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July 2005
‘The Music Man’ at Fox
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW: “The Music Man.” Fox Theatre. Through Sunday, July 31.
In 1957, Meredith Willson’s “The Music Man” blasted its way into American musical-theater history as a vehicle for Robert Preston (Professor Harold Hill) and Atlanta-born sweetheart Barbara Cook (Marian the Librarian). The show wasn’t just as American as the Fourth of July; part of the flag-spangled spectacle actually occurs on Independence Day.
And its form was revolutionary.
The opening number, “Rock Island,” isn’t really a song. It’s an a capella chant by a group of traveling salesmen who lament the changing times like a barking chorus of auctioneers. (“Gone with the sugar barrel, pickle barrel, milk pan! Gone with the tub and the pail and the fierce!”)
Later in the show, the women counter with “Pick-a-Little, Talk-a-Little,” a ditty that suggests the similiarities between a gaggle of small-town gossips and a flock of peckish hens. (That one could hear echoes of “Pick-a-Little” in the trio of biddies in the Alliance Theatre’s “Color Purple” last year is a testament to that number’s impact and longevity.)
To my mind, the tale of the perky blonde and the charismatic schemer is as pure an example of Americana as “Oklahoma!” and “Our Town.” “The Music Man” is a joyous, nostalgia-dripping love letter to such vanishing traditions as white knights, Wells Fargo wagons and town pageants.
Happily, the Theater of the Stars production at the Fox Theatre through Sunday is a welcome, well-crafted journey back to River City, Iowa, a place that willingly succumbs to the charming ways of scoundrel Harold Hill and his attendant invasion of brass and pompons.
In her recent Broadway show, Cook said that Preston had the “energy to light Chicago for 10 years” — a description that might apply to Burke Moses, who does a terrific turn as the oompahing, one-man brass band that’s Hill. Teri Dale Hansen (Marian) has a lovely, lilting soprano, but her performance doesn’t gel until near the end.
It’s very rare that an actor stops a show, let alone without uttering a syllable. But that’s exactly what the brilliant Ruth Gottschall does when her Eulalie MacKecknie Shinn corrects the mayor’s poop/peep blooper. The actress virtually silences the action with her elastic mug, rolling, saucer-size eyes and withering glare. She’s a first-rate clown in the tradition of Beatrice Lillie and Caroll Burnett, and Mrs. Shinn’s terpsichorean ode on a Grecian urn is worth all the gold in Agamemnon’s tomb.
Also terrific are Chris Gregory and the Harrington brothers: Mike, David and Doug. They’re a pitch-perfect barbershop quartet with a sound as soft, luxurious and cushioning to the senses as down. And who can resist the adorable, shy and tongue-tied Winthrop (Cade Nelson), who pronounces Amaryllis as “Amaryllith.”
These days, a show’s lucky to have one or two memorable tunes. But back in 1958, the cast recording of “The Music Man” was No. 1 on the Billboard charts for 12 weeks. And nearly everyone of its songs, from the balladic “Goodnight, My Someone” to the novelty tune “Gary, Indiana,” are keepers.
Here, Norb Joerder’s superb direction and choreography demonstrate why this salt-of-the-earth musical has such staying power. To paraphrase the song “Iowa Stubborn,” you really ought to give it a try.
THE VERDICT: Terrific with a capital “T.”
THE 411: 8 p.m. tonight-Saturday. 2 p.m. Saturday-Sunday. 7:30 p.m. Sunday. $20-$59. Fox Theatre, 660 Peachtree St. N.E., Atlanta. 404-817-8700, www.foxtheatre.org.
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Will Power at NBAF
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. ”Flow.” Through Saturday.
He looks like he’s 7 feet tall, and uses his willowy physique and relentless energy to build a nimble and expressive style. But the thing that seems to inform the soul of hip-hop actor Will Power, who collects artistic labels like some people do plastic wristbands, is his ability to dispatch his community’s stories with passion and flavor.
Maybe this dynamic bard from the ’hood invents the characters who inhabit his one-man show, “Flow,â€? which continues tonight as part of the National Black Arts Festival. Or maybe he taps them from real life. What’s amazing is the way his urban prophets appear to be organically synthesized from his collective experiences — his hopes, his dreams, his nightmares.
