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August 2005
‘Piece of My Heart’ at Theatre in the Square
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW: “A Piece of My Heart”
8 p.m. Tuesdays-Satur- days; 2:30 and 7 p.m. Sundays. (No 7 p.m. show Sept. 25.) Through Sept. 25. $18-$33. Theatre in the Square, 11 Whitlock Ave., Marietta. 770-422-8369, www.theatreinthesquare.com.
The verdict: Deserves a 21-hankie salute.
I’d have to concentrate really hard to remember what my family talked about over dinner in the ’60s. But after Walter Cronkite gave his nightly report on the number of Vietnam War casualties, what was there to say?
In “A Piece of My Heart,” playwright Shirley Lauro fills in some of the blanks about the bitter Southeast Asian conflict by weaving together the stories of a group of women who witnessed it firsthand. Though rarely recognized or celebrated in the history books, women went to Vietnam out of the same sense of duty, patriotism and adventure as their masculine counterparts, many serving as nurses who ministered to the sick and dying.
Theatre in the Square opens its 24th season with a moving, illuminating and fluidly staged production of the play by director Susan G. Reid and a company of actors who obviously feel compassion for their characters.
First produced in 1991, 10 years before Sept. 11, 2001, “A Piece of My Heart” manages, for the most part, to rise above political polemic by keeping a bead on the women’s emotional journeys and the mood and atmosphere of its time.
Does the programming choice have anything to do with the fact that America is entangled in another divisive conflict that’s frequently likened to Vietnam? Of course. But the staging lets you draw your own comparisons and makes no attempt to underline the parallels with current events.
Instead, what you see is what you get.
The play opens with the young women on the cusp of the future.
Martha (Jennifer Akin) “was born at Fort Benning and grew up at Fort Bragg,” so it never occurs to her to do anything but serve in the military. The career choices for Sissy (Cheri Christian) are like those of most women of her day —- she can be a nurse, a teacher or a secretary. Even though she can’t stand to see people in pain, she chooses the medical profession.
Mary Jo (Bethany Irby), a member of the Sugar Candies All-Girl Band, is delighted by the opportunity to wear miniskirts and go-go boots in front of “half a million boys” —- and she eventually falls in love with each and every one of them. Half Italian, half Chinese, LeeAnn (Widdi Turner) thinks the service will land her an assignment in Hawaii, where she’ll blend in with people who look like her. (Well, at least she’s half right.)
Joining the group are Whitney (Lee Nowell), a Red Cross “doughnut dolly,” and Steele (Shontelle Thrash), a seasoned Army officer whose talents ultimately go wasted. Cary Donaldson plays all the men in their lives.
The play unfolds like a scrapbook of memories —- chipper and hopeful in the pre-Vietnam scenes; bloody and dark in the wartime sequences; sad and disenchanted in the aftermath. Unfolding on set designer Rochelle Barker’s stacked wooden crates and intersecting piers, the drama is at its most authentic and alive when describing the women’s immersion into the rituals and routines of death, their late-night bonding sessions and their romantic disappointments. (Not a single one of them ends up in a lasting relationship.) Marijuana and booze become as much a part of their Saigon existence as John Prine, Led Zeppelin and Janis Joplin (hence the title).
Among the cast, Akin and Christian, in particular, give finely detailed performances. It’s nice to see Akin doing something other than Shakespeare and good to see Christian (“Be Aggressive”) in something besides a cheerleader outfit. Christian is especially good at using the timbre of her voice to express her character’s triumphs and defeats. If Irby sang better, you’d understand why she plays the part of girl-singer Mary Jo, but somehow the actress never finds the fun and flash of this country coquette.
Donaldson reinvents himself continually, playing fresh-faced enlistees, mortally wounded soldiers, an unsinkable paraplegic. He’s a young actor to watch.
“A Piece of My Heart” sags a bit in Act 2, when the effects of Agent Orange suggest “Erin Brockovich” and disease-of-the-week flicks. But in the show’s final images —- a reunion at the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial —- it comes together as a bittersweet, life-affirming tribute to wartime camaraderie and the ladies who served.
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‘Tibetan Book’ a death trap
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. “The Tibetan Book of the Dead (or how not to do it again).” Through Aug. 27 at Actor’s Express.
When it comes to Eastern thought, I am but an ignorant Westerner with an open mind and humble heart. I can barely tell the difference between the Kama Sutra and a yoga mat. (Well, that’s not exactly true.)
