Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.net

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.

The lights came up on this enormous, curious looking, dapper blind man, who carried himself like a king. Using a piece of luggage as a stool, he complains that his driver has left him stranded at the train station. His voice is deeper than the La Brea tar pits, rich with mischief and strong emotion. He tells us his story, about his mama back in Texas, his friendships with other musicians and singers like Leadbelly, T-Bone Walker and Bessie Smith. He reflects on his travels, sharing juicy, somewhat shocking anecdotes with gusto and aplomb. He has a commanding presence, but savors life utterly, and wants us to feel that too. Never have I seen a man (the same size as me) shimmy with such confident, flamboyant agility. Like he’s intoxicated on the air.

This man is Blind Lemon Jefferson, legendary blues singer, born in 1893. Early in his career, he played the streets, picnics, birthdays. In front of a barbershop. Blind Lemon made his chops in the rough, Deep Ellum district of Dallas, where folks came to enjoy the nightlife (tarts, jazz, gambling) hopefully without danger to life and limb. Blind Lemon was ahead of his time, breaking new ground in the music industry. He sang blues and gospel, and recorded solo albums, performing his own songs, on blues guitar. Long Lonesome Blues, Matchbox Blues, and See That my Grave is Kept Clean were immediate hits. He made enough money to buy a car and hire a chauffeur. Back in the day, he and Leadbelly took the train, keeping each other company and in stitches. He was equally at ease, singing about the world of pain or Jesus in his heart.

J.Dontray Davis is Blind Lemon: captivating, startling, astonishing. Blind Lemon was known for his remarkable range, and Davis makes it happen. He wails, he bellows, he roars. One minute he sounds like a wiseass and the next a prophet and the next a mourner. What L. Dontray Davis does, as he details the tumultuous, somber, giddy, mortifying episodes in his career, is next door to miraculous. It’s a kind of sorcery, as if engaging with the elements. The experience is kept to a bare minimum: setting, props, instruments, simple and elegant. But what Director Akin Babatunde and Davis create is a forceful, gorgeous show that yanks everything strange and agonizing and fierce right out of you.

Undermain Theatre presents Lonesome Blues: playing September 1st-18th, 2022. Starring J. Dontray Davis, written by Akin Babatunde and Alan Govenar. 3200 Main Street, Dallas, Texas 75226. 214-747-5515. undermain.org

Sir Henry and Lady Angkatell share a spacious, opulent home, called The Hollow, not far from London. Henrietta Angkatell, a sculptor (and relative) is lodging as a guest, and family are always welcome to stay there. The elderly couple are hosting a weekend for relatives, mostly cousins, and their spouses. More than a few grew up here, with fond memories. Several are having affairs with the others, some have longstanding, unrequited crushes. Dr. Cristow hardly misses an opportunity to disparage his wife, Gerta. Henrietta unveils her most recent and enigmatic (though not abstract) statue. There’s marksmanship, sumptuous meals, gardening, a visit from glamorous screen star: Veronica Craye.

You needn’t be a fan to know that Agatha Christie initiated a plot structure that’s now imitated (and botched) by countless others. A murder occurs among a gathering of people, confined to a particular location. An island, a mansion, a train. Hence they are all suspects, each with a perfectly good reason to end the victim’s life. During interrogation, we learn each character’s connection to the deceased, and much about them, in the process. Once this narrative device was discovered, it became a formula for hacks and wannabes. They didn’t really want to tell a story, just a shortcut to success. You attend a play by Agatha Christie, and you will be spared such crass shenanigans.

There are usually a number of givens, to any murder plot: The easiest answer is never the solution. The police will probably show immediately, and make a nuisance of themselves. One of the ladies will shriek, when the body is discovered. One of the characters will utter these chilling words: “There was so much blood.” At least one character will rant indignantly at the suggestion they might also be a suspect. No one and perhaps, nothing, is what it seems. In The Hollow, Lady Angkatell appears to be somewhat loopy. But she’s also snipey, gossipy, and conniving. Few of the suspects were happy to be visiting in the first place. Duplicity and resentment lurks behind gregarious banter.

One of the great joys of seeing a drama by Christie, is her ability to exploit these tropes, yet keep the meticulous narrative plausible, surprising and intriguing. By the end, we will know the culprit, and something unexpected, important from each character. Content is never mere scaffolding for plot. Death never a box to check. The pleasure is Christie’s refusal to make herself a manufacturer of genre. A producer of wares. A master of the facile.

