Displaying items by tag: Kerstin Broockmann

Before seeing the co-world premiere (with Actors Theatre of Louisville) of Liliana Padilla’s How to Defend Yourself, read their program note. In it, they reflect on their fear that the play might be “harmful and re-traumatizing” (it might). They also state their aspiration “to be in the truthful chaos—to hold a space of pain and grief and complexity.” This it certainly does. With forays into montage and speculation, clearly delineated by shifts in light and sound, the truth is not in the reality, but in the emotional journeys of the characters. Padilla has an ear for realistic dialogue that cuts to the quick, despite a good dose of situational humor. Directed by Marti Lyons with a cast that physically and emotionally throw themselves into the highs and lows of the fraught relationships they navigate, How to Defend Yourself is a taut and powerful, if ultimately frustrating examination of sex, sexuality and consent in a world where #MeToo and Tinder hookups coexist. As one of the characters points out, it’s hard to express one’s desires if one isn’t sure what they are (and whether they are acceptable).

The play begins when a young college student, Susana, is hospitalized after a brutal sexual assault. Her sorority sister and mentor Brandi, a black belt, decides to act and host a self defense class. She recruits her sorority sister Kara to help. However, despite the emotion that the crime elicits, only three students show up—Diana and Mojdeh, who seem as eager gain access to the sorority they hope to pledge, and painfully shy Nikki. Diana is disappointed in the lack of firearms. Mojdeh is distracted by her upcoming date. Nikki struggles to speak audibly. After an empowering session of punching, Brandi introduces the fraternity men who have agreed to assist with the workshops, the overbearing Andy and the well-intentioned Eggo. It soon becomes clear that all the participants are bringing their own baggage and attitudes to the workshop, and a fair amount of guilt. The characters are well-drawn and well-spoken; all articulate their views with clarity, though emotions soon run high as they prove to have some irreconcilable differences. Despite the reason for their meetings, most of the conversation revolves around sex: communication, consent, and sexual desire. There are no villains, but sides are chosen and there is no way to avoid the feeling that complicity in the rape culture that led to Susana’s victimization takes many forms.

Reinforcing Padilla’s script, director Marti Lyons has assembled a cast that is diverse racially, ethnically, and in body type. The contrast between the leggy, confident sorority sisters and the shorter, less secure would-be pledges and the mousy Nikki serves as a constant reminder of the power dynamic they inhabit, as does the difference between the powerfully built Andy and the less physically imposing Eggo. In addition to the physical types, which serve as a reminder of the typical dynamic between victim and attacker, the characters cannot escape their skin or their backgrounds. For example, it is clear that part of what has shaped Eggo’s considerate attitude toward sexual partners—besides the fact that he’s a nice guy—in contrast to Andy’s gladiatorial attitude, is the fact that, as an African-American male, he needs to be more concerned about mis-read cues than Ken-doll Andy. Lyons keeps the rapid-fire dialogue tight and pulls no punches with the heavy themes that underscore the play. Yu Shibagaki’s scenic design transforms the Victory Gardens space into a photo-realistic gym. Christine Pascual’s costumes show the evolution of the characters in athletic wear, as well as giving insights into their transformations outside of the safe space, and, in an extended sequence of evolving parties, traveling through time and developmental stages. Paul Toben’s lighting design and Thomas Dixon’s sound design shape the focus on the play between intimate exchanges, amped up training sequences and resonant emotional asides. Movement director Steph Paul, fight director Matt Hawkins and intimacy director Rachel Flesher work seamlessly to show the relationship between fighting, friendship and sex. Training violence spills over into real violence, which gives way to an easy physical camaraderie, a simulated attack leads to the recognition of a spark of attraction. The balance between violence and sexuality that is explored in the script is well represented by this movement design team and the actors who realize their work.

The cast not only looks perfect, they fearlessly commit to Padilla’s vision, which is not always comfortable. Though on the surface, the characters are the sort of enviable success stories of college, the assault on their sorority sister reveals doubts and fears that are impossible to shake. As Brandi, the woman who tries to teach her peers how to defend themselves, Anna Crivelli is poised and self-possessed until the questions from her trainees start chipping away at her surprisingly brittle veneer. Crivelli portrays Brandi’s downward spiral initially with gritty resolve, then with frightening vulnerability. Isa Arciniegas’ Diana struggles to fit in, but her role as outsider makes her a sounding board for the other characters’ fears; Arciniegas finds the insecurity behind her character’s survivor mentality. Ariana Mahallati’s Mojdeh is awkward and desperate, trying to achieve the comfort in her own skin that the other characters seem to have by adopting the script that she thinks she is supposed to learn, whether or not it is her own. Andrea San Miguel’s Nikki goes from barely visible and audible, hiding behind a baggy sweatshirt, to embracing her physical and verbal power, with heartbreaking results. San Miguel navigates this journey in an often hilarious portrayal as her character surprises herself moment to moment. In a powerful and complex performance, Netta Walker as Kara defends her desires while recognizing that they might give license to men who extend them to other women. It is arguments like the one between Kara and the solicitous Eggo that most powerful convey the difficulty of effective communication. Invited into the space by Brandi, the men in the story struggle with their role there, as they find themselves cast alternately as attackers, objects of desire and representatives of masculinity. Jayson Lee’s Eggo brilliantly encapsulates the dilemma faced by men who want to care for women the way they want, while Ryan McBride’s Andy articulates the need for positive consent but disparages Eggo’s version of this as less masculine, calling him an Incel at one point. McBride somehow balances his character’s entitled self-confidence with a desire to do the right thing. All the characters do their best to communicate and ensure a sense of safety, but even with the best of intentions safety proves elusive.

Liliana Padilla’s How to Defend Yourself does not give any insight into how to do this. In fact, it clearly shows the difficulty in doing so when attackers are often people one knows, when even shifting attitudes and the ability to clearly and openly talk about desires and sex do not necessarily get to the point, and when one is smaller or less well-armed than potential aggressors. Padilla’s play articulates that, with all the progress that appears to have been made, there are still entrenched attitudes about gender, sexuality and communication that make this world no less dangerous than the one that fostered Harvey Weinstein. Under the incisive direction of Marti Lyons, supported by a crack team of designers and an ensemble that mines the script’s humor while committing fully to the underlying themes. Often raucously entertaining, How to Defend Yourself finally arrives at the conclusion that learning self-defense may not be as effective as one would like, and, more importantly, it should not be what we learn.

How to Defend Yourself runs through February 23 at Victory Gardens Theater, 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue. Performances take place Tuesdays – Fridays at 7:30 pm, Saturdays at 3 pm and 7:30 pm, and Sundays at 3 pm. Regular performances are $31 - $65. Tickets can be purchased at www.victorygardens.org or at the box office. 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue. 773-871-3000.

