The Ovations!

I just had the interesting experience of watching the live Webcast of the 2011 Ovations Awards, which are the Big Boy of LA’s theater awards season. And, do you know, it was an absolute pleasure to be able to sit down in front of my computer with a nice iced tea, holding my beautiful torty cat Catullus, and watch the ceremony without having to ransack all the city’s thrift shops for just the perfect purple smoking jacket, take 10 buses to Thousand Oaks, and then attempt to hobnob with dozens of theater people who, if you know them, you’ve given them bad reviews and they’d sooner see you with your head in a cement brick. No, really much much, nicer to hang at home, in my bathrobe, and watch the live feed, quipping suitably snarky bon mots into the live feed chat room.

I won’t lie: The technology wasn’t absolutely where it wanted to be yet. The live feed fizzled at several points, the show lost sound now and again, and the camera occasionally shook as though someone was kicking it. And, of course, the show was frequently interrupted by a commercial for that new sitcom starring Betty White, which was particularly irritating as it happened during both of Sally Struthers’ acceptance speeches. However, the promise of the technology is simply marvelous to contemplate – and whatever minor mistakes marginally undercut the broadcast were more than compensated for by the fact that we were still basically able to watch the feed from wherever we were. LA Theater Folks were logging in from all over the globe – in the chat room, folks were showing up from New York, Washington DC, Madrid. It was nothing short of heartwarming.

That said, one can’t say too much about the content of the show. I frankly had never actually seen or been to the Ovations before. It’s weird, but I had always heard that they were the “ne plus ultra” of the awards season. And, yet, the entire spectacle was strangely disappointing. I was expecting really lavish musical numbers and appearances by all the stars who the folks who run the LAWWies and the LADCC awards would kill to get. But instead the show consisted merely of a sort of dull curtain, lit by a gobo containing the images of what appeared to be a set of glowing donuts. And then it was just a rat-a-tat of presenters, award winners, and mostly standard speeches. I question the point of giving out just a cookie cutter list of awards, and listing them in categories of “little,””big,” and “huge.” It just seemed, well, unfocused is the word that occurs to me. It was well intentioned, but I was still quite stunned to discover that the creaky, dysfunctional ceremonies in which I myself have participated actually are more theatrical. However, I do hope that all these awards show continue to do these webcasts. It would be quite an event, for instance, to watch the LA Weekly Awards on the web!

Diva on the Verge at the Odyssey Theatre.

In her compelling one-woman show, soprano Julia Migenes, who has sung more leading roles at more opera houses than you've had hot dinners, offers a solo show that is a true-life analog of Terrence McNally's play Master Class. However, Migenes is the real thing -- a bona fide, card-carrying prima donna of the larger-than-life school -- and the story of her life in art is both lighthearted and unpretentious, simultaneously celebrating opera and sending it up. For all her operatic pedigree, which includes the renowned 1984 film version of Carmen with Placido Domingo, Migenes cleverly positions herself here as an "anti-opera" opera star, with a narrative patter (credited to her and Bruce Vilanch) that spoofs various operatic traditions, while still dazzling us with renditions of the arias themselves. Thus, Migenes dons a goofy white shroud to comically satirize the over-the-top libretto of the madness scene from Lucia di Lammermoor at the same time her gorgeous coloratura rendering of the song is perfect. She jokes about the ridiculous death scenes from La Traviata and Tristan and Isolde, even as her voice hauntingly conveys the genuine feeling of the music's heightened realism. Credited to director Travis Preston, the show first played here 10 years ago; since then, the piece has evolved into a lighter, breezier work that emphasizes folksy general opera stories over Migenes' actual biography, which would frankly be welcome. When she's telling her story, Migenes exudes a sultry sophistication and a dry wit; when she sings (accompanied by Victoria Kirsch's excellently evocative piano playing), she's every bit the diva she purports to be, making this a unique and captivating experience. Odyssey Theatre, 2055 S. Sepulveda Blvd., W.L.A.; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m., Sun., 7 p.m. (no perfs Dec. 24-25, Dec. 31, Jan. 6), through Jan. 9. (310) 477-2055. (Paul Birchall)

Remembering John Lennon.