With a soundscape performed live by turntable artist DJ Reborn, “Flow� celebrates the African-American oral tradition by describing a parade of contemporary urban griots who the narrator encounters on his inner-city rambles.
There’s ”free-styleâ€? girl rapper Sweet Pea, who carries on a friendly argument with an ”old-school” rhymer about their generational divide. A grocery bagger who moonlights as a preacher and incites the wrath of his Baptist brethren. A drunkard named Breeze who entertains the crowd with tales of “Fred the Cockroach.â€? And so on.
Along the way, Power, who dances barefoot in a circle of sand, manages to rhyme ”Betty” with “spaghettiâ€? and introduces us to a seagull named Aquanetta. (”Unlike the other gulls, she lets you pettah.”)
Because Power’s language rarely gets more explicit than that, the performance feels appropriate for all ages.
Perhaps the only thing unsettling about “Flowâ€? is Power’s darkly comic vision. (Even his roaches have angst.) Like the Homeric poets who preceded him, Power’s primary preoccupations are death and heroism. One by one, his naive philosophers are slowly obliterated. How sad to be the last one standing.
THE 411: “Flow.� $22.50-$25. 8 p.m. July 22-23. 14th Street Playhouse, 173 14th St. N.E., Midtown. 404-733-5000. www.nbaf.org.
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Magic, deception and the Chinese conjuror
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. “The Mystery of Chung Ling Soo.” At 7 Stages though July 29.
In the early 1900s, Chung Ling Soo, the “Marvelous Chinese Conjuror,” was as popular a vaudevillian as his friend Harry Houdini. He swallowed fire, created optical magic —- and rarely uttered a word.
But on an infamous London night in 1918, he was shot to death while trying to execute one of his signature feats, “Defying the Bullets.” As blood splattered the stage, the exotic-looking Asian said: “My God, bring down the curtain. Something has happened.”
Strangely enough, his English was perfect.
As it turned out, Chung Ling Soo wasn’t from China. He was a New Yorker named William Ellsworth Robinson, who’d led a secret double life for years. His dazzling deception, and the mysterious circumstances of his death, sparked a scandal and a mystique that endures to this day.
Witness Jim Steinmeyer’s new biography, “The Glorious Deception,” and the visually evocative play “The Mystery of Chung Ling Soo,” by New York’s Flying Carpet Theatre, which has touched down at 7 Stages before departing for Scotland’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe in August.
Created by Amy Boyce and former Atlantan Adam Koplan, the chamber-size whodunit is a theatrical bonbon that pays loving homage to the art of magic, the murder-mystery genre and the backstage tradition of back-stabbing and fanny-grabbing. Was Chung Ling Soo’s death an accident, a crime of passion or the result of some undetected motive?
From the get-go, Robinson (Matthew Seidman) uses his deadpan demeanor and faintly quivering brow to signal that there’s a little “Twilight Zone” action going on here. Like his famous historical counterpart Chung Ling Soo, James Chen barely murmurs a syllable, but his fluid movement and inscrutable gaze make him the mesmerizing focal point of the show-within-a-show. Why, Chung Ling Soo, you’re as delicate and pretty as a China teacup.
But not all is perfect in this tingly tale, which is virtually humorless and turgid at times. The piece —- which unspools as a true-crime flashback replete with reporters, screaming headlines and voice-overs —- has the trajectory of a bullet speeding backward. (Or maybe it’s a ricocheting rickshaw.)
Still, there’s nothing scattershot about its ethereal choreography and elegant, low-tech aesthetic. (Sets and lighting are by James H. Aitken; costumes by Kim Gill.)
Spinning parasols become the wheels of a carriage drawn by a human-horse. Fabric drops to the floor with the frisson of a burlesque number. And thanks to composer Michael McQuilken, who manipulates recorded samples and live keyboards into a continuous sound loop, the players dance through time and space like actors in a silent film.
Deploying sleight of hand and conjuring tricks such as the master himself might’ve used, Flying Carpet reconstructs the dual life and disturbing disappearance of Chung Ling Soo. But the strange story of William Ellsworth Robinson doesn’t stop when the bullet strikes.
In fact, that’s when the fun begins.
THE VERDICT: A pretty puzzlement.
