Jean Perkins is just this side of frantic. It’s her husband Henry’s birthday and their best friends (Betty and Vic Johnson) are coming over for the birthday supper. Henry’s running late. When Jean opens the door, he’s inexplicably giddy. Seems he grabbed the wrong briefcase on the train, only to discover 375 (count them) 375,000 pounds. Well, it doesn’t take Einstein (or Alan Turing) to surmise it’s gangster money. Henry plans for them to flee the country, tout de suite, before the bad guys put 2+2 together. Naturally, Jean is trying to talk Henry out of this madcap scheme, when a copper shows up. Not long after that another detective and a cabdriver. Henry Perkins just can’t catch a break.

Playwright Ray Cooney has taken a simple (if not original) premise, and sets it in motion. Just like a 15-car pileup or an avalanche, the catastrophic feels unpredictable yet unavoidable. Of course, any money connected to organized crime is bad news. They’ll punch your ticket for nicking an ounce of smack. Jean refuses to leave, and Henry keeps ignoring her. The opportunities presented by remarkably large sums of money also reveal the uglier side of the characters. Another visitor arrives and chaos, once again, ensues. The trick is to keep the bedlam going without stretching our credulity beyond reason. So Cooney keeps all his dishes in the air. The more he adds, the more we love it. We can’t believe anyone would try to steal Mafia money and yet Henry’s obsession keeps everything going. Despite a parade of obstacles.

Director Janette Oswald orchestrates this trainwreck for hilarity with intuitive cunning and surgical precision. Funny Money is a comedy that keeps the turns and shocks coming, and only a conductor with Oswald’s mastery could make it easy to follow. It would be simpler to handle an uprising at an asylum. Funny Money’s agile, convivial cast (Laura Jennings, Brian Hoffman, Kathleen Vaught, Audie Preston, Anthony Magee, Martin Mussey, Russell Sims, Ted Strahan) fires on all cylinders. Pacing, timing, delivery: they sort these to full effect. One hates to reference the current dystopia that makes the Black Plague look like a day at the beach. But Funny Money is a welcome respite from those naughty blues that just keep rapping at our door.

Richardson Theatre Centre presents: Funny Money, playing from July 9th-25th, 2021. Your last chance! 518 W. Arapaho Road, Suite 113, Richardson, TX 75080. 972-699-1130. richardsontheatrecentre.net

Written by Nassim Soleimanpour (before the turn of the 20^th Century) White Rabbit, Red Rabbit is a theatre piece whose reputation proceeds it. The actor who performs the show goes in with no idea of what the script will say, or what demands it will impose. We would be loathe to discuss White Rabbit, Red Rabbit after the piece is completed, as it would ruin the surprise. And the surprise is an aspect of what makes this conceptual show tick. When I say “conceptual” I don’t mean what you might expect, say, in a contemporary version of Macbeth, or a drama performed completely in the dark. During the talkback, it was suggested that each individual actor puts their own spin on the content, which, of course, only stands to reason.

The version I attended felt, initially, like an absurd, comedic improvisation, relying heavily on audience participation. I myself was called upon the stage to play a part. Throughout the show audience members were involved in the “plot”, the actor no wiser than the rest of us. We all occupied the same boat. The whole business felt spontaneous, fanciful, yet something like ritual. One performer and the audience as witnesses, all flying by the seat of our trousers. One surprise after another. Now certainly, it would be the same, for anyone watching a play they’d never seen before. But here, the actor is feeling his way through this narrative, following the script as if it were a map. Leading us from one event to the next. Imagine if the performer reached into a black box, each time extracting something different. A porkpie hat. A jar of buttons. A red Asian fan. A transistor radio from the 60’s.

How much more can I say, without spoiling the journey? Soleimanpour, like any good playwright, has carefully constructed a narrative that pulls us in. White Rabbit, Red Rabbit is cunning. Subversive. It turns on tone shift. A whirligig that changes into a vase of lilies, then a bear trap. Not literally, but I’m groping for metaphors. Every step in this hopscotch has a purpose, though it often feels giddy and whimsical. It lulls us, only to sneak up like a fever chill. Much as it would appear easily dismissed, it gets under our skin.

This was my first visit to Allen’s Community Theatre, and I was more than impressed. To take a show like this, with its seemingly sparse components, and create an enigmatic, beguiling drama. It needs confidence, chutzpah and lack of caution to make this work. Like the chef who takes a few eggs and remarkable skill, only to manage a souffle both rich and sublime, ACT has pulled off a marvelous feat. I only regret I saw it on the last night of the run. I guarantee I will be back for more.

