Nelle Tankus in Collaboration with Theatre off Jackson: Women & Femmes, or Females"
If there’s one word I could use to describe “Women & Femmes, or Females”, it’s FEARLESS. Here are three things this play is not afraid of:
1) Getting to the point. The first act’s conflict of a production gone sideways in every aspect possible - designers having quit, a script in shambles, a replacement director MIA - wastes no time ramping up. The ensuing chaos of cacophony and electrically-quick hairpin turns of physicality across the space start at a maximum, which both honors the stakes and subverts the expectation of a passive, handhold-y exposition.
2) Being real. It occurs to me that I assume the monologues written and given by the actors for this production of “Women & Femmes” are written as the actors’ personal realities. I was convinced at every moment, though, of the visceral realness that the ensemble graciously gifted us with during each delivery. “Women & Femmes” masterfully addresses flaws in hyper-specific identity-centered theater by putting power back into the hands of the actors to tell their own stories. Where other attempts at generalized scripting water down meaning, playwright Nelle Tankus’s open-ended lines shine in concert with devised material.
3) Connecting. At this point, the majority of my performance history is in interactive shows of some kind. When I sat down in an interactive seat, I was ready for just about anything. I came in expecting the kind of interaction where I’d talk back, or get up and play a bit on my feet. Where at first I was surprised at the extent of interaction being direct-address of monologues, I realized a key difference: This was the kind of soul-to-soul, my-vulnerability-to-your-insecurity interaction that other interactive shows lock away behind layers of “approachable” palatability. It was in one of these moments, as I held intense eye contact with Femme Person 2 (Janet Holloway-Thomas), that I felt unusually trusted and respected as an audience member to share custody of a fiery ember of truth. “I am going nowhere,” they began in distress. Then, they resolved in excruciating determination: “I am going nowhere.”
Outstanding performance: Pyper as playwright, poet laureate, internationally-acclaimed artist, and self-appointed-interrim-dictatordirector Virginia Zaharia displays unwavering commitment and tight, calculated physical work to bring a layer of horrifying precision to a character who I so desperately wish was just a caricature.
I think “Women & Femmes, Or Females” is the only play about making a play that I really care about. Bellowing aloud the anguish of making performance in spaces that themselves only perform inclusivity, letting the risk of failure feel as frantic as it is intimate, and embedding devised work into a play-gone-wrong-gone-right together do the story and the audience real justice. Written by Nelle Tankus and members of the production’s acting ensemble, and directed by Grace Carmack and Eden Aztlán, “Women & Femmes” continues its run at Theatre off Jackson through February 17th.
Verbooom: URGE
I was delighted to be introduced to Seattle's own Verbooom last Thursday
at the Rendezvous. I sense from Seattle theater artists a hunger for
physical theater and collaborative art. I'll admit - I'm hungry too.
Luckily, "URGE" began to fill my plate. Verbooom, founded just last year by Alina Rios, aims to create "physical theatre for
everybody" through "writing from movement", per their website. In many
ways, the physical storytelling of "URGE" not only distinguished it from
other new play festivals, but elevated the themes of each story to
create an interconnected constellation of narratives.
Verbooom opened submissions for new, unproduced short plays to be featured in "URGE", and from them selected "Llorona" (wr. Montse Garza), "Wrapper in Four Parts" (wr. Alina Rios), "Battle of the Whisps" (wr. Miriam BC Tobin), and "Crossed" (wr. Alina Rios), all directed by Alina Rios. Each play was presented with no designation of one play ending and another beginning - a method that took me a moment to understand, but rewarded me with the richness of narrative connections between very different stories. Thanks to this style of seamless flow, a long red cord used as a child's toy in "Llorona" carried its original meaning into the tangled mess of identity and attachment to home in "Crossed".
Despite overlapping themes and connected ideas, each member of the four-person ensemble of "URGE" demonstrated delightful range in character and physicality - particularly by Natalie Grant, whose performance as the dragon of a yearning dreamer (Adriana Hillas) contrasted sharply with the sharpness and conflict of an anxious mother later in the evening. The fluidity and trust of a tight ensemble was prominent during the entire performance of "URGE", which makes me hopeful for the devised work-in-progress "Scenes of Violence 7" listed on Verbooom's website...
From a hunger for physical theater comes a chef in the shape of Verbooom. My program mentions that "["URGE"] was made on a
shoestring budget, because the alternative was not to make it at all". To me, this speaks to the locus of theater - That it must be made, nearly no matter where or how. I look forward to seeing what mischief Verbooom gets up to next, and I'm relieved to know that physical theater, devised theater, and new plays can find another little home in this new company. I hope they know I'm a new fan.
Concurrently with my 2022 review of Pony World’s “Not/Our Town,” I announced that in 2023 I was taking a year-long personal leave of absence from engaging with the writings of William Shakespeare, as well as any adaptations or reimaginings. Though an eventual need for work outweighed the piety of my quest, I spent 10 months steeped in the irony of trying to ignore Shakespeare while thinking about him more intentionally than I ever had before.
Conveniently, the new year kicked itself off with a Sound-wide celebration of Will! Seattle Shakespeare brought forward a small-cast “Comedy of Errors,” followed by a raucous, rowdy “Henry V Bar(d).” Meanwhile in Marysville, Red Curtain Foundation for the Arts ran “Shakespeare’s R&J,” and Seattle Rep promises the highly anticipated “Fat Ham” later this season. I had the opportunity to see Taproot Theatre’s “The Book of Will” one Thursday, followed the next evening by ArtsWest’s “Born with Teeth” — back-to-back examinations of Shakespeare’s life and legacy on opposite sides of town.
Finding the folio
In Lauren Gunderson’s “The Book of Will,” it’s up to the aged contemporaries of the late Shakespeare to compile an accurate folio of his remaining works — a task that is expensive and controversial and tests the fortitude of the players as Shakespeare’s scattered writings leave his legacy in limbo.
Throughout the show, the question of exactly who Shakespeare’s legacy belongs to transitions from one of burdensome grief to flaming hot ammunition: Is it a rival compiler and his strange additions to the work? Is it the women of this world, whose love for the theater resulted in breakthrough progress on finding the Bard’s words? Surely it’s not Shakespeare’s remaining family, who only become relevant in the second act.
It’s interesting to me how Taproot has platformed on its mainstage two Gunderson plays back to back; that said, Gunderson’s reputation of offering feminist interpretations of classics seems to be in line with the theater’s goal of including newer, younger audiences in the mix with its older, longtime patrons. Disappointingly, it takes some time for women in the play to talk about anything besides a man; even if I excluded Shakespeare from this metric, the business of the women remains that of their male family members.
When it comes to the men — despite an impressive display of range by Nolan Palmer as Burbage among others and hilarious physicality by Nik Doner’s Poet Laureate — they resorted so often to yelling that the volume lost heat. A show that relies heavily on the ridicule of a blind person, creates a recurring joke from a man showing affection for his friends and offers little room for women’s emotional arcs begs the question of how else a story of a love so strong for the theater that it creates life purpose could be told — because there are surely countless other ways.
Despite the sandpaper effect on my soul of men yelling at each other for over two hours, “The Book of Will”’s theme of opening Shakespeare’s legacy to all who love his work still rings true. Even when grief and expenses pile up, the main characters focus on their nostalgia to bring honor to their colleague’s name for the rest of time, at last concluding, “We are Will.”
But who was Will, really? A brief mention of Christopher “Kit” Marlowe in “The Book of Will” becomes the centerpiece of the fast-paced, fiery hot “Born with Teeth,” produced by ArtsWest. A two-hander between Michael Monicatti’s Marlowe and Ricky Spaulding’s Shakespeare brings to light the strife of survival in heavily censored, highly suspicious Elizabethan England. Playwright Liz Duffy Adams’s application of Shakespeare’s infamous innuendo fits seamlessly into the heightened language consistent with the world of the story. The searing sexual tension between the two writers comes alight as audiences question who holds power over the other — or if the game is just in both their heads.
