The Thanksgiving Play

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
Geffen Playhouse
Through December 6

Thanksgiving, that most American of holidays (not counting The Fourth of July), has long been shrouded in myth, perpetuated for decades by classroom images of earnest Pilgrims, helpful “Indians” and cheerful squawking turkeys. No longer, however, does it serve as an unsullied symbol of a generous, sharing national spirit. As with Columbus, who’s devolved in the minds of the “woke” from the man who discovered America to a homicidal exploiter of indigenous peoples, Thanksgiving has now been tainted by our acknowledgement of historical realities — i.e., the decimation of whole populations of Native Americans in the service of European expansion.

In The Thanksgiving Play, an overextended satire directed by Michael John Garcés at Geffen Playhouse, Native American playwright Larissa FastHorse targets not so much the old mindset, with its clueless chauvinistic clichés, but a more contemporary urban one, shared mostly by folks on the left side of the political aisle who, wary of past wrongs, try to embody the “politically correct” in everything they do and say.

Such a person is Logan (Samantha Sloyan), a high school drama teacher who’s received a pile of grants (You know right there we’re in fantasyland) to devise a holiday play for elementary schoolers themed around Native Americans. Besides her concern with respecting minorities, Logan is a passionate vegan and an outspoken feminist. Once upon a time she had wanted to be an actress, and spent six weeks in L.A. before chucking it in. Her boyfriend, Jaxton (Noah Bean), is a none-too-bright street performer and yoga instructor. The pair almost compete to establish their progressive bona fides via righteous statements and hyperbolic expressions of mutual regard.

The other local member of the team, Caden (Jeff Marlow), is a timorous elementary school teacher with playwriting aspirations, a passion for history not shared by either Logan or Jaxton, and a few grandiose notions about the time frame of the piece, which he sees as commencing with the entrance of Northern Europeans into the agricultural revolution in approximately 2000 B.C.E.

Since all three of these people are white, Logan has hired a Los Angeles–based Native American actress, Alicia (Alexandra Henrikson), to bring person-of-color veritas to the project. Alicia turns out to be a sultry bimbo whom both men gravitate toward, even as the schoolmarm-ish Logan struggles to suppress feelings of inferiority and rejection. In smug self-denial, she lectures Alicia about making accomplishment instead of appearance the foundation of her life, but Alicia shrugs and turns the tables by instructing Logan in the cultivation of feminine wiles. All three of her cast-mates obsequiously implore Alicia for insight into the Native American perspective on the holiday. When she comes out as a Valley Girl whose headshots were crafted to secure ethnic roles, they’re thrown for a loop and the entire project appears to have boomeranged. A subsequent scene involving blood and gore, improvised by the men, seems needlessly over the top.

Most of the play’s scattershot riffs are neither new nor fresh, but its targets deserve lampooning and the evening might have amused had the actors stood their ground against stereotype (implicit in the writing) instead of exacerbating it with arch posturing — which struck me as a directorial call. The outstanding exception is Marlowe (a recent addition to the cast after the original actor departed), unwavering in his funny and touching depiction of a nice but nerdy guy.

The set (Sara Ryung Clement) appropriately replicates a classroom, with touches of humor, such as a whimsical chart where students weigh in on their mood on a particular day. But Garry Lennon’s costuming of the female characters stands out for its exceptional awfulness; I can’t imagine anyone but a weirded out basket case (I don’t care how much of a repressed high school teacher she may be) wearing the outfit he’s assembled for Logan, and Alicia’s garb is a mismatch of top and bottom that no respectable L.A. actress would dare be seen in.

Geffen Playhouse, 10886 Le Conte Ave., Westwood; Tues.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sat., 3 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m. & 7 p.m.; through Dec. 6. https://geffenplayhouse.org. Running time: approximately 85 minutes with no intermission.

The 7 Stages of Grieving

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
The Skylight Theatre
Through November 24

In the 24 years since it premiered in Brisbane, Australia, The 7 Stages of Grieving has evolved into a modern Australian classic. Written by Wesley Enoch and Deborah Mailman, both of Aboriginal extraction, it’s an hour-long one-woman show that speaks to the history and culture of Australia’s indigenous people — who, like Native Americans, African-Americans and Latinos in this country, historically have been disrespected, oppressed and the victims of genocide, both real and cultural.

Directed by Jason Klarwein, the current production at the Skylight Theatre is a “re-imagining” of the material, conceived in 2015 by Australia’s Grin and Tonic Theatre Troupe and Queensland Theatre. It features performer Chenoa Deemal (of the First Nations Guugu Yimithirr tribe), who in 2017 toured in the role throughout New South Wales and Victoria, appearing in London as well.

