Sharp Critic : Christopher Soden

Intense and playful, tawdry and tender, Murder Ballad is a punchy, heartbreaking rock opera. Can Sara resist the siren song of Tom, her thuggy, gorgeous, former lover? Or will she stay faithful to her caring, devoted husband Michael? Even though we know murder is imminent, this gloriously purple melodrama is filled with surprises. It’s not just who commits the murder, but how did we get to this place? Imprint, it seems, has transformed the Margo Jones into a nightclub (The Kings X) with IDs requested, a band with a singer, pool table, bar and seating designed to accommodate potent libation. This venue in not exactly a dive, but there’s not exactly a waiting list. Most of the characters sport serious ink and tight attire.

Tom and Sara have an intense, dangerous romance that ends abruptly. Sara’s still nursing her wounds when she crosses paths with Michael, pretty much Tom’s polar opposite. Michael offers her warmth, safety and reliability. Before we know it, Michael and Sara have married, and subsequently a daughter. It’s not quite what Sara expected (the bourgeois life wears thin) but she’s not subjected to the extremes that come with an alphadog. As we might have expected, by the time their girl is old enough to go to kindergarten, Tom emerges to rekindle with Sara. Once Michael grasps the nature of Sara’s past with Tom, their relationship goes into upheaval. Michael angrily assumes Sara’s been unfaithful (Christ knows she’s barely had time) and Tom’s aching would make a gorilla cry. Tumultuous storms are tossing this vessel hard, and fever’s running higher than a town with the Black Plague.

Created and composed by Julia Jordan (Book and Lyrics) and Juliana Nash (Music and Lyrics) Murder Ballad has a healthy dose of cynicism and petulance, but not as toxic or jaded as Cabaret or Chicago. We understand the despair, pain and disappointment of the principal characters; Jordan and Nash reveal their insecurities and fears, that awful feeling of being perpetually lost. The songs are touching and unpretentious, without steering dangerously close to hoke or mawkishness. This kind of balance can be frustrating and difficult to find, but Director Ashley White and her savvy, intrepid cast engage us with an assured, persuasive touch. Jordan and Nash take us beyond the torrid Frankie and Johnny to Sara, Tom and Michael, convincingly flawed and utterly human.

Imprint Theatreworks presents: Murder Ballad, playing April 27th-May 13^th, 2018. The Margo Jones Theatre, 1121 1st Ave, Dallas, Texas 75210. 469-554-8025. imprinttheatreworks.org

James and Ruth Baker are a married couple with one teenage son (Junior) and another on the way. They live in South Oak Cliff, which is gradually becoming gentrified. James has been laid off at work, but, fortunately they own their home, and the equity it can provide. Junior’s skill as a spoken-word artist has landed him a trip to the National Competition in Chicago. But his dad doesn’t want him doing anything that might distract from getting his degree in Accounting. Al Watkins wants James to go in with him on real estate speculation. James’ older brother Jebediah, has just been released from prison. He’ll be staying with James and his family for awhile. When Bread opens, they are preparing a barbecue to welcome Jebediah. Carol Mills is Jebediah’s girlfriend, she has a sharp wit and she’s very plainspoken.

Written by Regina Taylor, Bread owes something more than a debt to Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun. It’s almost as if she’s taken the key ideas from Raisin, made them more current, and refined them. Which is perfectly fine. Imagine if Raisin were set in Dallas in the late 2010’s and told primarily (but not entirely) from the viewpoint of Walter Younger. Like the Youngers, the Bakers: 1. want to better their lot 2. deal with encroaching white people 3. are affected by a get rich quick scheme 4. son is denied the privilege of choosing his own vocation 5. dreams of moving up are always just out of reach. They raise Junior in a disciplined but loving home. He respects his parents though not without occasional grumbling. Like the Youngers they learn that when you’re trying to rise in the world, issues like location and money (or bread) can knock you down, over and over.

