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"content": "\u003cp>“I’m going to get a gun!” Marv is whining. Slouched on the family sofa and wearing a paper party hat, a torn and stained cardigan, and an even dirtier white t-shirt underneath, Marv (Will Marchetti) is turning 75 today, and he just can’t face it. “I’m going to get a gun!” he repeats, as his wife, Lois (Frances Lee McCain) bellows back at him from off stage. “That’s all I need,” she grouses. “Holes in the remodel.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thus begins \u003cb>The Horses\u003c/b>, a new 80-minute play written by Brian Thorstenson and staged by Alternative Theater Ensemble in a San Rafael storefront, now through November 15, 2009. Sandwiched between Floorcoverings of Marin County and the Rebound Bookstore, which, on the night I attended, served as the theater-company-without-a-home’s lobby, the space is clean, cramped, and unpretentious — there’s a “For Lease” sign in the window. Most of the chairs are of the folding variety; two of them are perched in one of the storefront’s windows. Extension cords snake around the ceiling and spotlights are secured with plastic zip ties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marv is your typical big baby, the classic crusty old coot who’s crushed by a lifetime of petty regrets. Lois is well within her rights to be impatient with this shallow shell of a man. It’s not the big questions he’s wrestling with. He bellyaches about never having been fly-fishing, he wishes he had gone hang-gliding. Boo-freaking-hoo. And while his wife is running around trying to get ready for his party, including making him his favorite cake, he can’t even get it together to change out of his ratty rags.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The problem, we learn, is that Marv has a rather active fantasy life. As soon as Lois is out of the room, the couch becomes the Pontiac Marv never had, and a younger woman named Patsy (Anne Darragh) appears by his side. In her blue party dress and bright red pumps, Anne is the opposite of practical Lois, a sassy, flirty, fun-loving broad who shares Marv’s fondness for bucket-list adventures. Their relationship is not sexual (that train appears to have left Marv’s station some time ago), but Patsy is a fantasy nonetheless, a none-too-bright party girl who uses quirky phrases like “That’s a total bust!” to describe the things she likes. She’s Marv’s kind of gal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Marv’s minor regrets (minor, to the extent that it appears to trouble him less than never having been to Machu Picchu) is his son, Michael (Michael Ray Wisely), who describes himself as an “interior architect” rather than an “interior designer” because his father already thinks he’s a bit “fruity.” As if to help confirm his father’s assumptions about his sexuality, Michael gives his dear old dad a new sweater for his birthday. This momentarily alleviates Lois’s concern that Marv’s old sweater is not “spiffy” enough to wear in front of his guests, but we can easily predict that Marv will never see them anyway. When given the choice between attending a birthday party he doesn’t want and hanging out in his living room with Patsy and his magical couch, well, it’s not even close.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In general the actors do a fine job with this material, and I liked the numerous Mamet-like scenes in which the actors deliberately and harmoniously talked over each other. But for the most part, I wonder if in trying to illuminate the struggles of a not-especially sympathetic, ordinary, and boring individual, Thorstenson might have set his sights too high. Worse is the play’s improbable plot twist at the end, which felt wildly out of character for Lois and a cop-out when it came to Marv. How will this schlub come to terms with his late-life crisis? The answer Thorstenson has devised would work if \u003cb>The Horses\u003c/b> was strictly a farce, but there’s just enough reality and seriousness here that I wished the playwright had followed through and delivered a more thoughtful and cathartic payoff. Lord knows a number of us would have been interested in his answer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Horses\u003c/b> runs through November 15, 2009 at Alternative Theater Ensemble’s temporary location at 1609 Fourth Street in San Rafael. For \u003ca href=\"http://altertheater.org/index.htm/\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit altertheater.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>I’m getting old(er). I can tell. The signs are all around me: my hair is thinning, I’m noticing more deaths, births, and weddings, and I prefer naps over going out for drinks. The Intersection for the Arts’ current show: \u003cb>The Future Project: Sunday Will Come\u003c/b> shines the light on mortality and humanity. I was ready for a theatrical take on existentialism. So I went.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is the first time Sean San Jose and Erika Chong Shuch, of Campo Santo and the ESP Project respectively, are performing onstage together. Separately, they are vibrant movers and shakers in the Bay Area. When I heard they were combining their creative forces, I had to witness the alchemy. And the result is pure gold. This hour-long theatrical and dance performance is, at times, heart-wrenching, at other times, playful, and at all times, engaging. Denizen Kane adds live soulful singing and plays guitar throughout.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/futureproject2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Before the show began, I took in the set. A row of rocks, rubble, and concrete slabs lined each side of the black box theater to create a square for the playing space. The entire upstage wall was transformed into a large textured slab. I wondered what the desired effect was: the side of a mountain? the Wailing Wall? Prehistoric cave? Post-apocalyptic landscape?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A series of vignettes, punctuated by blackouts, tell a non-linear story of one couple’s existence and place in the universe. One scene played out physically and silently (San Jose flopping his limp and heavy hand on the table as Chong Shuch repeatedly tries to bring life into it.) Another was a lighthearted game of one-up-manship where the couple comes up with new ways to die. Another scene: the somber decision-making process of how to kill a sick goldfish. I was awe-struck during a tragicomic display of grief as Erika threw herself around the stage with great physical stamina. A scene or two later, I laughed when she reappeared as the goldfish to sing a 30 second jingle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/futureproject1.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>It was during the blackouts that I had time to think about my own place in the world. I thought about my family and my relationship with my parents. They’re getting old(er), too. I thought about how quickly my time on this planet can sometimes feel. I thought about that little goldfish and how we all are just tiny fishies on this big blue spinning orb. And I cried. None of it would have moved me as much if it weren’t for the chemistry between the three performers (Denizen takes stage at times). None of it would have worked if Erika and Sean didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves and perform with a kind of raw expressivity. It does, however, work. It works very well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Future Project: Sunday Will Come\u003c/b> runs October 15 through November 7, 2009 (Thursday through Saturday at 8pm) at the Intersection for the Arts. Tickets are $15 ? $25 and Thursdays are “Pay What You Can.” Call for tickets: 415-626-2787 x109.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>I’m getting old(er). I can tell. The signs are all around me: my hair is thinning, I’m noticing more deaths, births, and weddings, and I prefer naps over going out for drinks. The Intersection for the Arts’ current show: \u003cb>The Future Project: Sunday Will Come\u003c/b> shines the light on mortality and humanity. I was ready for a theatrical take on existentialism. So I went.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is the first time Sean San Jose and Erika Chong Shuch, of Campo Santo and the ESP Project respectively, are performing onstage together. Separately, they are vibrant movers and shakers in the Bay Area. When I heard they were combining their creative forces, I had to witness the alchemy. And the result is pure gold. This hour-long theatrical and dance performance is, at times, heart-wrenching, at other times, playful, and at all times, engaging. Denizen Kane adds live soulful singing and plays guitar throughout.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/futureproject2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Before the show began, I took in the set. A row of rocks, rubble, and concrete slabs lined each side of the black box theater to create a square for the playing space. The entire upstage wall was transformed into a large textured slab. I wondered what the desired effect was: the side of a mountain? the Wailing Wall? Prehistoric cave? Post-apocalyptic landscape?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A series of vignettes, punctuated by blackouts, tell a non-linear story of one couple’s existence and place in the universe. One scene played out physically and silently (San Jose flopping his limp and heavy hand on the table as Chong Shuch repeatedly tries to bring life into it.) Another was a lighthearted game of one-up-manship where the couple comes up with new ways to die. Another scene: the somber decision-making process of how to kill a sick goldfish. I was awe-struck during a tragicomic display of grief as Erika threw herself around the stage with great physical stamina. A scene or two later, I laughed when she reappeared as the goldfish to sing a 30 second jingle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "The Abduction from the Seraglio",
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"content": "\u003cp>Plays, movies, concerts, art galleries: yeah, been there, seen that. The opera: nope. Stories of sweeping emotions and decadent affairs had aroused my imagination. As a thirty-something San Franciscan it was high time I high-tailed it down to the War Memorial Opera House to attend the S.F. Opera’s current production of Mozart’s comic masterpiece \u003cb>The Abduction from the Seraglio\u003c/b> (seraglio = harem).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hopped in a cab, and, anxious and excited, prematurely told the driver “thanks, this is good” two blocks too far away mistaking some other Civic Center structure as my destination. Briskly, I headed in the right direction alongside an obvious stream of opera goers (read: diamond-studded older white people) and even some from the hipster crowd (read: people who look like me). A fair amount of rubbernecking was in order upon entering the castle-like lobby of marble walls and ornate ceilings. I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore, Toto, or, at least, not in my familiar Nob Loin neighborhood. I picked up my ticket, grabbed a cookie, found the restroom down some stairs and through a labyrinth, and got back to my plush seat in time for the show to begin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lights down and curtain up. Meet Belmonte, one of the two dashing lovers, looking for his love, Constanze, who had been sold as a slave to the Pasha Selim (fancy name for “owner of the palace” played by Bay Area actor Charles Shaw Robinson). The gatekeeper, Osmin (Peter Rose), prevented Belmonte from entering. Belmonte soon encountered his manservant Pedrillo (Andrew Bidlack) who, along with his love, Blonde, are also the property of the Pasha. Tenor Matthew Polenzani as Belmonte was captivating. He thrilled and gave goosebumps with his Act I aria: “Here shall I see you, Constanze, you my hope.” His voice effortlessly filled the 3,000-plus-seat house with forte and even finer still in I-could-hear-a-pin-drop pianissimo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Act II began with the feisty Blonde, played and sung with flirtatious and comic verve by Anna Christy, refusing the advances of Osmin. A parallel story played out later when Constanze appeared to sing “Tortures of all kinds” in defiance of the Pasha’s threat of torture if she were to reject him. Returning to the SF Opera stage, soprano Mary Dunleavy grabbed on to this most challenging aria of vocal acrobatics and devoured every note (and there are many — “too many notes” so said the Emperor who commissioned the opera 200 years ago — or so the infamous tale goes). It was a highlight of the evening and elicited well-deserved “brava’s” from the audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Act III provoked laughter when Pedrillo, before embarking upon the high stakes plan to rescue the women from the palace, paused to announce the need for a serenade. “Just don’t drag it out,” replied Belmonte. All arias drag it out — a good thing when Mozart does it. During Pedrillo’s interlude, the four lovers were captured. The Pasha arrived and, upon learning that Belmonte is the son of his greatest enemy, sentenced them to death. Constanze and Belmonte shared a heart wrenching duet: “Oh what a fate, oh soul’s misery.” The Pasha returned and, touched by their sorrow, granted liberty to all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/seraglio.