| THEATER TIMES REVIEWS SEPTEMBER 2007 page 2 |
The Adding Machine
La Jolla Playhouse
And Neither Have I
Wings to Fly
Road Company Theatre
Art
Laguna Playhouse
Avenue Q
Ahmanson Theatre
Calling Aprodite
International City Theatre
East West Players
A Little Night Music
South Coast Repertory
Matter of Honor
Pasadena Playhouse
Geffen Playhouse
La Jolla Playhouse
And Neither Have I
Wings to Fly
Road Company Theatre
Art
Laguna Playhouse
Avenue Q
Ahmanson Theatre
Calling Aprodite
International City Theatre
East West Players
A Little Night Music
South Coast Repertory
Matter of Honor
Pasadena Playhouse
Geffen Playhouse
The Adding Machine
by Elmer Rice, directed by Daniel Aukin
La Jolla Playhouse • September 11-October 7, 2007 (Opened, rev. 9/16)
WITH Walter Belenky, Richard Crawford, Molly Fite, Jan Leslie Harding, Liz Jenkins, Joshua Everett
Johnson, Rufio Lerma, Diana Ruppe, Paul Morgan Stetler, Peter Wylie PRODUCTION Andrew Lieberman,
set; Maiko Matsushima, costumes; Japhy Weideman, lights; Colbert S. Davis IV, sound; Cassia Streb,
music; Mark Adam Rampmeyer, wigs/hair; Steve Rankin, fights; Anjee Nero/Heather Toll, stage management
Midway through the La Jolla Playhouse’s 60th Anniversary season, the spirits –
possibly organized by longtime Playhouse friend and Trustee Leslie J. Cohen, to whose
memory the production is dedicated – have rallied for a landmark production that
serves as signpost to past and perhaps future greatness. Like the reincarnation given
Brecht, Chekhov, Sophocles and others during those heady McAnuff start-up years,
Daniel Aukin’s computer-age understanding of Elmer Rice’s 1923 ‘The Adding Machine’
is a total success greater than the sum of its parts.
With Technicolor vision and a deft grip on both concept and performance style, Aukin has guided a cast led
by Richard Crawford to a feast of inventive theatricality with a social stinger.
Holding up without hammering out the aspects of a prescient script by the Pulitzer Prize-winner (for the later
'Street Scene'), Aukin steers well clear of what would make for a long night in the heavy hands of a director
bent on making an audience pay for its bourgeois sins. Still, a theater audience, especially a feted opening
night crowd, is likely to be more of industry’s top than bottom. So to insure that ‘Machine’s’ message about
employing understanding with workers is doggy-bagged for revisiting, he injects it into a staging as cool and
colorful as sorbet.
Mr. Zero (Crawford, right out of a Max Fleischer cartoon) is a cubby-holed cog at work, totaling figures
called out by a co-worker, Miss Devore (a Tautou-esque Diana Ruppe). After 25 years of adding to a firm
bottom line, the firm has added nothing beyond subsistence for him. Consequently he must endure the
whiney tirades of Mrs. Zero (Jan Leslie Harding, another site gag), who is the rightful needler on her own
nightly phonograph record. As Zero slumps in his Lazy Boy, Harding’s pitch-perfect bitch drones what
would drive any spouse to embrace the electric chair. Yet, in Aukin’s and Harding’s hands, it remains
endurable and funny, even wryly moving.
A healthy percentage of the credit for this production’s success – depending on who brought the ideas to
the design meetings – must be shared between Aukin and his designers: scenic designer Andrew
Lieberman, costumer Maiko Matsushima, lighting designer Japhy Weideman, the sound designer and
composer, Colbert S. Davis IV and Cassia Streb, respectively, and even Mark Adam Rampmeyer's wigs and
hair treatments.
Leiberman's platform set is as symmetrical as a boxing ring. Large cup-holders cut into it turn it into the five
side of a huge die, all bathed in the tropical punch hues of Weideman’s lighting cues. It creates an ironically
gorgeous environment for Zero’s strange, expressionistic rabbit hole plunge. After 25 years of serving the
company, and assuming the loyalty goes both ways, the worker sees that his investment has left no mark.
He takes matters into his own hands after a dinner party for the other office numbers reveals, in Aukin's
most stylized staging, that they are all nothing more than synchronized robots.
Without a chance of justice at work, and no longer able to muster any personal joy elsewhere in this world,
Zero is shown the next one. There, Rice imagines, we are free to make our own heaven if we want it. But,
Zero, and one badly damaged earlier arrival, Shrdlu (a riveting Joshua Everett Johnson), are, for different
reasons, unable to take advantage. Even after Miss Devore appears, offering an appealing woman’s
heaven, Zero is just too numb, and opts for a return to the grindstone’s ball and chain.
A must see for anyone curious about Rice and his work. According to Associate Artistic Director Shirley
Fishman, who championed the script, there are no tweaks (just some cutting of repetitious passages near
the very end). It’s a thrill to hear that good insight into the human condition is timeless, even if it means we
as a society haven't progressed as far as we'd like to think.