Bread would seem to be a central metaphor. Yes “bread” is slang for money, but Ruth has a bun in the oven, they are named for bakers, and Taylor seems to be reflecting on the distinction between mere wealth, and what we actually need to nurture our souls. At the play’s conclusion, something is revealed that robs Junior of his moral compass, and throws the Baker family into a tailspin. Perhaps because of the father’s inability to grasp the difference between the price of a house and the value of a home. What comes next is painful, poignant and powerful. Regina Taylor’s Bread is bleak, authentic, very intelligent and should not be missed.

WaterTower Theatre presents Bread. Playing April 13^th -May 6^th, 2018. 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. 972-450-6232. www.watertowertheatre.org.

James and Ruth Baker are a married couple with one teenage son (Junior) and another on the way. They live in South Oak Cliff, which is gradually becoming gentrified. James has been laid off at work, but, fortunately they own their home, and the equity it can provide. Junior’s skill as a spoken-word artist has landed him a trip to the National Competition in Chicago. But his dad doesn’t want him doing anything that might distract from getting his degree in Accounting. Al Watkins wants James to go in with him on real estate speculation. James’ older brother Jebediah, has just been released from prison. He’ll be staying with James and his family for awhile. When Bread opens, they are preparing a barbecue to welcome Jebediah. Carol Mills is Jebediah’s girlfriend, she’s a sharp wit and very plainspoken.

Written by Regina Taylor, Bread owes something more than a debt to Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun. It’s almost as if she’s taken the key ideas from Raisin, made them more current, and refined them. Which is perfectly fine. Imagine if Raisin were set in Dallas in the late 2010’s and told primarily (but not entirely) from the viewpoint of Walter Younger. Like the Youngers, the Bakers: 1. want to better their lot 2. deal with encroaching white people 3. are tempted by a get rich quick scheme 4. son is denied the privilege of chosing his own vocation 5. dreams of moving up are always just out of reach. They raise Junior in a disciplined but loving home. He respects his parents though not without occasional grumbling. Like the Youngers they learn that when you’re trying to rise in the world, issues like location and money (or bread) can knock you down, over and over.

Bread would seem to be a central metaphor. Yes “bread” is slang for money, but Ruth has a bun in the oven, they are named for bakers, and Taylor seems to be reflecting on the distinction between mere wealth, and what we actually need to nurture our souls. At the play’s conclusion, something is revealed that robs Junior of his moral compass, and throws the Baker family into a tailspin. Perhaps because of the father’s inability to grasp the difference between the price of a house and the value of a home. What comes next is painful, poignant and powerful. Regina Taylor’s Bread is bleak, authentic, very intelligent and should not be missed.

WaterTower Theatre presents Bread. Playing April 13^th -May 6^th, 2018. 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001. 972-450-6232. www.watertowertheatre.org.

Claire is a neuroscientist for a firm that develops Artificial Consciousness, and subsequently, automatons (robots) capable of learning, deductive reasoning and possibly, thought. As Uncanny Valley opens, the most current replicant arrives: Julian. He’s only completed from the waist up, but seems sentient, conscientious and (excuse the expression) personable. Claire begins tutoring him, not only explaining the fundamentals of operating in the actual world and subsistence, but the basics of propriety and polite society. Julian is a quick study, he advances rapidly, evolving and striving to grasp the nuances of language, human expression, and the subtext that humans take for granted. As Julian acquires “legs”, Claire instructs him in ideas such as demeanor and the way body language affects how others perceive us. When Claire accepts Julian’s invitation to waltz, we realize he is not only proficient, but charismatic as well. And it’s a bit alarming.

Written by Thomas Gibbons, Uncanny Valley considers the far reaching implications of Artificial Intelligence and what distinction (if any) divides human beings from autonomous machines designed to emulate us, in all our flawed, tremulous glory. If an actor learns a script, it’s not enough to learn the lines and when to say them. Ideally, the performer understands why he or she is speaking a particular line, and the impact it has. One of the reasons we probably couldn’t (or shouldn’t) see teenagers staging A Streetcar Named Desire is because they haven’t lived long enough to come from a place of experience and context. In the same way, it isn’t clear whether Julian has enough information gathered to surmise the demands of responding to difficult situations. How do we know what to say when a friend has lost someone near and dear? When we must end an intense romance? When one of our children is afraid of a thunder storm? It’s not enough to know what to say, but how to say it. Is it possible to construct intuition? Impulsiveness? Warmth?

