Live Arts

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.

By Imani Nyame 

This article was originally published in DCTRENDING, here.

There are few things more thrilling than when Broadway leaves New York and lands right in your city. Touring productions provide people, from all over, the opportunity to engage with high commercial theater close to home. They also encourage accessibility which can only promote further equity and diversity in theater spaces. In a world where the majority of theatergoers are White – we need that.  But what about the people working behind the scenes? From directors to stage hands, head electricians to hair and wigs, the ratio of white vs nonwhite people working in high commercial theater is beyond disproportionate. This isn’t because we aren’t here and capable; we are and in high numbers. We simply don’t have access. 

The non-profit organization, Black Theatre Coalition, is working to change that. Through their emerging apprenticeship program, they’re creating paid opportunities for young black creatives to learn alongside industry production professionals working in their cities. The primary goal of BTC is to remove the “illusion of inclusion” from theater spaces. As liberal as theater may seem, in regards to its main purpose to mirror society and advocate for change, the reality is that most theater producers and  owners are white. Meaning, the majority of the plays being produced are not employing persons of color on, or backstage. I was fortunately provided the opportunity to participate in a program, this past April, working with the Les Misérables touring company at the John F. Kennedy Center where it made its US debut in 1986.

My initial introduction to ’Les Mis’ was through the 2012 film adaptation (though mention the film to director James Powell and he’ll likely scoff at its inferiority to the live version.) This being my first time seeing the esteemed musical live, I was excited that the apprenticeship offered backstage passes, too. Some other perks included getting to shadow resident director Richard Barth. Shadowing him, I observed how he tenderly passed out notes to the cast on things he noticed might need some work like lighting, acting choices or blocking. I worked with many other departments including automations, stage management, and hair and wigs. I observed the show with follow-spot operators (Bradley and Lauren), who have the best seats in the house at the top of the theater. I also sat in the pit with the orchestra for part of the show.

I’ve been doing theater for the majority of my life — from high school to college to regional theater. And all of these experiences have been invaluable. Working on a show of this caliber and bearing witness to the many moving parts of this well-oiled machine has enhanced my perspective on what it takes to produce this level of theater. From the intense schedules, to being estranged from the comfort of immediate friends and family.  All members of the ‘Les Mis’ company sacrifice their personal lives to keep the show going. They all have a role to play, be it the stagehand, props person, or Jean Valjean, himself. So many different positions and possibilities for employment exist in theater. It was interesting to learn that many key company members had not completed their education, but were mentored by people who believed in them and opened doors to opportunities.

As the Black Theatre Coalition continues to grow, it’s my hope that they allow me to grow alongside them. Through these types of opportunities, I hope to continue learning and developing the skills necessary to realize my own dreams as an artist and storyteller. And to promote diversity and equity in all the workspaces I inhabit. I encourage students and young theater lovers, alike, interested in developing a career in theater to look into the Black Theatre Coalition and what they have to offer.

By Whit Davis

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

Sometimes the story is not the play; it’s the acting.

The performers in the City of Fairfax Theatre Company’s production of Clybourne Park prove that sometimes local community theater talent is on par with the pros. It is clear that director Chaz D. Pando spent intentional time casting the production, working on table reads, and guiding the team of skilled actors through rehearsal. The brilliant performances by the actors confirm that.

Unfortunately, despite Clybourne Park being a Tony and Pulitzer Award-winning play, I found it problematic. The play’s attempt to tackle topics like racism, gentrification, capitalism, homophobia, and sexism feels like a giant undertaking that was undermined by playwright Bruce Norris’ paper-thin stereotypical portrayal of the play’s Black characters.

Clybourne Park is meant to be a nod to the Pulitzer Prize-winning play A Raisin in the Sun by acclaimed playwright Lorraine Hansberry. The story continues where A Raisin in the Sun left off as the Youngers, a Black family, are about to move to a middle-class white neighborhood in 1959. In Clybourne Park, the vantage point is from the white family they’re purchasing their new home from and the other white neighbors trying to convince the current owners that they should not sell to a Black family. But bubbling underneath is a secret that has the present family deep in grief.

In Act II of the play, set in 2009, the house is dilapidated, undergoing a renovation by a young white yuppie family following the trend of gentrification as they receive pushback on the modifications they are trying to make to their new home on the Southside of Chicago. An argument ensues bringing the tension between them to the surface.

The actors turn this material on its head by embodying the characters so that you believe you have traveled to 1959 and 2009. You feel you’re in the house with them as the dialogue unfolds, partly due to the 1959 set design by Roger Ray and costume design by Remeja Murray. The 2009 set feels less realistic, with bright blue, red, and yellow graffiti that spells out the word cop.