But one of these days I’m going to arrange myself in the Lying Posture of a Lion, crack the spine of my “Dharmapada” and wait for all to be revealed. I sure hope my spiritual crash course will be more enlightening than my experience with Jack in the Black Box Theatre’s production of Jean-Claude van Itallie’s “The Tibetan Book of the Dead.”
Based on the sacred Buddhist text on death and dying, van Itallie’s play was first produced at New York’s La Mama Experimental Theatre Club in 1983. This was around the time that quartz crystals and Andreas Vollenweider’s electric harp floated into the New Age culture bin and common sense seeped out.
For most of us, you see, ideas like death and the transmigration of the soul are wholly unknowable and virtually indescribable. But where Westerners despair of death, some Easterners embrace it, and spend a lifetime preparing for it.
Working from translations of Tibetan texts, the noted avant-garde playwright incorporates elements of dance, mime and dialogue into an ensemble piece for seven actors. As directed by Marty Aikens, with choreography by Rachel Craw and live music by Nathan “Mudpuppy” Green and Jamie Dedakis, the show packs images of terror and ecstasy, chaos and stillness into a single, 90-minute loop.
Candles flicker. Performers draw in the sand and create kaleidoscopic circle dances. But such evocative moments are fleeting, and too often eclipsed by the verbal gobbledy-spook.
Considered in a contemplative state, this material might seem infinitely wise or profound, but when it’s pronounced by actors speaking in affected, disembodied tones, it comes off as shrill and empty.
Usually, death is where the narrative stops. In “Book of the Dead,” it’s where it starts. The idea of providing a guided tour of the afterlife seems wild with possibility, and kind of freeing. Here it’s inert and reductive, a theatrical dead end.
THE 411: “The Tibetan Book of the Dead (or how not to do it again)”. 8 p.m. Wednesdays-Saturdays; 7 p.m. Sundays. Also: 11 p.m. Saturday and 8 p.m. Monday. Through Aug. 27. $12-$18. Jack in the Black Box Theatre, Actor’s Express, King Plow Arts Center, 887 W. Marietta St. N.W., Suite J-107, Atlanta. 404-432-9847, 404-607-7469, www.jackintheblackbox.org.
THE VERDICT: A bad trip.
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‘My Fair Lady’ at Fox Theatre
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW: “My Fair Lady.” Through Sunday, Aug. 21. VERDICT: Quite loverly, for the most part.
“My Fair Lady” is a battle-of -the-sexes play that never seems to go out of style. And why should it?
It’s got the purebred English wit of Shaw, the snappy songs of Lerner and Loewe and the classic contours of romantic conflict and reminted personalities. Henry Higgins may educate Eliza Doolittle about the slick outer surfaces of social behavior. But in the end, she teaches him a thing or two about power, control and the complex geography of the female heart.
This isn’t to say that the Theater of the Stars production at the Fox Theatre through Sunday will smack you on the head with a feminist agenda. Instead, director Drew Scott Harris and his strong company deliver frothy family entertainment that’s mostly as pleasurable as straw-bry tarts and tea.
The first hint of the splendid visual aesthetic to come occurs in the opening scene, courtesy of Kenneth Foy’s set design and Ben Pearcy’s lighting. As a streak of lightning electrifies the air outside Covent Garden, the scrim dissolves, and we see an army of fashionable opera-goers crouching under a canopy of umbrellas. Later, Higgins’ Wimpole Street library is a glowing repository of leather-bound volumes, Tiffany lamps and Pre-Raphaelite portraiture.
John Vickery, who I recently caught in the American premiere of David Hare’s “Stuff Happens” in Los Angeles, is a marvelously priggish Higgins. Like Rex Harrison, his strong suit is acting, which means he often speaks his lyrics instead of singing them. This doesn’t bother me too much.
But for a phonetics fanatic, Higgins sure muddles his mother tongue in his big opening number (“Why Can’t the English?”). And in “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face,” he forgoes any attempt at vocalization a’tall, which almost feels like cheating.
Marla Schaffel has fun with Eliza’s Cockney growl and buoyant physicality. She also sings like a nightingale. But in her character’s transformation, she isn’t wholly convincing; Eliza may wear a white gown and a tiara, but there’s still something common and plain in the corner of her mouth.