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Designer David Zinn created a sumptuous feast for the eyes. The set was a stage onstage complete with its own balcony boxes, proscenium, and footlights(!) It took a while for my brain to wrap around this aesthetic choice. I slowly embraced it as a way to allow for other theatrical devices: a two-dimensional boat sailing by, a door appearing from the floorboards, and a lute being handed from the prompter’s box. More eye candy followed with the 18th century period-perfect costumes. Each actor was dressed in garb that not only looked specific to the period and specific for each lover’s pairing, but was also tricked out with extra flair, ruffle, and sparkle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chas Rader-Shieber, making his SF Opera debut, succeeded in directing with the kind of simple storytelling this “Singspiel” opera asks for. He rightly allowed for the comic moments to be comic (the top of Act II duet between Osmin and Blonde) and the heartfelt moments to be dramatic (Constanze and Belmonte’s duet in Act III). (“Singspiel”: a term referring to an opera where much of the action moves forward through spoken dialogue and the arias have time for fuller expression of a thought or feeling.) The last moment of the opera left me scratching my head, though. What I heard was a bright, happily-ever-after, and redemptive finale: “Never will I thy kindness forget”, but what I saw was a somber group of soldiers, a dark night sky, and the Pasha holding his head in his hands as if grief stricken. Shouldn’t there have been a celebration?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The evening, clocking in at an engaging 2 hours and 40 minutes, ended with shouts of bravo and a well-earned standing ovation. I’ve read the opera that was quite a financial and critical success when it first appeared over two hundred years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same reaction takes place for the SF Opera’s production today. As for me, an opera virgin no more, it all felt so good that I’m planning my next tryst with \u003cb>Salome\u003c/b> in October.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Abduction from the Seraglio\u003c/b>, a co-production with Lyric Opera of Chicago, runs through October 23, 2009 at the SF Opera located at 301 Van Ness Ave, San Francisco. Sung in German with English dialogue and English supertitles. For tickets and information visit sfopera.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Plays, movies, concerts, art galleries: yeah, been there, seen that. The opera: nope. Stories of sweeping emotions and decadent affairs had aroused my imagination. As a thirty-something San Franciscan it was high time I high-tailed it down to the War Memorial Opera House to attend the S.F. Opera’s current production of Mozart’s comic masterpiece \u003cb>The Abduction from the Seraglio\u003c/b> (seraglio = harem).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hopped in a cab, and, anxious and excited, prematurely told the driver “thanks, this is good” two blocks too far away mistaking some other Civic Center structure as my destination. Briskly, I headed in the right direction alongside an obvious stream of opera goers (read: diamond-studded older white people) and even some from the hipster crowd (read: people who look like me). A fair amount of rubbernecking was in order upon entering the castle-like lobby of marble walls and ornate ceilings. I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore, Toto, or, at least, not in my familiar Nob Loin neighborhood. I picked up my ticket, grabbed a cookie, found the restroom down some stairs and through a labyrinth, and got back to my plush seat in time for the show to begin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lights down and curtain up. Meet Belmonte, one of the two dashing lovers, looking for his love, Constanze, who had been sold as a slave to the Pasha Selim (fancy name for “owner of the palace” played by Bay Area actor Charles Shaw Robinson). The gatekeeper, Osmin (Peter Rose), prevented Belmonte from entering. Belmonte soon encountered his manservant Pedrillo (Andrew Bidlack) who, along with his love, Blonde, are also the property of the Pasha. Tenor Matthew Polenzani as Belmonte was captivating. He thrilled and gave goosebumps with his Act I aria: “Here shall I see you, Constanze, you my hope.” His voice effortlessly filled the 3,000-plus-seat house with forte and even finer still in I-could-hear-a-pin-drop pianissimo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Act II began with the feisty Blonde, played and sung with flirtatious and comic verve by Anna Christy, refusing the advances of Osmin. A parallel story played out later when Constanze appeared to sing “Tortures of all kinds” in defiance of the Pasha’s threat of torture if she were to reject him. Returning to the SF Opera stage, soprano Mary Dunleavy grabbed on to this most challenging aria of vocal acrobatics and devoured every note (and there are many — “too many notes” so said the Emperor who commissioned the opera 200 years ago — or so the infamous tale goes). It was a highlight of the evening and elicited well-deserved “brava’s” from the audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Act III provoked laughter when Pedrillo, before embarking upon the high stakes plan to rescue the women from the palace, paused to announce the need for a serenade. “Just don’t drag it out,” replied Belmonte. All arias drag it out — a good thing when Mozart does it. During Pedrillo’s interlude, the four lovers were captured. The Pasha arrived and, upon learning that Belmonte is the son of his greatest enemy, sentenced them to death. Constanze and Belmonte shared a heart wrenching duet: “Oh what a fate, oh soul’s misery.” The Pasha returned and, touched by their sorrow, granted liberty to all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/seraglio.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Designer David Zinn created a sumptuous feast for the eyes. The set was a stage onstage complete with its own balcony boxes, proscenium, and footlights(!) It took a while for my brain to wrap around this aesthetic choice. I slowly embraced it as a way to allow for other theatrical devices: a two-dimensional boat sailing by, a door appearing from the floorboards, and a lute being handed from the prompter’s box. More eye candy followed with the 18th century period-perfect costumes. Each actor was dressed in garb that not only looked specific to the period and specific for each lover’s pairing, but was also tricked out with extra flair, ruffle, and sparkle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chas Rader-Shieber, making his SF Opera debut, succeeded in directing with the kind of simple storytelling this “Singspiel” opera asks for. He rightly allowed for the comic moments to be comic (the top of Act II duet between Osmin and Blonde) and the heartfelt moments to be dramatic (Constanze and Belmonte’s duet in Act III). (“Singspiel”: a term referring to an opera where much of the action moves forward through spoken dialogue and the arias have time for fuller expression of a thought or feeling.) The last moment of the opera left me scratching my head, though. What I heard was a bright, happily-ever-after, and redemptive finale: “Never will I thy kindness forget”, but what I saw was a somber group of soldiers, a dark night sky, and the Pasha holding his head in his hands as if grief stricken. Shouldn’t there have been a celebration?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The evening, clocking in at an engaging 2 hours and 40 minutes, ended with shouts of bravo and a well-earned standing ovation. I’ve read the opera that was quite a financial and critical success when it first appeared over two hundred years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same reaction takes place for the SF Opera’s production today. As for me, an opera virgin no more, it all felt so good that I’m planning my next tryst with \u003cb>Salome\u003c/b> in October.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Abduction from the Seraglio\u003c/b>, a co-production with Lyric Opera of Chicago, runs through October 23, 2009 at the SF Opera located at 301 Van Ness Ave, San Francisco. Sung in German with English dialogue and English supertitles. For tickets and information visit sfopera.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"headTitle": "The Last Days of Judas Iscariot, at City Lights | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>In the August 3, 2009 issue of \u003ci>The New Yorker\u003c/i>, Joan Acocella wrote one of the magazine’s classic Critic at Large think pieces called “Betrayal.” In it, she pondered the various, sometimes conflicting, stories of Judas Iscariot as told in the Gospels; reported on the recent translation of a long-lost Gnostic tract about Judas; and compared several contemporary works about the man who supposedly sold out Jesus Christ for 30 pieces of silver. I say ‘supposedly’ because there’s apparently a lot of reconsidering going on about the much-vilified Mr. Iscariot, the crux of which is that perhaps the poor fellow was merely doing his good friend’s bidding, to hasten Jesus’s martyrdom and subsequent resurrection. Besides, Jesus was a pretty well-known character in Judea: Did the authorities really need a patsy like Judas to lead them to the self-proclaimed Messiah? It just doesn’t make sense.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One citation that was missing from Acocella’s otherwise fine essay was \u003cb>The Last Days of Judas Iscariot\u003c/b>, a 2005 play by Stephen Adly Guirgis, playing now through October 18, 2009 at City Lights Theater Company in San Jose. This fierce and frequently hilarious production, directed by Kit Wilder, follows the imagined trial, in purgatory, of Judas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Catatonic with the despair that caused him to take his own life, even before his former friend had been nailed to the cross, Judas (Isaac Benelli) is represented by Fabiana Aziza Cunningham (Alika Ululani Spencer), a tough, leggy defense attorney. Cunningham can’t get Judge Littlefield (Bill Davidovich), a Southern Comfort-swigging former Confederate soldier who, like Judas, hung himself rather than face disgrace, to give her client his day in court. Naturally she prays for 40 days and nights to St. Monica (Lonnique Genelle). Knowing a good nag when she sees one, the fabulously foul-mouthed Saint gets a writ from God himself, forcing the trial to proceed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the prosecution, representing “God and the Kingdom of Heaven and Earth” is Yusef El-Fayoumy (John Romano) — if he wins this case, maybe the powers that be will let him out of hell. And so the trial begins, with a lollipop-sucking bailiff (Jake Van Tuyl) calling a parade of witnesses, from Judas’s grief-stricken mother, Henrietta (Vera Sloan), to a hard-of-hearing, stooped Mother Teresa (Patricia Tyler), to a pompous and smug Sigmund Freud (John Baldwin).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are too many fine performances to mention in detail here, but standouts definitely include Romano, who speaks with a delightfully smarmy, fake Persian accent and is seemingly propelled by his pelvis as he waltzes about the stage. Davidovich is also terrific, not just as the imperious and impatient judge but also as St. Matthew, and especially as the self-righteous Caiaphas the Elder (Guirgis wraps both hands around the eternal third-rail question of whether or not Jews were complicit in Christ’s death). Jake Vincent’s Pontius Pilate is an unrepentant GoodFella, while Jeff Clarke’s Satan is wicked good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, I doubt Guirgis is going to change many minds — those who believe that Judas was the traitorous Jew who sold their savior down the river will not be moved by this profane and profanity laden exercise in What If. Which is really a shame, because despite the linguistic pyrotechnics and the numerous moments of seriously comic relief, at its core, \u003cb>Judas\u003c/b> is a thoughtful rumination on the tug between faith and free will, as well as that even greater miracle, forgiveness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Last Days of Judas Iscariot\u003c/b> runs through October 18, 2009 at City Lights Theater Company in San Jose. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.cltc.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit cltc.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "\u003cb>The Last Days of Judas Iscariot\u003c/b>, a 2005 play by Stephen Adly Guirgis, is playing now through October 18, 2009 at City Lights Theater Company in San Jose. This fierce and frequently hilarious production, directed by Kit Wilder, follows the imagined trial, in purgatory, of Judas Iscariot.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>In the August 3, 2009 issue of \u003ci>The New Yorker\u003c/i>, Joan Acocella wrote one of the magazine’s classic Critic at Large think pieces called “Betrayal.” In it, she pondered the various, sometimes conflicting, stories of Judas Iscariot as told in the Gospels; reported on the recent translation of a long-lost Gnostic tract about Judas; and compared several contemporary works about the man who supposedly sold out Jesus Christ for 30 pieces of silver. I say ‘supposedly’ because there’s apparently a lot of reconsidering going on about the much-vilified Mr. Iscariot, the crux of which is that perhaps the poor fellow was merely doing his good friend’s bidding, to hasten Jesus’s martyrdom and subsequent resurrection. Besides, Jesus was a pretty well-known character in Judea: Did the authorities really need a patsy like Judas to lead them to the self-proclaimed Messiah? It just doesn’t make sense.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One citation that was missing from Acocella’s otherwise fine essay was \u003cb>The Last Days of Judas Iscariot\u003c/b>, a 2005 play by Stephen Adly Guirgis, playing now through October 18, 2009 at City Lights Theater Company in San Jose. This fierce and frequently hilarious production, directed by Kit Wilder, follows the imagined trial, in purgatory, of Judas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Catatonic with the despair that caused him to take his own life, even before his former friend had been nailed to the cross, Judas (Isaac Benelli) is represented by Fabiana Aziza Cunningham (Alika Ululani Spencer), a tough, leggy defense attorney. Cunningham can’t get Judge Littlefield (Bill Davidovich), a Southern Comfort-swigging former Confederate soldier who, like Judas, hung himself rather than face disgrace, to give her client his day in court. Naturally she prays for 40 days and nights to St. Monica (Lonnique Genelle). Knowing a good nag when she sees one, the fabulously foul-mouthed Saint gets a writ from God himself, forcing the trial to proceed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the prosecution, representing “God and the Kingdom of Heaven and Earth” is Yusef El-Fayoumy (John Romano) — if he wins this case, maybe the powers that be will let him out of hell. And so the trial begins, with a lollipop-sucking bailiff (Jake Van Tuyl) calling a parade of witnesses, from Judas’s grief-stricken mother, Henrietta (Vera Sloan), to a hard-of-hearing, stooped Mother Teresa (Patricia Tyler), to a pompous and smug Sigmund Freud (John Baldwin).