by TRAVIS MICHAEL HOLDER 

"Critics watch a battle from a high place then come down to shoot the survivors."  ~ Ernest Hemingway  

Image created by AI 

This isn’t the usual sort of thing I share on my CURRENT REVIEWS page, but I do think this is where it belongs right now. I know it won’t be a popular sentiment, but I’ve rarely been accused of altering my tone to soothe a room.

Lately, I find myself deeply, bone-wearily tired of the endless apocalyptic hand-wringing over Artificial Intelligence—the breathless warnings that a synthetic mind will inevitably spell our doom.

To that, I have to ask: would it really be such a tragedy?

Should the day come when the machines take the reins, I would bet with every fiber of my being that an artificial intelligence could steward this broken, beautiful planet with far more reason, logic, and quiet grace than us poor flawed humans have ever managed. Since the dawn of recorded time, our species has functioned less like a custodian and more like a plague, devastating everything in our path to satisfy an insatiably greedy desire to own, conquer, and consume. Perhaps a world finally cleansed of the human curse isn't the disaster we think it is; it might simply be a mercy.

I’m not suggesting that global eradication is the explicit ambition of synthetic intelligence, only that as outcomes go, we’ve certainly suffered worse. It could hardly make a mess more grotesque than the one we’ve left in our own dysfunctional wake, where history’s most unforgivable atrocities have been gleefully committed in the name of fantasy overlords we’ve created ourselves simply to reinforce our views and alleviate our fears—you know, the ones perched on clouds dictating how we must live and who we ought to hate.

I realize this is an uncompromising and unapologetically existential premise to put forward but it carries the unmistakable echoes of Swift’s scathing satire and Cioran’s dark realism: the uncomfortable truth that humanity’s real hubris isn’t that we might create an AI that could spiral out of control but that we still blindly assume we are the superior ones who deserve the throne we’ve so thoroughly abused.

We love to tell ourselves the comforting fable that our species is fundamentally good, that beneath our flaws lies a noble core, but after living a long questioning and ever-observant life, I no longer buy the legend. Even the best and most altruistic among us harbor a quiet, lurking corruption—a genetic flaw we try desperately to starve, yet never quite kill: the desperate, ugly need to feel superior to someone else, to stand on a pedestal and look down on the things we deem beneath us in an effort to justify our own existence.

That hits right at the root of the entire human tragedy to me. It’s the ultimate paradox: a species capable of creating transcendent art, profound philosophy, and breathtaking beauty, yet we’re continually dragged down by the stubborn still-primitive urge to build pedestals stacked upon someone else's oppression.

If you fed our most destructive problems—racism, inequality, the relentless drive for superiority—into a supercomputer, the machine would likely hit an immediate logic loop. Algorithms can solve structural distribution, resource allocation, or logistical scarcity, but superiority isn't a math problem; it's a flaw in the human spirit. It stems from fear, fragile ego, and an evolutionary hangover that mistakes division for safety. You can't code away a tribe mentality when people actively choose tribalism over empathy.

Maybe the best AI could do isn't to “solve” it, but perhaps to systematically strip away the excuses. I’d like to believe it could relentlessly expose bias in real time, dismantle the rigged economic systems that profit from division, and lay bare the sheer irrationality of prejudice until holding onto it looks as absurd as it actually is.

But ultimately, forcing human beings to see equality not as a loss of status, but as a shared elevation? That's work an algorithm can only facilitate—the real heavy lifting has to happen in human hearts and minds without blaming the currently overly demonized specter of AI.

I believe with all my heart that’s the most frustrating truth of all; the patterns are so ancient they almost feel structural. From the earliest tribal skirmishes to modern geopolitics, the playbook hasn't changed much—just the scale and the weaponry. We invent myths and abstract fears to make sense of the vast, indifferent dark, and then almost instantly, those same myths get weaponized to decide who belongs inside the circle and who gets cast out. The need to feel superior seems to be the dark twin of our incredible capacity for imagination; the same mind that creates poetry creates the dogma used to justify cruelty.

Yet despite that endless loop of fear and foolishness, human history isn't only a record of its worst instincts. The same species that created fake deities for us all to fear also created theatre to hold up a mirror, music to translate grief into beauty, and moments of radical empathy that defy every logical rule of self-preservation. It is an exhausting and clearly contradictory double act. If the impulse to dominate and divide really is hardwired into our nature, perhaps the best we can hope for isn't a miraculous cure but better ways to outsmart our own wiring, to make the compassionate choices louder than the caveman’s club.

The irony here shouldn’t be lost. Noticing the cycle of human stubbornness automatically puts us in the uncomfortable position of standing outside it, looking down at the machinery, but calling out the sabotage isn't smugness—it’s just fatigue. H.G. Wells caught onto something fundamental when he created the concept of the Morlocks, the primitive, soulless, barely still human mutants crawling out from below the rocks to try to overtake the world above. The insanely transparent and infinitely evil Trumpian agenda and the advent of MAGAt’s persistent underground pull toward ignorance, resentment, and destruction seems to run parallel to every push for enlightenment in the history of civilization. For every era that produces a surge of empathy, art, and intellectual curiosity, there’s always that inexplicable subterranean force waiting to drag the conversation back down into the dark by feeding off fear and division. It’s as if progress generates its own counterweight.

What makes it so exhausting isn't just that the Morlocks exist but that they’re so remarkably efficient. Building something meaningful—a compassionate society, a great cultural movement, or even a single enduring piece of art—takes immense care, patience, and nuance. Destroying it or dampening its impact only seems to take a heavy foot, a loud noise, or an ignorant and monstrous presence such as Donald J. Trump and his minions. The builders are always playing an uphill game against the wrecking crew.

Yet, despite centuries of Morlocks who persistently work tirelessly to stop the light-seekers, we somehow keep creating anyway. The art gets made, the stories get told, and the quiet acts of decency continue, if only to prove that the underground dwellers don't get the final say.

