by TRAVIS MICHAEL HOLDER 

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

Photo courtesy of Meyer2Meyer Entertainment 

Nocturne Theatre

Ah! The children of the night! What music they make! And what a special treat the seemingly unstoppably daring and slightly off-kilter visionaries rapidly putting Glendale’s re-envisioned Nocturne Theatre on the LA theatrical map have decided to bring their delightfully edgy and boldly sexy production of the seldom produced Dracula: The Musical back home to their stage for a limited run after its sold-out debut last season.

I have loved the spooky and mysterious allure of the classic 1931 film version of Bram Stoker’s 1897 masterpiece ever since first compulsively tuning into the brand-setting late Saturday night old horror movie-airing, Marvin the Near-sighted Madman-hosted series Shock Theatre whenever I was back home in Chicago as kid—a time when my best buddy Randy and I made the revelation together of how seductive vampiresses and exotically-accented undead Eastern European counts could turn film into a conduit for… er… mutual personal discovery.

My relationship with the dashing nighttime bedside bloodsucker has been a lifelong affair ever since. The original John L. Balderston and Hamilton Deane 1927 stage version on which the Bela Lugosi-Tod Browning film was based became one of the first productions I brought to my ambitious dinner theatre enterprise in the Lake Arrowhead Hilton near our weekend home in the early 80s, complete with an Edward Gorey designed set, gallons and gallons of stage blood, a dripping butcher-fresh cow’s heart ripped out of the count’s chest in the finale, and me in the director’s chair as well as chewing up the scenery (and my share of gummy spiders and flies) in the role of the Master's infamous deliciously deranged sidekick Renfield.

Over the decades, I’ve inhabited this story from the inside out, culminating with my returning a quarter-century later in 2009 and well into 2010 to take on the equally juicy and stylistically over-the-top role of Dr. Van Helsing in Ted Monte and Terry Duddy’s adaptation The House of Besarab, mounted in an environmental staging that took audiences following our cast from richly vintage-appointed room to room throughout the massive and historic American Legion Post 43 on Highland Avenue in Hollywood—the 1929 art deco Egyptian Revival landmark made famous by its legendary equally immersive nine-year run of Tamara. What was slated for a four-week run stretched into several months for us, reinforcing just how deeply this notorious and familiarly gloomy vampire narrative grips an audience when brought up close.

Some people prefer their musical theatre bright and sunny and filled with corn as high as an elephant’s eye and nuns worrying about the problem of Maria but personally, give me the strange, the seductive, and sinister and dangerous every time. Seeing Frank Wildhorn, Don Black, and Christopher Hampton’s Dracula: The Musical performed in the Nocturne’s imaginative and incredibly rare intimate in-the-round staging reminded me why this notorious tale never loses its—if you’ll excuse the expression—bite.

Beginning at La Jolla Playhouse in 2001 before heading to Broadway in 2004, this too-often overlooked Phantom of the Opera-emboldened incarnation of the Dracula legend is far more soaring operetta than traditional musical comedy. As such, Wildhorn’s lush, sweepingly dramatic score requires legit vocal power across the board and where Justin and Melissa Meyers, the enterprising couple who turned the long-shuttered former Glendale Center Theatre into this venue, find so many insanely gifted non-Equity performers is something of a minor miracle.

Under the seamlessly flowing direction of Justin Meyer himself, who also impressively assays the demanding title role, the entire ensemble delivers vocals that practically blast their audience right out onto Orange Street. Meyer commands the stage as Dracula, matching vocal stamina with an arrestingly brooding presence. Opposite him, Samantha Rose as the Count’s romantic obsession Mina Murray also delivers a standout vocal performance, with her Act II ballads “The Heart is Slow to Learn” and “If I Could Fly,” as well as her haunting follow-up duet with Meyer, “Mina’s Seduction / There’s Always a Tomorrow,” anchoring the emotional core of the second act.

