D. R. Lewis

By D. R. Lewis

This article was originally published in The DC Line, here.

For the unacclimated, an advertisement for William Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale might conjure images of holiday stories that are often seen on stage this time of year. But DC audiences will find a twisting, tangled yarn spun of jealous royals, blood-thirsty bears and folksy shepherds rather than holly sprigs and spirits of Christmases past, present and future. Playing through Dec. 17 in an admirable production, Folger Theatre reasserts The Winter’s Tale as one of Shakespeare’s “problem plays” and begs audience members to open their imaginations to the playwright’s most extraordinary dramatic whims.

The Winter’s Tale begins in the court of Sicilian king Leontes (Hadi Tabbal), who misinterprets a moment of friendship between his pregnant wife Hermione (Antoinette Crowe-Legacy) and visiting Bohemian king Polixenes (Drew Kopas). Growing jealous, Leontes instructs an aide to kill Polixenes, imprisons Hermione, and orders the abandonment of newborn child Perdita. While Polixenes manages to escape, Hermione ambiguously withers away and the baby is left to die in Bohemia. Only after the Oracle of Delphos exonerates Hermione does Leontes see the foolishness in his jealousy, prompting him to commit to atoning for his reckless behavior. Years later, Perdita (Kayleandra White) — having been rescued and raised by a shepherd — falls in love with Bohemian prince Florizel (Jonathan Del Palmer). Their love, along with the epiphany that Perdita is the Sicilian princess, not only brings the kingdoms together in friendship once again, but also facilitates Hermione’s resurrection (or, perhaps, the revelation that she’s been alive all along).

What begins as a deeply dramatic descent of a jealous king, complete with death and banishment, eventually gives way to a joyous romp of mistaken identity and inevitable romance. Such tonal transition has marked The Winter’s Tale with the scholarly “problem play” label, and presents a significant challenge for producing companies to hold the audience’s attention through the shifting vibe. Sure, for some, Shakespeare’s “genius” status leaves him immune to criticism. But The Winter’s Play is too full of dissatisfying dramatic wrinkles to make for anything other than an inconsistent night in the theater. When compared to the rest of the canon, The Winter’s Tale reveals itself as simply a lesser play. Please don’t shake your fist (spear?) at me.

Regardless, director Tamilla Woodard does her best to rise to the challenge — and by and large delivers. Rather than trying to force a smooth gradient between the play’s initial drama and the subsequent comedy, she leans on her ensemble of actors and creative team to draw stark stylistic differences between the two halves of her production. Raul Abrego Jr.’s bilevel set, which fits snugly onto the Folger’s small stage, alternates effectively between the chic, angular modernism in the play’s Sicilian scenes and the country cowboy flair of more rural Bohemia. Sarah Cubbage’s costumes correspond accordingly, with charcoal suits and businesswear for the royal Sicilians and cowboy hats and chaps for their rural Bohemian counterparts. Max Doolittle’s lighting design appropriately sets the mood, especially in the darkness of the forest where Perdita was to be abandoned and the sunny sheep-shearing festival that is the centerpiece of the production’s second half. These strong style choices effectively signal to the audience that the dramatic landscape has changed, helping to ease the emotional whiplash.

But not all of the choices are as successful. The Winter’s Tale has the distinction of owning the prototypical bloodthirsty bear, who pursues and mauls Antigonus (Stephen Patrick Martin) as he deposits the helpless Perdita in the woods. Woodard’s production opts to evoke the bear solely through lighting effects and projection, rather than with an actor in a bear costume. It came as something of a surprise that, with the bold stylization of both the serious first act and whimsical second act, the most droll element of the play was given but three flashes of light in this production. Given the ensemble’s liberal use of the middle aisle and other areas of the house to immerse the audience, the omission of the bear’s physical representation left this reviewer wondering why it went understated.

But this downplayed sequence is soon forgotten in the wake of strong performances across the cast. As Hermione, Crowe-Legacy is a stately and sincere queen, making Leontes’ rejection of her all the more baffling and heartbreaking. Kate Eastwood Norris is both entertaining as a dancing Bohemian and deeply moving as a devoted Paulina (her delivery of one of the play’s most memorable lines, “it is a heretic that makes the fire, not she which burns in it,” inspires chills). And as the mischievous Autolycus, Reza Salazar enchants the audience with call-and-response and expert delivery of the character’s extended missives.

