JESTHER ENTERTAINMENT

FILM REVIEW: THE EDGE OF DEMOCRACY

2019-06-17T14:11:00.000-07:00

A scene from The Edge of Democracy.

Fascism in the south

By Ed Rampell

As America ponders the impeachment of U.S. President Trump and investigating him for crimes a young South American female director has made a documentary about another large democratic nation that recently underwent the ordeals of impeaching one president plus the trial and imprisonment of an ex-president. Petra Costa’s The Edge of Democracy is a sprawling nonfiction epic depicting the rise then fall from power of Brazil’s Workers’ Party (TP), with the senate’s removal from office of left-leaning President Dilma Rousseff.

The former guerrilla’s ouster was followed by the conviction of her mentor, TP co-founder and ex-President Lula de Silva. Being found guilty prevented the popular labor leader from running for the presidency again to replace his protégée Dilma. Strangely, in his trial the absence of a crucial piece of evidence is viewed as “proof” of Lula’s alleged corruption in the Alice in Wonderland judicial proceedings.

These acts trigger street fighting, riots and unrest in Brazil shown in vivid footage in The Edge of Democracy, which was an official selection at the 2019 Sundance Film Festival and was screened at other filmfests, including Hot Docs. As such, the documentary serves as a cautionary tale, warning of the forces that can be unleashed by impeachment and court rulings, which might explain U.S. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s restraint regarding launching measures to charge Trump with high crimes and misdemeanors in the House of Representatives. (Sheer cowardice could also explain milquetoast Pelosi’s Hamletian indecision.) On the other hand, The Edge of Democracy also demonstrates the effectiveness of what happens when the right-wing moves ruthlessly -- as opposed to the centrist Democratic leadership’s cautious, if not timid, approach.

The documentary also covers Brazil’s decades of military rule, the restoration of democracy and the progressive reforms of the TP that literally lifted millions out of poverty. The edgy The Edge of Democracy is very up-to-date, ending with reactionary Jair Bolsonaro -- the “Trump of the Tropics” -- becoming Brazil’s president in an increasingly divided country. This 113-minute documentary by award winning director Costa feels like a Costa-Gavras feature, such as Z or the Greco-French director’s South America dramas State of Siege about Uruguay’s Tupamaros urban guerrillas and Missing re: Chile’s coup.

This nonfiction film proves, once again, that the personal is political. Interwoven into The Edge of Democracy is a family drama -- Costa’s relatives include members of Brazil’s elite, although her parents were “militants” who went underground to resist the military junta that ruled Brazil from 1964 to 1985. Presumably due to her family connections Costa had startling access to Lula, Rousseff, Bolsonaro, etc., for The Edge of Democracy. However, at some point in this ambitious doc, Costa, who’d provided a first-person presence early in the doc, disappears onscreen. Although as the narrator Costa’s voice continues to be heard (educated at Columbia University and the London School of Economics, she speaks good, if accented, English), visually the director vanishes -- like one of a South American junta’s “disappeared.” This gives The Edge of Democracy an uneven feel; it’s as if the compelling, wide ranging subject matter is beyond Costa’s creative control and grasp. Unlike documentarians like Michael Moore, whose proletarian persona is a recurring part of his docs, Costa can’t keep up with her material.

FILM REVIEW: LITTLE

2019-04-10T10:01:00.000-07:00

Little Jordan Sanders (Marsai Martin) in Little.

Big deal off

By Ed Rampell

According to The Wall Street Journal, Universal’s “Little originated with [Marsai] Martin’s idea for a female-focused twist on Big, the Tom Hanks comedy” about a teenager who magically transmogrifies into a grown man.

Depending on how generous you are, this process is called a “homage” -- or intellectual property theft. In any case, like most copycats this tedious reworking of the 1988 comedy helmed by Penny Marshall, written by Gary Ross and Anne Spielberg, has none of the far superior original’s charm, such as the oversized keyboard dancing scene.

Like Laverne & Shirley co-star Marshall, Martin appears in an ABC sitcom, Black-ish, and the formulaic strictures and structures of that medium permeate Little. I fully realize that I’m about half a century beyond the coveted demographic Little is presumably striving to lure into the multiplexes. And as a white male, this feature starring three African-American females, plus a multi-culti cast, may not exactly have yours truly in mind, too. But having said all that, this movie’s mentality is generally aimed at early adolescents who are about Martin’s age -- 14.

In Little Regina Hall (2017’s Girls Trip, 2018’s The Hate U Give) plays the grown up Jordan Sanders, a mean, nasty, capitalistic character (a decade younger than Hall's actual age). Although in her journey back to childhood Jordan supposedly learns some valuable life lessons, I’m tired of bourgeois depictions wherein previously disempowered characters are now able to act like pigs -- as if that is what equality and true empowerment are really all about, behaving like those who previously oppressed you and others. Jordan typifies the kind of despicable behavior Don Cheadle has been squandering his considerable talent on in two Showtime series -- one of which Hall has also been acting in. Blacks assuming the roles of white racists and capitalistic types was novel when Robert Downey Sr. directed the hilarious Putney Swope in 1969, but methinks this trend’s expiration date has long passed.

Indeed, Hall may have been cast because she has also had recurring roles in Black-ish and Insecure (playing the strangely named character “Ninny”). Issa Rae, the star of HBO’s Insecure, portrays April, the tyrannical Jordan’s much-put-upon assistant. Although Rae’s not particularly good in this role it was a relief to not have to listen to her totally gratuitously drop the “N” word frequently as she does on her so-so Insecure -- presumably as an insecure way to remind viewers that, oh yeah, this is supposed to be a “Black” program you are watching. To be fair to Rae, as in Insecure, from time to time she does make a racial quip or point that may go over the heads of the teen popcorn munchers Little is geared toward, but may be intended for the presumably handful of adults accompanying adolescents or seeing this boring flick on their own.

Martin is OK as the younger Jordan and I enjoyed the fact that her character’s hair was a “Black and proud” natural. But when Martin in the 13 or 14-year-old body of Jordan (who, to be fair, is in her mind a grown woman around 38 or so) starts trying to make out with adult Jordan’s lover Trevor (Luke James), some ticket buyers may find this to be disturbing. Given the ongoing church molestation scandals, et al, pederasty is no laughing matter and the fact that screenwriters Tracy Oliver and Tina Gordon include this uncomfortable vignette is as inappropriate as dolt Joe Biden making fun of touching a boy at a public event.

Perhaps this pic made for the early teen crowd will be a hit, but adults should avoid it. However, if Martin -- who is a droll, enjoyable presence on Black-ish - and her filmmaking mature and evolve as she grows up and she makes adult-oriented fare in future, we may be witnessing the birth of a new cinematic talent who emerged on the cinematic scene about a decade younger than Orson Welles was in 1940 Tinseltown when he played with “the biggest electric train set any boy [or girl!] ever had.”

FILM REVIEW: US

2019-03-22T10:59:00.000-07:00

A scene fro US

Black "free" market

By Ed Rampell

OK, I admit it, I’m a cinematic scaredy-cat. Ever since small kid days, horror movies have frightened the hell out of me. So I wasn’t prepared for what writer-director-producer Jordan Peele had in store for us in the terrifying Us.

The plot involves deranged doppelgangers wreaking mayhem on the family of Adelaide (Lupita Amondi Nyong’o) and Gabriel Wilson (Winston Duke). Like the other thesps, they also play their alter egos assaulting them. Are these doubles clones? Zombies? Or what?

Why are the Wilsons and their children suddenly beset by ghoulish others? What crime and/or sin did they commit to deserve this creepy fate? They are not overtly bad people but it seems that they are guilty of the same “offenses” as Tippi Hedren’s character Melanie Daniels (and perhaps the other Homo sapiens) in Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 The Birds (the first great eco film): Complacency, egoism, a thoughtless pursuit of consumerism. If in Hitchcock’s classic it’s our winged, feathery friends who suffer from humanity’s slights, oversights and then rebel, in Us it is creatures who rather chillingly identify themselves at one point as -- well, if you want to find out exactly how the creatures define themselves, Dear Reader, you’ll just have to strap on a proverbial pair and go see this chilling picture. That line alone is worth the price of admission or a bag of popcorn to munch, and it just about says it all.

Peele’s 2017 directorial debut, Get Out -- which earned him the Best Original Screenplay Academy Award, plus the film three noms, including for Best Picture and Best Director -- was widely interpreted as a rumination on racism. One could also argue that Us has a racial angle along the lines of the black upper middle class turning its collective back on or at least neglecting their impoverished brothers and sisters left behind by more affluent America as the buppies blithely pursue America’s brass ring. This tension was, for example, explored in John Singleton’s 1993 feature, Poetic Justice, starring Janet Jackson as a gifted poetess who, as I recall, was urged not to let poor Black criminal characters from the ‘hood hold her back or down on her upward path towards success.

But this is too simple an explanation for the onslaught that befalls Us’ characters and Us is not solely a “Black-buster.” The same trajectory befalls the Wilsons’ white friends -- whom they’ve been playing “keeping up with the Joneses” in their materialistic, status-oriented world that includes competing boats, cars and a nip and tuck here and there. The Tylers are portrayed by The Handmaid’s Tale’s Elisabeth Moss (here, the Mad Men co-star becomes a full on madwoman in her other role, wherein she arguably delivers the feature’s best bit of acting) as Kitty and Tom Heidecker as Josh. The same destiny hits the Tylers and their two teenage daughters from hell -- so Us seems to be more about class than race, per se. And, if you haven’t run screaming like a banshee from the theater yet, you’ll see that impending doom spread far beyond the Santa Cruz sea and landscape (similar to Hitchcock’s California locations in The Birds), where the story is set.

BTW, there’s some drollery in how the Tylers use their “Siri” like virtual assistant. The choices of music not only set the mood but enhance the action with some much-needed comic relief while the Tylers’ computerized valet underscores the theme of heedless, mindless materialism at their home away from home.

I think the key to the torturous inner meanings of Us can be found in an Old Testament admonition brandished by a longhaired homeless man who actually, if you look closely enough, resembles an Old Testament prophet such as Jeremiah, who issued those thunderous Jeremiads warning of impending disasters.

I interpret the creatures’ bizarre actions as metaphors in the Jean Genet and Luis Bunuel tradition of absurdist and surreal symbols as representing the uprising of the underclass, exacting revenge by the have-nots on the haves for callously being excluded by them.

As Chairman Mao put it in "Report on an Investigation of the Peasant Movement in Hunan", March 1927, Selected Works, Vol. I, page 28:

“A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.”

What would have made Us a more explicitly revolutionary movie would have been if the creatures stormed the mansions of the one percenters, say, starting with raiding the Trump White House, instead of the summer homes of upper middle class of individuals whose jobs are never made explicitly clear.

Us also uses other allegories, among them hares, mostly white rabbits. Perhaps this is an allusion to Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland (and perhaps to Jefferson Airplane’s exhilarating druggy anthem, White Rabbit?). There are certainly enough Mad Hatter-type characters in this surrealistic saga to go around.

As for other symbols, such as the ballerina, your guess is good as mine. As this is a horror movie, there are more twists and turns than on the road to Hana, Maui but your risk spoiler averse reviewer won’t ruin any surprises - just keep your peepers Jordan-Peeled (if you dare!).

A word about Us’ treatment of Black Men. Duke, who played M’Baku in 2018’s Avengers: Infinity War and Black Panther (wherein he is almost trampled by a white rhinoceros - not by a white rabbit), has an imposing physique and height. Yet, he is largely ineffective in Us when fighting the Wilsons’ enemies. His Panther c-star Lupito is far more lethal when doing battle. Nowadays, we keep hearing about how African-American women are such an important demographic in U.S. politics and are such a potent voting bloc, et al. This may very well be true and accurate and more power to them sisters, but is there a way to extol one group’s virtues without (unintentionally or perhaps intentionally) slighting another? Sometimes it seems that this is once again being used as a way to insult and degrade African American species, and Duke’s emasculation seems to be part of this trend.

What does the movie’s title mean? That we are supposed to all be in it together, but far too many of us have been discarded and left out of the American Dream, turning it into a nightmare for the underclass who eventually exact vengeance on their “betters,” once the proverbial worm turns? Maybe “Us” actually refers to “US” as in: United States?

Peele’s title reminded this film historian of the odd slogan chillingly chanted in Todd Browning’s 1932 preternaturally creepy Freaks: “One of us! One of us! Gooba-gobble, gooba-gobble!” I have no idea what that freak show motto meant but Freaks is far more bloodcurdling and deeply disturbing (it’s almost unwatchable for this coward) than Browning’s 1931 Dracula starring one of the immortal Universal Classic Monsters, that bloodsucker-in-chief, Bela Lugosi.

However, having said all this, Us is a wild ride, as thought-provoking as it is hair-raising. Us is a textbook study in how genre films can manifest hidden meanings and messages that speak to us in code (perhaps here, in Elisabeth Moss Code). Us is a warning of Biblical proportions against continuing to ignore the least of these among us, for as Jesus said, one day, “The last shall be first” (and they might do so by any means necessary).

Judgment Day is a-coming!

FILM REVIEW: OUT OF BLUE

2019-03-22T10:13:00.000-07:00

Mike Hoolihan (Patricia Clarkson) in Out of Blue.

Matters of-f course

By John Esther

In the beginning of the film's running time (sans credits), writer-director Carol Morley's film declares: "We do not simply live in the universe; the universe lives within us." This is a rather pedestrian way of discussing being, nothingness, time, space, the potential for parallel universes and much of what Martin Heidegger discovered and disclosed before he got all Nazi.

And the universe, at least the human perception thereof from some rather smart people -- but check out Friedrich Nietzsche's rebuke of that flawed system in "On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense" -- is what we are going to get as the opening scene has Jennifer Rockwell (Mamie Gummer) explaining how stars died to make us a life and how we are remnants of stardust. But how do we explain our place in the universe when 90% of matter is invisible ("Mindwalk," anyone) ? "You can tell a lot by looking," the logocentric Jennifer informs us as she looks into the phone camera recording the lecture at the observatory.

The next morning, Jennifer is found dead, murdered. Leading the investigation is Detective Mike Hoolihan (Patricia Clarkson), a topnotch detective who lives alone, thinking, working etc. She is a loner who lives by her own rules. Back in her drinking days she drank to be "reckless, crazy, trashy." When someone admonishes her to dress more feminine, she replies, "There's lots of ways to a woman." This is somewhere in the American South.

As Mike delves deeper into the case, there are layers of secrets she uncovers. Jennifer comes from a peculiar and powerful family. The patriarch, Col. Tom Rockwell (James Caan) is a war hero and very rich man who is also a powerful political figure. He has power and, as we discover, the closer you are to his power, the more he wields it.

The screenplay, based on the titular Martin Amis novel, is a bit intriguing and the multiple conversations about perceptions, the galaxy and the interconnectivity of existence makes for more intellectual dialogues found in crime stories. But it is also countered by quite a bit of hokey dreams, imaginings, with one scene bordering on the supernatural.

And the plot is amusing enough until the point Jennifer's death is solved. Then, the movie becomes disjointed, often nonsensical. Is X the bad guy or not? After an unintentionally comical scene (with recent-life-before-my-eyes scene) involving Mike and Tom, Mike declares, "I was on the wrong track." Or was the detective?