The incredible focus and precision required of its actors to take on such legendary and nuanced roles absolutely must be commended. Monicatti’s offerings to Marlowe of sharpness, poise and silver-tongued guile quickly paint a picture of a fiendish, passionate poet even to the contextually uninitiated viewer. Spaulding creates a Shakespeare who is subtle, perceptive and calculated, ensuring he has the audience’s trust no matter how the lacquer on his image peels.
The runway-style diagonal thrust stage that “Born with Teeth” is set on evokes elements of ball and vogue — matching the need to make decisive, thrilling moves to survive when the competition is one on one. Lighting in museum-like overhead fluorescents and stage-floor undertones, designed by Chih-Hung Shao, blushes with the characters’ desire and cools with their distrust. Marlowe lives a life of high risk and reward between great exploits and a trail of arrests, while Shakespeare claims to keep his head down for the sake of his family and personal longevity, until the pull to his fellow man becomes unbearable. Yet, it’s the fear of discovery — of Kit’s atheism, of Will’s family’s Catholicism, of either of their treason against the monarchy — that painfully pulls the two apart and sets them on paths away from each other.
Insofar as questioning Shakespeare’s legacy goes, “Born with Teeth” challenges audiences to ask how the popular narratives of the Bard’s life may have been sanitized post mortem.
The Bard in my back pocket
When I announced my “Shakeless in Seattle” challenge, I asked myself, “What new words could I use to shape my theatrical art when I remove one of theater’s greatest definers from my practice?” It took me a whole year of reflection to realize that I cannot lose William Shakespeare, but I can stop being defined by a legacy that defines me out. Plays like “The Book of Will” remind me that even the strongest reimaginings of a history, a tragedy or a comedy are just that — reimaginings with little verifiable accuracy to the original word. “Born with Teeth” shows me, a queer writer who walks the line of outspoken visibility and dampening secrecy, that I have always existed and even a sanitized, censored literary canon can have room for me on principle. Seeing as I still live for the theater and intend to die for it no day soon, I’m the one in control of my legacy.
With the solstice last week beginning to turn evening darkness to light, Seattle theater enters the strange, empty liminal space between Christmas shows and the first shows of 2024. Thanks to the Doors Open levy, funding for arts in the region will dramatically increase in the next few years.
2023 was the second year confidently calling itself post-pandemic. In part, that moniker was for the world’s general reversion to pre-COVID policies, but also for how the ongoing contagion has permanently affected live performance. The loss of Book-It Repertory Theatre over the summer is soothed, but not healed, by new theaters like Gaisma Theatre Group and Yun Theatre establishing themselves. Café Nordo continues its search for a new home, and Annex Theater rose from the ashes and found me as a first-time attendee. The state of perpetual change in the Seattle arts scene feels especially prominent this winter.
Looking back
In reflection on the past and in mutual hope for the future, three Seattle theater executives — Seattle Rep’s new artistic director Dámaso Rodriguez, ACT’s artistic director John Langs and Taproot Theatre’s producing artistic director Karen Lund — sat on a December Seattle Town Hall panel presented by the Northwest Center for Creative Aging, moderated by critic and writer Misha Berson.
Langs and Lund both have endured the troubles with financing, staffing and artistic programming with their respective theaters since 2020. Rodriguez, on the other hand, began his position at the Rep in July 2023. In a way, the new energy Rodriguez brought to this panel represented a wave of new faces in Seattle theaters — not just in audience members, as Lund highlighted in reflection of changing viewership demographics at Taproot, but in executive leadership. As Rodriguez began his first full season at the Rep, Theatre Puget Sound was seeking an executive director, and Theatre Off Jackson concluded the application period for its executive director this past fall. Additionally, it hasn’t even been a year and a half since ACT’s Board of Trustees stepped down to initiate a ground-up revitalization toward the theater’s goals. Amid COVID-affected staff cuts, rising costs of living in Seattle, decreasing career sustainability of performers and technicians, and rapidly changing leadership at multiple professional levels of theaters — the future of theater in Seattle appears uncertain.
“We’ve made hobbyists out of a lot of artists,” Langs said of the impacts of the last three years.
“We need to show up [for them],” he said later, regarding smaller and fringe theaters through which local talent often begins their journey.
The periods of disconnect that characterize a time of financial and artistic uncertainty grow slowly but fortunately distant for the companies that have pulled through thus far. Of patronage, Lund reported that Taproot’s subscriber counts had nearly recovered thanks to work on repairing the priceless trust of audience members, as in 2023 the theater was able to avoid canceling any shows due to illness because of its new understudy program. ACT’s last three shows have all met their financial goals, and the response to the ACT/Fifth Avenue coproduction of “Cambodian Rock Band” was tremendously positive. Rodriguez reflected on the success of Seattle Rep’s “Between Two Knees,” both for its popularity and for its “controversial” nature sparking energetic discussion.
It’s thanks in part to donors, government assistance and COVID-specific aid that has helped theaters survive the last three years, but the arts scene appears to be exiting the pandemic phase and must look to increased sales and new forms of funding. As theaters aim to regain ticket revenue and rely less on donor support to survive, a newly approved levy was at the tip of everyone’s tongue at the Town Hall.
New funding
This new funding stream, dubbed the Doors Open levy, was passed unanimously by the King County Council on Dec. 5 and will impose a 0.1% increase to the sales tax rate starting in April. The money will be distributed by the county’s cultural development authority 4Culture to not-for-profit arts, history and culture initiatives.
The new levy will dramatically increase Seattle and King County’s public arts funding, with nearly $72 million estimated to be collected in 2024 and more than $100 million in each subsequent year. Half of the new money will go to ongoing artist grants, and 15% will go to expand cultural opportunities at public schools. An additional 15% will go to projects that are free and publicly accessible, while 10% will go specifically toward addressing inequities in the arts and culture sectors.
4Culture executive director Brian Carter said government grants can be a force multiplier for arts institutions such as museums, production companies, studios and workshops. Having a sustained source of funding means that these groups — which often operate on tight margins — can have the stability necessary to boost other revenue streams like ticket sales or sponsorships.
Since 4Culture already has an established grantmaking system that supports hundreds of organizations throughout the county, integrating the new Doors Open funds will be relatively seamless, Carter said. The first wave of applications will be collected in fall 2024.
Manuel Cawaling, the executive director of the arts advocacy organization Inspire Washington, said the Doors Open levy is a culmination of almost 20 years of advocacy. In the 2017 August primary elections, King County voters narrowly rejected a similar proposed levy by less than 1% of the vote, largely due to concerns over the regressive nature of sales taxes, which disproportionately hurt poor people. After that defeat, arts advocates refined the proposal into what would become the Doors Open levy.
Cawaling said the new money is needed more than ever to help arts and culture organizations recover from the hardships of the COVID-19 pandemic.
“The pandemic has [had] a really long tail for the cultural sector,” he said. “Cultural organizations, businesses, creative people and nonprofits as a whole — their work and their businesses are still very fragile because of the pandemic.”
In the U.S., public funding for the arts is a relatively small component of a cultural institution’s business model. For the fiscal year of 2023, the entire budget of the National Endowment for the Arts was just over $200 million for a population of 334 million people. The new Doors Open levy will raise about half of that annually for 2.3 million people. It will also far surpass the state’s annual total spending of less than $7 million.
Combining all levels of government arts and culture spending together, Seattle spent roughly $36 per resident in 2023. This number is comparable to how much New York City and Los Angeles are projected to spend in 2024, at $32 and $27 per capita. With the Doors Open levy, Seattle’s per capita arts and culture spending will rise to $72 in 2024 and $85 by 2025.
