A probing look at fatherhood

“Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,” goes the old spiritual, but “fatherless” would be more accurate for many African American children left in the care of single moms, extended family or the state. The crushing toll of this rampant social problem hasn’t often been addressed from the fathers’ point of view -- and seldom has it been explored with as much humor, tenderness and candor as it is in E.L. James’ “Nobody Walks Like My Daddy.”

The show begins disarmingly, with the big, bald James singing sweetly, “In my lifetime, can I raise the kind of man my father was?” The question is actually haunting his character’s son (Roscoe Freeman), who is on his fourth marriage and his seventh child and hoping at last to get this fatherhood thing right.

In the freestyle mix of reminiscence, reenactment and regret that follows, it’s not always clear whether James’ father figure is still alive or just a ghostly conscience with whom his questing son can hash things out. But the tight bond between the actors, both as father and son and in a variety of roles, is never less than crystal clear, whether they’re sharing rowdy stories, busting each other’s chops or sharing quiet moments of understanding. Live accompaniment by director Justin Lord, on wind instruments, and percussionist Eddie Rouse smooths and punctuates the transitions effectively.

The play gets matter-of-factly preachy by the end, and apart from a striking acknowledgment that “it’s tough to be a woman,” the females who did the heavy lifting -- with or without a man around -- are conspicuously absent. But as a searching, often searing examination of contemporary manhood at a crossroads between strength and sensitivity, responsibility and freedom, James’ play is a modestly affecting, affirmative entertainment.

-- Rob Kendt

“Nobody Walks Like My Daddy,” Ron Richards Productions and Conscious Comedy Concepts at 4305 Village Theatre, 4305 Degnan Blvd., Leimert Park Village. Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 3 and 7 p.m. Ends Dec. 21. $20. (323) 939-2438. Running time: 1 hour, 10 minutes.

*

Not enough light cast on Lady Day

In both her technique and her mystique, Billie Holiday was as much folk legend as jazz virtuoso. With her bruised, scratchy voice and inimitable phrasing, she was a true American original -- a tough, hard-living woman with a luxuriant, even rarefied artistry.

In Lanie Robertson’s light, ploddingly agreeable cabaret-play “Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill,” we’re supposed to be watching one of Holiday’s final club performances, just months before she died in 1959 of a drug-related heart attack at age 44. By that year, the once-robust chanteuse was a walking skeleton with more heroin than blood in her veins and a voice that had become a froggy, imprecise warble.

Admittedly, an evening with that Billie might be a bit too depressing, but Peggy Ann Blow, a fine actress and an accomplished singer, could at least give us an impression of Holiday’s tragic, hypnotic brokenness. Instead she starts out a sassy, smilingly profane raconteur, recounting a life of regrets and anecdotes. She sings with flawless diction -- and a range bigger than Holiday’s single octave -- such hits as “What a Little Moonlight Can Do,” “God Bless the Child” and “Strange Fruit.” Then, with unconvincing suddenness, she staggers backstage for an obligatory injection and emerges a stumbling, weepy wreck clutching a Chihuahua in her needle-bruised arms.

Danny Holgate’s slick arrangements, played expertly by pianist Herman Jackson and bassist Del Atkins, give us a cursory tour of Holiday’s diverse catalog -- from blues stomps to perky standards to languorous ballads -- without giving us much sense of what made her special.

In short, this would make a reasonably diverting and informational cabaret if we weren’t asked to suspend our disbelief. It’s a decent evening but no Holiday.

-- R.K.

“Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill,” Fountain Theatre, 5060 Fountain Ave., Hollywood. Tuesdays-Thursdays, 8 p.m. Ends Thursday, reopens Jan. 6-Feb. 26. $25. (323) 663-1525. Running time: 1 hour, 20 minutes.

*

Coward’s frothy flask of vitriol

The divorced couple at the center of Noel Coward’s “Private Lives” are described as having been “like two violent acids bubbling around in a nasty little matrimonial bottle.” When these witheringly witty British society types are accidentally reunited -- while on honeymoons with new spouses, no less -- pandemonium ensues.

Frothy yet deceptively serious, this well-built 1930 charmer of a play practically performs itself. To be truly spectacular, however, it must be peopled with actors who project airy detachment yet, when roused, hurl glassware with lethal intent. And the whole enterprise must simply drip with sophistication.

Though a presentation at the Grove Theater Center in Garden Grove comes close, it lacks the zest to register as something truly special.

Directed by Kevin Cochran, this production succeeds best at concertizing the music in Coward’s dastardly funny dialogue -- particularly when it’s passing through the mouths of David Allen Jones and Jane Macfie as the prizefighting lovebirds. With his neatly trimmed beard and prosperous appearance, Jones projects just the right tone of bored worldliness. Though she’s too squat and housewifey for her ultra-glamorous role, Macfie effectively conveys her character’s double-edged brittleness and strength.

As the new husband, Michael John Walters is convincingly sleek, cultured and pompous, but as the new wife, Lana Joy has trouble conveying much character through her wildly varying British accent. In a scene-stealing turn as a French maid with a bad head cold, Hannah Logan sneezes and wheezes through le francais with comic finesse.

The biggest shortfall: the low-budget, amateurishly executed production design, which is rather like serving champagne in a Styrofoam cup.

-- Daryl H. Miller

“Private Lives,” the Grove Theater Center’s Gem Theater, 12852 Main St., Garden Grove. Today and Saturday, 8 p.m. $23.50-$25.50. (714) 741-9555. Running time: 2 hours.