By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
Not long after the MGM lion roars, the camera pans over a group of young Broadway hopefuls. Sure of their talent, these would-be stars nonetheless worry they'll never get their big break. "Gosh, if they'd just give us a chance," one begins, only to be drowned out by the swelling soundtrack as a boyish Mickey Rooney dances in to save the day. "It's gonna be swell," he tells the kids. "Crabby old Mrs. Hemple isn't so bad after all. She's lending us her barn, and now we can finally put on our show!" Cut to costumes and sets miraculously appearing, and then the curtain rises to a thrilled audience including -- can it be? -- Mr. Big-Shot Producer. Before the credits roll, the gang's theatrical futures are assured.
Depression-era celluloid fantasies still inspire emerging artists and playwrights who band together in showcase productions. But harsh realities usually intervene: Theater companies that can afford to train actors and nurture new works cannot risk their financial security by casting unknowns or producing anything except crowd pleasers. As a result, smaller companies, short on everything but passion, assume the task. Frequently a stage and (with luck) an audience are the only things such companies can offer fledgling artists. Budgets do not allow for more than token salaries, forcing rehearsals to be squeezed around day jobs; sets and costumes can cost less than $100, straining dramatic credibility; and minuscule staffs don't include literary managers who can help playwrights clarify and polish their words. While actors in such productions can gain hard-won experience, improve their skills, and add to their resumes, playwrights don't fare as well, often prematurely exposing new works to critical and commercial scrutiny. Two current local premieres illustrate the dismaying consequences of rushing underdeveloped works to the stage.
Presenting its seventeenth production since starting up less than two years ago, EDGE/Theatre brings a little of New York City's East Village showcase experience to South Beach, in a 49-seat space above a coffee shop on Espanola Way. But the cappuccino on the first floor provides far more stimulation than does the South Florida debut of Robert Coles's Barracudas.
Relaxing on a day off from their jobs at a SoBe restaurant, Jen (Liz Dennis) confides to her hunky co-worker Allie (Chris Vicchiollo) that, after three years in the party zone, she is bored by the beach scene. While she lures Allie into providing her with a new distraction, Brice (Carlos Rodriguez), one of their friends, goes home to Manhattan to defend his fun-in-the-sun lifestyle to his disapproving father (Jim Tommaney). Reunited shortly thereafter, the three young pleasure seekers slip out of their clothes and into each other's beds, while Brice's visiting father lurks nearby. Offering no climax or discernable dramatic journey, the play ends with each of the quartet en route to his or her next sensual adventure.
In only its second staging, Coles's unfocused play vacillates between thriller and melodrama, teasing the audience with sensational riddles -- Are Brice and Allie brothers? Is Allie gay? -- until the ambiguous relationships render us too confused to care. To make matters worse, we have to decipher the ponderous, introspective ramblings that pose as dialogue. A case in point: As Brice argues that his father wants to live vicariously through him, their disagreement becomes so derailed by obscure tangents that it's unclear if the two have severed all ties. Coles's dialogue has no continuity in tone; he shifts from lyrical thoughts on moonlight to graphic sexual slang to beat poetry's repetition of phrases. With its vapid dialogue and content, Barracudas mimics the shallowness of the lifestyle it indicts. A documentary following twentysomethings as they obsess about emotions might work on MTV's The Real World, but it isn't enough on the stage, where feelings need to be conveyed and actions clearly communicated.
The cast members, still shaky and settling into their roles at the early performance I attended, were unable to bring together the fragmented script; they concentrated more on remembering their lines than on climbing inside their characters. Because most of the play's scenes end with two characters beginning to make love, director Michael Francis's main objectives -- given his blocking and pacing -- appear to be disrobing and maneuvering the actors on to the next titillating moment. Yet for all of its bedroom escapades, the production suffers from a deficiency of sexual tension.
Whereas the performances and direction don't bolster the weak script, Barracudas's set design does lend visual support. Jim Tommaney, doing triple duty as actor, set designer, and EDGE artistic director, pulls off an amazing feat of budgetary and physical wizardry, managing four set changes on the small raised platform that serves as the theater's stage. The fourteen epigrams that line the theater's walls ("A clenched fist cannot let go"; "Pleasure is its own punishment"; "Umbilical cord ... or leash?") hint at the dramatic possibilities never realized on-stage.
Regardless of its present rough state, Barracudas could still have a future -- if the success of Robert Kunikoff's The Secret Loves of Cha Cha Levine is any indication. The third of four world premieres marking the eighth season of Fort Lauderdale's Public Theatre, Cha Cha Levine is enjoying an extended run at the Fort Lauderdale Museum of Art Auditorium; performances are scheduled next season in Tampa and San Francisco. The real "secret" here, however, is how this inept comedy made it to any stage in the first place.