Today, if you go into just about any coffeehouse throughout the land, the usual mélange of Christmas songs such as “Little Drummer Boy” and “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” have been gratefully, if temporarily replaced by songs celebrating the life and times of the central Beatle, John Lennon, who was assassinated 30 years ago today. For that alone, I suppose, one must be thankful to Lennon, even if the Beatles music provides but a temporary respite from the a-tonal warbling of “I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus (Underneath the Mistletoe Last Night).”

Of course I never knew John Lennon. How could I have? But quite briefly my mother and I sublet one of the apartments in the glamorous Art Deco buildings directly across from The Dakota on 72nd Street and Central Park West. Quite a lovely neighborhood! This was back in the late 70s, when the neighborhood was full of leafy canopies and crazy old women wearing frilly hats walking their little poodles. Hard boiled doormen in huge longcoats would nod and smile at you as you would walk down the street, heading for the entrance to Central Park, which, in the memory of my childhood mind, was leafy and green and full of golden light. This would have been right around when Lennon and Ono were living quietly in the Dakota across the street from us. No, we never saw him: These were big Central Park West apartment buildings and each one was like its own outer space colony. But for that brief summer and fall, we had the same view, on a high floor, overlooking the sprawling green of Central Park and the elegant grey sidewalks of Central Park West.

On the night John Lennon was shot by the maniacal John David Chapman, I was living in Santa Monica and in my first year at Santa Monica High School. What was that – 1979? 1980? 1980, yes. Anyway, I was watching some idiotic TV show, I recall, when the TV reporter broke in suddenly, to announce the news that John Lennon had been shot outside the Dakota. Well, at the time, I noticed that my mother had quite a strong reaction – she was a child of the sixties and all, though, and he was quite the iconic figure to someone growing up in the Ground Zero of the Greenwich Village beat movement. For me, I just wondered precisely why they were interrupting TV shows to announce the death of someone who was a celebrity, not a political figure like the President. I mean, Lennon was a good Beatle, of course, but did he warrant such an interruption of my episode of “One Day at a Time?”

However, the next morning, I grabbed my little blue packpack and threw it raffishly over one shoulder, like all the trendy kids were doing with their backpacks that year to be cool, and headed off to school. Overnight, an upset student had clearly broken into the school grounds with a can of spray paint. Yet, clearly a West Coast breed of anarchist, he had vandalized the science and humanities buildings with lyrics from John Lennon songs. “Give Peace a Chance!” the vandal had sprayed on one Wall. “All You Need is Love,” he had written on another. “You might say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one,” and “Imagine – John Lennon, 1980” all were scrawled all over the gym outer walls.

I recall thinking that, my goodness, someone was so powerfully moved by the news of the death of John Lennon that they literally felt they had no alternative but to storm the Samohi campus and declare their despair and grief in the only way they knew how. I remember realizing that if I did not think this cultural moment was not significant, well, that was my problem, not the world’s. And now I have lived long enough to realize that, even at 16 or 15 or however old I was, that was a Zeitgeist Moment.

