Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

Belle is a young woman living in a provincial French Village with her father (Maurice) an ingenious, eccentric inventor. Belle herself isn’t interested in typical expectations. She may be the only villager who uses the library, and no particular interest in finding a husband. It doesn’t take much to spook these simple folk, though she’s not especially ostracized. One guy in particular: Gaston (an insufferable, self-absorbed, alpha male) has chosen Belle to be his future bride. He puts the schmuck in bravado. Apparently, in a town of the blind, a one-eyed man is king.

Maurice has loaded up his coach for a convention of like-minded artisans. Assuring his daughter he’ll be fine, he sets off, cutting a shortcut through the woods. A hurly-burly ensues, toppling his wagon and scaring his horse. Keen to escape the wolves that encircle him, he comes knocking at a palace, far removed from the rest of the world. There he discovers an opulent dwelling, occupied by servants that have been transformed into objects. A teakettle. A wardrobe. A candlestick. A grandfather clock. They cautiously offer him food and shelter, but when the Beast discovers the interloper, he throws him in the dungeon. Can Belle rescue him?

By now I think most of us are familiar with the Disney brand, adapting their animated films to stage musicals. Aladdin, The Lion King, Frozen, to name but a few, have been transformed to profitable, theatrical ventures. Disney’s sense of spectacle translates smoothly, and (near as I can tell) no major narrative changes. Watching Firehouse’s production of Beauty and the Beast, I was intrigued by the process. Much to my surprise, Dylan Elza appeared to have Gaston’s facial expressions down to a fine art. Practically identical. The effect was impressive and somewhat alarming. Was the idea to replicate, complicate or stimulate? Perhaps all three? You’ve got to wrestle unique expectations of the fanbase and the demands of a piece that must stand on its own.

Firehouse’s production of Beauty and the Beast is formidable. Captivating, touching and sublime. Issues of gender subjugation, vilification of the other, isolation of the misunderstood, in some ways are more salient on the stage. The cast brings warmth that somehow seems more palpable, coming from living human beings. They are avid and dedicated to their craft. It can’t be easy transcending the cool polish of Disney cartoons. I felt a bit foolish (when Belle returns to the Beast) snuffling loudly, like so many others in the audience. But there you go.

I am grateful to Firehouse Theatre for allowing me to review closing weekend.

Beauty and the Beast played The Firehouse Theatre December 2nd-18th. 2535 Valley View Ln, Farmers Branch, TX, Farmer’s Branch 75234. (972) 620-3747. thefirehousetheatre.com

A Christmas Carol opens with Ebenezer Scrooge lambasting anything associated with the Birth of the Messiah. He’s not just cantankerous, he’s vindictive. He turns down his nephew’s annual Christmas soiree, and visitors collecting for charity. He disparages the impoverished, as if they were trying to rob him. That very Christmas Eve, he settles in to his glacial, dreadful lodgings, after tea and soup provided by Mrs. Dilber. As usual his manners are impeccable. He climbs into bed, only to be greeted by his deceased partner, Bob Marley.

Marley bewails his wasted existence, forfeiting his humanity for coin and acquisition. He wears the chains he forged in life, oblivious to the marvels of we poor, flawed mortals caring for each other. Scrooge dismisses Marley’s mission to warn him from the same fate. As far as he’s concerned, the ghoulish apparition could be a piece of undigested beef. Ebenezer Scrooge is spiritually wounded. One Christmas he loses Fan (his beloved sister) and years later, Belle (his fiancee) breaks up with him. It’s perfectly understandable that Scrooge has conflated trauma with yuletide merriment, subsequently feeling nothing but resentment and cynicism.

Three more ghosts appear, beckoned by the mournful toll of Big Ben. The Ghost of Christmas Past, The Ghost of Christmas Present, and The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. First he sees Mama, in an exquisite gown of periwinkle blue. She shimmers with a radiant, golden nimbus, voice more delicate than the breath of mercy. She takes him to witness past exuberance and disappointment. Regret and grace. He is in the midst, the others but shadows, unaware of his presence. Time and again he sees missed opportunities to salve the misery of others. The remaining ghosts evoke and evince levity and warmth. They force him to confront the pain and despair that he’s spread.

