taming of the shrew review

Hey guys--here's my latest review in the Post. They just posted it online this morning and there's already a negative comment (about the review) so let the slagging begin. :D I think changing up Shakespeare is something that people either love or hate; no middle ground on it. So I am prepared for the slings and arrows.

(But when they add modern words and phrases??? Come on...)

Anyway. Here's the piece as I turned it in to the editors, and here's a link to the Post's published version. Let me know what you think!

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

In a certain light, “The Taming of the Shrew,” a story about a husband “taming” his unruly, cantankerous wife, reads like a CIA “special rendition” handbook entry: psychological torture, sleep deprivation, withholding food--let the hilarity ensue!

And the blatant misogyny of the play isn’t only troublesome to modern audiences.
There is evidence that there has long been some degree of embarrassment about the subject matter, even some 300 years before women’s suffrage. This includes Shakespeare’s “induction,” a rarely-performed framing device that makes the entire story a play-within-a-play, as well as a sequel of sorts written by Shakespeare’s successor, in which the tamer Petruchio gets tamed himself by a new wife.

Examples like these would seem to argue against the view that the entire play was taken as satire in the late 1500s, that the Bard was mocking the harsh treatment of women by going completely over the top with it.

But misogyny or satire, the play is so often produced not only because it’s hilarious, with endless one-liners and situational humor--it also features a ten-round epic battle of wills between two of Shakespeare’s strongest, most vital characters, Petruchio and Katherine.

As imagined by director Kent Thompson, the couple (John G. Preston and Kathleen McCall) meets in a late-1950s diner owned by Katherine’s father in Padua. As illustrated on a huge map behind David M. Barber’s gorgeous set, Padua in this telling is located on the shores of Lake Michigan, Pisa is large city on the east coast, and Verona, Petruchio’s home, is deep in the heart of Texas.

When suitors Gremio and Hortensio (Randy Moore and John-Michael Marrs respectively) seek the hand of Katherine’s younger sister Bianca (Christy McIntosh) her father refuses to allow her to wed until the shrewish Katherine is married first. Enter Petruchio, friend of Lucentio (Drew Cortese), a suitor from Pisa also seeking Bianca’s hand, who convinces Petruchio to wed Katherine and thus secure a rich dowry.

The leads are all superb--especially McCall as Katherine--all fully fleshed-out, “real” people relishing the thrust and parry of attempting to win love.

What becomes distracting is how far Thompson goes with his Americanization of the characters. Here we are treated to a pistol-packing, “yee-haw”-yelling Petruchio mixing it up with Lucentio’s servants from “Pisa,” whose Italian accents make them sound like extras on hiatus from “The Sopranos.”

The show threatens at every turn to become “The Comedy of the Two Stereotypes”--most of Petruchio’s household servants appear to be brain-dead, slack-jawed rejects from “Deliverance,” thus cementing for us the last two groups one can safely make fun of without being thought of as small-minded: Southerners and Jersey Shore rejects.

I suppose if you’re going to do a play in which the major point on which the plot turns is the subjugation of a woman, you might as well go for the prejudice trifecta.

Granted, some of these additions are genuinely funny. Patrick Halley as Lucretio’s
servant Biondello is a scene-stealer with tremendous comic timing, playing him as a sort of hyperventilating Lou Costello. And Preston’s Verona-on-the-Rio dialect doesn’t interfere with his readily apparent and heartfelt love for Shakespeare’s language, nor with his connection to the character.

And while it is important to bring modern audiences along when performing Shakespeare, there comes a point when all the added phrases--think “fuggedaboutit” and “y’all”--become pandering, and frankly, patronizing. Particularly irksome was Petruchio tacking on a string of “know what I means” after several jokes, as if the audience is too hopelessly thick to understand when it’s time to laugh.

And that’s the real crux of the matter: the play is written well enough that the jokes can and do stand on their own.

This is all to take nothing away from the actors, as they brought heart and genuine humanity to their characters within the constraints they were given.

But it’s safe to assume that Shakespeare kinda knew what he was doing. The audience would be better served by letting the jokes and the story tell themselves without getting in the way.

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Indiscretions

Here's my latest review from the Denver Post. Full text follows below.

I've seen several shows at Germinal, and this was the first one with which I was just dumbfounded. As you'll see below, the show is Cocteau's 'Indiscretions,' an absurdist farce. But they chose to use these dialects that sounded like these people were the offspring of Dr. Phil mating with a retarded monkey. And while I suspect that the point was to make the whole thing even more absurdist, it was really off-putting.

I don't know why I get so offended when people employ bad Southern accents and bad Southern stereotypes. As with any stereotype, there is some sliver of truth buried within; I myself make fun of white trash and rednecks all the time.

Maybe it's just because it's such an easy target. People forget that rednecks live in all fifty states; look at Alaska, and all we've learned about that (very very northern) state over the past couple of years. Ignorant, redneck trash abounds; to pin all of it on the South is disingenuous, especially when it appears as though you have no real experience with the South, or with actual southerners, as it does with these people and their accents.

There will surely be those who say I just don't get the absurdism of the piece; I say it is possible to be absurdist without being ridiculous. And despite some genuinely funny moments, this piece is just ridiculous.

Kirsten Deane as Madeleine and Royce Wood as Michael in Germinal Stage-Denver's "Indiscretions." (Courtesy Germinal Stage-Denver)

INDISCRETIONS

When French auteur Jean Cocteau first wrote "Les Parents Terribles," later renamed "Indiscretions" for American audiences, he was probably unfamiliar with the term "white trash."

But luckily for director Ed Baierlein and Germinal Stage-Denver, in modern America this is one of the last groups of people it is generally considered safe to ridicule en masse: the lowlife who runs shirtless and drunk from police on countless episodes of "Cops"; the lout confronted by his several baby-mamas on daytime talk shows; the resentful dirtbag who blames the world for his own failings.

In Germinal's production, Cocteau's wonderfully bent family of wackos is portrayed this way, as the quintessential denizens of trash TV.

In their claustrophobic bedroom-cum-living room, which bears more resemblance to the back room of a pawn shop, family matriarch Yvonne (Erica Sarzin-Borrillo) whiles away her overdramatic days and nights, railing about her diabetes and threatening suicide at every turn.

But mostly she dotes on her adult son, Michael (Royce Wood), with whom she shares a bond so intimate that even if we aren't meant to take it as literally incestuous, it is at the very least deeply icky. They frolic on the bed together, laughing and rolling around like children at play once the rest of the family has left the room, smother each other with kisses, and generally conduct themselves as if they were a couple, not mother and son.

