According to the Chorus 

Reviewed by Deborah Klugman
The Road Theatre on Magnolia
Through Dec. 11

Arlene Hutton’s new dramedy, According to the Chorus, promises much. Set in 1984 and billed as a fly-on-the-wall peep at the rivalry between a group of Broadway chorus dancers and the women who dress them, the play also touches on the loss and grief of the AIDS epidemic, as well as the heartache of its central character, KJ (Samantha Tan) a woman grieving her broken marriage to a man she still loves.

Hutton’s playwriting gifts gleamed eloquently in her sterling trilogy Last Train to Nibroc (memorably staged by director Nan McNamara at Actors Co-op in 2006). Set after World War II and later in the 1950s, in Kentucky and Florida, this trilogy follows the meeting and subsequent marriage of a young couple of that time and place, its narrative powered around these strong empathetic characters who reflected the mores of that era and the constraints its gender roles placed on both women and men.

In According to the Chorus, KJ, fresh off a job with the opera, is hired as a third dresser for a Broadway musical that’s been running for eight years. The responsibilities of this job— taking care of the dancers’ costumes and making sure the performers are properly attired before they go on stage — have to date been divided between the fractious Brenda (Amy Tolsky) and the smug Audrey (Avery Clyde). Both are seasoned veterans of their profession, with a distinctly admonishing attitude towards the younger women whose garb they maintain. Brenda is an especially difficult personality, one of those people always swift to find fault with others, while stubbornly blind to her own shortcomings. Even though KJ is razor sharp and learns quickly, Brenda concocts the fantasy that this new dresser is somehow inept.

The six women in the chorus are of different height, hair color and complexion but — and here we have one of the play’s major weaknesses— there’s not a lot else in terms of dramatic conflict to make them interesting. The closest one comes is with Stacie (Mara Klein), a battered woman who eventually goes to stay with KJ as she fights to stay free, psychologically and otherwise, of her abuser. (But even this subplot is underdeveloped — more a topic of conversation for the other women than a fleshed-out opportunity for the actor).

When they’re not complaining about Brenda or Audrey or the limitations of the changing room, these dancing ladies engage in riffs: searching obsessively for chocolate, or muttering about one’s mortgage, or gossiping about men. Their dialogue, however — more suggestive of the stereotypical clueless chorus girls of the 1950s than the more woke women of the 1980s — isn’t particularly comic or insightful, and one grows restless waiting for something to happen, either to KJ in relation to her ex, Peter (Juan Pope) who is an actor in this production, or with Brenda, fiercely critical of KJ at every turn.

Directed by Emily Chase, the production features several solid performances that keep one tuned in, despite a periodic urge (driven by the prattle of the chorus) to let one’s mind wander. Tolsky as Brenda, Clyde as Audrey and Tan as KJ are all good. Tan captures KJ’s intelligence, patience and vulnerability, while Tolsky and Clyde are equally persuasive (and entertaining) as self-righteous know-it-alls (who, on the other hand do have some right on their side in their squabbles with the narcissistic dancers). As the injured Stacie, Klein proves capable, though her role, like the rest of the chorus, is underwritten.

Pope — portraying Peter, KJ’s estranged but still caring spouse —is a bit too aloof. Here, as in her trilogy, Hutton juxtaposes the story of two ordinary folk against the backdrop of historical events — in this case, the AIDS crisis and its toll on the gay community and artists in particular.  Though their marriage will never be mended, there’s a deep love between KJ and Peter. We need to see more of this element if the play is ever to attain full poignancy.

Hutton’s denouement also leaves the impression of things left out — interchanges between KJ and the chorus women which might have led to this final scene (with its aura of unkindness) seem to have been cut. This reinforces the impression of a work with a promising premise, meaningful themes, and plum roles for women that’s still a couple of versions short of stage readiness.

Paul Dufresne’s scenic design, lit by Derrick McDaniel), is a competent semblance of a cluttered backstage changing room (though little is altered when the setting shifts from a larger theater to a smaller one). Costumer Michele Young contributes a potpourri of colorful garb for the dancers; Judi Lewin’s hair, wig and makeup design add gaudy flash. At interims Christopher Moscatiello’s sound and Arian Saleh’s original music reflect that mix of buoyancy and blues that attend lives dependent on a living theater.