This dedicated funding would make the Seattle and King County area the highest municipal arts and culture investor among any big city in the U.S., putting the area in an arts class akin to European countries and Canada. Those regions have historically placed a greater emphasis on arts and culture as a civic tradition, with many institutions directly or indirectly owned by the public. In 2024, Vancouver, B.C., is projected to spend about $136 per capita on arts and culture, while Berlin will spend $300 per person.
Another aspect of this public investment in arts and culture is that it can be funneled towards equity priorities. Carter said that all 4Culture grants consider racial justice factors when they are awarded. The new money will further these goals by reducing the sense of scarcity; only 40% to 50% of applicants are currently approved, he added.
Ultimately, the new Doors Open levy could be a paradigm shift for Seattle’s creative economy. Carter said he was excited by this influx of new funds.
“I think it will be a golden period for art, for heritage, for public art and science within King County,” Carter said. “And I don’t say it lightly. It is not simply the additional Doors Open funding. … I think that will result in additional investments from other sources of revenue for artists, and historians, and museums, and theaters and aquariums. So I think it’ll be a flourishing of creativity.”
Paths forward
Lund made it very clear in an interview that “artists need to be able to make a living wage as well. We need to be able to pay them for the work that they do that enhances life for everyone in the Pacific Northwest.”
Taproot’s educational tours and in-school residencies have faced funding losses since before COVID closures, and the recovery of these programs is still a work in progress.
“People are starting to get ready for residencies again,” Lund explained, referring to a current program that brings elementary students to the Isaac Studio to perform. Programs like these were a community favorite from Book-It Rep, and while Taproot can play a part in filling this void, Lund recognizes her theater is just one part of a united effort to keep the performing arts community afloat.
Lund says the expected support from the Doors Open levy will triple the existing funds and open up possibilities for performing arts institutional recovery that once seemed much farther off. Both Langs at Town Hall and Lund later highlighted the possibility of decreasing the amount of programming by focusing on coproductions, which could allow smaller companies to increase annual programming and forge paths for company development.
“It only helps Taproot Theatre whenever a new theater starts up or whenever an older theater invests more into community,” Lund said. “We need each other so desperately.”
Instead of being merely a survival mechanism, coproductions in a time of increased funding can begin to bridge a collaborative gap between the biggest performing arts institutions of Seattle with midrange and community-level theaters.
When reflecting on Taproot’s humble beginnings of starting as six young theater makers with big dreams, Lund asked, “Who’s that next group of kids with a dream?”
That next group of “kids,” while surely present among the smaller, scrappier companies that challenge and surprise audiences year after year, is also represented in King County youth.
“One of the things we’ve noticed is that as much as we tour around the state of Washington, we probably do the least amount of touring the [City of Seattle] proper,” said Lund.
Budget cuts in Seattle Public Schools have prevented educational theaters, like Taproot, from engaging with students and have in turn restricted opportunities for early exploration and enjoyment of the arts in ways that can be foundational to life skills or even life passions. Lund’s own first theatrical experience was being taken on a field trip to see a play, which will be one of the points of access highlighted in the Doors Open levy.
“Enough thanks cannot be given to InspireWA and all that they have done to get this to happen. Enough thanks cannot be given to Dow Constantine, who has been on our side about this for over a decade,” Lund said. “I’m positive that our region is going to really blossom because of this work.”
She looks forward to Seattle regaining listing alongside New York City and Los Angeles as a hub for arts and culture.
Restoring educational programming through the persistence of companies like Taproot and the triumph of the Doors Open levy is creating futures for both youth in King County and the arts workers that bring them theater to nurture an entire community that is impacted by art. The Doors Open levy responds to a community need and creates the trust of audiences and communities, much like the trust gained back by Taproot in their updated programming.
As Taproot celebrates the recent match of 2023 of subscriber counts to 2022 among their returning guests, Seattle should expect a recovery of theater arts in public schools, increased job security and opportunity for theater makers and futures of theater in Seattle that don’t come at the sacrifice of personnel or revenue.
"IN BETWEEN: A Collection of Short Plays" by Yun Theatre
Yun Theatre finished their run of "In Between" over the weekend in the Center Theater - four floors below the venue of the sold-out 2022 run of "Monologues of N Women", which kickstarted the company into flourishing existence. After seeing "N Women", I pledged to see as many productions as possible from this group of Chinese/Chinese-American artists and their colleagues.
"In Between" is the third staged production by Yun, and the first this calendar year. 170 script submissions were reviewed, with seven scripts ultimately selected for an ensemble-driven presentation on themes of immigration and mixed identity. As a company largely founded and run by Chinese immigrants, Yun Theatre expanded to stories from other cultures, like in "Chalk/La Tiza" (Catalina Florina Florescu), a story of US-Mexico deportation, a child born protected by DACA, and a lifelong personal struggle to develop a cultural connection despite grief and loss.
This is the first time I've seen Yun Theatre perform in English. As someone who's grown up with the general expectation to hear either local accents or intentionally foreign accents on stage, I felt challenged and then enriched for hearing accented language that didn't need to be relevant to a play's context. I hope the success of In Between lowers a barrier for more actors for whom English isn't their first language. Three plays were performed in Mandarin - "Itch" (Harvey Yang), "Buddha Hall" (Renzi Li), and "Afterlife" (Rebecca Chan), which featured a Mandarin-learning main character.
As usual with Yun Theatre, performing in Mandarin is not a novelty or quirk of the company - it addresses of a community need for theatre in Mandarin. It's no wonder that "Monologues of N Women" and "Two Goldfish (Who Become Heroes)" were received with such large audiences - there is a hunger and a need by Mandarin-speaking communities in Seattle for art that tells their stories, in their languages. When I attended "In Between", I heard a range of languages spoken around me. Interracial couples attended arm in arm. Students, professionals, and elders of many backgrounds chattered in the lobby, enjoying the tasty Chinese pastries. When a minority group is uplifted and celebrated, the entire community benefits. (I'm still head over heels in love with the salted egg yolk bun I had. SheChill Patisserie. You're welcome.)
My quick list of "Oh hell yeah" observations:
- Subtitles: Every time a show does subtitles I feel a little bit better about the entire world. This time around, "In Between" embedded screens into the set to display subtitles and show news broadcasts. In "Chalk/La Tiza", actors (Lisa Zhang and Iveliz Martel) wrote in Spanish and Mandarin in tandem on chalkboards.
- Set: Once again, Yun Theatre, with set designer Xun Wang, creates an expressive set using everyday materials. Cardboard boxes labeled with show references (and some inside jokes) pile high throughout the set, or dangle from the ceiling, papers streaming out. I wondered if the boxes would ever be opened or unpacked, but panels of boxes turned into chalkboards and kitchen walls as alternative uses.
- Choreo: "Itch" featured very crisp choreography and outstanding physical theatre by Lisa Zhang, Zoe Ding, Jen Lee - Horse, Mule, and Donkey respectively. I've started to recognize the handiwork of movement Olga Kravtsova when I see it, and I want more.
I congratulate Yun Theatre on a successful run of In Between. I encourage you, reader, and all theatre-goers in Seattle to experience theatre with international influence. I have been reading work translated from Arabic recently - if you'd like a recommendation on that collection or a play recommendation in general, feel free to leave a comment. Yun's next offering is "Chinese Queer Feminist Open Mic", a comedy event in Mandarin this fall.
Housekeeping: This post was originally written and posted right here! This is my first review written on this website. My reflections are pretty brief because I hurt one of my fingers and typing is ouchy.
Positionality: Some members of Yun TC are my colleagues and I have done a small amount of volunteer work for them in the past, but I have not worked on "In Between" in any capacity. I commit to being transparent about my participation in my community so I can celebrate local art.
