Shadowlands Not since Barbara Stanwyck, as self-sacrificing mother Stella Dallas (1937), who peered into that upper-crust window to see her daughter finally find happiness, has there been such a weepie as William Nicholson’s love story Shadowlands. Perhaps Erich Segal’s Love Story, the curse of the early ’70s, might be next, with impossibly smug Ryan O’Neal climbing into impossible actress Ali MacGraw’s sickbed, finding then losing love due to terminal illness. But Shadowlands (1989) has an impeccable pedigree, a love story with weighty, theological overtones. The somewhat true story of middle-aged C.S. Lewis (Steven Fenley), the 20th century’s most unapologetic adherent of Christianity, who finds love with feisty American Jewish convert Joy Gresham (Lisa Thomas-Morrison), only to lose her to incurable bone cancer. Enduring such a loss, he finds his faith sorely tested as never before. This is a tearjerker for the middle-aged smart set. Even faded intellectuals deserve a good cry. Bring a box of Kleenex, for not even the rocked-ribbed and steel-riveted will go unaffected. Nicholson’s adaptation of his own TV drama hits all the hallmarks in inducing tears. Lewis, known to his friends as Jack, is a confirmed bachelor, a stuffy Oxford don, a successful writer of children’s lit (The Chronicles of Narnia series) and, emotionally repressed, a piece of stone. An unrepentant Christian, he lays the groundwork by asking, foremost, Why would God, a god of love and compassion, allow us to suffer? His answer is dry and pedantic: He gives us pain to forge, or sculpt, us into the better nature we will become when this life — the shadowlands — is left behind and real life begins. Lewis’s lecture is intelligent, witty, forceful, but it’s all empty exercise. He debates without expertise, without experience, in the real world. That’s what Joy – what a marvelously ironic name – will give him. With her indomitable life force, she opens him up, revealing the fallible, loving human being inside. This hard man, this man of intellect and debate but of abiding faith, will be softened by love. The walls he’s erected to protect himself through the years will shatter under love’s power. Then, as if mocking his very core, his heart will be shattered, too, when Joy is taken from him. Although framed as the ultimate test of faith, Shadowlands is the story of an emotionally stunted man finding happiness, only to have it snatched away while he’s still giddy from the discovery. It’s a classic of its kind. Under the fluid and insightful direction of Rachel Mattox, Shadowlands packs an emotional wallop. One of Country Playhouse’s most elegant productions in seasons, the play is swathed in numerous heart-stopping touches: a beautiful design concept by Trey Otis (those bookcases that glide in and out to reveal each new scene, with that evocative wardrobe center stage à la Narnia and the golden apple tree seen through the window); an evocative soundscape (by Fenley) that is cinematic in its effectiveness; aptly perfect costumes by Claremarie Verheyen; dramatically effective lighting by Eric Marsh; and an amazingly adroit cast that draws us ever deeper into the story even though we know exactly where it’s headed. They make each revelation fresh, sparkling, alive with meaning. Fenley’s a quiet revelation as Lewis. He holds his own against the prigs at Oxford (Alan Hall is quite remarkable as misogynist Riley, as is Ted Doolittle as Lewis’s bachelor brother Warnie) but doesn’t seem to convince himself of woman’s worth until intrigued by the letters from Joy. Once he meets her, however, his entire world changes. With Fenley, you watch as Lewis’s shell cracks under her warmth and persistence, and his final scenes are masterfully handled between pain, knowledge, and terrible acceptance. It’s not a showy performance, but, my, it is deep and true. Thomas-Morrison shines as prickly, combative Joy, even though her character is not as rich nor as deeply plumbed by Nicholson. Nevertheless, she’s an admirable foil for hostile Riley and able to win over Warnie by force of personality. She’s so no-nonsense, clear-thinking and pure of spirit, it’s no wonder Lewis succumbs. So do we. Nicholson’s drama might aspire to be the ultimate test of faith, but it really says, quite plainly, Live completely in the moment and never stop yourself from falling in love. Whatever pain that causes, it ultimately proves you’re alive. Any religion on earth would champion that. Through April 12. Texas Repertory Theatre, 14243 Stuebner Airline Road, 281-583-7573. — DLG
