I don't know what possessed me either to go looking for this or to share it here because god knows I haven't posted in months and I'm sure no one's reading anymore, but as an epilogue to my post about the "11 Hills" production last spring I found another review. And I, basically, totally agree with it.

Here it is:


THE HILLS ARE ALIVE: ‘11 HILLS OF SAN FRANCISCO’
by David Noble Dandridge
The Vital Voice Newspaper
03-12-2007


The Hills Are Alive: ‘11 Hills of San Francisco’

-Written by Tim Lord
-Presented by HotCity Theatre’s GreenHouse Series

Early in the play “11 Hills of San Francisco,” Joan, something of a literary gun moll to 1950s Bay area poets, is coy when young writer and recent sexual conquest Nick asks her personal questions. She tells him she doesn’t want to be another character in his writing. She senses that Nick has traveled to the west coast from Missouri to suck the marrow out of San Francisco for the sake of his poetry and that anyone he encounters along the way is fair game to be consumed and discarded. She seeks to keep the writer’s interest by retaining her mystery.

It’s a sharp observation by playwright Tim Lord, and something of a big idea in a play that’s not so much about big ideas as it is about the people who have them, search for them and need them. Nick has written one very good poem but needs to write more in order to know whether or not the initial poem was a fluke. He desperately wants to be recognized by his mentor, Terrance, and be included in a poetry reading that Terrance is planning. Things get complicated when Nick’s high school English teacher arrives, having come to San Francisco from Kansas City to profess his love for Nick. The play takes a step toward magical realism when Nick encounters Echo (named simply “The Girl” in the play’s program) a muse who has no voice of her own but can only speak through poetry. She communicates with Nick using the words of William Blake and Emily Dickinson, and when she spouts poetry that Nick can’t readily identify, he soon recognizes it as his own work that he has not yet written.

The entire piece takes place in Nick’s apartment. Act One unfolds as a series of dialogues between Nick and the other characters, some sharply written and some that grow tedious before they’re over. The play really gets going once Nick has finally met Echo. Act Two flows better than Act One, but it takes a tragic turn near the end that feels a bit forced.

The appealing cast is able to smooth over the play’s unevenness. John Pierson is particularly good as Louis, the hopelessly square school teacher. Pierson’s openness and vulnerability generate sympathy for the somewhat pathetic character. Rory Lipede is fittingly ethereal in the role of Echo, a character that it would have been easy to get wrong. She’s so ethereal, in fact, that the other-worldly music that accompanies practically her every word soon becomes unnecessary.

Julie Layton and Nick Cutelli do a fine job of lending reality and depth to Joan and Terrance, keeping them from becoming beat generation clichés. Layton (who was so amazing in last season’s GreenHouse production of “Skin in Flames”) with her dark hair, pale skin and slender physique seems almost typecast as a hep cat. Luckily director Michael Jokerst resisted the temptation to give her a beret and a cigarette holder.

The center of the play is, of course, Nick, and young Adam Flores can’t quite hold up that center. His line readings are often flat and he lacks the charisma that the rest of the characters keep assuring us that Nick exudes. When Nick’s nice-guy personal abruptly cracks toward the end of the play, the writing doesn’t do the actor any favors and Flores can’t quite pull off the transformation.

John Armstrong’s lighting cues are subtle and when necessary, poignant. Mark Hambrecht’s apartment set is simple and effective, the star of which is an antique typewriter so beautiful that I actually was worried when Nick seemed ready to toss it in frustration. Since this is a GreenHouse rather than main stage production, I’ll forgive the stark white walls of Nick’s apartment, although a coat of paint would have made it feel more lived in, and would have cut down on the glare from the lights. Perhaps the white walls are supposed to symbolize the blank page. Or perhaps I’m thinking about it too much.

Although the results here are uneven as was the case with this season’s previous GreenHouse production, “Demons… (and other Blunt Objects),” neither play could be described as boring or unworthy of attention. I have to applaud HotCity for finding a place for new work that perhaps wouldn’t fit its main stage season but commands more than a simple staged reading.