Month: September 2019

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical adaptation of T. S. Eliot’s poetry collection, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats: Cats is a stalwart of late 20^th Century Theatre. As fanciful and whimsical as its source material, Cats premiered in The West End and Broadway, from 1981-82. After a slow start, it realized huge commercial success. Having never before attended a production of Cats, I proceeded nonetheless undaunted to The Firehouse Theatre.

On the empty stage there was a garbage dump. There were massive, oversized components: an abandoned car, dryer, kitchen stove, tire, various sorts of vivid detritus. Despite the sprawling refuse (in blue moonlight) the set had an odd sense of the romantic. The mythical. As the orchestra cues up, cats of astonishing variety pop up, here and there, walking on all fours, some of them sniffing around audience members. They perch all over the mise en scene, each with its own demeanor and personalty. Some are shy, some curious, some assertive, some relaxed. With a cast of 30, we become aware of profusion and (despite distinct identities) a feeling that they often move as one. Not just physical but as if a particular attitude is shared. Make-up (Logan Coley Broker) and Costuming (Sydney Cornelius) were cunning, clever and beguiling, with ingenious attention to detail.

The best parts of Cats are the fresh touches. The Choreography (Christina Kudlicki Hoth) that, at first, seeks to emulate feline movement, that creates the illusion we are submerged in a world, known only to other cats. The idea of the “Jellicle” cat: perhaps the chosen recipient of a new life? Perhaps one that embodies the essence of “catness”? It’s never really explained, but again it contributes to the air of the clandestine. The enigma. Webber doesn’t necessarily avoid the obvious. Rum Tum Tugger, the cocky tomcat that exudes charm and blue collar bravado. (You haven’t lived till you’ve been flirted with by a cat.) The satirical sketches mocking dogs. The hissing and reference to cream. Gradually the dancing becomes less about catlife and more like traditional Broadway hoofing. All this being said, Cats has such playful energy, such authentically sad and solemn moments, we are captivated by pleasure and surprisingly touching moments.

I begin every day with a glass of Superfood and 1 of V8, but the cast of Cats must be downing rocket fuel. Where else could we see such daring, exuberant energy? The climbing and leaping and spinning and somersaults? I never cease to marvel at the precision, discipline, stamina and audacity it takes to orchestrate something as demanding as musical theatre. Kudos to Director Mark Mullino, the cast and crew, et al of Cats. This is a splendid evening of exhilarating theatre.

The Firehouse Theatre presents Cats, running September 5th-22nd, 2019. 2535 Valley View Lane, Farmers Branch, Texas 75234. (972) 620-3747. www.thefirehousetheatre.com

Cora, Ida, Aaronetta and Esther are four senior sisters, living close to one another. Aaronetta is the only unmarried sister, and she lives with Cora and her husband Theodore (Thor). Homer, son of Ida and Carl, is on a trip back home, bringing his fiancee (?!) Myrtle, after a prolonged courtship. Myrtle is sweet as blueberry pie, but Homer’s feelings about marriage are a bit ambivalent (to be kind). All his aunts and uncles are hoping that Homer’s visit, accompanied by Myrtle, signals a decision. Carl is experiencing what we might call a “midlife crisis”. Only worse. He’s questioning decisions he made in hindsight, sometimes manifesting in fits and manic episodes. Esther lives down the street with her brilliant, misanthropic husband, David. He has forbidden Esther to hobnob with her sisters and their husbands, common folk that they are.

Written by Paul Olson, Mornings at Seven belongs to America’s theatre canon. It premiered on Broadway in 1939, and had revivals in 1980, and 2002. Its productions included such accomplished actors as: Maureen O’Sullivan, Estelle Parsons, Nancy Marchand, Dorothy Gish, Frances Sternhagen, Piper Laurie, Christopher Lloyd and Buck Henry. The 1980 production won numerous Tonys and Drama Desk Awards.

There was a time, I believe, when we weren’t quite so obsessed with labeling plays as either comedy or drama. Mornings at Seven would seem to be comedy by way of melodrama. Each character has their own quirks and eccentricities, and even the costumes (to a degree) seem to bear that out. The women are strong, or, at least, more decisive and focused than their spouses. Their dilemmas and painful emotions are genuine, though this isn’t altogether clear at the outset.

I cannot address the changes in attitude that span the 1930’s to the early turn of the 21^st Century. Mr. Olson would seem to linger dangerously close to quaintness, before disabusing us of those assumptions. This isn’t unusual (though it might have been in 1939) but we can find the same strategy in other plays such as: Butterflies are Free, The Fantasticks, and The Skin of Our Teeth. Whether endemic to the content or this particular production, there seemed to be a kind of malaise and confusion informing the piece. I think it was smart to set Mornings at Seven in the past. What might have seemed normal in the 1930’s could seem disingenuous today. There were times I wasn’t sure whether we were supposed to be amused or saddened. All this being said, Mornings at Seven is graced by a diligent cast, and a knack for the nostalgic.