stupid f*****g bird Thoroughly mesmerizing, never less than entertaining and provocative (how about that title, huh?), Posner’s sly Chekhov knockoff stupid f*****g bird (2013) is much more a love letter to the theater than it is to Chekhov. Yes, bird riffs on the 1895 Russian comedy as starting point, invoking most of the famous characters, plot and situations that are by now almost patented devices, but Posner filters the whole thing through postmodern gimlet eyes until the play becomes a meditation on theater itself. Is your life changed, it wants to ask, by your going out to the theater, this theater, Stages, and watching a play, this play, that has been written by one of the characters? And by the way, are you not a character in your own play right now? Haven’t you ever felt like you were watching yourself act through life? Posner keeps the avant-garde hip-hop fresh, dipping into Chekhov as if drinking at the source, using what he needs in this whirligig disquisition on life, art, family and love. He breaks the fourth wall all the time, having the actors, or their characters, sometimes both, turn to the audience to ask for advice or to debate the merits of what’s happening, or just to vent. Constantly reminding us we’re watching a play is a timeworn technique, but this author’s conceit bogs down the play unnecessarily, tripping up the drama’s momentum just when we’re getting into it. By play’s end, these irritations turn somewhat endearing, just like the fascinating characters on view who behave badly, stupidly, blindly in their quest for happiness. That Chekhovian specialty is caught by Posner and director Kenn McLaughlin with admirable facility and dexterous stagecraft. You don’t have to know anything about The Seagull to be caught up in bird‘s spell. At the lakeside house of famous actress Emma (Elizabeth Ann Townsend), son Con (Ross Bautsch) stages a play, a site-specific happening, that’s something new and modern, he hopes. He pines for lovely Nina (Emily Neves), his amateur actress, but she’s distracted by Emma’s lover, famous writer Trig (Shawn Hamilton), who does nothing to stop the infatuation. Rebel Mash (Elaine Robinson), all in black because “it’s slimming” and because “I am in mourning for my life” (a direct lift from Seagull), loves Con. Mash, in turn, is loved by sweet innocent Dev (Joseph Palmore), Con’s best friend. Omniscient and overseeing this round-robin’s nest of would-be lovers is Emma’s brother Dr. Sorn (James Belcher). When he’s not being ignored, he pines for something less tangible: more time. It’s a show about equals — equally clueless, lost, hoping — and no one keeps the spotlight for long. As surrogate playwright, Con is prime, and though he’s cursed by melodramatic overkill, Bautsch goes for broke. He whines loudest and longest of the group, so we don’t truly warm to his character, but Bautsch surprises with rich variations on a young man’s angst and hurting heart. As gorgon mother who sees passion and fame slipping away, Townsend, with a voice pitched somewhere between Tallulah Bankhead and Mount Vesuvius, is radiant, glowing from within. Robinson, as depressed goth Mash, who has an appropriate ukulele song for every various shade of her dark moodiness, is prickly and forlorn. Palmore practically steals the show with his loopy Dev, full of hope and understanding much more than anyone gives him credit for. Neves, as wily Nina using youth as lure, desires fame with the same ferocious tenacity as older rival Emma; Hamilton conveys Trig’s ego with rueful old-world charm and grace; and Belcher wraps the wistful doctor under layers of cozy compassion and regret. It’s an exemplary cast, and as in Chekhov, we like them all. Jon Young’s scenic design is simple but elegant — planked wood floor, folding chairs, a gigantic desiccated bird wing suspended upstage (okay, we get it!), and a second-act kitchen set that would be the envy of HGTV. Renee Brode’s painterly lighting and Phillip Owen’s plaintive soundscape, are, as is usual with Stages, hallmarks of the company’s meticulous production design. The play shines. Don’t let that profane title put you off. It’s only there to shock. (And there’s plenty more salt sprinkled throughout the play, so be warned.) Overripe and periodically maddening, bird ultimately soars. With an aerodynamic cast, the play glides over Chekhov on unique updrafts, a rare bird all its own. Through April 12. 3201 Allen Parkway, 713-527-0123. — DLG
