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I have been physically out of the Los Angeles theater world for about a year and a half now, but my heart still lives there. As such, I have followed with interest the implosion of the L.A. Stage Alliance, after a last-straw debacle of an awards show at the end of last month caused many of its major members to pull out and the organization to finally fold on Monday, April 6.
For those who may not be aware, this organization has operated the Ovations Awards – sort of the Tonys for Los Angeles theatrical companies of various sizes. This year the necessarily online version of the awards turned into a farce in one telling moment. Jully Lee, a voting member of the organization, watched a photo of a different actress be displayed on the screen as her nomination was announced, and then heard her name mispronounced as well.
Another long-problematic issue also came to a head at the same time, as the nomination also followed the Alliance’s questionable but longer-standing policy of choosing only one of the theaters of any co-production to list along with the performance. The show Lee had been a part of was co-produced by two companies. The one she belonged to, the East-West Players, was not mentioned. The other company, The Fountain Theatre, was.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. East-West Players was founded in 1965 by 9 prominent Asian actors to offer mainstream theatrical opportunities, rather than the usual stereotypical ones, to Asian and Pacific Islander actors, directors and producers. With the current wave of Anti-Asian speech and violence, the lack of company mention, the “all Asian women look alike” implication of the photo, and the tone deaf mispronunciation of the name of an Asian performer was too much. The East-West Players withdrew from the organization, and quite quickly 46 others (a third of its membership, including the multiple-Tony-winning Center Theatre Group) did as well.
Interestingly, Deaf West Theater, the nation’s premiere company for deaf performers, pointed out as it withdrew membership that they had tried unsuccessfully to get the online awards to use ASL interpreters so their own members could fully participate. Apparently being insensitive toward minorities was not unique to the Alliance’s dealing with the AAPI community.
Still, it must be said that this whole embarrassing fracas was just the final nail in a coffin which had been under construction for some time.
I first came to know of the L.A. Stage Alliance when it was known as the Theater League Alliance. The executive director of the Pasadena Playhouse at the time, the late Lars Hansen, left his post at the Playhouse in 1999 to become the Alliance’s president. At the time I was interested in the varying reactions to his move. I received notes from some who were breathing a sigh of relief that his influence would no longer be felt at the Playhouse. Still, I also remember Lars’ excitement about what his new responsibilities could do to expand the presence of theater in the L.A. area.
Indeed, Hansen introduced ideas to the theaters involved, large and small, which have paid dividends, including online same-day half priced ticketing, and the advent of LA Stage Magazine. Still, his tenure was short and in the intervening years – as articles in the Los Angeles and New York Times have both pointed out – the L.A. Stage Alliance’s policies had put them on rather shaky ground even before the pandemic caused major upheaval in all live performance industries.
In some ways, this collapse is symbolic of a failure increasingly being acknowledged throughout the entertainment business, where the old hierarchies have been predominantly white and predominantly male: Without an increasing sensitivity regarding race, nationality, gender and identity, both audiences and participants may cease to be involved with the art form. The organizations representing these industries, and the industries themselves will either need to change, or will die.
Take, as example, the increasingly pointed work of an organization called Maestra in New York City, which is making the case for women as composers, orchestral musicians, musical directors, etc., in productions on and off Broadway. Or, of course, think about the years-long campaigns of Oscars So White which has caused huge changes in the eligible voting group, and greater diversity in the organization’s leadership. In the years leading up to the L.A. Stage’s Ovation Awards ceremony on March 30, that same kind of dialogue should have been central in that organization, but apparently it wasn’t.
Also, the Alliance was a financial burden for many of its members. It is not unusual for such organizations to support themselves with membership fees, but this one also expected theaters to pay a fee in order for a production to be considered for an Ovation Award: a pay to play deal. For big companies this was not necessarily a huge problem, though theater is rarely a major profit-making enterprise. For smaller companies – especially after the new Equity rules of the last few years stretched their limited funds more widely – it could be onerous.
