Corvette and on the other by a beat-up jalopy. Lighting by Isabella Byrd evokes the sense of alienation and foreboding. The church fire that was so dramatically realized in Coppola’s film is underplayed to a fault in this show, and perhaps 10 minutes of exposition could be whittled from its first act, but “The Outsiders” could and should be headed one day for a Broadway premiere. It undoubtedly has great expectations. “The Outsiders A New Musical” runs through April 9 at La Jolla Playhouse. Antonio TJ Johnson and Joy Yvonne Jones in "The Ferryman." Photo by Daren Scott The Irish wouldn’t appreciate the analogy, but Jez Butterworth’s “The Ferryman” is a play of Shakespearean scope. You’ve got three and a half hours of drama. You’ve got a huge cast, including children and live animals. You’ve got a complex and psychologically rich interweaving of family members, allies and enemies. You’ve got the backdrop of a major conflict – in this case not a battlefield war but “The Troubles.” You’ve got song on stage, madness on stage and violence on stage.
I rest my case. That New Village Arts Theatre in Carlsbad is the first company outside of London or New York to produce “The Ferryman” is not only a coup for the NVA, but a triumph of ambitiousness. What a way to officially open its renamed Conrad Prebys Theatre at the transformed Dea Hurston New Village Arts Center. “The Ferryman’s” been open since the end of January and it’s virtually sold out through the end of its run on March 5. It took me awhile to get a ticket, but I have to say it was worth it, and the three-plus-hour, two-intermission sitting didn’t bother me anywhere near as much as did driving home in a pouring rainstorm. Looking back, the weather was compatible with the overriding mood of the story of the Carney family at harvest time in Rural County Armagh in 1981. Not that everything is dour, in spite of the tragic sacrifice of the Irish Republican hunger strikers very much palpable in the atmosphere. Harvest time is above all a time to celebrate and rejoice in being together, and as the massive Carney clan convenes at the start of the play there is laughter and playfulness amid the tension. “The Ferryman” traffics in parallel narratives: the personal travails of the family and the political upheaval in their midst. Head of the family Quinn Carney (Thomas Edward Daugherty, showing no signs of rust after having been away from his craft for 20 years) embodies both. He has a martyr of a spouse (Mary, portrayed by Kym Pappas) and a sister-in-law (Caitlin, played by Joy Yvonne Jones) who makes his life happy again. On the other hand, he is soon threatened by an IRA thug (Max Macke) to keep silent about the murder of Caitlin’s husband – Quinn’s brother – Seamus. If Quinn pursues justice for his brother, his feelings for Caitlin will be revealed. There’s even a family priest (Daren Scott) employed as a reluctant go-between. The IRA has also infiltrated one of the family’s cousins, Shane Corcoran (Layth Haddad), who is among the harvest participants and revelers at the Carney farm. His presence proves volatile, explosive. Under the same roof is Quinn’s Aunt Patricia (Grace Delaney) militantly swearing ruin to Margaret Thatcher and her foot soldiers, and a hapless Englishman named Tom Kettle (Dallas McLaughlin) who harbors a secret that will lead to disappointment and disaster. All this plus delusional Aunt Maggie (Dagmar Krause Fields) whose grasp of reality is a slippery one; Uncle Patrick (Antonio TJ Johnson), ever-quoting mythology and the de facto presider over family festivities; Carney sons James Joseph (Nick Daugherty), Michael (Ben McLaren) and baby Bobby (portrayed onstage by a real, honest-to-goodness baby); Carney daughters Shena (Juliana Scheding), Nunu (Priya Richard), Mercy (Lucy Zavatterro) and Honor (Lena Palke); and … I’ve got to stop. My typing fingers are tired. There are so many layers to “The Ferryman” story – too many to go over here – that it requires a family tree diagram and a recap of Irish rebellion history, both available in the handout program. What keeps the production from sinking under the weight of its own density are the script’s recurring mysteries, like everything else in this show depicted with care under the great direction of Kristianne Kurner; moments of joyous Irish dancing that are frustrating to watch because you’d rather be down on the stage with the actors; and of course some outstanding performances. Besides Thomas Edward Daugherty’s stalwart and sensitive turn as Quinn, Johnson brings bigger-than-life presence to Uncle Patrick and Delaney unwavering intensity to Aunt Patricia. Among the young actors, Haddad shines as Shawn Corcoran, unwitting pawn of the manipulating Muldoon. Doug Cumming’s scenic design, of the various cozy rooms, corners and stairwells of the Carney farmhouse, instill the new NVA theater with a touch of Ireland. Even when things are dark and dangerous inside the Carney home, it invites