The film does not really seem sure but the two-hour running time is about up so, after more odd scenes, it gets wrapped up in tidy fashion -- unlike the "messy past" the film keeps bringing up. You can tell a lot by looking, indeed. Although the blind woman, Miss Tolkington (Carol Sutton) "sees", too.

Featuring a cast of stardust "stars" like Clarkson, Caan, and Gummer, along with Jackie Weaver as the Tom's subservient wife and Toby Jones as a nervous wreck of a professor; plus other familiar faces, "Out of Blue" seems to want to be taken seriously, but not be too serious at the same time.

STAGE REVIEW: LONG DAY'S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT

2018-06-18T16:20:00.000-07:00

A scene from Long Day's Journey Into Night. Photo credit: Lawrence K. Ho.

Proud and fallen

By Ed Rampell

The Bristol Old Vic Production of Long Day’s Journey Into Night is a masterful rendition of Eugene O’Neill’s masterpiece about the human condition. The British cast is led by the venerable thesp Jeremy Irons, who won an Oscar for 1990’s Reversal of Fortune, and Lesley Manville, who was Academy Award-nominated this year for portraying Daniel Day-Lewis’ sadistic sister in Phantom Thread.

The approximately three and a half hour two-acter is the stuff of Greek tragedy and Shakespearian drama, as it follows the descent of the Tyrone family into the long night of the soul. All of the onstage action is set at the Tyrones’ coastal cottage in Connecticut, where the fog rolls in and out as a foghorn sounds in the background. (Ask not for whom the foghorn tolls - it tolls for thee!) Joining James (Irons) and Mary Tyrone (Manville) are their sons, James Jr. (Rory Keenan) and Edmund (Matthew Beard), who proceed to tear one another and their selves to pieces, like birds of prey in a familial feeding frenzy over faults and flaws, real or imagined.

O’Neill’s searing semi-autobiographical play, originally presented in four acts, roughly follows the Aristotelian unities of time, place and action. The family is afflicted by substance abuse problems in the form of morphine and liquor that grow out of troubles like, for example, Mary’s sense of rootlessness and lack of a sense of home. Of course, like many lonely people who have the habitude of solitude, she routinely (if blindly) pushes people away from her: Man (and woman), his/her own prison maketh.

The early death of their little son before the curtain lifts causes Mary untold woe and to blame her older son, Jamie. Intriguingly, O’Neill calls the unseen, lamented lad “Eugene” -- which of course is his own name. Like Edmund, O’Neill was beset by health problems and the play is full of other self-reflective themes: Years spent out at sea (poetically recounted by Beard as Edmond); growing up in hotel rooms as the son of a stage actor, like both Tyrone boys; a penchant for John Barleycorn; and more.

Often, on the screen, stage or page one has no idea why the dramatis personae behave the way they do. But one of the great things about O’Neill’s writing is that he fully develops his major characters’ back stories, which explains what makes them tick. For example, Irons movingly reveals what made James Tyrone, a successful actor, so miserly and to unwisely invest in real estate. Worst of all, his penurious childhood is the reason why he squandered his promising theatrical career on a surefire hit, and James comes to rue selling his artistry out for commercial reasons. When the cheap father blurts out “Let it burn!” in order to humor his ailing son, it is a thrilling line wherein a character momentarily overcomes his flaws, reaching inwards for a higher self.

(Interestingly, although Long Day’s Journey Into Night was written shortly before his daughter Oona O’Neill met Charlie Chaplin, James’ being a tightwad due to his poverty-stricken childhood is similar to what has been said about Chaplin. Interestingly, the by-then not-so- Little Tramp was old enough to be Oona’s father when they wed in 1943.)

The cast is simply splendid in their heartbreaking beauty. Richard Eyre brilliantly directs the ensemble in an eye catching, book-filled set designed by Rob Howell, with moody lighting by Peter Mumford. This production is a British import (by way of Brooklyn’s BAM) of the venerable, 250-plus year old Bristol Old Vic theatre, with the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in association with Fiery Angel and associate producer Padraig Cusack.

O’Neill was the son of an immigrant actor from Ireland, and James Tyrone says he crossed the Atlantic from the Emerald Isle when he was only 10. Irons, who trained at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School and became a member of the Company half a century ago, was born at the Isle of Wight off of the English coast. So his accent can be explained, as can the amiable Irish servant Cathleen’s (Jessica Regan) brogue. Manville and Keenan sounded like Americans to my Yankee Doodle ears.

But the one flaw I’d find in this almost peerless version is that Beard, a Londoner, does not fully succeed in overcoming his accent playing the American Edmund. This is, however, a mere quibble. Beard is otherwise excellent as the tortured sensitive soul who loves to read and rhapsodize about going out to sea. In one long Long Day’s Journey Into Night scene he appears barefoot and Beard’s expressive, lanky feet can act most thesps under the table.

Early in Act I Edmund’s waxing philosophical prompts his self-made man father to deride his son as a “socialist” and “anarchist,” which alludes to O’Neill’s own lefty background, hobnobbing with John Reed and Louise Bryant. O’Neill’s 1922 play The Hairy Ape dealt with labor exploitation and in his youth, it’s believed Eugene joined the Wobblies. (1920’s The Emperor Jones considered race-related issues and none other than Paul Robeson starred in a 1933 screen version.)

Having said that, this bravura production of Long Day’s Journey Into Night spearheaded by the virtuoso Irons is among the best tragedies this reviewer has ever seen. It is a must see for all lovers of great acting and drama. Don’t miss it. On opening night it was met with a well-deserved standing ovation. Bravo!

Long Day’s Journey Into Night runs through July 1 in the Bram Goldsmith Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts, 9390 N. Santa Monica Blvd., Beverly Hills, CA 90210. For info: 310-746-4000; www.thewaillis.org/longdays .

STAGE REVIEW: 100 APRILS

2018-06-13T14:26:00.002-07:00

Beatrice (Lesile Ayvazian) and John (John Perrin Flynn) in 100 Aprils. Photo credit: Michelle Hanzelova.

The toxicity in the remembering

By Ed Rampell

Rogue Machine, which earned the Best Season Ovation Award for 2017, is known for pushing the theatrical envelope with edgy, often hard-hitting shows. These hot potato topics range from Western colonialism in Africa in Lorraine Hansberry’s Les Blancs to racism at home in Mexican Day, Dutch Masters and One Night in Miami to contemporary anti-fascism in Daytona to psycho-sexual angst in bled for the household truth and Cock.

But with its world premiere of 100 Aprils Rogue Machine is tackling its heaviest topic yet: Genocide. Playwright/co-star Leslie Ayvazian's one-acter takes a deep dive into the 1915 ethnic cleansing of Armenians and the trans-generational PTSD that is passed down to its characters in a 1982 psychiatric ward of a hospital. Well, it’s not exactly a musical comedy -- in dramatizing the mass murder of Armenians 100 Aprils is unrelentingly depressing.

For most of the 80-minute or so play John (John Perrin Flynn) is confined to a hospital bed, attended by his wife Beatrice (Ayvazian), daughter Arlene (Rachel Sorsa), Nurse (Janet Song) and Ahmet (Robertson Dean). Dean actually plays a dual role -- under the influence of his meds and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, in a drug-induced state John’s mind wanders back and forth in time. Apparently, Ahmet -- who is a doctor -- is of Turkish ethnicity, and John imagines him to be one of the Turks he saw carrying out unspeakable crimes against humanity during the Armenian Genocide when John was a five year old eyewitness to the mass slaughter.

John is also a doctor, but in his present state he is clearly unable to fulfill that Biblical edict: “Physician, heal thyself.” Sorsa’s Arlene is a sexually repressed librarian, a repository of the trans-generational PTSD passed down to her that seems to deny her personal happiness. On the one hand, Ayvazian’s choice of the daughter’s profession is trite, as female librarians are stereotyped as old maids and matrons -- notably Marion the Librarian in The Music Man. But in another way, the playwright’s choice is quite clever, because as the daughter of an Armenian genocide survivor Arlene is, like a librarian, the keeper and preserver of the records and archives, in this case of unforgettable inhumane cruelty. And the name “Arlene,” BTW, means to “pledge.”

Arlene can never forget and, in my own life, I’ve met members of groups earmarked for persecution who seemed to me to perpetuate a trauma, passed down from one generation to another. I’ve seen this in survivors of the Holocaust and Hollywood Blacklist, hysterias and horrors that have marred and scarred their tortured psyches.

Having said all this, while this may be the stuff of great drama, 100 Aprils is no fun to watch onstage. It’s certainly well-acted, with Michael Arabian (who helmed a memorable Waiting for Godot a while back at the Mark Taper Forum) skillfully directing Aprils’ ensemble. Rogue Machine’s co-founder and artistic director Flynn, who told me this was the first time in 30 years he was acting (other than as a stand-in), proves his talents extend beyond directing. But infrequent attempts to lighten the mood don’t dispel the doom and gloom emanating from the stage. These are no Aprils fools and the drama is extremely depressing.

That’s not to say it is a bad (or, for that matter, good) play, and I am not saying there’s no place on the stage for works such as 100 Aprils. But can depression and other dark subject matter be presented on the live stage in a way that doesn’t bum the audience out? The superb production of Long Day Journey Into Night at the Wallis Annenberg is a case in point. O'Neill's epic focuses on one family (although it may have universal themes about the human condition, husbands and wives, parents and offspring) while 100 Aprils seeks to unravel the collective saga of grief and despair of an entire people. Surely the stage must address the distressing parts of life, as well as be a source of amusement and entertainment. Occasionally it’s all of this -- along with enlightening.

Narine, a member of the audience who was born and raised in Armenia when it was part of the Soviet Union, thought that tales of the Genocide against her people should be “sad” in tone, rather than “angry.” She was chagrined by a scene wherein Beatrice and Arlene assault the Turkish Ahmet (which, BTW, is also filled with frisson, especially vis-à-vis the daughter, who seems to be sexually frustrated; there is no indication in the dialogue that the 30-something Arlene currently or has ever had a romantic partner).

Be that as it may, aside from mass murder itself, what may enrage and obsess survivors and descendents is the denial that these horrible human rights abuses even occurred in the first place. As it is said in Death of a Salesman about Willy Loman in another context, “Attention must be paid!” to historic wrongs and horrors. And following acknowledgement, there must be an effort to right the wrong.

This tragedy about genocide is for more adventurous ticket buyers with a yen for the serious, who don’t mind being challenged and even depressed by a tough-to-take drama, and for those may even go to the theater seeking some sort of emotional catharsis and release. But if you prefer romantic comedies and musicals, this ain’t exactly No, No, Nanette.

100 Aprils runs through July 16, 2018. Rogue Machine is located in The Met, 1089 N. Oxford Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90029. Reservations: 855-585-5185 or www.roguemachinetheatre.com

STAGE REVIEW: CANDIDE

2018-01-31T14:01:00.000-08:00

Kelsey Grammer stars as Voltaire and Dr. Pangloss in Candide. Photo Credit: Ken Howard.

"The ear is the avenue to the heart" -- Voltaire

In the best of something, something or (an)other

By Ed Rampell

In the history of Western storytelling, along with Homer’s The Odyssey, Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz and Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, Voltaire’s 1759 Candide ranks as one of the greatest saga’s ever told about protagonists embarking upon great travels. This is what mythologist Joseph Campbell called The Hero’s Journey, and the 18^th century title character Candide’s (Jack Swanson) epic gallivanting takes him from Westphalia, in what is now Germany, around much of Europe to the New World, where he experiences Uruguay and the legendary golden realm of El Dorado, and beyond.

The French Enlightenment philosopher Voltaire very explicitly imbued his novella with philosophical inquiry and insight. During his global peregrinations, Candide is joined from time to time by an entourage consisting of his would-be sweetheart Cunegonde (Erin Morley), her snobbish, elitist brother Maximilian (Theo Hoffman), the sensuous servant Paquette (Peabody Southwell), the Old Lady (Christine Ebersole) and Cacambo (Joshua Wheeker), who is first encountered at Montevideo.

Doctor or Professor Pangloss (Kelsey Grammer), who tutored Candide, et al, in “metaphysico-theologo-cosmolo-nigology” at the Baron’s castle in Thunder-ten-tronckh, is an intriguing, droll character through which Voltaire spoofs some of his fellow Age of Reason philosophers. Pangloss is mocked for his perpetually excessive optimism in what he calls “in this the best of all possible worlds.”

Born out-of-wedlock to the Baron’s sister, during his globetrotting Candide -- so named because “His judgment was quite honest and he was extremely simple-minded” -- seeks to find out the meaning of life. Is it to attain status, wealth, glory, sexual gratification, love or what? As such, this musical adaptation, which first appeared on Broadway in 1956, is one of the most philosophical operas and operettas ever staged. It is also extremely entertaining, with a bubbly “Overture” conducted by James Conlon so enrapturing and ebullient that it’s one of those rare pieces of music which makes one glad to be alive -- if only to be able to hear such joyous sounds.

Casting Kelsey Grammer as the French philosopher Voltaire (1894-1778) and Professor Pangloss is a sly, canny choice. As one of left-leaning La La Land’s most outspoken Republicans, who endorsed wackadoodle Congresswoman Michele Bachmann for president in 2012 and also backed GOP contenders George W. Bush, John McCain, Mitt Romney, Rudie-Doody Giuliani, Ben Carson and President Trump, Grammer certainly has one of the finest minds of the 18^th century. The conservative thesp’s selection to portray Voltaire and Pangloss is also inspired, in that Grammer’s most popular character, Dr. Frasier Crane, was a psychotherapist in the beloved Cheers sitcom, who went on to dispense psychological advice as a radio shrink on the air in TV’s Frasier spin-off series. To be fair, the multiple Emmy Award-winning actor who warbled Frasier’s closing theme song "Tossed Salads and Scrambled Eggs" acquits himself well as the preposterously pretentious optimist Pangloss.

Interestingly, Candide had deep 20^th century political implications. In 1951, playwright Lillian Hellman’s lover and novelist Dashiell Hammet (The Maltese Falcon; The Thin Man) refused to name the names of members of the Civil Rights Congress’ bail fund, and as the CRC’s president he was found guilty of contempt of court. Hammett, who’d volunteered for the Army at age 48 to serve during WWII, served time in a West Virginia federal prison where, according to Hellman, he was forced to scrub toilets. The creator of Sam Spade, Nick and Nora Charles testified before Senator Joe McCarthy’s “reds-under-the-beds” Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations on March 26, 1953.

Hellman herself was summoned to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee and her letter to the witch-hunters was read during her hearing on May 21, 1952 by the Committee’s Chairman. (On Oct. 27, 2017, liberal pundit and TV/radio commentator Ellen Ratner, sister of the late Michael Ratner, president of the Center for Constitutional Rights, read Hellman’s letter during a reenactment commemorating the 70^th anniversary of the Hollywood Blacklist at the Writers Guild Theater in Beverly Hills, later broadcast on C-SPAN). Hellman’s defiant text contained one of the HUAC hearings’ immortal lines: “I cannot and will not cut my conscience to fit this year's fashions…”

As Voltaire’s novella contained scenes about the Inquisition in Lisbon (the Grand Inquisitor is played here by Brian Michael Moore), Hellman saw parallels between the auto-da-fé and the HUAC/McCarthy era, and proposed adapting Candide into a play, with Leonard Bernstein composing some incidental music. But according to LA Opera’s program notes, Bernstein became so enamored with the idea that “he persuaded her that it should be a ‘comic operetta.’”