In terms of the Playhouse's progress, it's clearly back on track. I think a night raid is in order to move the
"true north" marker that begins the Ashley era from 'Carmen' to this show. I'm sure Mr. Cohen's up for it.
by Elmer Rice, directed by Daniel Aukin
La Jolla Playhouse • September 11-October 7, 2007 (Opened, rev. 9/16)
WITH Walter Belenky, Richard Crawford, Molly Fite, Jan Leslie Harding, Liz Jenkins, Joshua Everett
Johnson, Rufio Lerma, Diana Ruppe, Paul Morgan Stetler, Peter Wylie PRODUCTION Andrew Lieberman,
set; Maiko Matsushima, costumes; Japhy Weideman, lights; Colbert S. Davis IV, sound; Cassia Streb,
music; Mark Adam Rampmeyer, wigs/hair; Steve Rankin, fights; Anjee Nero/Heather Toll, stage management
Midway through the La Jolla Playhouse’s 60th Anniversary season, the spirits –
possibly organized by longtime Playhouse friend and Trustee Leslie J. Cohen, to whose
memory the production is dedicated – have rallied for a landmark production that
serves as signpost to past and perhaps future greatness. Like the reincarnation given
Brecht, Chekhov, Sophocles and others during those heady McAnuff start-up years,
Daniel Aukin’s computer-age understanding of Elmer Rice’s 1923 ‘The Adding Machine’
is a total success greater than the sum of its parts.
With Technicolor vision and a deft grip on both concept and performance style, Aukin has guided a cast led
by Richard Crawford to a feast of inventive theatricality with a social stinger.
Holding up without hammering out the aspects of a prescient script by the Pulitzer Prize-winner (for the later
'Street Scene'), Aukin steers well clear of what would make for a long night in the heavy hands of a director
bent on making an audience pay for its bourgeois sins. Still, a theater audience, especially a feted opening
night crowd, is likely to be more of industry’s top than bottom. So to insure that ‘Machine’s’ message about
employing understanding with workers is doggy-bagged for revisiting, he injects it into a staging as cool and
colorful as sorbet.
Mr. Zero (Crawford, right out of a Max Fleischer cartoon) is a cubby-holed cog at work, totaling figures
called out by a co-worker, Miss Devore (a Tautou-esque Diana Ruppe). After 25 years of adding to a firm
bottom line, the firm has added nothing beyond subsistence for him. Consequently he must endure the
whiney tirades of Mrs. Zero (Jan Leslie Harding, another site gag), who is the rightful needler on her own
nightly phonograph record. As Zero slumps in his Lazy Boy, Harding’s pitch-perfect bitch drones what
would drive any spouse to embrace the electric chair. Yet, in Aukin’s and Harding’s hands, it remains
endurable and funny, even wryly moving.
A healthy percentage of the credit for this production’s success – depending on who brought the ideas to
the design meetings – must be shared between Aukin and his designers: scenic designer Andrew
Lieberman, costumer Maiko Matsushima, lighting designer Japhy Weideman, the sound designer and
composer, Colbert S. Davis IV and Cassia Streb, respectively, and even Mark Adam Rampmeyer's wigs and
hair treatments.
Leiberman's platform set is as symmetrical as a boxing ring. Large cup-holders cut into it turn it into the five
side of a huge die, all bathed in the tropical punch hues of Weideman’s lighting cues. It creates an ironically
gorgeous environment for Zero’s strange, expressionistic rabbit hole plunge. After 25 years of serving the
company, and assuming the loyalty goes both ways, the worker sees that his investment has left no mark.
He takes matters into his own hands after a dinner party for the other office numbers reveals, in Aukin's
most stylized staging, that they are all nothing more than synchronized robots.
Without a chance of justice at work, and no longer able to muster any personal joy elsewhere in this world,
Zero is shown the next one. There, Rice imagines, we are free to make our own heaven if we want it. But,
Zero, and one badly damaged earlier arrival, Shrdlu (a riveting Joshua Everett Johnson), are, for different
reasons, unable to take advantage. Even after Miss Devore appears, offering an appealing woman’s
heaven, Zero is just too numb, and opts for a return to the grindstone’s ball and chain.
A must see for anyone curious about Rice and his work. According to Associate Artistic Director Shirley
Fishman, who championed the script, there are no tweaks (just some cutting of repetitious passages near
the very end). It’s a thrill to hear that good insight into the human condition is timeless, even if it means we
as a society haven't progressed as far as we'd like to think.
In terms of the Playhouse's progress, it's clearly back on track. I think a night raid is in order to move the
"true north" marker that begins the Ashley era from 'Carmen' to this show. I'm sure Mr. Cohen's up for it.
Diane Ruppe
PHOTO J.T. MacMILLAN
PHOTO J.T. MacMILLAN
Durango
by Julia Cho, directed by Chay Yew West Coast Premiere
East West Players • September 13-October 14, 2007 (Opened 9/19, rev. 9/20)
WITH John Apicella, Ryan Cusino, Alex Klein, Nelson Mashita, Jin Suh PRODUCTION Donna Marquet, set;
Dori Quan, costumes; Jose Lopez, lights; Jason H. Thompson, video; John Zalewski, sound; Seth A.