But when Michael breaks the news that he has found a girl he wants to marry, all bets are off.

The farcical aspects of the show really get rolling when we discover that Michael's father, George (played by Leroy Leonard), has until recently been sleeping with Michael's bride-to-be, Madeline (Kirsten Deane).

The only semi-reasonable voice in this mess is stoic Aunt Leo, Yvonne's sister (played by Chip Winn Wells). But even her attempts at straightening out the increasingly convoluted machinations of her none-too-bright relatives turns ugly when we learn she has her own agenda.

As Madeline, Kirsten Deane is the epitome of thong-exposing trashiness; she shows us a heart that regrets her philandering, but also a small mind incapable of behaving honestly. Her tension is palpable and genuine as she viciously pops her gum and taps her foot with a jittery mania.

As Yvonne, Sarzin-Borrillo has a sweet zaniness about her that makes you root for the batty old thing despite her misguided motivations. She is a diva gone mad, crammed up in a madhouse of her own making, with a captive audience but no stage upon which to play.

But even though she is the most over-the-top character in the show, Yvonne still somehow seems grounded; she is clearly a loon, yet she's human at the same time.

The real problems come about because other cast members seem more cartoon than human, especially when they speak in accents akin to what Dr. Phil might sound like if some disgruntled viewer were to cave in half his skull with a hammer. Leroy Leonard as George (pronounced here as Gee-yo-uh-j) especially comes off as a mentally disabled Foghorn Leghorn crossed with Mr. Mackey from "South Park."

And in this case, it is unfortunate that the old axiom "like father, like son" holds true: Royce Wood's Michael employs the same non-dialect.

For anyone from the South, or who has spent time in the South, or who has even spoken with someone from the South, the accents are guaranteed to grate. Even if this is all meant to be part of the absurdity of the piece, it is still insanely distracting and honestly rather pointless.

What, are audiences taken to be so stupid that we won't be capable of understanding the absurdity of these people and this piece without such cartoonish choices being forced on us?

The show has its moments — many of them, in fact — but mostly it's an exercise in looking down one's nose at a paper-thin version of the worst aspects of humanity.

And there simply is no challenge in tearing down a straw man made of such flimsy materials.

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"Indiscretions" **1/2 (out of four stars)

Comedy. Presented by Germinal-Stage Denver, 2450 W. 44th Ave. Written by Jean Cocteau; adapted by Jeremy Sams. Directed by Ed Baierlein. Through June 23. 2 hours, 15 minutes . 8 p.m. Fridays-Saturdays; 7 p.m. Sundays. $17.75-$21.75. 303-455-7108 or germinalstage.com

the lady with all the answers

Here's my latest review for the Denver Post on "The Lady With All the Answers," playing at the Arvada Center.

Alex Ryer as Ann Landers. Via the Denver Post.

I suffered doubts because I wasn't sure if I was being too harsh simply because it isn't really a show for me. The show is set in 1975 and she gives lots of advice to lovelorn married people of that era, going back as far as her beginning as a columnist in 1955. The concerns of aging suburbanites in fading marriages are not exactly my wheelhouse.

But as I reflected on it, I think I'm right in that there just isn't a lot of substance to the play, certainly not a lot of dramatic tension. Even for older folks who are more in tune with the Ann Landers oeuvre, with her whole midwestern, matronly vibe, it had to feel somehow unsatisfying to walk out of there after nearly two hours consisting of small tidbits of emotion, slathered over with huge dollops of filler.

At any rate. Here's the piece in full or go here if you'd prefer to leave a nasty comment on the Post site. :) And if you read this, thanks to whoever followed up the original commenter on my 'Howl' piece with a comment for that angry gentleman. :D

THE LADY WITH ALL THE ANSWERS

2 ½ STARS

RUNNING TIME: 1:50

Writers have long been fascinated with writing stories about the writer’s life.

For some reason.

Knowing writers, it’s likely that the day a hominid first put a piece of charcoal to the wall of his cave and scratched out the very first rudimentary letters, he was jotting down ideas for a screenplay about his quirky experiences as a writer.

Of course, if one assumes a writer is actually performing the activity by which he has named himself with any kind of regularity, that life might not be terribly dramatic.

Enter “The Lady With All the Answers,” a play about Eppie Lederer, better known as advice columnist Ann Landers. Performed at the Arvada Center by Alex Ryer with a Midwestern, homey charm, Landers welcomes us into her apartment on a night in 1975 as she is attempting to write the most difficult column of her life--perhaps not the most potentially action-packed scenario around which to build a play.

But the column promises to be a doozy: in it she must announce to her readers that, after two decades of advising married couples to stick it out no matter what, her own divorce from her husband of 36 years is imminent.

As a writer, naturally the first thing she does is procrastinate, nibbling chocolates, taking informal surveys of the audience, playing records, and sharing some of her favorite letters as she prepares them for an upcoming book.

Unsurprisingly, it is these letters that make up the bulk of the show, as they are the entire reason for us--or her, for that matter--to be here at all. A few of the other activities and asides in which she indulges seem a little forced, a little too obviously filler to stretch this thing out to a full-length play instead of the one-act to which it could easily have been condensed.

Regardless, this Ann Landers does indeed have all the answers. Given all her perfectly-crafted responses to letter-writers as well as the bon mots she tells us she delivered in person to the famous and powerful people she knew, one wonders if writing this particular column might have been the first time this woman ever encountered self-doubt.

But there is no denying Lederer had verve, as well as a cheerful strain of chutzpah. According to David Rambo’s script, when it came to dealing with those who stood in her way, she wouldn’t so much stare them down as she would wear them down with her relentless ebullience.

For instance, as far back as 1967 she cajoled President Johnson into allowing her to visit the troops in Vietnam, and went on to personally place 2,500 phone calls to relatives and loved ones on behalf of soldiers laid up in the hospital. She championed the rights of homosexuals long before it was remotely popular to do so, and she spearheaded a letter-writing campaign to get the National Cancer Act passed.

Of course Landers’ heyday was a time when people did things like read newspapers and even write letters on actual paper, so there is a demographic toward which the show is undoubtedly aimed. But regardless of one’s age, the stories are often genuinely moving--not only the ones about her troubled letter-writers but also her personal stories.

Nonetheless, as sweet as some of the anecdotes are, and as charmingly as Ryer wears Landers’ bouffant and pantsuits, there just isn’t much there there. The play isn’t so much a play as it is an excuse to string together some of Landers’ best letters and her pithy responses to them.