As a lack of diversity and a lack of transparency, plus the financial issues, were refining members’ grievances, the pandemic hit. By June executive director Marco Gomez had furloughed the Alliance staff – hence the volunteers apparently left to run the awards ceremony. We all know how wise that decision was. It was Gomez who announced the cessation of the Alliance as an organization on Monday. Apparently the group’s press representative, Ken Werther, a good guy I’ve known for years, has now been left to answer questions Gomez should be dealing with. That alone says a lot.
Apparently smaller theaters had already begun to gather in an alternate organization to support each other through these tough times. And it is highly likely that some awards organization, whether using the Ovation name or not, will reappear. There is a strong and lively theatrical community in Los Angeles which will not disintegrate over all this. In the meantime, at least the Los Angeles Drama Critics Circle, of which I was a member until I left the L.A. area, is still an awards-giving entity. Out of the ashes of the L.A. Stage Alliance will come something which will be less tone-deaf, more inclusive, and hopefully able to fully celebrate the remarkable treasure that theater in the greater Los Angeles area has become.
In the play, now revived with considerable skill at the Beverly Hills Playhouse, Hwang uses humor and a certain amount of poetic license, to tell the story of the frustrations Asian performers have wrestled with over the comparatively regular casting of non-Asians in Asian parts.
From the era of Charlie Chan, played by white actors from Warner Oland to Peter Ustinov, to the upheaval in Actors Equity in the 90s over the use of a white British actor as the central character – a Vietnamese – in “Miss Saigon,” Hwang points to the inequity of giving Asian roles to white performers. This even as he underscores how easy it is to convince those who want to be convinced that the false Asian is, indeed, real.
The production, itself a revival of a coproduction with Firescape Theatre in San Francisco, is even more bare-bones than the original, with all the actors seated in a row on the stage, most then becoming several different people over the course of the play. Essentially, the show posits what would happen if a playwright of Hwang’s prominence misled the public, for a lot of internal reasons, into thinking a purely white actor is of Asian descent, and then that actor runs with the idea far enough to begin becoming an Asian entertainment icon.
This tale is then juxtaposed against Hwang’s very real wrestling with his banker father’s misconceptions about western business practices – ones which lead to the father’s downfall as his Far East National Bank becomes embroiled in investigations into possible Chinese influence-peddling.
Still, the power in this play comes from its humor as well as its poke at social responsibility, and the quality of the performers who make the whole thing come to life. Jeffrey Sim is Hwang himself, both the narrator and protagonist of the piece. Sim’s tight comic timing, and his casual humanity keeps the play both serious and very funny, sometimes at the same moment. Roman Moretti, as the actor who discovers his calling in being someone he is not, is just handsome enough, with just vague enough ethnic markers to make his role work – a role he handles in a straightforward, even earnest way which keeps it from being innately insulting.
Alfonso Faustino creates Hwang’s banker father, and a host of other entertainment and cultural figures, Jennifer Vo Le creates all of the play’s Asian women, from Hwang’s mother to his false creation’s girlfriend. Lisagaye Tomlinson handles a startlingly varied collection of other characters, making each impressively individual, while Dennis Nollette does the same as a broad spectrum of producers and politicos, some of them quite recognizable. John Pendergast, in the smaller but profoundly essential role of an actual, though elaborately unnamed New York Times reporter, carries his character’s nonjudgementalism with a somewhat sinister air.
All of these actors and characters intertwine in an elaborate choreography at the hands of director Robert Zimmerman. The minimalist staging works splendidly, and the finesse with which the cast handles the fast-paced, sometimes overlapping storytelling keeps the audience engaged, even occasionally on the edge of their collective seats, throughout.
“Yellow Face” remains profound, even as it also remains very humorous. It’s theme underscores one of the last seemingly acceptable cultural appropriations (remember the controversy over Scarlett Johansson’s voicing of a character in The Ghost in the Shell series), and – albeit with humor – claims identity as an important aspect of the 21st century entertainment sphere.
