‘Hostage’ pushes Alliance’s limits

Fascinating yet trying, Brendan Behan’s sprawling drama “The Hostage,” at the Alliance Repertory, is not for the fainthearted. “Cats” this ain’t.

One of literature’s more famous drunks -- and that’s saying something -- Behan purportedly wrote the play in the late 1950s for a meager sum that he promptly spent on whiskey. By 1964, Behan had drunk himself to death. An obituary of the day would proclaim him “too young to die but too drunk to live.”

A cross between music hall and tragedy, the play, which concerns a young British soldier taken hostage by an IRA splinter group, is drama under the influence -- a boozy, bawdy outpouring about three hours long. The squalid pub/brothel that is the setting for the piece teems with tosspots, eccentrics and whores of both genders. Characters burst into song or Gaelic at the drop of a hat, and the thick Dublin accents (admirably realized by the cast under the tutelage of dialect coach Kathleen Dunn) can make whole passages difficult to understand.

By mounting such a demanding show at the tiny Alliance, director Stephanie Shroyer shows plenty of guts. The play opens with a full-blown dance sequence that has the actors jigging and twirling in a Lilliputian playing area. Characters careen up staircases, slam doors, leap onto rickety footstools to rip off a song. Almost indescribably hectic, events play out with baffling abruptness.

The episodic quality is more intrinsic to the play than to this production. However, despite their Herculean efforts, Shroyer and company have trouble reining in Behan’s untrammeled piece to fit the confines of the space. Even apart from the obvious logistical difficulties, Shroyer’s staging sometimes seems forced and constrictive. Too often, stereotypical characters lack subtext. And although the show does not require Broadway-caliber voices, some of the singing wouldn’t pass muster in the shower.

Still, for sheer boldness and spirit, this colorful “Hostage” gets high points. The design elements are excellent, especially Matthew C. Jacobs’ battered set, and certain performances are wonderfully measured. Particularly fine are Morlan Higgins, as the seedily heroic manager of the pub, and Sarah Zinsser as Meg, his “almost” wife. If you’re prepared for a lengthy immersion, you just may find this mixture intoxicating.

-- F. Kathleen Foley

“The Hostage,” Alliance Repertory, 3204 W. Magnolia Ave., Burbank. Thursdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m. Ends July 27. $20. (800) 595-4849. Running time: 3 hours.

*

‘Groundlings’ keep honing keen edge

Ample mirth attends “Groundlings Is for Lovers” in Hollywood. Though less downright outrageous than previous offerings by the troupe, this new showcase of sketches and improvisational comedy is ribald and representative.

Under Karen Maruyama’s zippy direction, “Lovers” features smart writing and notably strong improvs. Brian Palermo’s sardonic reality-programming opener, “This One’s for You,” and the ad-libbed game show (tautly presented at the reviewed performance by Palermo, Hugh Davidson and Mitch Silpa) typify these aspects.

Themes of partnership predominate, with several keen teamings in a keening company teeming with talent. Daniele Gaither and Jordan Black are uproarious as improvised film critics from da ‘hood, and Jeremy Rowley is most definitely demented opposite the deadpan Damon Jones in “The Permit.” Steve Little is a nerdish foil to Ted Michaels’ outlandish champion in “The Spaniard,” while Steven Pierce joins Palermo, Jones and Ben Falcone as “Jawbone,” a cringe-worthy Christian rock band. Both Christian Duguay’s blind “Laptop” porn surfer and the infomercial sendup “Great Innovations,” by Gaither and Rachel Duguay (who recalls the young Elaine May), warrant expansion.

And the ensemble mayhem fueling Falcone’s mannequin-motivated Act 1 closer, “Macy’s,” and Palermo and Jim Cashman’s fractured-Fosse “Circuit City” finale indicate that a full-scale Groundlings musical is waiting to happen.

Not every sketch lands, and the Iraqi reconstruction riff, “Interim Government,” is strictly one-note. Even so, with Greg Kanaga, Larry Treadwell and music director Willie Etra providing rocking interludes, “Lovers” is an ideal date show, regardless of persuasion or medication levels.

-- David C. Nichols

“Groundlings Is for Lovers,” Groundlings Theater, 7307 Melrose Ave., Hollywood. Fridays, 8 p.m.; Saturdays, 8 and 10 p.m. Indefinitely. Mature audiences. $18.50. (323) 934-9700. Running time: 1 hour, 45 minutes.

*

Good intentions eclipsed in ‘Luna’

Ecstasy abusers and the preternaturally cold may conceivably find comfort in “Luna,” now spiraling out of control at the MET Theatre’s downstairs space. Kristine Dickson’s astrological epic concerning the sun’s opposite number (Kelly Carmichael) orbits around itself in quest of a campy happening.

Audiences may negotiate Troy Dunn’s amphitheater setting with some trepidation. The padded benches under a parachute canopy are extremely intimate and rather awkward (wear tennis shoes). The playing area of under-lighted crescent bower and CD-bedecked solar DJ booth, for its part, is pure storefront wacky.

Director Kevin Allen Jackson’s lighting, Jake Eberle’s sound and the costumes of Ann Mugford and Dickson help further this spaced-out ambience, as does the cast.