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are too many fine performances to mention in detail here, but standouts definitely include Romano, who speaks with a delightfully smarmy, fake Persian accent and is seemingly propelled by his pelvis as he waltzes about the stage. Davidovich is also terrific, not just as the imperious and impatient judge but also as St. Matthew, and especially as the self-righteous Caiaphas the Elder (Guirgis wraps both hands around the eternal third-rail question of whether or not Jews were complicit in Christ’s death). Jake Vincent’s Pontius Pilate is an unrepentant GoodFella, while Jeff Clarke’s Satan is wicked good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, I doubt Guirgis is going to change many minds — those who believe that Judas was the traitorous Jew who sold their savior down the river will not be moved by this profane and profanity laden exercise in What If. Which is really a shame, because despite the linguistic pyrotechnics and the numerous moments of seriously comic relief, at its core, \u003cb>Judas\u003c/b> is a thoughtful rumination on the tug between faith and free will, as well as that even greater miracle, forgiveness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Last Days of Judas Iscariot\u003c/b> runs through October 18, 2009 at City Lights Theater Company in San Jose. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.cltc.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit cltc.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Do you have the time, to listen to me whine about \u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b>, now through November 1, 2009 at Berkeley Repertory Theatre? The cause of my alienation with this musical about the same is not so much the self-congratulatory hype that has surrounded the production, or the silliness of having the ushers offer theater-goers purple and orange earplugs before leading us to our seats — would that the music had been loud enough to actually require them. I can even get past the cell-phone-announcement guy artificially pumping up the audience by asking us if we were “ready to rock ‘n’ roll!” Please.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No, the problem was that director Michael Mayer of \u003cb>Spring Awakening\u003c/b> fame has turned the biggest album of Green Day’s storied career into a poseur-punk version of \u003cb>Disney’s High School Musical\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Green Day’s hands, \u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b>, the album, was a sometimes predictable bit of pop fluff that redeemed its clichéd lyrics and tired complaints about life in middle-class suburbia with great hooks, inspired musicianship, and expressive, snarling vocals. In Mayer’s hands, \u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b> is all gimmicks and big-time Broadway razzle-dazzle. What a bore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It should have been obvious from the get go that the two forms would be incompatible. After all, Green Day’s music works best when it feels a little bit dangerous, when things seem on the verge of careening out of control. In contrast, a conductor kept the musicians at Berkeley Rep in tight check, guaranteeing that the Roda Theatre’s stage would remain a spontaneity-free zone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then there was the stock staging, which felt lifted from a dog-eared musical playbook. Need to turn a piece of scaffolding into a bus? Simply assemble the ensemble to tip the thing on its side as the lead actor, Tony-winner John Gallagher, Jr., rides it to the ground, Cirque du Soleil style. But don’t stop there: Make sure as many actors as possible jump up and down on the prop’s roof, and then get everybody to hang out of the windows at the same time, fists pumping in the air. Everything looks better when it’s done in unison, right? Got a scene that’s moving too slow? Hoist your actors into the air against a backdrop of posters and TV screens and ask them to sing their lines from on high. Why? Because you can.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crowded dance numbers were another disappointment: Choreographer Steven Hoggett appears to have confused dance with aerobic workouts. And the transitions between the production’s song-and-dance numbers were positively terrible. In most cases, Gallagher addresses the crowd to deliver a series of very short (three sentences? four?), jokey monologues that usually begin with the words “Dear mom,” as in “Dear mom. I shot drugs for the first time today.” Shock me, shock me, shock me!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oh right, the plot. Johnny has left home to get laid (Rebecca Naomi Jones is a sultry Whatsername) and learn how to shoot heroin (Tony Vincent is his demonic dealer, St. Jimmy). He accomplishes both, getting a good case of psychic desolation in the bargain, but he manages to avoid addiction (the moment when he dumped the last of his stash on the stage provoked scattered, earnest applause, presumably from the vegan parents in the audience). And then he goes home, where he feels alienated all over again until he’s saved by rock ‘n’ roll. Or something like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, Johnny’s friend Will (Michael Esper) sticks it out in Tinsletown to hang with his preggers girlfriend, Heather (Mary Faber). Will basically spends the entire play sitting on a couch, watching TV and drinking beer. Naturally Heather leaves the lout and becomes a successful Material Girl. Johnny’s other friend Tunny (Matt Caplan) gets himself somewhat blown up in Iraq but falls in love with his nurse, The Extraordinary Girl (Christina Sajous). And that’s sort of it. I guess I’m glad someone (fictional or otherwise) has benefited from the war in Iraq, but it seems like an awfully steep price to pay for a mediocre plot point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b> runs through November 1, 2009 at Berkeley Repertory Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.berkeleyrep.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit berkeleyrep.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Do you have the time, to listen to me whine about \u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b>, now through November 1, 2009 at Berkeley Repertory Theatre? The cause of my alienation with this musical about the same is not so much the self-congratulatory hype that has surrounded the production, or the silliness of having the ushers offer theater-goers purple and orange earplugs before leading us to our seats — would that the music had been loud enough to actually require them. I can even get past the cell-phone-announcement guy artificially pumping up the audience by asking us if we were “ready to rock ‘n’ roll!” Please.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No, the problem was that director Michael Mayer of \u003cb>Spring Awakening\u003c/b> fame has turned the biggest album of Green Day’s storied career into a poseur-punk version of \u003cb>Disney’s High School Musical\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Green Day’s hands, \u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b>, the album, was a sometimes predictable bit of pop fluff that redeemed its clichéd lyrics and tired complaints about life in middle-class suburbia with great hooks, inspired musicianship, and expressive, snarling vocals. In Mayer’s hands, \u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b> is all gimmicks and big-time Broadway razzle-dazzle. What a bore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It should have been obvious from the get go that the two forms would be incompatible. After all, Green Day’s music works best when it feels a little bit dangerous, when things seem on the verge of careening out of control. In contrast, a conductor kept the musicians at Berkeley Rep in tight check, guaranteeing that the Roda Theatre’s stage would remain a spontaneity-free zone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then there was the stock staging, which felt lifted from a dog-eared musical playbook. Need to turn a piece of scaffolding into a bus? Simply assemble the ensemble to tip the thing on its side as the lead actor, Tony-winner John Gallagher, Jr., rides it to the ground, Cirque du Soleil style. But don’t stop there: Make sure as many actors as possible jump up and down on the prop’s roof, and then get everybody to hang out of the windows at the same time, fists pumping in the air. Everything looks better when it’s done in unison, right? Got a scene that’s moving too slow? Hoist your actors into the air against a backdrop of posters and TV screens and ask them to sing their lines from on high. Why? Because you can.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crowded dance numbers were another disappointment: Choreographer Steven Hoggett appears to have confused dance with aerobic workouts. And the transitions between the production’s song-and-dance numbers were positively terrible. In most cases, Gallagher addresses the crowd to deliver a series of very short (three sentences? four?), jokey monologues that usually begin with the words “Dear mom,” as in “Dear mom. I shot drugs for the first time today.” Shock me, shock me, shock me!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Oh right, the plot. Johnny has left home to get laid (Rebecca Naomi Jones is a sultry Whatsername) and learn how to shoot heroin (Tony Vincent is his demonic dealer, St. Jimmy). He accomplishes both, getting a good case of psychic desolation in the bargain, but he manages to avoid addiction (the moment when he dumped the last of his stash on the stage provoked scattered, earnest applause, presumably from the vegan parents in the audience). And then he goes home, where he feels alienated all over again until he’s saved by rock ‘n’ roll. Or something like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, Johnny’s friend Will (Michael Esper) sticks it out in Tinsletown to hang with his preggers girlfriend, Heather (Mary Faber). Will basically spends the entire play sitting on a couch, watching TV and drinking beer. Naturally Heather leaves the lout and becomes a successful Material Girl. Johnny’s other friend Tunny (Matt Caplan) gets himself somewhat blown up in Iraq but falls in love with his nurse, The Extraordinary Girl (Christina Sajous). And that’s sort of it. I guess I’m glad someone (fictional or otherwise) has benefited from the war in Iraq, but it seems like an awfully steep price to pay for a mediocre plot point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>American Idiot\u003c/b> runs through November 1, 2009 at Berkeley Repertory Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.berkeleyrep.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit berkeleyrep.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Here’s the drill: A play hits it big on Broadway, runs practically forever, and then a couple of official touring companies are formed to send the blockbuster to the best houses in Big-City-Name-Goes-Here, U.S.A. Some years later, regional theaters are offered the opportunity to purchase rights to the production; a discrete period of time after that, the community theaters get their shot at the golden goose that’s guaranteed, as they say in the biz, to put fannies in seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Right now, \u003cb>The Producers\u003c/b> is on its grand tour of the provinces. In the spring of 2009, Diablo Theatre Company in Walnut Creek staged its version of the musical. This fall, South Bay Musical Theatre in Saratoga takes its turn. In between, through August 16, 2009, Foothill Musical Theatre in Los Altos Hills is having its way with the story of Max Bialystock and Leo Bloom, the crooked producers who do everything in their power to create a sure-fire flop, only to have it succeed beyond their wildest nightmares.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/producers-loot.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Director Jay Manley does a great job with his cast of thousands, from the walker-clutching drill-team of little-old ladies to the choir of Whitehall & Marks accountants, with some Village People and a terrific fiddler (Kevin Stanford) thrown in for good measure. The set changes in Foothill College’s Smithwick Theatre are crisp and economical, disguised by the liberal use of scrim and song-and-dance numbers that finish up on the platform between the first row of seats and the orchestra pit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/producers-gay.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>For the most part, the supporting actors, the ensemble, and the production itself are the show’s strongest assets — I’m told the hilarious Bavaria-meets-Vegas showgirl costumes are previews of the upcoming production in Saratoga. As the flaming director Roger DeBris, Ray Joseph does a fine job on “Keep It Gay,” but he’s even better as the Fuhrer during the company’s rousing, tap-dancing rendition of “Springtime for Hitler.” Sean Patrick Murtagh is also good as DeBris’s sycophantic assistant Carmen Ghia, who just wants Roger to publically accept his love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another pair of actors whose performances are worth the price of admission are Ken Boswell as the play-within-the-musical’s Nazi author, Franz Liebkind, and Brittany Ogle, whose duties as a leggy Ulla include a reclining backflip off a table — in high heels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/producers-ulla.