The script, divided into 25 segments, alternates between the recollections of a woman who shares stories from her family history, and sequences in which the narrator recounts a piece of Aboriginal history, such as the first landing of a British fleet in 1788 or a protest march in our present day. In the former category are anecdotes about the death of a beloved grandmother, the impending demise of a dad, and the encounter of the narrator’s brother with police, which resulted in his losing his job and ultimately his direction in life. One sequence that will be all too familiar to Americans of color is the narrator’s account of being singled out for surveillance in a retail store and another where she’s asked to prove that the car she is driving actually belongs to her.

Design elements are notable. The mesmerizing opening image has the spotlighted performer (lighting by Dan Anderson) circumnavigating the otherwise dark stage, casting gleaming white pebbles onto its floor to form the circle that defines the outer limits of her playing space.  (Later, she’ll etch a smaller one with illuminating blue stones.) Justin Harrison’s outstanding aural design is a complex cacophony that gives macrocosmic dimension to this impressionistic portrait of a people who have endured for centuries. Harrison is also credited with the show’s audiovisuals, which manifest in striking abstract images projected on the back wall, like astral eruptions in space, and the culminating effect of a white chyron melting like so much ice.

But the text itself remains something of a patchwork, less tightly woven and comprehensive than one might wish it to be. And the performance I observed, while ably performed, bore the stamp of one presented many times before, without the fresh keen edge that would keep it memorable.

The Skylight Theatre, 1816 ½ Vermont Ave., Los Feliz; Thurs., 8 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 8:30 p.m.; Sun., 3 p.m.; through Nov. 24. (866) 811-4111 or www.skylighttix.com. Running time: approximately one hour.

The Double V

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
The Matrix Theatre
Through November 24

So entrenched was systemic racism in the U.S. in the early 1940s that patriotic African-Americans were turned away when they sought to fight for their country at the onset of World War II.

Directed by Michael Arabian at the Matrix Theater, Carole Eglash-Kosoff’s play dramatizes the historical effort to allow black men and women to serve in the U.S. military in time of war. The “Double V” in the title references a campaign initiated by a small black-run newspaper in Pittsburgh that advocated victory over enemies abroad and victory over opponents of racial equality at home. The movement, which spread nationwide, was sparked by a letter to the editor from a real person, James G. Thompson of Wichita, Kansas, published in January 1942.

In Eglash-Kosoff’s telling, Jimmy (Preston Butler III) is an idealistic young man who wants to enlist in the army. He tries a couple of times but is rejected by recruiters; he’s also mocked and beaten up by rednecks (Joe Coffey and John Apicella) when he expresses a desire to serve. So he writes a letter about it to the newspaper, where it’s read by Madge, an aspiring female journalist (Brie Eley) lobbying for a byline which her boss Ira (Nick Few), also her boyfriend, hasn’t wanted to grant.

Madge, however, is persistent. She thinks an interview with Jimmy and his idea of the Double V might make a good story. After traveling to Wichita, she pitches Jimmy’s notion to Ira who, dubious at first, eventually gets behind it all the way and even faces down an intimidating visitor, FBI emissary William Taylor (Apicella). Taylor represents the point of view of J. Edgar Hoover and others in the White Establishment that agitating for racial equality during wartime is a dangerous distraction and needs to be brought to a halt.

Eglash-Kosoff’s well-intended but formulaic script is an educational vehicle that pits good guys with ideas about right and justice against Ku Klux Klansmen and other reactionary racists and the system they serve. The romantic subplot between Madge and Ira — which involves her effort to get him to marry her while also respecting her professional aspirations — is another worthy theme that bears the stamp of retro romance circa the 1940s or 50s. The lack of palpable chemistry between the two performers does little to boost the story.

Coffey’s portrayal of a white man who sneers at blacks’ aspirations for equality and treats Jimmy like dirt is intense and effective, and the scenes he appears in furnish a tension that fuels the story. After a tentative beginning, Few succeeds in his portrait of a serious-minded editor willing to push past his fear in the service of what he believes in.

As director, Arabian oversees what is in its own unflashy way a visually striking production. John Iacovelli’s busy set and Jared A. Sayeg’s shadowy lighting work together to evoke the modest environs of a small city newspaper of the 1940s. Video designer Fritz Davis’s projections at either end of the stage include the horrific images of lynched black men, providing the tragic historical context and raison d’etre for a play of laudable intent.

The Matrix Theatre, 7657 Melrose Ave., West Hollywood; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 3 p.m.; through Nov. 24. www.OnStage411.com/doublev or (323) 960-7776. Running time: approximately one hour and 40 minutes with an intermission.

1984

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
The Actors’ Gang
Through December  7

When George Orwell wrote 1984, he was responding to the totalitarian movements that swept Germany and Russia under Hitler and Stalin respectively. Published in 1949, the book was intended as a caution to those who mistakenly kept faith in the promise of Soviet communism. The novel gained reputation here in the U.S. as the pitch-black portrait of a future dystopia, a warning of what our society might become if we did not work to value and preserve our rights as citizens of a free republic, however imperfect it might be.