Kolarsky/Sally L. Jacob, stage management
A likely misconception at its beginning may actually be the intention of Julia Cho’s
crafty and well-crafted ‘Durango,’ getting a decent West Coast premiere under Chay
Yew’s direction at East West Players (through October 14). The Mr. Lee being ushered
from his office by a security guard is not the Mr. Lee who made international
headlines when, according to The New York Times, he was “dismissed from his job at
the Los Alamos National Laboratory for violating security rules, but [not] charged with
a crime.” The setting, we will discover, is Arizona, where Ms. Cho was raised, not
New Mexico. But it’s close enough, and the circumstances are left unclear just long
enough to let the danger of divulging national secrets set the stakes for a story about
the danger of keeping family secrets.
Ms. Cho, whose last Southern California production, ‘The Piano Teacher’ (now scheduled for an off-
Broadway bow at the Vineyard), also focused on long-harbored secrets and buried shame, shifts from
that play’s predominantly female voice to all male characters for ‘Durango.’ This womanlessness, and the
general sense that men are more closed off, allows the relationship of a man and his two sons a heart-
breaking emptiness that is reflected in the desert they will drive through on a futile search of renewal.
Mr. Yew, a favorite collaborator of the playwright’s, exhibits great understanding of Ms. Cho’s purposes
and strengths and provides a good staging, though there is likely a more definitive one waiting down the
road. Nelson Mashita as Boo-Seng Lee must show and not show what’s going on inside him and he does
it well. As Isaac, the older, post-college first son now expected to enter Medical School, Jen Suh has
depth and understanding of his character’s quiet rejection of everything save his music (which Suh
performs beautifully to start the show).
Ryan Cusino, however, doesn’t provide enough real topography in the pivotal role of high-school-age son,
Jimmy, whose academic and athletic achievements are all that validate Boo-Seng’s sense of parenting
skills. Cusino has the most emotional territory to cover as the family healer who also hides his own secret.
He’s a young actor who still needs to develop more variety and ease. An overused scrunching of the face
to show concern, fear, confusion and more, restricts him.
Because his scenes with Suh flatten and fail to provide better balance, the hamster-wheel exchanges
between Isaac and his father take on more prominence and leave the production with a harsher tone. As a
kind of artist in making, Jimmy is a young Tennessee Williams trapped in a world of intolerance and anger.
Without more light from Jimmy, we're left with only the intolerance and anger in the play.
That weakness may contribute to a sense that Ms. Cho’s dialogue doesn’t feel a perfect for the men's
mouths. For instance, when a hardened Isaac hurls epithets at his younger brother’s behavior, using a
phrase “bright shiny new” in the middle of his outrage feels forced. On the other hand, three brief scenes
in which each male channels Mrs. Lee’s personality in recollections of her showcase the naturalness of
Ms. Cho's voice and, in the excellent Suh's scene, becomes a transcendent moment for the production.
But these are minor quibbles in another work from a thoughtful young writer who always merits viewing.
Briefly, Boo-Seng Lee has been laid off after 20 years. To justify Lee’s security guard escort (John
Apicella) and invoke the aura of Los Alamos (though, admittedly that Mr. Lee was not removed so gingerly),
Ms. Cho has Boo-Seng mildly, yet uncharacteristically, assault the man who fires him (Alex Klein is good as
Lee's boss and some fantasy characters from Jimmy's imagination.)
Mr. Lee is then unemployed, unmarried and unhinged. Without telling them that he was fired, he manages to
get his sons to join him for an ill-conceived vacation to Durango, a Colorado tourist town that promises,
according to its Web site “beautiful scenery, historic charm, friendly faces.” Mr. Lee has a long-held
brochure. (There’s a little cloudiness here as to whether he had been there, or wanted to go; and whether
or not it was the scene of a tryst.) Despite his best efforts to maintain his image as a stern but fair father,
he will slowly unravel under the weight of his loss, the growing distance between himself and his sons,
and a deep secret he refuses to share even with himself. It’s a lot of stuff to be churning inside this guy,
more than is needed to make the point. But Ms. Cho likes big issues and continues to show she can juggle
them handily, although subplots specifically about homosexuality secrecy may challenge the general theme
of family honesty for the heart of the play.
Much of the play is then their road trip, nicely represented on Donna Marquet’s set, with great use of video
by Jason H. Thompson and a detailed sound design by John Zalewski (though, I'd rethink using ringing
phones in a theater to represent the sounds of the office).
What the men find there or fail to find is interesting and informative and in the hands of Ms. Cho and Mr.
Yew it makes for a fascinating journey. Hopefully we’ll get to take the trip again someday.
by Julia Cho, directed by Chay Yew West Coast Premiere
East West Players • September 13-October 14, 2007 (Opened 9/19, rev. 9/20)
WITH John Apicella, Ryan Cusino, Alex Klein, Nelson Mashita, Jin Suh PRODUCTION Donna Marquet, set;
Dori Quan, costumes; Jose Lopez, lights; Jason H. Thompson, video; John Zalewski, sound; Seth A.
