[Woody’s [rating: 1]

Mom’s body and world are in a race to see which will break down first.

Even her garage is collapsing.

But armed with Paul Bunyanesque tall tales of the American frontier, a ukulele and an endless supply of cockeyed optimism, she’s hell-bent on retaining her pioneer spirit.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.

Nor does the play in which she’s the main character — the Marin Theatre Company’s “The Way West,” which is meant to be a whimsical but serious look at how a Central Valley family of three copes with the Great Recession.

A lot within the production does work, I concede.

The three main actors — Anne Darragh as mom, Kathryn Zdan as her older daughter, Manda, and Rosie Hallett as the younger, Meesh — are first-rate.

Costuming, set and sound all provide ideal trappings, and director Hayley Finn succeeds in keeping the play hurrying toward its abrupt end.

But original songs by Sam Misner and Meghan Pearl Smith don’t add much beyond a copycat Woody Guthrie folky flavor of the Old West — even though the three principals passably strum and sing.

A terminally shallow script by award-winning playwright Mona Mansour is the main stumbling block.

It attempts to tackle serious topics of financial ruin and homelessness and familial relationships but glosses over them with exaggerated, clichéd situations and forced humor.

“The Way West” is the third play on which the MTC has bestowed its Sky Cooper New American Play Prize. First came Bill Cain’s “9 Circles,” which I called “multi-faceted” and “dazzling.” Next was “The Whale,” which I found “touching.”

I suppose that, as the platitude goes, two out of three ain’t bad.

In “The Way West,” a 62-year-old mother has filed for bankruptcy and isn’t doing well physically. Yet she still stares through rose-colored glasses and embellishes already hard to swallow western mythology.

And hopes her daughters will follow her lead.

The kids, however, also are screwed up — and in deep emotional and fiscal trouble.

Mandy has overextended her credit cards and endangered her job back East by overlooking an obscene typo. Meesh has run into a legal hassle peddling stuff online.

“I always try,” Mansour has been quoted as saying, “to be equal opportunity about how messed up the characters are.”

She does accomplish that in “The Way West.”

But messes up the play in the process.

To be fair, the opening night audience laughed often, and a good deal more than I did.

I found most of the humor juvenile — including dialogue that demanded intentional overacting, and including satirical, melodramatic signs that resembled silent movie title cards.

“We are all in this together — and it’s not good,” one proclaimed.

To me, the line might also apply to performers and audience.

Toward the climax of the play, which at times crosses the fine line between clever and insipid, one character says, “Talking creates hysteria.”

The playwright creates stylized onstage hysteria, however, by having her inventions talk incomprehensively over each other — and panic because of a living room fire.

Having just published a book, I fully recognize what tremendous effort and perseverance goes into completing any creative effort, so I’m hesitant to pan any artist — especially a writer.

Sometimes, though, benevolence must give way to conscientiousness.

This is one of those times.

“The Way West” plays at the Marin Theatre Company, 397 Miller Ave., Mill Valley, through May 10. Night performances, 7:30 p.m. Wednesdays; 7 p.m. Sundays; 8 p.m. Tuesdays and Thursdays through Saturdays. Matinees, 1 p.m. Thursdays; 2 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays. Tickets: $10 to $53. Information: (415) 388-5208 or marintheatre.org.

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or http://vitalitypress.com

[Woody’s [rating: 4]

When “Head of Passes” ended, a stunned audience forgot to clap for a few seconds.

[Woody’s [rating: 4.5]

I was afraid I wouldn’t like it.

I’ve been going to the de Young Museum’s “Bouquets to Art” for so many years I thought I might be too jaded.

I wasn’t.

What I’d forgotten was that not only is each year’s floral art exhibit different by its very nature, trends spawn even greater changes.

The first time — when my wife had to drag skeptical me there because I was pre-positive it would be neither art nor good — I was totally blown away by how outstanding, how unique, the floral arrangements were.

Oh, how those designs enhanced and enriched the museum’s permanent collection.

That year, as the several before when my wife had gone alone, displays consisted basically of flowers, flowers and more flowers.

And green leaves.

