Taking Genet’s challenge

Would it be too great a sacrilege against the gods of postmodern intellectualism to note that Jean Genet’s “The Blacks” is somewhat turgid and inaccessible? The play was written in the late 1950s, some years before its openly gay, criminally inclined Caucasian French playwright aligned himself with the Black Panther Party, just one of his several radical causes. The sprawling satire bitterly lampooned French colonialism in Africa, but also addressed wider issues of racial identity, cultural stereotypes and class hubris.

Fervid champion of the oppressed, Genet used “The Blacks” as an opportunity to spew forth a concoction of poeticism and discontent that is (and this is an admittedly arguable point) frustratingly unsynthesized. However, it’s easy to see why an ambitious director would embrace this challenge, difficult though it may be.

In his vibrant three-ring staging at the Evidence Room, L. Kenneth Richardson takes advantage of every opportunity presented in Bernard Frechtman’s long-winded adaptation -- and several that aren’t. The show is subtitled “A Clown Show,” but you wouldn’t want the kiddies to attend this Stygian carnival.

Almost indescribably hectic, the action involves an inexorable descent from broad comedy into surreal violence. In Snezana Petrovic’s simple scenic design, the Whites watch from a high platform as the play-within-a-play unfolds below them. Archibald Absalom Wellington (effective Michael A. Shepperd) is the vaguely demonic emcee who presides over the evening’s “entertainment” -- the ritualistic murder of a white woman by the reluctant Deodatus Village (simmering Victor Love).

Uniformly histrionic, the acting is highly stylized throughout, although a few performers fall through the cracks of the concept. Ann Closs-Farley’s bizarrely colorful costumes, Anne Militello’s garish lighting and John Zalewski’s purposely dissonant sound all contribute to the general disorientation. As for the direction, Richardson’s tack is as vivid and excessive as Genet himself. Although rudely scrawled, this “Blacks” is certainly multihued.

-- F. Kathleen Foley

“The Blacks,” Evidence Room, 2220 Beverly Blvd., Los Angeles. 8 p.m. Thursdays-Sundays. Ends June 26. $15-$20. (213) 381-7118. Running time: 2 hours, 30 minutes.

*

A family suffers the cost of war

The sight of an American flag-draped coffin returning from Iraq is a startling rarity -- all the more so when it appears not on the evening news but on the make-believe world of the stage.

In “Flags” at the Odyssey Theatre, the pseudonymous Jane Martin strikes again, with a topical sledgehammer drama about the emotional costs of the Iraq war here at home. In a scenario disturbingly in sync with headlines, an average American family is torn apart by deception and spin surrounding the combat death of their eldest son.

Garbageman Eddie Desmopoulis (Chris Mulkey) and his wife Emma (Karen Landry) are a far cry from political activists -- lifelong patriots, they have never questioned the war. Yet while their son may not have been an NFL star, he was a hero to them, and nagging questions about the official story surrounding his death drive Eddie to fly a flag upside down. This nonverbal act of protest sets in motion an ever-widening cycle of divisiveness and violence, in his own community and across the nation when the parasitical media get hold of the story.

The staging concept ties Eddie’s lineage to its classical roots, framing the story as a Greek tragedy complete with a headline-chanting chorus. Ancient stone ruins encircle the family’s blue-collar living room in Victoria Profitt’s atmospheric set.

Nuance was never a hallmark of Jane Martin plays, and this one is no exception. With rhetoric and melodrama piled on pretty thick, the play’s arguments are unlikely to change anyone’s mind about the issues. The closest we get to a real debate is a brief heated exchange between Eddie and another grieving father (Michael Wise).

Fine staging by Jenny Sullivan, however, fills in subtle character shadings. Eddie’s reconciliation with his estranged younger son (Ryan Johnston) is painfully incomplete, and escalating marital tensions convincingly drive Emma into the arms of a sympathetic neighbor (Stephen Mendillo).

The story never attains the stature of the Greek tragedies it seeks to emulate, mainly because all of its hubris is borne by the war’s unseen architects rather than the family it destroys.

-- Philip Brandes

“Flags,” Odyssey Theatre, 2055 S. Sepulveda Blvd., Los Angeles. 8 p.m. Wednesdays through Saturdays, 3 p.m. Sundays (June 5 and 19, July 10 and 17), 7 p.m. Sundays (May 29, June 12 and 26, July 3 and 24). Ends July 24. $20.50-22.50. (310) 477-2055 or www.odysseytheatre.com. Running time: 1 hour, 40 minutes

*

Nuanced work in Harrower parable

Strange fascination pervades the festival caviar aura of “Knives in Hens” at the Rude Guerrilla Theater in Santa Ana. Since its Edinburgh premiere in 1995, David Harrower’s raw, poetic study of the consequences of knowledge has become an international, much-translated postmodern classic.

Playwright Harrower, acclaimed for his translations of Chekhov, Buchner and Pirandello, adopts a specific narrative syntax, located somewhere between Harold Pinter and Caryl Churchill. Twisting his three arcane rural archetypes against their fears, dreams and the judgments of the village they all distrust, Harrower bends his adult fable into an enigmatic, unnerving, yet finally hopeful parable.

