by TRAVIS MICHAEL HOLDER 

Photo by Jeff Lorch 

El Portal Theatre

Hopefully many true lovers of theatre were paying enough attention not to miss a triumphant evening for a great cause. It’s almost tragic that a fleeting and long-overdue remounting David Auburn’s Proof was scheduled for only a four-night run. Given the magnitude of talent, time, and production values poured into this staging, it felt like a theatrical comet: brilliant, breathtaking, and gone far too soon. Still, as a benefit for the Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson’s Research, its brief impact burned remarkably bright.

Revisiting Proof, which captured both the Pulitzer Prize and the Tony Award in 2001, left me utterly gobsmacked all over again. I had forgotten just how smart, emotionally intricate, and profoundly moving Auburn’s script truly is. It remains a testament to dramatic writing, balancing the cold elegance of higher mathematics with the warm, messy realities of grief, genius, and mental illness.

To bring a script of this caliber to life requires actors that don’t just perform but breathe together. This four-person cast is absolute gold, the quintessential example of what true ensemble performance looks like. That seamless chemistry is no doubt thanks in large part to the sharp, deeply insightful direction of Stuart Rogers, whose confident hand kept the tension taut and the humanity front and center.

At the heart of the story is Hayden Begley, making an auspicious debut in the notoriously difficult role of Catherine, navigating the character’s prickly vulnerability and fierce intellect with astonishing grace. Playing opposite her as her brilliant but declining father is her real-life father Ed Begley Jr., long absent from the stage and himself living with Parkinson’s, who turns in a performance both devastatingly heartbreaking and deliciously dry. Watching the authentic father-daughter dynamic bleed into Auburn's dialogue created a quiet electricity that proved quite extraordinary.

Rounding out the quartet are two exceptional supporting performances: Kate Woods as Catherine’s sister Claire, masterfully balancing genuine sibling care with a sharply acerbic edge that keeps their dynamic dangerously real, and Kelly Sry shining brightly as Hal, Catherine’s love interest, bringing boundless infectious energy to the role of the passionate super-nerd whose devotion to the math (and Catherine) drives the plot forward.

For me personally, watching Ed Begley Jr. on the historic 100-year-old El Portal stage brought everything full circle in a way that hit close to home. Aside from beginning my own youthful career nearly seven decades ago being grilled nightly on the witness stand by his father Ed Begley in his Tony-winning turn in the original Inherit the Wind, many years later, during my tenure as Talent Coordinator at the legendary Troubadour in its “Golden Years,” Ed Jr. was a regular doing stand-up at our famous Monday night future star-making open-mike Hoot Nights and I had the privilege of giving him what I believe was his very first professional emceeing gig. To see him some five-and-a-half decades later delivering such a courageous and masterful performance alongside his equally talented daughter was an emotional moment I won't soon forget.

Beyond Rogers’ direction and the performances, the world of the play was flawlessly realized by a stellar creative team, including Matt Richter’s atmospheric lighting subtly shifting the mood between memory and reality with expert precision and Cricket S. Myers’ sound design enriching every beat without ever overpowering the delicate dialogue. And above it all, Joel Daavid’s incredible set design deserves special mention, possessing a jaw-dropping intangible ingredient that didn't just dress the stage but served as a magical yet tangible anchor for the characters' raw emotions.

This production of Proof was a rare alignment of art, heart, and purpose; it was a privilege to witness and a remarkable achievement for a deeply worthy cause. Now will someone please reveal, after the ducats are counted and everyone gets a well-deserved pat on the back for a remarkable achievement, that this will live on somewhere for an actual run?

Whether or not this production is history way too soon, the battle to end Parkinson’s continues. I’m sure the Begleys and everyone else connected with this Herculean effort would be most appreciative if anyone is able to make it even more successful: https://give.michaeljfox.org/fundraiser/7362487

NOW CLOSED… BUT THE LINK ABOVE FOR DONATIONS IS STILL UP AND RUNNING!