What: “Yellow Face” When: through September 26, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2 p.m. Sundays. Where: Beverly Hills Playhouse, 254 S. Robertson Blvd. in Beverly Hills How Much: $20 – $30. Info: http://www.plays411.com/yellowface
The entire idea of taking the Disney film (or the Hans Christian Andersen original story) of “The Little Mermaid” and putting it on the stage creates a challenge. Disney did it themselves, taking the show to Broadway where it ran for over 2 years. Transferring that to a smaller, more intimate setting brings new problems to solve, quite aside from finding singer-performers who are up to the characters most audience members are already very familiar with.
At Candlelight Pavilion Dinner Theater in Claremont, it is made to look easy for the most part. The use of “heelies” to give underwater characters a fluid movement works as it did in the original (as opposed to the odd flapping required of some recent revivals), the voices are strong and the energy high. Director John Lalonde knows how to use the small Candlelight stage to the fullest, and has assembled a cast both convincing and entertainingly quirky.
The Disney version of the story is well known. Ariel, the youngest daughter of Triton, king of the ocean depths, has become fascinated with the world which exists outside their watery universe. This only intensifies as her father destroys her collection of “otherworldly” things, and she ends up rescuing a young Prince Eric, thrown off of his ship in a storm.
Ariel trades her voice to her evil witch of an aunt, Ursula, for a pair of legs so she can go after Eric, with the understanding that she must be kissed by the prince within a short time frame to avoid Ursula owning her, body and soul. Ariel’s friends Sebastian the crab, Scuttle the seagull, and Flounder the fish do what they can to help, as Ursula’s own sidekicks plot the opposite.
Erin Dubreuil makes a sweet and innocent Ariel, singing beautifully and absolutely bursting with earnest naivete. Tyler Matthew Burk, as Prince Eric, gives him the right combination of frustration and wistful yearning for simplicity necessary for the piece to work. Donovan Wright brings a touching warmth to Triton.
But, of course, it is the character parts which get to have the most fun. Bob Bell grumps appropriately as Eric’s frustrated tutor. Ryan Watson manages to make Flounder sound, if not look, as childlike as needed, and Alex Allen flaps about with abandon as Scuttle. In a choice which works extremely well, Cody Bianchi makes a truly villainous Ursula, aided by the puppeteers Nicholas Alexander and Anthony Vaca, playing her evil eel henchmen.
In the small but vital part of Chef Louis, cooking up seafood for Eric’s dinner, Andrew Metzger displays his comic chops. Still, the real star of the piece is, as always happens, Sebastian, here given great character by Desmond Clark. Even as adapted for Broadway, he has the two best songs in the show, “Under the Sea” and “Kiss the Girl.” Clark and a truly fine ensemble do a fine job with both.
Kudos to choreographer Chelsea Morgan Stock for movement and dance which define the spaces in which the characters operate. Praise also to Julie Lamoureaux, who as musical director is tasked with creating, in even the show’s more complex pieces, a sound reminiscent of the film, yet doing so for an ensemble who will perform the songs without benefit of a conductor. It all works.
One must remember that this “Little Mermaid” simplifies some of the darker moments of even the film version, and definitely of the original short story. Expect tunefulness, a certain amount of froth, and a lot of charm which is suitable for the entire family. All this, and a good meal as well, at what is now the only remaining dinner theater in the greater Los Angeles area.
What: “The Little Mermaid” When: through September 1, doors open for dinner 6 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 5 p.m. Sundays, and 11 a.m. for lunch Saturdays and Sundays. Where: The Candlelight Pavilion Dinner Theater, 455 W. Foothill Blvd. in Claremont. How Much: $63-$78 adults, $30-$35 children 12 and under Info: (909) 626-1254, ext. 1 or http://www.candlelightpavilion.com
If a play intends to use cultural references in the course of its work, it probably makes sense to be sure that the audience will catch a clue as to what those references are. Indeed, without the commentary by a staffer in the program for The Theatre@Boston Court’s production of Jen Silverman’s “Collective Rage: A Play in 7 Boops,” the play would lose much of its ability to make a point. As it is, assuming that people will understand the questionable content of early Betty Boop cartoons is a bit like assuming everyone knows that Barbie dolls are essentially copies of a 1940s “action figure” from an underground, sexually explicit German cartoon strip. Didn’t know that? You see my point.
