Category: Critique

In my never humble opinion, you really don’t have to be Scrooge or The Grinch to be weary of the usual Christmas fare, that makes the usual theatrical rounds, every year in December. Even the most tender among us might yearn or even ache for a slant on Christmas that would make it fresh, meaningful, and relevant to lives suffused with skepticism and disappointment. And rightfully so. Of course, I reach for my hanky when Tiny Tim buys the farm or the spindly Christmas tree is resuscitated or George Bailey, haggard and despondent, gazes into the abyss of that cold black river. Who wouldn’t?

But is it so wrong, so cynical, so vile to want some way to appreciate Christmas without crawling through the same wasteland of stories we could recite backwards? Of course not. But what can we, as individuals do? Where the FFF can we look? I’m so glad you asked.

For the past three years, Nouveau 47 (champion of the dodgy, edgy, spooky and poetic) has produced a holiday show that explores Christmas, coming at it from many intriguing angles. By turns irreverent, funny, ridiculous, obtuse, scary, somber and yes, gentle. These are short pieces, some work better than others, some feel fierce, some sketchy, some strange. Past plays have included a woman trying to get her family to accept her lesbian partner, two brothers remembering their deceased mother, a comedy in which Santa defeats the cynicism of two cocky suits, and a drunk father on Christmas Eve. Drama is balanced by humor and the cumulative experience is a mixture of reflection, introspection, warmth and elation. Nouveau 47 never settles for the merely different. They always look for originality, strong writing and quality.

Now in its fourth year, the short-play festival tips more in favor of the satirical and amusing. A displaced snow-globe family, soldiers fighting extraterrestrials on Christmas Eve, wealthy relatives squabbling over gifts and a harried doctor searching for the last robot toy for his 4-year old boy. There is a satisfying blend of the dark, comical, somber and absurd. So if you need a break from the customary confection, dripping thickly with scrumptious honey, chock full of mawkish, manipulative, cringe-worthy suffering. Treat yourself to some grown-up, sophisticated takes on a world filled with chaos, candy canes, redemption and the raw power of dogged love.

Nouveau 47 presents A Very Nouveau Holiday 2016, playing December 9^th-23rd, 2016. Playwrights include: Justin Locklear, Jim Kuenzer, Erin Burdette, James Burnside, Bill Otstott, Brad McEntire, Greg Silva, Christopher Soden and Chris-James Cognetta. In the historic Margo Jones Theater in the Magnolia Lounge at Fair Park (1121 1st Ave. Dallas, TX). Performances are at 8:15pm on Fridays, 5:00 on Saturdays, 6:30pm on Sunday with pay-what-you-can performances on Mondays at 8:15pm. Tickets are $20 Fri.-Sat. and $15 on Sundays. More details can be found at Facebook.com/N47Theatre.

Unlike my previous theatre columns, this is a piece encouraging you to attend A Very Nouveau Holiday 2016. You should bear in mind that one of the eight plays included was written by your very own loopy-yet-articulate lunatic. Me. So I can’t (and shouldn’t) critique the show.

Tony Kushner’s Angels In America, a two-part series (both parts standing as independent pieces) is puzzling yet satisfying, epic yet personal, enigmatic, yet funny and cogent. Key characters are Mormon, yet it’s not immediately apparent why the Mormon church is vital to content. When Angels premiered they weren’t the only church condemning same-gender sexuality, but somehow the (shall we say?) more fanciful details of their theology seems consistent with the deadpan strangeness of the tone. The characters are not heroic but they seem swept up in the forces of history or zeitgeist or perhaps something greater? The one character who seems aware of his place in the politics and cultural evolution of America is Roy Cohn, a powerful, intelligent, reprehensible attorney who believes in contextual morality.