According to The Chorus The Road Theatre, 10747 Magnolia Blvd., N. Hollywood. Fri.-Sat., 8 pm, Sun., 2 pm; thru Dec. 11. www.RoadTheatre.org. Running time: approximately 95 minutes with no intermission.

All in the Timing

Reviewed by Julia Lloyd-George
The Zephyr Theatre
Through November 20

David Ives’ 1993 collection of six comic one-act plays, All In The Timing, is a mixed bag of sketches that are mostly, believe it or not, concerned with the coincidences, missed connections, and alternate realities implied by a single moment. Timing, comic or otherwise, is pretty much all that matters here. As first impressions are truly everything, it’s a smart move on the part of the director, Michael Yavnieli, to begin with Sure Thing, where this theme works most successfully.

This scene reminded me a lot of the film About Time, in which Domhnall Gleason’s lovelorn time traveler is able to start from scratch every time something goes wrong in his love life. Ives’ play involves two people in a coffee shop who continually replay their first encounter until they finally get it right and inevitably begin a romance. The man (Taylor Behrens) rings a bell every time he messes up, or the woman (a charming Meadow Clare) says something that throws off the chemistry — he seems particularly annoyed when she asks if he’s a Scorpio.. In Ives’ interpretation, it’s a light-hearted way of saying how delicate every new connection, romantic or otherwise, can be.

The next one, Mere Mortals, was pulled from another collection of Ives’ plays. It’s easy to see why, as it’s another of the stronger contenders here. Three construction workers on top of a skyscraper take their lunch break and slowly reveal to each other their conviction that, underneath their “average Joe” exteriors, they’re actually long-lost royalty or celebrities. The first (a stand-out Patrick Warburton) stoically and rather shyly lets slip that he’s actually Charles Lindbergh’s kidnapped baby. Understandably skeptical, his colleagues (Bill Butts and Talon Warburton) nevertheless admit that they’re the sole surviving Romanovs or were, most improbably, Marie Antoinette in a past life. It’s certainly a silly premise, but the actors play it perfectly straight and make you sympathize with their very human desire to feel special.

The Philadelphia is the last sketch worth seeing here, mostly because Patrick Warburton carries it so well. When a young man (Talon Warburton) rushes into the restaurant where Patrick’s character is sitting and explains that he somehow can’t get anything he asks for, Patrick explains that he’s in a black hole of sorts called a “Philadelphia.” If he wants to get anything done, he has to ask for the very opposite. It’s a classic comedy of errors and most of the jokes land smoothly. However, the waitress (Melodie Shih), has an affected, caricatured Asian accent that seems to be there only to make her, rather uncomfortably, the butt of the joke. It’s this kind of retrograde detail that makes it clear that these sketches are several decades old and need a contemporary edit. After all, the very same actress clearly has a standard American accent in a previous one-act, Words Words Words, about three monkeys forced to type until they produce Hamlet. She’s also able to demonstrate a wonderfully dry wit there.

The other sketches, The Universal Language and Variations On the Death of Trotsky, were quite tiresome to sit through, as the first gleans its laughs from being conducted, almost entirely, in a nonsense language, while the other takes the conceit of Sure Thing and rather stuffily applies it to the death of Leon Trotsky. Watching the different ways that a gardener can plant an axe in a revolutionary’s head is just not the most compelling activity I can think of.

Overall, there are definitely some worthy elements to this show as a whole, but you may have to sit through a few missed opportunities in order to enjoy them.

The Zephyr Theatre, 7456 Melrose Ave; Fri.-Sat., 8pm; Sun., 3pm; thru Nov. 20. www.onstage411.com/aitt; Running time: 86 minutes with no intermission.

The Atheist Mother

Reviewed by Martίn Hernández
The Brickhouse Theatre
Through November 13

Madalyn Murray O’Hair was a force of nature even before the 1963 Supreme Court decision —brought on by her lawsuit in conjunction with a similar one — banned prayer in public schools. A reader of the Bible at twelve years old, O’Hair grew convinced of its myriad hypocrisies and became an atheist.

