Modern spin on a myth

Seldom has didacticism been couched in so charming a format. Child-friendly and consistently diverting, “Atalanta,” a world premiere musical at the Powerhouse, gives a lighthearted spin to serious feminist issues. Granted, the theme can be heavy-handed, but an engaging cast delivers the message with a light hand.

Based on an excerpt from Marlo Thomas’ groundbreaking 1970s TV special, “Free to Be ... You and Me,” “Atalanta” features a cheerful book and lyrics by Karen Hardcastle and offbeat, hummable music by David O, who, with cellist James Barry and clarinetist Matt Leonard, provides live accompaniment throughout this breezy show.

For those not familiar with the myth, Atalanta was an athletic princess who circumvented her father’s insistence that she marry by racing and defeating her suitors. When one wily opponent threw golden apples onto the track, Atalanta stopped to retrieve the gilt goodies, losing the race and her independence.

This modernized version has a far different outcome. Princess Atalanta (spunky Elizabeth Tobias) is also being hounded by her loving but tradition-minded royal dad (Guerin Barry) to wed. But Atalanta wants to see the world first. Worse, her noble suitors (all played with comical broadness by Tom Beyer), range from the obnoxious to the insufferable. In an egalitarian twist, only Young John (Peter Musante), a commoner, proves a worthy opponent.

The denouement is a foregone conclusion. But getting there is all the fun. Director David Mowers keeps the action snappy, while Lori Scarlett, who plays Atalanta’s best friend, and Deb Snyder, as Atalanta’s goofy maid, add yet more pizazz to this colorful children’s parable.

-- F. Kathleen Foley

“Atalanta,” Powerhouse Theatre, 3116 2nd St., Santa Monica. 2 and 8 p.m. Saturdays, 2 and 7 p.m. Sundays. Ends July 17. $20. (310) 396-3680, www.powerhousetheatre.com. Running time: 1 hour, 5 minutes.

*

Ghost serenades Mrs. Muir

How to be incorporeal and sexy at the same time? That issue is addressed to simmering effect in “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” a paranormal romance about the unlikely attraction between Lucy Muir, a genteel English widow, and Capt. Daniel Gregg, the dead sea captain who falls in love with her. The bestselling novel was adapted into a 1947 film starring Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison, and later inspired the 1968 television series.

Lush yet quirky, the perennially popular story seems a natural for musicalization. However, “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” the world premiere musical based on the novel, now at the NoHo Arts Center, suffers a slight disconnect between page and stage.

To his credit, director/choreographer James J. Mellon, who also wrote the book, has mounted a lavishly well-realized albeit overlong production with a lovely set by Craig Siebels and handsome period costumes by Shon LeBlanc. Fun, spooky effects abound (although a spewing fog machine further obscures Steven Young’s murky lighting.)

Under the musical direction of Sean Paxton, the seasoned performers vocalize Scott DeTurk and Bill Francoeur’s music and lyrics with heavenly ease. Yet there’s a niggling problem of tone here, a precarious gap between the sincerely emotional and the just plain silly.

Particularly problematic is the second act’s lapse into music hall artifice, most obviously in the over-the-top choral number “Blood and Swash,” an ill-considered fantasy sequence that reduces Capt. Gregg’s seafaring adventures to the Walter Mitty-esque musings of a blowhard.

Lynne Wintersteller’s Lucy Muir is smoothly engaging, while Brooks Almy is comically apt as Martha, Lucy’s plain-speaking maid. Among the solid cast, Paul Denniston is particularly fine as Cyril Muir, Lucy’s repressive clergyman son. As Capt. Gregg, stage veteran James Barbour has the looks and the chops for the role but swashes a bit too obviously for this no-frills captain, stalking and preening when a lashing of British wryness would have made this brooding spirit far more alluring.

-- F.K.F.

“The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” NoHo Arts Center, 11136 Magnolia Blvd., North Hollywood. 8 p.m. Thursdays through Saturdays, 3 p.m. Sundays. Ends July 24. $25-$35. (818) 508-7101, Ext. 5. Running time: 2 hours, 35 minutes.

*

Unsatisfying ‘Sex, Sex, Sex, Sex’

A slew of smooth pros negotiates “Sex, Sex, Sex, Sex, Sex and Sex” at the Matrix Theatre. Whether their skill sustains George Furth’s sextet of intersected one-acts about, well, sex, is another matter.

Furth is an old hand at urban carnal conflict, and “Sex” suggests a companion piece to his Tony-winning book for Stephen Sondheim’s 1970 musical “Company.” Indeed, Yael Pardess’ modular set seems ready-made for married couples who sing about “Bobby, baby,” though the only singing here comes from Joel Soyffer’s sound design.

Some scenarios, efficiently directed by Asaad Kelada, land well enough to merit full-length treatment, such as the account of bewildered Buck and traumatized Ashley, eloquently played by Noah Harpster and Valerie Dillman. As a distracted politician and his displaced wife, Patrick St. Esprit and Robin Riker keep us alert even as the final reveal makes us want the next chapter.

Although Furth capably dovetails one tale’s rising action with another’s, his cable-friendly plotlines have little organic reason to co-exist. The way Peter Onorati’s crony is drawn into Susanna Kouvola and Ken Land’s showbiz marriage mirrors how serial jerk Jack Maxwell contrasts with artist Spencer Garrett’s yen for neighbor Dawn Stern, but the corollary is strictly structural.

