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Friday, March 25, 2005
‘Voice of the Prairie’ at Theatre Gael
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW: “The Voice of the Prairie.” Through April 10. The verdict: Stories and slapstick from the cornball roots of radio.
For Leon Schwab, a harried radio announcer who cons listeners into sending donations to a fictitious charity case named Miss Emily, “the magic of the ether” isn’t looking too promising.
That is, until he strikes gold by employing David Quinn, an authentic Irish storyteller who conquers the airwaves with the ribald tales of his adventures with a blind girl named Frankie.
This is the essential premise of “The Voice of the Prairie,” John Olive’s craftily corny celebration of radio’s roots, which Theatre Gael is staging with a cast of three led by its uproarious artistic director, John Stephens.
Set in the Midwest in the early 1920s, “Voice” charts the humble days when radio was an audio-almanac of hog prices, fashion tips, folk music and serial dramas that made life among the amber waves of Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska, etc., a bit more tolerable.
Smartly directed by Chad Yarborough and dominated by an enormous wooden radio designed by Stephens, the show shifts between 1895 (when David and his Poppy landed on these shores and 1923, when Schwab’s dubious scheme begins to pay off.
In a reversal that takes a little getting used to, Gabriel Dean plays both Poppy and the adult David, while Stephens portrays the young David, Schwab and an asthmatic preacher in love with the adult Frankie. Caroline Masclet inhabits the skin of feral child Frankie, who seduces David and runs away from her father, and the older Francis, who matures into a prim, Helen Keller-like schoolteacher.
Actually, all three performers are required to change costumes and personalities inside the large radio that doubles as a dressing room.
Dean’s Poppy, smoking a pipe and wearing a chimneylike hat, is a bit too quaint at first. But his David proves to be an effectively mellow foil to Schwab’s fast-talking Svengali. As the hayseed Frankie, whose intuition is such that she actually “sees” better than the orphaned David, Masclet is first-rate.
Stephens, who is too seldom seen onstage, is loud and nasal, fearless and foolhardy in his depiction of Schwab, a hopelessly flustered stooge who speaks in the old “you dirty rat” style of vaudeville. Because of the frequent visits to the radio-wardrobe, Stephens’ bow tie is constantly cattywampus; and by the end of the night, his unruly shirt collar has almost morphed into a separate character. None of this looks intentional, but it’s hilarious and all of a piece with Schwab’s general state of disarray.
Kicky as Irish coffee, this cleverly written screwball comedy is laced with adrenaline-draining physicality and suspenseful twists and turns. Will Schwab’s scandal be discovered by the Federal Communications Commission? Will David and Frankie be united, much to the glee of their fervent fans? Tune in to “The Voice of the Prairie” to find out.
THE 411: 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays; 5 p.m. Sundays. Through April 10. $16-$22. 14th Street Playhouse, 173 14th St. N.E., Atlanta. 404-733-4754, www.theatregael.com.
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Express takes on ‘Oppenheimer’
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW: “The Love Song of J. Robert Oppenheimer.” Through May 7. The verdict: A tragedy for all humanity.
In detailing the tormented psyche of the man who created the atomic bomb, Carson Kreitzer’s “The Love Song of J. Robert Oppenheimer” is a brilliant colossus. As such, it is certain to be a staggering bore for many.
So take a thermos of espresso to Actor’s Express and a willingness to reflect upon the dazzling tedium. Strongly acted and seamlessly directed by Jasson Minadakis, this ambitious, poetic, bone-chilling piece of theater demands a great deal from its audience.
That’s the price you pay for Art sometimes.
“Oppenheimer” is a rambling intellectual exercise that imagines a conversation between Oppenheimer (astutely played by John Ammerman) and Lilith (Tess Malis Kincaid), the woman who, according to Judaic folklore, was ejected from the Garden of Eden for refusing to submit to Adam. It’s an ambitious piece of work that dares to riff on T.S. Eliot’s “Prufrock.”
You know what they say about a woman scorned?
As portrayed by the strutting, hissing Kincaid, Lilith is not a well queen of the damned. Smudged all over with mud, she vamps it up in a catsuit on a runway that surrounds the entire room —- so that she’s literally always there to remind Oppenheimer that he’s responsible for the massacre of thousands of Japanese.
When the government ostracizes Oppenheimer for his Communist sympathies, when he’s dying from throat cancer, when he’s all alone with the horror of creating the ultimate instrument of death, when he cheats on his wife and his beautiful lover commits suicide, Lilith purrs to him that this —- this, Oppy —- is what it’s like to be banished to hell.
For all its plodding, what the play does so well is condemn Oppenheimer and make him a sympathetic character. He’s fallen. But, unlike Lilith, he’s human. He was ashamed of his Jewishness, married to a Communist and recruited by the government to take Hitler down. But even after the Nazis were crushed, the killing continued in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The tragedy of Oppenheimer is that he behaved badly, under great pressure, without considering the consequences.