As many of you know, The Dallas Theater Center’s production of Christmas Carol is an annual event. It’s a difficult, demanding project, with many plates spinning at the same time. Director Alex Organ manages to keep the melodrama without pushing our buttons. Any narrative set during Christmas is already flirting with purple content and mawkish manipulation. It seems the most emotionally charged episodes benefit from a bit of detachment, as we certainly do not need any prompting.

The gloomy, menacing set forged from a nightmare of The Industrial Age suggests the lack of compassion, the abysmal eclipse of humans, overshadowed by machine. The contrast between the bliss of convivial celebration, and unforgiving imperative is thrown into high relief. The grimy, black iron of the failure of conscience only makes the dazzling colors stand out. The dances and flirting and giggling and embracing and kisses and delightful songs and food prepared gladness and quintessential light are positively overwhelming. They pop. They defy rapacious self-interest.

Ebenezer Scrooge is balanced with kindness and understanding. We see his worst moments, but along the way, the scintillating memories that transport him. The moments when glee grabs hold, and he capers and bounces in that white nightshirt and funnel cap, in sheer, forgotten delight. We are spontaneously giddy. We marvel at the gift of redemption.

The Dallas Theater Center presents A Christmas Carol, playing November 25th-December 24^th, 2022. Dee & Charles Wyly Theatre, 2400 Flora Street, Dallas, TX 75201. (214) 522-8499. dallastheatercenter.org

Clay, a handsome, well-dressed, intelligent African American man is riding the subway (alive with chaotic jumble of graffiti) when Lula makes brief eye contact with him, through a window. At the next stop, she enters the train, and starts talking to Clay. They are alone. She squats like a child on the passenger seat. She is at once startling and erotic and poisonous. She immediately starts in, accusing him of ogling and flirtation. She’s confrontational, but she craves his advances, or insults him. It’s obvious he’s been nothing but a gentleman. There’s a vague, disparaging hubris to her affect, yet also primal in her spare, dishy, emerald dress. She’s seducing him, while throwing out all kinds of mixed signals. She goads him without mercy, spilling racist invective, accusing him of pretentiousness and cowardice.

They spar for awhile, as Lula drags him by the necktie then shoves him away. During a blackout, some guys board the train and settle in. This near-brawl between Clay and Lula only gets louder and more disturbing. The men (scattered throughout the train) ignore what’s going on right beneath their noses, like watching TV on the sofa while your house burns. She keeps coming on to Clay, climbing on him. He keeps cursing her to get the hell off. Eventually Clay and Lula are locked in sexual contact, managing while staying mostly clothed. Then something catastrophic happens.

From the moment Lula boards the train and finds Clay, she has one goal. She wants him to engage. To catch him off-guard. She degrades and confuses him, whether by temptation or verbal abuse, or chattering monologues that are nonsensical, grim, or both. Like Jerry in The Zoo Story her dialogue is frantic, sometimes but dominant. One difference is that Lula makes a point of bullying Clay from square one. Her behavior is egregious. It’s obvious she’s neither Clay’s spiritual nor intellectual equal. And she flaunts it, confident she can defy the social order without reprisal. The bout was fixed before the first bell.

Joey Folsom and the brave artists who throw in their caps with The Classics Theatre Project, have proved, once again, that old or new, American Theatre still has the power to astonish. To grip and overwhelm. Amiri Baraka, a preeminent poet of the American Literary Canon, released the notorious Dutchman in 1964. Many playwrights began as poets, but the brilliant Mr. Baraka has crafted a script that fuses dialogue and verse seamlessly. The sensibility is apparent, not overshadowed by music of language. Brentom (Chuck) Jackson and Rhonda Sue Rose bring biting audacity and fearless rage to Clay and Lula. Dutchman is an allegory of broken, desolate racism, to be sure, but as it unfolds, you will be swallowed in the moment.

