Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

Strange title for a farce: One Man: Two Guvnors. It’s direct, but it doesn’t feel direct. Resourceful servant Frank (Francis) Henshall is working for two different men without either of them knowing, which keeps him (and us) on our toes. Frank maintains a cozy, ongoing aside with the audience, which feels fresh and spontaneous, along with lively musical interludes by four piece band, “The Quid.” It all has a relaxed, congenial demeanor, which serves the pervasive, deadpan silliness well. One never loses the sense of wonder and enigmatic alchemy that makes a particular comedy fizzy and sublime while others, with similar aims, will crash and burn. How can they all be so wildly divergent?

One Man: Two Guvnors (more or less) hangs on the plot, attorney Harry Dangle’s son, perpetually suffering Alan Dangle, cannot Marry Rachel Crabbe, when her previously believed missing fiance inconveniently returns. Frank must come to the rescue, though this happens less by design than fortuitous mishaps. Each character has their own shtick, Frank is the blue collar bloke who takes full advantage of the clueless privileged class, Rachel is optimistically dim, Alfie, the ancient, hobbling waiter who bounces back from countless blows, kicks and nasty falls. When Alan agonizes over the tumultuous injustices he must endure, with great style and vivid bathos, the other characters explain his behavior with three simple words: He’s an actor.

One Man: Two Guvnors is a bit of a mash-up not unlike The Marx Brothers, though without quite as much absurdity. Several different styles: banter, non-sequitur, slapstick, improbable cross-dressing….all blend seamlessly, often broken up by Frank’s conversation with playgoers. A million things, it seems, could go wrong with this chaotic melange, but somehow it doesn’t. There are definitely gags that wouldn’t have flown in less enlightened times, but happily, the ribald and ridiculous, they all come fast and bright and delightfully. Cracker-jack comic actor Brian Gonzales (as Frank) leads a goofy, stalwart and marvelously punchy cast. Go on, then. Treat yourself to a night of giggles and guffaws.

WaterTower Theatre presents: One Man: Two Guvnors, playing August 5^th– 28^th, 2016. 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. 972-450-6232. www.watertowertheatre.org

Robert O’Hara’s Bootycandy, currently playing at Stage West in Fort Worth, is fierce, dark, satire. Like David Mamet’s Sexual Perversity in Chicago, it has very grim undercurrents, disguised as comedy of manners. Making the trek to cowtown exhausts me, but I wince to think I might have missed one of the most powerful, chilling, sardonic shows I have ever experienced, period. It lulls you with the quaint humor of queer sexuality as it’s perceived in Afro-American culture. Yes (just as in white culture) much of the contempt our hero, Sutter, is exposed to, comes from ignorance. And on its face it’s funny. But the longer and harder and closer you look, the more poisonous it feels. As if Sutter, cool, genuine, sophisticated, is being gradually slipped strychnine. O’Hara satiates us with the candy of hilarity, while delivering his rabbit punches with stealth.

Divided into two acts of short episodes, Bootycandy begins with young Sutter asking mama some frank, but earnest questions about sex. Mama promptly freaks out. Later, when an older man (possibly a pedophile) starts following Sutter home, he relates the predicament (not for the first time) to his mother and stepfather. Like many pedophiles, the man senses Sutter’s hunger for warmth and nurturing. Sutter’s parents respond by blaming him (though not in so many words) implying he must have brought this on himself, by his lack of butch pursuits and virile demeanor. It’s laughable, and horribly, horribly sad. In the second act, Sutter and Larry, another gay friend, cruise a blue collar white guy named Clint, who otherwise passes for straight. There is something heartbreaking about Clint, and deliberately, vaguely sinister about Sutter and Larry’s approach to this transaction. O’Hara’s dialogue here is sparse and enigmatic.

