Midway through Private Jones, Signature Theatre’s world premiere musical about a Deaf soldier desperate to fit in, comes a breathtaking moment of silence.

In fact, if one tune could speak for this show, which chronicles how a teenage Welsh marksman conquers barriers to serve in World War I, the song “Silence” is it. It accompanies the first scene at the front lines, when, suddenly, all’s quiet. (All’s quiet on the Western Front, right?) But of the many conceits writer-composer-director Marshall Pailet jams into this gritty, mind-blowing work, that one best hits the mark.

Depicting trench warfare, with ghostly lighting design by Jen Schriever casting the sheen of a black-and-white war movie, against a palette of wood pallets and grime, the troops peer through a haze like the fog of war. They pant, chant, and transform from lads to warriors. As the drumbeat of war crescendoes — bolstered by bold percussionist Sam Carolla — they harmonize dolefully, and the piano plinks, pulsing away endless seconds of waiting. Then, nothing. Then “I thought there’d be more noise,” intones a lone tenor, one of many thought bubbles volleyed among the ranks.

Quiet is the antithesis of what one might expect in the thick of battle. But it comes as a relief amid an explosive production rife with noises that startle and inform. Foley artists onstage deploy umbrellas as flapping birds, a ratchet gadget for the cocking of a rifle, cowbells for hitting a bull’s eye. A puppet, designed by Nicholas Mahon, is passed around, voiced by various players. The workmanlike ensemble, moving from factory to battlefield, is hands-on and all hands.

Re: “all hands”: The company is a mix of Deaf, hard-of-hearing, and hearing actors and each performance incorporates a healthy degree of signing. Billed as a “trilingual” musical, Private Jones blends British Sign Language (the repartee among soldiers), American Sign Language (as presented to the audience by The Storyteller, boisterous Deaf actress Amelia Hensley), and Welsh-soaked spoken English. Pailet’s book and lyrics are also projected as dynamic captions — honestly, the Welsh dialect, perfected by coach Catherine Flye, is so thick, it’s a blessing that even hearing viewers get to read along.

Mostly a blessing, that is, because although the production has Signature’s signature spit-shine polish, much of the material remains crude — crude in form if not content befitting wartime trash talk. For example, an entire song in which “Bastards!” is the only memorable lyric — with the emphasis on the wrong syllable, so it sounds like “bas-TURDS” — gets reprised repeatedly, exhaustively, assaulting patrons’ ears.

An imbalance in sound levels between the orchestra and voices contributes to the aural assault as actors navigate the boxy, body-strewn, poetic maze of a set designed by Christopher and Justin Swader. It’s a shame to be blasted by sound when the musicianship is uniformly A-class, starting with Johnny Link, an accomplished actor who was born hard of hearing and inhabits Private Jones like a second skin. With chiseled features and boyish charm, he dutifully straddles wide-eyed wonder and world-weariness. His pitch-perfect falsetto could melt your heart.

Next up are Leanne Antonio, who kills as nurse-muse Gwenolyn and haunting comrade Evans; David Aron Damane, flawless as the father and drill sergeant; and Vincent Michael, nee Kempski, whose double-barreled baritone adds glory and texture to a soundscape that otherwise plateaus.

And while it’s rare to applaud a casting director in a review — amid a roster largely imported from the show’s autumn boot camp in Connecticut — Jorge Acevedo scored a huge victory by selecting the incomparable Erin Weaver as King, hands-down this production’s secret weapon, certifiable as both songbird and clown.

Pailet’s germ of an idea is genius: What would the war experience be like for someone who can’t hear the chaos? After discovering “two sentences” in a historical article about a real-life, well-liked Pvt. Gomer Jones, who was Deaf from infancy yet managed to enlist as a sniper, Pailet developed the portrait of a private who could fake his way onto the battlefield because he’d lost his hearing older, as an adolescent, after a bout of meningitis and could already speak and read lips. Initially, he knows nothing of sign language, and Private Jones becomes an eye-opening tutorial — and testimonial — for him and the audience alike.

War and Gomers apparently go hand in hand. Consider the golly-gee Gomer Pyle of TV land giving rise to the tragic scapegoat Pvt. Leonard “Gomer” Lawrence of Full Metal Jacket, whose inability to fit in led him to take solace in his rifle and finally surrender to his demons. Pailet’s Gomer, an “Everyman” Jones and perhaps distant cousin to those two, also discovers an uncanny talent as a sharpshooter and a love affair with his gun. (Thankfully, for all his aiming into the house, it’s just a harmless, stylish stick.) Jones eschews nonconformity, the thing that makes him different and forces him to live inside his head — his Deafness, an “invisible” distinction — in favor of regimentation. Yet the goal to be like everyone else backfires, for the ragtag band he joins are fellow misfits. Rather than isolate him, they defend and support him for his uniqueness.

While he finds a worthy nemesis in Michael’s Edmund (again, wow, way to flex those acting muscles!), Gomer seems his own worst enemy, repeatedly facing the choice between being a true “bastard” and showing mercy.

Once a child actor on Broadway who was a replacement Kurt Von Trapp in the acclaimed 1998 revival of The Sound of Music, Pailet has been quoted as saying he believes in injecting “childishness in serious stories and seriousness in stories for children.” Thus, Private Jones is playful, even when swinging violent.

There’s a high body count, and, at times, meaning goes AWOL. Yet I salute Pailet for making art in the trenches. Just as embedded troops rely on one another for survival and to accomplish their mission, so too are these diverse collaborative artists intertwined. With so many hands, they’ve created a smorgasbord for the senses, served with a side of nonsense.

The show’s singsong songbook has no standout themes, however, and might be better served with fewer numbers. Ryan O’Connell’s orchestrations reverberate in shades of metal and sunbursts, and, when the ensemble is given space to shine in chord-like hymns, the score is uplifted. An incantation of the WWI-era, anti-war ditty “Hangin’ on the Old Barbed Wire,” which was improvised in the trenches by grunts in 1914, led here by a ballsy Alex De Bard, is a high point.

But it’s in the silent moments, when the noise is snuffed out and the screens go dark, that onlookers commune on the same page. The uninitiated get a glimmer of what it might mean to live Deaf in the hearing world. Or at least experience the same narrative, as so much gets lost in translation. It’s a reminder that theater is always about perception — what you bring to it and what you take from it.

Running Time: Two hours and 35 minutes, including one 15-minute intermission.

EXTENDED: Private Jones plays through March 17, 2024, in the MAX Theatre at Signature Theatre, 4200 Campbell Avenue, Arlington, VA. For tickets ($40–$99), call (703) 820-9771 or purchase online. Information about ticket discounts is available here.

The program for Private Jones is online here.

Closed captions are available via the GalaPro app. ASL-interpreted performances are scheduled for Thursday, February 22, at 8 p.m.; Tuesday, February 27, at 7:30 p.m.; and Sunday, March 10, 2 p.m.

COVID Safety: Masks are always optional but strongly encouraged in the lobby and other public areas of the building. Face masks are required inside the performance spaces on February 18 at 2 p.m. and on March 6 at 7:30 p.m. Face masks are optional but strongly encouraged inside the performance spaces at other performances. Signature’s COVID Safety Measures can be found here.

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Next to nothing is wrong with Round House Theatre’s Next to Normal, a musical masterpiece by Brian Yorkey and Tom Kitt that explores mental illness. Mostly “sung-through,” the Pulitzer- and Tony-winning work — an unblinking peepshow of how a dysfunctional family struggles to function — is rock opera at its finest.

And 15 years after the off-Broadway vehicle shocked DC audiences at Arena Stage on its beeline to Broadway, director Alan Paul allows this electrifying treatment of love, and prescription of how to cope with its predictable loss, the breathing room to vibrate against a modern backdrop of collective anxiety.

Trigger warnings abound, but most Next to Normal devotees find the tableau of a suburban housewife sandwiched between her day-to-day duties and her demons to be a form of therapy, even healing. While only the Goodman family’s matriarch gets strapped with a disease label (a form of bipolar disorder), the rest of the brood bear serious side effects. A self-sacrificing martyr of a husband. A high-achieving daughter whose perfectionism is a means to escape. A spirited son unhealthily close to his mom, a veritable confidant.

But a musical about mental illness, grief, and electroconvulsive therapy? When it comes to dark subjects, humor often lights the way. And jeepers-peepers, the creative artists both on and off stage wring out every ounce of brightness to guide patrons through the emotional wringer. That’s why lighting designer Sherrice Mojgani and projections designer Nicholas Hussong deserve top mention for framing Round House’s off-kilter household.

“Projection” in psychological circles refers to a defense mechanism, when unwanted emotions get tossed in another’s direction, bundled in blame. Thus, Hussong’s exquisite projections, some accomplished in real time with strategically placed cameras, including a haunting aerial view, serve to plumb the inner landscape of each character. It’s a dazzling mind trip. At times, they help externalize memory and illusion. While characters are set in incongruent space and time before our eyes, their live images appear to be having a conversation on his larger-than-life canvas. At one point, Hussong delivers an ode to the original off-Broadway poster/soundtrack album cover, with eyes peering menacingly from a purple haze.