The title is a huge clue that Bill McMahon’s new play about Nancy Pelosi, The Adult in the Room, is not going to be a balanced political commentary. If you are a Trump supporter, be warned that he is cast as Voldemort to Pelosi’s Dumbledore. For anyone looking for a dissection of the venerable Speaker of House’s political history or an incisive examination of the dynamics of the office that she holds, this is not it. If you are looking for an entertaining hour or so with a political pioneer that gives a reverent overview of her entrance into politics and her evolving position, both ideologically and professionally, this is a very pleasant way to spend an evening. In the course of an online chat with the members of Running Start, a group of aspiring female politicians, Orlagh Cassidy’s unflappable Pelosi—elegant in a white pantsuit even when stress-eating chocolates or downing an emergency cold beverage—calms down her high-strung assistant who relays the latest tweets from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, schools members of the CPC “Squad” on the importance of procedure, and inspires her young online interlocuters, who lob softball questions for Pelosi to knock out of the park. As directed by Heather Arnson and Conor Bagley, Cassidy nails Pelosi’s sense of humor, her understanding of the performative aspects of politics (especially as a pioneering congresswoman), and her passion for and faith in the Constitution and the government it informs.

There is no denying that Bill McMahon has done his homework on Nancy Pelosi. The Adult in the Room is a concise and entertaining biography of the sometimes-polarizing politician, recounted in the historical moment before the House embarked on impeachment proceedings. His Pelosi covers a lot of ground in the brisk 70-minute run-time, beginning with her introduction to politics as child watching her father campaign for and win a series of elected offices, and watching her imposing mother organize his campaign staff and rally supporters. She discusses her Catholic faith, her rejection of her mother’s desire that she enter a convent, and how she reconciles the tenets of the Church with her liberal views, including her unflagging support of gay and reproductive rights. She outlines her own relatively late entrance into the political arena after raising five children, inspired by Sala Burton, whom Pelosi succeeded in the House of Representatives after her death in 1987. McMahon does an excellent job of showing how her early inspirations shaped her uncompromising ideals and progressive values. With a strong actor in the title role, which this production certainly has, McMahon’s play makes a strong argument for the continued importance and legacy of the 79-year-old Representative. However, what little dramatic tension is generated is promptly buried in chocolate, drowned in diet Dr. Pepper, postponed, or dropped in a system reboot. The Instagram device gives Nancy Pelosi a great reason for telling her life story and outlining her political philosophy, but the scrolling questions that don’t get answered give a hint of what is missing, an antagonist in the room. The apocalyptic vision of a divided America that prefaces the coda of the play does not serve to add tension, and also seems out of keeping with the optimistic, consensus-seeking Pelosi who has been mildly scolding the Squad and her online acolytes throughout the play, even when she resorts to naming her would-be nemesis. 

Directors Heather Arnson and Conor Bagley have created a sleek, streamlined look and feel for the event, which serves the play well. Ann Beyersdorfer’s set reflects the no-nonsense Pelosi and affords opportunities for perching and pacing as needed. David C. Woolard takes his inspiration from the white pantsuit that Pelosi wore to Trump’s inaugural address in a show of solidarity with suffrage campaigners from the past and current female Representatives, while a costume change for the final scene mirrors the Congresswoman’s articles of impeachment black. Jamie Roderick’s lighting design is unobtrusive but highlights important moments and allows Brian Pacelli’s media-savvy projections—often ironic chat-heads, emoticons and screen names, along with a nod to the Constitution—to take focus when they should. Christopher Kriz’s sound design complements the action of the play, with nods to the onstage references and electronic interruptions. It is Orlagh Cassidy’s portrayal that makes The Adult in the Room worth a visit. Cassidy fills every moment and knows how to allow both the comedy and the somber moments to come alive. Though she does not mimic Pelosi’s voice, her vocal cadences combined with her elegant, yet energetic, physicality and a weaponized smile make Pelosi a figure that we want to listen to. As a bonus, Cassidy also slips into spot-on imitations of the voices that inspired Pelosi, and, in one well-curated moment, Donald Trump. Approachable, empathetic and intimidating at once, Cassidy’s Pelosi embodies the qualities that have enabled her real-life counterpart to forge her remarkable career.

Bill McMahon’s The Adult in the Room is not going to rock the world, but it is an entertaining tribute to Nancy Pelosi and a reflection of the current political moment. Orlagh Cassidy embodies the Congresswoman with passion, dignity and humor under Heather Arnson and Conor Bagley’s stylish, brisk direction. Nancy Pelosi’s journey from political neophyte to House Majority Leader, all the while espousing causes from AIDS advocacy, gun control, and health care to varying degrees of success, is a worthy playbook for her would-be successors to study. Pelosi’s mantra in McMahon’s play is “organize, don’t agonize.” There is not much agonizing in the play, but this leaves room for a plea to make things better for the next generation—and for the next generation to take up the mantle of social justice.

The Adult in the Room is now playing at Chicago’s Victory Gardens Theater’s Richard Christiansen Theater (2433 N. Lincoln Avenue) through February 15. Performances take place Tuesdays through Fridays at 8 p.m., Saturdays at 2 p.m. and 8 p.m. and Sundays at 2p.m. and 5p.m. Tickets to “The Adult in the Room” are priced at $49 and available through victorygardens.org or by calling the box office at 773-871-3000.For more information visit theadultintheroomplay.com

With their usual care and commitment, Black Button Eyes Productions is introducing ‘Whisper House’, a musical ghost story about loss, love and not giving up, to Chicago. The premise is promising. A young boy loses his Airman father in the Pacific during WWII, a loss that his mother cannot handle. He is sent to live with his aunt Lily in a lighthouse in Maine that she tends with the assistance of a Japanese immigrant who somehow got stranded there on his way to find his future. There’s a law-and-order sheriff who may have feelings for Lily. Or not. And there are the tunefully malignant and omnipresent ghosts, who frequently opine that everyone would be better off dead. The pedigree of the musical is impressive, with music and lyrics by Duncan Sheik of Spring Awakening fame and book and additional lyrics by Kyle Jarrow (‘Spongebob Squarepants Musical’). Unfortunately, the plot is predictable, the music bland, and the ghostly sirens quickly grow tiresome—why they want everyone to be miserable or dead is not entirely clear. It is thanks to director Ed Rutherford’s well-paced and elegant staging, and the sincerity of the talented cast, that ‘Whisper House’ is an engaging and ultimately moving love story. Though the resolution, when it comes, is wholly anticipated (except for those Ghosts, whose denouement surprises even them, as the lyrics acknowledge), it is surprisingly affecting. ‘Whisper House’ as a musical is a mess—it feels incomplete and prosaic, like the suspended ambitions of its characters—but the strong Black Button Eyes ensemble reveals the heart that no doubt drew them to this imperfect rumination on the need for love and the ways that humans push it away.

