Performing Arts

By Whit Davis

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

The story of a Black political prisoner who tries to reconcile with his family makes for a compelling hook. The themes of family, revolution, grief, trauma, and perhaps reconciliation will no doubt pique the curiosity of many. The re-emergence of Sunset Baby by playwright Dominique Morisseau to new audiences may feel timely given the political landscape. This production is only a hop-and-skip over at Anacostia Playhouse.

Nina, played by Tierra Burke, is grieving the loss of her mother and the ever-present loss of herself when, shockingly, a stranger from her past arrives at her front door. The larger-than-life myth of a revolutionary seeking redemption is none other than her father, Kenyatta Shakur, played by DeJeanette Horne, who delivers a deep belly-breathing performance. To Nina, he’s the man who abandoned her and her mother, but to others, he’s still that larger-than-life figure who fought for his people.

The misunderstandings between the father and daughter cling to the bare apartment walls that Nina calls home. The set design by Sidriel Conerly is sparse, mirroring the scarcity of Nina’s emotional life. She’s almost empty from being a caretaker to her mother’s drug addiction, a ride-or-die girlfriend to a manipulative hustler, and now a lonely daughter to a selfish father. The people in Nina’s life are more like broken lamps than beautifully colored sunsets.

Word on the street is that Nina has letters from her late, well-known, impactful revolutionary mother, Ashanti X. A mother to the movement, but a burden to her own child. All Nina has left of her mother are love letters to Kenyatta. These love letters awaken the greediest parts of Damon, Nina’s boyfriend. Shawn Sebastian Naar has complete mastery over this character. Naar’s performance and the dialogue emerge as some of the most intriguing parts of the play.

Damon is a stumbling block to Nina and a balm to her loneliness. Kenyatta and Damon seek to get over by using each other to get what they want: Kenyatta wants the letters, and Damon wants the cash. Nina is driven further into survival mode, doing what she can to stay afloat. What will Nina do? Will she let the sun set on her old life?

Director Deidra LaWan Starnes seeks to excavate the “real” in the experience and bring it to life on stage in Sunset Baby. The hand of the actor, now the director, is evident in the details of the actors’ performances and the nuance of their body language. The delivery of the dialogue is rhythmic and penetrating. However, the music design is distracting. It needs to be a prop, not another character.

The story of the misunderstood Black father and revolutionary who abandoned his family for his people, the drug addict mother, the toxic, manipulative boyfriend, and the daughter who carries the trauma like a baglady tries to tackle too many themes at once. It’s a vast undertaking that doesn’t fully come together. It’s hard to tell where this responsibility belongs. Is this something to address for the director or the writer? Is this something that plagues all of theater?

Still, this play is worth the 90 minutes without an intermission. It begs more questions than answers and calls us to reflect deeply on storytelling in theater, which is what art should accomplish—well done.

By Haley Huchler

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

The Prom is a musical comedy based on true events: in 2010, a high school student in Mississippi planned to bring her girlfriend to the senior prom. The school board banned the lesbian student from attending, leading to a federal court case and a whirlwind media storm.  Who would ever imagine that a civil rights case out of Mississippi would lead to a sparkly, campy, Broadway phenomenon. 

The Arlington Players bring this captivating story to life once again, with musical dance numbers that dazzle and dialogue that charms. In the fictionalized retelling, four narcissistic Broadway actors decide to become celebrity activists in order to boost their reputations. They settle on resolving the plight of Emma, an Indiana teen who wants to take her girlfriend to the prom, much to the chagrin of the PTA. Bursting onto the scene of the small town in a dramatic fashion, the Broadway stars end up creating even more strife and stirring the pot until it overflows.

There are several standout performances from the talented cast. Patrick M. Doneghy plays Broadway star Barry Glickman with a perfect blend of humor, sass, and warmth. Eric Kennedy as Trent Oliver, a washed-up actor who is only recognized for his appearance on a ’90s sitcom, has a hilarious and compelling stage presence. Judy Lewis plays the dramatic diva Dee Dee Allen with confidence and grace. The chemistry among these actors and the rest of the cast (including Emily Carbone as Emma, Phil Krzywicki as Mr. Hawkins, the kind-hearted principal, and Jummy Lash as sweet Alyssa Greene, Emma’s girlfriend) is deliciously palpable, and the harmonious union of talent is endlessly enjoyable.

