For Better. Karen has just become engaged to Max. She's met him face-to-face only once, but they've conducted a three-month relationship via cell-phone conversations, texting and instant messaging. Everyone in Karen's small circle —- sister Francine, brother-in-law Michael, old friend Stuart (who's secretly in love with her) and Francine's best friend, Lizzie — communicates (or miscommunicates) in the same way. No one is ever actually in the same room with anyone else. The exception is dear old Dad, who's just as much in thrall to technology as the rest but hasn't gotten past the glued-to-the-television-screen-for-Kojak-reruns phase. The idea that current forms of communication affect our relationships in profound and unpredictable ways isn't new, but playwright Eric Coble has crafted some wonderfully farcical scenes in which his characters perform like sections of a wildly drunken choir or the bobbing objects in a fairground shooting gallery. But when he tries to get serious, he falters. By the play's end, Coble wants us to feel for these people, and things get cloying. Francine and Michael are much more amusing when he's telling her "You are not the most ant-free picnic, you know," than when they're coyly feeding each other bits of cookie. Presented by Curious Theatre Company through December 15, 1080 Acoma Street, 303-623-0524, www.curioustheatre.org. Reviewed November 8.
The 1940's Radio Hour. There's not much dialogue in this sweetly nostalgic musical revue, just ballads, novelty songs, swinging little numbers and Christmas favorites interspersed with comic routines and inadvertently comic commercials. The setting is a shabby radio station in 1942, when America was united behind what was almost universally considered a just war, and radio was the country's voice. Soldiers stationed overseas listened to programs like these; folks at home sent their thoughts out to these young men over the airwaves. There are bits of story. You can see that lovely lead singer Ann has something going with drunken, Dean Martin-style crooner Johnny Cantone. Obviously up-and-coming youngster BJ Gibson is fascinated by perky little Connie, and she reciprocates. Biff is off to war after the show, and everyone's wondering if he'll come back. But these aren't story lines you follow, just evocative moments that bob to the surface and sink under again. The 1940's Radio Hour is an excellent showcase for the talents of the Boulder's Dinner Theater troupe. Neal Dunfee's fine orchestra, usually hidden from the audience, is right there on stage, and the players become part of the action. Pursing her improbably heart-shaped lips and chugging soda at every opportunity, Joanie Brosseau-Beyette is full of infectious excitement. Scott Beyette unleashes his inner comic in a couple of very funny routines, complete with mangled words and dropped pants. Wayne Kennedy gives another of his appealing, low-key performances as caretaker Pops; Alicia Dunfee is in her element as slow-thinking, gum-chewing, would-be sexpot Ginger. If you're dreading the sentimentality, forced humor or relentless cheeriness of the usual Christmas offerings, this melodic, quietly charming piece may be just what you need. Presented by Boulder's Dinner Theatre through January 26, 5501 Arapahoe Avenue, Boulder, 303-449-6000, www.theatreinboulder.com. reviewed November 15
Starship Troy: Fame. By 8 p.m. the place is jammed. The audience looks young, some as young as high--schoolers, others in college; there are couples, gay and straight, and a scattering of older folk. Starship Troy is one of Buntport's informal efforts to create cheap, fun, accessible theater. It is a dramatized cartoon, each episode lasting about 45 minutes. The premise: A dump truck orbits space on a mission to clean things up. Its addled crew includes all the usual Buntport suspects: Erik Edborg, who for some reason has dryer-duct tubing sticking out of his front and who cuddles a white stuffed animal; cynical Hannah Duggan; Erin Rollman as an expressionless android (watching Rollman trying to remain expressionless is a comic feast); half-ape Brian Colonna; and Evan Weissman as something, well, something epicene and highly sexualized. An audience member volunteers as Ensign McCoy, who — in a tribute to South Park's Kenny, and perhaps to the Goon Show's Bluebottle before him ("You have deaded me again!") — gets killed in every show. This is throwaway theater in the best sense. If a line thuds to earth, no matter; it's gone as soon as it's said. If a piece of business is pure brilliance — too bad! It'll never be seen again, either. But what the hell, there's always another episode. Presented by Buntport Theater every Tuesday and Wednesday through May, 717 Lipan Street, 720-946-1388, www.buntport.com. Reviewed November 15.
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