Allen’s Community Theatre: 1210 East Main Street # 300, Allen, Texas, 75002. SW Corner of East Main and Allen Heights Drive. 844-822-8849.

Written by Nassim Soleimanpour (before the turn of the 20^th Century) White Rabbit, Red Rabbit is a theatre piece whose reputation proceeds it. The actor who performs the show goes in with no idea of what the script will say, or what demands it will impose. We would be loathe to discuss White Rabbit, Red Rabbit after the piece is completed, as it would ruin the surprise. And the surprise is an aspect of what makes this conceptual show tick. When I say “conceptual” I don’t mean what you might expect, say, in a contemporary version of Macbeth, or a drama performed completely in the dark. During the talkback, it was suggested that each individual actor puts their own spin on the content, which, of course, only stands to reason.

The version I attended felt, initially, like an absurd, comedic improvisation, relying heavily on audience participation. I myself was called upon the stage to play a part. Throughout the show audience members were involved in the “plot”, the actor no wiser than the rest of us. We all occupied the same boat. The whole business felt spontaneous, fanciful, yet something like ritual. One performer and the audience as witnesses, all flying by the seat of our trousers. One surprise after another. Now certainly, it would be the same, for anyone watching a play they’d never seen before. But here, the actor is feeling his way through this narrative, following the script as if it were a map. Leading us from one event to the next. Imagine if the performer reached into a black box, each time extracting something different. A porkpie hat. A jar of buttons. A red Asian fan. A transistor radio from the 60’s.

How much more can I say, without spoiling the journey? Soleimanpour, like any good playwright, has carefully constructed a narrative that pulls us in. White Rabbit, Red Rabbit is cunning. Subversive. It turns on tone shift. A whirligig that changes into a vase of lilies, then a bear trap. Not literally, but I’m groping for metaphors. Every step in this hopscotch has a purpose, though it often feels giddy and whimsical. It lulls us, only to sneak up like a fever chill. Much as it would appear easily dismissed, it gets under our skin.

This was my first visit to Allen’s Community Theatre, and I was more than impressed. To take a show like this, with its seemingly sparse components, and create an enigmatic, beguiling drama. It needs confidence, chutzpah and lack of caution to make this work. Like the chef who takes a few eggs and remarkable skill, only to manage a souffle both rich and sublime, ACT has pulled off a marvelous feat. I only regret I saw it on the last night of the run. I guarantee I will be back for more.

Allen’s Community Theatre: 1210 East Main Street # 300, Allen, Texas. SW Corner of East Main and Allen Heights Drive. 844-822-8849.

Marcus is a singer/songwriter who’s a streaming a live, one-man concert from his home. Just him and his computer. He is promoting a new album, while receiving adulation from his fans, popping up from the left hand side of the screen. They’re brimming with anticipation. Several ask him to play something from Goat Song, his hit album from back in the day. Unfortunately his contractual agreement forbids him from playing anything but the new songs. Various comments jog particular memories from Marcus, while he’s warming up. Not by design of course, but something beneath his calm, haggard, melancholy exterior inclines him to talk about issues from his past. The rough and rowdy “halcyon” days when he was blowing off steam, touring with the band, killing brain cells and engaging in REM deprivation. The title: Goat Song suggests the abandon of pleasure obsession, just like that flagrant, goat-footed demigod, Pan.

As he reflects on various, self-destructive incidents, the promised performance goes a bit offtrack. He more or less converses with the comments being made. He starts a song and then, trailing off, engages with his ghosts. A nearly fatal crash while driving the band. The dissolute life on the road. An alienated best friend. One of the viewers asks: Did you love him? As Marcus reminisces he goes to a very dark and isolated place. His demeanor, just sitting in front of his computer, changes noticeably. It’s as if we’re watching him get farther and farther away. His fans don’t want to hear his new stuff, only pieces from Goat Song.

Second Thought Theatre: always fearless, never hesitant to explore the shadows, has produced this live-streaming , somber narrative of Marcus, a caring soul who has hit a bad patch. Caught up in a succession of catastrophes, the yammering of his zoom audience only seems to make his pathology worse. Drew Wall is nuanced, poignant and touching as Marcus. Mr. Wall seems to come by his authenticity as if by second nature, whether he’s playing a lobby clerk, soldier or musician. Written by Matt Harmon, this one-act pulls you right in, the pathos so palpable, the hero’s frailty so affecting, it’s hard to believe we’re watching from a remove.