At first Sutter’s calm, even temperament feels natural, almost a relief in the context of hysteria that engulfs him. Then you begin to wonder if he’s shut down. At the center of Bootycandy is an atrocity that’s hinted at, then only revealed in subplot involving a group of black playwrights. The result is ambiguity: has Sutter actually done these things, or deep in the midst of his shadows, only reflect on them? In the narrative we are given, can we infer that Sutter was molested as a boy, degraded by other white men he’s slept with? We can only speculate. Though it’s safe to conclude that we are carefully given certain details for a reason, and Sutter’s “pathology” did not grow in a vacuum. Also safe, I think, to wonder if the adults responsible for him (with the exception of Grandma) have ultimately failed him. O’Hara could have titled this play: Elegy for Sutter’s Soul.

Some shows shouldn’t be missed.

Bootycandy plays Stage West from August 11^th-September 11^th, 2016. 821 West Vickery Blvd, Fort Worth, Texas 76104. 817-784-9378. www. stagewest.org

Theresa Rebeck’s The Novelist is a beguiling and (not unexpectedly?) fairly literary drama. Metaphor overlaps with metaphor, delicate butterflies in shadow boxes, Frank, one son who cannot finish sentences, yet brings statues pregnant with implication, Ethan, the other, cannot tell he is turning into his father. If anything Rebeck spells the subtext out a bit too clearly, but The Novelist is certainly absorbing and wise without ever turning cynical. At least not towards anyone who doesn’t warrant it.

Perhaps it’s no different in other parts of the world, but many Americans heap adulation upon anyone who is very, very successful. Paul, the title character, while not exactly the vox populi, has been vetted by the critics. Like Picasso, Hitchcock and Faulkner he is indulged in his despicable behavior, perhaps because the rest believe he inhabits the realm of immortals. Like Mount Olympus? Paul is not just a cranky, insufferable curmudgeon, he’s a schmuck that enjoys being a schmuck. When Sophie, his new assistant, confronts him on his toxic behavior, the rest of the family rushes to his defense. Though, thankfully, without admonishing Sophie.

If this weren’t bad enough, the evidence that he’s plagiarizing the work of female consorts (including his wife) steadily mounts. (Remember the Jerzy Konsinski controversy?) He comes on to Sophie without being a complete oaf, but it’s obvious he’s so used to getting what he wants from the awestruck and self-effacing, that chutzpah just comes to him naturally. When Sophie breaks the spell at the same time Laurie returns to New York without Ethan, Rebeck’s thematic rhyming becomes even clearer, and the irony that Ethan has unwittingly accepted the torch from his father.

The most salient epiphany of The Novelist is the sad revelation that artists who create the most spiritually compelling work are often not remotely admirable. The risk of this content is lapsing into familial melodrama. Rebeck mostly carries this off, though it’s a perilous endeavor, dancing all around an issue without reaching the audience’s conclusions for them. I would be remiss however, if I didn’t say that The Novelist has much beauty, incision and humanity to recommend it, not the least of which comes from the meticulous cast.

The Novelist plays Theatre 3 from August 4^th-28^th, 2016. 2800 Routh Street, Suite 168, Dallas, Texas 75201. 214-871-3300. www.theatre3dallas.com

A somewhat cynical (if good-humored) commentary on the institution of marriage, Company is a sophisticated, sly, subversive musical comedy by Stephen Sondheim (music and lyrics) and George Furth (book) that premiered in 1970 and forever changed the way we think about the genre. With no plot to speak of, and no trackable timeline, it’s more conceptual than narrative, the subject being the predicament of Bobby. We could speculate about the “message.” Perhaps the great quote by Joan Didion, “Anything worth having has it’s price,” or the secret to any mature relationship is compromise, but we have to wonder if the quizzical ending logically follows from what came before, or if it was somehow, fudged. Whatever flaws Company may have, though, are trivial. It continues to be, 46 years later, compelling, breathtaking, sharp and undeniably entertaining. With a subtext lurking like a feisty schnauzer. Many songs have an angry undercurrent, The Ladies Who Lunch is really furious, Barcelona may be one of the saddest songs ever written, and Being Alive is tortured and ambivalent.

