Category Archives: theater review

On Baylor’s "Legally Blond": substance v. appearance

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I spent a delightful Sunday afternoon at Baylor’s theater watching a very strange musical that often seemed more a documentary than a satirical parody of sorority/college life. The book for this sprightly musical was actually much deeper than it appeared on the surface, serving as a self-referential trope for the show’s main them–substance versus appearance. Marilyn or Jackie? All of these young characters are struggling with how their appearance dictates how they are received by others, and the title character, Elle, struggles with her budding intellect which seems to clash with her obsession with her appearance, her clothing, and her social life. Dumped by her long-time boyfriend, she mounts a major attack on getting into Harvard Law. The cast of thousands, energetic singers and dancers, lights up the stage with more energy and verve than a late summer hurricane, keeping the audience awake and the story moving along. What makes this story so interesting is its ability to recognize and reaffirm everyone’s obsession with outward appearance whether they are cheerleaders, college admissions directors, or hairdressers. LB is a coming-of-age story of a post-postmodern woman who has majored in the ultimate post-postmodern major–fashion merchandising. At once she is both a sunny trope for a lite California consumer society and a darkly reactionary conservative ’50’s style society in which Ozzie and Harriet are still in vogue, trading all of her dreams and intellectual pursuits for a “ring by spring,” only to have her dreams crushed by a shallow and superficial man who needs someone “less Marilyn and more Jackie,” diametrically opposed female figures from the fifties and early sixties. Elle’s coming of age is a painful intellectual journey in which she must travel away from herself, deny her inner-self and try to simulate “a more serious person.” When she finally chooses to embrace her true self, she also rejects her old boyfriend. When she finally realizes she has value as an independent person with her own agency, she can finally put behind her the disappointment and sadness of her failed relationship. Though this is a comedy, there are dark shadows that hover about the action–judging people strictly by the way they look, sexual harassment, predetermined sexual stereotypes, cynical Black Friday consumerism, women as objects, rampant sexism, and a pervasive growing secularism. The tragedy framed within this comedy is the death of real substance, which is quickly being replaced by blatant consumerism and secular materialism. The enthusiastic good humor of the cast often clashes violently with the darker messages they are singing about. Yet, Elle (a superb Sarah Beard whose comic genius really pulls together the entire production) and her friends are most certainly post-modern, facing the cognitive vacuity of their own superficial lives with a smile on their faces and song in their hearts. The supporting cast handled their straight lines with the appropriate deadpan deliveries that made the audience believe them and the comedy work. Hats off to Stan Denman for a highly charged, (almost too) daring, well-paced professional production of a challenging play. Keeping all of those cast members sufficiently reined in to avoid total chaos on stage must have been a challenge. Special mention needs to go to the lighting engineers and the musical directors who showed that the devil is in the details, not in the Prada.

