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Vol. II, No. 28 - February 16, 2012

O N   S T A G E

Evening the odds

The great Sarah Kane's fury amid injustice
takes center stage in ion's graphic Blasted

BY MARTIN JONES WESTLIN

British playwright Sarah Kane hanged herself by her shoelaces at age 28 in a London hospital on Feb. 20, 1999, two days after a prior suicide attempt. An outpouring of sympathy from the critics community would follow, with many writers reversing themselves on their reviews of her work. The (London) Herald, which once said Kane should seek psychological help, called her “one of the most promising talents of the British stage” after her death.

Late playwright Harold Pinter, a friend of Kane’s, responded that her work was simply too good for the press.

Blasted, Kane’s first of five plays and written when she was only 23, is generally credited with capturing the press’ initial attention. And how. Male rape, cannibalism, eye-gouging and genocide run hard and fast through the script, which focuses on the slow demise of potty-mouthed tabloid journalist Ian. His dangerous vices (gin, cigarettes and misogyny among them) will get the better of him, and exponentially, as only Kane can portray it.

In the wrong hands, such outcomes stand every chance of slipping into meaninglessness—but ion theatre company knows exactly what it’s doing with the likes of Kane. The result is a thoughtful, if wholly graphic, portrayal of life’s darkest dimensions and the ghastly street justice within.

“The only good journalist is a dead journalist,” Kane once wryly remarked—which means that Ian (Ron Choularton) may or may not have passed her muster. He’s just been raped by a militiaman (Steven Lone) who later sucks out his eyes, and he eats a dead baby as a last-ditch survival effort; but even though the stage direction says he dies, he manages to utter a thank-you to Cate (Gemma Grey), who’s just fed him. Thus ends a story that begins semi-ordinarily enough as Cate accompanies Ian to his hotel room, with her resistance to his advances marking a new setting—that of a civil-war battle outside the hotel. The solider forces his way into the room, with the scenes of unspeakable brutality ensuing.

Reportedly, the encounter with the soldier is Kane’s take on the ghastly 1990s Bosnian ethnic cleansing, with Ian’s loutishness toward Cate representing the physical and sexual abuse of British women. Kane equates the two, and Ian is the unfortunate link between both scenarios. His transgressions yield a reprisal of biblical proportion. And however bitterly violent that reprisal becomes, it’s vintage Sarah Kane.

We can tell that’s so because director Claudio Raygoza is in complete control of the madness on Kane’s behalf. He stays above the fray, handling the ending scenelets with a mix of sympathy for Ian and support for Kane’s point of view. He’s got a good give-and-take going between Ian and the dowdy, troubled, very simple Cate, while Lone’s soldier is a menacing, properly one-dimensional sexual psychopath.  

Melanie Chen’s sound design is one of the best such efforts I’ve ever encountered, comporting beautifully with the hotel room and all it represents; Karen Filijan’s lights yield no mean support in that regard. I like the color choices to Danita Lee’s costumes—there’s much more to Ian and Cate than meets the eye, and the clothes reflect that. Raygoza’s set ably serves as both a flophouse and a battle scene. I’m wondering, though, if a five-star lodge setting would have better depicted the irony of it all.

Blasted isn’t a play you love or hate. It’s a play you either appreciate for its vivid insights into depravity or disregard amid its self-indulgence. Me, I lean decidedly toward the former. I love Kane’s work in any event; and under Raygoza’s watchful eye, ion’s venue is a repository for her blind rage at injustice and the higher purposes she sought to embrace.

This review is based on the matinèe performance of Feb. 11. Blasted runs through Feb. 18 at BLKBOX @ 6th & Penn, 3704 Sixth Ave. in Hillcrest. $10-$29. 619-600-5020, iontheatre.com

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Better late than never

Marvelous Wonderettes takes its time starting,
but the characters sing and develop pretty well

“Marvelous Dreams,” reads one of the placards on the wall of the Springfield High School gym at senior prom time. And why shouldn’t it? It’s 1958, and the theme was as good then as any other at that time in American history—it reflects the hopes of a nation that’s come into its own, where nothing bad ever happens and all the well-scrubbed kids dress nice and have good teeth and mom and dad live forever and Johnny’s turtle even longer than that.