AJ Castro as poor Jonathan Harker is also possessed of some purdy impressive pipes and is especially good when working alongside Christian Lees, Tyler Angier, and Truman Bjarke as the trio of suitors panting after Mina’s doomed friend Lucy (Kelly Krippendorf), together forming a dynamic vocal unit functioning as a sort of darkly Gothic barbershop quartet that absolutely rocks the theatre with tight harmonies and vocal firepower. J.D. Wallis makes a quintessential Van Helsing and whomever managed to come up with a crucifix that sets itself on fire in his hands when first confronting his arch-nemesis must also be commended.

Andrew Diego, who appeared to have his own personal fan club cheering him on opening night, gives a wonderfully unhinged performance as the asylum-bound Renfield, capturing both the manic complexity and the usually underplayed tragic nature of the character. Adding to the atmospheric terror, singer Abhaya Krishman-Jha and aerialists Lisa-Marie Burnside, Rachel Fictum, Kimberly Butler as the Count’s sensual and titillatingly underdressed Vamps, innovatively contribute overhead wire and silk work that bring a jaw-dropping extra layer of visual chills to the staging.

Melissa Meyer’s choreography, along with the aerial moves designed by Burnside, smoothly handle the spatial demands of staging in-the-round with an uncanny precision, while musical director Chris Wade brings out the full weight of Wildhorn’s crashingly brilliant score. Sound engineers Matt Merline and Julia Vollstedt master the difficult acoustic environment of the all-enveloping four-sided theatre experience where sightlines and sound balance can easily betray a production, complimenting Meyer’s staging with total fluidity.

Once again, Tanya Cyr’s worldclass costume design, such an integral component of the tremendous success of the company’s splashy The Little Mermaid this Spring, is both visually stunning and tremendously creepy, marking yet another triumph for the Nocturne’s wardrobe department. Her designs especially excel in tracking Dracula’s various stages of physical transformation, giving his evolving visage a menacing visceral impact. Meyer’s lighting plot, which must share cues with the theatre’s production of The Full Monty, also now in performance in the same space, is surely testament to this guy’s many gifts.

Speaking of that, I love that this boldly erotic vision of Dracula: The Musical is being performed in rep right now with the equally adult-oriented The Full Monty; whichever kind of human anatomy you prefer to witness—or perhaps both?—the Nocturne is a great destination and perfectly over-cooled to beat our current heatwave. Nobody in this town is accomplishing this musical theatre-meets-Paris’ Crazy Horse hybrid quite as successfully as Justin and Melissa Meyer this long hot summer and their ambitious Quixote-like mission to transform this landmark Glendale space into a powerhouse venue for Los Angeles theatre is nothing short of astounding.

THROUGH AUG. 23: Nocturne Theatre, 324 N. Orange St., Glendale. thenocturnetheatre.com   

Photo by Elena Seyfarth 

Blue Pen Theatre Company

What a joy it is to see Charles Mee’s work back on Los Angeles stages this season after an entirely too long absence. First came City Garage’s magical production of Limonade Tous Les Jours and now the ambitious, discerning fledgling Blue Pen Theatre Company is presenting the LA premiere of Mee’s Tunnel of Love. Adding to the occasion is the setting: the site-specific Majic Factory, housed inside the historic 1908 Echo Park Clubhouse and Library—the very first location ever maintained by the Los Angeles Recreation and Parks Department.

The play itself, dubbed a “kaleidoscope of love stories” in classic Mee fashion, eschews conventional linear narrative to assemble a collage of human connection: wild, messy, sublime, and sometimes painful. Characters collide, confess, dance, and debate, offering a vibrant tapestry of romance in both its most vulnerable and most chaotic permutations.

Back in 2004, I had the privilege of playing Frank in the LA premiere of Mee’s Summertime—the second production to inaugurate the then-new Boston Court Performing Arts Center, brilliantly directed by Michael Michetti and featuring an early glimpse of the extraordinary Tessa Thompson playing my daughter.

It was an absolute flashback for me that early in Tunnel of Love, Nika Burnett as the romancaphobic Ziya launched into the monologue about how each of us has only one true love in life. It was the exact same monologue I delivered to open Act Two of our production 22 years ago.