On Baylor’s "Legally Blond": substance v. appearance

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I spent a delightful Sunday afternoon at Baylor’s theater watching a very strange musical that often seemed more a documentary than a satirical parody of sorority/college life. The book for this sprightly musical was actually much deeper than it appeared on the surface, serving as a self-referential trope for the show’s main them–substance versus appearance. Marilyn or Jackie? All of these young characters are struggling with how their appearance dictates how they are received by others, and the title character, Elle, struggles with her budding intellect which seems to clash with her obsession with her appearance, her clothing, and her social life. Dumped by her long-time boyfriend, she mounts a major attack on getting into Harvard Law. The cast of thousands, energetic singers and dancers, lights up the stage with more energy and verve than a late summer hurricane, keeping the audience awake and the story moving along. What makes this story so interesting is its ability to recognize and reaffirm everyone’s obsession with outward appearance whether they are cheerleaders, college admissions directors, or hairdressers. LB is a coming-of-age story of a post-postmodern woman who has majored in the ultimate post-postmodern major–fashion merchandising. At once she is both a sunny trope for a lite California consumer society and a darkly reactionary conservative ’50’s style society in which Ozzie and Harriet are still in vogue, trading all of her dreams and intellectual pursuits for a “ring by spring,” only to have her dreams crushed by a shallow and superficial man who needs someone “less Marilyn and more Jackie,” diametrically opposed female figures from the fifties and early sixties. Elle’s coming of age is a painful intellectual journey in which she must travel away from herself, deny her inner-self and try to simulate “a more serious person.” When she finally chooses to embrace her true self, she also rejects her old boyfriend. When she finally realizes she has value as an independent person with her own agency, she can finally put behind her the disappointment and sadness of her failed relationship. Though this is a comedy, there are dark shadows that hover about the action–judging people strictly by the way they look, sexual harassment, predetermined sexual stereotypes, cynical Black Friday consumerism, women as objects, rampant sexism, and a pervasive growing secularism. The tragedy framed within this comedy is the death of real substance, which is quickly being replaced by blatant consumerism and secular materialism. The enthusiastic good humor of the cast often clashes violently with the darker messages they are singing about. Yet, Elle (a superb Sarah Beard whose comic genius really pulls together the entire production) and her friends are most certainly post-modern, facing the cognitive vacuity of their own superficial lives with a smile on their faces and song in their hearts. The supporting cast handled their straight lines with the appropriate deadpan deliveries that made the audience believe them and the comedy work. Hats off to Stan Denman for a highly charged, (almost too) daring, well-paced professional production of a challenging play. Keeping all of those cast members sufficiently reined in to avoid total chaos on stage must have been a challenge. Special mention needs to go to the lighting engineers and the musical directors who showed that the devil is in the details, not in the Prada.

On Shylock and the Merchant of Venice

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Shakespeare’s strange creature, a moneylender from his “The Merchant of Venice” is a man driven by justice in a world that treats him unjustly. As a Jewish man living and working in a Christian community he is subject to strict laws regarding his physical movements, where he lives, who he does business with, and what business he can do. Nothing about how he is treated by the governing Christian authorities is just, fair, or unbiased. He must wear special clothing denoting his religious orientation so there can be no doubt by anyone who meets him that he is a Jew. Within the context of the play, the Christian moneylenders cannot and do not charge interest on loans they might make, but Shylock, being Jewish, is allowed to charge interest. He feels discriminated against because his Christian competitors can lend against him, cutting into his business. At one point, Bassanio, a young Venetian nobleman, asked Antonio for a loan. Antonio is having cash flow issues, so they turn to Shylock for the money, Bassanio borrows the money and Antonio guarantees the loan. In a curious turn of events, Shylock does not ask for interest, but if the loan is not paid on time, Shylock wants a pound of Antonio’s flesh. The play’s denouement occurs in a rather infamous courtroom scene presided over by a cross-dressing Portia who is acting as judge. Antonio has failed to repay the loan within the specified period, and Shylock is demanding justice. What Shylock does not understand, and what Portia understands only to well, is that justice is not meted out equally. There is justice for the Christian men who rule Venice, but women and Jews are forced to live with bias, bigotry, and injustice. As a woman, Portia is being forced to marry someone by her father, and as a woman, she has no say in the matter. The fact that she is cross-dressing in order to act within the trial pays tribute to the disenfranchised nature of all women within this society, their complete lack of agency and choice, and their inability to get justice from any of the established sources of power–the courts, the city council, or the Church. Shylock, though he keenly feels the bias and bigotry that informs his world, will insist on battling on this uneven playing field. Yet he fails to understand that his condition could be even worse because women have less rights than he has. An offer is made to Shylock to repay Bassanio’s loan, but since the details of the loan have not been fulfilled, Shylock wants his pound of Antonio’s flesh. In a very moving speech, the cross-dressing judge, Portia, urges Shylock to take the money and forget about justice, especially when Shylock insists on following the contract to the letter of the law, demanding, for once, that he be given justice and his contract demands a pound of flesh. Portia reminds Shylock that showing mercy and accepting the money would be a better solution than the one he is demanding. Shylock is immovable in his demand, but before Shylock can take his pound of flesh, Portia reminds him that if they are really going to stick to the letter of the law, then he, Shylock, cannot spill a drop of Antonio’s blood, which would be a violation of the contract which makes no mention of blood, just flesh. Shylock is foiled, Antonio is not hurt–all because one man, ignoring the good advice of someone who knows better, cannot understand the difference between mercy and justice and the fact that justice is not equal for all. The play speaks directly to the problem that justice is not meted out equally, that Lady Justice is not blind, and that all disadvantaged or marginal groups might hope for is a good solution, if not an equitable one. The play, then, is not hopeful when seen through a modern optic that deplores the obvious antisemitism marshaled by Antonio or the lack of agency which Portia must endure. One man is destroyed, another flourishes, justice is not observed, and the world turns.