Despite its quirks, The Winter’s Tale offers a warm welcome for audiences returning to the Folger Shakespeare Library, which has undergone significant renovations since March 2020. The building’s ground floor entrance and lobby area are done over in concrete that evokes cool modernism and the iconic Brutalism visible in parts of downtown Washington. But upon ascending to the upper level and entering into the wood and stone Tudor theater, patrons may feel instantly transported across centuries and locales from Washington to Elizabethan London — or perhaps, for the time being at least, from Sicily to Bohemia. In this new building that embraces the contrasting styles of the historical and the modern, The Winter’s Tale, with its own stark contrasts, may be just the right choice for the Folger’s fresh start.

By D. R. Lewis

This article was originally published in The DC Line, here.

Standing at nearly 6 feet 4 inches, Atlanta Mayor Maynard Holbrook Jackson Jr. was a formidable presence in national Democratic politics, both in spirit and stature, for three decades. Now, in Something Moving: A Meditation on Maynard, a new play from the Ford’s Theatre Legacy Commission program, playwright Pearl Cleage draws on her experience as Jackson’s speechwriter and friend to contextualize his political legacy through the voices of the people who first sent him to City Hall in 1973.

Something Moving invites audiences into an Atlanta high-school-turned-community-arts-center, where nine local actors have gathered to rehearse a play that tells the story of Maynard Jackson 50 years after his election as the city’s first Black mayor. Under the direction of a pseudo-narrator called The Witness, the actors assume their roles as citizens remembering Jackson’s political rise — first as a candidate for United States Senate against a segregationist incumbent and eventually as a three-term mayor — and in doing so examine the social progress since Jackson first entered politics. They recount his success in harnessing the voting power of the city’s Black residents following the passage of the Voting Rights Act, and the symbol of hope he quickly became.

“Is this a history play?” asks one of the actors, who are referred to as numbered “Citizens.” “Every play is a history play,” replies The Witness. But Something Moving does not emulate many other histories by fixating on the specific dates and details of Jackson’s political career. Cleage instead focuses on the personal aspects of politics — the way that Jackson made his constituents feel, the social shift he represented, and the widespread feelings of optimism that his election inspired across the South. She adds context by detailing the pre- and post-Civil War legacy of Atlanta as the capital of a former confederate state, as seen through the experiences of its inhabitants. Among the Atlanta residents the various Citizens portray are a Black housekeeper who has worked for the same white family for 20 years, a lesbian couple who live on the site of a former Civil War battlefield, a gay man who encountered Jackson when the mayor visited the historic Sweet Gum Head drag bar, and a young man Jackson met while spending a weekend living among constituents in the Bankhead Courts public housing complex.

It is in these moments of heightened, focused storytelling that the play is at its strongest. By fully developing individual characters and the world they inhabit, Cleage draws the audience in and successfully underscores Jackson’s impact on individual lives. She is then able to effectively convey the oppressive social pressures that many of Jackson’s constituents were living under, why he represented the promise of relief and change, and the ways in which many of those pressures persist today. But, generally, those compelling moments come too late in the play, which spends a great deal of time at the outset explaining the mechanics of its storytelling, perhaps at the expense of a greater breadth of storytelling. The play falls victim to its own structure, with form overwhelming the content.

From her entrance, The Witness (a very charismatic Billie Krishawn) asserts herself as a dramatic device. Breaking the fourth wall, she immediately points out that the audience is in a theater watching a performance and that the people onstage are portraying performers themselves (clearly a nod to the Stage Manager in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, which is a phrase that is repeatedly uttered in reference to Atlanta). But in a play that insists on connection between people and wishes to underscore the power of the individual (as implied by its subtitle, A Meditation on Maynard), The Witness’ commitment to referring to her characters only as numbered citizens and to present herself as a dramatic convention are not conducive to the play’s desired impact.

While the full title promises both the momentum of a political ascent and the careful consideration of a meditation, the play struggles to commit to either. Just as it deliberately avoids digging into the particulars of Jackson’s policy accomplishments, it quickly brushes over his constituents’ criticisms, focusing instead on the symbolism of his election and the magnetism of the man. Regardless, Cleage delivers a heartfelt love letter to her friend and former boss, and the affection and respect she holds for Jackson is both obvious and touching. Audiences will walk away from this production having learned more about an overlooked political icon and feeling encouraged to consider the impact that local heroes can have on their home communities as well as the national stage.