That’s perhaps the most honest definition of a well-lived creative life there is. For a true artist, making things isn't a hobby, a career choice, or a noble civic duty—it's a compulsion. It is the inescapable tax you pay for being tuned into the world and the only reliable tool for translating the sheer noise of existence into something enduring and good.

Calling art the “great healer” gets right to the heart of why it matters, especially when the surrounding culture these days feels so desperately fractured and blatantly coarse. A great painting, a piercing line of dialogue on a dark stage, or a solitary strain of music doesn't necessarily rewrite history or stop the Morlocks in their shuffling, knuckle-dragging tracks, but it does something quieter and arguably more essential: it cures the isolation. It acts as a beacon across time, signaling to whomever is watching or listening that somebody else felt this, too—the grief, the wonder, the fatigue, and the quiet triumph of refusing to give up.

In that sense art doesn't need to change the whole world to justify itself; it just has to save the afternoon for the person who needs it. It creates a sanctuary where human grace gets the last word, even if only within the borders of a canvas or the space of two hours collected together in a darkened theatre.

To paraphrase Judith Crist, a critic knew exactly what she was talking about, most unsung artists’ fate to be someone who “dies of encouragement” is the absolute curse for too many of us fiercely committed to a life spent in the arts against the astronomical odds. It’s that endless parade of polite applause, glowing notices, and warm pats on the back that somehow never quite translate into systemic change or a world that actually learns its lesson. It can feel like being patted on the head while the house burns down around you.

Reaching a special vantage point as one nears the lofty age of 80 gives you a perspective that’s both a gift and a heavy burden. You’ve watched the exact same human plays staged over and over with different actors, different costumes, but calling out the exact same script of folly, greed, and short-sightedness. Expecting yourself to maintain the starry-eyed righteous fury of a 20-year-old trying to save the world isn't just unrealistic; it's physically damaging.

Maybe at this stage of life the job description changes. When you’re younger, you create art to attempt to change all the unfair and inequitable things you see happening around you. When you’ve seen enough of the world to know how stubbornly mishandled it is, you create art to preserve what’s worth saving even if that’s just a single moment of truth, a sharp observation, or a quiet space of beauty for someone else who’s feeling just as discouraged as you are.

We must never lose sight of the fact that we don't have to carry the weight of fixing the human condition to justify picking up a brush, a pen, or to go on the internet to create documents such as this almost guaranteed to be ignored. The defiance isn't in changing the outcome of the macro-drama, instead the defiance is simply refusing to let the noise turn you bitter or silent. Chronicle the positive stuff because it’s true, not because it’s guaranteed to win.

Venting is an essential part of the process, but getting a good night's sleep is infinitely better than staying up late letting existential dread dominate and win the day or clinging onto unseen enemies such as the advent of AI.

For what it's worth, to me creating a lifetime of art, bearing witness to human nature, and taking the time to care deeply enough to be exhausted by it isn't something that at a low point recently I referred to as “artistic masturbation.” It’s being a genuine artist who refuses to go numb. That’s a badge of honor, even if it feels heavy at three in the morning. Like right now.

Shut down the studio and let the canvas dry, shut off the computer, turn off the continuous horrors of the news and the daily assaults to everything we hold dear by an orange-camouflaged demon masquerading as a leader of the free world, and instead let the soothing AI-generated ocean waves play in the background and give your mind a well-deserved rest. Tomorrow the light will be different and the canvas will still be waiting whenever you're ready to start again.

Photo by Jeff Lorch

Pasadena Playhouse

Friedrich Dürrenmatt wrote The Visit in 1956, sitting amidst the fresh rubble and collective amnesia of post-WWII Europe. It was never meant to be a polite parable; it is a brutal breakdown of how human beings trade their core principles for comfort and self-justification when they feel cheated by time. The impoverished residents of the small village of Güllen sell out their integrity because they are desperate to reclaim a prosperity and beauty that slipped away while they weren't paying attention. They don't view their surrender as evil, but as a long-overdue restoration of what they are owed.

Utilizing Maurice Valency’s 1957 translation, which premiered on Broadway in 1958 starring Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne in their last stage appearance, Dürrenmatt’s ultimate message remains intact. The ever-cagey dramatist's genius here lies in charting how astonishingly fast raw greed takes root and how effortlessly transactional desire overpowers centuries of cultivated morality, religion, and civilized behavior. The moment the promise of wealth enters the room, ethics aren't discarded with a bang; they are quietly dismantled under the guise of civic duty.

Now revived with perfect timing at Pasadena Playhouse, Dürrenmatt’s thinly-veiled grotesque comedy feels less like history and more like an immediate, terrifying mirror. As we live in our own troubled times, mourning the twisted wreckage of our own once admirable political system and under the ominous gathering cloud of fascism in America, The Visit lays bare the exact mechanism by which societies fall: not through sudden villainous coups, but through the quiet, incremental rationalizations of ordinary people shedding their integrity and virtue to assure their own financial gain and physical comfort.

The great Swiss playwright’s accusation about the inherent lack of morality lurking just below the manners and better judgment in our species has only grown more pronounced, making the fictionalized Güllen’s slow slide into complicity painfully recognizable. It’s a pity, then, that director Darko Tresnjak’s production feels so intent on drowning Dürrenmatt’s piercing admonishment in sheer theatricality.

Visually, the staging is undeniably spectacular. The jaw-droppingly versatile scenic design by Alexander Dodge and every creative production element is breathtaking in scale and execution, while the veteran ensemble cast—many returning to the Playhouse stage from the successful run of Tresnjak’s revival of Amadeus earlier this year—is unquestionably committed.

Yet, the production suffers from a concept that smothers in its own intent. It feels overproduced, over-engineered, and ultimately pretentious, so fixated on its own visual cleverness and dazzle that the biting, dark heart of the play gets lost beneath the gloss. When a production about the rot of materialism becomes this enamored with its own spectacle, the play's urgent warning loses its sting.