It’s just that the prom’s female singing quartet, called in as a last-minute replacement (one of the members of the scheduled band got kicked out of school), don’t really seem to have many marvelous dreams. In fact, The Marvelous Wonderettes, the current San Diego Musical Theatre entry, is less a play than a hit parade, at least in much of the first act. We don’t get a handle on the girls’ characters in the first few minutes, when exposition is the most important.

But that vice is also the show’s virtue. The girls (real-life members of the show’s off-Broadway cast) sing well and show some nice chemistry in the beginning—stolen boyfriends and love’s vicissitudes are always a dependable formula, especially when teens are involved. The second act plays off what’s left of the first, making this show a pretty good ’50s and ’60s cavalcade behind some nicely executed music and one especially good performance.

The story is threadbare at first as the girls (geeky Missy, spitfire Betty Jean, pleaser Suzy and diva Cindy Lou) sing one song after another, beginning with The Chordettes’ “Mr. Sandman” and working up to hits like Connie Francis’ “Lipstick on Your Collar” and Mel Carter’s “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me.” The banter in between may be cutesy, but cutesy is a long way from cute, although the girls’ physical affectations are readable and well-conceived.

The second act has the girls reuniting at Springfield’s prom ten years later. Life’s vicissitudes and the trauma of lost loves have caught up to them, taking their toll on each (Cindy Lou sings The Shangri-Las’ “Leader of the Pack” in homage to the lover she lost in a biker accident; Suzy wails on Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” as she seeks to get high-school sweetheart Jimmy back in her arms). “You Don’t Own Me,” the ensemble sings, embracing the era’s climate of liberation. Suddenly, everything takes on the look of a story, with the girls (Cindy Lou and Betty Jean, mostly) patching up old wounds and wishing us well in the ’70s.

This show doesn’t have enough narrative from which to extract a full-fledged storyline—but you must watch Beth Malone as feisty Betty Jean. Malone, a touring professional who’s seen duty twice at Diversionary Theatre, is an accomplished, energetic performer; her peppery character takes no guff, especially from the likes of vampy Cindy Lou (Lowe Taylor). Missy (Misty Cotton) is just as clumsy in love in the ’60s as she was a decade before, and Suzy (Bets Malone, also the show’s choreographer and associate director) is just happy to be anywhere, as long as her Richie’s no farther away than the light booth.

Writer/director Roger Bean has an eye and ear for the unexpected, and he’s given the girls lots of leash to indulge in their many bits of business. On the other hand, the 1950s and ’60s are downright folkloric, and it seems a shame to leave so much of them behind while the characters develop amid such compact experiences. But Don LeMaster’s music direction enlivens things, and each decade’s period costumes color the setting. If you like contemporary history with your revues, this isn’t the one to see. But you’ll love Beth Malone, and the music of the eras speaks for itself.

San Diego Musical Theatre is now the Stephen and Mary Birch North Park Theatre’s anchor tenant. This represents a homecoming, of sorts—the group’s first show, The Full Monty, mounted at the North Park in 2007. 

This review is based on the matinèe performance of Feb. 12. The Marvelous Wonderettes runs through Feb. 26 at the Stephen and Mary Birch North Park Theatre, 2891 University Ave. in North Park. $13-$52. 858-560-5740, sdmt.org

--Martin Jones Westlin

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Strength in numbers

Guys and Dolls lacks personalities,
but the production values are first-rate

This review originally appeared on patch.com's Coronado site.

Some of writer Damon Runyon’s characters say they’ve never been in love, but that’s OK—Runyon was romantic enough for all of ’em put together. He’d put the Prohibition era on a pedestal, crafting characters and short stories that celebrated Broadway’s seedier side. Hustlers, gamers and gangsters were his stock in trade, marked by street names like Harry the Horse and Rusty Charlie and the curious habit of talking out of the corners of their mouths.

Their slang was as colorful as their shirts and ties, and as often as not, they’d wear their hearts on the sleeves of their pinstripe suits.

