Magic Time!

The random adventures of a theater buff in DC

See Jane Sing! (cabaret)

(This review was written for DC Metro Theater Arts and is reprinted here.)

The crowd that came to The Birchmere last night to “See Jane Sing!” got a great big ol’ cabaret show full of offbeat tunes and upbeat fun. Jane Lynch wowed ‘em with her artful blend of agile song styling and ascerbic wit.

Opening the evening was a terrific jazz band, the Tony Guerrero Quintet, playing a 15-minute set that included a lovely medley from West Side Story (a nice nod to all the musical theater fans in the house). Drummer Matt Johnson was a bongo-savant standout. Another cool surprise was band leader and trumpet player Tony Guerrero’s rendition of “When You’re Smiling,” which he sang in an appealing Louis Armstrong–like rasp.

Tim Davis, known for arranging six-odd years worth of vocal numbers on Glee, crooned some mellow standards, “Come Fly With Me” and “The Very Thought of You,” then treated the audience to a song Guerrero wrote for ESPN, which had asked for something Sinatra-like about love and golf for a television commercial. Though the song Guerrero came up with, “Take Another Swing at Love,” never aired, Davis made it sound just like something  wonderful from the catalog of Ol’ Blue Eyes’  hits.

Jane Lynch took the stage—in a smart black pantsuit befitting her elegant stature—and lost no time wisecracking about how happy she was to be performing on the legendary Birchmere stage “a stone’s throw from the Auto Zone.” The audience enjoyed her skillful stylings of “I’d Climb the Highest Mountain” and “If Wishes Were Rainbows” and then did a double-take en masse when she sang a hilariously sapphic song about “slapping the case” (“she was on her toes, I was on my knees”). The audience, among whom same-sex couples were well represented, pretty much went wild.

Lynch was joined by Kate Flannery, who plays a lush on The Office and whose pipes and comedic skills perfectly complemented Lynch’s. Together they sang “Mr. Monotony,” a little-known Irving Berlin ditty, and a gorgeous arrangement of “Far From the House I Love” from Fiddler on the Roof. They then sang “Blood on the Coal,” a faux-hootenanny Folksmen song by Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer from the film A Mighty Wind.  As Flannery gesticulated like a giddy cheerleader, Lynch tried to sober her sotto voce, “People died!” It was a hoot.

Another highlight of hilarity was a medley of classic but maudlin love songs that Lynch sang solo. Lynch punctuated the sexist undertones in each as she portrayed one selfless, lovesick female character after another abjectly longing for the man of her deluded daydreams. The satire was  pitch-perfect and priceless.

Just when the evening couldn’t get any funner or funnier, Lynch and Flannery sang “Something Stupid,” a song originally sung by Frank Sinatra and his daughter, Nancy Sinatra. In the prefacing patter, Lynch casually made clear that though she and Flannery go back decades they’re not, you know, lovers or anything. That set up what became a laugh-out-loud episode during which each time the lyrics intimated a relationship of affection, Flannery and Lynch would avert their eyes and abruptly turn away from each other. The gag kept running and killed.

Suddenly, it seemed, Davis, Flannery, and Lynch were singing “The Party’s Over,” as indeed it soon would be, after several encores. It had been, as Lynch promised it would be when I spoke with her earlier, a blast—a complete and satisfying evening of enthralling cabaret. Plus it had been a chance to see Lynch take the stage and hold a live audience with even more sass and pizzazz than onscreen.

Running Time: About one hour 20 minutes with no intermission.

“See Jane Sing!”: An Evening With Jane Lynch plays March 24 and 25, 2015, at The Birchmere Music Hall – 3701 Mount Vernon Avenue, in Alexandria, VA. For tickets, calling Tickestmaster at (800) 745-3000, or purchase them online.

The Mad: A Fracking Fairytale

(This report was written for DC Metro Theater Arts and is reprinted here.)

In the words of Countess Aurelia, the title character in Jean Giraudoux’s comedy The Madwoman of Chaillot, ”Nothing is ever so wrong in this world that a sensible woman can’t set right in the course of an afternoon.” And that’s exactly what happens in this fable when Aurelia and two other eccentrics save the planet from depredation.

A prospector and his capitalist cronies intend to drill for oil that pools deep in the earth beneath Aurelia’s charming Parisian café. The three madwomen devise a plot to dispatch them to their death—all of them, every last one percenter. In Giraudoux’s prescient farce—written in 1943, first performed in 1945, and frequently revived—the evildoers’ comeuppance is a satisfaction to behold.

B. Stanley, artistic director of Theatre du Jour, happens to have a home in West Virginia, where at this moment forces are massing to extract natural gas from the Marcellus Shale by means of hydraulic fracturing, or fracking. There is a fierce debate going on and much at stake. Proponents of fracking say it creates jobs, stimulates the local economy, and ensures the nation’s energy security. Opponents say it will be an environmental disaster. As Stanley knows firsthand, for affected residents of Western Maryland, Eastern West Virginia, and parts of Pennsylvania, fracking is a black-and-white issue, such that the dispute between the two sides brooks no meaningful conversation.

Stanley had the intriguing notion to adapt The Madwoman of Chaillot into a condensed version that might bridge the gap or at least open communications between adversaries. Like portable rural street theater, the show could travel to those areas and be performed for residents in nontheatrical settings as a point of departure for discussion. The plot parallels could not be plainer between what befell the Madwoman’s Paris and what’s going down above the Marcellus Shale. Lest there be any doubt, Stanley’s adaption—which I enjoyed Sunday night at DC Arts Center—makes specific reference to diagonal drilling and hydraulic fracturing. The show, though a pointed parable, does not play like agit prop, however. Stanley and his intrepid company of co-devisers have preserved all the quirky delight of Giraudoux’s two-acter and compressed it into a brisk and charming hour and a quarter. Names and lines and other things are changed, but the story plays out perfectly pleasantly and requires no prior knowledge of the original.