Rover Dramawerks presents: Mornings at Seven, playing August 29th-September 14^th, 2019. 221 W. Parker Rd., Suite 580, Plano 75023. www.roverdramawerks.com. (972) 849-0358

Actor, performance artist, playwright, author: John Leguizamo does an odd mashup of rage and subversiveness, hilarity and hoke, in his most recent show. Latin History for Morons is a litany of atrocities and genocide towards the Latino population throughout history, mixed with Leguizamo’s hijinks and raunchy tangents. His nonchalant anecdotes are interspersed with the vivid and very telling history of the subjugation of his ancestors, as well as an ongoing account of helping his son with a project on heroes for school. Leguizamo’s anarchy blends into his discourse and gets the poor boy in trouble.

At the start, Leguizamo warms up the audience, encouraging raucous enthusiasm and picking a couple of “victims” to pick on. (Nothing resembling the contemptuous chicanery David Letterman was so famous for). His stories of relatives, both distant and near and dear, are engaging and charming. And spot on. His hapless, sweet boy, his reprimanding Jewish wife, his disaffected, snippy daughter. His is an infinitely varied world of creeds, ethnicities and shades of pigmentation. Cynical and savvy. No one is flawless, no one immune. He uses a chalkboard to elaborate on the food chain of white and nonwhite civilizations, conquests and warfare. But, mischief maker that he is, he just can’t resist sneaking in some dirty cartoons.

When you’re deep in the thick of Leguizamo’s loopy, yet grim and confrontational (for lack of a better word) odyssey, you think, “How could this conceivably work?” Digression, dance, song and sketch interlude, commentary on commentary: are his stock-in-trade. One minute he’s describing a grisly episode of annihilation (or some other form of virulent racism) and the next, some manic shtick takes over. It’s exhilarating (and yes, exhausting) and funny and horrific and certainly entertaining. Perhaps humor helps to alleviate the toxic inhumanity he bears witness to. By the time Leguizamo’s taking his final bows, you grasp just how hard it is, to resist his jazzy, savvy, delirious take on this chaos we all must endure.

ATT Performing Arts Center presented John Leguizamo’s Latin History for Morons. It played at the Winspear Opera House for one evening in September. 2403 Flora Street, Dallas, Texas 75201. (214) 880-0202. attpac.com

Della owns a bakery in South Carolina. It’s clear from the onset that making cakes isn’t just a business for her. It’s a joie de vivre. She’s been selected to be a contestant on The Great American Baking Show, and as she describes the sublime experience of creating delectable masterpieces, it’s easy to see why. Her attention to detail, her focus and personal investment in her craft, are a joy to behold. Next we meet Jen and Macy. Jen is returning to South Carolina after moving to New York City. She is engaged to marry Macy, a very sophisticated,

intelligent, African American woman. While Macy is pensive and measured, Jen is impulsive and emotional. She didn’t know she could fall in love with another woman until she met Macy. Jen’s deceased Mother was Della’s best friend, and she’s elated to bake Jen’s wedding cake, until she discovers that Jen is marrying Macy. Then she says she’s too busy at the time of year the wedding is scheduled.

Written by Bekah Brunstetter, The Cake (surely inspired by the Supreme Court dispute) is a surprising drama. It has some outrageously comedic turns, but it’s predominantly serious. Which is not to say grim. It doesn’t have the histrionics or diminishment we might expect from such a struggle. No character is lionized or vilified. The dominance in Della’s relationship goes more to husband Tim, while Macy is way more pushy than Jen. While each character has their quirks and details, The Cake never resorts to stereotyping or caricature. Though it hardly seems coincidental that it happens in the Bible Belt, and Macy is a black activist. Brunstetter though, takes pains to add complications and subtleties. She places the beds of Della and Tim, and Macy and Jen, on the stage at the same time. Comparison by semiotics.

If we had to decide, it it would seem that The Cake is more Della’s story. Her soliloquies are interrupted by the booming voice of the baking show’s celebrity host; denouncing her whenever she considers pleasurable sex. When Macy announces her discrimination on social media, Della is kicked off the baking show. While it’s never suggested that her rejection of Jen’s identity is acceptable, circumstances or “karma” (if you will) certainly punish Della for intolerance. Because the circumstances involve Jen, who she loves like a daughter, Della reconsiders reasoning she previously embraced. Ironically, the fact that she’s been condemned, doesn’t make us feel vindicated. The Cake’s strength is in its humanity. Brunstetter presents a clear dilemma, while preserving respect for the characters, even if they sometimes look ridiculous. What might have easily have become a diatribe was instead, a thoughtful reflection on our similarities as well as our differences.

Uptown Players presented The Cake. It opened August 9^th and closed the 25th, 2019. Kalita Humphreys Theater, 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-219-2718. uptownplayers.org.

It would seem that pedophilia has been the focus of numerous dramas in the recent past. One of the hazards is attempting to deal effectively with this fiercely emotional subject, without coming off as manipulative, lurid or exploitative. You don’t want to tiptoe, but you don’t to stomp through it like Godzilla. Blake Hackler’s What we were avoids these problems. He explores the lives of three sisters, and impact of their father’s sexual abuse. Carlin, Nell and Tessa are close, their chemistry along the lines of natural order. Carlin, the oldest, is bossy and self-absorbed, Nell the middle sister, is the intercessor and Nell, the baby, is vulnerable, naive, less encumbered. When we see them for the first time, Tessa’s only six, and Carlin is beginning adolescence. They are squabbling over who gets to play each particular character from (the nighttime soap) Dynasty.

