Displaying items by tag: Laura Alcala Baker

Matthew Paul Olmos is a playwright on the rise, and under the direction of Laura Alcalá Baker we have a chance to see a beautiful production of an exceptional work in its world premiere at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre. As the vernacular title suggests, “A Home What Howls (or the house what was ravine)” is not a staid work, not a constrained “Cherry Orchard” where emotions are buried between the lines.

Instead, Olmos’ work is poetic, magical, and musical as well, and the characters, though poor, are living rich, happy lives in their homes. In the first act, realism rules in many scenes, and Olmos shows a mastery of dialog and detail.

The play opens with a married couple—Abrana (Charin Alvarez) and Manuel Vargas (Eddie Torres) asleep on a bed. In the adjacent room their daughter Soledad (Leslie Sophia Pérez) is hard at work on papers scattered around the floor, perhaps her schoolwork, or maybe something else.

Her parents are awakened by sounds of trickling water running outside. Soon after, sound of a helicopter roars by, and we hear earth moving equipment as well. “There are nightmares around this house,” says Manuel as he and Abrana jump from the bed, and he begins fiddling with a trap door in the floor—an escape hatch?

We begin to piece together that this family is illegally living in a home condemned to make way for a reservoir, one that will allow housing and other development nearby ravine , through which a river flows. By means of a kind of inferential exposition, Olmos paints a portrait of what happens when families are driven from their homes by development—not from the outside looking in, but from inside the homes and families.

Olmos departs from this style to solid realism filled with exposition in one crucial scene: a public hearing at which the now adult Soledad challenges government official Frank over the process by which these families in the way of development have been displaced. It is certainly the best representation I’ve run across of a marginalized community challenging the validity of an eminent domain claim by city officials to displace homeowners dwelling in an area coveted by developers.

As the ravine along which they live is being flooded, and their homes taken, Soledad challenges the city establishment at a public hearing, outing all the tropes which society accepts as the rules of the game—the original seizure of the land from indigenous people by treaty and ceremony; the surveys of businesses showing broad support for the development; Tim Hopper in the role of Frank is exquisitely obtuse. After all, he argues, a ceremony was held in which a “citizen” of the indigenous “transferred” rights to development to the city. “How was this representative procured?” Soledad asks.

The question flies over his head, as Frank goes on to describe, in all sincerity, a ceremony that he found moving—but it highlights the suggestion that the indigenous individual may have had no right to speak for his people. “You’re using the term ‘peace offering,’” Soledad says. “But Public Works uses the terms ‘relinquish’ and ‘transfer.’”

And what about the original homeowners who settled for generations in this indigenous land. ”They were not asked, but they were considered deeply,” Frank says. ”Only businesses” were surveyed, admits Frank, who is beginning to realize he has aquite an adversary in Soledad. Frank says the homeowners displaced were compensated for the value of their homes, which were dilapidated and brought them little. But a home is much more than a building, Soledad points out. How were they compensated for the loss of happiness and memories, and the dispersion of their families, she asks. Market value can’t equal that kind of loss.

“A Home What Howls” runs about 90 minutes, no intermission, and is part of Steppenwolf's Young Adults theater program. But as with other such works in the Young Adults series, it is profoundly good, so I try to see them all.

I will say that I couldn’t always follow the magical parts of the second half, as the old woman resident Syera Lama (Isabel Quintero) appears. She teams up with Soledad in a quest for the rights of the people, encountering a menacing train conductor, also played by Hopper. Quintera also appears numerous times disguised as a magical figure Coyote. Despite my own confusion, the audience was clearly digging it, and the laughter at comical scenes was quite full. “A Home What Howls" runs through March 2 in Steppenwolf’s new in-the-round Ensemble Theater. It’s a great chance to see the work of a playwright we will doubtless be hearing from more and more.