That cross-pollination of text speaks directly to Mee’s generously open-sourcing theatrical philosophy. He famously encourages artists to dismantle, reassemble, and freely interpret his texts. That same artistic freedom explains why Nalini Sharma here delivers a blistering monologue railing against men—complete with a string of penis jokes—that was originally delivered in our Summertime production by the incomparable Sandy Martin (the grandmother in Napoleon Dynamite and Sam Rockwell’s mother in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri).

Blue Pen deserves real praise for their sheer bravado and a nothing-stops-us quest to bring such incredible and frequently overlooked works to our scrappy local theatre community, this second outing following their maiden production last season of Aaron Posner’s Stupid Fucking Bird—coincidentally another play I had the honor of doing in its LA debut, also under Michetti’s guidance at the Boston Court.

What stands out most here is the pure ambition and resourcefulness of this young cast. Burnett, Sharma, Solomon Astley, Amanda Perez, Joel Allen, Jodi Moore Lewis, Alessandro Marino, and Nick Samson operate as a remarkably cohesive, gamely onboard ensemble, with Burnett and Lewis offering especially grounded and compelling stand-out work throughout the evening.

Adding to the production's ingenuity is the inventive addition of live music, with bandleader Brett Rojas on drums, Lein Escudero on keyboards, and Matthew Perez on bass and guitar providing a dynamic soundtrack backed by Burnett delivering some impressive vocal stylings.

Director Mark Sitka handles the difficult playing space with tremendously fluid, engaging staging, well-complemented by Chrissy Harding’s energetic choreography. The performances are effective overall, showcasing a rare passion for tackling difficult, unsanitized material on a lean budget. My only operational critique concerns the acoustic environment: in a two-sided audience configuration and considering the venue’s high vaulted ceiling, when actors turn away from one section, Mee’s not-to-be-missed dialogue too often gets lost. The addition of subtle body mics would easily solve the issue and keep every word intact.

Ultimately, Blue Pen’s production honors the foundational ethos of Chuck Mee’s worldview. Back in 2004, when I interviewed the playwright for Entertainment Today, he attributed the decline of American theatre to the "triumph of naturalism and the well-made play, which is boring people crazy out of their minds." Instead, Mee championed a return to the "immense energies" of the Greek classics and Shakespeare, a theatre that encompasses spectacle, music, dance, color, and noise alongside text.

As Mee explained from his home in New York at the time, "So much of our theatre and movies make us stupid and ill-prepared to live our lives because they seduce us into believing that human destiny is worked out only in the intimacy of one-on-one relationships. I like plays that are not too neat, too finished, too presentable. My plays are broken, jagged, filled with sharp edges, filled with things that take sudden turns. They careen into each other, smash up, veer off in sickening turns. That feels good to me. It feels like my life. And then I like to put this chaotic stuff into a classical form.

"Things invade each other all the time, so if you collage material and let farce live side-by-side with horror, plays can turn on a dime the way real life does. I've come to believe that art is most pleasurable not when it closes us down, narrows our perceptions and sympathies, draws boundaries of appropriateness or goodness, but when it opens us up."

That commitment to juxtaposition—high and low, tragic and farcical, intellectual and physical—demands a rare kind of courage from performers. When Michael Michetti directed us in Summertime, he gave us all a piece of advice that remains the ultimate barometer for any company tackling Mee’s canon: "Be brave, commit to the language, the physicality, the passion, the jagged journey, and find the place where that reality meets your heart. I think that’s where Chuck’s plays live."

In the historic yet raw space of a former Echo Park Craftsman clubhouse, Blue Pen’s spirited cast accepted that very invitation. They brought bravery, resourcefulness, and undeniable heart to Mee’s jagged and beautiful world—and Los Angeles theatre is all the richer for their commitment.

THROUGH AUG. 23: Blue Pen Theatre at the Majic Factory, 1004 Echo Park Av., LA. www.bluepentheatre.com  

Photo by Cooper Bates 

Echo Theater Company at Atwater Village Theatre

There an undeniably electrifying magic that happens when a brilliant and courageous playwright, a veteran director gifted with uncanny surgical precision, and a seamless ensemble of actors align. Echo’s  stunning world premiere of Erik Patterson’s F**king Strangers delivers just that: a penetrating and deeply contemporary exploration into the intertwined nature of connection, deception, and our species’ universal craving to be seen and loved.

