Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

Perhaps Tennessee William’s best known (and least outre’) drama, The Glass Menagerie is the story of Tom, Amanda, and Laura Wingfield, who share an apartment in Saint Louis. Tom is a writer who works in a shoe factory, Amanda (his mother) keeps house, and Laura (his sister) who is somewhat impaired. Her spirit wounded, n some profound way. She spends time listening to music, and tendfing to her collection of small animals, made of glass. Amanda was raised in privilege, in the Deep South, as were presumably, Tom and Laura. When their father deserted them, they were forced to move and make do on very little. Amanda spends a great deal of time reminiscing about the halcyon days of her young womanhood, surrounded by “gentlemen callers”;  taking us into a realm outside of the grubby, unforgiving world. She corrects Tom, constantly, interrogating about his nightly haunts.

Williams has created a story of three human beings trying to find refuge and distraction from disappointment and adversity. They don’t fit in ordinary life, not really. So Amanda takes excursions to the past. Tom writes poetry, and goes to the movies, and drinks. And Laura has her collection. Amanda nags to help her children better themselves. Tom gets drunk and stays out late to nullify the pain. Even when he flees, he can’t escape the guilt of leaving to salvage his own life. There is an exquisite sadness to The Glass Menagerie. Tom is both narrator and participant. He steps outside the conflagration, providing context and the warm illumination of care, for his family and himself.

The Classics Theatre Project consistently brings insightful, original angles to familiar pieces from the American Theatre canon. Director Jackie Kemp has brought his unique vision to Glass Menagerie. The set suggests a home decorated with taste but struggling with destitution. The acting style feels nuanced and matter-of-fact. Except, naturally, Amanda, whose grand bearing is only heightened by comparison. There’s something about Laura’s clothes that suggest the little girl. We experience a kind of airiness to the Wingfield living room. Perhaps something elegant but slight? For lack of a better word, this production felt more proletariat than other productions I’d seen.  A choice made (I’m thinking) to enhance the accessibility of the story.

The Classics Theatre Project presents: The Glass Menagerie. Playing March 8, 2024 – April 13, 2024. Stone Cottage in Addison, 15650 Addison Road, Addison, TX 75001. 214-923-3619. theclassicstheatreproject.com

Flanagan’s Wake is set in an Irish Pub. In Ireland. A wake is held for the mourners to keep vigil (the casket on the premises) for the loved one, on the way to his last reward. Rosaries are prayed, anecdotes shared, toasts proposed.  Flanagan’s Wake is perhaps less somber an endeavor. The closed casket is far upstage, and his friends are visiting and hoisting stout. The departed’s girlfriend is in attendance and (naturally) she keeps trying to climb into the casket. Too often the women in Flanagans’s Wake must endure disparagement for the frequency of their nighttime recreation (bed blanket bingo) though certainly, it’s a given that the guys are all horndogs. (Who knew?) If a stereotype of blue collar Irish culture is omitted, it is not for want of trying.

On the way in, they assign a name tag, so you are easy pickens for the amusement of actor and audience alike. As we are settling in, they ask for a show of hands from all the Catholics. I asked if Episcopalians counted, and they dismissed me, loudly and without thought. Throughout the show they pulled audience members onto the stage, swinging from friendly and patient, to cheerfully disdainful. Raucous and rowdy and awash in high spirits. It’s marvelous how it seems like an authentic wake (not that I’d know) when clearly it isn’t. The good Father seems especially churlish (like Brother Theodore?) abusing audience improvisation with remarks like: Well, that was stupid, or What you were thinking? Why should we laugh at such jibes and taunts? It’s not caustic, perhaps just another patch in this joyfully ridiculous quilt.

Gotta give mad props to the cast and crew of Flanagan’s Wake and Allen Contemporary Theatre for taking the pulse, of these so often disappointing times. I was certainly trying my best to chase away those pesky, cold-hearted blues when I headed to ACT for a Saint Patrick’s Day matinee. Seems this preposterous, deadpan comedy, with it’s shameless use of puns, shaggy dog stories, improvisation and stereotypes (no one is spared, especially the Irish) was just the remedy I was aching for. Right about now I’m thinking we’re all famished for wisecracking merriment. Treat yourself to some playful comfort.