In the late 1930s Bernstein staged a student production at Harvard of Marc Blitzstein’s radical musical The Cradle Will Rock, the pro-labor Federal Theatre Project play that had literally been suppressed on Broadway at bayonet point. Lenny’s first opera, 1952’s Trouble in Tahiti, was a critique of bourgeois American life. Red Channels, that compendium of anti-communist opprobrium, named Lenny. Similarly, in 1970, after Bernstein held a party for the Black Panther Party at his Park Avenue penthouse in Manhattan, Tom Wolfe mocked Leonard for being “radical chic” and “mau mauing.”

Nevertheless, Bernstein also composed his only original movie score not adapted from another medium for 1954’s On the Waterfront. The music, which earned an Oscar nomination, is undeniably powerful -- but directed and written by Elia Kazan and Budd Schulberg, who both gave names to HUAC, On the Waterfront is a defense of informing. The protagonist, however brilliantly portrayed he may be by Marlon Brando, is an informer. Kazan was considered to be the Hollywood Blacklist’s “quintessential informer,” who even took out a full page rationalization of his naming names in The New York Times. Thus a character usually depicted as a “snitch” or “rat” becomes the hero in this symbolic justification of collaborating with the HUAC and McCarthy purges. So Lenny’s cooperation with Kazan and Schulberg’s homage to finking is, to say the least, eyebrow raising.

This year marks the 100^th anniversary of Bernstein’s birth and oddly enough, about 10 days ago I encountered an anecdote about the Massachusetts-born composer and conductor in, of all places, the Swiss Alps. Ski acrobat and instructor Art Furrer -- who’d parlayed his fame and fortune into becoming a hotelier and restaurateur -- told me a story about Lenny at his four star Hotel Royal in Riederalp, a picturesque village 6,315 feet high in the Swiss Alps near Aletsch Glacier. Wearing his trademark cowboy hat (presumably acquired while teaching skiing at America), I recognized the rootin’-tootin’ Furrer and asked the still spry 80-year-old about the celebrity clients he’d taught how to ski. According to Furrer, in addition to the Kennedys, they included Bernstein, who loved to hobnob with ordinary people at bars -- and drink bourbon.

Although Bernstein and Hellman’s operetta is written and performed at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in English, supertitles are projected during the numerous arias, etc., but not during the show’s spoken dialogue. This version of Candide, which opens LA Opera’s 2018 roster, is well-acted, sung and adroitly directed by the Kennedy Center’s Francesca Zambello, especially in the mass scenes’ complex mise-en-scène. Eric Sean Fogel’s choreography and costumes by Jennifer Moeller do the trick, as does the chorus directed by the redoubtable Grant Gershon. James Noone’s scenery, or lack of, is a completely missed opportunity. Wouldn’t you love to see the mythic El Dorado visualized? I assume that the mostly bare stages are due to budgetary concerns, but only Pangloss knows.

But this is a mere quibble, in this the best of all philosophical operettas, which includes, for example, plenty of ruminations on class divisions. Like Dorothy, Candide did not know both of his biological parents, which may explain their searching far and wide and why they reach similar conclusions: “There’s no place like home.” Perhaps expressing Voltaire’s credo, Candide’s final scene answers the Big Question: What’s it all about? What is the meaning of life? In any case, we must all cultivate our operas.

Candide runs through February 19 at L.A. Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 135 N. Grand Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90012. See: Candide

FILM REVIEW: IN THE FADE

2017-12-27T11:36:00.001-08:00

Katja Sekerci (Diane Kruger) in In the Fade.

Hamburg hangover

By Ed Rampell

I never fail to be astonished at how the arts, as Shakespeare put it, hold a mirror up to nature, that is, to our society and current events. As the rightwing anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim tide rises, with its ripped-from-the-proverbial-headlines vibe, In the Fade (Aus dem Nichts) is a case in point. This German neo-nazi drama written and directed by Turkish-German auteur Fatih Akin’s (Head On, Soul Kitchen, The Edge of Heaven) is extremely timely.

Specifically speaking, In the Fade has its filmic finger on the societal pulse not only due to the Charlottesville Nuremburg rally but because there’s currently lots of chatter about “lone wolf” terrorists who independently take matters into their own hands in the West. Usually, these non-state actors are represented as admirers and/or adherents of jihad-inspired groups such as ISIS. But a trend may be emerging onstage and onscreen wherein antifascist individuals take vigilante direct action against ultra-right extremists. This was the major plot point in the two-act Daytona by playwright Oliver Cotton, with the envelope-pushing Rogue Machine Theatre presenting its U.S. premiere last September in L.A. In the Fade's protagonist Katja Sekerci (Diane Kruger) follows a similar fateful, violent course.

Unlike Daytona, which is set in Florida and New York, In the Fade is a thriller that takes place in modern Hamburg, Germany and Greece. Katja’s husband, Nuri (Numan Acar), and son, Rocco (Rafael Santana), are blown up in what appears to be a premeditated neo-nazi terrorist sneak attack. Although fascist sympathizers André Möller (Ulrich Brandoff) and his wife Edda (Hanna Hilsdorf) are arrested and tried, what happens is “Exhibit A” of the wariness and distrust Alfred Hitchcock always displayed towards the police (and by extension the courts).

Because Katja and Nuri have a history tied to hashish -- which Nuri was incarcerated for -- and even “worse” in the eyes of the contemporary German state is of Turkish ancestry, much of the investigation into his death and the Möllers’ trial is a case of “blame the victims.” Never mind that Nuri studied business administration behind bars and turned his life around after serving time by establishing his own legitimate small business; he is first and foremost guilty of operating his office while Turkish. It doesn’t matter that Nuri paid his debt to society -- will the German judicial system convict the Aryan Möllers of committing a murderous hate crime against the Turkish Nuri and Rocco? Wanna make a bet?

Confronted by the failure of the German capitalist state to render justice, Katja embarks on individually seeking vengeance for her slain loved ones. She’s essentially alone, with the exception of her dedicated attorney, Danilo (Denis Moschitto), who promises to appeal the verdict. But instead of pursuing further legal recourse or joining an antifa (militant antifascist) course, like an anti-nazi John Wayne or Gary Cooper Katja decides to ride alone. Her Homeric odyssey for justice takes her, appropriately, to Ulysses’ homeland, Greece, as she tries to track the Hitlerian hit man and woman down and, with some poetic justice, confront them with a dose of their own medicine.

Kruger is superb portraying a tortured character with her own She won the Best Actress Award at 2017’s Cannes Film Festival for her depiction of the anguished Katja who decides to take direct action against the neo-nazi assassins of her husband and child.

In the Fade is Golden Globe-nominated for Best Foreign Film and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was likewise Oscar nominated and, in this woman-oriented year in Hollywood, if portraying an empowered woman Kruger also picks up a Best Actress Academy Award nomination. I predict she will face off against Meryl Streep for The Post but that Frances McDormand will win that coveted golden statuette for Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. Remember volks, you heard it hear first!

Although Kruger delivers an undeniably compelling performance, some may also take issue with Akin’s script (which adapted Hark Bohm’s novel, inspired by a spate of actual neo-nazi racist attacks in Hamburg). Instead of going it alone like a cowgirl, perhaps Katja should have joined the antifa militant movement and participated in organized direct action against resurgent fascists. Why be a lone wolf when you can run with a pack instead?

Especially given the resurgence of the anti-immigrant right in today’s Germany, reacting against Hamburg-born Chancellor Angela Merkel’s merciful policies towards refugees (seems like the former resident of the German Democratic Republic may have actually learned something about socialist solidarity growing up in the GDR after all). But this is an ideological quibble which shouldn’t stop viewers of intelligent, well-made movies from seeing the thought provoking, gripping In the Fade, which has ticket buyers sitting the edge of their seats by daring to dramatize important issues and big ideas on the big screen.

STAGE REVIEW: YOHEN

2017-11-08T15:22:00.000-08:00

James (Danny Glover) and Sumi (June Angela) in Yohen. Photo Credit: Matthew Leland.

Slow burn

By Ed Rampell

One of the great things about L.A.’s thriving theater scene is that primarily because of our proximity to the movie/TV industry, theatergoers often have the treat of seeing top talents such as Joe Morton, who starred in John Sayles’ memorable 1984 film, The Brother From Another Planet and currently portrays Kerry Washington’s father, Rowan Pope, on the ABC-TV series, Scandal. Morton is currently delivering a stellar, must-see portrayal of comic/Civil Rights and peace activist Dick Gregory in Turn Me Loose, which has very deservedly been extended again at the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts through November 19.

Another case in point of screen notables treading on L.A. boards is Danny Glover, perhaps best known for the Lethal Weapon film franchise. So let’s get this out of the way first: In Yohen, Glover is completely convincing and natural as ex-GI James Washington, a boxing aficionado who once had dreams of Olympic gold and now coaches at a small gym somewhere in, I believe, L.A. Glover is no stranger to this role, as he originally played the part at its 1999 world premier, which -- like the current production -- was staged at the East West Players’ David Henry Hwang Theater in Downtown L.A.’s Little Tokyo.

Glover’s co-star in this two-hander, June Angela as Sumi, is likewise no slouch in the thesp department. While many of Angela’s top credits are on the stage, she holds her own vis-à-vis the movie star who plays her estranged husband. A Tony Award nominee for Shogun: The Musical, Angela also appeared on Broadway opposite Yul Brynner in a revival of The King and I, and appeared on the TV sitcom, Fresh Off the Boat, and won an Emmy for The Electric Company.

Having said that, the problems with Yohen are, to paraphrase Shakespeare, “not in the stars but in” Philip Kan Gotanda’s script. At one point roughly midway through this one-acter Sumi takes her husband to task for being “Boring! Boring! Boring!” It requires a first rate dramatist to render the boring interesting and attention-grabbing, but much of Yohen reflects Sumi’s lament and is, similar to her take on James, dull and slow. At times, some ticket buyers may imagine that translated into English Yohen means “yawn” and yearn for Glover’s Lethal Weapon co-star Mel Gibson to leap onstage, guns a-blazing, to make things more exciting.

Although as noted Glover makes the most out of the raw material Gotanda has given him, I have to agree with Sumi about his likable but one-dimensional character fixated on amateur boxing, who refuses to grow as a person by expanding his horizons and, Sumi believes, drinks too much beer. Some may argue that with his mono-obsession on pugilism James is even a bit of a stage stereotype (a subject explored last summer by Will Geer’s Theatricum Botanicum’s production of Alice Childress’ Trouble in Mind) and a throwback as a character. After 37 years of marriage, Sumi is ready for some personal growth and pursues new educational and career opportunities. James, too, has reached a point in his life where he, too, can do so, but chooses (or is congenitally unable) to do so.

Apparently, James and Sumi met in postwar Japan when the former was part of the occupation forces. As such James had the “hail the conquering hero” stature. They marry and move to the USA, where Sumi learns bitter lessons about racism, American-style, in a land that places black males lower on the social status totem pole. Like her ceramics, Sumi is on a slow burn that eventually erupts into a wildfire, and the conflict makes Yohen more dramatic.

The 90-minute drama does build in intensity and taken as a whole, after a slow start, I was glad to have seen it -- and not only for the rare opportunity to eyeball the great Glover work his magic in person. To his credit, Gotanda tackles topics rarely pursued (at least to my knowledge) by playwrights in Western productions. From Giacomo Puccini’s 1903 Madame Butterfly to 1993’s M. Butterfly (screenplay by David Henry Hwang), etc., productions have centered on the interracial romances of Caucasian males and the “exotic” other in the form of “Oriental” females (or what are assumed to be women).

In Yohen, Gotanda takes a candid look at East meets West meets Africa. Spike Lee’s 1991 Jungle Fever dealt with the relationship between an African-American man and a white Italian-American woman, but here Gotanda explores the (relatively speaking) terra incognito of an African-American male and a Japanese-born and raised woman. Sumi is, of course, uprooted from her homeland due to her marriage to James and is wistful for her heritage, especially with her being descended from what she thinks is an exalted samurai lineage.

Christopher Scott Murillo creates a realistic set that somehow expresses the characters’ relationship. Ben Guillory (who recently excelled as W.E.B. DuBois), the producing artistic director of The Robey Theatre Company, ably directs his duet in a year that has seen other noteworthy Black-themed productions, including the aforementioned Dr. Du Bois and Miss Ovington at LATC and Trouble in Mind, as well as Rogue Machine’s presentation of Lorraine Hansberry’s Les Blancs at the MET Theatre.

Yohen runs through Nov. 19 at East West Players, David Henry Hwang Theater, 120 Judge John Aiso St., Los Angeles. For more information: www.eastwestplayers.org; www.robeytheatrecompany.com.

STAGE REVIEW: DEMOCRACY (SIC)

2017-09-19T16:33:00.000-07:00

A scene from Democracy (sic)

Thus was it staged

By Ed Rampell

Don Williams’ com-dram democracy (sic) opens with a movie-like montage, accompanied by a throbbing recorded rock soundtrack and flashing lights designed by the aptly name RAY Jones. (Look closely and you’ll glimpse a red flag with a hammer and sickle in the background.) The rest of this world premiere production presented by the Harold Clurman Laboratory Theater Company at the Art of Acting Studio Los Angeles is also quite cinematic, a fast moving, often comic pastiche with seven filmic vignettes commenting on America’s contemporary political scene (and what a scene the players make!).

Riffing on TV’s famous Twilight Zone anthology supernatural series that debuted on the tube in 1959, hosted and co-written by Rod Serling, Alex Best plays an ersatz Serling who welcomes spectators to a “dimension of imagination” called “the Democracy Zone” -- a demented domain that I must say is truly “demo-crazy.”

In it, smarmy 700 Club-type televangelist Rev. Roberts (James Warfield) presents a TV show with a Christian conservative author guest (Jennifer Ann Weisner) ballyhooing her god and country tome endorsed by a Trump-like prez. Carlis Shane Clark portrays a terrified African American abducted by neo-nazi types. Steve Humphreys depicts a rightwing shock jock whose manic broadcasting of toxic talk is disrupted by a female caller (also portrayed by Weisner who, like the other thesps, plays multiple parts). Putting the “sick” into democracy (sic), seductive Stacy Jordan plays a sexually repressed super duper über-Christian stalker and so on, in this 90 minute one-acter with a variety of tableaux exploring Trump’s USA careening off the rails.

Deploying lots of risqué language democracy (sic) includes startling, imaginative word play -- an inventive, off-color Pidgin English of sorts -- during banter in scenes that spoof alt right gibberish. Weisner and Warfield expertly, admirably deliver the tongue twisting doubelspeaking dirt. I thought these scenes were the best part of the show, creating a lingo as George Orwell did with “Newspeak” in 1984, the concocted language of totalitarianism. The concept of “doubletalk” emerged out of 1984, and it is today the lingua franca of politicians and pundits who strive to obscure the truth (with “alternative facts”) and, as Orwell aptly put it his 1946 essay, Politics and the English Language, to “defend the indefensible.” Williams’ version of his political patois, however, is far bluer than Orwell’s, so listeners’ with virginal ears should beware of democracy (sic)’s uh, shall we say, “aural sex.”