With that said, this examination of – one assumes – the way men think about women thinking about women has some fascinating moments as stereotype meets stereotype in reference to female sexuality. Indeed, the constant reference to the term Donald Trump used to describe female parts becomes elemental in the increasingly surreal storyline, as if it was the only thing that women value in themselves and others.
The five characters are all named Betty Boop, and range (in sequential number order) from a bored socialite angry at her husband’s casual dismissal of her angst, to an isolated and ignored wife, to an ambitious if under schooled,overtly sexual cosmetic counter saleswoman, to a proudly butch lover of trucks, and finally an androgynous woman recently released from jail. What seems to become an overarching theme among them all is the adaptation they find necessary (well, except perhaps the saleswoman, who is busy trying to reinvent herself) to a male view of things. The more masculinely they can see themselves, the more they find power. But then, isn’t that the stereotypical male assumption about powerful women?
What makes this work as well as it does is both the quality of ensemble, and the consistent vision of director Lindsay Allbaugh. Through projections, most of which create chapter headings for this extremely episodic tale, and the use of spare and thus easily repurposed set pieces, courtesy of Francois-Pierre Couture and properties designer Jenny Smith Cohn, the individual snapshots of dialogue and character development are woven together better than one might expect. As a group, Elyse Mirto’s socialite, Courtney Rackley’s mousy wife, Anna Lamadrid’s streetwise sexual being, Karen Anzoategui’s reliable pal, and Tracy A. Leigh’s practical ex-con weave their stories together with a remarkable precision, taking the often somewhat artificial dialogue in very human directions.
Yet, whether this – in the end – leads to a coherent whole is something else again. The concept wants us to follow along as these five women are placed up against the predatory sexual attitude the males in the Max Fleischer films of the early ’30s showed toward Betty. Thus, what they apparently want is each other, and a masculine sense of entitlement, even as they constantly reframe that conversation. In the end, however, the resolutions seem trite rather than profound. If that is also to be a reflection on the cartoon which inspired it, one is left asking whether there is enough “there” (or even, as titled, rage) there to warrant attention.
What: “Collective Rage: A Play in 5 Boops” When: Through March 19, 8 p.m. Thursdays through Saturdays, 2 p.m. Sundays, with an understudy performance 8 p.m. Wednesday, March 1 and a $5 performance 8 p.m. Monday, March 6 Where: The Theatre at Boston Court, 70 N. Mentor Ave. in Pasadena How Much: $39 general, $34 seniors, $20 student Info: (626) 683-6883 or http://www.bostoncourt.com
Whatever the reason, it has captured the imagination of generations of theatergoers.
Now a new production at the Sierra Madre Playhouse offers up strong performances, evocative and atmospheric music, and a set and lighting design focused (as Williams wanted) on the fact it is a “memory play.” One choice of director Christian Lobano may fuzz focus at times, but in general this production offers a fine chance to see a great American classic.
The play centers on Tom, who is both protagonist and narrator, and his view of his family. Tom lives with and supports his mother Amanda, a faded southern belle whose husband has long since wandered off. Her constantly replayed tales of youthful popularity and her inability to develop enough practicality to survive without the support of others prove maddening to Tom, as does her insistence that her daughter, the club-footed and profoundly shy Laura will one day be receiving “gentleman callers” just as her mother did. Pushed, Tom does invite to dinner a male friend from his uninspiring workplace, with complex consequences.
The best thing in this production has to be the cast. Katherine James creates in Amanda the kind of conversational style obviously intended to cover an innate desperation, and the carriage of a woman trying to recapture a long-gone youth. Andrea Muller makes Laura fragile but not pitiful – a tough balancing act. Because she does this so well, Ross Philips’ gentleman caller can respond to her in ways which give her a warmth not always seen in productions of this play. Philips’ portrayal of Jim, the caller, balances the man’s own anxieties and optimism in ways which make his energy infectious.