Bobby, it might seem, has found the perfect balance. A gathering of spontaneous, frank friendships composed solely of married couples to nurture him, while he juggles three (that we know of) girlfriends. Whether intuitively or by skill, Bobby is the impeccable friend: the soul of tact, emotionally available, discreet and non-judgmental. His social skills are beyond reproach. His quandary is while he may simply be delaying that trip to the altar, his experience of marriage (external though it may be) leaves much to be desired. It doesn’t seem to be working all that well for his friends, so what is there, really, to recommend it? Even if we consider the cultural changes that have occurred since Company’s inception, these questions are still pointed and troubling. Part of Sondheim’s genius is undercutting even peppy songs with deprecating insight. Before the last curtain falls, Bobby concludes that it’s impossible to have depth of intimacy without pain. Not untrue, but, especially considering the ambiguous ending, hardly a remedy for the complexity of this show.

Lakeside Community Theatre and director Benjamin Keegan Arnold, has taken on a considerable project with Company, a demanding, frantic, deceptively emotional piece. One senses that that Arnold is buffering content a bit, but still, he handles it with confidence and aplomb. The cast is ebullient, clever, versatile and poised. Company is grand, exhilarating and unforgettable.

Lakeside Community Theatre presents: Company playing August 5^th-September 3^rd, 2016. 6303 Main Street, The Colony, Texas, 75056. (214) 801-4869. www.lctthecolony.com

Rarely have I seen a show with such bonejolting, abyss swimming, heart shredding velocity as L.I.P. Service’s Trainspotting at the The Rudy Seppy Studio in Irving. Adapted from Irvine Welsh’s novel by Harry Gibson, it reveals the lives of Mark Renton, et al: disaffected Scottish heroin addicts who kill the pain of despair and seething anger with mindless promiscuity and drug abuse. If not teenagers, they are not much older. This is thwarted eruption and anarchy with maybe the slightest whisper of irony or relief. Sex undercut by the shame of dirty bedsheets is metaphor for Trainspotting: kids who fuck with fierce indifference but worry about ass stains. Mark lives by impulse, but still seems to be the only one amongst his friends (Tommy, Simon, Lizzie, Allison, Franco, and “Mother Superior” a drag nun) not completely numb to their dwindling conscience. When Tommy begs Mark to help him try smack, he really tries to stop him, but Tommy, it seems, is bent on urgent ruin.

No words like degeneracy or decadence seem accurate, as it all feels so dank and pathological. Devoid of pleasure. There’s maybe a tingle of dirty, flagrant shtupping, but it all melts into the chaotic, wretched mural. Mark dives into a nasty loo for a couple of opiate suppositories he lost track of, Allison takes another hit of smack to forget the baby who expired from her neglect in the first place. Welsh and Gibson achieve a dodgy balance in which harrowing, catastrophic events still allow us to peer at the diminishing humanity the kids seem so desperate to suffocate. Like the thieves, beggars and whores of The Threepenny Opera, they are vindictive, poisonous, subversive, their only respite from society’s degradation and apathy. And we do not blame them a single bit.

Trainspotting has the power of the undiluted, the unbuffered, the authentic. The characters are so defiant in their grubby, sardonic soullessness, we can’t help but respect them. They never ask for our pity, or even sympathy, that ship sailed long before the lights went down. This astonishing cast (Dustin Simington, Jason Robert Villareal, Conner Wedgeworth, Caleb J. Pieterse, Lauren Mishoe, Jad Brennon Saxton, Erica Larsen, R. Andrew Aguilar, JL Sunshine, Leslie Boren, Steve Cave) is utterly fearless and submerged in this anatomy of a clusterfuck/trainwreck. They wield dialogue like rusty scalpels. They french kiss you with strychnine. They shoot horse like they are making love to seraphim. Trainspotting is a profoundly unsettling mix of contempt, damage and aching, disconsolate loss. When they deliver a snarling, ferocious finale of Iggy Pop’s Lust for Life, you can just feel the waves of blind rage throbbing. Trainspotting is glorious, uncompromising, remarkable theatre.

