Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

Michael Marc Bouchard’s Lilies is a strange excursion. Exotic and refined. Obtuse and dark. Emerging from the staging of a play, depicting the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, Lilies feels a bit like catching butterflies blindfolded. Or watching the slow creation of a quilt, one patch at a time. Or hearing the same riddle, over and over. You really must focus. Father Saint-Michel teaches Drama for a Roman Catholic school and though he’s clearly devoted, the homoerotic undercurrent in his productions have enraged some of the parents. The two leads, Simon and Vallier, are clearly lovers, and Bilodeau (as a young man) reprimands them for their depraved behavior. The drama more or less polarizes between the ignorant and sophisticated, the gentle and judgmental. But not necessarily the way we might think.

At the beginning of Lilies a group of prisoners overtake Bishop Bilodeau and force him to watch a play, exposing an incident in 1912 that ruined Simon’s, Vallier’s and the lives of others. Bilodeau is invited to read his character’s part, but he refuses. The female characters are played by men, not convincingly, but there’s an element of sincerity and dedication that feels odd. As each character tells his or her story, we grasp the significance Saint Sebastian’s intense love for another man, and how the arrows flew when they lashed him to a tree. Bouchard doles out scraps of information, and often seems to leave the path altogether, though this narrative seems to turn on montage. There’s an undeniable dreamlike quality to Lilies, a kind of skewed logic that counter-intuitively seems to balance the otherworldly content.

Consider the intoxicating gestalt of Lilies. Men in drag capturing the essence of feminine fancy and yearning. A contemptuous kiss planted on the lips of a clueless homophobe. Cynicism as “cure” for desire. Repeated evocations of a hot air balloon on the horizon, on a mission to rescue you from an empty existence. The father who beats his son (out of love?) . The nurturing mother, trapped in fantasy. Teenage boys who are not just experimenting, but stuck on some kind of cusp. Numerous elements converge to draw us into a realm where tenderness is forbidden to men, where emotion and beauty are denied them. Bouchard floats us upon feathery clouds, but cottonmouths swim there, too. It’s nearly impossible to hang on plot, because of the play’s construction, but sometimes showing us the scaffolding is a sound strategy. The damage that comes from a toxic code of masculinity doesn’t happen in a vacuum, so Lilies shows us the gears and baffles beneath the surface. Do not miss this one of a kind experience.

Theatre Profile Productions presents Lilies, playing through June v9th, 2018. Bath House Cultural Center. 521 E. Lawther Drive, Dallas, TX 75218. 817-886-0660.

Arguably the quintessential saga of a fierce stage mother who vicariously tries to resolve her own issues, Gypsy holds up as well today, as when it premiered in 1959. Mama Rose takes her two daughters: Louise and June, on the road with a somewhat spectacular (if quaint) vaudeville act, doing their best to climb the ladder that leads to Broadway. June is dressed in ribbons, curls and taps, while Louise often wears the same costumes as the chorus boys. Early on, Rose convinces Herbie to be their agent, booking decent venues and living in cheap hotels; an extended makeshift family making the best of limited resources. Herbie and Rose are a couple (Rose is hesitant to marry after four previous failures). The troupe wanders all over the map, eventually reaching The Big Apple, and their opportunity to audition for The Great White Way. When June is offered an undeniably generous contract, Mama Rose shows her true colors.

It’s really not a flaw, but I always found it curious that while Gypsy ostensibly refers to Gypsy Rose Lee and her rise to fame as a sophisticated, clever, stripper, it’s not exactly about her. Louise’s transformation from self-effacing tomboy to a burlesque queen (brimming with saucy panache) is nothing short of phenomenal, and better yet, believable. But this musical by Laurents, Stine and Sondheim is undoubtedly the story of Mama Rose. Perhaps the original Tiger Mom? Touting an act headlining “Baby June”, chock full of kiddie kitsch, she muscles and shoves and cajoles, till she gets her way. There is nothing subtle about Mama Rose and she doesn’t take no for an answer. We understand that she has a fire in the belly, and her need to fulfill the talent she recognizes in her daughters. But Gypsy, filled with humor and unblinking chutzpah, makes plain the price Rose’s zeal and ambition takes on those she loves most. Gypsy is warm, but never sentimental, savvy but never cruel.

Director Derek Whitener (always a joy) has taken this demanding script and sculpted a brash, exhilarating experience. The story never bogs down, and the large, avid cast is poised, effusive and all too glad to share their enthusiasm. Whitener may have found the perfect balance for a show that embraces actuality, without losing optimism or copping to the sappy. Among these marvelous performers, Sara Shelby-Martin (Mama Rose) and Kimberly Pine (Louise) manage these difficult characters, shaking us up and stirring our spirits. Shelby-Martin is tough, self-possessed and poignant. Pine is astonishing in her versatility and verve. Mr. Whitener, it seems, could stage a lecture on The Life of The Bumble Bee and still have us cheering.

