Sharp Critic : Christopher Soden

Bella Baird is an introspective, sentient English Professor at Yale. Like many intellectuals, she finds reassurance in irony and a sense of proportion. A freshman named Christopher shows up at her office, without an appointment. He proclaims his disappointment with people, and the diminishment of interpersonal discourse. He has no desire to participate in insipid platforms such as Twitter, Facebook, texting, and so forth. He has strong opinions but he’s not wrong. We sense that Bella and he become closer because (whether or not they disagree) they respect each other. Christopher is a prodigy, though this may or may not explain their intergenerational attachment. They would seem to be cut from the same cloth, but we don’t know if sex is in the mix. One evening it feels as if they’re ready for “the next level”. It doesn’t happen, and a prolonged absence by Christopher follows.

The Sound Inside considers the intimacy between Christopher and Bella. At first she’s annoyed by his petulance and lack of manners. The rebellion of youth is certainly not front page news, but it’s more than that. She’s intrigued by Christopher, because his motives aren’t obvious. He’s not interested in being understood, or fixing anything. When he hesitates to complete the kiss, he seems crippled by indecision. When they meet for coffee, or he visits her apartment, there’s a comforting, shared erudition that nurtures their spirits. The revelation there’s another human being who empathizes. We see how each values themselves enough to live on their own terms. But it’s not about hubris. They’re quirky, and not especially angry. Christopher’s trying to be content in the world without resorting to compromise. A lesser play might have invited us to judge Bella and Christopher or dismiss them for their refusal to pander.

Playwright Adam Rapp has woven a delicate, wistful show that ushers us into a realm of velvet, nearly opaque nightfall. I confess to a feeling of dread, that was never fulfilled. His choices are inspired and not at all predictable. His two characters ingenious and original. Obviously there are dramas that wade into despair, unblinking and without apology. Birdbath, The Iceman Cometh, Sticks and Bones, Martyr. There’s an unspoken tenderness between them, an evasive grace that washes over us, without pounding upside the head. The events that follow Christopher’s unexplained departure elaborate and detail the narrative. Neither of them are apathetic or nihilistic. They engage in the random blows the world imposes, but struggles are intuitive and measured. Rapp presents this wounding, somber, whispery story as if laying out stones and amulets and herbs. Information is withheld, but we grasp in a way that foregoes linear logic.

Karen Parrish (Bella) and Parker Hill (Christopher) bring a curious, exquisite balance of gravitas and insouciance to this explication of sorrow and the sublime. Parrish gives us a nuanced portrayal of Bella, and her keen, abject affair with literature. She’s quiet but she doesn’t brood. She’s somewhat guarded, but warm. Hill conveys that sense of wonder that comes so easily in Freshman year. Undeniably brilliant, but open to the irresistible quandaries that keep things interesting. Vaguely eccentric, but defiant. The Sound Inside, spare and vivid and enigmatic as haiku, turns on the performances of Parker Hill and Karen Parrish. Their every step weightless, balletic, firm, and astonishing.

Kitchen Dog presents The Sound Inside (by Adam Rapp) playing November 3rd-20th, 2022. The Trinity Arts Center, 2600 N Stemmons Fwy Suite 180 Dallas, TX 75207. 214-953-1055. www.kitchendogtheater.org

Seeking refuge from the 17^th century bubonic Plague of London, a 12 year old girl named Morse and a sailor named Bunce, sneak into the opulent home of William and Darcy Snelgrave, a well-heeled married couple of the aristocracy. The Snelgraves take pity. Considering the rampant, excruciating, degrading loss of life, respite seems little enough to ask. The Snelgraves clean them up, setting Bunce to wiping floors with vinegar, and giving Morse free reign. More or less. The only other human being they see is Kabe, a scavenger who runs a kind of black market, pilfering from the dead. He knows raunchy songs and barters with Morse for the privilege of kissing her leg.

