Month: November 2018

Cara Mia’s Folkloric Theatre is consistently, splendidly, nothing short of spectacular. With an eye for remarkable, semiotically potent imagery, and an ear for the clever, understated and mythic, they take intriguing narratives and submerge us in the thick of them. They have the confidence to pursue intuitive logic, trusting it to take us where we need to go.

Tina’s Journey (El Viaje de Tina) features numerous topics: machismo, refuge, assimilation, celebration, honoring the dead, family. Tina is a little girl, who follows her parents across the river into Texas. They are hesitant to do so, but as Tina’s mother explains, “There’s nothing for us here”. [Meanwhile the Winter God and other supernatural beings are staking out dominions and making plans of their own.] Once they reach America (after arduously fleeing on foot) they move in with Aunt Eloisa et al, who feed and welcome them. We see contrasts between Anglo and Latinx culture. They have made it just in time for El Dia de los Muertos. When they arrive, there are Halloween decorations still in place. Halloween and El Dia are similar, but not. They must hurry to make the altar for those near and dear, who have passed to the next realm. There is cooking to do, and special objects to set in place.

One of the glories of Tina’s Journey is the way playwright Berta Hiriart casually, vividly blends mortal activity with that of the other-worldly. Ghosts of Grandmother and Uncle must follow the trail of marigolds left by Tina to find their way back home. Witches appear as part of Halloween festivities, but also consort with greater and lesser deities of earth and air. Another is the inclusion of the fanciful and inexplicable. The gorgeous, blue, translucent swaths of cloth to manifest the glistening, foreboding river. Spirits making their presence known to the living: a marvelous connection between this world and the next. The arrangement of sacred components both holy and everyday on the retabla. Images of The Blessed Virgin and The Heart of Jesus. Whiskey and cards and cigars for Uncle, because they brought him pleasure, when he still dwelt amongst the living.

All the actors in Tina’s Journey wear masks. At the outset, I wondered if we were dealing in iconography, but the longer I watched, the more I realized it enhanced layers of meaning. Masks suggested one aspect of the character’s personality, or purpose, or identity, while dialogue added more still. It was disorienting at first, but before long, it served to amplify the intoxicating spell.

Cara Mia Theatre Company and The Labaratorio De La Mascara present Tina’s Journey, playing November 15th-December 2^nd, 2013. Latino Cultural Center: 2600 Live Oak, Dallas, Texas 75204. (214) 516-0706. www.caramiatheatre.org

Ryan Matthieu Smith has theatrical vision like no other. He’s directed Trainspotting, Cabaret, The Rocky Horror Show and most recently, A Streetcar Named Desire. He takes on rough, intense content, imbuing it with his own original slant. One detects a certain capaciousness, a sybaritic extravagance brought to the stage to engage and confound us at nearly every turn. Sometimes his vision exceeds his reach (or what’s a heaven for?) but no matter, the submersive experience, the freshness of perception, more than compensates. He explores mankind in all its blinding, chaotic woundedness: genocide, addiction, degeneracy, toxicity, hysteria, martyrdom, persecution and aching inadequacy.

As you entered the Arts Mission Oak Cliff, Wendy Rene’e Searcy’s set design overwhelms with its sprawling, ramshackle, weathered wood depiction of the French Quarter of New Orleans in 1943. Street musicians stir up a jaunty mix of zydeco, jazz and voodoo rhythms that all at once dazzle and portend. A wailing song erupts. Neighbors find their way through the streets and down rickety stairs. Is it any wonder that when Blanche DuBois arrives (erstwhile royalty of the Deep South) that she is discouraged and bewildered? Raucous shouting both friendly and angry. Unabashed gawking at this otherworldly orchid who seems out of place.

Used up and destitute from her mother’s prolonged illness, Blanche has come to stay with her sister Stella, and Stella’s husband, Stanley Kowalski. Their apartment is tiny, and almost immediately, Stanley finds Blanche insufferable. Stella and Stanley do their best to accommodate Blanche. It’s not that she’s arrogant, she just grew up around grace and erudition, qualities not in great demand in The Quarter. Stella came from the same background, but left when she got the itch for the Stanley’s butch mien. The two sisters get along just fine, and Blanche does her best to be a polite guest, until one night when the drinking and poker playing get out of hand. Stanley slaps Stella (who’s expecting a baby) nearly knocking her down. Blanche begins dating Mitch, one of Stanley’s bowling buddies, with a much more tender side than Stanley’s.

