St. Louis Eats and Drinks

IT IS MAGIC

Is IT IS MAGIC too much inside baseball, so to speak, for people who don’t live in the world of live theatre? Well, no, not unless this is your first time ever to go to a play. I admit, having experienced it, it’s difficult to explain to an adolescent whose world of entertainment is entirely on screens of one sort or another just why live theatre is so remarkable. And to some minds, watching the worst of special effects is preferable to seeing humans on a stage. (I’m thinking of finding some of those very early Japanese Godzilla-type films and making them endure that if they’re so convinced of the superiority of technology.)

No, trust me on this. The Midnight Company is back in the groove with a bang showing off this Halloween-y play by Mickle Maher. We’re in the basement of the Martier Civic Playhouse. On the main floor, the Scottish play is about to open. Here, there are auditions going on for an adult version of The Three Little Pigs. It’s a new play written by a first-time playwright, who is also directing it, and who works in the office at the civic center. She loves, loves, loves theatre, but is clearly an amateur. In fact, as it turns out, she doesn’t remember the name of the play opening tonight, or why no one will say its name. (If you don’t, either, here’s an explanation from folks who really know.)

But that’s just an aside. Deb (Michelle Hand), the playwright-director is casting the big role, the Wolf, and Tim (Carl Overly, Jr.) has been called back three times now because Deb just can’t make a decision. Moreover, Tim’s going to need to leave in a few minutes because he’s playing Second Murderer upstairs, thus his kilt. Sitting by Deb is her sister Sandy (Nicole Angeli), her head on the table, looking bored out of her mind. Or so we think. But it turns out that Deb wants the role. Badly.

Finally Deb lets Tim go, after picking his audition to pieces yet again and after the curtain upstairs has risen, in comes the artistic director for the whole place, Ken Mason (Joe Hanrahan). In other hands, either another author or another theatre company, this could have been the sort of character Gig Young played, rather sophisticated, slightly jaded, a martini in one hand and a cigarette holder in the other. Hanrahan’s much grittier Mason announces he can never stand to be in the room once the curtain goes up and he has to be elsewhere. Jaded? Like a piece from the Ming Dynasty. Forget the romance of theatre, much less the magic, it’s all he can do to be civil to the patrons in their khakis and chunky bracelets (and crocheted shawls, don’t forget the shawls) who keep things afloat with their donations. Of course, he poo-poohs Deb’s excitement, even though he has agreed to let her do the play the following season. The best that can be said is that he’s not condescending He’s just bluntly negative down to the point of complaining about the seats in the theater.

Somewhere in here, the play moves from satire into...another dimension. It’s very subtle at first. A woman named Elizabeth (Chrissie Watkins) comes into the basement, remarking that she knows the sisters “from somewhere”. Odd things begin to happen. And off we go.

This is really excellent ensemble work from all concerned. Director Suki Peters has orchestrated them like a piece of chamber music. Overly is a delight, throwing himself – repeatedly – into the Wolf audition, Angeli practically rending her garments with frustration and Hand leaning into the wonderfully overstated director’s role. Hanrahan switches back and forth between despair and the occasional encouragement faster than blinking, and Watkins at times felt like someone out of Star Trek with her electricity.

Kevin Bowman’s lighting comes into its own in the second half of the play – he did the set design as well – and the very subtle-at-first sound is the work of Ted Drury. Liz Henning did the costuming, including the Second Murderer’s outfit, which looks very au courant in certain circles.

Fascinating stuff, like so much Midnight Company does, but much twistier than one thinks at first.

IT IS MAGIC

through November 6

The Midnight Company

Kranzberg Black Box

501 N. Grand

tickets at https://www.metrotix.com/

https://www.midnightcompany.com/

Blue/Orange

Blue/Orange is the sort of play it’s hard for me to be neutral about. It’s set in a hospital, and some readers may know that for many years I worked as an RN. Nearly all that time was spent in acute-care settings rather than outpatient ones. I’m the sort of person it’s easy to imagine snarling at a television show, “Put the side rails up on that _____ bed!” or “His IV is hooked up to his catheter bag, for heaven’s sake!” As Gary Trudeau wrote in Doonesbury, “GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY!”

Granted, Blue/Orange set in London, so it deals with the National Health scheme, socialized medicine. And it’s twenty years old, but that really isn’t a factor in the story or its details. It’s a story of a patient and his physicians. Christopher (William Humphrey) is about to be discharged tomorrow. After a mandated 28 day stay, he’s wildly ready to hit the bricks. “Wildly” is not too strong a word. If this is how his behavior is after four weeks of medication and talk therapy, one can only imagine what he was like on admission. He’s very manicky. In the interview with his psychiatrist, who seems in American medical parlance to be the equivalent of a senior resident or perhaps a fellow, he can barely be talked into sitting down. The doctor, Bruce Flaherty (Jason Meyers), is clearly hesitant about sending him home, feeling he’s not ready, but is equally uncomfortable telling him, probably because Christopher’s temper can erupt on a dime. Or a farthing.