And while Ryer does a fine job of spraying the audience with the firehose of Landers’ inexorable enthusiasm as well as sharing her more heartfelt moments, Rambo’s script gives her very little to work with.

Perhaps, like people who find that life changes based on glib advice from a stranger often don’t last, audiences may ultimately find that the show rings a bit hollow.

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Allen Ginsberg's Howl

The Denver Post got my review up online of square product theatre's production of 'Howl' a couple days early (thanks, John.)

But there were some formatting problems (that are hopefully getting worked out) and so a few grafs at the end got cut off. So here it is in its entirety.

Teresa Harrison adapted and stars in Allen Ginsberg's Howl, serving as host and carnival barker. (Marcin Mroz) (via the Denver Post)

ALLEN GINSBERG’S HOWL

The history of humankind is one of attempting to control: a plodding, tedious tale of our attempts to control our environment, our fellow humans, and even ourselves in ways large and small, all of which ultimately fail.

The universe laughs at our feeble efforts; it will still be laughing as the dust of our bones is eaten by the fireball that our sun will become.

So it’s no accident that the Beats, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, et al came along in the late 1950s and early 1960s: Control was the American watchword then, along with a certain Valium-induced false joy at the universal “success” of the American Dream--for everyone, that is, except blacks, women, homosexuals, and anyone else who thought there might be something better than a cookie-cutter life lived desperately grinning in the sweat-stained cracks between office, suburbia and suicide.

Square product theatre’s “Allen Ginsberg’s Howl” honors these ideas in a benevolent assault of words and images that suspends time and demands that we pay attention.

In “Howl” Teresa Harrison (who adapted the show) plays host and carnival barker, leading us down a rabbit-hole of seeming madness, a path that ultimately offers a sanity that is more true than the noise that surrounds us, if only we would look up from our computers and smartphones and televisions for a moment.

The audience is kept off-balance from the start, encouraged pre-show to wander into a room where a video depicting historical events plays and quotes about the show are scattered about, along with markers and a drawing book for guests to write in.

Soon, Harrison appears, announcing with the gonging of a hubcap that it’s time to head upstairs to the performance space.

A carnival/junkyard atmosphere permeates the early section of the show, with car parts strewn about and old typewriters dangling from the ceiling. Harrison banters with the crowd and with piano player Paul Fowler, and shamelessly flirts with bartender Bobby Dartt: “There’s no bar now, so you’re just...tender.”

Harrison and her co-director Emily K. Harrison have done tremendous work in creating the persona and honing the piece, dancing along the tightrope between weirdness and pretension. The only quibble about Harrison’s performance is she has a certain aggressive nervousness early on, likely a function of finding her comfort level in the audience interaction sections, a very difficult type of performance within which to be at ease.

Once she gets to her recitation of “Howl” itself, however, she is in her wheelhouse: hers is a heartfelt cry in the wilderness that echoes Ginsberg’s own.

But a blow-by-blow recounting of the events of the show would be not only useless but perhaps even counter-productive. It’s meant to mirror the visceral nature of Ginsberg’s poem in that it should wash through you, seeding you with images that stick to the soil of your soul.

As such, “Howl” is a show that some will love and some will hate. It is a short, sharp punch in the solar plexus; it is not orderly, and there are people who can’t stand that. Watching the opening-night audience was enlightening in itself, split as it was between clench-jawed “what the hell is this?” faces and laughing, irreverent ones.

But the two Harrisons (no relation) have done what they set out to do: celebrate Ginsberg’s seminal work while giving modern audiences plenty to think about in terms of our own complicity in this new era of control in which we live, one that is in some ways exponentially more oppressive, ominous, powerful and anti-human than the one the Beats struggled against.

The Beats demanded that we acknowledge the fearsome but ultimately freeing truth of the chaos at the heart of the universe and within ourselves. They showed us that there is beauty to be found among the broken, and the dispossessed, and the accidental--all of which are becoming harder than ever to find today, buried amid the mindless noise of our plastic and steel anti-culture.

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wm. shakes review

Got a great review from Stacy Nick in the Coloradoan yesterday for 'Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged)' so we're looking to be selling more tix. Quoth Ms. Nick:

Next up, the play goes after perhaps Shakespeare's bloodiest play, "Titus Andronicus." The basic plot of the actual tale: When the emperor's daughter is raped, he cuts off the head of the rapist, cooks it into a pie and serves it to the rapist's mother. "Shakespeare" converts the story into a hysterical Julia Child-style cooking show.

If you find this in poor taste, you may be out of luck with this show. As Reeves notes after the cast raps its way through "Othello": "That was unsurprisingly offensive."

Come down and check it out! You've got three (very) white boys rapping, and what could be funnier than dudes dressing up like chicks?

Nothing. That is near the top of the comedy food chain, just edging out poop jokes, dick jokes, and fart jokes.

Oh, wait. Boob jokes are number one. Those will always rule.

Brooks Reeves as Romeo.

info:

Runs
January 7, 2011
TO
February 13, 2011
Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00 p.m.

Matinees (2PM):
February 6, 2011
January 16, 2011
January 23, 2011
January 30, 2011
February 13, 2011
Thursday:
January 20, 2011 at 7:30 p.m.

Location
Masonic Temple : Proscenium
225 West Oak Street
Fort Collins

Tickets
Buy Tickets Online
Ticket Info
Box Office : 970-221-6730

Shout!

Dinner theatre is one of those ideas that makes sense in concept but which is inexplicably weird in practice. The idea of relaxing at a table, eating, having a cocktail or coffee--all this smacks of a comfy living room atmosphere for taking in a show.

And I'm sure that the actors who double as servers make bank, but I still can't help but feel sorry for them. Doing a show is hard enough. It requires concentration, believe it or not; so does waiting on a full section.

It is just strange to me that older people (predominantly dinner theatre's demographic) would be willing to shell out $40 or $50 for mediocre food and musicals which are often not a whole lot better. Maybe there's something about having many of the decisions made for you already--the limited menu, the show, the set times when things happen. Or maybe there's something to be said for planting your ass in one seat for the entire evening's entertainment--dashing from a restaurant to make a show can be traumatic.

Another positive is that sitting at a table is more conducive to conversation. Also, having more time to be sociable than is possible at a traditional theatre is a plus.

Still, my experience with Boulder's Dinner Theatre, to see their production of Shout was pretty good overall. Here's the review in full; the link above is to the Post's edited version.