In portraying the United States as a bully that lies to its people, commits mass murder and refuses to take responsibility for its atrocities, the 2003 play feels very much of our time. We can feel the pain of Europe, but we can’t quite fathom the horror of Japan or Iraq because it’s so “over there.” If it’s so over there, then why are we so afraid? Revenge is not higher ground.
Kreitzer is a writer with something remarkable to say. She just hasn’t quite figured out how to make such complex political material as entertaining and funny as, say, Tony Kushner. Nor has Minadakis done much to leaven the gloom.
So thank goodness for the delicious humor of Kathleen Wattis, who turns Kitty Oppenheimer into a martini-swilling figure of fashion, fun and bite. And for the silly coup de theatre involving J. Edgar Hoover (Theo Harness) and a dance of the seven veils. And the veddy British fellow (Joe Sykes) who offers toffees as he tries to obfuscate the spy scandal that may have leaked nuclear secrets to the Soviets. “So sorry,” he says glibly.
Set designer Kat Conley, costume artist English Toole and lighting/sound director Joseph P. Monaghan III have sculpted a visual and aural world that is elemental and reflective.
The bombs you hear in this production echo like the noisy gongs of Armageddon. What Oppenheimer unleashed at Los Alamos will have repercussions for all time.
THE 411: 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays. Also: 2 p.m. April 3 and 24; 5 p.m. April 10, 17 and May 1. Through May 7. $21.50-$26.75. Actor’s Express, King Plow Arts Center, 887 W. Marietta St., Atlanta. 404-607-7469, www.actors-express.com.
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‘Enchanted April’ in Duluth
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
ThEATER REVIEW: “Enchanted April.” Through April 10. The verdict: As welcome as spring.
Susan Reid may be the city’s best go-to director for turning a seemingly lightweight story into a meaningful and memorable theatrical experience. She did it with Theatre in the Square’s “Tuesdays With Morrie” last year. Now she’s at it again with Aurora Theatre’s “Enchanted April.”
Based on the 1922 novel by Elizabeth von Arnim and made into a 1992 film starring the magnificent Joan Plowright as the curmudgeonly Mrs. Graves, “Enchanted April” is a well-trod title. So why bother to do the Matthew Barber play that finally made it to Broadway two years ago?
I’ll tell you why.
Because Joanna Daniel’s imperious Mrs. Graves is every bit as funny as Plowright’s. Because Lauren Gunderson and Kate Donadio are among the city’s best and prettiest young actresses. (The former is also a playwright to watch.) And because this tale of two bored, put-upon British housewives who retire to a castle with a pair of eccentric companions is as delightful as the perfume of wisteria under the Tuscan sun.
Lotty Wilton (Gunderson), a veritable hummingbird of chatty energy, notices an ad for an Italian villa for let and persuades new friend and gentle spirit Rose Arnott (Lee Nowell, looking as lovely as an English rose) to join her in renting the place. As soon as we meet Lotty’s priggish and preening husband, Mellersh (the always terrific Chris Ensweiller), we understand why she dreams of escaping. Later, we discover the painful secret that shadows Rose.
Into the rental arrangement floats the ethereal Lady Caroline Bramble (Donadio). A self-described “modern,” this bohemian has perfect posture, takes cognac toddies in the morning and seems to exist in a state of perpetual languor. What exactly is under her tragic veneer?
I’m not sure if it’s a plus or a minus that this production so resembles the film —- from the dialogue and comedic situations down to Lady Caroline’s slick bob and Mrs. Graves’ diction. However, I shan’t complain.
In hats and skirts that render her as stiff as Queen Mary, Mrs. Graves shells and munches nuts with gusto and brags about her friendship with Tennyson and Browning. When loopy Lotty asks her if she knew Keats, this antique woman reports that she did not, then sputters, “I was also unacquainted with Shakespeare!” It’s particularly fun to watch her introduction to the discombobulated Mellersh, who makes his entrance wearing just a towel.
And yet, by the end of the night, the old bag has become enchanted with castle owner Anthony Wilding (Nick Rhoton) and is magically transformed from crone to cupid. (Maybe it’s Wilding’s Byronic locks that captivate her.)
How charming of Aurora to bring us this frothy British trifle about the curative effects of travel, nature and rekindled romance. “Enchanted April” is as catching as spring fever.
THE 411: 8 p.m. Thursdays-Fridays; 2:30 and 8 p.m. Saturdays; 2:30 p.m. Sundays (no show this Sunday). Through April 10. $22-$25. Aurora Theatre, 3087-B Main St., Duluth. 770-476-7926, www.auroratheatre.com.