the viewer into a world where little things like a toast or a family meal or hearing “Erin go Bragh” in song can melt the heart. Could as much as 20 minutes have come out of this show? Certainly. “The Ferryman” is a veritable saga. It’s hard to say whether it’s more estimable as a family or political drama, for each in its way is worthy of attention. It leaves us with much to consider and to reflect upon, including how happiness can become pain and how friends can become foes. It was Charon who ferried the souls of the dead across the river Styx on a journey for hoped-for immortality. This “Ferryman” transports us on a different kind of journey but one as equally concerned with the living and the dead. “The Ferryman” runs through March 5 at New Village Arts Theatre in Carlsbad. Emily Lopez and Will Blum in "Sunday in the Park with George." Photo courtesy of CCAE Theatricals There. I’ve finally seen “Sunday in the Park with George.” Nearly 40 years after it opened. My personal Sondheim holy grail. You can’t blame me. The bio-musical about French pointillist painter Georges Seurat has only been produced in San Diego County once before – that was when the much-missed ion theatre staged it seven years ago at the San Diego Museum of Art in Balboa Park. Sorry I missed that. “Sunday,” which has enjoyed a couple of Broadway revivals, too, never seemed to be having one when I was in New York.
So here it is in 2023, produced by the thriving CCAE Theatricals company at the California Center for the Arts’ Center Theater in Escondido. T.J. Dawson directs a lush “Sunday in the Park with George” that stars Will Blum, a charming Broadway veteran of “Beetlejuice,” “Grease” and “The Book of Mormon.” Opposite him – and superb as Seurat’s model, Dot (apparent pointillism pun there) – is Emily Lopez, who is just as touching as great-grandson George’s 98-year-old grandmother Marie in the musical’s awkward and somewhat desultory second act. Written by James Lapine with Stephen Sondheim’s music and lyrics, “Sunday in the Park with George” is eccentric as “Broadway musicals” go. Sondheim eschews big power ballads and hummable novelties in favor of a libretto mostly characterized by short, repetitive bursts of song – not unlike the way in which a pointillist artist might meticulously create. Its sweeping “Sunday,” which closes both acts of the show, is more conventional, and with the company in full voice outright gorgeous. Otherwise the likes of “Finishing the Hat” and “Children and Art” are Sondheim at his most playful. All is revealing of Seurat, depicted as a man so obsessed with his singular artistic inspiration and attention to detail that he allowed Dot’s love to go unrequited. Their numbers “We Do Not Belong Together” and “Move On” speak to this in wrenching fashion. “Sunday in the Park with George” requires an audience’s patience. It moves along slowly and at times in what seems like fits and starts – especially in the first act. There really are just two fully drawn characters, George and Dot. (You could argue George’s mother, I suppose). The rest are figures that live forever in Seurat’s painting that inspired this musical: “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Grande Jatte.” The nurse. The cook. The baker. The man with a horn. The soldier and his cardboard likeness. The woman with the baby carriage. If you give yourself over to what’s happening onstage – that this is a painting that comes alive – it may strike you that you’ve never seen a show like this before, and that maybe in spite of its very mixed critical reception when it first opened “Sunday in the Park with George” merits the plaudits it received, including a Pulitzer Prize. It is weakened, however, by Act 2, set 100 years after the first – in 1984. This George is a “modern” artist tortured by self-doubt, by the glad-handing business of the art world and by loneliness too. He may be more sympathetic than Act 1 George, but he’s nowhere near as interesting. Blum does wonderwork throughout, credit him for that. This CCAE production is first-rate on a technical level, with scenic backdrops in motion that evoke Seurat’s work (George Gonzalez scenic design), perfect period costumes by Janet Pitcher, Patrick Gates’ projections and sublime lighting by Michelle Miles. It all brings to mind the “Pageant of the Masters” experience up in Laguna Beach, where costumed figures live and breathe inside a picture frame. Elan McMahan, as reliable as musical directors come in San Diego County, leads an excellent orchestra just beyond the stage. Only when walking to the car after the show and Googling Seurat did I realize that he’d died at 31 years old, a tragedy. He does live on in “Sunday in the Park with George.” “Sunday in the Park with George” runs through March 5 at the California Center for the Arts in Escondido. |
AuthorDavid L. Coddon is a Southern California theater critic. Archives
May 2024
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