For most Americans at the time, the notion of our nation transforming into an authoritarian monolith intent on annihilating the mind, soul and even the sexuality of the individual seemed a distant one. That’s changed over the past 40 years, as technology and the Internet have furnished tools to bad actors (among good ones, of course), who have used them to propagandize and mislead. This propensity for abuse has been intensifying in this age of Trump, with its fake news and alternate facts, and a sizable plurality of Americans willing to accept both.

Working from a script by Michael Gene Sullivan, The Actors’ Gang has been staging an adaptation of 1984 in various locales around the globe since 2006. The current production features director Tim Robbins undertaking the role of O’Brien, the story’s cold-blooded interrogator who works, on behalf of Big Brother, to quash the mind and spirit of the hapless Winston (Will Thomas McFadden), himself a former State employee in the rewriting-of-history department. Winston has been apprehended for daring to think for himself and for the verboten act of falling in love.

Staged in the round, the first two-thirds of the production depict Winston interacting with four Party Members who read aloud from his incriminating diary and alternate between their role as stern accusers and their depiction of characters from the story. These include Winston (Tom Syzmanski) in flashback and Winston’s lover Julia (understudy Guebri VanOver), his partner in rebellion and romance.

These scenes bear the imprint of the Actors’ Gang agitprop style — they are fast-paced, strident and larger than life. At the same time, they include a lot of exposition, engendered by readings from Winston’s diary. Although the actors, Bob Turton in particular, do a fair job of individualizing the personages they portray (Turton uses lots of twitchy eccentricities that appear to be his hallmark) there’s little emotional depth. Done well, this stylistic choice is effective and can be electrifying; here, it detracts rather than propels Orwell’s urgent message about the price of dehumanization — especially when juxtaposed against the searing inhumanities (children in cages, dead Syrian babies, slaughtered Kurds) that our own government is now perpetuating in real time.

Things do tighten and intensify in Act 2 when Winston comes face to face with O’Brien, the undercover operative whom he believed to be a leader of the resistance but who is actually a powerful cog in the repressive machine of the State. As O’Brien, Robbins is chilling as he smugly and heartlessly strips Winston of his last shred of dignity and hope. In this cathartic confrontation, the production finally achieves the visceral impact it strives for.

The Actors’ Gang, 9070 Venice Blvd., Culver City; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m., Nov. 10 & Nov. 24; through Dec. 7. www.TheActorsGang.com or (310) 838-4264. Running time: two hours and 15 minutes with an intermission.

Between Riverside and Crazy

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
The Fountain Theatre
Through December 15

Stephen Adly Guirgis draws his characters — addicts, ex-cons and others who might generously be characterized as imperfect citizens — from the edges of polite society. Vivid communicators, often given to erratic behavior, they are inclined to be voluble and to express opinions colored with unconventional logic. Yet in their openness these folks are frequently guileless and sympathetic— traits which make the plays they inhabit engaging, entertaining and sometimes compelling.

Between Riverside and Crazy, a 2015 Pulitzer Prize winner directed by Guillermo Cienfuegos at the Fountain Theatre, revolves around a retired police officer with heaps of emotional baggage and a big heart. A widower, Walter “Pops” Washington (Montae Russell) lives in a sprawling (by Manhattan standards) rent-controlled dwelling on Riverside Drive, along with his son Junior (Matthew Hancock), a small time thief out on parole, and two other less-than-model individuals: Junior’s lady, Lulu (Marisol Miranda), an affable but none-too-bright gal who parades around the apartment in short shorts and revealing tops, and Oswaldo (Victor Anthony), a recovering addict Junior had met in prison. Against expectations, the household functions as a family, for while Walter can be difficult and persnickety, all three younger people show him care and respect; Lulu and Oswaldo even call him “Dad,” in Oswald’s case because he fills in so well for his real dad, who treats him with disdain.

But Walter has problems that trace back eight years to when he was shot by a white rookie cop while off-duty and drinking in a slummy bar frequented by denizens of the street. His injuries have left him impotent and embittered and the plaintiff in a civil suit against the NYPD that has yet to be resolved. While holding out for a hefty settlement, his bills have mounted up, so that he’s now facing eviction. Despite Junior’s warnings, he ignores the ominous notices from his landlord, and drowns his woes in alcohol as early as 10 a.m.

The plot kicks into gear with a visit from his former partner Audrey (Lesley Fera) and her fiancé, Dave (Joshua Bitton), an up-and-coming mucky muck with the police department. The pair have come to plead with Walter to accept the latest settlement offer or risk losing his apartment and any future hope of compensation. Walter digs in his heels, however, and a visit that begins cordially and with great warmth degenerates into bitter backbiting and the likely end of a longtime friendship.

One other significant encounter takes place when Walter hosts a lady from the church (Liza Fernandez) — not the staid Chips Ahoy–chomping matron who usually pays him a weekly visit but her replacement, an attractive, enigmatic woman from Brazil, with unusual insight and an ostensible enthusiasm for helping him solve his most intimate problem.