Second Thought Theatre presents Goat Song, streaming July 2nd-17th, 2021. 3400 Blackburn Street, Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-897-3091. Secondthoughttheatre.com Web.ovationtix.com/trs/pr/1060097

 

A satirical, campy musical revue: Howard Crabtree’s When Pigs Fly celebrates Uptown Players’ return from lockdown, by staging the very first show they produced. When Pigs Fly tells the story of a young, exuberant Howard Crabtree, ready to graduate high school. Not interested in traditional choices including plumber, garden supplier, watch repairman and chicken farmer, Howard resolves to pursue a career in dance (and stage entertainment). Such is the premise of the show that follows. The program is periodically brought to a screeching halt when a technical difficulty forces Howard to think smart and think fast. He certainly doesn’t lack for people skills or ingenuity.

Familiar tropes of queer culture, including disparaging colloquialisms and painful memories supply raw material for one musical number after another. Subsequently “Light in the Loafers” features two gentleman doing the soft shoe in twinkling footwear, while “Not all man” reveals a dancing centaur. Like Almost, Maine, When Pigs Fly uses lots of double entendres, in the fine tradition of vaudeville, Busby Berkeley, and Florence Ziegfield. Instead of letting homophobia kick out the mickey, they make daiquiris from black bananas. When Pigs Fly certainly testifies to the adage that: “Nothing Succeeds like Excess”. It’s all about spectacle, it’s all about the fantastic. Everything seems to be off the charts, but they deliver with such ebullience and aplomb, it’s irresistible. As any good queerboy knows, when the abuse commences, you’ve just got to shake it off. Just like Howard Crabtree, when adversity trips him up.

You couldn’t ask for better performances than we get from the cast. Duke Anderson, Micah Green, Jacob Hemsath, Lee Walter and Michael Russell come through with inspired drag numbers and scrumptiously cunning delivery. There comes a point when particular shows cross from the plausible to realms of the blissfully ridiculous. When Pigs Fly tips their hand from the moment we see Russell in Guidance Counselor drag, with enormous, pendulous breasts and a killer beehive. So, five minutes in.

It’s a tribute to B. J. Cleveland’s phenomenal direction (and, of course, the cast and crew) that he balances tricky, demanding elements, without a hitch. A mistake in timing, tone, blocking and it could all blow up in your face. When Pig’s Fly is impeccable. Filled with surprises and chutzpah, it’s a delight from start to finish.

Uptown Players presents: Howard Crabtree’s When Pigs Fly, playing from July 9th-25th, 2021. Kalita Humphreys Theater, 3636 Turtle Creek Boulevard, Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-219-2718. uptownplayers.org

Jessie and Lina are neighbors. Both have newborns. Jessie spots Lina at the grocery store, and invites her over. There is no patio furniture so they must share a slide for toddlers. Each carries one of those remote nanny gadgets, ear cocked for the first peep. Lina’s particularly skilled at calming her son from a distance. The two discuss strategies for dealing with regular squalls, and Jessie mentions her doctor, who says: “Let them cry it out.” Lina is appalled that anyone would leave a baby, to weep alone in the dark, till it realizes no one’s coming. She adds that unless Jessie’s doctor has a vagina, he should mind his own business.

Even though it’s plain that Lina is blue collar and Jessie comes from privilege, they bond almost immediately. They share very personal details, finding they have much in common. One day, Mitchell just shows up in the backyard, groping for the words to explain who he is, and what he’s doing there. Apologetically, he tells them he’s concerned for his wife, a new mother herself. She seems profoundly detached and distant. Understanding he’s coming from out of the blue, he asks if Adrienne might join them. He leaves his card, before they can say, “No.” After some rumination, Jessie consents. When Adrienne comes over, she spends all her time answering email. When she speaks at all, she’s brusque and petulant. She storms off, spouting invective. When Jessie expresses genuine sympathy, Lina is aghast.

Playwright Molly Smith Metzler has crafted a cunning, very moving story, comparing the lives of three women, dealing with demands of motherhood. Each comes from a different economic background, with different men, and different aspirations. Cry It Out considers the systemic trap that women must endure, when living in a patriarchy. Certain tropes of female subjugation are so ingrained in our culture, they’re nearly intuitive. Lina deals with these frustrations as best she can. Adrienne is overcome with rage. Jessie is resigned and terribly, terribly sad. Metzler offers a microcosm of American hierarchy without referencing these ideas in so many words. Speaking as an inveterate feminist, diatribe is sometimes appropriate. But what makes this drama so effective, so sophisticated, is how seamlessly, how indelibly Metzler depicts the predicament of three women, who would just settle for some crust of happiness. Certainly the plot stands without further rumination, but the subtext is nearly as salient.