Oh, my, look who’s dropping by mid-session. It’s Dr. Robert Smith (Ben Ritchie), the attending psychiatrist and Bruce’s boss. At first the relationship isn’t quite clear – they’ve obviously socialized together, Smith dining with Bruce and his wife, and the men have gone to a rugby game together with a pint or three at a local afterward. Now they’re about to butt heads, because Dr. Smith wants Christopher (who appears to have no surname) out so they can use the bed for someone else. Bruce is trying to politely make the case that the patient is nowhere near ready to unleash on the unsuspecting public of Shepherd’s Bush, the rather rough area of London where he came to the attention of authorities.

Christopher is Black. He has complained to Bruce in the past of feeling that he was being observed and judged because of that, and the language he has used to describe himself in such situations is derogatory. Smith is of the opinion that – to condense it considerably – standards of behavior are different for other ethnic groups and that should be kept in mind, so Christopher is fine to go. Nope, says Bruce, and asks Christopher to pick up an orange from a fruit bowl nearby and describe it. The orange, says Christopher – who clearly is bored by going through this yet another time – is blue. Blue inside, too. Disagreement breaks out. Christopher is asked to step out for more disagreement to take place.

Dr. Smith interviews Christopher alone. It goes well for a while; then that disintegrates to some degree, too, after he explains that he’s the son of Idi Amin. (Interestingly, Joe Penhall, the playwright spent six years working on the film The Last King of Scotland, about Amin, after he wrote this play.)

The next morning, Bruce has just left a disciplinary hearing because of what Christopher has said about him to Smith. Smith arrives, followed by Christopher, dressed to go home.

I’ll leave it at that.

Christopher, as brought to us by William Humphrey, is very real. It’s splendid work, showing someone internally tortured by some process whose clinical name is being argued over by the other two men. It’s the behavior of the aforesaid pair that is, while essential to the play, totally utterly unreal. Much of the disagreement over his diagnosis, his facts, his future would never be done in front of a patient – or a “client”, to use the currently fashionable if rather inaccurate term. There’s a great deal of racism on display, which certainly is part of the point of the play, and some quite tasteless sexism about Bruce’s wife early on, although nothing compared to the racism. Ritchie and Meyers carry on with their arguments with considerable elan, but must of necessity take a back seat to Humphrey’s activities, both verbal and physical.

It’s a harrowing evening. Justin Been, Stray Dog’s assistant artistic director, directed the play and did the set and the music. (Stray Dog always has really excellent music for their non-musicals; pay attention when you go.) He’s orchestrated things beautifully. Just be prepared to be slapped around a little by the ugliness of two educated, professional, white males.

 

Blue/Orange

through October 23

Stray Dog Theatre

Tower Grove Abbey

2336 Tennessee Ave.

straydogtheatre.org

The Gradient

Yet another premiere comes to St. Louis with the Repertory Theatre of St. Louis’s production of The Gradient. It’s a slightly futuristic idea about a company that uses algorithms to treat men who’ve exhibited sexual misconduct.

Steph Del Rosso’s play gives us a strong, very controlled Natalia (Christina Acosta Robinson), who’s one of the directors of the program, and a young, newly hired counselor Tess (Stephanie Machado) to show us how this works. It’s an inpatient treatment program, although it’s not clear whether it’s voluntary or whether people are placed there by court order. Therapy at the facility seems to be a very assertive interaction that enlarges on traditional methods, confronting the clients and not holding back. It’s all based on algorithms.

Those clients are played by Stephen Cefalu, Jr. and Yousof Sultani. Cefalu inhabits eight different characters in a series of blackouts that is remarkable, and very funny. Sultani is Jackson, a single, pivotal character. William Demerrit plays the sole male employee we see, who only works behind the scenes.

The criteria for a man to be discharged from the program, or to graduate if that’s a more palatable word, are rather vague. One of them, though, is an apology. In the (only available online here ) program, director Amelia Acosta Powell, the Rep’s associate artistic director, she talks about “performative utterance”, a act of speaking that alters reality, and asks if apologies are performative utterances. Do they alter reality? Or are they merely performances? Apologies, real or not, really don’t alter reality. We measure reality by behavior. An apology, however articulate it sounds, is worthless if there is no change in both the apologizer and what they do in the future. Sometimes it’s hard to judge the latter factor, certainly, but behavior is really the primary criteria.

How are they assessing whether a client really does regret what they did? How do they judge whether he understands why the behavior was wrong? It’s particularly relevant in the case of Jackson, Tess’ client who is just a little too smooth. The faint sheen of oiliness soon begins to appear.

Somewhere in the program, the play is described as a satire. In another note, the play’s described as portraying a cure for toxic behavior. Perhaps that’s the satire. While there are some very funny moments, it feels not-funny. Nevertheless, this is a beautifully put together piece of work, from the acting to Carolyn Mraz’ set and Mextly Couzin’s lighting.

It was clearly intended to be disconcerting, and it does just that.

