Sunday, May 31, 2020

Pandemic Diary April: Mr. Sunshine

The one day I went for a big walk.

If March was a month of bittersweet longing (served up by Crash Landing On You) then April, when I started watching Mr. Sunshine, was more serious and sad. 

Things in the outside world were scary in April and so I went out less and less. The infection and death rates were climbing all the time. Every throat tickle I had sent me into a panic. I did not get sick, but I struggled to sort out what this stay-at-home life would look like. I bought a lot of masks, gloves, and cleaning supplies. I freaked out over getting grocery delivery slots because my local store is small and overrun. Later in the month the shops started to control crowds a bit and my once-a-week errands became a little less harrowing. 

I planned an epic walk to Flushing Meadows Park to meet up with a friend from Forest Hills. It took a big gulp of courage to get over my anxiety of seeing people and interacting with people and my fear that an hour plus walk to the park would be full of interactions with people not social distancing (as shorter trips around my neighborhood had been). But I did it and it was good to get out and feel tired from a long walk. It was great to see a human I knew (while masked). 

After letting go of Crash Landing On You, reluctantly, someone on twitter directed me to a period K-drama on Netflix that was a deep dive into Korean history. Mr. Sunshine proved a fun show, in part, at the start and then it deepened with its evolving plot. 

It's a swashbuckling romance between two rooftop assassins in the early 1900s. While Japan, America, and Russia encroached on Korea and the emperor struggled to fend off Japan’s increasing pressure and control, a Korean-American solider (and former Korean slave), Eugene Choi (Lee Byung-hun), returns to Korea and meets a high-born young woman, Go Ae-sin (Kim Tae-ri), who is secretly part of the Righteous Army, a militia trying to fight for Korean freedom. There’s also a Korean-Japanese hotel owner, Hina (Kim Min-Jung), who knows everyone and everything and has a handsome, murderous swordsman, Dong-mae (Yoo Yeon-seok), who protects her. But Dong-mae also has a past with Go Ae-sin. 

It was another show where the well-crafted supporting characters build up the story and provide nuanced comedy alongside the serious business of the period politics and romance. 

Both Mr. Sunshine and Crash Landing have really strong female characters and I found this another reason why these K-dramas were hitting me in the right place. 

There are also three different men in love with Go Ae-Sin. The three men, aware of each other, become frenemies and eventually end up in a catty bromance. 

Something for everyone really. 

Go Ae-Sin also cannot totally focus on romance, because she has a rebellion to win. She’s got a lot on her plate. Passing secret love notes goes on for a while, but the reality of the Japanese encroachment becomes all encompassing. Mr. Sunshine also tracks Korean history and, spoiler alert, things go downhill for Korea in the early 20th century. 

Should have been Hashtag 1910 thoughts. 

As a white American with little knowledge of Korean history, getting to see a perspective on class, identity, imperialism, colonialism, and slavery from a different country’s point-of-view was eye-opening. It reminded me how limited the lens can be in American mass media (also American education) or what we (me) generally consume. 

It got me thinking there was good reason to keep watching K-dramas beyond the obvious pleasure I was getting from them. The shot structure, points of view, and tropes were new to my eyes. But there were many stories I had not encountered before. While things were rough going in real life, I was still up to be challenged by the shows I was watching. I also had a lot to learn. 

Maybe also in a month where everything felt like it was about survival and nothing but seeing a character take some time for romance while the world is crashing down around her (knowing that her cause will always come first) gave me a little hope in these dark days. 

As with Crash Landing, I struggled to finish Mr. Sunshine because I knew how profoundly sad it would be.  The defeats start to add up for the Righteous Army and I dreaded how this might play out on the characters I had grew fond of. I had a good cry at the end. 

When I finished Mr. Sunshine, it happened to coincide with the series Asian Americans running on PBS. In the show, they mentioned a real-life leader in the Korean independence movement, Ahn Changho, who came to America in the early 1900s with his wife and continued to fight for Korea from here. Ahn's daughter, Susan, went on to become a Navy gunnery officer. She was the first Asian American woman in the Navy. She later worked at the NSA. Now I’m totally obsessed with Susan Ahn Cuddy and want someone to make a movie of her life. 

I feel like Go Ae-sin would have been proud to see the next generation of Korean rebels out there.

Wednesday, May 27, 2020

Pandemic Diary March: Crash Landing on You

Talking someone into watching Crash Landing
Talking someone into watching Crash Landing On You

March was the hardest month of the pandemic for me. Someone in my building was hospitalized with COVID-19 very early in the month. From the start, the fear of illness felt like it was at the threshold of my front door. I was le freaked out. I felt smothered being indoors and I was struggling to be around people when outside. Fear filled my days. Rational and irrational.

I thought it would help if I went outside every day for a little sunshine, but other people not keeping a distance was giving me agita. Over the course of the month, I went out less and less. With it, the feeling of my regular life drifted away from me and I wasn't sure how to deal with it. My life had gotten very small, very quickly. 

A few days into quarantine I took a chance on watching a Korean series which sounded ridiculous: Crash Landing On You.  A friend from the UK tweeted about it and described it as thus: 

I had to see what she was talking about. 

Yes, a wealthy, powerful woman Yoon Se-ri (Son Ye-Jin) finds herself lost in North Korea and needs the help of Captain Ri Jeong-Hyeok (Hyun Bin) to get her back home. I’m a sucker for a rom-com, but once I started watching there was something else going on in the show for me. 

The bittersweet undertones, the colorful characters, the rich sense of place, the cross-cultural discovery, and the concept of Korean peninsular proximity and yet great distance between nations all seemed to be what I needed in this early stage of my indoor life.  It was an excuse to travel without leaving my sofa. It got me out of my head and my house.  

I loved the gauzy yearning and long ardent stares. The comedy translated so easily (which is not the case with some English-language shows from foreign countries). 

Quickly I was laughing and crying. It was so delightful that I only got 6 episodes in before I started re-watching the series from the start. Somehow 6 out of 16 episodes felt too close to the end. I could not cope with this show ending. I did not want these characters to leave me. No matter their fate, their absence was too much to take. The characters became a proxy for the real-life friends whose absence I had no choice but to accept. 

Geography in NYC has so rarely been something any of us paid much attention to. But suddenly if your friends did not live in your immediate neighborhood or walking distance you were not going to see them for a long time. All my friends elsewhere in NYC were suddenly so far away. Not quite North Korea but out of reach.  

