Stupid Kids

Celebration Theatre
7051-B Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood
Thursday-Saturday 8 p.m., Sunday 3 p.m.
Through April 6
Tickets: $25
www.tix.com

There’s a behind-the-scenes melancholy surrounding this energetic and compelling 1998 off-Broadway play. Playwright John C. Russell died of AIDS complications in 1994, cutting short the career of a prodigious budding talent, as director Michael Mayer shepherded the unfinished work to fruition. Though the play communicates its satiric portrait of youthful angst largely through raucous humor and butt-kicking rock music, there’s also sharp poignancy in this bittersweet tale, which seems partially inspired by the film classic Rebel Without a Cause.

There’s less plot than atmospherics and characterization in the piece, and director Michael Matthews has assembled a knockout cast and stellar design team to parlay it into one of his finest efforts. In a high school somewhere in Middle America, romantic sparks fly between saucy babe Judy (Tessa Thompson) and newly arrived tough-guy hunk Jim (Michael Grant Terry). Her ex-boyfriend (unseen) rallies the in-crowd at the school to cause trouble for this new union. Meanwhile, two wannabe poets, the geeky Neechee (Ryan Spahn) and Jane (Kelly Schumann), pine for Jim and Judy, respectively, amid a fiercely homophobic high school culture.

The show plays out in a refreshingly free-form style, with exuberant song and dance sequences, staged by Marvin Tunney, alternating with snippets of story that at times resemble a series of Peanuts cartoons, but with a sharper edge. Schumann is a dynamo as the spunky and punky cut-up, with traces of insecurity beneath her brassy exterior. As the ever-suffering Neechee, Spahn brilliantly captures the pain of adolescent longing, along with an infectiously mischievous spirit. Thompson is sublime as the self-absorbed siren with a suppressed soft spot, and Terry is equally superb as the stud muffin, who can be charming and somewhat threatening at the same time. Whatever one’s age, this enthralling production provides a time-capsule journey to a time in life that most of us remember as a mixture of boundless joy coupled with almost-unbearable fear. —Les Spindle

Joan Rivers: A Work in Progress by a Life in Progress

Geffen Playhouse
10886 Le Conte Ave., Westwood
Tuesday-Thursday 7:30 p.m., Friday 8 p.m.,
Saturday 4 & 8:30 p.m., Sunday 2 & 7 p.m.
Through April 6
Tickets: $35-74
www.geffenplayhouse.com

The title of Joan Rivers’ hugely entertaining new autobiographical vehicle hints that this shrewd showbiz survivor left herself some slack. “Work-in-progress” generally connotes a show not yet open to the press. Yet critics were indeed invited to what’s been heralded as a world premiere, written by Rivers, Douglas Bernstein and Denis Markell, and starring the multitalented diva. There are quibbles one might make about the debuting effort—excessive length and the questionable need for three under-used sitcom-styled supporting characters. Then there is the matter of genre categorization: Is this really a play, or more an offbeat solo showcase, stand-up act or some hybrid thereof? Audiences aren’t likely to care what it is. They’ll be laughing too hard, then ultimately dabbing tears from their eyes. Rivers’ highly personal vehicle revels in the audacious humor that is her trademark, while allowing her to shift to some highly personal and poignant revelations that ring resoundingly true. If that’s not good theater, what is?

The setting is a fictional pre-awards show in which Rivers, the perennial red-carpet gossiper, discovers that the network’s attention is all being lavished on her co-host daughter, Melissa, who even gets better cheese plates in her dressing room, for heaven’s sake. This leads to a tale of ageism and mistreatment of women in the entertainment industry, which the 74-year-old Rivers has said is based on her true experiences.

Rivers periodically steps out of scenes to address the audience, at which time the line blurs between the Joan of the thin narrative and the genuine superstar Joan speaking to the Geffen patrons. It’s a tricky device that works surprisingly well, and director Bart DeLorenzo does a first-rate job of making it all appear seamless. He pulls off a polished production, while presumably not intruding too much into what clearly was a Rivers project from the get-go. The show is at its best when it drops all pretensions of a fourth wall, allowing Rivers to crack naughty jokes (eliciting marathon belly laughs) and to tell of her real-life travails, such as Johnny Carson’s irrational turning on her when she landed a talk show of her own, the prelude and aftermath of her husband Edgar’s suicide, and her myriad insights into the ups and downs of a tenacious showbiz vet. At the climax, when the opening night crowd broke into spontaneous, prolonged rapture after Rivers forcefully expressed her pride and defiance, it became clear that, no matter which critic says what, this is a one-of-a-kind theatrical happening that completely satisfies its target audiences—gay men or otherwise. –L.S.