The Classics Theatre Project presents Dutchman, directed by Dennis Raveneau. Playing November 11th-26th, 2022. 1121 1^st Avenue, Dallas Texas 75210. 214- 923-3619. theclassics theatreproject.com

Bella Baird is an introspective, sentient English Professor at Yale. Like many intellectuals, she finds reassurance in irony and a sense of proportion. A freshman named Christopher shows up at her office, without an appointment. He proclaims his disappointment with people, and the diminishment of interpersonal discourse. He has no desire to participate in insipid platforms such as Twitter, Facebook, texting, and so forth. He has strong opinions but he’s not wrong. We sense that Bella and he become closer because (whether or not they disagree) they respect each other. Christopher is a prodigy, though this may or may not explain their intergenerational attachment. They would seem to be cut from the same cloth, but we don’t know if sex is in the mix. One evening it feels as if they’re ready for “the next level”. It doesn’t happen, and a prolonged absence by Christopher follows.

The Sound Inside considers the intimacy between Christopher and Bella. At first she’s annoyed by his petulance and lack of manners. The rebellion of youth is certainly not front page news, but it’s more than that. She’s intrigued by Christopher, because his motives aren’t obvious. He’s not interested in being understood, or fixing anything. When he hesitates to complete the kiss, he seems crippled by indecision. When they meet for coffee, or he visits her apartment, there’s a comforting, shared erudition that nurtures their spirits. The revelation there’s another human being who empathizes. We see how each values themselves enough to live on their own terms. But it’s not about hubris. They’re quirky, and not especially angry. Christopher’s trying to be content in the world without resorting to compromise. A lesser play might have invited us to judge Bella and Christopher or dismiss them for their refusal to pander.

Playwright Adam Rapp has woven a delicate, wistful show that ushers us into a realm of velvet, nearly opaque nightfall. I confess to a feeling of dread, that was never fulfilled. His choices are inspired and not at all predictable. His two characters ingenious and original. Obviously there are dramas that wade into despair, unblinking and without apology. Birdbath, The Iceman Cometh, Sticks and Bones, Martyr. There’s an unspoken tenderness between them, an evasive grace that washes over us, without pounding upside the head. The events that follow Christopher’s unexplained departure elaborate and detail the narrative. Neither of them are apathetic or nihilistic. They engage in the random blows the world imposes, but struggles are intuitive and measured. Rapp presents this wounding, somber, whispery story as if laying out stones and amulets and herbs. Information is withheld, but we grasp in a way that foregoes linear logic.

Karen Parrish (Bella) and Parker Hill (Christopher) bring a curious, exquisite balance of gravitas and insouciance to this explication of sorrow and the sublime. Parrish gives us a nuanced portrayal of Bella, and her keen, abject affair with literature. She’s quiet but she doesn’t brood. She’s somewhat guarded, but warm. Hill conveys that sense of wonder that comes so easily in Freshman year. Undeniably brilliant, but open to the irresistible quandaries that keep things interesting. Vaguely eccentric, but defiant. The Sound Inside, spare and vivid and enigmatic as haiku, turns on the performances of Parker Hill and Karen Parrish. Their every step weightless, balletic, firm, and astonishing.

Kitchen Dog presents The Sound Inside (by Adam Rapp) playing November 3rd-20th, 2022. The Trinity Arts Center, 2600 N Stemmons Fwy Suite 180 Dallas, TX 75207. 214-953-1055. www.kitchendogtheater.org

Seeking refuge from the 17^th century bubonic Plague of London, a 12 year old girl named Morse and a sailor named Bunce, sneak into the opulent home of William and Darcy Snelgrave, a well-heeled married couple of the aristocracy. The Snelgraves take pity. Considering the rampant, excruciating, degrading loss of life, respite seems little enough to ask. The Snelgraves clean them up, setting Bunce to wiping floors with vinegar, and giving Morse free reign. More or less. The only other human being they see is Kabe, a scavenger who runs a kind of black market, pilfering from the dead. He knows raunchy songs and barters with Morse for the privilege of kissing her leg.