Patterson, whose formidable body of work (Handjob, One of the Nice Ones) has long established him as one of Los Angeles’ most vital theatrical voices, has penned a piece that’s as hilarious as it is piercing and often uncomfortable. Under the spot-on clockwork leadership of director Chris Fields, founder and artistic director of the Echo, the production navigates a breakneck series of quick cinematic scene transitions with such fluid grace that the rhythm never falters, a rare feat in plays structured with such rapid shifts that the momentum often gets lost in the dark.

At the heart of the production is what easily stands as one of the most cohesive ensemble casts of the year. Echo audiences will immediately recognize three of the four actors from the theatre’s memorable production of Samuel D. Hunter’s Clarkston, also directed by Fields two seasons back, a presentation that garnered my annual TicketHolder Awards for Best Production, Best Actor in a Play for Michael Sturgis, Best Supporting Actress for Tasha Ames, and my New Discovery 2024 Award for then LA theatre newcomer Sean Luc Rogers.

These remarkable performers’ well-honed artistic shorthand with one another is quite palpable here, perhaps making it a tad intimidating for Strangers’ additional castmember James Tupper—or then again, perhaps not. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall during rehearsals to see the process unfold.

Rogers captures the volatile, seeking energy of Patterson’s Teorema-esque pivotal role, a smoldering and successful callboy with a soul and a troubled past, mining a unique sincerity when delivering lines with an effortless magnetic charisma—including a quite endearing self-assessment for Dylan’s choice of profession: “I’m a sexual kaleidoscope... I like to help people.”

Sturgis turns in a staggering performance, finding a delicate though intensely complicated vulnerability as the agoraphobic Ru—and he appears to lay it bare with an incredible and, I’m sure, deceptive ease. What’s most remarkable is how subtly he masks his character's true motives for seeking out and befriending Dylan online in the first place. It’s a secret kept hidden from the audience in real time but in retrospect every layer, every choice, every flicker of intent is right there on display all along and Sturgis delivers a masterclass in quiet calculation and emotional complexity.

Ames once again proves her remarkable range, bringing depth, a worldclass comic timing, and a grounded humanity to every moment she inhabits, while Tupper offers an initially world-weary presence as a conflicted father with a complicated secret extracurricular sex life who becomes caught in the center of the play’s heightening storm. The lessons Mick learns along the way about how to calm his guilt and trust his feelings unfortunately eventually proves to be a condition that, in the last analysis, proves devastating.

At its core, F**king Strangers grapples with the quiet desperation of modern life and our attempt to be brave enough to tackle the desire to step out from behind our carefully curated facades and simply be recognized. As Patterson reminds us, "Fiction is the lie that tells the truth," and this sensational wordsmith uses his fiction to hold up a strikingly accurate mirror to humanity's collective loneliness.

If there is any reservation in an otherwise flawless evening of theatre at its most riveting, it lies in the play’s final moments. Without spoiling the narrative turns, Mick makes a decision at the climax that personally to me felt unsatisfactory and painfully misguided. I yearned to see the character break free toward happiness and building a fresh chapter with someone truly worthy of him, stepping away from the self-centered figures in his life who should be making the effort to find themselves rather than demanding that sacrifice from him.

Perhaps that lingering ache is a testament to how deeply we come to care for these characters over the course of 90 minutes. Here's hoping Patterson might consider in the future writing a F**king Strangers: Part Two, if only to give Mick a second chance and the bighearted Dylan the resolution he deserves.

THROUGH AUG. 24: Echo Theater Company, Atwater Village Theatre, 3269 Casitas Av., LA. (747) 350-8066 or EchoTheaterCompany.com   

Photo courtesy of Meyer2Meyer Entertainment 

Nocturne Theatre

Baring more than just naked male flesh, the human heart is on full display in the Nocturne’s sparking and inventive revival of the musical version of the hit 1997 British film The Full Monty.

