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There’s something delightful about plays about grand divas in crisis.

The prima donna in extremis in Pearl Cleage’s “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous,” which is having its Los Angeles premiere at the Geffen Playhouse, has an air of Bette Davis extravagance to her. When Anna Campbell (Charlayne Woodard) struts around her elegant hotel suite in Atlanta, she can’t resist delivering one of Davis’ signature lines: “What a dump!”

She’s not at all dissatisfied with the accommodations. She’s just frustrated that the weather isn’t cooperating with her upcoming outdoor performance and agitated that this might be a bad omen for her big American comeback.

More than 30 years ago, Anna and her manager and trusted companion, Betsy Samson (a formidable Denise Burse), fled to Europe on the heels of a highbrow scandal. Anna made waves when she performed “Naked Wilson,” a protest piece that had her delivering male monologues from August Wilson’s plays while standing stark naked before a divided audience.

The idea was to call attention to the way women have been de-centered in the male canon, but some felt it was sacrilege to subject Wilson’s work to a feminist stunt. Acting opportunities dried up, and Anna high-tailed it to Amsterdam, where her histrionic grandeur was put to good use in European classics.

Charlayne Woodard in “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” at Geffen Playhouse.

(Jeff Lorch)

Woodard brings Anna to life with a smokey voice, a statuesque presence and an arch demeanor. When her arms are in flamboyant motion, she leaves the impression of a seductive windmill that might slice you to bits if you come too close.

The sumptuous production, directed by LaTanya Richardson Jackson with solidarity for Cleage’s characters, provides a marvelous showcase for Woodward to slink around on Beowulf Boritt’s glamorous five-star set in costume designer Emilio Sosa’s inspired Pucci-esque outfits. Her Anna doesn’t do much but give attitude. Ah, but what delicious attitude she gives!

Cleage’s play, it must be said, is hamstrung with exposition. More time is devoted to setting up the dramatic situation than to activating it. Author of “Blues for an Alabama Sky,” a 1995 abortion drama still ahead of its time, Cleage is telling a backstage story that’s clearly close to home. She’s also spinning an intergenerational tale of Black women groping past their initial distrust to a deeper understanding of what they have in common.

The intentions are noble and the themes are handled with admirable complexity, but the writing is sluggish. The plot is like an old car whose engine just refuses to start on a cold winter morning.

Anna has returned to Atlanta to headline a festival that is rebooting her “Naked Wilson” piece. She’s worried about disrobing at her age, but it turns out that she’s only being honored for her work. A much younger and far less experienced performer has been cast in the part that made her a cause célèbre.

Denise Burse, from left, Deborah Joy Winans, Charlayne Woodard and Olivia Washington in “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” at Geffen Playhouse.

(Jeff Lorch)

Precious Watson (Olivia Washington), who goes by Pete, has not only never performed in a Wilson play but she’s never even seen one on stage. She’s a stripper whose only real dramatic experience has come from the adult entertainment industry. (Don’t call her a porn star, not because she’s ashamed of the films she made but because she’s too modest about her screen credits.)

Anna, her hauteur hardening like a protective shell, is aghast. She’s also fearful about her future. She’s run out of money, and this festival was to have launched her return to the U.S.

Betty, whose fate is tied to Anna’s, has been dangling the prospect of a national tour. But when Kate Hughes (an appealingly grounded Deborah Joy Winans), the producer of the festival, hears of this idea, she thinks it’s completely unrealistic.

“I love Anna,” she tells Betty. “ I’m honoring Anna, but there just isn’t an audience for the kind of presentation you’re talking about.”

Time marches on, and one era’s sensational renegade becomes a footnote in the next. But Anna can’t believe that all she holds sacred — study, discipline, seriousness, commitment — is of little value in the social media world.

Deborah Joy Winans, left, and Denise Burse in “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” at Geffen Playhouse.

(Jeff Lorch)

Pete (whom Washington plays with impressive self-possession) doesn’t seem at all bothered about what she doesn’t know. Anna keeps prefacing her remarks with the words “no offense,” but Pete can’t help being offended by her pointed disdain. Their standoff energizes the play, but this jolt of momentum comes a little too late.

“Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” is not just the title. It’s also a plot summary. The gorgeous part is the richness of Cleage’s characters, radiantly realized by all four actors under Jackson’s warm direction.

Cleage gives the women plenty of substance, though her novelistic mode — more telling than showing — deprives her drama of style. The elegant staging tries to compensate, but the performers have to rely a little too heavily on their own charms to make up the difference in a play that swerves unexpectedly at the end into a cutesy fairy tale.

We took Atlantic all the way to the Pacific, traveling from the San Gabriel Valley to Long Beach on foot. On the last morning of May, a group of us set out at 7:45 a.m. from a barren In-N-Out parking lot in Alhambra, where Atlantic Boulevard begins. We kept walking until we reached the water, 12 hours and more than 55,000 steps later.

In all, our group passed eight freeways, two highways, and one river, twice. We walked through a dozen cities: Alhambra, Monterey Park, Commerce, Vernon, Maywood, Bell, Cudahy, South Gate, Lynwood, Compton, Long Beach and, of course, Los Angeles.

We spent only about 1.5 miles, a half-hour, in the city of Los Angeles itself, all in East L.A. We spent more time in Lynwood than Los Angeles. We spent far more time — more than a third of our day — in Long Beach.

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To walk Atlantic was to connect the dots about how our region functions economically, from the port to the factories to the suburbs. It was also to realize just how expansive and multifaceted Long Beach is.

This is the sixth such walk of one lengthy street that, ending at the ocean, we’ve completed across Los Angeles. Our pursuit began in 2022 with Wilshire’s 16 miles, continued in 2023 with Sunset’s 25, maxed out in 2024 with Western’s 28-plus miles, and stepped back in 2025 with Pico’s 15.5 miles. Earlier this year, roughly 30 of us strolled all of Santa Monica’s 14.5 miles.

This time, we started with a group of 16, ranging in age from 20-something to sexagenarian, and finished with 12. Some walkers left and joined us along the way. Ten, including one Long Beach local, completed the street.

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1. Pedro Moura, center, gives a pep talk before leading a group on a 25-mile walk the length of Atlantic Boulevard. (Scott Strazzante/For The Times) 2. In so-L.A. fashion, a Tesla Cybertruck rolls past a pile of possessions flooding the sidewalk in front of an apartment building. 3. Josiah Fields, 15, earns money by cleaning car windshields at the intersection of Atlantic and Alondra Boulevards. 4. During the final mile of the their 25 mile walk, Chloe Stepney and Trevor O’Brien lead the way past Louis Burgers III on Atlantic Avenue. (Scott Strazzante/For The Times)

We’ve been playfully calling our annual jaunts the Big Walk. This one, we called the Bigger Walk. I suppose that makes Western the Biggest. We’ve come to believe the ideal distance for an all-day effort is about 20 miles. That seems long enough for it to feel like a real feat and short enough to include more interested folks and ample break time.

After a tranquil time on Santa Monica, I wrote that we expected Atlantic to be the opposite experience — “unwieldy, at times unwelcoming, and excessively industrial.” That was an overstatement at best and factually wrong at worst.

We did visit Vernon, the city that proudly promotes itself as “exclusively industrial.” But by one measure, Atlantic was literally the most welcoming street we’ve done yet. Many more people greeted us. The actual street was at least as pedestrian-friendly as Western or Sunset. At no point did we have to walk on the road or in a minuscule median.

We did, though, have to cross five crosswalks just to continue on Atlantic at one point, at an absurd intersection with Ferguson Drive, Goodrich Boulevard, Telegraph Road and Triggs Street. Railroad tracks and the famed old East L.A. Union Pacific Station stood to our left, and the 5 freeway to our right. Clearly, pedestrian convenience had not been front of mind during the area’s planning.

Oil might be the simplest way to illustrate how Atlantic differs from more famous L.A. streets. On Pico Boulevard, there are oil derricks hidden behind elaborate, towering facades. Along Atlantic, the derricks are just everywhere in plain sight for a while. We did walk atop both the Long Beach Oil Field, a mega giant field, and the Wilmington Oil Field, the third-largest oil field in the contiguous United States.