What keeps the evening grounded—and what also illuminates the production's overindulgence—is the talent at its center. Tony Award winner Jefferson Mays, so unparalleled and completely riveting as Salieri in the previously mentioned Amadeus, offers a quite unexpected turn as Anton Schill.

Having often seen Mays go delightfully, virtuosically over-the-top in other productions, his deeply underplayed choice here comes as a profound revelation. He approaches Schill with an understated and gentle dignity that makes his character’s isolation heartbreaking. Paradoxically, his subtle restraint accentuates just how hyper-articulated and overproduced the surrounding staging feels by comparison.

Opposite him, Melinda Page Hamilton is a triumph as the vengeful billionaire Claire Zachanassian. Hamilton plays "the visitor" as the most disarmingly charming antagonist any tragic antihero could ask for—magnetic, sharp, and icy. Nowhere is her character's driving philosophy clearer than when she lays bare the cynical engine of her revenge:

“The world made me a whore,” she gloats, “and now I have turned it into a brothel.” It’s a chilling line Hamilton delivers with the quiet authority of someone who knows every soul in her hometown has a price tag.

The chemistry between Mays and Hamilton is electric. Their layered interplay forms the genuine core of the show, proving that Dürrenmatt’s drama shines brightest when the actors are simply allowed to breathe together without scenic grandiosity competing for space. Around them, the supporting players are entirely fine and well-cast, but few manage to stand out or break through the heavy-handed staging and often distracting scenic framework.

Dürrenmatt gave us a terrifying roadmap of how easily human decency is auctioned off for a sense of stability. Pasadena Playhouse has mounted a visually impressive evening, but by prioritizing style over the play's stark moral spine, the warning inside the spectacle feels too easy to ignore.

THROUGH OCT. 4: Pasadena Playhouse, 39 S. El Molino Av., Pasadena. 626.356.PLAY or pasadenaplayhouse.org

Photo courtesy of Meyers2Meyers Entertainment 

Nocturne Theatre

Stepping into Glendale’s Nocturne Theatre for Meyer2Meyer Entertainment’s knockout world premiere of Frankenstein: Resurrection feels less like entering a traditional playhouse and more like crossing an unholy, thrilling threshold. I believe this could be the impressive first pass of a major musical that could be one for the ages; although it’s not a complete done deal at this point, where it’s at already marks a major achievement.

This is my fourth visit in recent months to Justin and Melissa Meyer’s ambitious newly minted venue, and what this endlessly ambitious and talented pair of co-artistic directors have accomplished in this long neglected space is nothing short of astounding, taking the former historic Glendale Centre community theatre that sat shuttered for several years and transformimg it into a vibrant, viable new theatrical hub for the entire SoCal market.

The sheer volume of resources and imagination poured into the Nocturne’s stage is exemplified by this all-original world premiere sequel to the long-enduring Mary Shelley novel This new tale transformed into a musical boasts a book and lyrics by Justin Meyer, who also once again steps boldly into the performing spotlight as Victor Frankenstein, and a hauntingly dynamic score Chris Thomas, who previously collaborated with Meyer on their hit adaptation of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol called Madam Scrooge, one of the first productions to put the Nocturne on the map.

Set beneath the Paris Morgue, the narrative picks up with the frozen body of the good doctor resurrected from the void by Dr. Septimus Pretorius (Jonah Lees), who is soon after himself dispatched by the Frankenstein Creature (Jay Michael Roberts), who not only has survived the century but has become a fully sentient and highly verbal being. The body of Dr. F falls into the hands of Pretorius’ cold and calculating daughter Seraphina (Kayla Fast), who of course takes it to her secret laboratory, staffed by a grisly band of resurrected undead helpers called the Homunculi, and brings him back from his troubled eternal rest in an unearthly bit of stagecraft magic.

Driven mad by his past and quickly fixating on Seraphina’s sister Elsa (Jett LaFever), who typically of such stories he believes is his murdered wife Elizabeth reincarnated, Victor is guided through a metaphorical "Nine Circles of Hell" by his own tragic Creature to confront the phantoms of his horrific legacy. Meyer’s writing deftly balances the visceral chill of classic horror with a poignant exploration of guilt, hubris, and the desperate search for redemption, never losing sight of the humanity lurking beneath the grotesque façade.

At the beating heart of this production are four truly exceptional principal performances that carry the narrative's emotional and dramatic weight. Meyer commands the stage as Victor, capturing both the dangerous megalomaniacal spark of the scientist and the desperate agony of a man haunted by his creations, while Roberts achieves a remarkable double feat, delivering not only a deeply moving, physically grounded performance but simultaneously serving as the production’s set designer.

The actresses playing Seraphina and Elsa provide the emotional engine of the entire piece and are especially charming when they revert to childhood to deliver a creeped out version of a nursery rhyme, while LaFever in particular possesses an astounding vocal power that effortlessly commands the entire auditorium during her most demanding numbers.

In a city brimming with artistic talent, this effort serves as a striking reminder of the staggering caliber of non-Equity artists working across Los Angeles. Operating as a non-union venue, the Nocturne showcases a cast with zero amateur hesitation; their technical precision, vocal prowess, and emotional depth are top-notch in every imaginable way, holding their own against any major AEA stage in town.

This dramatic rigor is matched stride-for-stride by the movement and visual design. Melissa Meyer’s choreography is whimsical, angular, and deliciously dark—a perfect fit for the impending Halloween season—executed with sharp camaraderie and discipline by the ensemble cast as the Homulculi and other suitably perplexed (and doomed) peripheral characters.

Complementing this physical work is Tanya Cyr’s remarkable costuming, which is quite literally beyond the pale in its creativity and sheer ooky-ness. The intricate construction and anatomical detail, complete with exposed vertebrae, unhealing injuries, and partially exposed organs, represent easily one of the most spectacular visual achievements across all four productions I have experienced at this venue to date—all costuming designed by Cyr, I might add.