 

The Gradient

through October 24

Repertory Theatre of St. Louis

Berges Theater at COCA

6880 Washington Ave, University City

https://www.repstl.org/

The Story of My Life

It was a daring move for New Line Theatre to open this season, of all years, with a play about someone writing a eulogy. Too many of us have had to do that, too many of us have thought we might have to do that, too many of us have thought, Oh, God, please don’t ask me to do that. It’s been a stinking couple of years, but the fact that someone was brave enough to think it was material for a play, two someones in this case, book by Brian Hill, music and lyrics by Neil Bartram, is impressive. Scott Miller, New Line’s founder and artistic director, is well known for his fearless approach to what he stages, and once again we have him grabbing life, giving it a good shake and holding it up for inspection.

Jeffrey Wright plays Tom Weaver a successful writer from a small town, and Chris Kernan is Alvin Kelby, his friend from childhood, the son of the town’s bookstore owner. Plenty of cultural references here, not surprisingly, from It’s a Wonderful Life to Tom Sawyer and on to adult magazines, set things pretty firmly in the near-present. Interestingly, the writer is the mainstream guy; his pal is the one who seemed to wander around with his head in the clouds. Tom is tasked with writing a eulogy for Alvin, who appears not as a ghost but as a character in Tom’s head, reminiscing over the past.

But the focus is not on deciding what to say and what not to say in the eulogy. The focus is on Tom’s success and his writer’s block. He was blocked before Alvin’s death, and he’s still blocked as he tries this. Success has gradually turned him into rather a sod, despite his old friend’s continuing affection for him.

Wright turns in a fine performance as Tom Weaver, and Chris Kernan is easy and natural as the hometown guy. Miller is at the keyboard, styling himself “The New Line Pandemic Band”. He directed the show, too. I particularly liked “Mrs. Remington”, a nice tribute to teachers.

Rob Lippert’s set is a delight, as his often are. Lights come from Kenneth Zinkl, and the props masters – there are a lot of books on the set – is Alison Helmer.

All that said, this is a script that badly needs tightening. It runs about 90 minutes without intermission, but another 10 minutes of editing would benefit things immensely. And I do wish it had focused more directly on the creation of eulogies in general, at least in passing. A tip of the black hat to those who have had to write them.

 

The Story of My Life

through October 23

New Line Theatre

Marcelle Theater

3310 Samuel Shepard Drive

www.NewLineTheatre.com

Jersey Boys

I wasn’t able to see the new venue, the Kirkwood Performing Arts Center, until the opening of Jersey Boys from Stages St. Louis. The theater is an absolute winner. Sight lines are good, acoustics are good, and to my immense delight, there’s room for live musicians. It’s quite a lovely building, with parking in several places, including the two lots at Greentree Church. (For any newcomers, St. Louisans, city dwellers and suburbanites, are always concerned about parking.)

Jersey Boys is, to me, the best of the jukebox musicals. There’s an actual story line in there and while it’s not completely accurate in an historic sense - “It’s a play, not a documentary,” snapped someone years ago – it’s close enough to make dramatic sense. And the score is great fun, even if these guys weren’t your absolute favorites at the time the songs were popular. It’s the background music of a lot of those who come to see the show around the world.

I suspect in another couple of decades these shows won’t be done except occasionally as Broadway revivals because the target audiences won’t be around. Gloomy? Realistic? Either way, it’s a secondary kick in the pants for people to go see Stages’ version. Secondary? Yes, because this one is strong enough to stand on its own merits, despite a few quibbles here and there.

The first reason to go is the music, especially the harmony of the group in various iterations. It sounds right, just like it should. The visuals are fun, from the versatile set from James Wolk, which manages to go from jail to a concert stage without breaking a sweat, to the costumes, the awfulness of shiny suits, bouffant petticoats and more courtesy of Brad Musgrove. (How is it that the narrow-as-an-arrow ties still manage to look great, though?)

And then there are the players, all well matched. The Four Seasons themselves, Frankie Valli (Christopher Kale Jones), Nick Massi (Jason Michael Evans), Tommy DeVito (Brent Michael DiRoma) and Bob Gaudio (Ryan Jesse) have different personalities and there’s no question about which is which. DeVoto’s ego, Massi’s pondering whether to start his own group, Gaudio’s composing talent and Valli’s drive delineate them from start to finish. Jones, who at times looks a little like Bobby Darin, to evoke another pop star from the mid-20th Century, is a charmer. At times, his solo work moves from sounding very much like Valli to something close to a country music style, which I assume is a choice of director Michael Hamilton. It’s solely the call of the listening ear as to how this comes across, of course.

Fun from the supporting cast, too, such as Jenna Coker Jones, who plays Frankie’s girlfriend and then wife as well as his mother. She is, in fact, married to Christopher Kale Jones, and they met at Stages. Two local actors fill a long list of roles, and it’s great fun watching John Flack and Steve Isom pop up many times in deep disguise. Isom’s transformation as Gyp DeCarlo, the local leader of the mob, is particularly remarkable. It took a little while to identify him. Maybe the Critics Circle needs to consider a category of Quick Change Artist.

A final tip of the hat to the band, who occupies the top third or so of the stage. Under the direction of Jeremy Jacobs, they’re a most welcome addition to the Stages experience.

Seriously good fun.

 

Jersey Boys

through October 24

Stages St. Louis

210 E. Monroe, Kirkwood

314-821-2407

https://stagesstlouis.org/jersey-boys/