THEATER

A thousand and one Arabian nights are barely equal to a week on the buffet, beef and bourbon circuit. Plunging into the dinner theater subculture is somewhat like dangling between two different worlds and never quite reaching either.

The Great American Dinner Theater is, in a very real sense, a limbo theater, an incongruous blend of legit theater, TV sitcom and a flashy Vegas nightclub act, with no apparent goal other than making money. It’s the poor man’s Broadway, the Big Mac of the theater world, a substanceless imitation for the real thing.

The audiences never have a chance. The idea of dinner theater is a big thing to them, a chance to get dressed up and to spend a night at The Theater. But what they get is a lot of little things: mediocre food at best, plastic service and the worst of American drama, strained of all goodness, wit and charm, dressed up with a star out of water.

It’s easy to presume the audience gets what it wants. But who really knows? The theater doesn’t, so mired is it in its lust for financial survival. And the actors. Well, they get a lot of experience playing trash. Seldom do they get a chance to grow, and so neither do the productions, or the audiences.

It is the classic vicious circle of theater, reduced to its rawest form. To explore it, we set out for a week on the dinner theater circuit. Criticism, we found, is difficult. There is substance enough for little more than perfunctory review. Nevertheless, we decided to try to find out whatever happened to the “theater” in dinner theater.



NEWCOMB: What are you going to wear to the show?

SCHAEFER: Something sturdy.



THREE GOATS AND A BLANKET

First on the list was the strange case of Three Goats and a Blanket, a Country Dinner Playhouse trumpeting that caused us some consternation. It sounded like an Animal Farm version of Beach Blanket Bingo with the Frankie Avalon role being played by Elmer the Goat. Sort of porno-Orwell sans Annette Funicello -a definite and prophetic direction to the American stage.

As it was, it wasn’t. The title comes from the ancient Greek alimony laws. All the speaking parts were played by post-Aristotelian humans, one of whom was Mickey Rooney. Not to deprecate how Rooney commands a stage, but we did notice the actors huddled in the wings, drawing straws to see who got to play next with the little feller.

Rooney possessed all the energy of a Mack truck in heat. He burst all confines of script and blocking, changed lines, ran circles around befuddled fellow actors and left them gasping for breath. And captivated the audience.

Drama it wasn’t. Vaudeville it was -ribald, raucous and nostalgic, like a bawdy echo of an era when Fields, Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Keaton, Sennett and the rest put the gold in the Golden Age of Comedy. It was Rooney’s era too, and he showed us how and why.

He was free to mug, tongue, poke, hop, flop, dance a jig, wink and wrestle with assorted suspenders, folding beds, stage posts and fellow actors. Few performers could get away with it. That he did is testimony to the era and tradition he knows so well.

The script had lots of funny lines and a bunch of old and borrowed bits from vaudeville that remain delightful. Ivan Smith as the mandatory fag decorator held his own most of the time. Gene Ross was a good cop. Every once in a while he managed to seize a moment through sheer brute force.

All told, the evening rated high on honesty. No limbo here. Pure nightclub. No one made any bones about it. They were there to make us laugh, and that’s exactly what they did. It was fun.



SCHAEFER: What was that tune the Haymakers sang during the pre-show?

NEWCOMB: Three Goats in a Fountain…

SCHAEFER: They reminded me of the Kilgore Rangerettes at halftime.

CAMELOT (Part One)



We followed the sign to the funeral parlor. What a first impression! A fascinating new concept of entertainment! Funeral Theater!!

After ten minutes of silence, curiosity finally got the best of us. Prowling about the grounds, we ran into a jolly, cadaverous chap who pointed us toward a glitter-ridden structure rising from a sea of mud to the south. A grim look of indignation lit up his face as he explained that that was the theater. The joke was on us.

The Crystaliers were another grin. They exploded from the aisles with great energy, but never should have. They simply weren’t ready, and had too much going against them. The sound system buzzed, squeaked, cackled and made everyone look like ventriloquists. Their mouths moved, and lo! the sound dripped on us from above, three frames out of sync, like some badly threaded movie.