THE 411: 8 p.m. Wednesdays-Saturdays. 2 p.m. Sunday. Through July 29. $15-$20. Flying Carpet Theatre, 7 Stages, Back Stage, 1105 Euclid Ave. N.E., Atlanta. 404-523-7647, www.7stages.org.
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‘West’ flys into NBAF
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW: “Flyin’ West.” Through July 31.
In Pearl Cleage’s “Flyin’ West,” a covey of strong-willed women flee the Jim Crow South for the Kansas heartland. Armed with guns, pride and the fierceness of the frontier spirit, they’re determined to forge nothing less than a black utopia.
No more slavery. No more lynchings. Just plenty of hard work and the promise of peace, prosperity and happiness.
But just as soon as Miss Leah, Sophie and Fannie get their pots and plows in a row, they realize the good life ain’t so simple. Nicodemus, Kan., may seem like paradise compared with Memphis, but these women are about to discover a strain of prejudice as vile as anything they encountered in the white man’s world.
“Flyin’ West” —- which True Colors Theatre is reviving in partnership with the National Black Arts Festival —- is about a community coming to grips with the enemy within. First seen at the Alliance Theatre in 1992, it’s a history-based tale about African-American settlers who took advantage of the free farmland offered by the Homestead Act of 1862.
Though the popular comedy-drama has the transparent plotting of a potboiler from Hollywood’s golden age and the laugh-track pacing of a TV sitcom, it succeeds as a deliciously entertaining ensemble piece that uses rich characterizations to put across a political message. “Flyin’ West” may have a deficit of nuance and irony, but Cleage is a foolproof storyteller with great affection for her vividly drawn characters.
Start with Sophie Washington (Crystal Fox), the unsentimental Annie Oakley-style gal who carries a shotgun and makes the world’s worst coffee. Sophie is the backbone of the household populated by the ancient Miss Leah (Pat Bowie) and squeaky schoolmarm Fannie Dove (Dawn Ursula). It’s a testament to Fox’s intelligence as an actress that Sophie’s intensity sneaks up on us.
A former slave who’s lost all her children and grandchildren, Miss Leah has glimmers of August Wilson’s Aunt Esther and Cheryl West’s MaDear (which Bowie played, divinely, in the Alliance’s “Jar the Floor” in 2002). An actress who’s had an impressive career on both sides of the Atlantic, Bowie again gives a knockout performance, this time as an adorably cantankerous matriarch who makes killer apple pie.
Fannie’s suitor is a gentle, homespun man named Wil Parish (E. Roger Mitchell), who’s the exact opposite of Frank Charles (Paul Nicholas), the uppity poet husband of Fannie’s younger sister, Minnie (Kinnik). When Minnie and Frank arrive from London, the trouble begins.
A self-described “mulatto,” Frank drinks and gambles too much and threatens to steal his wife’s inheritance. Dandy and debonair, Frank might be nothing more than a narcissistic caricature, but his greed and self-loathing eventually get the best of him. This internal racism is what drives the story to its inevitable conclusion.
The action unfolds in and around scenic designer R. Paul Thomason’s skeletal prairie cabin, which almost threatens to disappear on the cavernous Alliance stage. Better serving the play are Reggie Ray’s beautiful period costumes, which are wisely chosen to impart information about the people who inhabit them.
Cleage, who seems to have been influenced by everyone from Willa Cather to Alice Walker, is neither a virtuosic dramatist like Wilson nor a theatrical visionary like Suzan-Lori Parks. But as director Andrea Frye makes clear in this impeccably crafted production, Cleage finds laughter in the tears —- and grace in the most horrific situations.
“Flyin’ West” is certain to be the crown jewel of this year’s NBAF.
THE VERDICT: A splendid revival.
THE 411: 8 tonight-Friday and July 27-30; 2:30 and 8 p.m. Saturday; 2:30 p.m. Sunday and July 31; 7 p.m. Tuesday. Through July 31. $29-$43. True Colors Theatre, Alliance Theatre, 1280 Peachtree St. N.E., Atlanta. 404-733-5000, www.truecolorstheatrecompany.com
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Kenny Chesney & Gretchen Wilson
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Kenny Chesney was named entertainer of the year by the Academy of Country Music and the Country Music Association within the last year. At the first of three sold-out shows at Philips Arena Saturday night, it was hard to imagine anyone more deserving of those accolades.
