Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

Ti Moune and Daniel live on a lush, tropical island in the Antilles. The population is divided between the Beauxhommes, the aristocracy, and the working class, who struggle, but are happy. They live on the other side of the island, enjoying a cheerful existence. The gods are never far and acknowledged throughout daily life. Ti Moune, a small child, falls to the bottom of the ocean, and the gods save her, fomenting a spectacular storm, and depositing her in a tree. Two gods place a wager that when circumstances come crashing down, she will choose Death over Love. A sweet couple rescues and raises her as their very own daughter. (Please forgive me if I’m a bit fuzzy on the details.) Ti Moune grows to be a lovely, caring girl, warm and and brimming with joy. Daniel (one of the Beauxhommes) has a collision during another (?!) storm, and Ti Moune saves him and nurses him back to health. Romance between the two factions is strong taboo on the island, but Ti Moune believes in devotion above all else.

Like other folkloric, mythical musicals (Once Upon a Mattress, Camelot, Fiddler on the Roof) Once on this Island weds the sublime and improbable with recognizable human experience. In our lifetime there seems to be enough strangeness and grace intervening to make dull ideas (like coincidence, the status quo, plodding along) a poor explanation for destiny or fate or what the divinities have in mind. Once on this Island seems to manage just the right mix of the exhilarating with the melancholy. The despondent with the defiant. The story of the nurturing, somewhat miraculous attachment between the patrician Daniel and the endearing Ti Moune is surprising. Coming from my famished Western Wonderbread tradition it caught me off guard, and moved me with its particular, not implausible truth.

Glorious with fizzy pleasure, and buoyant, stirring music, Once on this Island is fanciful and vivid without being corny. The gods are characters in the story, as palpable as the human beings, and there’s a cozy blend of of worship, celebration and narrative with scintillating costumes(Jessica Layman) and jaunty, saucy choreography (Christian O’Neill Houston). The band provides intoxicating rhythms and sweeping, awesome crescendos. The set (Wendy Rene’e Searcy) is vast and elaborate, with great, quirky details and a bold, imposing tree emerging from the center. The special effects are vivid, masterful and swoony. There’s a splendid undercurrent of chaos and enchantment running through this gorgeous theatrical experience, chock full of humor and pathos and grand, charming moments.

Once on this Island plays The Firehouse Theatre from March 28th-April 14^th, 2019. 2535 Valley View Lane, Farmers Branch, Texas 75234. (972) 620-3747. www.thefirehousetheatre.com

Mae’s dad has been diagnosed with cancer but the future is unclear. She has moved in with him, for moral support, it seems, and to bolster their neglected relationship. Mae is a lawyer, looking to sign on with a firm, as she is currently unemployed. Her father is the soul of composure. He encourages her to schedule the interviews, step up and be independent. There’s unspoken tension, but obvious warmth and affection. Mae takes up with a high school acquaintance, who has mistaken her for her sister. She encounters a mysterious cowboy apparition that is taciturn, burly, take-charge. Mae and her siblings: Hannah, Matthew and Jenny converge in their dad’s hospital room to evaluate and navigate. The familiar, familial dynamics emerge.

You might almost think that playwright Clare Barron set out to defy intuitive choices for dramas dealing with intense, elemental subjects like terminal illness, loss of a parent, of control. There is grief, but we see no agony. There are disagreements, but no meltdowns. Immediately following a sudden physical episode, Mae is thrown into a blizzard, not merely suggested, but with fierce wind and convincing, ersatz snow. The scenery fractures. The previously mentioned cowboy arrives to rescue her, though their encounters sometimes take on a vaguely sexual undercurrent. He jumps right in, which is reassuring when you’re lost. He ties her up (with a lasso) but not without her cooperation. The time comes when Mae and her dad agree to part, for the sake of sanity and genuine, mutual care. When she gets the sad news, she’s in a different room.

I am not suggesting there’s one strategy for dealing with life’s traumas in theatre, or something miraculous in simply going with one’s strengths. What makes Barron’s writing most impressive is the nuanced strategy behind her choices. Nothing is really spelled out but intellectually, viscerally, spiritually, we surmise the outcome when Mae and her siblings gather and process to comfort their father as mortality comes to claim him. There are no outbursts or fits of weeping, but no reason to believe their dad isn’t revered, cherished and deeply, deeply loved. To some degree, I believe we’re asked to fill in the blanks. To imagine the unshown. How do we present the catastrophic, the sorrowful, the scramble to make sense when someone so crucial to our well-being is taken from us? You got older invites us to participate in those special moments as this cycle begins, and so the surprise ending was not so much a surprise. But also a grace.