After Friday’s opening Don Williams told me he first got the idea for democracy (sic) after the 2004 presidential election. Believing Democrat John Kerry was robbed of electoral victory by George W. Bush, the playwright was so angered that he started writing this play. The 2016 election of Trump outraged Williams even more, inspiring him to complete the excursion to the Democracy Zone he’d embarked upon 12 years earlier.

The Harold Clurman Laboratory Theater Company production of democracy (sic) runs through Oct. 14, 2017. The Art of Acting Studio L.A., 1017 N. Orange Dr., LA., CA 90038. Reservations:Sic

STAGE REVIEW: DAYTONA

2017-09-18T17:33:00.000-07:00

Joe (George Wyner) and Elli (Sharron Shayne) in Daytona. Photo credit: John Perrin Flynn.

It happens here

By Ed Rampell

As the Nazis ride again, British playwright Oliver Cotton’s brilliant play, Daytona, is about how fascism impacts and haunts survivors throughout their lives (and those are the “lucky” ones!) and what may be the first postwar “Antifa” in America. The two-acter opens mundanely enough, with an old married couple practicing for a dance competition in their rather routine, drab Brooklyn apartment, expertly designed with her usual deftness and eye for detail by Hillary Bauman.

But what is about to befall the seventy-something Elli (Sharron Shayne) and Joe (George Wyner) is anything but typical, as out of the blue, the long lost Billy (the peerless Richard Fancy) shows up to upset the proverbial applecart. Billy’s arrival from out of nowhere reminds first Joe and then, in Act II, Elli about who and what they really are and their deep dark past, as long buried secrets are excavated and revealed.

Without committing the unpardonable offense of disclosing a plot spoiler (a capital offense for critics!), let me try and dance around what happens a bit. In Act I Billy executes an action that would arguably be applauded by today’s Antifa -- those brave antifascist activists who use militant tactics to resist Nazis and defend their intended victims. Let’s just say that Billy goes rogue -- which is apropos, as this stellar production, the American premiere of Daytona, is by one of L.A.’s leading, edgiest theater companies, Rogue Machine.

His feat takes place while Billy is, of all things, on vacation at Daytona, in that not-so-sunny Sunshine State just rocked by hurricanes. Like Irma, Billy blows back into Joe and Elli’s life while he is on the lam, and all hell breaks loose, as he divulges his daring deed to Joe while Elli is gone for the day.

She returns at the end of Act I before the intermission, and when the proverbial curtain lifts for the second act, Billy is now alone with Elli in the apartment she shares with her husband. Here, Cotton’s plot twists as it turns out there are more deep dark secrets to be uncovered, as Billy and Elli expose their own clandestine history.

Enough said about the plot. Suffice it to say that this is a superbly written, acted and directed drama by Elina de Santos may have you on the emotional edge of your seat. It is full of moral conundrums regarding life, death, assimilating to hide your true ethnic identity and self, fidelity and more. Daytona provoked total strangers to hold serious debates in their theater seats during the intermission about ethical and other questions.

Audiences are used to seeing couples portrayed by younger, more conventionally handsome and pretty, sexually appealing if not outright glamorous actors. But these veteran thesps fully inhabit their roles, delivering performances that will be long remembered by auds and, hopefully, critics when it’s accolade-dispensing time. Fancy is the three-hander’s standout, although all cast members acquit themselves admirably.

Daytona runs through Oct. 30, 2017 at The Met, 1089 N Oxford Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90029. Reservations: 855-585-5185 or at www.roguemachinetheatre.com.

STAGE REVIEW: A NIGHT WITH JANIS JOPLIN

2017-09-01T14:10:00.001-07:00

Janis Joplin (Kelly McIntyre) in A Night with Janis Joplin. Photo Credit: Randy Johnson.

Pearls of joy

By Ed Rampell

As her hometown is devastated by Hurricane Harvey, A Night With Janis Joplin, featuring Port Arthur’s most famous “native” daughter, has blown into the Laguna Playhouse. This isn’t a bioplay, as Kelly McIntyre belts out the raspy-voiced Texan’s tunes, accompanied by a rocking eight piece band performing many of Joplin’s greatest hits. Instead of a plot on Brian Prather’s nightclub-like set McIntyre delivers a series of rambling ruminations on fame, fortune, life, etc., in between songs.

I saw Janis Joplin perform live twice and McIntyre does a creditable job incarnating the singer -- her swagger, swigs, twang and tonality. Like Joplin, the lead performer is not a conventional beauty, although both certainly had/have their own appeal. Costume designer Amy Clark cloaks McIntyre and the other singers with the period panache of sixties’ psychedelic spectacle. Most importantly, McIntyre holds her own with her vocals, which range from angsty to poignancy.

What comes across most during McIntyre’s onstage musings as Joplin is that the title character was a lonesome cowgirl. However, this Tony Award-nominated production created, written and directed by Randy Johnson is completely lacking into any insight into why poor Joplin felt so lonely -- except when she was performing and the center of attention, with that electric connection between star and audience.

The 2012 play Room 105, The Highs and Lows of Janis Joplin, which ran in West Hollywood, was far better at showing what made Joplin tick. Even though Sophie B. Hawkins looked absolutely nothing like Joplin , perhaps because she, too, was a singer (Hawkins’ hits include As I Lay Me Down and Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover), she captured her character’s bluesy soul. And in terms of acting, psyche is more important than persona.

Janis: Little Girl Blue also disclosed the humiliations and hardships Joplin suffered at Port Arthur, with her private letters read aloud and revealing new interviews with Joplin’s relatives, lovers, friends and fellow musicians conducted specifically for Amy Berg’s 2015 documentary. (Joplin was probably bisexual although you’d never know that from Night.)

In any case, the best thing about A Night with Janis Joplin is how it pays homage to the black women the white Texan emulated and goes into detail about how these African-American females influenced Joplin’s distinctive but derivative (in the best sense) sound. Caucasian crooners arguably misappropriated rock from black pioneers such as Chuck Berry and Little Richard, profiteering off of a larger “mainstream” audience that Jim Crow America denied African Americans and their “race music,” Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis and Pat Boone didn’t give their black forebears the credit due to them -- but this show definitely does. In one showstopper Joplin and Aretha Franklin perform a duet, as the Queen of Soul meets the Queen of Rock 'n' Roll --- and become soul sisters of sorts.

In a series of great song and dance numbers throughout A Night with Janis Joplin Tawny Dolley portrays Etta James, Carol Hatchett Odetta and Bessie Smith, and Amma Osei Aretha and Nina Simone. (In the playbill, Leah J. Loukas has one of the most unique stage credits I’ve ever seen: “wig designer.”) Interestingly, while an anti-immigration demo took place just a few short blocks away, the opening night crowd at the Laguna Playhouse got into that sixties spirit of love and peace, with the enormous contributions of black female chanteuses being honored and celebrated by a predominately white aud. As Ellen Richard, the theater’s executive director, pithily put it when introducing the show, “Thanks for ignoring that racist rally down the street!”

But it was impossible to ignore McIntyre and her crew of singers and musicians as they performed, to paraphrase Elvis, Playhouse rock. What was especially rewarding for this longtime Joplin fan were the expressions that lit up the faces of teenage young ladies - as well as their mothers (and dare I say grandmothers: Joplin would have turned 74 this year had she survived!).

McIntyre’s worthy renditions of “Piece of My Heart” and the Gershwins’ “Summertime” were my personal favorites. Listening to them I experienced acid flashes, momentarily becoming that 15-year-old watching Joplin at New York’s Madison Square Garden drinking from a flask before dashing onstage and at Shea Stadium during an antiwar rally, when my chum Elliott started a chant that swept the ballpark like the wave to “turn off the lights!” -- which they did, even as Joplin turned us on.

Joplin may have endured a misery that made her understand and sing the blues, but she also had a playful, mirthful side that McIntyre and the production also conveys, with songs such as that spoof of American materialism, “Mercedes Benz.” Oh lawd, won’t you buy me a ticket to see A Night With Janis Joplin? Even if priced at $60-$105, the tix aren’t exactly cheap thrills. But for Joplin and/or classic rock fans, it’s worth the price of admission, so get it while you can!

A Night With Janis Joplin runs through Sept. 10, at the Laguna Playhouse, 606 Laguna Canyon Road, Laguna Beach, CA 92651. For more info: 949-497-2787; www.LagunaPlayhouse.com.

STAGE REVIEW: HONKY TONK LAUNDRY

2017-08-22T12:54:00.001-07:00

Lana Mae Hopkins (Bets Malone) and Katie Lane Murphy (Misty Cotton) in Honky Tonk Laundry. Photo Credit: Michael Lamont.

Light load

By Ed Rampell

Playwright-director Roger Bean’s Honky Tonk Laundry is like a dramatization of a Country Western song: A hard luck tuneful tale featuring brokenhearted Southerners who are no longer (if they ever were) the belles of the ball, brought to the live stage. Unfortunately all of the music is canned, and most if not all of the songs are CW or perhaps pop standards, such as Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man.” However, to be fair, the singing that accompanies the plus-one soundtrack warbled by Bets Malone -- as Lana Mae Hopkins, owner of the Wishy Washy Washateria -- and Misty Cotton -- as employee/co-singer Katie Lane Murphy -- and their hoofing choreo-ed by James Vasquez is often enjoyable.

The lowbrow story, such that there is, is set nowadays way down yonder in the land of misty cotton, which events like the Charlottesville clash ensures is unforgotten. How interesting that this limited, perhaps stereotypical look at Dixie opened the weekend of the antifascist fight in Virginia triggered by plans to remove a statue of the treasonous Confederate General Robert E. Lee. In any case, Lana was an aspiring singer who gave up her dream to become a star at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville to run the family’s full service launderette when she inherited the Washateria. She encounters Katie, who’s offstage boyfriend “dumb shit Danny” has a cheating heart.

Lana hires Katie to work at the Wishy Washy and they become fast friends -- a relationship intensified by Lana’s discovery that her good ol’ boy, offstage Earl, is also straying. In Act Two the gal pals join forces to make Lana’s CW dreams come true, and 95 percent of the second act is merely an excuse for these Dixie dolls to sing and holler and hoof up a storm in a contrived concert masquerading as a play. (Although in terms of disguises and costumes, Byron Batista’s wigs are big enough to make Arkansan Bill Clinton drool.)

It’s about as much as a plot as could fill a CW song, but not necessarily a real, original musical. Tennessee Williams it ain’t, although he often dramatized similar themes. Seattle-born Bean specializes in jukebox musicals such as The Marvelous Wonderettes (which nabbed the 2007 LA Ovation Award for Best Musical) and various spin-offs. Honky Tonk Laundry, too, seems to be on the spin cycle, recycled with a superficial Southern setting and ambiance and artistically purloined songs created by others for completely different reasons, such as Nancy Sinatra’s proto-feminist “These Boots Were Made for Walking.”

To be charitable, the Los Angeles premiere of Honky Tonk Laundry seems to be presented at the Hudson Mainstage Theatre with an eye on grander venues, where the taped music could actually be performed by a live band and the miked-up singing won’t be too loud for an intimate showcase. At best this wannabe musical is rated “M.E.” --- for “mildly entertaining” -- while the best thing this two-hander has going for it are the winning performances by Malone and Cotton. These would-be Dixie chicks make do with the material they are given, which they surmount with their Opry-esque talents and charming presences as heartbroken, jilted belles determined to ring their bells.

Honky Tonk Laundry runs through Sept. 17 at the Hudson Mainstage Theatre, The Hudson Theatres, 6539 Santa Monica Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90038, at Theatre Row. For more information: 323-960-5770; www.plays411.com/honkytonklaundry or www.honkytonklaundry.com.

NEWS: POLITICON 2017

2017-08-07T14:01:00.001-07:00

Xeni Jardin, Ann Coulter, and Greg Proops at Politicon 2017. Photo credit: Ed Rampell.

Center right field

By Ed Rampell

Featuring heavy hitters from the realms of cable news and punditry, Politicon, which is to Politics what Comic Con is to superheroes and comic books, took place July 29-30 at the Pasadena Convention Center. This “politi-palooza” attracted prominent speakers, performers and audiences from across the liberal and conservative ends of the spectrum. Highlights of the chattering classes’ chitchat at Politicon included:

“Po-Crazy”

The first panel I attended at what was dubbed “Independence Hall” was entitled “Trump: Genius or Lunatic?” Sally Kohn, an openly gay reliably lefty commentator who has opinionated on Fox News and CNN, moderated the discussion with pro and con Trump participants. Referring to the president and his state of mind (or lack of), Kohn set the stage for the weekend talkfest by paraphrasing the old Gershwin Brothers’ song “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off”, quipping: “You say potato, I say ‘po-crazy’.”

Coulter Interruptus: Ersatz Nazis, Real Reds

Next up at Independence Hall was the “Censorship on Campus” panel, featuring author and professional provocateur Ann “Helter Skelter” Coulter. As soon as the venomous fräulein was introduced two activists costumed as brownshirts with swastika armbands disrupted the panel to “heil our Hitler!”, giving their furious “fuhrer” the stiff-armed fascist salute. To the consternation of what appeared to be a majority of the crowd composed of Coulter acolytes, who started shouting “USA! USA!," and to the amusement of others, the ersatz Nazis shut the shrewish loudmouth up for about five minutes before they were finally peaceably ejected by security.

But as soon as Coulter started spewing her hate speech, “Refuse Fascism” leftists (presumably linked to the Revolutionary Communist Party) unfurled an anti-Trump red banner and shouted her down. After another five minute pause that aggravated the righties in the aud, the two real Reds were peacefully ejected and, as the old saying goes, “the show must go on.”

Coulter boohooed about how her right to freedom of speech was short circuited at Berkeley by far left militants. This was rich coming from someone who has made a career out of denouncing oppressed minorities for complaining about their “victimhood” -- you know, little things like poverty, racism and other societal injustices Coulter has never had to confront in her existence. Now that she is being held accountable for her outrageous comments, Coulter’s playing the “victim card” herself -- perhaps her Berkeley, etc., experiences have given the right’s very own Squeaky Fromme some insight into how being a member of an oppressed minority singled out for rough treatment feels. But I wouldn’t count on poor little orphan Annie having the power of reflection.

Fellow panelists, comedian Greg Proops and weblogger Xeni Jardin, begged to differ with Coulter. Jardin inconveniently reminded the rightwing ranter and raver that speakers were responsible for what they publicly say. Coulter pretending to be a First Amendment champion is rather hilarious, considering how she slimed anti-Iraq War notables as “unpatriotic” (BTW Annie-get-your-gun: where are them thar WMDs anyway?) and she wrote Treason: Liberal Treachery from the Cold War to the War on Terrorism, lauding one of the most tyrannical U.S. politicians and tramplers of free speech rights of all time, Sen. Joe McCarthy, who to Coulter was just a poor misunderstood little boy. Boohoo!

Of course, now that it’s a rightwinger being charged with conspiring with Russia Coulter doesn’t have much to say about the Trump camp’s alleged Kremlin cavorting and colluding, but when that shoe was on the left foot during the 1940s/1950s, it was them gosh darn treasonous liberals! Coulter and the “Censorship on Campus” panel also had nothing to say about free speech attacks on campus critics of Israeli government and military policies and restrictions of the rights of professors, students, guest speakers, etc., who support Palestinians and the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement.

At the end of the panel Coulter was treated like a rock star by her fans as she dispensed autographs amidst Nuremberg-like adulation.

