Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

Brigid Blake and boyfriend Richard Saad have just started moving into their new apartment in New York. It is Thanksgiving, and they are hosting Brigid’s family (Erik: Dad, Deidre: Mom, Fiona: Grandma, and Aimee: Sister) who are visiting from Pennsylvania. They are still waiting on furniture, so Brigid and Richard have set up card tables in the basement, while Richard is doing a splendid job, cooking the Thanksgiving feast. The Blakes are Irish Catholic, a detail made immediate and charming when they sing a beautiful tune, aching with warmth and nostalgia. Grandmother is confined to a wheelchair and her mind is mostly in a holding pattern. (She functions as something of an oracle.) Things run smoothly, though mishaps continue throughout the evening. Eventually the gathering takes a dark turn.

If anything, playwright Stephen Karam has achieved an admirable level of modulation. The Humans doesn’t break into familial histrionics, like say, The Subject Was Roses, or Other Desert Cities. The conversation (with occasional sniping) is eminently recognizable They discuss plans for the future, personal history, thanksgiving traditions, the horribly loud neighbors, an unfortunate episode intersecting the 911 attacks. None of it feels contrived, yet it doesn’t feel arbitrary, either. It’s as if Karam is sewing a quilt. The mother brings a statue of Mary, though Brigid’s an atheist, they break a peppermint pig, for luck, there are bars on the windows, and the lights keep going out, plunging them into darkness. It all adds up, but there’s a hushed, subtle quality. Karam wields his symbolism gracefully, tweaking what seems ordinary into poignant reflection.

Brigid’s parents are from a blue collar background, but they are kind and tolerant. They have no problem with Aimee’s lesbianism or Brigid’s boyfriend of color. Both Brigid and Aimee are more sophisticated than their folks, but Erik and Deidre are no dummies. Karam shows us the flaws and misery of each member of the Blake clan. Is Richard there for contrast? It’s not about expose’ or mockery, but if withholding to protect others is the way to go. They hang onto personal pain, and it saps them of their moxie. The Blakes are losing their sense of well-being, of identity, but they are no different than any of us. They are trying their best, but dread infects them like a secret virus. Karam manifests their malaise in one of the most intuitive, organic, powerful endings I’ve ever seen.

ATT Performing Arts Center presents The Humans, playing May 9th-20th, 2018. Winspear Opera House. 2403 Flora St, Dallas, Texas 75201. 214-978-2879. attpac.org.

August, Osage County premiered in late June of 2007, at the Steppenwolf in Chicago. It went on to win the Pulitzer, and Tony for Best New Play. Written by Tracy Letts, it explores the dysfunction of three generations of the Weston clan, when they gather after the disappearance of patriarch Beverly Weston, a revered poet. Daughter Ivy has been living with Beverly and her mother, Violet. Just before leaving, Beverly hires a Native American woman named Johnna, to help Violet manage her various ailments (i.e. drug addiction). Ivy’s sisters: Barbara and Karen arrive with their loved ones, and Violet’s sister, Mattie Fae, comes with husband Charlie and grown son, Charlie Junior. It’s August in Oklahoma, there is no air conditioning, and the family is doubling and tripling up under one roof.

Not long after the tribe has checked in and they begin to assess the situation, Beverly’s drowned body is found. At the meal they share, immediately after the funeral, emotions begin to run high. When Jean calls her mother Barbara a liar, Violet says in the same situation, her own mother would have: “knocked my head off my shoulders.” She then goes on a tirade, describing an ugly incident where Mattie Fae had to save her, when one of their mother’s boyfriends came after her, with a claw hammer. Then the real meltdown erupts. Afraid that Barbara is going to confiscate her pills, Violet viciously roars, I’ll eat you alive. I’ll eat you alive. Barbara chokes her, they wrestle and Violet hits the deck. They all search the house for places Violet may have hidden her pills. As they regroup, each of them reveals more and more of their secrets, and gives a clearer picture of where they stand.