Darcy and William have been married for awhile. They no longer make love since she was burned horribly in a fire. Despite her emotional and physical misery, William subjugates and degrades her. Bunce is a gentle soul, who’s had his fill of the navy. Morse is one of those kids who takes ghoulish pleasure in describing grisly, lurid details of the cadavers, and ubiquitous, dissolution of the doomed and infirm. Perhaps this is her way of processing, but she does go on a bit. Kabe is well aware of his place on the food chain, and not at all shy about how he subsists. An opportunist who’s happy to exploit the catastrophic. Like Mother Courage without scruples.

William explains, repeatedly, how distasteful his guests are, but his Christian noblesse oblige requires charity and compassion. His effete arrogance seems harmless enough, until we see him tormenting and harassing Bunce. He insists that Bunce puts on his shoes. Then, once he’s comfortable, demands that Bunce proclaim he’ll never be worthy of wearing them. In another incident, he salaciously asks the erstwhile sailor about supposed homoerotic adventures. Clearly William wishes to stoke his solitary, nocturnal recreation, but only fails to sully Bunce’s tender memories.

Playwright Naomi Wallace has taken intense, grueling content to explore atrocity, brutality, and amorality. It’s harrowing and draining to witness. In his essay: The Theatre and the Plague, Antonin Artaud posits the desperation of extreme circumstances, as an ideal paradigm for revealing humanity at its worst. If we find ourselves in dystopia, when society’s restrictions have essentially vanished, nothing is off limits. Ms. Wallace goes for the light touch, avoiding amplification. The circumstances are horrific enough. Anything else would be crass and manipulative. Wallace makes it clear that the Snelgraves are only as “Christian” as they need appear. They presume the indigent are decadent by divine design.

The humanity of Drew Wall’s Bunce is a marvel. Christie Vela carries quiet dignity and persistent disappointment, with frailty and resignation. Gregory Lush’s William is an intriguing blend of barely concealed pettiness and insipid rectitude. Carson Wright’s Kabe is incorrigible and savvy. He may be mercenary, but his unapologetic turpitude seems to work. Montserrat Rodriguez’s Morse has an enchanted, subversive feel. Her narratives are bleak, repugnant, yet fanciful.

Second Thought Theater’s production of One Flea Spare is meticulous, canny, disturbing. There’s an offhand, familial feel, that seems innocuous enough. But gradually, indirectly, the actual impact and despair comes through. It’s an odd mix of the tawdry and the brave. Hypocrisy and the sanctity of the unashamed.

Second Thought Theater presents One Flea Spare, playing October 26th-November 12^th, 2022. 3400 Blackburn St, Dallas, TX, 75219. Bryant Hall, Kalita Humphreys Campus. (214) 897-3091. secondthoughttheatre.com

Dr. Frederick Frankenstein travels to the castle where his grandfather, Victor Frankenstein created his notorious, jeery-rigged “monster”. Much to the dismay of the villagers, the creature ran amok, terrorizing the populace and raising havoc. The experiment was (pretty much) an all-around fiasco. Frederick meets Igor, and Frau Blucher, who knew and assisted Victor, back in the day. Already a successful doctor, he insists (loudly) that he’s no interest in continuing his grandfather’s work. But somehow, Igor and Blucher convince him his true destiny is inescapable. No ordinary mortal, he climbs the shoulders of ancestors, continuing the megalomaniacal need to create life.

As many of you know, the film, Young Frankenstein, was released by Mel Brooks in 1974. Shot in black and white, using sets evoking the original, Universal Studio’s Frankenstein (1931). It was an unapologetic spoof of the horror classic. You might say Brooks built a career on peerless (or at least, inspired) audacity. There’s a kind of brilliance in his subversive, adolescent need to undercut a romantic goodbye between Frederick and his fiancee, when she admonishes: “No tongues.” Young Frankenstein was all about vaudevillian, throwaway shtick. You had to pay attention. An anachronistic reference to Ovaltine, a monologue channeling the quintessential, doting Jewish Mother. Even if some of the content was lost in the Bible Belt, by and large, it worked.

