The Tale of the Name of the Tree, Talespinner Children’s Theatre

There can never be enough children’s theater. Because this is how we teach little ones the difference between birthday party balloon-twisting clowns and performers of another ilk.

That’s why everyone with rug rats in their home should celebrate the opening of Talespinner Chidren’s Theatre. Located in a spacious and comfy theater on Detroit Road, this venture under the artistic direction of multi-talented theater veteran Alison Garigan promises to provide both children and theater people new and challenging opportunities.

Their first production, The Tale of the Name of the Tree, is a Bantu tale adapted by local playwright Michael Sepesy. And while it’s not airtight in all respects, this inaugural offering has plenty to recommend it—for sippy-cup users as well as those who chauffeur the young lads and lasses to their various entertainments.

It seems that a number of different animals in the jungle are losing their food sources. And it is rumored that a lion has a huge fruit tree, but it will only release it’s goodies when someone can intone the mysterious name of the tree.

The five inventively-masked actors who play the animals are thoroughly engaged and continually try to connect with their young audience members. Ray Caspio is a wonderfully nervous ostrich and Elaine Feagler ambulates with purposeful intent and the adorable, slow moving turtle.

As the meerkat, Nathaniel Leeson with his mask on looks weirdly like David Spade, and he’s equally as funny. His whip-sharp head turns and lack of short-term memory create laughs for people of any age.

As the cheetah, Stephanie Wilbert works admirably hard but never quite lands on a feline personality that clearly resonates. And James (Jack) Hunt has some nice (okay) moments, but fails to make his elephant as accessible as he might.

Sepesy includes a number of subtle jokes for the adults in the audience, always a thoughtful touch. And he sneaks in some mildly political fodder. But the play spends a lot of time travelling through an imaginary jungle and could benefit from a clear and tangible villain (kids love villains!) who might add both humor and tension.   

By featuring some African-inspired music and dance, director Garrigan has fashioned an hour-long live theater experience that all your back seat riders will enjoy.

The Tale of the Name of the Tree

Through July 8 at Talespinner Children’s Theatre, The Reinberger Auditorium, 5209 Detroit Ave., 216-264-9680.

Damn Yankees, Porthouse Theatre

(MaryAnn Black as Lola and Michael Glavan as Joe Hardy)

A year after the 1954 Cleveland Indians were swept in the World Series by the Giants, no one would have described them as hapless. That’s why it was the Washington Senators who were dubbed to be the miserable team at the center of Damn Yankees.

If only the show creators—Richard Adler and Jerry Ross (words and music) and George Abbott and Douglas Wallop (book)—had known what lay in store for our “beloved featherheads:” 57 years and still counting in the search for a world championship.

But no, in this show now at the Porthouse Theatre, couch potato Joe Boyd makes a deal with the Devil to become a young stud ballplayer and help the Senators win.

And once again this classic show delivers the goods, thanks to the spot on direction of Terri Kent and some winning performances. This is much more a love story than a baseball yarn, and director Kent brings out the poignancy of the relationship between Joe and Meg, the wife he temporarily abandons while pursuing his dream.

Once Joe strikes a deal (with an escape clause) with fiendish Applegate, old Joe turns into ripped Joe Hardy, a baseball phenom. But conniving Applegate has a secret weapon, the 172-year-old yet eternally young vixen named Lola, who has seduced men down through the ages. Trouble is, she’s never come up against an average Joe from Hannibal, MO.

Marc Moritz and Michael Glavan play old Joe and young Joe, and their interactions with Mary Anne Prevost as Meg resonate through songs such as “A Man Doesn’t Know and “Near to You.”

The Satanic business is handled with aplomb by Eric van Baars as Applegate, making lit cigarettes appear in an instant and leering with devilish intent. Still, at this geriatric point in the show’s lifespan, Applegate is a juicy role that begs to be embellished even further.

Longtime Porthouse stalwart MaryAnn Black gives her all to Lola, dancing and strutting her charms in “Whatever Lola Wants.” She has the required mix of sensuousness and geeky charm that makes this role click. But one has to squint just a bit to believe Black is the ageless and nubile temptress indicated in the script.

The production is tied together with excellent dance numbers choreographed by John R. Crawford and a chorus of ballplayers (male and female) who are energetic and sharp in every scene. Particularly effective are Jack O’Brien as the mentally meandering Smokey and Rohn Thomas as Coach Van Buren, who leads them all in the anthem “(You Gotta Have) Heart."