What keeps August, Osage County, from being a melodrama, or soap opera? We get the sense it is teetering on comedy, because the behavior turns so extreme. That being said, while there is certainly profuse humor, the content behind the strangeness, and casually reprehensible behavior, is somewhat somber. Ivy makes a speech about the accident of genetics and familial ties no more intimate than atoms. Mattie Fae is constantly berating her own son. Karen’s fiance Steve gets high with Jean and starts putting the moves on her. When quiet, subdued Johnna coldcracks him, we start to see she (the Indian) is the only one with a moral compass. An intriguing aspect of August, Osage County, is that while see adultery, drug abuse, brawling, vindictiveness, the suggestion of incest, it doesn’t feel especially preachy. We simply see these people fulfilling the current, lax, turn-of-the-century moral code, and what a train wreck they are.

Perhaps Tracy Letts is making commentary on the American Dream of the White Bourgeoisie, or the gradual destruction of Western Civilization. After subjecting Native Americans to genocide, they take over, and like the aristocracy of other failed and depraved dynasties, go to pieces. The Westons may not be well-to-do, but they have much more than Johnna, who seems to be the only one holding it together. At the center of this toxic tsunami is defacto matriarch, Violet Weston. She claims she’s all about truth-telling, but only she gets that privilege. Yes, she’s suffering intensely, and struggling to get sober, but she’s also obnoxious, nasty, self-centered and diminishing of others. If she were merely self-pitying and self-indulgent, it would be tolerable. But when she shifts into attack mode she’s worse than a rattlesnake.

August, Osage County comes at you thick and fast, and it’s not easy to process while you’re actually in the theater. It has a kind of slapdash, overwhelming feel to it, though the atmosphere (for the most part) is low-key. Oddly enough the chaos seems to balance itself, with equals parts comedy, rage, insanity and melancholy. In retrospect (I’m guessing) we all know a family like The Westons, if we don’t recognize the same traits in our own.

Director Dale Moon has assembled one of the most intrepid casts I’ve ever seen: poised, authentic, versatile and deeply dedicated. Thirteen actors orchestrated to weave this stunning, powerful, wry, achingly sad narrative of an extended-family estranged from one another, working through their own version of truth-telling, without a therapist, talking stick, or ground rules. Just the sketchy protection of self-medicating and compromised values. This is theater of the highest order, it will hit you like lightning in a downpour.

Lakeside Community Theatre presents: August, Osage County, playing April 27th-May 19^th, 2018. 6303 Main Street, The Colony, Texas 75056. (214) 801-4869. www.lctthecolony.com

 

The setting is the west of the 1800’s. The Felling opens with Alaistair Bren being locked into the hoosegow by (sheriff) Palmer, for murder and worse. The jail is visible to the family of the victim, playing cards for bullets, drinking bourbon from mugs. They are all waiting for Alaistair’s verdict, so they can feel the comfort of seeing justice done. Alaistair has raped and killed their mother. Will he be hanged or taken out with a revolver? Every activity feels like ritual, with certain repeated gestures and declarations. They ignore Alaistair’s attempts to engage them in conversation, but express contempt for his depravity. As time grows longer, politeness and respect among themselves begin to give way to vindictiveness and accusations.

Written by Mitchell Parrack, The Felling examines the nature of ignoring higher law because we lack a moral compass, or live in a vacuum that cares more about rules then the scaffolding that supports them. Toots and Peach are lovers, Farber and Polly are wedded but can’t conceive a child. Maynie is angry with Palmer because he seems hesitant to take the next step and execute Alaistair. I’m not sure it’s obvious from the outset that Alaistair is also a member of this clan, a sibling, but it gives us the opportunity to further reflect on a broken bond. Parrack creates a kind of secular piety among this family that supposedly cleaves to God and devotion, but lacks compassion and mercy, when circumstances demand. I can’t tell you too much. But Parrack immerses us in a catastrophic event that exposes hypocrisy, cruelty, degradation, misogny. He recreates a private universe that turns on less fortunate values.

Parrack coins a rough dialect that blends erudition with primitive reasoning. Shakespeare marries Mamet? Diction is elevated but the content is poisonous, angry, bitterly resigned. It weaves a kind of spell, that teaches us how to grasp, as we listen. Parrack has taken a disturbing premise: a man punished for raping and killing his mother, and brought out it complexity. He considers the primal blessing of family connection and the violation of it. But more than that, he dives into a state of mind where self-loathing makes grace imperceivable.

Ochre House presents: The Felling, playing April 21st-May 12^th, 2018. Wed-Sat at 8:15 PM. 825 Exposition Avenue, Dallas, Texas 75226. 214-826-6273. www.ochrehousetheater.org.

