By Whit Davis 

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

Since the passing of Toni Morrison in 2019, newer and younger audiences are gravitating toward her brilliant, canonical works. A world without Toni Morrison’s physical presence has caused all of us to reach for her through books, YouTube clips, documentaries, TikToks, and plays. The theatrical adaption of The Bluest Eye by Lydia R. Diamond is a remarkable jewel, and the local performance by Theater Alliance in Anacostia honors a giant.

The Bluest Eye is a story about a Black girl named Pecola Breedlove who prays for blue eyes so that she’ll be treated with a femininity only available to little white girls. Instead, she experiences abuse from those who should protect her, and she feels and believes that her “ugliness,” which is her Blackness, keeps her trapped in these horrifying experiences. This play is a true testament to the cruelty of anti-Blackness.

The Bluest Eye is worthwhile viewing. From the set design (by Tiffani I. Sydnor) to the costume design (by Danielle Preston), the audience gets a glimpse into what it looked like to grow up in the 1940s. The set reinforces the hardships of that era and the beauty of making the most out of what you have. The costume design reminds you of how much gendered ideas are a part of clothing. The expectation of the female characters is to be feminine and dainty, and yet they “should know better” when it comes to life lessons.

It can be tricky for adults to play children because not only are the actors expected to look younger in character, but they must also tap into their youthfulness — and this cast succeeds. Amiah Marshall captures the nature and pain of Pecola. Devin Nikki Thomas plays brilliantly Maureen Peal, the light-skinned classmate Pecola connects with — but only briefly because she turns out to be a mean girl. Thomas also transitions to playing a neighboring gossiping adult and is believable as both characters. Finally, Melanie A. Lawrence plays the narrating voice of the story, Claudia, a character both strengthened and shattered by everyone’s desire for whiteness as beauty.

The cast works well together, possessing the chemistry needed for a play with deep complexities of themes like anti-Blackness, colorism, poverty, abuse, and friendship. The actors seem close to the story and yet possess enough distance not to be swallowed by its power. Morrison’s works tend to have that effect.

The play is not without fault. It’s an adaptation turned into an interpretation by the director, Otis Cortez Ramsey-Zöe. Some scenes with mature content where abuse occurs feel more like scenes from The Three Stooges. Yet the trauma Pecola is experiencing remains concretely humorless due to the profound storytelling ability of Morrison.

The legacy of Toni Morrison stands tried and true. Her absence drives a longing for us all to become more deeply acquainted with her works, especially as she continues to be on the list of banned books. The Bluest Eye has solidified itself as a classic, and the stage adaptation reinforces its ability to be timeless no matter the form. It’s hard to do wrong with a work of art so close to perfection.

By Imani Nyame

This article was originally published in DC Trending, here.

If homeownership is the last pitstop to fulfilling the American dream, then it makes sense that Black Americans are encouraged to stay woke. In a country where the vast majority of homeowners are White it can be a cause for celebration when a Black family can afford to dream. Buying a house is a step towards  Black intergenerational wealth. Yet, they may unknowingly contribute to the gentrification that plagues many urban communities experiencing rising property values. But what happens when the gentrifier isn’t an outsider? Or, if the perpetrator moves back to the very place they ran from? 

These questions are confronted in the world premiere of Pulitzer Prize winning playwright, James Ijame’s, Good Bones commissioned by Studio Theatre. Directed by frequent Studio Theatre collaborator, Psalmayene 24, this production is intimate. It features a thrust stage set in the kitchen of married, first time homeowners, Aisha (played by Cara Ricketts) and Travis (played by Joel Ashur) expecting their first born. As they employ the help of neighborhood contracter, Earl (played by Johnny Ramey) to help them finish their renovations in time for the birth of their baby, they connect with one another and to their neighborhood through candid conversation and some much needed life reality checks. 

The performance’s frank dialogue showcases each character’s undeniably strong sense of self. So it’s fitting that the majority of this play takes place in the midst of discourse. The common denominators are the headstrong and lively Aisha, and the passionate, yet hotheaded, Earl both of which are natives of the unnamed city meant to represent the many just like it. Aisha left her hometown and attained higher education to became a civil engineer; Whereas, Earl stayed. Earl is an intrinsic part of his community and is troubled  by the general disregard for its  rich history. Ramey’s “Earl” is provocative and his intensity toes the line that establishes his and Aisha’s professional relationship. Earl sees Aisha in ways that Travis cannot. Ultimately, their relatability nudges Aisha towards an impossible “what if,”  forced to reckon with who she would have become if she had stayed. 

Costume designer, Moyenda Kulemeka’s, amplifies the charcter’s archetypes and personal politics seamlessly through wardrobe. Travis, aloof, young and wealthy, sports muscle bearing polos matched with trendy shorts, and a signature high-top fade which likens him to a modern day, Carlton (The Fresh Prince). This is a stark contrast to Earls’ modest, earth-toned outfits, and splashes of color coming from what seems to be a vast collection of accessories including a kufi adorning his crown.

