by TRAVIS MICHAEL HOLDER 

Photo by John Dlugolecki  

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

Photo by Mike Ditz

Independent Shakespeare Company

At a time when modern headlines are dominated by socioeconomic division, systemic distrust, and populist anger, Independent Shakespeare Company’s production of Coriolanus, just debuting in their usual designated space outdoors in the enchanted Old Zoo area of my home-away-from-home Griffith Park, arrives not as a distant historical drama but as a searing mirror to our own current horrendously depressing political moment.

The startlingly contemporary interpretation of an often overlooked classic written somewhere between 1605 and 1608 is directed by Indie Shakes’ founder and artistic director David Melville, who created this celebrated Los Angeles summer theatrical institution 22 years ago at the nearby Barnsdall Park in partnership with the LA Department of Parks and Recreation. His lean, fast-paced staging cuts straight to the bone of Ol' Will’s most daring political thriller, stripping away period opulence to focus on a society on the brink of collapse.  

To fully appreciate the tension of this production, one must look to its setting. The events take place around 490 BCE, centuries before the vast and glittering Roman Empire we typically imagine. This Rome is a fragile young Republic that has only recently overthrown its last king, a heavily fortified city-state in the throes of discovering what kind of government it wants to be, surrounded by enemies and fractured from within. By emphasizing this historical backdrop, the production reminds us that democracy is never a guaranteed permanence; it is a young, volatile experiment constantly vulnerable to internal sabotage.  

As Melville explains in his program notes: “The play opens during a food crisis. Grain is scarce, the patrician class is accused of hoarding supplies, and the ordinary citizens are restless. Shakespeare’s audiences would have found this uncomfortably familiar. While he was writing Coriolanus, riots over food shortages and enclosure were breaking out across England, including in the Midlands not far from Shakespeare’s own home. Within a generation, England itself would descend into Civil War.”

From the opening moments, that vulnerability is on full display, complete with kitchen pots being banged by wooden spoons to make a point. The people are hungry, the rich are hoarding resources, and Rome is fractured by its own severe food crisis. As director, Melville expertly emphasizes this civil unrest, leaning heavily into the play's depiction of how easily public fear and resentment can be weaponized. By editing the text down to a driving 60-percent of its original length and utilizing actors proclaiming distinct Brechtian scene titling to ground the fast moving action, the production achieves an urgently cinematic momentum that never lets the audience off the hook.  

Nowhere is his vision clearer than in his embrace of a spare, highly theatrical aesthetic. Rather than relying on historical realism, elaborate sets, or massive crowd call-outs, the production asks the audience to look past the timeless open air beauty and unplanned visits by huge soaring owls of Griffith Park and use their imagination to construct Rome's wider world.

This minimalistic approach places a massive burden on the ensemble and the cast of just 10 actors rises to the challenge spectacularly. Through sheer physical commitment and clever double-casting, this tightknit group brings the chaotic fury of Rome's troubled populace to vibrant life. The bunched-up Evita-esque crowd scenes feel dense, chaotic, and genuinely dangerous, perfectly echoing the modernday anxieties of systemic revolt. When the action shifts to the battlefield, the same performers pivot instantly into blood-pumping warfare. The battles do not feel small or sparse; instead, they carry an intense intimacy where every sword clash and physical collision reverberates directly into the audience. 

At the center of this political powderkeg is Brent Charles, who delivers a towering, commanding performance in the title role. Charles infuses Caius Martius Coriolanus with an uncompromisingly muscular stage presence. He is magnificent as an invincible general, yet terrifyingly arrogant as the often smirking political candidate who holds the populace in utter contempt. Charles beautifully captures the tragic flaw of a man built entirely for war, utterly incapable of the flattery and compromise traditionally demanded by public office.  

This warrior mentality finds its perfect volatile match in Patrick Batiste as the rival Volscian general Tullus Aufidius. The chemistry between Charles and Batiste is electric, culminating in a dynamic high-energy fight scene choreographed by Melville himself. The combat is brutally thrilling and executed with razor-sharp precision, physically manifesting the deep-seated rivalry and mutual obsession that drives both men.

The supporting cast brings tremendous depth to Rome's complex political ecosystem. Melissa Chalsma is formidable as Coriolanus’ mother Volumnia, the ambitious matriarch who raised her son to value wounds over words. Chalsma carries an unwavering strength that makes her final desperate plea to save Rome deeply affecting.

The true secret weapon for this production is longtime ISC regular Lorenzo Gonzalez, who delivers a standout performance as the patrician diplomat Menenius. Gonzalez commands the stage with a nuanced and most memorable interpretation that brings vital warmth and gravity, not to mention a sly wit, to the production. Whether he’s trying to soothe the starving rioters with political parables or acting as the heartbreakingly loyal mediator for Coriolanus, Gonzalez provides the production's emotional and intellectual anchor.

