Church drama too clever for its own good

Dakin Matthews is a fine classical actor and a scholar of some repute. Matthews brings both disciplines to bear in “The Prince of L.A.,” presented by the Andak Stage Company at the NewPlace Studio Theatre.

Matthews, who stars as a Roger Mahony-style Catholic cardinal, has written an inarguably remarkable play so naturalistic in tone that most viewers will be unaware that it is written entirely in verse. Yet for all its virtues -- which include a crisply intelligent cast and Anne McNaughton’s subtle staging -- the play is flawed by its very cleverness, philosophical peregrinations that impede rather than impel the narrative.

Wry and engaging Matthew Cardinal John (Matthews), the eminent “Prince” of the title, frequently steps outside his character to remind the audience that this story is, after all, “fiction.” When Sister Dominic (Julia Fletcher) discovers gross financial malfeasance in her parish, she blows the whistle on the perpetrator, Father Kieran O’Reilly (Russell Soder), a priest embittered by his own sexual victimization within the church. Out for what he can get from the institution that wronged him, Father Kieran accuses his Bishop (Michael Winters) of sexual harassment, while the cardinal and his attorney-amanuensis Father Paul (Mikael Salazar) struggle to stem the scandal.

Matthews has an expert grasp of all things Catholic, and a clear affection for his subject. For the most part, his characters are people of conscience and good will devoted to lives of service. In the current sensationalized atmosphere surrounding churchly scandals, Matthews’ thoughtful restraint is welcome. Now, Matthews needs to use that same restraint on some of his more self-indulgent passages, and trim them accordingly.

-- F. Kathleen Foley

“The Prince of L.A.,” NewPlace Studio Theatre, 4900 Vineland Ave., North Hollywood. Thursdays-Fridays, 8 p.m.; Saturdays, 2 p.m. Ends May 1. $20. (818) 506-8462. Running time: 2 hours, 30 minutes.

*

Broadway babies hit their marks

Anyone who has ever danced around their bedroom singing show tunes (and you know who you are) should enjoy “21 Stories” at the Elephant Theatre. G.W. Stevens’ erratic yet engaging portrait of platonic Reagan-era soul mates bitten by the Big Apple is an original cast album lover’s fantasy made flesh.

Subtitled “A Broadway Tale,” Stevens’ approach hearkens back to the ballet ballads of the 1940s, which merged song, dance and design to illuminate thematic content, foreshadowing the modern concept musical. It transpires before Charisse Cardenas’ backdrop, a striking abstraction of Manhattan that recalls Kenny Scharf.

The hyper-archetypal protagonists are Margaret Evans (the vivid, funny Marilyn Rising), a pill-popping Southern-fried pianist seeking the father whose death she won’t accept; and Billy Youngblood (Stevens, droll and intense), a closeted British transplant with dreams of attaining gypsy status.

The plot pulls them into asexual alignment through intertwined monologues, interchanges and send-ups of Broadway smashes, to Chris Game’s grinning soundtrack. Here, “21 Stories” finds both leads and the sharp dancing chorus (including choreographers Frit and Frat Fuller) hitting their marks with deft abandon.

Director Yuval Hadadi and his designers are also resourceful (particularly Don Cesario’s lighting and Ingrid Ferrin’s costumes), though they bolster an uneven narrative. The exchanges move between wry truth and cliche. The ending plunges Maggie and Billy into calamity without self-realization -- melodrama, not tragedy.

“21 Stories” certainly scores in its unusual fusion of lip-sync, disco rink and kitchen sink. The final descent needs a rethink.

-- David C. Nichols

“21 Stories: A Broadway Tale,” Elephant Theatre, 6322 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m. Mature audiences. Ends May 8. $10-$15. (323) 960-7612. Running time: 2 hours.

*

William Faulkner, still slaving away

Think screenwriters are dead in Hollywood once they pass 40? How about a hack well past the 100-year mark, hammering away at a biblical epic on his Corona?

In Peter Lefcourt’s diverting what-if scenario, “Only the Dead Know Burbank,” this isn’t just any literary dinosaur but William Faulkner, still alive and slaving away on successive seven-year contracts with Warner Bros. dating back to 1940.

It’s best not to examine this premise too closely. One can’t imagine Faulkner, an inveterate outdoorsman, could be content holed up on a studio lot or that he could survive for decades on bourbon and microwave soup.