On Shylock and the Merchant of Venice

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Shakespeare’s strange creature, a moneylender from his “The Merchant of Venice” is a man driven by justice in a world that treats him unjustly. As a Jewish man living and working in a Christian community he is subject to strict laws regarding his physical movements, where he lives, who he does business with, and what business he can do. Nothing about how he is treated by the governing Christian authorities is just, fair, or unbiased. He must wear special clothing denoting his religious orientation so there can be no doubt by anyone who meets him that he is a Jew. Within the context of the play, the Christian moneylenders cannot and do not charge interest on loans they might make, but Shylock, being Jewish, is allowed to charge interest. He feels discriminated against because his Christian competitors can lend against him, cutting into his business. At one point, Bassanio, a young Venetian nobleman, asked Antonio for a loan. Antonio is having cash flow issues, so they turn to Shylock for the money, Bassanio borrows the money and Antonio guarantees the loan. In a curious turn of events, Shylock does not ask for interest, but if the loan is not paid on time, Shylock wants a pound of Antonio’s flesh. The play’s denouement occurs in a rather infamous courtroom scene presided over by a cross-dressing Portia who is acting as judge. Antonio has failed to repay the loan within the specified period, and Shylock is demanding justice. What Shylock does not understand, and what Portia understands only to well, is that justice is not meted out equally. There is justice for the Christian men who rule Venice, but women and Jews are forced to live with bias, bigotry, and injustice. As a woman, Portia is being forced to marry someone by her father, and as a woman, she has no say in the matter. The fact that she is cross-dressing in order to act within the trial pays tribute to the disenfranchised nature of all women within this society, their complete lack of agency and choice, and their inability to get justice from any of the established sources of power–the courts, the city council, or the Church. Shylock, though he keenly feels the bias and bigotry that informs his world, will insist on battling on this uneven playing field. Yet he fails to understand that his condition could be even worse because women have less rights than he has. An offer is made to Shylock to repay Bassanio’s loan, but since the details of the loan have not been fulfilled, Shylock wants his pound of Antonio’s flesh. In a very moving speech, the cross-dressing judge, Portia, urges Shylock to take the money and forget about justice, especially when Shylock insists on following the contract to the letter of the law, demanding, for once, that he be given justice and his contract demands a pound of flesh. Portia reminds Shylock that showing mercy and accepting the money would be a better solution than the one he is demanding. Shylock is immovable in his demand, but before Shylock can take his pound of flesh, Portia reminds him that if they are really going to stick to the letter of the law, then he, Shylock, cannot spill a drop of Antonio’s blood, which would be a violation of the contract which makes no mention of blood, just flesh. Shylock is foiled, Antonio is not hurt–all because one man, ignoring the good advice of someone who knows better, cannot understand the difference between mercy and justice and the fact that justice is not equal for all. The play speaks directly to the problem that justice is not meted out equally, that Lady Justice is not blind, and that all disadvantaged or marginal groups might hope for is a good solution, if not an equitable one. The play, then, is not hopeful when seen through a modern optic that deplores the obvious antisemitism marshaled by Antonio or the lack of agency which Portia must endure. One man is destroyed, another flourishes, justice is not observed, and the world turns.

