Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

I suppose it was inevitable that in 1992, Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula (despite its shameless mix of wickedness and pleasure and sketchy casting and outre turns) would tear into history’s canon of Cinema Classics. Gary Oldman’s androgynous, rapacious, aristocratic blood junky was a joy to behold, and Mr. Coppola (always something of a maverick) it seemed, could do no wrong. Like a boulder dropped into a pond, this magnum opus created waves that would influence numerous depictions of the insidious dark prince that are still felt today. On screen and stage elements of this seminal (tee-hee) film have been imported with gusto and impunity.

Which brings us to Theatre 3’s current incarnation: Dracula. Adapted by Michael Federico and Christie Vela, Dracula is a mashup of gender fracturing, plot distillation, ghoulish humor, and Coppola’s masterpiece. It riffs on Stoker’s familiar “legend,” while rethinking Dracula’s identity. It pays special attention to the more colorful characters, and takes Mina in a completely different direction. It’s fair to say this Dracula examines the role of women, with an eye to social justice.

Jonathan Harker travels to Romania, where he’s a guest at Count Dracula’castle. Jonathan’s an attorney who’s there to get contracts signed, sealing Dracula’s ownership of real estate in London. He falls prey to his host’s “appetite” and subsequently, his exotically dressed brides. Meanwhile Renfield (a patient in a madhouse) has inexplicably developed a predatory taste for blood. Mina (Harker’s fiancee) and Lucy are best friends; Dr. Seward is one of Lucy’s suitors and Renfield’s PCP. When the Count arrives in London he quickly seduces Lucy. When her demise is imminent, Seward implores his mentor, Dr. Van Helsing, to intervene.

You might say women dominate this version of Dracula. This is one *spoiler alert* among many: Dracula is played by the formidable, meticulous Allison Pistorius. While transitive gender depiction needn’t amount to passing, the result is a notably fey male. Lucy (Mina’s best friend) refutes the patriarchal admonition that sexually frank women are unseemly. She’s nearly a nymph, or even a demigoddess of playful eroticism. Dr. Van Helsing is also a woman, so avidly butch that Lucy’s cowboy suitor suffers by comparison. She mockbreeds the poor guy. The cisgender men, God bless them, don’t get much credit. Harker, Renfield, Seward, Lucy’s interchangeable suitors, are effete, squeamish, subjugated, or a combination of those traits.

Federico and Vela’s Dracula has a kind of defiance. The script’s intelligent and subversive. They flaunt the enigmatic sexual identity of their notorious count. But these bold choices don’t really get under our skin. Coppola’s Dracula, for all its outrageous hedonism, believes in its content. I’m not sure how seriously we’re supposed to take Vela and Federico’s slant, but perhaps that’s not the point. I think we can all agree (whatever the permutation) Dracula is rich, sinister candy for grownups. And that’s all we need.

Theatre 3 presents Dracula, playing October 3rd-27th, 2019. 2800 Routh Street Suite 168, Dallas, TX 75201. (214) 871-3300. boxoffice@theatre3dallas.com

You have to begin (it seems to me) with the understanding that Beckett is obsessed with exploring mankind’s relationship to God and subsequently, life. Individual men and women with various versions of the same story. Nothing wrong with that. (God sticks us here in the midst of empty, joyless, torment, then occupies himself with other concerns. If he exists at all.) Beckett may wrap the same prize in a different trappings, but the layers are astonishing. Gogo and Didi eagerly expect the enigmatic, elusive Godot. Winnie and Willie are a married couple who spend their days in ordinary activities (washing, afternoon tea, saying their prayers, reading the paper) as a hill of sand creeps closer and closer towards their necks. Blind and confined to a wheelchair, Hamm keeps his parents, Nagg and Nell, in trashcans in his living room.

