THE DEATH OF AYN RAND and A BED OF MY OWN RICHARD III RABBIT HOLE AT THE SAN JOSE REP
THE DEATH OF AYN RAND and A BED OF MY OWN
Reviewed by Jeffrey R Smith of the San Francisco Bay Area Theatre Critics Circle
The Virago Theatre Company is presently performing two delightfully twisted comedies: THE DEATH OF AYN RAND and A BED OF MY OWN. This pair of plays might not be very daring for the haute noir and gritty leather crowd of the Exit Theater on Eddy Street in San Francisco, but for gilded gentry of the newly opened Rhythmix Cultural Works of Blanding Avenue in a staid Brigadoon like Alameda, these plays occupy the outer fringe of acceptability and taunt our prim sense of moral hypocrisy.
The first of this double header: THE DEATH OF AYN RAND, is a spoof on the driven genius of the late Russian Émigré: MS Ayn Rand. The play speculates on how novelist MS Rand might have written an NC-17 sex scene between Hank Reardon and Dagney Taggart: her lead characters from ATLAS SHRUGGED. Rather than write the scene to survive the censors' splicing shears, MS Rand concentrates on forcing erotic love to philosophically conform with the spirit of the book's overarching theme: Objectivism.
Although the setting for the play is the present and Any Rand died in 1982, there appears to be no contradiction: playwright John Byrd seems to be borrowing from the Dylan Thomas theme: "And death shall have no dominion." Really driven people, like the tireless Any Rand, Julia Morgan or Anna Nicole Smith, go on working, in a figurative sense at least, long after they have caught the night train to the Bardo plane or hopped the Styx River Ferry to beyond Rossmoor. Working beyond the grave is an interesting undercurrent for this particular play given that playwright John Byrd died, soon after writing it, from a helium overdose. (Yes children, if you are reading this, be warned: inhaling the gas from party balloons may make your voice sound high-pitched and eery but it may also preclude you from ever exiting the puberty tunnel or experiencing the dubious pleasures of the over 30 crowd.) John Byrd's work continues to unfurl, post mortem, on the stages of daring experimental theaters like this one at Rhythmix Cultural Works.
The second feature: A BED OF MY OWN is absolutely a riot. Playwright Robert Hamm has a rare gift for lampooning the sordid world and turning the kitsch low life of psycho-shut-ins into dark comedy. A BED OF MY OWN provides some much needed respite from the sappy sentimentality, misplaced sensitivity and the overweening, suffocating, stultifying brain harness of political correctness. Take for example the lead character: Rosie: Child Protective Services have rightfully out-sourced her children to her sister; Rosie runs on nicotine, alcohol, sexually released endorphins, and possibly some therapeutic methamphetamine; appropriately, Rosie lives life in her convenient ditch-and-don bathrobe. Rosie's neurons are totally fried and she so destitute that she has slumped down to serving cooking sherry to her guests. Those of us who occupy the cultural high ground may occasionally steam the label off a bottle of two-buck Chuck and replace it with one we've rescued from our neighbor's recycling bin, but at least we have not hit rock bottom by serving cooking sherry in plastic wine glasses. See, how cultural relativism works?
Life for Rosie has been reduced down to its simplest components: survival, cigarettes and sex. While at first glance it would seem that Rosie is everyman's dream, she does have an nervous edge and a downside: like many women who handcuff their men to the bed, Rosie has abandonment and anger management issues. For peace of mind, Rosie imprisons her men. No one is judging Rosie for her temper; furthermore imprisonment does not always have to be a bad thing. Rosie merely incarcerates her men psychologically so that they are afraid to crawl off her fetid, sheet-less, mottled mattress. To a man who has not reached his full potential in life, this restricted range of movement would be counted as a liability; but to men like her lap dog lovers, Stan and Reager, confinement to Rosie's stained mattress is an expanded horizon. So what if one of Rosie's cigarette butts ends up in your mushy, pasty white rice: eat around it and don't complain unless you want to detonate the hair-triggered Rosie.
So, take a walk on the wild side: check out the Virago website at www.ViragoTheatre.org or call the box office at 510-865-6237. Hurry before you miss Rosie: the show closes July 7, 2007.
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RICHARD III
Reviewed by Jeffrey R Smith of the San Francisco Bay Area Theatre Critics Circle
Who would'a thunk it possible: a RICHARD III that is a likeable chap.
Thanks to the California Shakespeare Theater of Orinda, we now have villainy dressed up as amicability, but without the Texas drawl.
Oh sure Richard is slightly hunched; he will never be remotely ambidextrous; his steps are a trifle crabbed; and yes it's true that he did thin out the ranks of the British Royal Family and the other pretenders to the throne, but the little twisted gent did it all with a classy Byzantine style.
Then too, Royalty are just little like nasal hairs, you pluck one out and two more pop out to take its place.
Plus royalty are self-indulgent snobs who sneer, like over-paid bureaucrats, at the very constituents who support them with extorted tax money.
