Two stories intertwine: one a biography of Mae West, the other of two major, faithful fans who meet at her tomb and fall in love. Behind a rear proscenium arch, as if on a movie screen, Mae West's projected eyes beckon. Fronting the stage, old fashioned footlights suggest the period bioplay to be performed: Jo, a struggling actress who's patterned her professional self after her idol, and Charlie, a dweeby public library film archivist who when a youngster met Mae, act out their impressions of and facts about the star.
Two doors on opposite sides of the stage become their entrances into reel and exits to real lives. Oh, yes, Kathy Halenda energetically throws herself into both women's roles. Though there's scarce difference between forward Jo and the young Mae busting (well, one breast anyway) forth into show biz, as Mae gets blonder and her gowns get longer and jeweled rings fill her fingers, she comes on up unmistakeably. Because of Charlie's adolescent kind of adoration of Mae, Ben Lipitz rightly keeps him on that level from the time she took him to dinner (Chinese, but only soup!) until Jo paints a cupid's bow on his lips and covers his "multitude of sins" with a boa.
In a departure from the many dualities, Tom Demenkoff assumes several personages, notably Mae's fast-moving, loud-suited manager/companion Joe Frisco. He's awfully funny paired with Lipitz as Mae's bodyguards and strong men supporting her, literally, in Vegas where she sang "Dirty Blonde."
Projections supply not only changes of scene and mood but nostalgia. The audience definitely savors West's famous quips and Hallenda's brassy versions of her songs and slinky walk. To have experienced Mae West's performances in their time, though, was more arresting by far than watching reproductions that seem forced and fail to catch the tenor of her times. The current love story? Not as juicy as a peeled grape.