The set is five simple pink panels that can be put up and taken down wherever, and there are no light cues. Onstage are three small café tables with white tablecloths. Before the show, stage left, Emile, a waiter (David Berkenbilt), plays a small accordion, and Esmerelda (Kathryn Winkler) plays guitar. Their music sets a populist tone; among the tunes I recognized was “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” As in the original, the bad guys show up—Broker (Jerry Herbilla), Prospector (Shawn Jain), Mr. Axelrod (Annetta Dexter Sawyer), and Mrs. Cummings-Tommard (Bettina Stap)—while assorted locals lend color—Sal, a peddler (Jonathan Frye); a Gladys, a blind patron (Casey Leffue); and Irma, a waitress (Raffaela Perra O’Neill).

The entrance of the Madwoman (Rachel Reed, here called Miss Amelia) is nutty and grand as it should be. Before long, apprised of the oil-drilling scheme, she concocts a counterscheme for the despoilers’ demise. A lot of imaginative and fun doubling also begins. Herbilla becomes Peter, the man who tried to jump off a bridge believing life is not worth living (Miss Amelia changes his mind on that point); Leffue becomes the Sergeant who rescued him by clocking him. The two other madwomen appear, appropriately peculiar: Sawyer as Miss Constance and Stap as Miss Gabriella. And in Act Two (which is really a second scene; there is no intermission), Frye returns as the man who tells Miss Aurelia the secret of how to open a hidden door in a pink panel leading down to a cul-de-sac cavern. Forthwith Miss Amelia lures all the world’s rapacious rich to their duly deserved doom.

Stanley and company have conceived the play as a fairytale, and in this iteration it really is. A host of Giraudoux’s tangential theatrical embellishments have been stripped away; the boulevard comedy has been transformed into a playful pathway with a clear linear direction. WSC Avant Bard will stage a full production of the whole play, in a new translation, in June. But what Theatre du Jour has done in compacting the work for a particular community is a noteworthy endeavor in its own right, and much to be commended.

It is one thing to make theater in a space that people must come to. It is quite another thing to take theater to where people are at. One way is not correct and the other way is not wrong. Both enrich audiences’ lives, and both increase theater’s relevance and reach.

Rarely, however, do we have a chance to attend a theater space close by and see firsthand what will be presented out on the road, one that leads literally to where people’s lives and land are in crisis. Giraudoux could not have imagined that his fable could one day have practical potential, in an afternoon or maybe an evening, to help set  something right that has in fact gone wrong in the world. What Theatre du Jour has done with The Mad: A Fracking Fairytale helps us imagine how that could actually happen.

Running Time: One hour 15 minutes with no intermission.

The Mad: A Fracking Fairytale plays through March 21, 2015 at Theatre du Jour performing at the District of Columbia Arts Center (DCAC) – 2438 18th Street, in Washington, DC. Tickets are $20 and $15 for DCAC members. Tickets can be purchased online, or at the door.

Bigger Than You, Bigger Than Me

(This review was written for DC Metro Theater Arts and is reprinted here.)

If there is a post-9/11 theater in America—the way there was, for instance, a postwar theater in Europe—it just got bigger than before. A new play opened last night that offers a sharp new take on our times and jolts our collective psyche. The “our” in that sentence refers specifically to those of us who live in DC, a town targeted by terrorists not 15 years ago. Could DC also be a town whose residents are still—as Kathryn Coughlin’s Bigger That You, Bigger Than Me vividly suggests—experiencing aftershocks of that trauma unawares?

Coughlin’s setup is simple and deceptively inauspicious: three ordinary yuppie characters, two ordinary apartments that look furnished at Costco. Designer Collin Ranney has also cannily hung back walls of huge color photographs of DC buildings (including the Capitol) as might be viewed from each of the apartment’s windows, which adds an important sense of place beyond the two naturalistic playing spaces.

Beth (Sophie Schulman), an idealistic public school teacher, lives happily with Tucker (Joshua Simon), who has an important position in the Department of Homeland Security. He can’t talk about his work so they talk about hers. Beth also talks about her work when she visits her friend Adele (Mia Branco), who is also idealistic and teaches at the same school. Except for Tucker’s absorption in playing video games and Beth and Adele’s recreational pot smoking (which they do within the letter of DC’s new law, for what it’s worth), there’s not much of note going on.

At first the pace proceeds slowly, almost languidly, which may be due more to Nick Vargas’s direction than the play. Conversation between Adele and Beth has a spacey quality that is arguably warranted by the weed but that breeds impatience. Similarly scenes between Beth and Tucker amble along with no angle. Where is this going? is a question that can arise out of either suspense or ennui. In this production of Bigger Than Me, Bigger Than You, it’s the latter.

About halfway through, though, it becomes clear that something really is going on, something psychological, unsettling, or something actual, horrifying, we don’t know—something that steadily tenses and tightens such that what happens at the very end is shocking and chilling.

It is a most remarkable dramatic arc. You know those plays that start fascinating but then peter out? This one starts flaccidly then holds us fast in its grip.

Turns out Adele has a premonition that another terrorist attack is coming. She foresees from her floor-to-ceiling windows on the fifth floor that an automobile accident will happen, and sure enough it does. So she knows she’s right: “I want people to know what’s coming,” she says to Beth; “I want them to be safe.” Beth on the other hand, backed up by Tucker—who would certainly know if there were any credible threats at the moment—is certain that Adele cannot possibly be right. Beth has a fascinating speech about how such bad things happen elsewhere; they can’t happen here. So, who’s right? Is one crazy and the other not?  Cagily Coughlin keeps us wondering. More important, she constructs a script that makes us feel we must know.

It’s a script that has many other nice touches; one exchange between Beth and Tucker is a good example. Tucker has a pattern of calling particular women he has known “crazy” and Beth calls him on it. (Simon plays Tucker throughout the play in an understated, amusingly nuanced way that is well worth watching from the get-go—he definitely does the dude Coughlin has written. At one point, lacking a hand to hold a slice of pizza Beth has served him because both his hands are on his joystick, Tucker simply lets the pizza dangle from his mouth while he keeps playing.) Against the tension building between Beth and Adele over whether DC has been targeted again—such that Adele is dead certain school children must be sent home! people need to evacuate!—Beth and Tucker’s exchange about “crazy” is both smart and sublime.

