Believe it or not, I really don't enjoy writing very negative reviews. When I do it, it's because I feel obligated to warn potential ticket buyers what they're in for if they put out money for a troubled show. But some responsibilities come with regrets. I'm aware, after all, that even the worst productions are created by often likable people doing their best to be creative. Nobody sets out to act or direct, sing or dance badly, and there's no thrill in telling the world that this or that artist is incompetent or worse. In any case, one would like not to appear heartless.
But honesty comes first. And so I'm required to say the Looking Glass Theatre production of The Rocky Horror Show at Gorilla Theater is an amateurish mess. There's hardly any level of the production that doesn't have its failings, from acting and directing to singing, dancing, and lighting. There are a few strong points — an actor here, a dancer there — but the preponderance of the show is so third-rate, so unprofessional, that I can't candidly remember any other local production of such low quality. If you're in the market for a Halloween treat, consider yourself forewarned: this show is more of a trick. It's poorly imagined and badly executed. You'll wish you'd stayed home. Or gone to the movies. Or the Laundromat.
The plot of the play — like the music and lyrics, by Richard O'Brien — is campy and potentially amusing. Brad Majors and his fiancee, Janet Weiss, are out for a drive when their car suffers a blowout. They walk to a castle in search of a phone and are invited inside by a ghoulish servant named Riff-Raff. Soon they meet the master of the castle, a bisexual transvestite named Frank N. Furter, who informs them that they're just in time to meet his latest creation: a blond boy-toy named Rocky Horror. In the rather disordered events that follow, Rocky comes to life, Frank N. Furter has sex with both Brad and Janet, and Riff-Raff, with a laser gun, turns against his master. There's a lot of singing and some dancing. At the end, the audience is invited on stage.
So where are the problems? Let's begin with the directing. Sheri Whittington's staging lacks pacing, focus, and anything vaguely resembling depth. Again and again, the show stops for no reason, or for a noisy set change. Individual scenes appear unrelated to one another, and it's never clear what locales are supposed to be represented by particular stage areas.
Then there's the trouble we have hearing the songs. Simply put, the instrumental accompaniment regularly overwhelms the singers' voices, so that from the very first moment, we in the audience are faced with crooners who can't be made out. Out of the blue, a voice is assisted by a microphone but then minutes later, we're back to unamplified voices drowned beyond recognition. You'd think someone would have noticed this before opening night.
But that brings us to the problem of these singers' voices, amplified by microphones or not. In the professional theater, it's reasonable to expect that performers will be hired who have voices of professional quality. Such an approach doesn't seem to have occurred to director Whittington. Her female lead, Jennifer Hicks as Janet Weiss, has a timid, cautious instrument that would be hard to enjoy even if it weren't being swamped by piped-in instrumentation. Gabriel Leel as Brad Majors is stronger — we can actually hear him sometimes — but there's no beauty in his voice, none of the quality we have a right to expect when watching a musical. Only Omar Almodovar as Frank N. Furter eventually convinces us of his right to be singing, though through much of the evening he can't be heard either. This is all the stranger because the Gorilla is such a small theater — three rows of seats right up against the stage. It takes work for a voice to be lost in this venue. And that work has been done.
A somewhat different type of inattention has been shown by lighting designer Jason Hicks. This is easily some of the strangest lighting I've ever seen. At one moment a light appears on a character, apropos of nothing, then suddenly is extinguished. At another, a character is speaking or singing, but the lights are on some props or set pieces, not on the performer. Some scenes are well lighted, others so murky, you don't know where to look. And when you do have a focus, it's on the largely unconvincing sets by Jeff Niesen. Niesen, who also designed the tolerable costumes — Transylvanian Ready-to-Wear — does occasionally provide us with pleasing work. But too often, his sets consist of a few low-budget emblems: a cross, a shield, a coat of arms, a skeleton. I can't blame a production company for having a low budget, but I can blame one for making it look like that's the case. Only the study from which a mysterious Narrator speaks is ever pleasing to the eye here and seems to fit the play's meaning. But thanks to the lighting and set designers, most of what you see, along with most of what you (can't) hear is less than satisfying.
The acting, if you can find it, isn't nearly so bad. Best of all is David C. Baker as the Narrator, Almodovar as Frank, Slake Counts as Doctor Scott, and Gina Marie Culp as sexy Columbia. Hicks and Leel are passable as fiancés Janet and Brad, but Michael Cash as Riff-Raff and Jaime Giangrande as Magenta are always three steps behind the audience. Ami Sallee Corley's choreography is usually unimpressive, and in any case is executed half-heartedly by the cast (Culp is an exception). Just for the record, the show does have a couple of high moments with the "Time Warp" song and reprise. Believe me, they're not enough.
This is not professional theater. Not if the adjective packs any meaning.
Do yourself a favor and avoid this debacle.
Performance Critic Mark E. Leib can be reached at mark.leib@weeklyplanet.com or 813-248-8888 ext. 305.
This article appears in Oct 30 – Nov 5, 2003.