Louis and Prior are lovers. They are not apparently activists but neither are they in the closet. Prior has just discovered he has sarcoma lesions: the first stages of full blown AIDS. As we all know, such was a terminal diagnosis in the early 1990’s. Joe and Harper are a married Mormon couple. Harper suffers from Clinical Depression (if not other emotional diseases) and has vivid, interactive hallucinations. Joe is a rising attorney and protege to Cohn. Cohn is and Joe is in denial. The two couples (perhaps three?) are shown in parallel to one another, often using a split stage. There are serious problems between Prior and Louis, Harper and Joe, and Roy and Joe, bubbling beneath the surface. As Fate would have it, in each case, AIDS precipitates issues that already exist. And the Angels. There are voices, literal angels, drug-induced apparitions, prophesies and revelations. And Kushner mixes them all in the same cauldron, distinct and yet somehow, similar.

When Angels opened transgender cast doubling was an original way to add depth and complexity to a story. The idea that the inexplicable, mysterious gender we are is the one we just happened to wind up with. In 2016, maybe not so much. Kushner’s cunning is in his ability to personalize the impact of AIDS, as a barometer of an ethically pathological America. Not in the sense that some men were making love to each other, or frantically copulating, but that our hysterically heterocenterist society forced them into hiding. Villified them. Instead of addressing AIDS solely as metaphor or politics, he pulls us into attachments that emotionally involve us too, and walks us through the consequences. By weaving in gobs of often wry humor, he avoids pity, maybe even tragedy. Absurd, comical scenes have somber subtext. Poor Prior isn’t thrilled when a glorious angel appears. He’s terrified. His wrenching pain is treated as a stepping stone to his role in some kind of profound watershed for America’s future. But we won’t find out till part two.

Cheryl Denson has directed a sublime, crisp, infinitely intriguing and enjoyable show. The cast is skillful, agile and resonant with genuine emotion. They have captured a very difficult tone, flippant and grave. Sorrowful and resigned but nonchalant. The stony, monolothic, minimal sets by H. Bart McGeehon are appropriate and powerfully nuanced. Special kudos to Emily Scott Banks who handles her descent with poise and (forgive me) grace.

Uptown Players presents: Angels in America: Part One: Millenium Approaches, playing November 4^th-20^th, 2016. Kalita Humpreys Theater 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75219.214-214-2718. uptownplayers.org

John Kander and Fred Ebb have a penchant for humor based on the deterioration of character and morality. Otherwise well-meaning folks gradually complied with Nazi occupation in Cabaret and women who kill unfaithful husbands become the hot celebrity commodity in Chicago. Like Cabaret, Chicago reflects certain cultural truths and captures the allure of transgression almost effectively as an opium den. Roxie Hart murders a paramour before he can leave her, and immediately Velma Kelly launches into “All That Jazz” a celebration of booze, broads and brawling. The ensemble boys and girls, dressed in provocative black, are not at all shy about teasing, touching, caressing and striking tawdry poses for our delectation. Kander and Ebb have a knack for striking a balance between coy naughtiness (ugh!) and full-on degeneracy.

Of course, the sting and punch of any effective satire comes from the touchstones it establishes with the actual, recognizable world. Perhaps real life is an overrated paradigm, but it doesn’t hurt to see the parallels between Velma and Roxie, and say, Michael Jackson and O.J. Simpson. Whether or not Simpson and Jackson were innocent, public sympathy helped them enormously. The difference in Chicago being, that Roxie and Velma are popular because of their crimes, not in spite of. You can’t accuse Kander and Ebb of stacking the deck. Roxie’s cuckolded husband may be a schlub, and justice an abstraction eclipsed by corruption and arbitrary fate, but nobody comes off well in this grim immorality tale.

The splendid sleight of hand that Fred Ebb and John Kander achieve (despite pervasive, dark undercurrents) is composing a genuinely entertaining, sardonic, witty piece of theatre that rewards our attention with audacious spectacle and sharp comedy. The musical numbers are imaginative, intelligent, grown-up and snappy. Director B.J. Cleveland has met the considerable challenges of the script with confidence, extravagance, and flawless timing. In every stage production I have been privileged to critique, Mr. Cleveland has overwhelmed me with his style, precision and peerless eclat, whether he was performing or orchestrating a demanding show. His seasoned experience and brimming pleasure is manifest in every gesture, cue, inflection, aside and grimace. He can tickle you senseless or bring implacable grief without missing a beat. Don’t miss this remarkable theatrical triumph. Succumb to the siren song of Chicago.

