Dec. 08--"Christmas Dearest"
A spiked Slurpee of false eyelashes, shoulder pads and size 11 pumps, "Christmas Dearest" takes a certain Charles Dickens holiday classic firmly by the shoulders, slaps it across the face, pours a shot of vodka down its throat and gives it an extravagantly stupid, wonderfully fizzy old school Hollywood makeover before pushing it out to center stage.
And who better to embody the spirit of Scrooge than Mommie Dearest herself? Joan Crawford (and the sordid legend that trails behind her like a vomit-stained chiffon gown rustling in the breeze) may be one of our purest Hollywood concoctions: there was always a hint of something human underneath all her artifice, but she was a grab bag of vanities and emptiness. And in the over-the-top clutches of Hell in a Handbag, she is due for a nocturnal comeuppance, Christmas ghost-style. Cue the screwball delirium!
Our Lady of Overstated Eyebrows is a high-camp succubus (played by David Cerda, also writer of the show's script and score) who we first encounter in the midst of filming a song-and-dance nativity scene as the Virgin Mary -- or rather "just Mary" per the song's lyrics. (Crawford playing a virgin? Please.)
The real Crawford was reportedly only 5-foot-3, whereas Cerda is 6-foot-something in heels, literally towering over everyone which itself becomes a sly joke about Crawford's formidable persona. "The only virgin in Hollywood is Shirley Temple -- allegedly," she brays.
Her rictus grin (highlighted by lip liner galore) and 1940s bouffant are out of this world and woe to anyone who must appease this narcissistic monster, who is finally reduced to a puddle of mascara by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come in the form of Bette Davis (a tart-tongued Caitlin Jackson) sporting her hilariously ghoulish "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?" hair-and-makeup because of course. The whole thing is a hoot. The whole thing, I tell you.
Much as the show pivots on Cerda's supersized performance (wonderful in its excess), he is surrounded by a crack ensemble of company regulars (including Ed Jones as Crawford's put-upon assistant, essentially the Bob Cratchit role) and new additions such as recent Northwestern graduate Frankie Leo Bennett as Crawford's scarily ticked-off daughter and future "Mommie Dearest" scribe Christina, and Roosevelt University undergrad Alexa Castelvecchi (a major talent) as a young Crawford who morphs from naive small-town nobody to glamorously nasty Hollywood player.
There's a certain precision required for this kind of mega-stylized, happily offensive parody-in-drag (you'll be happy to know that even a reformed Crawford is still awful to that kid of hers) and for years Handbag has had a monopoly on it in Chicago. It is the company's raison d'etre, both artful and insane in its execution, and while Handbag always goes for the laughs (with a soupcon of heart) there's nothing sloppy in Cerda's script (loaded with one-liners and double entendres) or the detailed costumes (by Kate Setzer Kamphausen), wigs (designed by Keith Ryan) and makeup (applied by the cast itself).
Director Steve Love's production is also loose enough to allow for an improvised moment on opening night as Cerda reached for a prop mistakenly placed a bit too far away and paused to give the audience a knowing look while muttering under his breath: "Eight weeks of rehearsal ..."
Through Dec. 30 at Mary's Attic, 5400 N. Clark St.; tickets are $22-$30 at www.handbagproductions.org
"Exit"
A young woman named Lucy is at the center of this new play from ICU Ensemble, which strives to give theatrical form to Lucy's inner life without much success.
When she is with her circle of pals, they have an easy "Friends"-like rapport with one another as the play toggles between Lucy's apartment, a bar they regularly frequent and a poker table.
What might their banter be masking? The characters in playwright Leah Isabel Tirado's script are too underdeveloped to really warrant the question, but in Lucy's case it is a kaleidoscope of disorders that range from anxiety to self-harm to suicidal depression -- nearly all of it expressed in modern dance by two performers clad in black. Their presence feels redundant, stopping the show in its tracks to make obvious what actress Giselle Vaughn (as Lucy) is already portraying with far more subtly and effectiveness.
There are plenty of ways to mix media in theater, but I'm not convinced layering impressionistic dance onto a script based in realism is the way to do it. There's something clunky about the execution in director Bobby Arnold's production and despite Vaughn's natural charisma, there's just not enough here to grab onto, only sketch outlines. Who is this woman? What is the world she inhabits?
Beneath her bravado lies deep emotional trauma. Or perhaps a mental illness that was there all along. The play (which is semi-autobiographical) is consumed with capturing Lucy's mental state, but is unable to expand the narrative beyond that.
Through Dec. 20 at the Greenhouse Theater Center, 2257 N. Lincoln Ave.; tickets are $18 at 773-404-7336 or icuensemblechicago.org.
nmetz@tribpub.com