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>That’s a good example of the high-spirited energy level given by the cast to its production. As Leo Bloom, Tim Reynolds drives himself every bit as hard. He sings his parts so well that during the courtroom scene, when Max remarks on the fine quality of his by-then former partner’s singing voice, I realized I had been thinking the exact same thing. But even though his character is written as a hysteric, it sometimes felt like Reynolds went to that corner of Bloom’s persona a bit too quickly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Least effective, but hardly irredeemable, is Gary DeMattei’s Max. He hits his marks, doesn’t shy away from the physical, and gives a performance that is happily loud and outlandish. But his Bialystock always seems to be looking ahead to the next crossover, the next gag, causing his timing to miss and his performance to feel oddly flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Foothill Musical Theatre production of \u003cb>The Producers\u003c/b> runs through August 16, 2009 at the Smithwick Theatre at Foothill College in Los Altos Hills. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.foothillmusicals.com/\">more information\u003c/a>, visit foothillmusicals.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Here’s the drill: A play hits it big on Broadway, runs practically forever, and then a couple of official touring companies are formed to send the blockbuster to the best houses in Big-City-Name-Goes-Here, U.S.A. Some years later, regional theaters are offered the opportunity to purchase rights to the production; a discrete period of time after that, the community theaters get their shot at the golden goose that’s guaranteed, as they say in the biz, to put fannies in seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Right now, \u003cb>The Producers\u003c/b> is on its grand tour of the provinces. In the spring of 2009, Diablo Theatre Company in Walnut Creek staged its version of the musical. This fall, South Bay Musical Theatre in Saratoga takes its turn. In between, through August 16, 2009, Foothill Musical Theatre in Los Altos Hills is having its way with the story of Max Bialystock and Leo Bloom, the crooked producers who do everything in their power to create a sure-fire flop, only to have it succeed beyond their wildest nightmares.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/producers-loot.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Director Jay Manley does a great job with his cast of thousands, from the walker-clutching drill-team of little-old ladies to the choir of Whitehall & Marks accountants, with some Village People and a terrific fiddler (Kevin Stanford) thrown in for good measure. The set changes in Foothill College’s Smithwick Theatre are crisp and economical, disguised by the liberal use of scrim and song-and-dance numbers that finish up on the platform between the first row of seats and the orchestra pit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/producers-gay.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>For the most part, the supporting actors, the ensemble, and the production itself are the show’s strongest assets — I’m told the hilarious Bavaria-meets-Vegas showgirl costumes are previews of the upcoming production in Saratoga. As the flaming director Roger DeBris, Ray Joseph does a fine job on “Keep It Gay,” but he’s even better as the Fuhrer during the company’s rousing, tap-dancing rendition of “Springtime for Hitler.” Sean Patrick Murtagh is also good as DeBris’s sycophantic assistant Carmen Ghia, who just wants Roger to publically accept his love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another pair of actors whose performances are worth the price of admission are Ken Boswell as the play-within-the-musical’s Nazi author, Franz Liebkind, and Brittany Ogle, whose duties as a leggy Ulla include a reclining backflip off a table — in high heels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/producers-ulla.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>That’s a good example of the high-spirited energy level given by the cast to its production. As Leo Bloom, Tim Reynolds drives himself every bit as hard. He sings his parts so well that during the courtroom scene, when Max remarks on the fine quality of his by-then former partner’s singing voice, I realized I had been thinking the exact same thing. But even though his character is written as a hysteric, it sometimes felt like Reynolds went to that corner of Bloom’s persona a bit too quickly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Least effective, but hardly irredeemable, is Gary DeMattei’s Max. He hits his marks, doesn’t shy away from the physical, and gives a performance that is happily loud and outlandish. But his Bialystock always seems to be looking ahead to the next crossover, the next gag, causing his timing to miss and his performance to feel oddly flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Foothill Musical Theatre production of \u003cb>The Producers\u003c/b> runs through August 16, 2009 at the Smithwick Theatre at Foothill College in Los Altos Hills. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.foothillmusicals.com/\">more information\u003c/a>, visit foothillmusicals.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>For the opening of its 40th season, TheatreWorks is presenting the world premiere of \u003cb>Tinyard Hill\u003c/b> at the Lucie Stern Theater in Palo Alto. Set in 1964 Georgia, the four-person musical spends a tumultuous summer with a father-and-son blacksmith team and their busybody next-door neighbor, whose niece is in town to be fitted for her wedding dress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dressmaking auntie, May Bell Whitehead (Allison Briner), knows everybody, everybody’s business, and bakes pie after irresistible pie. Her alcoholic husband, who spent years hounding her for kinky sex, has just walked out on their childless marriage. May Bell’s white-trash neighbor, Russell Kingsley (James Moye), is a gruff, no-nonsense widower of five years. He’s set in his old-school smithy ways, or so he’d have us believe. His handsome 18-year-old son, David (Chris Critelli) is a young man with big plans who’s frustrated working for his visionless dad. He’s ready for a change. And the blushing bride? Aileen Garrett (Melissa WolfKlain) is an attractive 18-year-old city girl from Manhattan. She’s engaged to a 30-year-old psychiatrist, but this summer in the country is causing her to reassess. What on earth has she gotten herself into?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Guess what happens when the two kids meet? If you said “they’ll despise each other at first, but only so the play can have an arc for the love story that follows,” you win a pair of tickets to the Dooley County Fair. Guess what happens to their elders and you win one of May Bell’s pies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The writers, Tommy Newman and Mark Allen, balance the Red State cliché characters and sappy lyrics (“a blacksmith’s work is never done,” the actors actually sing) with just enough Blue State twists to keep things palatable for liberal-leaning audiences. The music has that punchy Broadway sound, the performance by the live band is spirited and tight, and the voices, especially the men’s, are rich and strong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But \u003cb>Tinyard Hill\u003c/b> seems a rather un-ambitious choice to kick off a season, especially when the musical is also being billed as the “centerpiece” of the peninsula company’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.theatreworks.org/about/newworks/festivalevents.aspx\">8th Annual New Works Festival\u003c/a>. For the record, I had a great deal of sympathy for David’s situation — he’s like a few other draft-age males I knew during the Vietnam era who questioned the morality of not serving because you didn’t agree with the war or could somehow weasel your way out of it. But the ride to the play’s dénouement is sparing with the surprises, and by the second act, loose threads are tied up way too conveniently and hurriedly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>TheatreWorks’s production of \u003cb>Tinyard Hill\u003c/b> runs through August 16, 2009 at the Lucie Stern Theater in Palo Alto. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.theatreworks.org/\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit theatreworks.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>For the opening of its 40th season, TheatreWorks is presenting the world premiere of \u003cb>Tinyard Hill\u003c/b> at the Lucie Stern Theater in Palo Alto. Set in 1964 Georgia, the four-person musical spends a tumultuous summer with a father-and-son blacksmith team and their busybody next-door neighbor, whose niece is in town to be fitted for her wedding dress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dressmaking auntie, May Bell Whitehead (Allison Briner), knows everybody, everybody’s business, and bakes pie after irresistible pie. Her alcoholic husband, who spent years hounding her for kinky sex, has just walked out on their childless marriage. May Bell’s white-trash neighbor, Russell Kingsley (James Moye), is a gruff, no-nonsense widower of five years. He’s set in his old-school smithy ways, or so he’d have us believe. His handsome 18-year-old son, David (Chris Critelli) is a young man with big plans who’s frustrated working for his visionless dad. He’s ready for a change. And the blushing bride? Aileen Garrett (Melissa WolfKlain) is an attractive 18-year-old city girl from Manhattan. She’s engaged to a 30-year-old psychiatrist, but this summer in the country is causing her to reassess. What on earth has she gotten herself into?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Guess what happens when the two kids meet? If you said “they’ll despise each other at first, but only so the play can have an arc for the love story that follows,” you win a pair of tickets to the Dooley County Fair. Guess what happens to their elders and you win one of May Bell’s pies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The writers, Tommy Newman and Mark Allen, balance the Red State cliché characters and sappy lyrics (“a blacksmith’s work is never done,” the actors actually sing) with just enough Blue State twists to keep things palatable for liberal-leaning audiences. The music has that punchy Broadway sound, the performance by the live band is spirited and tight, and the voices, especially the men’s, are rich and strong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But \u003cb>Tinyard Hill\u003c/b> seems a rather un-ambitious choice to kick off a season, especially when the musical is also being billed as the “centerpiece” of the peninsula company’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.theatreworks.org/about/newworks/festivalevents.aspx\">8th Annual New Works Festival\u003c/a>. For the record, I had a great deal of sympathy for David’s situation — he’s like a few other draft-age males I knew during the Vietnam era who questioned the morality of not serving because you didn’t agree with the war or could somehow weasel your way out of it. But the ride to the play’s dénouement is sparing with the surprises, and by the second act, loose threads are tied up way too conveniently and hurriedly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>In the new Theatre Q production of Terrence McNally’s \u003cb>Lips Together, Teeth Apart\u003c/b>, playing now through June 28, 2009 at Dragon Theatre in Palo Alto, two heterosexual couples are marooned for a lost 4th of July weekend on the gay enclave of Fire Island, circa 1991. Sally (Meredith Hagedorn) is a painter. She has inherited her dead brother David’s beach house and she’s not sure why. David has died of AIDS, and though the siblings were as close as a brother and sister can be at the end of either’s life, Sally had always been uncomfortable with her brother’s sexuality and circle. But here she is, standing before her easel, struggling, as she puts it, with “the arrogance of capturing the beauty of life with a few colors and a brush.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How much easier it is for McNally to capture the despair and emptiness of contemporary relationships with just four characters and three acts. This is a melancholy play to be sure, but you have to appreciate the skill with which McNally has rendered his players and the economy of the snapshots he gives us of them. When we need to know what his characters are thinking, they simply tell us. Take Sally. From her we learn that she is a bundle of self-doubt and fear — for her failed pregnancies, for the fetus of uncertain future now growing inside her, for the well-being of a swimmer who had disrobed on the beach earlier that morning, given her a smile and a wave, and is now barely a speck on the horizon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sally’s sister-in-law, Chloe (Mary Lou Torre), is no less troubled by her lot in life, but she refuses to play the victim, choosing instead to mask her fears with lots of noise and hyperactivity. And yet, Chloe is a lot less facile than her behavior would suggest. As full of it as she is with her incessant hostess shtick and nonstop chatter littered with high-school French, Chloe is surprisingly clear-eyed about the limits of veracity. The truth, she tells us, is more trouble than it’s worth. This from a woman who thinks nothing of telling anyone who will listen about her sex life. Truth and candor, McNally seems to be saying, are not exactly the same thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chloe’s brother is Sally’s husband, Sam (Jeffrey Hoffman). He’s no day at the beach, either. Sam is a neurotic contractor, who may or may be not be doing well right now but is way too proud to admit anything that smells even vaguely of failure. He is also something of a crybaby, who suffers mightily when he gets a sliver in his toe, probably because he believes that this could be the open sore that will let the AIDS virus that’s swimming in David’s pool enter his bloodstream and kill him as dead as a Fire Island fairy. He and Sally are going through a “patch,” he tells us. They’ll get through it, he says, as much to convince himself as us, as long as there is no one else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which, of course, there is. Only one character left, so it must be Chloe’s husband, John (Dale Albright), who hides behind his crossword puzzle, searching for the right words to fill into his little boxes while Sally ruminates on the meaning of the word “diminished.” How did Sally find herself in a marriage with her lovable oaf of a husband? Why did she and John have a fling? And will it make any difference to her to learn that John’s got the big C? Carefully, McNally answers only the questions he believes he must.