Besides
penning some of the most enduring and honored works of Western culture,
Shakespeare explicated perfectly the purpose of his art. Through
Hamlet’s command to an actor about to perform, Shakespeare says (in the
easy-for-laypersons-to-read “No Fear” version): “Fit the action to the
word and the word to the action. Act natural at all costs. Exaggeration
has no place in the theater, where the purpose is to represent reality,
holding a mirror up to virtue, to vice, and to the spirit of the times.
If you handle this badly, it just makes ignorant people laugh while
regular theater-goers [i.e. those who can recognize, understand, and
appreciate good theatre] are miserable -- and they’re the ones you
should be keeping happy” (Hamlet, 3.2).
The
problem with straight theater -- especially straight community theater
-- and the main reason for half-full houses on a good night is that, for
the most part, this four century-old admonition goes unheeded. Yes, a
fine orchestra, elaborate costumes and a realistic set are a joy to
behold; but the true delight and purpose for theatre is the visceral
symbiosis that occurs when an audience observes before them a person
(whose steps, voice and very presence they can feel) living out the most
dramatic moments of her life -- a goal impossible to achieve when the
actor possesses neither the talent nor the fortitude to usher the
viewers into that ethereal state where self-examination and catharsis
are possible. But there’s always an exception to the community theatre
rule...
Through
Neil LaBute’s refreshingly realistic dialogue, M. Michele Richardson’s
savvy directing and the talents of a veritable dream team of a cast, Chino Community Theatre presents one of -- if not the only --
opportunities for IE theater-goers to this year experience that elusive
and wholly satisfying glimpse into this zeitgeist’s looking glass. For
just as the purpose of Hamlet’s play-within-the-play was to “catch the
conscience of the king,” so too LaBute’s masterwork, “Fat Pig,” forces
the post-modern audience to confront the brutal reality of their
disgusts, prejudices and hatreds.
Richardson
humbly credits the playwright for the production’s artistic success.
LaBute’s brilliance notwithstanding, the director has shown delicate
expertise in designing a lovely, ominous soundtrack, casting the play to
perfection, and crafting the show’s effective pace and tone. If making a
trite, anachronistic play entertaining is likened unto a running a
marathon blindfolded, then directing a masterful, relevant play --
especially one that lives or dies by naturalistic performances -- such
is the same race with a Faberge egg balanced on each palm; and, trust,
Richardson crosses the finish line with treasures intact.
Then
there’s the cast! An assembly of talent the magnitude of which is
rarely seen ‘round these parts. Desiree Hill is splendid as “Helen,” the
play’s namesake. Her rambunctious laugh, endearing personality, and
inherent self-confidence all contribute to her vivid portrayal of
society’s archetypal pariah. Hill’s training and experience are evident
in the carefree way she successfully tackles realism. (My one critique
being, I wish she had delved deeper into those few dark moments where
Helen sees her fate foreshadowed and begins to crumble under the
pressures of life and love.) Adam Demerath is marvelous as “Tom,” Hill’s
lithe love interest. One of the IE’s most decorated and versatile
thespians, Demerath can do it all: produce, direct, act, sing,
construct, design, etc. -- is there such thing as an octuple threat? If
so, Adam’s it. Apropos, when only burdened by the responsibilities of an
actor as he is in “Pig,” Demerath creates a work of live art so
layered, so focused, so enthralling, that the simple act of eating
potato chips becomes a heart-wrenching illumination into the broken soul
of the 21st century American man.
No
less radiant is the supporting cast. National award-winning actor,
Jeremy Magouirk, plays the hell out of the vulgar malapert “Carter,”
best friend and foil to Demerath’s Tom. From a simple roar-inducing
entrance, to a Cruise-inspired fit of couch jumping, to the somber
recollection of a painful childhood memory -- Magouirk nails every
moment, every pathos, thus making the most repugnant character
understood, even winsome. The last of the talented quartet is Trista
Olivas, who gives heart, humor and soul to “Jeannie,” Tom’s sultry,
strong-willed ex-girlfriend, whom lesser actresses would relegate to a
lascivious ditz or tyrannical misandrist. Unlike with Helen, LaBute
doesn’t use dialogue to explore the irony of Jeannie’s name. The task
falls to Olivas to embody both the male wish-fulfillment and
self-destructive dreamer aspects of her post-modern American woman,
which she readily accomplishes.
So...
bad acting: audiences hate it (and too-oft rightly assume they’ll see
it, and thus avoid patronizing local theaters) as it is the one
unpardonable production sin -- the one mistake that should be avoided
“at all costs.” Luckily, there’s the rare play (CCT’s wonderful “Fat
Pig”!) where this is a non issue. Therefore, if you are among those few
local patrons still spending their increasingly valuable income -- and
infinitely more valuable time -- attending IE theatre, you would do
yourself a great disservice by missing this show.
LA theater reviews by LA Theater Critic.