Looking Skyward With "Bethany Sees the Stars" by Copious Love Productions
Copious Love Productions has been in hibernation throughout the pandemic, making "Bethany Sees the Stars" my first impression of them. I was pleased to see a thorough attendance on Industry Night - a masked performance - of their first weekend. (I think it's so smart to overlap these - Folks in the theatre industry surely know how important masking and infection prevention is.) With only ten performances in the "Bethany" world premiere run, Copious Love invites audiences to West of Lenin to attend the show before it blinks away, much like how its characters anticipate a thrilling but ephemeral eclipse.
"Bethany" as a script has a moderately sized cast, with eight named roles and a few offstage VO lines. The doubling of mythological figures with supporting character in the real-life plot tightens the magical-realism metaphors of astronomical mythology and adds nuance to the challenges of fate attempted by Mars-bound teenager Bethany and the friends that will miss her when she leaves. Playwright Emily Golden crafts a script that accesses grief experienced in adolescence and in adulthood simultaneously by Bethany and her father, and through this parallel offers multiple avenues of connection for audience members of any age.
Each character is sharply distinct textually - Atlas is a socially-awkward nerd, Fay is a choir kid with unbeatable optimism and extroversion, and Bethany is a bright student who finds herself slipping through the cracks. Respective actors Lola Rei Fukushima, Lauren Megan McCarthy, and Jade Guillory-Kaub seal the deal not only by embodying and emphasizing the quirks and lovable-ness of each character, but together create a tight synergy that makes these characters even stronger than they hope to be as a dynamic trio of high school misfits.
The crew support for "Bethany" felt like a thrilling show in and of itself. The script feels challenging to me with a bunch of different settings - A library, multiple outdoor locations, multiple homes, a movie theater, and a school, just off the top of my head. Scene changes were super speedy with the help of cast members and the run crew backing into pulled curtains, replacing props in frozen actors' hands, or comically offering props from the backstage abyss. I never felt bored during a transition for how fluid and entertaining they were to watch.
(There's a spoiler in this paragraph.) A story aspect that confused me towards the end of the script was how Bethany's radical acceptance of grief involved her doing an incredible amount of emotional labor for her dad. While I'm a huge fan of an imperfect resolution, this decision didn't feel as embodied as I wanted it to be to feel intentional. This said, the resilience and stamina that I assume is required of Daniel Christensen to play Bethany's dad in this moment was incredible. Bethany's dad is such a complex character who doesn't deserve to be villainized, but by the end he definitely hasn't made it back to sea level with me. If I were to see this show again, I'd love to go on 09/07, when Copious Love has offered a panel on loss, so I can think further about this scene and understand my relationship to the emotions portrayed in context of the shared grief of Bethany and her father.
The last time I worked in West of Lenin, I played a teenager. I fondly thought of him when I re-entered the space, but they weren't very much like how I was in high school (good for him, haha). When I saw "Bethany", I saw so much of myself in Bethany and Atlas: Persistent nerdiness, difficulty navigating, and a grounding love for space and knowledge. Seeing a script that celebrated characters who were like me when I was younger felt healing for my inner teenager, and I think I would have liked to see it when I was their age. I hope youth can attend "Bethany" (perhaps using TeenTix!) and feel empowered to be exactly themselves.
"Bethany Sees The Stars" runs through Sep 09. Tickets run $5-40 and the next masked performance is on 9/8. Join Copious Love for Young Theatremakers Night on 9/1, a Post-Play Panel on Loss on 9/7, and a Playwright Talkback on 9/9 (sooo cool!!!). Additionally, spending $10 on space-related books at neighbor Outsider Comics can get you a ticket as well.
Did you see "Bethany"? Do you want to share a space fact? Comment below.
Housekeeping/Rambling: My hand is feeling better so I am writing much more smoothly! I am finishing this article at midnight while riding the sugar high of some Molly Moon ice cream. That Vegan Brownie Batter doesn't mess around! I heard Outsider Comics has been having a hard time lately, I hope they are getting the community support they deserve.
Six years ago, as they were driving me across town on a sunny day, my friend turned to me and asked, “Can I show you this song?” As soon as “A Terrible Ride” from Justin Huertas’ 2015 musical “Lizard Boy” began, the entire soundtrack soon became a staple in my life.
What I didn’t learn until recently is that, six years ago, Huertas began crafting something new. A firebrand of the Seattle-themed musical, Huertas set intersectional stories on the streets of his city’s premiere theaters with “Lizard Boy” and 2019’s “The Last World Octopus Wrestling Champion.” At long last, following a 2020 pandemic-related deferral, “Lydia and the Troll” continues this tradition in full bloom, this time at Seattle Rep and with Huertas joined by music supervisor and producer Steven Tran.
In a captivating opening number performed by Jane (Janet Krupin), a centuries-old myth of the troll emerges: Every 20 years, a troll must elicit a deep truth from a potential new host in order to switch bodies and start the timer over. The mind and soul of the original owner conveniently transfer to the body of an 18-foot-tall troll, the form Jane is trying to avoid retaking. The telling of the myth is layered with a vocoder on Krupin’s voice, an effect which is broadly utilized throughout the show in addition to vocal layering from other cast members out of sight. Mixing human harmony and electronic backing creates a distinct thumbprint for “Lydia” that joins a conversation on incorporating EDM elements to musical theater while thematically supporting Lydia’s (Sarah Russell) aspirations as a music producer.
For a 90-minute performance, I was not sure what to expect from character dynamics and individual arcs, but one beauty of a small cast is that, even in a short time, everyone has room to show their true colors. Pete (Adam Standley), Lydia’s boyfriend, is on the verge of proposing marriage but demonstrates in just the span of a car ride how what appears like love on the outside can be built on codependent harm. All this tension is embellished by the creative implementation of seat adjustment to match the pace and intensity of Pete’s driving. Lydia’s uncertainty in her relationship becomes physically realized and an emotional handhold for Jane to seize.
Condensing and synthesizing Lydia’s and Pete’s relationship dynamic while balancing their individual paths to sobriety from alcohol is made entirely possible through the weight of honesty mandated by Jane, who takes advantage of both of their self-defined weaknesses for her own gain. Without anyone with her best interests at heart by the middle of the show, it’s up to Lydia to take control of her life, her self image and her own heart-wrenching moment of self-healing.
Six years after I first encountered it, rehearsals for “Lizard Boy” began off-Broadway with Prospect Theatre Company for a June run. “Lizard Boy” did some globetrotting since its inception, and, in the buzz of the Rep lobby after the opening night of “Lydia,” I heard the hopes of a repeat.
I wonder how a show like “Lydia” could scale up to audiences not steeped in the ever-present mystery of the Fremont Troll. As someone from the city, a show about a lifelong landmark felt spiritually nourishing; elements of “Lydia” describe Seattle life in ways that deviate from the Starbucks-and-rain clouds homogeneous approach of popular media. Besides location relevance, “Lydia” interrogates anti-Black perspectives that greatly affect artists in Seattle, adding another layer to concepts of Seattle’s political stereotypes while centering the discussion on Black joy first and foremost. Highlighting Black joy on the Seattle stage is a throughline I’ve greatly enjoyed this past year in ACT’s “Choir Boy” and the 5th’s “The Wiz,” now followed by “Lydia.”
There is a hint to the history of the Fremont Troll as we know it hidden in the story of “Lydia and the Troll.” The Fremont Troll was designed initially as hostile architecture in response to homeless residents in 1990 and ’91. When Jane marches into Lydia’s life, she creeps into the space Lydia carved out through music for herself and begins dictating how that space should be presented and used, at times leading to Lydia’s positive self-discovery but at others to her loss of autonomy. Jane comes off as hypnotic, impulsive and incredibly vibrant at all times. Her confidence and dignity keeps the tension of “Lydia” high from the very beginning. Lydia, grounded and patient in comparison, contrasts Jane so much as to expose her insecurities through their differences. It doesn’t take long before Jane interrupts Lydia’s songwriting grind and begins a chain of events that upset Lydia’s creative process and sense of self.