The play’s Pulitzer Prize notwithstanding, Guirgis’s script features several potholes and shortcomings. For example, Walter and Junior argue about a trip to Baltimore that Junior is reluctant to take, but the whys and wherefores of this trip and Walter’s insistence on it are never made clear. Likewise, while Junior’s criminal background is alluded to (most significantly by Dave as a threat to Walter’s status), its specifics remain elusive — it manifests solely in a single sealed carton that seems more a playwright’s afterthought than integral to the plot. More germanely, an unreasonable demand that Walter visits on longtime friend Audrey is hard to accept, even given the amount of alcohol he’s imbibed and the intense pressure he’s been under. And the quick turnabout to an upbeat ending may be satisfying and uplifting for the audience, but it sure feels contrived.

As Walter, Russell emanates strong presence, but his rendering focuses heavily on the character’s embitterment at the expense of his kindness and vulnerability. This makes for a less shaded portrayal than one might wish for. In a drama so clearly powered by a central performance, this counts for a lot — in this case, to the show’s detriment.

Among the supporting ensemble are strong performances that bolster the story. At the top of the list is Hancock’s Junior projecting, with nary a nanosecond of untruth, a conscientious son concerned for his dad, and patient with his addled girlfriend. Fera is naturalness personified in a reactive role that calls for her to supply exposition till the situation wings out of control and her nurturing self comes apart. And Bitton smoothly escalates from an amiable guest to a threatening adversary who goes for the jugular after Walter rejects his counsel and then crosses a line.

The highlight of the play is the encounter between Walter and his visitor as she seductively probes the defenses of this cantankerous disaffected man. Fernandez underplays it beautifully, and the scene, the best in the play, is a credit to both performers, and to the production’s intimacy director, Myrna Gawryn.

Integral to the story is the notion that Walter is comfortably situated in spacious digs that others envy, but this doesn’t project in David Mauer’s set, which (partly due to the theater’s small space) still seems dingy and cramped. Also, details in the staging were skimped on or ignored: The “pie” that Walter makes such a big dig of relishing in the very first scene looked to me (from a few feet away) more like cake. And the refrigerator, also in my line of vision, was nearly empty except for the couple of props that the actors, conscientiously taking their time, probed for as their characters sought refreshment.

The Fountain Theatre, 5060 Fountain Ave., East Hollywood. Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; Mon., 8 p.m.; (dark Dec. 9); through Dec. 15; (323) 663-1525 or www.FountainTheatre.com. Running time: approximately two hours and 15 minutes with an intermission.

The Abuelas

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
Antaeus Theater Company
Through November 25

The Abuelas is the second play by Stephanie Alison Walker to address the tragedy of Los Desaparecidos — Argentinian citizens who opposed the military junta that governed the country between 1976 and 1983 and who fell prey to the right-wing death squads that kidnapped, tortured and murdered thousands. Some of those killed were armed guerillas who actively fought the regime, but others were non-combatants — students, artists and intellectuals among them — who for a variety of reasons offended the government’s fascist creed. These assassinations were carried out in secret after the victims’ kidnappings took place — hence the term Los Desaparecidos, or in English “the disappeared.” (The same horrific phenomenon has transpired in Chile, Mexico, Northern Ireland and other countries throughout the world.)

The wholesale abduction of so many young people precipitated the formation of Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo, a group of women who actively marched in memory of their children and grandchildren. A sister organization, Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo was established in 1977; its specific purpose was to secure the return of missing grandchildren — progeny of the Desaparecidos who were taken from their mothers to be adopted by approved families. The mothers themselves were slain, some of them taken up in airplanes, drugged, and tossed into the Atlantic Ocean.

Walker’s The Madres, which was produced last year at the Skylight Theatre, is set in Buenos Aires during the reign of terror, and develops around an older woman and her middle-aged daughter who are frantic about the disappearance of their granddaughter and daughter respectively. The Abuelas, which transposes one of the characters from the previous play, takes place in Chicago in the present day. Its pivotal figure is the Argentinian-born Gabriela (Luisina Quarleri), an accomplished cellist with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, now hosting her mom Soledad (Denise Blasor), who is visiting from Buenos Aires. A bit of a drama queen, Soledad’s heart is nonetheless in the right place, and she dotes on her gifted daughter and baby grandson. She also has a cordial relationship with Gabriela’s husband, Marty (Seamus Dever) — in some ways less problematic than her relationship with her daughter, who loves her mom but resents her controlling ways. As to the marriage, like so many other modern couples, Gabriela and Marty work to keep it going, hobbled by Marty’s affair some two years past, something Gabriela hasn’t let him forget.

These problems are compounded with the arrival of two strangers: César (David DeSantos), a forensic anthropologist whom Soledad had met in church and invited to her birthday party, and César’s elderly ill-at-ease companion, Caroline (Irene De Bari). They are bearers of a secret that will upend the lives of Marty and Gabriela, and Gabriela’s parents, Soledad and Juan (whom we never meet).