Kids these days…

I went into opening night of Gift Theatre’s production of Martin McDonagh’s The Pillowman only knowing that my 16-year-old daughter was excited to be my date. “It’s dark, Dad,” she warned me. Boy, was she right. “But it’s amazing, Dad,” she also assured me. And boy, was she even righter on that count.

So, dark and amazing. The Pillowman is both of these. But what is it?

A buddy cop piece. A murder mystery. The touching tale of two brothers, each all the other has in the world. A warning from some dystopian dictatorship. A volume of grim, gruesome fairy tales. The Pillowman is all of these things, and more. Much more.

I haven’t enjoyed a play this much since Goodman’s Jeff-winning 2018 production of The Wolves. And that’s because — along with McDonagh’s masterful book, Laura Alcala Baker’s visionary direction, and Lauren Nichols and Courtney Winkelman’s dark, stark scenery, of course — the four actors who tell The Pillowman’s story (and its stories within the story) give what’s a pretty soulless premise a whole lot of soul. The four-person cast is The Pillowman’s beating, battered, bleeding, bloody heart.

A word of warning. This play is dark. And shocking. And violent. It’s about child murders. And even worse, childhood trauma. But even more shocking is, coming from the mouths of a couple of the characters, a word I’d figured was too taboo to have to hear in today’s world. The R Word. Of course, its use speaks volumes about the characters who use it. Even as it’s used to describe Jay Worthington’s Michal, a developmentally disabled fellow. Worthington, to his credit, plays Michal with incredible restraint and empathy, never using the character’s condition and lot in life for laughs. Whether climbing the walls or crawling the floor, whether admitting to the unthinkable or revealing unthinkable trauma, Worthington’s Michal draws the eye whenever he’s onstage — an incredible character, but just as incredible a performance.

Michal’s brother Katurian, the play’s main character, is a storyteller and tells this story to us, the audience. Tucked away in some future police interrogation room for the duration of the play, Katurian begins the show with a bag over his head, as in the dark as his audience — us — is. Martel Mannin’s face and expressions do the same heavy lifting that Michal’s physicality do, manufacturing suspense, shock, and sorrow — a lifetime of sorrow. And, along with inventive ways of illustrating Katurian’s twisted children’s tales, Mannin’s face and voice keep the audience enraptured as he tells one story after another, each designed again to suspend belief, to shock sensibilities, and to create a world of sorrow.

In Katurian’s world, his cement holding cell, we also meet the two cops investigating a series of incidents seemingly copied straight from the pages of the fictional storyteller’s fictional stories. Gregory Fenner’s Ariel comes off at first as the prototype “bad cop” (I think one of the two even identifies him as such), threatening (and carrying out) acts of brutality, puffing on a vape, and stalking the concrete cube that is the play’s entire world. But look closer and it’s Fenner’s eyes that tell deeper stories that come to the fore as the play progresses. In Ariel’s eyes, ferocity morphs into fear.

But in a cast where each member could lay claim to being the MVP, my award goes to Cyd Blakewell. Her role, Detective Tupolski — it seems both from the play’s unchanged dialogue and a bit of internet perusing I did after the house lights came on — was written for a man. (Jeff Goldblum played the role in New York.) This is a physical (and violent) play, and Blakewell’s easy and subtle physicality looms throughout, even as others are applying electrodes and murdering children and climbing and crawling and crying and creating dark imaginary worlds, as she just pretends at being the “good cop.” (Full disclosure: when Blakewell first started her bit, my daughter turned to me and said, “It’s mom!” at the same time I turned to her and said “It’s your mom!” so maybe her performance hit close to home.) And it’s the story that Blakewell’s Tupolski tells near the end, using just a blackboard and a piece of white chalk, that was for me the best scene in a play full of contenders.

So if you’re up for a very dark evening of entertainment, you’ll be entertained. And if you can get past some pretty unsettling content in order to admire acting and storytelling at its finest, The Gift Theatre’s The Pillowman is for you, now through March 29.