Artwork by Sarah Kaufman.

Slasher (Urban Samurai, performing at the Sabes Jewish Community Center, through Feb 18) would make a better movie.

Playwright Allison Moore‘s premise is terrific: director Marc Hunter has cast Sheena as “the last girl” – the lead, in other words – in Bloodbath and this gore-splattered film represents, Sheena fervently believes, her ticket to a better life.  This despite increasing evidence that Bloodbath is descending, bobsled-like, toward utter disaster.  Utilyzing a cinematic, back-and-forth structure, the play also portrays Sheena’s wacko home life.  This features her blue pill gobbling, mobile wheelchair bound, stay-at-home femi-fascist mother – a wickedly delightful character.  All the elements are present; Slasher could be the basis of an effective film.

But cinematic plays often, I believe, work better on paper.  Short “pool of light” scenes, popping up in various spots on the stage seem to create terrific narrative momentum, but when staged these scenes inevitably involve deadening lights up/lights down, set pieces dragged in/off.  Just as the play regains momentum, a new scene change intervenes.  Slasher suffers from this.

Moreover, the structure (and the need to keep the cast size and playing requirements manageable) forces Moore to short-shrift the portrait of Bloodbath: we only hear about departing actors, the ever-shrinking budget.  And she expends too much time on Frances (Mom).  Deliciously nasty as this character is, she doesn’t sustain the time spent with her.

Still, Slasher offers great pleasures.  Moore’s portrait of Marc the director delights: calm focused hysteria as his movie deteriorates.  Cops coming to shut us down?  I think we still have time to shoot the climactic scene.  Jody, the ambitious young DP turned leading player, is a hoot.  And of course there’s Sheena, the smiling hero.  Her calm and sweet determination carries the play.  Moore’s writing is focused and taut (she is the author of the well-received My Ántonia).

The last scene: earned?  Maybe not, but it worked for me.  It bumps the characters up onto a new and unexpected level.  See Slasher and discover if it works for you.

Director Brian Balcom has wisely staged the piece in the Sabes JCC’s backstage area, rather than on the high school auditorium mainstage.  This provides a niftily funky atmosphere.  The acting is uneven, but the leads – Michael Lee as Marc, Tamara Titsworth as Sheena, Muriel J. Bonertz as Frances, Matthew Cerar as Jody – deliver solid and entertaining performances.  Balcom keeps the proceedings moving briskly along

Slasher is genuinely funny and Urban Samurai is a shoestring theater well worth supporting.  Ticket prices are approachable ($14 advance/$16 at the door; students and seniors $10/12; pay-what-you-can Mondays and Thursdays).

For more info about John Olive, check out his website.

Tracie Bennett in End Of The Rainbow. Photo by Carol Rosegg.

To his credit, in End Of The Rainbow (at the Guthrie, through March 11) playwright Peter Quilter refuses to give us the “pretty” Judy Garland, the achingly luminous singer who wowed us in The Wizard Of Oz (age 17), A Star Is Born (32), at the famous Carnegie Hall concert (age 41 – “The greatest night in show business history”).

Instead, Quilter zooms in on a pill-popping, vodka-slugging Garland three months before her death.  This Judy was skeletally skinny, 47 (but looking 70).  Her life had devolved into an hysterical search for drugs.  She sweet-talked starstruck doctors, pursued sympathetic pharmacists.  Ritalin to counteract the Seconal, Seconal to counteract the Ritalin, and on and on, in a horrific cycle ending with the great artist’s death via an “incautious overdose” (her body contained the equivalent of 10 Seconals).  Deeply in debt, unable even to pay her hotel tab, everything was focused on the night’s performance: Garland had to make it onstage.  End Of The Rainbow deals with this forthrightly.  It frightens and disturbs.

As Garland, U.K. based Tracie Bennett rants and paces, poses and postures, coos and charms.  She suddenly turns on the people who love her – her enabling fiancé, Mickey Deans, receives much of this abuse.  Then, just as suddenly, Garland leaps into his arms, grinding into him.