Olivier Award-winner James Valentine is a first-rate senior actor who molds his Col. Pickering after Noel Coward and John Gielgud. As this adorably doddering old dandy, he gives the evening’s best performance. Rob Donohoe brings an effectively ghoulish air to the part of gin-swilling Alfred Doolittle, while Ellen Horst and Melinda Tanner exude quiet efficiency in the roles of Mrs. Pearce and Mrs. Higgins, respectively.
The biggest problem with this show is the endless first act, which leaves you feeling like you’ve danced all night. (This won’t get anyone to curtain on time.) But with a nip and a tuck and a little bit of luck, this 49-year-old musical dowager might pass for a true princess.
THE 411: 8 tonight-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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Atlantis Music Conference opening party
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
The sparkle of the “red carpet walk” was dulled by a light yet persistent rain, but the Atlantis Music Conference and Festival’s opening night party was still a pretty festive event.
Inside the funky-swank eleven50, things were drier (at least in the lack of rain sense). The place was jammed with musicians hoping that the next few days would put them a step closer to stardom. The conference and festival will be crawling with major-label A&R reps (that’s artist and repertoire, basically a fancy way to say talent scout).
Wednesday night, though, attendees were concentrating on two words that, when put together, are like catnip to struggling musicians and music industry types: open bar. While the drinks flowed, so did the networking and promoting.
The concentration of music business folks was a new thing for Luke Pilgrim, whose North Georgia band Last November is playing its first Atlantis showcase this year. The Cleveland resident is more at home with the Internet-fed fanbase he’s been building. “I send out hundreds of personal e-mails,” he says, mentioning the out-of-state clubs his band has packed via its MySpace Web site (www.myspace.com/lastnovember). “Indie music is all about connecting with the fans. We’re regular people, not rock gods.”
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Evita
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW “Evita” at the Fox Theatre.
If your only acquaintance with “Evita” is Madonna’s 1996 flick, please lose the memory right now.
The award-winning stage musical in town through Sunday is Hal Prince’s “Evita,” pulsing in three-dimensional blood, smoke and fire as it did when he brought it to Broadway in 1979.
Prince, whose producing-directing résumé includes “Cabaret,” “Company,â€? “Sweeney Todd,â€? “Follies,â€? “West Side Story,â€? “Fiddler on the Roof,â€? “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum,â€? “The Phantom of the Operaâ€? and more, supervised this effort, which is directed and choreographed by original dance man Larry Fuller.
Although we can only guess at Prince’s input, his imprint is everywhere: in the spare staging that uses scaffolding, projections and a few movable pieces to tell an epic story of political intrigue; in a high-stakes game of musical chairs played by the military elite; in the way a haughty band of aristocrats is stripped of furs and jewels then absorbed by the working poor; in the appearance of Argentine soldiers, all spit and polish in bright blue uniforms but wearing dark glasses and bushy mustaches a la Groucho Marx (are they laughing at Eva?).
“Evita” tells the story of Eva Duarte, born poor but determined in 1919, a second-rate actress who slept up, eventually marrying dictator Juan Perón and becoming first lady of Argentina. She was compared to Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini in life. In death, supporters sought her canonization.
The Andrew Lloyd Webber-Tim Rice rock opera, among the first, works as history lesson, biography, political commentary and entertainment. At a time when America’s president is losing popularity, it makes us wonder how much we can know about a leader’s agenda.
Three characters form “Evita’s� core: Eva, Juan Perón and Ché, patterned after revolutionary Ché Guevara, although there is no proof he and Eva ever met.
Philip Hernandez makes a facile Perón, slipping in and out of danger like a lucky snake. He’s got a deep, lush voice and a telling way with an inflection or facial tick.
We first see Ché (Bradley Dean, in the role created by Mandy Patinkin) in sweaty fatigues, sucking on a stubby cigar. He’s unmoved by Eva’s death, skeptical of her achievements in life. In one of musical theater’s toughest roles, he is narrator, commentator, tour guide and conscience, popping up here and there to portray bit players, analyzing the action and, at times, addressing the audience. Dean is the real deal — his accents and gestures, his shrieking high notes and mournful low ones never feel false.
Eva (Evita was a nickname) must be bigger-than-life, charismatic, mercurial, believable, likable. We must see why Perón fell for her, why she was worshipped and despised. We do much of the time with Kathy Voytko, in the impossible role that made Patti LuPone a Broadway name. Voytko’s eyes can be incendiary, deflating. A flip of her head dismissive or flirtatious. Her smile a gift from on high. Voytko sparks and smolders, but she never really ignites. And Eva, ultimately, must be a flame-thrower.
