A common thread in the two shows below is how they nail the catharsis of placing blame. Be it baseless scapegoating or calling out the genuinely guilty, there’s a relief to putting a face to your frustrations. Humans have abstract thought, but we share the same fear of the unknown as every other sentient creature. A simple “just because” is never enough for when things go wrong; we need to know there’s a diabolical villain out to get us. When we don’t find it, we’ll make one up.
Generational blame is an easy fallback. During a recent interview, the subject lamented to me about how Boomers are an easy target for the world’s ills, yet Boomers were the ones actually marching and fighting during the Civil Rights Movement. Post-election blame flies in every direction, with no shortage of finger-pointing between Gen X and their successors. Hell, we’re still drowning in clickbait headlines asking “Why Doesn’t [Young Generation] Do/Buy [Something that was Cheaper Decades Ago] Anymore?” It’s a Möbius strip of misplaced aggression that just widens the divide between groups that would have unfathomable power together.
Especially when everyone knows all of the world’s problems are because of Ronald Reagan. (Maybe Thatcher, too, but mostly Reagan.)
But scapegoating is pointless, because it’s often meritless and reflexive. It may not be generational, but it’s easy to see that the ones shouting loudest that “they” should just suck it up and accept inequality are the very ones who push back towards any sort of true progress.
That’s why you need to embrace calling people out on their bullshit, be they racist relatives or evil world leaders who say the quiet part loud. You need to call them out because silence really does equal compliance. Trust me when I say that not speaking up when you should is one of the biggest regrets you’ll ever have. Especially if you’re an artist.
Also, keep blaming Reagan. Everything really is his fault.
YELLOW FACE BY SHOTGUN PLAYERS
Funny how the white establishment is so quick to decry the advent of DEI as encroachment into their hallowed spaces, but when they purposely invade the spaces of others, suddenly we’re “turning it into a diversity issue”. When I say “funny,” what I mean is “imperialism is nothing if not predictable.” I’ve personally had to suffer through one of the Bay’s most lauded playwrights defending white actors in POC roles, and I’m currently off the press list of a major local theatre because of how I discussed racial casting in my review of their show. Imperialism is also hilariously fragile when confronted with its own hypocrisy.
The story of Yellow Face (extended through June 14 at the Ashby Stage) is “true” to the extent that most of its characters are actual people who lived. Yes, there is an award-winning playwright named David Henry Hwang (Ben Chau-Chiu) who wrote an ill-fated play called Face Value. Yes, white actor Jonathan Pryce courted controversy by accepting an Asian role in a production of Miss Saigon. But anything else that happens in Yellow Face should be regarded in the same light as the film Adaptation: there’s a real writer named Charlie Kaufman; take everything else with a grain of salt.
In this case, that includes the play’s depiction of Hwang jumping into the Pryce casting controversy. When he begins writing Face Value, he longs for an Asian actor to pass off as white, only to wind up with Marcus (William Brosnahan), who’s as white as Wonder Bread. Not that Hwang will let anyone know that, lest he face the very same scrutiny he once led.
For its occasional flaws in dramatic pacing, Yellow Face works best in its representation of someone who never wants to admit when they’re wrong. The more egregious the fictional Hwang’s faux pas, the more he digs in his heels before admitting defeat. Inevitably, it just makes things worse. Dramatizing that stubbornness is actually one of the more grounded, realistic elements of the stylized text. A bit too naval-gazing, but the ultimate point is how we easily get lost in our own narrative.
Another inescapable truth was the rarity of masks on opening night. The full house at the Ashby pushed my Aranet4’s CO² levels up to 2,599ppm by the final bow. Although Shotgun no longer seems to provide livestreamed or on-demand virtual options, this show will have its sole mask-required in-person performance June 8.
YELLOW FACE has been extended through June 14. Ashby Stage, Berkeley. Tickets and more info here.
TO MY GIRLS WEST COAST PREMIER AT NEW CONSERVATORY THEATER CENTER
There was a point in watching To My Girls (West Coast premiere through June 8 at New Conservatory) when I found myself thinking of Some Men by the late Terrence McNally. Both have a “do you damn kids know what we went through?” vibe, from a refreshingly queer perspective. In fact, both make the mistake of too often referring to “the fight” in the past tense, like modern queer kids have no worries whatsoever. To playwright JC Lee’s credit, he justifies the existence of such a play from a Millennial perspective.
Curtis (Robert Rushin) had the perfect weekend planned, having invited his once-tight-knit group of friends to share an Airbnb with him in Palm Springs for the most gay-tastic getaway ever. First to show up are longtime BFF Castor (Louel Señores) and take-no-bullshit Leo (James Arthur M.). Alcohol is consumed, mid-2000s songs are sung, and a beautiful guy named Omar (Samuel del Rosario) shows up. All of the above is fine, until it begins to strip away Curtis’ carefully curated memories of what his friendship with these boys meant. It’ll be a miracle if these Spice Girls-lovin’ drama queens are even speaking to one another after the trip is over.
Though it can get a bit long-winded, To My Girls works best when it’s knocking someone off their high horse. I found myself thinking back to my own former friend group, and someone who could never say “I’m sorry” without following it with “you feel that way.” Lee’s script is strongest when a character is forced to face the fact that they were the toxic one in the group, or when another has to face that the struggles of their generation neither started nor ended with them. That it can be that heavy and still include hilarious raunchy exchanges (“Your prince will come.” “That’s why I sleep with my mouth open.”) means one’s attention never wavers watching the action on Matt Owens’ deliciously tacky set.
Two things working against the play are how this 2025-set story is far too forgiving to a character outed as a MAGA voter. He gives a speech that goes for “Don’t judge a book by its cover” (or, in this case, voting history), but it comes off as support for a “so much for the tolerant left” rant based on something that is not innocuous.
The other grating flaw is how Lee occasionally leans into the “post-pandemic” angle, all the more confounding when a none-too-subtle HIV/AIDS comparison is made. Lee can’t make a plot point out of 2020 isolation and then act as if either virus has gone away. Indeed, the few of us masked during this Sunday matinee surely had just that in mind (no doubt because all of us were old enough to remember the onsets of both AIDS and COVID). Fortunately, New Conservatory’s HVAC kept CO² levels no higher than 676ppm during the two-act show. The sole mask-required in-person performance will be on Thu/22.
Overall, the show is a good Millennial take on generation gaps and realizing you can never go home again. Had it not fallen into the trap of too much finger-wagging, everyone would have been better served.
TO MY GIRLS West Coast premiere runs through June 8. New Conservatory Theatre Center, SF. Tickets and more info here.