While it may be another few decades before our (yes) hapless Indians win a World Series, shows like Damn Yankees at Porthouse make summer downright enjoyable.

Damn Yankees

Through June 30 at Porthouse Theatre, on the Blossom Usic Center campus, 1145 W. Steels Corners Road, Cuyahoga Falls, visit: dept.kent.edu/theatre/porthouse/index.html

Cats, Mercury Summer Stock

(Brian Marshall as Gus, the Theater Cat and Angela Bruzina as Jellylorum)

There is no more enduring punch line in all of theater than Cats. This Andrew Lloyd Webber musical has had more crap dumped on it in the last 30 years than a desert full of kitty litter.

Mocked for being unsophisticated, plot-less claptrap aimed at pre-teen girls, theater rubes and burnt-out Asian businessmen, one can tend to forget that the show has undeniable strong points. And although this production by Mercury Summer Stock is raw in parts and lacking in vocal depth, the staging is nicely detailed and at times even captivating.

Based on whimsical poems by T.S. Eliot in his book "Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats," the show links a series of feline profiles and a study of an intricate society made up of “jellicle” cats. Salted with British language and slang, it is a mostly sung-through and entirely danced-through show.

This, of course, requires performers who can sing and dance, and sing after dancing, and dance after dancing, and sing and dance after prowling around like cats on all fours. And then do it all again and again. No wonder cats always look so pissed off.

Anyhow, some of this large troupe are up to those tasks while others clearly aren't.

Also, since MSS is a small budget operation, the sheer spectacle that lifted the Broadway version of Cats to popular heights is absent. In addition, Mercury's threadbare five-piece orchestra can’t fill in the rather substantial auditory gaps.

That’s a big hunk of challenge to take on, which talented director/choreographer Pierre-Jacques Brault happily shoulders. And his cast is so well disciplined many of the scenes play remarkably well. This is especially true with the large dance numbers when pit singers can be used to add heft to the soundscape.

Among the specific scenes that work is “Gus: The Theater Cat,” featuring Brian Marshall as an old cat actor recalling his glory years. Stephen Robert Carder captures the rock star vibe of Rum Tug Tugger, and Tasha Brandt is amusing as Jennyanydots.

The signature song, “Memory,” is given a poignant turn by Kelly Monaghan as Grizabella, although she can’t hit the high belt notes.

The rented costumes are professional, giving the production necessary visual zing. However, the uncredited and monumentally busy set design is a bit of a mystery, as it features toys and games from childhood such as Play-doh and Chutes & Ladders as opposed to the usual junkyard setting. This domesticates the cat population and does them a symbolic disservice.

Still, there are pleasures to be had in this Cats, thanks to a hard-working cast that pounces on this material with feline delight.

Cats

Through June 30, produced by Mercury Summer Stock at the Regina Auditorium, Notre Dame College, 1857 S Green Rd., South Euclid, 216-771-5862.

Akarui, Cleveland Public Theatre

(Richard Brandon Hall as Mateu and Molly Andrews-Hinders as DC)

Often, the most interesting things in life happen at the junctures, the pivot points. The places where tectonic plates of identity and culture crumble and fracture are often the sites of new growth and exciting possibilities. Or, at the very least, it’s a place where you can spend a hell of an interesting hour or two.

In the world premiere of Akarui, now at the Cleveland Public Theatre, playwright Jen Silverman pitches her dramatic tent on several different steaming fissures: transgender issues; murder, guilt and death; and medical experimentation. The result is astounding in all respects, even with a couple performances that fail to capture the twisted grandiosity of Silverman’s vision.

It starts off with Dr. Baba Yaga (gender indeterminate) who is trying to nurture an avocado seed placed in the dead body of Joshua (an innocent James Alexander Rankin). This young man, we learn in time, was murdered on a beach, his body subsequently retrieved by the doc as a medium for growing new blooms. Trouble is, Joshua is alive, apparently, and dealing with his transformation from life to death with gathering irritation.

Meanwhile DC is a transitioning female-to-male T in the process of picking her way through the gender underbrush. He’s chatting up gay men on the Internet while revealing little about himself, until he connects with a young man half-a-world away.

Web pal Mateu is attracted to DC, especially after they Skype each other. But Mateu’s time is divided since he’s shacking up with a troubled dude named Stack who has recently killed a man on a beach.

Mateu eventually convinces DC to come his way and experience the transformative power of DJ Akarui, a hypnotic presence who spins music and identities with equal agility.