There’s a fifth character, outside of the  main characters, that plays a pivotal role in the story — the ghost of Aisha and Travis’ new home. Sound master Megumi Katayamaand lighting (by William D’eugenio) work together to create an ever present spirit. Random sounds, the laughter of children, and the dimness of the kitchen at different times of the day serve as a reminder that time doesn’t exist in a vacuum. 

Earl says, to Aisha, “…the past isn’t the past…it’s here. Now.” 

Ultimately, Good Bones is nothing short of some good kitchen table talk. It’s a homespun, neighborly discussion about taking responsibility for one’s community by being conscious of and actively engaged in the structures that exist within it

By Daarel Burnette II 

This article was originally published in Dc Theater Arts on May 22, 2023, here.

In the spring of 2019, a protest broke out in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood of Washington, DC, after a T-Mobile store owner was told by the police to turn down or off the clanging Go-Go music he’d blasted from outdoor speakers for decades.

Anger had been swelling for years over who in the neighborhood would have access to shrinking resources, who the police would police, and who the neighborhood really belonged to.

That scene has now been deftly brought to the stage by Studio Theatre in Good Bones,written by James Ijames and directed by Psalmayene 24.

The play forces its audience of mostly white DC residents to think critically about their own role in Black displacement and the sharing of space through the use of unsuspecting characters, the Black gentrifier.

Its acting is gripping, and the set is dynamic, though the plot is at times wanting.

Good Bones was commissioned in 2019 by Studio. Ijames, who recently won the Pulitzer Prize for Fat Ham, wrote the play based on his time in the neighborhoods around Studio Theatre and growing up in Philadelphia, according to Studio’s artistic director David Muse.

It adds to a growing genre of art that explores the Black gentrifier, who’s conflicted about their obligation to give back, their own understanding of “authentically Black,” and their newfound ability to afford.

Middle-class Black people are significantly more likely to live in low-income neighborhoods, according to a 2015 Stanford University study. This act is often spurred on by their attempts to escape anti-Black racism in white suburbs, deep kinship with family and friends in low-income neighborhoods, and bias embedded in the real estate industry. But it prevents Black children from accessing better schools and exacerbates the wealth gap, since homes in Black neighborhoods don’t accrue value the way they do in white neighborhoods.

In Good Bones, Aisha, played by Cara Ricketts, and her husband Travis, played by Joel Ashur, move into a fictionalized city undergoing a rapid demographic shift. Earl, a local contractor played by Johnny Ramey, questions the way Aisha talks, what she does and doesn’t know about the local neighborhood, and her attempt to revitalize the once-abandoned home, which is haunted.

Ashur and Ricketts bring to the stage the sort of authentic chemistry that makes their newfound love believable. Their dance breaks, which co-stars lighting produced by William D’Eugenio, is both well coordinated and entertaining.

There were moments when I thought the plot could move beyond the sometimes-predictable frictions communities across the world experience when class and race clash. We’re only given glimpses at some characters’ backstories. Some of the monologues are redundant and plodding.

Nevertheless, sometimes it’s necessary to say over and over again to an audience that their actions have consequences. That makes Good Bones worth it.

By Jakob Cansler

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

Before any words are spoken in The Oreo Complex, the directions are clear. In bold letters, repeated a hundred times on the background of the stage, are three words: FOLLOW THE RULES.

What are the rules? There are a dozen or so of them, appearing in the intro portion of the show. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” is there, as is “Don’t call anyone racist” and “Talk about race, but not too much” and “Hand out lots of treats” and ⁠— I couldn’t remember them all, to be honest. I am, admittedly, not expected to remember them.

Lillian Brown, the writer, director, and sole performer of Oreo Complex, is expected to remember them. She is expected to follow them, too ⁠— all of them, at all times. Doing so is like a never-ending balancing act. In Oreo Complex, now performing at Nu Sass Productions through June 2, Brown expertly reveals the toll that such a balancing act has on her. 

Oreo Complex explores the experience of being Black, both generally and specifically within white institutions, and is inspired by W.E.B. DuBois’ concept of double consciousness. The show is split, essentially, into three parts, with monologues serving as bookends and a dance sequence and rendition of “Lift Every Voice and Sing” in the middle.

Brown begins, after the rules are laid out, with the definition of “oreo,” a derogatory term meant to describe a Black person perceived by others as “acting white.” From there, Brown launches into a stream-of-consciousness monologue that explores various aspects of identity and race in a short amount of time, both by directly speaking about her own experiences and understanding of Blackness and by revealing through her emotions the way that those identities affect her.

“Monologue” may actually not be quite the right word to use here. Sure, the lines flow conversationally, but there is something poetic about the way Brown speaks. The lines come fast and sometimes frantically, but there is a rhythm to the sentences, a mellifluousness that is captivating from the minute Brown defines “oreo.”

