‘MOJO’: BAND TALE DOESN’T MISS A BEAT

Johnny Ace, the first rock ‘n’ roll star for whom teen-age girls put up little altars in their bedrooms, carried the promise for other black musicians trying for a pinnacle of stardom unknown even to jazz giants.

The promise lived on, past his death by Russian roulette in 1954, and haunts the characters in Martin Jones’ richly evocative “West Memphis Mojo” at the International City Theatre.

Johnny’s been dead a year when the action begins in Teddy’s Barber Shop and Records. Teddy (Jason Edwards) has a group going with Elroi (“that’s king in French”), who fancies himself as heir to Ace’s throne. They’re waiting for Frank, their guitarist (Lee Hampton), who’s surreptitiously setting up a recording session in a studio of Elvis Presley’s label.

Typical of Jones’ knack for mixing poetry and fact is that the label’s name is Sun Records--the shimmering, unreachable goal, especially for black guys in a white business. Elroi (Myles Thoroughgood, who lives and breathes youthful optimism) knows Frank will pull it off; Teddy isn’t so sure.

Jones is such an accomplished playwright that even though much of the first act has his people waiting, there is neither padding to fill time nor the badinage that some writers think substitutes for character. Teddy and Elroi share the kind of father-son drama that makes Frank’s ultimate entrance another shift in gears for an already superbly accelerating story.

“West Memphis Mojo” embodies naturalist drama’s strengths, especially its belief that characters can embody insight and convey that knowledge to others. Frank is the harsh voice of realism, but he doesn’t come on that way. He even seems like a con at first, with his stories and shiny boots (fine costumes by Michael A. Pacciorini).

The play never advertises the theme of racism--it’s embedded in everything here, from Edwards’ blended expression of anger and resignation to the fact that West Memphis, Ark., isn’t even in the same state as the white side of town. Jones’ hopeful coda is subdued indeed.

Shashin Desai’s production, on the other hand, is triumphant.

The performances are beautifully modulated and lived (the only concern last Friday was Debra Thornton’s slightly hoarse voice as a woman visitor, but it grows on you). How could you not live in Donald Gruber’s realistic--but also symbolic--set, detailed down to the trash cans and razor straps? Paulie Jenkins’ lights and Mario Mariotta’s sound put us right there.

Performances at Long Beach City College, 4901 E. Carson St. are Fridays and Saturdays, 8 p.m., Sundays, 2:30 and 7:30 p.m. until Feb. 8. Information: (213) 420-4275.

THOMAS LEABHART AT WALLENBOYD

Etienne Decroux , mentor of movement performer Thomas Leabhart , has remarked that “art is first of all a complaint. One who is happy with things as they are has no business being on stage.”

Leabhart, employing Decroux’s “corporeal mime” style, has much to complain about in his new piece, “Like, What Is The Difference Between Abstract and Bizarre?” at the Wallenboyd. In his disarmingly witty look at the horrors facing a consumer in Claremont, though, he knows the difference between a complaint and a whine.

Leabhart juxtaposes slides of products using Picasso’s name, of deodorants (every brand available at the neighborhood Skaggs/Alpha Beta--you wouldn’t believe how many), a news item on Liz Taylor’s latest book deal and a movement technique suggesting a man both falling apart and supremely concerned with the world. Never mind the tongue-in-cheek title: Everything in this work is concrete, suffused with irony and sadness (aided powerfully by Leabhart’s lightly mournful voice).

In its complex array of responses to a world of absurd pressures and ecological stresses, the new piece surpasses even his excellent and similarly themed “How I Was Perplexed and What I Did About It,” (reviewed earlier in this column) which begins the program.

Wedged eclectically between these two is Gilberte Meunier’s playful “Gargouillade,” previously reviewed in these pages. It envisions five figures breaking out of death-like poses into a fanciful Catholic processional, then into a writhing mass of gargoyles tweaking their noses at us. How French.

Performances at 301 Boyd St. are Saturdays and Sundays, 8 p.m., until Feb. 8. Information: (213) 629-2205.

‘DEMONS: LAST DAYS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE’

So ludicrous is Willard Simms and Glenn Benest’s “Demons: The Last Days of Edgar Allan Poe” that it’s unlikely the author will give his grave even the slightest shake.

Gerald Gordon’s production at the Main Stage Theatre is distinguished by razzmatazz (like dry ice and sudden appearances through mesh scrims) and little sense (Barry Jenner’s Poe, straitjacketed in the asylum of his last days, keeps it on for a wedding-night flashback).

That extends to the dramaturgy, as when Poe, to prove a point against the head doctor (Darrell Sandeen), stays in the asylum he’s eager to leave even as he holds keys to the door.

We know that Poe will die, because he is Poe and not a character named “Edgar,” so there’s no suspense--and certainly no suspension of our disbelief. It exemplifies why biography, unless it’s inventively envisioned, usually makes poor theater. Simms and Benest’s insistence on flashbacks isn’t invention, but just a clunky way to tell a story. Seeing Sandeen becoming Poe’s father or Judith Chapman’s nurse becoming his mother once is fine. Seeing it repeatedly makes us wonder who’s minding the store.

Not only is Jenner a poor reader of a line (the faster he gets, the more unintelligible he becomes), but his soft features hardly resemble Poe’s hard, sharp looks.

The actors in the asylum seem to have some fun, but that was hard to detect elsewhere, under Walt Gilmore’s dank, expressionless lights.

Performances at 12135 Riverside Drive in North Hollywood are Thursdays through Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays at 5 p.m. until March 8. Information: (818) 508-0786.

‘VIVIEN’ AT MELROSE THEATRE

If you need further evidence that biography and theater generally make a bad mix, try “Vivien” at the Melrose Theatre. Jesse Lasky Jr. and Pat Silver have adapted their book on Vivien Leigh to the stage but with no stage eye (Silver also directed). “Vivien” is three long acts with no dramatic propulsion, done with the dewy-eyed uncritical affection of the fan.

Even fans are bound to tire of a slow tale of Leigh’s (Marcy Lafferty) inevitable decline, her insecurities and her breakdowns. Again and again, we’re reminded that Leigh couldn’t get out from under the combined shadows of Scarlett O’Hara and of being wife to Laurence Olivier (Nicholas Guest). Again and again, we feel like voyeurs peering in on not terribly interesting people (Scarlett on her collapse: “I’m a Scorpio”).

Not terribly interesting actors, either. Lafferty’s shallow, glossy approach is pure showcase, and Christopher Thomas plays Selznick as he plays Peter Finch. Considering Guest’s impossible assignment ( Larry Olivier ???), he emerges relatively unscathed.

Performances at 733 N. Seward St. are Thursdays through Saturday, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m., indefinitely. Information: (213) 465-0070.