Most of the problems with ‘Whisper House’ stem from the musical’s transparently thin plot and mostly forgettable (with the occasional catchy hook) score. The trite lyrics channel pop psychology via Edward Gorey. The narrative conveniently brings together characters who are bound to mistrust one another: Christopher is sent to the last place on Earth he wants to be to live with an aunt he never met after the death of his father in a firefight with Japanese pilots. A Japanese caretaker helps Lily with household chores she cannot easily do (because of her limp), as well as offering companionship. Also looking in periodically is Charles, a flag-waving law enforcement officer. Christopher is immediately distrustful of Yasuhiro and the rabidly nationalistic Charles is just looking for a reason to get rid of him. Lily is haunted both literally and figuratively by the memory of a yacht that sank 20 years earlier, leading her to mistrust herself even when her instincts are sound. The stage is set for a claustrophobic clash of characters and cultures. And then, there are the ghosts of two stylish drowning victims. It’s hard to tell whether the creators wanted the ghosts to serve as metaphors for the living characters’ hurtful instincts or as actual characters. To the credit of director Ed Rutherford and his team of collaborators, he is able to keep a hold on the humanity of the characters and the genuine good will of the plot to deliver a slight, but entertainingly moving yarn. Rutherford could have done more to flesh out purpose and through-line for the ghostly narrators, and, despite a valiant effort by the design team, the smallish stage makes it difficult to portray multiple locations, including the ocean and an adjoining lighthouse, while also accommodating an onstage backing band. However, the care that was invested in the staging ultimately pays off. Set designer Nikolaj Sorensen focuses on the kitchen of the lighthouse and keeps the space open enough to convey the other locations, albeit with efficient but clunky scene changes (which the occasionally corporeal and accommodating ghosts incorporate into Derek Van Barham’s 1920’s-inspired choreography). With the addition of the color-saturated lighting design of Liz Cooper, nifty period props by Adrian Hadlock, and creaky-spooky sound effects by Robert Hornbostel, the design team effectively creates the gloomy, desolate backdrop the story requires. Costume designer Rachel M. Sypniewski further adds to the effect, with simple, drab costumes for the humans who have no one to dress for (except for the Sheriff, whose uniform is his mask) and stylish Jazz Age formal wear for the ghosts, though, in keeping with their tragic fate, they dress in funereal white and black. Much credit also goes to musical director/conductor/musician Micky York and the other members of the six-piece ensemble, who create a spectrum of musical backdrops for the narrative and generally maintain the right balance with the vocals—not easy in a space of this size and configuration.

At the outset, we are introduced to the characters that in the ghosts believe would be better off dead. The guilt-ridden Christopher wants to care for his mother as he promised but is instead sent to stay with his father’s estranged sister. Leo Spiegel impressively captures Christopher’s grief, outrage and sense of powerlessness, though he does seem to take the omnipresence of ghosts in the lighthouse too much in stride (if ghosts told me I should be afraid, I would take their advice). Kate Nawrocki is the show’s anchor as Christopher’s aunt, who requests that he avoid addressing her as Ma’am or Aunt, insisting on Miss Lily. Pragmatic to the point of being cold, Nawrocki’s Lily nevertheless allows a sly sense of humor and genuine compassion to temper her bone-dry delivery. The growing connection between Spiegel’s needy and impudent Christopher and Nawrocki’s equally needy and uncompromising Lily is a high point in the show. Also living on the lighthouse property is Yasuhiro, who has forged a quiet but strong camaraderie with Lily. It is clear from the start that Lily and Yasuhiro share a bond, but misgivings about their different backgrounds, coupled with ghostly interference and the implementation of Executive Order 9066, keep them from acknowledging this. Karmann Bajuyo fortunately sidesteps the potential for melodrama in his character, offering a quietly self-deprecating and warmly humorous portrayal that provides a softer counterpoint to the flinty Lily. As Charles, the local sheriff who fully embraces the jingoistic and xenophobic patriotism that characterized some of America’s home front response to WWII, T.J. Anderson is cast against type. Lacking the hulking physical presence that one would expect of this stereotypical bully, Anderson tries to create a more complex character than the writing can support, coming across as a nice guy hiding behind toxic attitudes and braggadocio. This attempt at depth throws too much light on the two-dimensional writing and makes one wish for a more conventional bad guy. Anderson’s Charles also is no match for either Lily or Yasuhiro, which means he must rely solely on his badge and gun to intimidate (which violence designer Brendan Hutt wisely acknowledges when Charles’ racism inevitably—and unnecessarily—leads to violence). Mikaela Sullivan and Kevin Webb, as the waterlogged victims of 20-year-old shipwreck, play their roles with macabre relish. They have the voices and musical acumen to move easily through the various pop genres of the score, and beguilingly address both audience and the living characters they torment. Despite thoroughly enjoyable performances, one is still left wondering exactly what these two ghosts need or want (the reason given for their presence does not adequately explain their behavior): revenge? connection? company? all of the above? With these questions left unanswered, it can be occasionally frustrating to watch the spirits alternately charm, comfort, frighten, and belittle the living, often magnifying their most self-destructive musings.

This ghost story would be better off without its ghosts (despite charming and tuneful portrayals by Mikaela Sullivan and Kevin Webb), who mostly meddle in the living characters’ lives by amplifying their fears, misjudgments and self-doubts. They don’t need ghosts to do that for them. And, as much of the musical portion of the musical belongs to the ghostly interlopers, the predictable but ultimately moving story of a family thrown together by blood and circumstance is nearly drowned out by synth-pop hauntings. The balance is so off that it seems touch and go whether the excellent ensemble—with Kate Nawrocki, Karmann Bayuyo and Leo Spiegel as reluctant allies who need to learn trust at its heart—can land the emotional cargo. They do, and there is no denying that this is a good time for a reminder that compassion, and love can heal both a wounded heart and a wounded world. ‘Whisper House’ is decidedly not great theater, but as a musical curiosity it is mostly innocuous and entertaining, and Ed Rutherford’s cast ensures surely propels the plot to a satisfying and emotional conclusion, though a true resolution does not materialize. 

‘Whisper House’ runs through February 15 at the Athenaeum Theatre, 2936 N. Southport Avenue, Chicago. Tickets are available at athenaeumtheatre.org, by calling (773)935-6875 or in person at the Athenaeum Theatre Box Office.

Lauren Yee’s Cambodian Rock Band begins and ends with music, not what Americans think of when they think of Cambodia, as the glib narrator points out, shifting from slides of musicians whose songs are nearly lost to history to more familiar images of the genocide that resulted in their loss. Yee’s play, now in its Chicago premier at Victory Gardens, is a celebration of the lives that were lost under the brutal Khmer Rouge regime, first to violence (nearly two million people were killed within four years), then to guilt, time and a desire to forget. Underscored and interspersed by classic Khmer pop songs, 60’s and 70’s Cambodian surfer punk, and original songs by Dengue Fever that pay tribute to their Cambodian roots, Cambodian Rock Band is about a band, a genocide and a Cambodian father and his American daughter trying to connect. There is a lot going on, not all of it works, and it can get messy at times, but ultimately, Cambodian Rock Band is a fast-paced, entertaining, timely and moving call to art and action with a rocking score.

