his 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.
Whenever I’m told to “leave out the political stuff” out of my writing, my inner-Miranda Priestly reminds them that politics, like cerulean blue, affects everything, whether you know it or not. That’s why it’s not unusual for this leftist website to feature a write-up about doughnuts highlighting SF bakeries not owned by MAGAssholes, or an art show that rejects Latine stereotypes, or a push for a major arts institution to finally grow a spine. Since I see things in narratives, I can tell a “minor plot point” (a pretty-boy actor shit-talking ballet and opera) from a “long-term character arc.”
The latter comes to mind when I think of our dear mayor. One year in and Hizzoner has shown that his real constituency owns an AmEx Black Cards. He responded to an act of anti-Semitism by falsely blaming the DSA; his tourist-slumming trip through the Tenderloin saw one of his SFPD henchmen attack a homeless man unprovoked (only for said homeless man to kick the henchman’s ass); he supposedly played phone-tag with Kirsti Noem; and, lest we forget, he and lackey Rafael Mandelman think the mayor should have complete, unchecked power over the city. That’s just in the past two weeks.
Lurie sure is doing a lot to come off as the villain in this narrative. But when another villain bombs Iran just to distract from the Epstein investigation, it shows why someone else would imitate.
The twist to this story is that the mayor’s not the main character. He and his affluent friends are all bit players in the true story of the people of San Francisco. Danny & Co. think they’re on a campaign to further gild their castles, but it’s the SF proletariat whose story is being followed. No matter how many dildo-shaped towers the evil kings throw up, a single Tenderloin incident like the one above proves that we know this magical land better than they do. They’ve tried every spell they know, but they still haven’t made us all disappear. That’s because this isn’t their tale, it’s ours. Danny Denim only thinks he’s winning the game. He’s not even the final boss.
Also, I know a guy who has a Lament Configuration, so I’m not scared of any spells those guys cast.
Spamalot at The Golden Gate Theatre As a Monty Python fan, it has to be said that Spamalot (through March 22 and the Golden Gate Theatre, SF) has never been their best work. Yes, it’s based on the troupe’s mythology-dissecting, meme-spawing, Arthurian masterpiece Monty Python and the Holy Grail (with one song carried over from Life of Brian), but it’s missing a lot of the magic that hilarious film. The Pythons were a “right time, right place” success: a post-mod/pre-Thatcher Great Britain gave their TV screens over to some well-mannered lads who subverted those manners and the dogma behind them. Their lampooning of English customs and moral superiority was what would happen if punk were posh. Also, there were sex and fart jokes.
Furthermore, the Pythons had mixed success with audiences. Sure, many of their sketches were shot before live audiences and the show always had a laugh track, but the Pythons never paused for laughs. The rapid-fire jokes never waited for the audience to catch up before moving onto the next quip or sight gag. Anytime they tried live shows, some of the momentum would be lost by requiring the audience to catch up. So, when founding member Eric Idle wrote the book to a stage redux of Holy Grail, he did so knowing he had to slow down for an audience that likely already knew most of the punchlines.
The touring version currently in SF is performed competently enough by its cast (especially Amanda Robles as the Lady of the Lake), but jokes are stretched like taffy and modern references crowbarred in just to make the audience nod for getting the allusion. Beach Blanket Babylon did it better.
On the plus side, the HVAC at the Golden Gate made sure CO² levels didn’t get too high, with my Aranet4 peaking around 1,251ppm sliding down before the final bow. Plus, I’ve always enjoyed listening to the original soundtrack with Tim Curry. So, if this is one’s introduction to the world of these wacky Englishmen, I hope they enjoy it as much as the opening night audience did. I also hope they seek out the troupe’s better work, which isn’t limited to this karaoke-style retread of one of their greatest hits.
SPAMALOT runs through March 22 at the Golden Gate Theatre, SF. Tickets and further info here.
The Ache world premiere at Z Below
There were several factors that let me know I had to see Maeve Seashore’s new solo show, The Ache (world premiere through March 14 at Z Below). Being an unabashedly queer show was one; direction by Rotimi Agbabiaka was another; knowing every performance required the audience to wear Covid-safe masks meant I, of all people, was damn-near required to go. Six years and counting into this ongoing pandemic, I forget when I was last in a crowd where my Flo Mask didn’t seem out-of-place. And, despite lacking the open space of the mainstage, Z Below pleasantly surprised me with CO² peaking around 1,336ppm during the hourlong show.
Said show is the story of Ruth (Seashore), shortened from “The Truth” because “some people can’t handle The Truth.” Ruth is a sentient high-heel (as inventively designed by Marina Agabekov and Alina Bokovikova) owned by a trans drag performer. The unnamed performer can no longer perform due to an unspecified illness. That’s why Ruth has been thrown into a literal closet after her owner fought so hard to come out of one. Feeling lonely, Ruth has uses us for the therapy session she wants to have with her owner—one flips the script on Disney villains; features giant, dancing vibrators and pill bottles; and hinges on the realization that “healing requires kindred spirits”.
Since it’s only an hour (and told from the POV of a shoe), The Ache isn’t much for specific character depth. Yet, it’s impossible to deny Seashore’s knack for turns-of-phrase (“I am a statement piece-in-hiding; I am a gem in a paper bag”) and ownership of the songs. Seashore doesn’t possess a terrific singing voice, yet neither does Björk. Neither did Prince. Can you imagine anyone else doing their songs? Yes, another person could bring a genuine belt to the painfully confessional big-band songs (featuring a six-piece orchestra on stage), but none would bring the catharsis and joie de vivre to this none-too-subtle roman à clef.
Though the short story is rough in presenting its narrative, Seashore’s performance and Agbabiaka’s direction make sure it’s never dull. If anything, its lead’s journey through an unspoken illness would almost seem worth it just to hear the tale told. And the mask requirement for every performance shows a level care for performer and audience that’s sadly been missing in theatre of late.
THE ACHE: A NEW MUSICAL runs through March 14 at Z Below, SF. Tickets and further info here.
