Author: christophersoden@sbcglobal.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.

We find Moses and Kitch hanging in a crumby part of town. There’s a thick, formidable wall, garbage cans, a decrepit bench. Kitch grabs a can of spray paint and adds to the aimless graffiti. Moses and Kitch are close friends. They call each other: my nigger, which feels like an odd kind of affection. Conspiratorial, too. Their banter reminded me somewhat of George and Lenny from Steinbeck’s of Mice and Men. Not that Kitch is slow, but maybe not quite as smart as Moses. Kitch is gentle, less guarded than Moses.

Sometimes they talk about the brother that Moses lost, and how much Moses misses him. Much conversation ponders the promise of passing over from their destitute, desperate neighborhood, to the world beyond. Where success is a given. A done deal. There’s a reverie. The very mention sends Kitch howling and whooping with intense, authentic joy. Enough to break your eardrums, but it’s great. It comes up over and over. They makes list of what they will buy, once they are set up in the life of privilege.

The two white characters (both played by the same actor) in Pass Over are caricatures. An abusive cop and Mister: epitome of white cluelessness. His white summer suit and hat are the trappings of a dandy. But excessive politeness and straight-faced proclamations of Golly Gee! Make us wonder. Is he naive, or disingenuous? Is his behavior calculated, motivated by fear? Immediately Moses and Kitch’s radar kicks in.

Mister explains he was on his way to visit his mama, bearing gifts of delectable food. When he lays out a picnic for them (a gesture of good will) Kitch, so, so hungry, is delighted. He can’t wait to dive in, but Moses is deeply suspicious. Later the two more or less trap Mister in the “nigger” discussion. Like so many ignorant fucks, he doesn’t get that it’s been appropriated as an act of courage. Subversiveness. That it will NEVER sound the same coming from white lips.

Antoinette Nwanda has composed Pass Over as a gorgeous, chaotic concert of despair, oppression, anger, and defiance. She has woven biblical, spiritual imagery into the narrative, into this crushing unforgiving, twisted context. Words like ghettoizing, racism, arrogant don’t do the trick. When the scriptural moments break through, they are terrifying. How does Nwanda pull them off? Moses and Kitch were born into suffering, degradation, hopelessness endemic to their race. So submerged in quicksand they cannot tell their genuine friends from those who prey on them.

I grope to find the words to do right by Antoinette Nwanda. Pass Over has touched me more profoundly than any show in recent memory. It is stunning. Ferocious. Original and utterly unforgettable. A catch in the throat. This is what the best of theatre is all about.

Second Thought Theatre presents Antoinette Nwanda’s Pass Over, playing July 15th-30th, 2022. Bryant Hall on the Kalita Humphreys Campus. 3400 Blackburn Avenue, Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-897-3091. secondthoughttheare.com

While cogitating on Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, a song came to mind, from Sondheim’s Company. Bobby is only interested in recreational sex, regardless of the wishes of his girlfriends. In one particular piece these three have a chance to express their frustration: You could drive a person crazy… You could drive a person buggy…They’re less fed up with insouciance than mixed-signals. It’s a smart, upbeat song that could describe Ivan, a similar character in Women on the Verge. Ivan’s philosophy that you can be lovers and walk away, without disclosing up front, works beautifully for him. But for his latest, Pepa (along with the others) Ivan’s excuse is perplexing. Not that she’s been told anything. He’s disappeared. Vanished. Without a word.

Pepa tries to get on with her day, while processing this disturbing news. She makes acquaintance with a very content, jovial Taxi Driver. She goes to the studio where she does voiceover work, expecting to find Ivan. They tell her he’s already recorded his lines, and he’s gone. She faints, and when they take her to the doctor, the possibility arises that she may be pregnant. She goes to Ivan’s home, only to discover he hasn’t been there for weeks. A mysterious woman confiscates the card Pepa’s left for Ivan,  should he return. It’s revealed that she’s Ivan’s ex-wife. Next she encounters best friend Candela, a very emotional woman, a bit on the flaky side. She’s conflicted by her love affair with a terrorist named Malik. The shenanigans continue.

We notice from the start, that the female actors outnumber the men by 4 or 5 times. The cops are women, the doctors, lawyers, the director and technician at the recording studio… The cabbie introduces us to the vibrant and chaotic milieu of Madrid. Cue kinetic, energetic dancing by the entire cast. Women of all shapes and sizes. Flashy costumes. Background teeming with various colors and the comic book, pop art of Roy Lichtenstein. The songs seem to be heart-achy or sizzly or comic. The narrative considers the predicament that these long-suffering women (just like the girlfriends from Company) are trying their best, but what hope have they got with boyfriends that are self-absorbed, duplicitous, insipid and thoughtless? One way or another Ivan (the loathario) has messed with the women in his life, as well as his son. And, by association (it seems to me) we might infer the “women”, referenced in the title, are all struggling with the heartache of dealing with men.