Thus, all the stories begin to converge, and we’ve seen that before. What’s new is everything else about the production.

This includes Silverman’s sometimes oblique yet disciplined words, the vibrant staging by director Raymond Bobgan, and the pounding, highly percussive Afro-Brazilian Candomble music that keeps the pace percolating.

Arrayed on set designer Todd Krispinsky’s impressive three-tier metal scaffolding, the actors climb, swing and jump into and out of scenes, often with sheets of plastic serving as temporary walls and ceilings. It’s a feast of visual and auditory surprises with a story that actually makes sense despite its fractured audacity.

As Dr. Yaga, Beth Wood is monstrously effective, somehow dodging all the “crazy scientist” stereotypes to create a uniquely deranged and strangely vulnerable wacko. At one point, she conducts a “maximally invasive cardiac replacement surgery” on Joshua, substituting a cactus plant for his heart.

Also excellent is Chris Seibert in the role of DJ Akarui. Although not in the spotlight frequently, she performs with her signature intensity and makes every one of the DJ’s appearances memorable.

But the most amazing portrayal is turned in by Molly Andrews-Hinders as the confused and tormented DC. Channeling the Hilary Swank vibe from Boys Don’t Cry, then adding her own levels of depth, Andrews-Hinders is riveting and poignant. Especially powerful are the moments when DC reflects on the difficulties transition, when she’s stuck in-between the two genders and knows she’s not coming across believably.

As a plain-spoken Stack, Lew Wallace is a properly haunted fellow, although there are layers to this man that go unexplored. Similarly, Richard Brandon Hall has some nice turns as Mateu. But he doesn’t display the vocal prowess and physical presence necessary to evoke the magnetic character the playwright has fashioned.

A chorus of eight dancer/singers (plus one lithe man playing a manta ray) adds immeasurably to the texture of the production.

Director Bobgan, inventive and bold without pushing the envelope too far, is clearly vibrating on the same wave length as the playwright. Therefore, this production soars when it could easily crumple under the weight of all its elements.

In Akarui, the idea of change and transformation is detailed with almost pointillist exactitude. But no matter how much change one seeks, it’s a finite process. As DC notes ruefully: “There’s nowhere to go when you keep bringing yourself with you.”

Akarui 

Through June 9 at Cleveland Public Theatre, 6415 Detroit Avenue, 216-631-2727

Sondheim on Sondheim, Great Lakes Theater

He gazes down from above like Big Brother, many times bigger than life-size, but there’s no one in the audience running towards the screen about to sling a sledgehammer. No, this is Stephen Sondheim up there, and we are all in his thrall.

In Sondheim on Sondheim, now at Great Lakes Theater, eight singers make up the live performers on stage. But they are dwarfed, literally and figuratively, by Sondheim’s appearances in videotape segments.

This roughly chronological journey through la vie Sondheim is an often enthralling biography for lovers of Broadway music. Since there is no composer and lyricist (or any combination of two people handling those tasks) that can truly compete with Mr. S., he’s granted the throne.

And he rules over us with a quirky, sardonic sense of humor. When addressing how he starts writing a song, he alludes to the booze he pours himself to help get the juices flowing. He even details his writing implements (yellow legal pad and an extra-soft pencil so he can spend a lot of time sharpening—and not writing).

Indeed, his explanations of how certain songs and shows evolved is intriguing, interspersed by the performers singing to illustrate the narration. This is how we learn the way “Comedy Tonight” became the blockbuster opening song in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

These are all stories Broadway buffs will appreciate, while others may be left a bit out in the cold. By jumping from show to show and song to song, it’s impossible to get a fix on the characters that inhabit Sondheim’s creations. And, as he says, his songs are all about character specificity.

The strong cast is led by Pamela Myers, who was in the original cast of Company and sings her signature song “Another Hundred People” at the start of Act Two. She nails that one and excels in two songs from the little-known and wonderfully weird Passion. But she is also given the final solo of “Send in the Clowns,” which feels a bit pale in comparison to a couple classic versions. (Some of the clumsier covers—a C&W banjo version?!--are lampooned nicely in Act One).

Other standouts include Emily Walton, who rides the hyper-paced “Getting Married Today” with razor-sharp enunciation, and Brian Sutherland who burnishes “Finishing the Hat” from Sunday in the Park with George into a splendid reflection on the creative process.