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Adding to the sense of emotional claustrophobia is the handsome set by Ron Garparinetti. Under the direction of Rebecca Longworth, the actors frequently walk to the edges of the set and stage, as if to accentuate the sense of being hemmed in by their gay neighbors whose decks loom above Sally and company, and for whom this fishbowl exhibition of upper-middle-class hell must be riveting. We may never know why David left his house to his sister, but we certainly know why McNally set his drama there: so the straights can play the aberrants for a change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If some of the aspects of \u003cb>Lips Together, Teeth Apart\u003c/b> feel dated in 2009, what remains true are McNally’s observations of the distances that exist between alleged intimates. The couples — be they brother and sister, husbands and wives, or one-time lovers — are at once connected to and alienated from each other. They are only truly adept at confessing their deepest secrets to the people who matter the least (the audience, a sexual partner who promises no future), but when it comes to speaking the truth to the ones they purport to love, McNally’s couples are largely mute. Glib Chloe may have gotten it right after all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lips Together, Teeth Apart\u003c/b> runs through June 28, 2009 at Dragon Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.theatreq.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit theatreq.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>In the new Theatre Q production of Terrence McNally’s \u003cb>Lips Together, Teeth Apart\u003c/b>, playing now through June 28, 2009 at Dragon Theatre in Palo Alto, two heterosexual couples are marooned for a lost 4th of July weekend on the gay enclave of Fire Island, circa 1991. Sally (Meredith Hagedorn) is a painter. She has inherited her dead brother David’s beach house and she’s not sure why. David has died of AIDS, and though the siblings were as close as a brother and sister can be at the end of either’s life, Sally had always been uncomfortable with her brother’s sexuality and circle. But here she is, standing before her easel, struggling, as she puts it, with “the arrogance of capturing the beauty of life with a few colors and a brush.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How much easier it is for McNally to capture the despair and emptiness of contemporary relationships with just four characters and three acts. This is a melancholy play to be sure, but you have to appreciate the skill with which McNally has rendered his players and the economy of the snapshots he gives us of them. When we need to know what his characters are thinking, they simply tell us. Take Sally. From her we learn that she is a bundle of self-doubt and fear — for her failed pregnancies, for the fetus of uncertain future now growing inside her, for the well-being of a swimmer who had disrobed on the beach earlier that morning, given her a smile and a wave, and is now barely a speck on the horizon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sally’s sister-in-law, Chloe (Mary Lou Torre), is no less troubled by her lot in life, but she refuses to play the victim, choosing instead to mask her fears with lots of noise and hyperactivity. And yet, Chloe is a lot less facile than her behavior would suggest. As full of it as she is with her incessant hostess shtick and nonstop chatter littered with high-school French, Chloe is surprisingly clear-eyed about the limits of veracity. The truth, she tells us, is more trouble than it’s worth. This from a woman who thinks nothing of telling anyone who will listen about her sex life. Truth and candor, McNally seems to be saying, are not exactly the same thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chloe’s brother is Sally’s husband, Sam (Jeffrey Hoffman). He’s no day at the beach, either. Sam is a neurotic contractor, who may or may be not be doing well right now but is way too proud to admit anything that smells even vaguely of failure. He is also something of a crybaby, who suffers mightily when he gets a sliver in his toe, probably because he believes that this could be the open sore that will let the AIDS virus that’s swimming in David’s pool enter his bloodstream and kill him as dead as a Fire Island fairy. He and Sally are going through a “patch,” he tells us. They’ll get through it, he says, as much to convince himself as us, as long as there is no one else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which, of course, there is. Only one character left, so it must be Chloe’s husband, John (Dale Albright), who hides behind his crossword puzzle, searching for the right words to fill into his little boxes while Sally ruminates on the meaning of the word “diminished.” How did Sally find herself in a marriage with her lovable oaf of a husband? Why did she and John have a fling? And will it make any difference to her to learn that John’s got the big C? Carefully, McNally answers only the questions he believes he must.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Adding to the sense of emotional claustrophobia is the handsome set by Ron Garparinetti. Under the direction of Rebecca Longworth, the actors frequently walk to the edges of the set and stage, as if to accentuate the sense of being hemmed in by their gay neighbors whose decks loom above Sally and company, and for whom this fishbowl exhibition of upper-middle-class hell must be riveting. We may never know why David left his house to his sister, but we certainly know why McNally set his drama there: so the straights can play the aberrants for a change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If some of the aspects of \u003cb>Lips Together, Teeth Apart\u003c/b> feel dated in 2009, what remains true are McNally’s observations of the distances that exist between alleged intimates. The couples — be they brother and sister, husbands and wives, or one-time lovers — are at once connected to and alienated from each other. They are only truly adept at confessing their deepest secrets to the people who matter the least (the audience, a sexual partner who promises no future), but when it comes to speaking the truth to the ones they purport to love, McNally’s couples are largely mute. Glib Chloe may have gotten it right after all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lips Together, Teeth Apart\u003c/b> runs through June 28, 2009 at Dragon Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.theatreq.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit theatreq.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Amy Freed’s \u003cb>You, Nero\u003c/b>, now through June 28, 2008 at Berkeley Rep, is the best screwball comedy about the Roman Empire to hit the boards since \u003cb>A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum\u003c/b>. This is no historical drama, infused with equal parts magic and poetry, of the Mary Zimmerman variety. Rather, it is shtick, shtick and more shtick — The Borscht Belt in Berkeley! — with forbidden love, ill-considered lust, and plenty of good-old showbiz razzle-dazzle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Danny Scheie’s performance alone makes the play worth seeing. His Nero is a wisecracking, spoiled child who gets everything he wants, no matter how barbaric or icky. Naturally the people of Rome hate him, so Nero summons an excessively earnest dramatist named Scribonius (Jeff McCarthy) to write a play that will make him more appealing to the masses. Scribonius, who apologizes to the audience early in his narration duties for stooping to the lazy convention of direct address, hates everything Nero stands for, but he hasn’t had a hit in years so he takes the gig. Besides, the penalty for not doing so is death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Truth told, Scribonius has never connected with his audience in his entire pathetic career. Despite his poor track record, or maybe because of it, Scribonius seizes on the Nero commission as his big chance to redeem himself. He will write a script of such power and persuasion that it will cause the great Nero himself to reconsider his wicked and corrosive ways and awaken his dormant sense of civic duty, thus saving the Roman Empire from certain doom and changing the course of history. All because of a work of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These wooly-headed artists and their high-minded conceits, we think, and that’s what we should still be thinking when we leave the theater. Unfortunately, very late in the game, Freed channels Scribonius and goes all sanctimonious on us, all but blaming the problems of contemporary society on the demise of serious theater and the ascendency of opiates like \u003cb>American Idol\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yawn. Let’s get back to that glorious catastrophe known as Nero, whom Scheie plays as an inveterate manipulator, with all the impulse control and empathy of a basket full of agitated cobras. Freed is on solid terrain here, giving Scheie authentically insincere Hollywood-insider dialogue that would seem perfectly normal coming out of the mouths of the guys on \u003cb>Entourage\u003c/b> but is delightfully incongruous when uttered by Nero clad in little more than a pair of leopard-print briefs and sandals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scheie sells his monster hard, and against our better judgment we love Nero for it. So when he flees his mother, Agrippina’s, approach, we expect to encounter a character who will be every bit his match. As Agrippina, Lori Larson, decked out in bright purple and flanked by a pair of snarling tigers, makes a promising entrance. Unfortunately, there’s more apprehension than malice behind her eyes, as if she were not entirely comfortable being as malevolent and wretched as Scheie is duplicitous and ruthless. It’s a high bar, but Freed has put it there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nero is also a tough act to follow for Susannah Schulman as Poppaea, who, like Agrippina, wants Scribonius to write her into Nero’s \u003ci>fabula praetexta\u003c/i> in order to further her position in court. Indeed, everyone wants a piece of Scribonius now that he’s gotten the creative green light from Nero. Even Nero’s trusted advisors, Burrus (Mike McShane) and Seneca (Richard Doyle), want to pull Scribonius’s strings. All of which gives the hapless Scribonius the fanciful notion that he can make a difference. What fools these dramatists be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fools, it turns out, are some of the best things about \u003cb>You, Nero\u003c/b>. McShane and Doyle are marvelous together as Burrus and Seneca, and even better as the eunuchs Beppo and Zippo, with McShane’s Beppo stealing numerous scenes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kasey Mahaffey as Fabiolo and Young Nero is also great fun to watch. His scene with Agrippina as Scribonius is writing the story of young Nero is particularly effective. In fact, all three actors work well together during that scene, which seamlessly transitions from Scribonius’s imagination to a live preview for Nero, who sits rapt on his fainting couch. “Oh I feel so understood!” gushes the ruler as he watches his life played out before him. Well how about that: Nero is not a monster at all but a misunderstood victim of a traumatic childhood. “Just one little cut,” he adds softly. Uh oh. Coming from a man who thinks nothing of turning a Fabiolo into a Fabiola, this can’t be good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You, Nero\u003c/b> runs through June 28, 2009 at Berkeley Repertory Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.berkeleyrep.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit berkeleyrep.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Amy Freed's \u003cb>You, Nero\u003c/b>, now through June 28, 2008 at Berkeley Rep, is the best screwball comedy about the Roman Empire to hit the boards since \u003cb>A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum\u003c/b>.