‘Shear Madness’

Back in 1980, a comic mystery called "Shear Madness" was so far ahead of the interactive curve that its local producer now hesitates to even use the i-word.

The concept is otherwise tough to explain in Las Vegas. It's a departure on several fronts, starting with the venue. You don't herd into another casino showroom, but a funky new studio theater in the booming Town Square shopping center.

The theater is surrounded by the trendy bars that made Town Square "the locals' Strip," so it seems a little less strange when "Madness" begins with a joke about Boulder City. It goes on to name-check the likes of Super Summer Theatre musicals and Las Vegas Review-Journal columnist Norm Clarke, amid more universal quips about Somali pirates and how bad the Criss Angel show is.

The dirty word that defines "Shear Madness" is one that strikes fear into the hearts of all who traffic in entertainment on the Strip: It's a play.

However, it's a murder mystery that stops and rewinds itself about 45 minutes in. The house lights go up. The characters look surprised to see us all out there.

From then on, we're welcome to raise our hands or just yell out information, anything to help figure out who stuck the shears in the neck of the retired concert pianist who lived upstairs from the hair salon.

The program still credits German writer and psychologist Paul Portner, whose 1963 exercise in how people remember details and assign suspicion grew into the farce. The concept must have been more surprising when "Madness" debuted in Baltimore, going on to set longevity records there and in Washington, D.C.

But in 1988, "Tony 'n' Tina's Wedding" took "interactive" to an even weirder level: The actors deal with the audience as much as they do with each other, and the script is hidden.

People who hate that stuff can rest easy here. You don't walk around playing Clue (other shows offer that now) and nobody pulls you up to chicken-dance. Participation is voluntary, "not forced upon the unwilling," as producer Terrence Williams notes.

But the left turn does make for a collective experience that rises above the material. "Madness" is '70s-sitcom familiar in every aspect but the mere novelty of seeing it here, in a hiply casual setting with the red walls, structural columns and cabaret tables you typically find in the big cities.

Hairdresser Tony Whitcomb (Enoch Augustus Scott) is so gay he's beyond stereotype: "I am the prototype," he declares. His gum-chewing co-worker Barbara (Mindy Woodhead) trades barbs and tends to the hair of rich society matron Mrs. Schubert (Tacey Adams).

One hapless customer named Nick (Ben Reigel) wishes Tony would be more careful with that straight-razor he wields with his gossip. Another (Joseph Ditmyer) can't settle down and be patient while he's waiting for his haircut. Why's he so antsy?

The script is peppered with groaners, hissers and malapropisms -- oh my! -- before the daily piano practicing upstairs sends Tony over the brink. He races out to stop the racket. There's a scream. Slamming doors. People running into each other. And a phone call where Mrs. Schubert cackles like a Saturday morning cartoon villain.

Whodunnit? You find out after intermission, in which the lead investigator -- who turns out to be customer Nick -- stays in character to hear your theories in the lobby.

I won't give away how the show is resolved each night; if you're spoiler-crazed it's easily found on the Internet. But I will say a gimmick meant to keep each performance fresh may just as easily disappoint those who take a real interest in solving the mystery.

If the fun's all in getting there, "Madness" at least offers two different paths. There's the scripted jokes, ranging from the old "Lebanese" for "lesbian" ("Terrorists? This is bigger than I thought!" a character then proclaims) to a very locals-specific line about East Lake Mead Boulevard versus West.

Then there's the improv element. The cast failed to work much magic with an opening-night crowd of mostly polite invited guests, and the reconstruction of the crime dragged. But still there were moments, such as the sneaky "used antiques dealer" (Ditmyer) haughtily flicking a mist from his tooth brush when challenged to prove he really disappeared to brush his teeth. ("You people might want to shower now," Reigel advises the front row.)

Whatever you think of the comedy -- and you may think more of it once the theater gets its liquor license -- you can't help but be impressed with how well it's played. None of the suspects run away with all the laughs, though the Tony character gets a big head start.

They even look their parts, which is not the case over at "Tony 'n' Tina," where actors are known to switch roles. But I suppose such authenticity is to be expected when you're dealing with the prototype, not just the stereotype.

Contact reporter Mike Weatherford at mweatherford@ reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0288.