While Sondheim reveals a lot about the way he works, he doesn’t divulge much about his life. The one exception is shown in a clip from an interview with TV’s Diane Sawyer that is stupefying in its cruelty to the young Sondheim. But, as this show points out, he’s definitely getting the last laugh.

Sondheim on Sondheim

Through July 8, produced by Great Lakes Theater and PlayhouseSquare at the Hanna Theatre, 2067 E. 14th St.

Come Fly Away, PlayhouseSquare

Let’s start with a confession: I love the music of Frank Sinatra. His music is perfect when you feel on top of the world (“Fly Me to the Moon”). But there’s no other pop singer who has ever explored sadness with the depth and subtlety that Sinatra did, especially in songs such as “One for My Baby.”

And in Come Fly Away, now at PlayhouseSquare, you essentially have a Frank Sinatra concert, with his recorded voice matched up with an intense live band on stage. The mixture is so remarkably seamless you find yourself looking for the Man himself, only to remember that he adjourned to the great bandstand in the sky almost 15 years ago.

Of course, the wonderful new element that’s added to that music in this show is the genius of Twyla Tharp—who conceived, choreographed and directs. And the result is a captivating production from start to finish.

On a nightclub-style stage appropriately dominated by the band, with a bar on one side and a couple tables on the other, the dancers have plenty of room to strut their awesome stuff. Each of the more than 25 songs is danced and acted out, with some actually portraying mini-storylines of sexual attraction, disappointment and jealousy.

This is an 80-minute ride that enables the hoofers to show off their modern and interpretive dance chops in a way most of us have never seen. Lithe, muscular and evocative, the dances respect the music while contributing their own layer of meaning to Sinatra classics such as “My Way” and “Luck Be a Lady.”

In short, Come Fly Away spins a succulent blend of music and movement that will transport any Sinatra fan. And when the backdrop of stars align at the conclusion, you are reminded once more that these tunes must have been heaven sent.

Come Fly Away

Through May 20 at the Palace Theatre, PlayhouseSquare,

1518 Euclid Avenue, 216-241-6000

Hellcab, Blank Canvas Theatre

( From left: Kenneth Bryant, Sonya Barnes and Patrick Ciamacco)

If you just want to laugh for a while and not think very much, then you should flag down Hellcab at Blank Canvas Theatre before it’s put up on blocks on May 20.

Written by Will Kern, the highly episodic show is a fast and furious ride through the numb-nuts, horndogs and wasteoids that wind up occupying one cabbie’s backseat on his Christmas Eve shift.

Apparently the streets of Chicago are filled with wackos as the unnamed taxi driver’s fares range from coke freaks to angry couples and from fantasizing professionals to the inevitable pregnant woman whose water breaks. There even one weirdly normal gent who is actually jolly and generous.

Although there are some cute lines, most of the fun comes from the cast that, under the spirited direction of Marc Moritz, manages to make these 2-3 minute mini-sketches into chuckle-worthy moments.

Plopped into a yellow cab (minus roof, doors and windows), six of the cast members take on various characters. Particularly adept at this are Sonya Barnes and Kenneth Bryant, each of whom fashions indelible characters with lightning speed and supreme confidence. They are a joy to watch.

Also handling the rapid-fire role changes with skill is Doug Kusak (his glowering, almost mute, plaid-shirted dude makes Travis Bickle look like Pee Wee Herman).

Carla Petroski and Katie Nabors trade off portraying a variety of reality-challenged women. Nabors is particularly amusing as a stoner girl who can’t stop giggling. Petroski also has her moments, although her drunk schtick is too uncontrolled to be truly funny. Joe Dunn also contributes well while not having as much opportunity to shine as the others.

It’s all held together by Patrick Ciamacco, who plays the cabbie with a short temper and a soft heart. And although deftly handled by Ciamacco, it’s this character that reveals the weakness of the script.   

Playwright Kern wants to have it both ways throughout. The cabbie tells us he thinks he’s in hell inside his cab, but he treats all his fares with mellow equanimity. Meanwhile, the fares themselves are a bit off-center but not really hellacious (ie. no robbery, runners, or projectile vomiting, three of the many banes of the taxi driver existence).

And when Kern tacks on a serious event at the end, as counterpoint to the fun that’s come before, it feels like an obvious ploy to garner some heft for the play.  

He should have been happy settling for a 70-minute romp that makes the audience glad they have their own car in which to drive home.

Hellcab

Through May 20 at the Blank Canvas Theatre, 78^th Street Studio, 1305 West 80^th St., Suite 211, 440-941-0158.