Director-designer Scott Barber’s austere, atmospheric staging honors the oddly intriguing text, adjectives and metaphors colliding with erotic tension and violence. Barber’s set, with its quilt-laden bed poised between a millstone and a stable wall, serves the esoteric tone, and lighting designer Dawn Hess, as usual, makes striking use of limited instruments.

As William, the plowman, Vince Campbell counters his contemporary quality with great skill; as Gilbert, the miller, Aurelio Locsin keeps a tight leash on his innate sardonic edge. These two company stalwarts frame the plowman’s wife of Christine Tanabe, a mercurial discovery whose lyrical stillness blooms as her character’s awareness does.

Their nuanced work sustains interest, despite a lack of menace to the hieratic effects. This especially applies to the unseen village, its oppression stated more than felt, and certain moments, like the final curtain, are overly pointed. Still, “Knives in Hens” is creditable stagecraft. Its adult aspects almost seem tasteful, surely a Rude Guerrilla first.

-- David C. Nichols

“Knives in Hens,” Rude Guerrilla Theater Company, 200 N. Broadway, Santa Ana. 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2:30 p.m. Sundays. Ends June 11. Contains nudity and sexual situations. (714) 547-4688. Running time: 1 hour, 20 minutes.

*

She-devils with human issues

If you’re a fan of folk tales, you’ll probably find “Yiddish She-Devils” at the Santa Monica Playhouse entertaining, despite certain rough patches in its presentation.

Struck by the proliferation of malevolent female demons in Jewish folklore, director-writer Nicole Berger recasts her “she-devils” in a more sympathetic and humorous mold. Sure, these entities may hail from the deepest recesses of Gehenna, but they have distinctly human “issues,” particularly where men are concerned.

The folk tales are presented as part of a 1940s Jewish radio show -- a nostalgic but cumbersome framing device that is never seamlessly integrated into the stories. Neither are the show’s sporadic belly dances, although nicely performed by Sarah Lappin.

The first tale concerns the plight of Hermeline (Tara Shea), the she-devil mistress of the local goldsmith, now deceased. Unbeknown to his righteous Jewish wife, Hedela (Penny Di Marco), the goldsmith concealed his demonic mistress and their “halfling” child in the cellar. Now, Hedela wants Hermeline drummed out of the village. But Hermeline has her own case to plead.

The second act opens with a brief scene in which Lilith (Tere Morris), Adam’s demonic first wife, defends her fickle ways to God (Ed Asner in voice-over). Unfortunately, despite Asner’s tape-recorded star turn, this sequence plays like a misplaced comedy sketch. The second act concludes with the story of Yakov (Lewis Berger), a grasping tavern keeper who is beset by a ravenous she-demon because of his cruelty to his friend Azriel (Ron Rudolph.)

In this closer, the actors chew the scenery prolifically -- and some choke on it. However, a few stand out among this mixed cast. Adam LeBow is particularly noteworthy as an antic radio host, while Shea and Di Marco are also quite winning in multiple roles. Percussionist Robert Cohn and David Zasloff, who plays several instruments, from the shofar to the trumpet, perform lively ethnic music throughout.

F. Kathleen Foley

“Yiddish She-Devils,” Santa Monica Playhouse’s The Other Space, 1211 4th St., Santa Monica. 8 p.m. Fridays-Saturdays, 6 p.m. Sundays (except for May 29, at 2 p.m.) Ends June 5. (310) 394-9779, Ext. 1. Running time: 1 hour, 40 minutes.

*

‘Low’ digs into

the preposterous

Amazing chutzpah cannot raise the stakes in “Low” at the Complex in Hollywood. Brennan Howard’s multimedia fantasia about Chet Baker, Sonny Liston and Charles Manson operates on the confidence borne of its ambitions, which is the best you can say about it.

Besides writing, directing and playing Manson, Howard creates numerous film sequences (cinematography by Victor De Anda), which splice archival footage with screened extensions of what passes for “Low’s” narrative. Wearing multiple hats is as good an explanation for what transpires in the Ruby Theatre space as any.

Set in the ‘70s, during the last days of heavyweight legend Liston (“The Champ”), “Low” brings the discredited boxer into Las Vegas alliance with Baker, “the James Dean of jazz,” who runs from his own refracted travails, and not just with heroin. Various Baker, Liston and Manson family and business entities and/or satirized era personas weave into a highly dubious scenario. Every so often, the lights go red, and Howard’s indescribable Manson enters to slur out messianic syllogisms.

It is hard to do justice to “Low” in print. The film sequences indicate film school ability, but their video-logged course grows lethargic as its narrative digs ever deeper into the preposterous, landing finally in a vacuous limbo that suggests an art-school graduate project on public access TV.

Charity prohibits citing the large cast of live and on-screen actors, some of them of professional caliber, trapped in this mess, an oxygen-depleting experience of stupendously stupefying proportions.

-- D.C.N.

“Low,” Ruby Theatre at the Complex, 6476 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood. 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2 and 7 p.m. Sundays. Ends June 12. Suggested donation: $12. (310) 314-9772. Running time: 2 hours, 35 minutes.