Sharp Critic : Christopher Soden

Matthew Posey, genius behind The Ochre House, writer and director of most of their shows, has a unique gift for creating absurd, strange, shticky, profane, hilarious pieces with a cynical undercurrent. I say this with great admiration. Cynicism is often a powerful impetus for brilliant satire. Dr. Bobaganush is a bold, funny, fierce indictment of the holocaust and our current regime. As an elderly Jewish friend of mine once pointed out, the parallels are ugly and unsettling, and Posey has used his magnificent craft to stir us to the quick. You don’t know whether to weep or guffaw. It’s not difficult to watch until the very end.

Dr. Bobaganush (and his Carnival of Wonders) travels the European hinterlands with his family in a wagon, a mash-up of slapstick, prophesy and prestidigitation. Ochre House shows have a tendency to blend the comedic, oracular and grotesque and this one is no exception. The characters include Anne Frank and Mr. and Mrs. Van Daan. Anne is dressed to suggest Dorothy Gale of Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz series. When she spends the night in Bobaganush’s wagon, his decrepit dad chases her sporting (what must be) an enormous erection. Ugh! Someone needs to put grandpa on a leash. For all the stuff and nonsense the doctor and his clan offer as entertainment, he undoubtedly has access to genuine psychic powers. While Anne and the Van Daans flee the Nazis, he senses something nefarious in the air. It’s obvious to the audience he’s on the right track, but at that time, no one could believe that such a ridiculous, unbalanced little megalomaniac could win such widespread advocacy, or wield such pervasive, toxic influence.

As I have already suggested, you never know what to expect when you visit The Ochre House, but it’s all to the good. For some reason, Posey’s bizarre combinations of the traumatic, banal, humorous and vaudevillian works inexplicably well, and no one who loves theatre should miss the opportunity to go. As you may have heard, Posey is recovering from a horrible assault, forcing them to cancel the run of Dr. Bobaganush, and more’s the pity. We need artists like Posey, now more than ever. I sincerely hope and pray that with our love, good wishes and support he will be restored to full health, and this phenomenal, miraculous, necessary show can be expeditiously revived. God speed to Matthew Posey and his remarkable team of actors, creators, and musicians.

The Ochre House Theatre: Dr. Bobaganush. 825 Exposition Avenue, Dallas, Texas 75226. 214-826-6273. www.ochrehosetheatre.org

Cast:

Doctor Bobaganush: Matthew Posey

Madame Bobaganush: Marti Etheridge

Anne: Elizabeth Evans

Peter: Christian Taylor

Boobi: Chris Sykes

Mrs. Van Daan: Cassie Bann

Mr. Van Daan: Kevin Grammer

Frau Kina Hora: Carla Parker

Herr Lipschitz: Mitchell Parrack

Musicians:

Woodwinds: Jeffrey Barnes

Percussion: Bobby Fajardo, Stefan Gonzales

Bass: Aaron Gonzales

Accordian: Earl Norman

Lead Vocal: Trey Pendergrass

Guitar: Gregg Prickett

Creative Team:

Composer/Music Director: Earl Norman

Lyrics: Matthew Posey and Mitchell Parrack

Scenic Artist: Izk Davies

Costume Design: Amie Carson

Set Design: Matthew Posey

Props and Puppet Design: Justin Locklear

Lighting Design: Kevin Grammer

Choreography: Delilah Arrebola

Carpenters: Justin Locklear, Kevin Grammer and Mitchell Parrack

Stage Management: Madeleine Morris

House Management: Cynthia Webb

House Staff: Ruth Fajardo

Photography: Richard Hart

Graphic Designer: Jeremy Word

It’s understood Neil Simon is a gifted comic playwright. But the cynicism, the irony that makes his humor so pointed and resonant, doesn’t get much attention. In all fairness, that dark streak is more evident in some pieces than others. Early in his career he wrote The Gingerbread Lady for Maureen Stapleton, a rueful, wry comedy tracking the journey of a woman recovering from alcoholism, before terms like: “enabling, dependency, sobriety” were part of the popular vernacular. Broadway Bound is probably the most melancholy of Simon’s autobiographical trilogy (including Brighton Beach Memoirs and Biloxi Blues) though its salient aspect is also humor. Simon attempts a deeper intimacy, by owning his shadow. His flaws are not divulged in some tortured moment of excruciating humility, but simply. Plainly.