That’s Atlantic, lacking in pretense, not hiding anything, but exceeding our expectations. We saw more plants native to our region, including Cleveland sage and Sacred datura, than along Santa Monica. And we kept encountering vibrant pockets where we did not know they would be. Monterey Park was the first to impress us, with gorgeous Cascades Park tucked into a lush little valley.

A rose peeks through a fence at St. Rose of Lima Church on Atlantic Boulevard.

Lykayla Melendez poses in her quinceañera dress at Cascades Park along Atlantic Boulevard.

In East L.A., chilaquiles, tamales, tejuino and ribs were all available street-side, and one of our members noticed the newer location of the famed La Azteca Tortilleria in a strip mall near the Metro station. Azteca has been the No. 1 seed in Times columnist Gustavo Arellano’s tortilla tasting tournaments with KCRW; we picked up a couple dozen to go.

Farther south, Bell is best known locally as the home of brazenly corrupt city officials earlier this century. When we passed through, the shade provided by a pocket park in the city center became a crucial respite for our lunch break. Across the street, a community market was just starting up for the afternoon. We caught a couple songs from a talented mariachi band.

Once we crossed the 105 overpass, we quickly encountered four sizable parks, each no more than two miles from the last. We saw one pump track, two tennis courts and skate parks, several sports fields, and an impressive number of food trucks, including Instagram-famous Kitchen’s Corner BBQ. At least another dozen food vendors seemed to be setting up for evening service as we marched by in the late afternoon.

By the third park we passed, we were in Long Beach, specifically North Long Beach. The fourth, Scherer Park, is a sprawling, 26-acre gem. Soon enough we were in Bixby Knolls, where, for more than a decade now, Long Beach officials have been investing in improving bicycle and pedestrian access. It shows. We had a delightful happy hour on Ambitious Ales’ front patio overlooking Atlantic.

August Fagerstrom and Pedro Moura fist bump a well-wisher on Atlantic Avenue.

Official lists of the longest L.A.-area streets are almost impossible to find. Often, such lists are kept by cities. The longer the street, the less likely that all of it is within one city’s limits.

We can say this: There are not many stretches of a single street with the same name longer than Atlantic in the L.A. Basin. Western Avenue, definitely. Imperial Highway, depending on your perspective on what constitutes a street. Sunset is about the same length. And that’s about it.

Unless you want to be particularly persnickety and disqualify Atlantic on the grounds that it technically has two names. For its northern 10 miles, Atlantic is a boulevard. For its southern 15, it’s an avenue. Where Maywood becomes Bell, it switches. But it’s Atlantic all the same, and that was good enough for us.

Surely you’ve been wondering about the origin of the name. Atlantic has been named for the distant ocean since the 19th century, when a Brit tried to christen a city after himself and named its three major streets Pacific, American and Atlantic avenues, from west to east. American is now Long Beach Boulevard, so it no longer makes much sense.

At the end of their 25-mile walk, Chris Kirkham celebrates with fellow walkers at Atlantic Avenue and Ocean Boulevard.

Speaking of names: Our Alhambra is named after a Washington Irving book inspired by his visit to the 13th-century Islamic fortress of the same name in what is now Spain. You can walk to the actual Atlantic from that Alhambra in about 150 miles.

This was easier than that, at least. If you’re eager to explore the backbone of Los Angeles, curious for a challenge, you could do worse than attacking Atlantic. I promise you’ll see something new. We saw a street juggler. We saw a live chicken and a dead turkey. We saw a discarded box of Pacifico beer that had been cooking in the sun so long it turned from yellow to white.

Pedro Moura points out Chloe Stepney’s sock tan line as they celebrate the end of their 25-mile walk down Atlantic with a dip in the Pacific Ocean at Alamitos Beach.

After we rinsed our weary feet in the Pacific, some of us waddled back up to Downtown Long Beach and scarfed down Sonoratown burritos and chivichangas before heading home. It was a Sunday well spent.