Allen Contemporary Theater presents Flanagan’s Wake, playing March 15th-31st, 2024. 1206 East Main Street #105, Allen, TX 75002. 844-822-8849. allencontemporarytheatre.net

Flanagan’s Wake is set in an Irish Pub. In Ireland. A wake is held for the mourners to keep vigil (the casket on the premises) for the loved one, on the way to his last reward. There are rosaries, prayed by those gathered. Flanagan’s Wake is perhaps less pious an endeavor. The closed casket is far upstage, and his friends are visiting and hoisting stout. The departed’s girlfriend is in attendance and (naturally) she keeps trying to climb into the casket. Too often the women in Flanagans’s Wake must endure disparagement for the frequency of their nighttime recreation (bed blanket bingo) though certainly, it’s a given that the guys are all horndogs. (Who knew?) If a blue collar Irish trope is omitted, it is not for want of trying.

On the way in, they assign a name tag, so you are easy pickens for the amusement of actor and audience alike. As we are settling in, they ask for a show of hands from all the Catholics. I asked if Episcopalians counted, and they dismissed me, loudly and without thought. Throughout the show they pulled audience members onto the stage, swinging from friendly and patient, to cheerfully disdainful. Raucous and rowdy and awash in high spirits. It’s marvelous how it seems like an authentic wake (not that I’d know) when clearly it isn’t. The good Father seems especially churlish (like Brother Theodore?) abusing audience improvisation with remarks like: Well, that was stupid, or What you were thinking? Why should we laugh at such jibes and taunts? It’s not caustic, perhaps just another patch in this joyfully ridiculous quilt.

Gotta give mad props to the cast and crew of Flanagan’s Wake and Allen Contemporary Theatre for taking the pulse, of these so often disappointing times. I was certainly trying my best to chase away those pesky, cold-hearted blues when I headed to ACT for a Saint Patrick’s Day matinee. Seems this preposterous, deadpan comedy, with it’s shameless use of puns, shaggy dog stories, improvisation and stereotypes (no one is spared, especially the Irish) was just the remedy I was aching for. Right about now I’m thinking we’re all famished for wisecracking merriment. Treat yourself to some playful comfort.

Allen Contemporary Theater presents Flanagan’s Wake, playing March 15th-31st, 2024. 1206 East Main Street #105, Allen, TX 75002. 844-822-8849. allencontemporarytheatre.net

A town that’s failing from a catastrophic accident at the local mines, is visited by a dapper, mysterious stranger. He finds himself persona non grata. Not a single empty bed for the night. Then somehow the other shoe drops, and the hotel owner recognizes him as a preeminent adventurous traveler. He’s been keeping the village’s spirits up, sending letters with vivid anecdotes and enthusiastic claims that their drinking water has magical healing powers. The people who live here are on the brink of destitution, and understandably, disconsolate. They are thrilled to actually meet him, and celebration breaks out. At first this guy insists they’re mistaken, but when he sees he can easily buy the town, he begins to play along.

Catching a show at Ochre House is like stepping into another realm. Their sensibility, their playful strangeness, their deadpan gags. Imagine a cat with three eyes that saunters around the neighborhood, completely relaxed and nonchalant. Imagine that nobody notices and/or cares. This is how it is with Ochre House. We have an inkling something’s off. It doesn’t call attention to itself, but it’s there. Through many years the visionary mind of Matthew Posey and his absurd, cheerfully defiant actors have been delighting and astonishing and mesmerizing audiences, with versatile and meticulous content. Some shows are more nuanced than others, some boisterous, some demented, some taciturn.

From time to time, Ochre House presents political allegory. Never obvious, it creates a narrative that off-handedly intersects with immediate issues that are skewering our lives. In This Town For Sale, a reasonably decent man keeps resisting the opportunity to appropriate a foundering community. Until he gets a taste of how easy it is to exploit the trust of those who lionize him. The deeper he sinks, the more his ethics are diminished. Before it’s over and done, he’s nearly unrecognizable from the guy that opens the story.