Cleage’s play is bolstered by a strong cast and production team. Under the direction of Seema Sueko, the apt ensemble buoys the material with standout performances by Kim Bey, Alina Collins Maldonado and Constance Swain. Ivania Stack’s costumes embrace modern fashion, but also nod to 1970s trends. Jeanette Oi-Suk Yew’s lighting appropriately evokes the industrial brightness of an aging community center, but in conjunction with Shawn Duan’s projection design can turn on a dime to transport the audience to a range of settings. But Milagros Ponce de León’s set may be the most effectual element of all. Utilizing the stage’s deep apron, the angled sides of her hyper-realistic set extend toward the audience like arms reaching for a welcoming hug.

Notwithstanding its limitations, Something Moving is a fitting selection for Ford’s Theatre. It’s not just that the flags festooning Abraham Lincoln’s box serve as a seamless yet noticeable buffer between this landmark of American history and Ponce de León’s municipal set, nor that the theater sits mere blocks from the centers of our federal government in a city that, at the time of Jackson’s election, had a population that was more than 70% Black. Equally important, Ford’s Theatre serves as an educational center, welcoming countless students from across the United States each year to engage them in both American history and the performing arts. Cleage’s play unabashedly joins in those efforts. For some students, it will be the first play they see. For far more, it will likely be their first introduction to a man who dedicated himself to building a better community. Through Cleage’s curation of historical stories and voices that are not so different from those of her modern audience, Maynard Jackson’s legacy endures.

Something Moving: A Meditation on Maynard by Pearl Cleage runs through Oct. 15 at Ford’s Theatre, 511 10th St. NW. Directed by Seema Sueko. Approximately 90 minutes and performed without an intermission. Tickets are available at fords.org or by calling the box office at 888-616-0270.

By D. R. Lewis

This article was originally published in The DC Line, here.

Sammi Cannold’s Evita begins and ends with the same striking image: an angelic white gown floating over rolling fields of white flowers. The metaphor isn’t difficult to discern as the world continues to grapple with the legacies of Eva Perón’s meteoric rise to become first lady of Argentina in the 1940s and the subsequent Andrew Lloyd Webber/Tim Rice megahit that has kept her firmly in the international consciousness long after her death. But in this fresh production, running through Oct. 15 at Shakespeare Theatre Company’s Harman Hall and produced in association with American Repertory Theater, director Cannold forces a closer, neon-tinged look at the myth-making of Eva Perón and the alchemy required to become a populist icon.

After originating as a concept album in 1976, Rice and Lloyd Webber’s Evita premiered in London’s West End in 1978 ahead of a 1979 Broadway transfer. Telling the story of Eva’s early life, relationship with eventual Argentine President Juan Perón, reign as first lady and death at age 33, Evita was among the first “British Invasion” musicals and rock-style scores to hit Broadway. Now, having enjoyed countless revivals, productions and tours around the globe, plus a 1996 film starring Madonna, Evita could be easily treated as a period piece and a relic of a bygone era. Even its iconic anthem, “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” has been covered by the likes of Sinéad O’Connor, Donna Summer, Olivia Newton-John, and the cast of Glee.

But in the wake of a new American populism, Cannold invites her audience to take another look at Evita and interrogate the unpredictable events and mythologizing that allow an individual to capture (and hold on tightly to) a nation’s attention. Eva Perón may have been a singular sensation, but she also benefited from the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time with the right people and having the good sense to seize her moment. “Now, Eva Perón had every disadvantage you need if you’re gonna succeed” is a striking lyric that comes early in the musical, but sets the tone for the relentless social climbing and wily opportunism that catapulted her to the Casa Rosada. We watch as an impoverished young Eva (a strong Shereen Pimentel) attaches herself to a philandering lounge singer in order to get to Buenos Aires, leverages her beauty and agency to reap social advantages from well-positioned men, launches her career as an actress and radio star, and eventually introduces herself to Juan Perón (a sincere Caesar Samayoa), whose own star is rising. Eva carefully curates the narrative of her own ascent, never relinquishing her pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps origin story and doubling down on her assertion that she is the “savior” of the Argentine poor. Her self-aggrandizing is foiled only by cynical narrator Che (an effective Omar Lopez-Cepero), who refreshingly fades in and out of the action to relate unsavory details of the Perón regime that Eva would rather not share.