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Amy Freed’s \u003cb>You, Nero\u003c/b>, now through June 28, 2008 at Berkeley Rep, is the best screwball comedy about the Roman Empire to hit the boards since \u003cb>A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum\u003c/b>. This is no historical drama, infused with equal parts magic and poetry, of the Mary Zimmerman variety. Rather, it is shtick, shtick and more shtick — The Borscht Belt in Berkeley! — with forbidden love, ill-considered lust, and plenty of good-old showbiz razzle-dazzle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Danny Scheie’s performance alone makes the play worth seeing. His Nero is a wisecracking, spoiled child who gets everything he wants, no matter how barbaric or icky. Naturally the people of Rome hate him, so Nero summons an excessively earnest dramatist named Scribonius (Jeff McCarthy) to write a play that will make him more appealing to the masses. Scribonius, who apologizes to the audience early in his narration duties for stooping to the lazy convention of direct address, hates everything Nero stands for, but he hasn’t had a hit in years so he takes the gig. Besides, the penalty for not doing so is death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Truth told, Scribonius has never connected with his audience in his entire pathetic career. Despite his poor track record, or maybe because of it, Scribonius seizes on the Nero commission as his big chance to redeem himself. He will write a script of such power and persuasion that it will cause the great Nero himself to reconsider his wicked and corrosive ways and awaken his dormant sense of civic duty, thus saving the Roman Empire from certain doom and changing the course of history. All because of a work of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These wooly-headed artists and their high-minded conceits, we think, and that’s what we should still be thinking when we leave the theater. Unfortunately, very late in the game, Freed channels Scribonius and goes all sanctimonious on us, all but blaming the problems of contemporary society on the demise of serious theater and the ascendency of opiates like \u003cb>American Idol\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yawn. Let’s get back to that glorious catastrophe known as Nero, whom Scheie plays as an inveterate manipulator, with all the impulse control and empathy of a basket full of agitated cobras. Freed is on solid terrain here, giving Scheie authentically insincere Hollywood-insider dialogue that would seem perfectly normal coming out of the mouths of the guys on \u003cb>Entourage\u003c/b> but is delightfully incongruous when uttered by Nero clad in little more than a pair of leopard-print briefs and sandals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scheie sells his monster hard, and against our better judgment we love Nero for it. So when he flees his mother, Agrippina’s, approach, we expect to encounter a character who will be every bit his match. As Agrippina, Lori Larson, decked out in bright purple and flanked by a pair of snarling tigers, makes a promising entrance. Unfortunately, there’s more apprehension than malice behind her eyes, as if she were not entirely comfortable being as malevolent and wretched as Scheie is duplicitous and ruthless. It’s a high bar, but Freed has put it there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nero is also a tough act to follow for Susannah Schulman as Poppaea, who, like Agrippina, wants Scribonius to write her into Nero’s \u003ci>fabula praetexta\u003c/i> in order to further her position in court. Indeed, everyone wants a piece of Scribonius now that he’s gotten the creative green light from Nero. Even Nero’s trusted advisors, Burrus (Mike McShane) and Seneca (Richard Doyle), want to pull Scribonius’s strings. All of which gives the hapless Scribonius the fanciful notion that he can make a difference. What fools these dramatists be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fools, it turns out, are some of the best things about \u003cb>You, Nero\u003c/b>. McShane and Doyle are marvelous together as Burrus and Seneca, and even better as the eunuchs Beppo and Zippo, with McShane’s Beppo stealing numerous scenes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kasey Mahaffey as Fabiolo and Young Nero is also great fun to watch. His scene with Agrippina as Scribonius is writing the story of young Nero is particularly effective. In fact, all three actors work well together during that scene, which seamlessly transitions from Scribonius’s imagination to a live preview for Nero, who sits rapt on his fainting couch. “Oh I feel so understood!” gushes the ruler as he watches his life played out before him. Well how about that: Nero is not a monster at all but a misunderstood victim of a traumatic childhood. “Just one little cut,” he adds softly. Uh oh. Coming from a man who thinks nothing of turning a Fabiolo into a Fabiola, this can’t be good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You, Nero\u003c/b> runs through June 28, 2009 at Berkeley Repertory Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.berkeleyrep.org\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit berkeleyrep.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Yes, novel adaptations are cursed, and \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> is no exception. Adapted by Sean San Jose from Junot Diaz’s Pulitzer-winning novel \u003cb>The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao\u003c/b>, and staged by Campo Santo at Intersection for the Arts, the play is a mess — a lovely, frustrating mess, that translated the excitement of the book, but fumbled the storytelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> thrilled American readers when it appeared in 2007 on the heels of a century of endless repetitions of the same immigrant narrative. The book was recognizably an immigrant story, yet it turned the tropes on their ears. Far from pandering to a non-Spanish-speaking readership expecting its exotica to be translated, \u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> spoke the college-educated, ghetto-inflected Spang-nerd-glish its macho, comic-book-reading Dominican narrator spoke. Its metaphors came from Tolkien and The Silver Surfer. Its plot didn’t follow the arc-de-triomphe of the traditional immigrant tale, but rather the melodramatic twists of a generation-spanning curse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> knew what it was about, what story it was trying to tell, and how it was trying to tell it; \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> can make no such claims. What is, in the novel, a tour-de-force braiding together of 20th century Dominican history, Caribbean/US immigration issues, three-generations of familial tragicomedy, and revenge-of-the-nerd story, becomes, in the play, messy, incongruous, and incomplete … but also funny, exciting, culturally canny, and completely in love with its characters. The play extinguishes the brilliance of the novel — its powerful balancing act — but manifests, even heightens, the novel’s human appeal, its abundant energy and humor, its hybrid language, and its loveable characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Co-directors Sean San Jose and Marc Bamuthi Joseph embody the book with an ambitious physicality: a combination of comic book tableaux, telenovela melodramatics, and chaotic modern dance. A wall painted in a grid of red and blue squares creates comic book panels against which the actors freeze in place to deliver monologues and adversarial dialogues. Several platforms move easily, stack up, or bridge one another to force and facilitate the actors in motion; when not trapped in the panel of a comic or the frame of a television set, the characters spin in a whirlwind of motion and rapid-fire happenstance. Simple costumes in black and primary or neon colors do triple duty as superhero disguises, character gestures, and period costume.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The staging doesn’t always land squarely. There are times, especially during the first twenty minutes or so, when the piece isn’t so much a depiction of chaos as it is chaotic itself; times when the melodrama isn’t so much a knowing commentary as it is … just loud. But these are the consequences when you take big, ambitious risks, and the mere presence of artistic ambition onstage is gratifying. It is all the more so since the risk mostly pays off. Giving talented performers layered, complex, and meaty roles is a good strategy; without exception, the performers meet every shift in tactic and texture with energy and power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But San Jose’s exceedingly problematic adaptation is the play’s downfall. Sadly, an inspired production can’t save a faltering script. There are multiple problems: the playwright’s inability to locate the play’s central story arc, among the many arcs of the novel; a basic misunderstanding of what a narrator is versus what a chorus is; how to select a protagonist, or balance the weight of the story among more than one protagonist; the various ways to satisfy the expectations your storytelling arouses in your audience; and how to end the story you’ve chosen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> every member of the accursed family experiences a manifestation of the Fukú in their lives. But most survive the encounter by a partially supernatural grace that preserves the bloodline for further torment. The Fukú reaches apotheosis in the death of Oscar Wao, the moment toward which all the struggle and flight tends, when the curse is finally purged. All this is clearly too much for a two-and-a-half-hour play, and the playwright would have been wise to cut out much of the incident, and perhaps even some characters. Instead, San Jose cuts out some of the main action of the book, while leaving in a myriad unimportant details in the name of conveying the book’s flavor, not trusting to the often spectacular staging to do that job. The first half-hour of the piece is wasted in this manner: a twister of opinions, ideas, and explanations; telling, not showing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Worse, instead of cutting and combining characters, San Jose adds at least one: the embodiment of the Fukú, who supposedly serves as narrator. And he’s not the only one. Minor characters are kept in so as to serve double duty as character and chorus. And a major character that could have been cut — Yunior, the book’s main narrator — isn’t even introduced until the second act, where he proceeds to muddy, but not resolve, the story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But most unforgivable of all is the play’s utter failure to provide an ending. It is not merely Oscar’s death that has gone AWOL. The endings to all the stories, all the individual arcs introduced, are missing. The family’s run-in with Trujillo, which brings on the curse, is disappeared. The mother’s failed love affair, that inspired her migration, is barely sketched. Lola’s relationship with Yunior is left hanging. Oscar’s coming-of-age moment never comes. In changing the title to \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> and making that concept a character, the play has highlighted the curse as the central theme and issue of the play. As we all know, curse stories end in one of two ways: the triumph of the curse, or the breaking of the curse. Neither happens here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps the heart of the problem is the co-directors’ inability to commit to the unattractiveness of Oscar Wao, and by extension, of the entire premise and story. It might be simplistic of me, but I find that our California laid-backness often comes with an inability to reveal, much less jeer at, our own dark side. The literary Oscar finds redemption in our eyes by committing to his own nerdosity so completely that he dies horribly for it. The vibrant and energetic Left Coast \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> understands dictatorship, immigration, and punk-rock rebellion only too well. What we don’t do well is embrace our own absurdity. As Yunior (and the Fukú) tell us repeatedly, “the only way out, is in.” Ultimately, the play didn’t follow its own directive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> runs at Intersection for the Arts through June 21, 2009. For \u003ca href=\"http://theintersection.org/calendar/program_theatre.php\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit theintersection.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "\u003cb>The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao\u003c/b> knew what it was about, what story it was trying to tell, and how it was trying to tell it; its adaptation, \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> can make no such claims.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Yes, novel adaptations are cursed, and \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> is no exception. Adapted by Sean San Jose from Junot Diaz’s Pulitzer-winning novel \u003cb>The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao\u003c/b>, and staged by Campo Santo at Intersection for the Arts, the play is a mess — a lovely, frustrating mess, that translated the excitement of the book, but fumbled the storytelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> thrilled American readers when it appeared in 2007 on the heels of a century of endless repetitions of the same immigrant narrative. The book was recognizably an immigrant story, yet it turned the tropes on their ears. Far from pandering to a non-Spanish-speaking readership expecting its exotica to be translated, \u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> spoke the college-educated, ghetto-inflected Spang-nerd-glish its macho, comic-book-reading Dominican narrator spoke. Its metaphors came from Tolkien and The Silver Surfer. Its plot didn’t follow the arc-de-triomphe of the traditional immigrant tale, but rather the melodramatic twists of a generation-spanning curse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> knew what it was about, what story it was trying to tell, and how it was trying to tell it; \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> can make no such claims. What is, in the novel, a tour-de-force braiding together of 20th century Dominican history, Caribbean/US immigration issues, three-generations of familial tragicomedy, and revenge-of-the-nerd story, becomes, in the play, messy, incongruous, and incomplete … but also funny, exciting, culturally canny, and completely in love with its characters. The play extinguishes the brilliance of the novel — its powerful balancing act — but manifests, even heightens, the novel’s human appeal, its abundant energy and humor, its hybrid language, and its loveable characters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Co-directors Sean San Jose and Marc Bamuthi Joseph embody the book with an ambitious physicality: a combination of comic book tableaux, telenovela melodramatics, and chaotic modern dance. A wall painted in a grid of red and blue squares creates comic book panels against which the actors freeze in place to deliver monologues and adversarial dialogues. Several platforms move easily, stack up, or bridge one another to force and facilitate the actors in motion; when not trapped in the panel of a comic or the frame of a television set, the characters spin in a whirlwind of motion and rapid-fire happenstance. Simple costumes in black and primary or neon colors do triple duty as superhero disguises, character gestures, and period costume.