​Review: The Squirrels
The Lupin Theatre, Tulane

What happens when instability threatens an otherwise idyllic existence? Robert Askins’ (writer of the Tony-nominated Hand to God) dark comedy creates a squirrel world - yes, called “the squirld” - that asks just this question. The Squirrels (playing through Nov 20th at Tulane’s Lupin Theater) addresses wealth, race and power inequality. 

We’re introduced to the ‘squirld’ by a fourth wall-breaking scientist (Trina Beck), who provides a primer on squirrel behaviour and noises. Nuts - collected and stored by variety - essentially become capital, and the different species (gray and red/”fox” squirrels) are ethnic and/or class divides. 

Sciurus (John Jabaley), is an aging grey squirrel patriarch, living comfortably with his wife Mammalia (Dale Shuger). They have enough nuts to last ten winters, which in squirrel terms means they’re set for life. One daughter, Rodentia (Ella Hughes), is an adopted red squirrel they found half-frozen. The other daughter, Chordata (Audrey Gotham), is secretly seeing another red squirrel, young Carolinensis (Sacha Codron). 

Carolinensis needs food, but he’s from a different part of the woods, and Sciurus is suspicious about sharing his nut stash, even before he knows about the forbidden romance. Tensions arise, and are stoked by Sciuridae (also Trina Beck), an agenda-driven, affluent grey squirrel who appears with the sole intention of provoking division. 

What was likely subtext at 2018’s world premier is now overt social commentary. Mistrust, disinformation and bigotry evoke a paranoid world as resources become ever more scarce, and roiling animosity evolves into violence. Conspiracy foments conflict, a civil war with scant benefits and heavy societal tolls. 

Theatrical immersion is a tall order, but director Ryder Thornton - backed by the wonderfully evocative, multi-level woodland set - presents a believable, lived-in world. Tails and ears added to otherwise human clothing keep the production from straying into pantomime, and the drama hits without distractions. 

The cast and ensemble do a remarkable job with consistent physicality, relaying a dextrous energy that combines skittishness and nimbleness in a way that isn’t cartoonish. You immediately buy into the ‘squirld’ and its logic, along with the nuzzling and distressed squeaks and affectionate "muk, muk, muks" that pepper squirrel speech. Keeping the characters engaging without descending into ‘Cats’-style parody is a high bar, cleared by everyone on stage here. 

The individual characterizations are impressive, too, and every actor manages to instill their creature with personality, free of patronizing broad strokes. The family dynamic is immediately recognizable, from the love and bickering of the parents to the bratty kids. Actors appear from hidden nooks, and move with rodent-like jumpiness - hats off to both R’Myni Watson and Kelly Bond as intimacy director and movement and vocalization director respectively. 

There’s humor to be had with transposing human behaviour onto squirrels, having them drink maple syrup like booze or celebrate with pine cones and the like. A good recurring joke is Sciurus’ repeated bravado claims to have fought off dangerous hawks, though his wife lets slip it was really just blue jays. 

These affectations anchor the audience in the drey (the squirrels’ nest) and woodland, well enough for the underlying aggression and brutality to be genuinely moving. The Squirrels reflects our own animalistic tendencies, aspects of ourselves that become more apparent every day. (PO)

The Squirrels plays at the Lupin Theatre at Tulane through Nov 20th. Click here for more information and ticketing

Movie Review: Frankenstein

Legacy horror has enjoyed some big recent releases, what with Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu last year, and now Guillermo del Toro’s adaptation of Frankenstein (a 35mm print is currently showing at Prytania Uptown). 

Before prodding the creation further, I’ll just note that I had a uniquely New Orleanian issue watching the opening. Last month, I saw NOLA Project’s excellent stage adaptation and so for the first 20 minutes, I was half distracted recalling the play’s hilarity as the otherwise-serious scenes played out. I laughed at the actual movie, too, but we'll get to that. 