Guys and Dolls is theater’s signature nod to Runyon’s gangland fascination. Based on several of his short stories, the Frank Loesser-Abe Burrows musical has been revived on Broadway five times since its 1950 premiere and gave several pop songs, like “Luck Be a Lady” and “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat,” lives of their own. It thrives on its swagger and sass, of which the current Lamb’s Players Theatre production has plenty—and while the story loses something in its approach, the company’s technical traditions are in full swing in this highly entertaining entry.

You’ve probably heard of Nathan Detroit, Sarah Brown and Sky Masterson at least in passing, and chances are you’re familiar with their story. Nathan runs an infamous floating crap game that’s come to Broadway, with Adelaide, his fiancée of 14 years, in tow. Straitlaced Sarah sits at the other end of the spectrum, leading a Salvation Army-style band in her crusade to rid Times Square of its evil. Sky will eventually drop in on both worlds; by the end, he’s pining for Sarah’s love and goodness of heart. Love is lost and found in this backdrop of bets, broads and booze, and eventually, all’s right with the world.

Runyon’s language is abrupt and fun, enlivened with the occasional streetism when it’s least expected. $5,000 is a bundle of lettuce; Sky puts “the knock on dolls” and Benny Southstreet pleads the Fifth Commandment. Funny barbs mark the dialogue as well; when Nathan says he’s been running his crap game “since I was a juvenile delinquent,” Adelaide pipes up with, “Speaking of chronic conditions, happy anniversary.”

Still, something’s missing. As clever as they are, many major characters never seem to play off the people opposite them, only the situations that involve those people. Sky (Brent Schindele) falls in love with Sarah (Kelsey Venter) more for her religiosity and her persistence than for who she really is underneath; Nathan (Spencer Rowe) puts off marriage to Adelaide (Eileen Bowman) out of fear of the institution rather than any disdain for her. The characters often shortcut their way to the action, moving the story along well before they establish their personal relationships.

But director Kerry Meads takes other matters in hand. Her underworld culture is perfectly readable; her players adopt the gangland vogue without sacrificing the nuances that make their characters unique. Colleen Kollar Smith’s choreography and Nathan Peirson’s lights are as spirited as you’ll find, and Venter’s singing voice conveys the sweetness that is Sarah. Music director Jon Lorenz has the five-piece orchestra sounding like eight, and Mike Buckley’s set shrewdly places the musicians into the playing space.

This Guys and Dolls comprises 27 actors and musicians, making it one of Lamb’s Players’ biggest-ever pieces. As Lamb’s launches its season for 2012, there’s a decided strength in those numbers, to say nothing of the presentation. Very good show.

This review is based on the opening-night performance of Feb. 10. Guys and Dolls runs through March 25 at the Paul and Ione Harter Stage, 1142 Orange Ave. in Coronado. $26-$64. 619-437-6000, lambsplayers.org

--Martin Jones Westlin

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O N   S C R E E N

Royal pain

If only King Edward VIII hadn't abdicated,
we'd never have had to put up with W.E.

BY JAN GUNYON

“And now,” Edward VIII rasped to all of Great Britain in December of 1936, “we all have the new king. I wish him and you, his people, happiness and prosperity, with all my heart. God bless you all; God save the king!”

With that, Ed rode off into the sunset with bride-to-be Wallis Warfield Simpson, an American socialite for whom Edward abdicated his throne to marry. He’d created something of a constitutional crisis by refusing to give up Simpson, but it would settle down in time as his brother Albert Windsor took the throne as George VI. Edward, now a duke, took up life as a socialite celebrity with his duchess bride, although the couple were reportedly deathly bored with one another in the end (Edward died in 1972, Simpson in 1986).

Simpson is a natural centerpiece for a biopic. Edward, after all, was the first British regent to leave his post since Anglo-Saxon times, so in that respect, her part in his life is historical. But Wally Winthrop, a lonely Manhattan socialite, would incarnate in 1998 with suspicions about the darker side of the duke and duchess’ marriage. This forms the basis for W.E., directed by Madonna, written by Madonna and Alek Keshishian and produced by mistake.

Man, this is a stinker from beginning to end, in as many ways as you care to count. Wally (Abbie Cornish) is obsessed with Wallis’ (Andrea Riseborough) life and legacy of riches in a story that goes nowhere except between the two women across time, with a little of Wallis’ marriage thrown in. As a matter of fact, Wally’s marriage is more interesting than Wallis’—she’s seething with anger toward her loveless, abusive husband, and she has nothing to show for it but her tendency to hang around an auction house about to hold a sale of Simpson memorabilia.