There’s a distinct brand of magic that happens when the glossy, hyper-polished expectations of commercial theatre is stripped (no pun intended) away and replaced with something raw, honest, and without an ensemble that uniformly resembles a physically perfect chorus line inhabited only by Barbie and Ken clones. While musical theatre often demands a parade of flawless physical specimens moving in pristine uniform synchronicity, David Yazbek and Terrence McNally’s The Full Monty has always stood as a defiantly hilarious antidote to that aesthetic.

In its current staging, directed with stunning spatial intelligence by Andy Meyers, this modern classic reminds us exactly why it stole our hearts in the first place: it is a story about real, beautifully imperfect people who don’t need to look like supermodels to be deeply appreciated.

To truly appreciate the enduring power of The Full Monty, it helps to look at its remarkable lineage. The property began its life almost almost 30 years ago with the notorious film set against the bleak backdrop of post-industrial Sheffield, England. When McNally and Yazbek adapted it for the Broadway stage in 2000, they brilliantly transplanted the action to Buffalo, New York, transforming a distinctly British comedy into an American blue-collar anthem—and the production went on to become a critical and audience favorite that snagged 10 Tony nominations and ran for over two years.

The show's cultural relevance hasn't faded a bit; in fact, the Great White Way is preparing to welcome these infamous six out-of-work steelworkers back to the main stem as the Roundabout Theatre has officially announced a highly anticipated Broadway revival set to open in the spring of 2027 at the Todd Haimes Theatre directed by Leigh Silverman. Still, while New York audiences will have to wait until next year to experience this resurgence, SoCal theatregoers are getting a quintessential return to the fun of it right now at the Nocturne.

Having personally spent a significant portion of my youth working within the confines of theatre-in-the-round, I know firsthand the unique and often terrifying logistical nightmares that restrictive environment can present. There’s no backstage to hide behind, no proscenium arch to frame a picture-perfect image, and a director is constantly playing a game of human chess to ensure half the audience isn't staring at an actor's back for 20 minutes.

This makes the work of Meyers and choreographer Dean Bias nothing short of miraculous as together, they utilize every inch of the playing space with fluid, dynamic blocking that keeps the energy radiating outward. The movement feels organic rather than mechanical, ensuring that characters remain vibrant and visible to all corners of the house. Bias’ choreography strikes the perfect balance; it’s tight and structurally sound yet captures the deliberate and endearing clumsiness of a group of amateurs learning how to move together.

At the center is this game and absolutely on-point cast, as what makes this particular group so triumphant is their mutual grounded vulnerability. These performers possess formidable acting chops and richly resonant belt singing voices, instantly capturing the desperation and dignity of out-of-work men without relying on caricature. Simply, they make you fall completely in love with them because of their flaws, not in spite of them.

While the entire ensemble operates at a high level, the six less-than-youthful actors who attempt to initiate their newly formed “Heavy Metal” troupe of unlikely prospective male strippers carry the emotional weight of the evening beautifully.

The big-voiced Gerry Tonella is affective in the leading role of the group’s instigator Jerry and is well matched by David Gallic as his skeptical less-than ectomorphic cohort Dave. Lonnie Jones III is a delight as Horse, especially in his James Brown-esque solo  “Big Black Man,” who becomes the sixth member (again, no pun intended) they hire to join them in their escapades when they assume by living up to his name, he will give Heavy Metal a little bit… er… extra.

Thomas Adoue Polk is a major standout as the nebbishy, painfully insecure, and previously friendless Malcolm, finding the delicate comedy in the character’s crippling anxiety and making his gradual emotional awakening rewarding to watch. The peak of the evening’s emotional storytelling belongs to Adoue Polk joined by the charismatic Truman Bjarke as Ethan in their sweet second-act duet of blossoming love "You Walk With Me," sung with exceptional vocal control and a quietly devastating sincerity. Their performance of this ballad centers the musical’s core message that human connection is the ultimate safety net.