Darcy and William have been married for awhile. They no longer make love since she was burned horribly in a fire. Despite her emotional and physical misery, William subjugates and degrades her. Bunce is a gentle soul, who’s had his fill of the navy. Morse is one of those kids who takes ghoulish pleasure in describing grisly, lurid details of the cadavers, and ubiquitous, dissolution of the doomed and infirm. Perhaps this is her way of processing, but she does go on a bit. Kabe is well aware of his place on the food chain, and not at all shy about how he subsists. An opportunist who’s happy to exploit the catastrophic. Like Mother Courage without scruples.

William explains, repeatedly, how distasteful his guests are, but his Christian noblesse oblige requires charity and compassion. His effete arrogance seems harmless enough, until we see him tormenting and harassing Bunce. He insists that Bunce puts on his shoes. Then, once he’s comfortable, demands that Bunce proclaim he’ll never be worthy of wearing them. In another incident, he salaciously asks the erstwhile sailor about supposed homoerotic adventures. Clearly William wishes to stoke his solitary, nocturnal recreation, but only fails to sully Bunce’s tender memories.

Playwright Naomi Wallace has taken intense, grueling content to explore atrocity, brutality, and amorality. It’s harrowing and draining to witness. In his essay: The Theatre and the Plague, Antonin Artaud posits the desperation of extreme circumstances, as an ideal paradigm for revealing humanity at its worst. If we find ourselves in dystopia, when society’s restrictions have essentially vanished, nothing is off limits. Ms. Wallace goes for the light touch, avoiding amplification. The circumstances are horrific enough. Anything else would be crass and manipulative. Wallace makes it clear that the Snelgraves are only as “Christian” as they need appear. They presume the indigent are decadent by divine design.

The humanity of Drew Wall’s Bunce is a marvel. Christie Vela carries quiet dignity and persistent disappointment, with frailty and resignation. Gregory Lush’s William is an intriguing blend of barely concealed pettiness and insipid rectitude. Carson Wright’s Kabe is incorrigible and savvy. He may be mercenary, but his unapologetic turpitude seems to work. Montserrat Rodriguez’s Morse has an enchanted, subversive feel. Her narratives are bleak, repugnant, yet fanciful.

Second Thought Theater’s production of One Flea Spare is meticulous, canny, disturbing. There’s an offhand, familial feel, that seems innocuous enough. But gradually, indirectly, the actual impact and despair comes through. It’s an odd mix of the tawdry and the brave. Hypocrisy and the sanctity of the unashamed.

Second Thought Theater presents One Flea Spare, playing October 26th-November 12^th, 2022. 3400 Blackburn St, Dallas, TX, 75219. Bryant Hall, Kalita Humphreys Campus. (214) 897-3091. secondthoughttheatre.com

Dr. Frederick Frankenstein travels to the castle where his grandfather, Victor Frankenstein created his notorious, jeery-rigged “monster”. Much to the dismay of the villagers, the creature ran amok, terrorizing the populace and raising havoc. The experiment was (pretty much) an all-around fiasco. Frederick meets Igor, and Frau Blucher, who knew and assisted Victor, back in the day. Already a successful doctor, he insists (loudly) that he’s no interest in continuing his grandfather’s work. But somehow, Igor and Blucher convince him his true destiny is inescapable. No ordinary mortal, he climbs the shoulders of ancestors, continuing the megalomaniacal need to create life.

As many of you know, the film, Young Frankenstein, was released by Mel Brooks in 1974. Shot in black and white, using sets evoking the original, Universal Studio’s Frankenstein (1931). It was an unapologetic spoof of the horror classic. You might say Brooks built a career on peerless (or at least, inspired) audacity. There’s a kind of brilliance in his subversive, adolescent need to undercut a romantic goodbye between Frederick and his fiancee, when she admonishes: “No tongues.” Young Frankenstein was all about vaudevillian, throwaway shtick. You had to pay attention. An anachronistic reference to Ovaltine, a monologue channeling the quintessential, doting Jewish Mother. Even if some of the content was lost in the Bible Belt, by and large, it worked.