Eugene and Stanley Jerome are brothers, living with their parents, Kate and Jack, and their grandpa, Ben. Like many Jewish working-class families in New York, they live in Brighton Beach. Their cultural identity affects their attitudes, values and how they live, in the same way it affects Latin Catholics, WASPS and cold-water Baptists. Back in the day, Grandpa Ben was a vociferous Socialist. And he still is. Stanley and Eugene are starting to hit their stride as comic writers. Kate and Jack are growing more and more distant from one another. The animosity is tangible, but no one talks about it. Eugene’s astonishing gift is his ability to confront painful truths with his subversive, wise-ass wit. Imagine the family dog was hit by a car. Your mother serves dinner that evening. She asks how you like the pot roast, and you say: “I dunno. Usually I’d just sneak it to Sophie.” [This is strictly an example. It’s not in the play.]

The brothers feel increasingly frustrated and contentious. But they steadily climb higher in the entertainment business. When a comedy sketch Eugene and Stanley wrote is broadcast, their whole family gathers, and all their friends, throughout the neighborhood. Afterwards, Kate is genuinely proud (but distracted) Grandfather only likes political satire, and Jack is insulted. He’s convinced the two were taking jabs at him. This marks a turning point for Eugene, who realizes rage is his ticket to real success, if he mixes it with sly humor. Stanley encourages Eugene to befriend “that son-of-a-bitch” lurking inside, because it will take him far. What follows is astounding.

Eugene’s mother tells the anecdote of the night she danced with George Raft. But for some reason, this time it’s different. For the first time Eugene sees Kate, before she was his mother, consumed with responsibilities. She shows him how to dance, and he confides to us the dubious, profound rush of falling in love and showing up his dad. Neil Simon must know we know it’s him, but he takes that dangerous step – hoping we’ll understand. He trusts us with his broken, sad, frail humanity. What Sherry Etzel (Kate) and Quinn Angell (Eugene) achieve here (with Director Evelyn Davis) is remarkable. Who knew they could take us to this reckless, inconsolable realm of leaving boyhood behind? This is a diligent, inspired, dedicated cast. Go. See Broadway Bound. Bring someone dear to you and five handkerchiefs.

Theatre Frisco presents Broadway Bound, playing February 24th-March 12^th, 2017. 8004 North Dallas Parkway, Suite 200, Frisco, TX 75034. (Call and ask for directions.) 972-370-2266. www.theatrefrisco.com

I have often despaired of trying to express unequivocal enthusiasm for theatre that is disturbing, harrowing, intrusive, and yet ferocious and brave. Theatre often grapples with and articulates a world that (beneath the surface) is terrifying and grotesque. So when Kitchen Dog Theater (God bless them) engages with contradictory needs between our raw humanity and what culture demands, I find the experience exhilarating, overwhelming, flamboyant and everything that fierce, defiant, contemporary theatre must be. There will (of course) always be need for pleasure-driven, blissfully ridiculous comedy, but certainly also enjoyment in even the bleakest of theatrical narratives. Great theatre has an intuitive feel for turning emotion and struggle into extravagant, spectacular, though precise, imagery and sacrament. Sometimes it helps to explore the frantic and abysmal. It makes the unknown less daunting.

Eva, a sad, lonely, middle-aged (but never pathetic) merchant who loves to paint, helps a homeless guy by letting him carry her groceries. When he refuses remuneration, she hastily tries to get rid of him, even when he explains there are men outside, waiting to kill him. “Not my problem,” she replies, without seeming unkind. But somehow the guy turns it around, rather quickly, and she offers him food and temporary refuge. His actual name is Roberto, but he prefers the nickname his cronies gave him: “The Hake”. (A hake is a vicious reptile that is something like a cross between a piranha and a cottonmouth.) While humbly eating soup, he sets a pattern: slipping in degradation, disguised as concern.