Introspection is writ large. Audiences are welcomed into the Carol Sawyer Stage with a startling projection of Diana’s blinking eyeball superimposed on Wilson Chin’s sparse but functional set. It’s clinically cold — a not-too-cozy reading chair with Rembrandt-patch light, an industrial-style prefab staircase, a safe-for-work coffee station, a squat dinette, and a flush-mounted window befitting a hospital ward, through which the band can be observed and which the actors infiltrate when “outside” the home. Behind that looming eyeball is a suspended portal used for entrances, exits, and scene changes — a circle at times split at its poles like a half-moon, symbolizing the fissure and lunacy within.

Still, much of the magic and mettle in this production, presented in conjunction with Barrington Stage Company, comes from the light board. Mojgani’s inspired designs veer from creating a cage while Diana is in the grips of medical tinkering, to flickering, charging ahead in psychedelic color codes, boxing her in, or fading once balance is restored.

Music director Chris Youstra adds gravitas, yanking at the heartstrings as one of six musicians, mostly on strings, who cushion a worm wheel of feels. Cellist Catherine Mickelson, especially, helps make it hurt so good. Plus, Youstra turns four tenors and two mezzos into a wall of sound driving the sensation that the walls are closing in.

Five of the six onstage actors are making their Round House debuts, but linchpin leads Tracy Lynn Olivera, as mom Diana, and Kevin S. McAllister, as dad Dan — both well known to and beloved by local audiences — simply stun with pristine vocals and wry, wrenching performances.

Olivera’s interpretation of Diana is far less manic than those who have come before, yet she manages to ground the character in a lucid confidence that makes her all the more relatable. Her crystalline enunciation of even the most unsavory lines — one delivered with Groucho Marx flair, and each to be savored — upgrades her from victim to victor. Paul occasionally places her downstage with her back to the audience, as if she is as much observer as we are to a life she feels disconnected from. And goodness, she’s funny. She also makes the genre-bending, countrified “I Miss the Mountains” — which seemed a token spotlight song for originator Alice Ripley — belong by infusing soul.

Diana’s disconnect is respected in Paul’s staging by the distance that Olivera maintains from McAllister throughout. Dan sings “Can I touch you?” and Diana is suitably repelled. Some of their most fevered scenes jettison them in opposing corners — the lack of intimacy enhancing the discomfort of their exchanges.

McAllister is the first Dan this critic has seen who is able to drive home the meaning of the surname “Goodman.” He’s a truly good man who milks his best intentions while exposing the shortcomings of a Mr. Fix-It mindset. “I thought she was better!” he protests, bespeaking not only his deep bewilderment but delusional optimism. Only one thing distracted from McAllister’s ravishing vocals: his having to manipulate, while singing, a bloody garment in what appeared to be an evidence bag — a distasteful, misguided prop.

If one can listen more than look, though, the rapturous rock sustains you. All four tenors are unrivaled in their brilliance. Calvin McCullough, who morphs from Doctor Fine to Doctor Madden (perhaps a commentary by author Yorkey that physicians are indiscernible?), will prick up your ears and induce goosebumps. The talent of Lucas Hinds Babcock (Gabe) is, by leaps and bounds, unreal. You heard it here first: He’s a star in incubation. But it’s Ben Clark as Henry, suitor to Natalie Goodman, who delivered the freshest take for this reviewer. Initially using his hands to great hypnotic effect — beseeching and invading her space — he fleshes out the character from a besotted “stoner” to perfectly memorable. His dramatic and patient pacing in “Hey #3/Perfect for You (Reprise)” proved heart-stopping.

Amid Next to Normal’s unglued milieu, Natalie has always represented the glue. Round House veteran Sophia Early’s Natalie blooms from a non-censored, angst-ridden, rolling-eyes teen to surpassing her parents in wisdom. You can see it in her costume design, by Helen Q. Huang and Becca Janney. Natalie starts out in a geometric quilt-square sweater — equally hip and beyond her years, its ordered pattern like the life she has plotted out and the Mozart music she fervently practices. Over the course of the show, her wardrobe grows disheveled with mixed lines — a chicken-scratch pattern worn over stripes, for instance. Eventually, during a showdown with her mom, their looks mirror each other’s, yet Natalie’s grownup fashion sense hints at a role reversal, while Diana’s garbs, from loungewear to hospital wear, become progressively layered, matching an evolving psyche. (The only costume puzzlement was the doc’s wild-and-crazy-guy outfits — they spoke volumes, but what they were persistently saying seemed unclear.)

Whatever you bring or take from this show, though, shedding skins and, ultimately, light is what it’s all about. The love light in the eyes, a porch light patiently on ’til dawn, the glowing lights of home, a glaring light of truth, the inner light we must tend, and, in our darkest hours, those distant beacons of hope.

If you or someone you know may be experiencing a mental health crisis, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting “988.” (To reach the Native and Strong Lifeline, call “988” and press 4.)

Running Time: Approximately two hours and 20 minutes, including one intermission.

EXTENDED: Next to Normal plays through March 3, 2024, at Round House Theatre, 4545 East-West Highway, Bethesda, MD. For tickets ($46–$83), call the box office at 240-644-1100 or go online. (Learn more about special discounts here, accessibility here, and Free Play program for students here.)

Performances are Tuesday through Thursday at 7:30 pm, Friday and Saturday at 8:00 pm, and Saturday and Sunday at 2:00 pm.

Audio described performance: Saturday, February 3 at 2:00 pm

Open captioned performance: Saturday, February 10 at 2:00 pm; additional date TBA

The playbill for Next to Normal is online here.

COVID Safety: Round House Theatre no longer requires that audience members wear masks for most performances. However, masks are required for the following performances: Tuesday, February 13 (evening); Saturday, February 17 (matinee).

Next to Normal
Book and lyrics by Brian Yorkey
Music by Tom Kitt
Directed by Alan Paul
Choreographed by Eamon Foley

Co-produced with Barrington Stage Company

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In an age of QR codes and digital playbills, how satisfying that the City of Fairfax Theatre Company not only furnishes meaty programs to accompany its perfectly seasoned Big Fish but also gives the audience a role in the unfurling romance onstage, using the booklets as props.

Another delightful throwback: an 11-piece orchestra, breathtakingly conducted by CJ Redden-Liotta.

Prepare to be reeled in by a big cast, a whopper of a story, and larger-than-life characters in this buoyant musical directed and produced by Amanda Herman Snellings. Based on the 1998 novel by Daniel Wallace and the 2003 surrealistic Tim Burton film, Big Fish examines the friction between an aging Edward Bloom — a Southern serial storyteller and traveling salesman — and his NYC-based journalist son, Will, who’s on the cusp of starting his own family.

Will is also reporting the biggest story of his life: trying to uncover who his father really is before he’s left with only his legacy. “My father talked about a lot of things he never did and I’m sure he did a lot of things he never talked about,” he muses during his fact-finding mission.

Although this work originated just 10 years ago, it has the feel of an old-time musical — a song every few minutes, and sprinkled with just enough hayseed and corn. Shucked, after all, was nominated for nine Tonys this past season, so maybe a little nostalgic family entertainment is what we all crave.

The smorgasbord of Big Fish characters borrows lightly from such classics as The Princess Bride (a suitor who would do anything to win over his true love) and Don Quixote/Man of La Mancha (a man believing in impossible possibilities, tilting at supernatural foes). While eulogies end up framing most people’s lives, painting them as more extraordinary than they were, Edward Bloom wastes no time setting the record great.

His tall tales — which son Will catalogs along with his empath wife, Josephine (Peyton Avery) — range from war stories to battling dragons. He joins the circus, befriends a giant, kisses a mermaid, and, yes, boasts mad fishing skills. Peter Marsh measures up valiantly as Edward, the myth and the man. Flexing his acting muscles to play both young and old Edward, Marsh anchors almost every scene and ensures that every word — whether a lyric or Dad joke — hits its mark. The only bad mark comes from a wig resembling a muskrat.

As grown-up Will, Noah Mutterperl is a humdinger in all respects. His beseeching “Stranger,” early in Act One, elevates an occasionally humdrum score by composer-lyricist Andrew Lippa (The Wild Party, The Addams Family) and soars with optimism — and an insanely well-strung high G. Other vocal standouts include Alicia Zheng as The Witch, who forecasts the course of Bloom’s life while leading a coven of sultry dancers, with magic lighting effects by Beth Becker; and Maura Lacy, who as Sandra, Edward’s “only fish in the sea” soulmate, delivers a soulful hymn to him, “I Don’t Need a Roof,” while cradling him on the floor.