And who better to do justice to this absorbing, cunning quandary than the splendid folks at Richardson Theatre Centre? Director Rachael Lindley and her dedicated, energetic, captivating players give us 200%,. Engaging in the strange, sad, inexplicable lives of the guests. Christie gatherings are always something of a menagerie, but these impressive performers are undaunted and nimble. Each actor holds our attention, effortlessly and with aplomb. I have a word or two to share with Set Designer Kyle Chinn. Dang it man, when you make everything look so posh and inviting, I want to move in!

Richardson Theatre Centre presents: The Hollow, playing August 26th-September 11th, 2022. 518 West Arapaho Road, Suite 113, Richardson, Texas 75080. 972-699-1130. richardsontheatrecentre.net

Upon entering the theater, we need only see the columns, and draped translucent silk upstage, to realize we’re in the realm of Tennessee Williams’ gothic fantasia. His blend of  decadence and lyricism. The Classic Theatre Project’s current production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, comes from a place of respect, but not awe. Certainly Cat lambastes the duplicity connecting  civility and actuality; conformity and defiance. Williams revels in the tawdriness of Brick and Maggie’s predicament. They’re both so gorgeous, they should be together.  But Brick can only bear to live with his wife by staying drunk. Brick is patriarch Big Daddy’s favorite. But since older brother Gooper and Mae are spawning like salmon, they’re next to inherit. Succession all that matters.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof  is set in Brick and Maggie’s bedroom. Brick’s leg is broken, his hair still wet from the shower. He’s wearing pyjamas, moving on crutches, and tying one on. He barely acknowledges Maggie’s account of Mae and Gooper’s obnoxious tribe of “kiddies”, a trashy incident at a parade, her father-in-law ogling her at supper. Maggie has left Big Daddy’s birthday party to change her dress. The celebration will move to their room, as Brick’s cast makes mobility difficult. Big Mama interrogates Maggie during Brick’s brief disappearance. She wants to know why they are childless.

Once the guests have migrated, Big Daddy roars and whoops it up, full of piss and vinegar. They’ve just discovered his cancer prognosis is negative, so he’s feeling rowdy. It takes him awhile to notice the estrangement between his younger son and his wife. Behind his cantankerous exterior, it troubles him to see Brick in such pain. When he confronts Brick about his alcoholism, he pushes Big Daddy away, owing him no explanations. The ghost of a friendship that ended horribly, between Brick and his buddy Skipper arises.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof might be seen as Tennessee Williams’ sardonic take on heterocentrist culture, and the virulent, demanding code of male behavior. Fertility and progeny are ruthlessly mocked. Brick and Maggie have been relegated to the bedroom shared by Jack Straw and Peter Ochello : the lovers and original owners of the plantation. Maggie is a climber, and Big Mama a buffoon. Big Daddy is a vindictive, grotesque caricature of male libido, his shameless bestiality its own justification. He despises Big Mama, his wife of 40 years, who adores him. Brick is on the other side of this contentious virility. He’s quiet, flawlessly athletic, keeping his rage on ice.

TCTP‘s Cat is fierce, relentless, overwhelming. They’ve turned a difficult script into a lightning rod. Williams requires much of his actors. Lines like: “I even loved your hate,” and “What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?” verge on melodrama. Director Susan Sargeant sparks vital performances from her cast. She makes intriguing choices. The way Maggie intuitively, provocatively lies across the bed. The male children mentioned but never seen. The way Gooper’s voluminous wife looks ready to pop. Olivia Cinqueplami walks a tightrope between frantic conversation and casual seductiveness. She’s heartbreaking and profoundly affecting. Joey Folsom is cool and detached, but grief comes unmistakably through the high octane buzz. The flame may be teetering, but it’s there. Terry Martin is a formidable, intimidating Big Daddy. Lulu Ward as the fragile, yet boisterous Big Mama is splendid. The best I’ve ever seen in that role.

The Classics Theatre Project presents Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, playing through September 11^th, 2022. Water Tower Theatre (black box) 15650 Addison Road, Addison Texas 75001. 972-450-6232. www.watertowertheatre.org

 

It’s opening night of a new play by neophyte Peter Sloan. Peter is a truck driver, who answered the burning call to write, pounding at his typewriter whenever he got the chance. Sydney Black, the producer is there. Preeminent playwright Owen Turner is present, and Irene Livingston, the lofty, fey, leading actress, and her salty mother, Stella. Sydney’s wife Frances (an ice skating star) and Stella enjoy a perpetual game of gin. Director, Carleton Fitzgerald is in attendance and Tyler Rayburn, Irene’s husband et al. The stakes of Peter’s untried drama are so jarring, everyone’s on edge. Feelings are raw and running high.

