Three Murders and It's Only Monday Prolific playwright Pat Cook, a resident of Houston, knows the mystery genre to a fare-thee-well and spoofs it entertainingly in Three Murders and It's Only Monday. Revered conventions are shattered to smithereens as the fourth wall is not only breached but assaulted with devastating comic force. Detective Harry Monday, well played by Christopher Roney, dominates the proceedings. Roney creates the desired film noir ambience, wearing a worn fedora with a snap brim as though born with it on. The down-on-his-luck detective's pants aren't even close to matching his jacket, perfectly capturing his financial straits. But he is as adept at ferreting out killers as he is at marching downstage to brief the entranced audience on developments. The audience is not only loyal, it verges on devout — a recurring plot event is a generator failure that darkens the stage, and when this occurs the audience bursts into applause as though an especially well played scene has just ended. This is not always the case, as some of the performers are better than the others, and a tone of woodenness occasionally mars the goings-on. The acting, rather than being ensemble, has the tone of "every man for himself"; since this is a satire, it works better than one might expect. The plot, of course, involves a will and beneficiaries being killed. The dialogue is deliberately obtuse — one example will suffice: A scream is heard. "What was that?!" "A scream." Joey Hancock displays admirable enthusiasm as an American Indian, and Glenn Ropiequet has a powerful stage presence as Dr. Morrissey. Crystal Stampes finds her evil twin in a bravura ending involving a knife pointed directly at an audience member. Cheryl Mills wears long white gloves with aplomb but is given little to do. One actor has movie-star looks but not a glimmering of how to project her voice for the stage. The entire cast is adept at ducking for cover or hitting the floor whenever a gun is brandished, which is often. And the yearning to break the fourth wall themselves is realized in a hilarious passage. The proceedings are directed by Larry Ransberger, who finds the humor. It is very entertaining. Sit back and savor — this is a spoof, not Agatha Christie — and even the awkward moments will surprise and possibly delight. Through August 20. Playhouse 1960, 6814 Gant Rd., 281-587-8243. — JJT
Who Was That Masked Man? The term "meller-drammer" says it all — outlandish acting, deliberately exaggerated actions, simple plots, a mustachioed villain and a damsel in distress. Hisses at the villain were encouraged, as were cheers for the hero, and Theatre Suburbia capped it all by providing popcorn to throw at the cast, who sometimes threw it back. An uncomplicated set permitted something like a theater-in-the-round arrangement, and a bar in Slick Willy's Saloon doubled as a teller's cage for the local bank. The widow (tearfully well-played in the expected histrionic mode by Susan O'Connor) was slated to lose her home to the evil bank president whose mustache and black cape are certain emblems of villainy. Glenn Dodson played the morally challenged villain with confidence, but I did miss some of the lip-smacking relish and the savoring of pure evil that's the traditional hallmark of roles such as these. I especially liked Donna Dixon, who played the barmaid in an attractive red gown with eye shadow to match, and who dominated the stage with her powerful self-assurance. Daniel Corrigan was great as the dim-witted, bungling sheriff, and he managed to add nuance — believe it or not — to his role. Amesti Reioux played the widow's daughter — she can flutter a mean eyelid, nailed the ingenue smile and made us want to protect her virtue from the inevitable assault. The young Andrew Miles was effective as the Magnolia Kid, a gunslinger dressed in black but with so much cherry-red jacket fringe that I feared it might slow down his quick draw. The hero was the Masked Man, played by James Plake, and, while I found him unconvincing as the hero, he came to life in a dance routine in a dress — no, not cross-dressing, just a disguise. There was more dancing in the play, including an energetic, engaging can-can by a woman well past the first blush of youth. And there was singing as well, by the cast and the audience — a song-sheet was provided with the program, though the songs are familiar classics. The entire cast worked well together under the able direction of Doris Merten, creating a world of high jinks and low humor that, much to my surprise, I came to believe in. The events were enhanced by Alice Smith's appropriate piano accompaniment. Nineteenth-century histrionics were displayed shamelessly onstage in a fun-filled performance, and unless you're a curmudgeon by nature, you'll enjoy it. See it — you may exit with popcorn in your hair, but there will be a smile on your lips. Through August 27. Theatre Suburbia, 4106 Way Out West Dr., 713-682-3525. — JJT