And she sings.  Periodically the rear wall of the hotel suite flies up to reveal The Talk Of The Town Nightclub and a solid six piece band.  Bennett takes the stage with Garland-like assurance, singing standards like “Just In Time” and “Come Rain Or Come Shine,” all in a husky, low belt baritone.  Bennett, nicely directed by Terry Johnson, delivers a calculated – and yet still quite mesmerizing performance.

Many of the songs are fragmented, Ritalin fueled, incomplete.  This makes the performance section of End Of The Rainbow rather short.  This is disappointing, for I found many of the hotel suite scenes repetitive and short on narrative momentum.  Garland and Dean scream at each other endlessly.  Deans goes from drug/booze teetotaler to enabler (“Take a few of these.  They’ll fix you up.”) with no believable explanation.  As Deans, Tom Pelphrey does solid, but thankless work.

Still, there are pleasures.  There is a lovely scene between Judy and her gay pianist (Michael Cumpsty) in which the latter invites her to live with him in Brighton, watching the rain, eating shepherd’s pie, glorying in boredom.  Sex?  “I’m afraid there won’t be many fireworks in that department.”  Cumpsty gives a gorgeously under-stated and compelling performance.

Does she still have it?  I would have said no.  This Judy is too far gone into addiction and insanity, too shrill, too hoarse, too boozed up.  But then Bennett, at the very end, sings a breath-taking, astonishingly beautiful “Over The Rainbow.”  Wow.

For more information about John Olive, please visit his website.

Brittany Bradford and Harry Waters, Jr., in Ragtime, The Musical.

E. L. Doctorow was the author of two respected but not widely read novels when in 1975 he thundered onto the literary scene with Ragtime.  Set 1902-17, the novel blends history and fantasy, private characters with oversized historical figures (J.P. Morgan, Booker T. Washington, Henry Ford, et al), all rendered in sharp but refined prose.  Out of the historical swirl, slowly but effectively, stories emerge: of Coalhouse Walker, Jr. (a brilliant character), his touching love for Sarah and his outrage at the defiling of his precious Model T.  Of immigrant Tateh and the beginnings of the film industry.  Ragtime made Doctorow, deservedly, a literary star.

There’s no way the creators of Ragtime, The Musical (at Park Square Theatre, through Feb 19) can reproduce the narrative elegance of Doctorow’s masterpiece.  Instead, Terrence McNally (book), Stephen Flaherty (music) and Lynn Ahrens (lyrics) opt for size.  In numbers like “Ragtime” (the breath-taking opening, in which the waspish New Rochellians, the African Americans, and the immigrants come together, then break apart, repeatedly), “Henry Ford” (about assembly lines), “What A Game” (baseball), one can vividly feel the Broadway provenance of this show.  There are some lovely private songs as well: Mother’s lovely, “Good-Bye, My Love”, Walker’s eloquent “Wheels Of A Dream” and, especially, Sarah’s astonishing “Your Daddy’s Son.”

It all works – mostly.  Flaherty and Ahrens have created some terrific tuneage.  Ragtime contains inspired theatricality, as when Father returns from his polar explorations to find Walker playing ragtime piano for his beloved, Sarah, and her baby upstairs – and no one finds the situation surprising.  Walker’s fury is intelligently handled.  The trap, which the show-makers don’t fall into, would be to make him a one-note (and boring) victim.

Still, once this vital plot thread begins, big tunes like “Atlantic City” feel off-the-mark.  Also, book-writer McNally (of necessity, as he attempts to replicate the sweep of the book) too often falls back on stodgy narration and simplistic characterizations that go nowhere.

But any misgivings about the material are mooted by the loveliness of the production.  Great praise is due director Gary Gisselman who, working with a limited budget, has assembled a boffo cast, first rate musicians, excellent designers and a terrific choreographer.  He stages the show with aplomb.