While Yoon Se-ri meets and befriends a bevy of people in North Korea, she makes connections with people who she knows will eventually be impossible to see again. Her deepening friendships and romance are constantly tinged with a bittersweet reality of what was going to have to be a temporary connection. <sobs>

Day-by-day this show was what was sustaining me in March and getting me through the worst feelings of being locked-in. I would finish my work and rush to the sofa to start another episode. It was hard to keep it to one episode a night. I had to drag it out as long as I could. 


A friend and I were talking about how we’ve gravitated towards craft hobbies from our youth during lockdown (her sewing, me crocheting). I’ve started to wonder how much of this Crash Landing heart-eyes romance obsession is also about reaching back to the past in another way. 

Is this all reminiscent spiritually of my pre-internet, pre-teen years?  In those years, my best friend and I would get on the phone and together watch 21 Jump Street (classic). We would sit in silence watching the show until the commercials, when we’d start chatting again. The text messages I have been sending to friends about Crash Landing have some of that quality. Just squee and joy and reverie over the characters. 

"He made her noodles BY HAND!" "Oh my god the bra shopping." "His dimples." "Please message me every time you watch an episode. I can't live with this all inside." 

We've lost so much that made our lives rich and complex. Our comforts and joys are whittled down to the bare minimum these days. Other people have poured themselves in bread baking, puzzles, and board games. I found my way to Crash Landing

I survived March thanks to Crash Landing On You, the good people of FreshDirect, and the makers of bleach wipes. 

Tuesday, January 7, 2020

Top 10 of 2019

By the numbers for 2019:

174 shows seen (down from 203 last year)

27% of work seen by artists of color (up from 25% last year)

62% of work seen by underrepresented artists (up from 50% last year)

51% of the work I saw was by women (up from 40% last year)

I wrote 57 reviews (up from 48 last year)

I wrote 5 features (down from 11 last year)

I edited 60 pieces (up from 37 last year)

I've reached 1800 shows in my lifetime.

While this all seems substantial, in my head, my work was a disappointment. It was a crazy year. I bought an apartment, moved after 18 years in one place, and there's a lot happening behind-the-scenes with Exeunt NYC where I am now the managing editor. I had plenty of work and it kept me busy but looking back over my writing nothing stands out as that special.

Some years are like this I guess. It’s not that my fields have been left truly fallow, but it feels a bit like a year of tending the garden without much yield. Hopefully, I have given myself a healthy foundation to build on for 2020. I don't know. I'm a hard grader.

Top 10 of 2019  

1) What if they went to Moscow?: This Brazilian work by Christiane Jatahy is performed live and also projected into a movie theater. It feels like the perfect show to encapsulate my interests and this decade of theatergoing. As someone who went to film school and started her art training focused on moving images and now writes almost exclusively above live performance, this hybrid cinema-theater work mixes the best of both worlds. It doubles-down on “gaze” because it employs both a theater and cinema one. This self-conscious lens on how we look becomes one of its most important elements.

A loose adaptation of Three Sisters, the production, performed in a mix of English and Portuguese with supertitles, involves a birthday party for the youngest sister. We, as the audience, are present and invited to participate. Called up on stage to dance, handed drinks and snacks, there is no “pretending” we are not there. Overlapping action between the sisters allows for a cacophony of voices, emotions, and story. We “feel” the rising tension between the sisters and old wounds are re-opened, new conflicts come to the fore, and their relationships shift. But once we go to the cinema side to see the actors perform the show again, we see the same scenes and experiences framed entirely differently. With tight camera angles and a limited point of view we see scenes captured that we did not see in the theater (or with more details). The camera, often operated by an old friend, captures the sparks of an affair just beginning. The camera languishes over the body of the sister he longs for. While the camera changes hands and grabs different glimpses of their lives, we learn more about each of the characters from what they look at and how they look. If we only saw the theater side it would be a full, rich stage experience with the cast who express such sisterly affection (and tension) that they seem like they are actually related. But adding cinema to the mix, it reframes the action just enough to give us even more. It also makes its “gaze” so present that we are reminded how much a film director can lead the narrative, control the audience, and how the tools of cinema change the way we “look” at women’s bodies just ever so slightly. A sex scene played in the semi-dark on a theater stage comes across as raw, messy, and vulnerable. When the same acts are filmed, the camera gives hints of sex and passion but use glimpses of entangled bodies to create this.

2) A Strange Loop: There is no monolithic Black experience and yet sometimes seeing theater it can feel like we're not seeing a broad expanse of life experiences. So, a musical about a fat, gay Black man who just wants to get the love he is worthy of in all his relationships is so radical (when really it should not be). Fat people being lovable, sexual, and the center of any story is still quite rare too. It’s a fucking miracle that we all got to experience Michael R. Jackson’s new musical A Strange Loop. Starring the funny and infinitely loveable Larry Owens, this show also confronts complicated taboos about HIV, AIDS, and homosexuality within the Black community, as well as religion and Tyler Perry. Despite a list of “issues”, the musical never feels like a vehicle for lectures. Instead, these are all deeply explored and honestly prodded. It would be a crime if this show did not get more life.

3) Plano: I think maybe Will Arbery’s play passed along a ghost virus to me. Now I just carry it with me everywhere. Or, maybe more accurately, he made me aware of the ghosts I was carrying already. Now they are visible. This play about three sisters who themselves are haunted by past relationships, their family, their religious experiences, and what they’ve done also contains an actual creepy ghost prowling about on stage. These are such natural ghosts to carry if you are always living with a little bit of your past carrying through to your present. Something about Arbery’s fantastical comedy rooted in Catholicism was grounded in a reality I understood. Its secret language was not a foreign one to me. While he played with time and space, the logic of his world was deeply felt. His play Heroes of the Fourth Turning was also revelatory and could have nabbed this spot, Plano hit me more more personally.

4) Barbershop Chronicles: Inua Ellams play based on conversations in Black men’s barbershops all around the world was another window into a Black experience I had not seen on stage before. Focused on the African diaspora and what it means to be a strong black man today, he traverses different cultures and experiences. He finds something specific and universal. With music, joie de vivre, and 1000 shades of Black masculinity the play pushes back against stereotypes and gives complete portraits of the men depicted even if in passing. It is celebratory and not without its sorrows but pain, perhaps too often centered in Black stories, gets to live alongside a multitude of experiences—friendship, family, hope, success, love, and aspiration.