SHOUT!

“I’m just a person trapped in a woman’s body.” --Anonymous

If there were any doubt that “Shout! The Mod Musical” is a jukebox musical--that is, little more than an excuse to sing along with a selection of fun, recognizable songs brought together by only the flimsiest of storylines--the fact that the characters don’t even have names should be a dead giveaway.

Welcome to swinging London in the 1960s, where, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, women are reduced to the colors they wear: Green, Orange, Yellow, Blue and Red, each of which represents a different personality type.

Austin Powers, your table is ready. And the ladies are feeling randy, baby.

Naturally, the show is slathered top to bottom in neon-bright color, as though a unicorn snorted a troll doll cut with cotton candy then threw up an entire bag of Gummi Bears. Riffing on the miniskirt and the sickly-sweet color scheme, costume designer Linda Morken as well as scenic designer Amy Campion seem to have thoroughly enjoyed their work.

The story, such as it is, is set around a British fashion magazine called “Shout,” which purports to provide women with fashion, hair, makeup and romance advice while the gals randomly dance and sing, as people were apparently wont to do in the 1960s.

There are a number of “Laugh-In”-type comedic moments between numbers, but when they’re not singing the ladies mostly ask for advice from columnist Gwendolyn Holmes (in hilarious voiceover segments by Barb Reeves) which is invariably vapid and shallow.

When one girl is uncertain about her boyfriend, Holmes’s voice intones: “Perhaps clear up what’s in your head by clearing up what’s on your head! A new hairstyle!”
But the reason for this exercise is the music, and the fact of the matter is these women can sing.

They cover songs mostly from that peculiar subset of 1960s music that is more pop than psychedelia, more teeny-bop than ground-breaking, a largely British strain of pop-rock that, while embedded with some hints of awareness of a changing world, also largely played it safe.

This is the sugar-coated 1960s, if you will.

Boomers as well as the living will no doubt bounce along with irresistibly catchy songs like “I Only Wanna Be With You,” sung by Orange (Shelly Cox-Robie). And Ellen Kaye as Blue performs Petula Clark’s “Don’t Sleep in the Subway” with a genuine warmth, boundless charm and a killer smile.

But the big guns don’t come out until near the end of the first act when Joanie Brosseau absolutely destroys (in a good way) Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man,” alternately eliciting Springfield’s smoky allure as well as her raw sexual power.

That’s followed by a hilarious rendition of “Goldfinger” sung by Alicia Dunfree (Yellow, natch) but featuring the entire cast contributing various 007-type sound effects and stylized Bond-girl dancing and pistol-packing poses. Dunfree also gets to sing Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made For Walking,” which hardly seems fair.

As Red, Julia Perrotta gets off lightly in a way. Her character is meant to be something of a dingbat, and as an actor she has tremendous comic timing, so it’s a natural fit. But we also get to see her sweet side, as well as a rich and powerful singing voice on display in “To Sir With Love.”

Accents are inconsistent at best, and the story isn’t much. But the singing is what we’re here for, and it is across-the-board wonderful.

And to be fair, the storyline does eventually get around to slagging the idiotic columnist Holmes, portraying the women standing up to crumbling societal strictures in the form of the magazine’s advice. But the creators’ claims that the show is somehow all about women redefining themselves as liberated and strong like the singers they cover are wildly overblown.

On the other hand, to see just how far we’ve come in terms of gender equality, pick up any women’s magazine at the grocery store checkout.

Better yet, don’t.

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Sunset Boulevard

Ann Crumb as Norma Desmond in the Arvada Center's production of 'Sunset Boulevard.'

Here's a review from last week of the Arvada Center's 'Sunset Boulevard.'

When we picked up the tickets and press kit on the way in, the publicist there gushed, 'It's Andrew Lloyd Webber's best show!'

I'm going to have to disagree. I gave it 3 1/2 stars, but only because in the context of what they were trying to do, it was as fine a show as it could be. There was tremendous singing, an amazing set piece (the old woman's mansion, which rolls on and off-stage) and nothing really wrong with the production itself--it's just extremely weak material, to me.

I dunno--are there any 'Sunset Boulevard' (the musical) fans out there? Is there anyone who can tell me what I'm missing, if this is such a great Lloyd-Webber show? Because all I really felt was a desire to pick up the original film--even though Ann Crumb was amazing as Norma Desmond.

SUNSET BOULEVARD

It’s classic movie night at the theatre.

The clacking of a projector, the black and white Paramount logo projected onto a scrim, ominous music swelling dramatically--all these remind us early on that Hollywood is truly the lead in this show.

As if the title “Sunset Boulevard” weren’t enough to make that clear.

But it’s a cozy feeling as the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical begins, almost like settling in to watch a film from Hollywood’s golden era as narrator and protagonist Joe Gillis strides on stage to tell us a story about a man who always wanted a pool, the blue ripples now projected onto the scrim evoking the view from below the surface.

The unglamorous story of the Hollywood has-been was rarely told prior to the release of Billy Wilder’s 1950 film of the same name, with Gloria Swanson memorably playing the role of silent film star Norma Desmond. Picking up her story well into her decades-long downfall brought about by the advent of sound, Wilder showed the nastier side of the Hollywood game.

In the Arvada Center’s production of the musical, only the second time a regional theatre has been granted the rights in the past 14 years, the role of Desmond has been taken up by Broadway veteran Ann Crumb, who strikes a perfect balance between an overweening sense of drama and barely-concealed madness.

The book sticks closely to the original story, with aspiring writer Joe Gillis (Kevin Earley) stumbling upon Desmond’s crumbling mansion one night as he seeks to evade debt collectors. He is rather brusquely invited in by Desmond’s servant Max (Stephen Day) who thinks Joe is there to help with a grisly chore that foreshadows one of Michael Jackson’s peculiarities by nearly half a century.

When Desmond discovers Gillis is a writer, she decides to hire him to edit her script for a film about Salome, which would of course star herself as the 16-year-old seductress. Although her proposed project is of course ridiculous, Gillis realizes that he doesn’t really have any other prospects, despite the fiancée of a friend wanting him to flesh out a short story he wrote long ago.

Scenic designer Brian Mallgrave’s set is gorgeous, with a massive two-story piece representing Desmond’s manse, evoking a cluttered and gloomy sort of languishing Hollywood glamour, much like that in the original film. Three portraits of Desmond dominate the dark walls, overlooking a two-level black tile floor, an organ, a fainting couch and a grand staircase perfect for a diva’s entrance--and eventual exit.