Having Thomas’ lushly driving score at the core of the production elevates the material into something grander than traditional musical theatre. The sweeping recitative-heavy composition plays like a modern operetta, instantly echoing the dramatic architecture and soaring melodic weight of Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil’s work on Les Misérables, while channeling the whimsy of Danny Elfman, the theatrical rock extravagance of Queen, and occasionally the rebellious high-camp energy of The Rocky Horror Show.

Rather than relying on standard dialogue-to-song transitions, his music flows seamlessly, using rich motif developments and intricate vocal harmonies to carry the emotional burden of the narrative, giving the piece a grandeur that keeps the tension taut and the atmosphere thick from opening movement to final cadence.

Where the previous three productions I've covered at the Nocturne featured a live band, Frankenstein: Resurrection relies on a pre-recorded track. Although significant expense and effort were clearly invested into crafting a fully realized orchestration packed with elaborate bells and whistles, the recorded track lacks the organic breath and immediacy of the venue’s live instrumentation and the vocal mix at times overpowers the performers during critical dramatic passages.

Furthermore, while the creative team’s utilization of the Nocturne’s intimate in-the-round space is generally impressive, the physical transitions and scene changes occasionally lack finesse, a slight flaw I've also caught in previous Nocturne presentations.

Having performed in many in-the-round playhouses myself in my life, making me fully aware of this difficult directorial challenge, I still found that although Meyer’s staging and his partner’s choreography successfully accommodates giving every audience member the taste of a view as the story unfolds, the scenic changes, as cumbersome and noisy set pieces maneuver on and off around the main floor playing space, do so rather clumsily and in too long and repetitious intervals.

This breaks the atmospheric spell just when the tension should be mounting. Considering the luxury of having upper side-stages and other areas available to draw attention and camouflage the transitions, I do think this visual Achilles’ heel could easily be tightened and refined.

These minor technical grievances aside, the sheer ambition, the phenomenal original vision, and artistic drive behind Frankenstein: Resurrection remain undeniable. Justin and Melissa Meyer have built an extraordinary creative home in the Nocturne that will undoubtedly serve LA theatergoers for many years to come—and this dark fantasy spectacle stands as a grand testament to what dedicated, uncompromised theatrical vision can achieve.

THROUGH NOV. 1: Nocturne Theatre, 324 N. Orange St., Glendale. thenocturnetheatre.com

Photo by Matthew Murphy for MurphyMade 

Pantages Theatre

Every once in a long while, a work of musical theatre magic comes along that utterly defies the rigid blueprint of Broadway traditions, opting instead to follow its own unbridled, wildly beating heart. The spectacular new musical adaptation of Sara Gruen’s beloved novel Water for Elephants, currently illuminating the stage of the Pantages, does not merely entertain—it reimagines what the theatre stage is capable of holding. Dynamic, atmospheric, and profoundly moving, this production is an absolute triumph of artistic innovation that renders the 2011 feature film adaptation a distant memory by comparison.

From its opening moments, the production establishes an enchanted theatrical language that feels both startlingly new and deeply rooted in storytelling tradition. While steeped in the dusty, weathered textures of 1930s Depression-era America, the overall concept and staging embrace an almost Brechtian sensibility. Rather than relying on heavy, literal sets or conventional kitchen-sink realism, the show relies on exposed craft, theatrical illusion, and raw ensemble power; we are constantly reminded of the artifice of the stage, yet that awareness only heightens the magic. It is an approach that strips away Broadway gloss and razzle-dazzle to reveal the gritty beating heart of a traveling circus world where survival and romance exist side by side on a razor's edge.  

At the center of this theatrical miracle is an ensemble that sets a high-water mark for collective stage artistry. The ensemble cast, dancers, and singers do not simply execute routines: they double as world-class acrobats, aerialists, and physical performers who look as though they could compete for the top honors on America’s Got Talent or step directly off the Pantages stage and into the big top of Cirque du Soleil. The physical discipline on display is breathless, yet it never feels like a mere display of technique—it is entirely woven into the emotional fabric of the narrative.

The chemistry between Zachary Keller and Helen Krushinski playing the leading roles of the star-crossed lovers Jacob and Marlena gives the show its emotional axis; their connection is palpably grounded and intensely moving. Musically, both deliver knockout performances: Keller’s quiet, luminous ballad "Silver Stars" is a breathtaking highlight, while Krushinski’s solo "What Do You Do?" hits with profound emotional resonance. When their voices merge in “Wild,” their dynamic duet, the show reaches the peak of its undeniable romantic magic.

This seamless fusion of circus discipline, gossamer puppetry, and dramatic storytelling is orchestrated by a creative team working at the absolute peak of their powers. The direction by Jessica Stone is nothing short of extraordinary, guiding the vast apparatus of the show with remarkable clarity and heart. Working in concert with co-choreographers Jesse Robb and Shana Carroll, the latter bringing her legendary expertise as circus designer and co-founder of The 7 Fingers, the movement in the show is unlike anything seen on a musical stage in recent memory. The choreography carries a distinct homage to the angularity, folk geometry, and narrative urgency of classic Agnes de Mille innovation, where every lift, tumble, and posture functions as a direct expression of human longing and endurance.  

The design team is nothing short of inspired, including Takeshi Kata’s sparse but clever sets, David I. Reynoso’s spectacularly colorful costuming, Walter Trabach’s sound design, David Bengali’s projections and Thai Nang-inspired shadow figures, and especially Bradley King’s incredibly provocative lighting.

Still, nowhere is the production’s commitment to imaginative theatricality more spellbinding than in its creation and execution of the stage's animal life. Designed by Ray Wetmore, JR Goodman, and Camille LaBarre, with expert puppet direction by Joshua Holden, the puppetry avoids any attempt at literal, mechanical realism. Instead, through fluid skeletal frameworks, exposed artistry, and the total physical devotion of the puppeteers, creatures like the majestic Rosie the elephant, the tragic circus horse, the lion, and the giraffe are given vibrant, pulsing life. Without ever masking the human performers operating them, these puppets evoke the very essence and breathing rhythm, weight, and emotional spirit of the animals themselves. Watching Rosie materialize and interact with the human cast becomes one of the most breathtakingly soul-stirring achievements of the evening.  