Whether by coincidence or design, Aaron Loeb’s The Trials of Sam Houston comes on the heels of Hamilton, a musical that deliberately casts the roles of the White Founding Fathers with Men of Color. Perhaps this is to make history more relatable, or a statement about birth and privilege, or race less of an issue. Perhaps all three. Loeb’s Trials is also color-blind and gender-blind, though perhaps without the same sense of purpose. To his credit, Loeb’s narrator is Jeff Hamilton, a former slave/valet who shares his story with historian Patricia Caras, to remind us, I suppose, of the impact that white politicians have on black lives. The ghost of Sam Houston himself makes appearances, when he’s not hanging on the periphery. The performers are double and triple cast, women step into men’s roles, African Americans into the roles of Caucasians.

Trials is built upon an incident in which Governor of Texas, Sam Houston, confronts Congressman William Stanbery in the street, and pummels him for besmirching his good name. He is thrown into jail where he gets soused on bourbon, sings and pontificates endlessly. His friends hire attorney Francis Scott Key (yes, that one) who has his work cut out for him. Even though Houston understands he broke the law, he cannot show contrition, because he doesn’t understand how he could let such libel pass. While they hash out a strategy, Houston insists the other men drink with him, in the spirit of camaraderie. Subsequently he must crawl to President Andrew Jackson to help resolve this catastrophe. After that he is called upon to address Congress, and summon his considerable oratory skills which, moving though they may be, seem to lack substantial content.

In defense of Sam Houston, he was a fierce defender of the Native Americans, under the administration of Andrew Jackson, who (to be kind) treated them disgracefully. His friends remained loyal, even when they were disgusted with him. He may have been insufferable, but he was, generally speaking, authentic. He dressed like Davy Crockett, and had a gift for being a loud-mouthed buffoon. In current lingo, he had no impulse control. Houston was all heart, for better or ill, but nothing Stansbery did warranted a thrashing with a walking cane, or repeated kicks.

In writing The Trials of Sam Houston, perhaps Loeb was trying to express the complexity of the man, with all his grace, foibles and flaws. If indeed he was complex at all. It doesn’t always coalesce. Jeff Hamilton hints at a revelation he’s withheld all these years, and it comes at the end of this drama. When Hamilton was only a young man, Houston scooped him up and saved him from a master notorious for working his slaves to death. Jeff grew up to be refined, educated and well-treated, but when he reminds Houston of a promise he has yet to fulfill, he is subjected to truly ugly behavior. Trials is filled with humor, invention, and entertaining moments. Throughout the show, Loeb seems to vacillate on the nature of Houston’s character and his grasp of the concept of honor. If we’re meant to respect him after this final act of hypocrisy, I’m not sure the play survives it.

Dallas Theater Center presents: The Trials of Sam Houston, playing April 20th-May 13rth, 2018. Kalita Humphreys Theater, 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-526-8210. www.dallastheatercenter.org

Set during the Great Depression in 1932, The Last One Nighter on the Death Trail follows the travails of a vaudeville act called The Disappointment Players, when vaudeville was on the way out. Pudge, Skeeter, The Countess, Moe, Wally, The Kid, Trixie, and Veronica find themselves in Dallas, once a hotspot for vaudeville shows. They rehearse, work up new numbers, kill time, hoping an act will bail so they will get some time on the stage. Money, food and luck seem to be in short supply.

Moe is the savvy manager, Pudge is the unabashedly angry comedian (really, really angry) Skeeter is the sweet, caring, Bible Belt girl who fills in where she’s needed, The Countess is a talented, middle-aged actress who never achieved the fame she deserved, Wally is good-natured and lofty, but clueless, Veronica is the saucy, zaftig temptress, who “plays” the saxophone, and delivers the raunch. The Kid and Trixie are the ingenues. They all assault each other with jabs and jibes, though some are decidedly more acrimonious than others. Their self-deprecating humor reveals a lot about their despair and resentment, venting the pain that makes it so difficult to soldier on. Some of the secrets they confess go way beyond the snappy, blue, cynical humor we expect from the circuit. Degrading childhoods, religious fanaticism, delusions of aristocracy, sexual bumbling. It keeps sneaking in and gets progressively worse.

