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.
I was relieved to find my official ballot in the mail last Friday. Not so much to read the nausea-inducing name of a nominee in a key election race. No, not Scott Wiener or Steve Hilton; I mean the Café Creeper who had to drop out. As of this writing, the SF Dem Party–Republicans by any other name–issued a half-assed apology for endorsing said Creeper, but have yet to officially pull their endorsement for the no-longer-candidate.
I’m not surprised. My specialty is analyzing stories, and the Café Creeper has long personified the story that neo-liberals tell about San Francisco. His Mission-gentrifying café (frequently the scourge of grassroots activists), his support for and platforming of IDF soldiers, and his glowing support of Flock cameras are just a few reasons the pro-oligarch SF Dems love him. It’s why they fully supported him when his first brave accuser, Brad Joseph Chapin, tearfully begged them to reconsider. I’m neither the first nor last person in this city (nor on this very website) to point out their hypocrisy. In a way, SF Dems can’t completely denounce the oligarch-friendly Café Creeper without denouncing themselves.
I’ve been thinking of all the accusations me and my fellow arts writers have heard over the years. I’ve frequently offered alleged victims the opportunity to tell their stories on the record, but few are willing to risk the potential backlash. Not everyone can be Brad Chapin.
I also thought of all the times I was on the receiving end of unwelcome hands. Like Terry Crews, I found myself caught between the physical instinct to fight back and the mental guardrail of knowing that a Black man striking out, even in self-defense, will only be seen as an attack. This is what happens when your story is written about you rather than by you.
The Café Creeper made himself the main character in everyone else’s story, only for him to be pegged as the villain. I doubt the SF Dems will drift away from their pro-oligarch/pro-gentrifying ways, but I do know that this ballot sitting next to me is another chance to rewrite the story.
Terror Vault’s Slashed: Return to Hellville
With Terror Vault’s new show set in the slasher-boom ‘80s, one piece of set dressing stood out to me. There’s nothing about the scene that draws your attention to it, but when I caught a glimpse of an old newsrack for the SF Bay Guardian, it made this 48 Hills writer crack up from behind his Flo Mask.
Even if that wasn’t a proper joke, so much as period-appropriate aesthetics, it does point out why Slashed: Return to Hellville (through November 8 at the SF Mint) is one Terror Vault’s strongest horror tours in years. Terror Vault co-producer Joshua “Peaches Christ” Grannell’s has a wonderfully fertile mind. He loves horror as much as amplifying the queer subtext of genre classics. Picking out those allusions is part of the fun Terror Vault,
Grannell sometimes seems to get lost in the woods of his own world-building. His “go big or go home” attitude towards the stories is admirable, but the exposition can be anywhere between “This is engrossing!” to “I forgot what character we’re supposed to be looking for?” Then again, that usually matters little when you’re being sprayed by an enema.
Fortunately, Slashed strikes the perfect balance between world-building and brisk story-telling. You learn about the mad professor, his “fear engine” contraption, his masked slasher son, and the numerous resulting slaughters without needing a narrative checklist. Along the way, you catch lots of blood and nudity as you traverse through the classic slasher settings of the horny frat house (which had my fellow tour members shouting anti-Cornell U phrases), an amorous camp ground, and even an old-fashioned video store.
All of it done with as much care as terror. Speaking as a Gen-X horror fan who lived through this genre’s zenith, this was a warm tribute to the VHS era that didn’t pander the way properties like Stranger Things or Cabin in the Woods do. Slashed becomes one of the best Terror Vault entries by resting comfortably between genre pastiche and original story. It’s a wonderfully creepy genre homage that also works as an introduction for those unfamiliar.
Fortunately, CO² levels were the one thing that weren’t as scary as they have been in the past. In fact, at the start of my tour, my Aranet4 read 1,666ppm (nice), and read 1,376ppm by the end.
Slashed is the sort of thing that would have pissed off Tipper Gore in the ‘80s and could easily rattle Pete Hegseth today. It’s Grannell’s annual Hallowe’en tradition firing on all cylinders to make a creepy, gory tribute to Reagan-era horror. As always, there’s a comfort in experiencing scares that you can walk away from with your life in tact. And a souvenir cup.
TERROR VAULT’S SLASHED: RETURN TO HELLVILLE runs through November 8 at the SF Mint. Tickets and further info here.
The Fall Show world premiere at Shotgun
True love feels like a dream: emotions intensify; memories blur together; and you eventually divide your life into two eras–with this person and without them. Such is the fate of Sam (Reginald Wilkins) and Eddie (Beth Wilmurt), the couple whose names are never spoken during Charles Mee and Erika Chong Shuch’s The Fall Show (world premiere through November 1 at the Ashby Stage). Granted, they don’t really need to be named or even speak most times. Their feelings are usually acted out by the six-person ensemble bouncing back-and-forth on Mikiko Uesugi’s Magritte-inspired set.
Our couple do sort of “meet-cute” by arguing over Sam man-spreading on a park bench. Yet, the key to this plotless show is its literal and figurative maturity. These two are seniors and find freedom in acknowledging that. Part of the appeal of seeing these two in love is seeing them embrace the age where they don’t succumb to adolescent posturing, even as awkward dating remains timeless. The waking and dream worlds collide at the drop of a hat to show how giving yourself to another person really is crazy, but maybe, in a good way.
I’m once again glad to see that Shotgun must have improved their HVAC system. CO² levels peaked around 1,234ppm during the 70-minute show. The show will have an audience-masked performance for the matinée on October 11, and a recording will be on-demand from Nov. 2–16.
The highest compliment I can give The Fall Show is that it doesn’t fall into Nancy Meyers-style cliché, nor On Golden Pond-style sentiment. It’s neither wholly optimistic nor pessimistic because love is never one thing. The Fall Show captures the dream-like feeling of head-over-heels love, as told through characters who have lived long enough to know what they want. It’s one of the most refreshing love stories I’ve seen in a long time.
THE FALL SHOW’s world premiere runs through November 1 at the Ashby Stage, Berkeley. Tickets and further info here.
