Baldwin’s legacy in vivid detail

Impressive purpose distinguishes “James Baldwin -- Down From the Mountaintop” in its return engagement at the Sunset Millennium (formerly the Tiffany Theater). Writer-performer Calvin Levels’ acclaimed solo show evokes the great author-activist in a docudrama that fills in its academic contours with vivid detail.

Opening with Baldwin’s recorded voice, Levels sets up his central conceit, in which a young black actor (the selfless Jason Powell), cast as Baldwin and stymied by his assignment, invokes the writer’s assistance. To the flashes of Danny Truxaw’s subtle lighting, Baldwin (Levels) materializes, returned from the ether to make his case.

Thereafter, “Mountaintop” takes the form of a biographical seance, whose sudden shifts of tone are backed by upstage projections of friends, enemies, colleagues and mentors. Baldwin shares his story, enacting all the participants from his Harlem beginnings to his expatriate end, in a conversation with an audience to whom he relates as though to one person.

The dramatic impetus is narrative-bound, addressing Baldwin’s internal conflicts gingerly at best. This is where Levels’ acting takes over. Physically unlike his subject, Levels, nevertheless, has a hypnotic power that creates a revival fervor during his character’s diatribes and a pin-drop silence during the Act 1 account of Baldwin’s childhood molestation. When he takes on civil rights in Act 2, the political convention-level force is hair-raising, and the synoptic ending is a quiet coup.

Director Charles Burnett provides just enough gloss to frame Levels’ artistry, with Jon Oh’s sound a decided asset in setting off a message that, like Baldwin’s legacy, has never seemed more potent.

-- David C. Nichols

“James Baldwin -- Down From the Mountaintop,” Actors Studio at the Sunset Millennium, 8532 Sunset Blvd., West Hollywood. 7:30 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays; 5 p.m. Sundays. Ends Aug. 29. Suggested donation: $15. (310) 712-7099. Running time: 1 hour, 55 minutes.

*

Simple virtues and a stellar cast

The spirit of the fabled Poconos resort Camp Tamiment is alive and kicking at the West Valley Playhouse in “The World Goes ‘Round.” This intimate revival of the oft-produced revue of songs by John Kander and Fred Ebb spins charming gold from summer-stock hay.

“World” has been a fixture since its 1991 premiere at the Westside Arts in Manhattan. Subsequent productions have aped co-creator Susan Stroman’s razzle-dazzle template of prop-happy staging and triple-threat flash. Here, director and co-choreographer Noel Britton takes an opposite tack, making virtues of simplicity.

Sean French’s box-ridden set, Danny Truxaw’s creative lighting and Don Nelson’s costumes permit the content to star, and musical director Patricia Hannifan’s ace band follows suit.

The wonderful cast seals the deal, in harmony whether camping up “Coffee in a Cardboard Cup” or slithering around “Cabaret.”

Julia Goretsky imbues her solos, from the title tune to “Maybe This Time,” with stunning, golden-throated intensity. Her duets with Bets Danko -- who splits the legit and belt difference with a zest that recalls Phyllis Newman -- are howlingly funny. The piquant Britton sails sweetly through “Colored Lights,” then bends and growls about “All That Jazz” like Gumby doing Texas Guinan.

Jeff Wallach uses his solid tenor and everyman demeanor with unexpected effect, hitting the jugular in “Mr. Cellophane.” Co-choreographer Robert R. Long II fields a raw-boned jazz wail, his “Kiss of the Spider Woman” a standout.

These openhearted, ordinary-Joe troupers invest the prismatic material with a conviction that elevates the floor-show shtick. Sophisticates may carp, but this frolicsome “World,” presented by Woodland Hills Theatre, seems the company’s most satisfying excursion to date.

-- D.C.N.

“The World Goes ‘Round,” West Valley Playhouse, 7242 Owensmouth Ave., Canoga Park. 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays; 2:30 p.m. Sundays. Ends Aug. 29. $22. (818) 884-1907. Running time: 2 hours, 15 minutes.

*

A loving touch for this ‘Valentine’

Beyond the dated references to 1980s pop culture and man-hating feminists, there’s considerable resonance in “Shirley Valentine,” Willy Russell’s tender and lusty solo comedy about a Liverpool wife and mother who is jolted to realize that somewhere in her circumscribed “little” life she has lost her way.

In Elaine Herman’s deft staging at the Long Beach Playhouse’s Studio Theatre, DeeDee Rescher gives Shirley a vibrant, authentic voice (despite a hoarse throat at a recent matinee performance).

Shirley talks to the wall in her monochromatic kitchen, fixes chips and egg for her dour husband, thinks about how she got to a place of such limited possibilities -- and dreams of sitting near the sea, feeling the sun on her skin and drinking wine in a place “where the grapes are grown.”

When an unexpected vacation on a Greek isle brings Shirley life-changing renewal, sexual awakening and considerably broader horizons, Russell’s play becomes a reverberent celebration of life beyond the roads not taken, and Rescher gives full value to the journey’s spicy hilarity and poignancy.

The capable light and sound designs are by Richard Taylor and Ron Wyand, respectively. Michael Pacciorini’s costumes are spot on, as is set designer Vincent Roca’s meticulously detailed kitchen.

Roca’s Greek island setting, however, is a disappointment. Jutting black panels -- the back of the kitchen set -- and a scuffed white wall behind Shirley’s rocky, seaside perch work against what should be felt as a liberating expanse of sand, sun and sea.

-- Lynne Heffley

“Shirley Valentine,” Long Beach Playhouse, Studio Theatre, 5021 E. Anaheim St., Long Beach, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays. Ends Aug. 21. $20. (562) 494-1014. Running time: 2 hours, 30 minutes.

*

‘Eat Me’ leaves viewer brutalized

Rapists have their reasons, certainly, but their victims experience their crime as a senseless, debasing assault. Jacqueline Wright’s savage play “Eat Me” seems designed to inflict a similar assault on audiences, exploring the psychology of abuse on a skin-crawlingly intimate scale.

Much of the play is a brutal scrimmage between a suicidal waif, Tommy (Wright), and a thuggish intruder, Bob (David Ojalvo), amid the scummy detritus of Tommy’s wood-paneled home (set by Barbara Lempel). A butcher knife, a belt and Bob’s fists are the weapons of choice, and the graphic humiliations he inflicts on her go from bad to much, much worse. “You throw up, you eat it,” is typical of Bob’s threats, which are relentlessly laced with a “b” word that’s not “baby.”

When Tommy staggers up after a bloody beating and turns the tables on her attacker, the play attains a pitch-black comic tone. Abuse is such old hat to poor Tommy that she’s able to critique Bob’s skills. “You call that rape?” she asks witheringly.

Incredibly, Bob crumbles under this verbal counterattack, and “Eat Me” becomes a bathetic bonding play between two damaged souls. The always compelling Wright delivers Tommy’s monologues with cracked grace, but Ojalvo skids and burns on his character’s puzzlingly inward journey. As Bob’s sidekick, Tony Forkush supplies a few moments of over-the-top psychopathy.

Though Chris Fields’ harsh, unblinking direction suits Wright’s vision, no one involved has made the case for sharing this dreary vision with us.

-- Rob Kendt

“Eat Me,” Theatre of NOTE, 1517 Cahuenga Blvd., Hollywood. 8 p.m. Thursdays through Saturdays. Through Aug. 20. $15. (323) 856-8611. Running time: 1 hour, 15 minutes.