On the entirely opposite end of the theatrical spectrum—and stealing the show with every entrance—is Pat Sibley as Jeanette, the tough-talking, chain-smoking rehearsal accompanist. Channeling the dry-witted energy of a geriatric Eve Arden, Sibley is a comedic force of nature, offering the kind of performance that leaves the audience leaning forward eager for her next line. That devotion is fulfilled totally with her delivery of the showstopping "Jeanette's Showbiz Number," combining old-school vaudevillian grit with razor-sharpsarcasm.

The production also benefits from a little well-placed nepotism with the casting of William Morrow, whose father Wes plays Harold, as Jerry’s smart-ass son Nathan. The preteen newby grounds the production with a maturity that belies his years and anchors the familial stakes of the plot with a sharp-witted charm that makes him an absolute joy to watch—although I should cop to a little possible lack of objectivity here since this kid reminds me a lot of myself at his tender age. Hold on tight, young Master Morrow.

A David Yazbek score requires a very specific musical sensibility: it needs to feel loose, driving, and heavily rooted in funk and rock 'n' roll. Musical director Chris Wade leads an exceptional live band that gives the production its steady, infectious heartbeat. The instrumentation is incredibly tight, particularly highlighted by the phenomenal keyboard work of Alonzo Pirio and blistering guitar solos courtesy of Lowell Wolfe. Wade's band never overpowers the cast; instead, they lock into a groove that elevates the vocal performances and drives the narrative forward with relentless momentum.

If I have one major druther with the piece as a whole, it lies not with this stellar production but within the text itself. Watching the show through today's sensibilities, it is a bit of a disappointment—and increasingly jarring—to hear these unemployed steelworkers completely dismiss the idea of taking jobs as security guards, retail workers at the mall, or other positions they deem too menial. When one character goes so far as to dub these available potential jobs as "women's work," it highlights a deeply myopic worldview that feels incredibly dated in 2026. One can only hope that before this musical returns to the Broadway stage next spring, the powers-that-be will take a hard look at the script and find a way to correct or reframe these outmoded gender tropes to better reflect contemporary perspectives.

That said, The Full Monty at the Nocturne is a triumphant reminder of what makes regional theatre in general and scrappy intimate theatre in LA so vital. It bypasses the sterile perfectionism so often found in modern potential cashcow productions to give us something far more valuable: a night of theatre infused with legendary irreverent McNally-style laughter, genuine human warmth, and a heaping helping of soul.

It’s a hilariously unexpected celebration of the ordinary that, by the time the guys’ drop their drawers and briefly flash the audience in the raucous “Let It Go” finale, they have everyone in the house on their feet swaying and hooting as though they’re enjoying a night out at Chippendale’s without the buffed hunks that once made the ladies out for a carefree singles’ night cream their proverbial jeans.

THROUGH AUG. 16: Nocturne Theatre, 324 N. Orange St., Glendale. thenocturnetheatre.com 

Photo by Keith Stevenson

Ruskin Group Theatre

In a theatrical landscape often crowded with elaborate staging, the Ruskin Group’s world premiere of Painted Ponies reminds us of the power of minimalism. Utilizing a simple, nearly set-less design featuring a couch, a bed and a couple of incidental tables placed in front of black curtains, playwright Ian McRae’s solo play strips away all visual distractions to place the focus exactly where it belongs: on raw narrative and the masterful actor driving it.

The true centerpiece of this production is Rachel Sorsa, who delivers a riveting, genuinely mesmerizing performance as Pam, a fiercely determined mother deeply strapped down to a miserable little life by the horrific circumstances mostly brought on by her own past decisions—a distinction she completely and unequivocally owns. It is immediately obvious that Sorsa shares a symbiotic relationship with her gifted and always dependable director Elina de Santos, resulting in a meticulously crafted character study.

It is nothing short of uncanny how completely Sorsa manages to get under the physically fragile skin of such a complex and deeply troubled individual. Inhabiting the role with total conviction, she captures every nuance of a tortured fractured psyche, sharply executing the production's conceptual goal: portraying a terminally ill woman stubbornly trying to hold her head high as she struggles to make a brittle peace with intense regret and profound loss—all the while shakily remaining standing as the world brutally spins around in her tiny, claustrophobic apartment.

