‘Fatty’ Never Fully Emerges in ‘Pressure’

If inside every fat man there’s a skinny guy trying to get out, then inside the obese “External Pressure” there’s a lean and mean story to be told. After all, the rise and fall of silent film comedian Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle spans the arc of tragedy.

In 1921, Hollywood’s slapstick king was celebrating a $3-million contract until his orgiastic party ended with the suspicious death of a minor actress. A scandalous series of trials were fueled by tabloid claims of a rape with either a Coca-Cola or champagne bottle. Although legally vindicated, Arbuckle’s career went kaput.

Shakespeare would have plundered this “fellow of infinite jest.” The sins of pride, greed, ambition, sexual excess--all waited to be dramatized through the tragically flawed character of the nation’s favorite jester.

There is impressive evidence at the Matrix Theatre that co-writers Steven Kent and Theodore Shell recognize the potential. Their fat man seriously quotes Falstaff and Hamlet. However, despite a passionate and richly endowed production, Arbuckle’s story only sporadically emerges.

Shell has an uncanny resemblance to Fatty, and can poignantly express the complex mood swings of the fallen star. Not even slides from Arbuckle’s silent movies detract from Shell’s believability. He could indeed be the resurrected fat man, stepping through the screen to defend his honor.

His supporting players are exceptional, seamlessly becoming a variety of characters, including Chaplin, Keaton, Sennett and the doomed hustler Virginia Rappe. The evocative period lighting and minimal sets by Russell Pyle beautifully capture the feel of a living movie. Tim Wilson’s lush period costumes could rival a Broadway show’s wardrobe.

Ultimately, we’re impressed but not moved because Kent’s stylized direction consumes character. His eclectic staging includes vaudeville, burlesque, docudrama, Brecht’s Epic Theatre and Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty, Peter Brook gymnastics and a smoke-smothered, explicit orgy resembling a Vegas show conceived by Cecil B. DeMille.

Surrounded by such a rich avant-garde smorgasbord, a fat man doesn’t have a chance.

* “External Pressure,” Matrix Theatre, 7657 Melrose, Los Angeles. Thursdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m., Sundays, 7 p.m. Ends Aug . 1. $20. (213) 466-1767. Running time: 2 hours, 15 minutes.

Rants and Rages in an Angry ‘off’

Michael Kearns may be our John Osborne, the English dramatist whose landmark “Look Back in Anger” defined his generation. Certainly the prolific Kearns, openly gay and publicly HIV-positive, is writing for a specific generation of angry young men. Witness his latest play, “off,” at the new NoHo Studio in North Hollywood.

That’s “off” as in gang slang for drive-bys. Each of Kearns’ six characters have “off’d” someone.

Drag queen Cissy (a poignant Rodney Hargrove) killed a gay-basher in self-defense, but is now dying of AIDS-related diseases transmitted by an infected prison guard. Psychotic Bud (an erratic Jeffrey Paul Whitman in the evening’s weakest role) discovered sex with corpses while in Vietnam. Poor Joey (a touching Gil Ferrales), seduced and possessed by a powerful Hollywood producer, murdered his keeper.

Each of Kearns’ men rage in eloquent monologues against the dying of their light, cursing with a scatological fury that might make David Mamet flinch.

Although stereotypical, they speak with a savage simplicity and fierce directness that nearly becomes emotionally exhausting. This must be director Colin Martin’s intention. His in-your-face staging is brutal, blunt and bleak.

But then a dignified Latina named Carmen (Ferrales) calmly describes her relationship with a son dying of AIDS. As told with impeccable restraint by Ferrales in the show’s only reverse-gender role, the woman’s story casts a spell that is hypnotic. Her grace under pressure communicates anger over the loss of another young man that’s dead-on and never off-putting.

* “off,” NoHo Studio, 5215 Lankershim Blvd., North Hollywood. Sundays 3 p.m., indefinitely. $10. (213) 969-2445. Running time: 1 hour, 30 minutes.

‘How Alex Looks’: A Comedy of Style

Playwright Jennifer Banbury writes in the low-key manner of early Woody Allen. Her “How Alex Looks When She’s Hurt” at the Hudson Backstage is a comedy of style over discontent. With self-deprecating humor, generous asides to the audience and confessional candor, Banbury gently cushions her serious study of an emotional breakdown caused by self-delusion.

Alex (an engaging Robin Frates) wistfully tells her tale of girl meets boy, girl moves in with boy, girl loses boy. Now she can’t seem to leave her apartment. However, since Alex was raised on pop entertainments and worked for a late-night talk show, she imaginatively revises her memories.

Rather, she attempts to change the past. But even fantasies play tricks. Her alter-ego fantasy self (a gifted Paige French) is everything Alex isn’t--blond, thin, sexy. Her boyfriend, aptly named King (a hilarious Vincent Ventresca), again defies her manipulation. And her mother (Phyllis Franklin, perfectly shrill), alas, remains over-protective.

The play walks a crooked line between self-indulgent sentimentality and genuine pathos, and could use some minor editing and tighter focus, but for the most part remains provocative.

* “How Alex Looks When She’s Hurt,” Hudson Backstage, 6539 Santa Monica Blvd. Hollywood. Fridays-Saturdays, 10:30 p.m. Ends Aug . 14. $12. (213) 228-9494. Running time: 1 hour, 30 minutes.

‘Suburban Anger’: Fable Falls Apart

Nothing in theater is more disappointing than noble intentions that utterly self-destruct. Christopher Meeks’ “Suburban Anger” at Playwrights Arena is a serious attempt to explore white suburban guilt over last year’s riots. But in his labors to craft an epic equivalent to Theodore Dreiser’s “An American Tragedy,” Meeks has made a “Falling Down” that falls apart.

The actors struggle mightily to make believable this meandering, absurd, wildly erratic fable about a married couple whose baby is killed by a gang member. The couple seek counseling from an unethical psychologist, strangle her, then go on a mission to find their baby’s killer. They become mass murderers and end up on Death Row.

The melodramatic excesses are compounded by over-wrought, repetitive speeches. This is definitely not ready for prime time. Retitle it “Suburban Sadness.”

* “Suburban Anger,” Playwrights Arena, 5262 Pico Blvd., Los Angeles. Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m. Ends Aug . 14. $12. (213) 466-1767. Running time: 2 hours.