STAGE REVIEW : ‘Romanoff’s’ Reverts to Cartoon Follywood

“Fabulous Follywood, City Delirious . . . Bunk, junk and genius. . . .” are snatches of lyrics from one of the Pacific Theatre Ensemble’s better songs in “Romanoff’s,” an attempt to reconstitute the state of mind of Hollywood in the ‘30s more than an attempt to reconstitute a real place.

Yet in the course of re-creating a handful of stars, the excesses, silliness, in-fighting and glamour of the period, the effort bogs down in too little space and too little plot. Prince Romanoff (Robert C. Morris, who doesn’t look anything like the real Prince), remains peripheral as a character. As it did for many of its inhabitants, this Follywood proves overwhelming.

Contrary to some of the Ensemble’s impressive earlier efforts that had substance, imagination and style (particularly “June 2” and “Don’t Go Back to Rockville”), “Romanoff’s” lacks all three. The earlier shows knew their period and people. “Romanoff’s” period was typically unsubstantial, but even as it tries to recapture some of the more pathetic and wacky aspects of a night at this nightspot (which preceded the famous restaurant on South Rodeo Drive), the ensemble fatally goes in for the cartoon instead.

It may be an inadvertent choice, brought on by the weakness of the script. Written by actors Thomas Oglesby and Morris , “Romanoff’s” skims along from incident to incident without cohesion and only the faintest sense of direction.

There’s some nice by-play among crooners Nick Powell (Douglas Sills, as the perfect cad), Rick Dooley (Robert Jacobs, as the perfect good guy) and Glenda Young (Jacqueline Antaramian, as the submissive good gal who loves the cad, of course), with the classic outcome. Good guy gets the girl, bad guy blows the contract--while best guy, Patrick Driscoll, keeps playing away at that piano. But it is precisely this adherence to a traditional image of the period that also robs the play of interest.

Julia Fletcher, who usually knows better (and also staged), plays Louedda Quibble, the quintessential gossip columnist in a screwy hat, wielding a manic cigarette holder. The gestures and motivations are entirely external and entirely too broad. The same applies to Evelyn and Herschel Stone (Del Appleby and Oglesby, respectively), an absurdly gawking couple from Iowa; to the faded grande dame of well-rounded syllables, Ophelia Booth Collier (Marilyn Fox) and to the bevy of aspiring actresses biding their time as waitresses under the benevolent eye of Prince Mike.

A couple of indirect reasons for having gone off the track may also have had to do with space and budget. Steve Markus’ set does what it can to make the Ensemble’s restrictive space into a high-class establishment, but it can’t overcome its limitations (even if producers Scott Williams and Craig Huartson have provided first-class Moet Chandon, wine or beer for a minimal suggested donation of $2).

The costumes by Allegra Allison and Lori Martin, though carefully assembled, are a bit early rummage sale. Oglesby’s Clive Montgomery, a composite of your unassimilated British Hollywood actor, off to fight for king and country--this is 1938--wears a British army uniform sure to be news to the British army. Yet if the outer values aren’t quite there, it may be because the inner ones aren’t there, either.

Only Robert Kempf in a trio of characterizations, but especially as your classic tragic clown Slappy Happy Henderson, seems to provide the internal motivations so lacking elsewhere in this show. Ironically, the Slappy scene is painfully contrived, proving that depth can be created even in the midst of shallows. But only sporadically, if there is no play there to support it. “Romanoff’s” is so much deja vu without much point.

Performances at 705 1/2 Venice Blvd., Venice, run Thursdays through Sundays, 8:30 p.m., until June 12. Tickets: $12.50; (213) 306-3943.