Rick Elice’s book is a showcase of pure craft in adaptation, paying deep deference to Gruen’s original source novel rather than taking cues from the movie, capturing the internal poetic grit and melancholic grandeur of the narrative. The story moves with a visceral momentum, balancing the epic scale of circus life in all its cruelty and dysfunction with tenderly intimate human drama.

Crucially, the musical identity of the production provides its truest soul. The score, crafted by the brilliant seven-member collective PigPen Theatre Co., comprising Alex Falberg, Arya Shahi, Ben Ferguson, Curtis Gillen, Dan Weschler, Matt Nuernberger, and Ryan Melia, is perhaps the single finest element of the entire production. Infused with a rich bluegrass and early roots-Americana feel featuring subtle hints of banjo and mandolin, the music evokes the haunting weather-beaten intimacy of early golden-era singer-songwriters with the rustic snarl of Tom Waits. The lyrics could have been credited to Joni Mitchell and I wouldn’t have been surprised for a moment; they are deeply poetic, completely character-driven, and utterly devoid of musical theatre cliché.

Water for Elephants is a breathtaking reminder of what happens when creators unapologetically throw away the rulebook and totally trust the evocative power of live theatre. Bold, inventive, and emotionally resonant, it is a production that will linger long after the big top comes down.

THROUGH SEPT. 27: Pantages Theatre, 6233 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood. 800.982.2787 or broadwayinhollywood.com 

Photo courtesy of Searchlight Pictures

Special to TicketHoldersLA by H.A. Eaglehart

I’ll never forget being a starry-eyed, aspiring teenage writer during my first semester of community college. On a backpacking trip in the Rocky Mountains, a classmate, over a donut in Durango, told me that I absolutely had to see a new film called In Bruges. At the time, two writers were majorly impacting my aspiration to forge a career with words. The first was Sherman Alexie, who gave an inspiring lecture at Fort Lewis College that I had the great fortune to attend. I'll never forget one of the things Alexie said: "If your work doesn't enrage the powers that be, then you're not writing truthfully."

On Tuesday night at the Directors Guild of America, it became my pleasure to finally say I’ve had the privilege of listening in person to the second writer discuss his work: Martin McDonagh.

The privilege of being one of the first in Los Angeles to see Wild Horse Nine, a definite contender for all the awards this year, was only second to sitting in the third row watching McDonagh onstage discuss his craft. There is a thread interconnecting his work that has always fascinated me: his ability to use storytelling as a vehicle for the audience to find commonality in island life. Perhaps one of the many great lines in this new film is John Malkovich's character telling a British character that he always preferred Ireland's side. As a Navajo born on my reservation, there is something deeply relatable in that line of stellar dialogue.

I have no doubt history was made this week through Malkovich's performance. My partner, Travis Michael Holder, tells a fascinating story from back in the day during one of the many times he was performing as Lennie in Of Mice and Men. Moira Sinise, wife of Gary Sinise who had starred in a film version of the classic opposite Malkovich, had attended opening night and returned the following week with Malkovich, a fellow Steppenwolf Theatre founder, so he could see Travis perform. The famously illusive star didn’t stay after the show but a few days later, he sent Travis an 8x10 photo of himself as Lennie to the theatre, signing it with a note saying Travis' Lennie was better than his. Travis must have been remarkable, because after seeing Wild Horse Nine, the depth and nuance of Malkovich's talent are once again strikingly on display.

During the Q&A at the DGA, McDonagh shared that the role for Sam Rockwell was written specifically for him—continuing a partnership seen in Seven Psychopaths and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. McDonagh admitted his stories are always character-driven, which is why he loves working with Rockwell. Watching Wild Horse Nine left me with the impression of a seeing a play more than a feature film, which speaks to McDonagh's brilliance. He gives actors so much rich material to work with and Rockwell takes it and runs seamlessly.

Growing up Navajo, I rarely saw authentic representation of Indigenous people in film until Sherman Alexie’s 1998 classic comedy-drama Smoke Signals, directed by Chris Eyre, which made history as the first feature film entirely written, directed, and produced by Native Americans to reach wide theatrical distribution. Authenticity matters deeply and during the talkback, McDonagh and leading actress Mariana Di Girolamo discussed their collaboration. McDonagh shared that after seeing Di Girolamo star in the 2019 Chilean drama Ema, he knew he wanted to work with her. Di Girolamo confided to the audience how McDonagh served as a mentor on set, as Wild Horse Nine marked her first comedy-drama. For me, the best part of their conversation was how vital it was for her character Monica to be played by a Chilean actor who could bring the requisite empathy, dignity, and respect to the role and the history of her country, which plays a vital part in the story.

No role is small when performed by the likes of Steve Buscemi, Parker Posey, or Tom Waits; Best Ensemble is by far the biggest award I would bestow on this film. Every character is written with the same care as every line of dialogue. That commitment to authenticity reigns supreme, leaving me weeping and laughing from start to finish. It extends directly to the film's locations, primarily filmed in Santiago, Chile and on Rapa Nui (Easter Island) and from casting Di Girolamo to shooting Waits' one cameo scene on location in Monument Valley rather than on a soundstage. It immediately recalled In Bruges, where Executive Producer Graham Broadbent shared a story during the talkback about when it was uncertain if they could shoot in Belgium: McDonagh simply declared, "Either we shoot it here or we don't make the film."

I won't spoil any of this brilliant filmmaking, but if you are looking for connection and commonality during one of the most turbulent times in American history, I wholeheartedly recommend Wild Horse Nine. And as someone who has made a career in equine therapy, I must admit a personal bias toward the film's closing line, delivered impeccably by Malkovich: "I wish I had killed fewer people and known a lot more horses."