Lighting Designer Chris Holland has provided some appropriately ominous optical effects, though because of the pacing problem they cue in and out in a way that can seem randomly overdramatic. Similarly Sound Designer Daniel Hogan has separated scenes with hauntingly melodic chime-and-keyboard tracks, but the effect can seem overstated next to the lackluster shape of the scenes. Hogan’s sound effects, which I’ll not give away, definitely do their job, however.

Field Trip Theatre is a brand-new 501(c)3 producing organization in town. Bigger Than You, Bigger Than Me is its first full-length mainstage run after previous entries in each of the last three Capital Fringe Festivals—the most recent of which, Patrick Flynn’s Giant Box of Porn, blew me away. On the basis of that outing and this, I’d say Field Trip has set forth on a promising path indeed.

Giant Box of Porn and Bigger Than You, Bigger Than Me are unalike in most respects, but what they have in common is something I always go to theater hoping to find: an astute playwright’s voice and a vision that extends beyond the world he or she creates on stage in a way that illuminates the world we live in.

“Once you know something,” says Adele, “you can’t unknow it.” Once we have known terrorism in town, can we ever not know it? Coughlin asks us to ask: Which is crazier, to foresee lurking and immanent  danger or to be blinkered and inured to danger altogether? In so doing Coughlin puts her finger on our very pulse and diagnoses the collective psychosis with which we all now must cope.

Running Time: One hour 35 minutes with no intermission.

Bigger That You, Bigger Than Me presented by Field Trip Theatre plays through March 15, 2015, at Anacostia Arts Center – 1231 Good Hope Rd SE, Washington, DC 20020. Tickets are available on online.

Kid Victory

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” says Luke early on in Kid Victory, the nervy and unnerving new musical by John Kander (music) and Greg Pierce (book and lyrics) that just opened at Signature Theatre. Luke (Jake Winn), a lanky, blue-eyed teenager described as “all American” by Suze (Laura Darrell), a girl he once dated,  has just returned to the home he grew up in after a year during which he counted among the hundreds of thousands of children under 18 reported missing every year.

Luke’s anguished accusation is addressed to his devout and devoted Mom (Christiane Noll) and Dad (Christopher Bloch) and their fellowship circle from church, all of whom, though well meaning, are overweening in their welcome-back-Luke zeal. The kid is obviously deeply troubled, he wants to be left alone, he doesn’t want to be touched, yet they persist. The awkwardness goes off the charts when Gail (Donna Migliaccio), an overbearing amateur-shrink church lady, tries to draw Luke out in a clueless game of marbles.

It’s like trying to fix up a kid’s PTSD by piling on more trauma, and their efforts are painful to watch. But not nearly as painful as what’s to follow.

As Luke’s story unfolds over the course of two absorbing and disturbing hours, his parents and their fellow churchgoers never do find out what he has been through. Nor does anyone else on stage. Not Detective Marks (Bobby Smith), whose tactless why-didn’t-you-leave? line of inquiry adds victim blaming to Luke’s distress. Not even the lively and lovely garden shop owner Emily (Sarah Litzsinger), who hires him and befriends him. She sings a gorgeous song to him, “People Like Us,” that bonds them beautifully on the basis of their outlier lives.

But we find out. We find out exactly what happened in that missing year of Luke’s life. In fact we find out more than some audience members may wish to know (“Kid Victory contains explicit content,” cautions Signature’s web page. “Viewer discretion is advised.”) And what we finally find out is the dark heart of a brilliant and brave theatrical event, an unflinching exposé in the form of a ticking bombshell of a musical.

The dark pall begins to fall when we meet Michael (Jeffrey Denman), the grown man whom Luke meets anonymously online playing a boat-racing game. Luke is into boats. Really, really into boats. Kid Victory is his racing name. Michael is a cyber-savvy charmer who plays Luke by playing the game with him using the handle Yachticus9. Michael lures Luke to meet IRL/IRT, and Luke jumps at the chance. Michael seems cool. So cool that when in their first scene together the man’s hands are all over the boy, Luke doesn’t get a Creep Alert. But we sure as hell do. And as the back story of Luke’s abduction gets steadily creepier, the show splits into dual dimensions. On one level are great songs and musical numbers, entertainingly and shrewdly directed by Liesl Tommy. On another level a tension steadily builds, also Tommy’s masterful handiwork. We know Luke was not murdered (else there would be no show), but we don’t yet know whether or how he was exploited. What happened to Luke? Will he be okay? What we learn bit by bit becomes almost impossible to bear, not least because Luke’s relationship with Michael has overtones of Stockholm Syndrome.

What follows is a backhanded spoiler alert for those whom the foreg0ing paragraph may have scared away. Besides not being murdered, Luke was not starved or mutilated. He was not trafficked for sex. He was done no permanent bodily harm. Given the horrors that go on in the underworld of predatory pedophiles, the violence depicted onstage in Kid Victory, though shocking, is nowhere near as extreme as what headlines scream. But that does not make it Child Exploitation Lite. For victims there is no Richter Scale for measuring the relative aftershock of trauma. As Kid Victory makes clear, Luke was abused and damaged. Shattered. Changed. Made not himself anymore. And the story that Kander and Pierce devised from that precipitating situation is one of the most important-to-tell original stories ever made into a musical.

One could find holes in the story line without looking too hard. For instance the character of Dad—whose extraordinary final scene with Luke, including his exquisite solo (“Where We Are”), is the emotional showtopper—is passive and unpresent in the early scenes in a way that makes no sense, even when his reasons are eventually explained. Also there’s a scene in which Luke meets up in the woods with Andrew (Parker Down), whom he found on a gay online dating site called Matchstick. It’s a wonderful scene, and it provides Down with an opportunity to show off his tap-dancing chops in a number called “What’s the Point?” that stops the show. It also graphically makes the point that Luke’s exploration of his homoerotic feelings is interrupted by a flashback of what happened to him at the hands or other body parts of Michael. But the scene seems to come out of nowhere, like an Obligatory Queer Interlude. I cannot imagine that the creators meant to suggest that what Michael did to Luke made him gay, but if there were signals in the script that Luke was already not straight before his fateful encounter with Michael, they were so subtle my gaydar missed them.