When Peter’s script reached Sydney’s eyes, it was a mind-boggling epiphany, a revelation in his jaded career as a theatre producer. Everyone gathered for this occasion is a bit jittery, considering Sydney has sunk $300,000 into the production. The show has proceeded under solemn circumstances. No visitors, not even for the dress rehearsal. They realize the script is unorthodox, but premieres are not easy to call. They’re all hoping for the best, riding the crest of cautious optimism. Being more seasoned, Owen, Stella, and Sydney are more apprehensive; the ladies not altogether impressed. They all share the traditional opening night toast, with erudition and gusto. When they all leave for the curtain, they’re prepared for greatness, or whatever else might come driving down the pike.

Authored by playwright Moss Hart (of Kaufman and Hart) Light Up the Sky is a snappy, rich, convivial comedy, with moments of pathos. Hart has achieved nearly the impossible, a sardonic, authentic, wiseass valentine to theatre folk. Hart pulls no punches as characters run the spectrum from pretension to grace. From wide-eyed naivete to instinctive cynicism. He dresses kindness in the togs of cantankerousness. Hart has a gift for depicting characters with detail and affection, however subtle and unspoken. We can smile (and roll our eyes) at Irene’s ooey-gooey effusiveness, but appreciate the warmth we’re often embarrassed to articulate. In some ways her mother, Stella, is a buzzkill (she has some of the best lines) but a break from so much self-congratulation can be a relief. Owen may seem reserved in his enthusiasm, but in the end, he provides an anchor for all the lunacy. Hart creates a blissfully entertaining story, with depth, cunning and a flawless ear for timing.

Director Carol Rice has succeeded impressively with a script that must be a logistical nightmare. So many characters piloted through entrances and exits, interpretation and tone, blocking and cues. Rice has done spectacular justice to Hart’s meticulous balance of attitude and content. What could be more sublime than time spent with these intelligent, limber, spirited performers? Rice must have thought long and carefully to assemble this intrepid cast. She’s gifted us with her impeccable skill, vision and chops.

Allen Contemporary Theatre presents Light up the Sky, playing August 19th- September 4^th, 2022. 844-822-8849. 1210 East Main Street # 300, Allen, Texas 75002. www.allencontemporarytheatre.net

Julia is the backbone of her family: Father, Baby, Millie, and Ruth, their mother. Millie no longer lives under that roof. Baby is still in High School. Their dad is an alcoholic. We never see him. Mama is chronically ill with fibromyalgia. Julia is dating an older man, Nene. They have known each other since childhood. Nene wants Julia to marry him, but she bears the brunt of keeping them all afloat. She cannot bring herself to abandon her family. As Curse of the Puerto Ricans opens, they have gathered for the Christmas holidays.

In some ways Julia is trapped. She’s the only one willing to get anything done. The only one with a job. Sister Millie left some time ago, to pursue a career. Baby only complains when asked to pitch in. Ruth ignores even small tasks, such as making sure the bills are paid, cooking, dealing with their dad. Julia wants a life of her own, but cannot bring herself to start a life with Nene. He observes as long as she makes excuses, they’ll never step up and help out. Millie had to leave when she could, if she had any hope at happiness.

In a crushing turn of events, Papa dies just before Christmas. The funeral occurs on Christmas Eve Day, and Ruth is in a foul mood. Nene shows up impetuously, proposing to Julia with everyone there. He even sweeps her up to dance. But she refuses to answer, when he put her on the spot. Mama has no use for Nene, or any guy that might take Julia away. Julia, Baby, Millie and Ruth sit at the kitchen table, drinking some “Holiday Cheer”. They do their best to cultivate the Christmas spirit, with gifts and a small (Charlie) Brown tree. Grievances are aired: despair, pain and anger. They navigate this long avoided minefield.

Written by Rosa Fernandez, Curse of the Puerto Ricans considers trying to thrive in a culture burdened with unreasonable, often harsh demands. Julia loves her family, but circumstances won’t let her truly assert herself. She can’t look away from the trainwreck, and it’s sapping her joy. Her self-esteem. She brushes off difficult subjects, trivial or crucial. She believes she must choose between caring, and finding some path to being her own woman. Whether or not by design, Julia (Mies Quatrino) is the most exquisite, and petite character. She stands so much smaller than the others, it feels like a statement. In the midst of the Rodriquez Family’s long night of the soul, she grapples with profound epiphanies, that lead her to confront them. In ways surprising even to us.