But suspension of disbelief has its rewards, as up-and-coming film writer Ira Krensky (Ross Benjamin) discovers when he moves into the next office. Initially irked by the drawling crank who calls himself Bill (Lawrence Pressman) and by the old-school secretary they share (Julie Payne), Krensky relents enough to be touched by Bill’s pathos -- and to be spooked by the spectacle of a creative soul stranded in film-studio purgatory.

Director Peter Bonerz keeps the show snapping across Tom Buderwitz’s realistic cutaway set, but he doesn’t skimp on telling nuances.

Pressman imbues this fantasy Faulkner with a crusty verity, Benjamin makes a nervy foil, Payne is deliciously crisp and classy and Adam Richman briskly nails his comic scenes as Yuri (“as in Andropov”), the lot’s resident fixer.

Lefcourt’s affectionate fable bears a gentle reminder to industry types who know Burbank that perhaps, once upon a time, they knew and aspired to more.

-- Rob Kendt

“Only the Dead Know Burbank,” the Inkwell Theater at the Hudson Mainstage, 6539 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. Thursdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m. Ends May 30. $20. (323) 960-7753. Running time: 1 hour, 55 minutes.

*

The mourners who munch

You can never anticipate Steven Berkoff, and the Odyssey Theatre Ensemble premiere of “Sit and Shiver” maintains the average. This latest work from the creator of “Greek” and “Kvetch” is unexpected in its affable, detailed personal voice.

“Shiver’s” title comes from writer-director Berkoff’s childhood term for the Jewish tradition of sitting shiva for the dead. Carlos Munoz’s stark set finds marbleized boxes and a kosher buffet dominated by portraits of the deceased patriarch. His prototypical kinfolk register through realistic chatter, inner soliloquies and daft dance breaks, assisted by John Fejes’ ace lighting and Deb Millison’s well-observed costumes.

The heroine is outspoken Debby (the wonderful Ellen Gerstein), whose mourning ritual for Papa is taxed by its participants. Husband Lionel (Eric Poppick) engages Debby’s blind, sagacious brother, Sam (Alexander Zale, magnificent) in prostate discussion. Lionel and Debby’s acerbic daughter (Alison Lees-Taylor) retreats to her cellphone; their son (Elliot V. Kotek) brings his Gentile betrothed (Kara Revel), hoping to thaw his parents’ antipathy. Sam’s wife Betty (Lynda Lenet) knits and elegizes past mouthwatering repasts. Family crony Morris (Matt Gottlieb), a born mensch, mainly placates.

Enter Dad’s ex-employee (Rebecca Street), who hasn’t come for the strudel. The secrets and lies she unburdens provide “Shiver’s” biggest laughs and widest reach.

Berkoff’s blend of Judaic comment and surrealist glee needs some leavening. The societal analogies are exposed, the Borscht Belt vulgarities go overboard and some character shifts want clearer development.

Still, Berkoff’s talent remains acute and his cast is like buttah. You’ll exit craving knishes.

-- D.C.N.

“Sit and Shiver,” Odyssey Theatre Ensemble, 2055 S. Sepulveda Blvd., West L.A. Wednesdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m., except April 18, 25, May 9, 3 p.m. only. Ends May 31. $12-$25. (310) 477-2055. Running time: 1 hour, 50 minutes.

*

A devilish dose of Dostoevsky

It helps to think of “The Devils” at the Open Fist Theatre as Fyodor Dostoevsky by way of Ionesco.

Romanian director Florinel Fatulescu, a proven master of absurdist farce, brings abundant black comedy to the Russian novelist’s densely layered probing of the human soul. While not always a perfect fit, Fatulescu’s staging finds a compelling parable for the banality of present-day evil in Dostoevsky’s historically based story of an incompetent gang of would-be insurgents striking out at the oppressive Russian czarist regime of the 1870s.

An inevitable concession in honing the sprawling, episodic novel into stage worthy shape, Elizabeth Egloff’s inventive adaptation (which takes substantial plot liberties and weaves in material from the author’s personal notebooks) focuses principally on the rebellion subplot. As a result, some complexity is sacrificed, particularly in the central character of Nicholas Stavrogin, the aristocratic nihilist who had sided with the masses and inspired the rebels, but now disowns them. Benjamin Burdick’s tortured portrayal shows him racked by conflict, but it’s tied to a past incident involving the hauntingly staged recurring figure of a mentally disturbed girl (Amanda Weier). Less clear is his complicity in the revolt by once advocating ideas in which he did not believe.