So the show needs some work. But it’s a show that’s worth it.

Kid Victory is an unusual musical in that its main character, Luke, never sings. In a sense he is the caged bird for whom the entire show sings.

Depending upon one’s curiosity, compassion, and/or concern about what happens to abducted and abused kids—or perhaps simply depending upon one’s taste or tolerance for musicals that tell dark stories—Kid Victory may or may not appeal. I myself was riveted and I cannot stop thinking about what I saw. Signature Theatre’s Kid Victory is one of those shows you can’t unsee…but you must see.

 

 

Back to Methuselah (The Thing Happens and The Tragedy of an Elder Gentleman)

People rarely go to the theater anymore to know what a playwright thinks. We go to be entertained, we go to be moved, we go to be told stories, which might involve hearing what assorted characters think. But apart from Tony Kushner and his ilk (does Kushner even have an ilk?), playwrights these days seem to think it gauche or louche to put their own opinions on stage.

George Bernard Shaw—who wrote the two wit-rich and idea-dense plays currently receiving a fascinating and rewardingly listenable production by Washington Stage Guild—is perhaps the preeminent practitioner of the notion that live theater ought to be a conveyor of ethical values. But Shaw’s long gone. These days, if live theater has any social utility to speak of, it’s to boost restaurant revenues, gentrify neighborhoods, stimulate tourism, encourage real estate development, and the like. But no one goes around arguing that live theater will have an edifying effect on a society’s ethics. The response would be a resounding pshaw.

How did we get to a point where live theater that presumes to be an uplifter of morals is written off as  not good theater? The immortal words of the playwright Moss Hart have become theater’s unexamined maxim: “If you have a message, call Western Union.” (The quote is also attributed to producer Samuel Goldwyn, actor Humphrey Bogart, and novelist Ernest Hemmingway.) The ostensible truism is kind of weird given how much messaging everyone does nowadays online. Cyberspace is teeming with opinionizing. Some of it’s rude, some of it’s revelatory, but no one decides to unplug because opinionizing per se is so dé classé.  Except that playwrights (or the deciders who pick plays to program) seem certain that audiences will surely tune out at authorial intellection that hints at a moral compass.

Some of the most commercially successful serious theater depicts reprehensible behavior. Scandalous behavior, horrific behavior. But just because a character gets his or her comeuppance for bad behavior does not mean that an ethical principle has been conveyed. Just because a character who seems to be good is revealed to have done something egregiously bad does not send an ethical message. Even theater in which bad things happen to good people has appeal—but there’s no moral in the story applicable to everyday or societal ethics. The playwright may or may not have a recognizable moral frame around the work. Some, such as Neil LaButte, usually do; some, such as Wally Shawn, really don’t. In almost no case does an author’s or a play’s or a character’s observable ethics become manifest in people’s personal morals after they leave the theater. People either enjoy or don’t enjoy. They don’t become better. That’s not why they go and that’s not why they come back. And everyone assumes they’ll stay away from any play that tries to preach.

So does that make Shaw a relic for the trash heap of history or a prophet for our times?

One of the things that’s so engrossing about the experience of attending to Washington Stage Guild’s current double bill (two-fifths of Shaw’s epic five-play Back to Methuselah) is that it shows Shaw to be the latter. We get to hear language that speaks of actual thinking by an actual thinker, someone with a vision of what needs to be. It’s a futuristic vision with awesome breadth and depth. And the characters, each and every one, are scintillatingly eloquent. There are none of the. Text. Stunts / that, you know. Well, um. // Contemporary playwrights use to. Notate. / the endemic inarticulateness of our / you know, um. Times.

Shaw was a playwright who did not shirk from undertaking the immense and important task of teaching people how to be better people. And interestingly, in doing so, he comes down on one side of an argument about art that goes back to 330 BCE, when the philosopher Aristotle wrote a treatise called “Poetics” in which he built a case for the ethical utility of art in society. He was talking back to his teacher, Plato, who had made the opposite case. In fact Plato went so far as to banish poets from the perfect society, because in representing mere appearances of reality, poetry misleads and deceives and is therefore morally suspect. Plato views are dated (“Banish the theater!” is so pre-Restoration). But so are Aristotle’s. Today’s audiences tend to believe art is art. Great art is great art. But to the extent there is any ethical utility anywhere among civilized societies, it ought not reside in Art.

Shaw would say a resounding Not so fast. If you catch these two shows you’ll catch his drift. Washington Stage Guild’s The Thing Happens and The Tragedy of an Elder Gentleman are to smart theatergoers as  fine dining is to gourmands. The diction is delicious, the ethical intellection is savory, and it won’t leave you hungry for substance after.

 

 

A Hard Look at the Theme of Pornography in ‘Rapture, Blister, Burn’

(Originally written as a column for DC Metro Theater Arts.)

I knew I would be bummed if I missed the Round House Theatre production of Gina Gionfriddo’s Rapture, Blister, Burn. Everything I read told me, “John, you gotta see this.” So when I caught its penultimate performance Saturday evening, I felt lucky indeed—not least because this was in the midst of DC’s massive snowshow, when folks all over town were shivering and theaters were shuttering—but Round House kept its home fires burning. Having seen Rapture, Blister, Burn, I can report: If any of you out there are kicking yourselves because you missed it, well, don’t hurt yourselves or anything, but I can feel your pain—because there but for a snowfluke go I.