When she returns from her store the next day, she discovers he’s created truly impressive fancies and practical basketry from her Sunday paper, a commodity usually read and discarded quickly. Paper Flowers is rich with a metaphor, top to bottom. There is something disarming about this aspect of his personality. He’s charismatic and subdued, but even before we see his behavior in her absence, something is unmistakably off about him. Unsavory. As she begins to offer more tender feelings, incidents that should alarm her, fail to do so. When she discovers Goldie (her canary) is not actually missing, because “Hake” killed her, she is flabbergasted. And yet she doesn’t kick him out. Running throughout this surreal, troubling courtship is the vague suggestion that Eva’s charity is fueled by sexual desire. Possibly. But often it works out that women give sex for love, and men, love for sex. But then, if this snake has such contempt for Eva’s supposed “neediness,” no one’s forcing him to participate.

Days after I watched Paper Flowers,  I realized how utterly it had gotten under my skin. It is subversive and cunning, dragging us into a cluster of passions in a flagrant, chaotic, implacable way. The connection between Eva and Hake. Is it about romance, libido, empathy, alms-giving, rage, pride? The bread of shame? Hake seems to keep mistaking sympathy for pity. But if Eva (in Hake’s view) could never comprehend his situation, than I suppose the bourgeois are incapable of anything but pity. Subsequently, Hake cannot accept anything offered out of love (genuine or not). He must take it by force. He makes a speech at the end, that amounts to this. We get so lost in what the other needs us to be, that we lose our identity. There is probably something to that.

Kitchen Dog Theater presents Paper Flowers playing February 17^th – March 11^th, 2017. 2600 North Stemmons Freeway, # 180, Dallas, Texas 75207. 214-953-1055. www.kitchendogtheater.org

What makes Uptown’s annual fundraiser so appealing is its deceptively subversive premise. Men sing Broadway tunes originally written for women, women sing pieces intended for men. In addition to other logistical nightmares, this requires transposing the keys, to accommodate a different range. We’ve certainly become accustomed to gender-bending when personalities like Dr. Frankenfurter, Ru Paul, and Dame Edna Everage have entered mainstream pop culture, but Broadway Our Way is something else again. It’s so easy to forget that live theatre exploits the advantage of spectacle. Consider the moment when a priest lifts the host and chalice heavenward. Broadway Our Way (BOW) provides alternative context for these musical narratives. Sometimes they’re sly. Sometimes ribald. Sometimes shamelessly starry-eyed and melancholy. We are now 17 years into the 21^st Century and dear God we seem (more than ever) to need this demonstration, this assertion that there’s nothing criminal or morally bankrupt about being smitten with someone of the same gender. I wonder sometimes if BOW is so saliently pleasure-driven that its intoxicating political power isn’t obvious. I want to put my feet up, darlin, and soak it all in.

In the second act the milieu was private Catholic School. Most of the performers dressed as students and the raucous homage to West Side Story’s Gymnasium Dance was punchy and inspired. Later the women sang The Bitch of Living from Spring Awakening, a virile, male, angry, sex-tortured song if there ever was one, and did so with palpable rage. In the first act there was some cowboy, prettyboy, roughtrade and waiter flavored hi-jinks: guys waggling scrumptious behinds and flirting with each other with impunity. There were special “guest” appearances by those Duchesses of Drag, Coy Covington and B.J. Cleveland (AbFab’s Eddie and Patsy and Liza Minnelli) and Janelle Lutz reprised her phenomenal Judy Garland. There were yearning torch songs and the gentle irony that comes from longtime, monogamous love affairs. Brett Warner (The Night Dolly Parton Was Almost Mine) Alex Heika (Pulled) and Amy Stevenson (My Eyes Adored You) reminded us that BOW never lacks for delicious, silly, often earthy comic relief.

The cast of Broadway Our Way donated their time and was ready to roll with only two weeks of rehearsal. Kudos to B.J. Cleveland, who found the perfect mix of promotional pitch, jubilant anthems to queer pride, tender explorations of same-gender devotion and giddy hilarity. Dallas is very blessed to to have a company like Uptown Players that provides warmth, refuge and sense of purpose to the sixth largest LGBT Community in America. But apart from their nefarious, hidden agenda (shudder) is a team of artists who converge to create a show of glorious, impeccable quality.