You got older played at Kitchen Dog Theater from February 14^th -M arch 10^th, 2019. 2600 N. Stemmons Freeway, Suite 180, Dallas, Texas 75207. (214) 953-1055. www.kitchendogtheater.org

It seems when particular playwrights (Arthur Miller, Neil Simon, William Inge, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams) become well established and familiar, when we’ve lived with their work, and seen it in repertory and films, it’s easy to forget how challenging they can be. After seeing Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Streetcar Named Desire, Glass Menagerie and Night of The Iguana on numerous occasions, I’ve found few flawless productions, or even consistent casting. Some of this is, of course, beyond the control of any production, whether they cherry-pick performers or hold auditions. Tennessee Williams can be very tempting, though he may seem verbose compared to current authors, his theatre is sumptuous and bright, with rich feeling for the music of language. The depth of experience.

Night of the Iguana is a favorite for many. Though not as successful (I’m guessing) as Menagerie, Cat and Streetcar, it’s quirky and somber and overflowing with the strange colors of lives that have taken an abrupt, dark turn. Iguana pivots on the convergence of three broken characters. Maxine who runs a three-star, casual resort in Mexico, the Reverend Larry Shannon, a minister managing a tour bus of Baptist ladies, and Hannah, who travels extensively with grandfather “Nonna”, a blind poet of some renown. Shannon is not, accurately speaking, defrocked, but effectively banished from his congregation. Maxine is just this side of destitute. Still processing the recent death of her husband; though estranged, they shared a strong devotion. Hannah seems resigned to a life of drumming up business, sketching and painting tourists, while granddad recites verse from memory. All three are on the verge of disaster, improvising as best they can.

Iguana doesn’t have a great deal of physical action. Some convivial German tourists hobnob here and there. There’s a prolonged battle between Shannon and Judith Fellows, chaperon foe Charlotte Goodall, an attractive teenage girl. Fellows is determined to report Shannon for statutory rape, after his night of indiscretion with Charlotte. Williams doesn’t condone Shannon’s behavior, though he implies that Fellows’ motives might not be altogether pure. There’s a lot of ruminating by all three characters. Shannon’s caught up in an ongoing tirade, against religious hypocrisy and the whimsical nature of divine intervention. The content seems to be a deep dive into the nature of disappointment. Only Williams could create fierce drama from this hodgepodge of chaos and grief, rage and resignation. For the performers it can’t be easy to navigate.

I’ve never attended a show at MainStage that wasn’t 100% vigilant and engaged, and Night of the Iguana was no exception. In the vast ocean of this difficult script, they seemed to searching for the best route. A purposeful hold on the material. There are powerful moments. Hannah pleading for the trapped iguanas. Maxine describing the dissolution of her marriage to Fred, quiet but excruciating. Shannon recounting the details of his transgressions, before his exile from the church. There is an intense fusion of irony and regret that fuels Shannon’s alienation (not easy to ascertain or nail) churning at the eye of this hurricane. Kudos to the cast and crew, for their dedication and bravery.

MainStage Irving – Las Colinas presents: The Night of the Iguana playing March 15th-30th, 2019. Irving Arts Center. Dupree Theater: 3333 North MacArthur Bld, Irving, Texas 75062. 972.252.2787 www.tickets.irvingartscenter.com/online.

Eddie is smitten with May. Taken. Obsessed. When Fool for Love opens, May is doubled over with intense aching for Eddie. But silent. Eddie is frantic. He’s a rodeo rider and a cowboy, not like the cliches we so often see in theatre. His blood runs thick and dark. Like black sap. Playwright Sam Shepard throws us right into the thick of May and Eddie’s tumultuous romance. Ferocity and tenderness. Eddie has shown up out of the blue, but May doesn’t know how to handle him. Or what she actually wants. He can tell something’s up. He can tell she’s hiding something. She keeps telling him to get lost. May can tell he hasn’t been faithful either. And she’s started drinking again. Her new boyfriend, Martin, is on the way. And an old guy sits on a chair in the corner. Watching.