Both women are immune to the dimensional effects of time and space; they’ll remark on each other’s style and otherwise commiserate on their humdrum lives and disappointments in love (Simpson, after all, was en route to divorcing her second husband while she was hanging out with Edward, played here by James d’Arcy). The back-and-forth between the women feels like a tennis game where no one’s keeping score—there may be some decent volleys in there somewhere, but who knows who’s won?

Madonna has directed this piece from the hip and nowhere else. Silly images, melodrama and poor technical choices lunge, retreat and reconstitute in an absolutely terrible picture. Reports say it’s been to the cutting room floor during her tour of the world’s film capitals last year. Not often enough.

W.E. is distributed by The Weinstein Company and others and is unrated. It plays at the Hillcrest Cinemas, 3965 Fifth Ave. 619-819-0236, landmarktheatres.com

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The Oldies Show

Planned obsolescence

Excellent performances and cinematography
mark grim post-Apocalyptic tale The Road

Karina Montgomery is a former movie critic who has lots to say about the older films we like to take a look at every so often, like the one she reviews below. You can find more of her content at pixelatedgeek.com/cinerina.

BY KARINA MONTGOMERY

The Road doesn’t answer many questions, not what happened, not who these people are or where they are. It’s enough to know that Before is irretrievably gone forever; there is only Now. “Now” is after a cataclysmic event that has wiped out most of humanity, all animals, all vegetation, and blotted out the sun in an ashen, permanent winter. Humanity is predator and prey to itself, and our nameless leads Man and Boy (Viggo Mortensen and Kodi Smit-McPhee) are just trying to survive. The Apocalypse put them here, but The Road is about their journey to live through this. Who they are or why they are doesn’t matter anymore.

Survive through what? What is on the other side of this struggle except more of this struggle? This 2009 film will set your mind down many empathetic paths as our leads find themselves in one life-or-death situation after another. The boy was born after the cataclysm and knows no other existence. His father knew life as we know it and is perhaps more haunted by his memories than either of them are by the routine horrors they encounter daily.

Scenes are visually monochromatic but stunning in their stark images of destruction. This is no routine zombie Apocalypse with green trees and running rivers. Javier Aguirresarobe’s camera paints for us the bleak grayness of permanent ashfall, denuded trees, choked grasses and still winds. The entire sound departments needs to just go down and pick up their retroactive Oscars now. The muffled air, the rumbling tectonic murmurs, the groaning and incessant tree deaths, sounds of other humans: All these sounds sell the bleak images (some, incredibly, were stock photography) as a completely dying world.

Mortensen (managing somehow still not to look as dirty as he did in Lord of the Rings) plays The Man with the same fierce intensity he brought to Eastern Promises. Smit-McPhee is surprisingly dewy and childlike considering the only world he has known, proving the resilience of a child and of a person to become used to nearly everything. Both of them do a terrific job connecting with us and with each other. They look cold and hungry; their fear wafts off the screen and they carry the fire. To where and for how long, one can only guess. They are father and son (mother Charlize Theron chose a different path), and their strength is in each other.

I had heard it described as depressing—and mind you, it’s far from hilarious—but I found it to be beautifully sobering. While most of humanity devolves, a few pockets of “good guys” remain. What is right and wrong gets fuzzy when it comes to survival. My companion reminded me of a paraphrase from a book we had read, also concerning the aftermath of a extinction event: Society lives by the morals it can afford. Society is gone, beyond bankrupt, but why help humanity survive if we are to lose it by the means of survival?

Joe Penhall adapted Cormac McCarthy’s book in such a way that little feels as if it is missing, though surely plenty had to be cut; it makes me want to read it. You might recognize McCarthy’s name as the author of the book No Country for Old Men. The Road lacks the bursts of creepiness of No Country in favor of a generalized dread.

This film is not uplifting or cheerful, but it’s profoundly affecting, and I hope you give it a chance.

The Road was produced by Dimension Films and is rated R. It’s available for purchase on iTunes for $9.99.

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