After separating from her husband during World War II, she joined the WACs and served as a cryptographer in Italy. There, an affair with a married officer led to her first out-of-wedlock child, Bill. She earned a law degree, no small feat for a single mother in macho 1949 Texas — though she failed the bar exam. She then had another son.

After the landmark 1963 victory, she filed many similar lawsuits, espoused her controversial views on TV talk shows, and outlived another (separated) husband. Life magazine dubbed her “the most hated woman in America,” a term she heartily embraced. Even her death was extraordinary: a former employee of her American Atheists organization and his accomplices robbed, kidnapped, and murdered her in 1995, along with her younger son, Jon Murray, and Bill’s daughter, Robin Murray-O’Hair.

So, it is regrettable that in this fictionalized account about the famous court case, playwright Willard Manus has eschewed much of O’Hair’s earlier life and reduced a formidable and provocative woman to a one-dimensional, literally hand-wringing simulacrum, bereft of the flamboyance the real O’Hair possessed. Add in director Judith Rose’s awkward staging and a mostly miscast ensemble that, despite its enthusiasm, misses cues and struggles for lines, and Manus’ well-meaning but clichéd world premiere work hardly gives justice to O’Hair’s legacy and life.

It is 1960 in Baltimore, Maryland — though you would not know it from the program — and Maggie Mitchell’s (Taylor Donlan) teenage son Bill (a likeable Carlos Chavez) refuses to participate in his public school’s mandatory morning prayer. Maggie seeks advice from an ACLU-affiliated attorney, Irwin (Sam Aaron sporting an anachronistic Samson-like mane) on how to get around the school’s rules. Despite his misgivings about a Jewish lawyer taking on a Roman Catholic political establishment, Maggie convinces Irwin to be her counsel.

The school district deems Bill a discipline problem and he is suspended at an administrative hearing by Teresa (Helen Siff), a haughty and stereotypical school bureaucrat. This emboldens Maggie and Irwin file a lawsuit against the district to get prayer thrown out of schools, on grounds of the First Amendment.

Soon Maggie and Irwin are joined by George (Bruce Nehlson), a sympathetic leftist, who helps subsidize the cause. He takes a shine to Maggie, who deftly rejects his advances, whereas Bill sees George as a political and emotional mentor. Legal setbacks shake Irwin’s confidence, but after a series of legal hoops he gets the case accepted for hearing by the Supreme Court. Maggie, Bill and George get a newsletter and  start to raise funds — and the rest, as they say, is history.

While the men sport clothing reminiscent of the time, Donlan’s costumes are more modern – this reviewer could swear she was wearing a Fit Bit, or at least a contemporary watch. Manus’ formulaic storytelling only scratches the surface of the motivations and relationships of his characters. Scenes between Maggie and Bill barely touch on their seemingly loving mother-son bond, though Chavez delivers a believably boyish Bill. And, rather than inspire, Aaron deflates Irwin’s final argument to the “Nine Old Men” with a faltering line delivery.

Manus does offer some comic moments, with Siff also doubling as a holy roller out to save Maggie’s soul; George decoding the Jack in the Beanstalk tale to Bill as a Marxist allegory; and Irwin at one point insisting that Maggie replace him with a non-Jewish lawyer, to which Maggie retorts, “We can’t afford a gentile.”

Donlan’s mostly halfhearted performance in the pivotal role — due either to faulty direction or the faulty script — doesn’t allow Maggie to seize the spotlight, something the real Madalyn Murray O’Hair seemed to thrive on. Manus’ conclusion, however, is both chilling and timely; he reminds us that the vilification heaped upon Maggie and other iconoclasts like her from right-wing “Christers” is still out there and stronger than ever.

Write Act Repertory at the Brick House Theatre, 10950 Peach Grove St., N. Hollywood; Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 3 p.m.; through Nov. 13. https://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/5573882. Running time 100 minutes, with a 15-minute intermission.

Ubu the King 

Reviewed by Terry Morgan
The Actors’ Gang
Through November 19

When the young artists of the newly formed company The Actors’ Gang did a midnight show of Alfred Jarry’s Ubu the King in 1982, informed by punk rock and an anger against the Reagan administration, I doubt that any of their number imagined that the troupe would be doing a fortieth anniversary production of it. And yet here we are — the Gang still exists and, if anything, the political situation has gotten even worse. The story of a power-mad, delusional tyrant running a country into the ground is unfortunately still relevant. The current production is energetic and full of rude fun, if a bit uneven in a few of its actors’ performances.