Kolarsky/Sally L. Jacob, stage management
A likely misconception at its beginning may actually be the intention of Julia Cho’s
crafty and well-crafted ‘Durango,’ getting a decent West Coast premiere under Chay
Yew’s direction at East West Players (through October 14). The Mr. Lee being ushered
from his office by a security guard is not the Mr. Lee who made international
headlines when, according to The New York Times, he was “dismissed from his job at
the Los Alamos National Laboratory for violating security rules, but [not] charged with
a crime.” The setting, we will discover, is Arizona, where Ms. Cho was raised, not
New Mexico. But it’s close enough, and the circumstances are left unclear just long
enough to let the danger of divulging national secrets set the stakes for a story about
the danger of keeping family secrets.
Ms. Cho, whose last Southern California production, ‘The Piano Teacher’ (now scheduled for an off-
Broadway bow at the Vineyard), also focused on long-harbored secrets and buried shame, shifts from
that play’s predominantly female voice to all male characters for ‘Durango.’ This womanlessness, and the
general sense that men are more closed off, allows the relationship of a man and his two sons a heart-
breaking emptiness that is reflected in the desert they will drive through on a futile search of renewal.
Mr. Yew, a favorite collaborator of the playwright’s, exhibits great understanding of Ms. Cho’s purposes
and strengths and provides a good staging, though there is likely a more definitive one waiting down the
road. Nelson Mashita as Boo-Seng Lee must show and not show what’s going on inside him and he does
it well. As Isaac, the older, post-college first son now expected to enter Medical School, Jen Suh has
depth and understanding of his character’s quiet rejection of everything save his music (which Suh
performs beautifully to start the show).
Ryan Cusino, however, doesn’t provide enough real topography in the pivotal role of high-school-age son,
Jimmy, whose academic and athletic achievements are all that validate Boo-Seng’s sense of parenting
skills. Cusino has the most emotional territory to cover as the family healer who also hides his own secret.
He’s a young actor who still needs to develop more variety and ease. An overused scrunching of the face
to show concern, fear, confusion and more, restricts him.
Because his scenes with Suh flatten and fail to provide better balance, the hamster-wheel exchanges
between Isaac and his father take on more prominence and leave the production with a harsher tone. As a
kind of artist in making, Jimmy is a young Tennessee Williams trapped in a world of intolerance and anger.
Without more light from Jimmy, we're left with only the intolerance and anger in the play.
That weakness may contribute to a sense that Ms. Cho’s dialogue doesn’t feel a perfect for the men's
mouths. For instance, when a hardened Isaac hurls epithets at his younger brother’s behavior, using a
phrase “bright shiny new” in the middle of his outrage feels forced. On the other hand, three brief scenes
in which each male channels Mrs. Lee’s personality in recollections of her showcase the naturalness of
Ms. Cho's voice and, in the excellent Suh's scene, becomes a transcendent moment for the production.
But these are minor quibbles in another work from a thoughtful young writer who always merits viewing.
Briefly, Boo-Seng Lee has been laid off after 20 years. To justify Lee’s security guard escort (John
Apicella) and invoke the aura of Los Alamos (though, admittedly that Mr. Lee was not removed so gingerly),
Ms. Cho has Boo-Seng mildly, yet uncharacteristically, assault the man who fires him (Alex Klein is good as
Lee's boss and some fantasy characters from Jimmy's imagination.)
Mr. Lee is then unemployed, unmarried and unhinged. Without telling them that he was fired, he manages to
get his sons to join him for an ill-conceived vacation to Durango, a Colorado tourist town that promises,
according to its Web site “beautiful scenery, historic charm, friendly faces.” Mr. Lee has a long-held
brochure. (There’s a little cloudiness here as to whether he had been there, or wanted to go; and whether
or not it was the scene of a tryst.) Despite his best efforts to maintain his image as a stern but fair father,
he will slowly unravel under the weight of his loss, the growing distance between himself and his sons,
and a deep secret he refuses to share even with himself. It’s a lot of stuff to be churning inside this guy,
more than is needed to make the point. But Ms. Cho likes big issues and continues to show she can juggle
them handily, although subplots specifically about homosexuality secrecy may challenge the general theme
of family honesty for the heart of the play.
Much of the play is then their road trip, nicely represented on Donna Marquet’s set, with great use of video
by Jason H. Thompson and a detailed sound design by John Zalewski (though, I'd rethink using ringing
phones in a theater to represent the sounds of the office).
What the men find there or fail to find is interesting and informative and in the hands of Ms. Cho and Mr.
Yew it makes for a fascinating journey. Hopefully we’ll get to take the trip again someday.
Nelson Mashita
PHOTO MICHAEL LAMONT
PHOTO MICHAEL LAMONT
Spend intermission with
Julia Cho
Julia Cho
T H E A T E R T I M E S . O R G
Third
by Wendy Wasserstein, directed by Maria Mileaf West Coast Premiere
Geffen Playhouse • September 11-October 28, 2007 (Opened 9/19, rev. 9/22m)
WITH Jayne Brook, Matt Czuchry, Sarah Drew, Christine Lahti, M. Emmet Walsh PRODUCTION Vince
Mountain, set; Alex Jaeger, costumes; David Lander, lights; Michael Roth, composer; Dana Victoria
Anderson/Christopher Paul, stage management
In August 2006, seven months after Wendy Wasserstein died at age 55, the Old Globe
gave the playwright a respectful tribute in its successful revival of ‘The Sisters
Rosensweig.’ This year, the Geffen Playhouse has mounted Wasserstein’s own
farewell with Maria Mileaf’s staging of the West Coast premiere of ‘Third.’ There’s
some indication that the lymphoma that cut down the writer cut short her rewrites.