It isn’t easy to anticipate where this play is going when the first act concludes. Certain implacable truths emerge in the second act and without (I hope) revealing too much: we discover that Claire is more conflicted that she’s previously confided, and that Julian’s blind spots will cause her great misery. Her office has been swept clean of all its decoration and memory tokens, as she’s decided to retire after a long and satisfying career. Julian shows up unexpectedly, to see her for one last time. Gibbons seems to appropriate from other resources, such as Blade Runner, Bradbury’s I Sing the Body Electric and even Twilight Zone. “Uncanny Valley” is a term describing the queasy feeling that occurs when the line between automation and authentic human existence starts to evaporate. Gibbons has disguised the disturbing in the clothes of the innocuous.

Black Flag Theatre Company presents the Regional Premiere of: Uncanny Valley, playing from March 30th-April 28th, 2018. Cox Building, 1517 H Avenue, Plano, Texas 75074. (972) 435-9517. www.blackflagtheatre.org

Dressed like a ringmaster, “Second Time” Sammy Mulligan, introduces us to a special vaudeville show set the day of the volcanic eruption of Mount Vesuvius, in 79 A. D. ; burying Pompeii, an ancient Roman city that was exceptionally evolved at the time. As we might expect from this brand of entertainment, there are all kinds of acts, stand up comedy, punchy songs, magic, bantering, puppets, clowns, soft shoe, and “plenty of hoke.” Appropriate to vaudeville, there’s cynicism, but also, an undercurrent of pathos, rage and cruelty. Doris and Harold are a married couple who keep disparaging one another, Sammy keeps making nasty remarks to brother Jimmy, the magician is so soused, yet earnest, your heart breaks for him.

As promised, pieces pointing to the impending catastrophe emerge. Martha and Gladys, two switchboard operators for Mount Olympus, sing an upbeat tune explaining the finer points of monotheism in light of the end of civilization. The townspeople are clearly engaged in pursuit of dissolute recreation: nursing hangovers and making sloppy passes. A wheel of fortune is spun, featuring destinies such as Annihilation, Plague of Locusts, Fiery Arrows (please forgive any inaccuracies here). Co-creators, Cameron Cobb, Michael Federico and Max Hartman, create a raucous, goofy, enjoyable variety show, but keep reminding us that horrific destruction is looming. We hear rumbling coming from Vesuvius, we see a comic sketch with an effete Roman emperor, we listen as Sammy takes a moment to share a bit of history.

It’s made plain that this is taking place in a world that’s all too familiar, regardless of when and how we live. People are stuck in jobs they despise, their lives are soured by feelings of worthlessness, disappointment and too much drink. Deities are either detached or cavalier. Cobb, Federico and Hartman evoke the paradigm we know from Noah’s Flood, The Black Plague, Nero Fiddling as Rome Burned, The Holocaust, i.e. people intoxicated on degeneracy when mortality’s inescapable. Absorbed in the troubles that afflict us all, they’d rather forget than seek redemption. Comparisons to the present day suggest America as a village of the blind, where a one-eyed despot is king. Pompeii!! is a stirring combination of reflection, hilarity, menace and despair. For satire, it’s fairly subtle and a grand, theatrical excursion.

Stand out performances from this resourceful, amazing cast include: Steph Garrett, Dennis Raveneau, Marti Etheridge, Jo-Jo Steine, Parker Gray and Jeff Swearingen.

Kitchen Dog Theater presents Pompeii!!, playing April 19th-May 6^th, 2018. Trinity River Arts Center, 2600 North Stemmons Freeway, Suite 180, Dallas, Texas 75207. 214-953-1055. www.kitchendog theater.org.