5) King Philip’s Head Is Still on That Pike Just Down The Road: Through his funny, oddball play set in the Plymouth Colony over a governmental dispute over the impaled head of Chief Metacom, playwright Daniel Glenn covers political deadlock, hypocritical morality, stubborn feuds, toxic masculinity, self-interest, self-preservation, and intransigent men. So, nothing has changed in American politics since 1677 except the hats. What’s worse is that this play operates like a turning point. Had the men of this era ever considered the Native Americans they had invaded, fought with, slaughtered, and colonized to be humans equal to them this might be a very different country. This play posits it was possible to have these thoughts in 1677 and, in this moment, perhaps the future would look different had these men depicted fought harder for it. But we know the outcome. All we can do is watch the car crash of a nation happen. Glenn’s play is played for laughs until it isn’t.  Glenn makes us see our complacency and how early this took root.

6) Skittles Commercial: The Musical: Instead of making a Super Bowl commercial, Skittles staged a live musical commercial on Broadway (not on Broadway but nearby). How was this a thing? And also, here it is on my top 10 list. When money is no object look what you can create: an advertisement that somehow is more probing about capitalism than most theater. If you foreground capitalism, can you somehow transcend it? Maybe, if you don’t go running out to buy some Skittles. I didn’t buy the candy, but I thoroughly enjoyed this musical advertisement created by playwright Will Eno, director Sarah Benson, composer Drew Gasparini, and copywriter Nathaniel Lawlor (co-writer of the book and lyricist).  I listen to this album more than some “commercial” Broadway musicals that are not commercials. It’s a hard line to walk—raising consciousness while entertaining—and this musical pulls it off.

7) Wild Bore: Like Skittles, Wild Bore is another show trying to question its own intentions from within. Can you both create and disavow what you create without breaking “the thing” created? I guess you can if you do it carefully—like porcupines fucking. Wild Bore repurposes theater reviews and builds a show out of the pieces of critical thought (some deeper than others). The result is a funny upside world where you can consider whether criticism is advancing the conversation or shrinking back into itself. On top of that, the show itself challenges itself and whether these cis white female artists have pushed themselves far enough. Are they due some criticism that the critics did not address? The critical snake might start eating its tail but it’s a worthwhile meal to watch and reflect on.

8) Antigone: I’ve seen my fair share of touring Japanese theater. But I’ve never seen something on the scale of Satoshi Miyagi’s production of Antigone. Staged in a giant pool that extends nearly the width of the Park Avenue Armory, this production uses elements of Japanese Noh theater. There are separate physical performers and voice performers. The entire work is introduced and explained by the ensemble before they go about performing it. With a large team of drummers and musical interludes, there is a meditative energy to it all. The hypnotic production conjured a spirit world that lives within arm’s reach of the living. With ethereal lightness, the performers seem to glide over the water and we think about how morality and honor can be easily lost in politics.

9) Keep: It’s not Daniel Kitson’s best show but it’s one of his richest in years. A false meditation on the objects in his house becomes a real consideration of that lies we tell ourselves, the faultiness of memory, and the pain others hold that we have forgotten. Who are we if we do not even recognize the things we’ve said and done? Can our past selves be reconciled to our present selves? Is it possible to hold onto too much and at the same time not enough? Careless self-absorption can live oddly close to thoughtful introspection, and we are all guilty of it. Sure, the show is wrapped up in Kitson leading the audience one-way while intending to go another. Kitson is always misleading his audiences and sometimes this can be the best part of the journey (or tedious and not worth the payoff, depending on the show). But the person who is most tricked here is Kitson himself. His constructed admissions of fault and an unromanticized conclusion suggest a shift in his work and welcome space for growth in a new direction.

10) Greater Clements: I found Samuel D. Hunter's play to be an emotional vise that just closes in on you for three hours and all you can do is cry. An Idaho town is disappearing--quite literally. The townsfolk have voted to dissolve the town.  Think a very local Brexit. But it's caused its residents to consider what the meaning of community, history, and continuity is--and in some ways maybe this is a healthy discussion long overdue. Racism, local history (the Japanese internment), and labor abuses have been perhaps too easily overlooked to maintain cohesion and conformity. It also asks questions about why people stay and why people leave--the town but also each other. At the center too is a young man (Edmund Donovan) suffering from mental illness and what staying and leaving a family means. The play is pure tragedy and we can only watch as the characters will do what they do. The gap between good intentions and failing to meet those intentions is heartbreaking when there's so much trying. Donovan carries his character's mental health struggles in his tense posture and strained voice. His performance is full of anguish as his character tries to make the right decisions when his brain and body do not always want to follow. It's a lot of "acting" but it's not "big" performance. Donovan builds this all in layers and Hunter's script does the rest.

Some of my thoughts on the most memorable performances of the year are on Exeunt. And my thoughts on the decade in theater.

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

Top 10 of 2018

This tends to be the place where I've kept track of my yearly theater stats. And this year felt like a lot of work so I counted out what I did.

203 shows seen (not counting duplicate visits)
25% of work seen by artists of color 
50% of work seen by underrepresented artists
40% of the work I saw was by women (an increase over years past where I was at 20-25%) 
48 reviews 
37 pieces edited 
11 features written 
1 podcast produced 
I've reached 1605 shows in my lifetime.

These were the best shows of the year for me:

1) Pass Over: Maybe it’s because it came out during the summer. But I feel like we did not talk about Pass Over enough at the time. For me it was the perfect play and production. All the elements worked together so tightly. It elicited laughter even when it was breaking our hearts. It was smart but accessible. It used theater tools to make its point and it did so really well. While other shows made me cry, this was the show that left me breathless and stunned. Why the fuck have we not been talking about it since it came out in July? It’s available on Amazon Prime (an earlier Chicago production) for those who missed it.

2) Rags Parkland Sings The Songs of The Future: Another show that I wish had a longer life. But it came and went like a fever dream. Did I live this? I think I did. I remember crying on a street corner overwhelmed by the piece afterwards. A futuristic musical set in an underground bunker. The audience was asked to imagine they were breaking the law by spending time mixing with androids. The politics of the dystopian future were agonizingly familiar. The potential for those we know and care about to be outlawed by a government gone mad was not as imaginary as we might wish. So it was not hard to want to be part of this all too timely rebellion.

3) Sexy Oklahoma!: Since 2015 I have been screaming about this show. It’s nice that you all caught up. While I could be super hipster about it (“it was better at Bard”), I won’t be. There was a lot about the new production I could appreciate and the opportunity to see director Daniel Fish play with the material more is really a gift. You know I love balls out aggressive direction. Maybe too much. But it felt like the material had been crying out for this treatment. It was the thing we didn’t know we needed. It allowed us a new angle on old tropes and in some ways a greater understanding of characters we may have otherwise dismissed. While I wish we could have seen Sexy Oklahoma! and OSF’s Queer Oklahoma! at the same time, I will be happy we at least got one exciting reinterpretation of this classic. And while it moves uptown to Broadway and more people might get a chance to see it, I will still remember the creepy intimacy of the Bard production and the sizzling orchestrations which still make me feel things in my nether regions.