Like Tennessee Williams and say, William Inge, Shepard takes what might pass for melodrama in lesser hands, and forges a lightning rod. He doesn’t rock the boat, he shakes it to pieces. Shepard takes the traditional love triangle and turns it on its apex. May’s suitor, Martin, is collateral damage in the ferocious attraction between May and Eddie. Martin is sweet, kind, caring and polite, and Shepard shoves him into a pit of grizzly bears. Or maybe just one. You might even say that Eddie is the id, May is the ego, and Martin is the super ego, though Shepard might sneer at this. We’ve seen Eddie, the unpolished ex-lover, May the hostile girlfriend who’s moved on, and Martin the clueless buffoon before, but what we get, what we don’t bargain for, is painful, volcanic attachment that is understandable yet destructive. Shepard was never one to bother with sweet small-talk. For him it’s always bellowing, brawling and bathos. But, yes, it works.

Director Van Quattro guides his fearless cast: Joey Folsom (Eddie) Sasha Maya Ada (May) Braden Socia (Martin) and Chris Messersmith (The Old Man) through the rough waters of Shepard’s perpetually troubled ocean. This kind of storytelling cuts very close to the bone. If it’s done right, it changes the actors, it changes the audience. It changes everyone involved in the project. Classics Theatre has embraced that kind of gorgeous, reckless valor that emboldens you to plunge into the abyss. If you love dangerous, wrenching, powerful theatre. Go.

The Classics Theatre Project presents: Fool For Love. Playing: March 7-31st. Margo Jones at Fair Park. 469-652-6614. 1121 1st Ave, Dallas, Texas 75210. www.theclassicstheatreproject.com

From the beginning, Doom McCoy was a figure of legend and enigma. Born in the midst of a cyclone (or a tornado?) he was left an orphan after the catastrophe took his parents’ lives. Just like Harry Potter, Doom has no knowledge of his mom and dad, but a reputation that proceeds him. He’s very generous hearted, if a bit slow. He has a sweet (but not too) wife and a rambunctious boy and a girl. We accompany Doom on his odyssey, whether he’s headed to town, or the saloon, or across a burning desert, or fleeing the grasp of the treacherous. Doom has special powers he has yet to comprehend, so he finds himself in situations that are dangerous, inexplicable, perplexing. Explainable only by the evolved and oracular. He crosses paths with a Gambler, Satan, a Priest, a Medicine Man, an Evil Tycoon.

Director/Playwright Justin Locklear has crafted this metaphysical, satirical, comedic horse opera, with oodles of tropes, borrowing from Spaghetti Westerns, heroic journeys, Zane Grey, John Ford, Sergio Leone and Beck. Doom McCoy is equal parts homage and spoof, honoring the spirit of Cowboy narrative while taking pleasure in wry, understated sport. No one is better at concocting special effects on a dime that those prestidigitators at The Ochre House. Moving backgrounds, rough and tumble horse chases, slow-motion duels and (what I can only explain as) parallel universe incidents seen before our eyes and wrought “cunningly in small.” In Locklear’s script, characters are just as likely to make deconstructive observations (regarding narrative structure or thematic impact) as dialogue that advances the plot. And kudos all over the place, for the chutzpah Locklear took, to make female arch-villains so convivial and poisonous. You might ask, “Is this a step forward, or a step back?” I like to think it’s both.

It’s rare to find theatre where the pleasure and joy a company takes in creating a sublime, memorable experience is so tangible. So formidable. The Ochre House thrives on embracing the strange, the giddy, the ridiculous, the defiantly poetic. Doom McCoy and the Death Nugget isn’t as intense as some of their shows, but needless to say, the best comedy never nudges the audience in the ribs. It’s thoroughly submerged in its own cosmos, with all its jeery-rigged, hallucinatory, subversive, down-the-rabbit-hole glory, and there’s nothing that compares. So much comedy today is hamfisted, clueless and confuses the inane with the absurd. Ochre House understands that a phenomenal play like Waiting for Godot works, not just from gags and shenanigans, but because it resonates with our souls.

The Ochre House presents Doom McCoy and the Death Nugget, playing February 9th-March 2^nd, 2019. 825 Exposition Avenue, Dallas, Texas 75226. 214-826-6273. OchreHouseTheater.org

Entering the performance space, we see the stage has the cozy look of a den: wood paneling, piano, chairs, shelves neatly packed with rows of jars, each containing sheet music and a “brain”. There are four actors: two men and two women. No costume changes, double, triple, quadruple casting. As scenes are played, continuities emerge. Though there are linear plots, they don’t proceed in linear time. Hopscotch. One character is a scientist recovering from a stroke. Another his wife. There’s a neurologist trying to bounce back from a painful divorce. A pathologist who’s studying Einstein’s brain. One character experiments with a lesbian attachment, another investigates Einstein’s progeny.