Director Dr. Marta Torres orchestrates this impressive cast, managing somber and wry content, with precision and heart. Her keen perception of the family dynamic, the exigencies and persistent, unspoken misery, make the story affecting and implacable. It’s no surprise that Bishop Arts has brought another poignant, unforgettable drama to their stage. Curse of the Puerto Ricans is beautifully realized, making the deep dive into issues we can all understand. Bringing daylight to the shadows of misunderstanding and sorrow.

Bishop Arts Theatre Center presents Curse of the Puerto Ricans, playing August 11th-28th, 2022. 214 South Tyler Street, Dallas, Texas 75208. 214-948-0716. www.bishopartstheatrecenter.org

The Little Dog Laughed has an intriguing structure. It opens with Diane, who speaks directly to the audience. Diane is Mitchell’s Hollywood agent. We haven’t met Mitchell yet. She doesn’t really advance the plot, so much as she comments on it. Mostly, she regales us with the toxic worldview commensurate with her occupation. Her material is funny, in the grotesque sense. How many would compare crafting a mandala with shitting? Both sand and shit go out to the sea. But playwright Douglas Carter Beane is preparing us. There’s nothing wrong with a fierce talent agent, but she nurses a contempt for idealism.

Next we meet Mitchell. Mitchell is blasted, and he’s called for an escort. Not an uncommon practice. He’s opening the door to Alex, who’s pitching the role Mitchell requested. Mitch has forgotten this, and he’s groping to remember details. He graciously explains he’s beyond

following through, and (mensch that he is) will gladly pay the amount promised. Alex still offers to work his magic, but Mitchell begs of. Initially, Alex exploits his host’s inebriation, but has a change of heart. There’s a noteworthy aspect to this transaction, for both merchant and customer. Strangely enough, this speaks less about the men’s nobility, and more about character. Authenticity. Both identify as bi-sexual, but find themselves falling for each other.

When Diane discovers that Mitchell wants to share a life with Alex, she has a meltdown. Though not as you’d notice. Mitch is not just her client, they’re close friends. Of a sort. A very telling scene happens when the two have a business lunch, with a queer playwright, that we never see. Diane wants the role of the gay leading man for Mitchell. Beane takes great pains to demonstrate how the two manipulate and disparage the writer for the sin of being honorable and forthright. Much to Diane’s chagrin, Mitch reveals to the playwright that he’s gay, too. He uses it as a bargaining chip.

It’s heartening to be sure, how many actors and other celebrities have owned their same-gender sexuality in the media. But it’s no revelation, no matter how far we’ve come, the queer community might never count on decency or tolerance. Once again it seems, the barbarians are at the gate. And small, provincial towns continue to provoke hate crimes and suicide.

The Little Dog Laughed lays out a polarity that often still applies. A fulfilling personal life or the dream of success fulfilled? Diane might be seen as fighting for Mitchell’s future success. But then, does aspiration demand crucial, irrevocable sacrifices? Or is the world what we make of it? At first blush, The Little Dog Laughed might feel reductive. Simplistic. But the more we reflect, the more we consider, the easier to see the minute, intricate, toothy cogs revolving inside this gleaming pocket watch.

Theo Maske is incensed that his wife, Louise, lost her underpants, while attending a parade for the King. They fell around her ankles. Of course, it’s an unfortunate fluke, but Herr Maske disparages Louise, for bringing shame upon him, and their household. And the implied stigma of her moral turpitude. Louise assures him this supposed scandal will pass quickly. Next, Frank Versati, a lofty (if overblown) poet arrives, asking for the room to rent. After that, a barber named Benjamin, a painfully obsequious barber. And after that, a virulent, atomic buzzkill called Klingelhoff. It doesn’t take much time before actual intentions are revealed. Louise’s friend Gertrude goes loopy with the salacious possibilities, swooning and purring. She offers to make playful, alluring panties for Louise.

So is satire the art of delivering wildly improbable, ridiculous behavior with a straight face? If so, Steve Martin’s The Underpants is a prime example. Nothing wrong with that. Dressing a rhino in a chapel dress is a theatrical tradition that probably started with Aristophanes. Set in Dusseldorf in 1910, you might say The Underpants is a spoof on the nature of sexual audacity. Overt and concealed. Confided and confessed.

You could also say it’s about misogyny. How men project raging, libidinous impulses on women, rather than owning accountability. (Hey God! The woman you sent tempted me. It’s on her.) The irony is the antiquated values that still hold up today. The Underpants transpires in the early twentieth century. Louise, Gertrude and Benjamin resemble Theda Bara, The Gibson Girl and Buster Keaton. Cultural ions over a century old. These painstaking cues hit the mark. While we can laugh at the backward buffoonery, the over-the-top caricature, perhaps our own, 21st Century boxers have hit the ground.