By now, film transliterated into Broadway Musical qualifies as a reliable, bankable venture. 9 ½, Hairspray, The Producers, are all successful versions of this relatively recent genre, first cousin perhaps to musicals made from familiar plays. Hello Dolly from The Matchmaker, My Fair Lady from Pygmalion, Chicago from the comedy of the same name, written in the 1920’s. The trick to conversion, is to compose a different incarnation from the source material. Hairspray the Musical is very different in tone and execution from John Waters’ low-key paean to the disenfranchised and underdog. It’s true to the spirit, but in some ways transcends the film. The Producers (ironically) also by Mel Brooks, expands on the classic film, going off on tangents and celebrating the familiar narrative, but making for a notably different experience.

Which brings us to Young Frankenstein (The Mel Brooks Musical). The stage production is virtually the same as the film, which got an 80% boost by mocking the parent film. The musical was probably designed to entice those who love the Brooks film, and those who don’t know it. It’s the same clever, saucy material, with songs that will tickle and amuse. Brooks, of course, is no stranger to blue humor, and never tires of sneaking a whoopee cushion onto the throne of the posh and pretentious. If he showed up on the set of Cries and Whispers he and Bergman might come to blows. This being said, we know from The Producers that with a push, something more phenomenal was possible.

Theatre 3’s excellent production of Young Frankentein is campy and shameless and hilarious. The cast (Aaron Mateo, Arroyo, Annie Olive Cahill, Leslie Marie Collins, Edward Michael, Escamilla, Sarah Gay, Parker Gray, Luke Longacre, Paulette Cocke, Samantha Padilla, Alejandro Saucedo) is bravura, sharp, and silly as hell. Parker Gray savors the loopy, delirious energy of the good doctor. (What’s up with that hair?) It has a great sense of showmanship, and Joel Ferrell keeps things humming, while not ignoring the juicy bits.

Theatre 3 presents Young Frankenstein (The Mel Brooks Musical) playing October 13th-November 13^th, 2022. 214-871-3300. 2688 Laclede Street, Suite 120, Dallas, Texas 75201. www.Theatre3Dallas.com.

PFC William Santiago was murdered by Lance Corporal Harold Dawson, and PFC Louden Downey. L.T.’s Kaffee and Weinberg have been assigned to defend Dawson and Louden, who refuse to elaborate on the incident, or speak up on their behalf. Lt. Commander Joanne Galloway has been dispatched to observe the trial, and (by design or not) is something of an interloper. She’s the only female, asking questions that men on their own, would simply understand. As the story unwinds, we realize that Dawson and Louden probably didn’t intend to kill Santiago, but only enact punitive orders. Orders that came from on high. We also learn that refusing commands on a Marine Base would be an anomaly.

Is it safe to assume that some of the guys who signed up to be Marines, were doing so as part of maleculture? As far as we’ve come, since the time when boys were obliged to defend their manhood, decades of indoctrination still linger. The unspoken message that your most valuable asset was at risk. Always. The attraction of becoming a U.S. Marine was an infallible path to manhood. Nothing to figure out, just listen and obey. The result is soldiers who are automatons. Virility at the cost of humanity.

Aaron Sorkin’s (a playwright known for meticulous scripts ) A Few Good Men imagines an event that calls all this into question. Santiago is unable to fulfill the physical demands of his commitment. Though he’s made a good faith effort. He tries to respect the chain of command, only to find his legitimate pleas ignored. Therein lies the hypocrisy of the code. He’s punished for finally, desperately going over his superiors’ heads, when their judgment is colored by contempt. They throw him to the deep end, not caring if he drowns. A Few Good Men explores the Draconian, poisonous demands men impose on each other, for the sake of defending an abstraction. An archetype.

Janette Oswald has managed a cast of 17 (count them) 17 actors. How the hell did she do it? Sorkin’s dialogue requires cunning and sophisticated timing. Breakneck pace. And Oswald makes it happen. The officers who have some discretion when it comes to expressing identity and character, and the poor underlings, who must live to serve, and serve to live. Oswald does justice to Sorkin’s venture into the fierce realm of malehood, with all its implications. The cast members are sharp, smart and measured. Not afraid to take risks, or appear mean spirited. Their grim, oppressed demeanor is heartbreaking. Come and see this powerful production, that will pull you and not let go.