On Baylor Theater’s "The Thirty-Nine Steps"

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Comedy is a question of timing and surprise, and Baylor theater pulled off an excellent parody of the English mystery genre a la Agatha Christie by riffing through a jazzed up version of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Thirty-nine Steps.” Slapstick may be the oldest form of comedy, Adam slipping on a banana peel, appealing to the audience’s lowest sense of what might be acceptable to laugh at. Good comedy is a tender thing, but it depends on the audience recognizing itself within the context of the work. This script takes a serious dramatic work, one of suspense and intrigue, and turns it inside out. The success or failure of the comedy depends heavily on the jaded nature of the audience who must bring to the theater an enormous amount of pre-programmed baggage or experience with the spy-intrigue-drama. In other words, the audience expects certain things to happen, and the comedy happens when those things do or don’t happen the way they are supposed to happen. The comedy duo of Ross and Ramirez rock the world of the play by blowing up every convention, undermining every discourse, and by subverting all communication within the “normal” world of straight-men Herndon and Montgomery, who do their almighty best to play their roles as if they were normal people in an English drama of manners. Parody only works well when the genre being parodied is thoroughly and completely worn out, and “The Thirty-Nine Steps” in the original source material by Buchan and Hitchcock is already highly parodic of the mystery-intrigue world, so pushing this theatrical adaption into obvious parody is dangerously thin ice that might only be traversed by comedians with no shame and no repressions. Of course, the comedy works because the comedic duo of Ross and Ramirez morphs into dozens of characters and situations where the audience plays along, happy to see their beloved conventions of mystery and drama break apart into a million little pieces. The comedic duo, Laurel and Hardy, Martin and Lewis, or even the Marx Brothers (trio), depended entirely on the underlying comedic nature of tragedy and the human condition. Since tragedy and comedy always co-exist as a Janus-like doppelganger, a drama of intrigue and suspence blows apart when the script no longer takes itself seriously and undermines the entire world of the theatrical production and the imaginary “fourth” wall is ignored with a wink and a nudge. When the parody takes over and the audience gives in to the laughter, the tragic nature of comedy kicks in and the audience loses itself in belly laughs, laughing until it cries. There is no question that an audience of today has not been overly stimulated by television, movies, youtube, the internet, but the bigger question is how does a script and theatrical production take advantage of that critical cynicism? The script, of course, is not enough. The success of tonight’s production rests wholly with the director (Denman) and his actors as they interact with each other, the lighting effects, the sound effects, and a great supporting cast that did its best to never let on that they were playing their roles straight. The joke is simple if you let it be a joke. A burned-out genre full of cliches and overused tropes, aging motifs and tired characters, the theatrical version of “The Thirty-Nine Steps” is Hitchcock a lo loco, suspense and horror turned upside down, an entire genre subverted, playing to an audience that is aching to laugh because their lives are too serious. Watching the clowns shift between characters makes the tears sting a little less, makes the bitterness a little easier to tolerate, makes personal tragedy a little less dramatic. Medieval authors were often fond of saying that too much seriousness makes a man (or woman) boring, sick, tiresome. Tonight’s comedy was like a breath of fresh air, delighting the soul and enlightening some tired minds. Horace would have laughed and loved it.