But ‘Third,’ a serious drama that turns on an almost prankish bit of rug pulling, stands
firmly as the loving and powerful statement with which she wished to leave the world.
The long shadow of ‘King Lear’ falls gracefully across this story: From the tragic flaws of its central
character, Professor Laurie Jameson (Christine Lahti), to the use of the text as a battleground for play
analysis, to the image of its title character in Jameson’s mad, wild-haired and storm-tossed father, Jack (M.
Emmet Walsh).
While ‘Third’ is entertaining and instructive on its own, it gains greater depth as the final reflections of one
of the era’s most important writers. We feel a ‘what-I’ve-learned’ strength bending the play’s arc, from its
schticky, dismissive opening monologue to the open-minded acceptance of things that pervades its final
moments. Meanwhile, she keeps her chosen field central to the play’s events, celebrating and promoting
the value and fun of freely exploring theatrical text, then extending that freedom of choice to religion,
lifestyle, education, family bonding and politics.
Wasserstein has a lifetime of ground for Jameson to cover in her two acts. To do this, Lahti must create a
character who has made a positive impact on students for 25 years despite huge blind spots to her own
prejudice, and a juvenile habit of taunting others by flaunting her credentials. Likely, with a little more time
and energy, Wasserstein would have sculpted more contour into Jameson. It’s hard to see how Mileaf and
Lahti could have gotten more out of her.
However, while her obvious shallowness distances us during first act scenes with her daughter Emily
(Sarah Drew), her colleague (Jayne Brook), her father, her shrink, and a troublesome student, it does not
damage the story. Instead, we soon are caught up in watching as she gradually, mostly through loss,
gains an understanding of real liberty and equality.
Jameson is teaching a re-examination of ‘King Lear’ in the light of modern psychology. In her view, Regan
and Goneril, Lear’s self-interested older daughters, are more deserving of their thirds of his estate.
Cordelia, Jameson insists, is just a simp subjugating herself to the “girlification” of women in order to get her
third. In her backhanded way, as Jameson holds Shakespeare’s mirror up, she reflects on her own
nature. And long before she does, we see both sides: the mind of a prickly independent who drives people
away (her offstage husband keeps finding new obsessions to distance himself), and the large heart of one
who selflessly takes on the thankless job of accompanying a parent through dementia.
Jameson’s “I’ve seen it all” posturing is further stiffened when she meets a student whose name signals
old school privilege. Woodson Bull III (Matt Czuchry), whose nickname is the play’s title, is an athlete who
skips important classes for wrestling meets. He holds views that are right of center, though he claims
independence, and that smack too much of Republican beliefs for Jameson. Czuchry is impressive in what
his bio indicates is a major stage debut (though he could lose about half of his act one gesturing).
In a predictable plot move that will rankle cranky critics, Third hands in a paper that is so far beyond good
it's publishable. Jameson is convinced he has cheated. This does not only confirm her prejudices against
him, but validates her anger at the decades-long ‘our ends justify your means’ through-line of Republican
administrations. Proving that he plagiarized becomes a crusade to expose American conservatism.
The production is beautifully simple, and locations change quickly and thoroughly, from the stone campus
buildings to a contemporary home and townie bar. Vince Mountain designed the set; Alex Jaeger the
costumes; David Lander the lights; and Michael Roth composed the music. (Though there are some oldies
required by the script, including a tune by Laura Nyro who Wasserstein reminds us was also taken early.)
Mileaf moves the show effectively through its rougher early scenes to get to where higher stakes are
revealed and we get traction through to curtain. She navigates these latter sections particularly well. A
lovely scene between Emily and Third becomes the centerpiece Wasserstein could only have dreamed of,
where two young people, somehow neurosis-free survivors of their parents’ generation, give real signs of
hope. Then, with equal care, Mileaf sets up the heart-breaking final scene between Jameson and her
father. Here Wasserstein takes her Lear, infantilizes him with dementia, then briefly gives him back his
glory through the slow dancing that was that disappearing generation’s romantic signature.
And, finally, just as her character is undone, and the social barbs she uses to chum the audience are
undermined, the play itself becomes a final bait and switch. Woodson Bull III must share his title. One
character makes passing reference to the third segment of one's life, which should begin around the mid-
50s. In bittersweet acknowledgment, Wasserstein allows that though she will not live her third, she will
write one, and use it to wish her audiences well, remind them to do good, and urge them, for goodness
sake, to enjoy it.
by Wendy Wasserstein, directed by Maria Mileaf West Coast Premiere
Geffen Playhouse • September 11-October 28, 2007 (Opened 9/19, rev. 9/22m)
WITH Jayne Brook, Matt Czuchry, Sarah Drew, Christine Lahti, M. Emmet Walsh PRODUCTION Vince
Mountain, set; Alex Jaeger, costumes; David Lander, lights; Michael Roth, composer; Dana Victoria
Anderson/Christopher Paul, stage management
In August 2006, seven months after Wendy Wasserstein died at age 55, the Old Globe
gave the playwright a respectful tribute in its successful revival of ‘The Sisters
Rosensweig.’ This year, the Geffen Playhouse has mounted Wasserstein’s own
farewell with Maria Mileaf’s staging of the West Coast premiere of ‘Third.’ There’s
some indication that the lymphoma that cut down the writer cut short her rewrites.