Trainspotting plays August 4th-20th, 2016. The Rudy Seppy Studio, 2333 West Rochelle Road, Irving, Texas, 75062. 817-689-6461. http://www.lipserviceproductions.info/

Javier Mejia was brought to America when still a baby, by his mother who was fleeing the atrocities of war. Now he belongs to the marginalized “Dreamers.” Raised as a law-abiding American and contributing member of society, he is caught between the raging politics that refuses to validate him as a bona fide citizen, or deport him as an illegal alien. A policy defined as “deferred action.” Society benefits from his presence, but he is denied the privileges any other valuable American could take for granted. When Javier accidentally finds himself perceived by the Latino community as a symbol, a figurehead for this grievance and cause, he is faced with a crucial decision. Though it may not necessarily be the one we’re expecting, he is overcome by the leverage he wields.

Other key characters include Javier’s grandmother (Abuela) fiancee (Ximena) and best friend (Robby). Also, Dale Jenkins, the perfect embodiment of the Texas politician: big on charm and long on harm. Deferred Action is a surprisingly subtle blend of humanity and skepticism. The shifting loyalties of political advocacy and manipulation of community, solely for the sake of personal advancement. Though there is clearly more affection for some characters than others, it seems no one is immune from temptation or backpedaling. The end comes so abruptly (though not gratuitously) it takes a few minutes to regain our bearings.

Written by Lee Trull and David Lonzano, Deferred Action is a collaboration between Dallas Theater Center and Cara Mia Theatre Company. Though I have learned to be leery of such endeavors, it is a seamless piece of deeply moving, yet appropriately detached theatre and social commentary. The emotional moments are never excessive and the satire never quite crosses the line into cynicism. It eloquently articulates the predicament of a group being exploited and played in the cause of political expediency. It’s intelligent, funny, angry and pointed, but gratefully never feels didactic.

I regret that this review was posted so ridiculously late. My abject apologies.

Deferred Action played April 20^th-May 16^th, 2016, in ATTPAC’s Dee and Charles Wyly Theatre. 2400 Flora Street @ Leonard Street, Dallas, Texas. 214-880-0202

Winner of Rover Dramawerks’ Second Annual Play Contest, Susan Goodell’s Heels Over Head is a comedy concerning the plight of newlyweds Jake and Luna. They meet while bungee jumping (for the first time) at a workshop for conquering fear. Deciding their starcrossed path is nothing less than kismet, they immediately get married and hole up in a Bed & Breakfast for a few days, ignoring phone calls, emails and texts. They pledge to never, ever fight, lest they mar this marriage made in heaven.

Luna is all sunshine and buttercups while Jake is resolutely (if cautiously) optimistic. When they return to the grid, Luna meets Jake’s roommate, Stan who hates everything that comes out of Luna’s mouth, however innocuous. When Jacob meets Luna’s sister (and roomie) Mari, he learns the true meaning of the term: off the rails. Mari calls herself a psychic, and while this is debatable, it is certainly the least of her problems, being high strung strung and loopier than Rasputin. Thus Luna and Jake wind up bouncing between the two apartments, with no other place to stay.

I have been writing theatre critique for more than eight years, and I continue to be struck by the often quirky chemistry of stage comedy. I have noticed, for instance, that Neil Simon usually succeeds at the dazzling tango between pathos and hilarity. The problem is, he makes it look so easy. It seems that we must feel sympathy for the heroes and no more. While empathy is usually desirable, it can stymie humor because we care too much to create the necessary distance. In many ways The Out of Towners succeeds because we sympathize with George and Gwen’s predicament, but we don’t need to connect with them on a deeper level.