Welcome to Cambodia! It’s 1974 and Cambodian band Cyclos is rocking out. Until they are ushered off the stage by an as-yet unnamed emcee who segues from the Cambodian musical scene into the atrocities that most Americans think of when we think of Cambodia in the 1970’s. Enter Chum, who settled in America in in the late 1970’s and who is back in Phnom Penh to pay a surprise visit to his 26-year-old daughter, Neary, who is helping prepare the case against a Khmer Rouge war criminal, Comrade Duch, the warden of the S21, a notorious prison that only seven inmates survived. Chum not only seems unimpressed by his daughter’s efforts (she could have gone to Cornell Law School), but also questions their exigency. In fact, Chum seems more taken aback by his daughter’s pursuit of the case than by the fact that her towel-clad boyfriend appears in the hotel room that she calls home (though the fact that his heritage is Thai is problematic). Chum, with his embarrassing dad jokes and inadvertent double-entendres tries to steer Neary to enjoying the pleasures of Phnom Penh, its fish spa and karaoke. Neary is focused on the upcoming press conference about the case against Duch. As Neary plumbs the depths of the case, searching out survivors of S21, Duch introduces himself, and Neary slowly gets to know her father and his past. 

Marti Lyons has assembled a hard-rocking ensemble, which handles both the classic pop and surfer punk with assurance. She smoothly directs the transitions between times and places, utilizing a spare set comprised of neon, road cases, a few wheeled set pieces and a few pieces of furniture by Yu Shibagaki, visually reinforcing both the ephemerality of the 1970’s music scene and the glowing modern city that arose from the remains of the Khmer Rouge reign. Lighting designer Keith Parham and sound designer Mikhail Fiksel deftly shift the scene between the bootleg recording session, cramped hotel room, upscale hotel lounge, and claustrophobic prison cell. Izumi Inaba offers period-perfect costumes for the band and the Khmer Rouge guards, crushed velvet for our emcee and conservative suits for the employees of the Center for Transitional Justice. Times and places fade into each other, both the physical space and the musical and aural landscape, as it becomes clear that the present is inextricably bound to the past. Lyons directs with an unsentimental, clear-eyed view, not editorializing, throwing into relief the overwhelming, heart-wrenching choices faced by the characters.

The cast is uniformly excellent, delivering both moving, grounded performances and propulsive music. Leading the ensemble is Greg Watanabe as Chum, in a time-traveling portrayal that shows him going from eager, embarrassing and judgmental dad to the youthful version of character, whose coming of age was interrupted by the Khmer Rouge, and finally the father who is forced to reconcile the two. Watanabe brings the right mix of energy, humor and gravitas to the role. The catalyst for the story is Neary, whose fight for justice in Cambodia also serves to teach her about her heritage, played with humor and exasperation by Aja Wiltshire, who also plays the lead singer of Cyclos, Sothea, with brash vibrance. As her co-worker and fellow-Westerner, Ted, Matthew C. Lee provides charm and clueless bonhomie. However, it is as the self-confident, preening lead guitarist Leng, whose survival instincts lead him into the darkness of the new regime, that Lee delivers a note-perfect portrait of hopeful youth. Peter Sipla and Eileen Doan round out the band, as drummer Rom and keyboardist Pou—both are remarkable musicians and actors who capture the different responses to the encroaching threat of the Khmer Rouge, as well as filling other roles in the narrative. As the Comrade Duch, Rammel Chan is disconcertingly ingratiating, deploying brassy, reptilian charm alternating with quiet reflection that calls into question what we know we should feel. Yee’s play requires whiplash-inducing tonal shifts, and the cast navigates the transitions between past and present effectively, bringing to life the people and music of Cambodia, and effectively showing what was lost with each well-documented death in the genocide.

Cambodian Rock Band is an occasionally uneasy hybrid between rock concert, sit-com and documentary record of the Cambodian genocide under Pol Pot, but somehow the format ends up being the right mix. Though laced with humor, maybe because it is laced with humor, the play is a vivid tribute to the art and individuals who were lost in the years when the Khmer Rouge were in power. The music by band Dengue Fever revives the sounds of Cambodia in the 1970’s—both the traditional pop songs and the more Western rock sounds, that nevertheless were delivered with a Khmer accent. In telling one story and offering a glimpse into the atrocities committed by one man, Lauren Yee powerfully reminds us that those rows of black and white photos and the piles of skulls that are often Americans’ first impressions of Cambodia are just the end of many lives and stories. The energetic, talented cast unsentimentally and unsparingly bring to life the rock band of the title. An entertaining tribute to human resilience, it also does not shrink from showing the choices that allow evil to flourish. 

Cambodian Rock Band runs through May 5 at Victory Gardens Theatre, 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue. Performances are Tuesday – Friday at 7:30 pm, Saturday at 3 pm and 7:30 pm, and Sunday at 3 pm. Tickets are $32-$65. For tickets and information, visit www.victorygardens.org, or call or email the Victory Gardens Box Office at 773-871-3000 or This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Common sense dictates doing the right thing. On the surface, that seems obvious, but in August Wilson’s final play, Radio Golf, which premiered in 2005 and is receiving a timely and propulsive revival at Court Theatre, this is not at all clear. Though the characters are archetypal, and the situations contrived, it is precisely these extremes that cast the arguments of the play into sharp relief. What makes sense? No matter which side you choose in this examination of urban redevelopment, there is no outcome that benefits the residents of the Hill District or the protagonists of Wilson’s play, because no matter how far they have come, no matter what their ideals, it is 1997 and they are black and living in a racist America. Unfortunately, Wilson’s play has aged well—though broadly drawn, the events of the play are no less a reflection of American realities than they were two decades ago.

According to the program, director Ron OJ Parson has directed 25 productions of August Wilson’s plays. This is evident in his assured, lyrical work on this production. The characters are detailed, and the poetry of Wilson’s language emerges from the physical language of the blocking, so that the cracks in the sometimes conventional structure do not emerge until long after the final blackout. Though he allows Wilson’s humor to suffuse the evening, Parson has created a powerful and engrossing dialectic that offers much food for thought and few answers. Parson’s interpretation creates a sense of community and warm comradery among the characters, which accentuates the fact that the real threat lies beyond the action onstage. Given the surging poetry of Wilson’s script, it seems that this is the production that Wilson was writing to receive. Parson’s vision is complemented by a design team that is equally meticulous, setting the scene with unobtrusive but finely tuned details. Scenic designer Jack Magaw has created a grimy but well-appointed ground floor office for the Bedford Hills Development, Inc., jammed between neighboring buildings and accessed by a concrete stairwell. There are hints of the grandeur of the past in the tin ceiling and bay window, but the green-painted walls are stained, and the linoleum floor is more practical than elegant. Claire Chrzan lights most of the interior scenes in harsh, bright light, occasionally softened by practicals. She subtly shifts between moods and time, extending the magical realism to the windows of neighboring residences. Costume designer Rachel Anne Healy creates a period-perfect uniform for each character that allows each to evolve according to their fortunes, without veering into caricature. Sound designer Christopher M. LaPorte uses a funk-injected jazz score to set the tone, as well as contributing cool radio tracks and jarring sounds that invade the relative sanctuary of the office from the outside.