In the play’s first act, Ann Brodnax plays the wife Bev, and Kevin Dykstra her husband Russ. Together they give you the homespun feeling you’d expect from a TV show set in 1959. In the second act (each actor in Clybourne Park reappears as a new character for the second act set in 2009), Brodnax returns as the quirky lawyer Kathy and Dykstra as a construction worker named Dan, providing a much-needed dose of humor to the story. Eric Kennedy takes on the part of the priest Jim with a recognizable Southern accent. In the play’s second act, he plays Tom, a lawyer wanting to appear laidback. Later, Kennedy tackles the part of Kenneth in a jarring flashback scene at the end of the play. Karl, played by Rob Gorman, is a nosy, racist neighbor who believes he is doing the right thing for his community by fighting against a Black family moving into the neighborhood. In the second act, Gorman mirrors his character, but this time as a more modern younger version, Steve, suggesting that preconceptions and bigotry pass down from generation to generation.

The two Black characters in the play fall into recognizable tropes: the Black woman with an attitude and an aggressive Black man. A white playwright, Norris appears to have little insight into the inner lives of Black people. He writes from a place of assumption and stereotypes. Khanner Hancock plays the quick-witted characters of Francine and Lena. Tokunbo Adedeinde portrays the characters Albert and Kevin, Black men who go along to get along until they become angry. It’s disappointing to see Black characters written without any character development. Despite the play’s shortcomings, these actors make the most of their roles by giving the audience memorable performances.

Clybourne Park was praised as a nod to A Raisin in the Sun when it won the Pulitzer Prize in 2011. But in 2023, its flat portrayal of Black characters makes it feel like an attempt by the playwright to attach himself to a notable play and use it as a vehicle to garner interest in his work.

In the end, you should see this play because of the performances by a stellar cast. They are a great reminder of the value of local theater. The acting can be the whole story, and the performances in the City of Fairfax Theatre Company’s production are truly the best part of Clybourne Park.

By Jakob Cansler

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts, here.

To note that Pride and Prejudice is well-known is perhaps a truism, so obviously accurate that it need not be said. Jane Austen’s 1813 novel is a classic for a reason ⁠— its deceptively simple story has aged well, or maybe even not aged at all. Today, it is so oft-referenced that non-readers will recognize at least the main characters.

Still, obvious as it may be, the fame of Pride and Prejudice is important to remember for a theater company staging an adaptation of it. After all, it means that theater-goers will have an idea of what this show is, an expectation for their theater-going experience.

That can be both a gift and a curse. Expectations create a million different options for bringing a story to life, ranging from staying true to the original source material to straying far away from it. No option is wrong, but all come with their own challenges.

In the case of Silver Spring Stage’s production of Pride and Prejudice, now in performances through May 14, the former option has been chosen. In a production faithful to its source, the community theater company has brought Austen’s classic to life and, for the most part, overcomes the challenges associated with doing so.

It should be noted, too, that this production also overcame several challenges unrelated to the source material. Just two weeks into rehearsal, a global pandemic delayed the show. Three years later, with much of the same cast and crew finally ready to complete the process, unexpected construction at Silver Spring Stage’s home theater forced the company to stage the production at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, a city that is notably not Silver Spring.

Now, as directed by Madeleine Smith, Austen’s story has finally made it to the stage. At the center of that story is Elizabeth Bennet (Katherine Leiden), the second-eldest of five daughters in the Bennet family. Mrs. Bennet (Andrea Spitz) is desperate, for inheritance purposes, to marry off at least one of her daughters to a wealthy man.

The main prospect for the eldest, Jane (Stephanie Dorius), is Mr. Bingley (Judah Hoobler), a bachelor who has just moved to town with his best friend, Mr. Darcy (Nicholas Temple). Jane and Mr. Bingley immediately like each other. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy immediately hate each other. Everyone around them is immediately intrigued.

This specific adaptation, by Christina Calvit, stays true to all the essential plot points of the original novel and pulls much of the dialogue from Austen’s work. Where Calvit does stray is in how the plot is conveyed. Most importantly, Elizabeth serves as a narrator, speaking directly to the audience to reveal important information and confide her feelings. Townspeople, as well, gossip about the relationships forming and unforming.

Smith, for her part, has made the specific decision to keep this production true to the cultural context of the era ⁠— that is, the Regency era in the early 19th century ⁠— in which the story takes place.