Like the play, this sumptuous-looking film is faithful to Mary Shelley’s 19th century novel. Captain Anderson (Lars Mikkelsen) and his crew are stuck in the Arctic ice when they find a dying Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac). As they drag him onboard, they are attacked by a monstrous creature, really the last thing you need when you’re trying to evade advanced hypothermia. They temporarily repel the monster, cueing up Victor’s life story flashback. 

Victor's mother dies in childbirth, creating his lifelong conviction that death is negotiable. As he rises through the medical ranks, the establishment thinks he's lost the plot. Enter Christoph Waltz as arms dealer Harlander, along with his niece Elizabeth (Mia Goth) and her fiance, Victor's brother William (Felix Kammerer). Harlander backs Victor’s reanimation projects, and Victor juggles falling in love with Elizabeth with gathering battlefield corpses for his greatest achievement yet. 

One face-off with Harlander and a huge bolt of lightning later, and Victor’s hard work pays off. He awakes to find the creature (Jacob Elordi) watching over him, a meek and childlike giant, more baby giraffe than brute. Frankenstein becomes increasingly frustrated and cruel. Emotions run high, Victor’s love is unrequited and Elizabeth starts to feel affection for his tragic creation. Victor manically tries to destroy his lab and the creature, losing his leg in the explosion. 

Back on the ship, the creature has reappeared, and has violently boarded in search of Victor. It’s here that one of the clunkier plot devices kicks in, as Elordi also sets up a flashback. Granted, Del Toro has described the movie as an “emotional Mexican melodrama” but this, “Now let me tell you MY side of the story” and multiple people telling Victor that he’s the real monster both had me rolling my eyes and smirking cynically. Perhaps that was the point. 

Elordi instills an impressive emotional life into the creature, ricocheting between violence and tenderness as he becomes more articulate. He flees into the woods, is educated by a blind hermit, and returns to find Victor on the day of Elisabeth’s wedding. Now aware that he will spend eternity alone, the creature wants a companion, but Victor refuses. Pandemonium ensues, and the hunting of the creature begins, leading them both into the Arctic. 

Del Toro is a masterful world builder and the aesthetic flourishes, together with a tone that verges on camp without committing to it, make for an entertaining ride. The sets are perhaps less fantastical than Lanthimos created for Poor Things (essentially his Frankenstein), and aren’t as cartoonish as a Tim Burton joint. It’s a striking, visually dramatic work, though, and Alexandre Desplat’s excellent score only occasionally conjures up Danny Eflman. If you like your horror with a healthy amount of melodrama running through its DNA, then Frankenstein is well worth firing up (PO).

Frankenstein is currently streaming, and showing at the Prytania Uptown 

Review: ​One Battle After Another
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Fans of director Paul Thomas Anderson sometimes identify his filmography as being in drug-fuelled phases. There’s the ‘cocaine’ phase of Boogie Nights and Magnolia, with cameras whipping and zooming. Then the ‘weed’ phase of the more stationary There Will be Blood, The Phantom Thread and the nostalgic Licorice Pizza. With his latest, One Battle After Another, the weed is getting stronger and the paranoia is setting in. 

We open with a revolutionary group called the French 75 running riot as they free immigrants from federal facilities and blow up politicians’ offices. "Ghetto" Pat Calhoun (Leonardo di Caprio) and Perfidia Beverly Hills (Teyana Taylor) lead the charge, the latter humiliating a military man, Steven J. Lockjaw (Sean Penn). Lockjaw is depicted as being physically tense with bigotry, but develops a sexual obsession with Perfidia. He catches her planting explosives, offering her freedom for one night of motel sex. 

Peffidia gives birth to a baby girl, but abandons Pat and her new family. She remains active, getting caught again, eventually ratting out the French 75 and going into witness protection. Gang members are slain, the rest go into hiding, and Perfidia disappears. 

Cut to: 16 years later. Pat is now Bob Ferguson, a paranoid stoner and boozer. He’s bringing up daughter Willa (Chase Infiniti ) as best he can, and she’s independently learning self reliance and karate skills. It’s in the blood, after all. Also in her blood could be DNA from Lockjaw, though. He’s attempting to join an ultra-racist sect - The Christmas Adventurers Club - and an ‘impure’ bloodline just won’t do. 