The cast of Radio Golf is uniformly excellent. As Harmond Wilks, the real estate developer hoping to bring back Pittsburgh’s Hill District while launching his bid to be mayor of both black and white citizens of the city, Allen Gilmore lends an Obama-esque, unruffled cool to his idealistic character, which gives way to almost petulant panic when he finds himself fighting for a future that seemed more secure than it turns out to be. As his golf-playing partner and newly-minted bank vice president Roosevelt Hicks, James Vincent Meredith is smoothly overbearing and casually abusive, while maintaining a boyish charm and ambition—he goes far enough in his self-serving tirades to draw derision but retains enough humanity to elicit sympathy. As Wilks’ wife, Mame Wilks, Ann Joseph is warm, no-nonsense and imperious; her attempt to open her husband’s eyes to the consequences of his choices for them both is heart-wrenching and powerful. Alfred H. Wilson plays Elder Joseph Barlow with a kinetic physicality that mirrors his scattershot philosophizing, rarely pausing as he reveals a strong gravitational center to his wandering thoughts. James T. Alfred brings comic timing and a self-aware physicality to the almost excessively forthright ex-con Sterling Johnson, who, while he has stopped punching everyone in the mouth to make himself feel good, still seems perfectly capable of doing so if he sees a need. As Wilks finds himself entangled in bonds that he thought had dissolved long ago, and Hicks finds himself presented with ways to turn his race into an asset, the battle lines are drawn, and it becomes clear that all the characters are casualties of a war that is being waged for profit by others, but there are promotions to be had if they join the winning side. As an ensemble, all the actors find the humor and good will in their characters, without allowing them to become bathetic or cartoonish. Though sometimes broadly drawn, each character finds his or her dignity in the sensitive and emotionally grounded portrayals onstage at Court.

Radio Golf alternates between laugh-out-loud (though at times decidedly un-PC) humor and incisive social commentary, spot-on examinations of familial and geographic loyalties and nearly stereotypical portraits of the members of a community and the different paths they take, and director Ron OJ Parsons and his expert cast, supported by a perfectly tuned design team, weave the tonal shifts into powerful, perfectly modulated quintet. On the surface, August Wilson’s final work may seem less haunting and lyrical than the previous plays of the ten-play Century Cycle that it completed, but this production belies that impression. Though some elements may seem facile, when the curtain comes down, one realizes that Wilson left behind a complex and uncompromising challenge for his audience. Wilson was an American who wrote about his country with awe, humor, rigor and compassion. In Radio Golf, he took on the issue of gentrification and redevelopment, and what happens when revitalization becomes disenfranchisement. In Court Theatre’s production, the play is an entertaining, empathetic and unyielding plea for doing the right thing, especially for those who wield the power to do so.

Radio Golf runs through September 30 at Court Theatre, 5535 S. Ellis Avenue, Chicago. Tickets, priced $50 - $74, are available at the Court Theatre Box Office, but calling (773)753-4472, or online at www.CourtTheatre.org.

“God’s will” is often invoked as a reason for suffering in Barbara Lebow’s 1984 A Shayna Maidel, now being revived in a powerfully acted and impressively designed production at Timeline Theatre. While this might provide comfort to those who suffer, it also provides cover for those who caused the suffering. This point is made in the play, but the focus is on what people do survive, not on the circumstances that compel them to have to fight for survival. Taking place in 1946, it is a powerful tribute to the resilience of those who lived through Hitler’s Final Solution. As one family realizes that their estrangement is based on more than just miles and struggles to once again become as whole as possible, their perspectives and memories go beyond the lists of the dead to show the personal impact of not only hate, but ignorance, both willful and not. As the Holocaust slips further into history, it is important to remind people of its toll on humanity, and how easy it was to stay on the sidelines, allowing “God’s will” to be done.

A Shayna Maidel begins the generation before the main events of the play, in a Polish village in 1876, where a child is being born in the midst of a Russian pogrom. Fires burn, screams fill the air, and horses’ hooves thunder. The baby, Mordechai, is born without a cry, but he survives. Flash forward to 1946, and Rose Weiss is roused from sleep by pounding on the door. It is her father, Mordechai Weiss, now a successful store manager in New York City, waking Rose with the news that her sister, Lusia, has survived the concentration camps and will be coming to stay with her in a few days. Rose, who has recently gotten a job and the apartment that she is being ordered to share, is not happy that she is being given no choice in the matter. She has no memory of Lusia and her mother, whom she and Mordechai left behind in Poland when they came to America when she was four. Though she feels guilty about being the sister who was able to grow up American, Rose is as American as Mordechai raised her to be. She was able to ride out the Depression without pain and, though she has forced herself to watch newsreels of Nazi atrocities, Mordechai has isolated her from news of the family and her sympathy is from a distance. Lusia’s arrival brings it home.

Emily Berman’s haunted Lusia captures the steely resolve that kept her from giving up and keeps her looking for her husband when the search seems hopeless. Her careful movements and speech conceal the accumulation of loss and suffering, as well as the seething fury, that she cannot leave behind. As her sister Rose, Bri Sudia embodies the more mundane struggles she faces—working and creating her own life and identity despite her father’s objections—she is radiant, powerful and compassionate, despite her ignorance of the world she escaped. Initially resentful of having to take in her lost sister, Rose becomes an ally and friend as the bonds of blood and memory emerge. As the patriarch Mordechai, Charles Stransky fully realizes the imperious anger that both daughters remember, and the pride that reveals his love for them, but also played a role in their estrangement, a fact that he forces himself to ignore. Carin Silkaitis plays Mama with a warmth and pragmatism that reflects the character’s own strength in facing hardships. Weaving through Lusia’s memories are her husband Duvid and her best friend Hanna. We see Alex Stein’s Duvid go from cocky teenager, to proud husband worried about protecting the future of his family while still retaining his brash charm. As Hanna, Sarah Wisterman is bubbly and gregarious, hopeful and defiant in the face Nazi atrocities.