Uptown Players presents their 15^th Annual Fundraiser, Broadway Our Way, playing March 2nd-5th, 2017. Kalita Humphreys Theater, 3636 Turtle Creek Boulevard, Dallas, Texas 75219. 214-219-2718. uptownplayers.org

Bertolt Brecht, a playwright skilled in raising humanitarian issues, would seem ideal in our present, tumultuous political climate. Though Galileo might not have been an obvious choice. Undermain, though, was savvy to stage Galileo. However subtle the analogy, a brilliant astronomer challenging the nature of our relationship to the heavens, feels perfect for the occasion. Galileo’s research and revelations flew in the face of the papacy, who feared the implications if earth was not at the center of the universe.

Ironically, Galileo wasn’t pompous or lofty. He wasn’t seeking notoriety, though he appreciated his increased earning abilities. He was a very practical, down to earth scientist, with a burning hunger for knowledge and grasping the truth. For him, truth and piety weren’t incompatible. It’s intriguing to note that Brecht never lionizes Galileo, nor does he diminish him. Early in the story, Galileo appropriates the idea of the telescope (improves upon) and cashes in on it. He seems to take great satisfaction in cracking open the mysterious world and sharing what he discovers with his students. All things considered, he’s fairly humble (which is not to say obsequious). Yet the power structure perceives him as an anarchist. An iconoclast. Galileo simply strives to bring civilization out of darkness.

Undermain has created a splendid theatrical allegory here. They capitalize on the contrast between Galileo’s pragmatic demeanor, and the scintillating cosmos that never fails to astonish him. Bruce DuBose (as Galileo) captures the essence of his genius, who is cynical enough to recognize ignorance and superstition, but credulous enough to revere the miraculous, even when it’s made comprehensible.

I was surprised that they used period costumes, but Amanda Capshaws designs are rich, vibrant and witty. John Arnone’s set design transforms the stage into a kind of star chart, or altar. The delicate, effulgent constellations are subdued, yet dazzling, evoking that ache we feel when gazing skyward. Undermain’s Galileo grapples with humanity’s never-ending upheaval over issues that may not actually have anything to do with the quality of existence. Then rises above it.

Undermain presents Galileo, playing February 8th-March 5^th, 2017. 3200 Main Street, Dallas, Texas 75226. 214-747-5515. www.undermain.org [ Free Covered Parking at 3300 Commerce Street.]

Celia and Jeremy Winthrop are newlyweds on their honeymoon. After a series of mishaps at the resort, they decide to return early. Jeremy has offered the use of their country cottage to the Wards and the Jessels, two couples under the mistaken impression they’re still out of town. When Celia and Jeremy arrive, finding no evidence of other inhabitants, they settle in, assuming they’ll have the place to themselves. Jeremy, being a rugged, virile, freshly married young man who’s already had his consummation privileges delayed, is eager to get busy. Celia however, keeps putting him off, reminding him they’re two civilized adults, with no need to jump each other, in the heat of reckless urgency.

Needless to say, Jeremy and Celia’s pastoral, posh cottage is roomy enough to make it possible (no matter how implausible) for the two to be absent when the Wards and Jessels show up separately, unaware and unannounced. To further complicate matters, Sara Ward is having an affair with Humphrey Jessel. And (you guessed it) Peregrine Ward is seeing Thelma Jessel. Each pair believes no one else is there. Each character spends as much time considering their missing spouse as they do romancing. When Jeremy and Celia discover two of their friends are also staying there (though promiscuously) they decide to be casual and sophisticated. Until they realize they’ve got four guests, instead of two. For the rest of the play, they assiduously keep one pair from discovering the other.

Written by Brian Clemens and Dennis Spooner, Will You Still Love Me in the Morning is a light, clever, sex farce without sex, or strangely enough, much cynicism. There’s no shortage of libido (or guilt) and Spooner and Clemens pit the cerebral against the carnal, repeatedly. These hapless folks would probably spend more time making love, if they weren’t so busy navigating the realm of discreet transgression. The newlyweds exhaust themselves trying to protect the four from discovering their partner’s infidelity. We’re caught up in the playwrights’ frantic attempts to spare each character’s feelings, before the shiny penny drops. As badly as everyone wants to engage in rowdy sex, circumstances conspire to interfere. Even the newlyweds, who must surely be entitled to some matrimonial bliss, are denied the opportunity. There is also a plumber whose attempts to plug a broken pipe (thank you, Dr. Freud) are prolonged and futile.