It’s safe to say that Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is a fable of sorts, playing with the dangers of romance, strangeness of attachment, the baffling puzzle of life on this dizzy globe, and not taking it too much to heart. There are some genuinely touching moments, though mostly it’s absurd and basks in its own slow-motion zaniness. It’s a witty, undeniably entertaining, outre’ musical, and marvelous fun.

MainStage Irving – Las Colinas presents: Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, playing July 15^th, 2022. Dupree Theater: 222 E Irving Blvd, Irving, TX, United States, Texas. (972) 594-6104. mainstageirving.com

I have always admired Neil Simon’s gift for blending pathos and wry humor. His characters find themselves in the midst of adversity, but mitigate by cracking a joke. Husband: The car won’t start. Wife: Your mother finally invites us to dinner, and now this? Was that her sneaking around with a wrench? There seems to be an undercurrent of bad fortune or disappointment that inform his comedies, and naturally, his occasional dramas. The unresolved conflicts, the failed romances, the sense of helplessness. In each of these pieces, Simon addresses several issues. There’s the shtick. But there’s other quandaries in the constellation. Unanswered questions. The wrong turn, inexplicable fate, time and change.

In Visitor for Mamaroneck: Karen Nash has arranged an anniversary in the room where Sam and her husband shared their honeymoon. She’s planned champagne, hors d’oeuvres, a special negligee, eager to revive some court and spark. Sam Nash is an atomic buzzkill, to be generous. So absorbed in business, he’s won’t hang up the phone. Utterly blind to Karen’s overtures, the mood she’s set, the trouble she’s taken. The fact that his egregious behavior happens on their 50^th Anniversary is lost on him. Karen keeps dropping hints, but she might as well slap him silly. (Maybe she should). Lise Alexander’s portrayal of Karen is masterful. Suffused with understated melancholy and resignation, it is poignant and unforgettable.

In Visitor from Hollywood: Jesse has arranged to see Muriel to visit and catch up. They are friends from childhood. While Jesse wants to reminisce about their time together as kids, Muriel pumps him for details of his glamorous life in the movie biz. She keeps namedropping, ravenous to feed off the personal lives of celebrities and their shenanigans. She seems to miss that Jesse has arranged this rendezvous, because he pines for her. She, too, regrets missed opportunity. Though we wonder if she wants Jesse for him, or his credentials as a hobnobber.

In Visitor from Forest Hills: Norma Hubley and Roy Hubley must navigate possible catastrophe. Their daughter, Mimsey, has locked herself in the bathroom. She’s crying so hard, they can’t get her to explain. Has she bailed, has something happened, large did they fight? Or is traditional pre-wedding jitters? While Norma fields phone calls, stalling and doing damage control, Roy keeps bitching about expenses. Many families spend more on weddings, than anything else in their lives. It’s understood. But Roy persists in his litany of grievances: the cocktail wieners he’s paying for, the band he’s paying for, the flowers he’s paying for. Perhaps in this instance, he’s not much different than the fathers of most brides.

Speaking of admiration, Richardson Theatre Centre’s current production of Plaza Suite is top notch, and this is your last chance to catch it. Neil Simon’s comedy is comprised of three separate skits, ruminating on the irony that this same room, in the same place, has seen just as much marital discord as ooey-gooey, kissy-face. Each one exposes the pitfalls waiting to sour the sweet milk of juicy nuptial bliss. RTC’s Plaza Suite is rich with quirkiness, ingenious throwaway, aching subtext. Sometimes I think particular shows so familiar that troupes assume they’ll be a cinch. Richardson Theatre Centre never makes that mistake. Their Plaza Suite will intoxicate and strike a nerve.

Richardson Theatre Centre presents: Plaza Suite, playing July 8th-24th, 2022. 518 West Arapaho Road, Suite 113, Richardson, Texas 75080. 214-699-1130. www.richardsontheatrecentre.net

Five teenagers (Blossom, Peter, Oliver, Lola, Abigail) sixteen years old, some orphaned recently, some all their lives, find themselves in an isolated, profoundly bizarre dwelling. Like the well-known Escher drawing, it is composed of stairs. They lead nowhere. No walls or rooms. Blossom is pushy and comes from wealth. Peter is painfully shy. Lola is skeptical and contentious. Oliver is confident and encourages Peter. Abigail is passive and sweet-natured.  The five are thrown together, trying to figure how to work together, under such strange circumstances. There’s no privacy. The “house” dispenses food at odd intervals. A device emerges that concocts light and sound patterns. The teens must follow a series of particular steps and movements whenever it appears, to keep the food coming.