By now, film transliterated into Broadway Musical qualifies as a reliable, bankable venture. 9 ½, Hairspray, The Producers, are all successful versions of this relatively recent genre, first cousin perhaps to musicals made from familiar plays. Hello Dolly from The Matchmaker, My Fair Lady from Pygmalion, Chicago from the comedy of the same name, written in the 1920’s. The trick to conversion, is to compose a different incarnation from the source material. Hairspray the Musical is very different in tone and execution from John Waters’ low-key paean to the disenfranchised and underdog. It’s true to the spirit, but in some ways transcends the film. The Producers (ironically) also by Mel Brooks, expands on the classic film, going off on tangents and celebrating the familiar narrative, but making for a notably different experience.

Which brings us to Young Frankenstein (The Mel Brooks Musical). The stage production is virtually the same as the film, which got an 80% boost by mocking the parent film. The musical was probably designed to entice those who love the Brooks film, and those who don’t know it. It’s the same clever, saucy material, with songs that will tickle and amuse. Brooks, of course, is no stranger to blue humor, and never tires of sneaking a whoopee cushion onto the throne of the posh and pretentious. If he showed up on the set of Cries and Whispers he and Bergman might come to blows. This being said, we know from The Producers that with a push, something more phenomenal was possible.

Theatre 3’s excellent production of Young Frankentein is campy and shameless and hilarious. The cast (Aaron Mateo, Arroyo, Annie Olive Cahill, Leslie Marie Collins, Edward Michael, Escamilla, Sarah Gay, Parker Gray, Luke Longacre, Paulette Cocke, Samantha Padilla, Alejandro Saucedo) is bravura, sharp, and silly as hell. Parker Gray savors the loopy, delirious energy of the good doctor. (What’s up with that hair?) It has a great sense of showmanship, and Joel Ferrell keeps things humming, while not ignoring the juicy bits.

Theatre 3 presents Young Frankenstein (The Mel Brooks Musical) playing October 13th-November 13^th, 2022. 214-871-3300. 2688 Laclede Street, Suite 120, Dallas, Texas 75201. www.Theatre3Dallas.com.

PFC William Santiago was murdered by Lance Corporal Harold Dawson, and PFC Louden Downey. L.T.’s Kaffee and Weinberg have been assigned to defend Dawson and Louden, who refuse to elaborate on the incident, or speak up on their behalf. Lt. Commander Joanne Galloway has been dispatched to observe the trial, and (by design or not) is something of an interloper. She’s the only female, asking questions that men on their own, would simply understand. As the story unwinds, we realize that Dawson and Louden probably didn’t intend to kill Santiago, but only enact punitive orders. Orders that came from on high. We also learn that refusing commands on a Marine Base would be an anomaly.

Is it safe to assume that some of the guys who signed up to be Marines, were doing so as part of maleculture? As far as we’ve come, since the time when boys were obliged to defend their manhood, decades of indoctrination still linger. The unspoken message that your most valuable asset was at risk. Always. The attraction of becoming a U.S. Marine was an infallible path to manhood. Nothing to figure out, just listen and obey. The result is soldiers who are automatons. Virility at the cost of humanity.

Aaron Sorkin’s (a playwright known for meticulous scripts ) A Few Good Men imagines an event that calls all this into question. Santiago is unable to fulfill the physical demands of his commitment. Though he’s made a good faith effort. He tries to respect the chain of command, only to find his legitimate pleas ignored. Therein lies the hypocrisy of the code. He’s punished for finally, desperately going over his superiors’ heads, when their judgment is colored by contempt. They throw him to the deep end, not caring if he drowns. A Few Good Men explores the Draconian, poisonous demands men impose on each other, for the sake of defending an abstraction. An archetype.

Janette Oswald has managed a cast of 17 (count them) 17 actors. How the hell did she do it? Sorkin’s dialogue requires cunning and sophisticated timing. Breakneck pace. And Oswald makes it happen. The officers who have some discretion when it comes to expressing identity and character, and the poor underlings, who must live to serve, and serve to live. Oswald does justice to Sorkin’s venture into the fierce realm of malehood, with all its implications. The cast members are sharp, smart and measured. Not afraid to take risks, or appear mean spirited. Their grim, oppressed demeanor is heartbreaking. Come and see this powerful production, that will pull you and not let go.