The play was engrossing, the cast was extraordinary, Shirley Serotsky’s direction was spot on. The audience was clearly connecting, which struck me as a marvel. Given how much feminist theorizing is packed into Gionfriddo’s script—some of it densely, abstrusely academic—one might have supposed that eyes would glaze over. But no, the flurry of feminist ideas in the show played like piquant catnip to a herd of felines (among whom were not a few toms; the audience included many couples who appeared to be on a date). And these weren’t just garden-variety feminist ideas (like: women ought to have choices, it’s hard to have it all, that sort of thing). Sure, there was a lot of such duh, easy-on-the-ears opining. Yet this firebrand of a script also had a thick load of gritty stuff about pornography, a topic that typically makes its appearance in the performing arts salaciously and panderingly. But analytically and critically? Not so much.

I read the local press on the show when I came home. I was struck by how minimally the theme of pornography in the play was mentioned. Mainly the theme written about was the “Can women have it all?” question. The play certainly warrants that discussion. The central story line is built on the tension between two former college roommates: Catherine, now a single woman prominent in her career, and Gwen, a stay-at-home mom. As it happens, Gwen’s husband, Josh, was Catherine’s boyfriend back in the day, and so when Catherine comes to visit, she and Josh find laboratory conditions for their sexual chemistry to reignite.

What actually stirs the pot of tension in the play between a woman who chose career and a woman who chose family however is not therefore exactly the feminist dilemma that Betty Friedan broached in The Feminine Mystique. The conflict turns out to be about (wait for it:) a dude. The plot of Rapture, Blister, Burn, at least on the face of it, turns on the turn-on of adultery, perhaps commercial theater’s most all-time favorite, and most tiresome, trope. As a consequence a lot of the dialogue between Catherine and Gwen—between whom one might expect fiery feminist ideas to flare—doesn’t actually pass the Bechdel test. There’s this guy between them, see? And he takes up air in the room even when he’s not there.

The big twist in Rapture, Blister, Burn, however—the point where Gionfriddo blows the adultery trope to pieces—is her character of the dude. She establishes Josh as being not only ambitionless and a pothead but also addicted to watching online pornography in the basement—a habit that, as Gionfriddo makes clear, has had a flat-lining effect in his and Gwen’s bedroom.

Given how many men are similarly hooked on virtual hookups with virtual hookers, and given how many sexual relationships are similarly going south as a result, one might expect a pornography-addiction backstory like Josh’s to be showing up more often on stage (as it did, for instance, in last summer’s brilliant Capital Fringe hit Giant Box of Porn, by Patrick Flynn).

Gionfriddo’s fresh take here is that Josh is no catch, not even a lothario. He’s a pathetic loser according to his wife (on account of his trifecta of defects: his slacking, his toking, and his stroking), and she has stuck with him ’cause of the kids. The genius of Gionfriddo’s script is that, going where few playwrights of any gender have gone, she has nervily made Josh the porn addict the pivot of her play. And suddenly with Catherine, who’s a feminist fury of sorts, Josh is like a phoenix arousing after doing it one handed so long to fantasy tits and asses.

If that isn’t a combustible setup for a bonfire of a play, I don’t know what is.

So why has so much commentary about Rapture, Blister, Burn kept mum about the centrality of internet pornography in Gionfriddo’s script? Round House’s marketing barely breathed the word. Reviewers have glommed onto the “having it all” question and seemed to skitter around the elephant-in-the-room issue. Is it that the topic of what pornography is doing to men’s sexuality, in real time and in real life, now is as taboo as pornography itself once was?

One can find plenty on line about pornography’s suppressant effect on men’s capacity for empathic eroticism with living partners. For instance, there’s a site targeted to young people—the generation who grew up in a culture steeped in internet pornography—called Fight the New Drug. It has almost nothing that sounds anything like feminist theorizing about pornography. It’s all about the basic damage that, as young people are learning, pornography has done to their sexuality and their relationships—something second wave feminists never really saw coming—with advice and inspiration for those who want to recover.

Of Gionfriddo’s initial impulse to write Rapture, Blister, Burn, she has said:

I actually set out to write a play about the impact of Internet pornography on the American psyche.  I had a pre-Internet childhood.  When we became curious about sex, we had to work so hard for every little scrap of information.  Now it’s just, as one of my characters says, point-and-click to see full penetration online.  So I went chasing after some wisdom about how this colossal change in access to porn has impacted us.

Though the play Gionfriddo ended up writing doesn’t announce itself as being about the effects of internet pornography, that theme is organically embedded throughout, not only in the character Josh and his storylines with Gwen and Catherine but also in all the discourse about feminist viewpoints on pornography. The play is chockablock with chatter about the theme, in fact. The wonderfully frank character Avery, a millennial who comes into the play as Gwen and Josh’s babysitter, has some particularly sharp-edged observations about her generation’s experience of internet pornography. You can’t listen to the play without the theme of pornography, and internet pornography in particular, jumping out at you.

As I sat there Saturday night, I found myself mentally applauding the play’s complex and near-constant engagement with the theme. Even though I didn’t agree with everything every character said, I realized that wasn’t the point. This wasn’t really about contested feminist arguments about pornography. This was a hard look at the inarguable deleterious effects of the stuff itself—artfully and fully embodied, as every big theme in theater must be, in character and action. And I was enraptured by the play’s blistering and burning engagement with the topic.

So it was that afterward I found the local media’s relative silence about the theme…curious.

Was everyone just snowed?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

bare: A Pop Opera (updated)

Update:

I went back to see Clandestine Arts’ production of Bare last night (February 27) and found the show even more enjoyable than the first time. The quality of  musical numbers and performances had improved overall, and there were some new standouts, such as Ryan Alexander as Lucas rapping “Wonderland” and Kayleigh Marie Brennan as Ivy in her several songs. Most of the tech problems from opening night had been resolved. Lighting was fine given the resources, and the wireless mics had been ditched. There were still a few spots when the volume of the vocals didn’t rise above that of the music track, but simple sound-level tweaking would fix that; in the DC Arts Center’s minuscule black box, the mic’ing was not missed.

The biggest and most enriching shift came in the portrayal of the relationship between the two boyfriends—Peter (Derek Critzer) and Jason (Tyler Everett Adams)—whose star-crossed love story drives the show. Whereas on opening night Peter’s and Jason’s onstage chemistry seemed to start believably and touchingly but then dissipate—such that by the end their big duet “Bare” seemed awkward and unfelt—in the version I revisited there was a connection between the two characters that got deeper and more moving as the show went on and made their song “Bare” a highpoint.