The play’s original score, composed by Jonathan Beard, gives the entire play a specific, interesting undercurrent. Erin Walley’s set design takes the original stage directions and adapts them beautifully to SMP’s far smaller stage, while Pablo Santiago’s moody, sometimes dim lighting underscore the thing as a piece of memory. Indeed, in this fine production, if there is one thing which could arguably use a second look, it would be Lobano’s decision to remove Tom to the spot of narrator more often and more intentionally than usual.
In plays like “Dancing at Lughnasa” the narrator is always outside the frame. Even when speaking to characters in the story he does so from a distance, and he stands to one side as a constant observer. That distance is important to the storyline and the way that tale is told. The thing is, that concept doesn’t really translate to “Menagerie”.
One must have Tom in the room with Amanda to feel his rising anger. And one must have Tom away and unobservant when elements central to the storyline – particularly Laura and her caller – evolve in ways Tom can’t expect. To have him standing to one side agonizing over his sister’s fate distracts from a fantastically important (and extremely well done) scene Tom should never have seen. That, and the caller’s callous (and unscripted) action in the aftermath muddy the thematic angle of the piece.
Still, it says much about this production that one can nitpick a director’s choices. The entire performance has a clean and sharp quality which make it engaging from beginning to end. Most certainly, the strong characterizations carry the day. So, if you have never seen “The Glass Menagerie,” now is the time, and Sierra Madre Playhouse is the place. Go take a look.
What: “The Glass Menagerie” When: through June 19, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2:30 p.m. Sundays, with an added performance at 7 pm on June 12, and at 2:30 p.m. on June 18. There will be no performances on June 10 and 11 Where: Sierra Madre Playhouse, 87 W. Sierra Madre Blvd. in Sierra Madre How Much: $30 general, $27 seniors, $20 youth (13-20), $17 children under 12 Info: (626) 355-4318 or http://www.sierramadreplayhouse.org
This production has been extended through March 20, 2013
Once seen mostly as a sweet, sometimes fascinating character study, Alfred Uhry’s “Driving Miss Daisy” has gradually become a subject of controversy, in much the way that “The Help” has. The genre, which tends to view the segregated south through the lens of the humanity created by personal interaction between the traditional white elite and their patient African-American domestics, has kind of had its day. That is, if one still plays those parts with that tendency to pigeonhole its participants.
What seems to set the new rendition of Uhry’s play at the Sierra Madre Playhouse apart from some others is the essential maturity of all the characters. This Daisy is terrified of being alone and covering it with bravado. This Hoke is a shy but manly figure whose deference is more to infirmity than color. This Boolie genuinely loves his mother, “gets” Hoke, and is personally cheered by the relationship his mother has with her confidante.
Director Christian Lebano, realizing this may not be an easy show for some, has even included in the program a set of questions for people to use as discussion starters after the play is done. It’s an acknowledgement of both the touching nature, and the baggage, of this play.
Still, “Driving Miss Daisy” remains, at heart, a play about distinct and interesting individuals. Impressive actors can make this piece what they will, and this is most certainly the case here.
Mary Lou Rosato ages with great physical accuracy as Miss Daisy, moving as an aged woman would while giving a refreshing balance of crochety-ness, underlying care, and subliminal fear to the part. Even the very end – a tough element of this play which is rarely done with subtlety – has a startling truth to it, which makes it particularly human.
Willie C. Carpenter gives Hoke more than just the usual dignity, but a kind of presence which lets him look Daisy’s son Boolie in the eye. These are not equals, perhaps, but these are both men who understand that the differences in their social standing are societal more than personal. Carpenter infuses Hoke with that manliness, and – once again – accurate view of the aging process, which make him Daisy’s rock as much as Daisy’s driver.
