How to characterize Ken Ludwigβs take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyleβs famous mystery? Itβs not an all-out spoof, since it wades through pages and pages of exposition about the monster hound haunting the moors of Devonshire. And, given Ludwigβs blazing track record, it isnβt all that campy, at least under Josh Rhodesβ direction and the Old Globeβs technical wizardry. Camp often implies cheap effects; these star the show. So, a serious send-up?
This helps explain why the production hops between funny bits and long, talky stretches that deflate the suspense. Itβs not about solving the mystery or exploring the incisive mind of Sherlock Holmes: itβs about three actors having to play dozens of characters, and a technical team having to reinvent Rubikβs Cube on the spot.
Euan Morton, who doesnβt appear often, gives Holmes little spark (because his seriousness would undercut the silliness?). Usman Allyβs Dr. Watsonβs a nice blend of competence and toe-tripping. Andrew Kober, Blake Segal, and Liz Wisan play the rest: Dr. Mortimer, the Stapletonβs, Mr. & Mrs. Barrymore, Laura βL.L.β Lyons, Mr. Frankland, three Baskervilles, etc. They stroll off-stage (the director giving each a memorable exit), then return, sometimes in seconds, as someone else: a completely new costume, new facial expression, new accent, even new gender.
At one point Liz Wisan comes back on stage maybe a half second late: different outfit, different wig, but all perfectly in place, as if sheβd spent hours before a dressing room mirror. Asked where sheβs been, she replies, βyou have no idea,β and gets one of the eveningβs biggest laughs.
Itβs appropriate that the showβs three dressers, all in black with headsets and Madonna mikes, take a well-earned bow at the curtain call.
The designers should too. In Close Encounters of the Third Kind, when the organist canβt keep up with the mother shipβs musical vocabulary, the computer takes over. Austin R. Smithβs lighting cues for Baskerville suggest the same need. Theyβre in near constant motion, shaping the stage, flickering, strobing, murking the moors with lowered lamps, crystal chandeliering (at least nine), and searchlighting the gallery of Baskerville oil portraits on the walls of Wilson Chinβs set, where top hats drop from the sky, canes pop up, mini-trains chug white smoke, and little black houses circle the arena stage, their steep Victorian roofs doubling as tables and hideaways for props.
Shirley Piersonβs period-precise costumes and Bart Fasbenderβs original music and creepy, at times stereophonic sounds turn the White Theater into a two-act magic show.
How could they? What will they do next? The effects, the stopwatch timing, and the backstage experiment in Chaos Theory are so impressive they become a tour de force that, in the end, converts the fun, though often silly and at times tedious piece, from a Who- to a How-dunnit.
How to characterize Ken Ludwigβs take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyleβs famous mystery? Itβs not an all-out spoof, since it wades through pages and pages of exposition about the monster hound haunting the moors of Devonshire. And, given Ludwigβs blazing track record, it isnβt all that campy, at least under Josh Rhodesβ direction and the Old Globeβs technical wizardry. Camp often implies cheap effects; these star the show. So, a serious send-up?
This helps explain why the production hops between funny bits and long, talky stretches that deflate the suspense. Itβs not about solving the mystery or exploring the incisive mind of Sherlock Holmes: itβs about three actors having to play dozens of characters, and a technical team having to reinvent Rubikβs Cube on the spot.
Euan Morton, who doesnβt appear often, gives Holmes little spark (because his seriousness would undercut the silliness?). Usman Allyβs Dr. Watsonβs a nice blend of competence and toe-tripping. Andrew Kober, Blake Segal, and Liz Wisan play the rest: Dr. Mortimer, the Stapletonβs, Mr. & Mrs. Barrymore, Laura βL.L.β Lyons, Mr. Frankland, three Baskervilles, etc. They stroll off-stage (the director giving each a memorable exit), then return, sometimes in seconds, as someone else: a completely new costume, new facial expression, new accent, even new gender.
At one point Liz Wisan comes back on stage maybe a half second late: different outfit, different wig, but all perfectly in place, as if sheβd spent hours before a dressing room mirror. Asked where sheβs been, she replies, βyou have no idea,β and gets one of the eveningβs biggest laughs.
Itβs appropriate that the showβs three dressers, all in black with headsets and Madonna mikes, take a well-earned bow at the curtain call.
The designers should too. In Close Encounters of the Third Kind, when the organist canβt keep up with the mother shipβs musical vocabulary, the computer takes over. Austin R. Smithβs lighting cues for Baskerville suggest the same need. Theyβre in near constant motion, shaping the stage, flickering, strobing, murking the moors with lowered lamps, crystal chandeliering (at least nine), and searchlighting the gallery of Baskerville oil portraits on the walls of Wilson Chinβs set, where top hats drop from the sky, canes pop up, mini-trains chug white smoke, and little black houses circle the arena stage, their steep Victorian roofs doubling as tables and hideaways for props.
Shirley Piersonβs period-precise costumes and Bart Fasbenderβs original music and creepy, at times stereophonic sounds turn the White Theater into a two-act magic show.
How could they? What will they do next? The effects, the stopwatch timing, and the backstage experiment in Chaos Theory are so impressive they become a tour de force that, in the end, converts the fun, though often silly and at times tedious piece, from a Who- to a How-dunnit.
Comments