The power of Crumb’s presence as Desmond cannot be overstated, and not only by way of her tremendous singing voice--she is riveting in every line she speaks as well. It’s as though audience members are wary party-goers keeping an eye on a particularly overdramatic drunk: what’s going to set her off next?

To know a diva is to love her as much as she loves herself--whether or not you want to--and Desmond portrays this all-consuming hunger and need perfectly.

As Gillis, Kevin Earley also exudes tremendous power, with a rich, majestic voice and a stage presence that counters that of Crumb with just enough strength. Stephen Day as Max is also a magnificent singer, and evokes vibrant shades of emotion in his songs, especially those he sings adoringly about Desmond.

The problem is that when we aren’t watching the slow-motion train wreck of Desmond’s life and career, the ensemble and their sub-plots seem disconnected and paper-thin by comparison. Although Lloyd-Webber has predictably given us bravura songs and a subject with a surfeit of pathos, his book writers never really got around to filling out the story satisfactorily.

The second act barrels along toward Crumb delivering that famous line from the film, but the show doesn’t seem to end so much as simply stop.

Problems with the material aside, director Rod A. Lansberry has created a dour and grim world evocative of the noir-ish look of the original film with some stunning performances that nearly obscure the thin façade upon which the show--and of course Hollywood itself--are built.

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Reefer Madness

My latest piece for the Denver Post.

If there's any one thing I could have added to this, I would have pointed out that while it is a silly show, and while times have changed a great deal, I would remind people that the hysteria surrounding marijuana in the 20s and 30s was essentially the basis for our modern drug laws. Other reviewers have suggested that this show is hardly worth a titter, what with marijuana dispensaries sprouting up, and weed being (rightly) deemed so mild to us civilized, modern folk.

But this glosses over the fact that there are still hundreds of thousands of Americans in prison over negligible amounts of weed. There are countless people who have lost their jobs, been kicked out of school or the military or had their lives otherwise irretrievably damaged because of this innocuous plant that the powers of racism, big business and plain old temperance freaked out about nearly a hundred years ago. The legacy of the idiots who made the film "Reefer Madness" in 1936 is still alive and well today, in the idiots who oppose loosening our modern prohibition and failed war on Americans who use non-prescribed, non-alcoholic, non-tobacco drugs.

A smug attitude of 'Oh, we're so much smarter now' completely glosses over the plight of those affected by these wrong-headed and stupid laws, and frankly is incorrect, given the rest of our draconian and illogical drug laws--including, in many states, marijuana laws. Satire is important because it points out the uncomfortable, and this show does exactly that.

Here's the piece in full.

REEFER MADNESS

It’s hard to explain to the uninitiated just how ridiculously over-the-top the original “Reefer Madness” film really is.

Funded by a church group in 1936 at the height of the race-baiting, anti-marijuana hysteria whipped up by Harry Anslinger and William Randolph Hearst, the film portrayed “marihuana fiends” as sex-maniacs, murderers and finally deranged, amoral lunatics driven insane by the weed.

Beginning in the 1970s, the resurrected film quickly gained cult status on college campuses, the unintentional hilarity of the stilted acting and absurd anti-marijuana claims making it a natural fit for that smoky decade.

And since everything else ever put on celluloid has already been made into a musical, as the world is now officially out of new ideas, Kevin Murphy and Dan Studney decided to make one too--probably while taking bong rips.

But their efforts have been worthwhile. They’ve written 20 hilarious songs, punctuated now and again with reprises of the portentous, minor-key warning of the title song, and a story that doesn’t stray too far from the original exploitation flick.

Equinox Theatre’s production of the show is sharp, and under Colin Roybal’s direction and choreography, the cast mostly strikes the perfect tone--spoken in 1930s, rapid-fire, tough-guy lingo--only occasionally letting the mask slip, revealing self-awareness.

And that’s vital to making a show like this work: the hilarity lies in the characters not knowing that what they are saying and doing is hilarious, and that is a tricky tightrope to walk--the exception being the ensemble of dancing and singing reefer zombies doing their best “Thriller” impression at the top of the show.

Enter Jimmy (Eric Mather) and Mary (Hillary Tae), two sweet kids studying Shakespeare together and making time at the five and dime, because that’s what good, wholesome, white, Christian kids do.

Obviously.

Their underworld counterparts Jack (Arthur Pierce) and Mae (Celia Jones) host an ongoing pot party/orgy at their apartment, with Jack doling out joints to jittery acolytes like mad, giggling Ralph (Adam Perkes) who, we are told, “used to be a college kid.”

Much like “The Rocky Horror Show,” which also drew inspiration from the exploitation films of the first half of the 20th century, “Reefer Madness” is structured around a narrator (Brandon Bill) telling a story of moral decline. He paints the sad portrait of these good kids gone bad, warning of the dangers of listening to “weed-blowing, ginger-colored...agents of evil” like Dizzy Gillespie and Louis Armstrong.

And we also get tidbits of information from ensemble members periodically strutting out with signs held aloft, helpfully pointing out lessons to be learned from various set-pieces we’ve just witnessed: “Reefer makes you giggle for no good reason.” Or “Reefer will make you sell your baby for drug money.”

Again, obviously.

As the leads, Eric Mather and Hillary Tae are mostly pitch-perfect. The hyper-kinetic Mather occasionally slips the chain and indulges himself a bit too much in the silliness of the show--like the natural comedian he is--but his offenses are not grave.

And Tae is the quintessential wide-eyed neophyte--until she’s not anymore; it’s just a shame that her voice gets devoured by the Bug’s barn-like space and by the excellent but obviously full sound of the five-piece band. It’s unfortunate that when it comes to musicals, it seems like the Bug is somehow not quite big enough to justify using mics, but too big not to.

Celia Jones as Mae has no problem with being heard; her voice powers through the room and she manages to remain deadly serious even while singing lines like “You once had all the brains/Now they’re just carpet stains...”

Also of note are Katie Rhoades’ dirty, flirty Sally, and Adam Perkes, who threatens to steal the show as the hysterically bent Ralph.

All in all, Roybal and Equinox have put together an excellent show that one hopes will prompt people to educate themselves on the terrible trend of baby-selling drug fiends ravaging the country, in the wake of medical marijuana becoming widely available.

Or maybe it will just make people giggle for two solid hours--but with good reason.