And let's not even get in to the Divine Right brand of royalty who convinced us, for nearly two millennia, that God sat squarely on their side.
Then too, if you ever sat panting like a spaniel in August, stomach knotted, compressed shoulder to shoulder with lowbrow ne'er-do-well relatives, waiting to hear the family will get read, then you already know that family members are just greedy people who already share your DNA and are craving to share your inheritance too.
When it comes to windfall manna dropping like over-ripe mangos from the family tree, count on your beetling jawed relatives to be waiting like mud-caked razor backs at the swill trough: all too eager to stick their snouts into your rightful share of inherited wealth.
Imagine then poor Richard III, he wasn't just competing for a few sentimental family heirlooms like railroad watches, silver tea sets and antique bilateral trusses: it was the British Crown: England, Scotland, Wales and of course the ever truculent Northern Ireland.
Richard came along before the heady days of the British Empire, so he did not get to ride roughshod over two thirds of the undeveloped world, but he did get to live in nice castles equipped with roaring fireplaces in the winter; he could chow down on unlimited supplies of beef, mutton, lamb, venison; and wash it all down with buckets of British Ale topped with Beefeater shooters.
With such high stakes, is it any wonder that Richard III was forced to commit a little fratricide in order to divert the line of succession of the British Crown so that it would topple nicely onto his ready brow?
While it is true that few of us would actually kill our own brother to inherit the family fortune, most of our reluctance may be based on the paltry value of the estate: not our moral repugnance to tactical familial homicide.
Few of us would "off" a brother, or even a sister, just to gain title to a tiny cottage on a small lake crowded with bass fishermen and jet skiers, but what about a ritzy alpine chateau in Vail, Gstaad, Saint Moritz or the Catskills?
If you have you ever taken a hacksaw to a brake line, punctured a fuel tank in an inboard boat, or reversed the control cables on the family airplane, then you can sympathize with Richard III.
To be serious for a moment, consider that Shakespeare drew his allegations against RICHARD III, from the writings of two twisted propaganda artists: Edward Hall and Raphael Holinshed.
Hall and Holinshed were both spin-doctors for hire: they wrote contrived pseudo-history in the service of Henry VIII.
Henry VIII needed to rewrite history in order to legitimize his crown and his father's murder of Richard III at Bosworth Field in August of 1485: the final battle in the War of the Roses.
Hall and Holinshed made Henry VII look better by making Richard III look worse.
But actually history aside, Reg Rogers is the real alchemy behind this delightful show.
Reg spins malfeasance into charm.
If President Bush could generate the charisma that Reg radiates on stage, then Bush's approval ratings would rocket up to double-digits.
Having witnessed numerous performances of RICHARD III, this reviewer has to confess that none is more enjoyable that what Mark Rucker is currently directing at Cal Shakes.
For a bit of friendly fratricide and fractured history get thee to Bruns Memorial Amphitheater in Orinda.
To reserve tickets, check out the website at www.calshakes.org or call 510-548-9666.
U.S. Naval Aviator and Lieutenant Commander Retired
Math Teacher at Encinal High School A.U.S.D.
San Francisco Bay Area Theatre Critics Circle
Sidewalk Politician and Arm Chair Liberal
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RABBIT HOLE
Reviewed by Jeffrey R Smith of the San Francisco Bay Area Theatre Critics Circle
The San Jose Rep is currently performing Pulitzer nominated RABBIT HOLE by Pulitzer prize winning playwright David Lindsay-Abaire.
The theme is reminiscent of Tolstoy's opening line in ANNA KARENIN: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
Becca and Howie are rightfully unhappy: the family dog chased a squirrel into the street, their son chased the family dog into the street; a teenage driving, perhaps driving too fast, dodged the dog only to fatally strike the child.
While the Becca and Howie share the same loss, agony and grief, they both cope and grieve in separate ways.
The isolation of grieving translates into isolation from each other.
Off the stage, when a family suffers such a loss, the statistics for domestic continuity are bleak: nearly three out of four marriages will not survive the loss of a child.
RABBIT HOLE is a story of such loss, yet it is buoyed by tenuous hope and humor.
Becca and Howie individually grope through the darkest, bone grinding stages of grief to partially emerge: intact as a couple.
While some may see the play as a bittersweet comedy, the character Becca seems to tip the scales too much in favor of bitter.
Given the real problems of the world one might ask: why voluntarily experience via an evening's entertainment, the contrived, scripted pathos of this uneasy drama?
Unless you are desperately struggling to understand the grieving process, this might be a play to sidestep until after George W exits the White House, the troops redeploy from Afghanistan and Iraq, and the ice quits melting in Greenland.
None-the-less, the script is airtight, the set design is noteworthy and the acting is superb.
So, if you are too bilious or have too much levity in your life and want to take a walk on the dark side, this might be the play for you.
For tickets call the San Jose Rep box office at 408-367-7255.
U.S. Naval Aviator and Lieutenant Commander Retired
Sidewalk Politician and Arm Chair Liberal
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