Ragtime is a big play; ergo, I lack space to adequately praise all the artists who have made it work.  Still, I must applaud music director/pianist Denise Prosek.  I was constantly (and pleasantly) aware of her guiding presence behind the scrim.  As Mother and Father, Christina Baldwin and Lee Mark Nelson, with solid technical prowess, anchor the proceedings.  I was delighted every time they appeared.  Harry Waters excels as Walker.  As Sarah, Brittany Bradford gives a nuanced and powerful performance.  This young woman has some chops – and she sings beautifully.  Dieter Bierbauer is a marvel as Tateh; ditto Aleks Knezevich as Younger Brother.  I have to stop.

Ragtime, The Musical is as big a show as has ever been seen at Park Square.  It’s long (3-ish hours), but the seats are butt-friendly and the ticket prices are approachable.  Definitely recommended.

For more information about John Olive please visit his website.

Khanh Doan and Don Darryl Rivera in Harold And The Purple Crayon. Photo by Dan Norman.

In Harold And The Purple Crayon (at Children’s Theatre Co, through Feb 26) a company of first rate artists and performers collaborate on a deceptively simple, sweetly accessible and yet highly sophisticated…

Well, what would you call Harold?  A play?  I suppose, but it’s really more a celebration of elegant design, tuneful music, astute lyrics, catchy choreography and nifty text, all brought together under the firm and loving direction of the estimable Rita Giomi.

Based on the 1950s book series by Crockett Johnson, Harold And The Purple Crayon dispenses with bothersome devices like story, character relationships and general coherence.  Mind you, this is in no way a complaint; the lack of story logic gives the play-makers leave to free-form, to dream, to stretch their creative muscles in unexpected ways.  Harold, wearing his ubiquitous fuzzy turquoise onesie, uses his crayon to create and explore a series of fantasy environments – a space ship, on the sea, under the sea where he does battle with a giant crab (what a great idea!).  Harold employs songs, projections, cool lighting, great singing, exuberant dancing to create a wonderful theatrical swirl.

The design thrills, but I have to give especial mention to L.B. Morse, whose lighting slash projections are truly unique.  I’ve never seen effects like this, anywhere.

Similarly good is the music, sweet and melodious 80s-style rock.  Music is by Auston James with lyrics by Rob Burgess.  James provides a useful drone, allowing the music to be seamlessly worked into the final product.  Indeed, seamlessness is one of the over-riding joys of this show.  Giomi and her designers make it look simple; it’s not.

The performers are terrific.  Led by the goofy and adorable Don Darryl Rivera (who also receives credit for the text) as Harold, the play features “storytellers” Khanh Doan and Caety Sagoian.  These women function as puppeteers, singers, dancers – figments of Harold’s imagination, who lovingly tuck him into bed at the end, then quietly withdraw.

Is Harold And The Purple Crayon for everyone?  Jaded grown-ups (like me) may find the lack of a story, the relentlessly cheerful mien of the performers, and the high ticket price off-putting.  But if have (or have access to) a young child, by all means, take them to CTC.  Harold is a perfect introduction to the joys of live theater, a worthwhile investment.

For more information about John Olive, please visit his website.

Anna Sundberg, John Riedlinger and Sara Richardson in Flesh And The Desert. Photo by Aaron Fenster.

In Flesh And The Desert (Workhaus Collective performing at the Playwrights Center, through Jan 28), playwright Carson Kreitzer doesn’t concern herself with the air-conditioned glitter of contemporary Las Vegas – the Bellagio, the Venetian, pot-bellied cowboys meandering through the neo-fascist splendor of Caesar’s Palace.  None of this.

Rather, Kreitzer wants to examine the Vegas ghosts, of which there are, here in the climate-challenged twenty-first century, many.  She takes us into the haunted Nevada desert, where Virginia Hill wanders, listlessly looking for her lost Bugsy Seigel.  Where Sandy and Wayne (their real names?) share desultory kisses and exaggerated (one imagines) life stories.  Where the pitiless stars peer down – I believe the entire play happens at night – on this bizarre city.