Wingspan’s current production of two short one acts: Footfalls and Not I, address the experiences of two different women. Beckett is very conscious of the distinct role of women in the world (perhaps the British patriarchy?) and how expectations can shape their behavior. It’s seemly for women to be diffident. To be charitable and serve. The woman in Footfalls is “May” and the other an unnamed woman whose life story is told in third person by a disembodied mouth. The two shows are presented as a diptych, Autonomous but informing one another. Footfalls is dimly and darkly lit, while Not I happens in total blackness, except for the isolated, oracular mouth. The incidental music chosen by Lowell Sargeant has urgent, frantic, incidental violins with an unnerving, foreboding quality. The experience in its entirely brings a damp, chill feeling of aloneness and despair.

May is a women of indeterminate age, who looks to be in her 40’s. Dressed in a kind of ragged nightgown, of some rough cloth, like burlap. She paces back and forth. Same short path, repeatedly. She has been caring for her invalid mother. All of her adult life, it seems. Her voice is meek and soft. When she offers to help her mother with sponge baths or moistening her lips or prayer, her mother says Yes, but it is too soon. Beckett is so meticulous in tone and diction and using language as a kind of desolate music. Intricacy of sound and meaning and layered entendres. You’ve got to listen carefully, with focus. May describes a woman (perhaps herself) visiting church though there seems to be no comfort there. May is eclipsed by her mother, despite though she’s in another room entirely and the illness that incapacitates her. May bears witness to her own presence, though she’s like a sleight, blue, flame flickering.

The anonymous voice in Not I describes a woman in her 70’s, beginning with her birth a tiny thing and we feel from that moment she’s barely there. Her father disappears almost immediately after the sex that creates her. Her mother abandons her shortly thereafter. She’s an orphan. What follows is a purposeful but somehow ragged, disconnected, spontaneous searching for the words to capture the substance of the heroine’s experience. Stream of sensations stagger. There’s a buzzing in her skull. A kind of dull, yet powerful epiphany arising in her mind. A flower opening slowly but like a bullet expanding. We get a sense of her awareness baffled and muffled through the world (a kind of lightness or coasting) until an introspected change occurs, simmering. Beckett reveals her life in a litany of groping for meaning, in the midst of ennui and void.

By now it must be clear that Susan Sargeant: the director, her dedicated, brave cast: Jennifer Kuenzer and Susan Sargeant and her diligent, capable crew have put the Labors of Hercules to shame. These intrepid, still avant-garde pieces by Beckett are so demanding and outre’. It’s hard to imagine how they’ve pulled this off. Like being caught in a small room with angry bees. This is impeccable, fearless theatre.

Wingspan Theatre Company presents: Two by Beckett: Footfalls and Not I, playing October 3rd-19th, 2019. 521 E Lawther Dr (at North Cliff Drive), Dallas, Texas 75218. (214) 675-6573. wingspan@wingspantheatre.com

Reflecting after the end of Jonathan Norton’s new play, A Love Offering, it’s uncertain whether it’s meant earnestly, or ironically, or both. An elderly man (Mr. Turner) with dementia keeps his deceased wife’s brooch by his bed, where he’s living in rehab. The man’s adult children (Stewart and Josie) accuse an African American nurse (Miss Georgia) of stealing the brooch. After hundreds of years to get it right, we still know there can be no good outcome. And of course, that’s the brilliance of Norton’s play, a simple premise, yet none of the five characters emerge from this without bruises. Certainly not us.

When A Love Offering opens Josie and Stewart are talking to T’wana, Turner’s primary nurse. Her wrist is bandaged because Turner bit her. Stewart gives her a $500.00 gift card as a peace offering, even though she’s been very gracious. Mr. Turner has Alzheimer’s, so the nurses often forgive his racist and obscene epithets, dismissing them as unintentional. Before long we see Josie and Stewart are manipulating T’wana. They need a confederate to entrap Miss Georgia, whom they suspect in the disappearance of their mother’s brooch. They don’t know anything. They deceive T’wana and she finds a way to get information from her friend and mentor. Before A Love Offering reaches its wrenching conclusion, the brother and sister will press their advantage, and their lofty proclamations of altruism will blow away like dead leaves.