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Murderer

I also reviewed "Murderer" at Firehouse recently. Helluva show, dark, dark funny, if you like that sort of thing.

MURDERER

Taking another’s life is of course the most heinous crime imaginable. Apart from a reality show participant, there is no sub-human creature more loathsome, odious and despicable than a murderer.

And much in the way we’re glued to the crime of reality television, we seem to take an almost lascivious delight in examining every lurid detail of the crimes of murderers: we know its wrong to watch, we know it can’t be good for us, yet we are unable to turn away. We cover our eyes and gasp in horror, all the while peeking between our fingers.

Firehouse Theatre’s production of “Murderer” by Anthony Shaffer, who also wrote the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s “Frenzy” and the original production of “Sleuth,” has taken that odd repulsion-fascination to its logical conclusion.

Meet Norman Bartholomew, a strange painter with an encyclopedic knowledge of famous murderers. He lives in a village in Dorset, England, caught in a loveless marriage with his carping wife Elizabeth (Theresa Dwyer Reid).

Turns out he might be seeking practical applications for his vast knowledge of the fine art of murder.

The show begins with over 20 minutes of dialogue-free action, beginning with Norman (played by James O’Hagan-Murphy) painting a portrait of his lover Millie (Lindsey Christian) while his wife is away.

As usually happens in these cases, girl meets boy, boy drugs girl, boy dismembers body in the bathtub.

Who hasn’t had a Saturday night like that?

Actually this opening is a brilliant piece of theatre, a silent sketch that encompasses grotesqueries as well as many flashes of humor. The sight of Norman wearing goggles and a butcher’s apron over nothing but boxers and a pair of argyle socks is funny enough--until he takes a break from the dismemberment to make a cup of tea, fussily cutting the crusts off his sandwich before returning to his task.

And while Shaffer’s script is laden with these moments of dark humor, that’s not to say that there isn’t very real and visceral emotion as well. The loathing between husband and wife is palpable, horrific in its own way. And the ongoing cat-and-mouse game between Norman and the village constable Sergeant Stenning (Luke Terry) are also an emotional minefield.

The other great gift the late Shaffer had was his mastery at taking an audience for a ride in one direction, then abruptly spinning the world 180 degrees. Suffice to say that anyone who says they saw what was coming at the end of “Murderer” is as big a liar as your cousin who swears he figured out the secret at the heart of “The Sixth Sense” halfway into the film.

O’Hagan-Murphy stands out in a role that demands a lot from an actor, physically and emotionally. With a gibbering, high-strung laugh a la Jonathan Pryce, his loopy capering could in itself make the show. However, he holds other emotions in reserve, revealing them a bit at a time, playing the varying power relationships well.

As Sergeant Stenning, Luke Terry does yeoman work, largely relegated to playing the straight man, although he clearly has a great deal of fun tormenting Norman with his Columbo- like questions.

Lindsey Christian as Millie is a sweetly vicious airhead, adorably murderous as she pushes Norman to finally put up or shut up with regard to his harpy of a wife. Its unfortunate, then, that her dialect slips are abundant enough to distract from the character.

And finally to the aforementioned harpy: as Elizabeth, Theresa Dwyer Reid is brutally cold and emasculating, a cojones-crusher of a wife. She takes great joy in aiming withering rejoinders at her husband. Aside from going a bit too big at the climax, Reid carries the character with stoicism as well as genuine humanity.

Overall, director Stacey Nelms has put together a fine show that will leave some viewers horrified and others giggling--perhaps imparting a balance of the two to most.

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Tomfoolery

Here's my latest review for the Post, the excellent "Tomfoolery" now showing at the Denver Vic.

TOMFOOLERY

Satire should sting a little bit. At its best--razor-edged, likely to confuse and offend a portion of its audience--satire cuts to the heart of dusty, unchallenged societal hypocrisy.

There was no American era quite as perfect as the 50s and early 60s for a satirist like Tom Lehrer to come along. If you believed the propaganda, America was a nation of Don and Betty Drapers, uniformly flush with confidence, living the high life amid a booming post-war economy, smugly certain of the godly righteousness of their leaders and their nation. It took people like Lehrer, the Beats, and the nascent folk movement to point out the Emperor’s decidedly minimalist wardrobe choice.

While Dylan was solemn and frustrated, and the Beats were joyous and wild, Lehrer’s weapon of choice was musical satire. He wielded his songs like a scalpel, slicing with precision at treasured myths of American life, a collection of which have been brought together in the revue “Tomfoolery,” now showing at the Denver Victorian.

Though this is veteran director Wade P. Wood’s first time at the helm of a musical revue, he keeps the ship largely on course as his cast of four rips through 25 of Lehrer’s classic songs in under two hours. There are plenty of groan-worthy puns and rather obvious jokes, but also lots of humor requiring some degree of thought--Lehrer’s other career as a Harvard-educated mathematician is a dead giveaway that intelligence and a sense of humor often go hand in hand.

The show begins with “Be Prepared,” featuring the entire cast led by Clark Bomer Brittain as a sort of demented scout leader, all wearing boy scout-style neckerchiefs and marching down the aisles to the stage. That’s followed by one of Lehrer’s best-known songs, “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park,” which sounds like a sweet and ordinary 1950s-style love song until you realize the murderous nature of the singers.

Soon we move on to Lehrer’s time at Harvard, with songs like “Bright College Days” and “Fight Fiercely Harvard,” which hilariously features Amanda Goldrick as an enthusiastic if not entirely coordinated cheerleader. And in a most amazingly tongue-tripping demonstration of clear diction and memorization, Henrik Boes sings “The Element Song,” a listing of the periodic table set to the tune of the “Major-General’s Song” from “Pirates of Penzance.”

With songs this old--especially satiric songs--there are bound to be a few clunkers.
Indeed, when the show first came out in 1981, reviewers noted the risk of boring the audience, given the dated nature of the pieces even then. But there is still fun to be found within them.

Paula Jayne Friedland stoically stands up to the chore of singing “In Old Mexico,” an almost too-dated song which gets a lot of mileage out of the apparent hilarity that people from different countries speak differently than we do--for instance the pronunciation of the “j” sound in “Guadalajara.” But even this song has buried gems of Lehrer-esque wordplay within: the song as a whole may not be that funny, but rhyming “toros” with “morose” is hilarious.

The misses are few, and merely the side-effect of the passage of time, not the fault of the cast. Soon the show is back on track with “When You’re Old And Grey,” the most honest love song ever, chronicling in detail a couple’s likely decline: “I’ll lose my virility/And you your fertility/And desirability...”