The backbone of this “Evita� is its ensemble of 26 singer-actors who throw out gorgeous, dissonant harmonies and change costumes as often as Eva changed lovers (the dancing, though, feels more by-the-numbers than devil-may-care).
Still, in less than 2 1/2 taut hours, Theater of the Stars proves how vivid, wrenching and smart musical theater can be. In a world of “Hairsprays� and “Spamalots� and “Mamma Mias,� we must always make room for “Evitas.�
“Evita” 8 p.m. Aug. 3-5; 2 and 8 p.m. Aug. 6; 2 and 7:30 p.m. Aug. 7. $20-$59. Fox Theatre, 660 Peachtree St. N.E., Atlanta. 404-817-7000, www.foxtheatre.org.
The verdict: Like Eva Perón, imperfect but often mesmerizing.
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Anger Management Tour
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Rappers are notorious movie buffs, and it’s common for rap records to unfold as well-paced, cinematic narratives. In concert, however, hip-hop very often loses the plot. Artists tend to play abbreviated versions of their songs, murdering the groove. The volume is extreme. The lyrics are unintelligible. The transitions are terrible. The fan interaction is a command performance, with rappers shouting instructions, demanding near-constant displays of maximum crunkness. The music feels less like drama and more like pornography.
Such was the case Sunday night at HiFi Buys Amphitheatre, where the Atlanta scream machine Lil Jon, the New York gangsta rapper 50 Cent and the scatological Detroit genius Eminem performed at the traveling show known as the Anger Management Tour.
Although each artist tried to vary his set with at least one halfhearted soft song — Jon performed “Lovers & Friends,” 50 asked “21 Questions” and Em played “Stan” — the overall impression was that the men wanted to stay hard-core, the better to maintain the invincible image so easy to cultivate on CD (and so hard to maintain in person).
Jon’s set was the earliest of the three, and by early we mean early — this reviewer arrived at 7:15, 15 minutes after the announced start time, and was shocked to find hip-hop’s quintessential creature of the night already stomping around the stage, during daylight hours no less. (Punctuality is seldom heralded as one of the music’s virtues.) Wearing shades and baggy clothes, he performed on an elaborate set decorated with a giant movable sculpture of himself. (The hair swung, the arms moved, the mouth looked like a jewelry store.)
To be fair, you don’t want Lil Jon singing slow jams any more than you want Ozzy Osbourne crooning “Wind Beneath My Wings.” But still, Lil Jon’s music is essentially one big game of Simon Says, as paraphrased by the astute critic Keith Harris: “Lil Jon says bend over! Lil Jon says touch your toes! Now shake your tailfeather! Ho, Lil Jon didn’t say to shake no tailfeather!” Now imagine all of that screamed through a microphone, accompanied by tooth-rattling bass, and you’ll get a good sense for what his set was like.
50 Cent came on next, wearing black, and before long he was joined by the members of his G Unit crew. You can’t spell G Unit without g-u-n, and indeed the set included so many gunfire sound effects that the listener eventually became desensitized. As for 50, he wasted little time in getting to “I’m Supposed to Die Tonight,” a song from his new disc, “The Massacre,” in which he promises to make disrespecting foes tongue-kiss his weapon. For such a tough guy, 50 has a surprisingly sensual side, as evidenced by his hit “Just a Lil Bit,” but back-to-back renditions of “Magic Stick” and “Candy Shop” suggested that he may be running low on this kind of material — as Fat Joe has pointed out, the songs are nearly identical. That hurt his case, as did a monotonous delivery that robbed him of his nuance and charisma, making his material blur.
50 partially redeemed himself during Eminem’s set, when the two collaborated on an inspired version of the menacing “Patiently Waiting.” Although Em also yielded time to D12, Obie Trice and Stat Quo, he remained the star, reeling off “Mosh,” “Rain Man,” “The Way I Am,” “Mocking Bird,” “Lose Yourself” and many, many more. Still, he relied too heavily on shortened versions. Perhaps the editing allowed him to cram more tracks into his set list, but since he has the best lyrical flow on the tour, it would’ve been nice to hear him, y’know, perform a few more songs to the end.
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