Written by Nick Payne, Incognito considers recollection, brilliance, reason, scruples, loss, excruciation, the sublime. Initially, the narratives seem to move from the comic, to the ridiculous, to the dark. Sometimes the sublime to the insane. Following variations on a theme, stories cross, converge, crash, run parallel, start over. A devoted wife tries to salvage a glorious marriage, that’s barely started. She must endure incremental attempts to restore her husband’s memory. He doesn’t recognize her, then he does. The pathologist studies Einstein’s brain by dissection, distributing slices into countless jars. A therapist seeking the solace of intimacy, gets drunk to extinguish painful memories, so she can move on.

Payne fuses episodes and elements, keeping details distinct, creating a montage. Memory is a grace, preserving tender, transformative moments, but tormenting us with the traumatic, as well. It’s as if Payne seeks shatter any idealized notions of the brain and mind. Those who dwell the realms of genius might not be spiritually evolved. Saints not intellectual. Does past context enhance a relationship? If we could erase horrible incidents from the mind, should we? In a fugue state, what we say and do never enters conscious memory. In Incognito the forgotten becomes a fugue. Something phenomenal that affects us, but lies just beyond our reach. Payne finds delicacy, frailty, in the midst of chaos that for an instant, gives us a flash of clarity.

Under the sagacious, meticulous guidance of director Alex Organ, the cast (Drew Wall, Natalie Hebert, Thomas Ward, Shannon McGrann) is sublime: focused, agile, thoroughly engaged. Wall brings spontaneity and charisma, Hebert a nuanced, quirky grace. Thomas Ward has an ursine authenticity that is both amusing and poignant and McGrann, intuitive impulses that are truly phenomenal. She has a subtle pathos that will overwhelm you.

Second Thought Theatre presents Incognito, playing January 30th-February 11^th, 2019. Bryant Hall, Kalita Humphreys Campus. 3400 Blackburn St., Dallas, Texas 75219. (866) 811-4111. secondthoughttheatre.com

In 2006, Steven Sater and Duncan Sheik added rock, folk, pop music and lyrics to Frank Wedekind’s Spring’s Awakening. It swept the Tony’s. The most salient irony in a story fraught with ironies, is the stunning lack of progress mankind has made since the original play was staged in the 1800’s. Teenagers are still overwhelmed by the onslaught of hormones that come with adolescence. When they seek guidance from parents, teachers, ministers they are still admonished, ignored, denounced. Left adrift in a tumultuous ocean they are ill-equipped to navigate. Instead of getting crucial, practical information, they are failed by authority figures too cowardly to sort through their own discomfort and unresolved issues.

Spring Awakening tells the story of all young men and women, and Melchior, Moritz and Wendla, in particular. Melchior is the rebellious, intellectual atheist, and like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, he is summarily punished for it. He helps out his poor buddy Moritz, who’s so frantic for answers and dizzy with libido, he can’t keep up his grades. The handmade, illustrated book that Melchior authors, creates a stir, as it presents the facts in a forthright, secular context. Wendla, also kept in the dark, seeks respite from Melchior. Naive in such matters, she insists that Melchior thrash her, with disastrous results. Sexuality without a compass can lead to inappropriate impulses, neither of which Wendla and Melchior can process or understand. When they finally consummate in an act of tender lovemaking, Wendla has no idea she’s risking pregnancy.

From the very first time I saw Spring Awakening, I was shocked and jazzed and completely onboard with its angry, unapologetic expression of sadness and disgust for adults that will do anything, anything, anything but level with them. The arrogance, superficiality, and vindictiveness of the grown-ups leaves ruin and tragedy all around. Spring Awakening looks at sexuality without flinching, so it explores disturbing content like incest, abuse, rape, abortion, desperation, abandonment, all running rampant because those in charge believe that shaming, bullying, disingenuousness is the answer to any situation they’d prefer to avoid.

The glorious joy of Spring Awakening is it’s utter lack of patience for the hypocrisy, persecution and degradation the teenage characters are subjected to, for the sake of sparing lame parents. The kids give way to raw, volcanic anger, contempt, despair. They leap in the air, they shout and dance and celebrate their subversive defiance. As much a rebuke of pretentiousness and sanctimoniousness as it is a paean to undiluted emotion, Spring Awakening takes us to the realms of transcendent, exquisite transgression: kicking, stomping, pushing back. Filling your lungs and yelling with everything you’ve got. The realm where sentient, fully functioning souls step up and crush the insects of ignorance, pettiness and fascism.