As a piece of writing, first and foremost the play serves as a perfect vehicle to showcase a brilliant performer; in lesser hands than Sorsa's or not under the precision guidance of de Santos, the result could be far less worthy.

Still, McRae’s exceptionally provocative and quick-witted dialogue flows smoothly and remains consistently fascinating, never losing its sharp edge as he utilizes the metaphor of a vintage boardwalk carousel to mirror the character’s ever-discouraging existence. “I was thinking about that when telling Pam's story in Painted Ponies,” he explains, “the ups and downs of life as we circle through it.”

In execution, however, the narrative itself leaves behind a lingering dissatisfaction. While the marketing frames this as a story of resilience and refusing to let tragedy have the final word, the actual experience for the viewer tells a different story. It remains in the final analysis a persistent, haunting cross-examination, but sadly without a detectable verdict.

The purpose of telling this specific and most harrowing tale remains elusive. Painted Ponies is relentlessly bleak; it begins in a place of profound despair and never really lets up. By the time the final curtain falls, the audience is left without a moment’s resolution to Pam's central conflicts, as there’s no discernible character arc or eleventh-hour emollient, leaving the ending just as depressing and desolate as the play’s beginning.

Ultimately, although a provocative character study, Painted Ponies offers little to learn or ponder beyond the tragic realization of what a sad life this one broken person has lived. While Sorsa’s powerhouse performance and de Santos’ clear, symbiotic direction make it a compelling watch for enthusiasts of the only occasional purity of the craft of acting, the unrelenting hopelessness of the script leaves a stark gap between the production's intent and the reality of the journey.

THROUGH AUG. 9: Ruskin Group Theatre, 2800 Airport Av., Santa Monica. 310.397.3244 or www.ruskingrouptheatre.com 

Photo courtesy of LucasFilms 

It was 49 years ago this month when I was invited to the very first screening of a new science fiction feature film and went with some reluctance. Although in many of my circles it was talked about as possibly being something special, it was a totally unknown entity to me and Victor and I almost stayed home, thinking what we were about to see might be something landing smackdab between The Giant Claw and Captain Video: Master of the Stratosphere.

The movie was the original Star Wars and, of course, the rest is history.

Now, almost a half-century later and after over two years (and a couple of wonderful Thanksgivings) hearing about the making of the 12^th Star Wars epic from our dear friend and the film’s co-producer Ian Bryce and his amazing assistant Cerise Preston, my partner Hugh and I were thrilled to be invited to a special cast and crew preview screening last week of an all-new and much-anticipated blockbuster in the most celebrated film franchise in motion picture history.

Sneaking onto the guest list of an exciting private screening as part of the 100-year anniversary of the El Capitan Theatre in Hollywood two blocks from our home made the event even more memorable. Such extra treats as a Disney-friendly overture played by the theatre’s resident organist Rob Richards, who has since 1999 played over 4,000 live pre-screening concerts from the historic stage at the classic 1929 pipe organ saved when the Fox Theatre in San Francisco was demolished in the early 60s, as well as a special grand Star Wars-themed laser show right after Richards and his massive Wurlitzer disappeared into the bowels of the place and a knockout immersive sound plot that caused the entire theatre to shake with every explosion and rollercoaster ride zipping through space, gave us an experience almost as epic as the film itself.

Almost.

Without a doubt, The Mandalorian & Grogu delivers the pure big-screen-designed Star Wars experience which has been missing. For seven long years, the galaxy far, far away has been absent from movie theatres, leaving fans forced to get their fix on home screens. 

With writer-director Jon Favreau’s latest saga, the franchise makes a triumphant return to the cinema where it belongs. While some traditionally cynical critics are already dismissing it as an expanded TV series episode, they are missing the forest for the trees. This isn’t a self-serious, existential space opera; it is a totally thrilling and expertly crafted blockbuster built specifically to maximize the scale, sound, and pure joy of the theatrical experience.