The script is filled with hilarious and memorable one-liners, both spoken and sung. Emily Carbone as Emma Nolan sings in her first solo: “Note to self: Don’t be gay in Indiana.” Kennedy’s Trent Oliver triumphantly announces to a town of horrified Midwesterners: “We’re liberal democrats from Broadway!” While the play centers on a serious topic, there’s scarcely a hint of somberness about the pressing issue at hand. Instead, the production leans into laughs and gaffes.

The most earnest the show gets is in Emma’s solo performances, such as “Just Breathe” and “Unruly Heart.” Carbone plays Emma with sincerity and heart. The character isn’t interested in using her story as a rallying tale; all she wants is to dance with her girlfriend at the prom. Carbone’s performance brings a groundedness to an otherwise whimsical production. But even Emma has her comedic moments, and overall, The Prom is shamelessly playful and waggish.

The set design by Matt Lipak and Dave Moretti is clever and economical, making thrifty use of a few key set pieces. Projections set the mood in each scene, from a New York City red carpet to an Indiana monster truck rally. The sets for each scene are crafted with attentive details, such as the quaint Applebee’s where Dee Dee Allen and Mr. Hawkins begin to swoon over each other, and Emma’s teenage bedroom, filled with band posters and pride stickers.

The show plays around with dance numbers in a unique and entertaining fashion. While the troupe of Broadway stars dance in the style of a classic musical comedy, favoring poise and grace, the young teenagers of James Madison High School are hip-hop to the core, with performances that radiate energy. This contrast is hugely enjoyable to watch on stage.

The Prom is in many ways a musical about theater itself. In the song “We Look to You,” Mr. Hawkins tells Dee Dee about his lifelong love of the theater, and how it lets him escape his everyday life and experience unbridled joy. This is a central theme of the show, which ties in references to other famous Broadway shows like Wicked and Chicago throughout the script and spends much time unpacking the histories of the Broadway stars who become Emma’s crusaders. The actors provide Emma with the idea that some theatrics, or a little “zazz,” can be a way to gain the confidence needed to stand up to her oppressors. Theater is also presented as an important vessel for compassion. In one telling scene, a high school student tells Trent they don’t have a drama department. Trent replies, “That explains your general lack of empathy.”

In The Prom, we come to understand that theater brings many things into our lives: entertainment, joy, enlightenment, and empathy. This lively and hilarious musical comedy with a band of lovable characters at its core delivers on all fronts. Although inspired by real-life events that are less than joyful, the show shies away from becoming too morose, choosing to lighten the mood with witty retorts and corny songs about acceptance, and it ultimately feels like the right choice for this production. Just like Emma, The Prom doesn’t want to be a social justice martyr. It just wants to dance, and that it does.

By Dillon Lewis

This article was originally published in DCTRENDING here.

If Bravo had been spinning off franchises in the 12th century BC, one can only imagine that “Phone rings, door chimes, in comes… Company?” That refrain is one of Stephen Sondheim’s greatest earworms (second only perhaps to “Bobby, Bobby baby, Bobby bubi, Robby,” etc. in the same song). And, in the touring production of Marianne Elliott’s inventive reimagining of the beloved musical, playing at the Kennedy Center through March 31, it presents more like a cautious question than a confident declaration.

Written by George Furth, with music and lyrics by Sondheim, Company is a musical meditation on matrimonial commitment. Premiering in 1970, Company originally centered on bachelor Bobby as he navigated romances with three wildly different women and friendships with five very quirky married couples. Directed by legendary impresario Harold Prince on its initial outing, Company was among the first “concept musicals,” dissecting a topic without much concern for a plot driven by linear narrative. Responsible for such standards as “Being Alive” and “The Ladies Who Lunch,” it is now widely regarded as a masterpiece in the American musical canon. 