On Baylor Theater’s "The Thirty-Nine Steps"

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Comedy is a question of timing and surprise, and Baylor theater pulled off an excellent parody of the English mystery genre a la Agatha Christie by riffing through a jazzed up version of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Thirty-nine Steps.” Slapstick may be the oldest form of comedy, Adam slipping on a banana peel, appealing to the audience’s lowest sense of what might be acceptable to laugh at. Good comedy is a tender thing, but it depends on the audience recognizing itself within the context of the work. This script takes a serious dramatic work, one of suspense and intrigue, and turns it inside out. The success or failure of the comedy depends heavily on the jaded nature of the audience who must bring to the theater an enormous amount of pre-programmed baggage or experience with the spy-intrigue-drama. In other words, the audience expects certain things to happen, and the comedy happens when those things do or don’t happen the way they are supposed to happen. The comedy duo of Ross and Ramirez rock the world of the play by blowing up every convention, undermining every discourse, and by subverting all communication within the “normal” world of straight-men Herndon and Montgomery, who do their almighty best to play their roles as if they were normal people in an English drama of manners. Parody only works well when the genre being parodied is thoroughly and completely worn out, and “The Thirty-Nine Steps” in the original source material by Buchan and Hitchcock is already highly parodic of the mystery-intrigue world, so pushing this theatrical adaption into obvious parody is dangerously thin ice that might only be traversed by comedians with no shame and no repressions. Of course, the comedy works because the comedic duo of Ross and Ramirez morphs into dozens of characters and situations where the audience plays along, happy to see their beloved conventions of mystery and drama break apart into a million little pieces. The comedic duo, Laurel and Hardy, Martin and Lewis, or even the Marx Brothers (trio), depended entirely on the underlying comedic nature of tragedy and the human condition. Since tragedy and comedy always co-exist as a Janus-like doppelganger, a drama of intrigue and suspence blows apart when the script no longer takes itself seriously and undermines the entire world of the theatrical production and the imaginary “fourth” wall is ignored with a wink and a nudge. When the parody takes over and the audience gives in to the laughter, the tragic nature of comedy kicks in and the audience loses itself in belly laughs, laughing until it cries. There is no question that an audience of today has not been overly stimulated by television, movies, youtube, the internet, but the bigger question is how does a script and theatrical production take advantage of that critical cynicism? The script, of course, is not enough. The success of tonight’s production rests wholly with the director (Denman) and his actors as they interact with each other, the lighting effects, the sound effects, and a great supporting cast that did its best to never let on that they were playing their roles straight. The joke is simple if you let it be a joke. A burned-out genre full of cliches and overused tropes, aging motifs and tired characters, the theatrical version of “The Thirty-Nine Steps” is Hitchcock a lo loco, suspense and horror turned upside down, an entire genre subverted, playing to an audience that is aching to laugh because their lives are too serious. Watching the clowns shift between characters makes the tears sting a little less, makes the bitterness a little easier to tolerate, makes personal tragedy a little less dramatic. Medieval authors were often fond of saying that too much seriousness makes a man (or woman) boring, sick, tiresome. Tonight’s comedy was like a breath of fresh air, delighting the soul and enlightening some tired minds. Horace would have laughed and loved it.