What I Learned in Paris Just when Pearl Cleage’s romantic comedy needs a boost, in barges Eve Madison (Detria Ward) to kick-start it anew. Haloed by an afro the size of a lion’s mane and dripping chiffon batwing sleeves along with a chic turquoise bell-bottom ensemble, Eve is the freshest breeze imaginable. Hold onto your standards, here she comes. She takes command and will not be taking prisoners. Ward, a bit of fairy godmother and a lot of Auntie Mame, takes the stage — and the play — by her well-manicured talons, shakes it alive and doesn’t let go. Thank goodness. Until Ward makes her entrance, the 2012 play is warm and old-fashioned if a bit frayed around the edges. Eve adds just the right amount of New Age frisson. We’re in 1973 Atlanta at the campaign headquarters of Maynard Jackson, who’s just been elected that city’s first black mayor. It’s a major coup, and his campaign staff is ecstatic and celebrating late into the night. Chief-of-staff JP Madison (Mirron Willis), big and bossy, bloviates on the change this election augers for the city and the nation. “Nothing’s going to be the same.” Young, impressionable aide-de-camp John (Kendrick Brown), a rising attorney, is giddy with the prospects of jobs-to-be under the new administration, although he seems a tad distracted by JP’s nubile wife, Ann (Yunina Barbour-Payne). Stalwart pollster Lena (Cynthia Brown-Garcia) observes all with jaundiced eye and wry wit firmly in place. When she spies John sneaking a furtive kiss with Lena, she’s clever enough to keep it to herself. JP’s ex-wife Eve returns to Atlanta from San Francisco because she knows she’s needed. Or should I say, she knows what Atlanta needs: a political salon where the new leaders of society and politics can mix and match — under her guidance, naturally. JP isn’t happy with her back in town, and when she drops her bomb that she’s about to buy the fanciest house in whiter-than-white enclave Buckhead in which to establish her credentials, he’s apoplectic. Infuriated at her nerve and disregard for his position as practically nominated city attorney general, he fumes and stomps his feet, ordering her not to do it. This attitude, which Eve had obviously lived with for years, is no deterrent. If anything, JP’s alpha posturing whets her stubborn streak. Now she’s sure she’s right. All sorts of complications ensue. Cleage keeps the reversals coming at a pro’s pace, dropping them into her sitcom when most felicitous, garnering big laughs. This is a most audience-friendly play. Nothing’s too outlandish or unbelievable, each surprise softened by her sympathetic characters. We know JP isn’t the macho bore he appears to be, and even if we surmise early on that Ann and John are made for each other, the stumbling blocks Cleage throws in their path are sure to be planed down before too long, certainly by curtain fall. For all the political ideas of a brave new world aborning in Atlanta, this is Eve’s play. She steps into this historic moment as if one with it. She is Cleage’s ideal: witty, sharp, eager to get on with it. If she must drag everybody else along with her, so be it. She can do it, no question about that! And do it with panache, class and a glass or two of champagne. In a showcase monologue in Act II, Eve details her flight from JP and time alone in Paris. Her life changed over there, but we know from Ward’s honeyed performance that what Eve was looking for was already in her before she left Atlanta. Her Eve is inspiring, enlightening and funny as hell. She has us in the palm of her hand from her entrance. Under director Eileen Morris, the actors glow. Except for Eve and her unquenchable life force, the other characters may be paper-thin, but they’re played as if fine parchment. Especially memorable are Brown’s puppy dog John and Brown-Garcia’s sharp-edged Lena, who doesn’t really get to do much except be an impartial observer, but Brown-Garcia is a natural at it. Cleage’s sweet-tempered comedy says the most when Eve takes flight. As a portrait of a determined, strong woman who knows her mind and her value, she’s first among equals. Much like Ward. Through April 12. Ensemble Theatre, 3535 Main, 713-520-0055. — DLG
This article appears in Apr 2-8, 2015.