In Streetcar, Tennessee Williams pits two gender archetypes against one another. Stella, the elegant Southern Belle, tormented by insanity and humiliation, and Stanley, the virile troglodyte who can be charming (kind of) when he needs to be. Despite the animosity that informs their intersection, Stanley and Blanche share a surprising quality. Their extreme behavior aims to compensate for a profound lack of confidence. If not, why is Stanley hurt when Blanche makes her famous “march of the apes” speech? Why is Blanche so determined to cling to an image of refinement? On some level they both have been damaged (as most of us have) but their strategy is to fight any unwelcome detection.

Tennessee Williams may be one of the most difficult playwrights in the American Theatrical Canon. It’s not always easy to find an actor who can bring Stanley’s unapologetic cockiness to bear, and still manage the charisma. Blanche, on the other hand, is nearly regal. She’s very comfortable with poise and insouciance. But her behavior conceals hysteria; a frenetic demeanor like a perpetual motion machine. Apart from other functions, Stella and Mitch provide a sharp contrast to the Male and Female caricatures that Blanche and Stanley wield in Streetcar’s cosmos. The problem with caricatures (naturally) is that they make lousy role models. They’re not practical, however convincing.

Ryan Matthieu Smith’s production of A Streetcar Named Desire was scintillating, ominous, volatile. Suffused with dark grief. His Stanley slams the furniture every time Blanche pisses him off. [Stanley can’t tell the difference between effervescence and pretentiousness.] His Blanche is possessed of a breathless, chattering case of nerves, like a spirit of air. There are lots of splendid, rich, bold choices. The pervasive suggestion of shadow magic (dolls, candles, incense) gender reversals (cross dressed roles) a run down, somewhat dystopian quality, that makes Blanche’s fate feel all but inevitable. From the moment we were ushered to our seats, we were at Smith’s mercy. If only he’d told us the safe word.

Theatre of North Texas presented A Streetcar Named Desire. Arts Mission Oak Cliff. 410 South Windomere Avenue, Dallas, Texas 75208. (469) 729-9309. www.artsmissionoc.com

Set in a Hobby Lobby, A Bright New Boisie is the story of Will, a middle-aged man who is a new hire, and his impact on the other employees he connects with. There are definite drawbacks to working in retail (minimum wage, surly customers, stress) but one advantage is the sense of “family”. The demands of retail has a bonding effect, so over time, you come to appreciate friendships borne of shared misery. Right away, several details become salient. Pauline, the manager, is asking a lot of questions for such a menial position. Will is hiding something about the church he left behind. Will chose this job because the son he gave away at birth, works here. I know I’m spoiling, but there’s a lot I’m not telling you. At the outset, Will seems to be doing OK, gradually creating ties with the other clerks. This doesn’t last.

About ten minutes into watching A Bright New Boisie, it struck me that the writer must be Samuel D. Hunter, the same playwright behind The Whale and Clarkston. Hunter has a gift for beginning with something fairly dry and blasé, and then a dread starts to wash over you. I didn’t know, but I knew. Seemingly innocuous situations go sideways. The natural goodness of people doesn’t come through, or if it does, some other person in the equation isn’t receptive. Our hopes for nurturing and resolution (or at least mere disappointment) are squashed. Please understand, I say none of this by way of disparagement.

Mr. Hunter, with his cunning gift for recognizing society’s delusions, understands lives can be ruined when we fail to take responsibility for our behavior towards others. Yes, there are charitable souls who go out of their way to heal the walking wounded, but far too frequently pettiness, terror and toxicity win the day. It’s not that Hunter doesn’t believe in altruism, he grasps how very few of us do. Why forgive someone who recklessly harms you? Why take the high road when retribution feels more satisfying? Hunter explores the empty values and moral bankruptcy that have given cynicism such a stronghold in our culture.

It’s not obvious at the beginning, but Bright New Boisie considers the increasing tendency of Draconian Christian religions in America to ignore most (if not all) of the merciful, gracious impulses extolled by Jesus, in His Sermon on the Mount. [Thank you, Reverend Phelps.]Will abandons his infant son, because his congregation believes the boy’s inception is sinful. A teenage boy, lost and aching for spiritual redemption, is betrayed by Will, and subsequently, an over-zealous pastor. How far gone must a gathering of souls be, to see obvious contradictions in their punitive nature and God’s plea that we love one another? How far gone must we be to see how far we’ve strayed? Hunter takes us to a very dark place, but then, how strong must the coffee be, before we wake the hell up?