This production, helmed by British director Elliott, boldly reimagines Bobbie (Britney Coleman) as a chic 35-year-old career woman navigating the modern world. Having premiered in London’s West End in 2018, Elliott’s adaptation initiated a transfer to New York, preparing for a scheduled opening just days after the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic shut down the world and, with it, Broadway. When it finally opened in December 2021, audiences were thrilled to be returning to theaters after the long pause and still reeling from Sondheim’s death the month prior. To take in such a daring reinvention of the show that had marked the start of Sondheim’s most productive working period was to sit in celebration of a man who continually reinvented the form. The experience was nothing short of catharsis. This critic gleefully returned a second time.

But the touring production, while maintaining the bones of Elliott’s London and New York mountings, has lost some muscle. One can’t shake the pervasive “hand-me-down” feeling as the tightness of Elliott’s vision. Resisting previous requests to reconceptualize Bobby as a gay man or woman, Sondheim finally relented when Elliott approached him with her concept (which includes other swaps beyond Bobbie, including the introduction of a gay couple). Unfortunately, the touring production makes a weak case that Company can withstand such reimagining and poorly stewards both the original material and Elliott’s concept.

The exception is in the song “Tick Tock,” which has been brilliantly reimagined by Elliott and choreographer Liam Steel and makes the sturdiest assertion that a gender-swapped Company can pack a comparable punch. The staging is so tight, especially compared with the rest of the production, that it gives the impression of being the precipitating reason for doing the show in the first place. From the first moments of the production, we hear a ticking clock (replacing the show’s more traditional busy signal), working double duty as both a reminder of Bobbie’s birthday and, by the time “Tick Tock” rolls around, a pervasive symbol of her “biological clock”. As she imagines the rest of her life with each of the three men she is dating, she generally winds up in the same spot at the end of the respective romances: by the completion of the number, all of the pseudo-Bobbies who mime the life ahead stare at Coleman’s Bobbie, as if to ask, “Are we doing this or not?”

Sondheim’s work is known for its specificity, reflecting one of his own oft-espoused creative mantras: God is in the details. In retrofitting George Furth’s airtight book to accommodate both the gender shift and resetting into a modern era, Elliott has inadvertently accentuated its aging wrinkles. While they may have gone less noticed in the Broadway production, they land with a thud on the Kennedy Center stage. For the most part, the cast attempts to conceal such textual blemishes by turning the characters into caricatures. Erring on the side of farce, they play it for laughs, mostly to the opposite effect. And even with large gestures and uncomfortable pauses for anticipated audience reaction, the performances get lost in the Kennedy Center’s cavernous Opera House (which, incidentally, perfectly matches Bobby’s scarlet garments by Bunny Christie, who designed both the sets and costumes).

Even so, a handful of excellent performances can break through to delightful results. As Andy, a hunky, but air-headed flight attendant with whom Bobbie enjoys a roll in the hay, Jacob Dickey is sublime. They rely almost entirely on their instinctive comic timing, avoiding any bouts of in-flight turbulence. As Jamie, Matt Rodin easily maneuvers through one of musical theater’s most notoriously difficult patter songs, “Getting Married Today,” balancing skillful pacing with convincing acting. Portraying the erratic gay groom suddenly stricken with cold feet, he is heartbreaking in exclaiming, “Just because we can doesn’t mean we should.” And doubling as Susan (delightful) and Jamie’s wedding officiant (hilarious), Marina Kondo brightens the stage whenever she appears.

Unfortunately, Bobbie so often fades into the background of this production that when Britney Coleman steps forward to sing several solo turns, they feel less like indicators of emotional transformation-in-progress and more like reminders that, hey, it’s actually Bobbie’s show. Coleman acts valiantly through the songs in particular, and when she sings “Someone is Waiting” and “Marry Me a Little,” it is evident that she has dissected every note and lyric of the song to achieve full understanding. She has clearly done the hard work of a consummate professional, but against so many unwieldy, larger-than-life ensemble performances, she hardly stands a chance. But in “Barcelona,” a quiet post-coital cat-and-mouse duet, Coleman and Dickey together deliver one of the evening’s most memorable moments.