The married couple in Empathitrax are cited in the program as “Her” and “Him”, suggesting they could be any married couple. Other than the cool, crisp whites and grays of Amelia Bransky’s understated set, there’s not much to suggest we’re in the near future, other than the title drug itself. This husband and wife have been married more than ten years, and things have taken a severe downturn. Possibly because of the wife’s struggles with clinical depression. Empathitrax, conscientiously supplied only to the wedded, removes any impediments between an individual and someone else’s emotions. Hidden or not. These two have decided Empathitrax might just be the way to salvage their marriage.

At the outset, this new drug has a profoundly blissful impact on the relationship. Insightful revelations emerge. Each is moved by the other’s undisclosed tenderness and frailty and quirks of attraction. Then this progressive exploration into the psyche begins to go haywire. He uses Empathitrax to access her feelings when she is deep within the torment of her pathology. She then tells him she’s been weaning herself off her Zoloft for weeks, with the help of Joe, their Contact/Guide from the company that manufactures Empathitrax. After this horrible episode, she refuses to resume her Zoloft, declaring she’s tired of taking refuge in a Band Aid.

Playwright Ana Nogueira has taken the predicament of a sweet, miserable couple (and what seems like an innocuous solution) using it to foment the perfect storm. She is convinced that everything would be solved if her husband could thoroughly comprehend her illness, and he is already exhausted by her Herculean struggles. Instead of engaging the prolonged process of learning how and when to empathize with each other, which is a choice, they erase boundaries that are there for a reason. Empathitrax is a virtual illustration of wrongheaded choices, in the context of mental illness. Psychotropics make the illness manageable. Support is crucial, but, no one one person can save you. Nogueira involves us, intimately, in this couple’s desperate attempts to fix what’s broken in their attachment. It doesn’t feel that way at first, but they will evince their desperation before the final lights out. This is brilliant, compelling, nerve-wracking theatre.

Second Thought Theatre presents Empathitrax, playing April 4th-28th, 2018. Bryant Hall at Kalita Humphreys Campus. 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd, Dallas, Texas 75219. Ovation Tix: 1-888-811-4111. info@secondthoughttheatre.com

 

 

 

Down for the Count: One Act Women’s Theatre Festival

For a few years now, Bishop Arts in Oak Cliff has presented a Festival of One Acts by Women playwrights. This year’s production (directed by Phyllis Cicero) was marked by versatility, audacity and originality. They didn’t necessarily raise issues of marginalizing, discrimination or diminishment, and in some cases asked more the audience than we find in the mainstream. And perhaps something more of the intriguing and fanciful.

DIY (Katherine Craft) Two teenage girls who are best friends are fighting, Elena exposed that Rory cheated on a test. Rory has been gossiping about Elena. It takes awhile before the two strip away the layers of deception (some of the lies are extreme) to reveal the raw truth of their predicaments. In the end, their caring attachment wins out over anger. Craft shows the strength of their love without a lot of the traditional demonstrative affection.

Interdisciplinary (Ife Olujobi) An African American performance artist sits at a chair, applying makeup, wearing brassiere and panties. It’s discreetly made clear her menstrual cycle has started. Two professors who are evaluating the piece, begin their evaluation with erudition, but gradually lapse into predictable, alpha-male squabbling. Two lady friends who have met for lunch, also notice the “exhibit.” One bursts into laughter, while the other is more pensive and respectful. Olujobi explores racial division and the objectification and disparagement of women in American culture. By tracking the reactions of seemingly intelligent adults, she evinces our inability to acknowledge women as normal, whole, accessible human beings.

Jo Chaco Tum (Maryam O. Baig) Beginning with a bucolic grandfather telling a folk story to his tomboy granddaughter, this play morphs into narratives examining gender archetypes, polarization and blending of the male and female, sexuality and the pomegranate as metaphor. There are also hints of Oedipus Rex. Baig has a strong sense of the elusive and playful here. The bizarre and contemporary. She mixes colloquialism with humor and camp. This is the kind of piece that is better interpreted intuitively than intellectually, but between the lines lurks a kind of subversive wisdom.