Lacy also showcases fine and fancy footwork when Sandra auditions for the circus and, later, fronts a USO corps chorus line. Choreography by Stacey Yvonne Claytor is serviceable and cute for those in the cast who can’t stretch much beyond wedding dancing (if only they could have landed the beat in sync doing the Alabama Stomp) and turns eye-popping when executed by a crew of featured dancers — including Sharon Petersen, the wife of state Sen. Chap Petersen, whose district includes the City of Fairfax.

Although physical fight choreography (Katie Warner) is fleeting, Herman Snellings proves matchless in directing the verbal spats between father and son. Their timing is realistic and raw, and even when talking over each other, the dialogue cuts deep.

Superior acting is a hallmark of CFTC shows, and with such a large ensemble, from kids to veterans, it’s hard to pick favorites. But Andy Shaw as ringmaster Amos nearly steals the show. His repartee with wisecracker Marcus Pennisi as Karl the Giant — who mastered stilts for this production and even boogies down from on high — is hilarious. Alabama accents are nailed by Lacy and Andreas Moffett, playing Don Price, Edward Bloom’s longtime rival both on the playing field and in the love arena. Moffett also showcases pipes that leave you wanting more. Nidhi Vasudevan delivers a robust performance as young Will. And Eli Nygaard tickles the funny bone in bits as a fisherman and a bugler.

For all the colorful imagery and costumes (Lori Crockett), this production’s set is spartan, mostly consisting of a dock darting into the pit, an elevated platform with two staircases, and two trellises near the wings that light up as gateways to the swamp, a cave, and other storied portals. (The stairs do spin from bland to bedazzled to represent the Big Top.) Projections by scenic designers Olivia and Jason Hinebaugh help add atmosphere, with whimsical GIF and Etch A Sketch effects. At one point a photographer is shooting photos onstage, and the results “instamatically” appear above.

Sound designer Paul Pesnell gives the giant’s voice resonance and, through live mixing, fills a critical role in the storytelling, balancing the orchestra, kids’ voices, and an un-mic’d but boisterous chorus. Only Josephine’s equipment seemed faulty on opening night, although her voice of reason rang clearly when delivering one of many pearls of wisdom: “If you understand the stories, you’ll understand the man.”

Beginnings and endings get tangled up in the yarns of Big Fish, as dual timelines and dueling perspectives are blended. As for what separates fact from fiction in the stories handed down from generation to generation? Perhaps suspending disbelief is not just the duty of a purveyor of art. It could also be an act of charity because, in the end, what’s said with conviction and love is true enough.

Big Fish — try to catch this one.

Running time: Two hours and 40 minutes, including a 15-minute intermission.

Big Fish plays through July 29, 2023, presented by the City of Fairfax Theatre Company performing at Katherine Johnson Middle School, 3801 Jermantown Rd., Fairfax, VA. Purchase tickets ($15–$25, plus small service fees) online or email info@fairfaxcitytheatre.org.

Accessibility: There will be ASL interpreters at the July 28 performance.

COVID Safety: Masks are not required but recommended. CFTC’s complete COVID-19 policy is here.

Musical Numbers

Act I
Be the Hero
I Know What You Want
I Know What You Want (Reprise)
Just Take Another Look
Stranger
Magic in the Man
Ashton’s Favorite Son
Out There on the Road
Little Lamb From Alabama
Time Stops
Closer to Her
Daffodils

Act II
Red, White, and True
Fight the Dragons
Stranger (Reprise)
This River Between Us
I Don’t Need a Roof
Start Over
Start Over (Reprise)
What’s Next
How It Ends
The Procession
Be the Hero (Reprise)

Music and lyrics — Andrew Lippa
Book — John August
Director & Producer — Amanda Herman Snellings
Music Director — Dr. CJ Redden-Liotta
Stage Manager — Bridget Tunstall
Choreography — Stacey Yvonne Claytor
Scenic & Projections Design — Olivia and Jason Hinebaugh
Lighting Design — Beth Becker
Costume Design — Lori Crockett
Sound Design — Paul Pesnell
Props Design — Rebecca Kalant
Hair & Makeup Design — Mary Frances Dini
Playbill — Liz D’Souza

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Sitting beside me at Onion Skin, a dramatic comedy by Dara Padwo-Audick about the scourge of skin cancer, was a woman whose father had died of melanoma that started in his toe. “He loved the beach,” she sighed. “Who thinks to put sunscreen on their toes?! The doctors gave him only five months, but he lived another five years. Still, it wasn’t enough.”

Never is. And that encounter with a stranger put me in the proper dour mood to digest Onion Skin — theater advocacy at full tilt.

If the goal of co-directors Padwo-Audick and Matt Conner is to scare the bejesus out of patrons and get them to make an appointment for a checkup or baseline reading, they’ve exceeded their calling. There’s even the “Fringe” benefit of free SPF 50 sunscreen at the door.

But despite powerhouse talent, creative direction, and gobs of useful information on display (literally, projections detail treatment and risks), something about this earnest show doesn’t quite work.

We meet four patients in their dermatologist’s waiting room — each representing different phases of life and, later, stages of disease. Melanie (Francesca Katherine Ferrara) is overloaded as a working mom, with priorities out of whack because she views medical care as an inconvenience. Young hipster Cherry (America Michelle) has been baking in tanning beds to get into prime wedding shape. Diana (Zoé Badovinac), an empty nester and a rabid gardener, shuns sunhats. Tim (Sowande Tichawonna) is an overachieving CFO and athlete “in the best shape of his life” who believes Black men can’t get skin cancer.

We soak in their grim camaraderie and scattered laugh lines to ease the telescopic tension. One especially bright spot: Carla Baechtle multitasks spectacularly as three doctors, toggling three accents and sporting three wigs and changes of shoes (a sixth, silent performer serves only as her onstage dresser). At first one wonders: Is having one performer play all three doctors symbolism saying the medical establishment is anonymous and faceless? No, because Baechtle — and Padwo-Audick, herself a cancer survivor — humanize them. A cinematic score by Matt Conner combined with scenic projections adds the polish of a streamed drama series. Aside from the unfortunate miscued chime to simulate the clinking of plastic wine glasses, the production value is above-par. (Michelle impressively provides her own sound effects — and does her own yoga stunts.)

So why does it not yank the heartstrings? We witness plenty of emotion as each character deals with a diagnosis. Cherry catastrophizes. Melanie bargains, comically. Diana’s deep faith is shaken. Tim’s denial and blistering anger … well, that does work. Tichawonna’s transformation is the most searing, as he takes a stand, center stage, against society’s mutual, microscopic enemy.

Still, the show’s resolution felt endless. And maybe that’s the point. Through this jeremiad of pain and suffering with no cure in sight, we are inspired, simply, to endure. Get seen. Donate. Comfort. Take care. Take time. Take action. Wear sunscreen. And share your cancer stories with strangers.

Running Time: 75 minutes.

Onion Skin plays July 19 at 6:00 pm and July 21 at 8:15 pm at DCJCC – Cafritz Hall. Tickets are $15 and can be purchased online.

Genre: Drama
Co-directors and co-producers: Dara Padwo-Audick, Matt Conner
Playwright: Dara Padwo-Audick
Performers: Zoé Badovinac, Carla Baechtle, Francesca Ferrara, America Michelle, Sowande Tichawonna
Composer: Matt Conner
Age appropriateness: Recommended for children 13 + older
Profanity: Yes

SEE ALSO: 2023 Capital Fringe Preview: ‘Onion Skin’ (preview by Dara Padwo-Audick, July 11, 2023)

The complete 2023 Capital Fringe Festival guidebook is online here.

The post 2023 Capital Fringe Review: ‘Onion Skin’ by Dara Padwo-Audick (3 stars) appeared first on DC Theater Arts.

If journalism is the first draft of history, plays are the testimonials — and often the final word.

First-time playwright Elizabeth Cutler, who admittedly has always been a news junkie and a fan of journalism drama, presents a diorama of disaster in Between Raindrops, chronicling the 1922 deadly collapse of the Knickerbocker Theatre during a record-breaking DC snowstorm. Like many Washingtonians, she had never heard of what was called the city’s worst catastrophe that left 98 people dead and 133 injured, despite it occurring close by, at 18th and Columbia in what’s now known as the Adams Morgan neighborhood. About four years ago, after learning of it — and an ongoing turf war over commemorating it — she deployed her theater gifts to enlighten as well as entertain.

One danger of writing a historical play is falling victim to the cold narration of a Wikipedia citation. It’s a credit to the four gifted actors enlisted, each of whom inhabits two roles, that the play mostly skirts this trap. Smart, subtle costume changes help keep IDs straight. Drew Larsen, as both Theo the newsboy, who dreams of a life reviewing theater (help me here, kid), and Sam, the besotted suitor of socialite Lia, is a standout in fleshing out characters that could have been mere avatars. Abigail Fu dazzles as starstruck Daisy (Edith, the reserved sister of Lia, is her coin flip); Jason Re imbues real-life Washington Post drama critic and survivor John Jay Daly with genteel bravado and then transforms into a humble musician who was called to fill in that night during the screening of a silent film when other musicians couldn’t navigate the weather; and Isabelle Solomon transfixes as Lia and Helen — the latter a Scout leader who guided rescuers to survivors in the rubble by singing “like glass chimes.” Solomon’s voice and presence are luminous. (Another Knickerbocker victim rescued several people before realizing his body was riddled with glass shards, which inevitably killed him.)