The man’s credentials were apparent even before he stepped on the stage. It was a gutsy move and a show of confidence to have southern Illinois spitfire Gretchen Wilson open the show. She’s only got one album to her credit, but the compact brunette already has enough charisma — and vocal power — to fill an arena. There’s plenty of honky tonk in her soul, from her massive debut hit “Redneck Woman” to the old-school balladry of “When I Think About Cheatin’,” but she’s got a wide streak of rock ‘n’ roll in her, too. Her one-two punch of Heart’s “Straight On” and a blazing version of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” near the end of the set worked the audience into a frenzy, priming them for the two good-time anthems that introduced her to country audiences, “Redneck Woman” and “Here for the Party.”
From the moment he entered on a suspended seat above the audience, it was clear that Chesney was the star of this show. His set was as much athletic display as concert, with Chesney and his band working every part of the jutting T-shaped stage, drawing energy from the adoring capacity crowd. If you didn’t know the words to every song, the person next to you probably did.
His current Top 10 hit, “Keg in the Closet,” opened the nearly two-hour set. The energy level was set on high and rarely dipped very low. Even the quiet moments didn’t put much of a dent in the electric atmosphere in the arena. The vocal crowd was just subdued enough to hear his acoustic version of “Old Blue Chair,” from his latest album, which he performed solo while sitting in a tattered and worn chair just like the one on the album cover.
Later, Wilson returned to add sizzle to Chesney’s cover of John Mellencamp’s “Hurts So Good,” and Uncle Kracker showed up to lend a hand on “When the Sun Goes Down” (as he did in the recorded version), sticking around to do his hit version of “Drift Away” and a take on his old pal Kid Rock’s “Cowboy.”
The sea of dancing bodies seemed to love every minute of it, and judging by the broad smile and aw-shucks amazement on Chesney’s face, he did, too.
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Laura Jackson conducts ASO
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
CONCERT REVIEW
Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. Saturday in Symphony Hall. Part of the summer “Made in America” series, which continues July 21-23. www.atlantasymphony.org.
Before discussing conductor Laura Jackson’s winning weekend with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra — a high-profile debut, of sorts — it is worth noting a milestone in American music.
Last week, The Baltimore Sun reported that its hometown orchestra will likely appoint Marin Alsop as music director — the first female to take charge of a major U.S. orchestra.
Jackson, who has studied with the glass ceiling-shattering Alsop, is still in the beginning stages of her career. Educated as a violinist, Jackson has experience conducting student and amateur ensembles.
Now 37, she’s rounding out her first season as the ASO’s conducting fellow, part of a three-year training program. While in Atlanta her duties include leading ASO youth concerts and various parks events. She is also the “cover” for main-season concerts, prepared to step in at the last minute if the scheduled conductor gets sick. She also joins in administrative talks, learning the realities of running an orchestra. This intensive experience, hopefully, will launch Jackson on her own high level career — the next Marin Alsop, perhaps.
Saturday evening, for a Symphony Hall concert devoted to George Gershwin, Jackson proved wonderfully fluent on the podium and, at her best, an imaginative and sophisticated interpreter.
Since a conductor does not play an instrument on stage, her artistry lies in the psychological devices — blunt or subtle — necessary to get almost 100 musicians to obey her will.
She had firm control of “An American in Paris,” Gershwin’s jazzy, 1928 travelogue of boulevard excitement and honking taxi horns. Although her nose sometimes seemed buried in the score, Jackson used minimal movements to coax maximum expression. I liked her handling of the “blues” section, swinging low and agreeably louche.
Best of the evening was the Overture to “Girl Crazy,” the 1930 Broadway musical that introduced Ethel Merman belting out “I Got Rhythm.” The conductor got crisp playing from the orchestra, snappy, sassy and just right.
“Rhapsody in Blue” didn’t come off as well, largely because pianist Andrew von Oeyen indulged in low-grade romantic excess at the keyboard. (Hasn’t he heard the edgy, jazz-age modernism of Gershwin’s own player-piano recordings? The music has to move.) Despite the electricity of the music, von Oeyen emitted a very weak signal.