Written by David Goodwin and Christie Vela (with songs by Our Endeavors Theater Collective) Last One Nighter explores the dark, despondent, degeneracy precipitated by hard times, implacable disappointment and the ugly measures we must take to survive. Goodwin and Vela consider the ironic roots behind the humor we use to exorcise the demons that plague humanity. We all know humor comes from the deep hurt of living in a world where grace and warmth are at best, hard to come by. Reminiscent of pieces like: The Singing Detective, Pennies from Heaven and Flannery O’Connor’s The Life You Save May Be Your Own, this is rage and sorrow dressed in the clothes of song, dance and laughter. The shadows lurking behind the hijinks and hokum emerge without apology or deference.

Might Last One Nighter be a metaphor for empty American Values? For our squelched impulses to embrace better angels? Probably. It’s most definitely sharp, pointed pathos at it’s finest.

Theatre 3 presents The Last One Nighter on the Death Trail, playing April 26th-May 20^th, 2018. 2800 Routh Street, Suite 168, Dallas, Texas 75201. 214-871-3300. theatre3dallas.com.

Sister Sandi Spagnanowicz arrives at Heavenly Sisters of Bovina Convent, ready to begin “nunning,” after receiving her certification from an online course. The handyman: Otto Mantooth tries to warn her off, but bless her heart, Sister Sandi’s just too naive (even for a Novitiate) to take the hint and amscray. When The Mother Superior politely declines her offer, Sandi ignores her, convinced her wealth of experience will be too bountiful to resist. Enter Brother Ed Fielding and Brother Fabio DeLeon (a fey Hand Model who constantly moisturizes with mayonnaise) two monks who also tell Sister to get out while she can, but Sandi’s determined to throw caution to the winds. Mother Superior returns to subject her minions to prolonged degradation, while forcing their participation in Nun Puncher. Nun Puncher is a heavy metal band, whose drummer creates a hypnotic rhythm (Mother’s forte) that subjugate all who hear it. Vile, insidious Mother Superior will stop at nothing until she achieves her goal of (wait for it) WORLD DOMINATION.

Playwright Everett Newton has a distinct gift for absurd comedy, and Nun Puncher is no exception. Weaving together the mystic elements of anagrams, ink poisoning, Planet Drumming, black smithing, and other phenomena too numerous to mention, Newton creates an alternative universe of goofy, absorbing, trippy, deadpan insanity that will tickle your Id and intoxicate your Psyche. He marries the serious to the preposterous, the wicked to the nonchalant, and exotic dancing to religious discipline, with hilarious results. Nun Puncher is engaging, clever and marvelously entertaining. The music that Newton has composed, enhances and jolts the material, rocking your lame ass and the furniture.

Director Andy Ray Bridges and his cast of self-assured, merry bandits of laughter (Hailey Sather, Mary Jo Christian, Bridgette Mishelle, Andrew Sather, Ramon Sanchez, Angel Arroyo and Netherina Noble) along with the Nun Puncher Band (that you could hear in Prague) have assembled a delightfully witty, amusing show. The players are poised and in sync, with an instinctive feel for delivering lines. Kudos to Hailey Sather, an adorable “Unnatural Disaster” who can trash my condo anytime she wants.

Special thanks to the grand folks at The ArtCentre Theatre, that gave me permission to attend the last day of the run. Nun Puncher closed April 29^th, 2018.

The ArtCentre Theatre, 5220 Village Creek Drive, Plano, Texas 75093. 214-810-3228 www.artcentretheatre.com

Intense and playful, tawdry and tender, Murder Ballad is a punchy, heartbreaking rock opera. Can Sara resist the siren song of Tom, her thuggy, gorgeous, former lover? Or will she stay faithful to her caring, devoted husband Michael? Even though we know murder is imminent, this gloriously purple melodrama is filled with surprises. It’s not just who commits the murder, but how did we get to this place? Imprint, it seems, has transformed the Margo Jones into a nightclub (The Kings X) with IDs requested, a band with a singer, pool table, bar and seating designed to accommodate potent libation. This venue in not exactly a dive, but there’s not exactly a waiting list. Most of the characters sport serious ink and tight attire.

