California Drifting – Day 4, Part Three – “It Never Rains In California,” lies The Love Talker…

Robert is a bit more of a cautious driver than some others may be out here, and he depends upon his GPS. Even after all this time, the transplant from the Midwest is guided by a British woman’s voice as he makes his way across the city. We traversed several locales, picking up two other guests of his for the show,(Chris who recently broke up with his BF, Joe, and was due for a distraction, and Ayana, Robert’s dance instructor in Caribbean and Island technique), and, passing through wealthy Hancock Park, we crossed into the Historic Filipino District, now largely inundated by an Asian population that is anything BUT Filipino.
On a triangulated patch of concrete, surrounded by iron gates, sits Son of Semele theatre company, a tiny 25-seat black box where experimental theatre pervades. Outside, a makeshift box office comprised of an empty wooden wine rack and a cash box was only outdone by an unattended concessions table with water, Oreos and Chips Ahoy…and a trusting coffee mug awaiting contributions. I expected the doors to be late, as there was a reviewer from LA weekly coming, and Sean wanted to gather some photos before the house opened to send on should the review be favorable as a Pick Of The Week.
I did not expect the doors to open at 5 to 8, however, and my earlier-consumed margarita was aching for release. Oddly, in the intimate space, one has to walk ACROSS the set to get to the rest room, a peculiar predicament, but…when in Rome…I tried not to disturb the set.
We had front row seats reserved, we four, and the 20 x 20 stage (if that) was simply dominated by a large double bed up left, on which slept an actor, awaiting the start of the performance. The remainder was strewn with mulch on the borders, a small platform up right, a barrel with wash basin down left, and a nightstand with lantern and knickknacks down right. Jutting twigs and leaves interspersed throughout the area, the only height to the set was a simple 4 x 8 flat. I noticed a color scheme of blue and crème, with patterns of diamonds and splashes of red in odd places. Crickets chirped over dark moody music, which segued from recorded to live; the performance began and the lights dimmed.
The Love Talker is a dark piece, in one act, by Deborah Pryor. It follows the seduction of two sisters in an abandoned backwoods cabin by a changeling wood creature of sorts who resembles the Greek God Pan; this is The Love Talker (Sean, scantily clad in a fig leaf and nothing more). He has a devilish sprite called The Red Head, who meddles to no end and causes rifts between the siblings as The Love Talker targets each of them in their own right. Sean, who also directed the piece, chose it for several reasons, according to his director’s notes, but what affected my observance of the piece was his political motivation: “not allowing ancient fears and superstitions to cloud and guide our judgment and decisions. For when we do, the results are always catastrophic.”
Sean has assembled a talented cast and crew, and in the confines of the intimate space, made magical moments with lighting and special effects, as items scraped across platforms on their own, or flew in the air to the shock of the audience. The actors found the honest humor in the piece, and Sean was relieved that the entire play was not so much Midsummer Night’s Dream meets M. Knight Shayamalan. One thing he did not count on however, but which greatly added dimension to the piece, was the thunderstorm that occurred during some of the most maddening parts of the show. That’s correct. It was raining. Hard. And the little black box’s roof was creating a pitter patter effect that made one feel as if there was a wooden cabin roof overhead. It was realistically chilling.
After the bows and while waiting for Sean to pack up, I stood in the triangulated courtyard for a smoke, observing the locals think that the sky was falling. Cars skidded at the intersections, and pedestrians pulled their shirts over their heads in case another wave of droplets was about to hit. Rain is enough of an anomaly here to throw things out of whack. Sean emerged to soak up the mist – truly appreciating its beauty as only he can. With a hearty congratulations on a very moving production, he and I drove back to the apartment while Robert took the other guests home.
Both Sean and I were famished…he from his pre-show adrenaline diet, me from simply having a margarita and nothing more. I asked if we could order a pizza or something, and Sean had to check with Robert to see if the local shop was open and get the name and number…Robert, by then, had just stopped at the market to pick up a few frozen pizzas, figuring we might be hungry. A strange coincidence, and not much later, our stomachs had stopped grumbling. We all three curled up on couches, Sean in Robert’s lap, me with my…pillow. We watched the 10 o’clock news to absorb the heightened media response to the rain; it was after all, the “top story.” Every reporter standing in the “torrential downpours” had on a yellow slicker and Gorton’s Fisherman’s cap…the hyperbole was shameful. Moses parted the Red Sea to less fanfare, for crying out loud.
After a few absurdist man-on-the-street interviews with such in-depth questions as “Whaddya think of this RAIN, huh?” and “Did you ever think you’d see so much RAIN??” the boys switched over to an episode of The Office. By then I had settled into the couch, snuggled up with my pillow, and my heavy lids gave way to dark dreams of beings in the woods beyond mortal comprehension.