The evening closed with “Porgy and Bess: A Symphonic Picture,” which is Robert Russell Bennett’s medley of tunes from Gershwin’s opera, with thick squirts of added syrup. It bears repeating: the Tin Pan Alley genius is best played as a lean, colorful modernist — closer to the brilliance of Ravel than to the bland kitsch of Hollywood. Sadly, Bennett’s 1943 arrangement is standard in the concert hall. Someone needs to commission a version that is more true to the composer’s spirit.
For her part, Jackson seemed to work against Bennett’s homogenization. She gave definition to each “Porgy” number, with a unique profile for “It Ain’t Necessarily So” and “Summertime.” The orchestra was at its multi-tasking best. Michael Moore, a double-threat musician, put down his tuba to play banjo for “I Got Plenty o’ Nuttin’.”
Still, thanks largely to Jackson’s nimble and smart understanding of Gershwin, the evening amounted to a superb “debut” for this young conductor. Under the baton of a lesser conductor, the show might have seemed like a glorified pops concert. Jackson helped elevate Gershwin to the master status he deserves. I’m eager to hear more from her.
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Destiny’s Child
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Neither rain, nor lackluster opening acts, nor a less-than-capacity audience could keep top female R&B trio Destiny’s Child from their long-expected farewell stop at Philips Arena Friday night.
A farewell — if this tour truly is that — that was hard to find problems with.
That is, if you don’t count R&B singer Amerie, who in her short-shorts had to be hoping people focused on her model-like legs rather than her missed notes. Or the better-selling support act, R&B singer Mario, who drew as much applause when he left the stage to his dancers as he did when he performed his huge single “Let Me Love You� � with just over a half-tank of singing power.
The first 35 minutes of the nearly two-hour show featured a hit parade, roaring from opener “Say My Name” to “Independent Women, Pt. 1,” to “Bills, Bills, Bills” and “Soldier” — with special guest rappers T.I. and Lil Wayne. With only four original albums to its credit, it’s easy to minimize the kind of impact this group has had in its seven years as recording artists. Until you hear the tunes back to back to back.
Then Beyoncé Knowles, Kelly Roland and Michelle Williams moved on to a round of solo performances, each remarkable for either the visuals, the vocals, or both. Rowland did her No. 1 hit with rapper Nelly titled “Dilemma,â€? surely inadvertently reminding the heavily female crowd that all she basically contributed to that song was the hook. Williams gave an outstanding performance of her gospel hit “Do You Know.â€? But after Knowles’ riveting rendition of “Dangerously In Love 2,” there could be no doubt as to who will stand in the spotlight if and when this rare example of class, strength and sisterhood goes its separate ways, again.
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‘Blue’ a funeral-home comedy with music
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. “Blue.” Through Aug. 7.
Blue, blue, her heart is blue. All she can do is think of Blue. When Peggy Clark isn’t listening to the music of the artist who recorded “Light Blue” and “Royal Blue,” she reluctantly inhabits the role of an African-American funeral director’s wife in a small South Carolina town.
This self-absorbed former fashion model may get the family on the cover of Ebony, but she won’t win any awards for Mother of the Year.
She buys fur coats two at a time, points her catty claws at her domineering mother-in-law, eschews home-cooked meals for expensive takeout, then goes to the trouble of pretending she cooked. Might the high-strung diva be suffering from unrequited love, midlife blahs, a tainted past?
Tune into “Blue,” the Charles Randolph-Wright play with music by Nona Hendryx that Horizon Theatre has timed to coincide with the National Black Arts Festival, to find out.
Despite the Clark family trade, “Blue” has more in common with a daytime soap than a dark comedy like “Six Feet Under,” which also chronicles the struggles of a family of dysfunctional embalmers.
The only thing scary about this play is that it has a singing ghost who thinks he’s sexy. Every time Peggy (Donna Biscoe) puts on a seductive tune by Blue (Freddie Hendricks), he emerges from the stereo to stir up memories of passion and romance. If the whole premise sounds deadly, well, congratulations, you still have a pulse. That said, it’s a testament to Thomas W. Jones II and his cast that they refuse to take the emotional dreck too seriously and try to breathe all the laughter they can into a script that’s essentially toes up.
