This is Drama Masks, a Bay Area performing arts column from a born San Franciscan and longtime theatre artist in an N95 mask. I talk venue safety and dramatic substance, or the lack thereof.
Even with my decades of theatre experience, it can feel odd feeling to have eyes on you. Usually, it’s from being the only one masked in an audience, but I got different looks attending shows last week.
Take the deconstructed musical I saw in Oakland, wherein the older, mostly-white crowd gawked at me for nodding along to the pre-show playlist of Rage Against the Machine, The Sex Pistols, and more. Then, there was the musical bio I review below, which got me looks for showing up in a Prince t-shirt. There was that other Oakland show I saw, in which the intimacy of the venue resulted in frequent eye contact with the performer.
The final show I review below got me looks that made me feel like a fish in a bowl. First, the private security at the door had two Valiant rent-a-cops who scowling at me—and only me—with that same “Give me an excuse!” glare I’ve gotten from real cops all my life. Once inside, people seemingly stopped their conversations as I walked by, as if I’d wandered into the wrong building. Was it my Flo Mask? Did my MLK t-shirt clash with all their dark formal wear? Was it all the pro-queer, pro-Black, pro-Palestine pins on my jacket? Was it my bristling at the pre-show speech from Scott “Gentrification = Progress” Wiener? I’d like to give the starers the benefit of the doubt and say they weren’t looking at me the same way the rent-a-cops were. I’d really like to.
I did welcome the delighted looks from a Polish elder who sat next to me, complimented my shirt, and showed off some pins of her own. She was almost eager to make me feel welcome in a crowd where my non-white (masked) face was an outlier. She would have a visceral reaction to the show: singing along to the Polish tunes and silently begging (in English) for characters not to do harm.
The show made her feel seen. She, in turn, saw me. Typically, theatre audiences are meant to vanish into the darkness. Having all these particular eyes on me this past week was a unique reminder of just who they—nay, we—are when those lights go down.
MJ: The Musical at The Orpheum
I’m a Black Gen-Xer who spent much of his youth in front of the TV imitating MJ’s signature choreography. When a scene-stealing Quentin Blanton does the same in MJ: The Musical (through April 5 at the Orpheum, SF), I saw myself. I forget when I officially swore Michael Jackson off, but I was sick of his shit by the mid-2000s. I just shrugged at news of his death because he was dead to me long before.
I almost declined the invite to this show. Jackson (like a certain transphobic British author) is an indisputably influential celeb, but there comes a point where continued consumption means you’re financing their toxicity, even after they’ve died. I don’t want to do that, but I take my role as art critic seriously, so I took it as a challenge of objectivity.
Having now seen the show, I can now objectively say that it’s bad. No, not the album, I mean the script by Pulitzer-winner Lynn Nottage—I’m as shocked as you are—is terrible. Its entire purpose is to hammer home the point that MJ (Jordan Markus, an excellent dancer who never nails Jackson’s voice) was the victim. It’s such a paint-by-numbers stage musical bio that you half-expect Dewey Cox to show up for a duet.
Set during final rehearsals for his 1992 Dangerous World Tour, MJ finds its eponymous lead still unsatisfied as opening night grows closer. He wants more and more elaborate additions, which he can’t afford. What’s more, he pushes himself and his collaborators to the brink, making him more dependent on pain killers. That would be a scoop for fictional MTV documentarian Rachel (Kristin Stokes), but the book is devoid of any bite. Even when flashbacks do paint a clear villain in Jackson Family patriarch Joseph (Devin Bowles, in the show’s best performance), it bends over backwards to justify his abuse.
Aside from the top-notch technical skill involved, the only real compliment I can give the show was that The Orpheum’s HVAC meant CO² levels on my Aranet4 hovered around 650ppm during the first half and peaked at 1,150ppm during the final bow—and that was with a full house.
Other than that, MJ: The Musical is such “officially authorized” fluff that it’s less a play and more an extended press release. It had a prime opportunity to show its subject as both victim and perpetrator of abuse (“Hurt people hurt people.”) and the skills of an author who could do it masterfully. Instead, the show is just another high-priced commodity for the estate of a fallen idol. Dramatically, it fails, and ethically, it makes you feel dirty.
MJ: THE MUSICAL runs through April 5 at the Orpheum Theatre, SF. Tickets and further info here.
Our Class West Coast premiere at Z Space
There were moments when I was watching Our Class (West Coast premiere through April 5 at Z Space) when I found myself thinking of other sweeping historical stories focused on a select few characters. This one isn’t completely successful in its attempt, as its 10-person cast can be hard to remember for English-first speakers. Still, the script by Tadeusz Słobodzianez (adapted by Norman Allen) does convey the whirlwind effect of characters being caught up in radically changing history.
Our story begins in 1930s Poland. Ten students—five Jewish, five Catholic—have no care greater than those all children have: lessons, games, etc. They’re a tight-knit group until one moves to the US with this family. Those who remain are first-hand witnesses to (and participants in) their country’s pending upheaval.
Potential viewers will need every possible trigger warning: violence, rape, ethnically-motivated hatred. This is not an easy sit-through. Further, this show is exemplary of how “apolitical” is nothing more than a word. Every character who attempts indifference often suffers the most horrendous acts.
This is a highly political play staged during a highly political time. The script’s greatest power comes in showing that no amount of “centrism” will save them from the hands of the Powers That Be. It doesn’t mean every active choice is the right one, but the thought of being untouched by political change is foolish.
Fortunately, Z Space made for a safe space with CO² levels hovering around the mid-600ppms the whole show. It also made for a safe space in that, as horrible as the atrocities are, director Igor Golyak wisely keeps things either off-stage or blocked in a way more suggestive than explicit. But make no mistake: Our Class is a powerful portrayal of how even the most “innocent” of us has an active role in history, for better and for worse.
OUR CLASS’ West Coast premiere runs through April 5 at Z Space, SF. Tickets and further info here.