Projections (technical direction by Andy Weld) display fascinating historical photos — as one real-life character put it, “a temple of mirth had transformed into a tomb.” The pictures serve as stand-ins for drama left untapped, however, and the sometimes forced comic relief, aiming to balance more maudlin moments, spills overboard. But for fans of historical drama, this show is bound to hook you. Cutler’s resource list of research alone is worth the price of the ticket.

Running Time: 30 minutes plus 15-minute talkback.

Between Raindrops plays July 20 at 6:00 pm, July 22 at 7:00 pm, and July 23 at 3:00 pm at DCJCC – Cafritz Hall. Tickets are $15 and can be purchased online. 

Genre: Drama
Playwright and Director: Elizabeth Cutler
Performers: Drew Larsen, Abigail Fu, Jason Re, Isabelle Solomon
Technical Director: Andy Weld
Costume Design: Ensemble
Age Appropriateness: Appropriate for all ages

The complete 2023 Capital Fringe Festival guidebook is online here.

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The musical 29th and Oakes (book by Daniel Niewoehner and Kemper Thornberry, and composed by Ryan Li and Kemper Thornberry) traces a decade in the lives of Riley and Lila, who fall into the “riptide” of love — rather, they chemically imprint on each other — as high schoolers on Puget Sound. As Riley declares: “Nothing beats the dizzy high of being 16 and breaking the rules!”

They each must deal with their parents’ splitting up, as well as the realization that a shared experience doesn’t guarantee a mutual point of view. Anchoring the story is an encounter 10 years after they parted ways in which they rehash what went wrong, try to make amends, and perhaps pick up where they left off.

What elevates this from the average boy-meets-girl, boy-meets-boy, boy-loses-girl, boy-tries-to-rekindle-old-flame story is its clever nonlinear script, and the intense charms of fresh-faced leads Jeremy Kohler (Riley) and Margot Goddard (Lila). Despite a shaky prologue at the debut performance, Kohler’s pillowy tenor reclaimed the audience’s full attention and turned the score, which is alternately bouncy and plaintive pop, into something worthy of airplay, even reminiscent of Coldplay.

Musical director Ryan Li, commanding on keyboards, milks emo emotion from the mostly sung-through work and a combo consisting of playwright-director-composer Niewoehner on percussion, guitarist Rhys Stuart, and bassist Dillian Krichbaum. One memorable song, “Joker,” showcases Kohler’s perfect pitch as he pulls the opening line “You’re a joke, you are” out of thin air; later, it’s Goddard’s turn, in a stirring, angry duet reprisal. For her part, Goddard displays powerful acting chops through cry-singing and bittersweet recitative, although occasionally her vocal lines are in a register too low for her pipes. Another catchy tune, “ROTCO,” is all about the bass and features tsk-tsk cross-sticking on the drums, symbolic of the young lovers reaching a narrative crossroads.

A simple but effective set design — slashes of light shining on and off through a stained-glass reflection — helps toggle the audience from present to past, as do subtle wardrobe changes. And a 30-pound kettlebell anchors the entire lighting assembly, reminding us: Yeah, this is Fringe, and we must make do.

We’ve all been there: giddy, experimenting with mind-altering substances, sitting cross-legged on the floor — effortlessly singing from the floor and getting up without assistance. Ah, to be young! What’s exciting here is the young talent on display (mostly 20-somethings) and a narrative structure that’s a stroke of genius, offering dual perspectives, revisiting the same scene with just a splash of information added each time. All to say: There may be no do-overs in life, but with a little refinement and polish, 23-year-old Niewoehner could have a veritable hit on his hands.

Running Time: 55 minutes.

29th and Oakes plays July 21 at 8:45 pm, July 22 at 7:45 pm, and July 23 at 6:00 pm at Rind – 1025 Thomas Jefferson. Tickets are $15 and can be purchased online.

Genre: Musical
Playwright: Daniel Niewoehner, Kemper Thornberry
Composer: Kemper Thornberry, Ryan Li
Performers: Jeremy Kohler, Margot Goddard
Musicians: Rhys Stuart (guitar), Dillian Krichbaum (bass), Daniel Niewoehner (percussion), Ryan Li (keyboards)
Age appropriateness: Recommended for children 13+ older
Profanity: Yes

Song list, and a link to Thornberry’s original music on Spotify:
1) Overture
2) 29th & Oakes Preprise
3) Cinder
4) Crater
5) Lyla Wakes
6) Old Bugs
7) Ziplock
8) Joker
9) Won’t Crash
10) Buttercup
11) ROTCO
12) Buttercup Reprise
13) Talk Party
14) Lyla Wakes Theme
15) Joker Reprise
16) 29th & Oakes

The complete 2023 Capital Fringe Festival guidebook is online here.

The post 2023 Capital Fringe Review: ’29th and Oakes’ by Daniel Niewoehner (3 1⁄2 stars) appeared first on DC Theater Arts.

Show of hands if you feel more inhibited now than, oh, say, three years ago?

If actual therapy is not an option, INHIBITIONIST(!)  — unabashedly all caps with bold punctuation — is your ticket to shedding some of your pandemic pelt, or even the crusty armor built up since birth.

In this one-woman existential exhibition directed by Rhianna Basore and Cleo DeOrio, performance artist-playwright Hope Lafferty, who is also a bona fide psychotherapist and spent her COVID cocoon in clown school, demands you escape your comfort zone. First clue: caution tape wrapped around a padded box center stage, which turns out to be her costar.

This is no laugh-a-minute comedy, but through playfulness and wordplay, Lafferty manages to connect harrowing details of her preemie birth and accident-prone youth to life lessons writ large. She even enumerates them (e.g., Lesson No. 1: “If you have fun, you will get hurt”).

The show is one of this year’s imports, having premiered at the Fresno (California) Rogue Festival on March 6, 2020, just a week before coronavirus lockdowns. Indeed, Lafferty seemed to parachute in within an hour of curtain time, half-made-up, pinning her own poster to the door, dodging patrons in the lobby, lugging a bright-yellow “carpetbag” into the green room.

But if her arrival at the festival was last-minute, most everything else about her seems ahead of her time. Emerging onstage in a head-to-toe white ensemble — a clean slate — topped with a type of lab coat (things are about to get clinical), she muddies her monologue with material that might fly over some heads: comparing the child development theories of Sigmund Freud to those of her hero, Erik Erikson; dissecting the effects of birth order; interpreting her astrological natal charts. It’s heady stuff. More relatable is her analysis of women’s microaggressions, maternal-child conflicts, and the tendency for self-sabotage. Lafferty’s piercing eye contact gives the impression she’s speaking only to you. One drawback: While thought-provoking, it’s hard to engage emotionally.

Lafferty is at her best eschewing all words and launching Evil Knievel–style into a mimed recap set to a soundtrack of ambient music and Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks.” Never fear: Hope does reign.

Designed to embolden passive onlookers, INHIBITIONIST(!) is a headstrong attempt to tame demons and let loose one’s inner child. At a spry 50-something, Lafferty admits she has a dominant “Lucy Van Pelt” gene and the Doctor Is In — costing you only about 35 cents a minute.

Running Time: 40 minutes.

INHIBITIONIST(!) plays July 21 at 7:45 pm, July 22 at 6:45 pm, and July 23 at 3:00 pm at Sour – 2nd Floor – 1050 Thomas Jefferson. Tickets are $15 and can be purchased online.

The complete 2023 Capital Fringe Festival guidebook is online here.

The post 2023 Capital Fringe Review: ‘INHIBITIONIST(!)’ by Hope Lafferty (3 1⁄2 stars) appeared first on DC Theater Arts.

Local playwright Terry Smith is known for his campy murder mysteries. With M: From Failure to Freedom, now in a limited run at StageCoach Theatre Company, Smith takes on the somber yet rhapsodic work of unraveling clues surrounding the suicide of his wife of 31 years.

Presented in cooperation with and benefiting the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, M is a raw letter from beyond the grave from Melisande, nicknamed “M,” who was herself part of the DC theater community. The deeply personal, unvarnished script also serves as an inquest 10 years on, attempting to make sense of what most consider a senseless act.

Director Barbara Carpenter knew Melisande Smith in life and recalled being costumed by her in previous shows. Admitting it was a heavy mantle to bring this story to life, she nonetheless managed to lay the spadework for a sorrowful but playful tableau, in which robust actors Allen McRae (Terry/Narrator) and Leah Daily (Melisande/Narrator) cohabitate, commiserate, and, ultimately, achieve an uneasy peace.