Biscoe, in a part originated by Phylicia Rashad at Washington’s Arena Stage, is in delectable form as desperate housewife Peggy, who has the kind of overweening personality that’s hot-wired to explode. Unlike the elegant Jewell Robinson, who played mother-in-law Tillie in the off-Broadway production, Marguerite Hannah seems to draw a bit heavily on TV stereotypes of yore (remember “The Jeffersons”?). But the bossy matriarch is a juicy character that never fails this actress.
Toccarra Cash (as LaTonya Dinkins, girlfriend of Peggy’s son Sam III) has terrific timing, in a gum-smacking, country-come-to-town kind of way. But once Peggy turns LaTonya into her own personal acolyte, the young woman’s personality loses its fizz.
Taurean Blacque (as Peggy’s husband, Samuel) is a fine actor stuck in an insubstantial part. Geoffrey D. Williams (Sam III) is as hyperactive as ever, but that’s this actor’s particular charm. Neal A. Ghant seems custom-made for reflective son Reuben, while Joshua T. Tarpav (Young Reuben) proves himself to be an immensely talented eighth-grader.
And now for Hendricks, the former youth ensemble director who’s giving his first professional performance since 1988: The apparitional Blue spends most of his time sashaying down a flight of stairs to serenade Peggy or make some lyrical commentary about the action. Hendricks’ soft, EZ-listening sound is likable enough, but the actor seems a bit too self-conscious for this flashy, charismatic role that doesn’t require him to speak any dialogue until the end. Lord knows he’s stuck with a weird, thankless part and should get credit for not being cheesy. But a comeback of a lifetime this ain’t.
Think of “Blue” as more of a pine box than a Cadillac casket. Reminiscent of the work of Samm-Art Williams, it’s not great art, but it will almost certainly be a crowd-pleaser. And more than anything, it’s an admirable tie-in to the National Black Arts Festival and a gift to a community that, strangely enough in this town, is often underserved.
THE VERDICT: A funeral-home comedy. With music. (No kidding.)
THE 411: 8 p.m. Wednesdays-Fridays; 8:30 p.m. Saturdays; 5 p.m. Sundays. Also, 3 p.m. July 23. Through Aug. 7. $20-$25. Horizon Theatre, 1083 Austin Ave. N.E., Atlanta. 404-584-7450, www.horizontheatre.com.
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Rigby soars in final ‘Peter Pan’
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW: “Peter Pan.” Through Sunday.
J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan is “the boy who wouldn’t grow up,” and so it seems is Cathy Rigby. After more than 26,000 performances in the musical’s title role, the former Olympic gymnast still has the sinewy arms, chopped-off hair and cocky demeanor to play the Lost Boys’ ringleader.
The “Peter Pan” at the Fox Theatre through Sunday is the 53-year-old Rigby’s final tour. But even after 14 years as the diminutive swashbuckler who steals away with the Darling children and turns Captain Hook into a crocodile’s lunch, Rigby remains a sparkling performer with the vocal musculature to match her athletic chops.
So skeptics, beware.
Like Mary Martin, who originated the part on Broadway in 1954, Rigby is a Peter Pan for the ages. No wonder Wendy Darling (Elisa Sagardia) is so smitten and Captain Hook (Howard McGillin) so discombobulated. Rigby’s Peter is the pint-size ninja from Neverland who whips the bad guys with fairy dust and gets the girl.
The opening scene, set in the Darlings’ London nursery, plays like Noel Coward for the bedtime-story set. Those Darling boys (Gavin Leatherwood as John and Shawn Moriah Sullivan as Michael) are mighty cute, bouncing around in their pj’s with their mini-Brit accents and shaggy dog (Ryan Mason). Nana, we love you! Doubling as Mr. Darling, McGillin makes a delightfully dysfunctional dad, or “cowardly custard,” as one of his lads labels him.
Thanks to designers John Iacovelli (sets), Shigeru Yaji (costumes) and Tom Ruzika (lighting), this production makes tasty eye candy for all ages. Freudian role-playing aside, it’s a wholesome family event and welcome summer outing.
But I’ll swear: As soon as we get to Neverland, all those pirates, Lost Boys and Indian warriors start to look the same to me. “Peter Pan” has a lovely score by Moose Charlap and Jule Styne, but after “Neverland” and “I’m Flying,” most of the songs are filler.
Can’t we get everybody rescued and ferry the Darlings back to England in a pat two hours and skip some of the inert singing and dancing?