Tom and Sara have an intense, dangerous romance that ends abruptly. Sara’s still nursing her wounds when she crosses paths with Michael, pretty much Tom’s polar opposite. Michael offers her warmth, safety and reliability. Before we know it, Michael and Sara have married, and subsequently a daughter. It’s not quite what Sara expected (the bourgeois life wears thin) but she’s not subjected to the extremes that come with an alphadog. As we might have expected, by the time their girl is old enough to go to kindergarten, Tom emerges to rekindle with Sara. Once Michael grasps the nature of Sara’s past with Tom, their relationship goes into upheaval. Michael angrily assumes Sara’s been unfaithful (Christ knows she’s barely had time) and Tom’s aching would make a gorilla cry. Tumultuous storms are tossing this vessel hard, and fever’s running higher than a town with the Black Plague.

Created and composed by Julia Jordan (Book and Lyrics) and Juliana Nash (Music and Lyrics) Murder Ballad has a healthy dose of cynicism and petulance, but not as toxic or jaded as Cabaret or Chicago. We understand the despair, pain and disappointment of the principal characters; Jordan and Nash reveal their insecurities and fears, that awful feeling of being perpetually lost. The songs are touching and unpretentious, without steering dangerously close to hoke or mawkishness. This kind of balance can be frustrating and difficult to find, but Director Ashley White and her savvy, intrepid cast engage us with an assured, persuasive touch. Jordan and Nash take us beyond the torrid Frankie and Johnny to Sara, Tom and Michael, convincingly flawed and utterly human.

Imprint Theatreworks presents: Murder Ballad, playing April 27th-May 13^th, 2018. The Margo Jones Theatre, 1121 1st Ave, Dallas, Texas 75210. 469-554-8025. imprinttheatreworks.org

James and Ruth Baker are a married couple with one teenage son (Junior) and another on the way. They live in South Oak Cliff, which is gradually becoming gentrified. James has been laid off at work, but, fortunately they own their home, and the equity it can provide. Junior’s skill as a spoken-word artist has landed him a trip to the National Competition in Chicago. But his dad doesn’t want him doing anything that might distract from getting his degree in Accounting. Al Watkins wants James to go in with him on real estate speculation. James’ older brother Jebediah, has just been released from prison. He’ll be staying with James and his family for awhile. When Bread opens, they are preparing a barbecue to welcome Jebediah. Carol Mills is Jebediah’s girlfriend, she has a sharp wit and she’s very plainspoken.

Written by Regina Taylor, Bread owes something more than a debt to Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun. It’s almost as if she’s taken the key ideas from Raisin, made them more current, and refined them. Which is perfectly fine. Imagine if Raisin were set in Dallas in the late 2010’s and told primarily (but not entirely) from the viewpoint of Walter Younger. Like the Youngers, the Bakers: 1. want to better their lot 2. deal with encroaching white people 3. are affected by a get rich quick scheme 4. son is denied the privilege of choosing his own vocation 5. dreams of moving up are always just out of reach. They raise Junior in a disciplined but loving home. He respects his parents though not without occasional grumbling. Like the Youngers they learn that when you’re trying to rise in the world, issues like location and money (or bread) can knock you down, over and over.

Bread would seem to be a central metaphor. Yes “bread” is slang for money, but Ruth has a bun in the oven, they are named for bakers, and Taylor seems to be reflecting on the distinction between mere wealth, and what we actually need to nurture our souls. At the play’s conclusion, something is revealed that robs Junior of his moral compass, and throws the Baker family into a tailspin. Perhaps because of the father’s inability to grasp the difference between the price of a house and the value of a home. What comes next is painful, poignant and powerful. Regina Taylor’s Bread is bleak, authentic, very intelligent and should not be missed.

WaterTower Theatre presents Bread. Playing April 13^th -May 6^th, 2018. 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. 972-450-6232. www.watertowertheatre.org.

James and Ruth Baker are a married couple with one teenage son (Junior) and another on the way. They live in South Oak Cliff, which is gradually becoming gentrified. James has been laid off at work, but, fortunately they own their home, and the equity it can provide. Junior’s skill as a spoken-word artist has landed him a trip to the National Competition in Chicago. But his dad doesn’t want him doing anything that might distract from getting his degree in Accounting. Al Watkins wants James to go in with him on real estate speculation. James’ older brother Jebediah, has just been released from prison. He’ll be staying with James and his family for awhile. When Bread opens, they are preparing a barbecue to welcome Jebediah. Carol Mills is Jebediah’s girlfriend, she’s a sharp wit and very plainspoken.