To be or not to be — that’s truly the question here. To wit, the two-act, two-person play is compellingly structured as separate soliloquies. It begins at the end, with Terry’s discovery of M’s body, and ends by tracing the beginnings of her self-discovery. The actors repeatedly cross a paper-thin fourth wall, interacting and self-reflecting.

Daily is especially gifted at displaying all sides of a splintered, untethered soul, refracted in a shattered mirror. She enters as an apparition, stoic and angelic, and morphs from a darling, wounded child — whom her mother often resented or ignored — to a desperate, deliberate shell of a woman convinced she’s invisible. Yet Daily imbues M with such glorious presence, and a sparkling laugh, that even those who never knew her instantly miss her. By contrast, McRae maintains a surprisingly even keel, processing tragedy upon tragedy, even the stress of being a murder suspect, with his cool, disarming grace (and plaintive, baby-blue eyes). Both actors lob dollops of laugh lines, which, Smith explained at intermission, are interspersed to keep the audience from “being beat up for two hours.”

Original music by sound designer-operator Fred Muller adds vital texture. Ranging from a spa-like trance vibe (M worked as a massage therapist, among other professions) to progressive soul, strains of a movie-worthy soundtrack enhance the tense and maudlin moments. As a final testament, an achingly beautiful song, with vocals by Susanna Todd and producer-stage manager Kat Brais, is especially effective at plucking the heartstrings.

Lighting, co-designed by Smith and Amy Hines Bates and executed by Hines Bates and Torie Dunlap, produces a synesthesia effect, connecting the visual crisis to a pulsating beat, and hovering between earthly realism and ethereal haze. Smart cues also help transform the intimacy of a home and kitchen table into a hospital room and a funeral parlor. And the uncredited come-as-you-are costuming — McRae in polo, dockers, and sneakers; Daily in slacks, slip-ons, and a babydoll tunic top — befits the notion of “ordinary people” enduring extraordinary events that perhaps stem from a universal (ordinary) longing to belong.

With only two actors to work with, Carpenter relies on vocal dynamics and “space work” — a technique of creating an environment using one’s imagination — to help them populate the story with detectives, medical teams, children, a teacher, and a principal villain: the mother/mother-in-law. This seemed an odd narrative choice until it became clear that the void of characters onstage accentuates a yawning loneliness — not only M’s but that of Terry in the initial aftermath of their September 11, 2013, tragedy.

Much of the storytelling is drawn from 15 journals Smith found while sorting through his wife’s belongings, and the mono/dialogue occasionally reads like a therapy session. Still, it’s hardly therapeutic. Along with the producers’ ample trigger warnings, here’s another: It’s depressing. Free tissues offered at the box office came in handy for patrons on opening night — many of whom knew M in life, or at least believed they did.

And because it’s human nature to fill in details we don’t know — including what’s ultimately unknowable — the show asks a lot of the audience. If you’re looking for answers or justification as to why someone who seemingly has it all would choose to end their life — the December tragedy of the massively talented Stephen “tWitch” Boss, known as Ellen DeGeneres’ sidekick dancer and DJ, springs to mind — this show will likely fail you.

Instead, Smith’s brave act of catharsis gives voice to those among us who illegitimately feel like failures; offers insight into recognizing when someone might be asking for help, even in a roundabout way; and, by magnifying the inner darkness humans closely guard, assures all there is no shame in bringing it, at last, to light.

Running Time: Two hours and 10 minutes, including a 15-minute intermission.

M: From Failure to Freedom plays through May 21, 2023, at StageCoach Theatre Company, located at 20937 Ashburn Road, Suites 115 and 120, Ashburn, VA. Tickets are $25 for in-person seating or livestreaming. Or you can call the box office at 571-477-9444.

The program for M: From Failure to Freedom is online here.

COVID Safety: All guests may choose to wear masks while inside the theater, but it is not required. See StageCoach Theatre’s complete COVID protocols here.

M: From Failure to Freedom
Written by Terry Smith
Produced by Kat Brais
Directed by Barbara Carpenter
Cast: Allen McRae, Leah Daily

The post A playwright probes his wife’s suicide in ‘M’ at StageCoach Theatre Company appeared first on DC Theater Arts.

This is hardly the place to get excited about gender inclusion. Gender-swapping has been in vogue in theater since ancient times, though born of legal necessity. Back in Shakespeare’s day and before, it was against the law for the so-called fairer sex to set foot on a stage.

One needs only glance at Broadway’s recent gender-bent Company, in which Bobby-baby became Bobbie-girl, to appreciate how retooled casting can energize ticket sales.

But at a time when trans Americans are under assault — from clubs to courts, literature to legislation — Dominion Stage’s refreshing casting in Hedwig and the Angry Inch, in which a trans man plays the titular nonbinary character, represents a twist whose time has come.

Long story short: Hedwig traces the laments and longings of an East German punk rocker, a “girlie-boy,” transplanted to a Kansas trailer park after their own experiment in gender-bending goes horribly wrong. Born Hansel Schmidt, they fall for a sugar daddy who insists they undergo an underworld penectomy, leaving them with a “Barbie doll crotch” — one angry inch of flesh. (Hey, I played naked Barbies as a kid, and I think what we mean is more of a Ken-doll nub, but why quibble?)

Hansel Schmidt transforms, assuming their mother’s identity and name, Hedwig; dons an actual wig; and takes their husband’s last name, Robinson, which, amusingly, is an Urban Dictionary nickname for someone whose johnson is smaller than 3 inches, but we won’t go there. Later, they fall for a piece of trailer trash, Tommy Speck, who feeds off their creativity, steals their music, and becomes the mega-star they never were, rebranded as Tommy Gnosis — which sounds like a disease but derives from the Greek word for “knowledge,” as in having nibbled on the Tree of Knowledge and actualized one’s self-awareness.

It’s a lot to unpack. The groundbreaking, heartbreaking musical, which premiered off-Broadway on Valentine’s Day 1998, also made a star of its creator, John Cameron Mitchell (who wrote the book; music and lyrics by Stephen Trask). Mitchell adapted, directed, and reprised his title role in the 2001 movie — but don’t watch it, as it casts a separate actor as Tommy, which is not right. On stage, Hedwig and Tommy are flip sides of the same coin.

Faithfully directed by Danielle “Danni” Guy, Dominion Stage’s production preserves the architecture of the work while placing at its cornerstone a delightfully off-kilter Cam Shegogue. Shegogue bursts forth in tulle tutu and freak flag, like a punk ballerina flung off the spindle, true to all the Hedwigs come before in outlandish costumes (Anna Marquardt) and carnivalesque makeup (Maurissa Sosa). What’s different is their halting bravado never quite masking a need for approval, a continual toying with the hair, less brashness, and more graciousness, which engenders this Hedwig with maximum tenderness and soul.

After all, at some level, Hedwig represents a victim of abuse who ends up mistreating their husband, Yitzhak, as they were mistreated, by stealing the spotlight and suppressing their true identity. Standing off-stage in the corner much of the time, Vanessa Bliss embodies the dopey, downtrodden Yitzhak as a late-night sidekick — an Andy Richter to Shegogue’s Conan O’Brien. Rather than scream “raunchy drag show,” their dueling standup repartee unfolds as a thoughtful confessional, with the ever-hopeful Hedwig quoting treacly pop songs of their adopted country and Yitzhak striving to break the cycle of abuse.

Vocally, Bliss refuses to stay in her lane and proves the material is not robust enough for her fabulous belt — or dowdy suspenders. Shegogue also showcases an impressively fluid range, shining brightest when ad-libbing and code-switching between Tommy and Hedwig.

As billed, there are truly wickedly funny lines — such as Hedwig’s agent being named Phyllis Stein (philistine, geddit? defined as someone hostile or indifferent to culture and the arts, or with no understanding of them), but the audience must lean in to catch them all given Shegogue’s often frenetic delivery and occasional issues with muffled sound. It might be worth a second viewing, maybe on a Thursday, to catch a guaranteed understudies’ performance with Gary Bernard DiNardo as Hedwig and Julianna Cooper as Yitzhak.

Although the production vibe is of a drawn-out SNL monologue, the cool Angry Inch band supplies steaming-hot licks. Co-musical directors David Smigielski (guitar) and David Weinraub (keyboard/guitar) play the near-unpronounceable Krysztof and Skszp, with two other nondescript immigrants — Schlatko (Christopher Willett on bass) and Jacek (Tito Perez on drums) — proving their mastery of the blues-rock masters despite their low vision wearing shades.

It’s kind of a drag that the lighting doesn’t rise to the level of the actors’ and musicians’ pulsating energy. Despite warnings of strobe use, the mostly rainbow lighting felt static overall. As Hedwig threads through the audience, a follow spot was sorely missed, creating annoying visual dropouts.

But other visuals speak volumes, such as keeping Shegogue hydrated with water bottles costumed in Miller Lite koozies. Miller Lite is famous for its long-standing embrace of the LGBTQ+ community. The set design (Alex Bryce) and dressing/painting (Matt Liptak) is a roadmap of glam-rock nostalgia mixed with gritty dive-bar ambiance. And Hedwig’s quick on-stage changes — whether into a breakaway butterscotch tog for the raucous “Sugar Daddy” into silver-cross pasties in the heart-ripping finale — might fog you up.