The Firehouse Theatre presents: Gypsy, playing May 31^st – June 17^th, 2018. 2535 Valley View Lane, Farmers Branch, Texas 75234. (972) 620-3747. www.thefirehousetheatre.com

Set in the French Insane Asylum of Charenton on July 13^th, 1808, 15 years to the day that Charlotte Corday assassinated Jean Paul Marat: The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade aka Marat/Sade was written by Peter Weiss and premiered in 1963. The Marquis (who coined the word “sadism”) is among the inhabitants of the asylum, and has decided to stage a reenactment of the famous, watershed event using the other patients as actors and musicians. Marat (a doctor, scientist and politician) was a vociferous social critic, during the French Revolution. Though he was supposedly a proponent of the impoverished, he advocated for a caste system and the September Massacres, in which 1200-1400 prisoners were summarily executed, lest they be freed and wreak havoc. Marat and the notorious philosopher, de Sade, debate politics, history and the nature of the human condition. Marat sits in his wooden tub, writing manifestos and pontificating, while soaking to alleviate a painful skin disease.

A mashup of absurdity, history, political rhetoric and menace, Marat/Sade demonstrates a problem that may stretch back further than we know. The privileged class drones on and on, making excuses, while tyranny, slaughter and starvation take hold. The asylum band plays wry, angry, boisterous songs and the inmates recite nursery rhymes and frolic, celebrating the ridiculous and utter lack of change. Like gorging on fine cuisine while a destitute mother begs in the street. The drama of Charlotte Corday’s heroism is recreated for Coulmier, the Hospital Director, and his wife and daughter. The patient playing Charlotte has the zombie-like mien of a junky, barely able to focus. The performers recite the couplets that advance the plot, avid and dutiful, bouncing around or assembling formations neater than a military parade. They seem driven by a nearly animatronic giddiness, flirting with but never quite losing control.

Directed by Bert Pigg, L.I.P. Service’s production is skillfully wrought, with risky choices. There’s contemporary music, such as Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire, slides documenting Fascism, Anarchy, protest, conflagration. Pigg ties content to the current unrest tearing our country to pieces. He orchestrates choreography, singing, merriment, invective. He digs in, building the terrifying milieu of insanity, rage, torture, playfulness, violence, endless political debate. You wouldn’t think such a chaotic melange would coalesce so gracefully, but Pigg carries it off, and the experience is stunning.

Many thanks to L.I.P. Service for permitting me to see Marat/Sade on closing weekend.

L.I.P. Service presented Marat/Sade at Amy’s Studio of Performing Arts, 11888 Marsh Lane, Suite 600, Dallas, TX 75234. 972-484-7900. www.lipserviceproductions.info

 

Like Bernard Pomerance’s Elephant Man and David Lindsay-Abaire’s Rabbit Hole, Jessica Cavanagh’s Self Injurious Behavior takes us into the minefield of wrenching, personal tragedy, without exploiting our emotions. Summer and Jake have a son named Benjamin, who falls along the autistic spectrum. He requires vigilance, patience and stamina. His meltdowns (for lack of a better word) are epic and exhausting. Summer is pushed beyond what anyone should be expected to endure, and reunites with sisters Harmony and Sage for a break, camping out at a Renaissance Faire Festival, kicking back and enjoying some serious downtime.

A thread of the fanciful informs Self Injurious Behavior. The image of Peter Pan (lost boys) the grownups gathering and giving themselves permission to play for a few days: Camping out, munching out, catching a buzz, dressing up in bright costumes, shouting Huzzah! Adults love to play! The realms of the fantastic and carelessness stand in high relief to the world where Summer must be constantly watchful, where she and Benjamin are so often be robbed of the simple joy of distraction.

Playwright Cavanagh details Summer’s Herculean struggles with compassion and humor. Her pain is not the sole focus, but it creeps up. The overwhelming sadness, frustration, guilt, despair. Cavanaugh explores Summer’s life apart from her interaction with Benjamin, too. We see how it affects her life so pervasively. The bond between mother and child is so primal and intuitive, sometimes the detachment needed isn’t easy to come by. Cavanagh also considers the effect of men who (however unconsciously indoctrinated) diminish and dismiss women, rather than validate the depth of their suffering. When Jake returns from touring and complains about Summer’s housekeeping, you want to crack his skull.

It would have been easy to use intense, melodramatic events to wring emotions from us, to take advantage of our sympathy. But instead Cavanagh finds the quiet, awful moments: the arrogance of Jake’s clueless new wife, asking her mother for help, confiding with her sisters in the midst of a dark patch. Self Injurious Behavior achieves poignancy by respecting us, giving us credit for intelligence and inference. Knowing that Jessica Cavanagh forged this masterful work from her own experience, just makes it that much more phenomenal. Her involvement never eclipses what the script needs to be.