Kreitzer shows us the down-market performance venues – the old Flamingo, perhaps – home to over-the-hill magicians, Elvis impersonators, frozen-smile showgirls, fallen saints, hookers.  She brings us into a house-trailer (or so my interpretation goes) where Parkinson’s-afflicted musicians spin nostalgic stories about the days of single name headliners: Ella, Frank, Sammy, the Count, et al.  Everything gets jumbled together, in a mix as weird and disjointed as Las Vegas itself.  Kreitzer has a great sense of this city and she makes us feel it as well.

Flesh And The Desert is beautifully acted.  There isn’t a dull performance in the play (kudos to director Ben McGovern).  A growing and enthusiastic coterie will be pleased to learn that Anna Sundberg is in the play; she is luminous as always.  Sara Richardson is terrific.  Ditto Leif Jurgensen; his go at Liberace delights.  Everyone is good.  The evening crackles along.

Still.  I can’t help but feel that Flesh And The Desert (terrific title, btw)  got away from its author.  The piece is relentlessly imagistic and hallucinatory.  Images fly at us.  Scenes are short.  Repetition is overused, often flattening the play (we see the showgirls, Seigel and Hill, the musicians, et al, imo, entirely too often).  I enjoyed the fragmented non-linear structure, but if you’re looking for characters, relationships and a plot you can glom onto, you may find Flesh And The Desert frustrating. Despite its fast-moving pace, the whole enterprise feels long.

Still, there is a lot of terrific stuff here.  Kreitzer is a writer of sharp and unfancy intelligence.  And Workhaus is Minnesota’s only playwright-focused theater, greatly deserving of support.

For more information about John Olive, visit his website.

Will Sturdivant as Brutus and Sid Solomon as Cassius in Julius Caesar. Photo by Heidi Bohnenkamp.

Julius Caesar, asserts the officious and buttoned down Brutus in his oration at Caesar’s funeral, “was ambitious, [and so] I slew him.”

But isn’t ambition the assassins’ over-riding motivation?  They pay poor lip service to serving “great Rome,” but “lean and hungry” Cassius and his furtive cohorts react mostly to the man’s raw power.  Caesar “bestrides the world like a colossus,” he wants to be “king,”, Cassius et al are mere “underlings.”  Cassius enlists the dull and pompous Brutus (or so he seems in this reading) in the conspiracy, hoping that Brutus can lend it some solidity.  But Brutus’s bloodlust proves as insane as anyone’s: “It must be by his death.”

Frightening, fascinating.  And occasionally frustrating: in Julius Caesar (in the Guthrie’s Dowling Studio, a co-production with the Acting Company, through Feb 5) William Shakespeare provides little motivation for the killers beyond a simple need to bloody their hands, little sense of Caesar’s accomplishments.  There is a very modern quandary at the center of this play: we’re committed to this horror but we’re not precisely sure why.  This compelling modern vibe explains why Julius Caesar is so often performed.

It also explains why the piece is so often given (as in this production) in contemporary dress.  Director Rob Melrose dresses his killers in dorky young Republican suits, sets the action in Washington, D.C., and uses (to good effect) a bank of video screens (Shawn Sagady receives credit for video design; no doubt set designer Neil Patel lent a helpful hand).  Lots of hip-hop transition music, cell-phone use, gouts of blood splashing across the screens.  Cool.  The assassination is staged in a conference room, and Caesar’s slayers use letter openers.

Once Caesar dies, Julius Caesar “lets slip the dogs of war” and takes off.  Beginning with the brilliantly written funeral, Mark Antony dominates.  The assassins fight back, uselessly.  Madness sweeps the city – gunfire, whumping helicopters.  The scene in which thugs kill the poet Cinna “for his bad verses,” frightens and thrills.