Director Vanessa Stalling has assembled a perfect cast and understands the importance of remembering the events that tear apart the Weiss family in Lebow’s play, though some flashbacks prove problematic, lending an elegiac quality that deprives the play of its contemporary relevance. Still, the moments that provide a reason to remember are powerfully rendered—the comparison of lists of the lost, the litany of causes for Lusia’s abandonment in Poland, the hope that runs through the tragedy, not as a weak last gasp, but as a powerful choice. It is this hope that makes the production worth checking out, even though the script sometimes threatens to relegate the threats faced by the Weiss family to the past, rather than reminding us that they still exist. Stalling’s design team finds the balance between the visceral and the mundane. The note-perfect set by Collette Pollard and props by Hillarie M. Shockley, with their cheery colors and all the luxuries that a 1946 walk-up might contain, ensure that the realistic story stays connected to the real stories it represents. Costume designer Samantha C. Jones likewise accents the reality of the time, from the Rose’s middle-class chic, to Mama’s peasant vibrance, to Lusia’s evolving wardrobe, from drab Red Cross issued dress to the relative elegance of the flower prints that echo her sister’s own clothes. Lighting designer Rachel K. Levy shifts her palette between the warm glow of the apartment and memories of childhood to the harsh saturated colors that define the realities of oppression. Sound designer and composer Jeffrey Levin creates a rich aural tapestry, with music ranging from klezmer to period pop, the music of the present and memories, and the terrifying sounds of violent onslaught.

It is important that the world never forget the Holocaust. A Shayna Maidel brings its memory to life, but it does not go far enough in showing us why it is important, nor placing blame where it belongs. It becomes too easy to shift the blame to Mordechai, with his imperious pride, rather than a world that turned away. This has nothing to do with Vanessa Stalling’s meticulous and impassioned Timeline Theatre production, which is a devastating reminder of events that are growing distant enough that their lessons are being daily—and sometimes deliberately—forgotten. Emily Berman’s Lusia embodies the hope and strength required to survive crushing loss and abandonment, while Bri Sudia’s Rose shows the genuine value of empathy. As Mordechai, Charles Stransky finds the compassion behind his character’s overbearing demeanor, and the remainder of the ensemble show the tragedy of what was lost in the face of Nazi atrocities and the world’s wavering response. A Shayna Maidel, the play, misses opportunities to show the ongoing impact of ignoring ethnic cleansing and genocide—connections made, but not pursued. However, the members of Lebow’s fictional Weiss family and their journeys provide many indelible moments of recognition, recrimination, love and loss.

A Shayna Maidel runs through November 4 at Timeline Theatre Company, 615 W. Wellington, Chicago. Performances take place Wednesdays and Thursdays at 7:30 pm, Fridays at 8 pm, Saturdays at 4 pm and 8 pm, and Sundays at 2 pm. Tickets are available at timelinetheatre.com or by calling the box office at (773)281-8463 x 6.

*Extended through December 2nd

Penelope Skinner’s latest play, Linda, now receiving its United States Premiere at Steep Theatre, begins with the title character’s plea that attention must be paid…to women of a certain age. The seemingly inconsequential references to King Lear, Death of a Salesman and other tragic male protagonists become progressively more resonant as Linda (rivetingly portrayed by Kendra Thulin), accustomed to being the protagonist of her of life, fights for relevance and “visibility” as she finds herself being pushed to the margins both professionally and personally. Meanwhile, several characters make the case for irrelevance and invisibility. The questions raised by Skinner’s play are both timeless and timely, and she covers a lot of ground in its two and a half hours. Under Robin Witt’s direction, Linda is a scathing examination of the values of contemporary society and the impact that success has on those who strive for it. Linda is both entertaining and infuriating, Shakespearian in scope, and painfully human to its core. In a Chicago theater season that features several plays with middle aged characters trying to remain consequential in a youth-focused society, Linda confronts the issue through an unsparing lens that may make you want to look away, but if you don’t, your attention will be rewarded.

Linda is a senior brand manager at a cosmetics company called Swan Beauty Corporation, not to be confused with another company with an avian appellation, which is rolling out a new anti-aging cream. The author of the highly successful earlier “Real Beauty” campaign, which combined beauty products and self-esteem program, Linda’s marketing idea is “Visibility,” which would focus on women over 50. 25-year-old Amy has a counter-proposal based on her own experience, targeting women in their 20’s and 30’s who may be seeing, and fearing, the first hints of lines and crows’ feet: “Hi, Beautiful.” Amy has been inspired by Linda, but also sees her as a hurdle on her way to achieving her well-mapped life goals: marry by age 26, career well underway by age 29, two children shortly thereafter (because any later and neither her body nor her career will ping back). Amy is pragmatic, ruthless, terrified and terrifying. Making decisions about both of these women’s futures is Dave, who condescends, cuts off and mansplains while extolling his understanding of women. Drifting in and out of the office is Luke, a cheeky, gossipy temp, biding his time before running off to join an intentional community of people who share his belief that everything is an illusion. Linda’s hard-earned reality also includes two daughters. Alice, 25, is struggling to get over a viral photo incident that left her too visible and derailed her plans for a career in engineering. Bridget, 15, has a big audition for a drama academy coming up, and is trying to figure out how to stand out from the crowd, to say nothing of getting noticed by her career-obsessed mother and internet-surfing father. Husband Neil has just started a band, with a younger, attractive frontwoman, Stevie.

Director Robin Witt again demonstrates her ability to let no one off the hook, in a production that ranges from hilarious to heartrending to queasy. As we watch the events of Linda spiral out of control, the layers of complicity become almost nauseatingly clear. On a sleek set by Joe Schermoly (nothing comfortable or homey in this home that Linda has worked so many decades to create), under the harsh, sharply-focused lights by Brandon Wardell, and immersed in the portentous sound design by designer/composer Thomas Dixon, there is no softening of the realities the characters face. Costume designer Izumi Inaba perfectly captures the generational and motivational differences of the players. Props designers Emma Cullimore and Derik Marcussen add the minimal trappings of lives lived in spaces focused on mind and body—no one is responsible for the creation of anything tangible in this world, though they are capable of building and destroying lives.

As Linda, the award-winning executive who is about to be confronted with her legacy in a way she never anticipated, Kendra Thulin delivers a remarkable performance, teetering on the knife edge of a breakdown as she struggles to hang on to everything she has worked for since her early 20’s. Her Linda is certainly not always likeable—she is deliberately unapologetic and sometimes cruel as she tries to be the parent she believes her daughters need, and she is as relentless as those who are trying to unsettle her. As her nemesis and successor Amy, Rochelle Therrien is deliciously awful, but also reveals the fear that propels Amy as she claws her way to the top, belittling others to make herself look better. Destini Huston captures the pain that Linda’s daughter carries from being trapped in a past that she is not allowed to forget, and from being told to “get over it” when no one else is held accountable. Watching Huston’s Alice find another way to deal with her viral fame is both excruciating and hopeful. Caroline Phillips deserves credit simply for her performance as spectator, as 15-year-old Bridget watches the adults around her struggle to maintain their grip on their lives, but she goes well beyond this as she struggles to find her role—literally and figuratively--and get noticed by her parents and the auditors at the drama school where she is auditioning. Peter Moore’s schoolteacher Neil conveys the nice guy qualities that all the other people around him admire while showing his discomfiture with the rock and roll life he is trying on. Lucy Carpetyan’s Stevie, the lead singer/groupie in Neil’s rock band, is coming to terms with not being either Linda or Neil, as she tries to become relevant in her own life. Omer Abbas Salem is maddening and thoroughly charming as Luke, who proves that, with the right attitude, consequences can be for others. As he glibly touches the lives of those he meets, exacerbating their existential struggles, his idea that “everything is just as it should be” if one just lets go of one’s data becomes more than a little compelling. Finally, belying Linda’s belief in her “changing the world one girl at a time” campaign, is evidence that change is a long time coming, in the smug, self-satisfied and casually menacing portrayal by Jim Poole of company president Dave, who still holds all the cards, even if a few women have breached the board room.