Musicals are Clandestine Arts’ chosen niche. In its brief history this intrepid small company has produced several elsewhere (Rent and Sweeney Todd among them); Bare is its first in DC. On the basis of this area debut, and given the evident improvement I observed within the show’s first week, Clandestine Arts is definitely an emerging company worth watching.

Original review:

A young new theater company called Clandestine Arts has come to town and marked its arrival by tackling the beautifully scored coming out musical bare: A Pop Opera. With a spirited cast of 17 all singing all dancing and an electronic mini orchestra on playback, they’ve staged the inspiring show in the DC Arts Center, that black box in Adams Morgan so intimate that chamber theater there is a squeeze. The results are auspicious if a bit rough around the edges. But more important, Clandestine Arts’ bare bears witness to the very youthful “let’s put on a show we really care about” passion that has sparked every great grown-up theater around.

Producer-director-designer-choreographer Derek Crizer is the multitalented hyphenate behind Clandestine Arts, which he started in Orlando in 2013 and just now launched in DC. Oh, and also, he plays one of Bare’s leads, and he does so with an investment of verve and personal conviction that sets the bar for the entire cast.

bare: A Pop Opera is set in a Catholic boarding school and tells of the romantic entanglements of several students, among them a gay kid, Peter (played by Critzer), who has a boycrush on Jason (Tyler Everett Adams). Jason reciprocates in sexual feelings but, wanting to stay in his straight-acting closet, soon hooks up with Ivy (Kayleigh Marie Brennan). Ivy is a girl whose thin prettiness is envied by the ample Nadia (Brittany Washington) and who in favor of Jason blows off the het kid, Matt (Christopher Rios), who has the hots for her. Along with diverse sexual desires there’s plenty of disappointment of the heart to go around as Peter and Matt are each crushed when Jason scores with Ivy, and Nadia stays ever the lonely girl. It’s a perfect setup of teen angst and lust, in other words, for a delightfully emotion-laden two-act musical.

bare: A Pop Opera began life in 2000 (with book by Jon Hartmere Jr. and Damon Intrabartolo, lyrics by Hartmere, and music by Intrabartolo). A lot has changed since then, conspicuously marriage equality and more options for homoerotic openness, so it’s fair to wonder how a show about two gay boys stands the test of this transformative time. Well, for starters, despite all the epochal changes, young people’s heartbreaks didn’t suddenly disappear. And what the Clandestine Arts production makes compellingly clear is that the heart and soul bared in bare matters just as much now and is as moving as ever.

The musical numbers vary considerably in quality, but there are some absolutely standout performances that are well worth seeing. Prominent among them is the full cast  when they sing as an ensemble; their choral work (props to Musical Director Brandon Heishman)  is consistently gorgeous and a recurring high point of the production. Whatever variables there be in the playing of parts, the whole is really something.

Plus there are noteworthy voices among three women in the cast, each of whom happens to have played their part in some prior production (which may account for how powerfully they each have made their role their own). Early on Washington as heavyset Nadia belts out a song called “Plain Jane Fat Ass” with impressive sass and assurance and pipes worthy of applause. In Act Two we hear Elizabeth Brandon as Claire, Peter’s mother, who, having just learned her boy is gay, delivers a soulful solo called “Warning” beautifully and with heartrending honesty. And then there’s Richelle Lacewell as Sister Chantelle, a nun like none other, hilariously sharp-tongued and wickedly funny. With a singing voice to raise the rafters, Lacewell was clearly an audience fave. She commands the stage whenever she’s on, pretty much stopped the show with “God Don’t Make No Trash,” and would alone be solid reason to check out bare.

Other characters in the storyline include Priest (Heishman) and students Lucas (Ryan Alexander), Tanya (Aerika Saxe), Dian (Amanda Tatum), Alan (Chad Vann), Zach (Stephen Kutzleb), Kyra (Alexandra Guyker), Rory (Abby Glackin), and Ensemble members Morgan DeHart, Alex Lew, and Summer Hill.

The aforementioned rough edges include a lighting plot that leaves actors in the dark a lot, a sound system that could use more oomph (the actors wear wireless mics but often to no advantage), and a few numbers near the end that get pitchy and seem under rehearsed. The set is kind of a charming jumble, though, of garbage cans and planks and cubes that get noisily rearranged between scenes as befits the cast’s engaging “let’s put on a show” esprit. And the costumes are inventive (Lacewell doubled as seamstress).

Suspended overhead is an illuminated cross, and around on the walls are hung colorful abstractions of stained glass—but even leaving religious imagery aside, there’s a nice sense throughout that these players and this company are all in a space worthy of praise.

Running Time: About 2 hours 15 minutes with a 15-minute intermission.

Bare: A Pop Opera plays February 26 at 7:30 pm; February 21, 27, and 28 at 7:00 pm; February 22 at 3 pm and  March 1 at 3:00 pm & 7:30 pm at Clandestine Arts performing at The District of Columbia Arts Center (DCAC)- 2438 18th Street, in Washington, DC. Tickets are $22 and $18 for DCAC members. Tickets can be purchased online, or at the door.

Here are directions to The District of Columbia Arts Center (DCAC)- 2438 18th Street, in Washington, DC.

 

The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek

(This review was written for DC Metro Theater Arts and is reprinted here.)

There were many moments in Naomi Wallace’s The Trestle at Poe Lick Creek, as  interpreted by Director Jodi Kanter at The George Washington University, when I inwardly and involuntarily went “wow”—beginning as soon as I saw the set. Scenic Designer Shirong Gu, a GW grad student, has erected on the Betts Theatre stage the girdered footing of the titular trestle. It towers powerfully up into the fly space, looming in forced perspective over all the action, making people below it seem puny, just as in Wallace’s script it is a haunting and taunting presence in the lives of local teens.