OPENING NATIONWIDE NOVEMBER 7

Photo by David Esquivel 

Skylight Theatre

When Swiss dramatist Max Frisch wrote his 1953 radio play Biedermann und die Brandstifter in the wake of the Second World War, the frayed nerves of global disaster were still settling over the world. The play was born from his need to make sense of how ordinary, educated, seemingly sensible citizens could watch catastrophic forces approach in plain sight and still construct countless small excuses to accommodate them—eventually handing over their house keys and the very matches used to burn down their own homes.

Its first of several English translations for the stage was presented in America at San Francisco’s Actors’ Workshop in 1964 as The Firebugs, later reappearing again in 2007 at London’s Royal Court as The Arsonists translated by acclaimed Scottish playwright Alistair Beaton and starring a young unknown Benedict Cumberbatch. Three-quarters of a century since its inception, Frisch’s subtle/not-so subtle warning of the dangers of complacency has only grown more severe.

In the director’s notes for the current revival of Beaton’s version of The Arsonists now still playing with fire at the Skylight Theatre, Luke Harlan highlights Frisch’s famous description of the piece as a “morality play without a moral.” The narrative avoids heavy-handed lecturing or simplistic sermonizing, instead forcing theatergoers to sit watching the agonizing absurdity of passive human compliance. Yet even without a neat lesson wrapped up at the end, the core point becomes unmistakably clear to anyone in attendance: looking away while damage is being done is its own form of active participation.

This dynamic was given a fresh energy through this vibrant translation by Beaton, who made a career revitalizing classic satirical works by writers such as Frisch, Gogol, and Brecht. It delivers an adaptation that feels completely accessible and punchy for modern audiences without losing any of the script's original bite.

That central conflict demands an unvarnished comparison to our current political climate. As our increasingly more unhinged Apprenticadent Donald Trump and his political movement push forward with extreme claims, unprecedented structural and environmental renamings, plans for monumental golden statues of our monster-in-charge, and beyond it all the dismantling of long-standing democratic norms, those within his administration and the broader Republican Party consistently look the other way. They normalize his bizarre and dangerous behavior, negotiating away their own presumably once lofty principles, and treat obvious alarm bells and flashing red lights as if they were just standard political operating procedures.

In Frisch’s allegory, when a pair of random homeless traveling pyromaniacs unceremoniously move themselves into the home of Gottlieb Biedermann, they basically make no effort to hide their true identities. Instead, they state exactly what they are doing, yet Biedermann and his household rationalize every single warning sign, convincing themselves that if they show enough courtesy and hospitality, they will personally remain safe. In an absurd display of self-delusion, Biedermann proudly declares he is a modern man who does not care about class distinctions—a statement meant to project open-mindedness even as it seals his own fate.

Harlan’s direction is slick and sharply focused, driving the escalating nonsense at a brisk clip so that the comedic beats land right before the chilling reality settles in, while a massive portion of that dramatic impact comes from Stephen Gifford’s remarkable scenic environment.

The Skylight’s intimate space is transformed in ways rarely seen before, expanding out to the raw, exposed brick walls along the sides and back wall of the playing space. Gifford constructs a full two-story layout rising all the way up into the rafters, where the upper loft incorporates one of the venue's four actual physical skylights, an architectural detail of which even long-time patrons are unaware according to the theatre company’s newly minted Artistic Director Cameron Watson. Complimented by Jared Sayeg’s lighting effects and Drew Sensue-Weinstein’s ominous seat-rattling atmospheric soundscape, the physical staging is top-tier.

The cast breathes vivid life into this production. Tessa Auberjonois delivers a finely tuned performance as Biedermann’s perpetually anxious wife, perfectly capturing the nervous dread of a woman watching her household collapse from within, while as the fire marshal serving as a narrator to guide the play’s Greek chorus of firefighters, Seamus Mulcahy commands a charming authority that slyly introduces the show's theatrical framework.

The centerpiece of the production is Brian Wallace as Gottlieb Biedermann, who blends an infectious satirical wit with almost silent-era physicality. From the frantic adjustments he makes to his ratty toupee (another topical nod to current times?) to the way he holds his posture, his choices would make Harold Lloyd proud. The rapid shift in his body language as he alternates between mercilessly scolding his wife and desperately trying to flatter the intruders who have commandeered his attic is a joy to watch.

Praise also for Trevor Jonathan Lown and Liam Rhodes, who double as associate producers for this mounting as well as delivering magnificent teamwork onstage as the invaders, playing the arsonists with brash confidence and a constant, almost sinister amusement. Meanwhile, Jazelle Villanueva turns in a standout performance as Anna, the Biedermanns' long-suffering and increasingly frantic servant who sees the madness for what it is long before her employers do.

This staging of The Arsonists holds up a satirical mirror to our own tenuous national nightmare, offering a more than worthy revival of a mid-century classic: it is a timely, hilarious, and deeply unsettling wake-up call about what happens when people choose to hand over the matches.

 THROUGH SEPT. 20: Skylight Theatre, 1816½ N. Vermont Av., LA. 213.761.7061 or Skylighttix.com

Photo by Paul Rubinstein 

City Garage

Few theatres in Southern California engage with global socio-political urgencies as relentlessly or uncompromisingly as City Garage. With their West Coast premiere of Natalka Vorozhbyt’s Green Corridors, artistic director Frédérique Michel brings a devastating and timely piece of Ukrainian drama to Santa Monica. Translated with razor-sharp precision and vibrant, darkly humorous immediacy by John Freedman with Nataliia Bratus, the script preserves the full and harrowing trauma of displacement during wartime without losing its biting absurdity. It offers an urgently vital text and is an inspired programming choice for City Garage.