Richardson Theatre Centre presents A Few Good Men, playing October 14th-30th, 2022. 518 West Arapaho Road, Richardson, Texas 75080. 972-699-1130.richardsontheatrecentre.net

I don’t think I’ve been so surprised by a musical since Grey Gardens. Violet is the story of a young woman, making a pilgrimage to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to be healed by a televangelist. When Violet was a girl, a freak accident scarred part of her face. Since then, she’s persevered as best she could, with a dad smart enough to treat her like any other daughter. Other kids at school aren’t so considerate, but she does okay. Most of Violet is set on her long, arduous bus ride, with its strange, funny collection of characters, young and old. She spends time listening to an Old Lady, who has Violet’s interests in mind. She befriends a couple of soldiers, Flick and Monty, and they hang out together, playing cards and drinking beer. The guys are headed back to base, where there’s a strong possibility they’ll be sent to Vietnam.

Like Arlie in Marsha Norman’s Getting Out, Violet is accompanied by herself as a girl, a character free to express the intense feeling her adult self cannot. We find song and musical opportunities in unexpected times and places, and a fresh and moving script by Brian Crawley that surprises us again and again. The music by Jeanine Tesori includes, Gospel, Soul and Blues, with vibrant energy and a confident swing from ballad, to celebration to grief. Tesori and Crawley seem to take mischievous pleasure in challenging our preconceived notions of musical theatre. There are no glamorous roles or admirable characters. But neither are there the repugnant or depraved. It reminded me of Flannery O’Connor or Eudora Welty. That unspoken, funny, skeptical wisdom.

Considering the subject matter: faith, catastrophe, surviving without cynicism, I was wondering if Violet might suggest God is the answer. That the miraculous is just around the corner. And it doesn’t say “No” to these. Instead it ponders the possibility that Violet (like the rest of us) might be looking outside herself. That grace might be something more palpable, less ethereal, less abstract. I don’t want to give too much away, but Violet offers comfort in careful consideration of the actual, rather than the vague and lofty. It seeks salvation in glorifying the strength in our shared humanity.

The large cast, under the wise and thoughtful eye of director Ashley Puckett Gonzalez, moved and performed with confidence, focus, and dedication. Some actors played numerous roles and their versatility was a thing of beauty. There were so many, sharp, touching moments and painful episodes captured with precision and presence. Consider the logistics, so many ways Violet could have gone sideways, but didn’t. So much splendid work, so much warmth and compassion. It was entertaining and brilliant.

I wish to thank Firehouse Theatre, who permitted me to attend the last performance of the run. I have never attended a show at Firehouse, that wasn’t impeccable. Honest.

Firehouse Theatre Company, 2535 Valley View Ln, Farmers Branch, TX 75234. (972) 620-3747. thefirehousetheatre.com

The narrator introduces us (from his easy chair) to his vinyl recording of The Drowsy Chaperone, a musical comedy from the 20’s. His frank, relaxed commentary, the disc on a turntable, set the tone for adoration of the craft, perhaps far too rare, in a world of diminished enthusiasm. Throughout our submersion into The Drowsy Chaperone experience, he gives us background on the performers, context, and smart (if opinionated) critique. The guys playing the gangsters were brothers. The dizzy chorine was actually dizzy. Our nostalgic trip lands us in the “actual” midst of the show, with dialogue and songs. There’s a metronomic swing between the musical, and our present day conversation with the narrator. He makes a sandwich, answers the phone, visits the loo. Does embracing theatre seep into our humdrum, often disappointing lives?

The Drowsy Chaperone is a valentine, a tribute to a unique, rousing, genre of entertainment. But there’s something else. The obsession with musical comedy is often trivialized. Baffling to heterosexual males. A realm occupied by the eccentric and effete. The narrator is quite comfortable pointing out the preposterous, facetious qualities of musical narrative. It seems to be a modern trope lately, to praise something, while spoofing it. Drama might be depressing, opera oppressive and ponderous. But the light musical can evoke enchantment. There’s shtick, but there’s also pathos. A quizzical capacity to involve us. To salve misery with blissful emotion. That troubles can be managed, or jettisoned. That appreciating the ridiculous can heal the spirit.

