“The powerful script, which premiered Off-Broadway at Manhattan Theatre Club in 2018, drops the audience in on James (Michael Turrentine), a gentle young slave and part of a makeshift family toiling on a plantation in the Deep South (exact state undefined). The Civil War is nearing its bitter end, although James and his “people,” Aunt Mama (Renee Lockett) and Mattie (Ashley Crowe), have no way of knowing this. What they do know, via a literate James who reads old newspapers during his infrequent leisure time, is that President Lincoln may soon sign a law freeing slaves from their formal subjugation. A glimmer of hope, and a prayer to the mystical old tree that seems tied to James’ destiny fortify the trio that divine justice is imminent.
Into this overworked, physically and emotionally abused, but tight-knit family walks Henry (Londen Shannon), a handsome and mysterious stranger with sexy qualities that command the attention of Mattie and James in similar ways. Mattie is keenly aware of the emotional and physical desire she feels in Henry’s presence. James, giving off more than a touch of pure, Christ-like goodness in the style of Melville’s Billy Budd, is slower to understand the nature of his attraction. In any case, after Henry’s arrival, a potentially dangerous sexual tension is introduced between the two men.”
“Since we know the Donald gives less than half a shit about the experiences of everyday Americans, we can assume he’d like to avoid the fate of Chris Christie. At a Chicago Cubs vs. Milwaukee Brewers game in July 2017, the former Governor of New Jersey and onetime Trump acolyte got all he wanted from fans who jeered him as a “hypocrite” (this still gives me the LOLs).
Given the endless, howling torrents of controversy blowing through the Trump administration, including an active impeachment investigation unfolding in the House of Representatives, one might wonder why 45 finds it necessary to insert himself into the World Series at all. This report from the Associated Press makes the laudably straight-faced claim that the orange one’s appearance at Nationals Park ‘will continue a rich tradition of intertwining the American presidency with America’s pastime.’ The article also mentions that George W. Bush wore a bulletproof vest to a game at Yankee Stadium in 2001, but Trump is concerned that the protective device might make him ‘look too heavy.’ The jokes…they write themselves.
Fans with tickets to Sunday night’s game will undergo extra security measures, and face superlative demands upon their patience and attention. If the Nationals prevail tonight, the team will be just one win away from its first World Series championship. The presence of a megalomaniacal, tangerine-colored buffoon desperate for good press threatens to overrun a potentially bi-partisan celebration for a Washington D.C. that has suffered extensive brand damage since January 2017.”
“As the musical begins, Alfie’s internal life finds expression in his commitment to community theater. Leading a merry band of invested misfits in a production of Oscar Wilde’s Salome, Alfie courts controversy — and a reckoning with his own soul — as he prepares his team for “Going Up” in the basement of St. Imelda’s church. The arrangements of the songs in each scene, such this one about the flurry of preparing for opening night, categorically respond to Alfie’s own internal, if invisible, mood swings. With music by Stephen Flaherty and lyrics from Lynn Ahrens, A Man of No Importance’s score supports a small story, compelling for its ability to give voice to the people we fail to notice each day.
If the work is intentionally understated, that doesn’t prevent a dynamic and capable cast from pulling off big emotional drama, matched only by show-stopping song and dance. Staged inside the relatively small, 85-seat Broadway Theatre of the Pride Arts Center, the production feels large, owing to onstage and creative talent adept at realizing big visions in tight spaces.”
“Directed by Patrizia Acerra, Twice, Thrice, Frice… drops audiences in on the interconnected lives of three suburban Muslim women. Khadija (a terrific Annalise Raziq) is the mother hen/older sister figure to Amira (Catherine Dildilian), an artist and real estate professional, and Samara (Marielle Issa), a young 30-something balancing a career with an MBA program. Samara is also the daughter of Khadija’s deceased bosom friend, investing their relationship with what at first seems like a relatively harmless co-dependency.
Without giving away spoilers, the women’s somewhat predictable lives begin to quickly unravel. The play prophetically opens with an intense debate between the three on the subjects of adultery, polygamy, Sharia law and how all of these forces are shaped by American citizenship and culture. The discussion underpins the plot points to follow, as well as the dynamics between the women.