MainStage Irving – Las Colinas presents Chicago, playing November 4^th-19^th, 2016. Irving Arts Center (Dupree Theatre) 3333 N MacArthur Blvd, Irving, TX 75062. (972) 594-6104. www.irvingtheatre.org

Ruth (Monique Abry) visits a séance held at a bookstore by the once-renowned magician, Avi Leiter. She is able to see past the illusions that fool the general public. She has reason for seeking Avi’s attention. Her husband Michael (Kyle Montgomery) injured in a train wreck, has been in a prolonged coma. On the strength of his past reputation, she hopes he might have the skills to reach her husband. Ruth’s earnest and heart-breaking plea triggers many painful memories for Avi (Michael A. Robinson). Soon Ruth (along with Billy) becomes an assistant in Avi’s ongoing “performance” as he weighs this precipitous decision. We cut to Avi when he was a young man (Wyn Delano) struggling for recognition. A young, beautiful, resourceful woman named Josephine applies to help Avi and Billy and add some glamor to the act. It seems Avi has managed to secure a rare book of sorcery that includes a spell to raise the dead. Then one evening after the show, the three of them are robbed. Written by Patrick Emile and Olivia de Guzman Emile, As We Lie Still is a deceptively simple musical.

It doesn’t use an orchestra or band. Upon reflection, the plot isn’t complicated. And yet, it’s enigmatic and haunting. The music strikes a deep nerve, blending a sense of the miraculous with pervasive yearning. We hear the songs and an undeniable sense of loss overcomes us. But also, a flickering chill of hope. As We Lie Still begs the comparison between the stage illusionist and those who can really tap the supernatural. Like any neophyte, Avi hungers for recognition. But his dabbling in cosmic forces for the sake of vanity, can’t lead him anywhere good. What begins as devotion to Josephine (Olivia de Guzman Emile) turns into something nearly perverse. And devastating.

As We Lie Still reflects upon fine distinctions: between spiritualism and enchantment, dedication and obsession, resignation and acceptance. And certainly, the nature of genuine love in the midst of deeply flawed humanity. A master stroke, I think, is the presence of Billy (Jovane Camaano) a somewhat “slow” and utterly loyal helper to Avi, whose unabashed sense of awe mirrors our own, as Avi reveals wonders to the audience. There is something about this show’s strange mixture of chicanery and the metaphysical, the guileless and the cunning, that seems to strike a nearly perfect balance. Like a chart of the planets in their concentric orbits. It sneaks up and gets under your skin, until you feel that little catch in your throat, and that rush of buried feelings.

Contemporary Theatre of Dallas presents As We Lie Still, playing October 28^th-November 20^th, 2016. 5601 Sears Street, Dallas, Texas 75206. 214-828-0094. www.ContemporaryTheatreofDallas.com

Lynn Nottage’s Ruined, is a poignant, intelligent, drama that explores the diminishment and degradation of women in the midst of a patriarchy. Set in a Mama Nadi’s brothel, in a small mining town in the Republic of Congo, Ruined opens when Christian (the Poet) sells a couple of girls to Mama Nadi, one of them his niece, Sophie. The other girl, Salima, has run away from her husband. Sophie is “ruined” which (as you might have guessed) means she has lost her virginity. So she is spared the indignity of selling her body, and Mama Nadi finds other things for her to do. Mama Nadi is not without her kindnesses, but she is a business woman, and a survivor. As the story is revealed we see how she and her girls are forced to subsist in the midst of political upheaval and civil war. But mostly they are subject to the whims of the men. Miners and soldiers.

It is sadly no surprise that in unenlightened cultures (maybe not so different from America) that a woman’s value turns on her physical beauty, virginity and ability to use her “market value” to her advantage. The idea that a girl who still has her hymen intact is somehow a special prize is, of course, repugnant but this is the world they inhabit. Women are reduced to what they bring to sexual transactions. The stories the girls share are deeply troubling, horrific. It’s not only that they see themselves as commodities or assets. But Salima has lost the ability to respond to a husband who only wants her back, despite the damage she’s endured. Mama Nadi raises the question, like Bertolt Brecht or the character of Constance in McCabe and Mrs. Miller of whether there is more dignity in being a sex worker (where there is at least some control) rather than the servitude of marriage. Before the final curtain, though, it is Sophie who will have the most profound epiphany.