Uptown Players presents Spring Awakening, playing January 31^st -February 3^rd, 2019. Moody Performance Hall. 2520 Flora Street, Dallas, Texas 75201. 214-219-2718. uptownplayers.org

Set in Reading, Pennsylvania during Bush Jr’s term in office, Lynn Nottage’s Sweat tells the story of nine characters: Tracey, Stan, Jessie, Cynthia, Evan, Jason, Brucie, Chris and Oscar. Their lives depend on the factory that provides most of the town’s employment. When Bush’s notorious and flagrant manipulation of the economy went sideways, as we might expect, the working class and indigent are hardest hit. Scrambling to maintain profits, the factory cheats loyal employees by forcing them to renegotiate fair contracts, for less money. When they strike, the factory hires new labor for cheaper wages. People struggling for a better life make circumstances even worse for workers with seniority.

Most of the activity in Sweat happens in Stan’s bar, a regular watering hole for Cynthia, Jessie and Tracey, close friends who have worked the factory “floor” since they were teens. Chris and Jason, Cynthia and Tracey’s sons, are best friends, and spend a lot of time hanging out, when not working at the factory. Oscar helps Stan at the bar, busing tables, cleaning bathrooms, and so forth. Brucie is a drunken lout, and Cynthia’s husband. He’s not abusive, but irresponsible and given to benders. He will disappear for days.

Tracey, especially, has a short fuse. She tends to badger others and encourage escalation. As more and more of the folks living in Reading drop below the poverty level, and desperation rises, friendships deteriorate. When Cynthia, a hard-working, smart, African American woman is promoted, it sparks resentment from Jessie and Tracey, who figure she benefited from political correctness. When Cynthia’s torn between job dedication and loyalty to her friends, animosity grows. Prolonged, excruciating frustration erupts in rage and brawling.

Sweat is set by a special clock. Nottage shows us details, after and before a particular, devastating incident, and events leading up to it. We see Jessie, Cynthia and Tracey when they still cared for each other, unabashedly. As misery gradually takes over, we see the drunkenness, the anger, the sense of hopelessness, fueling catastrophe. Sweat makes it pretty evident that when Bush started gaming the economy to the advantage of the wealthy, the ripple effect on the 1% was no concern of his. Not that Sweat is an indictment. Rather it grieves the sense of solidarity and charity that we Americans forfeited as greedy, privileged class politicians looted and pillaged our resources. At a loss for some way to pull together, the struggling families of Reading have been condemned to chaos and despair.

The Dallas Theater Center presents Sweat, playing January 18th-February 10^th, 2019. Kalita Humphreys Theater, 3636 Turtle Creek Boulevard (Corner of Blackburn and Turtle Creek) Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-880-0202. www.DallasTheaterCenter.org

John is the president of a successful business firm, and Ellen is his mistress. They have a standing rendezvous every Wednesday and John leaves the next morning, after breakfast. Ellen lives in a penthouse that John fobs off as accommodations for visiting clients, so he can get the tax write-off. Cass and his brother have recently sold their business (manufacturing drawer pulls) to John’s, and realize, too late, they’ve been taken to the proverbial “cleaners.” Cass makes a special trip to New York City to confront John for his chicanery. A new receptionist at John’s firm has sends Cass to the penthouse by mistake, and later, John’s wife, Dorothy. Comedic chaos ensues.

At the outset, we see John finishing breakfast while Ellen pours his coffee in a frilly, translucent nightgown. When she reveals that today’s her birthday, he offers to spend the day, only to discover that scheduling blunders demand he must show up for work. Ellen is in tears when Cass knocks on the door, ready to read John the riot act. Of course, John’s not there, and Cass pretends to be John’s friend, needing a place to spend the night. The absent-minded secretary triggers awkward situations, and unresolved conflicts. When Dorothy shows up and finds Cass and Ellen arguing, she assumes they’re newlyweds, and insists they join John and she, for a night on the town.

Like other brisk comedies of the 60’s (Cactus Flower, Butterflies are Free, Barefoot in the Park) Muriel Resnik’s Any Wednesday finds humor in the foibles of romance, sex and disappointment. The difference is that Resnik doesn’t need to salve our wounds with an upbeat ending. It’s not depressing, but it’s not carefree. John is intelligent and savvy, but only wants what he can’t have. Ellen appreciates her situation, but never really reflects on what it costs her. Cass still believes that strength of character is rewarded. Dorothy seems to be the only one who embraces ugly truths with calm and sophistication. It isn’t just her seniority, she’s far better adjusted than her philandering husband, and is loathe to exploit others.