Over the years I have found perhaps some theaters in DFW that are consistently flawless, and The Ochre House is definitely one of them. Always surprising, original, subversive, fanciful and beguiling to the heart, brain and soul.

The Ochre House presented This Town for Sale, that played February 14th-March 2^nd, 2024. 825 Exposition Avenue, Dallas, Texas. 214-826-6273. ochrehousetheater.org

 

Veronica and Michael are hosting a meeting between them (and another married couple) Alan and Annette. Alan and Annette’s son hit Veronica and Michael’s, in the mouth with a stick, knocking out two of his teeth. Veronica has drawn up an agreement, spelling out the details of the incident, and the necessary steps to resolve it. This is all handled very cordially, with tact and without animosity. They have a lovely conversation, there’s tea and torte, everything goes well, until they reach a sticking point. They can’t seem to agree whether the boys should meet so the offending child can apologize, and they can hash it out? Also should the parents be present? Alan repeatedly points out that it’s a waste of time, deliberations will be insincere and besides, they were just doing what boys do.

Every time the four start to say goodbye, some argumentative point pulls them back. Throughout this dialectic between the four, Alan is on the phone with a business colleague, attempting to salvage a legal case that’s going sideways. Gradually things regress. First it’s couple against couple, then men against the women, then man and wife against each other.

Alan makes a short, supposedly offhand observation (I worship the God of Carnage) that we’re all bestial beneath the surface. (It’s interesting that we might have expected that kind of rhetoric from Michael.) Now this is not a new theory. From post-graduate literary classes to sports events to elections: any respect or kindness is a veneer, and brutality a badge of authenticity. As if no one is ever genuinely charitable or tolerant. As the show continues, Veronica and Michael (and Annette and Alan) are screaming disparagements at each other. Perhaps this what they really wanted after all. So much for civility.

Written by Yasmina Reza, God of Carnage is a French satire, that premiered in 2007. Comparisons to Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? are inevitable, I think. Two couples dragged (George and Martha, Honey and Nick) into a prolonged night of vicious abuse. One character is so overwhelmed by the ugly turn things have taken, she gets physically ill. Manhood and the lack thereof have a place at the table; women are either insipid or Amazons. Albee’s drama is not without flaws, of course. If handled properly the piece moves energetically, but if not it can really drag. The characters of Nick and Honey exist only to to show George and Martha (and themselves) at their worst. But It’s George and Martha’s story. However savage the older (not old) couple they’re not as shallow or pretentious as the younger couple.

Of course Reza, has her own version of the premise. None of the characters belong to the intelligentsia, and they are all equally matched. It’s not about one couple or the other. It runs at 90 minutes and covers roughly the same ground as Woolf. Changing alliances, the small talk and lurking contempt are the same. The God of Carnage lays out its ideas about behavior and the true nature of humankind. Then tests it. It explores the difference between actual altruism and lip service to an ideology. But even IF we are all snakes underneath, we still have to live together. Even if its about the rightness or wrongness of unbridled aggression, it just isn’t desirable or fulfilling to do nothing else but go for the jugular. In that sense it’s categorically different from Virginia Woolf. Albee is all about descent and redemption. Reza,  permission to brawl and regret. It’s funny till it’s not.

In the hands of director Christie Vela the dialogue has a spontaneous, familiar feel to it. When you see a play like this, when the action goes full throttle, you don’t always know where to look. How to keep up. Vela orchestrates this chaotic content, efficiently and effectively. The cast: Natalie Young (Veronica) Mike Schraeder (Alan) Ethan Norris (Michael) Lauren LeBlanc (Annette) is flexible and intrepid. From Young’s Sue Ann Nivens on steroids to Alan’s insufferable, self-absorbed attorney. From Norris’ arrogant troglodyte to Annette’s homophobia, these four have the chops to pull it off without batting an eye.