Directed by Sue Birch this cast: Bryan Brooks (Jeremy Winthrop) Robin Clayton (Celia Winthrop) Nick Haley (Peregrine Ward) Shea Smitherman (Sara Ward) Jake Shanahan (Humphrey Jessel)
Kim Winnubst (Thelma Jessel) and Lauren Hearn (Syd Clancy) could put Cirque de Soleil to shame with their agile hijinks and shenanigans. (How do they do it?) This kind of comedy can get old very quickly and it is to their great credit that Will You Still comes off with such charm and aplomb.

Theatre Britain presents Will You Still Love Me in the Morning, playing February 10th-March 5^th, 2017. Cox Playhouse, 1517 Avenue H, Plano, Texas 75074.972-490-4202. www.theatre-britain.com

The Lion in Winter is set in the castle of of Henry II of England, in Chinon, France. It is the Christmas of 1183 and Henry’s wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine has been paroled for the holidays. Henry locked her up when she tried to raise a coupe against him. Also in attendance are their sons Geoffrey, John and Richard (the Lionhearted) Alais, Henry’s mistress, and her half-brother Phillip II, of France. Throughout their stay there is much subterfuge, feinting, manipulation, verbal gouging and tantrum throwing. To playwright James Goldman’s credit, we get a crisp, vivid picture of the significance of issues such as lineage, geographical access, sex versus matrimony and the leverage that comes with sovereignty.

Mostly Goldman strives to strip these historical figures of any regal mien or mythic cache. The juicy repartee and cruel jabs are so self-conscious, he barely gets away with it. How easy is it really, to sell a line like: “I could peel you like a pear, and God himself would call it justice.” ? It’s so utterly over the top, you must cultivate a tone that is high octane and just this side of volcanic. Desperate, yet subdued, ironic but funny, self-indulgent but not self-conscious, enraged but contained. Lion has a comedic layer that makes the vitriol tolerable. But after awhile the excessive abuse and bellicose undercurrent begins to wear us down. We start to get inured to it. Understand this piece can be raucous and exhilarating, but requires pitch perfect acting and chemistry. Ellen Bell (Eleanor) and Dale Moon (Henry) especially, bring zeal and authenticity to this production.

The Lion in Winter is not a complex play, but a strange mixture of elements. The dialogue is mostly glib, cynical, toxic jibes laced with irony and narcissistic, introspective revelation. Like going to a party where everyone is clever and snotty and drunk and spilling out their anger without being completely vicious. They want to wound each other, even at the cost of advantages they intensely want. Eleanor (the queen) wants the throne for Richard (one of the three princes) but not as badly as she needs to see Henry (her husband, the king) suffer. It works because (underneath it all) this family of compulsive warriors actually cares for one another. They feign disaffection, but no one sustains this kind of animus without being deeply invested in the outcome. Goldman (that maniac in a three-piece suit) knows how to throw royalty into trashy behavior, and still draw us into the fray.

Lakeside Community Theatre presents The Lion in Winter, playing February 10^th -25^th (PM) 2017. 6303 Main St, The Colony, Texas 75056. (214) 801-4869 lctthecolony@yahoo.com [Calling ahead for directions is highly recommended.]

Down for the Count, a festival of one-acts written by women, is refreshing, intriguing, entertaining. Produced now for the second year by Bishop Arts Theatre Center, and directed by Gail Cronhauer, it features five short plays. Each is one different, not only from the others, but from the mainstream theatre we so often see. Strangely enough, none of them are really comedies (though some have amusing moments) which is unusual for this kind of anthology. None of them is conventional, and even if we anticipate the ending, each one confounds our expectations.