For lack of a better word, the house becomes more “demanding.” As Lola and Peter question the wisdom of cooperating with this mechanism, the other three become bullies. They try and intimidate Lola and Peter, and turn more violent in nature. As food becomes more scarce, their situation gets more desperate.

The characters, diverse and disparate, are all nonetheless disenfranchised. They are dropped into circumstances that create constant need. They cannot rest, or cultivate a sense of nest or refuge. They don’t know when the next meal is coming. They are encouraged to punish anyone who questions authority. In this case an inhuman, bloodless, sort of algorithm, devoid of context or reassurance. Summarily subjected to deprivation, they separate into tribes. One tribe loses its compassion, its warmth, its empathy.

We might say House of Stairs takes the turbulence of American life in the 2020’s and reconstructs its essence. It’s structural dynamics. Adapted by Director Jason Johnson-Spinos from the William Warner Sleator III novel of the same name: House of Stairs is a carefully conceived allegory for our current dystopia. Which is to say the very sharp Mr. Johnson-Spinos recognized Sleator’s vision and the parallels between his narrative and our present day clusterfuck.

Outcry Theatre has a gift for consistently producing drama that is intriguing, surprising, challenging and meticulous. The cast of House of Stairs is spot on. Polished but authentic. Intuitive but poised. Professional but present. In some ways it harkens back to The Twilight Zone. The Outer Limits. Americans have been living with dystopian content in their entertainment now, for quite some time. It’s not easy to come up with something new. House of Stairs has that chilling, enervating tone that mocks the ugliness of efficiency for its own sake, questions the need for mob rule, and begs us to pay attention.

Outcry Theatre presents House of Stairs. Playing July 15th-24th, 2022. Addison Theatre Centre, Studio Theatre, 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. 972-450-6241. ww.outcrytheatre.com

It’s opening night party of Peter Austin’s new play, Golden Egg, and James Wicker (Peter’s best friend) takes refuge in a bedroom of Julia Budder’s (the producer) Manhattan townhouse. There he meets Gus, a young actor, congenial and avid. Gus has been hired to collect coats, laying them out on the bed, as one does at parties. The coats he collects from various celebrities becomes an ongoing bit. James and Gus strike up a conversation. James is rattled, naturally. But it’s too early for the reviews to come in.

Gus may be wet behind the ears, but he’s personable. James is gabbing on his cell phone, when Virginia Noyes comes in, spouting obscenities like a pro. She has seen better days (most of the characters have) and is indeed the poster girl for the dissolute. Virginia loves the nosecandy (her purse a virtual drug dealer’s dream) and she’s glad to pick up spontaneous opportunities for fast, sloppy sex. Frank Finger arrives next, preeminent, erudite British director, male diva, neurotic mess. He sports sunglasses and a truly ghastly suit coat. (Where the hell did they find it?)

One by one the rest of the characters arrive, each with a stake in Golden Egg’s success. One of the pleasures of Terence McNally’s It’s Only A Play, is being privy to the cogs and gears of how a drama gets staged. He drops a virtually litany lot of names (David Mamet, Lady Gaga, Patti Lupone) exploiting reputation and gossip. Making mischief at their expense. McNally cooks up a strange blend of cynicism and warmth, initially setting up a slow trainwreck, as everyone involved waits for the media verdict. As the characters interact (they mostly know each other) it plays like a parade of eccentricity, foibles, bizarre secrets and wild caricature. I can’t remember the last time I saw rapidfire gags land so beautifully. Make no mistake. Certainly McNally’s comedy is brilliant. Loopy and audacious and risks that only come from a lifetime of refining his craft.

But performing a comedy of this caliber, getting it just right, is so difficult. So painstaking. Director Janette Oswald has guided this crackerjack cast through the demands of blocking, timing, delivery, tone, repartee’, avoiding pitfalls with ease and grace. Chemistry, knowing how and when to react, getting cozy enough to trust intuition, investing in the character and letting that take over, these things don’t come by chance. They come from hard work and gusto. Where doe any actor find the chutzpah to go along with McNally’s gobsmacking lunacy? Snorting coke, dropping trou, over the top narcissism and schmoozing and fighting for the remote. When was the last time you saw a comedy, when the laughter just happened, over and over? Don’t miss this sublime, shamelessly daffy evening at the theatre.

Allen Community Theatre presents It’s Only A Play, playing through July 8th-17th, 2022. 1210 East Main Street, #300, Allen, Texas, 75002. (844) 822-8849 www.AllenContemporaryTheatre.net