On "A Midsummer Night’s Dream" @ Baylor

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If one were to write the perfect play that evokes the Greek roots of theater, that focuses on unrequited (and requited) love, that finally becomes a shambles of brilliant comic absurdity, one might write Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Baylor University, under the apt direction of Steven Pounders, is currently producing WS’s comedy/romance/homage at its Mabee theater, but never mind because the run is sold out. There are standing-room-only if you are so inclined. If you were, however, to write such a play it would have to employ an unbelievable plot, mystical (if not magical) beings that are not human, lots of love interest, a cranky mother (in-law), transformations, oneiric devices where people dream and sleep and change (their minds), lots of (un) happy couples, a cast of thousands, a dog, acrobats, and an actor in charge of playing a wall, a lion, and/or the man in the moon. Dump all of that into a cocktail shaker with some mist, lighting and sound effects, shake well, and pour into a clean glass of appropriate shape. Serve with a twist of mint (or lime zest). As far as the actions goes, anything goes, including, but not limited to a man being turned into an ass, a woman who does not get eaten by a lion, an existential wall, and lots of tree climbing. What really makes this play interesting is the atmosphere of uncontrolled (but orchestrated) chaos which creates an atmosphere of brutal irony, deep ambiguity, and profound satire. None of the lines, scenes, actors, or plot devices are what they seem to be. In other words, the absurdity of the story line is supposed to bother the audience who are riding an out-of-control theatrical roller coaster. The trick is, if you are the director, don’t let it crash, unless you are willing to let it crash. Control every muscle, every word of every line, and let it seem to crash. At the last moment, you apply the brakes just in the nick of time. This is what you get from a Steven Pounders production: sensuous physicality. His actors move like cats when they have to, die gloriously when possible, and love each other when appropriate. The ensemble of acrobats and tumblers were relentless, and the pacing of the play was breathless when it needed to be, contemplative when the words were important. I personally could have done with less screaming (a young actor thing) and less hysteria, but the entire production was so good that I forgive that. Most actors can do tragedy and romance rather well, but comedy and comedic timing are a little trickier, and there were times when the actors steamrolled some very funny stuff (not Bottom (Jeff Wittekiend), he got it right). Go slower, work on delivering the perfect punch line, the exquisite double-take, and forget about your dignity. One could, from time to time, see the actors trying to work at a slower pace, fighting with themselves. The play itself is a reflection of life itself–fragmented, non-linear, ironic, and discontinuous. Costuming and make-up were top notch, especially for the ensemble of sprites and fairies. The main set was a gloriously large tree, nicely symbolic, and hugely metaphoric. Lighting and sound were on the mark. Perhaps the only thing that needed correcting in the entire production was a program with a couple of notes about the play, WS, and something about this production. Dramaturge notes were conspicuously missing. Tip of the hat to all involved for a wonderful evening at the theater.

On Jekyll and Hyde

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I first read this story as a teenager, but after seeing Baylor’s wonderful and sprightly production, I finally understand it. Directed by master’s student Josiah Wallace, this adaptation by Jeffrey Hatcher is a darkly lit montage of Victorian England’s seamier side of filthy alleys, morgues, flop houses, dark streets, corpses and solitary gardens. The play is not as possessed of forbidden science or occult practices as it with the solitary human heart. What is more frightening? To find you are capable of incredible violence and unrelenting cruelty? Or to find that although admired, loved, and applauded by all, you lead a sickening and solitary life of few friends and no family? Ultimately Robert Louis Stephenson, the novelist who penned the original, was probably less concerned with the potion his mad scientist concocted than he was with unleashing the horrific beast that resides within us all, controlled, just below the surface. The question is: can we forever keep the beast contained? Stephenson, Hatcher and Wallace would all say that, no, that’s not really possible, and that’s why the alter-ego, Hyde, slides to the surface. In the end Hyde is a monster who hides in the shadows, screams, hits, threatens, yet he also a man, indistinguishable from any other. To think that we absolutely control our emotions, that logic is always at our fingertips, that rational thought is our only response to any situation is totally absurd. The most frightening idea presented by the play is that many of the abusers look like Jekyll and are shining examples of decorum and respectability until they can get their victims alone and hurt them. Symbolized by a red door, a continuous rupture with logic and rational thought was the centerpiece of the work, and characters came and went, at one point in the guise of a doctor, or a professor, or a policeman, and then morphing into the violent, menacing, and irrational Hyde, and then changing back again into reasonable English Victorians with their lilting accents and proper manners. The ensemble seemed strangely constrained at times, torn between their need to repress their energies as Victorians and their need to let it all go in the guise of Henry Hyde. I admire both their guts and their courage, and it was obvious that they trusted their director. The only thing that would have made the play creepier would have been a more nuanced Hyde who shouted less, but then again, that’s just me. The set, a minimalist piece of moveable ironwork, kept transforming itself into new places, almost as unpredictable as Jekyll himself. The lighting was subdued since the entire production was cloaked in night, darkness, fog and mist, which was appropriate given the subject matter at hand. Too much rational empiricist makes Jekyll a dull boy indeed, but the unanswered question remains: There, but for the grace of God, go I?