Once more, the dedicated, diligent folks from Resolute Theatre Project produced a powerful, unsettling, gloriously blinding contemporary drama. If you have a profound appreciation for dangerous, life-changing, finely crafted theatre, keep your eye on Resolute Theatre Project. Many thanks to Danny Macchietto and his cast and crew, for their warmth and kindness. Amy’s Studio of Performing Arts. 11888 Marsh Lane, Dallas, Texas 75234. 214-682-2167. www.resolutetheatreproject.com

Ellida is Dr. Wangel’s second wife. When they got married, he had daughters (Bolette and Hilde) who lost their mother suddenly. For one reason and another, Ellida has never quite fit in, she feels like an interloper, a compromise. Interaction is pleasant, cordial even, but something is missing. Every year Hilde gathers flowers for a kind of tacit memorial to her deceased mother. Ellida once had a brief encounter with a sailor, which has obsessed her ever since. She bathes in the ocean every morning, and when word of his appearance to a family friend reaches her, misgivings about her present attachment emerge.

Henrik Ibsen’s The Lady From the Sea, strikes several balances. Or perhaps imbalances. The sailor who begs her to leave with him, before she even met Dr. Wangel, is not a delusion. But neither is he flesh and blood, exactly. Others have seen and spoken with him, but something about him is ephemeral. He occupies a realm somewhere between the fanciful and the rational. Ellida aches to follow him to the ocean, because his urgent need surpasses practical considerations, such as companionship and being a domestic partner. While Ellida is treated well (except by Hilde) it’s as if she’s a guest on an extended visit. She’s trapped by ambivalence, even though she didn’t hesitate to accept the Doctor’s proposal. She seems torn by the need for security and the longing for something more daring.

In addition to Ellida’s predicament, we see problems as Hilde is courted by Lyngstrand and Bolette by her former mentor, Arnholm. [Am I wrong, or do only the women go by first names?] Both Arnholm and Lyngstrand have clear notions of how they will benefit from matrimony to Bolette and Hilde, but only a vague grasp of any emotional and spiritual nurturing for their wives. Lyngstrand believes the role of Muse should be enough for Hilde, and Arnholm doesn’t realize Bolette’s ambitions go much further than being a wife. Ibsen isn’t withering here (though slyly comical) but certainly aware of the men’s lack of empathy.

Under Blake Hackler’s keen direction the cast (Joanna Schellenberg, Bruce DuBose, Lauren Floyd, Jovane Caamano, Chris Messersmith, Marcus Stimac, Stephanie Cleghorn Jasso and Dean Wray) and crew et al, explore this masterful blend of the intellectual and emotional: Ibsen’s reflection of what the partnership of marriage is, and does, and can be, for women. None of the characters are petty or stupid or abusive. They do their best with what they know, and the information they have. Such as it is. Culture (sadly) has subtle, often imperceptible ways of indoctrinating, without letting on that we’re participating. Hackler’s savvy, spontaneous, thoroughly involved players get this, offering a poignant, touching and memorable narrative, filled with insight and humanity.

Undermain Theatre presents: The Lady From the Sea, playing November 7th-December 2^nd, 2018. 3200 Main Street, Dallas, Texas 75223. 214.747.5515. www.undermain.org.

We can only imagine the response to the 1948 Broadway premiere of Kiss Me, Kate. Written by Sam and Bella Spewack (Book) and Cole Porter (Lyrics and Music) Kiss Me, Kate, was a saucy, jazzy riff on Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew, and naturally, the battle of the sexes. Set backstage and onstage in a Baltimore production of Shrew, Kiss Me, Kate follows the tempestuous battle between Fred Graham (Director, Producer, Star of Shrew) and his ex and co-star, Lilli Vanessi. Kiss Me, Kate derides and celebrates the folly of male-female romance, the deception (Always True) the risky chemistry (Too Darn Hot) the rage (I Hate Men). Much of it’s tongue-in-cheek, though it must be noted that Porter and the Spewacks were audacious to depict “love” in its less halcyon aspect, and a lady who could throw a punch.

When Kiss Me, Kate opens, Fred and Lilli, though estranged, seem to be somewhere along the road to reconciliation, when a box of flowers, delivered to Lilli by mistake, infuriates her. Her anger leads to an onstage confrontation, and she is determined to walk out on the show. Lois Lane, Fred’s girlfriend, has another boyfriend, Bill, with a gambling debt. In a desperate moment, Bill signs Fred’s name to a voucher, to save his own neck. When goons arrive to squeeze $10,000 out of Fred, he convinces them it’s in everyone’s best interest to ensure the show completes its run.