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The staging doesn’t always land squarely. There are times, especially during the first twenty minutes or so, when the piece isn’t so much a depiction of chaos as it is chaotic itself; times when the melodrama isn’t so much a knowing commentary as it is … just loud. But these are the consequences when you take big, ambitious risks, and the mere presence of artistic ambition onstage is gratifying. It is all the more so since the risk mostly pays off. Giving talented performers layered, complex, and meaty roles is a good strategy; without exception, the performers meet every shift in tactic and texture with energy and power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But San Jose’s exceedingly problematic adaptation is the play’s downfall. Sadly, an inspired production can’t save a faltering script. There are multiple problems: the playwright’s inability to locate the play’s central story arc, among the many arcs of the novel; a basic misunderstanding of what a narrator is versus what a chorus is; how to select a protagonist, or balance the weight of the story among more than one protagonist; the various ways to satisfy the expectations your storytelling arouses in your audience; and how to end the story you’ve chosen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003cb>Oscar Wao\u003c/b> every member of the accursed family experiences a manifestation of the Fukú in their lives. But most survive the encounter by a partially supernatural grace that preserves the bloodline for further torment. The Fukú reaches apotheosis in the death of Oscar Wao, the moment toward which all the struggle and flight tends, when the curse is finally purged. All this is clearly too much for a two-and-a-half-hour play, and the playwright would have been wise to cut out much of the incident, and perhaps even some characters. Instead, San Jose cuts out some of the main action of the book, while leaving in a myriad unimportant details in the name of conveying the book’s flavor, not trusting to the often spectacular staging to do that job. The first half-hour of the piece is wasted in this manner: a twister of opinions, ideas, and explanations; telling, not showing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Worse, instead of cutting and combining characters, San Jose adds at least one: the embodiment of the Fukú, who supposedly serves as narrator. And he’s not the only one. Minor characters are kept in so as to serve double duty as character and chorus. And a major character that could have been cut — Yunior, the book’s main narrator — isn’t even introduced until the second act, where he proceeds to muddy, but not resolve, the story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But most unforgivable of all is the play’s utter failure to provide an ending. It is not merely Oscar’s death that has gone AWOL. The endings to all the stories, all the individual arcs introduced, are missing. The family’s run-in with Trujillo, which brings on the curse, is disappeared. The mother’s failed love affair, that inspired her migration, is barely sketched. Lola’s relationship with Yunior is left hanging. Oscar’s coming-of-age moment never comes. In changing the title to \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> and making that concept a character, the play has highlighted the curse as the central theme and issue of the play. As we all know, curse stories end in one of two ways: the triumph of the curse, or the breaking of the curse. Neither happens here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perhaps the heart of the problem is the co-directors’ inability to commit to the unattractiveness of Oscar Wao, and by extension, of the entire premise and story. It might be simplistic of me, but I find that our California laid-backness often comes with an inability to reveal, much less jeer at, our own dark side. The literary Oscar finds redemption in our eyes by committing to his own nerdosity so completely that he dies horribly for it. The vibrant and energetic Left Coast \u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> understands dictatorship, immigration, and punk-rock rebellion only too well. What we don’t do well is embrace our own absurdity. As Yunior (and the Fukú) tell us repeatedly, “the only way out, is in.” Ultimately, the play didn’t follow its own directive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Fukú Americanus\u003c/b> runs at Intersection for the Arts through June 21, 2009. For \u003ca href=\"http://theintersection.org/calendar/program_theatre.php\">tickets and information\u003c/a> visit theintersection.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>William Congreve’s \u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> is a convoluted comedy revolving around the breeding habits of a small group of 18th-century rich people, who navigate the manners and social protocols of the day to win the hands of their true loves when they aren’t trying to steal the fortune of a wealthy aunt. There’s a more detailed, spoiler-laden synopsis in the program, as well as a family tree, but that’s all you really need to know. Even without the synopsis, it’s obvious the lovers will get together in the end and the aunt’s riches will be kept from the conniving clutches of Congreve’s unscrupulous villains. No doubt in 1700 the peculiarities of the plot and the myriad allusions to the politics of the day must have resonated with Restoration audiences. In 2009, we must content ourselves with Congreve’s marvelously witty prose and the uniformly excellent performances by a cast that throws itself into the production with ambition and abandon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> is going to be a long (three hours, including a pair of 10-minute intermissions), brash and noisy farce regardless of who’s at the helm. In the hands of Rebecca J. Ennals, it is a particularly rollicking and randy affair. Breasts overflow their cinched bodices, men prance like peacocks or stagger drunkenly about, servants pulls strings behind the scene for their masters, couples cannot keep their hands off each other. It’s great fun, a lot of laughs and thanks to the fast pace and terrific acting, the hours fly by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The play actually begins rather unpromisingly with a gimmicky prologue that Ennals has rewritten to draw parallels between Congreve’s money-grabbing wretches and the celebrity-obsessed, paparazzi culture of today. Clad in deliberately dissonant costumes, whose flourishes swing wildly from historical to contemporary, the company raps their lines as they pretend to read from tabloids — the headlines have been reworked with the names of the characters we will soon meet but don’t yet know. There is, I’m sure, a connection between Congreve’s players and Brangelina, but I found this linkage between events three centuries apart to be a bit of a stretch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It does not help Ennals’s case that the first scene between Fainall (Alex Kirschner) and Mirabell (Joseph Salazar) conversing in a chocolate shop drops the Restoration-celebrity connection entirely. Instead, we get a blizzard of words. Beautiful words, beautifully spoken, to be sure, but I had a difficult time following the anecdotes these two men were sharing as my ear adjusted to the vernacular, the rhythms of Congreve and the odd, similar-sounding names of his characters. As near as I could tell, Fainall, a cad, is married to a woman he does not love. Mirabell, not a cad, longs for the hand of a woman whose wealthy aunt he has offended, thus dooming his chances. We listen closely, straining to follow the plot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anticipating this early challenge for her audiences, Ennals has the rest of the cast pose behind a scrim to create tableau versions of the action the two men are describing. The goal is to better familiarize the audience with the characters and the play’s copious backstory. It mostly works.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We don’t need the device for long, and it is discarded entirely when Tony Witwoud (Ray Renati) flounces into view clad in a green coat, purple shoes, turquoise corset and enough makeup to make Emmett Kelly himself blush. He is, in short, a lavish clown, and he successfully upends the polite conversation between the two men with enough non sequiturs and nonsense to bring the play fully to life. From there it’s pretty much a sprint to the finish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along the way we encounter a slew of quirky characters and fine performances. Witwoud is joined by his friend and drinking buddy Petulant (Jim Johnson), who is a vision in orange and has the droll delivery and comic timing of Bob Elliott. The two men are a great pair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The women of \u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> are given their opportunity to shine in the second scene, which in this version of the play is set in a clothing store rather than St. James’s Park as in the original. It’s a clever updating, giving Mrs. Fainall (Shannon Warrick) and Mrs. Marwood (Carla Pantoja) a chance to establish their lopsided relationship (Marwood is desired by Mrs. Fainall’s faithless husband) while musing on their shared problem: men. When we eventually meet Mrs. Millamant (Rami Margron), we learn that she, too, has her problems with men, but for her the trouble is reconciling her love for Mirabell with her equally fierce desire to remain an independent woman in 18th-century England where marriage reduces her to a mere possession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the best aspects of this production are the performances of the ostensibly secondary players. Roberta Morris throws herself into the role of Lady Wishfort, the aforementioned wealthy aunt. Annamarie MacLeod dazzles as the lady’s maid, Foible, who is married to Mirabell’s valet, Waitwell (William J. Brown III). For his part, Waitwell has agreed to his master’s plot to woo Lady Wishfort in disguise as Sir Rowland because… oh never mind, it’s too complicated. Also great is Paul Loomis, whose drunken country bumpkin Sir Wilfull Witwoud is flat-out hilarious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Similarly, many of the principles excel in their brief, second roles as servants of various sorts. These include Shannon Warrick, who makes us forget all about Mrs. Fainall for a few moments when she steals her scene with Sir Wilfull as a dull-witted footman. Jim Johnson bookends his Petulant with a turn as Peg, a painfully slow-moving servant who’s seemingly deaf to the insults of his fulminating mistress, Lady Wishfort. And Paul Loomis and William J. Brown III don women’s clothing, but do little else to disguise their gender, as Betty, the proprietress of the chocolate house, and Mincing, a maid to Mrs. Millamant, respectively. In the end, this supportive, ensemble spirit of the cast captivates us far more than the tenuous connections between Congreve’s England and present-day America. Not to give away the ending, but that is more than enough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> runs through May 31, 2009 at Pear Avenue Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.thepear.org\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit thepear.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>William Congreve’s \u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> is a convoluted comedy revolving around the breeding habits of a small group of 18th-century rich people, who navigate the manners and social protocols of the day to win the hands of their true loves when they aren’t trying to steal the fortune of a wealthy aunt. There’s a more detailed, spoiler-laden synopsis in the program, as well as a family tree, but that’s all you really need to know. Even without the synopsis, it’s obvious the lovers will get together in the end and the aunt’s riches will be kept from the conniving clutches of Congreve’s unscrupulous villains. No doubt in 1700 the peculiarities of the plot and the myriad allusions to the politics of the day must have resonated with Restoration audiences. In 2009, we must content ourselves with Congreve’s marvelously witty prose and the uniformly excellent performances by a cast that throws itself into the production with ambition and abandon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> is going to be a long (three hours, including a pair of 10-minute intermissions), brash and noisy farce regardless of who’s at the helm. In the hands of Rebecca J. Ennals, it is a particularly rollicking and randy affair. Breasts overflow their cinched bodices, men prance like peacocks or stagger drunkenly about, servants pulls strings behind the scene for their masters, couples cannot keep their hands off each other. It’s great fun, a lot of laughs and thanks to the fast pace and terrific acting, the hours fly by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The play actually begins rather unpromisingly with a gimmicky prologue that Ennals has rewritten to draw parallels between Congreve’s money-grabbing wretches and the celebrity-obsessed, paparazzi culture of today. Clad in deliberately dissonant costumes, whose flourishes swing wildly from historical to contemporary, the company raps their lines as they pretend to read from tabloids — the headlines have been reworked with the names of the characters we will soon meet but don’t yet know. There is, I’m sure, a connection between Congreve’s players and Brangelina, but I found this linkage between events three centuries apart to be a bit of a stretch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It does not help Ennals’s case that the first scene between Fainall (Alex Kirschner) and Mirabell (Joseph Salazar) conversing in a chocolate shop drops the Restoration-celebrity connection entirely. Instead, we get a blizzard of words. Beautiful words, beautifully spoken, to be sure, but I had a difficult time following the anecdotes these two men were sharing as my ear adjusted to the vernacular, the rhythms of Congreve and the odd, similar-sounding names of his characters. As near as I could tell, Fainall, a cad, is married to a woman he does not love. Mirabell, not a cad, longs for the hand of a woman whose wealthy aunt he has offended, thus dooming his chances. We listen closely, straining to follow the plot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anticipating this early challenge for her audiences, Ennals has the rest of the cast pose behind a scrim to create tableau versions of the action the two men are describing. The goal is to better familiarize the audience with the characters and the play’s copious backstory. It mostly works.