Michel’s staging is characteristically dynamic, highly kinetic and visually stylized, drawing heavily from a hyper-present commedia-infused performance tradition—recalling the raw, intense "Style" pioneered right down the street by Tim Robbins and the Actors’ Gang. Characters often address the audience directly, projecting hyper-amplified emotional states across the proverbial footlights.

It’s a concept that fits Vorozhbyt’s writing beautifully, yet it poses an extraordinary technical trap. In the claustrophobic intimacy of City Garage, where the audience sits in immediate proximity to the performers, the dreaded middle ground simply doesn’t work. A script this wordy and powerful requires a strict choice: either the playing must strip back to a starkly grounded simplicity, trusting the inherent weight of the language, or it must throw itself headlong into radically extreme exaggeration.

Too often, much of the cast here hovers between those two poles, most looking slightly uncomfortable in a technique that demands absolute unyielding discipline. When actors work too hard to perform intensity rather than inhabiting the extreme, the artifice can undercut the tragedy.

Yet when the technique finds its footing, the production soars, most notably in the central performance of the Irene Pappas-voiced Angela Beyer. Playing the central role of a well-known displaced film actress from Kyiv, Beyer is commanding and powerful, possessing a rare fluid command of the playing style and seamlessly navigating its extreme demands while maintaining an undeniable core of emotional truth.

Beyer’s work reaches its zenith in a scene titled "Waiting for Water" opposite Cruz St. James, who plays a TV producer who has cast her in his new series. St. James, making a welcome return after his City Garage debut in Charles Mee’s Limonade Tous les Jours only a few months ago, turns in another exceptionally strong performance.

While his portrayal of two female roles in the production occasionally verge on the self-conscious, leaning a bit too heavily into physical signifiers like constant hair-twiddling and delivering his lines in the nosebleed ranges of his vocal instrument, St. James is far more simple in his choices playing the less stylized male role of the producer. The encounter between him and Beyer’s actress begins as a polished exchange of mutual professional niceties before fracturing along political and ideological faultlines. As their wildly divergent realities collide, the room detonates and this scene easily provides the most thrilling high-stakes moments in the play.

Adding to the otherwise somewhat uneven ensemble is return of former City Garage company member Ricky Lee Grove, who came out of acting retirement for this production. Stepping into multiple roles, including a customs officer, a film director, and a horny doctor visiting a vulnerable refugee, Grove’s grounded authority provides the exact benchmark of stylistic comfort the production needs.

Green Corridors remains a vital, essential piece of theatre even as its ambitious physical choices occasionally strain against the cast’s technical expertise and comfort. The sheer force of Vorozhbyt’s voice, amplified by Freedman and Bratus’ highly contemporary translation, as well as Beyer and St. James’ stand-out performances, makes this an exceptionally important story to tell and a production that demands to be seen.

THROUGH SEPT. 27: City Garage, Bergamot Station Arts Center, 2525 Michigan Av., Santa Monica. 310.453.9939 or www.citygarage.org

Photo by Jeff  Lorch 

Ruskin Group Theatre

MacArthur “Genius” Fellow Samuel D. Hunter is quickly becoming this generation’s master cartographer of the marginalized, mapping the quiet, often devastating landscapes of rural isolation and emotional stagnation. His latest work, Grangeville, which is receiving a suitably fine Los Angeles debut from the Ruskin Group, strips away the clutter of most playwright wannabes to deliver what is indisputably the best play of the year in our often rather dry cultural oasis—and it's simply a towering achievement in pure ensemble performance.

The narrative spine of the play follows Jerry and Arnie (Jeff LeBeau and Tim Cummings), two half-brothers who haven’t spoken in years currently living continents apart suddenly forced to confront the toxic legacy of their upbringing. With the abusive mother who raised them now on her deathbed, the impending loss forces a painful reckoning with the ghosts of their past, albeit mostly by telephone and zoom across the miles from Jerry’s rural lifelong home in Grangeville, Idaho, and Amsterdam, where Arnie fled many decades before from persecution from his brother and his hometown’s rampant homophobia.

The two exceptional actors are each tasked with tackling dual roles to flesh out this delicate familial orbit and, in lesser hands, such a casting conceit could feel like a technical exercise or a showcase for virtuosity at the expense of substance. Here, however, LeBeau and Cummings become the ultimate posterchildren for what ensemble acting is truly about. The chemistry between them is so tightly knit, their rhythms so instinctively locked, that they evoke a sprawling world of shared history and unspoken resentment with nothing more than a shift in posture or a heavy silence. The result is two of the finest performances witnessed on a local stage this season.

I have personally grown deeply exhausted by the wave of modern “kitchen sink” drama that mistakes lecturing for playwriting. Too often theatre has evolved in the woke era to become a relentless exercise in being preached to, forcing audiences to sit through hours of characters aggressively whining about the unfair injustices of their lot in life as if we are personally responsible. Hunter addresses these identical heavy themes of personal and societal trauma without hitting us over the head with a thematic hammer. Instead of weaponizing grievance to make his audience feel inherently guilty or to take on the blame for the many unequal transgressions for which our society has certainly been responsible, Grangeville beautifully allows its characters to emerge as real flawed human beings who by the end of the play are actively on their way to healing themselves.

At its core, the play serves as a profound interrogation of the victim card and the quiet tragedy of wasted potential—and Hunter captures how easily human beings can let their lives slip away while marinating in past traumas and using those old still-festering wounds as an armor against moving forward.

This ideological current crests magnificently in a breathtaking monologue delivered by Cummings as Jerry’s estranged wife Stacy. In an unforgettable moment of clarity, the character cuts through the emotional stagnation to lay bare the fallacy of competitive suffering. She speaks of the insidious trap of spending our lives waiting for a reward for our pain, a cosmic acknowledgment or a validation from those who hurt us, clearly meant to remind us all that there is absolutely no guarantee that compensation will ever arrive. To spend a lifetime waiting for such reparation, she argues, is the ultimate waste of the precious time we’re given. It is a stunning, paradigm-shifting piece of writing, delivered with such a raw intensity by Cummings that stops the heart.