I Get The Blues, Sometimes I Do (Tsehaye Geralyn Hebert) Hebert follows the longtime friendship of Stephanie (Black) and Colleen (White) as they struggle with issues like dating, divorce, career, heartache, while sipping wine and listening to Stephanie’s Blues records. They disagree without incident, as close friends often do; until Stephanie refuses to lend Colleen her personal experiences of the genre, for a storytelling gig Colleen has landed. Seems Colleen doesn’t understand that each person’s individual connection to the Blues is the point. Hebert has found a clever way of showing that equal doesn’t mean identical.

The Sound (Linda Jones) Delivered by an African American Woman, The Sound is a prolonged monologue comparing the sound of her mother ironing her hair flat as a child, with the sound of cocaine cooking in a Crack House. The tone is dark and melancholy. Chilling. She’s very tough, but seems to long for the warmth of her lost childhood, and resigned to present despair. Jones has created a vivid portrait of a woman who feels she cannot fit into the world of respectability, but hates the trap she’s fallen into.

Covenant (Kristiana Rae Colon) We are dropped into (what might be) a Wiccan Ritual, where four brightly dressed women dance, chant, cast spells, and forge a sacrament of shared womanhood. They are focused and invested, and it’s quite alluring and intoxicating. Towards the end, Colon introduces Roger, a friend whose dedication and passion leave much to be desired. These women understand the true meaning of devotion, and more than that, they don’t need men to thrive and evolve.

Bishop Arts Theatre Center presents: Down for the Count: One Act Women’s Theatre Festival

playing March 29th-April 15^th, 2018. 215 South Tyler Street, Dallas, Texas 75208. 214-948-0716. BishopArtsTheatre.org

Elliot is a Marine in the war against Iraq. His Pop is a Vietnam Veteran. His mom (Ginny) was an army nurse who met his dad in the war. His Grandpop is a veteran of the Korean War. These are the voices of Quiara Alegria Hudes’ Elliot, A Soldier’s Fugue. Three generations of proud Puerto Ricans serving in the American Military. From the start, Brian Clinnin’s scenic design suggests jungles, battlefields, tents, barracks, gardens, all blending into one another.

As Fugue proceeds we begin to comprehend how war has suffused the lives of Elliot, his Mom and Dad and Grandpop. At the outset, Elliot appears freshly wrapped in a towel, and dresses, but not before showing us how fit he is. Clean and untainted? We follow him through basic training and letters he sends back home, before he is sent to the battlefield. Hudes creates a surreal montage of Elliot’s experience: downtime and getting drunk, the terror of warfare, but also anticipation, the mind wandering (as in a fugue) the strangeness of intense injury, longing for his favorite foods back home. Then the drama opens up as Pop, Mom, Grandpop weave in their own experiences, creating a connective tissue, a complicated, rich, intense narrative that demonstrates how military service changes them. Not only memories but part of who they are.

There is something stirring, something vibrant and sad and subversive in Elliot, A Soldier’s Fugue. Hudes neither condemns nor celebrates the life of a soldier. There are comical moments, melancholy, dreamlike, horrific, reflective. The story of this family is nuanced and complex. All events are given equal value, so the impact of this story is subtle, yet unforgettable. We are gradually drenched in this family’s experiences, engaged in their sense of pride, shock, resignation, lack of direction, the dozens of shades and values that turn the human mind. Director David Lozano and this utterly submerged, remarkable cast have created a theatrical exploration like none other, powerful, astonishing, exquisite, overwhelming in its steadfast tenderness.

The good people at Water Tower Theatre were kind enough to invite me to Elliot, A Soldier’s Fugue, though it was too late in the run for me to post my review in a timely manner. I thank them for this. It played January 26th-February 18^th, 2018.

Water Tower Theatre : 15650 Addison Road, Addison, Texas 75001972-450-6262. www.watertowertheatre.org.

The real surprise of of TJ Dawe’s and Rita Bozi’s 52 Pick-Up is how well the premise works out in practice. 4 actors, 2 couples, 52 predetermined scenes performed at random. Each card in the deck has a scene attached, and they are tossed in the air. Each performer takes a card from the floor, reads the prompt aloud (Do you like it? What are you thinking? I didn’t say that.) the lights go down, then up. The sequence commences. Some scenes are longer than others. Some quite brief. They are ironic or melancholy or sweet or angry.