Touré and Roger Stone at Politicon 2017. Photo credit: Ed Rampell.

Like a Rolling Roger Stoned

Day Two of Politicon was also great and very well attended, despite the fact that now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t Trump mouthpiece The Mooch was, for some mysterious reason, a no-show for his scheduled “Anthony Scaramucci ’Splains” appearance. (The Mooch has some ’splaining to do about his disappearance. But I guess “loyal” Trump told him “Scooch, Mooch!” and the pooch hit the road.) However, another professional Donald Kool-Aid drinker (apparently accompanied by bodyguards) was in the house for a talk titled “Roger Stone Holds Court.” Former MSNBC host/author Touré tepidly interviewed Trump trickster extraordinaire Stone.

The oppo research meister cut his political teeth by working on Tricky Dick’s creepy Committee to Re-Elect the President. Stoner showed himself to be a profane jumble of contradictions: he supports legalization of marijuana, opposes “Americans [being] surveilled for strictly political reasons” and ballyhoos Nixon as a great bastion of progressivism and peacemaker. Perhaps Stone was too stoned from imbibing all that wacky tobaccy to remember Nixon’s mass murder of millions in Indochina and Chile?

In any case, in a similar fact-denying way, spinning like an out of control dreidel at Hanukkah, Stone, the apprentice’s apologist, praised his pal, Trump. But a young, female Muslim questioner would have none of it, confronting Stone about Trump’s Islamophobia. A short-haired young man immaculately groomed in a suit and tie (was he en route to a funeral?) expressed admiration for Stone’s sartorial splendor and viewpoints but asked him to please refrain from using obscenities. Not without a sense of humor, Stone wryly replied, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Young Turks vs. Young Jerks

In a very spirited debate attended by hundreds, The Young Turks’ Cenk Uygur debated reactionary provocateur Ben Shapiro in the capacious Civic Auditorium. Their respective supporters enthusiastically booed and applauded the champion of their respective sides, but nobody in the audience came to blows. In closing out the tête-à-tête the lack of violence amongst a crowd with strongly differing opinions prompted moderator Steven Olikara, founder of the nonpartisan Millennial Action Project, to comment, “that’s what Politicon is all about.” And in referring to the fervor expressed by those leaning left and right for Uygur and Shapiro, Olikara added, “now we know who the 2020 candidates should be” (assuming, of course, that the Republic survives long enough for another presidential election to be rigged).

Something for Everyone - Comedy Two Nights!

Following the debate the Civic Auditorium was the site of Politicon’s grand finale, “Sunday Night Comedy” featuring former Daily Show correspondent Al Madrigal (currently co-starring in Showtime's I’m Dying Up Here) and two current Daily Show correspondents, feminist Michelle Wolf and Roy Wood Jr., plus lefty Proops, performing political standup that, among other things, excoriated the president. Pro-GOP comic Adam Yenser, a writer for NBC’s The Ellen DeGeneres Show, also delivered a funny set.

Politicon had a heady dose of comedy, ranging from the right to the left ends of the laugh-o-meter spectrum. In addition to performances there were also comedy-oriented panels, including Sunday’s GOP-tilting “Conservatively Unplugged! Presents ‘Right Wing Comedy in These Trumptastic Times’” in “Equality Hall.” Panelists included comic Evan Sayet (who wrote for Bill Maher until he saw the “right”), Al-Sonja Rice-Schmidt, Eric Golub and Yenser, a Republican who was not a Trump supporter and stressed that when it comes to comedy, humor should trump ideology.

This panel was moderated by Judd Dunning, co-host of “Conservatively Unplugged!”, a new righty weekly political entertainment news program that was screened prior to the “Saturday Night Comedy” program headlining Trae Crowder, the “Liberal Redneck.”

I watched the 20-or-so minute “Conservatively Unplugged!” video projected on the Civic Auditorium’s big screens and found this wannabe righty counterpart to programs such as The Daily Show to be pretty droll. In it, Dunning comes across like a dunce and to tell the truth, I actually thought “Conservatively Unplugged!” was spoofing Republican-leaning comics. The following day, when Dunning moderated the “Right Wing Comedy in These Trumptastic Times” he actually called comedian Louis C.K. “C.K. Louis,” so maybe Dunning not only plays a doofus on TV but really is one offscreen, too.

Chelsea Handles the Prez

On Saturday Chelsea Handler merrily made mincemeat of The Donald in a hilarious interview with Jake Tapper at “Democracy Village”, wherein the CNN reporter asked her about humor being less balanced since the Jay Leno era of late night comedy. The Netflix talk show host forthrightly replied: “Now if you don’t speak up you’re going to regret it later. We have to be held responsible. Trump scares the shit out of me. I’m authentic… [If I’m considered] ‘divisive’ I don’t care. I’m more informed and responsible -- I have the Trump family to thank.”

As for Trump’s tweet against transgender people being allowed to serve in the military, Handler snapped, “Please shut the fuck up. Take more Viagra.” When Tapper avowed that he didn’t “take Viagra jokes personally,” Handler quipped, “You will,” adding: “Trump should worry more about transfats than transgender. He’s unstable, he has late stage syphilis.” Handler proceeded to list symptoms of the venereal disease she attributed to Trump, claiming “I’m an M.D. so I know.” When Tapper reminded Handler that she’d admitted to never completing college she laughed off being caught in her white lie (and could there be any other kind when referring to the white-supremacist-in-chief?). Handler also advocated in favor of allowing Syrian refugees into America, even offering to let them stay at her house -- although humorously admitting she’d move out if they did.

The President’s Show of Shows

For me, the highlight of Politicon was Trump impersonator Anthony Atamanuik of Comedy Central’s The President Show, wherein “The 45th and final president” did an hour-long riff bluer than Lenny Bruce or George Carlin on Trump, Bannon, Scaramucci, Priebus, et al, culminating with him being interviewed by Bassem Yousseff. The in-costume Atamanuik’s impersonation of The Donald gives Alec Baldwin a run for his SNL money. Indeed, Atamanuik’s wickedly insightful lampooning and harpooning of the great white whale of comedy is reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin’s spoofing of Hitler in the 1940 satirical masterpiece, The Great Dictator. and also of Hawaii comedian Frank De Lima’s mocking of Imelda Marcos in full drag during his Waikiki nightclub act after the Filipino tyrants fled to Oahu.

In person, Atamanuik’s no holds barred sarcasm is more risqué than on his Comedy Central Thursday night laugh riot. At the Civic Auditorium, dressed as Trump, he daringly joked about The Donald “trying to finger my daughter” (Ivanka, not Tiffany), then turning to the audience, dementedly saying: “I’m not sick, right? I’m the guy with the nuke codes. Me!... Can you believe it?” At one point Atamanuik’s character falls into a sort of trance, wherein he lays out a very, clear concise, sophisticated analysis of contemporary capitalism setting the stage for Trump’s rise. Then he snapped out of his momentary lapse into lucidity and seriousness and in a Q&A with Yousseff, under the Egyptian’s questioning, Trump reached the conclusion “I’m a secret Muslim!”

A Splendid Time Was Had By All

Politicon’s panoply of politics for political and news junkies featured much more during its Pasadena weekend. Many others notables participated, including Daily Show writer Lizz Winstead, actor America Ferrera, Grace Parrara of Larry Wilmore’s Comedy Central The Nightly Show, actor-director Rob Reiner, MSNBC’s Joy Reid, etc. There was a cavernous exhibition hall with ACLU, Muslims for Progressive Values (which was supported by Pakistani-American comedienne Mona Shaikh), MSNBC, Young Americans for Freedom, medicinal marijuana, etc., booths.

If I have one “complaint” about Politicon it’s that in future, the gathering should also include panels, speakers and booths of the far left to present a socialist perspective and alternative to liberalism and the Democratic Party. After all, one could argue that libertarians, who are to the right of the Republican Party, participated - so why not Marxists, anarchists, Antifas and other far leftists?

In any case, despite the presence of thousands of liberal and conservative activists, while interactions were passionate, Politicon remained civil, with peaceful coexistence prevailing. Living in Los Angeles, I never saw so many Trump supporters, although the left-leaning auds may have outnumbered the righties. Yet, in the spirit of free speech and democracy, comity and tolerance won the day, bridging the partisan divide by allowing freedom of expression for all. In doing so, Politicon may be a model for our divided nation.

STAGE REVIEW: DIAL 'M' FOR MURDER

2017-07-03T17:27:00.002-07:00

Tony (Adam Jonas Segall) and Captain (Michael Robb) in Dial 'M' for Murder.

Crime connection

By Ed Rampell

Group Rep’s production of Frederick Knott’s Dial ‘M’ for Murder is an old-fashioned, veddy British mystery. Many theatergoers will consider this murder most foul play to be deliciously enjoyable. But in a day and age of androids and iPhones, et al, which are not dialed, other viewers may find this two hour-long three act play with two intermissions to be outdated and that the actors trod very creaky boards indeed at North Hollywood’s Lonny Chapman Theatre.

The complex story unspools in the living room of the London apartment of retired tennis pro Tony Wendice (Adam Jonas Segaller who is appropriately snide and snarky) and his adulterous wife, Margot (Carrie Schroeder). They are visited by American crime writer Max Halliday (Justin Waggle), with whom posh Margot had an affair. Unbeknownst to the secretive lovers, Tony has found out all about their sordid sextracurricular activities, and he hires a sketchy former classmate, Captain Lesgate (Michael Robb), to liquidate unsuspecting Margot.

Tony’s solicitation of homicide involves a very elaborate plan from whence this drama derives its catchy name. Certain ticket buyers may find sitting through Knotts’ byzantine details to be snooze worthy, while others are likely to be enthralled by the ingenuity of it all. Of course, by the time Act II rolls around, Hubbard -- the inevitable English inspector (Doug Haverty) -- enters to cleverly piece everything together and unravel Knott’s Gordian knot.

What makes this good fun is that in addition to the Sherlockian Haverty, Max, who writes mysteries for television shows and is well-played by Waggle, also uses his deductive powers crafted by writing crime shows for the tube to unlock what has really transpired. This adds a dash of insider show biz jokes to this Mulligan stew of a play; hey, we live in La La Land, after all. Also adding to the fun is Robb’s quirky depiction of the down-on-his-luck would-be hired killer, Lesgate the loser. With the aid of some deft stagecraft and special effects, the wannabe assassin meets his own fate.

Bruce Kimmel adeptly directs his ensemble, who all deliver solid performances for three acts on J. Kent Inasy’s set, which realistically materializes a London flat on the other side of the theater’s fourth wall, with incidental music by Grant Geissman. Audiences who go expecting a tried and true, traditionally-rendered British mystery full of genre conventions won’t be disappointed and will be dialing ‘E’ for escapist entertainment. If this is your vintage cup of tea, this play will simply murder you.

Dial ‘M’ for Murder runs through August 13 at the Lonny Chapman Theatre, 10900 Burbank Blvd., North Hollywood, CA 91601. For more info: 818-763-5990; www.theGrouprep.com.

LAFF 2017: FESTIVAL ROUNDUP

2017-06-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

A scene from Stella Polaris Ulloriarsuaq.

Counter cinema in Culver City

By Ed Rampell

The Los Angeles Film Festival (LAFF) is presented by Film Independent, the L.A.-based non-profit organization which bestows the yearly Spirit Awards and whose “mission is to champion creative independence in visual storytelling and support a community of artists who embody diversity, innovation and uniqueness of vision.” LAFF emphasizes an indie sensibility and is one of Los Angeles’ most important annual filmfests for domestic and foreign features, documentaries, shorts, etc., made outside of the commercial, studio-dominated motion picture industry.

In terms of fiction and nonfiction films, as well as panels, the 23^rd LAFF stressed the significance of having a multitude of voices -- in regards to ethnicity, gender, sexual preference, etc. -- and providing them with exposure in a multi-verse of mass medium screenings.

Here are some highlights of this year's LAFF, which was centered in Culver City, home to a motion picture studios.

Mankiller -- Native director Valerie Red-Horse Mohl’s well-made Mankiller was my favorite film at LAFF this year. Standing Rock has propelled American Indian issues to the forefront -- for instance, Paiute/Shoshone helmer Myron Dewey co-directed Awake, A Dream From Standing Rock with Oscar nominee Josh Fox. Mankiller is a new documentary about the first female Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation (ironically, the liberal Democrat reached that pinnacle due to Pres. Reagan’s appointment of her running mate to the Interior Department).

The Oklahoma-born Wilma Mankiller cut her political teeth at the famous Alcatraz Occupation that began in 1969 and Jane Fonda participated in. As the Cherokees’ elected leader Mankiller achieved many reforms, including spurring tribally-owned businesses, various self-development projects and indigenous self-government initiatives. The doc also considers the highly contentious casino issue. In 1998 Pres. Clinton awarded Mankiller the Medal of Freedom and when she passed away in 2010 Pres. Obama issued a moving statement.

This 74-minute, cinematic biopic not only deals with indigenous issues, but also sexism. Interestingly, the film’s co-creators are both women, including director Valerie Red-Horse Mohl, who is also Cherokee.

Many run-of-the-mill docs incorporating talking heads and narrators are often dull and unoriginal, but through her editing, camerawork, etc., Red-Horse Mohl’s exceptional documentary is filmic, fluid and always absorbing to watch. This poignant biopic about one of the greats made me feel like weeping. Bravo!

The Big Sick -- The “Naughty Pakistani” Mona Shaikh isn’t the only jocular immigrant from that Asian land who’s making waves, and laughs, on America’s comedy scene. Kumail Nanjiani (of the awful HBO series, Silicon Valley) co-stars in this autobiographical romcom, which he co-wrote with his real life sweetheart, Emily Gordon.

Despite its Raymond Chandler-like title, The Big Sick is a Chicago-set dramedy about the inter-racial romance of a Pakistan-born wannabe standup comedian also named Kumail with the blonde Caucasoid Emily (Zoe Kazan), an all-American girl type. Complications ensue because of Kumail’s family and cultural constraints.

The Big Sick is frequently funny, with great zingers and one-liners, including a hilarious bit about 9/11 (too soon?). As the plot takes a turn towards the serious, there is also convincing drama. The feature is extremely well-acted and The Big Sick’s cast includes the preternaturally talented Holly Hunter. As Hunter’s husband, and Emily’s father, Ray Romano has probably never been better.

Kumail’s family members all acquit themselves well and with humor (especially India-born actor Anupam Kher as the sometimes befuddled father caught between two worlds). I enjoyed and was moved by this two-hour-long movie, which theatrically opens July 14. However, the flick’s subtext is similar to movies like The Heartbreak Kid and its 2007 remake, wherein the Jewish male rejects his Jewish wife (at their honeymoon!!!) to obsessively pursue the blonde shiksa “goddess” (memorably played by Cybill Shepherd in the 1972 original). Kumail similarly rejects all of the Pakistani suitors (some far more appealing than Emily).

Given today’s inter-racial dynamics and the so-called “clash of civilizations,” some may regard this as a rejection of one’s own culture (and religion, as Kumail admits he doesn’t believe in Islam) in favor of whitey and the dominant culture’s women. This theme of rejecting one’s own heritage goes at least as far back as Hollywood’s first talkie, 1927’s The Jazz Singer. Some may also look askance at Indian thesps portraying Pakistani characters. Others may just regard Kumail’s sexual preference as a case of “to each their own.” Be that as it may, The Big Sick is an entertaining flick that also includes a behind-the-scenes peak at the standup comedy world, with SNL’s Aidy Bryant adding to the laughs that abound in this engrossing cross-cultural comedy.