In turn of the twentieth century Poland, Pa Ubu (Chas Harvey) is the captain of dragoons for King Wenceslas (Scott Harris). His wife, Ma Ubu (Dora Kiss), urges her husband to murder the king and seize power for himself. They meet with Captain MacNure (Bob Turton) to plan the overthrow, and then they assassinate the king. Pa Ubu is crowned, but Queen Rosamund (Guebri VanOver) and her 14-year-old son Boggerlas (Adam J. Jefferis) escape. As Pa Ubu destroys Poland to satisfy his every horrible whim, his enemies gather strength to declare war upon him.

Harvey is good as Pa Ubu but his performance unfortunately lacks that extra edge of lunacy or charisma to really make it memorable. Kiss brings a nicely exaggerated physicality to her role as Ma Ubu, but her enunciation is sometimes unclear. Jefferis is very funny as Boggerlas, his  voice a pinched mix that falls somewhere between Pee-Wee Herman and Morty, while Turton excels as MacNure, giving the show the broad cartoony vigor it requires. Harris is skilled and amusing in several roles, and Vanover is quite good as the elaborately mannered Queen.

Director Tim Robbins brings plenty of clever and effective ideas to play, including a comically oversized sword, a regularly updated body-count chalkboard, a battle represented by MacNure knocking over army men toys, and an impressive array of performer-engendered bathroom noises. He also stages the show with panache, using the large ensemble to create or inhabit various settings, and in one number vividly displays the chaos of a battle scene with strobe lighting and the appropriate musical selection of punk band Fear’s “Let’s Have a War.” I’m not sure if Jarry’s play is shocking anymore — we’re all very aware that awful people in power will do awful things – but it’s still a crude and satisfying kick in the pants to conformity, and that’s always a good thing.

The Actors’ Gang Theater, 9070 Venice Blvd., Culver City; Fri.- Sat. 9 p.m.; through November 19. www.TheActorsGang.com. Running time: approximately one hour and thirty-five minutes.

The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity

Reviewed by Dana Martin
Chance Theatre
Thru October 23

The Chance Theatre is pulling nothing but power moves this season. Kristoffer Diaz’s 2009 Pulitzer Prize Finalist, The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity, is masculinity on overdrive.

Macedonio Guerra, or The Mace (Rudy Solis III) knows his wrestling history. What’s more, he reveres the form as high art worthy of praise and recognition. He’s a pro wrestler himself, and he’s not just good at his job — he’s great. It’s a childhood dream realized but with a caveat: rather than fame and fortune, The Mace is a “jobber to the stars,” meaning he gets paid to lose matches to stars like Chad Deity (Londale Theus Jr.). Chad Deity is the ultimate anti-hero: he’s rich, flashy, and has an ego the size of Alaska, despite being a mediocre-at-best wrestler. The Mace respects and despises Chad Deity in equal measure. Both men are on opposite ends of the pecking order at THE Wrestling, run by Founder, CEO and resident slimeball Everett K. Olson, or EKO (James Michael McHale). EKO is in the disgusting habit of perpetuating offensive, culturally insensitive stereotypes in order to sell more pay views and shitty merchandise. Talent is the least of his concerns. Mace’s prospects of fame, fortune and even respect are dismal. The Mace forms an alliance with a friend of his brother, the charismatic Indian Brooklynite Vigneshwar Paduar, or VP (RJ Navarra Balde II), in order to create a foil for his rival Chad Deity, intending to beat Chad at last. EKO forces the men to don disparaging, racist personas (Che Chavez Castro and The Fundamentalist) and they are confronted with what it is they’re really fighting for.

Rudy Solis III is earnest and endearing as The Mace, who grapples with the downside of greatness — being a loveable loser. He does well as the evening’s narrator/historian and works hard to maintain the energy of the crowd throughout the evening. Londale Theus Jr.’s performance as Chad Deity is brash, confident and broad. RJ Navarra Balde Jr.’s smooth-talking VP is all bravado. James Michael McHale channels the late great Howard Finkel in his bombastic announcements and over-the-top introductions. He’s like a demented barker at a violent circus — cocky and slimy and he never drops his façade. Aaron McGee is noteworthy as the Bad Guy, playing a variety of nameless opponents that get beaten spectacularly throughout; he’s essentially the production’s very own jobber; a thankless and difficult role.