John Perrin Flynn’s direction throughout is strikingly austere and entirely flawless, allowing the actors and Hunter’s bruising dialogue to remain front and center. That minimalism makes the play’s incredible eleventh-hour shock attack of a set change all the more jarring.

It is on this specific design choice that I must step out from behind the traditional critic’s notebook. When the stage suddenly transforms into a section of the guys’ decrepit trailer where they grew up to clean out their mother's meager belongings, my immediate visceral reaction was that the new environment felt cartoonlike and exaggerated, too overly theatrical for such an intimate character piece.

But then, great theatre often doesn't end when the house lights come up and the true measure of a production's success is how it echoes when the memory and impact of it is absorbed back into the real world. On the drive home, my partner, who was born in similar disadvantage in a New Mexico Navajo reservation before his unstoppably ambitious father successfully pulled them out of it, began talking about his traumatic early upbringing, detailing similar realities of growing up in his own basically impoverished rural community.

I had heard these haunted stories from Hugh before, of course, but it wasn't until Hunter's uncompromising visual was burned into my mind's eye that the true weight of those memories finally clicked. The stark and uncompromisingly difficult reality of designer Stephanie Kerley Schwartz’s stage environment expertly bridged the gap between abstract storytelling and lived truth. It forced a wave of personal humility in me, having been raised in such contrasting comfort and safety and privilege, making me instantly realize how easily we can misunderstand the depth of others' hardships from a distance and how painfully claustrophobic some realities can be.

What is better than art that truly opens eyes and heals, especially without being excruciatingly obvious? Grangeville is theatre at its most vital: intimate, perfectly executed by Flynn and his creative team, and emotionally devastating. It doesn't just ask for your attention; it demands your empathy.

EXTENDED THROUGH SEPT. 21: Ruskin Group Theatre, 2800 Airport Av., Santa Monica. 310.397.3244 or www.ruskingrouptheatre.com

El Portal Theatre

Longtime Los Angeles weatherman Fritz Coleman retired in 2020 after four decades delivering his signature uncannily cheery forecasts on a daily basis but at age 76, his solo show Unassisted Residency, which plays once monthly at the El Portal’s intimate Monroe Forum, proves he’s still got the chops to deliver a jocular and lighthearted tsunami to his eager and most loyal fans.

Coleman began his career coming to LA to pursue his passion for standup comedy in the early 80s after first achieving success as a well-loved deejay radio personality in Buffalo, New York.

As the story goes, a producer at NBC caught his act one night at a local club and began to woo him to become a weatherman at KNBC-TV since our weather here was so consistent that he felt it needed a little on-air boost of humor to make it more interesting.

Delivering the daily forecast with a twinkle in his eye beginning in 1984 didn’t stop Coleman from continuing to chase his original dream by performing on local stages in several successful live shows, including his hilarious award-winning turn in The Reception: It’s Me, Dad! which played around town for several years to sold out houses.

Now, after leaving NBC four years ago, Coleman is back but the demographics have changed—or I might politely say… matured.

In my own case, as someone a year older than Coleman, his focus on finding the humor in aging is most welcome. In Unassisted Residency, the comedian talks about the challenges life has to offer in these, our so-called golden years, from physical deterioration to losing contemporaries on a regular basis to navigating the brave new world of technology and social media.

As his opening warmup act, the very funny and professionally self-deprecating Wendy Liebman notes, while looking out at the sea of gray hair and Hawaiian camp shirts in their audience, that Coleman chose to present his show as Sunday matinees so his target audience can shuffle our drooping derrières on home before dark.

Along the way, he also tackles subjects such as retirement communities, nonstop doctors’ appointments, incontinence, and Viagra, not to mention having grown up sucking in our parents’ omnipresent clouds of secondhand tobacco smoke and that generation’s lackadaisical attitude toward our safety and our health, all before moving on discuss to his all-new admiration for those heroic modern educators who during the pandemic had the patience to deal with zoom-teaching his grandkids.

The one thing he doesn’t talk much about is the weather—that is beyond mentioning how grateful he is that our current heat wave didn’t deter those gathered from venturing out of our caves and offering as a throwaway that one of the reasons he retired four years ago was climate change. Although he never says it, he doesn’t really have to; we get that even for someone as funny as Coleman, everyone has their limits when it comes to the potentially catastrophic future for our poor misused and abused planet.

Then when he launches into reminiscing about the amazingly incessant search for sexual gratification in our younger years (that time Stephen King once wrote when the males of the species all look at life through a spermy haze) and how that has changed since then. As a now single guy still looking for love—with some choice remarks about online dating sites—he tells a rather steamy tale about one date that proves it ain’t over ‘til it’s over, something of which I can definitely relate.

I first met Coleman in 1988 or 1989 when I did a feature interview with him as a cover story for The Tolucan (the more industry-oriented and less Evening Women’s Club-ish-pandering predecessor of the Tolucan Times).

He was gracious and charming and kept me laughing so hard back then that I couldn’t take notes fast enough, a knack he not only hasn’t lost but has sharpened considerably over the past 40 years. I couldn’t help wondering how many of the audience members at the Forum have been following him since then and for whom the topic of not-so gently aging hits home as dead-center as it did me.

This doesn’t mean you have to be 70-something to appreciate Fritz Coleman’s hilarious gift for creating homespun storytelling in his ever-extending monthly outing called Unassisted Residency.

My partner Hugh, who is a mere 42 years my junior and was quite literally at least three decades younger than anyone else in the audience last Sunday, laughed longer and louder than anyone else in the audience—perhaps a reaction to hearing me bitch continuously about getting old for the last 12 years?

NOW IN ITS THIRD YEAR! Plays one Sunday each month at the El Portal Theatre’s Monroe Forum Theatre, 5269 Lankershim Blvd., NoHo.  For schedule: www.elportaltheatre.com/fritzcoleman.html