Cecelia Copeland’s Smashing the Patriarchy depicts a typical day of political maneuvering and navigation by Constance, a Senator. She fights for the right for women to choose, and spars with those who consider such issues to be nothing more than bargaining chips and/or leverage. Usually when we see a politician who is (if I may be so bold) fighting on the side of the angels, they are naive, or thin-skinned, or both. They are often overwhelmed by the chicanery of the opposition, and too quick to consider capitulating. Not Constance, nor Martina, her assistant. They are very comfortable dealing in the blue language so often used in these grueling battles, and cut through duplicity and disingenuousness without a quiver. When they suspect another woman is shilling for the opponent, they call her on it. Copeland never panders to the idea that women make better nurturers than warriors. Smashing the Patriarchy is very satisfying from an ethical standpoint, though a more toxic adversary might have made for better friction.

Camika Spencer’s Things That Go Bump is easily the strongest piece out of this impressive cluster of plays. We find Daniel, a recovering alcoholic with anger issues, trying to remember the words to The Serenity Prayer. He has recently reconciled with Natalie, his estranged wife, and they are trying to talk things out. It is truly surprising (especially in a genre that uses such brevity) to see how Spencer expresses the profound pain and isolation of a character who is not particularly likable. It would have been easy to convince us that Daniel was solely responsible for his catastrophic situation (and perhaps he is) but we mostly feel just very, very sad. And chilled.

The Red Zone by Ashley Edwards is a strange, kind of giddy, frantic exploration of an extremely unorthodox couple: Gretchen and Isaac. Back in their halcyon days, Isaac and Gretchen first connected on Halloween. Something about their eccentric (but innocuous) worldviews made this bizarre, romantic context feel like kismet. Both of these people are congenial, funny and genuine, even if they have poor impulse control. The Red Zone’s hook is its appeal for hanging on to the spontaneous, unpredictable aspects of life. Rather than settling for a marriage that is tepid and mundane, Gretchen and Isaac try to preserve the loopy behavior that keeps them young and energized.

How to Iron a Shirt, by Carmela Lamberti opens on a “Woman” with an ironing board, carefully pressing her husband’s dress blue shirt, for a special occasion. This piece is something of a soliloquy. She describes her technique for getting the sleeves, collar, edges, just right, while discussing her relationship with her dad and her spouse. The pace is pretty much what you’d expect from the casual conversation you might have while taking your time with a chore. Lamberti is pretty sly. Gradually we get the bits and pieces in the mosaic of a lady who expresses devotion by taking such meticulous care of her loved ones. We share in her warmth, her loneliness, her frustration. Lamberti composes the narrative subtly, seamlessly and memorably.

Josefina Lopez’s Hypsteria is a morality tale about Lucha and her son, Freddie. Lucha is an activist, who has vigilantly defeated drug dealers, thieves, and other predators that have made life unsafe for decent families. All of this (she says) in the name of motherhood and justice. When a greedy landlord has their tenement condemned for the sake of turning a profit, Lucha and Freddie pitch a tent on the property to prevent new owners from subjecting the neighborhood to gentrification. Lucha uses the expression, “hipsters”, which (in this case) means edgy millennials. These millennials appropriate properties with quirky, bohemian charm, marginalizing the working class in the process. While Lucha is undoubtedly admirable, and a stalwart crusader, she can also be a pain. In the process of demanding a fair shake, Lucha discovers that one of the owners actually has a conscience and a heart. Lopez gives us a heroine who gets the job done, even if she bears more resemblance to Mother Teresa than Saint Bernadette.

Bishop Arts Theatre Center (TeCo Theatrical Productions) presents Down for the Count, a One Act Festival playing February 16th-26th, 2017. 215 South Tyler Street, Dallas, Texas 75208. 214-948-0716. www.BishopArtsTheatre.org.

In her first collection of essays, Joan Didion wrote “Anything worth having has its price.” She didn’t resort to cliches like: “Life isn’t fair,” or “You can have it all.” In her simple, non-judgmental way she summed up a truth that we may have suspected, but carefully avoided confronting. In Big Enough (her one-woman show) Stefany Cambra reveals tough but realistic insights into human endeavors, by sharing crucial aspects of her life thus far.

Cambra begins by entering in brightly colored gym clothes, huffing as she works out for a short spell, then plops herself down to confide in us, and indulge in some “nutritious” work-out treats. Including wine. Her wry sense of humor is definitely one of her strong points. She describes internal debates with self-esteem and body issues. Fair to say this piece comes from the viewpoint of an American woman who will not predicate personal value on her ability to land a man. She does however, listen far too often to that deprecating voice we all entertain: “Is this because I don’t need a spouse, or couldn’t find one if I tried?” Her friends’ attempts to reassure her feel somewhat like consolation platitudes, so she resolves to reshape her body, without making others feel inadequate. This is part of Cambra’s charm. Even when she takes digs, she earnestly respects others feelings.