And the “Vatican Rag” alone is worth the price of admission, between Missy Moore’s choreography and the cast dressed as nuns singing lines like “Genuflect! Genuflect! 2-4-6-8 / Time to transubstantiate!”

The piece is a revue, and as such it suffers from the thinness typical of this type of show. But surprisingly perhaps, most of the material holds up fairly well; perhaps enough time has passed that the songs have moved past dated and into the category of nostalgia. Cast and director have treated Lehrer’s work with love and enthusiasm, bringing to life the work of a beloved American humor icon in a show that will amuse both old fans and new.

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picasso at the lapin agile

Here's my latest review for the Post.

Full text below, but additionally here's a couple of quotations I started with but didn't have room to run with the story. I often search for quotations on whatever the general themes seem to be when I'm reviewing a play, and slap them at the top of the piece to glance at as I write. Anyone else do that?

Enjoy, and comments welcome.

Although they will immediately be disregarded. :)

“I want to be ready for it, to be ready for the moment of convergence between the thing done and the doing of it...at that moment, I am speaking for everyone; I am dreaming for the billions yet to come.”
-- Steve Martin, "Picasso at the Lapin Agile"

"The function of genius is not to give new answers, but to pose new questions - which time and mediocrity can solve."
-- Hugh Trevor-Roper

“To think, and to feel, constitute the two grand divisions of men of genius--the men of reasoning and the men of imagination.”
--Isaac D’Israeli

“Real recognize real.” --MF Doom

PICASSO AT THE LAPIN AGILE

The word “genius” gets tossed around a lot. A thoroughly unscientific search of recent headlines turned up the word in reference to Billy Bob Thornton, Adolph Hitler, Michael Jackson and Argentine soccer coach Maradona.

If nothing else, such a group would make for an interesting dinner party.

Putting aside the strong possibility that the word has been cheapened by overuse, genius seems to imply a sort of magic or alchemy, a connection to something outside of oneself, a great leap forward as inexplicable as it is miraculous.

By any definition, the genius guest list should include Steve Martin, polymath and author of 1996’s “Picasso at the Lapin Agile.” As a stand-up comedy writer and performer, he routinely made great leaps, nimbly dancing in the gray area between the silly and the sublime. “Picasso,” his first full-length play, does the same.

Veteran director Terry Dodd has treated the piece with the joy and respect it deserves. Martin imagines a 1904 meeting between a young Albert Einstein (Brian Kusic) and Pablo Picasso (Ben Cowhick) at a Paris bar, the two men consumed with passion for their respective subjects of interest.

The dawn of the 20th century is a perfect laboratory for Martin’s thought experiment, a time when it must have seemed like new wonders of art, science, and industry were emerging every day. That innocence, that wide-eyed wonderment at the world and human achievement in it is written into the characters as well as the show as a whole.

Martin immediately has some fun with Einstein as he introduces himself to bar-owner Freddy (Larry Hecht) and incontinent customer Gaston (James Nantz). When Freddy declares that he can’t be Einstein, the theorist mutters, “I’m not myself today.” Then he fluffs up his hair to resemble the famous wild hairdo from a million dorm room posters and asks, “Better?”

Suzanne, a young woman joins them (the lovely and elegant Z. Z. Moore), tells of a tryst with Picasso, and waits in hope of seeing him again. When he shows, Picasso has naturally forgotten her, and in a hilarious sequence he tries to pick her up again using the same techniques Suzanne has just described.

But the majority of the show features Picasso and Einstein metaphorically circling one another, verbal knives out: the flamboyant, womanizing artiste and the seemingly meek patent office clerk, each on the brink of creating his masterpiece. Over the course of the lightning-fast 90 minutes, they come to recognize that ultimately, genius is the same creature, no matter how divergent the fields of study in which it is accessed.

The two leads are well-matched and mostly equal to the task of playing their larger-than-life characters. As the great painter, Ben Cowhick has a bit of work to do in terms of fully, truthfully inhabiting Picasso’s brash swagger, but he isn’t far off the mark. Brian Kusic as Einstein has mastered a sly, layered meekness that barely covers the theorist’s own tremendous ego and confidence.

As the combative Germaine, Laura Lounge can come off a little one-note at times, but she has a lovely moment late in the play when she reveals her own philosophy. Larry Hecht as the deadpan, sardonic bartender Freddy anchors the cast, much like the bar itself built into the lobby of the Barth Hotel.

Two minor points about the Barth: while it is a beautiful building, using the lobby’s regular lighting does detract from the magical nature of the show, especially one as otherworldly as this. Also, the acoustics of the place ensure that if the actors don’t make a point of holding for laughs, lines will get swallowed up in the echo.

While the glib, 21st century thing to do would be to smugly dismiss “Picasso” as a comedian’s pack of one-liners tenuously built on the shifting sands of absurdity, the truth is that there is a great deal of truth here. In exploring where inspiration comes from, author Martin, director Dodd and his cast also serve to inspire.

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ADDENDUM: And according to I Write Like, based on this review, I write like H.P. Lovecraft.

Huh. And I didn't even mention Cthulu once...

the fantasticks

Here's my latest Denver Post piece, on "The Fantasticks" playing at the Colorado Shakespeare Festival.

I have to say, it's a helluva show. Looking over this now, I fear I came off as too persnickety, too "critic-sounding" for lack of a better phrase. You have to find a way to say what you saw happen up there there, though, no two ways about it. If someone sounded a little flat, a critic would be remiss not to mention it, right?

Still and all, I laughed my ass off at this show--much to the chagrin of the old woman sitting next to me--and I would see this again.

(original text follows. link above to the edited--and probably better--version.)

Emily Van Fleet and Nick Henderson in "The Fantasticks."

THE FANTASTICKS

"It struck me that the movies had spent more than half a century saying, ‘They lived happily ever after’ and the following quarter-century warning that they'll be lucky to make it through the weekend. Possibly now we are now entering a third era in which the movies will be sounding a note of cautious optimism: ‘You know, it just might work.’" -- Nora Ephron


If ever there was a theatrical trope that deserved to be taken down a peg, it’s the idea of “happily ever after.” Where is this place? Do I need a passport? What language do they speak?

The truth is the borders of this mythical land are impenetrable. There are no people there, only phantasms of people, only dreams. And it was this notion that Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt illustrated when they penned “The Fantasticks” in 1960.