Amira—childless, happily married but somewhat lonely—initially serves as the rhetorical antagonist to her more culturally conservative friends, rejecting the notion that Muslim men are entitled to sensual gluttony by either gender or divine providence. Khadijah and Samara adopt more traditional positions that are taken apart and reconfigured as the story evolves. Over 100 intermissionless minutes, we learn that perhaps neither Khadijah nor Samara are quite as conventional as first presented. This is a tangled, complicated story of survival, betrayal and moral responsibility—written, directed and acted by talented women aware of their agency.”
Harvey Weinstein, who deployed an entire mass of enablers in service of his sexual crimes and subsequent cover-ups, is FLUMMOXED by suggestions he reached his disgusting paws into other controversies in order to spare himself.
Andy Lack leads a morally pure media empire that somehow employed one of the longest-running, most rampant and overpaid beasts of prey in broadcast history. But it’s Ronan Farrow doing this disrespecting of his colleagues.
Matt Lauer prizes his family relationships above all else, dammit! He’s just a lying philanderer and rapist trying to rebuild his life. Why (oh why!) can’t we just leave the poor pervert ALONE?
The immediate, scripted and entirely cynical reaction of all of these parties to Farrow’s book, which shot to the top of bestseller lists a week before its debut, is indicative of its promise of speaking truth to power. These men can feel feint, pathetic grasps on the narrative slipping further away. Farrow’s record of accomplishment and industry respect have made him increasingly dangerous. A piece from him is no as longer easy to scuttle as it was in 2017.
That doesn’t mean the predators and their fix-it men won’t keep trying. The conspiracy, however weakened, rolls on.”
“In modern-day Alabama, Edward Bloom (an utterly transfixing Tommy Thurston) and his wife Sandra (Kyrie Anderson) are preparing for their son’s (Jeff Pierpont) wedding. Will Bloom has become emotionally estranged from his father, who he views as an odd man in a complicated relationship with the truth. While Sandra and Will’s new bride (Nicole Besa) take delight in Edward’s Odysseus-like coming-of-age stories, Will is annoyed by his father’s opacity as he prepares to start his own family.
Mr. Thurston is a revelation as an admittedly imperfect husband and father who nonetheless regards life as a series of colossal possibilities. No experience is limiting except as beheld by the small thinker. It can’t be easy for an actor to play a character who repeatedly vacillates between a teenager and an elderly man without ever losing sight of subtle shifts in energy, appearance and wisdom. Mr. Thurston is so effective at these quick changes that it’s easy to forget we’re watching the same performer.
The actor is supported by a marvelous cast that includes Ms. Anderson as Sandra, Edward’s muse, best friend and wife. As portrayed by an actress gifted in emotional range, song and pulchritude, it’s easy to understand the passionate man’s love for Sandra at first sight. And Robert Quintanilla is remarkable as Karl, one of the characters from Edward’s whimsical tales. A gentle behemoth with a delicate cultural palette and thirst for learning, Mr. Quintanilla’s performance is reminiscent of Andre the Giant’s turn in The Princess Bride. His work is just as endearing as the former wrestler’s in that film, however, accompanied by stronger diction.”
“The most effective science fiction is that which places authentic people in fantastic situations, lending a constant and credible edge to intriguing unreality. Somewhere along his writing journey, Mr. McDowell stumbled over that paradigm and was unable to course correct (space pun acknowledged, if not intended). By the conclusion of X, the audience, like the characters onstage, must necessarily lose the narrative thread.
While Mr. McDowell alone is responsible for the rhetorical downshift into linguistic babble, there is enough empty space left for director Jonathan L. Green to clarify the narrative, but he doesn’t seem to know what direction it’s headed, either. In spite of the dramaturgical and production challenges, Gage Wallace delivers a worthy performance as British space bro Clark, a revelation of obnoxiousness, comedic timing and genuine pathos. Mr. Wallace, Ms. Price and H.B. Ward, who plays universe-weary elder crewman Ray all deserve better material.
If X ended after the first act, theatergoers would be treated to a meditation on the present stewardship of our planet as leading to inevitable tragedy. However, the fresh ideas, innovative structure and fearless reckoning with the mistakes of the cultural present that offer such early promise, yield to a confusing, senseless and forgettable conclusion.”