Lynn Nottage has crafted a subtle, original, savvy exploration of what it means to get by when you are immersed in a sense of perpetual danger. For all the serious rhetoric of soldiers and commanders, we get the distinct impression that their pursuits are vapid and amount to one pissing contest after another. That they subjugate women because it gives them the opportunity play despot. [How appropriate in light of the current presidential race.] Women must take these idiots seriously because they have no choice. There is nothing more dangerous in this world than a fool with power. When Sophie spits on one of their boots, you want to cheer, but you can’t because you’re terrified for her. Like the best playwrights Nottage doesn’t tell us what to believe, she demonstrates the ugly disgraces prevailing in the world, and lets us decide for ourselves. Ruined is splendid, life-changing theatre.

Bishop Arts Theatre Center presents Ruined, playing October 20^th-30^th, 2016. 215 South Tyler, Dallas, Texas 75208. 214-948-0716. www.bishopartstheare.org

I guess I should start by saying: 1. I’m not a huge fan of Country Music but I’m not so perverse that I’ll fight a good time at the theatre. 2. I may be bit spoiled by current phenomena like Lost Highway (Hank Williams) and Jersey Boys (Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons) that take more trouble to create a contextual narrative for the songs we’re hearing. Ring of Fire: The Music of Johnny Cash, is quite enjoyable, with some anecdotes along the way, though it doesn’t dramatize any events from Cash’s life. The stories we do hear are key, the destitution of of Cash’s family as they manage a farm, the early death of one of Cash’s brothers, the first meeting between Johnny and his “future bride.” To be fair, it works pretty well, the explanations of why he feels for the guys in prison, his struggles with drug abuse, his cockiness while courting, because the actor/musicians have a gift for animation, and we realize the stories come from Cash himself.

I was frankly surprised that I liked Ring of Fire as much as I did, and it gave me a chance to consider the strength of country songs. For some reason, the singers can be very earnest and direct when they talk about God or loneliness or misery or deep wanting. They’re not afraid or ashamed to own their weakness or need or despair, very openly. When Cash sang, “I Walk the Line,” he concedes he’s behaving himself because he can’t lose his honey. Because you’re mine, I walk the line. Iggy Pop might sing, “I Want to be Your Dog.” [Sometimes I know just how he feels.] Country Music can discuss raw pain in ways that we might otherwise think is corny, or just excessive, but the genre seems to make it work. They can talk about being carried to the far bank of the River Jordan, or meeting those they lost to death when they make that last trip themselves. And it’s genuinely moving. You feel ridiculous, but the tears roll and it’s just fine.

The cast/music makers: Spencer Baker (Eddie) Ian Ferguson (Mark) Sonny Franks (David) Katrina Kratzer (Trenna) Brian Mathis (Jason) are jovial and spontaneous. They break up interpretation from song to song and know how to bring that shine, luster and presence to the stage. When the mood becomes somber or regretful they accommodate this with skill and respect. Director B. J. Cleveland Music Director (Sonny Franks) have brought out the most from this material with poise and freshness. The performers instinctively connect with audience, they are lively, relaxed and happy to share their gusto.

WaterTower Theatre presents Ring of Fire: The Music of Johnny Cash, playing October 7^th-30^th, 2016. 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. (972) 450-6232. www.watertowertheatre.org

In his one-man-show, The Incident, Terry Vandivort performs a two hour monologue he wrote himself, recounting what we describe today as a hate crime. It is set in the 1970’s (I believe) and he is lured into a kidnapping while cruising the peep shows at an adult book store. Vandivort’s personal narrative is refreshing for its frankness. Like any great confessional piece he doesn’t conceal anything less than flattering. Otherwise first person feels like vanity. Besides (and I think this is crucial) we get a portrait of what men can be reduced to, when they are marginalized and criminalized and vilified, for their orientation. There is something eerily democratic about the peep shows, whether you are out and proud (extremely rare in the ‘70s) or passing in the world at large. In the dark, trolling for the comfort of other-male sexual connection, we are all the same. Vandivort has the courage and character to include many details, and again, I think its impossible to minimize the role of controlled substances and alcohol. When you live in a culture that has a thousand ways to indoctrinate, and cultivate self-loathing and terror in the hearts and minds of queerfolk, chemistry can help ease the agony.