But ‘Third,’ a serious drama that turns on an almost prankish bit of rug pulling, stands
firmly as the loving and powerful statement with which she wished to leave the world.
The long shadow of ‘King Lear’ falls gracefully across this story: From the tragic flaws of its central
character, Professor Laurie Jameson (Christine Lahti), to the use of the text as a battleground for play
analysis, to the image of its title character in Jameson’s mad, wild-haired and storm-tossed father, Jack (M.
Emmet Walsh).
While ‘Third’ is entertaining and instructive on its own, it gains greater depth as the final reflections of one
of the era’s most important writers. We feel a ‘what-I’ve-learned’ strength bending the play’s arc, from its
schticky, dismissive opening monologue to the open-minded acceptance of things that pervades its final
moments. Meanwhile, she keeps her chosen field central to the play’s events, celebrating and promoting
the value and fun of freely exploring theatrical text, then extending that freedom of choice to religion,
lifestyle, education, family bonding and politics.
Wasserstein has a lifetime of ground for Jameson to cover in her two acts. To do this, Lahti must create a
character who has made a positive impact on students for 25 years despite huge blind spots to her own
prejudice, and a juvenile habit of taunting others by flaunting her credentials. Likely, with a little more time
and energy, Wasserstein would have sculpted more contour into Jameson. It’s hard to see how Mileaf and
Lahti could have gotten more out of her.
However, while her obvious shallowness distances us during first act scenes with her daughter Emily
(Sarah Drew), her colleague (Jayne Brook), her father, her shrink, and a troublesome student, it does not
damage the story. Instead, we soon are caught up in watching as she gradually, mostly through loss,
gains an understanding of real liberty and equality.
Jameson is teaching a re-examination of ‘King Lear’ in the light of modern psychology. In her view, Regan
and Goneril, Lear’s self-interested older daughters, are more deserving of their thirds of his estate.
Cordelia, Jameson insists, is just a simp subjugating herself to the “girlification” of women in order to get her
third. In her backhanded way, as Jameson holds Shakespeare’s mirror up, she reflects on her own
nature. And long before she does, we see both sides: the mind of a prickly independent who drives people
away (her offstage husband keeps finding new obsessions to distance himself), and the large heart of one
who selflessly takes on the thankless job of accompanying a parent through dementia.
Jameson’s “I’ve seen it all” posturing is further stiffened when she meets a student whose name signals
old school privilege. Woodson Bull III (Matt Czuchry), whose nickname is the play’s title, is an athlete who
skips important classes for wrestling meets. He holds views that are right of center, though he claims
independence, and that smack too much of Republican beliefs for Jameson. Czuchry is impressive in what
his bio indicates is a major stage debut (though he could lose about half of his act one gesturing).
In a predictable plot move that will rankle cranky critics, Third hands in a paper that is so far beyond good
it's publishable. Jameson is convinced he has cheated. This does not only confirm her prejudices against
him, but validates her anger at the decades-long ‘our ends justify your means’ through-line of Republican
administrations. Proving that he plagiarized becomes a crusade to expose American conservatism.
The production is beautifully simple, and locations change quickly and thoroughly, from the stone campus
buildings to a contemporary home and townie bar. Vince Mountain designed the set; Alex Jaeger the
costumes; David Lander the lights; and Michael Roth composed the music. (Though there are some oldies
required by the script, including a tune by Laura Nyro who Wasserstein reminds us was also taken early.)
Mileaf moves the show effectively through its rougher early scenes to get to where higher stakes are
revealed and we get traction through to curtain. She navigates these latter sections particularly well. A
lovely scene between Emily and Third becomes the centerpiece Wasserstein could only have dreamed of,
where two young people, somehow neurosis-free survivors of their parents’ generation, give real signs of
hope. Then, with equal care, Mileaf sets up the heart-breaking final scene between Jameson and her
father. Here Wasserstein takes her Lear, infantilizes him with dementia, then briefly gives him back his
glory through the slow dancing that was that disappearing generation’s romantic signature.
And, finally, just as her character is undone, and the social barbs she uses to chum the audience are
undermined, the play itself becomes a final bait and switch. Woodson Bull III must share his title. One
character makes passing reference to the third segment of one's life, which should begin around the mid-
50s. In bittersweet acknowledgment, Wasserstein allows that though she will not live her third, she will
write one, and use it to wish her audiences well, remind them to do good, and urge them, for goodness
sake, to enjoy it.