Nor is “Sex” laugh-ridden. A business partnership threatened by attraction finds Tom Astor and Jennifer Carta trading one-liners when normal conversation would do. The gay pairing is wildly stereotyped, their dialogue hoary and Robert Patrick Brink and Michael Spound’s portrayals unconvincing.

The proceedings are seldom sultry, despite J. Kent Inasy’s lighting and the various occasions when people remove Elizabeth Cox’s costumes. Sometimes “Sex” scores; more often, it just circles around itself.

-- David C. Nichols

“Sex, Sex, Sex, Sex, Sex and Sex,” Matrix Theatre, 7657 Melrose Ave., Hollywood. 8 p.m. Thursdays through Sundays. Ends July 17. $35. (323) 960-7770 or www.plays411.com. Running time: 1 hour, 35 minutes.

*

Multifaceted take on Iraq war

For over 25 years, Michael Kearns has embraced cultural provocation without blinking. His latest outing, “Make Love Not War,” finds this renegade writer-performer taking on America’s presence in Iraq with the corrosive intent of his antiwar convictions.

Overall, “Make Love” recalls previous Kearns items such as “Intimacies” and “The Truth Is Bad Enough.” Using only a music stand and his formidable technique, Kearns rifles through a diverse sampling of citizens affected by the war in Iraq.

Bob Blackburn’s multitiered soundtrack and Raymond Thompson’s economic lighting are plush by showcase standards. Kearns appears, in camouflage attire, rasping out bereaved 9/11 parent Lou. “It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of a heart providing identification,” he says of his son’s remains, to penetrating effect.

Gung-ho Joe, son and brother of military casualties, registers like Nick Nolte’s scarier cousin. Estranged Lucille and Ricardo Gonzales, the poles upon whom “Make Love” hangs, rank high in Kearns’ solo canon, limited only by insufficient narrative development.

This affects other characters that do not necessarily jell with Kearns’ objective. In the case of incest survivor Ted Junior, his early placement works against his shocking account. Gay African American recruit Donny needs a counterbalance, maybe lover Kenny, for his raw study of foxhole affection. Healthily partnered pacifist Geoffrey, though vividly realized, seems from another show, while the absence of a character representing that demographic to whom the war seems unreal is conspicuous.

“Make Love Not War” needs restructuring and direction to achieve full theatrical statement, though Kearns devotees will value this promising work.

-- D.C.N.

“Make Love Not War,” Gallery Theater, Barnsdall Art Park, 4800 Hollywood Blvd., L.A. 7:45 p.m. Saturday, June 26. (866) 881-8399 Free. Running time: 45 minutes.

*

One man, too fast and too furious

Sam Brown needs to calm down. The dark-eyed Boston-born comic, who suggests a cross between Bruce Willis and Joe Piscopo, races through much of his one-man show “Neurotica” like he’s got something to prove.

Maybe he does. For instance, is he funny? On the evidence of this autobiographical stomp through failed relationships, crackpot therapy and family nostalgia, yes and no.

Brown can be an engaging and versatile performer, giving each of his characters distinct voices and tics, even in rapid-fire group scenes. He scores some tart zingers and has some genuinely vertiginous arias.

But when “Neurotica” isn’t reaching for straight-faced pathos -- as in a moving final tribute to Brown’s idealized late father -- it trips over itself, setting up gags and set pieces that are too forced to tickle us or too rapid-fire to land. Jon Shear’s direction is tight and the show’s design first-rate, particularly Robert Oriol’s lighting and sound design, which turns Karyl Newman’s blue set into a convincing approximation of an isolation tank. If Shear could also bust up Brown’s speed-freak/hothead shtick, this might be a pretty effective solo show.

-- Rob Kendt

“Neurotica,” Hudson Guild Theatre, 6539 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. 8 p.m. Wednesdays to Saturdays. Ends June 18. $15. (323) 960-7861. Running time: 1 hour, 15 minutes.

*

Serial killer’s amateur turn

“Frozen,” Bryony Lavery’s gut-twisting drama about a pedophilic murderer, the mother of one of his victims and the detached psychologist who is making a study of serial slayers, was hugely successful in London and New York, where it scored a Tony Award and several nominations.

Much of the play transpires in a series of stark and harrowing monologues. An intricate examination of evil, the drama is thematically difficult, innately controversial and relentless in tone. A current production of “Frozen” at the Pilot Light Theatre in Hollywood is also relentless -- relentlessly amateurish.

The production values are rudimentary at best -- the set a few sticks of furniture, the lighting mostly switch-on, switch-off.

That minimalism would be acceptable were the acting not of the switch-on, switch-off variety. The actors labor mightily to flesh out their complicated characters. Under the tone-deaf direction of James James, they fail to find the necessary levels that would make Lavery’s somewhat cryptic material take fire.

The production is double cast. On opening night, Tico Wamai played the killer, Tia Cosey the bereaved mother, and Najja Ayana the psychologist. To give the actors their due, their efforts are difficult to assess, since a thumping and bombastically audible musical in an adjacent theater disrupted their performance. Wamai, Cosey and Ayana should be commended for maintaining concentration under such trying circumstances. And the producers -- COLSAC and Pilot Light Productions -- should be ashamed for countenancing such a debacle.

-- F.K.F.

“Frozen,” Pilot Light Theatre, 6902 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. 8 p.m. Fridays, 3 and 8 p.m. Saturdays, 3 p.m. Sundays. Ends July 10. $20. (323) 960-4418. www.plays411.com. Running time: 2 hours.