Hedwig is, at its core, a show about halves and divisions and humanity’s yearning for wholeness. Whether breaking down the Berlin Wall to reunify a country, finding one’s soulmate to make one feel complete, or busting the fourth wall to connect with a dumbstruck audience, it’s about repairing or bridging fissures. As Hedwig declares, upon first seeing Tommy, both their  protégé and missing piece (loosely quoted): “He is the one. The twin, born by fish, and he’ll die by fusion. The words to finish the sentence that starts with ‘I am …’”

The show’s also about originality, authenticity, and reinvention. Back when Hedwig exploded onto the scene, there was no name for who they were; they defied categorization as “a gender of one.” What my vintage brain finds interesting about gender nonconformity today is the proliferation of labels. Consider the umbrella term for inclusivity — LGBT, morphing to LGBTQ, eventually LGBTQ+, with the plus sign making it finally fully inclusive, we hope — each character standing for something unique, threatening to place folks in boxes. You meet someone and perhaps inquire how they define themselves. By shedding pretenses, are we somehow, inadvertently, inventing new ones?

But Hedwig thinks outside the (wig) box. And Dominion Stage has mounted a wigged-out production worthy of closer examination that will challenge anyone’s rigid thinking.

However you slice it, this Hedwig stands up to the test(es) of time.

Running Time: About 80 minutes with no intermission.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch plays Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays at 8 p.m. through May 6, 2023, presented by Dominion Stage, performing at Gunston Arts Center Theatre Two, 2700 South Lang Street, Arlington, VA. Tickets ($30) are available online or at the door. Premium cabaret seating (guaranteed interaction with the cast) is available for $35.

The program for Hedwig and the Angry Inch is online here.

COVID Safety: Audience masking is optional for this production.

SONG LIST
Tear Me Down
The Origin of Love
Sugar Daddy
The Angry Inch
Wig in a Box
Wicked Little Town
The Long Grift
Hedwig’s Lament
Exquisite Corpse
Wicked Little Town Reprise
Midnight Road

CAST
Cam Shegogue — Hedwig
Vanessa Bliss — Yitzhak
Gary Bernard DiNardo — *Hedwig Understudy
Julianna Cooper — *Yitzhak Understudy
*Understudies perform Thursdays, April 27 and May 4, as well as being on standby for the primary performers.

ANGRY INCH BAND
David Weinraub – Keyboard/guitar
David Smigielski — Guitar
Christopher Willett — Bass
Tito Perez — Drums

PRODUCTION TEAM
Director — Danielle Guy
Executive Producers — Carol Clark & Jennifer Lyman
Producer — Gwyneth Sholar
Music Directors — David Weinraub & David Smigielski
Stage Manager — Samantha McClaugherty
Set Design — Alex Bryce
Set Painting & Set Dressing — Matt Liptak
Sound Design — Carolyn Fado
Lighting Design — Jeff Auerbach & Kimberly Crago
Costume Design — Anna Marquardt
Hair and Makeup Design — Maurissa Sosa
Dramaturg — Natalie Parks

The post A wigged-out twist on ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch’ at Dominion Stage appeared first on DC Theater Arts.

Buskin is another name for the morose mask that along with its turn-a-frown-upside-down sibling forms the tragedy-comedy icon of the ancient Greeks. Actors in tragic roles wore buskins, a type of boot, marking them as grim, while their comic-relief counterparts traipsed around in thin, jester-like shoes called socks. Thus, the happy-sad “Sock and Buskin” remains the universal symbol for “Drama spoken here.”

StageCoach Theatre Company’s premiere two-act production of Into the Valley Below — a pioneering work written and produced mostly by Loudoun County high schoolers — is heavy on the boots. Prepare to be immersed in the tragic history of the Johnstown Flood of 1889, when a dam sloppily maintained by the idle rich burst, unleashing 20 million tons of water that decimated five lowland Pennsylvania towns and killed more than 2,200 mostly lower-class folks.

And these are killer boots. An ensemble of Victorian-adjacent, snappy footwear, with one crowning pair befitting a Greek-chorus character whose name is, fittingly, Tragedy. (On press night, a production tragedy was narrowly averted when a player broke her heel — the heel formerly attached to her shoe, that is, not her heel bone. Although some of the smart looks and booty-enhancing bustle dresses in stunningly ornate fabrics did have tricks up their sleeves, this was not a trick shoe.)

Tragedy (Izzy Jewell), grinning and grimacing in equal measure, has her counterpart not in comedy but in Memory (Heidi Dodd). The two narrators open and flow through the show like shadow emcees, introducing key characters, foreshadowing twists, delivering epitaphs. The effect is a history lecture brought to life.

And Potomac Falls High School senior Liliana “Lily” Rossi, co-author and co-director, certainly did her homework. With a script drowning in facts, this incarnation, expanded from her one-act The Great Johnstown Flood of 1889, performed at the International Fringe Festival in Scotland last summer, grants more breathing room. Alongside co-director Evan Gorman, Rossi has fleshed out characters, raising them above mere names on a Wiki page to painfully realize their plights. (Potomac Falls performing arts teacher Corinne Fox, who challenged this precocious playwright to create, shares writing credit.)

Setting the stage: Amid the land rush of 1889, back when there were only 38 loosely united states, Pittsburgh industrialists owned the land where the precarious South Fork Dam held back part of the Conemaugh River, forming a high lake where the leisure class pursued their leisure. As greedy capitalists are wont to do, they purportedly cut corners in repairing the dam, using cheap materials or cheap labor, and ignored warning signs of impending doom. Though the disaster later was ruled an “act of God,” the question arises whether it was willful negligence at the hands of men.

The set, awash in stormy blue, instantly portends danger. A ladder signals either escape or the figurative ascension to a higher plain. Platforms of different heights denote uneven tiers of society, the tallest seemingly reserved for the most privileged.

Performing almost exclusively at floor level are two standouts: lithesome Lily Cook, who fully inhabited young Gertrude Quinn on press night with gusto and guts (Tess Will at alternate performances); and Charles Fisher as her 16-year-old brother, Damian, a radiant and gifted actor whose generosity as a scene partner raised everyone else’s game. (Co-director Gorman steps in for half the performances.) In an early scene, before the water subsumes the sky, Fisher dives into a reverie about the blue Kansas dome and coverlet of constellations. His storytelling instincts are as bright as the savvy projections and lighting support supplied by Sarah Chung, Zoe Korff, and Aimee Wakefield.

Sound technician Daniel Prothe powers the story along by summoning incessant rain and a drumbeat of death, balancing stage whispers against horror-show screams.

In an attempt to inject more comedy into the proceedings, Victor Heiser (Liam Tully) shares with new buddy Damian his dream to become a doctor, wrapped in shaky wisecracks. Turns out the real-life Dr. Heiser was quite serious and made a name for himself, and Johnstown, as the de facto father of public health. He’s credited with saving millions of lives from another natural threat abetted by human behavior: infectious disease.

Among other notable performances were Sebastian Trujillo, skilled in pregnant pauses as a genial German immigrant (a Pennsylvania Dutch settler); Madi Saunders, who modeled expert pacing and diction in two supporting roles; Chris Shuffleton, wound tightly as worrywart James Quinn, who repeatedly cries wolf about the dam’s vulnerability; Claire “Cai” Reeps, whose calm, commanding presence as Aunt Abbie offsets Quinn’s fidgeting like an eye in the storm; and Emma Nicholson as the Quinns’ nursemaid, Libby. Poised and stalwart in her role, Nicholson proved the least steady on her feet, not only taking that terrifying spill from the damn shoe break but also tripping over a precariously placed set piece during the bows.

Amid all the calamity, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to my most beloved historical tragedy, which translated magnificently to the stage in 1997’s Tony-winning Titanic: A New Musical.

In Into the Valley Below, we meet the obstinate Benjamin Ruff (Mason Saunders), founder of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, who, catering to the mountain retreat’s moneyed members, ordered the dam lowered and “fish guards” added while neglecting to install proper drainage in the event of a crisis. His Titanic doppelgänger? Bruce Ismay, the White Star Line’s chairman who pushed for faster speeds and fewer lifeboats in favor of bigger staterooms for first-class passengers.

In Valley, the railroad’s steam locomotive with “swanky Pullman cars” represents the Gilded Age’s industrial progress. The dam itself was a monstrous feat of engineering to tame coursing water, only stalling its vengeful course of history. Usher in the “unsinkable” Titanic, a floating city. When the doomed ship stops dead, bejeweled guests badger the crew and bemoan arriving late, not their unimaginable fate. Similarly, in Valley, high-society train riders are miffed when the train encounters a flooded track and nudge the conductor to make progress so they can keep their schedule, unaware their time for departure truly has come.