Allen Contemporary Theatre’s production of The Drowsy Chaperone is not to be missed. Directors Eddy Herring and Robyn Meade have brought all the nuance and spark of Lisa Lambert and Greg Morrison’s (Music and Lyrics) Bob Martin and Don McKellar’s (Book) script to the stage. The splendid nonsense, the unflinching gags, the spits and double-takes and cringe-worthy puns. Like a collage by Rauschenberg or Schwitters or Picasso it coalesces into into something transcending its components. And the cast. What a bunch of effervescent, acrobatic, scene-chewing, crisp and hammy maniacs. What is it about ACT’s production that wakes you to the sweet and gorgeous in the world? That jazzes you down to cobwebs of your soul? Well, you won’t find out just sitting there. For the love of God. Go.

Allen Contemporary Theatre presents The Drowsy Chaperone, playing October 7th-23rd, 2022. 1210 E Main Street, #300, Allen, Texas. (844) 822-8849. allencontemporarytheatre.net

Rhonda and Don are next door neighbors to Marcus and Clark. They have sold their property in rural Texas and bought a condo in Cedar Springs, not realizing it’s predominantly gay. Clark and Marcus have invited them to dinner, and when we join them they are enjoying chocolate mousse and wine. Conversation isn’t exactly awkward, though you can tell Don and Rhonda are careful to not make any offensive remarks. Don isn’t disparaging when he asks which one is the wife. Clark and Marcus are very gracious, welcoming hosts. They mostly ignore the missteps of their guests, with the occasional, obtuse jibe by Clark. Their daughter, Sophia, is a casual provocateur. She enjoys pushing people’s buttons.

The set for Big Scary Animals provides clues. There’s a line dividing the homes, bringing the living room and kitchen of both the households smack dab against each other. It divides the coffee table. Rug. The sofa. It’s high relief battling with harmony. Clark and Marcus have tastefully decorated with upscale, somewhat nuanced, accouterments. Rhonda and Mark’s home is more cozy, inviting, button down. Ronnie their teenage son, has low self esteem, while Sophia’s a cyclone. The male couple is worldly, more poised. But the straight couple seems more frank, more genuine. They know they’re the “interlopers”, and tread carefully.

Playwright Matt Lyle has crafted a pitch black comedy. Darker by the moment. The humor is rapid, unexpected and cutting. But it’s not impressed with its own cleverness. It winds itself up, then spins out of control. But it’s also precise. There are moments of genuine, deeply affecting pathos, followed by a knock-out joke, followed by more anecdotal pain. It’s like Ingmar Bergman and Mel Brooks had a kid together. It’s breathtaking, overwhelming and glorious.

Big Scary Animals swings between who we think we are, and who we are, actually. It doesn’t seem that way at the outset, but what separates these couples is a chasm. True to the best satire, none of them escape with their best foot forward. Our laughter is helpless, our sobs unavoidable. The scaffolding is cerebral, but the chemistry on the stage is something else altogether. It’s like Ingmar Bergman and Mel Brooks had a kid. In Big Scary Animals, Matt Lyle has achieved something ferociously, tenderly human, and funny. Volatile and meticulous. This is what comes from brilliant, uncompromising vision.

Under the scrupulous eye of Rebecca McDonald, the cast [Bob Reed (Donald) Charlotte Akin (Rhonda) Bradley Atuba (Marcus) Monica Jones (Sophia) Chad Cline (Clark) Brady White (Ronnie)] is seamlessly authentic. It’s a demanding script. Emotions pivot swiftly, audacity goes hand in hand with propriety, the expected at odds with spontaneity. These are complicated, detailed, extraordinary characters that evolve and surprise. They dismiss each other, but then the shiny penny drops.

Theatre 3 presents: Big Scary Animals, playing September 1st-25th, 2022. 2688 Laclede Street, Suite 120, Dallas, Texas. boxoffice@theatre3dallas.com. 214-871-3300.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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