David: The Musical

When reviewing the premiere of a new musical, one must be ever cognizant of the amount of work that has gone into its creation. Fully scored, booked and staged musicals take an almost astonishing amount of effort and audacity to execute -- and this can be all the more upsetting when the outcome is as misbegotten as is this near-incoherent adaptation of the story of the Old Testament's King David, his seduction of the beautiful Bathsheba, and his despair over his wayward sons Absalom and Amnon. Or, at least, that appears to be what the musical is about: Director Adam T. Rosencrance's production is in modern dress, which is not necessarily an unimaginative idea, but the presentation of the story is utterly without context -- the Biblical incidents are merely strung together with little dramatic development, psychological subtext or convincing emotion. One moment, Dane Bowman's oddly wooden David is crowned king, the next he's seducing Sara Collins' almost comically Valley girl-like Bathsheba. Other performers take on multiple roles -- but the character changes are disjointed and without explanation, often accomplished merely by an actor donning a new jacket or shirt, and not changing his actual personality. Thus, we start to wonder why David's servant Caleb (Austin Grehan) is suddenly one of the assassins plotting his demise, or why David's son Amnon (J. D. Driskill shows up as a spear-carrying soldier in the Hittite army. The score, credited to Costanza, Tim Murner, Rich Lyle and Michelle Holmes, is a workmanlike mix of heavy-metal rock anthems and hard country ballads ably rendered by the rock band Pullman Standard, but the numbers are all lyric-driven, and the singing is miserably drowned out by the hyperamplified sound system. More dismaying than the lack of coherence, though, is the lack of Goliath, who is barely mentioned in the play and whose absence seems like a painfully missed dramatic opportunity -- like trying to tell the story of World War II without a Nazi. Some of the show's early production flaws may iron themselves out over the course of the run -- one of the main actors was still lugging his script about like a Torah throughout the entire performance, for example. Hayworth Theatre, 2511 Wilshire Blvd., L.A.; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m.; through October 17. brownpapertickets.com. (Paul Birchall)

I Laughed So Hard I Cried.

As you might expect from a comic who dubs himself "the Goth Comedian," Mark White tells jokes that edge toward the darker and more disturbed side of the spectrum. Yet, you need not be afraid that the Goth Jokester will come onstage, bite the head off a bat, and then tell that tired gag about the two peanuts walking down the street. Fortunately, it turns out that White is a first-rate comedian who just happens to have a goth persona. Some of White's material is amusing -- most particularly jokes about his unique childhood masturbation technique ("Assume the paratrooper position!") and his parents' sagging tattoos ("I have seen the future of tattoos, and they're not pretty!"). Even given White's costume trappings of ghoulish lipstick, mascara and a seersucker suit, the Goth Comedian's routine is fresh and unexpectedly touching. In spite of his attempts to portray himself as a freak, he ultimately comes across as a sweet, oddly vulnerable fellow whose makeup belies an unexpected romantic streak. Complex Theatre, 6476 Santa Monica Blvd., Hlywd. CLOSED. (Paul Birchall/L.A. Weekly)

That's Funny! You Didn't Sound Black On The Phone!

Performer Jacquetta Szathmari explains that for many years she had "given up on being black," not out of any internalized racism but because she had always disapproved of the narrow definition of behavior imposed on her by the outside community. In her cracklingly smart, funny, philosophical and often politically incorrect monologue, Szathmari describes growing up in an isolated, hardscrabble rural Maryland community, where she always dreamed of finding class and culture -- it's not that she didn't want to be black, she wanted to be upper class and live the life exemplified by a copy of The Official Preppy Handbook she purchased at a library bookstore. Thoughtful, introspective and sweetly intimate, Szathmari's solo show offers a great deal to ponder, as it presents a genuine, unapologetic nonconformist on her own journey of self-discovery. Various locations, hollywoodfringe.org/learn/content/268. (Paul Birchall/L.A. Weekly)

55 Minutes of Sex, Drugs, and Audience Participation.

Howard Lieberman and Loren Niemi's storytelling tour de force plants its tent pole deep in the territory of 1970s mythos, with the two men improvising earthy tales that are hilarious yet strangely melancholy. Some of the anecdotes undeniably hint at a nostalgia for a freer, hippie past -- of the four stories the two men unspooled, three described incidents involving sex-and-LSD drenched communes. Of the pair, Niemi, a craggy-faced, ponytail caparisoned character actor, tells more deeply introspective stories about drug use and an innocent romance, while Lieberman assays the persona of a neurotic Jewish intellectual as he describes his first (near) homosexual experience and his loss of virginity to a beautiful she-hippie. These two are fascinating performers who manage to whip up a theatrical experience from little more than their mouths and imaginations. ComedySportzLA, Ballroom Studio Theatre, 733 Seward St., Hlywd.; June 22-27, hollywoodfringe.org/project/view/54 (Paul Birchall/L.A. Weekly)