The telegraph is a vital lifeline in both shows. In Valley, Hettie Ogle (a polished Rahmah Hagmagid, who masters a semblance of Morse code along with patter-style dialogue) must monitor rain and water levels. She taps out warnings to telegraph offices in vain — akin to the unheeded warnings of iceberg sightings by Titanic’s faithful wireless operator. South Fork Dam company man John Parke (Mila Krsmanovic) turns into a frenzied town crier after the dam breach; Titanic’s architect is portrayed as maniacally redesigning the ship even after the hull is breached beyond hope. There are also parallel “lookouts”: Victor climbs atop his family’s barn, desperately spying a wall of water and debris approaching, while British sailor Frederick Fleet utters those famous, ill-timed words: “Iceberg, right ahead.”

Both works expose human foibles with grave consequences and plenty of blame to go around. And they unanimously prove that when civilization is pitted against the immovable force of nature — especially water, in all forms — mankind is no match.

Witnessing the denouements of Valley and Titanic makes for agonizing but cathartic second acts. In both shows, Act One indulges in the levity of humanizing historical figures, while Act Two reveals who among them shall survive. “This is the end of the world!” a voice peals. “It’s the valley of death!”

Disturbed, I left the Ashburn theater wondering, “Why on earth would a teenager choose such a grim story to tell?” The answer came quickly amid buckets of weekend rain. Here’s a new wave of talent from artists so young and raw but consigned to live in survivor mode. Gen Z, the post-9/11 generation, stands to inherit a last-man-standing planet pocked by record floods, fires, epi/pandemics, and a slew of untold disasters. This is the “say their names” generation — those paying witness to horrifically commonplace gun violence, hate crimes, and injustice imposed by people charged with defining or defending the law. They know the poetry in reciting a litany of martyrs’ names. They are the questioners. The modern inquisition.

And beyond being students, they’re our teachers.

Running time: Approximately two hours, including one 15-minute intermission.

Into the Valley Below plays through March 31, 2023, at StageCoach Theatre Company, located at 20937 Ashburn Road, Suites 115 and 120, Ashburn, VA. Tickets for in-person seating ($23) at press time were sold out, but live streaming ($23.95) is still available. Or you can call the box office at 571.477.9444.

The program for Into the Valley Below is online here.

COVID Safety: All guests may choose to wear masks while inside the theater, but it is not required. See StageCoach Theatre’s complete COVID protocols here.

The post ‘Into the Valley Below’ dives into a disaster at StageCoach Theatre Company appeared first on DC Theater Arts.

Gay-bashing. Victim-blaming. Sensationalizing by the media.

Elements of modern-day outrage are all there in the subtext of Diana Son’s stop-action Stop Kiss script — first received amid controversy off-Broadway in 1998 — about two women in New York whose slow dip into love, manifested by a first kiss in public, incites violence by an onlooker.

Yet what bubbles up from the page is often awkward, slumber-party titillation of girl-on-girl action — underlined by Magic 8 Ball consultations and prattling pillow talk. “Have you ever …?” “I can’t imagine any woman who’s never felt …”

How Kimberly Leone, in her Reston Community Players’ directorial debut, layers the work’s built-in froth with a solemn, binding commitment to cast out “othering” is where the true magic lurks. One way she does it is by holding the reins not only of a pliable, playful cast but of the set, costume, and properties design, for which she’s triply credited.

Callie (Jess Rawls) meets Sara (Susan Rearick) in the privacy of her disordered walk-up. Sara has moved from flyover country — well, St. Louis, which takes its own unfounded abuse in the piece — to the Bronx on a teaching fellowship. She has a pussycat whom she can’t keep at her place; through a friend of a friend, Callie agrees to board it. Quick scenes tumble forth out of order like jumbled memory, documenting the pair’s stages of infatuation and connection against the reactions to the assault from their friends/lovers, an investigator, a witness, a nurse. Society plays the outsider to Callie’s inner journey of self-discovery. Although spared having to witness the hate crime play out, anyone watching can easily testify that society has no business interfering with Callie’s choice of whom to love.

Rawls, a director herself and master chameleon, is exceptional as Callie, anchoring every scene while unstuck in time. Callie works begrudgingly as a traffic reporter, hovering between searching for purpose and love. She’s continually dressing and undressing, deciding what to wear as if not quite comfortable in her own skin, at times judging another’s outfit, experimenting with identity — with black-leather warrior boots her only thread of consistency. Rearick’s Sara, though coquettish and flighty, proves the more dauntless of the two. Confident in her wardrobe, she’ll don a flaming orange pillbox hat with matching orange hose and shoes if she wants to. She’ll root around in Callie’s closet, openly. (More touching than the actual kiss was a scene, mostly ad-libbed on opening night, in which Callie dresses Sara.)

Sara not only challenges Callie to right her rudder but stands up for them both in the face of danger. “They want me to speak truth to power, and I don’t know what that means!” Callie exasperatingly pleads to a comatose Sara. Even without words, Sara’s voice beams back.

The sole witness to the attack is Mrs. Winsley, delightfully drawn in two too-short vignettes by Cara Giambrone. She comes off as Karen-esque yet likable. Righteous while doing the right thing. Onlookers wonder: Would we?

In a play with lesbian leanings, one doesn’t expect to like the supporting male characters as much, but here they’re extra supportive. The audience benefits most from the appearance of Callie’s friend with benefits, George, characterized by boundless charmer Anthony Pohl. In his basement-lair T-shirt, a spare hand ever reaching for Callie’s fridge door, he lavishes comfort and presence. The chemistry between them nearly eclipses what’s unfolding between Callie and Sara.

Newcomer James Northrup as laconic Peter, Sara’s ex who travels to her hospital bedside, mesmerizes with repressed body language and longing. Damian Leone is biting and baiting as tough cop Detective Cole and executes side gigs as a server and set changer in hammy pantomime. (The cop’s not paying attention when finally prying Callie’s testimony out of her, however, was confusing.)

The intrusion-on-privacy theme also gets layered into the set design. A ribbon of architecture — a Central Park bridge? — hugs the base of Callie’s apartment pedestal center stage. The only curtain is not a theater drape but one defining a hospital suite stage right; at stage left is a nook that converts from interrogation room to coffee shop to tablecloth restaurant. During fascinating set changes, silent action takes place in all three arenas at once. A nurse’s station, though positioned at the edge of the stage and away from most of the action, feels oddly invasive. There, native New Yorker Jacquel Tomlin stays busy — a silent witness to those in their most vulnerable states. And while tending to Sara’s physical needs, she offers a refreshing salve for Callie’s soul.

Franklin Coleman’s lighting design (and the fun array of stage fixtures) pushes the show’s themes of encroachment: The stage is bathed in red at the start — for love, blood, blind rage — and moves from the harsh white of a hospital or inquisition chamber to the shadowy filter of moonstruck targets. Sound designer Liz Shaher feeds the ever-intrusive sounds of New York living, and if she’s also the master behind the interlude music, please accept raves for mix-tape nirvana. From the opening pounding of “Animal” by Neon Trees (reprised at the end) to snippets of “Body Parts” by Plain White T’s, “Tonight You’re Perfect” by New Politics, “Habits (Stay High)” by Tove Lo, “Riptide” by Vance Joy, “High” by Young Rising Son, on and on, it’s a tapestry of emo confessionals.

One striking omission in a show about budding romance is not crediting anyone for intimacy coaching — especially in this day and age. Quick PSA (public service announcement) on PDAs (public displays of affection): Meditate on one of the most famous publicly stolen kisses in American culture, the furtive photo of a sailor grabbing a dental assistant in Times Square as World War II wrapped. With all those onlookers smiling, it was celebrated then as euphoric but recast as sexual assault in Time magazine and elsewhere in 2014 — the period set for RCP’s production of Stop Kiss. How perceptions can change.

Against the backdrop of social evolution and a greater, long-overdue acceptance of the LGBTQ+ community, Stop Kiss might feel anachronistic or tame. Still, the work exposes a-ha moments redressed over time for witnesses who, one hopes, won’t remain entirely passive.

Running time: Two hours and 15 minutes, including one intermission.

Stop Kiss plays through March 12, 2023, presented by Reston Community Players performing at Reston Community Center’s CenterStage, 2310 Colts Neck Road in Reston, VA. For tickets ($25–$30), contact the box office at 703-476-4500 x38 or purchase online. CenterStage is accessible and offers listening devices for the hearing impaired.

The program for Stop Kiss is online here.

COVID Safety: RCP requires that all ticketed patrons wear a mask inside the theater. RCP’s complete COVID-19 policies and protocols are here.

The post Two women’s love not stopped by hate in ‘Stop Kiss’ at Reston Community Players appeared first on DC Theater Arts.

Time away could do us all good. Especially in light of our communal, suffocating cabin fever of the past two years.