4) What the Constitution Means to Me: It was not just that I saw this the week Brett Kavanaugh was confirmed for the Supreme Court. But that certainly helped channel the anger and frustration and sadness of women screaming into the void into this piece of art. Playwright and actor Heidi Schreck told her personal story and we could all find reflections of our own within it. Whether it was the unspoken family secrets, the trauma of domestic violence, or an abortion story, there was a lot to unpack. It felt like a welcoming space to let out all that we carry and to feel less alone in doing so.  It provided clarity on why sometimes the law feels like a hostile place to women...because it is.

5) Lewiston/Clarkston: Samuel D. Hunter is a longtime fave and this two-part play with a dinner break in between was well worth visiting multiple times. Hunter is king of the quiet. The tug of change in the lives of these Idaho characters is big but everything in the play operated on the small.  With a tiny audience, tight quarters, and intimate staging, there was no distancing the pain being put before us.  It was in fact right there at our feet. Hunter's work so often deals in the difficulty of just living and we can feel that hardship for those characters acutely.  These plays did that as well and with all the shouting in the world right now, it was nice to seek refuge in the forever challenges of just being human.

6) Three Tall Women: Joe Mantello’s direction and Miriam Buether’s set along with some killer performances by the trio of ladies made this a triumphant revival and a play that allowed reflection on the way life changes you. It was also about what you hold onto. These were not women I knew, and yet I knew them.

7) Nanette: I’m not going to rehash the controversies and backlash or get into the global phenomenon this was, because for me it was just a one-woman show I attended that weirdly everyone else the in the world watched in their living rooms. For me, this show channeled anger and self-hatred away from self-immolation and towards society and the world. I felt comforted by Hannah Gadsby’s fight for her own self-worth in a battle many people fight every day.

8) queens: I love Martyna Majok and the complicated women she writes.  This play which looks at immigrant women living in a basement in Queens provides no easy answers and only difficult realities. It was somehow funny when the subject matter was anything but.

9/10 Our Country/The Fisherman: Both these shows at Edinburgh dealt with sibling love. Not incest! But the complexity of the people you grow up with and grow apart from. They are home. And they are not home. They are familiar and yet they can become strangers. I feel like we so rarely see these stories on stage unless they are part of a larger narrative or bigger issues. Sibling rivalry or jealousy might get staged but not so much that confusing, complicated love that connects you. While they were very different shows (Our Country being a physical theater, devised work and The Fisherman being a straight play set in Africa), I was glad to see them around the same time and appreciate the unique ways these kind of sibling stories can be told.

My additional year-end thoughts can be heard on the Maxamoo podcast (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3) and read on Exeunt NYC.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Boys in the Band: Still Relevant After All These Years

(Photo: Joan Marcus)
Mart Crowley’s 1968 landmark play about gay men in New York does not feel like a 50 year-old play. While the film (from 1970) version is camp and heavy-handed, this production is anything but. It is a sleek and clear revival by director Joe Mantello. Addressing depression, anxiety, bisexuality, polyamory, self-hatred, struggling self-acceptance and love, this play reflects past and present all at once. Particularly when you add in the celebrity faces in the cast. Their presence drives a confrontation and reframing of the material for 2018.

Jim Parsons leads the ensemble as Michael, the harried host who’s trying to juggle a birthday party for friend and frenemy Harold (Zachary Quinto) with a panoply of queer friends when he gets an unexpected visit from his uptight, married college roommate, Alan (Brian Hutchison) who Michael remains in the closet to. Also at the party are Michael’s depressed friend Donald (Matt Bomer) and the free-wheeling, loose-lipped, and proud “nelly” Emory (Robin DeJesus). Emory trades quips with Bernard (Michael Benjamin Washington). Rounding out the party guests are Larry (Andrew Rannells) and Hank (Tuc Watkins) are a couple who are always fighting.

Because of the subject matter and these actors, I started to think about audiences and performances and the power of our gaze over time. How would certain scenes and characters here play 50 years ago? Who was the play speaking to? How much of it then was bringing a straight audience into a gay cultural space (albeit an Albee-inspired dramatized one)? How much of it was a refuge for those who could not speak for themselves?

Our gay cultural literacy and prevalence of homophobia is dramatically different a half-century on. I’m not saying homophobia has disappeared, but New York theater audiences showing up for this play now vs 1968 will contain a very different mix of attitudes from the get-go. I suspect the homophobic, terrified, and likely self-hating Alan represented a more prevalent audience attitude when it premiered--espousing gay men should keep their shameful behavior hidden.

The fact that several high-profile names are involved in this revival should not be underplayed. This ensemble of openly gay actors would have been unthinkable with the original production. Now these are out-actors with passionate fans (gay and straight) and audiences are showing up for them more than the material.

Yet, in some ways, it was here adulation of celebrity undid some of my experience of it. Large-scale Broadway productions with fan-driven audiences are not always listening to the “play.” They are living for their idols instead. We’ve all been there and I’m not policing those reactions. But when this happens I struggle because it makes the audience reaction around me seem unreliable. The laughs are out of kilter to the material. The nudity becomes performative beyond character. With Boys, the play takes a dark turn and it was hard to appreciate how the production was approaching that when the play just kept getting blurred with raucous laughs.

There was nothing in the production or performances that leaned into these laughs (as far as I could tell) but it does seem to be a more frequent cost of doing business on Broadway. Plays on Broadway would not exist but for celebrities in the cast and I understand that reality but its distracting nonetheless.

But beyond the outsized audience reaction, I found many things to celebrate in this production in a largely strong ensemble (only Quinto seemed strangely affected with a performance that felt more throwback than the rest).

I was struck by Alan left on his own upstairs from the party for one scene. In one breath he speaks of his revulsion for this behavior, but when he’s not performing heterosexuality and moral condemnation, we see he physically yearns to be part of the community of men downstairs. Without saying anything, with the way he stands, he shows a magnetic lean towards the voices and their world. There’s an unsaid complexity to Alan’s situation that Mantello teases out nicely with these choices and deepening the text.

But when Alan is in the room with the rest of the characters, he creates a tension through his oppressive “straight” gaze. Suddenly, everyone is meant to behave differently to conform to a heteronormative expectation that he insists upon (representing the domineering culture-at-large). There is resistance to this, primarily from Emory who refuses to butch-up for Alan. The power that Alan has to dictate to others in the space becomes an interesting and troubling touchstone. This remains a relevant question of when straight audiences cast their gaze upon queer work.