“What makes Coriolanus remarkable,” Melville comments, “is that Shakespeare refuses to offer easy answers,” something perfectly personified in Gonzalez’s performance. “Menenius describes the state as a ‘body whose stomach nourishes its limbs'—a vision of social hierarchy and mutual obligation. Coriolanus believes in uncompromising strength and authority, while the tribunes champion power while providing themselves adept manipulators of public feeling. Every political system in the play reveals both its virtues and its failures.”

Ultimately, what makes Indie Shakes' Coriolanus so chillingly relevant is its indictment of the two-faced nature of modern politics. Shakespeare exposes a world where public interest is secondary to the egos of those vying for control.  

Today, we watch this play unfold through the exhausted lens of our own political reality, an era defined by the terrifying rise of a monstrous and mentally unraveling quasi-dictator who masquerades as a democratic president. Like the manipulative tribunes and the arrogant elites of Rome, our agonizingly omnipresent demagogues of both of our political parties, led by our own self-proclaimed “favorite President,” use double-talk, false promises, a continuous string of outright lies, and the weaponization of the public’s genuine suffering to secure their own autocracy.

Some 421 years ago the Bard evoked a general-turned-candidate who, unlike our own sulking ego-driven manbaby  “leader” who possesses an IQ of about 19 and emerged from a clueless bubble of wealth and privilege, also views the general populace with sheer contempt—a character flaw that becomes his eventual Achilles' heel. With highly successful results, Indie Shakes forces us to confront how easily a republic can be subverted by a tyrant playing at leadership. ISC’s rare mounting of Coriolanus is a ferocious, often surprisingly funny, and entirely unmissable warning for our time.

THROUGH JULY 26: Independent Shakespeare Company, outdoors in the Old Zoo area of Griffith Park, Los Angeles. www.indieshakes.org

Photo by Joan Marcus 

Ahmanson Theatre

There is a distinctly surreal wave of familiarity that hits you the moment the lights come up on the 25th anniversary North American tour of Mamma Mia!, currently rocking out in true classic 1990s style at the Ahmanson.

For this reviewer, the feeling was deeply personal as 23 years ago, I briefly stepped into the khakis of Aussie travel writer and possible absent father Bill Austin on tour in this very jukebox juggernaut. To see the exact original scenic and lighting concepts, not to mention Mark Thompson's evocative and colorful wardrobe designs, immaculately reproduced felt like stepping into a time capsule. Every costume cue and sun-bleached movable block of Aegean wall, every saturated blue horizon, remains flawlessly intact, faithfully preserving the aesthetic blueprint originally crafted by the creative team.

What also makes this revival so striking is how faithfully it reproduces the visual poetry of Howard Harrison’s lighting, which doesn't just illuminate Thompson’s minimalist stark-white designs, it fundamentally transforms them. By treating those blocky structures as a blank canvas, Harrison bathes the stage in saturated washes of Mediterranean color, tracking the story across a flawless 24-hour cycle. The shift from the scorching white-gold intensity of midday Greek sunlight to the intoxicating royal blues and aquas of a moonlit beach, creates a vivid atmospheric texture that elevates the entire narrative. And, of course, Harrison’s sudden pivot into blinding stadium-style rock-and-roll concert lighting for the iconic finale produces pure theatrical adrenaline.

Meticulously preserved for this tour, Anthony Van Laast’s choreography remains the true high-octane engine of the production. Van Laast’s genius lies in his ability to make the movement look completely organic and spontaneous, masking the immense athletic discipline required by this tireless ensemble. Whether it’s the kinetic, flipper-clad high male testosterone-infused absurdity of “Lay All Your Love on Me” or the swirling, drunken chaos of the local boys’ stag party, the staging relies on a brilliant sense of comedic geometry. Every leap, kick, and synchronized stomp feels less like a rehearsed dance routine and more like a joyful, uncontrollable eruption of youthful energy, particularly exemplified by Dominic Young as Pepper, whose vital athleticism and unearthly energy singlehandedly keeps the show's engine revving with an infectious jolt of adrenaline whenever he appears onstage.

At the helm of the original blueprint, director Phyllida Lloyd managed a feat that few jukebox musicals ever replicate: she grounded the fluff. Lloyd’s direction strikes a delicate balance, leaning heavily into the broadly farcical comedy of Catherine Johnson's book without losing the maternal emotional core of the piece. On the massive Ahmanson stage, that specific directorial pacing that always energizes the proceedings even when Act Two threatens to drown in rom-com syrup, her staging keeps the momentum crisp, efficiently driving the characters toward their inevitable crowd-pleasing resolutions.

To be completely candid, I've never been an uncritical devotee of Mamma Mia! and might have skipped this revival had it not been for my pal Priscilla Barnes' spirited enthusiasm to see it with me. While Johnson’s dialogue is undeniably clever in how it weaves 90s pop sensibilities and ABBA’s infectious pop discography into a coherent narrative, the material itself is a tale of two acts and has always remained for me a case of the book vs. the beat. Act One remains an absolute blast—a high-energy, spontaneous sprint of pure musical confection, while Act Two tends to lose its footing and get bogged down in a saccharine sentimentality that stretches past its expiration date.