Soon after securing her place as Juan Perón’s partner, Eva expels his mistress from the household in a scene where Cannold’s handiwork can be seen most clearly. Where past productions have lazily utilized “Another Suitcase in Another Hall” as an illustration of Eva’s viciousness, Cannold instead conjures a depth and magic that afford Eva a moment to quietly consider the fantastic series of events that accelerated her rise. Mimicking the staging of an earlier sequence where Eva interacts with a carousel of men to her increasing benefit, she now looks on as the cast-off young woman maneuvers through a similar sequence with the same men, but fails to acquire the same social advances as Eva. In this brief, breathtaking moment, the audience sees Eva recognize the fragile nature of her opportunity and make the firm decision to run full speed ahead to secure her spot at the top. Nevermind that the road ahead will be full of contradictions, greed, corruption and unrest. 

Eva soon ignores the ideals she once held and the working class from which she rose in favor of desperate grasps at respect from the Buenos Aires elite she purports to abhor. Still, as she becomes more separated from the harsh realities of the country’s poor, potentially embezzles money under the guise of charitable giving and faces her own mortality within the walls of the presidential palace, she sings the old familiar tunes and becomes increasingly possessive of those who she could once reliably call “my people.” In her final moments, Pimentel’s Eva strains to maintain her grasp on life as much as her grasp on power, which have become one and the same. When the requiem that starts the show returns to complete it, one can’t help but wonder whether the public displays of mourning are entirely sincere, or simply the logical consequence of Eva’s myth-making.

The production’s designers borrow heavily from the gilded nature of Eva’s reign to great effect. As the show begins, single beams of lush white flowers covering the stage ascend to the rafters, revealing Jason Sherwood’s dark, utilitarian set whose five arches serve as portals for movement and windows into the Perón administration’s abuses. Emily Maltby and Valeria Solomonoff’s embellished choreography most often culminates in an unexpected political transaction or surprising power shift. Alejo Vietti’s gray but detailed costumes serve to blend the ensemble into monotonous groups — as Eva herself often refers to them, such as “the middle classes,” “a clutch of stuffed cuckoos,” or simply, again, “my people” — rather than to distinguish individuals. The uniformity is offset only by Eva’s white garments and flashes of deep red from Che’s undershirt. When combined with Bradley King’s excellent neon lighting, which frames the stage and scant structures of Eva’s world, you cannot escape the sense that you are watching a person write, stage and perform the story of her own life within a proscenium that she thinks she alone can see. Even so, in a first act that begs for a percussive electricity to match Eva’s hunger, a muted, electronic soundscape steals a bit of the bite.

Stories of politics and those who peddle power will always hold a special place in the hearts of Washington audiences and Evita, one of several co-productions slated for this season, is a strong start for Shakespeare Theatre Company. With Cannold’s fresh take, which serves more to reframe than reconceive the material, audiences have all the more reason to grapple with the persistent question of whether musicals like Evita (and Broadway’s current Imelda Marcos disco musical, Here Lies Love) work to glorify the legacies of complicated figures, or serve as cautionary tales of political ascension. Regardless of which side one may land, perhaps by interrogating the populists of the past, we can better understand those who wish to harness that same power today. Don’t worry, Eva. We won’t cry for them, either.

By D.R. Lewis

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts on March 16, 2023, here.

Since Alanis Morissette’s landmark album Jagged Little Pill was released in 1995, it has served as the soundtrack to innumerable breakups, angsty teenage phases, and bouts of nostalgia. Even so, it might not be the first album to come to mind when pursuing a fun night in the theater. But a series of strong performances and fresh takes on much-loved hits make this Jagged Little Pill, a musical built around selections from Morissette’s recording catalog, a bit easier to swallow. The show’s first national tour runs at the National Theatre through March 26.

Jagged Little Pill follows a year in the life of Mary Jane Healy, an upper-class stay-at-home mother, and her family: workaholic husband Steve (Chris Hoch), overachieving son Nick (Dillon Klena), and social justice advocate daughter Frankie (Lauren Chanel). Over the course of the show, the Healys are forced to confront the secrets that lie just below the surface of their carefully curated, picture-perfect lives.