From a lesser playwright, A Love Offering might have felt somewhat facile, but Mr. Norton earns every crucial moment. He exposes familiar poisons so effective, so embedded in our culture, that the characters can’t resist using them. But they’re also not immune. They know actual guilt isn’t a currency that’s worth much. What might have come down to mere melodrama becomes thunder in Norton’s (and the performers) hands. Stewart and Josie make you feel embarrassed to be white. Why in 2019, do people of their ilk still wield so much leverage? Please understand, like all the most remarkable plays, A Love Offering doesn’t waste time pointing fingers. It simply reveals the ridiculously simple truth. Lies are all about traction. They may seem to secure what you want, but they always come at a price. When you live in a world where pettiness and cynicism thrive, it’s only a matter of time till we all turn on each other.

Kitchen Dog Theater presents the world premiere of Jonathan Norton’s A Love Offering, playing October 3rd-27th, 2019. 2600 N. Stemmons Fwy, Suite 180, Dallas, Texas 75207. (214) 953-1055.

www.kitchendogtheater.org

Bryan has returned from a five-year hiatus, after leaving without a word of explanation. QZ, his best friend and co-editor of The Few (a newspaper for truckers) was left in the lurch, though it’s unclear if she and Bryan were lovers. QZ’s understandably angry. Bryan left abruptly after their best friend, Jim, died in a collision. Now he just appears, with no desire to explain. The Few, a weekly which comforted the beleagured spirit of lonely, subjugated souls, has turned into a paper that is 90% personal ads, and finally turns a profit. QZ has hired a teenager named Matthew, who helps with the demands of the job, and holds Bryan (whom he’s never met) in awe. Matthew pretty much lives at the news office. He was thrown out by his stepdad, who threatened to kill him when he caught him making out with another boy.

Samuel D. Hunter, who wrote Bright New Boise, The Whale and Clarkston, would seem to have a penchant for honoring the lives of desolate individuals: reaching out to one another, in the midst of quiet catastrophe. Sometimes a meaningful connection occurs, sometimes not. Sometimes it lasts, sometimes it doesn’t. Bryan and QZ collaborate on the paper after he returns from a brief odyssey on the road; believing driving for a living would give his life purpose, and the chance to see America. He soon learns the lifestyle makes meaningful contact impossible. The Few gives Bryan and QZ the opportunity to change lives and even enjoy the company of grateful truckers, who come to visit. It’s not UNICEF or The United Way, but it’s the best they’ve got. And it’s not bad.

There is a profound, pervasive sense of despondency and disappointment that suffuses The Few, though Matthew’s optimism tugs at Bryan (and us). Matthew tries to resuscitate the columnist who eased the ache of disaffected humanity. Matthew clearly needs to restore The Few to its earlier, altruistic beginnings, but Bryan is still struggling to emerge from his malaise and make sense of his intense feelings for QZ. Hunter’s drama feels like Horton Foote or William Inge, without the implied nobility of their characters. Not that we don’t like Hunter’s protagonists. They seem to be pushing the hopelessness of the Midwest (and actually, American culture) like a boulder up a mountainside. We root for Matthew because we care for all three of them, and he hasn’t lived long enough to take on so much discouragement. I can’t imagine any play by Mr. Hunter that isn’t worth our time. The devoted actors, director, and crew et al at Resolute Theatre Project are always astonishing, when it comes to performances filled with authenticity, energy and palpable grace.

Resolute Theatre Project presents The Few, playing October 4th-13th. Amy’s Studio of Performing Arts: 11888 Marsh Lane, Suite 600, Dallas, Texas 75234. resolutetheatreproject.com 972-484-7900

September 1^st, 2004, School Number One in the town of Beslan (in Russia) was celebrating the first day of school. It was a vivid, exhilarating, annual event, attended by parents, teachers and pupils, with much pageantry and exuberance. The crisis began when a group of armed Islamic Militants occupied the school, demanding the recognition of Chechnya’s independence. The Beslan School Siege lasted three days. It involved taking over 1,100 hostages, ending with the deaths of at least 334 people, including 186 kids.