That’s not to say it’s a cynical show; there is a sweetness at the heart of it. But considering the suffocating, overweening optimism of entertainment at the time--some of the biggest Broadway musicals the previous year were “Destry Rides Again” and the “The Sound of Music”--to poke fun at love and happy endings was a bold risk, paying off in 17,000-some performances over a 42-year run.

As the Colorado Shakespeare Festival continues to explore material outside the Bard’s canon, taking up this venerable musical comedy seems entirely appropriate, not only for its numerous Shakespearean references, but also for its timelessness.

The play opens on Mute (Lenne Klingaman) soon joined by El Gallo (Seth Pantich). They are our guides, the Penn and Teller who show us two households, and the wall the parents have built in order to keep their kids apart.

As we soon learn, the parents are actually using reverse psychology to try to broker a marriage between Luisa (Emily Van Fleet) and Matt (Nick Henderson), two perfectly dimwitted youths in love with love.

Following a fake abduction perpetrated by El Gallo and a pair of hapless vaudevillian actors (the hilarious Sam Sandoe and Ian Anderson) and Matt’s “heroic” rescue of his beloved, the families end the first act in tableau under the light of a painted cardboard moon.

But Jones and Schmidt are just getting started.

Act Two opens with the actors still in blackout grumbling and cursing as they move to take up their positions. The sun comes up and we first begin to see that happily ever after is actually a very long time indeed.

Excellent songs and genuinely funny writing along with numerous tongue-in-cheek cracks written into the façade of theatre have made “The Fantasticks” such a beloved show. All the usual tricks are out in the open: El Gallo addresses the audience; during a rain sequence Mute sprinkles enough glitter on the couple to stock a Dallas strip club; Gallo and Mute use a strip of fabric to signify the wall.

And director Sands Hall as gathered a game cast, with a few minor quibbles.

Casting Hucklebee as a mom instead of a dad was brilliant, and Tammy Meneghini is wonderful, as is her counterpart, Timothy Orr as Bellomy.

Emily Van Fleet is hilarious as Luisa, and she also possesses a tremendous singing voice, filling the house even when she is facing upstage.

Unfortunately this isn’t the case for all the performers. The decision was made to stage the show in the round, which in this case meant putting two sections of seats and risers on stage, separated by a ramp. And while it’s fun to watch the audience members on display as they go from stiff and nervous to genuine enjoyment, the upstage space is just too deep and absorbs all sound directed that way.

This is problematic, especially for Seth Pantich as El Gallo, as his lower register just isn’t strong enough no matter which direction he’s facing, marring an otherwise excellent performance.

As Matt, Nick Henderson is a perfect youthful airhead, with a powerful voice that stands up well to Van Fleet’s. He sometimes takes too long to climb to the note he’s supposed to be singing, however, and thus sounds slightly flat.

The show as whole doesn’t suffer tremendously however. Both cast and director have shown us once again the truth at the heart of the Fantasticks: it’s impossible to know happiness without a counterpoint of sadness.

Besides, isn’t happily ever after really just a series of ‘happy-right-nows’ that have been strung together?

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Ol' Alfred

My latest review from the Post.

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF OL’ ALFRED

Rain can sometimes elicit melancholy; other times the sound of a soft rain, the smell of wet grass and the loam beneath, the feel of the stillness on the world can seem cleansing, a needed healing process.

“The Life and Times of Ol’ Alfred” begins and ends on the sound of rain, and the sensation is a mixture of sadness and healing.

That seems apropos, given the tumultuous year Shadow has endured.

Left reeling after the untimely death of founder Jeffrey Nickelson and subsequent off-stage drama fraught with resignations and hurt feelings as board members jockeyed for control of the company, Shadow was reduced in May to canceling an entire production. For a time, the future looked grim.

Let there be no doubt, however: Shadow is back.

In a moving, personal and deeply affecting debut, new playwright Jon Ian Sayles presents the story of his great-great-great grandfather, Alfred Sayles, as told through anecdotes passed down over the years.

Keeping it in the family, Sayles called on his father, veteran Shadow personality Hugo Jon Sayles to both direct and play Alfred, which certainly didn’t hurt the show’s chances.

The themes of sadness along with healing also run throughout the play, as Alfred gazes back on a life born into slavery, a life which never got a whole lot easier, even after Emancipation.

Born in Virginia, as a young child Sayles quickly learned what freedom meant. When relating the story of one of her escapes from slavery, his mother (portrayed by Lonnie McCabe) tells of being asked by someone if she is indeed a slave.

“Not no more I’m not,” she retorts, steel in her voice.

Aside from the better-known horrors of slavery--the whip, the privation, the institutionalized rape--there is a less-talked about type of pain inflicted by the complete and cruel control of slave owners that Sayles the younger presents here in heart-rending fashion: that of families being split up and sold off to distant owners.

Both McCabe and Sayles display a depth of emotion during a scene in which the family is broken up that is an embarrassment of riches. To not feel your own tears welling up as Sayles wipes his eyes and prepares to move on to the next anecdote is to be emotionally bereft, to be something less than a feeling, complete human being.

Later, though, he makes an observation that could be the tagline for the entire show: “Happiness follows sadness like night follows day. But they don’t last forever.”

And the play does have a few much-needed, unexpected sources of levity: A meeting of newly emancipated farmers is broken up by Night Riders torching Sayles’ house. As the fire spreads to the plantation owner’s crops and threatens the main house, in a panic one of the Klansmen goes up to Sayles, pulls off his hood and says, “All right, boy, grab a bucket! We gotta put out this here fire!”

Despite his tribulations, Alfred lived nearly 100 years, had numerous children, and fought hard against the former slave-owning power structure to take his own course, eventually succeeding. In the process he helped break trail for those who followed.

For his first production, Jon Ian Sayles has penned a powerful, moving piece. And while it is more a series of anecdotes as opposed to a point A to point Z play per se, at an hour and twenty minutes, it seems just right. The stories are riveting, and the time and character shifts are dealt with smoothly.

Hugo Jon Sayles as Alfred is obviously the focus of much of the show, and he adroitly pilots a roller-coaster of emotions without ever phoning in a false note.

The tears come, for people on stage as well as in the house, and they are genuine and unstoppable.

And both Lonnie McCabe and Karon Majeel are Sayles’ equals in terms of depth of emotion and the truth that they tell here, without resorting to manipulation or trickery.

Indeed, there is nothing but truth onstage during this show.

The Sayles clan et al remind us that, while facing hard truths can bring sadness, it is only by doing so that healing can begin.

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