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We don’t need the device for long, and it is discarded entirely when Tony Witwoud (Ray Renati) flounces into view clad in a green coat, purple shoes, turquoise corset and enough makeup to make Emmett Kelly himself blush. He is, in short, a lavish clown, and he successfully upends the polite conversation between the two men with enough non sequiturs and nonsense to bring the play fully to life. From there it’s pretty much a sprint to the finish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along the way we encounter a slew of quirky characters and fine performances. Witwoud is joined by his friend and drinking buddy Petulant (Jim Johnson), who is a vision in orange and has the droll delivery and comic timing of Bob Elliott. The two men are a great pair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The women of \u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> are given their opportunity to shine in the second scene, which in this version of the play is set in a clothing store rather than St. James’s Park as in the original. It’s a clever updating, giving Mrs. Fainall (Shannon Warrick) and Mrs. Marwood (Carla Pantoja) a chance to establish their lopsided relationship (Marwood is desired by Mrs. Fainall’s faithless husband) while musing on their shared problem: men. When we eventually meet Mrs. Millamant (Rami Margron), we learn that she, too, has her problems with men, but for her the trouble is reconciling her love for Mirabell with her equally fierce desire to remain an independent woman in 18th-century England where marriage reduces her to a mere possession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the best aspects of this production are the performances of the ostensibly secondary players. Roberta Morris throws herself into the role of Lady Wishfort, the aforementioned wealthy aunt. Annamarie MacLeod dazzles as the lady’s maid, Foible, who is married to Mirabell’s valet, Waitwell (William J. Brown III). For his part, Waitwell has agreed to his master’s plot to woo Lady Wishfort in disguise as Sir Rowland because… oh never mind, it’s too complicated. Also great is Paul Loomis, whose drunken country bumpkin Sir Wilfull Witwoud is flat-out hilarious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Similarly, many of the principles excel in their brief, second roles as servants of various sorts. These include Shannon Warrick, who makes us forget all about Mrs. Fainall for a few moments when she steals her scene with Sir Wilfull as a dull-witted footman. Jim Johnson bookends his Petulant with a turn as Peg, a painfully slow-moving servant who’s seemingly deaf to the insults of his fulminating mistress, Lady Wishfort. And Paul Loomis and William J. Brown III don women’s clothing, but do little else to disguise their gender, as Betty, the proprietress of the chocolate house, and Mincing, a maid to Mrs. Millamant, respectively. In the end, this supportive, ensemble spirit of the cast captivates us far more than the tenuous connections between Congreve’s England and present-day America. Not to give away the ending, but that is more than enough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Way of the World\u003c/b> runs through May 31, 2009 at Pear Avenue Theatre. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.thepear.org\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit thepear.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The British mathematician and cryptanalyst Alan Turing may have been one of the smartest people who has ever lived. During World War II, he helped crack the Enigma codes that enabled Nazi U-boats to sink merchant ships at will, thus breaking Germany’s naval blockade of the United Kingdom. A grateful nation awarded him an Order of the British Empire for his efforts. After the war, he laid the groundwork for the first computer, wrote an influential paper about artificial intelligence and studied the link between Fibonacci number sequences and morphogenesis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In short, Turing was a pretty bright guy, whose life was devoted to the exposure of unsolvable secrets and the formulation of new, unanticipated truths. So perhaps it isn’t completely surprising that Turing essentially invited the police to discover his homosexuality, which he then went on to confess without even being asked. Turing had to have known that homosexuality was a crime in England when he revealed it in 1952, but he appears to have lacked the common sense to predict that his confession would ruin his career. By the summer of 1954, just a few weeks shy of his 42nd birthday, Turing was dead, a half-eaten, cyanide-laced apple by his side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Breaking the Code\u003c/b>, now through May 2, 2009 at Bus Barn Stage Company in Los Altos, does a good job of telling the based-on-a-true-story account of this brilliant man. The reason for the play’s success is largely due to Geoff Fiorito’s confident portrayal of Turing. Fiorito touchingly captures Turing’s nervous fingernail biting, his stutter and his discomfort in his own skin. Which is not to say the performance is one-dimensional. He also delivers Turing’s eloquent sides, from the weary, unapologetic candor he displays about his sexual orientation to his skills as a lecturer. In fact, Fiorito is so good at communicating Turing’s Wittgenstein-inspired logic that there are moments during the play when we feel as if we too might understand the secrets of the universe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hugh Whitemore’s 1986 play, which originally starred Derek Jacobi, opens in 1952 with Turing reporting a burglary to a skeptical detective named Mick Ross (Michael Champlin). At this point in Turing’s life, Turing’s most productive years are behind him, but he doesn’t know that yet. Perhaps he believes that if he could beat the Nazi’s Enigma machine he can manage a local cop, but Turing is an unskilled liar. Ross can spot a flimsy story a mile away, and plays the great man like a fool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cut to 1929. Turing has brought a friend, Christopher Morcom (Blaze Mancillas) home from Sherbourne, where they are attending school together. “Alan has talked so much about you,” gushes Turing’s mother, Sara (Sondra Putnam), without realizing the implications of her innocent statement. This is where it all began, we think. His mother’s blind eye to his devotion to young men has left Turing woefully unprepared for encounters with the Mick Rosses of the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flash forward to 1952 again, shortly before his encounter with Ross. Turing is having a pint in a pub, where he meets a young man named Ron Miller (Bora “Max” Koknar). By now, we know that Turing is a man of extraordinary intelligence and accomplishment, yet here he is, sitting in a bar with a tough-looking stranger in a leather jacket and t-shirt, patiently trying to explain his struggle to build an electronic brain to a kid who has less cerebral goals on his randy mind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The play continues in this manner, bouncing back and forth in time. As theatrical devices go, it feels a bit quaint by contemporary standards. Before long, though, we settle for a bit in 1939 and Turing’s first meeting with Dillwyn Knox (James G. Mantell) at Bletchley Park, where Turing worked in secrecy until the end of the war. Mantell is terrific as the gruff old administrator whose job it is to keep disorderly geniuses like Turing in line. One of Knox’s carrots for Turing is Patricia Green (Katie Anderson). “She’s quite as good as any chap,” Knox assures Turing. Knox, of course, has no idea (not yet, anyway) that Turing prefers chaps, but Green proves Turing’s intellectual equal and gains his respect and trust.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Green would also like his love, but Turing gently pushes back, explaining his homosexuality as an obvious impediment to their relationship. Patiently, Green explains that she already knows he’s a poof, as Turing calls himself. She loves him anyway and is willing to wait for him to come around. But for Turing, there is nothing to come around to. He is who he is. Not to sound judgmental about Turing’s sexual orientation, but I really wanted these two to figure it out. As actors, Fiorito and Anderson work well together on stage. Even though their scenes are all too brief, the actors do a good job of telegraphing the affection and commonalities between their characters, which feel every bit as important as their core difference. As audience members, we are exhilarated by the promise of their mutual attraction, and just a little bit crushed that they cannot repeat their shared victory over Enigma by cracking the codes that divide them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Breaking the Code\u003c/b> runs through May 2, 2009 at Bus Barn Stage Company. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.busbarn.org\">tickets and information\u003c/a>, visit thestage.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The British mathematician and cryptanalyst Alan Turing may have been one of the smartest people who has ever lived. During World War II, he helped crack the Enigma codes that enabled Nazi U-boats to sink merchant ships at will, thus breaking Germany’s naval blockade of the United Kingdom. A grateful nation awarded him an Order of the British Empire for his efforts. After the war, he laid the groundwork for the first computer, wrote an influential paper about artificial intelligence and studied the link between Fibonacci number sequences and morphogenesis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In short, Turing was a pretty bright guy, whose life was devoted to the exposure of unsolvable secrets and the formulation of new, unanticipated truths. So perhaps it isn’t completely surprising that Turing essentially invited the police to discover his homosexuality, which he then went on to confess without even being asked. Turing had to have known that homosexuality was a crime in England when he revealed it in 1952, but he appears to have lacked the common sense to predict that his confession would ruin his career. By the summer of 1954, just a few weeks shy of his 42nd birthday, Turing was dead, a half-eaten, cyanide-laced apple by his side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Breaking the Code\u003c/b>, now through May 2, 2009 at Bus Barn Stage Company in Los Altos, does a good job of telling the based-on-a-true-story account of this brilliant man. The reason for the play’s success is largely due to Geoff Fiorito’s confident portrayal of Turing. Fiorito touchingly captures Turing’s nervous fingernail biting, his stutter and his discomfort in his own skin. Which is not to say the performance is one-dimensional. He also delivers Turing’s eloquent sides, from the weary, unapologetic candor he displays about his sexual orientation to his skills as a lecturer. In fact, Fiorito is so good at communicating Turing’s Wittgenstein-inspired logic that there are moments during the play when we feel as if we too might understand the secrets of the universe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hugh Whitemore’s 1986 play, which originally starred Derek Jacobi, opens in 1952 with Turing reporting a burglary to a skeptical detective named Mick Ross (Michael Champlin). At this point in Turing’s life, Turing’s most productive years are behind him, but he doesn’t know that yet. Perhaps he believes that if he could beat the Nazi’s Enigma machine he can manage a local cop, but Turing is an unskilled liar. Ross can spot a flimsy story a mile away, and plays the great man like a fool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cut to 1929. Turing has brought a friend, Christopher Morcom (Blaze Mancillas) home from Sherbourne, where they are attending school together. “Alan has talked so much about you,” gushes Turing’s mother, Sara (Sondra Putnam), without realizing the implications of her innocent statement. This is where it all began, we think. His mother’s blind eye to his devotion to young men has left Turing woefully unprepared for encounters with the Mick Rosses of the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
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"title": "Latino USA",
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"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
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"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
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"source": "American Public Media"
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"masters-of-scale": {
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"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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