When I was a UCLA undergrad studying literature in the 1970s, the feminist movement was in full flower across the cultural spectrum. Women protested at New York’s Museum of Modern Art and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art about the lack of female artists in their collections.
The Hollywood Fringe Festival, an annual celebration of independently produced emerging arts across all genres, is premiering new music, film, theatre and other performance events in multiple conventional and unorthodox venues from June 14 through June 24.
Every year, students in Lincoln Middle School’s seventh grade life science class take a field trip to the Los Angeles Zoo. They’re lucky to have a teacher like Bob Seymour.
Los Angeles is misunderstood. Paraphrasing Woody Allen, it’s dismissed as having no culture except for yogurt, or simply dissed as La La Land, paparazzi paradise, a city without a center — and the list goes on.
In my view, it’s cause for rejoicing when a play is beautifully written and is performed by actors who are at least as brilliant as the writing. Mostly because it doesn’t happen all that often.
I’ve been a bit under the weather this week. Being bedridden gave me the excuse to dig into my overstocked bookshelves. Plowing through three books in three days, I want to commend the one that stopped me in my tracks, “A Million Nightingales,” by author Susan Straight, a Riverside, Calif.
I can’t rave enough to adequately convey my excitement and admiration for the new adaptation of “Cyrano de Bergerac” that opened recently at the Fountain Theatre.
They weren’t projecting, they were SHOUTING! And even if they were better actors, the play would still be a lot of frivolous twaddle. It’s “Early and Often,” a play by Barbara Wallace and Thomas R.
I use public transit in every city I’ve ever visited but seriously never expected to ride the rails around Los Angeles. I was incredibly excited to hop aboard the Expo Line on Sunday (free!) as it opened to the public, at the Jefferson/La Cienega boulevards station.
Just over a decade ago, a Westside venue for world-class performing arts was wishful thinking for Dale Franzen, a former opera singer whose ties to the world of the arts run deep.
Not since Mel Brooks’ outrageous “Springtime for Hitler” has there been a holocaust musical as ill-conceived and badly performed as “No Time to Weep,” now on-stage at L.