Christie’s set hinges on the use of large cubes that evoke the claustrophobia of tiny, whitewash-and-chrome New York apartments. They move in near-constant rotation, reconfiguring into different, distinct abodes. She has hidden 35’s throughout the set like Easter eggs, appearing in artworks and transoms, underscoring the sense that Bobbie’s birthday (and all that it means for her opportunities to start a family) is always hanging overhead. Christie’s cubes are accented by Neil Austin’s neon-tinged lighting design which, even while colorful, amplifies the sense of sterility in Christie’s set. Keith Caggiano’s sound design proved challenging in the Opera House, where balance issues left some performers completely unamplified and impossible to hear over the orchestra.

In “Another Hundred People,” Sondheim’s biting send-up of the endless inflows and outflows of people (and romantic partners) to and from New York City, the cast dutifully wheels out large cutouts of the letters in the show’s title. They rearrange them several times, only twice forming coherent words (or acronyms, in any case): “COMPANY” and “NYC”. The remainder of the rearrangements are mismatched jumbles, leaving audiences to make sense of the staging while the exquisite score plays behind, out of focus. For this Company, it’s hard to imagine a better metaphor.

By Dillon Lewis

This article was originally published in DCTRENDING here.

If Bravo had been spinning off franchises in the 12th century BC, one can only imagine that Penelope would be the wine-soaked breakout star of the Real Housewives of Ithaca. Known to classicists as Odysseus’ faithful, languishing queen in Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey, Penelope takes on a darker edge in a new musical bearing her name by composer and lyricist Alex Bechtel and co-book writers Bechtel, Grace McLean, and Eva Steinmetz. A pseudo-cabaret that asks audiences to consider the story from her point of view, Penelope runs at Arlington’s Signature Theatre through April 21. 

As the lights rise on Penelope, the audience finds the titular heroine (Jessica Phillips) sitting at a piano, waiting for her husband Odysseus to return from the Trojan War after 20 years away. Having angered Poseidon, Odysseus’ journey home has been marred by tempests and monsters, leaving Penelope wondering when, if ever, he will sail back to her. Despite the advances of dozens of eager suitors who have camped out in her foyer, she remains steadfast in her faithfulness to him. But frustrated in his absence, Penelope turns to alcohol, precipitating a cabaret-style performance that reveals the depths of her dedicated despair.

Musically, Penelope bursts with romantic elegance and engrossing tedium. Composed and orchestrated by Bechtel, the score utilizes lovely, string-heavy interludes to color the soundscape and transition between key songs and sequences. In “Prayer,” Penelope chronicles her daily religious ritual, hoping to curry enough favor with Athena to bring Odysseus home. The song soon transitions to a stirring recitation of another of Penelope’s rituals: weaving beautiful images on her loom each day, only to unravel them each night to keep her suitors at bay. As Penelope, Phillips is spellbinding in “The Pilgrim Song,” pondering what her life may have become with just a few different decisions. And channeling Joni Mitchell in “I Do,” a song recounting their wedding and early love, Phillips is simply transcendent. 

But as Penelope’s score soars, its book and direction often stumble in deference. In a slow start, Penelope rises from the piano only to wander the stage as the five instrumental musicians slowly take their places. In fact, under Steinmetz’s direction, Penelope spends much of the show wandering around the small stage, snugly bordered by the audience on three sides in Signature’s cozy ARK space. At times, Phillips appears stranded center stage while the music plays, leaving one wondering: is this a character at an anguishing standstill or an actor with nowhere to go?

And therein lies Penelope’s biggest challenge. At a brief 70 minutes, the writers struggle to stretch the compelling parts of its story enough to fill even that amount of time. The book is front-loaded with lengthy, meandering exposition, ranging from the whereabouts of Penelope’s husband to the floorplan of her cliffside manse, before transitioning into a veritable meditation. And while other sequences of spoken text come and go more organically, often with the benefit of Bechtel’s underscoring, one can’t shake the hunch that the musical’s best songs were composed first, with the remainder of the material devised around them.

Mixed messages and fleeting directorial choices certainly don’t help. Early in the show, Penelope pours a hefty cocktail and proclaims, “If we’re going to talk about the Trojan War, I need a drink.” But despite large gulps, Penelope’s journey into drunkenness is short-lived, at least in Phillips’ performance. Rather than grow progressively more drunk, she appears increasingly sober so that by the time she finally excises a big bottle of booze from the stage in what is meant to be an empowering rejection, it appears more like spring cleaning. 