Stella Polaris Ulloriarsuaq -- Yatri Niehaus’s shot-on-location documentary about climate change and colonialism’s impact on Greenland features poetic, stunning cinematography. While some nonfiction works about global warming such as The Penguin Counters focus on how polar bears, walruses, seals and other majestic wildlife are being affected by extreme weather, Stella Polaris Ulloriarsuaq stresses how Greenland’s indigenous people are striving to cope with these factors. Danish colonialism, too, has altered an age-old way of life. Niehaus’ superb, cinematic film also visualizes the way Greenland’s topography is shifting as the planet heats up. As Greenland’s glacier and ice melt, its culture seems to, also - alas.

Opuntia -- Filmfest’s often include a stinkeroo, and Opuntia is arguably LAFF 2017’s most-must-miss movie. In his defense, writer-director David Fenster’s 60 minute pseudo-doc does have some interesting things about it. Opuntia (which translates as “prickly pear”) is a movie meditation on 16^th century Spanish explorer Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca and his peregrinations across much of what whitey now calls America. So viewers can learn a bit of history and particularly, in keeping with LAFF’s multi-culti leanings, about this European’s early contact with our continent’s indigenous people.

Fenster’s film form is also interesting as he attempts to combine the documentary with the poetic in an effort to create what LAFF’s program guide dubs a “visual essay.” But in doing so, Fenster fails to create either a doc per se (although he does use actuality footage) or a motion picture poem. Many of his interview subjects are inherently incredible airy New Age types.

But not only are some of Opuntia’s dimwitted ideas offensive, but worst of all, Fenster foists objectionable imagery upon unsuspecting viewers: Lingering out of focus shots plus repulsive sick people in (presumably) hospital beds that make you want to crawl out of your skin. Fenster may be fantasizing that he’s some sort of demented Stan Brakhage or Frederick Wiseman, but these big images were so uncomfortable to watch that I felt like screaming, “Get that off the screen!” Shaman on you for hurting your aud’s eyes.

Whitewashing -- In keeping with its concern for cinema’s and society’s underdogs, LAFF presented a series of “Diversity Speaks” discussions to “shine the spotlight on underrepresented voices” at the Kirk Douglas Theatre in Culver City, June 17-18.

Sometimes panels can bore you to tears. But the discussion I covered, "Whitewashing: Asian and Asian-American Representation in Film and TV," was anything but boring. This highly entertaining, insightful conversation provided an Asian take on the “Oscars So White” controversy. The panel was wittily moderated by Taiwan-born comedienne Jenny Yang and included: Leonardo Nam (Westworld), Kelly Hu (The Scorpion King), Kelvin Yu (Master of None), Ally Maki (Geography Club), Phil Yu (Angry Asian Man blog), Bruce Thierry Cheung (Don’t Come Back from the Moon) and Gloria Fan (VP of Current Programming, FOX).

Yu lamented that Asians “are never quite sexualized” correctly by Hollywood, where the dominant majority culture of Caucasians run not only the studios, but dominate the number of ticket buyers.

Maki, who has had recurring and featured roles in a number of TV series, including the current television iteration of Dear White People and Wrecked, described herself as a sort of girl-next-door, who grew up in Washington state. A fourth generation Japanese-American, when the 31-year-old first came to Hollywood, “the industry [gave me] a rude awakening” with “its casting by ethnicity.” Maki found that by La La Land standards, she didn’t “fit in either category,” and wasn’t considered to be American or Japanese enough. The Seattle-born and raised actress wanted to play “a girl who is just a girl - that’s what resonated with me.” Instead, Maki was typecast to play either “the nerd in the corner or the girl with the accent.”

Born in Argentina to Korean immigrant parents and raised in Sydney, Australia, Nam, who spoke with an Aussie accent, echoed the concern of fitting in to preconceived notions as to what an Asian is and how he/she should behave.

A glamorous looking, stiletto-heeled Hu, who said she was a bit late for the panel because she’d flown in from Kazakhstan to participate in it, reflected: “With 30 years of experience [in show business], we took whatever we could get. It was not like we had a choice. We couldn’t fight for diversity” when the Hawaii-born mixed race Hu started acting in 1987 on the sitcom, Growing Pains.

Yang, who kept the panel moving along, pithily summed up the dilemma minorities confronted in Hollywood vis-à-vis majority whites as: “I’m going to tell you who you are.” She also added that when a Margaret Cho or FOB go on the air Asians have “rep sweats” about how they’d be represented or misrepresented.

On the other hand, the standup comic amusingly mused about, “Our beautiful white liberal friends who get more offended by something on our behalf than we do.” Yet Yang was happy to take credit for criticism of “whitewashed” movies such as the remake of the 1995 Japanese film, Ghost in the Shell, which was remade in 2017 with the white Scarlett Johansson cast as the lead, when they bomb at the box office.

Yu argued that in order to improve the quantity and quality of onscreen representations of Asians and Asian-Americans in the North America market, “The industry is a business; we need to vote with our dollars.” With the increase in immigrants from Asia and U.S.-born people of Asian ancestry, plus the export of Hollywood products overseas to Asian theaters, the box office clout of viewers of Asian background is becoming an increasingly important factor for big and little screen productions.

There was a general consensus among panelists that things, indeed, were improving. Yet, surprisingly, China was criticized for “not caring about Asian-Americans.” The recent Chinese production of The Great Wall was blasted for putting Yankee Doodle Dandy Matt Damon in the lead (it should have also been excoriated for being a terrible flick). Ever the wag, Yang quipped she “wants to give diversity workshops to China’s producers.”

For more info see: https://www.filmindependent.org/la-film-festival/.

LAFF 2017: SKID ROW MARATHON

2017-06-20T19:53:00.000-07:00

A scene from Skid Row Marathon.

Running for their lives

By Miranda Inganni

Fueled by his love of running and his desire to help those less fortunate, Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Craig Mitchell leads the Running Club from the Midnight Mission in downtown Los Angeles' skid row. Early in the morning, they head out to run their way toward healthy living and away from troubled pasts addled by addiction and violence.

Judge by day, runner by night (or rather early morning), Judge Mitchell tries to strike a balance between sending convicted criminals away for life and helping those on the road to recovery. Mark E. Hayes’ documentary focuses on some of the Midnight Mission Runners successes – David, a soft-spoken artist, Ben the tatted musician, and Rafael who spends much of his free time volunteering at the same juvenile hall where he was first sent when he was just 14 years old. These men, and the few women who run with them, like Jennifer and Ashley, run for a number of reasons.

Skid Row Marathon delves into the back-stories of the featured runners, while keeping the eye on the prize – the Rome marathon, where Mitchell hopes to bring all 25 members of the running club. But with issues like potential parole violations and relapses, one wonders if the runners will ever cross the finish line.

Told with a slightly heavy sentimental hand -- and is that a whiff of a white savior complex I smell? -- Skid Row Marathon delivers engrossing portraits of some of the survivors of Skid Row and how with perseverance and practice – and a lot of encouragement and support from Mitchell -- they are in it for the long run.

FILM REVIEW: THE COMMUNE

2017-05-22T10:37:00.000-07:00

Freja (Martha Sofie Wallstrøm Hansen) in The Commune.

Collective bargaining

By Ed Rampell

I recently reviewed Rajko Grlić’s The Constitution -- the gala screening that launched the 12^th annual South East European Film Festival -- writing that the Croatia-set movie “reminded me of the joy of discovering those ‘foreign’ films by Luis Bunuel, Francois Truffaut, Ingmar Bergman, Jean-Luc Godard, etc., at an arthouse that transported us beyond Hollywood glitz and glamour to a more ‘sophisticated’ cinematic view of the world beyond our shores.” I also felt this way after seeing Danish director/co-writer Thomas Vinterberg’s Copenhagen-set The Commune (Kollektivet) -- although it’s not nearly as good or as much fun as the all-too-human film, The Constitution.

Scandinavian cinema is a sub-set of the foreign film phenomenon. On the one hand, you have the philosophical introspection into the human condition of Bergman, his fellow Swede Victor Sjöström and Denmark-born Carl Theodor Dreyer, who confront the void and ask: “What’s it all about, anyway?”

On the other hand, you have Swedish director Vilgot Sjöman’s 1967 I Am Curious (Yellow) with its nudity and depictions of sex acts. (The film’s sexplicit scenes led to a censorship battle that went all the way to the United States Supreme Court.)

Vinterberg -- who, according to press notes, lived in a Danish collective “from the age of 7 to 19” -- combines both of these trends, the metaphysical and the overtly physical, in The Commune. Anna (Trine Dyrholm of Vinterberg’s shattering 1998 film, The Celebration) is a nationally prominent newscaster married to architecture professor Erik (Ulrich Thomsen reunites with his The Celebration co-star). Perhaps because of her measure of fame Anna seeks to spice their all-too-conventional life up by proposing they turn a large house Erik has just inherited into a commune.

The feature, co-written by Tobias Lindholm, does a poor job of conveying that, according to press notes, “experiment[ing] with communal living… was all the rage in Scandinavia at the time.” Danish audiences may be aware of this, but we Yankee Doodle Dandies are unlikely to have a clue about this, so it seems that Anna is just pulling this idea out of her derriere. The Commune also does a poor job of communicating exactly what era this is -- American auds have only a handful of references to Vietnam and Cambodia during Anna’s newscasts to pin the time down to the mid- to late 1970s. As a period piece, in terms of costuming, cars and the like, this movie fails to set a time and place and I really didn’t grasp that this story was set in the 1970s until around halfway through it. Perhaps this is second nature to Danes but if filmmakers want overseas auds to buy tickets to their pictures, let alone understand them, some exposition, if you please.

In any case, Anna’s wish is granted by Erik -- and The Commune becomes a cautionary tale about what one wishes for and when those whims come true. A motley crew of communards is assembled -- sometimes this Copenhagen kibbutz seems full of kibitzers. It includes members who can’t afford to pay their share of the rent, which is yet another of the film’s inconsistencies, as one of Erik’s rationales for turning his big inherited home near a lake into a collective is that this is the only way he can afford to live in what had been his childhood home.

The Commune comments on the strengths and weaknesses of communal life, which includes raising Erik and Anna’s teenage daughter Freja, (Martha Sofie Wallstrom Hansen) and a sickly little boy. At its best, the commune enables people to stick together and have a sense of solidarity, that they are not confronting the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune which life can hurl at you all alone. From sharing meals to tragedy, collectivity can make coping in Copenhagen easier, existence can be better when it’s done together.

But even if communal experimentation was all the rage in Scandinavia at the time, there is precious little musing upon socialism as a way of life here, although leftwing politics may be referenced here and there, and the communards do have periodic town hall-like meetings. To be fair, The Commune also deals with the theme of ownership and private property. But it is no socialist screed, unlike Peter Watkins’ La Commune (Paris, 1871), a 345-minute movie about the world’s first, if short-lived, workers’ state. Swedish director Lukas Moodysson’s film, Together, which is also set in a 1970s Scandinavian collective, likewise dealt more with the political implications inherent in this subject matter of people choosing to reject capitalism and its bourgeois notions of individualism.

The adults go skinny dipping and along with nudity, there are lots of sex scenes. Ultimately, the commune is consumed by romantic entanglements that are pitted against the entire collective enterprise. So in the end The Commune is much more about sexuality and love than collective life and is overall apolitical. Vinterberg, who presumably has mixed feelings about his communal upbringing, does a decent job directing his ensemble. All of the actors acquit themselves well, notably Thomsen as the contradictory, temperamental Erik. Dyrholm, who comes to rue getting what she wished for (and some may interpret the movie as saying she got her comeuppance), won the Silver Bear for Best Actress at the 2016 Berlin International Film Festival.

It’s also a delight to see Julie Agnette Vang, who portrays communard Mona, back on the screen. She was outstanding as the parliamentarian Nete Buch in the superb Danish TV series, Borgen, about Denmark’s first female prime minister and arguably one of the best television episodics ever.

LAAPFF 2017: LOS ANGELES ASIAN PACIFIC FILM FESTIVAL OVERVIEW

2017-05-07T17:45:00.001-07:00

A scene from By the Time it Gets Dark. Courtesy of LAAPFF.

Disorienting drama

By Ed Rampell

The Los Angeles Asian Pacific Film Festival focuses on features, shorts and documentaries from and about Asia and the Pacific Islands. The films screened during LAAPFF in L.A. from April 27-May 4 and in Orange County from May 5-11 are all shot on location in Asia and Oceania and/or depict characters of and/or were made by talents of Asian and Pacific Islander ancestry, such as Mele Murals, a documentary about Hawaiian street artists. As such, LAAPFF provides cineastes with an invaluable window into the movies and societies of Asia and Polynesia, and of individuals from those ethnic groups living in continental North America. Here are a few of this year's entries.

By the Time It Gets Dark: Thai writer/director Anocha Suwichakornpong’s By the Time It Gets Dark (Dao Khanong) is an artsy rumination on post traumatic stress disorder, filmmaking, the role of writers, past and present day Thailand and Buddha knows what else. In its intricate, obtuse structure it reminded me of those early French New Wave movies with nonlinear film forms about memory and more by Alain Resnais, such as Hiroshima, Mon Amour and Last Year at Marienbad. And Suwichakornpong’s follow-up to Mundane History, which won a Tiger Award at the International Film Festival Rotterdam, is every bit as perplexing, mystifying and indecipherable to most filmgoers as Resnais’ formalistic pictures and Nouveau Roman author Alain Robbe-Grillet’s complex Marienbad screenplay were to many 1950s/1960s viewers.

Moving back and forth in time and the minds of By the Time It Gets Dark’s characters, the feature appears to open with the Thammasat University massacre of 1976, when rightwing paramilitary and government forces butchered student protesters (the number of casualties is disputed but by the official count, at least 46 pupils were murdered for thought “crimes” including protesting the return to Thailand of a military strongman and mocking the crown prince). This despicable slaughter at Bangkok was to Thailand what, say, the Kent and Jackson State killings of student dissenters was to Americans.

So far, so good for lovers of political cinema -- I thought we were in for a Thai film along the lines of, say, Costa-Gavras’ 1982 Missing, about Generalissimo Pinochet’s bloody coup that overthrew Chilean President Salvador Allende in 1973 (three years before the Thammasat University slayings). After the troubling curtain raiser, a middle aged female writer named Taew (Rassami Paoluengton), a former student activist who had witnessed the campus carnage in the 1970s, travels to the countryside in contemporary Thailand to meet with a much younger female filmmaker, Ann (Visra Vichit-Vadakan). She is, for some undisclosed reason, compelled to tell Taew’s story.

This has the makings of a first rate political thriller, but for whatever reasons, alas, that’s not the movie Suwichakornpong goes on to tell. In a fragmented way By the Time It Gets Dark flashes back and forth, from past to present, character to character, and along the way, it probably leaves most viewers behind in the, well, dark. It turns out that -- just as the opening scene of shirtless students lying face down on the floor of what seems to be a classroom, guarded by rifle-wielding soldiers and/or paramilitaries, is actually mise-en-scène for a movie being shot about the student massacre -- little, if anything, is as it appears to be in this complex film.