All this talk of the main cast isn’t to underplay in any way the work of the ensemble, Guy Garrison and Sophia Franzella. Having seen Franzella before in Pony World’s “Not/Our Town,” I was thrilled to catch her Rep debut, especially in such emotive physical command of a large mask displayed in shadow. The puppetry work in “Lydia” is by far my favorite design element. Presented in similar fashion to Indonesian wayang kulit — handheld shadow puppets built of intricately cut wood that move on rods and hinges — puppet crafter Garrison’s creative signature gives “Lydia” a seat of its own at the table of puppet-involved shows. When shadow isn’t implemented, the same surfaces hold projections (designed by Bryce Cutler).
Suffice it to say, Justin Huertas has done it again: “Lydia and the Troll,” in its electronic glory, is a must-see this spring. A matinee could pair well with a visit to the Fremont Sunday Market, where you can visit the Troll and wonder what truths you’re holding back from even yourself.
'HOMETOWN BOY': Performances outshine new script | Article originally published by Real Change News on May 10, 2023
Throughout this month, Seattle Public Theater presents
the West Coast premiere of new play “Hometown Boy” by Keiko Green. I
celebrate the growing, vibrant Asian American theater scene in Seattle
and welcome this play about a Japanese American family to the
conversation. Opening night of “Hometown Boy” felt like a gathering of
many Asian and Asian American faces from the Seattle theater community,
but unsurprisingly so: Members of this community show up for each
other.
Green presents that concept of “showing up” as a pillar of conflict between her six characters as James (Michael Wu)reunites with his somewhat absent father, Walter (Stephen Sumida), who lives alone in what was once his whole family’s home in a small town in Georgia. Sumida’s acting was an overall highlight performance for me; he completely lived in the playing space and visibly embodied even the smallest reaction to every change in Walter’s world. Upon James’ initial inspection, Walter’s house is a mess, his car is broken down outside and his isolation is immediately concerning to James and his New York City girlfriend Becks (Rachel Guyer-Mafune). Meanwhile, James turns a cold shoulder to memories of his childhood, telling Becks that he hasn’t returned since he left in a hurry 10 years prior.
Guyer-Mafune’s sharp, sustained vocal approach to Becks confronts Sumida’s subdued but meticuluous attention to every word spoken. Under this difference of character that deepens the divide between city and country attitudes, James scrambles to be the fulcrum between them. Even though James has spent less than half of his life away from his hometown, he strongly adopts the identity of being a New Yorker, mentioning that pride before even touching the topic of his Japanese heritage.
Walter, who was put in a Japanese concentration camp during World War II and ended up all the way across the country from where he started, embodies a contradiction; while his life story is inextricable from the impact of Japanese internment, he announces in a huff, “I don’t give a shit about Japanese people!” Green establishes Walter, set in his ways in an old house, as wholly unable to move on from the trauma of internment and James as instead set free to move forward where Walter cannot.
While the program for “Hometown Boy” includes “sex with minors” and “discussion of sexual assault” as two separate content warnings for the same discussion, it would have been prudent to simply list “rape” for the fullest understanding of James and his trauma. Nonetheless, it takes nearly the entire play for anyone to name the situation as what it is.
Leading up to this, James demonstrates a severe discomfort with sex and intimacy, including a surge of post-traumatic anxiety that is somehow completely skipped by the otherwise psychoanalytic Becks. In fact, James’ sensitivity is met exclusively with surprising coldness.
James’ experience is juxtaposed to that of his rapist, Sam (Jennifer Ewing), whose guilt and insecurity society meets with compassion and unconditional love. Perhaps it was the magnetic performance by Tim Gouran and resulting intimacy between him and Ewing both, but, by the end of “Hometown Boy,” I felt that most of the discussion of trauma and understanding was spent on James’ rapist rather than on James himself.
In their only scene together, James is left nearly paralyzed staring into his drink while Sam decorates a cake in a simple and highly effective display of how her life is going on while his stands still. Furthermore, when all is said and done, Sam is the only character whose trajectory at the end of the play isn’t left open ended. While I interpret the emphasis on Sam bouncing back from her actions as a tactic to explain how James is stuck living in his traumatic past, I couldn’t help but feel pushed to sympathize with Sam in a way that detracted from what I perceive as the intentions of the script. Green’s theme of moving forward (or being unable to) is paralleled in the traumatic reason why James left town, a secret that unravels out of his control within days of his visit.
After the confrontation between James and Sam, “Hometown Boy” was a blur. Sam’s father, Phil (Tim Hyland), takes up a multilayered friendship with Walter, Becks breaks up with James after learning the real reason he wouldn’t have sex with her (during an argument that takes place exclusively behind a couch so that half of their bodies are hidden from any seat in the house) and the smell of the house is identified in what could have been a very touching and poignant moment of vulnerability from Walter — if not for the barrage of reveals and betrayals going on.
Then, the play ends.
Systemic pressures and biases still greatly impact Asians and Asian Americans in the theater industry, and every play made by, for and about us is a victory of visibility. Green highlights perspectives of Japanese American lives in the South that are lush with complexity and writes James’ PTSD management in ways well-rounded to his character and circumstances; through these themes, “Hometown Boy” excels.
Despite my concerns about the script, “Hometown Boy” is a chapter in the growing library of Asian American plays that I greatly enjoyed. Simultaneously, the textual and directorial management of James’ sexual trauma feels muddy, and I emerged dazed. There are ways this play is “for” me, as an Asian American person in the process of confronting ingrained biases about the South, and ways that it isn’t, as a Seattleite who isn’t Japanese in any way. I expect everyone can take something different from “Hometown Boy,” and I encourage a watch to be informed by one’s individual positionality. Whether or not a play hits every mark, new theater is to be encouraged, watched and discussed. I hope that Seattle Public Theater continues taking on challenging and premiere work into the future.
“What is the name of someone I love?” My fingers hovered over my keyboard as I paused.
I went to see Pony World’s “Not / Our Town” (written and directed by Brendan Healy) for the last-minute, extra Nov. 30 performance, tacked on due to just how sold out the run was. The two others I went with made us a royal flush of familiarity with the American theater standard “Our Town”: one had read it during their upbringing as a theater maker, one had read it the night before the show and I’d never touched it. I vaguely knew there was a sad monologue about a dead daughter, but that was it, and from the show’s reputation of being a dry, boring standard … I wanted nothing to do with it. When I saw “Not / Our Town” selling out, I decided now would be a good time to figure out if the hype for the original play could stand its ground.
Here is one definition of “Our Town”: “Our Town” is a play written by Thornton Wilder in 1938 that has since received a Pulitzer and a Tony. This acclaim has brought it to Broadway, to community theaters nationwide and to the silver screen, in each painting pictures of both daily life and the human life cycle in a charmingly subversive way for the time.
Here is another definition: “Our Town” creates the theatrical equivalent of masses of wet wipes clogging up the sewers. Living playwrights would like to have a word.
“Our Town” is known throughout nearly every level of theater in the United States — nearly every day, a high school in the country puts it on. “Not / Our Town,” in comparison, has been produced once. Each night, at 12th Avenue Arts in Capitol Hill, as the lobby filled and the house opened, the audience was given choices on how the show would be performed. Props or no props? Should the dance break be old-fashioned or modern? (There’s a dance break?!) What if “Our Town” felt like a mystery or like a different playwright wrote it?
Throughout the performance, there is an honest and half-completed attempt to perform “Our Town.” This is the utmost wish of Mark Fullerton, who performed with such trembling honesty that when later he transitioned to sit with the audience, he felt welcomed and understood as a watcher. On the other end of the spectrum is Amber Walker, who plays his daughter. Amber has been fed a steady diet of “Our Town” her entire life. Her father produced it every year, had her perform in it several times and, through this relationship, fostered in her a seething hatred for anything to do with the show.