A gadzillion varieties of flora to simulate the paintings and sculptures in front of which they rested.

Not many non-living materials.

Not many foundations.

Not many structures.

But inch by inch, year by year, like osmosis, those elements slipped in.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me that his year’s four-day displays were more structural than ever.

It turns out that that wasn’t a bad thing at all. It just meant more elaborate designs.

More — and more elaborate — eye candy.

And visceral joy.

Such as the Hunter-Lee Flowers’ impression of Picasso’s “Still Life with Skull, Leeks and Pitcher.”

Or life imitating art as a Plumweed Floral and Event Design construction simulated “Lady in Black with Spanish Scarf” by Robert Henri.

The bigger and better designs weren’t limited to displays favoring intricacy or heavy foundations, though.

Consider, for instance, the enormous, chock-full-o’-color bouquet by floral artist Valerie Lee Ow, who was celebrating her 16th year as a participant in “Bouquets to Art.”

It sat in front of “Rhapsody” by Richard Mayhew and, in fact, seemed to overpower it.

Want something a bit whimsical yet still colorful? The answer could be found in a floral peacock created by Natasha’s Designs in front of “The Flora and Fauna of the Pacific” by Miguel Covarrubias.

All in all, the evolved, more complex displays somehow helped my wife and me enjoy the show more than ever.

We can’t wait for next year.

Top billing at the de Young, 50 Hagiwara Tea Garden Drive at John F. Kennedy Drive, in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, now goes to the “Botticelli to Braque” exhibit, which displays masterpieces from the national galleries of Scotland through May 31, and “Richard Diebenkorn Prints,” which will run through Oct. 4. Information: 1-415-750-3504 or contact@famsf.org.

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or check out his blog at www.vitalitypress.com

[Woody’s [rating: 4.5]

I first saw Alvin Ailey’s choreography when I lived in New York City in 1960.

That was two years after he’d founded his troupe, one year after I’d returned from post-undergrad stints in Mexico and Hollywood — a time for both of us to be experimenting with innovation.

I embarked on a lifelong career as a journalist. He pursued his dream of coupling traditional African-American culture with modern dance.

And he drew upon his memories of his Baptist church upbringing in Texas, integrating traditional spirituals, gospel and blues in his legendary work, “Revelations.”

Now, 55 years later, the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater’s still performing that ballet, still celebrating spiritual exuberance.

When I saw the Cal Performances offering at Zellerbach Hall the other night, it was as captivating, as viscerally exciting as ever.

Maybe more so.

I couldn’t help notice it’s aged without a wrinkle.

Two other reprises were equally compelling — the percussive “Uprising,” by Israeli-born Hofesh Shechter and Vex’d, performed with surging testosterone by seven male dancers, and “After the Rain,” a pas de deux by Christopher Wheeldon that gracefully enhances music by Arvo Pärt.

“Suspended Women” by Jacqulyn Buglisi, danced to music by Ravel, seemed flimsy by comparison with the others — almost like watching 14 ballerinas twirling atop a music box.

“Uprising” was intensity incarnate.

It featured mock wrestling, macho slapping and punching, with guys appearing and disappearing into a shadowy mist.

Riveting.

I found it impossible to look away.

But “Revelations” was the most fun to watch.

The “Wade in the Water” sequence was exceptionally eye-catching, with all its costuming and props white except for one blue sheet-like material that seamlessly simulated waves.

Most rousing were the portions devoted to the familiar — “Sinner Man” and “Rocka My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham.”

The traveling troupe’s performances run only through April 26. But if you can make it, do.

In my book, it’s the best dance troupe extant.

A few folks must agree.

The multi-racial New York City-based company has performed before 25 million people in 48 states, 71 countries and on six continents.

Ailey created 79 ballets for the troupe but long wanted it to include works of others.

It has.

More than 235 pieces by more than 90 choreographers now help constitute a repertoire for the company, which after Ailey’s death in 1989 was helmed first by Judith Jamison and now Robert Battle.

Both would have made him proud.

