"King Kong" by The Maverick Theatre
July 23, 2023
A gentle giant from a far-flung land is exploited.
Its captors are blinded by their own wants of profit.
A horror erupts as civilians scatter out the theater.
And the giant tragically dies at the hands of man’s hubris.
This was the story of the 2018 Broadway musical flop King Kong, a critically panned spectacle of stagecraft that it, like the confounding finale of its source material, was just about seeing a big ol’ ape on-stage. And who could blame the rest of the show for not picking up the 4-ton weight? The tale of Kong in all its iterations has never been known for its pathos or poetry (unless of course you count an actor screeching, “Kong!!!” with the voracity of every man who’s cursed damn dirty apes— and I most certainly do). Though it had some success in its native Australia— and to an extent, also in New York where it ran for one impossible year — ticket sales in both instances slowly faded until it shuttered. After a while, even toddlers lose interest in tapping on the zoo’s animal glass.
As of this writing, there’s been 12 separate films, 4 different TV shows and 2 staged adaptations of the tale of “The Eighth Wonder of the World”— with one of them currently being performed in the far-flung native land of Fullerton, CA. And if you’re confused, I am too. As I teased last week, this article was supposed to be all about Long Beach Playhouse’s production of In the Heights which I saw in their theatre in the half-round 4th of July weekend. Unfortunately for them, a brighter firework has exploded over the OC sky with a dwindling chance of seeing it before it fully dissolves on August 6th. Consider this review the child you let cut at Disneyland in order to catch up with their mother, it’ll take a little longer but you’ll still get to ride.
It’s important to know this is the staged adaptation of the novel, nay the Broadway show, which also breaks another one of my series rules. It’s ALSO not a musical (but come on, just be cool, what’s the real difference between scripted screaming and high falsetto singing?). I hope you know I would only bypass my self-imposed law for the sake of science, because truly how — and I can’t emphasize this enough — are they going to pull this off? My thoughts rush with images of thespians in ape costumes arm-in-arm with ingenues like The Simpsons’ “Planet of the Apes” fake-musical or shoddily crafted giant heads being wheeled out by beleaguered stagehands like a primate Audrey II. Would the theatre be big enough? No, surely not. Would it be a drama or a comedy? Potentially both. Would I have a good time? Consider this the “zop” in “zip/zap/zop”.
Director Brian Newell knows he’s making an abomination, and that’s not just because he shares a lot with the Cornerstone Bible Church. Back in 2002, Newell and his business partner Jim Book both set their sights on the hopeless task of making a splash in theatre-saturated SoCal, knowing the only way to do so was to cannon-ball into something completely different. While other drama houses repetitively mount Shakespeare and A Christmas Carol, the Maverick petulantly swims against the tide, rejecting the Bard in favor of George A. Romero; Tennessee Williams in favor of Ed Wood; Dickens in favor of Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (coming soon this Christmas). Though the Maverick offers original fare like a holiday concert featuring cheeky singing group The Mistletones and an original play called Killer Angels, Soldiers of Gettysburg written by Newell himself, it’s clear the staged adaptations of films is what keeps cult members’ butts in seats.
And perhaps they’re following a pre-established blueprint. The Maverick’s first big break-out came in 2005, where they staged The Rocky Horror Show, the original 1973 play that premiered at London’s Royal Court and we all know what happened next. According to the official Rocky Horror fan site, the filmed version of Rocky currently lights up over 300 witching hours domestically (but this website was clearly made on GeoCities, so it’s possible that number is much higher). Though just like a game of telephone dilutes with each re-telling, few may recall that the staged Rocky was less about heavily make-up’d hedonism and more goofy fun-poking to 1930’s B-movies. With this, it’s easy to imagine a world where Frankenfurter is swapped for Flash Gordon (but that reality doesn’t contain a devastatingly horny cover of “Baby Love” by Tim Curry, so let’s banish it forever).
I didn’t know any of this when I was strong-armed by an Instagram follower to check out this show. All I saw was, “King Kong” and quickly translated it to “disaster” like a Duolingo running on Schadenfreude. Even upon arriving, my cynical high beams spiked as I entered the intimate “main stage” that looked less drama house than Art Deco time share pitch where 50 or 60 chairs were assembled on a flat floor in a configuration that makes you imagine them easily cleared for a Jr. Prom or intimate wedding party. But there was a crowd, continuing my lifelong pattern of everyone else knowing something I didn’t. And the Art Deco details seemed to be all hand-painted, continuing another lifelong pattern of me being an asshole who judges too prematurely. I learn later the reason all this stuff looks so damn good is because the Maverick has somehow — confoundingly — commissioned legendary theater designer Joseph Musil to spruce up their space. If you don’t know him by name, your eyes know him by handiwork. He’s one of the lead designers behind Disney’s El Capitan Theatre as well as various corners of Disney’s Tomorrowland and the faux-Hollywood corner of California Adventure. If my mother were here, she’d laugh and sigh in one fluid, “Don’t ya love show biz?” And I do, I really fucking do.