Theatre Three presents God of Carnage, playing February 1st- March 3^rd, 2024. 2688 Laclede Street, Suite 120, Dallas, Texas. 214-871-3300. theatre3dallas.com

For a very long time the debate has raged. Does suffering make for better art? Is powerful art possible only when the artist has been damaged and tortured? Does misery equal poignancy or does that aspect emerge as a defense against unimaginable abuse? If you’re haunted by viciousness, why not use it to stoke the steam engine? Work your way past it? So goes the cunning premise of Martin McDonagh’s The Pillowman.

I think it bears mentioning that McDonagh also asks if decency makes any difference. Or is it quaint delusion? McDonagh’s worldview is a ferocious, poisonous one, and he savors disabusing us of candy-ass notions. If we could prove that intense pain creates essential artistic voices, what then?

The Pillowman opens with Katurian (the author) waiting, after he’s been hauled off to jail. He doesn’t know why. Ariel (sadistic goon) and Tupolski (detective and Ariel’s superior) arrive. Ariel proceeds to give him a beatdown while Tupolski (a toxic snotrag) disparages Katurian for supposed sleights and disrespect. Katurian does not follow the news.  He’s aghast to hear there’s been a succession of child murders, that just happen to recreate his ghoulish stories. Ariel and Tupolski keep suggesting that no one with a healthy mind and/or soul could devise such disturbing, vile content. Tupolski reads the stories aloud, while other cast members act them out. Insipid nursery school music is inserted to enhance The Pillowman’s contempt for sweetness and innocence.

Katurian Katurian cares more about preserving his oeuvre of short stories than anything else. They’re his legacy.  Proof he’s left the world better. He believes art can change humanity. To remind we gathering of lost souls, there are still legitimate reasons to soldier on. Katurian hangs on to this, though he’s been subjected to years of horrific treatment. So impressive though his writing may be, it’s more nihilistic, more sardonic than sunshiny.

The Pillowman is McDonagh’s brilliant, reprehensible, astonishing, pathological satire of civilization, hypocrisy, and metaphysical cannibalism. Optimism isn’t just laughable, it’s stupid. Kindness is a ruse. We are surrounded by soulless humans, just waiting to fuck with us. It’s not easy to match tones, but it reminded me of Jerzy Kosinski’s The Painted Bird or Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man is Hard to Find, or Brecht and Weill’s The Threepenny Opera.

The problem with McDonagh (and his taste for messing with our heads) is his carefully articulated assertions about Draconian punishment and man’s capacity for utter ruthlessness. For all his nasty revelry at our expense, he makes valid points : Charity and grace are grand, but they don’t get the job done. Welcome to the jungle. He’s not right and he’s not wrong. A nefarious Zen Koan.

I have been a proponent of Outcry Theatre for some time, overcome by their fearlessness, intelligence, vision, professionalism and gift for the fanciful. Not once have I been disappointed. I cannot begin to imagine the nightmares endured by Rebecca Johnson-Spinos when directing The Pillowman. Finding the right balance to carry this angry, sad, wry piece must have taken awhile. To orchestrate the story and keeping everyone on pitch.

Connor McMurray was alarming and triggering as Ariel, the bully cop who can’t resist knocking Katurian around. Will Frederick is touching and amusing as Katurian’s older, gentle brother, Mikal. Bryce Lederer is compassionate, smart, authentic and deeply, deeply moving as the author Katurian Katurian. For all his grisly obsession, he’s kept hold of his humanity, his kindness. Gifts the world doesn’t have much use for. Lederer manages a difficult, demanding role with finesse.

If edgy, inspired theatre sets your heart pounding. If it calls to you in your sleep. If you leave the theater a different person than when you arrived. If it dazzles and leaves you breathless. If nothing exhilarates you like phantasmagorical sleight of hand. Don’t miss Outcry Theatre’s The Pillowman.

Outcry Theatre presents The Pillowman, playing February 16th-25th, 2024. The Stone Cottage at Addison Theatre Centre, 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. 972-836-7206. www.outcrytheatre.com

Hercule Poirot (world renowned detective) is just coming off a case, and eager to relax on a trip aboard the legendary Orient Express. As bad luck would have it, an obnoxious, gangster (Samuel Ratchett) tries to force his help. Naturally, Poirot says: “No.” Much to his alarm, he now has no choice, as the gangster is found dead the next morning. I enjoy Agatha Christie, because there’s always lots of shrieking. Poirot sets to work gathering evidence, inspecting the crime scene, processing and considering every angle. One by one each passenger is brought to the dining car, to be interviewed. There are heirs and aristocracy, blue collar and white collar, the frantic and the nonchalant.

