O.C. Theater Review : ‘Superstars’ Blurs Ideas of Celebrity, Creativity

In ages past, songs had lives of their own, separate from those who sang them. Over the decades, a standard like “You’re the Top” might be performed by a Bing Crosby or an Ethel Merman, but the song lived on for new interpretations, seen as the independent creation of its writer--in this case, Cole Porter, whose name was as big as any who sang his work.

With the emergence of the singer-songwriter in the 1960s, merely performing popular music was no longer enough; the Beatles and Bob Dylan really meant what they sang, presumably, because they wrote it.

At the same time, the ubiquity of radio, television and phonograph albums could replicate a single performance of a song throughout the world, etching it into the popular culture. In so doing, the line between the singer and the song was forever blurred.

For a performance to be “genuine,” then, must it then be an exact imitation of the original version, down to the performer’s wardrobe and hairstyle?

These thoughts, and their implications for fin de siecle American culture, are among the many provoked by “Legendary Superstars,” a new show staged by Michael Paloma at the Grand Hotel. Here, the issue of imitation is reflected through the mirror of celebrity impersonation, surely one of the most curious developments in late-20th Century entertainment.

The action begins with Little Richard (Pete Peterkin), who appears in a maraschino cherry-red suit to welcome the audience. He then performs his 1950s hits “Good Golly, Miss Molly” and “Tutti-Frutti,” challenging us to consider whether any would pay the price of admission to see Peterkin perform these same songs as himself. Before this issue is resolved, Peterkin throws another bouillon cube into the stew, as Little Richard claims that he “taught” James Brown and Michael Jackson their acts.

He then launches into impersonations of Brown and Jackson, taking a metaphoric sledgehammer to the bounds of reality. What are we witnessing? Is it Little Richard doing an impersonation of Michael Jackson, or Peterkin as Jackson, or Peterkin as Little Richard as James Brown as Michael Jackson? Leaving this question unanswered, Peterkin disappears, challenging the audience only to “enjoy the rest of the show.”

This tour de force is followed by a sequence of other impersonator sketches, each exploring a different corner of the reality/unreality conundrum. A Dolly Parton and a Bobby Darin appear, followed by the ne plus ultra of celebrity impersonations, Elvis Presley (Chance Tinder).

Tinder’s Presley takes the art form to the extreme. He not only performs such songs as “Blue Suede Shoes” and “All Shook Up” but also crosses the fourth wall by draping his sweat-drenched polyester scarf around the neck of a giddy female audience member.

Does celebrity impersonation cut so deep as to include replication of Elvis’ bodily fluids? Or is the audience member actually part of the show, an actor brilliantly impersonating a middle-aged woman enraptured by the concept of Elvis’ perspiration encircling her throat?

Like the best of existential theater, “Legendary Superstars” again leaves that question for us to ponder.

Frank Sinatra (Nicola D’Egidio) follows, with “Fly Me to the Moon” and “That’s Life.” Then, in a provocative critique of the real Sinatra’s recent “Duets” album, which was recorded without such singers as Bono and Barbra Streisand actually sharing the studio with Sinatra, D’Egidio is joined on stage by Tinder in a Frankie-Elvis point-counterpoint of “Witchcraft” and “Love Me Tender”--echoing their real-life summit meeting for TV viewers in the ‘50s.

While the real Sinatra and his duet partners couldn’t manage to get together in the ‘90s, this Sinatra can sing a duet with the long-deceased Presley. Paloma dares us to ask: Has the power of celebrity impersonators eclipsed that of those they impersonate?

The dizzying stream of questions ratchets up a notch with the final sequence saluting the Blues Brothers.

Here we see an impersonation of an act that itself was a tribute to other musicians; the “real” Blues Brothers were John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd as Jake and Elwood Blues. Here we see Paloma cartwheeling across the stage as Belushi as Jake, joined by Kenny Barret as Aykroyd as Elwood. The Blues Brothers perform their signature song, “Soul Man,” but, teasingly, not “Rubber Biscuit.”

As their segment comes to a close, the Blues Brothers are joined by Ray Charles--or is it Little Richard as Ray Charles? By cleverly casting Peterkin as Charles, Paloma has upped the ante once more, before all the superstars join onstage for a farewell embrace.

Throughout, the performers are backed by a tight six-piece band, four energetic women dancers and two backup singers. There are no backdrops or set changes, but lighting and smoke machines provide appropriate mood in a hall designed to resemble a miniature Las Vegas showroom.

In case anyone had mistaken this 75-minute production for just a schlocky celebrity-impersonator revue trying to capitalize on Disneyland’s overflow, Paloma made sure the existential ambitions of the piece were heavily anchored by a probing element worthy of Samuel Beckett.

The program lists Marilyn Monroe among the legendary superstars who perform. But like Beckett’s Godot, Marilyn never appears, and no reference to her absence is ever made during the production.

Could this be Paloma’s way of illustrating the evanescence of celebrityhood in modern America? Or did some performer just have a flat tire on her way to work? The head spins. If it weren’t for the two-drink minimum, “Legendary Superstars” might be too much for anyone to take.

* “Legendary Superstars” is at the Grand Hotel, 7 Freedman Way, Anaheim. Performances Wednesday and Thursday at 7:30 p.m., Friday and Saturday at 7:30 and 10 p.m., Sunday at 3:30 and 7:30 p.m. Admission (not including dinner): $13, $11 for senior citizens, $7 for children under 12, plus a two-drink minimum. Through Sept. 10. (714) 774-3400.