Further complicating matters is actress Atchara Suwan, a plain-looking young woman who appears in several different roles, from a waitress near the villa where the posher Taew and Ann are staying to one of Thailand’s many monks performing errands at a monastery. In the guise of the aforesaid server, the apparently simpler Suwan gives Taew and Ann advice that, perhaps, Suwichakornpong might have listened to: Since the story being told in Ann’s proposed film is actually Taew’s tale, she, and not the young cineaste, should write the script.

But Suwichakornpong doesn’t heed these sage if simple words of wisdom and her 105 minute film careens all over the place, from character to character like an experimental movie. There is, for some inexplicable reason, even a clip from Georges Méliès’ 1902 classic sci fi short, A Trip to the Moon, and By the Time It Gets Dark’s grand finale is also somewhat reminiscent of Stanley Kubrick’s cinematic pyrotechnics towards the end of 1968’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

What is Suwichakornpong getting at in her stylish hodgepodge of imagery? How difficult it is to render past traumas as art in the present day? Or perhaps the political themes inherent in her material remain murky and are never allowed to reach fruition because this might displease her funders that include Qatar, which like Thailand is a hereditary monarchy?

Having said all this, being an adventurous filmgoer, I’m glad I saw the West Coast Premiere of By the Time It Gets Dark, even if it was largely incomprehensible to me and I couldn’t make heads or tails out of its tales. Perhaps this is because of cultural differences (although, for what it’s worth, I’ve traveled to Thailand three times) or I just might not be smart enough to figure out what this eclectic picture means. Be that as it may, Suwichakornpong is an emerging talent cinephiles should keep their eyes on -- although she might want to expand her expressive prowess to be able to better communicate her meanings to broader audiences, including this dolt and dullard, who didn’t get By the Time It Gets Dark, yet liked it.

Wexford Plaza: Also created by a female auteur, Joyce Wong’s quirky Wexford Plaza is far easier to understand, although stylistically, like Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon and more recently the Showtime series, The Affair, the same or similar events are told from the different points of view of characters taking part in the unfolding stories. In terms of content, Wexford has a vibe similar to Kevin Smith’s 1994 low budge cult classic, Clerks, about menial workers in low status jobs living dead end lives in ’burby New Jersey, in that Wexford’s titular mall located in suburban Toronto is where key characters “work” as slacker security guards.

One of the protagonists is Betty, an overweight, lonely woman full of yearning who turns 20 during the course of the movie. As the randy Betty, Reid Asselstine steals the show and her disarming performance is the best thing about this often charming indie.

Betty is more or less sexually harassed by her male security “colleagues” but she has the hots for Danny (Darrel Gamotin), who sidesteps her sexting and sexual advances because, unbeknownst to Betty, he is romantically involved with Celine (Ellie Posadas). Danny starts out as a bartender up to his neck in debt, and he’s one of those people who can’t face up to and cope with reality. He’s perpetually in over his head, and when I saw this flick at its L.A. premiere thought that given Betty’s hankering for him Wexford might have veered in another direction.

Be that as it may, Danny and Celine’s characters, like the thespians who depict them, are of Filipino ancestry. Yet this has little if any bearing on this Canadian film, although one might think having characters whose family origins are in the tropics but now live in the Great White North might have been commented upon. Perhaps Canadians are less ethnic conscious and sensitive than their racially troubled neighbors to the south? Likewise, although Wexford’s writer-director is of Asian ethnicity, this seems to have no bearing on the story and its depiction whatsoever. Of course, artists must be free to pursue their individual visions, regardless of ethnic origins, and shouldn’t be hemmed in my stereotypes and typecasting.

Although the fact that Wong is female -- like many of the other directors of this year’s LAAPFF’s movies -- does make a difference. One could argue in the best sense of the cliché that Wexford Plaza bears a woman’s touch. Never heavy-handed, this affecting, truthful, simple (but not simplistic) film shows that Asian-Canadian filmmaker Joyce Wong has a promising big screen future, and I for one look forward to seeing her follow-ups.

Who is Arthur Chu?: This 90-minute multi-faceted documentary about the 11-time Jeopardy! champ who won almost $300,000 during his 2014 game show winning streak operates on many levels. Overall, the L.A. premiere of this Arthur Chu biopic revealed he’s the firstborn of a Taiwanese family that relocated to Yankee Doodle Land in order to pursue the much-vaunted immigrants’ version of the American Dream. As such, Who is Arthur Chu? works as a cultural case study of Asians living and growing up abroad in a country where they are members of a distinct minority group. For instance, according to the doc, when Arthur attended grade school in the USA he was the only pupil of Chinese ancestry in his class, and he grew up feeling out of place, if not like a total ludicrous misfit.

But this film, co-directed by Chongqing, China-born, Vancouver-raised Yu Gu and Chicagoan Scott Drucker, deals with much more, such as a father-son struggle between Arthur and his demanding dad that Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev could have written a novel about. Chu’s relationship with his Caucasian wife, Eliza, is also depicted.

Beyond family dramatics Who is Arthur Chu? also depicts the Sturm und Drang engendered by the sudden celebrity status thrust upon Arthur. The film reveals what happens when “a nobody from nowheresville” becomes, thanks to national TV exposure on Jeopardy!, a proverbial overnight sensation and how the unknown Arthur deals with his newfound fame (and fortune). Of course, Arthur tries to capitalize on his unexpected prominence by writing for outlets such as The Huffington Post and, Chautauqua-style, he hits the speaking circuit, as well as gets a book deal.

Much to Arthur's credit he is not merely cashing in, like so many celebs do (hey, Samuel L. Jackson, it’s none of your fucking business what’s in my wallet!), but uses his newly minted cult status to boldly speak out on pressing issues of the day, from the racial unrest in Ferguson after unarmed Michael Brown is shot to death to “Gamer-gate.” From the get-go Who is Arthur Chu? shows how Arthur becomes the target of vicious online invective, trolled by computerized cretins who, among other things, wish death upon his wife (who suffers from the disorder fibromyalgia) and comes across as a perfectly nice person. Arthur'ss confronting misogyny on a panel about sexism and video game culture triggers even more outraged emails and tweets than did his unorthodox Jeopardy! tactics, which angered fans of the game show who apparently have far too much time (and devices) on and in their dubious hands.

In addition, Who is Arthur Chu? goes into nerd culture -- not only by showing it but at one speaking engagement Arthur verbally defines it. This was very on point because terms are often thrown around in public but never actually defined. (Populism is a case in point -- but don’t get me started!)

Unlike By the Time It Gets Dark, this nonfiction motion picture portrait goes back and forth in time in a clear, coherent way, making skillful use of home movie footage, although some may feel that Arthur’s main claim to fame is not dwelled on enough (which could be due, perhaps, to copyright issues vis-à-vis Jeopardy!). Be that as it may, while the Asian ethnicity of the Filipino characters in Wexford Plaza is not even commented upon, Chu’s being an outspoken, outlandish individual who breaks stereotypical notions of the passive “Asian male” seems to be very much at the core of this thought provoking documentary.

Opening Night at LAAPFF 2017. Photo by: Florante Ibanez.

For more information on the rest of the Los Angeles Asian Pacific Film Festival: http://festival.vconline.org/2017/schedule/.

SEEFEST LA 2017: THE CONSTITUTION

2017-05-01T18:52:00.001-07:00

A scene from The Constitution.

Lawst cause

By Ed Rampell

The 12^th annual South East European Film Festival Los Angeles kicked off with a gala screening at the Writers Guild Theater in Beverly Hills of writer-director Rajko Grlić’s The Constitution, a stellar must-see movie full of humor and humanity that set the tone for this filmfest. I say that because sometimes cinefiles “suffer” through specialty cinema (especially those bearing English subtitles), but The Constitution reminded me of the joy of discovering those “foreign” films by Luis Bunuel, Francois Truffaut, Ingmar Bergman, Jean-Luc Godard, et al, at an arthouse that transported us beyond Hollywood glitz and glamour to a more “sophisticated” cinematic view of the world beyond our shores.

Much of The Constitution is set in an apartment building in Zagreb, the capital and largest city of Croatia, which had been part of Marshal Tito’s Yugoslavia until that nation-state’s rather violent breakup in the 1990s. Zagreb was also a world capital of animation, and all this is important subtext for fully appreciating The Constitution. In it, Grlić -- who was born 1947 in Zagreb, has been making films since the 1970s and was nommed for Cannes’ Palme d’Or for 1978’s Bravo Maestro -- explores homophobia, inter-ethnic tensions, animal cruelty, class differences and police excessive use of force as a metaphor for the collapse of Yugoslavia and its aftermath.

Two sets of four very different people live in the same Zagreb apartment building: Protagonist Vjeko Kralj (Nebojša Glogovac) is a nationally prominent, influential academic, who cares for his aged father Hrvoje Kralj (longtime Zagreb actor Bozidar Smiljanic), a veteran and rightwing Croatian nationalist. Even as Vjeko is his caregiver the macho Hrvoje looks down on his cross-dressing son (think Archie’s disdain for Meathead in TV’s All in the Family series). Through a chain of events they come into close contact with neighbors Maja (Ksenija Marinković) and Ante Samardžić (Dejan Aćimović). They are a married couple who apparently haven’t received the word that they are middle aged and overweight, as they cavort like twenty-somethings, which only enhances their charm.

Maja is a nurse who comes to assist with Hrvoje’s care after a gruesome gay-bashing incident sidelines Vjeko. In exchange she asks the professor to help Ante pass a police exam, which is how Grlić rather cleverly works in the new, tolerant, multi-cultural eponymous constitutional rights. How many movies can you think of where entire passages from a constitution form part of the dialogue? But this is done with wit in an engaging way that grows naturally, organically out of the plot. In doing so, The Constitution provides a film frame for the framed rules of Croatia, accomplishing this in an highly amusing way.

Like the complex father-son interactions, the relationship between the professor and his police pupil is interesting and fraught with strain. At the core of their clash is something very Yugoslavian -- Vjeko is a Croat, while Ante is Serbian. Even though he married a Croat and fought on Croatia’s side during the war for independence, he is still, if surreptitiously, a Serb and, worse still, a member of the police force, so therefore frowned down upon by the gay Croatian as an “oppressor.”

What’s great about The Constitution is that none of the characters are one-dimensional celluloid stereotypes -- they are fully fleshed out individuals with the complexity, nobility and folly that is all part of Homo sapiens’ condition. This may be truer of Ante than any other character -- the large officer of the law is also a biker with a soft spot for dogs who longs to raise a child with Maja, whom Ante is a loving husband to. The macho Ante also goes on a manhunt to find and bust those who committed a hate crime against Vjeko. People are complicated!

The Constitution is one of the most human films I’ve seen in a long time. Grlić seems to be asking the same question poor Rodney King pondered 25 years ago, hard on the heels of another civil war -- the L.A. urban rebellion -- which was, “People, can we get along?” Grlić’s answer to that simple if profoundly philosophical question is no utopian fantasy, as it ends on a note that will make animal rights advocates hopping mad. All doesn’t end well -- Grlić, who now lives in Ohio where he is an Eminent Scholar in Film at Ohio University, Athens, seems to be saying that even in a constitutional democracy that respects human and ethnic rights, life may be better, but still isn’t perfect.

The Constitution, which has won awards at several filmfests, including Santa Barbara’s, is in the tradition of the great Belgrade-born director Dusan Makavejev. It richly deserves to be theatrically released in this country. If promoted properly it would likely find an American audience (are you listening, Gregory Laemmle?). In the meantime, for cineastes, this is one of the great things about living in the world capital of moviedom -- even if Hollywood studios don’t distribute pictures like The Constitution, film fetes like SEEFest do.

The brainchild of Festival Director/Founder Sarajevo-born Vera Mijojlić, SEEFest presents panels, parties and screens features, shorts, animation and documentaries from countries such as Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Moldova, Montenegro, Turkey, Kosovo, Georgia, Macedonia, Albania, Bosnia Herzegovina, Belgium, Greece, Azerbaijan and Iran, providing them with a coveted toehold in La-La-Land. And giving Angelenos a rare opportunity to peep through a window to the East.

The South East European Film Festival takes place in L.A. through May 4. For more information: http://seefilmla.org/.

FILM REVIEW: ALL THIS PANIC

2017-04-14T17:20:00.001-07:00

A scene from All this Panic.

Tips from teens

By Don Simpson

Jenny Gage’s poignant All This Panic follows seven girls over a three-year period as they come of age in New York City, studiously observing them as they clumsily navigate the panic-riddled period between girlhood and adulthood. Beautifully lensed by Tom Betterton, All This Panic functions as a purely observational documentary, reducing the directorial voice to Gage’s choices in which moments to show onscreen.

Gage is keen to uncover the emotional truth of the girls’ situations. The girls appear to trust Gage and for the most part they seem unaware of the camera, suggesting that All This Panic captures some semblance of the truth. Perhaps this is due to their generational comfort with the perpetual documentation of their lives via smart phones and social media. And just like the content they share on social media, we can only assume there was probably some element of preparation and planning involved behind the scenes.

Conveyed in a poetic string of vignettes, All This Panic avoids the traditional narrative form. This format allows Gage the freedom to bounce from one scene to the next, all the while divulging the emotional depth and complexity of seemingly simple moments in her subjects’ lives. With the intimacy of a video diary, Gage allows the teenagers the time and space to tell their own stories in their own voices, thus providing the audience with a unique insight into what the girls are thinking during this formative juncture of their lives. Each of the girls -- Lena, Ginger, Sage, Olivia, Ivy, Dusty, and Delia -- has a different story to tell, as All This Panic contemplates how they grapple with sexuality, financial hardships, family drama, social cliques, politics, fashion, dating, and their futures. Gage also reveals how external factors inform the girls’ life choices and their personal growth. But like all teenagers, they are not perfect. They make mistakes, but continue onward nonetheless.

Most importantly, Gage empowers the girls, dismissing any superficial notions that they’re naïve or clueless by highlighting their thoughtfulness, introspectiveness, and intelligence. Taking the attention away from their bodies, Gage expresses precisely why we should want to hear what teenage girls are thinking.

STAGE REVIEW: THE COMPLETE HISTORY OF COMEDY [ABRIDGED]

2017-04-05T19:22:00.000-07:00

A scene from The Complete History of Comedy [Abridged].

Look back in laughter

By Ed Rampell

As its title suggests, The Complete History of Comedy [Abridged] is an incomplete chronicle of what makes people laugh and those jesters who deliberately induce said laughter, from ancient times until today. Starting with a riff on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show monologues telling theatergoers to shut their cells, where the exits are, etc., there is an endless stream of skits, standup, slapstick, one-liners, cream pies, double entendres, in-jokes, topical jibes at those Three-plus Stooges in the Trump regime and much more, as the jaunty Zehra Fazal, Marc Ginsburg and Mark Jacobson bring the annals of amusement to life.

The youthful threesome depict cross-dressing Cro-Magnons; discourse upon commedia dell’arte (which is also currently portrayed in The Actors’ Gang’s Harlequino); present Honest Abe as a standup comic working the crowd (which had the actors asking ticket buyers if it was “too soon?” to joke about Lincoln); mock critics (which caused this reviewer to think, in the immortal words of Curly Howard: “I resemble that remark! Why, I oughtta!!!...”); praise Lucille Ball; lampoon Anton Chekhov with a clever switcheroo; dis unfunny wannabe funnymen like Adam Sandler; hold forth on Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytical theories of humor (“paging Dr. Fine!”); and much, much (too much!) more.