Richardson Theatre Centre presents A Few Good Men, playing October 14th-30th, 2022. 518 West Arapaho Road, Richardson, Texas 75080. 972-699-1130.richardsontheatrecentre.net

I don’t think I’ve been so surprised by a musical since Grey Gardens. Violet is the story of a young woman, making a pilgrimage to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to be healed by a televangelist. When Violet was a girl, a freak accident scarred part of her face. Since then, she’s persevered as best she could, with a dad smart enough to treat her like any other daughter. Other kids at school aren’t so considerate, but she does okay. Most of Violet is set on her long, arduous bus ride, with its strange, funny collection of characters, young and old. She spends time listening to an Old Lady, who has Violet’s interests in mind. She befriends a couple of soldiers, Flick and Monty, and they hang out together, playing cards and drinking beer. The guys are headed back to base, where there’s a strong possibility they’ll be sent to Vietnam.

Like Arlie in Marsha Norman’s Getting Out, Violet is accompanied by herself as a girl, a character free to express the intense feeling her adult self cannot. We find song and musical opportunities in unexpected times and places, and a fresh and moving script by Brian Crawley that surprises us again and again. The music by Jeanine Tesori includes, Gospel, Soul and Blues, with vibrant energy and a confident swing from ballad, to celebration to grief. Tesori and Crawley seem to take mischievous pleasure in challenging our preconceived notions of musical theatre. There are no glamorous roles or admirable characters. But neither are there the repugnant or depraved. It reminded me of Flannery O’Connor or Eudora Welty. That unspoken, funny, skeptical wisdom.

Considering the subject matter: faith, catastrophe, surviving without cynicism, I was wondering if Violet might suggest God is the answer. That the miraculous is just around the corner. And it doesn’t say “No” to these. Instead it ponders the possibility that Violet (like the rest of us) might be looking outside herself. That grace might be something more palpable, less ethereal, less abstract. I don’t want to give too much away, but Violet offers comfort in careful consideration of the actual, rather than the vague and lofty. It seeks salvation in glorifying the strength in our shared humanity.

The large cast, under the wise and thoughtful eye of director Ashley Puckett Gonzalez, moved and performed with confidence, focus, and dedication. Some actors played numerous roles and their versatility was a thing of beauty. There were so many, sharp, touching moments and painful episodes captured with precision and presence. Consider the logistics, so many ways Violet could have gone sideways, but didn’t. So much splendid work, so much warmth and compassion. It was entertaining and brilliant.

I wish to thank Firehouse Theatre, who permitted me to attend the last performance of the run. I have never attended a show at Firehouse, that wasn’t impeccable. Honest.

Firehouse Theatre Company, 2535 Valley View Ln, Farmers Branch, TX 75234. (972) 620-3747. thefirehousetheatre.com

The narrator introduces us (from his easy chair) to his vinyl recording of The Drowsy Chaperone, a musical comedy from the 20’s. His frank, relaxed commentary, the disc on a turntable, set the tone for adoration of the craft, perhaps far too rare, in a world of diminished enthusiasm. Throughout our submersion into The Drowsy Chaperone experience, he gives us background on the performers, context, and smart (if opinionated) critique. The guys playing the gangsters were brothers. The dizzy chorine was actually dizzy. Our nostalgic trip lands us in the “actual” midst of the show, with dialogue and songs. There’s a metronomic swing between the musical, and our present day conversation with the narrator. He makes a sandwich, answers the phone, visits the loo. Does embracing theatre seep into our humdrum, often disappointing lives?

The Drowsy Chaperone is a valentine, a tribute to a unique, rousing, genre of entertainment. But there’s something else. The obsession with musical comedy is often trivialized. Baffling to heterosexual males. A realm occupied by the eccentric and effete. The narrator is quite comfortable pointing out the preposterous, facetious qualities of musical narrative. It seems to be a modern trope lately, to praise something, while spoofing it. Drama might be depressing, opera oppressive and ponderous. But the light musical can evoke enchantment. There’s shtick, but there’s also pathos. A quizzical capacity to involve us. To salve misery with blissful emotion. That troubles can be managed, or jettisoned. That appreciating the ridiculous can heal the spirit.