Speeches followed speeches. Director Michael Pollock, garbed in a burning bush of a suit and looking for all the world like a dapper Moses, descended from the sky to say a few choice words about the theater and what a tradition the Crystal Palace would establish. Musicals in Dinner Theater! How daring! How unique! How innovative! Odd. His words took on the characteristics of a foot destined for a mouth.

And then the big laugh of the evening. No show. Somebody or something wasn’t ready. As a small murmur of discontent -muted by copious allowances of champagne and good food -swept over the disillusioned, the management whipped out John Gary. It was a gamble that paid off; the one smart move of the evening, not counting the champagne.

Gary sang well and generally captured an audience whose attention span was already wandering. He ran through his night club act and saved the evening for everyone.



NEWCOMB: Leftovers again? SCHAEFER: Shut up and eat your roast beef.

DESK SET

The Windmill Dinner Theater had two of the most excruciating seats it’s been our pleasure to meet. Perched on the back of a narrow ledge, we had the choice of watching the show with necks hard to port or starboard, or turning and blocking the service aisle with legs adangle.

We started with the food. The southern dried (sic) chicken looked good enough to pass up. Three burly folk in funny hats guarded the roast beef, but we chanced it anway. The most novel offering was the hot buttered adobe rolls, an old New Mexico favorite made of flour, water, chutzpah and packed earth. Not that we wish to demean, but their kiln was turned a little too high. We engaged in a lively contest to see who had the stronger teeth. It was a no-win situation.

The Barnstormers followed the meal. A good group, they combined fine, strong voices with vavoom sex appeal. They weren’t afraid to simply sit and sing a song. We were impressed.

The play itself, Desk Set, is a pleasant, gentle comedy that happens to be a real play. It never had us rolling in the aisles, but the laughs were sound and sometimes real.

The enjoyment came from the decidedly different performance of Mercedes McCambridge. She is a compelling actress with a unique stage style. It was unfortunate that she directed herself, for she couldn’t see how she wandered from place to place, never taking the shorter route between two points. The constant slide and glide dissipated much of her strength and became distracting.

We liked the genuine quality of the scenes between Ms. McCambridge and Robert Karnes. They played them earnestly, creating an honest, genuine relationship. Other characters were awkwardly handled. Each had funny moments, but all were trying too hard, hesitating for anticipated laughter and thereby breaking whatever mood the play had managed to achieve. Once again, limbo. They couldn’t make up their minds. A real play? nightclub? or TV?

One drawback to the show is the title itself. It just doesn’t have the zing so necessary for a successful dinner theater gig. Herewith are a few suggestions for a replacement.

1. Under the Yum-Yum Desk; 2. No Sex, Please, We’re Desks; 3. Beau Desk; 4. Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Desks, But Were Afraid to Ask; 5. D*E*S*K*.



SCHAEFER: Leftovers again?

NEWCOMB: Shut up and eat your roast beef.



MY DAUGHTER’S RATED X

Granny’s Dinner Playhouse was number four on the list. Braving torrential wind and rain, we wove our battered stationwagon through collisions and skidding deathtraps. Waterlogged but enthusiastic, we arrived safely, drip dried in the lobby and readied ourselves for another buffet buffeting. We admit surprise at finding more adobe rolls. Who stole the recipe from whom is open to question.

The preshow entertainment was provided by the Grandkids. The music was intelligently chosen and arranged. Their voices were good and blended well. They were exciting, and we gave them a qualified top rating of the four groups we heard. With better choreography and decent costumes, we’d be happy to drop the qualification.

As for the feature, Jonathon Harris was a most gracious man wasted in a dog of a show. Looking a little lost in space, he fell back on his TV image-probably what the audience wanted in the first place. We have the feeling he could be dynamite in a serious role should he ever try one.

The remainder of the cast came across like rejects from the Boys in the Bland, none able to rise above an innocuous script. The plastic little-baby-wets-a-lot as “L’enfant” gave a far more realistic portrayal than anyone else. To be fair, the actors should receive but part of the blame. Playwrights Fisher and Marx deserve the heavy excoriation.