When the initial debate started, Amber immediately called out how sexist, outdated and bor-ing “Our Town” was. I felt called to cheer and clap. “Not / Our Town” came out at the beginning of what I sourly call “Dickens Season” in theater. The more reimaginings, rewritings, new visions, old visions and just whatevers of “A Christmas Carol” go on, the less I want to do anything with it.
Like Amber, I’m not about tradition. I love new plays, experimental plays and plays that might or might not work. Going into “Not / Our Town,” the questions on my mind were: Is this just giving “Our Town” free press? What are the goals of “Not / Our Town”? Is this even going to work on someone who didn’t really give a fuck about “Our Town” to begin with?
One of the answers that “Not / Our Town” offers is this: “Our Town” is produced because it is still producible. Its iterations are a defense of its longevity.
“Our Town” as originally written requires very little to create: The props deemed necessary by the script are very few, so everything else is, dramaturgically speaking, extra credit. It’s written in recent English about an American town that could feasibly be picked up and put down again in a wide variety of places and look right at home. There’s more than enough room for diversity in the ensemble, and the script offers roles for multiple generations of actors. As a well-known show, “Our Town” invites theater regulars and fair-weather patrons alike.
“Not / Our Town,” alternatively, required a showing of the ensemble’s best. Flexibility to roll with the top-of-show votes demonstrated a tremendous amount of practice and playfulness between the actors. Anchoring performances included Agastya Kohli, Sophia Franzella and Alanah Pascual, who each played “Our Town” characters in addition to being their real selves in a generously vulnerable show. Depending on what the audience chose before the show, the level of props involved went anywhere from none at all to dozens of red ping pong balls cascading suddenly yet silently from the ceiling. Now this, according to my “Our Town”-resistant perspective, was theater, and the play that’s dominated American playhouses for nearly a century no longer deserved the label.
I find myself increasingly sick of the cornerstones of The Holy Indomitable Western Theater Canon, tired of how they dominate my analysis, fearful of how they eat up space that living, local, underrepresented playwrights yearn to fill, and the slime of it all drove me to alter the way I make, view and interact with theater for 365 days, starting Jan. 1, 2023.
Here’s my big secret, aired fresh for you all: I’m quitting Shakespeare for a year. No reading, watching, auditioning or performing. No reimaginings, no based-on stories, no queer remixes or modern tellings no matter how cool, fresh or relevant I think they are. One year without Bill in my back pocket.
When I touched down at “Not / Our Town,” I expected to be affirmed and energized to kick this project off, wrapped up with a “See, we can retire ‘Our Town,’ so what else can we move on from?” bow. I had an entire document typed up with clauses and rules and self-defense ready to go at the click of a POST! button literally the next day. When I came home, I sat myself beneath my wall of playbills from this year’s Seattle theater and asked if, by cutting Shakespeare out for even just a year, I would sever the connection with my community and lose more than I gain.
On the surface, what this challenge has meant for me so far is turning down job opportunities, putting off my plans to see “Fat Ham” on Broadway and raising concern among peers, which all in a way fed my flame of ambition. Until I stepped into the theater at 12th Avenue Arts, I felt myself to be this rising champion of reading new work and immersing myself in small, local theater that cried for visibility. But now, I see elucidated a truer intention of my challenge from the way “Not / Our Town” touched me. When Amber experienced the loss of her father, following argument after argument for her entire adolescence, the bridge to her expression was through Emily’s famously haunting monologue original to “Our Town” to reach out to her parents and grieve her mistakes.
Thus, I allow myself to know the way that Shakespeare has influenced me, and I will take this next year (still “Shakeless in Seattle”) to confront that influence in a way much gentler than originally envisioned. I’ll plunge into the deep end in January, but, in the tides of finding what fits into Bill’s old spot from which he’ll be taking a sabbatical, I’ll ask myself: What new words could I use to shape my theatrical art when I remove one of theater’s greatest definers from my practice? What is it about the practice that, in fact, defines me?
Here is one definition of “Not / Our Town”: It’s a necessary conversation with theater about why we make what we do.
Put your definition here:
“What is the name of someone I love?” asked the last question of the preshow survey. The previous questions hadn’t been about us. My friend and I took a breath and wrote each other’s names.
CHARACTER. ACHIEVEMENT. INTEGRITY. TRUTH. EXCELLENCE. HONOR.
Looming above the Charles R. Drew Prep School for Boys — an all-Black, all-male school contained within downtown’s A Contemporary Theatre — these words demonstrate what is expected of the boys followed in “Choir Boy,” written by Tarell Alvin McCraney and directed by Jamil Jude. The audience is welcomed warmly to a graduation ceremony, as Headmaster Marrow (Arlando Smith) smiles on. This is a time of tradition, anticipation and relief.
It’s wonderfully on the nose that junior student Pharus Jonathan Young (Nicholas Japaul Bernard), a student living with the pressure of how his sexuality is perceived, becomes the center of a broken tradition when he takes an unplanned pause in the song he leads for the ceremony. Thus begins the unraveling, as multiple notes of adversity within the student body are raised; students like Pharus and David (Brandon G. Stalling) attend Drew thanks to scholarships, while others, such as Bobby Marrow (Jarron A. Williams), attend for free on legacy status. The students struggle together in their classes and apart in discussion with their families, and come together to clash and reflect at extracurricular choir meetings.
As Pharus, the choir lead and lead of the show, Bernard glides. Pharus is outspoken, proud and opinionated, making for a very text-heavy character who has a complex weight to carry within the spectacle of his story. As the choir lead for his senior year, Pharus brings with him the baggage of repression beneath the celebration and exuberance of leadership. In comparison to the other boys, he has had to grow up both sooner and faster. Bernard fulfills this responsibility with grace and incredible tact, not only keeping audiences keyed into the nuances of his words but also forming avenues of clarity through his use of intonation and pensive pause that match in narrative strength with the text.
The schoolboy ensemble’s spectrum of masculinity shifts throughout “Choir Boy,” with the young men transforming from slouching in class to improvising duets to performing as the tableau of singers at commencement. Pharus and Bobby are often bookends on the range of immaturity to early manhood, begging the questions of audiences: Where do we allow Black boyhood? Where do we celebrate it? In the director’s note in the “Choir Boy” program, Jude puts this to audiences as, “Where is it safe to be a Black child?”
With possible answers to these questions, in come characters like Headmaster Marrow, who walks the line of fostering the individual and holding up the standards of the collective, and Mr. Pendleton (Larry Paulsen), a white teacher who interacts with the students’ and audience’s biases as he mentors the boys in creative thinking.
It is difficult to discuss “Choir Boy” without spoiling the moments of awe contained in the set, which intertwines with the plot under the supervision of scenic designer Tony Cisek. The hexagonal set itself appears like an arena, three ramps leading in from tunnel entryways. Institutional wooden benches function as chairs, beds and percussive additions to the musical score, which is performed entirely a cappella in the gorgeous style of gospel spirituals.
“Choir Boy” premiered in 2012 in a cooperative effort between The English Stage Company and Manhattan Theatre Club, after a 2007-08 commission from the latter. Ten years later, this production of “Choir Boy” is being presented in Seattle by ACT and the 5th Avenue Theatre as part of a joint venture to front smaller musicals. “Choir Boy” hopefully begins a trend of producing non-traditional musicals — that is, musicals that exit the norm of out-of-world songs or sung dialogue.