Penelope does so only half-heartedly at other opportunities to assert herself as a person independent of her husband. When the band, under the direction of Ben Moss, channels their inner Athena (complete with confetti in a delightful turn), they refer to her as, “Penelope, wife of Odysseus,” employing increasingly suggestive adjectives to accentuate his unseen manliness. Penelope hilariously and refreshingly rejects their naming of her in relation to her husband, but is soon back to singing longingly for his return. And again, in “Resolution,” she appears to flirt with the idea of abandoning her waiting and beginning anew, but, in line with the source material, does not. Anguishing standstill or nowhere to go?

The ARK’s compact playing area could prove a challenge for any performer, but Phillips makes the most of the space, maneuvering around the small stage and working hard to engage the audience. She is an excellent interpreter of Bechtel’s music and does what she can with the uneven book. Statuesque in a silky green blouse, blue trousers, and sandals (by costume designer Danielle Preston), she appears to be the ancient Greek embodiment of “The Ladies Who Lunch.”

Scenic designer Paige Hathaway makes dual use of the theater’s back wall, installing curvy, textured boards to evoke both the hills of Ithaca and the rolling waves that Penelope prays will bring Odysseus home. Working in conjunction with lighting designer Jesse Belsky, the plaster panels are illuminated with contrasting colors, adding dimension and mimicking the moody hues of sunrise and sunset. Eric Norris’ sound design keeps Phillips front and center but at times begs for more percussion from both the drums and piano to accentuate the sharp edges of her yearning.

A new theatrical work, Penelope does not yet feel like it’s reached its ideal form. While an easy comparison could be made to Anaïs Mitchell’s Hadestown, Bechtel’s approach to this story with Steinmetz and McLean fundamentally differs in their rejection of plot-driven structure. Accordingly, Penelope makes her most compelling case through sung ruminations on love and longing. Conceived first as a concept album, perhaps the heart of Penelope is best served in that medium. The Housewives are unscripted, but they still have story editors.

 By Abby Stuckrath

This article was originally published in The DC Line here.

Some called her an elitist; others said she coddled her students too much. But her biggest flaw? A fiery passion for inclusive education. 

In the early 1900s, Anna Julia Cooper, a respected Black academic and activist, fought to empower Black minds by equipping them with the strongest weapon: knowledge. The internal and external threat to her tenure as principal of Washington’s historic M Street School is the subject of Tempestuous Elements, currently making its world premiere at Arena Stage through March 17. 

Written by Kia Corthron and directed by Psalmayene 24, the play centers around the ensuing turmoil as a government probe intentionally spreads misleading narratives about the life and leadership of Cooper, who is played brilliantly by Gina Daniels. The production shines a bright light on an educator whose history hasn’t been celebrated enough. 

During this period, DC’s public schools were strictly segregated, and most Black schools concentrated on vocational training. However, the M Street School — later renamed Dunbar High School — distinguished itself by offering a “classical” education, which included specialized courses in physics, mathematics and Latin. The aim was to prepare students for admission to accredited colleges such as Yale and Columbia. The Board of Education and even some students perceived these accredited colleges solely as institutions suitable for white individuals, a perception that Cooper was committed to dismantling. Her dedication was a spark of hope for the local Black community — a small fire that many were dedicated to smothering. 

In Corthron’s play, Percy Hughes (Paul Morella), the director of DC high schools, begins investigating Cooper’s leadership after a Black doctor, O.W. Atwood (Joel Ashur), discusses rumors of students creating an off-campus drinking club. The two men — both based on historical figures — question Cooper’s fitness for a position that they see as naturally fitting for a man, and launch a social and institutional attack against her career. This scene sets the stage for the show to explore the intersectional barriers Black women like Cooper continue to face due to their race, gender and socioeconomic status. 

