Encore

Our critics weigh in on local theatre

21 Dog Years: Doing Time @ Amazon.com. The dot-com time: What the hell happened? It's a question for the ages, especially around here, one most recently taken up by the Berkeley Rep, which has had the good sense to mount Mike Daisey's powerhouse tell-all monologue. The piece isn't just a rebuke to the oppressive Internet titan where Daisey clambered from customer service ("This nation's religion and birthright," he was told) to business development to a kind of professional toxic shock. It's also the author's effort to stake his creative claim. With only a laptop, a latte, and a desk made from a door as props, Daisey delivers, and skewers, whole cultures: of an office, an empire, and an era. And he has a heck of a time. (The show is directed supportively and astutely by Daisey's wife, Jean-Michele Gregory.) The program notes include his "real résumé, circa 2000," with annotations -- "i.e., desk monkey." Daisey, who develops his monologues scriptlessly, exudes honesty and has a flair for performance; these traits combine in just-right proportions for irresistible storytelling. He also exhibits the great chubby-comic magnetism of a long line of stars before him, which, in part, explains how such a soul-numbing experience might be transmuted into something so elevating and hilarious. Through July 2 at the Berkeley Rep's Thrust Stage, 2025 Addison (at Shattuck), Berkeley. Tickets are $25-35; call 510-647-2949 or visit www.berkeleyrep.org. (Jonathan Kiefer) Reviewed June 16.

Buddy -- The Buddy Holly Story. Among the honored too-early-dead of rock 'n' roll, Buddy Holly is untouchable. Not only did he help invent the genre, but he also helped invent the too-early death. His legacy is obvious in his music -- it's been covered by the Beatles (Paul McCartney has for years owned the rights to all of Holly's songs), the Rolling Stones, the Grateful Dead, the Beach Boys, Blondie, and so on, and alluded to, consciously and un-, by countless others. Although it's not immediately evident from the unimaginative title, Buddyis committed to being (and celebrating being) alive -- so much so, in fact, that it comes off as peculiarly hyper. The book by Alan Janes is a pastiche of feel-good, PG-rated stuff, but true enough, it rocks. In appearance, sound, and mood, Buddy evokes a special age in American music, the forward-looking mid-'50s, when a kid like Holly was thrilling to behold. It does no harm to remember the momentum he imparted. Better still to rediscover his musicianship. Ongoing at the Post Street Theatre, 450 Post (at Mason), S.F. Tickets are $25-63; call 321-2900 or visit www.buddyrocks.com. (Jonathan Kiefer) Reviewed June 16.

Hairspray. Based on the 1988 pop-camp-trailer-trash cult-classic film Hairspray, the musical by the same name sticks with you for days like a generous spraying of Aqua Net. Between the upbeat score (which combines bebop, rock, blues, and show tunes) and the humorous but meaningful script, it's actually more vibrant, and resonates more deeply, than the movie. Played by the energetic Keala Settle, Tracy Turnblad is a toe-tapping, hip-swinging typical teenager in 1962 Baltimore, with an expansive heart, monumental dreams, and hair so high it's a hazard in a lightning storm. In fact, everything about Tracy is super-sized, and that's precisely her problem. When she finally lands a spot as a regular teen dancer on the locally broadcast (and all-white) Corny Collinsshow, she becomes determined to integrate it. Her desire to do the right thing lands her in all sorts of colorful places, including the slammer. There's never a dull moment in Hairspray, and when the show ends, the joy in the room is palpable enough to make your hair stand on end. Through July 3 at the Golden Gate Theatre, 1 Taylor (at Golden Gate), S.F. Tickets are $39-81; call 512-7770 or visit www.bestofbroadway-sf.com. (Karen Macklin) Reviewed June 9.

The Lion King. How do you turn a decent cartoon about African wildlife into a lame Broadway musical? 1) Puzzle carefully about the problem of costumes and sets. Pour millions of dollars and hours of mental energy into making your actors look like lions, hyenas, elephants, wildebeests, giraffes, and birds. Solve the problem brilliantly. Hire Julie Taymor to design the magnificent costumes and masks (and to direct the show). Hire Garth Fagan to choreograph elegant, exciting, Afro-Caribbean dance routines. Make sure Donald Holder lights the stage with an eloquent feeling for African distances and sunshine. In general make the show a visual feast. Then, 2) squint in confusion at the script, and 3) carve it up to make room for appalling songs by Tim Rice and Elton John. You'll have a profitable bunch of nonsense with more than one God-soaked number that sounds indistinguishable from bad Whitney Houston. The only cast member who can transcend this mess and give a stirring performance is Thandazile Soni, as Rafiki the monkey shaman, who gets to sing songs like "Nants' Ingonyama," by Lebo M, and other African chants originated by Tsidii Le Loka on Broadway. Bob Bouchard is also funny as Pumbaa the warthog, and Derek Smith plays a perfectly arrogant, sinister Scar, the pretender lion king. Otherwise the show is forced and childish. Adults looking for good theater will be happier when the performers dance instead of trying to act. Through Sept. 5 at the Orpheum Theatre, 1182 Market (at Eighth Street), S.F. Tickets are $26-160; call 512-7770 or visit www.bestofbroadway-sf.com. (Michael Scott Moore) Reviewed Feb. 11.

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