If you spend very time with Agatha Christie’s work, you begin to notice particular patterns. In addition to her murder mystery novels, she has written a number of plays. She often makes use of characters who are impostors. (Someone in this room is a murderer.) She created the trope of multiple suspects subjected to a confined location: a hotel, an island, a mansion. For me the most intriguing aspect is her habit of tying stories to actual, notorious events. (a roman a’ clef) In the case of Murder on the Orient Express, it’s the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. And that’s all I’ll say.

Rachael Lindley’s direction of Murder on the Orient Express is impressive. I’m certain ensemble casts require some navigation, not to mention the elaborate, detailed set (Thank you, Greg Smith!) various dialects, and a few quirky narrative devices. The performers are focused and enthusiastic, making the most of their opportunities to shine. The production, in effect captures the boisterous feeling of adventure and intrigue, that Christie so skillfully depicts. As I’m sure most of you know, at least two fine cinematic versions already exist, but Richardson Theatre Centre’s production proves the point that live, onstage theatre, is a categorically more canny and vivid experience.

Richardson Theatre Centre’s presents Murder on the Orient Express, playing February 2nd-18th, 2024. 518 West Arapaho Road, Suite 113, Richardson, TX 75080. 972-699-1130

Annie and Chris are best friends that belong to a chapter of the Women’s Institute in Yorkshire. They spend their time there with other women, all friends. Annie’s husband John is struck down by a terminal case of cancer. While waiting at a mechanic’s shop, Chris notices a provocative calendar with women posing nude. This gives her the idea that the members can pose in a similar fashion, to raise money for leukemia. The women are skeptical at first, but eventually persuaded. The club’s leader, Cora, strenuously objects, but after pleading their case to the Board of the Women’s Institute, Chris and Annie get the green light. And we’re off to the races.

The premise of Calendar Girls, is time honored. Nothing gets laughs like a matronly lady using blue language, or throwing a haymaker, or engaged in otherwise unseemly behavior. Perhaps it proves that Aunt Velma still has the piss and vinegar. That life hasn’t passed her by. That she has enough gumption to engage in scandalous behavior. Chris is savvy enough to guess that folks will love the idea of the ladies being “naughty”. It will bring a smile, and it’s for a good cause. The members will get the buzz that only comes from flirting with transgression, and charity gives them the excuse. It gives us the excuse, too.

Allen Contemporary Theatre has scored a litany of successful shows, directed with skill and sophistication: Red Rabbit, White Rabbit, God of Carnage, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time…Proof, It’s Only a Play, et al. Directed by Kathleen Vaught, Calendar Girls is no different. Vaught elicits performances (from a poised, gifted cast) that are authentic, focused, and intuitive. The show never drags: a combination of sauciness, sincerity and irony that make the content work. The nudity is playful, not shocking, rather like an elbow to the ribs.

Calendar Girls celebrates the richness of life. What it means to embrace:  allure, wit and intelligence, defiance, i. e. realms not only for  the young and rebellious. It suggests the members of this chapter of the Women’s Institute are iconoclasts. Who knew?

Allen Contemporary Theatre presents Calendar Girls, playing January 26th-February 11th, 2024. 1210 East Main Street # 300, Allen Texas. 844-822-8849. allencontemporary theate.net

 

White Christmas opens on Christmas Eve during World War Two, with a soldier’s show to celebrate. General Waverly announces his retirement, amid affectionate cheers from the privates. Captain Bob and Private Phil are great friends. Not long after Waverly’s departure, enemy bombs destroy a wall. Phil pulls Bob out of harm’s way. This gives Phil traction when he needs Bob for his two-man show. Bob isn’t pleased. After the war ends, they are indeed excellent at their craft. Before you know, they are successful television producers. They agree (as a favor) to see Judy and Betty Haynes, an impressive sister act. Judy and Phil hit off almost immediately, but for all Phil’s attempts at matchmaking, Betty’s not thrilled with Mr. Sourpuss.