Like The Madres, Walker’s latest work comes with the moral high ground engendered by its focus on a terrible, unforgivable event in modern history. It’s hard to dispute the core value of a drama that looks to preserve the memory of victims of unconscionable crimes and to honor the work of groups like The Abuelas, which seeks to reunite the orphaned children of the disappeared with members of their biological family.

The Abuelas, however, is not a subtle play. Even as directed by Andi Chapman (who brought us the superb Native Son at Antaeus last year and an equally stunning The Gospel at Colonus at the Nate Holden Performing Arts Center in 2015), the melodrama seems excessive. At the heart of the story is a secret in Gabriela’s past that leaves her unhinged and lashing out at those around her. While it’s feasible for her to be distressed, the extremity of her response makes it seem contrived. Some of this uber-drama has to do with how the playwright has constructed her narrative for maximum dramatic effect, but it also has to do with direction and Qualeri’s performance, which on opening night was punctuated by tormented looks of despair that added a patina of staginess to her portrayal.

As Soledad, Blasor has worked to create a lively opinionated character — which may bear fruit later in the run but for now her efforts are still too visible. Dever delivers a calibrated performance as the forbearing Marty, and the intimate scenes between the married couple are well-played by both actors, and effectively staged as well. DeSantos, cast in a role that’s basically a device, fails to develop his character much further. In a play built around a secret, De Bari gives the store away with her first conspicuously jittery moment on stage, draining subsequent ones of suspense. She’s also done little to project the physicality (presumably on the frail side) of the 82-year-old woman she is depicting — a failing that speaks equally to direction.

The drama’s most gripping scene comes in its final moments, which spotlight Carolina Montenegro’s all too brief appearance as a ghost from the past, come to help Gabriela heal her fractured spirit. The intensity and truth in this sequence are a marked contrast to the pseudo-theatrics prior, too often underscored by designer Jeff Gardner’s sweeping sound.

Designer Edward E. Haynes spacious, high-ceilinged interior in a Chicago high-rise is highlighted by a large picture window that looks out on the lake. Through it you can observe a captivating visual: swirling snow (projections by Adam R. Macias, augmented by Andrew Schmedake’s lighting), now lighter, now heavier, blanketing the lakefront below and acting as gauge to the turmoil of emotion inside.

Antaeus Theatre Company at the Kiki & David Gindler Performing Arts Center, 110 E. Broadway, Glendale; Fri., Sat., & Mon., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m. (dark Nov. 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 17, 22, 23); through Nov. 25; (818) 506-1983 or www.Antaeus.org. Running time: approximately two hours and 15 minutes with an intermission.

Gem of the Ocean

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
A Noise Within
Extended through November 23

RECOMMENDED:

Gem of the Ocean, August Wilson’s play about sin, salvation and the power of the supernatural, takes place in 1904, a mere four decades following the end of the Civil War. Written near the close of his career (it was his next-to-the-last play, preceding his final work, Radio Golf), it serves as both framework and foundation for The Pittsburg Cycle, the playwright’s nine-part master chronicle of the African-American experience, in all its profound grief and joy. Plays written earlier (but set in subsequent decades) hinted at the preternatural as it affected people’s lives; in Gem, by contrast, Wilson makes otherworldly forces central to the narrative, furnishing a canvas for the characters’ struggle for self-realization and redemption. That makes staging it an especial challenge — one splendidly met at A Noise Within, where director Gregg T. Daniel and a sterling ensemble have forged an illuminating production.

The story transpires in the parlor of Aunt Ester Tyler (Veralyn Jones), a 285-year-old visionary old enough to recollect a fateful trip across water and a sale into bondage. The reclusive Ester is cared for by her protective gatekeeper Eli (Alex Morris) and her housekeeper Black Mary (Carolyn Ratteray), a nurturing woman who is also Ester’s protégé in the “cleansing of souls.” The play’s events start to unfold when the household is visited by the one person who might challenge Ester in spiritual stature and wisdom — Solly Two Kings (Kevin Jackson, in a towering performance), a 67-year-old veteran conductor of the Underground Railroad. An itinerant who collects and peddles dog waste, Solly is otherwise a speechifier of considerable presence — an iconoclast who fearlessly challenges authority and who lives in the service of “the people.” Though tired and feeling his age, he plans one last excursion to Alabama to rescue his sister, who is unable to leave due to blockades set up by white people wanting to stem a black exodus from the South.

The arrival of fearful and guilt-ridden Citizen Barlow (Evan Lewis Smith) on Ester’s doorstep (actually, he climbs in through the window) sets the plot in motion. Citizen is desperate; a different man accused of a petty theft which Citizen has committed, has killed himself rather than fall into the hands of the police. A humble worker cheated by his employers of the meager wages Citizen needs to survive, meet and tormented, he begs Ester for help, and it’s around the journey that he travels from ignorance and despair to dignity, and the embrace of his heritage and his people, that the drama, in all its power, coalesces.