Corthron’s script offers stimulating dialogue that effectively communicates the characters’ and community’s rich historical context, never feeling dense or overly complicated. Psalmayene 24’s direction complements the script with natural and dynamic staging. A play performed in the round can quickly become frustrating; no one wants to watch the backs of actors. However, Psalmayene 24 creates a fluidity that allows the actors to physically explore all realms of the stage, never letting the audience feel left behind. As is often the case at Arena’s Fichandler space, the  stage design by Tony Cisek was intentionally simplistic, with supplemental furniture on the stage rather than entire set pieces. This allowed the actors to fill the space, avoiding unnecessary set elements. It also enabled the scene transitions to flow naturally and quickly. The women on stage were dressed in a spectrum of purples and pinks, symbolically linking them together. LeVonne Lindsay, the costume designer, likely incorporated this element to illustrate the interconnectedness of Black women in their shared pursuit of personal and community liberation. The chosen color palette conveys a sense of unity and solidarity, emphasizing the collective effort these women engage in as they navigate their respective struggles for freedom and empowerment. 

The play’s first act unfolds gradually, with many scenes focused on bringing the audience up to speed on the historical backdrop. The second act marks the point where Daniels truly flourishes as Cooper. She commands the stage quietly, wrapping the character in a cloak of wisdom and empathy. Her presence is missed in the few moments she is not on stage. The ensemble meets Daniels’ newfound energy in the second act, in a lively Board of Education hearing where the entire cast gathers on stage in a show of solid support for Cooper’s leadership. 

In the first act, Cooper’s student Hiram, played by ensemble standout Ro Boddie, asks to transfer to a school dedicated to technical studies. Cooper challenges him, urging him to try harder in his courses; he balks at her exhortation, complaining that learning Latin and discussing slavery are vestiges of the past. Their exchange and the overarching themes of the play ring true today, as states ban books discussing race, slavery is taught as beneficial in some cases, and Black women are continually displaced from rightly deserved leadership positions. Tempestuous Elements may be set over 100 years ago, but its discussion of public education in the United States is as relevant as ever. 

In the beginning sequence, we see Cooper and Hughes holding a sledgehammer, a symbolic fight against each other, as the play’s protagonist attempts to break the glass ceiling that Hughes upholds. This show is a haunting reminder that Black women are still fighting for their right to lead and take control of the sledgehammer. 

By Haley Huchler

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

One of the most successful Broadway musicals of all time has landed at The National Theatre with an outstanding opening night. The Book of Mormon’s positive critical response over the years has garnered many subsequent national tours, and this uproarious production, directed by Jennifer Werner, continues that stellar reputation.

The Book of Mormon is a uniquely American musical about a uniquely American phenomenon: Mormonism. The fresh, original, and wickedly funny story of two Mormon missionaries who wind up in a remote village in Uganda is rife with raunchy comedy and farcical performances that make for an evening of hysterical fun. The beloved satire follows Elder Price and Elder Cunningham as they preach about Joseph Smith to African villagers who are more preoccupied with poverty, disease, and violent warlords than the possibility of eternal life as a Latter-day Saint. When the villagers finally begin to be swayed by the missionaries’ promises, things start to get even more wackier.

Elder Price and Elder Cunningham, played by Sam McLellan and Sam Nackman, are a riotous duo. McLellan is delightful as the overconfident, egotistical Elder Price, who is disappointed that he’s been sent to Uganda for his mission instead of his favorite place on Earth (Orlando, Florida) but still determined to succeed in his quest for conversion. Nackman is a talented comedic actor and perfectly cast for the overzealous Elder Cunningham, who just wants to make his dad proud — and maybe become BFFs with Elder Price along the way.

The rest of the cast is equally as charming as the two leads. Keke Nesbitt plays Nabulungi, the first villager to become interested in the missionaries, with an earnest glee and dazzling enthusiasm. Jarret Martin hilariously plays a doctor who has “maggots in his scrotum” and isn’t afraid to sing it loud and proud. Some cast members, such as Trevor Dorner and Sean Casey Flanagan, swing between multiple roles with practiced ease, creating a sense of continuity and synchronicity in the story.