Similarly, the play addresses the white gaze operating in the birthday party that Emory and Bernard experience. Mantello highlights this in this production by casting a man of color in the role of Emory (which was originally played by white actor Cliff Gorman). Emory and Bernard insult each other and Emory tosses off racially insensitive remarks to Bernard all evening. Bernard blows up at Michael for doing the same. But Bernard makes a pointed distinction. He notes that he and Emory can do this to each other but Michael does not get to. Bernard explains he lets Emory do this because “We both got the short end of the stick- I got a hell of a lot more than he did and he knows it.” So in this room of men thinking they are operating in a “safe” space of their peers to live openly and be themselves, Bernard points out the inequities that remain within this cadre of gay men.

Of all the aspects of the play, it was how shame becomes a character in Michael’s apartment--sometimes visible and sometimes quietly tucked away--that remained the most interesting element to me. The audience need not bring judgment into the room because it’s already living there. It spills out in conversations about needing to get drunk to go cruising or have sex. Michael’s Catholicism surely conjures it for him. Simply kowtowing to Alan’s presence reflects this too.

While gay men of the 1960’s may have had a tremendous amount of culturally created shame shoved upon them with which they had to negotiate, it’s not as if there are not still cultural forces at work meant to marginalize, police behavior, or condemn gay men still today.

While there have been gains in legalizing gay marriage it is still legal to discriminate against people for their sexual orientation and gender identity in many states. Discrimination impacts psychological well-being, physical well-being, and work and education environments. Many people are still not “out” openly at their jobs because of the potential for discrimination. Shame has not gone away, it’s just gotten more subtle. Even within the gay community, body shaming is prevalent and toxic masculinity is doing damage. The nasty behavior among these friends fits right in.

While slight cuts have been made to the original text (toning down some but not all of the intentional racism, eliminating some exposition, changing some dated references), the play brings such nuance to the perennial struggle to maintain loving and accepting relationships--with friends, partners, and most especially with ourselves.

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Angels in America: Revisited

Leaving Angels in America, I tingle. I am covered in tears and exhaling joy. The time has passed quickly. None of it has felt laborious. And I carry with me the feeling of religious devotion from my childhood. Giving over to a spiritual practice, my heart is lifted. It's the church of Tony Kushner and I feel blessed.
Beth Malone and Andrew Garfield with Shadows (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

Marianne Elliott’s production of Angels in America which transferred from London [My London review] has become stronger and increasingly potent with this most recent outing on Broadway. Elliott has implemented further revisions by Tony Kushner in Part 2, is employing a more intimate space, and has made helpful directorial adjustments. Moreover, these actors have been living with these characters longer. Elliott directs the play with a tinge of weighty self-seriousness at times but the text still manages to be buoyant. Certain design elements come across as heavy-handed and unnecessary (I still hate the patchwork, revolve-based design for Part 1), but these choices don’t sink the show.

This production moves with greater fleetness than the London production, digs into the personal relationships in a new way, and delivers a message of hope with open arms. In this iteration, the tension between self-interest/individualism and community loomed larger to me than in other productions.

The play tracks the AIDS diagnosis of Prior Walter (Andrew Garfield) which causes his partner Louis (James McArdle) to leave him, criss-crossed with the unraveling marriage of Mormons, Harper (Denise Gough) an agoraphobic, valium addict and her closeted husband, Joe Pitt (Lee Pace).  Laid on top of this is the story of Roy Cohn (Nathan Lane), the power broker and attorney, who tries to convince Joe to help him fix some of his legal problems. Cohn is also living with AIDS. In the mix is Joe’s uptight Mormon mother Hannah and Prior’s ex-lover and drag partner, Belize, now a nurse on the front lines of the AIDS battle.

Set in the Reagan 80’s against the increasing AIDS epidemic and a public who cared so little about the decimated gay community, Kushner’s play may be rooted in the specifics of that time but the issues it raises--political, cultural, racial, and sexual--remain unsettled and are still eating at the core of our identity as Americans.  The battles staged in it play today as if they are for America’s soul--will we celebrate the individual and preserve a self-serving status quo or will we embrace the collective and progress. And in this instance, a queer collective at that.

The politics are played out through the characters and their relationships.  Prior’s journey has always been one about the human need to move and live, even in the face of tragedy, pain, and illness. In contrast, Louis is in retreat, trying to escape Prior’s disease and inevitable death. Instead of staying to watch the man he loves die, he runs toward a brief fling of self-interest. While Louis is romping in his “ideological leather bar” with Joe, this taste of selfish individualism is attractive to him for a time.  

McArdle lives in the body of Louis more naturally now. He has nailed down his American accent and connected with Louis’s neurotic tendencies. But most of all McArdle is present--live in every moment. After watching him perform this role twice in short order, it’s exciting to see how each time he’s making new and immediate choices. It’s easy to forget the Glaswegian actor behind the stubble and get caught up in the throes of this anguished Jewish office temp.

McArdle’s Louis is not sure of anything.  His ambivalence comes out everywhere. He is hardly able to cross his legs without undoing them immediately. He puts on a coat and takes it off and puts it on again, all within a matter of seconds.  This mirrors the text. Louis argues himself in and out of his own opinions. He needs no foil. He is his own worst enemy.

James McArdle & Nathan Stewart-Jarrett (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg) 
Kushner makes Louis irritating, bloviating, and flawed, and McArdle makes him deeply human.  He softens the edges of this character who has screwed everything up. And even if he ends up exactly where he has to, McArdle’s Louis sees his wrongs and tries to fumble his way back to some sense of redemption.

McArdle’s Louis is hardly ever still or at rest in the play. In the KS scene, he slides away from Garfield, who then creeps closer. Back and forth they edge. In one scene, Louis is arguing with Joe in the bedroom but Louis needs the toilet and starts to brush his teeth mid-scene and must move between rooms, “to spit.” He is a whirlwind of frenetic energy, self-doubt, and recrimination, while Joe remains stoic and poised in the face of this Louis maelstrom.  When Louis is trying to seduce Joe, he’s fingering the edges of his sweater cuffs and kicking up his heel. The vicissitudes of his frenzied brain come out in these deliberate movements.

But there is a calm that washes over McArdle’s Louis in certain moments with Prior. When Louis returns to Prior, McArdle stands solidly and asks to come back. There is not a moment of fidgeting or doubt for him now.