Perhaps most surprising is Brad Reed’s Boolie. Boolie is usually played as a classic “trying-to-fit-in Jewish Good Ol’ Boy.” Reed’s new spin on the part doesn’t humor or patronize his mother, but rather walks the delicate balance between his love of and identification with her and the realities of his business life in the Atlanta of his day. He gets her. He gets Hoke. He even sometimes seems a tiny bit envious of their ability to live honestly themselves. This portrait ties the whole piece together in interesting ways: a new view, if you will, of the entire proceeding.
Kudos also go to the show’s production values. Gary Wissman’s blissfully simple set keeps the pace of the play (which is performed without intermission) moving right along. Kristen Kopp’s costumes are accurate right down to Daisy’s shoes – impressive for such a small theater. Simple polish seems to be the hallmark of the whole production.
So, take a look at this “Driving Miss Daisy.” Though it remains admittedly controversial, a chance for a new window into such a piece is always useful. And that’s what this production offers: a new window, a new slant on something which has often gotten either too cosy or too disquietingly stereotypical. Whether you agree or disagree with the play or the interpretation, the discussion to follow can be a fine exercise all on its own.
What: “Driving Miss Daisy” When: Through March 9, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2:30 p.m. Sundays Where: Sierra Madre Playhouse, 87 W. Sierra Madre Blvd. in Sierra Madre How Much: $25 general, $22 seniors (65 and older), $15 youth (13-21), $12 children (12 and under) Info: (626) 355-4318 or http://www.sierramadreplayhouse.org
According to polls, nearly 80% of Americans don’t trust politicians very much. Sometimes the work they do may seem noble, but most of the time we have come to see those who lead our country, be they in Congress or the White House, as having rather remarkable feet of clay. As the hyperbole flies and the tension mounts toward this upcoming federal election, it’s good to take a moment and laugh at the idiocies of the lofty.
And that is what you will do in David Mamet’s “November,” the new play at the Mark Taper Forum. There an admittedly abysmal president, with virtually no chance of reelection, swims in a sea of myopia, self-aggrandizement, and false hope, grasping alternatively at funding for his cash-poor library and for a deluge of last minute campaign media. The satire is biting. The farce hangs on the intertwined agendas of a politician of limited intelligence in panic mode. By comparison the real government isn’t half bad.
Ed Begley, Jr. leads the cast as President Charles Smith, whose approval rating is scraping the floor only a couple of weeks before the election. His funding has run out to such an extent he may have no legacy. His wife wants to take a White House couch home. His lesbian speechwriter has just returned from China with a baby, and wants to marry her partner. The guy from the turkey board wants him to pardon a turkey. And maybe, just maybe, if he can find the funding, he can end his campaign with a blitz of advertising which could keep him in office.
Begley makes Smith hysterically funny, powering Mamet’s outrageously apt dialogue along at light speed. It’s 90 minutes with no intermission, but things fly by so quickly you simply don’t notice. Rod Mclachlan, as his chief of staff, provides the perfect counterpoint: just a hair slower to speak, trying to reason with a man in panic, but still a man who is too close to the situation to handle it well.
Todd Weeks, as the geeky Representative of the National Association of Turkey and Turkey By-Products Manufacturers, balances obsequience and an internal logic which makes his contact with the president difficult to navigate. Felicity Huffman, as the speechwriter dragged into the room despite a horrible cold, becomes the picture of detachment and logic that crazed room. Gregory Cruz completes the picture as a Native American leader, angry over the president’s cultural insensitivities.
All good farces must move at quite a clip. “November” is no exception. The dialogue is delivered by this ensemble with pinpoint timing, staying clear at a remarkable clip. The physical energy as people charge about has the audience nearly vibrating by the end, and consistently and humorously engaged.
Of course, there are those who would be appalled (though, after the Nixon tapes, hardly surprised) to find out that the President of the U.S. cusses a blue streak behind closed doors. Or, indeed, that the President is as dim as Smith, or as self-absorbed. But this play does not represent itself as a mirror of anything except our tendency to assume politicians in general are probably less than they seem.