The set design by Scott Pask is a vital piece of this show, and each scene is crafted with immense care and detail. The stage is outlined by a white, gleaming Mormon temple that really does feel like it’s reaching up to the heavens. On stage, the cast and crew do an amazing job of changing scenes with what seems like the touch of a fairy godmother’s wand, effortlessly gliding the story between a suburban Salt Lake City, a tattered and dusty Ugandan village, a sunny, false Florida, and even the depths of hell. The versatility of the design is remarkable, with pieces that swivel quickly to transform the stage in mere seconds.

The joy of the costume design is all in the details, such as Jesus’ curly blond hair, reminiscent of a teenage girl before a school dance, and Elder McKinley’s little pink-flowered suitcase. These comical visual touches remind us of the absolute absurdity of this world and its spunky characters.

Each musical number is more intensely hilarious than the last, not to mention filled with powerful vocals from the cast. Some of the most notable songs include “Spooky Mormon Hell Dream,” where Elder Price dances with a group of unsavory characters from history who have ended up in this spooky, sparkly underworld, and “Turn It Off,” in which the more experienced missionaries try to teach Elder Price and Elder Cunningham about the little Mormon trick of just “turning off” unsavory thoughts, of course in a flashy dance complete with sequined vests.

Running gags in the show provide harmonious fluidity from one scene to the next, although the raunchy nature of most means this show is definitely not for the kids — or for anyone easily offended. But every crude line or lewd joke is delivered with radiant joy and faux innocence that guarantees a gaggle of laughs. This production reminds us of the power of theater to bring us to tears — that is, tears of laughter. The Book of Mormon at The National Theatre is a complete joy that no one should miss.

 By Isaac Welch

This article was originally published in DC Theater Arts here.

Throughout the world, the folklore of Black Americans serves as a foundation of the popular culture we know and enjoy today, bringing context and inspiration to the creative minds that now decorate our history. Folklore as a historical record is pivotal in this aspect. As the world around us continues to change in ways unforeseen by our generation’s forerunners, the necessity becomes ever-present to inscribe new stories and bring light to the narratives that had once lived befogged by ignorance and neglect.

Taking on this responsibility are director and choreographer Dell Howlett and composer Michael McElroy with their new musical Sonnets and Soul. Conceived during the COVID-19 quarantine in 2020, the work addresses the lack of stories akin to their experiences as queer Black men in theater and adjacent arts. Moving away from the Shakespearean motifs that once inspired their collaboration’s title, Howlett and McElroy embark on a journey of healing, begging the question “What if we could go back?”

Sonnets and Soul follows the young Seer, a queer boy played by Kenneth Carter Jr. coming of age in the late 1970s. Son to his mother, Faith (Gabrielle N. Rice), and his father, the Reverend (Jaden Madget), the college-bound high-schooler is set on a path of self-discovery as he finds his heart in conflict between the merits of his future decisions, the fervor compelling him in his sexuality, and the responsibilities ingrained in him as his father’s successor. The jovial yet expectant Reverend has high hopes that his son will follow in his footsteps toward his alma mater and his ministry, leaving Seer guarded against his true desires. As the story unfolds, Seer is emboldened by the support of his mother, who helps both the men in her family come to terms with the fact that Seer’s fate rests in his own hands. Upheld by his acquaintances Romeo (Ethan Hart) and Juliette (Atara F. Romero-Wilson), Seer embraces the challenge of honoring his heart, and through his matriculation begins to explore possibilities for his life outside the realm of his father’s wishes.

This story is told in this musical through the perspective of Seer in the present as a Narrator (Kendrick Jackson) reads on the day of his future wedding pages from an old journal that bore witness to Seer’s past struggle and provenance in his youth. Recounting these storied days, the Narrator — floating above his former self and through scenes as a third party — interjects testimony that brings the significance of each moment to the audience. Through this dichotomy, the audience is given a deeper insight into an already complex character. As Carter acts out Jackson’s reminiscent storytelling, the pair offer a performance devoid of fear. In scenes where Carter skillfully emits Seer’s hesitance and naivety, Jackson reaffirms with grace the wisdom gained. In moments of Carter’s courage, Jackson returns to applaud where he stood ground or laugh at the hardheaded ways he has since matured from. Though the plot covers ground quickly, the audience is anchored by narratives encased in 18 musical numbers.