Aesthetically, detailed attention has been given to the scenic design (by Brigid Kelly Burge), hair and makeup designs (Maureen Roult), and costumes ⁠— for which the team of Nathaniel Cavin, Nora Galil, and James Carey created over 50 individual garments. So too do the mannerisms, accents, music, and dancing (choreography by Stefan Sittig) fit the Regency era.

The choice for historical authenticity makes Silver Spring Stage’s Pride and Prejudice as close to a true period piece as is possible for a community theater company. Of course, period pieces come with obstacles ⁠— most notably the linguistic and cultural disconnect that can make a work less engaging for modern audiences.

Those obstacles can be overcome, though, and there are many instances in this production in which they are. Some sections of the script purposefully move the story along quickly, and Smith’s staging emphasizes snappy transitions, sometimes even overlapping scenes. During those sections, the pace keeps the show engaging. Some of the actors ⁠— in particular Leiden as Elizabeth and Spitz as Mrs. Bennet ⁠— are also skilled in delivering old-fashioned dialogue with enough variation to keep it accessible.

There are, however, other parts of this production in which the obstacles of a period piece are not overcome, particularly in the second act. Sections that can’t utilize quick pacing struggle to stay compelling, in particular longer scenes in which the emotional tension gets bogged down in the language. In those cases, more dynamic staging and line delivery could give the tension the boost it needs.

Overall, though, theater-goers expecting a three-dimensionalized version of Austen’s classic novel will not be disappointed by Silver Spring Stage’s production. This is Pride and Prejudice, as it was written in 1813, brought to life.

By Jakob Cansler

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

There is perhaps nothing with a more transportive effect than music. It has the power to conjure memories long forgotten, to blend the past with the present, to transcend reality. For those seeking asylum ⁠— people who have been forced to leave their old lives, but whose new lives have not officially begun ⁠— that effect can be particularly powerful. It is not only transportive but humanizing.

That effect is central to Theatre Prometheus’ production of The Cassette Shop, a new play devised by Asif Majid and the Storytellers, a group of local asylum seekers. Now in performances at Anacostia Arts Center through May 20, The Cassette Shop is better in concept than in execution, but nevertheless reveals the humanity of people who are so often dehumanized.

The Cassette Shop centers on two asylum seekers, Alé (Shan Khan) and Luciar (Kartika Hanani). Set entirely in Alé’s vintage Cassette Shop in Montana, the two quickly form a connection over their shared experience and love for music. The play follows their present friendship along with their past lives, which are revealed through monologues between scenes, in which they are transported through music into their memories.

Those monologues are taken verbatim from interviews with real people seeking asylum in the DC area. For this production, Theatre Prometheus partnered with AsylumWorks, a nonprofit that helps asylum seekers in the area rebuild their lives here. Majid and dramaturg Sarah Priddy interviewed asylum seekers, after which Majid used the transcripts from those interviews as the basis for this play. As a result, The Cassette Shop serves as both a form of community-building and as a megaphone for people whose stories are often not heard.

Most important, many of the stories featured in The Cassette Shop are not about the process of seeking asylum but instead focus on memories from home countries, defining people by the lives they have lived and are living, rather than by the legal status they are seeking. Majid’s script does an effective job of blending those interviews with the story of Alé and Luciar, communicating the experience of feeling stuck between lives via embodied memories.

As a concept and as words on paper, the potential for The Cassette Shop to be a unique storytelling experience is high. As a performance, Theatre Prometheus’ production, directed by Lauren Patton Villegas, unfortunately never reaches that potential.

Specifically, sluggish pacing holds The Cassette Shop back from communicating the emotional tension and personal conflict that builds throughout the play. One particularly climactic moment toward the end of the play never feels quite like a peak, leaving what could be the most heartrending moment of the play unrealized.

Shan Khan as Alé and Kartika Hanani as Luciar in ‘The Cassette Shop.’ Photo by Barbara Fluegeman.

Conservative staging choices, as well, mean that the performers spend virtually the entire play standing still. That could be an effective choice with highly skilled actors. In this case, though, more dynamic movement ⁠— or even abandonment of realistic movement entirely, during some sections ⁠— could give the performances the boost they need to be compelling.

The Cassette Shop does get a boost from some design choices. Specifically, Nitsan Scharf’s stunning projection design translates the transportive effect of music into a visual format, creating an all-encompassing world for the performers to share memories with the audience. Hailey LaRoe’s evocative lighting design, too, helps to differentiate the realism of the main story from the emotive world of memory.

It is in that emotive world, the moments in which the characters are transported back to their old lives through music, that this production gets the closest to the poignancy it seeks. Those moments also serve as a reminder of what this show could potentially be, and given its political and social weight, I look forward to seeing The Cassette Shop reach that potential in the future.