Some of Kiss Me, Kate seems relatively innocuous today, but some of it doesn’t. You needn’t watch too carefully to notice how it winks and flirts with some of of the more tempestuous aspects of “romance”, how it dabbles with the risque. If Lilli sang “I Hate Men” with all the other women, perhaps she wouldn’t seem like such a lone wolf. Because it’s undeniable that Fred can be a dawg. (And of course, many other men.) He may be a rogue but he’s unscrupulous. Kiss Me, Kate strikes an uneasy balance between a rose-colored version of the world and the unfortunate moments. That’s what comic mockery does. I’m not sure how well it ages, but that being said, playfulness would seem to win the day.

Props and kudos to director Doug Miller, Mary Medrick (Music Director) Kelly McCain (Choreographer) and an astonishing, versatile, energetic cast, who have assembled a solid, deeply pleasurable, consistently clever musical show. The dance numbers are confident and imaginative, the performances authentic and fresh, the comedy snappy and flawlessly timed. I don’t know if I’ve ever been disappointed by a show at MainStage Irving. The experience is always crisp, resonant and professional. Miller has orchestrated a giddy, enjoyable musical with lots of fizz, hilarity and polish.

MainStage Irving – Los Colinas presents: Kiss Me, Kate, playing November 2nd–17th, 2018. Dupree Theatre. Irving Arts Center. 3333 N. MacArthur Blvd, Irving, Texas, 75062. (972) 594-6104. info@irvingtheatre.org

A visit to The Ochre House is like no other. Everything seems fairly innocuous until the lights go down and you are plunged into the realm of dreams, hilarity, nefariousness and the fanciful. Matthew Posey’s Elwood is set outside the boundaries of urban civilization. Elwood lives in a rustic cabin where he cares for the baby he conceived with Cordelia, who took a powder some time ago. Cordelia’s parents, Ansel and Sarah Barber, appear on Elwood’s front porch, seeking Cordelia and concerned for the welfare of their grandson. By all accounts, he is quite a rapacious, homely baby, but Elwood loves him fiercely. Sisters Florida and Tennessee, Harley Tulips and several others, are all up in Elwood’s business about this heard, but rarely seen, infant. It’s implied that Elwood made some deal with diabolical individuals that put his son at risk, but the particulars are vague.

As he has done in previous shows, Posey is pretty cagey when it comes to tone. There is comic respite to be sure, but often demonstration doesn’t quite match content. Like if you were were paying your respects at a funeral, and placed a watermelon on the departed. Posey punctures a solemn moment with humor, but the actors never betray the incongruity. Could it be the characters don’t take matters as seriously as they believe they do? Can they not distinguish between the crucial and the ridiculous? Posey’s ability to beguile with enigma and confounded expectations, to weave the absurd seamlessly into the melancholy and mundane, is meticulous and impeccable. He seems to delight in confiscating any compass we might bring with us to the theater.

Elwood explores the considerable burden of bringing children into the world. Cordelia’s parents readily admit their failure to raise her conscientiously. Elwood bewails profound regret for not protecting his son. It’s not easy to grasp if the parents in Elwood feel they lacked the character to guide their children, or found the responsibility overwhelming. Perhaps half the trick in coming through for our kids is being emotionally present, but in Elwood’s famished cosmos, that possibility seems remote. For all the contrition and despondency, their seems to be a dangerous undercurrent of apathy and resignation.

Ochre House’s Elwood is a thoroughly absorbing, somber, compelling and humorous drama. Posey and his brilliant cast, et al, create a strange, surprising and richly entertaining reflection on a timeless and tragic problem. The chasm between what children need to thrive in this sketchy life, and what they get.

Ochre House presents Elwood, playing October 27th-November 17^th, 2018. 823 Exposition Avenue, Dallas, Texas 75226. 214-826-6273. www.ochrehousetheater.org. web.ovationtix.com.

Emilie has been corresponding with a young man who wishes her to come and live with he and his family, in service as a governess. Their letters have taken a distinctly, if subtextually, romantic turn. When she arrives, neither the Lord of the manor, nor her young charge, are anywhere to be found. There are the two sisters, Agatha and Huldey. And a maid named Marjory. Agatha is cold, disingenuous and evasive. Huldey is vain and superficial. Marjory is petulant and terse. Despite very strange circumstances, Emilie’s questions do nothing to enlighten her, or illuminate the actual reasons she’s there. Her reception is by turns hostile and convivial, confounding and reassuring, disorienting and beguiling.