Across the board, the actors (Shea McMillan, Danielle Elliot, Eddy Herring, Haley Ewertz) are impeccable, delivering poised, dedicated, touching performances. Director Carol Rice orchestrates a pitch perfect show, that balances tone, content, pace with intelligence and mastery. This is a powerful, compelling piece. Let it be next on your list.

Rover Dramawerks presents: Cry it Out, playing June 17th-26th, 2021. The Core Theatre: 518 West Arapaho Road, Richardson, Texas 75080. 972-849-0358. www.roverdramawerks.com

Ginger (aka Gingy) opens Love, Loss and What I Wore with one of her drawings, projected on a screen. It’s the outfit she wore on her first day of school. She draws every piece she needs to remember. She goes into detail, describing the components, her expectations, and other emotions tied to the event. And that’s the premise of Love, Loss…each dress, suit, bra, boots and other articles of clothing trigger an important memory for the women who share their anecdotes. Often we are provided cultural and historic context for a particular piece, though some “speak” for themselves. In addition to the narrator, there is an ensemble cast of four other women. Mostly they deliver monologues, and occasionally, a group commenting on a particular subject, just to mix things up.

Adapted from the book by Ilene Beckerman, sisters Nora and Delia Ephron premiered Love, Loss and What I Wore in 2008, at Guild Hall in East Hampton New York. The play seems to turn on the idea of fetishes, that is to say, how a profound incident fuses with an object. Cigarette pants with her first night in Paris. Boots with an excruciating episode, and defiance. A tuxedo and family conflict resolved. Like In White America or Spoon River Anthology, it tells a story by weaving personal accounts (from the lives of women). From teen to young woman to woman to elder. From celebration to ordeal to epiphany to resignation.

The key to any successful writing, I think, is an intersection between the unique and universal. We may not know the stories before the curtain rises, but there’s just something about each one, that feels familiar. I am going to speculate here, that Ms. Beckerman and the Ephron Sisters were aiming to evince one aspect of the female experience. By producing these “tokens” from each vignette, we learn something from what it means to be a cis-gendered woman in American society. Not that these authors don’t push the envelope, here and there.

In a departure from their delectably silly comedies, Pocket Sandwich Theatre has gone with a show that’s reflective, wry, heartbreaking, and always authentic. The cast (Sherry Etzel, Rose Anne Holman, Araceli Radillo, Angela Vaughn, and Kim Winnubst) is nuanced, avid, invested and poised. Rose Anne Holman demonstrates her director’s chops, striking a balance between sentience and the strange realm of recollection. I wondered when I attended, if I might feel I was peering into a window. This certainly would have been enough, but Ms. Holman manages to preserve accuracy while finding the enchanted touchstone we call empathy. And that’s a miracle in woefully short supply, lately. Don’t miss this marvelous, sophisticated, unsophisticated show.

Pocket Sandwich Theatre presents: Love, Loss and What I Wore playing Tuesdays and Wednesdays: June 15, 16, 22, 23, 29 & 30 at 7:30 p.m. 5400 East Mockingbird Lane, Suite 119. Dallas, Texas 75206. 214-821-1860. pst@dallas.net

 

Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler is a thwarted soul, smothering in the effete existence of academic aristocracy. She bemoans her marriage to adoring husband George, all loftiness and no intensity. She tolerates George and his Aunt Julia, for the sake of economic security, barely concealing contempt for the concessions she’s endured. Indeed contempt seems to be her stock in trade. She aches for the tempestuous affaire de ceour she left behind when she broke off with Eilert. The bellicose emotions he triggered in Hedda, self-actualized and exhilarated her. Something about the chemistry between them ignited repressed rage, creating a special bond.

When Thea (an erstwhile school friend) shows up on Hedda’s doorstep, she’s surprised to discover that Thea’s left her husband, to pursue a connection to Eilert. It seems both Thea and Hedda are stuck in dissatisfying, loveless marriages. When he tutored her children, Thea and Eilert gradually became closer. Thea has nurtured his better angels, facilitating a successful novel, and his recovery from alcohol addiction. Through all this, Hedda feigns sympathy and encouragement. She’s seething with jealousy, but forgets the choices no one forced her to make.