Written by Regina Taylor, Bread owes something more than a debt to Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun. It’s almost as if she’s taken the key ideas from Raisin, made them more current, and refined them. Which is perfectly fine. Imagine if Raisin were set in Dallas in the late 2010’s and told primarily (but not entirely) from the viewpoint of Walter Younger. Like the Youngers, the Bakers: 1. want to better their lot 2. deal with encroaching white people 3. are tempted by a get rich quick scheme 4. son is denied the privilege of chosing his own vocation 5. dreams of moving up are always just out of reach. They raise Junior in a disciplined but loving home. He respects his parents though not without occasional grumbling. Like the Youngers they learn that when you’re trying to rise in the world, issues like location and money (or bread) can knock you down, over and over.

Bread would seem to be a central metaphor. Yes “bread” is slang for money, but Ruth has a bun in the oven, they are named for bakers, and Taylor seems to be reflecting on the distinction between mere wealth, and what we actually need to nurture our souls. At the play’s conclusion, something is revealed that robs Junior of his moral compass, and throws the Baker family into a tailspin. Perhaps because of the father’s inability to grasp the difference between the price of a house and the value of a home. What comes next is painful, poignant and powerful. Regina Taylor’s Bread is bleak, authentic, very intelligent and should not be missed.

WaterTower Theatre presents Bread. Playing April 13^th -May 6^th, 2018. 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. 972-450-6232. www.watertowertheatre.org.

Claire is a neuroscientist for a firm that develops Artificial Consciousness, and subsequently, automatons (robots) capable of learning, deductive reasoning and possibly, thought. As Uncanny Valley opens, the most current replicant arrives: Julian. He’s only completed from the waist up, but seems sentient, conscientious and (excuse the expression) personable. Claire begins tutoring him, not only explaining the fundamentals of operating in the actual world and subsistence, but the basics of propriety and polite society. Julian is a quick study, he advances rapidly, evolving and striving to grasp the nuances of language, human expression, and the subtext that humans take for granted. As Julian acquires “legs”, Claire instructs him in ideas such as demeanor and the way body language affects how others perceive us. When Claire accepts Julian’s invitation to waltz, we realize he is not only proficient, but charismatic as well. And it’s a bit alarming.

Written by Thomas Gibbons, Uncanny Valley considers the far reaching implications of Artificial Intelligence and what distinction (if any) divides human beings from autonomous machines designed to emulate us, in all our flawed, tremulous glory. If an actor learns a script, it’s not enough to learn the lines and when to say them. Ideally, the performer understands why he or she is speaking a particular line, and the impact it has. One of the reasons we probably couldn’t (or shouldn’t) see teenagers staging A Streetcar Named Desire is because they haven’t lived long enough to come from a place of experience and context. In the same way, it isn’t clear whether Julian has enough information gathered to surmise the demands of responding to difficult situations. How do we know what to say when a friend has lost someone near and dear? When we must end an intense romance? When one of our children is afraid of a thunder storm? It’s not enough to know what to say, but how to say it. Is it possible to construct intuition? Impulsiveness? Warmth?

It isn’t easy to anticipate where this play is going when the first act concludes. Certain implacable truths emerge in the second act and without (I hope) revealing too much: we discover that Claire is more conflicted that she’s previously confided, and that Julian’s blind spots will cause her great misery. Her office has been swept clean of all its decoration and memory tokens, as she’s decided to retire after a long and satisfying career. Julian shows up unexpectedly, to see her for one last time. Gibbons seems to appropriate from other resources, such as Blade Runner, Bradbury’s I Sing the Body Electric and even Twilight Zone. “Uncanny Valley” is a term describing the queasy feeling that occurs when the line between automation and authentic human existence starts to evaporate. Gibbons has disguised the disturbing in the clothes of the innocuous.

Black Flag Theatre Company presents the Regional Premiere of: Uncanny Valley, playing from March 30th-April 28th, 2018. Cox Building, 1517 H Avenue, Plano, Texas 75074. (972) 435-9517. www.blackflagtheatre.org