Vandivort paints a vivid mural in The Incident, taking us along on a horrific odyssey that would have traumatized anyone for a lifetime. We suspect this piece may be his way of exorcising merciless demons. There are many, many surprises, and under the direction of Cameron Cobb, Vandivort’s delivery is well-modulated. Considering the intensity of the subject, it might have been tempting to lapse into overwhelming emotion too often. Vandivort’s relaxed, casual manner is pitch-perfect. As members of the audience, we never want to feel manipulated or exploited by the ease of punching our keys. His honesty about the ordinary pieces of his life, the parties and pizza, and simple joys of seeking love and a satisfying career, create a kind of coziness and connection, that make it possible for us to empathize with his profound woundedness.

I’m sure for certain members of the audience, Vandivort was guiding them through alien territory. His unique ability to discuss what it means to be the survivor of this particular kind of abuse is never wasted. The term “hate crime” has become part of our ongoing discussion, which is good. But few realize that when you belong to a particular group, way, way back in your mind, you always wonder when your turn is coming. Few realize that this ritualized kind of shaming and degradation never happens in a vacuum. It takes an odd kind of courage (I think) to seek out the more dubious channels to experience “love” however fleeting, because society has left you no admirable or respectable choices. What Camille Paglia described as creating “little altars” in whatever secret venues one can find, whether it’s an alley, a park, or a tearoom. The Incident probably goes on a bit longer than necessary, and they might have made more use of screen images. But overall, Cobb and Vandivort have handled this material with grace, warmth, and meticulous tone and execution. Cheers and blessings to Terry Vandivort, Cobb and The Drama Club, for providing this marvelous forum.

The Drama Club presents The Incident, playing October 15^th-29^th, 2016. Bryant Hall, 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75204. www.thedramaclub.org. 214.337.0004

The Drama Club’s Wild, Wicked, Wyrd: Fairytale Time does justice to the quintessential, unrefined, primitive roots of fairy and folk tales, with a taste for sardonic, grotesque humor and a nonchalance for the extraordinary. We’ve all heard that Grimm’s Fairy Tales have been sanitized, but many of us never knew that the Grimm’s Brothers were basically taking dictation from servants, pub dwellers and other members of the working class. Few, if any, began as stories for children. Many fairy tales find their origins in oral tradition, with truly creepy and disturbing plots. Little Red Riding Hood evolved from a story called The Grandmother’s Tale in which the little girl is tricked into imbibing her own grandmother’s blood and doing a striptease for the wolf, disguised in granny drag. “What shall I do with my dress? Throw it on the fire, child, you won’t be needing it again.” It gets much, much worse, but we’ll leave it at that.

Lighter Than Air, the first fairy tale, involves two sister fishes (mermaids?) Luna and Leah, who spend all their time together, their long hair intertwined. Leah expresses a yearning desire for heaven, or ascension, or spiritual growth, or this sort of thing. A pelican of dubious intent promises to answer Leah’s “prayers.” Though Luna, much wiser and experienced, tries to reason with her, she can’t disabuse Leah of her misguided faith in the pelican. Though simple on its surface, John Flores’ Lighter Than Air considers the finer shades of issues like trust, love, independence and pure motives.

Michael Federico’s Mother Holly again considers two sisters, living with their father, under the shadow of a mother who has passed away. [The absence of a parent is always an unmistakable signal in fairy tales.] Margo, the older sister, tries to help her dad’s variety show by singing, but even though she’s talented, audiences (such as they are) are less than enthusiastic. Heading to the woods in search of food for her desolate family, Margo first encounters The Bread Man (dressed like a down at the heels pimp?) who unlike the Gingerbread Man, welcomes cannibalism, despite the fact it’s not an altogether pleasurable sensation for him. Is this a metaphor for sex? Self-sacrifice? Who can say? He sends Margo to a witch, Mother Holly. She asks for two weeks of housework and a lullaby at bedtime, in exchange for the singing gift that will save her family. The lullaby soothes Mother Holly’s loneliness, and Margo figures it’s a fair exchange. When she returns, she packs the nightclub every night, which makes sister Elisabeth jealous.