Louis and Prior don’t get a lot of scenes together before their relationship breaks. We only see one evening of their true affection mostly outside the gaze of illness. As they are lolling about in bed, Prior is pressed up against Louis’s chest as Louis pontificates on justice. From under the bedsheets comes Prior's giggle. Prior pinches Louis’s nipple and maybe slides a hand up his inner thigh and we see McArdle’s Louis swell with happiness, sexual passion. He clutches Prior closer.

Even after they’ve gotten worked up over Prior’s illness in this scene, Louis grabs a hold of Prior and lifts him to his lap as they cling to each other. The lights go down on them when another scene begins, but in the dark they nuzzle and kiss. They get into bed together, intertwined. Later in the play, there is a fantasy sequence where Louis and Prior dance to “Moon River.”  Their behavior in this mystical moment of pretend mirrors the reality of that bedroom scene--they are nose to nose, intimate. McArdle nibbles Garfield’s lip as they kiss.

For these scenes, Garfield and McArdle give us the couple we’ll never really get to know. The affectionate, loving, passionate pair. Prior the caretaker. Louis the thinker (or over-thinker). Prior the steady. Louis the probing.

In spending all this time with these actors in such a mammoth work, you can appreciate that there’s careful work being done even in the most fleeting of moments (even in the dark).
Andrew Garfield (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

Garfield has toned down his performance significantly from London. He’s no longer the performative Prior, always on. He’s internalizing Prior’s femininity and Prior’s drag comes on and off. He’s employing a lightness to his voice which carries the character most of the way. At times, he lets loose a mellifluous laugh that wriggles out of him like birdsong. Where he cannot lift himself up, this laugh carries him. It is his armor and his defense. Garfield's subtler approach allows his descent into illness to be less zany and more gripping--it’s an ordeal which squeezes breath, tears, screams, laughs, and fury out of him.

Garfield has a transparent fragility to him on stage .  His performance in Death of a Salesman was shattering.  But his Prior is no less so.  He bears the physical comedy, the dance movement with the Angel, the big outbursts, and the delicate moments of relational intimacy admirably and authentically.

Lee Pace, as the newest member of the cast, brings a wholly different energy to Joe than Russell Tovey.  Tovey’s Joe had a terrifying rage, particularly as it was directed at Harper. With Pace, his Joe softens towards Harper.
Denise Gough & Lee Pace (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

Pace is doing some nuanced work on Joe’s smaller reactions but he can be repetitive in his larger gestures. When Harper says she’s pregnant, the smallest flash of happiness crosses Pace’s face, and then disappears, and then is replaced with confusion and pain when he does not know what the truth is. When Harper threatens to call Joe out on who he is, Pace is stricken with fear which then morphs seamlessly into anger. Though, he tends to be a little chest-thumpy once he reaches those angry peaks. Pace towers over his co-stars. When he needs to he can use this physical height as leverage. The charming, affable Joe slips away. And the hard-nosed lawyer appears (or perhaps shades of Joe’s distant, angry father).

For all his self-doubt in his personal life, Joe is confident (and strident) in his political and ideological beliefs. It's the architecture which has always held him up. We see more of that Joe with Pace. Pace’s Joe is using his assuredness as a weapon or a defense depending on the context. Joe speaks with his authoritative voice with Louis to the point of browbeating.

Louis is both drawn in by and repulsed by Joe’s extreme confidence (bordering on possessiveness). For someone so unsure, there’s an attraction to all this presumed clarity but even Louis catches himself before falling for it. There are flickers of recognition of this tension across McArdle’s face. The pleasure in the escape is in constant conflict with his self-awareness.
McArdle & Pace (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

Tovey approached Joe’s relationship with Louis with begging or neediness. Pace has a different energy. There’s a thawing warmth and growth when he starts to connect with Louis.

Just for a second, he checks out Louis’s ass when they first meet.  It’s the kind of blink and you miss it reaction, but his Joe has learned to cover like this his whole life. Pace shows us a Joe who at first is so afraid of physical touch, he stands far from Louis in their first encounter. Louis sidles up to him on the courthouse steps as they eat lunch and Pace tenses and bears it.

But once Louis seduces him, Joe dives in. He is a tingling mass of desires unleashed but without the skills to process anything he is feeling. He’s learning to open himself up and it’s with tentative steps he’s progressing to his unabashed declaration of love--which comes too soon and is too much since there is no foundation of real connection or compatibility between Joe and Louis.  

Joe’s gushing confession to Louis comes to a head in the beach scene which is now staged differently than it was in London.  Pace removes his clothes completely and then runs across the stage, back and forth, leaping, explosive, fully naked and visible to the audience. Joe’s vulnerability in this way is agonizing and the risk he takes feels greater--and the defeat of such so much more painful. He begs for Louis to see their relationship as he does. But we all know that will never happen. That relationship does not really exist.
Gough (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

With a new stage husband to play off, Gough in response is bigger and less brittle than she was in London.  She is devastated and beaten-down by her failing marriage, but now she is fighting to have a life. In London, she seemed like a ghost haunting her own existence.  When Tovey was so brutal towards her, Gough’s Harper seemed smaller and slight in the face of this anger that bordered on abuse. Because Pace’s Joe is affectionate, Gough in turn reacts to Pace with a brightness. She’s suffering and her pain is closer to the surface.  But you can see her engage with it and her struggle is an active one. When Gough shivers on stage from cold and sadness, you worry she might never be able to stop.

Nathan Lane may be Broadway royalty, but for an actor who can be larger-than-life his Roy consistently avoids the showy. He’s funny when called for and egomaniacal where necessary. He’s drunk, leering, scary, and dying.  He makes each moment authentic. It’s not that he’s not fun to watch--he is--but he’s not breaking the power of the ensemble either. For a dazzling role like this to be played with balance and restraint is a testament to his skills.
Nathan Lane (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

So many of the moments of hallucination, dreams, and otherworldly encounters in the play are left open-ended--did they or didn’t they happen.  But the production drops the pretense in one of Lane’s scenes. Roy has been animatedly laughing and talking with the ghost of Ethel Rosenberg. She then leaves the room. The lighting shifts and Roy’s colorful self disappears. He’s the pallid, sick Roy, suffering from a hand tremor he cannot control who cannot pretend that he’s unchanged by this illness. He continues speaking to the now-absent Ethel and laments “That’s America. It’s just no country for the infirm.” Turning from the laughs to this solemn pronouncement on a dime, this production handles these shifts well.