In some ways, Goodell’s plot is ingenious: Stan’s personality completely changes in the presence of an available skirt, Luna’s ex-boyfriend Marvin, while clueless, seems congenial, Jake and Luna reach the understanding that you can love someone and disagree. As we might expect, before the final resolution, the situation eventually digresses to chaos. And dancing. It’s useful to consider that Luna and Mari’s apartment is the very embodiment of his multiple phobias, but we don’t learn this till the second act. We are touched by this revelation (Jake never runs or protests) but the joke is lost. Heels Over Head is a charming, engaging story though the balance is a bit off. The cast gives 200% (this is always true at Rover) and it’s a grand evening of theatre.

Rover Dramawerks proudly presents Heels Over Head playing July 21^st– August 13^th, 2016. 221 West Parker Road, Suite 580, Plano, Texas 75023. 972-849-0358. www.roverdramawerks.com

Part of The 18^th Annual Festival of Independent Theatres, Conor McPherson’s The Good Thief  is alarming, strange, overwhelming and deeply, deeply moving. Produced by L.I.P. Service and directed by Alexandra Bonifield, The Good Thief stars R. Andrew Aguilar, delivering the prolonged, chilling, narrative monologue of an Irish criminal and leg breaker.

Listed in the program only as “The Actor” this amiable thug establishes some background about his girlfriend Greta and his personal quirks, while smoking and nursing his glass of fine Maker’s Mark, neat. His rage is always churning near the surface, and his disaffected (though professional) swagger attitude, makes him repugnant and comical at the same time. He won’t commit to Greta, yet images of her copulating with other men obsess him. Pretty soon he launches into the story of a job he’s eagerly accepted, to mercilessly thrash a guy and put the fear of God into him. While in the midst of completing this grisly, horrific mission, he suspects he’s been set up.

What makes McPherson’s one-man one act so stunning is the intense loathing we feel for the hero, and yet, his agony, his better angels gradually emerge and so does our sympathy. At first jealousy seems ridiculous, but his torture, his excruciation are genuine. His anecdote of the catastrophic, vicious incident turns to an account of sea change. [Though he may not understand this.] It sets off a series of events that (by grace? perverse karma?) give him a long taste of what his career has cost him. McPherson kicks us in the teeth, tickles our ribs, jolts our feeble tickers.

Andrew Aguilar (and Alexandra Bonifield) is no small part of this grubby, electrifying transfiguration. Aguilar’s rough brogue feels authentic (though I’m no expert) and his unnerving level of engagement with the character troubling and uncanny. His investment to channeling this broken, unapologetic, miserable seeker is nothing short of stupendous. He shakes us like an earthquake. He drags us down his path of volcanic anger and relentless penance. Actors are so much braver than most people know, and Aguilar’s fearlessness would terrify a tiger. There is one performance left this coming Thursday, July 28^th at 8 PM. It would be a shame to miss it.

L.I. P. Service presents The Good Thief playing Thursday, July 28^th, 2016, 8 PM. The Bath House Cultural Center, 521 East Lawther Drive, Dallas, Texas 75230. 1-800-617-6904. www.festivalof independentheatres.com

Terrence McNally’s It’s Only A Play, bears a marked resemblance to Moss Hart’s Light Up The Sky, a comedy released in 1948. This isn’t a disparaging observation, the premise is surprisingly viable: the various artists involved in the premiere of a new play, gather in one room to await the reviews. The lead actors, playwright, producer, director, et al, worry and wait, exposing both their more gracious and obnoxious moments. It’s Only A Play certainly stands by itself. Set in the present day, it’s notably more cynical, and leaves less opportunity for rumination.

It’s Only A Play opens with handsome, aspiring actor Gus (hired on to take coats at a posh party) chatting with James Wicker, close friend of playwright Peter Austin. James has flown to New York, especially for the premiere of Peter’s play. Other guests, all with a stake in the critical response to this new show, climb the stairs to the upstairs bedroom, while celebrities join the festivities below. As they all nervously ruminate, temperaments boil and moods change swiftly. How the characters weather this contained cyclone of emotions comprises substance of McNally’s comedy.