A light soundtrack of anachronistic jazz plays as we all get situated, perhaps to subliminally prep us for the incongruence ahead (or signal the rise of the Westworld robots. I got a full tank of gas, so I’m truly down for both). Brian, before I know he is Brian, comes out onstage and says the magic words every girl wants to hear: “This only works about 90-percent of the time.” The answer to the million dollar ape question lies not on-stage but in a camera set-up behind the sound booth, where a Kong will reign over a kingdom crafted by stagecraft and beamed through technology. And that’s not all — when the show reaches its apex, the predator will be joined by his fellow actors as they perform on ANOTHER off-screen studio, shrinking them down to the ideal Twinkie size for our titular simian.
It’s unclear which came first: the camera or the stage, though something tells me you don’t venture into Skull Island without some semblance of a road map. Back in 2002, the original location for the Maverick, like all great drama houses, opened its doors next to a Cafe Tu-Tu Tango and Virgin Megastore in an open-air mall with possibly the best tagline I’ve ever heard in my life: “The Block at Orange… it ain’t no square” (since renamed to “Outlets at Orange” decidedly less catchy)1. Newell was coming fresh from mounting an original show that begged the question on all of our lips in the summer after 9/11: What if Elvis Presley had gone into a cryogenic freeze in August 1977 only to be brought back to life in today’s world? That show was titled The King and boasted a “multi-media musical approach”, which I can only imagine featured a camera or two. He’s been sharpening his focus on upping the odd-ball stakes ever since.
The on-stage screen for Kong, like all on-stage screens I’ve witnessed so far, does a tidy little job of playing double-duty as set dresser. Hi-def images aped from the original film are cleanly rolled out as backdrop for the dramatic action, transporting us to the congested streets of ’30s New York or the dreamy clear skies over tepid ocean. Though, the real thrill of this feature comes way before the actors sashay, where our play’s prelude includes a black-and-white credits sequence swapping out Fay Wray and RKO for Kalinda Gray and Jeff Lowe, tonight’s stars.
They say some of the best comedic performers are natural dramatists, as their inability to wink allows the audience to more fully lose themselves in daffy comedic heightening. I’m happy to say Newell has directed his players to play it straight. Kalinda Gray’s Ann Darrow is a perfect ingenue, blushing and blanching and boasting her own bonafides when the fast-talking movie producer Carl Denham (played by an energizing Mark Coyan) first promises her fame and stardom. Later, she stands on the ship’s helm with love interest Jack Driscoll (played by Lowe with both authority and apprehension for the plot’s foreboding horrors), and together they dream what wonders await them when they finally make their jungle destination. I’m completely invested in their love, though the story tells us they’ve fallen “madly” for each other in just a brief span of sea-sick days. In any other arena, this fact alone would’ve gotten a self-aware audience pop, but in tonight’s show I feel our 50 or 60 collectively swoon. The actors kiss and it feels real, though Kalinda’s wig is undeniably fake.
And then of course, the Pies de Primate. The “early man” of the hour. When Kong first appears on-screen, it’s shocking— mostly in a, “which Spirit Halloween store sells that brand of costume?” kind of way. There’s no dramatic way around the goofy image of a clear human play-acting predator, and the show is unbothered to attempt it, too busy riding the wheel of a trip barreling deep into wacky roads. When Kong “grabs” Ann, she’s swapped on-screen with a clear messy-haired Barbie doll. When Kong “climbs” the Empire State Building, his figure is swapped out for an inch-worm of shoddy animation. When a practical over-sized ape hand threatens to grab Kalinda from the stage, the audience erupts in WWE-like cheers like they’re witnessing the Undertaker snatch yet another spandex’d victim. When the show is over, it’s a too-brief hour and a half I long to re-tread.
Theatre is famous for its superstition, probably because success is an intangible alchemy no numbers or charts can predict. Blame for bad performances are often outsourced to uttering “Macbeth”. Ire for early closures are attributed to an accidentally-hexing “good luck”. Kong on Broadway may have been cursed from the start when it moved into the Foxwoods Theatre, where the famously foredoomed Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark had just barely cleared its webs from the walls. But as a great poet once rapped, “mo’ money, mo’ problems”. Perhaps the trouble with an on-stage Kong was always in its size. Perhaps the answer is more shoulder-height.
King Kong will be playing at the Maverick Theatre in Fullerton through August 6th and tickets are quickly selling out. Snag yours here and make sure to check out their August performance of Plan 9 from Outer Space (I will).
Join us for next week, when we get back to our regularly-scheduled Lin-Manuel Miranda programming and I promise I won’t lie to you again.
I would also like to take this moment to declare that I was a frequent visitor to The Block during my un-chaperoned ska youth and wish a moment of silence to honor its legacy. Rest in power, king. I hope you still have a Vans indoor skate park and a too-big AMC.