My favorite moments included Muppet-like Supreme Court justices poking fun at “puppet governments” and performing a parody medley of the Supremes’ song, combined with a Sound of Music spoof as the judges sing: “What do you do with a problem like Scalia?” (Hey, that’s very witty, making fun of NPR’s judicious judiciary reporter Nina “Totenbug”, you court jesters you!) I also enjoyed a clever Keystone Kops/Charlie Chaplin scene that imaginatively used special effects to recreate onstage silent screen comedies. And as a bigly John Steinbeck fan I was amused by the performers’ take on Tom Joad’s farewell speech in The Grapes of Wrath, and there’s good satire involving ventriloquist (and Candice’s dad) Edgar Bergen and Senator Joe (instead of dummy Charlie) McCarthy. You wily wags (and coyotes)!

Unfortunately, playwrights Reed Martin and Austin Tichenor have stuffed so much into this two-act comic cornucopia that some of the puns, physical comedy, endless bodily functions jokes, pratfalls, et al, fall flat. In particular, the dramatists (or, rather, the “comedists”?) have conjured up a conceit which inspires Fazal, Ginsburg and Jacobson to embark on a sort of comedic quest and in doing so, review the record of humanity’s humor. This involves Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, but the breathless play belabored the point so much that it seemed quite contrived and quickly became very tiresome. (Well, they can’t all be winners!)

Having said that, Fazal, Ginsburg and Jacobson’s comedic characters do make some salient, poignant points about the importance a sense of humor plays in our lives. In doing so, they philosophically indicate how the Arab-Israeli conflict could be resolved (and but of course, what would comedy be without Jews in it? Oy!).

This titanic trio of tittering kibitzers have big futures as actors and comedians ahead of them (as long as they don’t trip over banana peels strewn across their career paths). Director Jerry Kernion keeps the hectic, frantic and frequently funny pace moving along.

The Complete History of Comedy [Abridged] runs through April 23 at the Falcon Theatre, 4252 Riverside Dr., Burbank, CA 91505. For more info: 818-955-8101; www.FalconTheatre.com.

STAGE REVIEW: ABSINTHE

2017-04-04T14:20:00.003-07:00

A scene from Absinthe. Photo Credit: Absinthe L.A.

Spreading out and up

By Ed Rampell

Imported from Las Vegas’ Caesars Palace, Absinthe is a heady mélange of a variety of entertainment forms geared for adult (although, not necessarily grown up) audiences. This naughty, bawdy brew blends circus acrobatics, commedia dell'arte, standup comedy, vaudeville, cabaret, the Rat Pack, cross-dressing, striptease, (taped) rock music and live singing. Imagine the Flying Wallendas meet Purple Owsley meet Cirque du Soleil meet burlesque -- and you’ll get some idea of this mind-blowing one-act extravaganza.

It’s all presided over by an over-the-top, sleazy, Trump-like ringmaster called The Gazillionaire, who, along with a kooky female sidekick, introduce the acts, interact with the audience and reel off a series of quips and jokes that range from the racial (if not outright racist) to the sexist, often in poor taste.

In skintight costumes and/or scantily clad, these youthful, buff athletes and hoofers, such as the Silicone Valley Girls and the Flying Farquhars, will cause you, to paraphrase Hamlet, marvel that “Man delights me; and Woman.” In carefully choreographed numbers they contort themselves in ways that twist logic, muscularly hold each other aloft with agile aplomb and take your breath away with peerless panache. The masked Girl in the Bubble, garbed in a revealing black leather S&M outfit likely to win Mistress Tara’s approval, somehow manages to, literally, be swallowed up inside of a bubble.

Much of the derring-do performed by these young physical specimens are strongly sexually suggestive, ranging from the vulgar to the exquisitely erotic, performed in midair with great beauty by what we are then told by The Gazillionaire are a brother and sister act. Lesbianism appears to be acted out from on high, swinging to and fro, and all this acrobatic sensuality lends new meaning to the term “swingers.” In a striptease act a nearly naked nubile pneumatic nymph strips down to a g-string and tassels on her ample bosom, which she swings with sheer abandon.

While many routines may leave you gasping, pondering how human beings could do that, one number, lampooning Cirque du Soleil, depicts over-the-hill, overweight performers who “clumsily” (on purpose) attempt to essay an athletic erotic act, much to the amusement of the audience which overall seemed to enjoy this 90-minute concoction of psychedelic acrobatics gone bonkers, that takes viewers on a ride from the slime to the sublime.

The spectacle ends with The Gazillionaire apparently randomly selecting a middle aged female and two young males from the spectators gathered beneath the big top to compete in a contest that involves intimate touching by total strangers (which made me wonder whether these bystanders were actually plants?), with the prizes being drinks on the house.

Absinthe, of course, is a distilled highly alcoholic spirit with a greenish color that has long been a favorite in the demimonde of artistes. If memory serves correctly, Paul Gauguin was a big absinthe drinker and the Post-Impressionist cleverly attached bottles to a line on a rod, so that around 1903, before refrigeration let alone air con, he could keep his absinthe cold in the well beneath the window of his two-level studio hut in the tropical heat of Atuona, Hiva Oa, in the Marquesas Islands. When, presumably, the painter needed more inspiration, he’d reel up the cooled absinthe from his well for a swig.

Absinthe is believed to have dangerous propensities and some ticket buyers may likewise find that Absinthe the show is, as Hamlet put it, “a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.” But other theatergoers are likely to be delighted by what they behold beneath “this most excellent canopy."

Absinthe runs through May 28 at the Spiegelworld Tent at L.A. LIVE’s Event Deck, 1005 Chick Hearn Ct., Los Angeles CA 90015. For more info: AbsintheLA.com.

STAGE REVIEW: BUILDING THE WALL

2017-03-29T19:34:00.000-07:00

Gloria (Judith Moreland) and Rick (Bo Foxworth) in Building the Wall.

Guilt by disassociation

By Ed Rampell

The response to Trump and his polices are flying fast and furious from the creative community. Only two months into his presidency and Pulitzer Prize and Tony Award winning playwright Robert Schenkkan’s Building the Wall imagines Trump’s plans to “solve” the “problem” of the millions of undocumented immigrants living in America.

The entire one act two-hander takes place in the visiting room of a prison where Gloria (Judith Moreland), an African-American history professor, has received hard-to-get permission to interview Rick (Bo Foxworth), a Caucasian, tattooed inmate in an orange uniform. The play opens with lots of back and forth: will Rick discuss his crime and conviction?

After this tap dance goes on a bit too long they finally get down to brass tacks and Rick tells his side of the story. As the veteran unspools his tale, I thought that as a true Trump believer, Rick -- who worked security for The Donald and met him during his campaign -- had gone postal and gunned down “illegal” aliens during a shooting spree.

But as Gloria relentlessly presses the prisoner, something far more nefarious emerges.

When sweeping, widespread deportation plans are frustrated by countries simply refusing to open up their borders, the Trump junta resorts to “Plan B.” Enter Rick, who ends up playing a key role in a secretive “final solution” to the immigrant question of Hitlerian proportion. With references to gas chambers and ovens, Rick participates in the mass extermination of undocumented people who have entered and stayed in the good ol’ USA without their prerequisite papers.

Throughout the 90-minute or so show performed without intermission Rick comes across not as a heartless mass murderer but as a conflicted man caught in a conundrum.”

The acting is excellent throughout as Gloria alternately cajoles, consoles, confronts, condemns, scolds, etc., Rick in her relentless drive for the truth that reveals as much about this academic as it does the jumpsuit-ed inmate. What I thought was the ultimate, inevitable outburst and explosion never happens -- Rick simmers, rather than blows his top. Nevertheless, well-directed by Michael Michetti, the thesps acquit themselves admirably in a format that is dramatically difficult.

In essence, Schenkkan’s script has two people talking to each other in a room. They are committing one of drama’s biggest sins: “Telling” instead of “showing” what happens. This is a problem similar to that of Citizenfour, wherein Edward Snowden sits in a hotel room telling a few reporters and answering their questions about NSA’s overreaching mass surveillance throughout most of the documentary. No matter how compelling a saga may be, in visual and performing arts, it’s far more dramatic and gripping for the story to be shown, not just told. I noticed some audience members had trouble following this verbal tour-de-force.

Another problem is that Gloria does not merely play the role of an objective historian -- or journalist, for that matter. She is very partisan, and her questions cover well trod ground about Hillary Clinton and so on that seem calculated to generate conflict.

Be that as it may, Schenkkan’s is a brave voice warning us about what may occur in the near future, just as Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here anti-fascist novel adapted as a play in 1936. Among other things, the play alludes to a Reichstag Fire type of trumped-up calamity that enables the Trump junta to suspend constitutional rights and liberties, which really is something we should all be on the lookout for in the months to come.

John Nobori’s sound design occasionally makes a nod to the prison beyond the visiting room. The set is sparse but Se Oh’s design is clever. What may be a one-way window is also a mirror, and in addition to the two characters, members of the audience are glimpsed in reflections -- perhaps suggesting/forcing audience members to face her or his own complicity in these times.

Building the Wall through May 21 at the Fountain Theatre, 5060 Fountain Ave., Los Angeles CA 90029. For more info: 323-663-1525 or www.FountainTheatre.com.

STAGE REVIEW: THE TOWN HALL AFFAIR

2017-03-28T19:20:00.003-07:00

A scene from Town Hall Affair.

A paradigm snatch

By Ed Rampell

The Town Hall Affair is to a large extent a docu-play based on a 1971 panel discussion and/or debate at Manhattan’s Town Hall, with various luminaries holding forth on the hot topic of Women’s Liberation. D. A. Pennebaker and Chris Hegedus actually filmed the roiling, rollicking brouhaha, releasing it eight years later as Town Bloody Hall, which is interwoven into the tapestry of Wooster Group’s free form live interpretation of the actual event with the documentary plus clips from the 1970 indie film, Maidstone.

Pennebaker -- known for his fly on the wall technique, he remains

one of America’s preeminent documentarians, with works like 1967’s Bob Dylan: Don’t Look Back, 1968’s Monterey Pop and 1993’s Clinton campaign doc The War Room -- was a cinematographer for the experimental Maidstone, directed by Norman Mailer. The connection between this novelist/journalist and the Town Hall forum is that Mailer moderated that live event. Other participants included feminist authors Germaine Greer (Maura Tierney), Diana Trilling (Greg Mehrten) and the Village Voice’s Jill Johnston (Kate Valk).

As the film -- which is from time-to-time projected onto a screen while the live play unfolds, with the doc’s dialogue sometimes heard instead of the stage actors -- and action on the boards indicates, a big problem with the forum as it took place (and is reenacted onstage and witnessed onscreen) is that the immoderate Mailer “moderated” the discussion. He did so in a heavy-handed way which I suspect feminists would disdain as typically -- even stereotypically -- male chauvinistic. For example, seeking to control much of the conversation, the male moderator raises a concept or topic, but then refuses to let the female panelists to reply for at least “45 minutes.” He also spews redbaiting, anti-communist lines about feminism seeking to impose itself on men like a sort of “left totalitarianism,” and the like.

In real life Mailer seems to have been a contradiction -- a genuinely great novelist and intellectual, but also a boorish buffoon who loved playing the role of a celebrity, enjoying the attention, wealth and presumably sexual favors that came along with that. As such, he was arguably not a very serious choice (although a commercial one) to preside over a debate on the extremely important issue of female emancipation, in and out of the bedroom.

Clips from Maidstone projected onto another screen show Mailer engaged in a verbal and physical fight with an actor I suppose is meant to be Rip Torn.

If I remember correctly, that screen tussle got out of control (there was a method to their acting madness!) and it spills over onstage into The Town Hall Affair. Shepherd faces off against a shirtless Ari Fliakos as Mailer, but what complicates (and perhaps confuses matters) is that in other scenes Shepherd also portrays Mailer, and he is the only character played by two actors. And, as said, Mailer is also seen at length on two different screens in two different films.

I guess in doing that the playwright -- whoever he/she/they are, as no one receives that credit per se in the playbill -- was implying that Mailer was multi-faceted -- dualistic, if not schizophrenic. And as such, perhaps symptomatic of males -- particularly those who were regarded as “liberal” - of bourgeois America, circa 1971.

In my opinion the character who comes off the best is Female Eunuch author Greer, who refuses to allow Mailer to castrate or cow her. At one point Mailer rather stupidly refers to Germaine as “British,” but Johnston corrects the record, pointing out that Greer is actually Australian: Mailer couldn’t tell his ass from his antipodes. It was genuinely a joy to see Tierney perform live, especially as I had actually met the Melbourne-born Greer in the 1970s.

(While working at JFK Airport delivering duty free items onboard flights before they took off, I spotted Greer in a terminal and said, “The only way women will truly be liberated is through socialism.” Not one to gladly suffer one-ups-MAN-ship or be out-lefted (to coin a term), the renowned feminist shot back: “I’ve been saying that for years!”)

The wife of culture critic Lionel Trilling, Diana Trilling was an author and renowned New York Intellectual, and I have no idea why a man was cast to play her, except, perhaps, as a way to cash in on the current trans-gender wave. Having said that, Mehrten is quite good in the role.

What can one say about London-born Jill Johnston? This OUTspoken lesbian author and Village Voice columnist seems to be high on some substance during the proceedings, at least as glimpsed onscreen and depicted by Valk, who strikes the proper note of whimsy. Well, this was the early ’70s, the Yippies still held influence and Jill comes across as a gay merry prankster, who hogs the microphone (sometimes babbling incoherently, much to Mailer’s consternation, as he is more used to eloquent babbling), and her Town Hall appearance culminates with Jill performing a same sex act onstage. Johnston’s shenanigans actually make Mailer look better in comparison.

National Organization for Women president Jacqueline Ceballos also participated in the 1971 debate but I don’t think she’s actually depicted in the stage version. The three and a half-hour long Town Hall showdown (the play is about 70 minutes) was produced by Shirley Broughton as part of the “Theater for Ideas” series. I actually think it’s a great idea to have public forums to debate the issues of the day, but selection of venues and participants should be done better than it was carried out 46 years ago, and there must be public involvement in a way that does not empower audience members to derail, dominate, etc., the undertaking.

The Town Hall Affair may have grown out of the “Theater for Ideas” series, but with its use of extensive clips from two films and some offbeat casting, this dramatization transcends the “Theatre of Fact” format, wherein playwrights such as Donald Freed use preexisting transcripts from trials and other actual events, as in Freed’s The White Crow: Eichmann in Jerusalem.

In doing so, Wooster Group may be creating a new live dramatic form -- but this is to be expected from that theatrical troupe I so fondly remember from New York days. I’ll never forget watching their rendition of Mother Courage at their Performing Garage on the eponymous Wooster Street, when they raised said garage’s door and literally took Bertolt Brecht’s immortal drama out into, literally, the streets of Greenwich Village. The Town Hall Affair is an adventurous theater experience in this tradition and highly recommended for serious theatergoers and others interested in women’s liberation, lesbianism, Mailer and public intellectuals publicly dueling over the issues of the day.

The Town Hall Affair runs through April at REDCAT, 631 West 2nd Street, Los Angeles, CA 90012. For more info: 213-237-2800; visit www.redcat.org; thewoostergroup.org.