Early on, the use of a cappella music in “Choir Boy” feels novel, but it quickly becomes immersive and locked into the story; for the boys, singing is another language when the pressure to become men grows too paramount for spoken word. The songs are as easily understood as an active, living, impactful part of their lives as they are a musical highlight of a performance. At times, it feels easy to discount “Choir Boy” from the definition of a “musical” — it’s hard to imagine a standalone soundtrack being released, for instance. But the music is inextricable from the story. “Choir Boy” is a piece of musical theater that challenges us to accept the reality of song in our lives and its impact on our communities and decisions.
At first, it was difficult to interpret when “Choir Boy” takes place. The standard Drew uniforms create a cohesion that unites the characters but sets them apart from a specific decade. It took some contextual and design detail — such as one character’s Nikes, another’s earbuds and the age of a character’s mother in reference to the music she liked — to realize that the play was placed in the last decade and a half, perhaps within President Barack Obama’s first term. On the surface level, this exclusion of explicit detail is frustrating and leaves questions around the sociopolitical context of the play. But it creates productive reflection: Which years matter more when discussing Black boyhood? Was I, a non-Black audience member, intrinsically leaving issues in the past that are still present today? It became clear that “Choir Boy” would be just as necessary if it were set in the present as in the recent past. Discussing Black boyhood and understanding spaces of intentional boyhood is necessary yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Moreover, the question of where queerness is allowed permeates the Seattle theater scene as the summer wraps. Theatre22’s “Nonsense and Beauty” (by Scott C. Sickles, dir. Corey McDaniel) captures queerness in the highly repressed form fashioned by the past, following author E.M. Forster (Eric Mulholland) throughout a lifetime spent tangential to his lover. Through interwoven loves and losses, “Nonsense and Beauty” challenges the audience to confront the queerness of histories that have been swept clean of the very subject.
Seeing both “Nonsense and Beauty” and “Choir Boy” evokes a rich thread of queerness throughout time that may be sobering, welcoming or both. With a growing and active queer theater community in Seattle, the successes of “Nonsense and Beauty,” “Choir Boy” and many others may foster a future of plays that challenge medium and bias.
The show opens quietly. Tiptoe quietly. Shared scrutiny between the audience and Taroon (Yousof Sultani) accompanies the simplest of actions as he crosses his sister’s apartment to get milk and to check his email. The audience is in the dark, and the living room is in the light. For now, the lights in the neighboring apartments are off — as long as Taroon is careful. At last, a sound that catches the breath: Somewhere offstage, a baby cries. Thus begins the Pulitzer Prize–nominated “Selling Kabul” by playwright Sylvia Khoury, directed by Valerie Curtis-Newton at the Seattle Repertory Theatre.
Maybe a baby isn’t the first sound you’d expect to hear in a play set in 2013 Afghanistan. It’s okay — confront that bias for a moment, then keep moving. “Selling Kabul” builds on audience assumptions, and not only those about war, in order to share a story that is challenging, refreshing and, at times, breathlessly quiet. That cry in the distance becomes a cornerstone in a play that punishes noise with intense fear that follows every speaker for a tense, rapidly-evolving single act.
“Selling Kabul” premiered to the world in 2019 at the Williamstown Theatre Festival, was staged in New York in 2021, and now is produced in Seattle. For a play written about events taking place in 2013, “Selling Kabul” is still an incredibly relevant play. In the light of multiple continuing international conflicts, including the 2021 Taliban takeover of Kabul, gazing into the neatly decorated home of Afiya (Susaan Jamshidi) and Jawid (Barzin Akhavan) reveals what is, to most American audiences, a rare mirror to contemporary events. After working as a translator for American forces, Taroon struggles to hide from the Taliban forces and claim a visa to the U.S. The multiple fraught and rushed discussions about secret escapes from the country and the ever-growing threat of being discovered and found by the Taliban are still realistic nearly a decade later.
When a play follows a character who is trapped, what is on the outside becomes furiously fascinating to not just the characters but also the audience. The sound design of “Selling Kabul” by D.R. Amromin hits the spot. From the baby’s cry to an almost haptic crescendo of noise leading up to an unexpected visit, sound is integral to hiding Taroon and describing all he cannot see outside of Afiya’s home. At first, the ambient noise of electric fans is barely a balm to a dire situation, but when the fans are shut off and the audience is left to hold the silence with the characters, that quiet hush is greatly missed.
In addition, the set — designed by Lex Marcos — invites the audience into a warm but enclosed home. Windows are covered all day and doors are closed quietly to ward off the possibility of eyes on them from everywhere, from the unseen residents of apartments just feet away and certainly through the fourth wall. The cut-out appearance of the box set puts the audience in the role of the watching neighbor and leaves open the question of what to do when you know your neighbor’s in trouble. The home is styled geometrically and symmetrically in a culturally informed way that also offers characters a chance to sit across from each other and be scrutinized for their truths. In turn and in pairs, Afiya and Taroon sit across from each other, then Afiya and Leyla, and at last, a third pairing faces each other as two people who would risk anything for the sake of their children.
Parenthood is one of the most pressing and prevalent themes throughout “Selling Kabul.” Neighbor Leyla (Fatima Wardak), exhilarated and overjoyed as a new parent, provides a stark contrast to Afiya, whose attempts to become a mother have thus far been unsuccessful. Taroon, whose presence is kept secret from Leyla, grows increasingly more restless upon his son’s birth, since as a wanted man he is unable to attend to his wife and son. Yet in the shadows of war and the Taliban, three inextinguishable lights of hope exist for children present and future.
Every character in “Selling Kabul” wears multiple faces, and each independently debates the question of honor and selfish heroism versus survival and perceived cowardice. Some of these faces are shattered early on, as Taroon nearly strides out the door to certain death to meet his newborn son. Other faces last nearly the whole play; a tearful Jawid holds one of the most emotional moments of the performance, demonstrating and explaining how much he has sacrificed for the safety of the woman he loves. Akhavan’s performance throughout is a stunning highlight of the show.
There were some portions of “Selling Kabul” that didn’t necessarily sell, however. The lights in neighbors’ windows were assumed at first to be a sort of suspicion indicator, but lights turned on and off inconsistently without a specific meaning or time. And while, as Taroon, Sultani created a compelling demonstration of desperation and confusion, his chemistry with the rest of the cast lacked in comparison to what the others built between them.
“Selling Kabul” challenges theatrical form and confronts another bias of the theater-goer by never revealing certain lies by the time the show ends. However, Taroon’s journey has only just begun. Why divulge everything if there are thousands of miles, years of uncertainty and generations of aftermath left to go? Why value the audience’s closure over the character’s mental health? Timelines can flip back and forth and come crashing down in single-second split decisions. It is rare that a major secret is hidden from a main character with no resolution but, instead of feeling like a frustrating anticlimax, the need to keep Taroon safe is understood. The audience buys into the decision to protect him from heartbreak for just a little longer, just a little longer…
Seattle Rep’s production of “Selling Kabul” depends on the collective conscience of the audience to present a show that is somatic in design, crushingly relevant in content and breathtaking in performance. The overwhelmingly liberal Seattle audience is brought face-to-face with the reality of the sacrifices involved in attempting to immigrate. Taroon’s frequent unsuccessful attempts to connect to the Internet to check his immigration status, all while placing faith in an American soldier whose promises of help seem threadbare from the outside, mirror the disconnect audiences have with actual immigrants, romanticizing specific stories that are in few ways like “Selling Kabul.” At a certain point — early on — the shame of ignorance runs dry, and from there grows a need for substantial action and support. Flyers for various aid organizations are cleverly offered by the Rep on a table outside the theater.
Throughout the play, Taroon bares all, yet the lie that hurts the most is a simple one. He’s been putting the whole family at risk with his actions. “Every day,” he tells his sister, “I watch the television.” The deeper truth is that Afiya and Jawid knew — and took that risk with him.