The secondary characters offer a mix of results. Susan Brown is a taciturn Mrs. Pitt and she and Garfield often feel like they are tripping on each other in scenes. Her accent and demeanor never quite feel totally American. But she’s a killer Ethel Rosenberg who sits in watch over Roy Cohn and even ministers to him in his death. Amanda Lawrence is a dynamic Angel--funny, feisty, and eventually furious. Nathan Stewart-Jarrett fights back against Louis and Louis’s privileged, circumscribed world and makes us pay attention to the play’s whiteness and its depictions of power and marginalization (even if the play only goes so far here). But I’ve seen this role turn into caricature and Stewart-Jarrett resists that. His accent can be slippery but he and Garfield have a sweetness to their friendship (an ET finger boop moment is darling). Stewart-Jarrett is a fearsome presence in his fights with Roy.
Garfield and Stewart-Jarrett (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

Overall, the entire endeavor feels more cohesive than in London. Elliott has picked up the pace and made transitions smoother (particularly in Part 1). She’s centered more scenes physically on stage and used a vertical line rather than horizontal to create associations which is stronger. The overlapping couple scenes still don’t ring with complete resonance.  They can get high-pitched, stilted, and flat.

Her use of the “Shadows” to move furniture on and off has not unfortunately abated. With cryptic lighting throughout perhaps the audience won’t notice the Shadows as much this time around. But the dim approach to lighting design strangely also impacts the actors and frequently they seem off their marks, with odd shadows cast on them, or just underlit.  There are scenes where actors are set on stage and in underlit colorful lights while another scene is happening (Harper sleeping in her living room chair, Prior and Louis in bed, while it's fully bright on Roy at the doctor’s) but I wondered if anyone could see them from the back of the theater.

The overwrought music I disliked before has not been cut.  Worse, the loud blasts make the quiet scenes that follow even harder to hear.  

Yet despite these complaints, after 7.5 hours I’m filled with the possibility of what theater can be. It’s why I come to see this play and return to it over and over.

I felt a strange alienation when I saw it in London--this American epic being interpreted and appreciated by a foreign audience. Though the cast remains mostly the same, the play which is so rooted in New York, feels like it’s finally home. And I’m so relieved. These words have a talismanic power here they didn’t have in London.
By Bethesda Fountain (Photo: Brinkhoff & Mögenburg)

Maybe the animating life of the play is larger in New York because of the New York specificity. I always think of the line: “My New Deal Pinko parents in Schenectady would never forgive me, they’re already so disappointed, ‘He’s a fag, he’s an office temp. And now look he’s saying Kaddish for Roy Cohn.’” It is rooted in something very culturally Jewish and geographically specific. And no matter what, it can be a funny line. But the knowing laughs go deeper in New York. You have an audience who gets the joke about Louis Ironson screwing up the Kaddish with the Kiddush while he’s still reciting it in Hebrew.

Maybe it is the American openness to reaction (some might complain, overzealous nature of Americans to clap, react, emote). We are boisterous and the laughs build when others around you join in.  Certain lines get applause of their own.

Maybe it’s that we are all in this together. We greet strangers as we return from our dinner break. We side-eye the same misbehaving miscreants.  We all grumble over the strange, ill-timed outbursts of audience applause when scenes are not over and we don’t know what those few are clapping at (we think Andrew Garfield but we can never be sure). I am a part of this one-day, fleeting community simply by all of us living this play together. This escape into this show is hard to shake off. So much so that I feel betrayed walking by the theater on days I don’t have a ticket. They’re having the party without me.  How could they!

And maybe it’s me. Maybe my heart thumping in time with the text is just what I need now.  It is a fountain of youth--I was introduced to the play as a teen and I am with my younger self whenever I am watching it, wide-eyed and expectant. The world is still hard to navigate. The choices the play presents still complex. I want so much for the characters to find peace, love, and happiness because it is what I want for myself.

And maybe it's that I remember these days, when touching someone sick brought out people’s fears. When AIDS loomed over our sexual awakenings. I recall spending a day with a friend waiting for his test results, avoiding the subject, drinking, wandering the streets, waiting. And I think about the people we have lost and are still losing.

And maybe at a time where selfish individualism in American politics is run amok and an attitude of self-preservation looms loud and large, anything that asks for an embracing, queer community to gather, share, mourn, and celebrate feels critical. The call to be citizens is still a necessary one. And my fight is renewed to keep pressing on against a world pushing back against this.

There is so much work still to do. And we need to do it. Together.

Sunday, December 31, 2017

Top 10 of 2017 (US and UK edition)

Since I did not end up going to Edinburgh this year I did not have enough shows in the UK to make a separate top 10 list.  So I'm combining US and UK shows this year because it's my list and I'm in charge.  It was a quieter year for me without Edinburgh so a reasonable 171 shows in 2017 from New York, London, Boulder, CO, Pittsfield, MA, Princeton, NJ, and Washington, DC.  

1. Hamlet: I missed my flight and really wondered whether it was worth fighting to get on a plane to see yet another Hamlet in London.  It turned out the hellacious planes-trains-automobiles journey I had to see Robert Icke's Hamlet was well-worth it and one of the most instructive Hamlets I have ever seen in my life. I had seen Andrew Scott on stage before and not been particularly blown away.  But here he was Hamlet without artifice or performance.  He walked on stage as Hamlet and found a way to make the text contemporary, casual, and organic.  Icke's use of meta-textual scenes to fill in some character gaps made for a more fluid and psychologically complete Hamlet. There was nothing more I could have asked for from this Hamlet except a chance to have seen it multiple times. 

2. SpongeBob SquarePants: Perhaps the reward to surviving 2017 is the ever-loving joy provided by SpongeBob SquarePants the musical. Dumb, silly, smart, and big-hearted this musical shows us the dark power of the mob and demonstrates that resistance, however small or personal, requires courage and conviction.  SpongeBob embraces fluid gender expression, alternative lifestyles (squirrels living under the sea), and following your dreams even in the face of skepticism. It’s this optimism in contrast to our dark days that is the musical’s greatest strength. Director Tina Landau finds dynamic and creative ways to tell her story. The visual language of the musical, the casual queerness of its approach, and the smart way she does more with less (even within a big budget, blow-out production) make this a musical that needs to be both felt and seen.