Yet, if the material occasionally sags, this touring company fights like hell to keep it afloat. Spontaneity is usually the first casualty of a long road tour, but this ensemble delivers an insanely high-octane performance that feels brand new. Yet if there’s a true MVP in this iteration, it is the production’s dynamic live orchestra. Under the driving baton of musical director Andrew David Sotomayor, the invisible contribution from the pit is spectacularly on point, nailing the highly specific wall-of-sound texture required to make these iconic tracks soar and providing a rhythmic heartbeat that elevates the entire evening.

When it comes to the frontline cast, however, it’s a tale of two genders here, as the women of the fictional island of Kalokairi (which by the way means “summer" in Greek) comfortably outshine their male counterparts. Sophie’s three potential fathers, by contrast, feel a bit paint-by-number.

Rob Hancock, in for Rob Marnell as Harry “Headbanger” Bright, earns a generous pass—something of which I clearly identify in this very show, as when I did it I was a nearly rehearsal-free replacement for an ailing replacement. Hancock delivered a commendable performance, as did Jason Mulay as Sophie’s fiancé Sky, also stepping up from the ranks for Grant Reynolds and handling the track with solid professionalism.

As Sam Carmichael, Victor Wallace, a former Sky at the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas during its long run there in his earlier years, easily possesses one of the finest and most resonant singing voices in the entire company, but sadly feels the need to lean into the overly mannered. There is a self-satisfied and posturing full-of-himself Cagney quality to his interpretation that robs the character of the vulnerability and appeal the role desperately needs.

Leland Burnett as Bill presents the production’s biggest conundrum—certainly not in his abilities but in his casting. While everything else in this remounting presents a faithful reproduction of the original, the creative choice to transform the traditionally scruffy, slouchy Australian travel writer into an awe-shucks lanky Texan is baffling. Bursting with good ol’ boy energy and a distinct Buddy Ebsen flavor, the characterization misses the mark for me. This departure becomes especially jarring during his second-act mismatched romantic showdown with Rosie (a superlative Carly Sakolove), undercutting what should be a brilliantly balanced comedic duet.

Still, it’s the women to the rescue here, as it’s the female principals who make this production sing, if you’ll excuse the pun. Making a tremendous national tour debut, Juliet M. Ojeda is a standout as Sophie—vibrant, clear-voiced, and palpably grounded, she delivers a performance so strong that she actually uncharacteristicly overshadows Jessica Crouch as her mother for a large portion of the evening. That dynamic shifts beautifully late in Act Two when Crouch delivers an eleventh-hour rendition of Donna's iconic ballad “The Winner Takes All” that absolutely knocks her performance into a whole new level, grounding the emotional stakes right when the show needs it the most.

Of course, no mounting of Mamma Mia! succeeds without Donna's visiting besties, the former backup singers from her youthful girl band Donna and the Dynamos. The lighthearted heavy lifting here is effortlessly shared between Sakolove’s gently over-the-hill Rosie and Jalynn Steele as a vaguely jive-talking yet slightly Eve Arden-shaded Tanya. They are an absolute riot together, striking up a delicious, sharply-timed chemistry that anchors the show’s best comedic beats.

Steele plays the thrice-married Tanya with a delightfully biting world-weary sophistication, while Sakolove balances her perfectly with an earthy and wonderfully unhinged warmth. Whether they are reviving the spirits of their old friend or commanding the stage during their respective second-act showstoppers, this formidable duo ensures that the beloved characters’ legendary sisterhood is in spectacularly capable hands.

In the end, Mamma Mia! remains the ultimate theatrical paradox: a show with a second act that sags like a wet hammock and packs enough artificial sweetener to induce a diabetic coma, yet possesses a score so infectious it should probably be studied by the CDC. Despite its one baffling creative choice—seriously, I still don't know why Bill is suddenly pacing around the Aegean as though he’s looking for an oil rig—this otherwise by-the-book revival manages to outrun its own shortcomings.

My old touring khakis may be long retired and surely would never fit me anymore anyway, but thanks to this nostalgic reworking, with its adrenaline-fueled ensemble and a pit orchestra that refuses to sleep on the job, the party is still going strong. It’s a spirited, high-octane reminder of why this juggernaut keeps rolling. Just leave your critical cynicism at the door, embrace the dazzling sequins flashing in your eyes, and let the nostalgia wash over you as the party happening right now at the Ahmanson is still going strong.

So, is Mamma Mia! high art? Heavens, no. Still, you’ll leave the theatre with “Dancing Queen” trapped in your head for the next 72 hours at least. Thanks to its powerhouse female castmembers supported by a gung-ho stageful of somewhat overlooked singer-dancer-set movers and a pit orchestra that refuses to sleep on the job, this anniversary tour proves when it comes to pure, unadulterated musical escapism, ABBA still takes it all. Go for the music and Honey, Honey, enjoy the ride.

THROUGH JULY 19: Ahmanson Theatre, 135 N. Grand Av., LA. 213.628.2772 or CenterTheatreGroup.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 JULY 19: 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 JULY 26: 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