Linda is a startling and pointed indictment of first world problems, from the need to remain visible and relevant even if one is not Helen Mirren, to the superficial measures of success that we choose, to the right to privacy that is too easily invaded. Playwright Penelope Skinner offers no easy answers for the mess people have gotten themselves into as she throws the spotlight onto Linda, who at first appears to be the apex of a new social order but ends up being vulnerable to the forces she helped unleash. The play touches on the many ways people find to diminish each other—age, gender, class, career, beauty—and ultimately suggests we may be focusing on the wrong things. Robin Witt and a uniformly strong ensemble, led by a poised yet emotionally raw Kendra Thulin, tackle the layered text with intelligence and wry humor, capturing the unmet potential and alienation of our ultra-exposed, ultra-networked modern lives.

Linda runs through August 18 at Steep Theatre, 1115 West Berwyn, Thursdays – Saturdays at 8:00 pm and Sundays at 3:00 pm. For more information and tickets visit www.steeptheatre.com or call 773-649-3186.

*Extended through September 1st

Everybody dies. In fact, Somebody will die very soon. That is not only reality, but also the premise of Everybody, a contemporary take on the Medieval morality play, Everyman. Each night, Somebody will be chosen randomly from the cast to go on the final journey. According to the press materials, this means there are 120 permutations of the cast list, chosen by lottery from a group of actors of different genders, ages and races. For this to happen, the actors playing Somebody have learned all of the lines. In Everyman, first published in 1508, a man is called to account for his life by Death, on orders from God, though he is allowed to bring a companion on the journey to his reckoning. Everyman asks a number of allegorical characters to accompany him, but they all balk, except Good Deeds, which is the only thing that goes with him to the grave. But this is not that play, as the extremely officious and informative Usher tells us. Brown Paper Box Co.’s regional premiere of Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’s Everybody is an engaging, often clever, reflection on what it means to live, and a reminder that Death will come for us all and now is a good time to think about how we are living our lives.

Despite the Usher’s assurance that we are not watching Everyman, Jacobs-Jenkin’s play adheres pretty closely to the source material in structure, except that Good Deeds are nowhere to be found (though Evil is there to the end), which makes the moral a bit less comforting. The reason may lie in the Buddhist origins of the source material, which this reviewer was unaware of until the Usher mentioned it. The play begins, as the original, with “God’s” frustration at the disintegration of humanity. The quotations are added by the actors every time God is mentioned. Death in turn is frustrated at having to figure out what exactly God wants, though he does figure it out, explaining to Somebody that God demands that they go with him, never to return, and prepare an accounting of their life’s work. Somebody is rightfully flustered by this assignment, as so much of their life has slipped from memory and God and Death have not prepared them for this moment. All of this happens before the plot actually gets set in motion with the selection of roles via lottery. The actor chosen to portray Everybody must take the ominous journey to the grave and God’s reckoning, and, as one would expect, it is a grueling and painful journey. But, for the evening, it is somebody else’s journey, so the audience can just sit back and enjoy.

Erin Shea Brady does not shirk from the meta-theatricality of the script. We are in a theater, as we are often reminded, and roles can be cast randomly. This conceit requires absolute commitment from the cast, and they throw themselves into their shifting parts wholeheartedly. The set by Evan Frank offers hardly any place to hide at the outset, and even less at the end. Samantha Corn’s costumes reinforce the allegorical nature of the characters and allow the actors to slip into their different parts. Intimacy Designer Charlie Baker deserves mention for easing the actors into an uncomfortably vulnerable encounter with Love. Sound designer Blake Cordell reinforces the otherworldly proceedings and choreographer Mollyanne Nunn contributes a real danse macabre. Ultimately, because the setting is minimal, it’s all on the performers.

Chelsea David, as guide, catalyst and comforter (Usher/God/Understanding) does a remarkable job ushering both audience and actors, delivering God’s insecure fury at the mess of humanity, and finally as a compassionate Understanding releasing Everybody to their death. David nearly conquers the streams of words she is tasked with through sheer force of will; this is to say that in lesser hands, there may have been a lot more looking at watches in the opening. She also makes it all look effortless. Kenny the Bearded is perfect as the sometimes petulant, always bombastic, and strangely sympathetic Death. Nora Fox plays Time with the certainty of youth, and just the right amount of youthful ‘tude. As neglected Love, Tyler Anthony Smith balances wounded ego, cruelty and ultimately touching loyalty as he demands abnegation from Everybody in return for his presence. The rest of the cast will presumably take turns at the other roles in the play. On the night being reported here, Alys Dickerson made the journey from terrified disbelief to calm resignation feel as wrenching as Everybody’s slow realization of the hopelessness of her situation would. Donovan Session was hilariously fickle as Friendship in this age can be, running through reasons why Everybody might feel depressed, commenting on their many passing connections (how many times they must have liked each other on Facebook), and swearing to stay with her to Hell and back, back being the operative word. Cousin (Hal Cosentino) and Kinship (Francesca Sobrer) offered enough comfort to make their rejections all the more painful. As Stuff, Alex Madda relished her role in ruining another human. The actors returned at the end to play Understanding’s team of Strength, the Five Senses, Beauty and Everybody’s Mind. No need to mention that these attributes fade as Everybody enters the grave.

There are a lot of pointed observations in Everybody about the way humans find to avoid real connections and dodge responsibility for others and the world, but despite all of the cleverness, Branden Jacobs-Jenkins does not seem to have a firm handle on the point of the journey. Unless that is the point. Despite the shortcomings of the destination, Everybody’s journey does remind us to perhaps be a bit more conscious of our lives and the people that pass through them. Director Erin Shea Brady and her game team of actors and designers, led by the indefatigable Chelsea David, have created an immersive and thought-provoking Everyman for the internet age. Though the play sometimes wanders into the philosophical weeds, the sincerity of the company in trying to untangle the mysteries and meanings of this existential journey, and Everybody’s dawning consciousness, is worth at least one visit.

Everybody, presented by Brown Paper Box Co., runs through August 12 at the Buena at Pride Arts Center, 4147 N. Broadway, Chicago. For tickets and information visit www.BrownPaperBox.org and https://dime.io/events/EVERYBODY.