Fans of Morissette’s music will not leave disappointed. With orchestrations and arrangements by Tom Kitt (who won two Tony Awards and a Pulitzer Prize for his work on Next to Normal), the cast performs the resonant score with the kind of raw emotion and vigor that has made the Jagged Little Pill album a perennial favorite for need-a-good-cry, deep-in-your-feelings moments. Jagged Little Pill makes a strong effort to sensibly intersperse nearly two dozen Morissette songs within its ambitious plot. Unlike some jukebox (or in this case, CD player?) musicals, Jagged Little Pill does not evoke the feeling of a concert (even though Justin Townsend’s lively light design sometimes errs on that side). Rather, it claims and holds its place firmly as a piece of musical theater.

The show makes clear from the start that it intends to tackle a combination of heady topics that would daunt most writers: adolescence, queerness, classism, racism, adoption, addiction, and sexual assault among them. After an initial whirlwind of shaky exposition, the show eventually settles into a rhythm that steadily gains dramatic steam and hits its stride in the second act. That book writer Diablo Cody, perhaps best known for penning the 2007 film Juno, manages to weave all of these topics into a cohesive, compelling, and mostly satisfying resolution by the final curtain is an impressive feat. She doesn’t, however, completely succeed in avoiding awkward cliches and trite turns of phrase that too often creep into the voices of the teenage characters. Still, the Tony-winning book shines brightest in the humanizing witticisms that pass quickly, but with great impact. One zinger about Talbots garners a particularly hearty laugh.

Anchoring the production is an exquisite Heidi Blickenstaff as Mary Jane. Blickenstaff moves about the stage with a reassuring confidence that you’d expect from the character she plays, but never lets us forget for a moment that she could unravel at the drop of a hat. Blickenstaff masterfully pivots between quiet, considered moments and brief explosions of unrestrained emotion. One scene where she quite literally wrestles with her addiction is breathtaking.

Blickenstaff is flanked by solid performances from Hoch and Klena. Chanel’s Frankie brings refreshing conscience to the production, even in her moments of naivete. As Frankie recounts the ignorant mistakes her white adoptive parents made in raising her as a Black child in their homogeneous community, Chanel beautifully demonstrates the character’s deep desire for belonging and understanding in both spoken and nonverbal ways. Her sweet performance of “Ironic,” perhaps Morissette’s most famous song, is a highlight of the night.

Standout supporting performances are delivered by Jade McLeod as Jo and Allison Sheppard as Bella. Sheppard perfectly captures the kind of fear that lies in the brief period between adolescence and adulthood, when we are expected to deal with the consequences of life’s most awful moments, but are unequipped to do so. McLeod brings the house down in both the tender “Hand in My Pocket” and fierce “You Oughta Know,” and, aside from Blickenstaff, is the most adept at delivering Cody’s writing with spot-on timing and tone.

Under the direction of Diane Paulus, the production capitalizes on the inherent angst of Morissette’s music. The set and video designs, by Riccardo Hernandez and Lucky Mackinnon respectively, evoke the coldness and digital dependence of the Healy home and its surrounding environs. And with choreography and movement direction by Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui, the energetic ensemble underscores the emotional turmoil, using their bodies to exemplify the pain of addiction and the discomfort of adolescence. Between songs, they transform easily from students to protestors to local moms to New Yorkers, adding life and fullness to the stage.

While Jagged Little Pill’s heavy subject matter may not be the kind of balm that generations of theatergoers sought in the classic musical comedies of yesteryear, it is perhaps a harbinger of the kinds of jukebox musicals that we should come to expect. Since the premiere of Jagged Little Pill on Broadway in 2018, we’ve seen new musicals take on such pop stars as Michael Jackson and Britney Spears. The oeuvres of these musicians may have at one time seemed unlikely material for musicals. But as theaters continue to face an existential economic crisis in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, could the expanding genre of jukebox musicals be the key to developing new theatregoing audiences? That is, after all, all we really want.

This article was produced in conjunction with Day Eight’s February 2023 conference on “Rethinking Theater Criticism.” DC Theater Arts worked with conference organizers on the New Theater Critics project, an initiative to grow the cohort of qualified local reviewers.