Written by Maryam Obaidallah Baig, Jo Chaho Tum, is a fanciful yarn of a princess finding her heart’s desire and knowing when intuition outweighs propriety. It actually begins in the ranch home of a bucolic Texas grandfather, telling his rebellious lesbian granddaughter a story from the Far East. Just Desserts, by John Flores, owes a tremendous debt to Looney Tunes and Grand Guignol. It pits a Bear against a Rabbit, vying for the title of Greatest Chef in the World. Since both their cupboards are bare, they are forced to extreme measures when an a spacey blonde American tourist appears. Exaggerating the traditional cartoon mayhem of wielding axes, cleavers and saws to ridiculous lengths (that would put Itch and Scratchy to shame) the two chefs mutilate themselves in silhouette. We are so utterly overwhelmed by this mix of the grisly and ridiculous we laugh in helpless disbelief.

Wild, Wicked, Wyrd taps into the forgotten, vivid, chilling scaffolding of present-day fairy tales, creating new narratives for the show. I’m guessing the three W’s in the title point to an all-female cast, the man drag adding yet another bizarre layer to the trippy, queasy, intriguing experience. It would be remiss of me to neglect mentioning Amanda West, Korey Kent, John M. Flores, Jim Kuenzer, Jeffrey Schmidt and Steph Garrett whose collaborative efforts created costumes, scenery and numerous awe-inspiring, dazzling and spellbinding effects. There is something unequivocally remarkable in the sorcery this team accomplished without spending lots of coin or using complicated technology. Spangles, sparkles, shadow puppets, masks. It will mess with your mind, and, you know, it’s a beautiful thing.

The Drama Club presents Wild, Wicked, Wyrd: Fairytale Time, playing October 15^th-29^th, 2016. Bryant Hall, 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75204. www.thedramaclub.org. 214.337.0004

What began as a fringe piece in the attic of a London theater somehow evolved over time to be an enduring musical sex comedy mocking puritanism, hypocrisy and the dreary world of bourgeois morality. Written by Richard O’Brien (in the 1970’s) The Rocky Horror Show somehow struck a nerve with counter-culture, challenging the heterocentrist paradigm, including a wedding between the rapacious, transgendered Dr. Frank ‘N’ Furter and his dishy creation, “Rocky”. Currently playing at The Stellar Academy of Fine Arts (closing this weekend!) and directed by Ryan Mattheiu Smith, The Rocky Horror Show is an uproarious, giddy tribute to B-Movie Sci-Fi, a genre where bland, archetypical nuclear family values intersect with fantasy and camp.

Brad Majors and Janet Weiss are still glowing after attending a friend’s wedding and Janet’s acceptance of Brad’s proposal. Stuck with a flat tire, the two must wade through a deluge to seek help at a strange castle. There they are stunned and appalled to discover Dr. Frank ‘N’ Furter and his perverse party guests on the occasion of unveiling his triumph over ignorance and mortality. Needless to say, Janet and Brad couldn’t feel worse if they’d been dropped into a live volcano. Or a jello wrestling match. Before the evening is over they will be tainted by the doctor’s raging, polyamorous appetites, and subsequent interpersonal dramas. How could they possibly have imagined their odyssey would take them to a place of interplanetary insanity and honey-thick hedonism?