To be sure, “oreo” is not a self-description, for Brown or anyone. It is an identity placed on Brown by others. In fact, most of the various identities Brown explores in the first section of Oreo Complex are externally designated. Brown talks frankly about not feeling Black enough for the Black community while simultaneously not being considered Black by white people while simultaneously being defined by her Blackness by white people. It is telling that for much of the first section of Oreo Complex, Brown often uses the royal “you,” like even her own experiences exist outside of her. 

Much like following “the rules,” there is a balancing act to oscillating between all these identities. The frantic, stream-of-consciousness nature of this monologue derives from all the thoughts and emotions that pour out amid trying to reckon all of these identities. Her words are honest, sometimes even blunt, but they are also purposefully scattered, sometimes even contradictory.

When the dance and music come in the middle of Oreo Complex, then, they serve as an interlude of sorts. For the audience, it is a chance to digest. For Brown, it is a chance to collect ⁠— collect her thoughts, her emotions, her wording, her identity.

As a result, the second monologue in Oreo Complex is not the outpouring that the first one is. It is less stream-of-consciousness and more statement-of-purpose. There is still plenty of emotion in Brown’s words and performance, of course, but it is not the emotion that bleeds through the cracks of externally designated identities. This emotion is knowingly deployed from within.

It is also notable that for this second monologue, unlike the first, Brown sits on the floor the entire time. If the first monologue is an expression of the balancing act of being Black within a white institution, it is one that is both transfixing and hard to watch. After all, the captivation of a tightrope walk comes from the fear that at any second, the walker may fall. For Brown and for us, there is fear she may lose everything if she breaks one of the rules.In the end of Oreo Complex, though, Brown does not fall. She does not reach the end of the tightrope. She does not break any of the rules. She simply decides the balancing act is over.

By Jakob Cansler

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

Theater has long been obsessed with magicians. For an industry in the business of creating compelling work, there is an understandable fascination, perhaps even jealousy, with the power a good magician can hold over an audience, with their ability to create a spectacle that denies ⁠— and allows the audience to escape ⁠— reality.

It is ironic, then, that Open, a one-woman show about a magician, has quite the opposite effect. Now performing at Nu Sass Productions, Open is a heartrending magic show light on escapism and heavy on reality.

The Magician at the center of this show is nameless, and notably not a magician. She is instead a woman desperate to deny reality. To do so, she imagines herself in a magic show, and uses tricks, albeit imaginary ones, to trace her relationship with her girlfriend, Jenny, and to understand how she ended up in the harrowing moment she is in now. Despite her best attempts, her memories flood back, in the form of voiceovers. Her reality, it seems, is impossible to deny, even as her imagination runs wild.

To be clear, that the entire show takes place in the Magician’s head is not a spoiler. She tells us as much within the first few minutes. She also informs us that we, the audience, are imaginary as well, that we exist in her head to make the magic show seem real. She demands applause when she turns an imaginary egg into an imaginary parrot, when she juggles imaginary balls, when she walks an imaginary tightrope. We, the imaginary audience, cheer her on.

That we are informed early on that we are imaginary creates an immediate connection between the audience and performer, since we are essentially in the show with her. With the level of intimacy at Nu Sass ⁠— the company performs in a small, converted art gallery ⁠— that connection is even more intense.

Intimacy also works well for a show like Open, which can be, at times, heavy-handed in its subject matter. In a small space, where it often feels like the Magician is talking directly to you and isn’t afraid to make eye contact, her sincerity is impactful. In a larger space, with less direct connection between the audience and performer, such frank discussion of these themes might not carry the same weight that it carries here.

Allison McAlister’s performance as the Magician is certainly beneficial to that end. She strikes an impressive authenticity when conveying more distressing memories and emotions.

It is actually in the lighter moments of the show that McAllister could stand to be more intense. After all, Open takes place in the imagination and in a moment of desperation, and the frantic energy that often comes along with those qualities is missing here. When the Magician is candid, the desperation is there, but when she is in denial, she often seems too grounded. At times, it feels less like her imagination is running wild and more like her imagination has been carefully plotted.

Creating more variation in energy would also, presumably, speed the show’s pacing. As directed by Dom Ocampo, Open isn’t too long by any means ⁠— the runtime comes in at around only 80 minutes ⁠— but rather it relies too heavily on slow speeds to convey emotional pain. Variation would convey the wide range of emotions associated with a moment like the one the Magician is in, and in turn create a more compelling emotional arc.

Still, at the end of the day, the payoff that comes with following the Magician’s internal conflict through to the end comes through, and when it does, it hits hard. This is the kind of show where there is a gap between the final blackout and the applause because no one wants to be the one to break the tension.

In fact, there’s some irony in that blackout as well. Often, at a magic show, the loudest applause comes when the magician fools the audience, forcing them to, at least for a moment, pretend that the magic is real. In Open, the loudest applause comes when the Magician admits that it is not.