If it’s getting past my bedtime, I can only imagine how it feels for the tired-sleepy-thirsty-hungry-squirmy short guys sitting behind all the tall people. Two intermissions? Come on.
Banish me to Nana’s doghouse if you must. But while Rigby soars, a good deal of this dated material just snores.
Signed, the Critic Who Wouldn’t Grow Up.
THE VERDICT: Soars and snores.
THE 411: 8 p.m. today-Saturday. 2 p.m. Saturday-Sunday. 7:30 p.m. Sunday. $20-$59. Theater of the Stars, Fox Theatre, 660 Peachtree St. N.E., Atlanta. 404-817-8700, www.foxtheatre.org.
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A lovely ‘Cherry Orchard’ at Georgia Shakes
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. “The Cherry Orchard” at Georgia Shakespeare. Through Aug. 5.
All is lost, all is lost. Lyubov Ranyeskaya’s husband is dead, her little boy drowned, her fortune squandered by her French lover. Nothing to be done but sell the family estate, a vast cherry orchard that, at the beginning of Chekhov’s last play, is festooned with funereal, ice-white blossoms.
The Bolshevik Revolution was still 13 years away when “The Cherry Orchard” was first performed, in 1904. But you can already feel it in the air, and in every syllable spoken by Chekhov’s vanishing milieu.
It’s not for nothing that Georgia Shakespeare pairs Chekhov’s elegy to the vanishing order of serfs and aristocrats with Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire,” in which the ghost of Belle Reve hovers as angelically as Madame’s beloved cherry plantation.
While Chekhov sketches quiet interior portraits in which emotions flutter beneath the surface, Williams pushes his characters to the brink of claustrophobia and hysteria. But both men are preoccupied with the decline of morals and manners in the modern world —- and both have an especially rich understanding of the complex psyches and quivering nostrils of their female personas.
At Georgia Shakespeare, Carolyn Cook has slipped out of Blanche Dubois’ steamy bathtub and into the cool springs of Lyubov’s glamorous melancholy. As directed by Sabin Epstein, Cook gives a performance of luminous, frosty dispassion —- a smart foil to the kooky, comedic figures that populate this rambling estate.
Likewise, Diany Rodriguez makes a sweetly tender 17-year-old Anya, and Park Krausen conceals Varya’s feisty underside beneath layers of starched frocks and dire expressions.
Though Leonid (Allen O’Reilly) is a bigger bore than written and Dunyasha (Crystal Dickinson) is way more worked up than she ought to be, Charlotta (Megan McFarland) is a wunderload of brittle Aryan stereotypes and Yasha (Joe Knezevich) is delightfully smarmy.
But the actor who steals the proverbial show here is Chris Kayser as the 87-year-old butler, Firs. A veritable compendium of tics and tremors, Firs is as irascible as Scrooge and as vulnerable in his way as Lear’s fool.
Epstein is smart to punctuate Chekhov’s plodding tone with a good deal of comic bedlam, and, together with his production team, he shows the musicality of the play’s language and structure. As such, some of the more striking images are visual ones.
“The Cherry Orchard” may beg for grander scenic statements than Angela Calin’s minimal picture windows and barren pillar-trees, but Christine Turbitt sends out a procession of elaborate period costumes, and Liz Lee bathes the stage in soft, luminous light.
The breaking down of the rose-colored banquet scene becomes a beautifully choreographed sequence of silhouettes moving furniture to a dazzling piece of chamber music. And when Firs goes down in the final scene, it’s accompanied by the slow thud of distant axes —- as if the cherry trees’ executioners have arrived.
In sum, this “Cherry Orchard” has the effect of a samovar half full, and in Chekhov, that’s a good sign. We must cherish what’s not there, as much as what is.
THEATER REVIEW
THE VERDICT: A forest of sighs.
THE 411: “The Cherry Orchard.” 8 tonight-Wednesday; 8 p.m. Saturday and other dates through Aug. 5. In repertory with “The Comedy of Errors” and “A Streetcar Named Desire.” $10-$35. Georgia Shakespeare, Conant Performing Arts Center, Oglethorpe University, 4484 Peachtree Road, Atlanta. 404-264-0020, www.gashakespeare.org.
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