As does the performance of Zachary Fine as Antony.  Fine does the best, imo, work, easily moving from buttoned-down conservatism to wild Shakespearean power, as he leads the struggle against the rebels.  Similarly excellent is Kevin Orton as Casca. I may not have entirely agreed with William Sturdivant‘s deliberate Brutus but there is no doubt that Sturdivant is an actor of intelligence and flair; he held my interest throughout.  Other actors are good, but too often their work tends toward the generic and this takes some edge off the play.  Director Melrose overuses dissonant background music (and plays it too loud, even for my aging ears).  These are minor complaints; this is a solid production of a terrific play.

Note that in April Theatre Unbound will produce an all-female production of Julius Caesar.  It will be interesting to compare that production with this one.  Certainly this play will stand up to multiple viewings.

For more information about John Olive, please visit his website

J. Anthony Crane as Scar and Dionne Randolph as Mufasa in The Lion King. Photo by Joan Marcus.

“I don’t do children’s theater,” director Julie Taymor informed the powers-that-be at the vaunted Disney Corporation “and I don’t do cute.”

To their immense credit, they hired her anyway.  The inventive Ms. Taymor then proceeded to transform the animated Disney film, with its simple story of a young lion, Simba, coming into his own as king of Pride Rock, falling in love with Nala, forming rich emotional attachments to Timon and the flatulently lovable Pumbaa, into one of the great musicals of our age.  Taymor’s The Lion King (at the Orpheum, through Feb 12) is a breath-taking swirl of African-inflected choreography, astonishing puppetry, colorful design, gorgeous songwriting.  Her masterwork is long but never repetitive, always imaginative, mesmerizing.

The rough magic of The Lion King is completely visible: we see the guide ropes, the flying cables, the painted scrims.  We see the puppet operators, the people spinning the birds, walking the giraffes, riding the leaping gazelle bicycles.  The characters all wear masks, but we are fully cognizant of the human actors.  Taymor and fellow puppeteer Michael Curry have done yeoperson work.  The puppets amaze.

The other designers support them brilliantly: Richard Hudson‘s sets, Donald Holder‘s lights, Taymor’s costumes, Michael Ward‘s make-up, Steve Kennedy‘s sound, Garth Fagan‘s excellent choreography.  I still get goose-flesh thinking of the second act effect whereby stars, projected onto the hanging leaves, coalesce into the (huge) image of the dead Mufasa, as Simba peers into the reflecting pool.  I’ve no idea how the designers accomplished this, but it thrills.

And the songs!  Elton John and Tim Rice‘s sweet and catchy tunes are niftily expanded upon by Hans Zimmer, Lebo M, Taymor (again), and Jay Rifkin.  These latter composers create haunting African chants and lovely dance music.

One of the great pleasure of a show like The Lion King, with its emphasis on dance and puppetry, is that the performers are in fabulous physical condition, lithe and muscular, very easy on the eyes.  The show uses double casting effectively, with young and grown up Simba (Niles Fitch and Jelani Remy) and Nala (Kailah MacFadden and Syndee Winters).  I was especially taken by Dionne Randolph‘s Mufasa; his “They Live In You” is a standout.  I wish I had space here to wax enthusiastic about everyone.

As you may know, The Lion King started its life here in Minneapolis, 15 years ago, in a pre-Broadway tryout.  It has become, like all great shows, an institution.  Now it’s back, fully mature and imminently seeable.

The Lion King is not a cheap ticket.  How could it be, with so much first rate design, such great songwriting and so many lovely performances?  But it’s worth it.  If your play-going budget has room for a splurge, here’s the show.

Highly recommended.

For more information about John Olive, please visit his website.

John Skelley, Matthew Amendt and Ben Mandelbaum in Charley's Aunt. Photo by T. Charles Erickson.

First the good news: the design of Charley’s Aunt (at the Guthrie through Jan 15) is exquisite.  The Guthrie’s tech department, the best in the country, really outdid themselves (between this play and the richly produced A Christmas Carol they must have labored overtime and eminently deserve the holiday vacation I hope they are enjoying).  The gorgeous McGuire-filling sets (by John Coyne) are beautifully lit (by Marcus Dilliard).  In particular, the costumes (by Jess Goldstein) thrill.  The wigs are a marvel.  I’m never quite sure who designs these; I always assume it’s the costumer, but perhaps I’m mistaken (and perhaps someone could enlighten me).  If you require a reason to see this play, here it is.

