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Capsule Reviews 

Our critics weigh in on local theatre

The Carpetbagger's Children. Three grown sisters in Texas -- Grace Anne, Cornelia, and Sissie -- dwell on the legacy of their father, a Union soldier, who moved South during the Reconstruction to work as a tax collector while plantation owners were going broke. A Northerner who profits from the breakup of Southern plantations is the very definition of "carpetbagger," and all three women have to contend with Papa's uneasy reputation in the cotton town of Harrison. They tell their stories in a cycle, one at a time, so that most of the play consists of a series of monologues. Horton Foote based the story on his own family; it premiered at Lincoln Center two years ago. (Foote also wrote the screenplays for Tender Mercies and To Kill a Mockingbird.) This production has a quiet, urgent rhythm that tends to flag while Cornelia has the floor; Gretchen Grant sometimes gropes for command of her lines. Linda Ayres-Frederick is more engaging as Grace Anne, who in any case is the loud family rebel; Katherine Austin-Groen plays a solid, sweet-voiced young Sissie. The script as a whole suffers from too much small-town gossip, but the women"s stories recall a fascinating, fading piece of sepia-toned American history. Through April 17 at the Phoenix Theatre, 414 Mason (between Post and Geary), Sixth Floor, S.F. Tickets are $20; call 989-0023. Reviewed March 31.

Dr. Faustus. David Mamet reduces the original Faust legend to its bare elements. There's the philosopher, Faustus, who's finished an abstruse magnum opus and looks forward to glory and fame. There's his Wife (a non-character), his Son (mostly offstage), a Friend who nudges Faustus toward the good, and a devilish Magus who tempts him the other way by taunting his overblown pride. The story unfolds in an unspecific time and place, until the second act, when Faustus goes to hell. The characters also speak a stilted, high-flown, willfully obscure English. You might say the language itself is a puzzle, like the philosopher's magnum opus -- a cryptogram that resists light, instead of shedding it. God knows language can do that, and watching a playwright explore the vagaries and limits of his own medium should be fascinating. But the underlying drama feels as stiff as the dialogue. David Rasche's wooden, stumbling performance as Faustus resists not just clarity and light, but also interest in the story. Through April 18 at the Magic Theatre, Fort Mason Center, Building D, Marina & Buchanan, S.F. Tickets are $34-53; call 441-8822 or visit Reviewed March 17.

Ghosts. By now you may have heard a rumor that California Shakespeare Theater director Jonathan Moscone's production of Ghosts at Berkeley Rep is a thing of beauty. The rumor happens to be true. Ibsen's tragedy about Helene Alving and her louche son Osvald rings effortlessly from the stage with Ellen McLaughlin and Davis Duffield in the leading roles. McLaughlin plays the widow Helene with a chirping pride, dodging the tired morality of Pastor Manders (James Carpenter) with brisk wit and a dash of philosophy until Osvald tries to marry his half-sister. Emily Ackerman is Helene's amusingly well-behaved (but not quite proper) servant, Regina Engstrand; Brian Keith Russell plays Regina's supposed father. All the acting is first rate, and Moscone's direction is plain and simple. I don't know how long it's been since I've watched an old-fashioned verbal drama work so well, with no special effects or Masterpiece Theatre flourishes. Neil Patel helps with his austere set, bathed in icy Scandinavian light by Scott Zielinski. Patel's set draws no attention to itself until it needs to, in the second act, and then it performs as brilliantly as the cast. "All those years of marriage," Pastor Manders says to Helene, incredulously, "were nothing but wallpaper over an abyss" -- which Ibsen, Moscone, and Patel sweep away with grace and flair. Through April 11 at the Berkeley Rep's Roda Theatre, 2015 Addison (at Shattuck), S.F. Tickets are $10-55; call (510) 647-2949 or visit Reviewed March 17.

The Lion King. How do you turn a decent cartoon about African wildlife into a lame Broadway musical? 1) Puzzle carefully about the problem of costumes and sets. Pour millions of dollars and hours of mental energy into making your actors look like lions, hyenas, elephants, wildebeests, giraffes, and birds. Solve the problem brilliantly. Hire Julie Taymor to design the magnificent costumes and masks (and to direct the show). Hire Garth Fagan to choreograph elegant, exciting, Afro-Caribbean dance routines. Make sure Donald Holder lights the stage with an eloquent feeling for African distances and sunshine. In general make the show a visual feast. Then, 2) squint in confusion at the script, and 3) carve it up to make room for appalling songs by Tim Rice and Elton John. You'll have a profitable bunch of nonsense with more than one God-soaked number that sounds indistinguishable from bad Whitney Houston. The only cast member who can transcend this mess and give a stirring performance is Thandazile Soni, as Rafiki the monkey shaman, who gets to sing songs like "Nants' Ingonyama," by Lebo M, and other African chants originated by Tsidii Le Loka on Broadway. Bob Bouchard is also funny as Pumbaa the warthog, and Derek Smith plays a perfectly arrogant, sinister Scar, the pretender lion king. Otherwise the show is forced and childish. Adults looking for good theater will be happier when the performers dance instead of trying to act. Through Sept. 5 at the Orpheum Theatre, 1182 Market (at Eighth Street), S.F. Tickets are $26-160; call 512-7770 or visit Reviewed Feb. 11.

A Man of No Importance. The man in question is a Dublin bus conductor, Alfie Byrne, who tries to mount an amateur production of Oscar Wilde's Salomé at his local church in 1964. He's unmarried and middle-aged, which makes him queer enough in Irish Catholic eyes; he also secretly loves a young bus driver named Robbie. What Alfie's priest worries about, though, is Salomé's erotic Dance of the Seven Veils: "You shoulda told me this Salomey was a dirty play," says Father Kenny. "It's not dirty, Father," says Alfie. "It's great airt." Terrence McNally has adapted the 1994 movie with Albert Finney into a musical, and the cloying subject matter may work better this way. Stephen Flaherty's music relies on a few classical string instruments and some elements of Irish folk -- a guitar, a flute, and a fiddle, played live -- and Lynn Ahrens' lyrics are not too cheesy. Overall the show is sweet and well made, with strong performances in the central roles (Arthur Scappaticci as Alfie, Levi Damione as Robbie), but it's also light and inconsequential. McNally himself will be in residence at the New Conservatory this season, so a West Coast premiere of his newest show serves as a gesture welcoming him to town. Through April 11 at the New Conservatory Theatre Center, 25 Van Ness (at Market), S.F. Tickets are $18-28; call 861-8972 or visit Reviewed March 31.


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