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.
The saddest thing about the murders of Renee Good and Alex Pretti is how little they surprise me. As a Black man who’s had his fair share of scary police run-ins, I’m not shocked that the American SS shot Good in cold blood in front of her child, nor that Pretti was killed for holding a camera. I’m not even shocked that these white victims have overshadowed the earlier ICE murder of Black man (Keith Porter) and the six PoC who died in ICE custody (Parady La, Heber Sanchez Domínguez, Víctor Manuel Diaz, Luis Beltrán Yáñez-Cruz, Luis Gustavo Nuñez Cácerez, and Geraldo Lunas Campos).
All of this hurts and infuriates me, but it doesn’t surprise me.
Last week, there was a Guardian article that used the interview quote “2020 never ended” as its title. A lot of us have been saying that for years. Not just those of trying our damnedest to stay health during this very-not-over pandemic (now on Year 7), but also we who knew that George Floyd wasn’t the first to be murder by a bastard in a badge – nor would he be the last.
Alex Pretti’s murder sickens me in how it reminds me of the 2020 death that affected me even more than Floyd’s: Breonna Taylor’s. Pretti was a nurse, Taylor was an EMT; Pretti was attacked by ICE without cause; cops burst into Taylor’s residence with a no-knock warrant; right-wingers hung onto Pretti’s gun-ownership the way they clung to Taylor’s boyfriend shooting back at intruders he thought were burglars.
I’ve heard this song so many times before I recite it from memory. Even the declarations of “Things will change from now on!” ring hollow when all the BLM murals have vanished from metropolitan streets, corporate DEI pledges were dropped in record time, and public health is so bad that San Franciscans are dying of the flu as the US and UK can no longer contain measles. As someone who critiques stories for a living, this one’s as redundant as it is insulting.
That doesn’t mean the ending’s been written. Quite the contrary, the narrative currently being shaped by the people inspires me the way mainstream apologist media sickens me. I’m glad to stand alongside those walking the walk and talking the talk in the face of this most Sisyphean task. But as we march proudly into Black History Month, remember that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. As such, don’t make the mistake of saying “This has never happened before!” Yes, it has.
A Streetcar Named Desire at ACT
Speaking of stories that have been repeated ad nauseum, it’s time to admit that there’s nothing more to do with A Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee Williams’ landmark drama made Brando a star for portraying a rapist. It’s been performed by high school drama students and adapted into a mediocre opera that premiered here in SF. It’s probably the one work of American theatre produced more often than Our Town. But that hasn’t stopped a troupe called The Streetcar Project from bringing their post-modern “deconstruction” to the ACT (through February 1 at the Toni Rembe Theater, SF).
This new stripped-down production of Streetcar is what people who hate theatre think of when they try to explain why they hate theatre. On the Toni Rembe’s bare stage stands a ghost light (which hasn’t been seen since A Whynot Christmas Carol, which should have been the first red flag). Several audience chairs have been placed in a semi-circle to made a de facto round. Patrick Dooley and Shotgun Players have done this to great effect in Berkeley, so now they can brag about pulling it off better than San Francisco’s most storied theatre. Actors walk in front of, behind, and away from these chairs at various points throughout the show. If you’re wondering what any of this has to do with Williams’ text, don’t worry—the actors don’t seem to know either.
Of the quartet, three do double-duty as main characters (Brad Koed as Stanley, James Russell as Mitch, and Heather Lind as Stella) and as ensemble. Performances from the three are so painfully off-note that one hopes it’s a satirical choice. It is not. The only saving grace is British actress Lucy Owen as Blanche. Her heightened performance strikes the right chord and serves as a reminder that, just as the story of Peter & Wendy is actually just about Wendy, so too is Streetcar the story of Blanche DuBois, not her lecherous brother-in-law. In more skilled hands, Owen’s co-stars would give complimentary performances. Instead, they chew scenery that isn’t there.
What were there were more masks than I’ve seen lately, though still not that many. The HVAC of the Toni Rembe made sure CO² levels on my Aranet4 got no higher than 1,072ppm by the final bow. So, at least I can say I wasn’t in danger of choking behind my Flo Mask.
I was, however, tired of having this played-out text shoved down my throat for the millionth time.
A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE runs through February 1 at ACT’s Toni Rembe Theater, SF. Tickets and further info here.
Eugene Onegin world premiere adaption at SF Ballet
The last time an adaptation of Eugene Onegin ran at the Opera House, it was defined less by its content and more by its timing. SF Opera’s 2022 production of the Tchaikovsky opera (based on the Pushkin novel) opened shortly after Russia invaded Ukraine. Opening weekend saw pro-Ukrainian protests outside the Opera House that could be seen blocks away. I wound up missing the opening of that show because I forgot my vaccine credentials at home. Oh, those halcyon days when folks cared about COVID safety.
So, watching SF Ballet’s new world premiere adaptation (through February 1 at the War Memorial Opera House, SF) could almost be thought of as a do-over.
Ilya Demutsky’s score is lovely and Tom Pye’s sets—which are simultaneously minimalist and maximalist—are brilliant. Yet, something about Yuri Possokhov’s choreography seems off. It’s hard to say what, but it often felt like the dancers (Joseph Walsh as Eugene, Katherine Barkman as Tatiana, Wei Wang as Vladimir, and Wona Park as Olga) were holding back. These are dancers who can be electric, but their opening night performances felt like they didn’t want to let loose on this famously emotional story. Pushkin’s story of jaded aristocrat lives shattering as Imperial Russia sunsets is a conflagration of passions; this was merely a camp fire.
As with the above show, I was pleased to see more masks than usual in the theatre. CO² levels peaked around 672ppm by the final bow. By then, one had a chance to have fully absorbed the musical splendor and artistic craftsmanship of the show. If the choreo had upped its game as well, this would be a masterpiece-in-the-making.
EUGENE ONEGIN’s world premiere runs through February t at the War Memorial Opera House, SF. Tickets and further info here.