Christine Lahti
PHOTO MICHAEL LAMONT
PHOTO MICHAEL LAMONT
T H E A T E R T I M E S . O R G
Swimming to the Moon
by Gary Flaxman, directed by Judy Rose World Premiere
art/works Theatre • September 15-October 28, 2007 (Opened 9/19, rev. 9/27)
WITH Jake Bern, Corryn Cummins, Sarah Scott Davis, Abner Genece, Russell Richardson, Damon Shalit,
Steven Shaw PRODUCTION Theresa Shook, set; Peter Lovello, costumes; Michael Mahlum, lights;
Damien Virgil, wigs; Katt Masterson, stage management
Morrison was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.
Playwright Gary Flaxman, director Judy Rose and lead actor Damon Shalit, had done
their best to roust him from his Paris tomb for ‘Swimming to the Moon,’ a world
premiere now through November 11 at Theatre Row’s art/works Theatre. But The
Doors lyricist, lead singer and shamanistic pied piper, had apparently used his
brooding, enigmatic and self-destructive persona to lead them to mount a drama with
just those qualities.
A couple factors undermine their best intentions of blending rock star analysis, Freudian analysis, social
analysis, and analysis of politics, sexuality, music, fame, poetry, eternity and the lure of the Shaman: The
dialogue is limited to snarling, taunting, teasing and pontificating. Self-satisfied characters ponder
ponderously. Heavy ego sits heavily to suppress dramatic lift.
‘Swimming to the Moon’ is set in Morrison’s hotel room in Paris on the night he slipped into
unconsciousness. Morrison (Shalit) takes to his living room bathtub after a few final slugs of whiskey and
awakes in the next world. However, it's still his hotel room. But now seated in it is a large man in a silver
suit. Al (Abner Genece) is a ‘transporter’ sent to rub the dark poet’s nose in his just-ended life. It will feel
like an eternity for Morrison, who is challenged to examine his deeds, mistakes and contributions before
choosing between two doors that lead to one eternity or another.
The dead star and the smug interrogator then engage in a cat and mouse game of fortune cookie one-liners
dressed up as infinite wisdom. The opening scene takes awhile to get to the meat, as Morrison’s know-it-all
persona and Al’s infinitely wise persona jockey for supremacy. Despite some level of omniscience, Al is
an infuriatingly smug Buddha-type who bounces back questions rather than considering them. There’s
enough cuteness to slice and serve a la mode. At one point Morrison sidles up and rubs a cheeky come-on
into Al’s shoulder, telegraphing a mysterious ambi-sexuality that gets a kitten-paw rebuke: “You are a light
in the darkness, aren’t you?”
It’s a gabfest with murky stakes. It may be Flaxman’s goal to create a kind of ‘60s ‘Don Juan in Hell,’ where
a self-obsessed protagonist is made to defend his life. But the writing isn’t exciting or deep enough to keep
us interested. He can’t seem to find enough points of interest for his tour of Morrison’s mind, so Flaxman
takes the story for a tour of some Big Issue ‘60s side shows: racism and civil unrest, politics and war, and
to a lesser extent domestic violence. To guide us, he creates five after-lifers led by Jimi Hendrix and
including character symbols named ‘The Fan,’ ‘Detroit Woman,’ ‘Senator’ and ‘Soldier.’
Though Shalit surely researched the Bejesus out of his role, it still smacks of album cover art. There’s a
head tilt, a slouch, a lazy speech that feel like stage affectations asked to stand in for a full personality.
More effort seems to have been made in creating a physical and sonic Morrison than was went to giving
him dramatic action and decent dialogue. However, give him credit for going for it. In his interactive Miami
scene, and in those times where he has to pull Morrison's wail from the deepest recesses, Shalit doesn't
hold back. God bless the working actor.
Hendrix (Russell Richardson), who is likely the most interesting character from that period, suffers the
same fate. Richardson, without words worthy of that mystery man, is reduced to rerunning clips of the
guitarist’s swagger, arm gestures, etc. The scenes between Morrison and Hendrix leave the impression
that these two, far from giants, were petty bickerers. Out of context of the times, the two goliaths that
shook at least the pop-culture earth are reduced to plastic dinosaurs wiggling before a monster movie blue
screen.
Perhaps because they aren’t strapped into historical personae, or freighted with the import of ‘Senator’ or
‘Soldier.’ the most engaging characters are the two women. The first time the play begins to breath is
when Corryn Cummins’ Fan appears. In her too-brief scene we finally get someone with the shell
removed. Same for Sarah Scott Davis, who, in her short time on stage successfully covers a lot of ground,
and helps Hendrix revisit some of what the ‘60s were about for black Americans.
It’s impossible to recreate one era’s zeitgeist for another. Historians do the best they can by assembling as
many details and anecdotes to rebuild the world as it was. The dramatist on the other hand, honors the
facts with interpretations that, in his or her opinion, get to the heart of what was happening. Sadly, Gary
Flaxman’s ‘Swimming to the Moon,’ isn’t very useful history or compelling drama. A show that would seem
to call out for an amazing sound design gets only a couple cues, including Darren Glover’s respectable bit
of ‘Foxy Lady’s’ chomping intro.
