Opening
Nights

Carousel

5th Avenue Theatre, 1308 Fifth Ave., 
625-1900. $29 and up. Runs Tues.–Sun; 
see 5thavenue.org for exact schedule. Ends March 1.

With its tricky mix of kitchen-sink realism, cornpone Americana, and supernatural fantasy—and not an overabundance of likable characters—what this 1945 musical needs to stay buoyant is air, light, poetry, and a dash of sea spray; it needs to cast a spell. The 5th Avenue’s new staging of the Rodgers and Hammerstein show does this in one scene: the Act 2 dance sequence featuring Spectrum Dance Theater, led by Madelyn Koch’s luminous Louise (suddenly, from her first gesture, you feel you’re outdoors) and enlivened by the reappearance of the louche carnival troupe from the show’s opening number. (Imagine the “unconventional conventionists” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show dressed up for a go at Cabaret.)

One scene only, that is. Overall the production is fairly unenchanting, despite a cast of local favorites that would be very hard to surpass—Laura Griffith, Brandon O’Neill, Billie Wildrick, and Anne Allgood, to name just a few. But other details work against them. That opening number, from director Bill Berry and choreographer Donald Byrd, is kind of a clustercuss; it’s hard to extract the mimed plot exposition from the razzle-dazzle. Martin Christoffel’s Our Town-y, bare-stage set seems designed for practicality and economy rather than atmosphere. And the sound system does no favors for the cast’s strong singing voices or for the pit orchestra, which was rendered shrill and coarse—most deflatingly, right from measure one, in the opening waltz, probably my favorite Rodgers number of them all.

It raised intelligibility issues with the dialogue, too, though the cast has to take some blame here. I don’t envy any actor who has to cope with a New England accent; if not kept well under control, they tend to veer off goodness knows where, to Britain, Brooklyn, or somewhere between the Carolinas. But not everyone makes the attempt; O’Neill, as an earthy Billy Bigelow, doesn’t, and it’s not in the least a drawback. Everyone abandons their accent when they sing, anyway, so I would say, on the whole, don’t bother. There are other ways to make the coast of Maine come to life—which this production needs to come up to the 5th’s usual standard as a company whose valuable strength is to make a case for great-but-neglected musicals more often honored than actually staged. Gavin Borchert

PThe Dog of the South

Center Theatre at the Armory, 
Seattle Center, 216-0833. $25. 
Runs Wed.–Sun.; see book-it.org 
for exact schedule. Ends March 8.

Currently celebrating its silver-jubilee season, Book-It Repertory Theatre has a simple yet formidable mission: “transforming great literature into great theater.” Is Charles Portis’ 1979 novel The Dog of the South great literature? (He’s best known for True Grit, twice adapted to film.) I can’t say, not having read the book, but Judd Parkin’s adaptation makes for a classic road-trip story—self-discovery mixed with self-effacing comedy.

We are placed immediately into the predicament facing Ray Midge (Christopher Morson). His wife Norma (Shannon Loys) has run off, ironically, with her ex-husband, Dupree (Joshua C. Williamson), who also happens to be Midge’s co-worker and childhood friend. A journalist and a student of history, Midge narrates these facts with a deadpan, dry tone, then puts his investigative skills to work and chases them. He isn’t after Norma, and he doesn’t care about Dupree; he just wants his beloved blue Ford Torino back. Eventually this quest will lead to British Honduras (now Belize).

En route, Midge visits historical sites of the Mexican Civil War, makes friends, starts fights, and maintains a healthy pill addiction. When he runs low on funds and high on loneliness, he helps Dr. Reo Symes (Jim Gall), a hapless, money-grubbing ex-physician, after his school bus-turned-camper (christened “The Dog of the South”) breaks down. What ensues is a sort of comedy of errors, laced with magical realism. Told in flashbacks as they’re enacted on stage, these picaresque vignettes are kept short and sweet. (Jane Jones directs.)

A reclusive, still-living Arkansan who published his last novel in 1991, Portis was a ’60s newspaperman who counted Nora Ephron among his colleagues and admirers. The Coen brothers’ True Grit remake helped revive interest in his small canon, and SNL alumnus Bill Hader recently optioned The Dog of the South. There are hints of darker, deeper wisdom in this deftly created, whimsical production that may yet emerge onscreen. Irfan SharifF

The Explorers Club

Taproot Theatre, 204 N. 85th St., 
781-9707, taproottheatre.org. $15–$40. 
7:30 p.m. Wed.–Thurs., 8 p.m. Fri., 
2 & 8 p.m. Sat. Ends March 7.

Victorian England makes me think of depressing Dickensian characters, somber tea ceremonies, and gloomy, sooty skies—not puerile men sipping spirits, smoking cigars, and behaving like characters in a Monty Python sketch. Taproot’s pleasing production of Nell Benjamin’s 2013 comedy is no stodgy period piece. Normally I am not a fan of farces, but The Explorers Club won me over.

In 1879 London, the asshat male adventurers of the Explorers Club argue about adding the assertive and attractive anthropologist Phyllida Spotte-Hume (Hana Lass) as their newest member—and, controversially, first woman. Though her credentials include finding the Lost City of Pahatlabong—represented by a gibberish-spouting tribesman (Bill Johns) she’s dubbed “Luigi”—that discovery may also propel England into war. Thus we have jokes about British imperialism, domination of the Irish, and sexism.

Aside from Phyllida, these characters are as socially awkward as Amazon programmers. Professor Walling (Rob Martin) drags around his dear “subject,” Jane the guinea pig, while Professor Cope (Solomon Davis) is eternally enveloped in his pet cobra. Harry Percy (Ryan Childers) arrives from a failed attempt to trace the East Pole. Yes, the East Pole.

Under the direction of Karen Lund, this even ensemble expertly executes goofy gags, even if the blocking is often problematic. Strikingly silly is their spontaneously singing a snippet from H.M.S. Pinafore. Lass’ stainless performance couples the spiritedness of Jane Eyre and the accomplishment of Margaret Mead. Johns’ antic, virile savage provides the perfect foil to the other putzy male characters. Conner Neddersen channels David Hyde Pierce as the timid Lucius, hopelessly in love with Phyllida.

This is not a posh production: The clubhouse is trimmed with taxidermy trophies, animal rugs, and African-print furniture that designer Mark Lund might’ve sourced at the bankruptcy sale of Joe and Teresa Giudice. Sarah Burch Gordon’s foppish period costumes help balance the overwhelming faux fur and contribute to the comedy. The science here is no sounder than that of the anti-vaccination crowd, but Benjamin is intent only on giggles in this gentle lampoon. Alyssa Dyksterhouse

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