Enter Enchanted April, the Providence Players of Fairfax’s latest escapist and endearing comedy that reduces Eat, Pray, Love to a mere appetizer. This 2003 play by Matthew Barber, adapted from a 1922 novel by Elizabeth von Arnim, follows four mismatched British women who, starting as virtual strangers, pool their resources to rent a “modest” castle in Italy for a monthlong break from life’s doldrums. Not mere doldrums, but that bleak period post-World War I in which broken men, war widows, and survivors of the “Spanish” flu were clawing their way back to some sense of normalcy. War and pandemic. Perhaps you can relate.

Every journey requires baggage, and these ladies come fully freighted. Charlotte “Lotty” Wilton (a jaunty Jessa Whitley-Hill) is a free spirit tethered by the rigid rules and routines of husband-solicitor Mellersh (Christopher Crockett). She gets the idea for the getaway after spying an ad in the classifieds: “To those who appreciate wisteria and sunshine …” Fronting some cash she’s saved for a rainy day — and when is it not raining in London? — she twists the languid arm of fellow women’s club member Rose (Andra Whitt), herself straitjacketed by a puritanical code of self-abnegation. They recruit a couple of moneyed types: Lady Caroline (Lindsey June Sandifer), a socialite burdened by her beauty, and priggish Mrs. Graves (Beth Gilles-Whitehead), who oddly lacks a first name but leans heavily on name-dropping.

Growing on one another’s nerves initially, these desperate housewives (of wisteria lane?) eventually grow on one another.

First-time director Amanda Ranowsky earns high marks for guiding their transformation from gloom to bloom. Lotty’s introduction is as a mere stick figure; the opening blocking feels painfully static as she and Rose interact awkwardly, taking baby steps toward fleeing expectations and constraints. But Whitt’s genius unfolds as a time-lapse study of art creation. She sculpts her Rose like putty, at first alarmingly long in the face, adding some blushing modesty, then finally peeling off her mask and shroud.

A little backstory: It was April 1921 when novelist von Arnim, then 55 and widowed in her first marriage, divorced from her second, and being courted by a bloke 30 years her junior, rented a “castello” in Portofino, Italy, with two sob sisters and started writing this source material. Women branching out and finding themselves — that’s the vibration both on and offstage.

In PPF’s production, as characters successively populate the scenes, the story (and lightboard) brightens. Gilles-Whitehead’s arrival, in schoolmarm garb, really gets things rolling with her razor tongue and surgical strikes of humor. The cast’s acting chops are universally sharp, but Whitt, Gilles-Whitehead, and Eleanor Tyler, as Genoan cook Costanza in Act 2, are matchless. As her name means “perseverance,” or “tenacity,” translated from Italian, Costanza is also the comedic anchor. While prattling on exclusively in Italian, Tyler’s unfailing, flailing body language and ethnic flair ensure no meaning gets lost. (Italian dialect coach Roberta Lisker adds the right notes of seasoning. Meanwhile, British dialect coach Cheryl Sinsabaugh sees to it that everyone convincingly speaks proper Queen’s English.)

The men, though, are no slouchers. Crockett, for one, standing well over 6 feet tall, holds his own with a snooty air and well-aimed screwball. He literally must fold himself into embraces with the hard-to-pin-down Lotty. Christopher Persil adds intrigue as Rose’s husband, Frederick, who writes salacious fiction under the pen name Florian Ayres — and under Rose’s disapproving glare. Chuck O’Toole charms as damaged veteran and romantic artist Antony Wilding, also the castle’s owner. Gentility and a raw vulnerability shine through his halting speeches. And even though Lady Caroline was looking forward to basking in solitude and not the attention of men, she becomes a Cassandra stocked by Sandifer with more assets and complexities than the script prescribes.

Ranowsky lets each character breathe and move to their unique rhythms. Whitley-Hill’s Lotty, described by her husband as a hummingbird because “one seldom sees it land,” flutter-talks at an often-feverish pace. She’s part flower child and part mystic — a seer with visions, a divining rod for finding heaven on earth or the gold buried within each soul. Whitley-Hill mixes innocence and wisdom into a refreshing fragrance that defines the show.

Now, full disclosure: I’ve known Amanda Ranowsky for two-thirds of her life, since she was in middle school choir. I’ve seen her perform in countless productions, under the tutelage of multiple directors, Gilles-Whitehead among them. (“It was surreal, but wonderful to have the opportunity to direct her,” Ranowsky shares.) Amanda’s always been a quiet, bookish, thoughtful but strong presence. Multitalented — and now fully blossomed. Involved with PPF for over a decade, she needed prodding to take the reins of this orphaned production, having encountered it in college (she earned her master’s in publishing at Oxford Brookes University in England). It was stage manager Julie Janson, also an Air Force lieutenant colonel who was deployed before opening night, who encouraged her to soldier up.

Granted, any director would find challenging a particular pivotal scene in which the two main couples wrangle in their separate bubbles, cross-talking, point-counterpoint, lines twisted, entangled. But Ranowsky conducts it in toccata and fugue, with lyricism and narrative intelligence, pinging on all the correct words. And even though the venue, the James Lee Community Center, is known for great acoustics, that’s no small feat without the benefit of cast mics. My companion with hearing loss didn’t miss a thing — a credit to the powerhouse projection of the performers, the layered but balanced sound design by Crockett (his birdsong was especially appreciated), and Ranowsky’s crisp direction.

Regular PPF patrons also have come to expect a fabulous set — set construction and dressing are among this company’s hallmarks. My advice here is to park your own dismay at the first act’s bleakness: the bare minimum of hardwood tables, chairs, and coat racks that convert to solemn pews and crucifix. Because just as the storied Wizard of Oz moves from a black-and-white harsh reality — also chased by bad weather — to a color-drenched dreamscape, so too is this production split into the before and after, from oblivion to fruition.

Costume design by Robbie Snow follows suit — transforming from stark to snazzy, straddling severe vintage and the modern fringe of the Twenties. The lush landscape of Act 2, designed by Jason Hamrick and decorated by the imaginative team of Ingrid David, Susan Kaplan, and Tina Hodge Thronson (Enchanted April’s producer), marks destination Destiny.

Primed for spring? Ready to remove the scales from your eyes to replace them with therapeutic petals? Through the Enchanted April portal, however you enter before, you’ll surely feel renewed after.

Running Time: About two hours plus a 15-minute intermission.

Enchanted April plays through April 9, 2022, at Providence Players of Fairfax performing at the James Lee Community Center theater — 2855 Annandale Road in Falls Church, VA. For tickets ($21 adults; $18 students and seniors), email tickets@providenceplayers.org, call 703-425-6782, or purchase them online.

COVID Safety: All patrons, actors, and volunteers must comply with Fairfax County and Providence Players’ policies and protocols for COVID-19.

Enchanted April
by Matthew Barber

Cast
Lotty Wilton: Jessa Whitley-Hill
Mellersh Wilton: Christopher Crockett
Rose Arnott: Andra Whitt
Frederick Arnott: Christopher Persil
Caroline Bramble: Lindsey June Sandifer
Antony Wilding: Chuck O’Toole
Mrs. Graves: Beth Gilles-Whitehead
Costanza: Eleanor Tyler

Production Team
Director: Amanda Ranowsky
Producer: Tina Hodge Thronson
Stage Managers: Julie Janson, Roxanne Waite
Assistant Manager: David Whitehead
Stage Crew: Joe Neff, Han Nguyen, Nora Rice
Technical Director and Lighting Design: Sarah Mournighan
Sound Design: Christopher Crockett
Photographer and Special Effects: Chip Gertzog
Technical Crew: E Bennett, Ariana Colligan MacLeod, Jason Hamrick
Set Design: Jason Hamrick
Set Construction: Patrick David, Jason Hamrick, Brian O’Connor, David Whitehead
Set Construction Crew: John Coscia, Patrick David, Michael Donahue, Chip Gertzog, Beth Gilles-Whitehead, Jason Hamrick, Kevin Hamisch, Erica Irving, Susan Kaplan, Daniel Lavanga, Nick Manicone, Sarah Mournighan, Brian O’Connor, Chuck O’Toole, Chris Persil, Amanda Ranowsky, Lindsey June Sandifer, Tina Hodge Thronson, Tara Tripp, Eleanor Tyler, Roxanne Waite, David Whitehead, Andra Whitt, Ken Zabielski
Set Decoration: Ingrid David, Susan Kaplan, Tina Hodge Thronson
Set Painting: Ingrid David, Susan Kaplan, Tina Hodge Thronson
Costume Design: Robbie Snow
Costume Assistant: Tommie Curtis
Hair: Robbie Snow
Properties: Jayne L. Victor
Box Office and Ticket Sales: Danine Welsh
House Management: Roxanne Waite
Playbill: Susan Kaplan
Playbill Design: Ellen Burns
Playbill Advertising: Jayne L. Victor
Marketing: David Whitehead
Dialect Coach (British): Cheryl Sinsabaugh
Dialect Coach (Italian): Roberta Lisker
ASL Interpreters: Michele Bach-Hansen, Shannon Smith

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