The play is set in rural United States during the hardscrabble times of the Depression. Parents are being laid off from work; their children face futures with no promise. Young people have nothing to look forward to except the 7:10 train as it courses across the trestle. They have turned that train’s timetable into a game, the rules of which are harsh: As the train approaches, run across the trestle toward it and try to get to the other side alive. There is no safety space beside the tracks, no creek below to break one’s fall. It’s run for your life or die.

The story begins as a slight, dorky 15-year-old, Dalton (played by Jordan Feiner with a pained sensitivity that reminded me of Peter MacNicol in Sophie’s Choice), is being goaded to play chicken with an oncoming steam engine by a 17-year-old tomboy named Pace, who is taller and bigger (and, in Shira Hereld’s nuanced performance, a sexually aggressive bully who is wrestling with her  longing to be desired). The badinage between them is scripted as a role-reversal back-and-forth that vacillates between I-hate-you/I-want-you, go-fuck-yourself/fuck-me. Wallace’s poetic play is full of such push/pull dances of conflicted ambiguity, often with twisty nonsequitur leaps. It is a credit to Feiner and Herald that they have found  emotional through lines to embody all their character’s jarring psychological complexities yet come across with credible continuity.

Wallace has handed a similar acting challenge to three other roles, all of which are written as older but in this student production are played by agemates of the actors playing Dalton and Pace. Two are Dalton’s parents, Gin (Meghan Bernstein), a low-paid worker in a glass factory where chemicals have turned her hands blue, and Dray (Colton Timmerman), who has become pathetic in perpetual joblessness. Bernstein and Timmerman avoid the kind of caricature one commonly sees when actors play characters decades older than themselves. What Bernstein and Timmerman do instead, with emotional maturity that greatly impressed me, is stay true to Wallace’s script, with all its revealing and concealing convolutions—the terrible tension, for instance, in the fact that depression-era desperation has despoiled Gin and Dray’s passion for each other. Under Kanter’s insightful direction, the erotic push/pull between Dalton and Pace can be seen as mirrored in the erotic push/pull between Gin and Dray—such that what’s so fascinating in Wallace’s rendering of gender, particularly her depiction of its shifting, role-rearranging power dynamics, becomes enthralling to listen to and watch be played out across generations. And thus does Wallace’s ending—a sexually charged role-reversal scene between Dalton and Pace—become all the more astounding and touching.

A fifth character is Chas (Josh Bierman), the father of a teenage son who, goaded into the deadly game by Pace, was killed by a train atop the trestle when he tripped. By a slight contrivance of convenience on Wallace’s part, Chas also happens to have a job as warden in the small town jail, where in the nonlinear unfolding of the play Dalton is imprisoned for killing Pace. We learn over the course of two acts what really happened and why, which piques curiosity and sustains pathos as much like a potboiler as a tragedy, so I’ll not spoil the story by saying more. But pay attention to Bierman’s performance. He has some amazing moments during what are in effect arias that Wallace has composed for the character. Something that Bierman brought to the role made me believe intermittently an old soul was right there on stage.

All the conflict in the language turns to corollary combat now and then, and Fight Director Casey Kaleba has choreographed this agile cast terrifically. Costume Designer Sydney Moore has captured the period and the poverty precisely. Lighting Designer Carl Gudenius effectively takes us into the confines of a prison, beneath a speeding train, up onto the tracks, and elsewhere—even in the omnipresence of Gu’s massive trestle (a set that ought to win some prize). And Sound Designer Natalie Petruch intersperses the most enchanting sound of wind chimes, a perfect evocation of the play’s time shifts and poetry.

Even as the young characters in The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek race against time in the face of a train, audiences dare not dawdle if they wish to catch this very special theater experience as it speeds through town this weekend only.

Running Time: 2 hours 15 minutes, including one 15-minute intermission.

The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek plays through February 22, 2015, at The George Washington University’s Betts Theatre in the Marvin Center – 800 21st Street,
Washington, DC 20052. Tickets are available online, at the Betts Theatre box office prior to a performance, or by calling (202) 994-0995.

Cherokee

The connectivity crew at Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company creates some of the most imaginative audience-engagement gimmicks in town. Typically tied to, and expressive of, the themes inside a play, these fun diversions are always cleverly designed to pique interest in those themes and prompt audiences to personalize them. With Cherokee, Woolly’s current production, that team may have topped themselves.

Inspired by the quirky choice of four characters in Lisa D’Amour’s Cherokee to leave city life behind and go out into nature where they have transformative life experiences (think vision quest via stagecraft not peyote), Connectivity Director Kristen Jackson and Connectivity Assistant Abby Zan have devised an amusing online quiz to test one’s readiness to “go off the grid” together with a touch-screen version one can play with as one arrives at the theater.

At intermission I discovered an interactive display of theirs that features a map of the world on which one can insert a digital pin to represent a place where one has had a life-changing experience of some sort. Poke around on the pinpoints previously placed there by patrons and one can read an amazing range of captions that hint at scores of fascinating miniplays—extraordinary moments in people’s lives that might only have happened in out-of-the-way places. So captivated by the conceit was I that I put a pin on the screen myself and annotated it with a pivotal episode in my life I had not thought about in years (I won’t say where in the world or what I said; that would be oversharing).

The problem was, all these audience-engagement stunts in the lobby were more interesting, involving, and rewarding than the play on stage.

The production was first rate. Beautifully done, in fact. Set Designer Daniel Ettinger provides a stunning abstract forest of tall tree trunks that are lit gorgeously by Lighting Designer Colin K. Bills’s moonbeams, sunrises, and dappled sunshine that seems to have a life of its own. That we are in woods animated by natural wonders is also evoked eloquently by Sound Designer Palmer Heffernan’s insect and bird songs plus energizing music tracks between scenes.  And Projection Engineer Aaron Fisher shows us witty and revelatory images of vistas, movie titles, selfies, signage, and interiors that locate the play’s story and move it along.

