Relationships are hard. Even harder when they’re with a prostitute. Add a soldier to the mix who suddenly discovers that he’s gay and it seems that relationships are damn near impossible. Such is one of the many premises running rampant through Joe DiPietro’s play F*cking Men.

In the heart of West Hollywood at the Celebration theatre known for its gay, lesbian, and transgender productions, men roam wild and free on the stage. Focused around 10 gay men living in urban America (even though the play was originally for the British stage) F*cking Men brings to light issues we all face in our relationships, whether, gay, straight or completely asexual. Is monogamy natural? Is it necessary? Is promiscuity the answer?

Written for the Stages of London, Joe DiPietro brings together men from all different backgrounds: a soldier, a prostitute, a grad student, a college kid, a high school teacher, a banker, a porn star, a playwright, a movie star, and a talk show host. While many may find the graphic dialogue, sexual depictions and naked men who float in and out of the scenes hard to stomach, the way in which it is presented is so well done that it seems almost natural to see so many penises on the stage.

»continue reading Stage Review: F*cking Men

When you go to watch a performance at the Getty Villa, you don’t expect to see a mountain of garbage in the center of the stage, nor have the play opened by a man dressed in a mariachi costume with a giant foam Dodgers finger on one hand. Performances of Greek comedies are not usually filled with scatological humor or rapid-fire sexual innuendos that would make even the Bard blush. However, this is exactly the kind of experience the theater group Culture Clash wants you to have. You can see a traditional interpretation of Aristophanes’ play another time, so for now sit back and listen to some fart jokes.

The play’s title is Peace, but it might as well be Shit, Weed, and Peace, because that more accurately describes the major themes of the play in order of emphasis and importance. The story follows Ty Dye (John Fleck), a crazed pot farmer who, having grown sick of the constant wars plaguing the world, decides to travel to the top of Mount Olympus in search of the goddess Peace. Riding on the back of a gigantic dung beetle, Ty Dye reaches the heavens only to hear from the very flamboyant god, Hermes (or rather, Hermés), that Peace has been captured and is being kept away from humanity in a cave by Mars, the god of War. Enter Mars, looking not unlike an oversized Marvin the Martian wearing an Army officer’s uniform emblazoned with a swastika and sheriff’s badge. Now Ty Dye must free Peace from War’s evil clutches with the help of some Guatemalan gardeners (writers Montoya, Salinas, and Siguenza), a feisty Malibu housewife-cum-Greek chorus leader (Amy Hill), and a trio of Mariachi ladies (Las Colibrí).

»continue reading Stage Review: Aristophanes’ Peace

Economic strife. Women having children they can’t support. What could be funnier? I mean, really, a woman having eight kids when she already has more than she can handle while “Bernie Made-off” screws over some of the wealthiest people in the country is just too darn comical, right? Add some music and you’ve got yourself an uproarious production by Chris Voltaire: Octomom! The Musical. Even the title is titillating.

»continue reading Stage Review: Octomom! The Musical

Holy sweetastic pants a’fancy. So many Dons this week. Friday! Will it be Don Giovanni at the LA Opera or Don Caballero in Long Beach? One’s an opera featuring a gigolo in fancy pants (see right); one’s a prog-rock outfit featuring odd time signatures, loops and sweaty fans. Don the appropriate attire, take the date to Don Antonio’s out west on Pico and choose the Don of your liking for the main event. Can’t decide which Don you should see? Flip a 1994 series $20 mexican peso in the air. Heads – Miguel Hidalgo, let’s pretend he’s Don somebody just for tonight – you go see Don Giovanni, what do you care.

I’m staring at my HDTV. He looks sexier than I do, but I know better: He’s had work done and one of his component inputs is fried (Y,Pr,Pb? I think it’s Pb. Also, who cares.)

Still and all, he is my television at the end of the day. He’s going to interview me now, briefly. Stay with me.

WH#########T Hello Who’s There.

Yes. Hello Television.

What is this dreck. Why are you recommending The LA Opera’s production of Don Giovanni to the reader? Are you even going to go see it?

I’m all about the music theatre. Not the lavish Andrew Lloyd Webber productions mind you, can’t stomach that bullshit. Pull my fucking hair out. But if something contains music I’d enjoy, I’d see it in a heartbeat. I bought tickets to Porgy and Bess at Dorothy Chandler this year and actually didn’t get the chance to see it. Found out I was going to be out of town so I offered the tickets to a friend. Look at this shit, here’s my order right here. They sold me $20 tix, they were running some promotion. My seats look unbelieveably shitty:
»continue reading In Which Ryan Waxes Dons Giovanni, Caballero, Music Theatre, Other Topicks To His Television

To begin, a small rant:

For the love of the ever living g*d, why the fuck does every damn theater in Los Angeles County insist on calling its space a theatRE?! We’re not in the UK! We don’t use cheques, the last letter of the alphabet is pronounced “zee” not “zed,” and cricket is a cousin of the locust, not a game.