From the pampered aristocracy to the grimy have-nots, the characterizations by the 15-member cast are never short of capable. Particularly noteworthy, however, are the efforts of Patrick Tuttle as the suicidal but honorable Kirilov, Jennifer Kenyon as the hilariously condescending governor’s wife, Anna Khaja as Stavrogin’s servant lover and Mark Thomsen as the cold, scheming Verkhovensky, who carries Stavrogin’s abstract theories to deadly extremes.

-- Philip Brandes

“The Devils,” Open Fist Theatre, 1625 N. La Brea Ave., Los Angeles. Fridays, Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m. Ends May 8. $23. (323) 882-6912. Running time: 3 hours, 15 minutes.

*

What’s the matter with Mitchell?

Children of divorce are all too likely to blame themselves for their parents’ discord.

For restless 19-year-old Mitchell Fleming (Joey Adams), the protagonist of Kelly Masterson’s “True Story,” the blame game is more complicated -- though not, it turns out, much more interesting -- than that.

A compulsive storyteller who dropped out of college and began to live selflessly among the homeless in Manhattan before older brother Gary (Jordan Belfi) retrieved him, Mitchell is too much of a handful for either his brittle, jet-setting mom (Caryn Richman) or his simpleton dad (Richard Gleason).

In short, neither parent wants him, let alone understands his roiling artist’s soul. Could that be why Mitchell purports to have visions of angels, in his own colorful variation on the common adoption fantasy of unappreciated young geniuses?

Amazingly, it takes the greater part of Masterson’s play for mental health professionals to reach this conclusion. Maybe the stigmata are what throw them off. Indeed, a sympathetic, sweet-faced psych intern (Stephanie Denise Griffin) takes Mitchell’s messianic tall tales more seriously than her starchy superior, Dr. Chivi (Andrew Prine) -- who, for all the stale admonishments and tape-dictating exposition he’s saddled with, should be named Dr. Cliche.

Director Ami Elizabeth Woodard directs with admirable economy, moving actors seamlessly between playing areas and timeframes under Douglas Gabrielle’s stark lighting. But the cast’s playing is TV-movie pseudo-sensitive and, in the lead, Adams is all wild-eyed punk arrogance and trembling-lip self-pity. The docs might add acute narcissism to the diagnosis.

-- R.K.

“True Story,” A Theatre Conspiracy at the Coronet Theatre, 366 N. La Cienega Blvd., Los Angeles. Thursdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 3 p.m. Ends Apr. 25. $30. (310) 657-7377. Running time: 2 hours, 10 minutes.

*

Something rotten indeed, forsooth

“Hamlet” at the Tamarind falls into that category of purgatorial theater -- a production so dreadful that a poor playgoer will surely receive comp time in the afterlife for merely sitting through it. From beginning to end, it is a royal pain in the arras.

Note to Francesco Vitali, who plays Hamlet (and happens to be the Tamarind’s artistic director): Next time you mount such a blatant vanity production, try Neil Simon. It’s easier to ad lib in contemporary English.

Speaking of English, the Greek-born Vitali has an accent so thick you can cut it with a rapier, complete with a Schwarzenegger “s” that he adds liberally where it doesn’t belong (“Lady, shall I lie in your laps?”). Instead of rectifying that liability through projection and enunciation, Vitali proceeds to gulp his lines like a drowning man. Half his speeches are incoherent, and those that are roughly comprehensible are butchered. (“What a piece of work is the man.”)

Unfortunately, the problem isn’t confined to the star. Line amnesia and slurred speeches are rampant. A few performers manage to tread water in the vicinity of the shipwreck, but all hands are eventually dragged to muddy death.

Director Aaron Mullen has scads of reputable credits, but he can’t stem the tide of disaster. This “Hamlet” is notable for its enormous advertising budget, evidenced by the big glitzy posters seen about town. That money would have been better spent hiring vocal coaches.

-- F.K.F.

“Hamlet,” Tamarind Theatre, 5919 Franklin Ave., Hollywood. Wednesdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 2 p.m. Ends May 30. $25-$35. (323) 465-7980. Running time: 2 hours, 45 minutes.