Upcoming Cal Performances dance dates include “Cinderella,” by the Marlinsky Ballet and Orchestra, Oct. 1-4; and Twyla Tharp’s 50th anniversary tour, Oct. 16-18. Information: www.calperfs.berkeley.edu/ or (510) 642-9988.

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or at www.vitalitypress.com/

We reveled in our fantasy.

Instead of deck-lounging in San Anselmo, our minds rocketed to Zanzibar, the semi-autonomous part of Tanzania in East Africa that’s housed humans for 20,000 years.

Why there?

God knows, since neither my wife nor I’d ever thought of going there — even when playing “let’s pretend.”

The mental trip was a lot cheaper than real airfare, of course.

And we definitely needed a break, fast approaching total pooped-outedness because of our typically intense, neurotic scheduling.

“I haven’t spotted a native all day,” I mused aloud, “but I have noticed animals nosing around.” Three deer-in-residence that devour whatever flowers dare pop up in our yard were grazing only a few feet away.

I had no clue what they were fantasizing.

Our compulsiveness made us set rules even for last month’s “impromptu” four-day staycation.

We’d monitor but not answer phone calls and emails. Nancy wouldn’t work on her upcoming piano-and-patter performances, nor I on promoting my book, “Rollercoaster: How a man can survive his partner’s breast cancer.”

We mulled taking our dog, Kismet, to a West Marin beach, leisurely buying pants at the Northgate Shopping Center, taking out mu shu from Ping’s in San Rafael.

No deadlines. No schedule. No pressure.

The first morning, I asked our Zanzibarian chef to scramble eggs, with diced onions throughout.

When done, I said, “My compliments to the chef.”

“Thanks,” he replied.

Funny how much “he” resembled my wife.

The eggs were perfect. But we decided we’d prefer eating out most of the time, as if we were in a faraway Airbnb instead of at home in Marin County.

Relaxing has never been our long suit, though.

In fact, years ago I tried pulling off a Do-Nothing Day. It lasted under four minutes, after which I found myself checking 13 bookmarked news sites, exercising, phoning my daughter in New York, walking our dog at Drake High, helping Nancy unclog a filing cabinet, hauling a box to our storage shed, writing to an agent, and crafting a column.

We did better together.

One day we even watched a triple-feature in bed.

Best was “Alive Inside,” gifted us by Nancy’s Sausalito cousin, Laura Scott — a documentary about personalized music on iPods breaking through the solitary confinement of nursing home patients with Alzheimer’s and dementia.

It made us weep.

And rush to our checkbook.

The film also made me again appreciate Nancy’s shows. She regularly plays in memory-care and other senior facilities — geographically spread from The Redwoods in Mill Valley to Atria Tam Creek in Novato.

For years she’s told me of residents exiting almost catatonic states to tap their toes and fingers, swing their arms and mouth words from once forgotten tunes.

A two-way blessing, indeed.

Our second staycation day included laughing and crying at a Fairfax matinee of “The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,” and slowly strolling downtown in San Anselmo.

That was followed by a day of Nancy dipping into Ann Patchett’s anthology, “This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage,” and my reading Roger Ebert’s autobiography, “Life Itself” — books with mega-positive messages.

But our best “go-nowhere day” was the one in which we went somewhere.

Unscheduled.

We rode past Fairfax and San Geronimo through manifold tunnels of trees to South Beach, where we watched huge waves blithely erase both human and dog prints from the sand for hours.

And we topped off the jaunt with an elongated outdoor lunch at Perry’s Inverness Park Grocery while watching sheep across Sir. Francis Drake Blvd. that were even more tranquil than we.

Wristwatches seemed wholly out of place.

Though we did make it through the staycation without working, we also re-discovered our love for — and addiction to — the endeavors that comprise “our revolving-door lives.”

Well, to be honest, we almost made it.

Our final staycation hours were corrupted by a computer glitch on my iMac.

I gave myself papal dispensation to work it out.

Nancy and I chortled at my obsessiveness — and copped to preferring the excitement of fifth gear to the stability of first.

But even if we never repeat our four-day experiment, we at least learned we can take time off from overload.

Maybe half a day.

Or an hour.

Hey, watch out Zanzibar, here we come again.

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or at www.vitalitypress.com/