We follow Stefany as she takes on the ordeals of the Senior Prom, dating while maintaining a palpable, exhilarating commitment to the theatre, dieting and yoga. Like other prolonged, contemporary soliloquies, she strikes a casual tone, connecting with individuals in the audience. We exercise along with her (if we so choose) we listen to her mantras, we are privy to her love/hate affair with The Hallmark Channel. She is genuine and engaging and congenial, without getting perky. Her quirky asides sneak in as she takes us through the ragged, jagged hoops that grown-ups must endure. She plods along in the face of merciless disappointment.

Stefany Cambra’s great strength is her ability to find these hideous aches that go unnoticed or at least without articulation. She recognizes this great, conspiratorial myth that if we’re very, very, careful to live our lives deliberately, and without error, the cosmos will reward us with bliss. That we will never be forced to make painful choices. Cambra could have easily coasted on her warmth, her affability, her intuitive charisma. But instead she chooses into pull us into the raw core of her self-doubt, her confusion, her despair. She doesn’t tell us these things, she enters that realm and includes us, without vanity or shame. She trusts us. And if we trust her, we will be overwhelmed. And stunned.

Proper Hijinx presents Big Enough: the Musings and Misadventures of a Bumblefuck, playing (February 9th-19th, 2017.) The WaterTower Theatre (Studio space). 16560 Addison Road, 75001. 972-450-6241. properhijinx.com

Under the guise of being a jaundiced, seductive, German rock chanteuse (by way of Marlene Dietrich) Hedwig and her band: The Angry Inch, is a singer/songwriter and her life story is a contemporary fairy tale on the finer (and stranger) aspects of gender polarization and how love gone wrong can turn into a train-wreck. Hedwig and The Angry Inch is a trashy, surreal, gender mash-up on the uglier and perhaps also sublime odyssey that compels one to find a soulmate. Hedwig does her shtick, laced with withering, ironic insight, while swinging wide between fierce songs and melancholy ballads. She regales us with autobiographical anecdotes, leading us up to the moment that brought her here, to this stage.

In his younger (pre-chop) days, Hedwig shared a trailer with his mother in Berlin, and slept with his head in the oven. (I know, I know). His pathological mother treats him with indifference and contempt. One day, while sunbathing naked, he catches the attention of a charming, butch Military officer named Luther, who plies him with various candies, including Gummy Bears and Sugar Daddies. It’s not long before Luther proposes, and expresses his desire to take Hedwig to America. To fool the authorities, Luther insists mere drag won’t work, and that Hedwig get a transgender operation. His mother explains that to move ahead, you must leave something behind (Hedwig is nothing if not wildly implausible). Then a clandestine, third-rate surgeon botches the job, forever mutilating him. Luther abandons Hedwig in America; from there she forms a deep connection with a guy name Tommy Speck, writing songs for and tutoring him in the school of the immeasurably cool.

Hedwig gets astonishing trajectory from outlandish spectacle, thanks to Julian Crouch (Scenic Designer) Kevin Adams (Lighting Designer) and Benjamin Percy (Projection Designer). The set is post-apocalyptic, neo-garbage heap, tricked out with dazzling lights and hallucinogenic animation. All the better to boost our crass, egocentric, counter-cultural superstar my dear. Hedwig is a flamboyant pastiche that somehow manages to celebrate and ridicule the eternal, fractured battle between masculine and feminine identities in the cause of romance. Everything in this bizarre cyclone of degeneracy screams it shouldn’t work, and yet it does. It’s a pyrotechnical, confounding, inexplicably moving rush. As if Fassbinder and Baz Luhrman had collaborated on a circus. Go, you fools.

ATT Performing Arts Center presents Hedwig and the Angry Inch, playing February 7th-12th, Winspear Opera House. 2403 Flora St, Dallas, Texas 75201. 214-880-0202. attpac.org.