Allen Contemporary Theatre’s production of The Drowsy Chaperone is not to be missed. Directors Eddy Herring and Robyn Meade have brought all the nuance and spark of Lisa Lambert and Greg Morrison’s (Music and Lyrics) Bob Martin and Don McKellar’s (Book) script to the stage. The splendid nonsense, the unflinching gags, the spits and double-takes and cringe-worthy puns. Like a collage by Rauschenberg or Schwitters or Picasso it coalesces into into something transcending its components. And the cast. What a bunch of effervescent, acrobatic, scene-chewing, crisp and hammy maniacs. What is it about ACT’s production that wakes you to the sweet and gorgeous in the world? That jazzes you down to cobwebs of your soul? Well, you won’t find out just sitting there. For the love of God. Go.

Allen Contemporary Theatre presents The Drowsy Chaperone, playing October 7th-23rd, 2022. 1210 E Main Street, #300, Allen, Texas. (844) 822-8849. allencontemporarytheatre.net

Rhonda and Don are next door neighbors to Marcus and Clark. They have sold their property in rural Texas and bought a condo in Cedar Springs, not realizing it’s predominantly gay. Clark and Marcus have invited them to dinner, and when we join them they are enjoying chocolate mousse and wine. Conversation isn’t exactly awkward, though you can tell Don and Rhonda are careful to not make any offensive remarks. Don isn’t disparaging when he asks which one is the wife. Clark and Marcus are very gracious, welcoming hosts. They mostly ignore the missteps of their guests, with the occasional, obtuse jibe by Clark. Their daughter, Sophia, is a casual provocateur. She enjoys pushing people’s buttons.

The set for Big Scary Animals provides clues. There’s a line dividing the homes, bringing the living room and kitchen of both the households smack dab against each other. It divides the coffee table. Rug. The sofa. It’s high relief battling with harmony. Clark and Marcus have tastefully decorated with upscale, somewhat nuanced, accouterments. Rhonda and Mark’s home is more cozy, inviting, button down. Ronnie their teenage son, has low self esteem, while Sophia’s a cyclone. The male couple is worldly, more poised. But the straight couple seems more frank, more genuine. They know they’re the “interlopers”, and tread carefully.

Playwright Matt Lyle has crafted a pitch black comedy. Darker by the moment. The humor is rapid, unexpected and cutting. But it’s not impressed with its own cleverness. It winds itself up, then spins out of control. But it’s also precise. There are moments of genuine, deeply affecting pathos, followed by a knock-out joke, followed by more anecdotal pain. It’s like Ingmar Bergman and Mel Brooks had a kid together. It’s breathtaking, overwhelming and glorious.

Big Scary Animals swings between who we think we are, and who we are, actually. It doesn’t seem that way at the outset, but what separates these couples is a chasm. True to the best satire, none of them escape with their best foot forward. Our laughter is helpless, our sobs unavoidable. The scaffolding is cerebral, but the chemistry on the stage is something else altogether. It’s like Ingmar Bergman and Mel Brooks had a kid. In Big Scary Animals, Matt Lyle has achieved something ferociously, tenderly human, and funny. Volatile and meticulous. This is what comes from brilliant, uncompromising vision.

Under the scrupulous eye of Rebecca McDonald, the cast [Bob Reed (Donald) Charlotte Akin (Rhonda) Bradley Atuba (Marcus) Monica Jones (Sophia) Chad Cline (Clark) Brady White (Ronnie)] is seamlessly authentic. It’s a demanding script. Emotions pivot swiftly, audacity goes hand in hand with propriety, the expected at odds with spontaneity. These are complicated, detailed, extraordinary characters that evolve and surprise. They dismiss each other, but then the shiny penny drops.

Theatre 3 presents: Big Scary Animals, playing September 1st-25th, 2022. 2688 Laclede Street, Suite 120, Dallas, Texas. boxoffice@theatre3dallas.com. 214-871-3300.