Hedda, compelled to survive a culture that stifles women with powerful, reckless feelings, will nonetheless sabotage those who have managed to deal. When anger shoves her to extreme measures, we see her prolonged struggle with that decision. In some sense, her pride has been wounded. She can’t bear to see someone she loves so passionately, succeed with another woman. Hedda Gabler feels like a paean to Hedda’s shadow. When inevitable attempts to validate her darkest impulses are thwarted, she finds solace in capitulation. She would rather check–out than subsist in a world that refuses to comply. 

It will be a relief, I think, when we can leave virtual theatre in the margins. Local troupes like The Undermain have vigorously risen to the occasion, with their recent production of Hedda Gabler. Blake Hackler’s adaptation is effective and expedient, though there were times when I wondered if it made the melodrama a bit too salient. At the risk of sounding like a bible-thumper, perhaps Hackler’s more contemporary turn on Ibsen’s dialogue (“Way to stick to your guns.”) loses some nuance and lyricism along the way. That being said, Undermain’s Hedda Gabler is captivating and articulate: clarifying complex themes, showcasing phenomenal performances  and cunning execution.

Undermain presents Henrik Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, adapted and directed by Blake Hackler, streaming May 26th-June 13^th, 2021. 3200 Main Street, Dallas, TX 75226. 214-747- 5515.  www.undermain.org.

Set in the Arizona Territory, in the late 1800’s, Drac in the Saddle Again begins on a train. Momma Farmer and her brother, Norman, are headed back to the ranch, when a strange fog rolls in. An antagonistic bat comes from nowhere. Then a mysterious stranger turns up, and joins them. After some congenial conversation, he strikes without mercy. Loud, prolonged booing ensues. (As it should.) Snatching a locket from Mama Farmer’s throat, Dracula (yes, it’s him!) concocts a scheme to pose as Fannie Farmer’s Uncle Norman and wreak havoc on their erstwhile, reasonably contented lives. After successfully convincing his naive “niece”, he conspires with the housekeeper, Consuela del Frankenstein (??!!) to enact an onslaught of mayhem and treachery on Fannie and her boyfriend: The Guy with No Name. Little does Dracula suspect he must match wits with Sheriff Arnold Schnetvinger and his wife, Dr. Hilde Schnetvinger.

I am (as they say in the UK) chuffed to bits that Pocket Sandwich Theatre has reopened its doors, ever mindful (naturally) of the responsible steps required for a safe and glorious evening of comedy. There may be others who try to emulate their technique, but to quote the philosopher Carly Simon, “Nobody does it better.” PST’s tongue-in cheek, fabulously ridiculous, over-the-top, goofy brand of hilarity, is a balm to the soul. Drac in the Saddle Again rarely misses an opportunity for a blue pun, wisecrack, silly reference, scene-gobbling outburst or meticulously placed non sequitur. “Nobody talks that way about my Fannie.” …. “Did you order a Bloody Mary? No, but I will.”…etc…There’s nothing better than a show that elicits helpless laughter: the result of excellent timing, masterful mugging, scimitar sharp banter and disingenuousness (or is it?) that would make Gracie Allen proud.

It isn’t just Pandemic Deprivation speaking when I say that Pocket Sandwich makes the extraordinary effort to be welcoming and hospitable. It was a joy to be in the midst of such a merry throng of performers and of course, audience members. If you can’t boo you-know-who or cheer our real-life-heroes in person, for Christ’s sake do it at PST!

Pocket Sandwich Theatre presents: Drac in the Saddle Again playing April 30^th through June 19^th, 2021. 5400 E. Mockingbird Lane, Suite 119, Dallas, Texas 75206. 214-821-1860.

Drac in the Saddle Again was written by Steve Lovett and directed by Michael Speck. Starring: Kayla Anderson (Fannie Farmer) Bryan Brooks (The Guy With No Name) Kelly Moore Clarkson (Momma Farmer) Matt Doden (Dracula) April 30th-May 30^th.   Sherry Etzel (Consuela de Frankenstein) May 13th-June 19^th.   Kenneth Fulenwider (Uncle Norman) Jake Shanahan (Dracula) June 10-19th.   Alex Wade (Black Bart) Aidan Wright (Chap-Chap) Trista Wyly (Consuela de Frankenstein) April 30th-May 9^th.

P.S. Michael, I apologize. I know you’re not Richard. I’m a fool.