Stage comedy would seem to be a constant source of enigma and the inexplicable. Christopher Durang can manage hi-jinks that could never work for Moliere (or anybody else). Neil Simon and Samuel Beckett might share worldviews, but not the same methodology. Albee and McDonagh may be writing comedy for themselves, but not the rest of us. It’s not always easy to gauge why a comedy takes flight or crashes, even if the verdict itself is undeniable.

Jen Silverman’s The Moors is unquestionably brilliant, taking the considerable gravitas of The Bronte Sister’s milieu, and turning it on its head. Confessing up front a disgraceful lack of exposure to Jane and Emily’s oeuvre, I can freely attest that Silverman’s masterful script makes the absurdity of Emilie’s experience quite salient, while in the context of a novel, we might be lost in the miasma of metaphysical paucity and ennui. The Brontes’ make starvation of the soul palpable, yet absorbing, evinced in the merciless desolation of the moors, and famished discourse to be found in the households they depict. In Silverman’s comedy, the moors have crept into the living room (Thank you, Ian Loveall) though nobody seems to notice. Or care. What might normally pass for verisimilitude arises under Silverman’s skillful hand. The ridiculousness of endless introversion (the animals are more evolved than the humans) the indulgent petulance, pops, and we find ourselves laughing helplessly. Silverman has created a fusion of homage and spoof. We see Agatha’s pretentiousness and Huldey’s narcissism (or is it the other way?) but we’re celebrating, rather than mocking, The Brontes.

Under the sure hand of director Garrett Storms, the cast is deliciously sly and nimble. Emily Scott Banks is the essence of cool detachment, and Mikaela Krantz’s Huldey might sabotage her own dinner party, just for the attention. Jenny Ledel’s angry scullery maid is two steps removed from Lizzie Borden, and Vanessa DeSilvio’s governess is charming without making us cringe. Thomas Ward and Felicia Bertch are engaging as The Mastiff who ponders the imperatives of the cosmos, and The Moor-Hen, who’s content with more banal distractions. Please do make a point of seeing The Moors, a comedy as restorative as a tonic and giddy as a goose.

Theatre 3 presents: The Moors, playing October 25^th – November 18^th, 2018. 2800 Routh St, Suite 168, Dallas, Texas 75201 (214) 871-3300. www.theatre3dallas.com

 

Mrs. Johnstone is a single mother, abandoned by her husband, with too many mouths to feed. She’s a housekeeper for Mrs. Lyons, an ostensibly kind, married woman, who is unable to carry a pregnancy to term. When she learns Mrs. Johnstone is pregnant with twins, and already on the verge of losing welfare, she pleads to “adopt” one as her own. Mrs. Johnstone is leery, but Mrs. Lyons is convincing; assuring her that she’ll be able to see him every day. Mrs. Lyons insists that the two boys must never meet. Not ever. Needless to say, the brothers, Mickey and Eddie, cross paths. They hit it off, but after enduring their mothers’ wrath, continue to meet in secret. Such is the premise of Willy Russell’s Blood Brothers, a bleak, though utterly human, musical set in England from 1950-1975.

Because the two brothers have been raised in two very different households, the theme of England’s caste system arises, repeatedly. Mrs. Johnstone is constantly in debt. Eddie loves to learn dirty words from Mickey, and join in with his mischief. It never crosses their minds that there’s any fundamental difference in their situations. When they are much older, and Mickey explains he’s stuck in a horrible job, Eddie tells him to quit, not realizing this isn’t an option. Without revealing too much, Mickey and Eddie’s great love for each other lasts only as long as privilege doesn’t become an issue.

Blood Brothers is an unorthodox, fresh musical, filled with songs that are convivial, yet wistful. It takes unexpected turns, and certainly doesn’t lack for comic relief. It avoids polished tropes that so often make a show feel phoned-in or hollow. It walks the razor’s edge between drama and melodrama, managing to tell a convincing story without becoming maudlin or manipulative. A central metaphor is expressed by the life of Marilyn Monroe, familiar to Mrs. Johnstone through the movies. This glamorous, yet emotionally raw celebrity, embodies the realm of opulence and despondency. Mrs. Johnstone embraces the idea of Monroe, which is both ethereal and tragic. It mixes longing for a better life with resignation to disappointment. Blood Brothers is a gripping, sagacious show that explores the connection between familial roots and destiny. Russell’s respect for his characters, and for us, comes shining through.

IMPRINT theatreworks presents Blood Brothers, playing November 26^th – November 10^th, 2018. Bath House Cultural Center. 521 E. Lawther Drive, Dallas, TX 75218. www.imprinttheatreworks.org.   (650) 265-1193.