Equus

David Henry Hwang Theater
At the Union Center for the Arts
120 Judge John Aiso St., L.A.
Through Dec. 4
Thurdsay-Friday 8 p.m., Saturday 2 p.m. and 8 p.m., Sunday 2 p.m.
Tickets: $35-40
(213) 625-7000
www.eastwestplayers.com

The overarching mission of East West Players, a 40-year-old L.A. institution, is to produce quality works that address the Asian-American experience. Also within its season, the company puts on mainstream productions that speak to audiences as a whole, while casting Asian-American actors in the roles. Peter Schaffer's Equus falls into the latter category, and under the sophisticated direction of Tim Dang, it is sure to draw deserved attention to this gem hidden in the heart of Little Tokyo.

Equus is an intensely psychological play, exploring the primal passion that we lose when conforming to "normal" modern society. By virtue of Schaffer's text, Equus is constructed so that the first act lays the foundation for an explosively cathartic second act. As a result, the elements that are at first off-putting, wind up being the most satisfying.

Japanese-American actor George Takei stars as child psychiatrist Martin Dysart, who treats Alan (Trieu D. Tran), a 17-year-old boy who blinded six horses with a steel pick. Under Dysart's probing, the question arises whether even the most heinous acts can be justified, and wondering what -- or who -- is to blame when someone falls outside of social norms. Best known for his role as the inscrutable Sulu in the original Star Trek series, Takei possesses a distinctively rich, deliberate voice and stoic demeanor. Such a flattened affect adds an unexpectedly subtle layer to his character -- he is on the verge of a professional and personal breakdown, but for a long time, Takei is distant, running through lengthy monologues with barely any emotion, so that he almost seems detached from the role. Only later, as catharsis occurs, do we see a crack in his façade, and Takei maintains impressive control over the emotions that do eventually come tumbling out.

Dang takes advantage of Schaffer's stage directions, creating a stylish-yet-primal atmosphere. Taka drummers provide the only sound effects -- at first they are barely noticeable, but they slowly grow like pounding heartbeats that effectively heighten the tension. With the exception of the two leads, the cast sits on the sidelines when they're not in the spotlight -- at first they are distracting, but soon they melt into the scene like an impartial jury. Six of these are men who remain motionless until they're called upon to strip off their shirts (revealing seriously buff leather-bound chests), place wire horse heads over their skulls, and stomp in synchronicity on 15-pound raised hoofs -- at first glance, Annalisa Adams' designs seem cartoonishly abstract, but the horses come to life in the most terrifying ways.

As the tortured patient, Tran also evolves dramatically through the play. Early on, he is a stubborn young man who only communicates through jingles, and at times reverts into a wide-eyed little boy. Both seem simple tricks of an actor's trade. But as Alan's mind is slowly teased open, Tran explodes with a force that is completely stunning. Leaping onto the back of his favorite horse, Nugget (a strapping Wesley John), he lets go of his inhibitions to an immensely gratifying end. Most powerful is Alan's confession as he re-enacts his crime, along with Jill (Cheryl Tsai), the girl who last saw him before his breakdown -- exhibiting the raw vulnerability that we have been waiting for all along. -- Sarika Chawla

Romance

Mark Taper Forum
135 N. Grand Ave., L.A.
Through Nov. 20
Tuesday-Friday 8 p.m., Saturday 2:30 p.m. and 8 p.m.
Sunday 2:30 p.m. & 7 p.m.
Tickets: $20-55
213-628-2772
www.TaperAhmanson.com

Over the years David Mamet has shocked, disgusted, frightened, saddened, and even dazzled audiences with his nimble use of language. In his latest play, Romance, we feel a new sensation: The playwright is pulling our leg. In spite of a heavy dose of political incorrectness, this silly courtroom farce -- with an intentionally inappropriate title -- is just Mamet having a good laugh. Sometimes we laugh with him (the matinee crowd I was in often laughed longer and harder than was really justified), but he doesn't really care. He's just having a gas.

The defendant (Steven Goldstein) is accused of an unidentified crime and stands trial in an unidentified American city where a Middle East peace conference is taking place. We quickly learn that the judge (Larry Bryggman) is certifiably unhinged from the allergy pills he pounds by the fistful. We also discover that the defendant is a Jewish chiropractor, while his attorney (Ed Begley Jr.) is an Episcopalian with a serious anti-Semitic streak. The doughy, middle-aged prosecutor (Jim Frangione) hides a cute and swishy boyfriend (Noah Bean) at home, but not for long.

All these elements collide in a threadbare plot that is mostly a showcase for Mamet's expert use of offensive language, as the playwright targets Jews, Arabs, Christians, gays, lawyers, chiropractors, and even Shakespeare (who is accused of being both Jewish and gay). Mamet's testosterone-loaded pen gets into trouble with the gay boy-toy character -- an outdated stereotype first seen in a leopard-print thong and later in outfits that would make Paul Lynde blush. Bean does all he can with this cardboard character, and it's not even offensive, simply unimaginative.

In a strong cast, many of whom are holdovers from a spring Atlantic Theatre production in New York, Bryggman's judge stands out as a nimble display of comic genius. Whether pontificating or whimpering, his effortless hilarity alone is worth the price of admission.

Because Romance is a Mamet play, we keep expecting a point to be made. Surely all this verbal vitriol is leading us somewhere. But it isn't. The play ends abruptly, almost randomly. Peace has not broken out. The case has not been resolved. And we're still not sure why the entire enterprise was undertaken. But somewhere nearby, David Mamet is laughing. And, in spite of ourselves, so are we. -- Christopher Cappiello