It’s Only A Play has an abundance of snappy, well-realized, clever humor, much of it laugh-out-loud merriment. Lots of good-natured pokes such as a ridiculously long fur coat belonging to Tommy Tune, or the crass behavior of self-absorbed stars. It’s Only A Play is less about narrative then Hart’s Light Up The Sky, and by comparison (Light Up is three acts) less philosophical and introspective. It follows the same strategy of truth revealed in the heat of anger and goes more for the rapid succession of gags. Most of them zippy and pointed. You could write a book about the sketchy chemistry of stage humor, but even with McNally’s masterful jabs, the audience simply needs some breathing room. You can only tickle someone for so long, before they become desensitized. At the end of the day, though, It’s Only A Play is truly a gift of giggles, guffaws and sharp satire. An embarrassment of riches.

Uptown Players presents It’s Only A Play, running from July 15^th-31st, 2016. Kalita Humphreys Theater, 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-219-2718. uptownplayers.org

[This piece originally appeared in John Garcia’s The Column]

Third in the notoriously loopy Tuna Trilogy (Tuna, Texas, Tuna, Christmas) written by Joe Sears, Jaston Williams and Ed Howard, Red, White and Tuna is a tongue-in-cheek satire on the politics, religion and taboos of Texas, encapsulated in the small town of Tuna. Sometimes oblique and others, over-the-top, Red, White and Tuna is (as you might expect) set on July 4^th, when a picnic, wedding, and high school reunion are planned. It opens when a couple of alumni who have changed their names to Star and Amber, are dubiously returning to this Bible Belt province to attend the reunion. They are leery of the reception they will receive, since they have adopted the alternative, vegan-hippie lifestyle. Didi Snavely is prepared to walk down the aisle with Arles Struvie after her husband, R.R. disappeared long ago, possibly kidnapped by aliens. It is a reliable barometer to consider that in any Tuna comedy

improbability rarely figures into the mix, and calamity (or at least the unfortunate) is generally right around the corner.

Mishaps and tribulations abound. Tainted potato salad, eleventh hour cold feet, an upset in the election for Reunion Queen, pregnancy out of wedlock. What otherwise might be treated as the stuff of melodrama is exploited for comic purposes. Howard, Sears and Williams are never cruel, but neither do they prevaicate. Well, not exactly. Joe Bob Lipsey is elected Reunion Queen, and while obviously camp and distasteful to some, nobody’s threatening to lynch him or vandalize his house. The citizens of Tuna may not be the most enlightened, but they draw the line at thuggery. Though the town radio station is WKKK, the uglier implications of those call letters are never pursued.

For those of you who may not be acquainted with the Tuna Trilogy just like The Mystery of Irma Vep, two men play all 22 roles (though I suppose you could cast more) the way the creators, Sears and Williams premiered Tuna, Texas, back in the day. The costume changes are rapid and though they make no pretense at convincing drag, it’s actually much funnier that way. And some of Tammy Partanen’s costumes do look like actual women. Think: wigs, wigs, wigs! The minimalist set (lack wall with a few pieces of furniture) helps to keep things moving. I cannot say whether those who are not native Texans find these Lone Star stereotypes amusing, but for me, their familiarity made them better.

It’s a curious mix, this Red, White and Tuna, a somewhat affectionate, cartoony skewering of the racism, pettiness, military extremist, coldwater Baptist myopia that seems to prevail in Texas. The caricaturing actually seems to work in its favor, so it better when it’s crisp, rather than pensive. This is kind of a touchy time to be raising such issues, but perhaps that could be all to the good. That all being said, co-stars Dan Evers and Nathan Willard tackle this logistical nightmare with grace and aplomb.

It can’t be easy keeping each scene distinct and the pace bouncy. It was much easier to follow the dialogue than I’ve seen in other productions. Evers and Willard communicate the quirky pleasure of text with mastery.

Richardson Theatre Center presents Red, White and Tuna, playing July 15^th-31st, 2016. 518 West Arapaho Road, Suite 113, Richardson, Texas 75080. 972-699-1130. richardsontheatrecenter.net