Director Janette Oswald and this seasoned, capable cast, deserve accolades for the meticulous and bravura audacity this unorthodox and remarkable comedy demands. There’s a kind of twisted logic, a toppling of expectations. Keen manipulation of the grotesque that lurks behind the plot, messing with our minds. The Underpants seems overblown, and yet, the ending is quiet and subversive as an Anarchist nun. Perhaps it’s meant to suggest a sea change. The cunning of Underpants looms like shadows in Caligari’s Cabinet. But it’s scrumptious medicine. The witty and merciless gags come thick and fast, but paced for maximum effect. The explosive laughs, the chuckles, the giggles are beyond our control, and that’s just as it should be.

Rover Dramawerks presents its Underpants, playing August 4tth-20th, 2022. Cox Playhouse. 1517 H. Avenue, Plano, Texas, 75074. 972-849-0358. roverdramawerks.com

A visit from a family friend will change Monty’s life. His late, beloved mother, it seems was estranged from her privileged class dynasty. Subsequently, Monty is an heir. His attempts to connect with his newly discovered family are met with scorn and arrogance. By way of a “happy accident” he stumbles upon a scheme. Murder the heirs in line ahead of him, until he becomes an implacable actuality. Complications arise,but providence intervenes.

A musical adaptation of the classic British film: Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder is a satire on the wretched British caste system and perhaps noblesse oblige. The D’Ysquith family ostracized Monty’s mother, and then, by default, Monty. Among numerous injustices, they have chosen to ignore the very succession of lineage that defines British aristocracy. Surely it couldn’t be moral and/or ethical to disinherit a relative because of supposedly egregious behavior? And there’s nothing to suggest this was settled in the courts.

Gentleman’s Guide, then, is a scrumptious, sardonic, tongue-in-cheek comedy of Monty’s ascent up the family tree. Irony upon irony. Wickedness upon wickedness. In some ways similar to Sweeney Todd, Monty’s motivated by fateful imperative. Almost immediately, we find ourselves on his side. Murders (or deaths) fall into his lap. They require minimal free will.

A favorite device is an unexplained hand that occasionally pops up, to hand Monty a “weapon”. Forces beyond his control are eager to assist his nefarious plan. Monty actually turns to the audience every time he lucks into a “break” and smiles. Deviously. It’s not entirely a free ride, naturally. There are snags. And touching details. But, the one rule in this inspired, ugly turn on moral equivalency, seems to be the dubious gift of (dare I say) evil. Nothing’s ever truly resolved. Dig deep enough and you will a spider in the chutney.

Director Penny Ayn Maas has navigated a demanding script here, often with the light touch many of the gags require. She never settled for caricature over substance. A fairly small, revolving circular stage is the center of our attention; a logistical nightmare. That is to say none of this could have been easy. Her phenomenal cast is nimble, punchy, poised and blessed with comedy chops. I need to stress here, the supporting players, with their various roles (servants, mourners, chorus, newsies…) were polished and quirky. The entire cast, worked and fit beautifully together. The seamless songs also needed comic timing, and they were spot on.

Among the performers were Alison Whitehurst (Phoebe) Laura Lyman Payne (Sibella) Andrew Keeler (Monty) and Randy Pearlman (The D’Ysquith Family). Whitehurst was charming and delicate as Monty’s bride. Payne a stitch as the unashamedly mercenary Sibella, Monty’s other love interest. Keeler masters the daunting art of playing a (let’s face it) morally ambiguous hero. We find ourselves prompting him from our chairs.

Especially impressive was Randy Pearlman, who portrays every member of the D’Ysquith brood. I counted six distinct characters (two in drag) each one wonderfully, deliriously funny. Thanks to Pearlman. The concept from film to stage, one actor playing, what, genealogical resemblance? It’s ingenious. And for the player, torturous. Kudos to Mr. Pearlman. Where does he find the energy?

You have only a few days to catch this remarkable piece. It lures us into the perverse, subversive pleasure of participating in treachery. We should be aghast. (hehe) I would think everyone involved: cast, crew, orchestra, were kept on their toes from start to finish. And yet that spritely, brightly gleam of those who love what they do, love shining and sharing for our enjoyment, is unmistakable. We are overjoyed, because they are.

WaterTower Theatre presents: A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder, playing July 20th-31st, 2022. 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. watertowertheatre.org. 972-450-6232.