As live theater tests the waters of fully reopening, the safety of Shakespeare offers itself as a reliable pool of inspiration. It feels like everyone’s rehearsing a Henriad these days. The second-longest play in that cycle of kings, “Richard III,” is a fan favorite for its dark themes, gruesome endings and iconic lines, including “My kingdom for a horse!” Mike Lew’s adaptation, “Teenage Dick,” which opened on March 4 at Seattle Repertory Theatre, creates a kingdom in the English class and a cavalry at the Sadie Hawkins dance.
While knowledge of “Richard III” isn’t necessary to enjoy “Teenage Dick,” the context offers insightful parallels: Richard of Gloucester, a deceitful and cruel royal in the chaotic fallout of King Henry VI, lies and murders his way into kingship. Casualties include his brother, his nephews and anyone suspected of broken allegiance. Lew’s adaptation decides to shove the royal minutiae into a locker and assign it a homeroom.
“High school is high school is high school,” answers director Malika Oyetimein about the setting in the Seattle Rep program. “We all know high school. We all barely got out of it.” This sentiment is mirrored in the featured characters of Roseland High, from goody-two-shoes Clarissa (Meme García) to Eddie (Michael Monicatti), the top-dog jock. The fight of the school year isn’t for the crown, but the distinction of senior class president — and in turn, the fate of football, the drama club and teenage reputations.
“My kingdom for some horsepower,” booms MacGregor Arney as Richard Gloucester. A modernization that still requires the finesse of historical accuracy, “Teenage Dick” confidently situates itself in the 2010s, somewhere between touchscreen phones and TikTok. Whereas Shakespeare’s Richard is indirectly described as a disabled individual, Lew’s Richard has cerebral palsy.
While the majority of the script is in today’s dialect, Richard’s character more often borrows from the original text, earning an extra layer of awareness and criticism from his peers. Deviation from the verses for comedic interjections become weaponized when, for example, Richard and Ann Margaret (Rheanna Atendido) perform a parody of a famous “Chicago” song. The two bond over shared secrets and questioning social mores; while the two sing and dance to “All that Spaz,” the audience is presented with the polarizing decision of laughing along with the joke or swallowing the nuanced reality of reclaimed language and lived experience.
“Teenage Dick” is, in a word, challenging. Let’s be completely clear: It’s not challenging to make great theater with disabled actors, to design a set that’s wheelchair-accessible or to facilitate a platform for, by and about disabled people. The challenge, executed through a nuanced and passionate production, is for the audience. With a mirror behind the actors at times, audience members are compelled to confront their preconceived notions of disability in real time with their confrontation. The perspectives of multiple disabled characters and the artistic collaboration of a disabled director shatter the idea of disability as a monolith. Richard and Barbara “Buck” Buckingham (Meredith Aleigha Wells), a wheelchair user, spend most of the play in direct opposition about the nature of disability and their futures after high school. They each ally themselves with the other’s most detested enemy, and before long, Richard mourns the betrayal of his closest friend. The production encourages the audience to participate as the masses of the school, cheering and laughing to the peril of other characters, and face the consequences of their participation over reveals and outbursts.
Oyetimein agrees: “I believe that Seattle Rep audiences are ready to be challenged and shaken to the core.”
Accenting the script and the stage, however, some of the design elements don’t quite stick the landing. The range of costuming, from Richard’s school uniform blazer and Buck’s casual hat, to Eddie’s tracksuit and Anne’s leggings, gives an inconsistent picture of the school and the socioeconomic classes of the characters. While the soundtrack is highly nostalgic of the 2010s, the specific choice of “Titanium” by David Guetta featuring the singer Sia, whose absolute misrepresentation of, and gross perspectives on, autism have made her infamous in disabled and neurodivergent communities, sticks out in a questionable way. Was this song chosen specifically to lean into the discomfort of an ableist singer taking up space in Richard’s story, or was this overlooked for the lyrical significance to Anne Margaret?
Anne Margaret’s story adds an extra layer to the narrative that not only enhances every character around her but also assists audiences in further breaking down their understandings of disability. The current visibility of reproductive rights gives audiences a handhold when Anne Margaret’s abortion is revealed. The reactions among the student populace in contrast with the audience’s understanding of her emotions create a top-down example of a monolithic view toward Anne. In turn, this adds to the richness of the bottom-up view toward Richard, as the audience cultivates their opinions on disability over time.
Those who enter the space knowing the tale of “Richard III” already know that Richard is not the hero, but alongside those whose experiences begin at “Teenage Dick,” following Richard while encountering the ableism that ultimately feeds wickedness gives the viewer the harrowing responsibility of holding all of the pieces of the story. The campaign slogan “RICHARD IS GOOD” vice-grips the soul and leaves the room breathless.
In the play’s program, director Oyetimein warns that “taking the time to truly see an individual is a choice.” In just one act, “Teenage Dick” makes the audience sit down, take that time and rightfully respond with a roar of applause. It will be no surprise if “Teenage Dick” is considered a highlight for years to come and a necessary and beautiful story that pushes the audience, as all theater should.
“Teenage Dick” runs through April 3. In-person tickets range $55–$72; streaming access is available for $45. April 2 is a
sensory-friendly performance. March is Cerebral Palsy Acceptance Month.
“Swords are sexy,” explains the audience guide for Book-It Repertory Theatre’s action-packed, pandemic-compatible audio drama of Alexandre Dumas’s “The Three Musketeers.” Those three simple words cast and seal the magnetism of the swashbuckling, charismatic world adapted and directed for modern ears by Lamar Legend. The second show in Book-It’s 32nd season, “The Three Musketeers” intends to cherish the classics while incorporating new voices.
“The Three Musketeers” is an adventure told directly from the mouth of bright, romantic D’Artagnan (Trick Danneker) to the ears of listener. He tells of his quests for love, revenge and fortune during the war between France and England in the early 1600s. Such pursuits are as rife with betrayal and intrigue as they are deep with kinship and loyalty.
The language of the adaptation, while highlighting modern vocabulary and figures of speech, still offers the finery and tone expected of classic text. “The Three Musketeers” lives in both the classic and modern vernacular — and lives large, down to a well-placed, “Huh. Well, I’ll be damned!” from the hilarious and extravagant Porthos (Nicholas JaPaul Bernard). The entire cast creates distinct voices that make large, audio-only conversations easy to follow, from Kate Jaeger’s complex, secretive Milady De Winter to Porscha Shaw’s serious, driven Athos.
Some fans may be familiar with the medium of audio drama already, from radio drama to audiobooks. But for those with suspicions, rest assured that “The Three Musketeers” loses no theatricality even when visual aspects are removed: Immersive soundscapes and well-placed whooshes of weaponry seat the listener at the front lines of the action.
In lieu of duels set in physical space, director Legend casts combat as gripping poetry that ranges from technical to romantic. The drum of hoofbeats and blasts of muskets set the tension of pursuit, and silence is thoughtfully placed to draw attention to juicy detail. The comedy is timeless in execution while sticking to period-specific topics, including a fast-paced dialogue of miscommunications that begins with wine and ends with a shocking discovery.
Legend seizes the challenge of adapting a physically driven show to an audio-only experience as we approach the close of the second year of the pandemic, which has throttled the performing arts. Digital theater is more than capable of lushness and exquisite emotional life, as evidenced by the enchanting and passionate performances by the cast; however, Legend’s adaptation reminds us that directly comparing digital and in-person theater hurts both artforms. Where a choreographed fight could not have taken place, the combatants’ monologues give new form to previous expectations and challenge the listener to see the characters’ plight through different lenses.
Book-It challenges the listener to consider their personal story and how it connects to stories of the people they know — with the help of a cocktail recipe included in the audience guide. The guide recommends the interested listener look into other action-packed fantasy title, from classics like Dumas’s “The Count of Monte Cristo” to more recent releases, such as Sarah J. Maas’s “Throne of Glass.”