The actors acquit themselves nicely.  They do not give in to the temptation to make fun of the hoary old play (a temptation that Guthrie performers succumb to).  Director John Miller-Stephany keeps the proceedings focused and honest, if slowish (though maybe it just felt that way to me).

It’s all about the men, this play: as the two slightly dim but plucky college boys who concoct the scheme to have their chum Lord Babberly play Aunt Donna Lucia, Matthew Amendt and Ben Mandelbaum are tirelessly funny play-drivers.  Charles Hubbell plays Brassett the valet perfectly, arch and superior, tall and lanky, with a wry and slightly goofy smile.  Everyone in the audience adored him (as did I).  Peter Thomson provides some badly needed emotional honesty and as Col. Chesney, genuinely in love with his old flame, he was lovely.  Colin McPhillamy played the ever-horny (Lord, he wants that money) Spettigue with relish.  And John Skelley, the cross-dresser, whose enjoyment of his gutsy performance increases scene by scene (and actually becomes slightly disturbing), was a hoot.

The women are less satisfying (through no fault of the actors, who are all excellent).  Kitty (Valeri Mudek) has blonde hair and Amy (Ashley Rose Montando) is brunette; apart from that I could discern no meaningful difference between them.  Even the real Aunt Lucia (the marvelous Sally Wingert) is under-utilized.  Her final revelation (“I am Donna Lucia d’Alvadorez”) feels decidedly anti-climactic.  Only Thallis Santesteban as Ela generates real heat, as Lord Babberly’s beloved.

As to the play, well, gee.  Charley’s Aunt (written by Brandon Thomas) is 120 years old and has been given many thousands of times.  A farce, the play lacks the focused discipline of Feydeau’s best work, or the thematic intensity that animates Joe Orton, Gogol, et al.  Like most old farces, Charley’s Aunt depends greatly on past-tense material – the winding up of the plot rubber-band.  But when the band is released, the piece suffers from repetitive one-joke circularity.  “I’m from Brazil, where the nuts come from,” comes up a half dozen times.  All this makes the play long.  In 1890, Lord Babberley’s cross-dressing must have been naughty and thrilling, but nowadays it feels silly.

So: it would be difficult for me personally to recommend this play.  Still, I will admit that the opening night audience had a great time.  If you’re looking for mindlessly amusing, superbly designed, and utterly unchallenging holiday entertainment, Charley’s Aunt might be the ticket.

For more information about John Olive, please visit his website.

Joe Leary in Santaland. Photo by Tony Nelson.

Go to the Ordway and experience the “timeless enchantment” of Cinderella ($113 per ticket).  Or try the Guthrie’s A Christmas Carol, after 35 years still “as powerful and uplifting as it ever was” ($73).  Or maybe CTC’s “beloved” The Wizard Of Oz ($70).

All this overpriced holiday feel-good about to send you shrieking into the frozen night?

Frank Theatre has the antidote.  For a mere $25 ($15 for students and retirees) you can betake yourself to the niftily old-fashioned Women’s Club and see David Sedaris‘s wickedly funny The Santaland Diaries (Frank Theatre performing at the Women’s Club, through Dec 30) – one of the great bargains of the holiday season.

Sedaris, impoverished and recently arrived in New York City spends a harrowing Christmas working as an elf (Crumpet) at Macy’s.  Crumpet undergoes elf training and then is flung, like an ancient Christian into the Roman Coliseum, into “Santa Land,” guiding cranky children and their hysterical parents into Santa’s lap (“All I want for Christmas is for Proctor and Gamble to stop torturing animals,” asserts an earnest boy), working the “vomit corner” (where the kids get rid of their greasy Macy’s lunches), dealing with Snowball the smarmily flirtatious elf, the arch and mysterious Santa Santa – all the while trying not to go berserk and chew off everyone’s face.