The other significant personage is Black Mary’s baleful brother, Caesar (Chuma Gault). Having bootstrapped his way out of poverty, he’s now an exacting landlord and law enforcement officer. Caesar loves power and relishes intimidating others; he’s that distasteful man of color who, inexplicably, has internalized the racism of the White Establishment (rather like Clarence Thomas or Ben Carson, except that Caesar carries a gun that he uses with impunity, infamously shooting a youth for stealing a loaf of bread).

All told there are seven characters, including white peddler Rutherford (Bert Emmett), an empathetic friend whose help proves crucial when Solly must flee to escape Caesar’s wrath. Each one is beautifully honed. Gently hobbled with age, Jones’s Ester is a venerable figure of wise humility and extraordinary vision who can also be tetchy and demanding. Ratteray’s Black Mary, a salt-of-the-earth woman of great compassion, and Morris’s trustworthy loyal Eli are the likable, endearing pillars of her household. Gault’s measured villain is perfect, a portrait in cruel restraint — believable enough to thoroughly despise, yet complex enough for us to perceive, in rare moments, his vulnerable self. As Solly, a veritable geyser of language and strong emotion, Jackson’s powerful performance propels the production to incandescent heights.

Set designer Stephanie Kerley Schwartz’s subdued and stately interior exudes an air of the faded past, rather like Ester herself. Jean-Yves Tessier’s lighting and Martin Carrillo’s sound and original music add vivid nuance and shadow, in particular those sequences when the past overwhelms the present.

A Noise Within, 3352 E. Foothill Blvd., Pasadena; in rep, call for schedule; extended through Nov. 23; (626) 356-3100 or www.anoisewithin.org. Running time: two hours and 50 minutes with an intermission.

How the Light Gets In

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
Boston Court Pasadena
Through October 27

RECOMMENDED:

Americans live in a culture which values the new, the shiny, the unimpaired. If a plate or cup chips, most of us throw it away.

In Japan, it’s a different story. A Japanese philosophy, wabi-sab, teaches that worn or imperfect objects may have great value. Kintsugi, the repairing of broken pottery, is a kindred art form that views imperfections in an object as part of their history and integral to their worth. Rather than discard the object, kintsugi instructs that it be cared for and treasured.

Rooted in the 15^th century, this venerable notion infuses E. M. Lewis’s poetical new play, premiering at Boston Court Pasadena where it’s been artfully staged by director Emilie Pascale Beck. The title is plucked from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem”: “Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack (a crack!) in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

Lewis’s pivotal character, Grace (Amy Sloan) is in need of light. She’s a travel writer who also dabbles in marketing and currently volunteers twice a week as a docent in a museum. The museum’s adjacent Japanese garden is where the friendless Grace meets the two people who will support and care for her as she grapples with a diagnosis of breast cancer and all the subsequent pain, suffering and doubt that ensue in its wake.

First comes a young runaway, Kat (Chelsea Kurtz), who’s been living in the garden under its giant weeping willow and emerges from behind it after a call from her oncologist reduces Grace to helpless terrified tears. Kat’s youth and vulnerability provide Grace with an immediate distraction, and she begins to bring food to the garden for Kat to eat and takes her shopping in an effort to buy her clothes to replace the dirty rumpled garments she typically wears. The shopping trip is only partly successful, for after happily donning a new floral dress, Kat promptly conceals it underneath the grimy sweatshirt and jacket she goes about in every day.

The second, more significant encounter is with a Japanese architect, Haruki (Ryun Yu) who’s been employed by the museum to design a teahouse but who cannot seem to come up with a satisfactory design for this particular project, despite his accomplished resume and reputation of note. Their first meeting is not auspicious; Haruki is a moody disgruntled man who views Grace as a trespasser on his turf. But when Grace confides her problem, he softens and makes an effort to become her friend. One day at their accustomed meeting place he brings tea in a tea set that had belonged to his parents and his grandparents before them. In one of the cups Grace notices a crack, which is when Haruki explains about kintsugi and quotes Cohen’s line about the light.

Their relationship changes after Grace asks Haruki to accompany her to the hospital for a medical procedure that will leave her too woozy to drive. The request is followed by an awkward silence, then Haruki agrees. It’s clear Grace has no other friend or family member to call on. Attractive, well-spoken and financially independent, she is nevertheless quite alone.

Nor is she the only one whose appearance deceives. Beneath his considerable bluster, Haruki too has suffered great loss. As for Kat, though we never learn exactly what has brought her to her homeless state, we know it involved trauma. And fourth character Tommy Z (Dieterich Gray), the gruff take-no-prisoners tattoo artist who shows Kat an occasional kindness and whom Grace turns to later on, has heartaches of his own.

Each of these people is uniquely damaged — rather like a one-of-a-kind worn or cracked piece of pottery which can be mended kintsugi-style, so that its imperfections come to define its beauty and its value.