What we were hopscotches through these sisters lives, which is to say: events do not fall in chronological order. Nell tries desperately to prevent Tessa from joining their father for one of his private “sleepovers” in the barn. Obviously Nell understands the implications, but Tessa is thrilled by her dad’s special attention. Next Nell reports the abuse to the authorities, and Tessa is sent to live with a foster family. Over time, Tessa goes off the radar, requesting that her whereabouts be concealed from her biological family. We gather she’s changing names, to shut off pain, or perhaps her trauma has fomented identity disorder. Meanwhile, Carlin and Nell hire private detectives, trying to track Tessa down. After a number of false alarms and disappointments, Carlin gives up (the personal upheaval too much) but Nell soldiers on.

Hackler’s deep dive into this fragile, explosive material, is cunning and sentient, if somewhat obtuse. The pieces don’t fall together easily. There are carefully wrought omissions. The better to involve us in this not entirely despairing narrative. We see what each sister does to cope with the damage to their souls, the emotional wounds, the inexplicable betrayals and frantic need to preserve the grace of Family. The meticulous order of episodes gives them a nuanced resonance, an unexpected clarity that might be lost in a conventional approach. The details of their father’s monstrous behavior are not disclosed, it isn’t necessary. What we are given is witness to the fractured spirits of the girls. How they bandage excruciation and try to move on.

The cast of What we were (Lydia Mackay, Jenny Ledel, Jessica D. Turner, Benjamin Stegmair) manages to evince this story with understated, precise poignancy. There is an aching urgency suffusing their performances. It’s as if they’ve lived with this tiger so long they’ve pushed it away, but still heed the danger. It would have been easy for a show of this kind to have fall into the abyss, to blow up in our faces. But the mastery of these actors, and Hackler’s conscientious, emotionally intelligent script helps us past the rapacious predators.

Second Thought Theatre presents What we were, playing August 28^th – September 21^st. 2019. Bryant Hall at the Kalita Humphreys Theater. 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75219. 866-811-4111. info@secondthoughttheatre.com

It would seem that pedophilia has been the focus of numerous dramas in the recent past. One of the hazards is attempting to deal effectively with this fiercely emotional subject, without coming off as manipulative, lurid or exploitative. You don’t want to tiptoe, but you don’t to stomp through it like Godzilla. Blake Hackler’s What we were avoids these problems. He explores the lives of three sisters, and impact of their father’s sexual abuse. Carlin, Nell and Tessa are close, their chemistry along the lines of natural order. Carlin, the oldest, is bossy and self-absorbed, Nell the middle sister, is the intercessor and Nell, the baby, is vulnerable, naive, less encumbered. When we see them for the first time, Tessa’s only six, and Carlin is beginning adolescence. They are squabbling over who gets to play each particular character from (the nighttime soap) Dynasty.

What we were hopscotches through these sisters lives, which is to say: events do not fall in chronological order. Nell tries desperately to prevent Tessa from joining their father for one of his private “sleepovers” in the barn. Obviously Nell understands the implications, but Tessa is thrilled by her dad’s special attention. Next Nell reports the abuse to the authorities, and Tessa is sent to live with a foster family. Over time, Tessa goes off the radar, requesting that her whereabouts be concealed from her biological family. We gather she’s changing names, to shut off pain, or perhaps her trauma has fomented identity disorder. Meanwhile, Carlin and Nell hire private detectives, trying to track Tessa down. After a number of false alarms and disappointments, Carlin gives up (the personal upheaval too much) but Nell soldiers on.

Hackler’s deep dive into this fragile, explosive material, is cunning and sentient, if somewhat obtuse. The pieces don’t fall together easily. There are carefully wrought omissions. The better to involve us in this not entirely despairing narrative. We see what each sister does to cope with the damage to their souls, the emotional wounds, the inexplicable betrayals and frantic need to preserve the grace of Family. The meticulous order of episodes gives them a nuanced resonance, an unexpected clarity that might be lost in a conventional approach. The details of their father’s monstrous behavior are not disclosed, it isn’t necessary. What we are given is witness to the fractured spirits of the girls. How they bandage excruciation and try to move on.

The cast of What we were (Lydia Mackay, Jenny Ledel, Jessica D. Turner, Benjamin Stegmair) manages to evince this story with understated, precise poignancy. There is an aching urgency suffusing their performances. It’s as if they’ve lived with this tiger so long they’ve pushed it away, but still heed the danger. It would have been easy for a show of this kind to have fall into the abyss, to blow up in our faces. But the mastery of these actors, and Hackler’s conscientious, emotionally intelligent script helps us past the rapacious predators.

Second Thought Theatre presents What we were, playing August 28^th – September 21^st. 2019. Bryant Hall at the Kalita Humphreys Theater. 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75219. 866-811-4111. info@secondthoughttheatre.com