Jules Verne wrote one of the first science fiction novels in 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas, the story of three travelers who find themselves imprisoned on the Nautilus, a submarine captained by the megalomaniacal Captain Nemo. The novel was light on political detail, though Captain Nemo occasionally claimed to use his supremacy in the seas to right wrongs committed on land, especially those perpetrated by colonial powers. Nemo’s reasons were more fully articulated in Verne’s follow-up, The Mysterious Island, elements of which become the framing device for this Lookingglass Production, adapted by David Kersnar, who also directs, and Althos Low (aka Steve Pickering). Ensemble member Kersnar shows a deft hand and strong familiarity with the resources he can muster to bring the undersea world of the novels spectacularly to life, though the attempt to explain Nemo’s vengeful politics weighs the production down.

At its heart, 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas is an entertaining yarn, filled with hair-raising encounters with monsters, encounters made more terrifying by the fact that they take place in the unforgiving confines of the world’s oceans, with their more ordinary terrors. Kersnar and Low have done a remarkable job of bringing this world to the stage, staying true to Verne’s vision while making updates that make the story more accessible to contemporary audiences. One of these is changing the gender of the marine biologist who recounts Nemo’s travels and scientific discoveries. Pierre Aronnax and his aide-de-camp, Conseil, are recast as Morgan Aronnax and Brigette Conseil. This proves to be a strong choice in terms of storytelling, as it makes a little sense of Aronnax’s initial sympathy for Nemo, as both have felt the sting of being underestimated by those in power. The creators have assembled a team of artists and designers who are up to the task of bringing the tour of the seas to the stage. Todd Rosenthal’s set contains a toy-theater proscenium for the wide-angle shots of the ocean, from the sinking of ships to the horrors of the drowning sailors to the view from the windows of the Nautilus. The Nautilus itself is realized as an exterior platform that rises and tilts precipitously as the story demands, and hints at the confinement of the underwater craft that can be accessed only through a small hatch. Costume designer Sully Ratke combines story-telling and function, creating designs that capture the altered states of the characters as their journeys unwind, as well as their backgrounds and social stations. Props by Amanda Hermann avoid getting too steampunk, but capture the Victorian aesthetic of the novel, reminiscent of the original illustrations. However, it is the more ephemeral design elements that really transport the audience to the depths: sound designer Ric Sims and lighting designer Christine Binder immerse the audience in locations from New York City, the decks of various water crafts, to the depths of the seven seas. Floating in this aural and visual landscape are the puppets designed by Blair Thomas, Tom Lee, and Chris Wooten and athletic actors performing Sylvia Hernandez Di-Stasi’s brilliant aerial choreography, which allows the characters to float and dive beneath the waves. The puppets themselves are worth the price of admission: lifelike and magical at once, they float behind and off the stage to invite audience and characters fully into the terrors and wonders of the oceans.

The play begins with a group of refugees from the American Civil War meeting the man who enabled them to survive their escape, Captain Nemo, now older, alone and questioning his prior life as a terror of the seas. It then flashes back to where the book begins, introducing French professor of natural history Morgan Aronnax, who receives a last-minute invitation to join the crew of the USS Bainbridge, under Captain Farragut, who is commissioned to seek and destroy whatever is terrorizing the seas—be it craft or creature. Aronnax postulates a giant narwhal in a scene that brilliantly establishes her character and her position vis-à-vis her male colleagues. Kasey Foster does an admirable job of injecting charm into the generally no-nonsense and humorless professor, who is almost as single-minded in her pursuit of knowledge as Nemo in his pursuit of vengeance and domination. Kareem Bandealy is hampered by a script that does not allow him to fully realize the zealous evil of Nemo—despite his powerful presence and overbearing bluster, he gets bogged down in the scenes that switch to introspection and long-winded revelation. Scenes that allow him to do this while perpetrating acts of terror (the sinking of a naval vessel, for example) serve the plot much better than dinner time polemics and elegiac remembrances of his role in the Great Mutiny of 1847, which led to the losses that spurred his vengeance against imperialism. Rounding out the quartet that forms the center of the narrative are Walter Briggs as the cheeky Ned Land, a harpooner brought on board the Bainbridge to help destroy the monster responsible for the deaths of so many sailors, and Lanise Antoine Shelley as Conseil. Briggs brings the right balance of swagger and empathy to his role, and Shelley makes a good audience foil for the occasionally delusional professor, pointedly and humorously reminding her of the realities of their positions as women in a male world, and then as prisoners (not guests) of the mad Captain Nemo. Nemo’s “guests” also prove themselves to be up to the physical challenges of taking on human and cephalopod foes (Shelley has a brilliant and harrowing encounter with the latter). The rest of the cast—Thomas J. Cox, Joe Dempsey, Micah Figueroa, Edwin Lee Gibson and Glenn-Dale Obrero--provide some of the most striking moments of the evening and fill the stage with a multitude of supporting characters. Cox anchors the crew of Civil War wanderers and helps flesh out the alternate narrative. Joe Dempsey makes an impression as Pencroff, whose gratitude towards Nemo fuels his understanding and as the surprisingly open-minded and humorous Captain Farragut. Edwin Lee Gibson brings stalwart nobility to Cyrus Smith, one of the men who encounters Nemo in the first scene, and a roguish pragmatism to the self-serving constable who allows Ned Land to board the U.S.S. Bainbridge with a little persuasion from the Captain. Micah Figueroa and Glenn-Dale Obrero also fill the ranks of the Civil War escapees (with a humorous turn from Figueroa as the naïve Harbert), as well as handling the bulk of the fighting and diving, including an amazing sequence of pearl diving that captures the best of Lookingglass’s take on Verne’s novel—providing spectacle and social commentary in a seamless melding of physical theater, puppetry and characterization.

It’s not perfect, but 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas has enough to satisfy young (tweens and up) and old. Though it tries valiantly and not always successfully to engage with the political themes of human rights and colonization, ultimately it is buoyed by a strong sense of good old-fashioned story-telling. The breathtaking special effects, aerial dance, puppet magic, and a committed and capable cast who can match the acting and physical demands of the spectacle more than make up for some ponderous philosophical ballast. There is enough food for thought to inspire conversation, but the focus, as it should, remains mostly on the undersea journeys of the Nautilus and its willing and unwilling crew members’ battles with Kareem Bandealy’s power-hungry Nemo and the natural perils of the seas. It is well worth hopping on board to witness the sea battles, sea spiders, fish, squid and other undersea wonders dreamed up by Lookingglass’s team, under the assured direction of David Kersnar.

20,000 Leagues Under the Seas runs through August 19, 2018, at Lookingglass Theater, 821 N. Michigan. Performances are Wednesdays-Sundays at 7:30 pm, and Sundays at 2:00 pm. For tickets and more information, visit www.lookingglasstheatre.org or call 312-337-0665.

*Extended through August 26th