Director Jeremy Aluma is at his best during the play’s many high- octane action sequences. The play moves at a dizzying pace in the first half but struggles to regain momentum in the second act. The few quiet, reflective moments it offers are, in effect, clotheslined. Martin Noyes’ fight direction takes center stage in this production and the actors are brilliant in its execution. Not just fight choreography but dramatic and believable wrestling choreography that rivals any televised wrestling event. There are powerbombs, clotheslines, body slams, elbow drops, punches, tricks and more. Fred Kinney’s scenic design is primarily a large wrestling ring in the center of the action — appropriate though dominating, capturing the feeling of an arena. Sound designer Marc Antonio Pritchett nails the style and adds much to the many elaborate entrances as does Kara Ramlow’s flashy lighting design. Projection design by Nick Santiago is a mixed bag; sometimes the projections serve the storytelling, sometimes they distract. Bradley Allen Lock’s costume design is playfully outlandish.

The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity is a thoughtful story hidden behind an over-abundance of posturing and hyper-masculinity. Playwright Kristoffer Diaz examines racism and demeaning stereotypes unfairly imprinted upon (mostly) BIPOC performers within the pro wrestling industry. The men are simply aren’t permitted to shape their own identities and are treated as commodities, despite their money, fame and power. But Diaz conveys a deep love and nostalgia for wrestling and asks the audience to examine and appreciate the violence as an art form, which is surprisingly easy to do.

Chance Theater, 5522 E. La Palma Ave., Anaheim; Fri., 8 p.m., Sat., 3 p.m. & 8 p.m., Sun., 3 p.m.; through Oct. 23rd. ChanceTheater.com or (888) 455- 4212. Running time: 2 hours with one intermission.

Daddy Issues

Reviewed by Iris Mann
Dorie Theatre @ The Complex
Through November 13

This play by writer-director David Goldyn tries hard to be a farce, with mistaken identities and surprising revelations. But it is so full of clichés, exaggerations that come out of nowhere, and unbelievable cardboard caricatures, which don’t emerge from the characters and fail to amuse, that it just doesn’t make it.

The story takes place in 1982 and revolves around David Moscowitz (James Seifert), a gay, budding actor, whose controlling Jewish parents, Marion (Pamela Shaw) and Sid (Jonathan Fishman), despite knowing that he’s gay, want him to find a woman, settle down and give them a grandchild. Pushed to his limit, David decides to tell them that he actually fathered a child ten years ago by a college girlfriend, before he came out as gay. His parents happen to remember the young woman, whom they liked. There is a ten-year-old boy living in the apartment building David inhabits, and he decides to “rent” the youngster. He has to pick someone who’s in on the deception to play the boy’s mother, and it is from that decision that the mistaken identities follow.

Rounding out the characters are David’s female friend who continually mixes up aspects of the ruse, his drag queen buddy (this character wears some fantastic costumes, courtesy of costume designer Josh Nadler and wig designer Kristin Confer), his grandmother, his rented son, and the boy’s real mother.

As director, Goldyn has neglected to explore the characters with his actors, so that the action is played on the surface by the cast and seems arbitrary. In addition, there are no really funny lines, and, because there is hardly any reality onstage, we as audience don’t root for anybody. The one exception to the general criticism is Fishman’s performance. He has an attractive presence, strikes just the right note given the intended style of the piece, and creates a character that is wholly believable. As for the other cast members, I’m going to assume they may well have done better work elsewhere, so it doesn’t serve anything to comment on their individual performances here.

In the promotional material, Goldyn is quoted as explaining that the play was inspired by an incident that actually happened to him. However, as they say, “Truth is no excuse.”

Dorie Theatre@ The Complex, 6476 Santa Monica Blvd., Hlywd.; Fri.- Sat., 8 pm; Sun., 5 pm;  Thurs., Oct. 20, 8 p.m.; daddyissuestheplay.com; Running time: approximately two hours with one intermission.