Theater
An apocalyptic backdrop gives the play urgency, especially given the current worldwide struggle to contain the Corvid-19 virus, which has already claimed thousands of lives.
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There’s much to admire and appreciate about this MRT production; but the play’s lack of a solid dramatic spine is a crippling problem.
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Given Dickens’ penny-a-word driven verbosity and his fondness for resolving every plot point with a flurry of coincidences, adapter McEleney seems undecided: is this history play a tragedy or a farce?
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Cheryl McMahon is quietly spectacular as Ida, who tries desperately to conceal her cognitive decline behind a wall of egocentric cheerfulness that borders on the frantic.
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The stories in Citrus exhibit a powerful commonality: these portraits of th3e experiences of black women suggest that, over time, everything and nothing has changed.
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As my second wave feminist companion said as we left the theater, “That was hilarious. And I am SO ANGRY.”
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The only way forward, to go beyond American myths of innocence, is to confront the enduring crimes of the past.
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For me, Sweat hits its riveting stride in its second half, when the pressures of the strike tests the relationships of its working class characters.
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The message of August Wilson’s final play: the future rests not on the number of Whole Foods we build but on the culture we value.
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The overall effect is one of a genial, superficial club lecture on reading and writing poetry, punctuated by Frost’s Greatest Hits.
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Arts Commentary: Rich in Creativity — But Nothing Else