Ryan Mattheiu Smith seems to ascribe to the Mae West School of Excess i.e. : “Too much of a good thing is wonderful.” If there was ever a show that feels perfect for this approach, it’s certainly Rocky Horror, and while it works better sometimes than others, overall it’s an immensely pleasurable and juicy tumble with transgression and degeneracy. Smith certainly capitalizes on gender meltdown, using contradictory casting hither and yon. The entire cast seems energized by a playful mix of anger

and Dionysian abandon. The production is chock full of dishy, boy eyecandy and itchy, bitchy, hilarious “ladies.” Key players Steven Rob Pounds (Brad) Cherish Robinson (Janet) and Dustin Simington (Dr. Frank ‘N’ Furter) have gobs of chutspah and moxie. Not only do they have intuitive stage presence but undeniable pipes. They sing with charisma and depth of emotion. The players know how to cut loose and invite us to the party. They break open the windows and welcome us to this opium den masquerading as a candy store.

Stellar Academy of Fine Arts presents The Rocky Horror Show, closing this weekend, October 30th, 2016. 3321 Premier Drive, Plano, TX 75023 (214) 531-4833. www.stellar.mu

Never seen anything quite like Kitchen Dog’s Stain Upon the Silence: Beckett’s Bequest, a montage of introspective monologues reflecting on mortality, weariness, disappointment, upheaval and living on the verge of death. Two pieces by Samuel Beckett and four by other playwrights, each characterized by fragmented perception, mesmerizing repetition, despair, irony, intensity and the pain of a life we can’t control and yet refusing to let go. All six pieces dovetail so smoothly (there’s a masterful mix of ache and laughter) we wonder how this project was conceived and so adeptly executed. If three symbiotic panels are a triptych, what then do we call six? Each monologue enhances what comes after and/or before, yet stands alone.

Rockaby and A Piece of Monologue, both by Samuel Beckett, are chilling and unsettling. In Rockaby, an elderly lady sways to and fro in her rocking chair, sharing broken thoughts, repeating certain words and phrases. In Piece of Monologue we see an elderly gentleman, in a nightshirt, describing a light in the window. A gathering of black umbrellas around a grave. Again, fragmented, repeated pieces of perception, frantic, panicky, subdued yet yearning and resigned. Both the woman and man are bathed in a kind of half-light that puts them on a cusp between the present and encroaching demise. Beckett loves to dwell on our attachment to the disappointing world, and hunger for divine redemption. Instead of looking for God within our own capacity for abundance, we mark time waiting for a lifeboat that never comes.

Tongues (Sam Shepard and Joseph Chaikin) punctuated by rough, ironic drumming is the story of man coming to terms with aging, the blows we must endure by simply leaving our homes and getting out into the world. Behold the Coach, In a Blazer, Uninsured (Will Eno) explores frustration and hopelessness with satire when the coach concedes a catastrophic year for the high school football team. Pickling (Suzan-Lori Parks) finds an old woman in bed, evidently in the last cycle before death, delivering stream of consciousness recollections, grasping at memories of desire, destitution and regret. Lisa, My Friend (Abe Koogler) is a great way to end the evening. A ditzy, insipid, superficial teenage girl feels betrayed by Lisa, but isn’t sure exactly why this episode torments her. She converses incessantly with an offstage voice: “Are you there? Yeah. Are you there? Yeah. Are you there? (Pause) Yeah.”

Gertrude Stein demonstrated the power of anaphora (strategic, intuitive repeating of words and phrases for hypnotic effect) and made it look easy. The playwrights represented in A Stain make use of that technique with acumen and flexibility. It’s difficult to build an entire show on this without subjecting the audience to temporary lobotomy. Kitchen Dog avoids this, with wit and incision. They drag us into freezing, bleak, deep water without drowning us or completely snuffing our candles. Though it takes us much closer than we might have wished. It’s subversive, cunning theatre. Director Tim Johnson invites the grim reaper to plant a kiss before he grudgingly departs. No mints strong enough (not even Altoids) to prepare us for that. But it works, it’s not sloppy or ghoulish. It’s not a blood baptism. It’s precise and often drifts into the fetching and ridiculous and sometimes the reverie of absurd persistence. It’s beautiful and tragic and basks in the fiasco of life.

Kitchen Dog Theater presents A Stain Upon the Silence: Beckett’s Bequest, playing October 7th-29th, 2016. 2600 North Stemmons Freeway, Suite 180, Dallas, Texas 75207 214-953-1055. admin@kitchendogtheater.org