Sedaris’s book, The Santaland Diaries, is hootingly funny, gleefully nasty and became, deservedly, an instant holiday classic.  It also makes for a terrific evening of theater.  The material, adapted for the stage by Joe Mantello, clocks in at an intermissionless 70 minutes.  A perfect length.

Sedaris and actor Joe Leary (reprising last year’s success) avoid the obvious pitfall: Crumpet is obnoxious but not off-puttingly bitter and repulsive.  He actually has a good time and admires (at some level) the people he merrily excoriates.  This makes him genuinely funny.  Leary rarely takes the energy level to 10 (another potential trap) and thus gives a modulated and charming performance.  He lets Sedaris do the nasty heavy lifting and has an infectious good time.  It’s good work – and no doubt he had excellent support from director Wendy Knox.

The designers  — Steve Rohde (sets), Kathy Kohl (costumes), Mike Wangen (lights) Sarah Pickett and Katharine Horowitz (sound) – transform the hoary old Women’s Club into a colorful Christmas wonderland.  Kitschy, but not overbearing.

Beware the generous bartender: my companion ordered a vodka on the rocks and received enough booze to kill one of the Wise Men’s camels.

Highly recommended.

For more information about John Olive please visit his website.

J.C. Cutler as Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Photo by Michael Brosilow.

“A turkey?!” sputters the Cranky Critic, sufferer from permanent indigestion and squinty short-sightedness.  “There were no turkeys in 1840 England.  Ha.  This is nothing more than an excuse for the Guthrie prop department to manufacture an oversized bird, stick it on a bed of plastic crabapples and wheel it onstage on a—”

Hush.  Go drink some lemon juice.  Let the innocent and enthusiastic Inner Child write this review.  After all, A Christmas Carol (at the Guthrie through Dec 30) is a long-standing holiday tradition (we are now well into the third generation of happy Carol-goers).  And of course the play is adapted from a bona fide masterpiece by the great Charles Dickens.

There is something undeniably affecting about the cantankerous Ebenezer Scrooge wandering, hapless and unheard, through scenes of his childhood, his ruined betrothal to the beautiful and loving Belle.  The Ghost of Christmas-Present shows us the Cratchits meager but filled-with-love holiday dinner – and the family’s reverence for Tiny Tim’s courage.  The unspeaking (and unspeakable) Ghost of Christmas-Yet-To-Be reveals a bleak Seventh Seal-esque future, with Tiny Tim’s death and Scrooge’s own lonely passing.  When Scrooge breaks free of his nastiness and becomes imbued with holiday spirit, we cheer.

The stuff really works and the Guthrie adaptation, directed by artistic director Joe Dowling and written by Crispin Whittell, doesn’t stint.  The production is lush and filled with music.  The opening night audience adored it.

But the ghosts!  Flying in pointlessly and why are there two renditions of Christmas Future?  And so much dancing!

Quiet.  Pass me that blanket.  There.  We’re going to talk about J.C. Cutler‘s wonderful Scrooge.  Cutler delivers a lovely and understated performance, with none of over-the-top bluster that one so often sees with this character.  This pays off big-time when Scrooge visits his past.  This Scrooge is vividly confused and lonely, in his famous nightcap, in sharp contrast to the insensitive and greedy persona we get in the beginning.  Cutler gives A Christmas Carol emotional depth – and makes the glitzy (and, all right, yes, occasionally over-the-top) production work.

The rest of the cast excels, naturally.  I was especially taken with Suzanne Warmanen and Lee Mark Nelson as Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig.  They strike the perfect balance between shrieking theatricality and genuine emotional resonance.  They are delightful, and ditto John Catron as Scrooge’s nephew.  Here’s an actor who quietly takes the stages and forces you to watch him.  As Cratchit, Kris L. Nelson will break your heart even as you admire his feisty assertiveness.

Recommended – if you can get a ticket.  Call the BO ASAP.

For more information about John Olive, please visit his website.