At its core, the film succeeds because it strips away the convoluted lore of the recent small screen seasons and returns to the lean, mean, space-western roots that made us fall in love with George Lucas’ original marvel way back in 1977. 

We find that titular bounty hunter Din Djarin (Pedro Pascal) right where he belongs: acting as a lethal, pragmatic hired gun for the New Republic, tracking down the dangerous, scattered remnants of the Imperial cells with cinema-sized graphics and continuous kinetic action. What sets all this apart from its streaming predecessor is the jaw-dropping sense of scale. 

Favreau has explicitly stated that this film was “forged” for the big screen and that’s where the influence of our pal Ian Bryce becomes undeniably apparent.

Ian famously started his career as a production assistant on 1983’s Return of the Jedi before producing the Oscar-nominated and BAFTA Best Film-winning Almost Famous, then going on to produce massive, tactile Hollywood blockbusters such as Saving Private Ryan, Twister, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Transformers series, and Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man—making him the 14^th highest grossing film producer in motion picture history.

He once again brings grand-scale, physical action choreography back to the Star Wars franchise. Under his guidance, the film trades the static, stage-bound feel and inherent limitations of television for truly dynamic filmmaking relying heavily on breathtaking visuals. Every frame of the stunning, practical effects-heavy cinematography reflects this massive blockbuster pedigree and nowhere is this clearer than in the film's masterfully handled action set-pieces.

The undisputed highlight is an extended, high-stakes battle sequence taking place entirely within the churning interior of a roaming AT-AT walker. Bryce and Favreau turn the classic Imperial machine into a living, breathing level of an action movie. It’s a claustrophobic, tactile sequence as Mando navigates the massive moving gears, industrial catwalks, and vertical shafts of the walker. The direction provides audiences with a thrilling, grounded perspective on classic Star Wars machinery like we’ve never witnessed before.

The film also shines in its aerial dogfights. The Razor Crest—or rather, Mando’s customized N-1 Starfighter—is pushed to its absolute limits in a breathtaking chase through an unstable asteroid field and the sound design, featuring the seismic charges and the deafening roar of starship engines bouncing off the rococo walls of the El Capitan, is alone worth the price of admission. The entire production carries the unmistakable signature of Ian Bryce's classic, heavy-metal blockbuster sensibilities.

Of course, the heart, humor, and magic of Grogu and his bond with Mando are the emotional anchors of the story. For anyone worried that the character of the ultra-cute non-speaking puppy dog young apprentice would feel like a cheap marketing tool on the big screen, the film quickly puts those fears to rest. The tangible, seamless puppeteering work brings the character to life with an astonishing amount of personality, providing the film with its biggest laughs and its most genuine heart.

The supporting cast shines as well, most notably Sigourney Weaver as Colonel Ward, Mando’s gritty New Republic contact, who brings an immediate, grounded gravitas to the outer rim and serves as the perfect foil for Pascal’s stoic warrior.

The verdict, for me, is in. The Mandalorian and Grogu doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel, nor does it carry the usual narrative weight of a sprawling multi-film trilogy. Instead, it offers a beautifully paced galactic adventure that delivers exactly what it promises. It’s a cinematic ride that rewards the fans, celebrates the tactile mysteries of the universe, and reminds us how much fun Star Wars can be when worldclass ingenuity and breathtaking theme park-style entertainment are the focus and a major film was bravely greenlighted to become sheer movie magic at its best.

Ultimately, however, what made sharing this continuation of a legendary saga with its uber-talented cast members and creators so unique for me personally wasn't just what happened onscreen but what happened after.

As the extensive credits rolled against a black screen, accompanied by Ludwig Göransson’s future award-worthy score, no one seated in the theatre moved. No one bolted for the lobby. Not a single person. Instead, the entire audience sat in reverent appreciation, cheering as the names of their talented friends and colleagues filled the screen. It might sound like an elemental reaction but for me, witnessing that unexpected display of collective respect was a deeply moving finale to an unforgettable adventure.

THANK YOU, IAN! 

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