The '60s are dead, to end with. There seems to be no doubt whatever about that.
by Gary Flaxman, directed by Judy Rose World Premiere
art/works Theatre • September 15-October 28, 2007 (Opened 9/19, rev. 9/27)
WITH Jake Bern, Corryn Cummins, Sarah Scott Davis, Abner Genece, Russell Richardson, Damon Shalit,
Steven Shaw PRODUCTION Theresa Shook, set; Peter Lovello, costumes; Michael Mahlum, lights;
Damien Virgil, wigs; Katt Masterson, stage management
Morrison was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.
Playwright Gary Flaxman, director Judy Rose and lead actor Damon Shalit, had done
their best to roust him from his Paris tomb for ‘Swimming to the Moon,’ a world
premiere now through November 11 at Theatre Row’s art/works Theatre. But The
Doors lyricist, lead singer and shamanistic pied piper, had apparently used his
brooding, enigmatic and self-destructive persona to lead them to mount a drama with
just those qualities.
A couple factors undermine their best intentions of blending rock star analysis, Freudian analysis, social
analysis, and analysis of politics, sexuality, music, fame, poetry, eternity and the lure of the Shaman: The
dialogue is limited to snarling, taunting, teasing and pontificating. Self-satisfied characters ponder
ponderously. Heavy ego sits heavily to suppress dramatic lift.
‘Swimming to the Moon’ is set in Morrison’s hotel room in Paris on the night he slipped into
unconsciousness. Morrison (Shalit) takes to his living room bathtub after a few final slugs of whiskey and
awakes in the next world. However, it's still his hotel room. But now seated in it is a large man in a silver
suit. Al (Abner Genece) is a ‘transporter’ sent to rub the dark poet’s nose in his just-ended life. It will feel
like an eternity for Morrison, who is challenged to examine his deeds, mistakes and contributions before
choosing between two doors that lead to one eternity or another.
The dead star and the smug interrogator then engage in a cat and mouse game of fortune cookie one-liners
dressed up as infinite wisdom. The opening scene takes awhile to get to the meat, as Morrison’s know-it-all
persona and Al’s infinitely wise persona jockey for supremacy. Despite some level of omniscience, Al is
an infuriatingly smug Buddha-type who bounces back questions rather than considering them. There’s
enough cuteness to slice and serve a la mode. At one point Morrison sidles up and rubs a cheeky come-on
into Al’s shoulder, telegraphing a mysterious ambi-sexuality that gets a kitten-paw rebuke: “You are a light
in the darkness, aren’t you?”
It’s a gabfest with murky stakes. It may be Flaxman’s goal to create a kind of ‘60s ‘Don Juan in Hell,’ where
a self-obsessed protagonist is made to defend his life. But the writing isn’t exciting or deep enough to keep
us interested. He can’t seem to find enough points of interest for his tour of Morrison’s mind, so Flaxman
takes the story for a tour of some Big Issue ‘60s side shows: racism and civil unrest, politics and war, and
to a lesser extent domestic violence. To guide us, he creates five after-lifers led by Jimi Hendrix and
including character symbols named ‘The Fan,’ ‘Detroit Woman,’ ‘Senator’ and ‘Soldier.’
Though Shalit surely researched the Bejesus out of his role, it still smacks of album cover art. There’s a
head tilt, a slouch, a lazy speech that feel like stage affectations asked to stand in for a full personality.
More effort seems to have been made in creating a physical and sonic Morrison than was went to giving
him dramatic action and decent dialogue. However, give him credit for going for it. In his interactive Miami
scene, and in those times where he has to pull Morrison's wail from the deepest recesses, Shalit doesn't
hold back. God bless the working actor.
Hendrix (Russell Richardson), who is likely the most interesting character from that period, suffers the
same fate. Richardson, without words worthy of that mystery man, is reduced to rerunning clips of the
guitarist’s swagger, arm gestures, etc. The scenes between Morrison and Hendrix leave the impression
that these two, far from giants, were petty bickerers. Out of context of the times, the two goliaths that
shook at least the pop-culture earth are reduced to plastic dinosaurs wiggling before a monster movie blue
screen.
Perhaps because they aren’t strapped into historical personae, or freighted with the import of ‘Senator’ or
‘Soldier.’ the most engaging characters are the two women. The first time the play begins to breath is
when Corryn Cummins’ Fan appears. In her too-brief scene we finally get someone with the shell
removed. Same for Sarah Scott Davis, who, in her short time on stage successfully covers a lot of ground,
and helps Hendrix revisit some of what the ‘60s were about for black Americans.
It’s impossible to recreate one era’s zeitgeist for another. Historians do the best they can by assembling as
many details and anecdotes to rebuild the world as it was. The dramatist on the other hand, honors the
facts with interpretations that, in his or her opinion, get to the heart of what was happening. Sadly, Gary
Flaxman’s ‘Swimming to the Moon,’ isn’t very useful history or compelling drama. A show that would seem
to call out for an amazing sound design gets only a couple cues, including Darren Glover’s respectable bit
of ‘Foxy Lady’s’ chomping intro.
The '60s are dead, to end with. There seems to be no doubt whatever about that.
Damon Shalit
Abner Genece
PHOTO MICHAEL LAMONT
Abner Genece
PHOTO MICHAEL LAMONT
T H E A T E R T I M E S . O R G