The direction by John Vreeke is also excellent, particularly the sense of momentum he brings to the pace. A terrific cast conveys Janine, an open-to-new experience mother and schoolteacher (Jennifer Mendenhall), and her husband, John (Paul Morella), a stiff-but-game oil-company exec. Janine and John have ventured from their comfortable home in Houston into the woods in a place called Cherokee, North Carolina, with an abundance of pricey camping gear and an adoring and adorable younger couple: John’s best friend Mike (Thomas W. Jones II), and his new wife Traci (Erica Chamblee).  Mike and Traci are hoping to get pregnant on this trip, and the sounds of ardor from inside their tent bode very well in that regard. Out there in the woods, they encounter Josh (Jason Grasl), a strapping 25-year-old of Cherokee descent who performs in a nearby pageant-for-tourists (we see him getting into Indian costume at the beginning of the show). John enters and alters their lives in unexpected ways.

The problem was, these five characters, ostensibly in search of a life-transforming experience, seemed instead in search of an author: a playwright who might have made their endeavor seem less contrived, more credible, compelling, and transporting.

I did not see D’Amour’s hit Detroit—also directed by Vreeke at Woolly, also centering on two couples—so I have no frame of reference for what has to have been an expectation that lighting would strike twice with Cherokee. Perhaps had an electric storm been scripted (there was talk of rain once, but the weather was generally becalmed), a semblance of some such spark might have occurred.

What are we to make of the point in the play when Janine, who has been tracking texts with her children back in Houston as any concerned and responsible parent might, suddenly decides to get rid of her smartphone, being gleefully determined to unplug. Who is this woman? Is she secretly psycho mom? Why is her husband not fazed? D’Amour lets the moment go by unremarked.

And what are we to make of Traci’s reaction when Mike mysteriously disappears? She sheds a few tears but she moves on mighty fast. Having found evidence that suggests he’s dead, she is in no time at all a happy camper again, her arms open to the charms of Josh. Traci, impregnated by Mike a hot minute ago, is suddenly all hot to trot. Granted, Josh is handy and a hunk. But really, in what universe does Traci’s character arc not read as a coupling of titillating convenience in a script that stutters with exposition and evidences scant conviction?

I never got a sense this play was burning to be written. I just kept feeling it was fitfully flickering along like a boxful of kitchen matches trying to ignite damp kindling.

 

Fires in the Mirror

This review first appeared in DC Metro Theater Arts.)

Anna Deavere Smith’s classic Fires in the Mirror is getting a fascinating production this weekend by a very talented ensemble of student actors at Howard University. And on two counts this iteration is very worth seeing: Some  truly outstanding performances (casting directors: take note), and a chance to appreciate (or re-appreciate) one of the finest instances of theater’s power to reconcile, through empathy enacted in live performance, across deep divisions of difference and distrust.

Smith created Fires in the Mirror as a solo theater piece in the aftermath of a horrendous clash in 1991 in Crown Heights Brooklyn between a black community and a Lubavitcher Jewish community. What incited the interethnic animus, and inflamed it into devastatingly violent confrontations, was the death of a 7-year-old black boy in a car accident, precipitated when a Hasidic rebbe’s car ran a red light, after which a group of young black men stabbed to death a 27-year-old Hasidic scholar.

Smith interviewed people on both sides of the divide, recorded their words, then edited the transcripts into a series of monologues, each of which Smith performed with a precision and range of embodied veracity unprecedented in theater at the time. I saw Smith in the original production, and I remember vividly the experience of witnessing each individual she portrayed as a real presence, each of their vocal and ideational idiosyncrasies intact. The indelible example of this singular human being bringing audiences into the lives of others who “otherize” one another has stayed with me as evidence that where there is empathy there is hope for healing. And perhaps nowhere but live theater can that evidence come so alive.

Thus it was with keen anticipation that I attended a performance of the play’s two-dozen-plus monologues doled out to an acting company of 12. And it worked very well indeed. Not always, there was some unevenness in the cast; but there was more than enough movingly intuitive acting, together with some imaginative staging ideas, to make the evening as a whole a blazing bright beacon of possibility for this town’s ongoing need for racial and ethnic rapprochment.

Director Mark Hairston has utilized an in-the-round stage in a black box to intriguing effect. Projections tell us helpfully the name of each person whose voice we are hearing. Lighting Designer Khaiya Darnell has illumined the action with an assortment of actor-operated practicals (flashlights, electric votive candles, desk and floor lamps, and such) plus strings of tiny white lights hung in the four corners of the stage—all of which makes for some wonderfully surprising images. Set Designer Niara Nyabingi has provided actors with a bunch of big white cubes that become by turns a runway, a chair, a bench, a shrine, and more. Costume Designer Marci Rodgers has accented the cast’s basic-black wardrobe with some character-revealing details. And Sound Designer Kemai Ballard has inserted an array of music tracks that resonate not only with the theme of the play but with both communities’ cultures. (I especially liked a rap routine and an interlude when the cast dances to Michael Jackson’s “Black or White,” which was released the same year as the collision in Crown Heights.)

The core of the show is of course the corps of actors, all of whom demonstrated strong voices and stage presence.  Evidently well directed by Hairston and Dialect Coach Yasmin Thomas, each of them made remarkable and rewarding personal journeys inside characters both like and unlike themselves: Mericus Adams, Birgundi Baker, Devonne Bowman, Martece Caudle, Dana Jai Coleman, Briana Ellis-Gibbs, Kearston Hawkins-Johnson, Z. Jones, Shanzah Khan, Briana Lott, Alexcia Thompson, and Naim-Iman Vann.

The opening night audience at Howard was clearly connecting with this show. There were moments when the response echoed that of congregants in church. I daresay audiences more familiar with religious referents in the fare at Theater J will find much to admire here as well.

Running Time: About 95 minutes with no intermission.

Fires in the Mirror plays through February 15, 2015 in the Al Freeman, Jr. Environmental Theatre Space (inside the Fine Arts Building) at Howard University – 2455 6th St NW, Washington DC 20059. Tickets may be purchased at the Ira Aldridge Theater Box Office, by calling (202) 806-7700, or online. Additional information can be obtained by calling (202) 806-7050.

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