Theatre Too presents the World Premiere of Self Injurious Behavior, playing May 17th-June 10^th, 2018. The Quadrangle : 2800 Routh Street, Suite 168, Dallas, Texas 75201. 214-871-3300. www.theatre3dallas.com

In 1940’s Paris, when Picasso was young and beginning to get recognition, he would visit the Lapine Agile (Agile Rabbit) and, in the fine tradition of watering holes all over the globe, proceed to resolve the problems of the world, with tobacco, liquor and vehement dialectic. You are insane, you charlatan! You’ve been tossing too much absinthe you swine! And so on. I confess I was leery of what I’d find when I attended Picasso at the Lapin Agile. In his heyday I positively adored Steve Martin’s patter, once waiting in line more than six hours to get tickets, but I wasn’t sure it would translate to the stage. To my delight, I discovered my doubts were unfounded. Martin’s Picasso at the Lapin Agile is a melange of erudition and goofiness, shtick and sophistication, philosophy and cynicism, star twinkle and bourbon.

Picasso at Lapine is a comedy to be sure, with eccentric characters and recurring punchlines, worldly insights and lovers’ pratfalls. Freddy and Germaine are romantically involved and the proprietors of this humble, yet vital gathering place for great minds and otherwise. Martin includes sketch comedy with truly marvelous fancies, debates on the nature of sentience, warm reflections on humanity, and facetious stuff that shouldn’t tickle (But damn it, it does!) Conceivably inspired by Terry Johnson’s Insignificance, but without the complications and dark undercurrent, Martin finds a cozy nest for his special brand of amusement, i.e. the world of Science, Imbibing and Art. Einstein and Picasso find great exhilaration in their arguments (piss and vinegar) that often result in awesome epiphany. Martin creates the expectation of spoofery and groanworthy gags, then throws other aspects into the mix, with poetic observations that will set your mind agog.

You might not wonder why “the agile rabbit” after seeing this poised, acrobatic, energetic and fluid cast at work. After enjoying theatre for many years I have learned that comedy requires balance more exacting than defusing an atomic bomb. the actors of Picasso at the Lapin Agile must navigate impulsive switches in tone, gender-bending, vaudeville, absurdity and cosmological musings, with no intermission and barely a pause. I am eternally grateful to have seen it on closing weekend.

Resolute Theatre Project presented Picasso at the Lapin Agile. Amy’s Studio of Performing Arts, 11888 Marsh Lane, Suite 600, Dallas, TX 75234

For those of you unacquainted with Billy Wilder’s classic of the same name, Sunset Boulevard tells the story of Norma Desmond, an erstwhile Silent Film Siren whose best days are behind her. Living as a virtual recluse in her lavish mansion with butler, Max, Norma is striking, and undeniably Non Compos Mentis: i.e. not in her right mind. Mistaking him for the man who was hired to bury her beloved chimp, Norma meets Joe Gillis. Joe is a down-at-the-heels screenwriter in 1950’s Hollywood. In addition to struggling to make a career, a couple of goons are tracking him to repay a loan shark. Joe is just this side of desperate. When Norma offers respite if he’ll help with her script, it’s just too good to resist.

Norma keeps Joe on a short leash, he must sneak off to visit his agent, friends, and Betty, a sweet gal with an inside track. She wants to help him get his big break. Joe is fond of Norma, but she doesn’t make it easy for him. She’s too loopy to be practical, and it’s clear she’s got a major crush on Joe. When she isn’t throwing tantrums. He works on her script in earnest, but never sees a dime. She throws a New Year’s Party, and when he realizes he’s the only guest, runs off to a friend’s celebration. Things have gotten twisted, but he stays out of sympathy, and perhaps for the advantages.

I have never been able to decide if Andrew Lloyd Webber writes operas that play like musicals, or musicals that feel operatic. He can be clever and amusing, the numerous songs show versatility, intelligence and warmth. Webber never makes Norma the object of pity, though she seems to swing a wide arc between rage and desperate frailty. Sunset Boulevard paints a mural, evoking the unforgiving world Joe and Norma inhabit, making it easy to understand when they wind up in each others’ arms. There is certainly something eerie about her mansion that could just as easily be a museum (or mausoleum). But when Norma slips into a reverie about the oafish world and how it’s robbed the motion pictures of magic and power, you can’t ignore the truth of her words. Sunset Boulevard is a strange potion of extreme measures and what happens when there’s sparse kindness in a merciless town.

Sunset Boulevard is an engaging, often humorous, sorrowful experience that is masterful and meticulously staged. The actors are deeply invested, focused, charismatic. Director Allen Walker has gone with a less lavish set, but you’d hardly know. Walker has orchestrated the various elements, with grace and purpose. I was spellbound from start to finish.

Tarrant Actors Regional Theatre presents Sunset Boulevard, playing May 11th-27th, 2018. Fort Worth Community Arts Center: Sanders Theatre. 1300 Gendy Street, Fort Worth, Texas 76107. (682) 231-0082. wwwthetart.com

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