This parallel, between a person and something we treasure, is what makes this play so special. Several well-known works and many lesser ones have been written about women coping with breast cancer — its mutilation of the body, its testing of the spirit. In this regard How the Lights Gets In treads no new terrain. What it does do is portray four people, in their loneliness, bereavement and/or deprivation, with a poignant dignity, one bred from the simple acts of the benevolence they provide each other.

Yu, who draws his truculent artist with sharp angles and brash humor, delivers the production’s most engaging and memorable performance. Kurtz’s role calls for her to play a reticent fearful person who eventually emerges from her shell, which she does with a streamlined nuance that has you smiling at the end. Gray’s forthright tattooist stamps the narrative with his own gritty intensity. As the pivotal Grace, Sloan is fine, but she might think about tempering her character’s weepiness. A touch more feistiness and a bit less self-pity would make Grace more interesting and the entire production more captivating and cathartic.

In terms of tech: Tesshi Nakagawa’s set is a bit on the stark side, as it’s dominated by graphics of tall leafless branches, with little of the grace of a weeping willow — but perhaps that starkness is supposed to reflect this juncture in Grace’s life. Jack Arky’s sound design is varied and versatile and adds great ornament to the narrative.

Boston Court Pasadena, 70 N. Mentor Ave., Pasadena; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; through Oct. 27. BostonCourtPasadena.org or (626) 683-6801. Running time: 85 minutes with no intermission.

Las Mujeres del Mar

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
Playwrights’ Arena
Extended through October 20

RECOMMENDED:

Part memory play, part social drama, Janine Salinas Schoenberg’s Las Mujeres del Mar (The Women of the Sea) tells the story of three generations of Mexican-American women who strive to love and support each other despite their past wounds and resentments. A world premiere mounted at Playwrights’ Arena, it’s skillfully directed by Diane Rodriguez, and framed by an array of technical elements that highlight a meaningful story. Yet despite good dialogue and three fully realized lead characters, the production is off the mark; racing through several generations of events at breakneck speed, it imparts sensitivity and breadth but needs more detail in parts of the narrative to attain its full power.

The story begins in Baja, California — or rather, it begins in the mind of the eldest of three women, Virginia (Dyana Ortelli), who recalls herself as a young girl, living under the thumb of an alcoholic dad but about to be rescued via marriage to Ignacio (Israel López Reyes), an ardent and handsome young fisherman. The marriage is happy for a few years, until Ignacio drowns in a storm, leaving Virginia with a two-year-old child and, eventually, at the mercy of her violent and jealous second husband (Eddie Ruiz) who maims her foot to keep her from dancing or running away.

But run away she does, fording a river carrying her daughter Marina (Adriana Sevahn Nichols) to make a new life in Los Angeles. A sweet little girl, Marina grows into an embittered adult, with a drug problem that drives a sharp wedge between herself, her own daughter Lupe (Gabriela Ortega), and Marina’s mom. Disturbed and repelled by her mother’s behavior, Lupe must also grapple with pressure to join a gang, a pull she ultimately succumbs to in order to survive on the street.

All three principal performers (each plays her character across the age spectrum) bring rich texture to their roles. Ortelli’s gentle Virginia is romantic, nurturing and given to spinning fables with the aplomb of a practiced teller of tales. Nichols establishes a larger-than-life, palpably angry presence as the addicted Marina, and later as a veteran inmate who undergoes religious conversion. Ortega’s quintessential teenager might have been cloying, but Ortega makes her vital, vibrant and sympathetic. The other actors lend strong support, including Valentina Guerra as a down-and-out fellow prisoner whom Marina counsels and bonds with.

The set (Tanya Orellana) has an alchemy all its own, its magic engendered around designer Yee Eun Nam’s backdrops of sea and sky (If you’re a sucker for nighttime on moonlit waters, her work here will draw you in). The images are complemented by lighting designer Mextin Couzin’s blue and indigo hues and Adam Schoenberg’s fluid original score. At other times the set suitably reflects the gritty world these women inhabit. Matthew Richter’s sound is especially effective in punctuating the violence that haunts their lives.

The main problem with Las Mujeres del Mar is that so much plot seems crammed into 85 minutes; it feels rather like reading the abridged version of a novel rather than the full text. For example, despite a short speech in which she talks about her confusing adolescence, Marina’s transformation from trusting childhood into a tough unstable addict who abuses her daughter just comes too fast. And no sooner is Lupe chatted up by a would-be swain than it seems the couple is making life-changing choices that will affect them for years to come.

While many plays I’ve seen might have benefited from pruning, here, rather anomalously, you have a script that might better tells its story with two acts instead of one.

Atwater Village Theatre, 3269 Casitas Ave., Atwater Village; Sat., 4 p.m. & 8 p.m.; Sun., 4 p.m.; Mon., 8 p.m.; no Sat. night show on 10/5; extended through Oct. 20. www.playwrightsarena.org or (800) 838-3006. Running time: approximately 85 minutes with no intermission.