Us/Them by Carly Wijs, is an inspired account of The Beslan Siege, enacted by two “students”, identified in the program as The Boy and The Girl. They are perhaps eight, with enthusiasm for describing their school, easily distracted, playful and eager to show up the other. Though they seem more or less friends. Piece by piece they give us the narrative. The joyful beginning of the school year, the balloons and new clothes, the beaming parents and band music. They are submerged, mostly, in getting the details right, in the same way they might tell you how an old woman and an ice cream vendor fought at the park. Next comes the appearance of soldiers, the herding and sequestering in the gymnasium, the hunger and heat and exhaustion. Even explosions and gunfire take on the same avid, yet calm tone.

The difficulty in dramatizing any catastrophic event, certainly, is doing it justice without amplification. Without unwittingly exploiting the profoundly disturbing nature of the content. In Us/Them Wijs has found a way to embrace the story, by finding narrators who don’t grasp the gravitas of their predicament. Children of that age are still learning what actions mean; their perception is somewhat cursory. They look to grownups for cues, but don’t realize their parents and teachers may be concealing panic.

When the boy and girl consider alternate scenarios to the reality (action movie or media darlings) it makes perfect sense. It also gives audience necessary detachment without soft pedaling the actual tragedy. We can process the story without the embellishment of politics or extreme emotion, comparable to Lee Blessing’s Two Rooms. Wijs has taken us to a realm fraught with atrocity and devastation, and given us the tools to experience it fully. We embrace our humanity, avoiding the natural impulse to shut down.

Wikipedia was invaluable in writing this review.

Echo Theatre and The Milford and Patricia Hammerbacher Grant presented Us/Them at The Bath House Cultural Center in September 2019.

A fairly nonchalant, congenial musical comedy by Austin Winsberg (Book) and Alan Zachary and Michael Weiner (Music and Lyrics) First Date depicts the encounter between Aaron and Casey, who meet at a casual nightclub. Aaron (Seth Womack) is lanky, soft spoken and insecure, while Casey (Anne Marie Flores) is petulant, confrontational and quick to take offense. He dresses like he’s going to the prom and she, like an extra from Mad Max. Of course, any meal with someone you don’t know is going to be awkward, especially when you’re trying to avoid looking like a fool. As the evening regresses and progresses, First Date goes on off on tangents. When Casey reveals she isn’t Jewish, Aaron has a musical interlude with relatives (distant and close) admonishing him not to marry a shiksha. When Casey doesn’t answer her gay friend’s bail-out call, he has a campy meltdown. And so forth. When we check back on Aaron and Casey, their torture is only occasionally mitigated by moments of mutual appreciation.

On the intensity scale, First Date is too streetwise to be The Fantasticks, but not as tumultuous as Children of a Lesser God. Its skepticism is far more gentle than say, His Girl Friday or The Philadelphia Story. Both formidable proof that a story can have verve and distinction, without necessarily rocking the rafters. We care about Casey and Aaron, and the creators are smart enough to hold off on the verdict. It’s hard, though, not to see the parade coming, even before it turns the corner. The supporting cast is strong and versatile, keeping the balls in the air, as the narrative finds it way to plausible resolution. The songs are smart and pensive, ranging from the wistful to amusing, fitting nicely with the in-house band.

First Date’s most salient strength is the charisma and authenticity of its performers. Womack elicits sympathy from any guy required to find the balance between caring and trying too hard. Flores depicts Casey as a strong woman, with no desire to pander to men’s egos. Though that strategy seems pointless with Aaron. The supporting cast is called upon to play numerous roles, and brings clarity and aplomb to each one. When we reflect on the demands of the script, the work here is phenomenal. Not a single actor phones it in. The warmth and joy informing the script comes shining through.

Stage West and Theatre TCU present First Date, playing September 12th- October 13^th, 2019. 821 West Vickery Blvd, Fort Worth, Texas 76104. 817) 784-9378. boxoffice@stagewest.org

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.