Photo by Carolina Rodriguez 

Echo Theater Company at Atwater Village Theatre

Fresh off its initial run at the Hollywood Fringe Festival in June, Ann Noble’s Dead Man has risen from the you-know-what for a fleeting three-Tuesday night resurrection in Atwater Village. Written and directed by Noble, her fast-paced hour of "theatre noir clown style" burlesque takes off with a loving, irreverent wink at Raymond Chandler, starting right from the get-go with that dirt-old chestnut, "It was a dark and stormy night."

From there, the show cascades through a nonstop string of Chandleresque "it was like a..." analogies, gleefully poking the hard-boiled detective genre with delightfully mischievous spirit. The premise blends iconic noir archetypes with vivid and exaggerated comic energy: a familiar wisecracking world-weary private dick attempting to write his own dime novel (Jeffrey Johnson), his traditionally smartass snappy-patter spouting Glenda Farrell clone of a secretary (Robin McDonald), and a slinky, mysterious blonde named Biscuit (played with dryly wicked gusto by Noble herself).

Then there is Christian Haines as the titular dead guy who stubbornly refuses to stay put. When he isn't sprawled onstage as the play’s omnipresent and highly restless corpse, Haines is frantically sprinting to the coat track to don one trenchcoat after another, popping up as a rapid-fire series of peripheral tongue-in-cheek stereotypical characters.

Dead Man is wonderfully devoid of any redeeming social value aside from the pure unadulterated joy of having fun. The four-person veteran ensemble operates like a well-oiled engine, juggling sharp physical schtick and genre-spoofing banter, all the while stealthily stepping over the obligatory centerstage chalk outline. It doesn’t lecture, it doesn't pontificate, and it certainly doesn't burden the audience with a moral lesson. Instead, the multitalented Noble relies on her sharp theatrical instincts and the sheer pleasure of guiding her game costars as they play well together in the dark.

With the opening night performance already just past, there are only two final Tuesday night performances left to catch this slyly stylish piece of stagecraft before it vanishes again.

REMAINING SHOWS JULY 28 and AUG. 4: Echo Theater Company, Atwater Village Theatre, 3269 Casitas Av., LA. 747.350.8066 or EchoTheaterCompany.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 Jeff Lorch 

Pasadena Playhouse

Every once in a while, a piece of theatre comes along that completely disrupts the status quo, shattering our expectations of what the medium can achieve. Mexodus, just opening at Pasadena Playhouse, is exactly that. It is a phenomenal, groundbreaking work and a profoundly important new take on the genre of musical theatre.

Fresh off a massively acclaimed and award-winning run in New York, where it picked up a staggering four Lucille Lortel Awards including Outstanding Musical, four Outer Critics Circle Awards, and three Drama Desk Awards, this New York Times Critic’s Pick has finally arrived in our reclaimed desert climes where it clearly belongs and it’s an absolute triumph.

At its core, Mexodus is an act of historical reclamation. While most of us are taught about the Underground Railroad that ran north toward Canada, American history has largely erased the southern route. Between 1821 and 1865, although there isn’t a record of the exact number, an estimated 4,000 to 10,000 enslaved people escaped bondage by fleeing south across the Rio Grande into Mexico where slavery had been fully abolished.

This musical centers on the fictionalized but deeply rooted relationship between Henry (played through all of the musical’s previous incarnations by co-author and composer Nygel D. Robinson), a Black freedom seeker escaping Texas, and Carlos (Robinson’s creative cohort Brian Quijada), a Mexican farmer and former combat medic dealing with the trauma of the Mexican-American War. Together, they forge an unlikely, powerful bond that transcends geographic and cultural borders, highlighting a rich history of Black and brown solidarity that feels urgent, vital, and, in our own troubled life and times, incredibly contemporary.  