Carmichael’s deliberately opaque Luna recalls Barbara Parkins in “Valley of the Dolls,” and Noah Blake’s Rastafarian Sol merges Venice Beach with Jar Jar Binks.

Gino Anthony Pesi’s self-mocking Mercury is certainly god-like, although less an FTD logo than a Dionysian specimen. Gretha Louis’ Venus scorches, and Skip Moore’s Cupid skates. Their other colleagues are all ready for takeoff.

Sadly, all this energy is swallowed whole by the black hole of script and concept. The New Age feminist imagery of Dickson’s free verse works dead against the Pirandellian frat house structure, suggesting a sedated Henry Rollins as rewritten by Joyce Jillson.

Nor does the physical environment lend itself to unbridled frolicking, the close quarters producing instead an asphyxiating hothouse atmosphere. One sympathizes, but “Luna” finally finds any fleeting inspiration eclipsed by insufficient laughter and excessive perspiration.

-- D.C.N.

“Luna,” MET Theatre, 1089 N. Oxford Ave., L.A. Thursdays-Saturdays, 9 p.m. Ends July 19. Mature audiences. $15. (323) 957-1152. Running time: 1 hour, 55 minutes.

*

‘Four’ multiplies the melodrama

Milton Katselas has made a mark in everything from stage directing (the original productions of “The Zoo Story” and “Butterflies Are Free”) to the visual arts. And then there is his work as acting teacher to the stars.

From time to time he also turns his hand to writing. “Four,” a quartet of short plays he also directed, is currently on display at his elegant home base, the Beverly Hills Playhouse.

The stories are meant to reflect the eternal push and pull between the sexes -- territory Katselas previously covered in 1999 in the high-profile “Visions and Lovers,” featuring one of his big-name students, Jenna Elfman. Here, he keeps falling back on melodramatic contrivance, most notably when a gun or knife is pulled in each play. As acting exercises, such stunts may hold some value. As drama, they leave a lot to be desired.

The second play, “Gibran,” is a cut above the rest. It unfolds in the disputed West Bank as Anna (Tania Gonzalez, alternating with Hilit Pace), an Israeli, pays a visit to a former lover, Nidal (Shaun Duke, alternating with Isa Totah), who is Palestinian. Katselas’ political notions come through simplistically at times, but the tautly performed piece at least gets viewers’ brains and hearts pumping.

Not so in the first and third pieces, which are little more than male fantasies about being fought over by women. This proves especially wasteful in the third piece, “Harem” (co-written with Michael Shurtleff), which fritters away the talents of such captivatingly playful actresses as Lee Garlington, Julie Cobb and Susan Duerden.

The final piece, “Goya,” is rendered in similarly broad strokes as a painter and his lover writhe in passion one moment and try to kill each other the next. At last Friday’s opening, the play’s power was generated entirely by the exertions of Christian Svensson and “Six Feet Under’s” Justina Machado (who will alternate with Lana Parrilla). They wound up panting like marathon runners at the end of this showy soap opera, musical, dance party and wrestling match.

-- Daryl H. Miller

“Four,” Beverly Hills Playhouse, 254 S. Robertson Blvd., Beverly Hills. Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 2 and 7 p.m. Ends July 27. $25. (310) 358-9936. Running time: 2 hours, 15 minutes.

*

Over the top in drag decolletage

Had it been dolled up with a bit more class, an old idea might have been a knockout again in “Love, Sex, and the I.R.S.,” presented by the 68 Cent Crew at the Space Theatre.

The notion -- a proven slayer in projects from “Charley’s Aunt” to “Some Like It Hot” -- is to put a guy in a dress and let nature take its course. To set events in motion, writers William Van Zandt and Jane Milmore -- frequent concocters of such silliness -- have cooked up a tax scam: Jon (Edward Stein) has been preparing the tax forms for himself and his best pal and roommate, Leslie (Terry Scannell), figuring they can hold on to more money if they take advantage of Leslie’s ambisexual name and file as a married couple. But he’s caught the IRS’ attention, and an investigator is on the way. So he convinces Leslie to dress up and play wife.

The setup and execution are rife with problems of logic, but that’s only part of the trouble. Where a well-paced farce would begin small and build steadily, this one -- under Ronnie Marmo’s direction -- is so over the top from the start that it can’t possibly gain momentum, no matter how many outrageous plot twists ensue.

The characterizations, like everything else, are big -- “Saturday Night Live” big. Still, some of them are funny.

Scannell’s Leslie is the audience favorite. A bundle of Felix Unger-like tics and noises at first, he becomes a hellcat when stuffed into an amusing array of too-tight, low-cut dresses. He buzzes with a combination of hysteria and anger as he totters in his heels, his hairy chest and arms exposed.

The fresh-faced Stein, meanwhile, radiates boyish charm as Jon. He’s in over his head, but he’s trying to make things right again, so we root for him.

Physical humor is the main game here, but some of the lines tickle the ribs. When the tax man (a nerdy Tommy Colavito, wearing a bad toupee) says that the decidedly unlovely Leslie “kinda reminds me of my wife,” we glean that home life for this poor guy must be a bit of a drag.

-- D.H.M.

“Love, Sex, and the I.R.S.,” the Space Theatre, 665 N. Heliotrope Drive, L.A. Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 3 and 8 p.m. Ends July 6. $15. (323) 769-5800. Running time: 1 hour, 45 minutes.