Deadly

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
Sacred Fools Theater Company
Through November 2

Numerous books have been written about H. H. Holmes, a 19^th century serial killer and con man who was ultimately executed for the murder of his accomplice, Benjamin Pitezel, in 1896. Interrogated by police, Holmes claimed to have killed 27 people, including three of Pitezel’s five children, whom he did away with so he could claim their insurance money. While not all 27 homicides were confirmed, police did uncover nine corpses, and Holmes’s status as a serial murderer was established beyond doubt. Besides the bodies, law enforcement discovered that a three-story building he owned had been modified to include proofed rooms and chutes leading to the basement, which contained acid vats, quicklime and a crematorium for swift disposal of his victims’ remains.

Many of these victims were women he had affairs with. In Deadly, a premiere musical directed by Jaime Robledo at Sacred Fools Theater Company in Hollywood, playwright/librettist Vanessa Claire Stewart strives to resurrect the personhood of these women, who (too often in the literature about Holmes), are given scant shrift compared to the intoxicated fascination garnered by their killer.

Her effort is only partly successful. Stocked with 21 songs (music by Ryan Thomas Johnson), many of which have a similar beat and cadence, the production’s most riveting feature is Keith Allan’s superlative nonmusical performance as the oily and unctuous killer, a man who delights as much in the seduction of his victims as he does in remorselessly observing the life drain from their bodies. (Long-time L.A. theater–goers will recall Allan for his brilliant rendering of a similarly homicidal character, Dr. Death, in Adam Szymkowicz’s Hearts Like Fists, also directed by Robledo at Theatre of NOTE in 2012.).

The show also features a nuanced turn by David LM McIntyre (alternating with French Stewart) as Holmes’s mentally addled assistant, Pitezel. Troubled and withdrawn, Pitezel’s cultish worship of Holmes overcomes the unspoken reservations his character has about the evil he’s consigned to do.

In the end, the male characters upstage the female ones — precisely those whose stories the play seeks to spotlight.

Stewart’s narrative shifts from scenes between Holmes and his chief interrogator, Frank Geyer (Eric Curtis Johnson) to flashbacks of his crimes. The latter begin with our introduction to Evelyn Stewart (Kristyn Evelyn), a confident “new woman” who’s come to Chicago on her own to check out the World’s Fair and is hired by Holmes after she adeptly repairs his furnace. (In the 1890s, horizons for American women, while still circumscribed, were expanding.) Unfortunately for Evelyn, her display of independence annoys Holmes, and he dispatches her with a toxic gas pumped into her room. She joins Lizzie Sommers (Brittney S. Wheeler), murdered prior, whose indignant spirit has been haunting the premises, and who is angry and appalled by what had been done to herself, and is now being perpetrated on another innocent person.

As events progress, Lizzie and Evelyn’s spirits are joined by those of other victims: Emeline (Cj Merriman), a nurse whom Pitezel had fallen in love with; Julia (Erica Hanrahan-Ball), a married woman with whom Holmes has a steamy affair; her young daughter Pearl (Ashley Diane); and two sisters from Texas: Minnie (Samantha Barrios, funny and endearing), a sweet but foolish lady with a mad crush on Holmes, and her sister Anna (Rebecca Larsen), a cooler head whose suspicions about him are not enough to spare her a dire fate.

Robledo directs with his customarily assured hand. Under his guidance, the ensemble, maneuvering up and around Stephen Gifford’s abstract platformed set, does mostly good work. The nonmusical sequences are aptly paced. Linda Muggeridge’s costumes — the women wear proper period attire when they are alive but awake to their undead state in a variety of erotic rags — adds dramatic otherworld context to their plight. Andrew Schmedake’s lighting creates the shaded ambience appropriate for this dark but motley tale of ghoulish murder.

But Johnson’s discordant score does the production few favors. Although several songs by sisters Minnie and Anna — in particular “The Southern Way” — are lively and entertaining, others performed by the ensemble of women have a dirge-like sameness. Songs of plaint and protest, they match the play’s grim subject matter, granted, but their heaviness and frequency weigh the story down.

Perhaps Stewart’s purpose would be enhanced with more focus on some of the women characters as individuals — to have us hear their stories directly, separate from their interaction with the slithery Holmes. This type of dramatic enrichment is there in the scenes between the sisters, whom we get to know through their interaction with each other; these sequences are among the show’s most entertaining. And it’s great that Cj Merriman’s strong likable Emeline declares her intent to join the suffrage movement — but her speech is brief and I wanted more, from her and the other women as well. It would have embellished the play, making the loss of these ladies’ lives so much more poignant.

The Broadwater Mainstage, 1076 Lillian Way, Hollywood; Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Mon., Oct. 21, 8 p.m.; through Nov. 2. sfreservations@sacredfools.org or Publicity@sacredfools.org. Running time: two hours and 30 minutes with an intermission.