The play opens with the “Narrator’s Song” then a chronological jump to the first scene, in which the audience is transported from the soft calls of a diary’s opening pages to the pews of a Sunday service. At once, as the second number, “God’s Favor,” reigns, the inimitable reverence that imbues the Black church is comfortably at home on a Saturday afternoon in Howard University’s Ira Aldridge Theatre. This devoted gospel sets the bar to heights that the cast of students from the Chadwick Boseman College of Fine Arts dutifully maintain. The next stand-out number comes during a school talent show when Seer, Romeo, and Juliette perform “Hot Chocolate Love,” an exuberant ode to the era of Funk. With pinpointed dance moves and provocative songwriting, the trio of cronies brings to the present the free-spirited and fully embodied aura of the 1970s Black teenager.  Accentuated by Brandee Matthies’ costuming, this character-defining act earns Hart and Romero-Wilson their praises and gives Seer his trusted allies for the rest of the musical.

Forgoing parental approval, this number blossoms as a seedling spelling out the conflict that is to unfold between Seer and his father. The loving yet stubborn and domineering Rev is a familiar portrayal of Black fatherhood, illustrating the generational discrepancies often endured by those with stories similar to Seer’s. Jaden Madget’s courageous embodiment of this character brings the necessary thematic tension that is created with Rev’s role in the musical. He allows his individual talents to shine during the number “Don’t Mourn for Me,” opening a window to Rev’s fervent heart and encouraging the healing of broken bonds.

Written by McElroy — who has performed in Sunday in the Park with George and Next to Normal and composed for Disaster! The Musical and Street Corner Symphony — these numbers beg the same level of greatness as the Broadway stages he’s set foot upon. Heartfelt and pouring from the souls of these young and extremely talented collegiate actors, the vocal performances throughout the show reach a level of such professionalism that could cause viewers to forget that these numbers were rehearsed by undergraduates rushing between office hours and exams. Performances like these catapult the production over the heights its creators have established, and as the show proceeds, it becomes clear that these young actors are headed for similar destinations.

Supplementing these performances, McElroy and Howlett’s use of the Crew as both backing voices and as live utility demonstrates equal parts innovation and creativity. Woven into Howlett and associate director Lashawnda Iya Ifanike Batts’ choreography are graceful maneuvers that double as stage manipulations, with a cohort of Crew members slipping seamlessly between roles from stagehands to choir members, prop passers to a student body, with delicacy and little waste in their movements. There come moments in McElroy’s numbers where these Crew members take on opportunities to let their individual talents shine, and as they are seized, impressions are made.

The graphic projections by Dylan Uremovich and spotlightings by lighting designer Alberto Segarra give the stage dimensionality and purvey a deeper element to its storytelling. Evoked by call and response, viewers are stimulated and invited to partake in the personal experience of McElroy’s writing. Each new setting is further realized by dialogue that will reign familiar to those who learned life’s tribulations from the same environments.

Consisting of a single stationary structure, Nadir Bey’s minimalist set design allows space for the audience to imagine each new setting. For a play whose subjects are deeply personal, allowing this freedom to imagine serves as an advantage, allowing audience members to fill in the openings in the setting descriptions with memories of their own high school hallways, dorm rooms, and cousins’ backyards. Familiar scenes of the family cookout, the school talent show, or the college bar string this show together in its joys with an endeared nostalgia, while at other points harkening in levity to systems and beliefs of eras behind us. Together, these junctures paint a realistic picture of the world Seer must navigate to unearth the truths that will define him. These details, liberties taken by Howlett and McElroy, are what allow Sonnets and Soul to resonate so deeply with the audience who, throughout this performance, were alive and active in their viewership.

The stories of marginalized peoples are characterized by their vitality, as they serve as a means of preservation of cultures constantly defending themselves from erasure. The utilization of culturally stapled dialogue, call and response, and allusion to eras past all work in favor to tell the story of Seer, whose trial and transformation is a narrative accessible to all walks. Brought to exist by the efforts of undergraduates, this level of excellence belongs in its own category. Sown by visions and expressions of Howlett and McElroy, this cast of HBCU students led by Howard University’s prolific production company brings the very life to their performance that these stories need. In this aptly titled musical, every ounce of passion is felt.