3. Richard III: Thomas Ostermeier’s Richard III is full of congealed blood running in rivulets through sand, a mouth stuffed with mashed potatoes then smeared across a face as a mask, and on some nights, perhaps, some live urination. But the collective gunk and grime of the production, is nothing compared to the white-hot comet playing Richard, who streaks across the stage, sometimes naked, Lars Eidinger. A full throttle performance, he paces the aisles in search of co-conspirators, supporters, or simply audience members too stunned to look away. He feeds not only on our glances but demands our participation. We shout along with him like the world’s most murderous emcee. In our shock, enthusiasm, and demented glee, he brings forth a Richard we want to fuck, marry, and kill. It’s a hard balance to strike—a charisma so powerful we lean in and a level of violence and horror we cannot look away. For once you might understand how Lady Anne, in the midst of grief over the murder of her husband, could be successfully wooed by the man who killed him. She spits at him and kisses him and in this production, you’re entirely in sync with her repulsion/attraction.

4. Torch Song: Up until this show, somehow I had missed the Michael Urie boat.  So I’m glad I finally caught up with everyone else. Urie's performance in Torch Song was big and small in equal measure and in gentle rhythm with the play itself. His character, Arnold, is after all, a drag queen with the heart and presence of a performer. He has a tendency to live big. But he’s also a man who just wants a love he can depend on. So there’s the quiet, self-reflective side of Arnold to tend to as well. Urie is both hilarious and dramatic, reticent and wounded. Even if the play represents a very specific moment in time in gay culture, it was nice to see it revived now. The setting may be a time capsule of sorts but the emotional core of the work—the perpetual search for love and respect on your terms—remains relevant.

5. The Glass Menagerie: Sam Gold can thrill and disappoint in equal measure. His dramaturgy can be generously described as loose. But his Glass Menagerie has evolved since I saw his original production in Dutch two years ago.  In the Broadway production he cast an actress with a disability in the role of Laura. There is a heightened interdependence between the family members. Rather than the overwrought, melodramatic, and clingy Amanda Wingfield, here we see a family who desperately needs Tom, financially and physically.  That said, the women are not the fragile creatures Tom thinks of them as. Tom may shatter but Laura does not. Gold finds an agency in Laura that is rare in most Menageries.  

6. Villa: Guillermo Calderon’s Chilean drama asks what should happen to the site of General Pinochet’s Villa Grimaldi—the center of rape, torture, and trauma for many. But he’s also asking us to think about how we recognize the past, how we move forward, and how we remember. As the country goes through a process of public expurgation of sexual assaults, rape, and harassment, I return over and over to this play where three women consider what this site of trauma means to them and what it would mean to preserve it, destroy it, or something in between. For every person impacted, there is a different opinion. Calderon wants us to think around each scenario. There is no one experience. There is no universal truth. So we must see the variation. We must talk about the variation. We cannot settle on a simplistic answer. The answer is the conversation. This play could be revived every year—its Chilean setting is incredibly specific but its meaning is evergreen.

7. Angels in America: Despite not loving all aspects of Marianne Elliott's production of Angels in America, it is on this list because of the performances which were so distinct from the original Broadway cast's.  It is always a gift to see a work you think you know in a new light.  I had never quite seen Joe's frustrating neediness, or Louis's fragility in the way I saw them here.  Any idea that Louis and Joe could be together,gets totally obliterated in this production. I also appreciated being able to see the public and private personas of Prior.  His quiet, less performative side made for some touching early aspects of the Prior-Louis relationship. I'm looking forward to revisiting it when it comes to Broadway in the spring.

8. Anatomy of a Suicide:  Not all plays by women are structured around the female gaze, but Alice Birch's play was remarkable in both it's approach and Katie Mitchell's production for doing just that. The way in which characters were stripped down to their underwear and rebuilt over and over showed us the way our public presenting personas are constructed.  The overlapping text, imagery, and undivided space represented the mixture of memory and shared family history but that structure also allowed for the emotional truth to emerge in a non-traditional way.  Rather than being told the story, the narrative felt like it emerged from a chrysalis.  By bucking the traditional thrusting male narrative of linearity, the circular, throbbing agony of these women's lives was felt more readily.  Maybe akin to birth, these lives spilled forth in all their messy, painful, confusing truth.   I sat in stunned silence when it ended.

9. School Girls: Or, the African Mean Girls Play: One thing I’ve come to relish, the more theater I see, is a narrative I’ve never seen before. Jocelyn Bioh’s play may follow a formula that is reminiscent of a teen movie, but it really pushes into a new space because it addresses a mixture of African-American and African experiences. Set in the 1980’s a private girls school, the gossipy controlling mean girl Paulina is not all evil. In fact, each character has a story that informs the nature of her behavior. And these are not stories we always see on stage.  Funny, smart, and a female-centric exploration of colorism, the patriarchy, and how we do damage to each other, Bioh's play made for an exciting first play and I'm eager to see what else she writes.

10. Oh, What a Sweet Land: In a small Brooklyn apartment, an actor chops onions. As the smell carries my eyes begin to water. My eyes are nearly swollen shut with the assault of these onions. They are not just part of the food the character is preparing--a connection to her Syrian background--but they are act of violence itself.  There is no escaping the Syrian refugee struggle in this room and the fact that the production reaches out and hits you in the tear ducts is only one layer of how the play works its powerful effects on the audience. 

Honorable Mentions

These were also some wonderful discoveries, experiences, and moments from 2017 theater:

The invitation to belong at My Lingerie Play; the feral performances and grotty set of Yen; the collective shouts of young people in Riot Antigone; the subversive play under the play in Penelope Skinner's Linda; the political nuance of Home/Sick; Allison Janney in Six Degrees of Separation; the sonic booms of 1984 the play; the very much now of Fulfillment Center; the totally unnecessary dildos on shelves in Measure for Measure and Cara Ricketts in that production; Gideon Glick breaking hearts in Samuel D. Hunter's Clarkston; the fact that it was better than you thought it might be Bandstand; Erin Markey’s outfit in Assassins; Annie Dorsen's slumber-party of internet voices in The Great Outdoors; That one Princeton student in Branden Jacobs-Jenkins's Gurls who is like the next Kate McKinnon; the set change in Time and The Conways; the hats in Glassheart; about 10 minutes at the end of Illyria when you can practically smell the rain and the possibilities; Robbie Fairchild dancing his limbs off in Brigadoon; that moment I started to hallucinate in Daniel Fish's Don't Look Back; those confrontations in Jitney; the murder basement of Blankland; the all-encompassing universe of Once on this Island’s production; Oscar Isaac’s thighs that were not situationally sexy in Hamlet and yet they were there; the undercurrent of sexism in The Antipodes; Sam Gold's graveyard scene in Hamlet; Susan Pourfar in Mary Jane; the KPOP battle of the bands (Team Oracle 4-eva); Denise Gough in People, Places & Things.