And it’s funny – funny like any good farce. Ridiculous things happen and you laugh. Surprises are constant, and you laugh. That you get to laugh at the whole idea of a President and campaigning is a gift Mamet and the Taper have given to a weary electorate. Taking a look at this will make even the antics of the upcoming debates seem calm and reasonable.
What: “November” When: Through November 4, 8 p.m. Tuesdays through Fridays, 2:30 p.m. and 8 p.m. Saturdays, 1 p.m. and 6:30 p.m. Sundays Where: Center Theatre Group/Mark Taper Forum, 135 N. Grand Ave. in downtown Los Angeles How Much: $20 – $75 Info: (213) 628-2772 or http://www.CenterTheatreGroup.org
Shortly after “The Mikado” became the greatest hit of their career, the duo of William S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan took on a Halloween-esque story to make fun of melodrama: “Ruddigore.” Though this work was one of Gilbert’s favorites, the show laid a comparative egg, and didn’t really find a life until significantly later. This despite a delightful score, in some places reminiscent of classic horror film music.
Surprisingly, then, “Ruddigore” has stood the test of time right along with other Gilbert and Sullivan masterpieces. Its ridicule of the cardboard characters of melodrama, and its use of ghosts and curses make it fun to watch, even in modern times. Indeed, in the new production at the Sierra Madre Playhouse, it has been modernized: reset on the central California coast in the classic horror film era of the late 1950s, as if Hearst’s Castle was an actual home to a baronet. Oddly, for all the anachronisms, it works.
The tale is as silly as most Gilbert and Sullivans. A long-ago curse has left the inheritor of Murgatroyd Castle with a terrible fate: he must either commit a crime every single day or die in agony. To avoid this, young Ruthven Murgatroyd has faked his own death and joined the villagers as a poor but earnest law student named Robin. In his absence, his younger brother Despard has become the fated villain. As Robin shyly falls for Rose, who uses a book of Emily Post to order her world, the handsome sailor Richard Dauntless threatens to sweep Rose off her feet. From here it just continues to tangle.
Absolutely essential in any Gilbert and Sullivan are suitably trained voices, particularly for the leads. Maria Elena Altany all but vibrates with innocence and naivete as Rose, and sings like an angel. Nick Molari has just the right geeky niceness to make Robin sweetly shy and anxiously good, and also handles his songs with style.
Richie Ferris gives Despard the essence if villainy, right down to the sneer, while Catherine Leech makes his former love, Mad Margaret, just creepy enough. As the comparatively swashbuckling Richard, James Simenc also sings with authority and makes his character lovably colorful. Michelle Holmes turns the standard “older woman” part into a great cocktail-wielding stereotype, which sets a needed tone. All these folk are backed by a small but charming chorus who play townspeople, scary spirits and even some of the Murgatroyd ancestors walking out of their portrait frames.
There are some interesting choices in this production, on the part of the director. First, for much of the production the background is a projection made to look like grainy amateur film of the era. It sets a tone, but can sometimes distract some. Music Director Jennifer Lin plays piano for the singers, but much of the strictly orchestral moments revert to a taped orchestral version. This jumping back and forth works better than one would think.
Nods go to Matthew G. Hill, designer of the set and the videos which accompany them, for creating a strong sense of place on a budget. Nods also to costumer Jeanine Lambeth Eastham for getting the silhouettes right.
It seems, on the one hand, an odd choice to take something so elementally Victorian as Gilbert and Sullivan and shuffle it onto another continent and another time frame. Yet, it is also rare to get to look at a classic piece anew, and this “Ruddigore” has a lot of to recommend it, especially the talent of its leads. If you can overlook the more peculiar anachronisms (a 50s sailor discussing sailing ship battles, a nobleman in a California castle, or even a surfer of that era with a short board), and relax into the silliness, the music will carry the day.
What: “Ruddigore” When: Through November 10, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2:30 p.m. Sundays Where: The Sierra Madre Playhouse, 87 W. Sierra Madre Blvd. in Sierra Madre How Much: $25 general, $15 students 13-21, $12 children 12 and under Info: (626) 355-4318 or http://www.sierramadreplayhouse.org