The origin of this brilliant piece is a story of serendipity in its own right. Robinson and Quijada first met in early 2020 at an actor-musician conference, just weeks before the world shut down. Standing in a room full of attendees, the two locked eyes, shared a mutual case of we-don't-really-belong-here-itis, and struck up a conversation. Quijada had recently bookmarked a 2018 History.com article detailing the southern Underground Railroad, and Robinson had just composed a powerful spiritual ballad.

When the pandemic forced everyone into lockdown, former New York Stage and Film artistic director Liz Carlson challenged the duo to write one song a month together for a year. Working entirely in isolation—Robinson in North Carolina and Quijada in New York—they traded audio tracks over email and text, building the framework of the musical remotely and sharing their progress on YouTube before they ever had the chance to workshop the material in the same room.  

What they created out of that isolation is a live-looping hip-hop masterpiece. For the uninitiated, a looping musical means there is no traditional orchestra hidden in a pit or backstage. Instead, the music is built right in front of your eyes, layer by layer, in real time. Using looping stations, Quijada and Robinson record vocal beats, rhythms, and instrumental riffs live onstage. Once a loop is recorded, it plays back on an endless, seamless cycle, allowing them to stack the next layer of music on top of it. By the time a song reaches its peak, they have engineered a full, explosive orchestration completely from scratch as the audience sits transfixed.  

Without question, the score is the absolute best thing about the show; the raw talent on display is nothing short of tremendous. As a musician, Robinson possesses a staggering virtuosity, able to pick up any instrument on the stage—from the guitar and drums to the upright bass, trumpet, and piano—and play each one expertly, while Quijada anchors the tracks with equal multi-instrumental brilliance on guitar, accordion, and percussion.  

Under the inventive and muscular direction of David Mendizábal, the production moves with a breathtaking physical energy. The staging utilizes every inch of the environment, making the live music-making feel like an athletic feat. Compounding this is Mextly Couzin’s spectacular lighting design, which operates less like passive illumination and more like a living character in the room, shifting dynamically with the loops to isolate the performers, heighten the stakes, and underscore the emotional weight of their journey.  

While the creative team did an incredible job scale-shifting this production to fit the grand century-old stage of my alma mater, I couldn't help but marvel at how beautifully fluid this material is. As much as I loved its theatricality on the Pasadena Playhouse mainstage, I kept thinking how wonderfully it would translate to an intimate space—or better yet, a club or a live concert situation where the barrier between the performers and the crowd completely dissolves.

Sitting in the theatre, I found myself flooded with a wave of professional nostalgia, thinking how quickly I would have snapped up these musical and theatrical geniuses if their incredibly unique tour de force had been created a half-century earlier during my starmaking years as Talent Coordinator of the Troubadour in its Golden Years heyday as a major innovator in the evolution of the music scene.

Quijada and Robinson's riveting showpiece has a raw, electric energy that defines any boundary-pushing live performance—the exact formula that made my tenure at the Troub an exercise in helping to create legends. Mexodus is more than a concert, however, and certainly more than a history lesson; it is a theatrical revelation that demands to be seen.

THROUGH AUG. 2: Pasadena Playhouse, 39 S. El Molina Av., Pasadena. 626.356.PLAY or www.pasadenaplayhouse.org 

Photo by John Dlugolecki

Open Fist Theatre

I can't. I simply can't. I’m not going to go any farther since I literally can’t think of one nice thing to belaud about this beyond the fact that the cast gives their all, some more successfully than others. Let's just say if there were a hall of infamy charting the worst productions I’ve seen in my last four decades of reviewing theatre in Los Angles, this would claim the marquee.

THROUGH AUG. 1: Open Fist Theatre Company, Atwater Village Theatre, 3269 Casitas Av., LA. 323.882.6912 or www.openfist.org

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 by John Perrin Flynn 

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.

THROUGH AUG. 2: Ruskin Group Theatre, 2800 Airport Av., Santa Monica. 310.397.3244 or www.ruskingrouptheatre.com

Photo courtesy of LucasFilms LTD. 

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