Whether 52 Pick Up involves true spontaneity, or the mere illusion, it’s hard not to expect something cursory or cavalier. The tone, the depth of feeling, the way each scene fell into place, the impression that the various scenes are happening within a larger context, all quickly disabuse us of this notion. Almost as if we wouldn’t know the sequence was random if we weren’t told. The characters are the same even though they and we don’t know what’s coming next. In some ways 52 Pick-Up reminded me of Constellations, a show in which a man and woman appear to be repeating particular exchanges, with slight variations. While parallel universes were mentioned in The Talk Back, I preferred the idea that timing could affect the outcome of any event, large or small. That many results are possible depending on forces beyond our control. Tides, planets, clocks, moods, movement, impulse. Such is what Dawe and Bozi approach through this simple, brilliant concept. Though this show takes careful steps to remind us that each scene is autonomous (with a definite beginning and end) the narrative doesn’t feel disjointed. It doesn’t play like pastiche.

Director Stefany Cambra and her cast (Robin Clayton, Andrew Manning, Caitlin Galloway and Madeleine Morris) have handled this daunting adventure with great focus and finesse. The show runs 65 minutes but it never feels frantic or rushed. We feel as if we are watching a very detailed, pensive portrait take shape before our eyes; depicting the nature of attachment, estrangement, contentment, grief. It’s strangely exhilarating to feel a project so seemingly counter-intuitive, take hold of our hearts and imagination. The mind boggles when we consider what rehearsals must have been like. 52 Pick Up was a splendid excursion into the timeless and endlessly intoxicating world of broken, irresistible humanity.

I attended 52 Pick Up on closing weekend. Many thanks to Proper hijinx Productions for letting me attend.

52 Pick Up was performed at Dance Xpress, 4320 Marsh Ridge Rd Ste 130, Carrollton, Texas 75010. (972) 939-7200. properhijinx.com

Decades after the release of such classics as Detour, Double Indemnity, They Live By Night, Film Noir continues to fascinate and resonate with contemporary audiences. Written and directed by Ochre House’s Kevin Grammer, The Woman Who Knew Too Much is a musical homage to a genre characterized by a dark, lyric cynicism. An existential, never ending night where dystopia is a given. Grammer has constructed a blissfully dark narrative that celebrates noir while perhaps indulging in tongue-in-cheek mockery. We can smile at the wiseass dialogue while appreciating a realm where its all about booze, broads and brawling. With a pervasive tone of detachment and resignation.

Violet wakes up in a mental institution, with only scraps of recollection to explain why she’s been institutionalized. She is visited by her parents and Yvonne, her hostile, snarky sister. As her memory gradually returns, she finds herself in a nightclub loaded with sketchy activity, flirtatious (if chilly) banter, thugs, prostitution, and a predilection for knocking back hard liquor. (Lock the front door, cause baby I’m home!) As Violet’s nocturnal recreational activities are slowly revealed, and various characters croon the ups and downs of their tawdry lives, the jigsaw pieces fall into place. Marguerite, Violet’s mother at the mental hospital, is a madame at the nightclub. Soon memory and supposition splash into each other. What’s genuine memory and mere, transient fantasy? Yikes.

First and foremost in noir milieu is tone, and Grammer and this confident, intuitive cast have provided it in spades. Kevin Grammer’s script is inspired. Spot on. It’s a quintessential culmination of glamour, skepticism, sharp wit and dangerous misadventure. Everybody’s packing heat and at least slightly intoxicated. I have sung the praises of Ochre House in this column before, and The Woman Who Knew Too Much, is no exception. Attention to detail, quirky mannerisms, a meticulous balance of nuance, irony and layers of symbolism and meaning, made this splendid show memorable and engaging. I regret I was unable to attend before closing weekend, but bear in mind, The Ochre House’s consistently high standards for the future.

Ochre House Theater. 825 Exposition Avenue, Dallas, Texas 75226. 214-826-6273. www.ochrehouse theater.org