Any Wednesday is quite entertaining: sharp, emotionally evolved, surprising, ironic and strategically built. I’m not sure comedy is its most salient quality, but the narrative is touching and gripping. We care about Dorothy, Cass and Ellen and find ourselves involved in their lives. We witness their moments of anger and despondency. Joy and regret. Resnik sets hazards and epiphanies for them (and us) encouraging vicarious fulfillment. Resnik has the gift of making her story funny, canny, engaging and smart enough keep us on our toes. Any Wednesday may all turn on the new girl who still hasn’t figured out the switchboard, but even today, is that such a reach?

Rover DramaWerks presents: Any Wednesday playing January 10th-26th, 2019. 221 W Parker Rd, Suite 580, Plano, Texas 75023. 972-849-0358. www.roverdramawerks.com

Equus took the theatre world by storm in 1973, forever changing the paradigm of the possible. With it’s minimal set, primitive horse masks, characters bearing witness like a chorus, primal rhythms of worship and sacramental nudity, it was both shocking and cunning. Playwright Peter Shaffer built upon the premise (disturbed teenage boy blinds six horses) to consider the link between passivity and defiance, the Christian model of maleness, the intensity of pagan adulation, sexuality and manhood, and homoeroticism. Not that it’s all neatly lined up for cogitation. Elements spill over into each other, sparking combustion both terrifying and glorious. Shaffer captured the overwhelming experience of boy adolescence, with all its raw fear and ecstasy. Staging was neither for the faint of heart nor the reckless. It was difficult to fight the fear that we were dancing along the mouth of a volcano.

Martin Dysart is a child psychologist, practicing in England, where Equus is set. Hesther, Dysart’s friend and a magistrate, begs him to take on a case so atrocious, she fears no other doctor can be objective. After considerable arm-twisting, Dysart succumbs, and begins his investigation of Alan Strang’s attack on the horses, and the pathology behind it. Alan is evasive at first. Angry and snotty and confrontational; unsettling Dysart with intuitive digs at his personal life. Progress is slow and beleaguered by baffling details and back-pedaling. Dysart envies Alan his exhilarating midnight rides on Nugget, i.e., his horsegod: Equus.

Critiquing theatre as long as I have, you develop a strong appreciation for originality, bold vision and taking chances. Conventional staging can be all right, if it’s consistent with theme and content. But when you bring a fresh slant to shows that have entered the canon, this can be cause for excitement. Changing the time and setting of Taming of the Shrew, for example, makes it easier for the audience to identify. Director Adam Adolfo has taken brave risks in Lakeside Community Theatre’s current production of Equus, breaking away from the tropes of other productions. Adolfo digs deep, as if wrapping himself in subtext, bringing it to the surface. Adolfo’s vision is unique (and certainly subversive) pulling us into a nether realm of pain and dominance. All the actors are double cast as horses. The audience is, in effect, ushered into a stable, with redolent odors of straw, wood and leather. There is a persistent chorus of nickering, neighing, snorting and stomping hooves.

LCT’s Equus is powerful, life changing theatre. Adolfo cooks up Shaffer’s tumultuous narrative of Dysart and Strang’s ordeal, keeping it raw yet articulate. Equus may arguably be one of the most demanding scripts you could choose. It needs meticulous focus, restrained yet seething rage, and a pervasive sense of elemental forces beyond our grasp. The cast (Ellen Bell, Dale Moon, Jake Montgomery, Autumn McNamara, Nolan Spinks Cameron Fox, Jacob Hopson, Alex Rain, Andrew Derasaugh, Isabell Moon) is stalwart, provocative and utterly engaged. Especially noteworthy are

Dale Moon (Dysart) and Jake Montgomery (Strang). Moon brings a passionate despondence to the tormented psychiatrist, desperately trying to defuse Alan’s illness. Montgomery is electrifying and astonishing as the isolated and broken young man, aching to resolve the seachanges that come with manhood. Sometimes an actor trusts his intuition, taking us to that rare moment of grace and gestalt. Mr. Montgomery invite us into this startling turn, and it’s unforgettable.

Lakeside Community Theatre presents Equus, playing January 18th-February 2^nd, 2019. 6303 Main Street, The Colony, Texas 75056. (214) 801-4869. www.lctthecolony.com