In the recent past, theaters have taken to appropriating familiar films as the launch pad for stage musicals. Particularly during the holidays it’s been a great relief to enjoy something besides (with all due respect) A Christmas Carol and The Nutcracker. A Christmas Story, Miracle on 34^th Street, It’s A Wonderful Life and (of course) White Christmas. You might be dubious, as the mere invocation of Christmas, fraught with tender and deep emotion, can be so easily botched.

No one wants to feel manipulated, or their buttons carelessly pushed. That being said, White Christmas is a great musical, despite the hazards. Its belief in warmth and coming to the rescue of someone in need. The determination to shake off adversity, and contempt for selfishness. White Christmas captures the spirit of that miraculous birthday, without ringing the bell too loud.

Allen Contemporary Theatre’s production of White Christmas was a salve for the weary soul. The cast was spot on in their comic timing, their upbeat, fizzy energy. Their genuine demeanor. The emotional moments were seamless and earnest. At the end the audience was invited to sing a Christmas Carol together. And of course, we all did. Not bad for an evening at the theatre.

Allen Contemporary Theatre staged White Christmas, December 1st-17th, 2023. 1210 East Mainstreet #300, Allen, Texas (844) 822-8849. allencontemporarytheater.net

 

I remember being a high school sophomore and our German teacher recommending It’s A Wonderful Life to us. You should see it. The Frank Capra film that found actual Pathos in a medium inclined to Melodrama. There’s a special delight in watching a film for the very first time, not knowing where it was going. Surprises and tears. I still remember Clarence turning Bedford Falls to Babylon in a few seconds. Or something like that. I have such respect for  It’s A Wonderful Life because it comes by its emotions legitimately. It doesn’t feel contrived or manipulative.

Every Christmas, or should I say every Christmas Season, Wonderful Life is featured on one network or another, night after night, up until Christmas Eve. It’s synonymous with the spirit of Christmas, in a way that’s accessible, believable and earnest. Which raises the question, would a live radio show (a new genre that’s getting traction) of Capra’s classic, work as well for those don’t know this classic? And could it possibly speak to those of us who know every camera shot, every scene, every bit of dialogue? How is that supposed to work? The Joe Landry play (up until the narrative begins) is all about the talent and technicians and cigarette commercials and jingles and the cast as they arrive, shake the snow off their coats, and find their places.

There’s a single narrator, one techie who does the sound effects, others set the broadcast waves. The expressions of the actors, as they deliver their lines. We follow the story of the good-hearted George Bailey, as he passes up one opportunity after another for the sake of his dear ones. We get to know George, his dad, his brother, his mama, the housekeeper. We grit our teeth when Mr. Potter, the vindictive town millionaire butts in. This is all told, of course, through content and live, spoken drama. A commonplace occurrence in the theatre world is a staged reading. When you’re told it will be actors reading from scripts. No whistles and bells. No costumes or props. Just the script. The dialogue. It sounds terribly dull. And yet, it’s astonishing how completely immersed in the production we become. You forget that it’s bare bones and music stands. The show starts, and before we know it, we’re hooked. We need to believe it, and so we do.

Joe Landry’s humble spectacle works (it seems to me) because it captures the spirit of the story. It’s a “community” effort. Everyone in Bedford Falls prays for George, and glad to do so. Their prayers diffuse like radio waves up to God. The cast is a team, converging to share this poignant account. Each one tells a part of it. Moments like the rescue of George’s brother. The suitcase. George finally understanding Mary is the one for him. George lending money to Violet. Zuzu’s petals. The live radio version of It’s a Wonderful Life connects the performers to the audience, binding us in secular, yet sacred epiphanies. Or perhaps different ways of revealing the same one. We are not alone.

Richardson Theatre Centre staged It’s A Wonderful Life: A Live Radio Play from December 1st-17th, 2023. 518 West Arapaho Road Suite 118. Richardson, TX 75080. 972-699-1130. RichardsonTheatreCentre.net