NEWCOMB: What Do the Simple Folk Do?

SCHAEFER: Camelot… badly.



CAMELOT(Part II)



The management had promised us a show, and like a jaded postscript of a week-long marathon, we returned to the scene of the crime to come.

Of the four Dinner Theaters, the Crystal Palace has the best buffet. That’s about all they’re best at.

The Crystaliers tried again, but with no more success than the first time. Their voices were singularly weak and collectively miserable. Hopefully, they’ll rehearse a lot, settle down, relax a little, start to sing and kick out the sound system.

Camelot was the Palace’s first time out, and though they shouldn’t be crucified for this poor showing, there were items that cry out for mention lest they become habit forming.

Closely akin to a twenty-one gun salute, the initial chords of the overture blasted the spoon out of a teacup and crystalized a little pile of mashed potatoes on one of our plates.

A projection of the title bounced about on a screen, giving a nice TV quality to the evening. Other than distracting attention from the stage during some particularly horrid scenes, there was no other purpose for the projections.

For all his many credits, Director Pollock bungled. Example: With six aisles to choose from, Pollock had props going up the one aisle down which Guinevere was vainly trying to make an entrance. The scene waited as she stood sheepishly awaiting the removal of the three churls in her way. Example: Just because the stage is square doesn’t mean the actors have to be handled like punch-drunk fighters constantly searching for a neutral corner. Example: Scene changes were excruciatingly long.

John Gary was fatal as Arthur. Putting any star in any role simply doesn’t work, a rule dinner theaters desperately need to learn. A weak actor for Arthur did to Camelot what the earthquake did for San Francisco.

Guinevere and Lancelot matched Arthur’s weakness in a torment contest of feeble, mawkish emotions. It was impossible to muster even a modicum of sympathy for performances of that caliber. Claire Brooks came off the best of the worst. At least she had a voice that fit the role. Bob Neill, atrociously attired in plastic click-clack and spray-painted tennies covered with Maxwell House coffee cans never came close to Lancelot. Where a man of dimension should have strode, in trudged a callow, moon-eyed youth with all the virility of the littlest angel, even to the point of introducing himself as “Lanthelot du Lath.”

Pelinore was unsympathetic and unoriginal. R. G. Webb, looking for easy laughs, affected a Fieldsian character. But Mr. Webb is not W. C. Fields. He never was. He never will be.

Johnny Simon’s Merlyn had no magic, but did have bad makeup. His Mordred gave us the feeling he was doing an impersonation of John Car-radine as Peter Pan in the Six Flags Over England Musical Review.

Although various knights and ladies filled the stage like a troupe of pompous but graceless munchkins, the only other role worth mentioning was Horrid. Horrid was played by a real dog who had the infinite good sense to keep his mouth shut.

Musical comedy can work in dinner theater and it can work at the Crystal Palace. But the shows must be chosen carefully and staged meticulously. Pageantry on a postage stamp stage can only come off shabbily. Props and scenery have to work. As do costumes. When the audience snickers at the clothes, you have real problems.

If there has to be a star, how about one that fits the role and the show? And what about a daring young director full time? It takes more than one show to get to know a theater. This would be real innovation, at least insofar as dinner theater in Dallas is concerned.

The Crystal Palace is off to a shaky start. We hope they square away and get with it. They are welcome, but the welcome will wear out rapidly at this rate.



So ended our dinner theater hemidecathalon. One decent show out of the lot. There is no excuse. There is no reason why dinner theater in Dallas cannot strive for and achieve excellence and quality while trying to make a buck. And granted, they have to make a buck. They are subsidized by no one; their economic realities are brutal.

But that might well be the point. If economic reality is number one, so be it. Forget duty to art and all that stuff, and focus on enlightened self-interest. Pick a style, and for God’s sake, do it well. The better the product, the more people will come and the more bucks will flow into the till. Dinner theater may be strictly entertainment, but it must, in the long run, be entertainment with a backbone. Limbo theater serves no one.