I mean, really.

A can of pickled herring from the private stock of Dan the LA City Bureaucrat to the best answer to this question. Post your answer in the comments section. And no whining. My decision is final, dammit. It’s my smelly fish, and I’ll give it to whom I please.

I grew up in a part of San Diego called Rancho Penasquitos, which is Spanish for “Rancho Penasquitos.” The main shopping area, which came complete with a Jack In the Box AND a El Pollo Loco, was known as the Penasquitos Towne Centre. This irritated me, and not only due to the dearth of dining options, but because a friggin’ strip mall does not bring to mind Jolly ‘Ole England. It calls to mind Jolly ‘Ole Topeka, hardly the place I want swimming to mind when thinking upon the halcyon days of my youth.

But, anyhow…
»continue reading Theater Review: Betrayal

I was given the task of seeing The Joffrey Ballet through modern eyes. And I’m not going to lie, I intended to bag on it no matter how good it was, because I don’t usually go in for ballet.

But some IDIOT at the LA Times did that for me.

So let me come to Joffrey’s defense.

“Les Presages” was their first act, and to be honest, typical of a ballet about society and villainy and all that. Nice costumes and dancing, but for my money, they could have been ice skating — I wasn’t too interested. I was, however, interested in John Gluckman, a very limber and theatrical talent who played Aquaman’s Evil Brother. (I don’t know who he was supposed to be.) He ate up the floor with unpredictable karate kicking elegance and expert timing. And my girlfriend said he had a nice body.
»continue reading Joffrey Ballet, 3/22-24/07, Music Center

The play had started twenty minutes prior, and I had a weird feeling of unease. The house, stuffy from the stage fog, clouded my mind, and put the explanation just out of reach.

But then, as I watched a dramatic representation of the dying thoughts of a freshly beheaded obscure 19th Century Chinese woman, I figured it out: I just didn’t get it.

Sure, I get that Severance is made of vignettes, 30 mini-dramas of people (and one chicken) who suffer the misfortunate of leaving this earth in multiple pieces. I get that the play is supposed to be abstract, over-the-top and unsettling. And I even get that each piece is supposed to be 90 seconds long, the length of time the writer and director (Robert Olen Butler and David Jette, respectively) believe a decapitated head remains conscious.
»continue reading Theater Review: Severance

The Elephant Theatre sits on the eastern edge of Theater Row, an area bordered by the pompous beauty of West Hollywood and the unreconstructed grit of Hollywood proper. It’s a nasty, dirty part of town, one that gives that peculiar feel of guilt, horror and a strong desire for another $12 cocktail at a too-hip-to-have-a-name bar.

And it’s perfect.

“In Arabia We’d All Be Kings” is set in Hell’s Kitchen, a part of Manhattan noted for its honesty in advertising. Or, so it used to be. During the late 1990s, the ‘Kitchen closed, slowly morphing into hipster land, sporting high-end restaurants and no-name bars similar to the ones three blocks north of the Elephant.

The play itself takes place in a bar, and the characters themselves are like moving pieces of the beautifully designed set. They serve as archetypes of the neighborhood that was: the parolee, the whore, the druggie, the old drunk, a sycophantic bartender, opportunistic investors and a teenager with a hair-trigger.

The plot is loose, roughly revolving an imminent sale of the bar and its affect on the characters. Though clearly about gentrification, the play raises questions it does not intend to answer. Does the closing of the bar makes the characters lives better or worse? Is Hell’s Kitchen worth saving?

The plot, such that it is, clearly takes a back seat to the portraits of the characters, presented as a series of well-told vignettes. This is where the play shines. The acting and directing are fluid, the characters vibrant and real. During one particularly poignant part of the play, a woman behind me broke out into loud sobs. I had a lump in my throat myself.

In Arabia We’d All Be Kings
Elephant Theatre
6322 Santa Monica Blvd.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday 8 p.m., through March 17
Tickets and information

Jesus. I’m lost.

Where the hell is the Brentwood Theatre? (And where do they get off with the snotty British spelling of “theater” anyhow?) Allegedly at the corner of Wilshire and San Vincente, the theater is more accurately at the corner of Random Building and Raised Parking Lot in the far west corner of the Westside VA complex.
»continue reading Sister Sister Sister

Sam Shepard, a product of the Yale School of Drama and Pulitzer Prize winning playwright, is one weird mother. Often, you are hard pressed to figure out whether his statements are as odd or otherwise anachronistic as they appear — or just merely ironic. The play is a tough one, dealing with the dark side of fame, the inescapability of fate, the heredity of madness. Do you need to kill yourself to live? Could you stop yourself?

(Sam Shepard, interestingly enough, shares a similar name with Dr. Sam Sheppard, the doctor accused of bludgeoning his pregnant wife to death. That is, the plot line behind “The Fugitive.” Dr. Sheppard died in 1970, while the playwright Shepard still draws oxygen.)
»continue reading Flock to Shepard