What follows is two hours of tense mayhem, as Pat/Bob and Willa are forced into increasingly pressurised situations in light of Lockjaw’s personal mission, as well as general federal interest. Bob’s a little rusty, preferring to watch ‘The Battle of Algiers’ over activism. The weed has fried his brain, too, so he can’t remember old emergency code words to use with the underground resistance network or evade capture as nimbly as he used to. 

It’s a dynamic mix of humor (Bob running around like The Dude from The Big Lebowski, if The Dude had trained with the Bader-Mienhoff gang) and tension. Help comes in the form of Sergio St. Carlos (Benicio del Toro), Willa's Karate teacher who is running “A Latino Harriet Tubman situation”. We get manic car chases, brutal violence and multiple reckonings. 

Based on Thoma Pynchon’s book ‘Vineland’, it’s half Coen Brothers-style romp and half ‘How to Blow Up a Pipeline’ resistance flick. At almost three hours, we’re afforded time to develop character, but a good majority of the movie is action. Old revolutionary flames are reignited, but it’s all about whether Pat/Bob can keep the flame alive. (PO)

The Lehman Trilogy @ Le Petit Theatre, New Orleans
Review by Paul Oswell
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In 2008, we watched TV news as employees filed out of glass and steel lobbies, rivers of forlorn faces and bankers boxes. It’s these boxes that construct the worlds of the Lehman family (yes, those Lehman brothers) in The Lehman Trilogy, a sprawling, three-hour capitalist saga (currently playing at Le Petit Theatre through 19th October). 

Three actors constantly move dozens of boxes like brick slabs, fabricating stock rooms, school desks, throne-like boardroom chairs, train carriages and even the Tower of Babel. The boxes contain scraps of humble beginnings, machinery for expanding empires, and spiritually destructive amounts of money. The boxes frame two centuries of The American Dream. 

We know how the Lehman dream ended. We start with its beginning. In 1844, Heyum Lehmann (Leslie Nipkow) arrives in America from Rimpar, Bavaria. He is renamed Henry Lehman, the first corrupting imposition of his new home. Brothers Emanuel (Ryan Hayes) and Mayer (David Lind) follow, and they establish a fabric store in Montgomery, Alabama. 

What follows is one of the most technically impressive shows you’ll see on a New Orleans stage. Nipkow, Hayes and Lind barrel through a conveyor of characters, employing only changes in accent and countenance. Age and gender are transcended as we race through the years, and meet townsfolk, children, wives-to-be. The actors move continuously and seamlessly between the roles, all while balletically sliding tables and throwing cotton bales and hefting those endless boxes around a split-level stage. The blocking alone is a work of art. 

Three hour-long installments cover the rise and the fall; of money and capital, of humanity and essence. This first generation cloaks itself in Jewish-European identity, marking holidays and sitting shiva for seven days when Henry dies. America requires more corruption, though. Commerce here equals trade with slavers, befriending them, mollifying them even after the Civil War. 

Decades pass, fabric becomes cotton becomes coffee becomes commodities and railways and banking. In two generations, the Lehman family are millionaires with New York offices. We are told (the script is mostly delivered in the third person) that their children have no Rimpar or Alabama blood. They are pure New York: rhesus positive for capital. 

While the cast exploit the entire stage, the video wall behind loops through increasingly industrial backdrops. Cotton fields, factories, stock exchanges and unstoppable trains hurtle us through the years. By the third act, the Lehmans are purebred capitalists, mainlining economic growth, the only landscape a glowing panorama of abstract prices. Eventually, the numbers fall. Seven-day shivas have become three-minute silences. A lightning financial meltdown. A 150-year erosion of character. Boxes asunder on the floor. The end. 

The U.S. Census of 1860 records that in reality, Mayer Lehman owned slaves. This fact is not mentioned on stage. One of the criticisms of this story - which won Best Play at the 2022 Tony Awards - is that the horrors of slavery are mostly elided. They mostly are. 

I’m not Jewish, so I’m unqualified to talk on the validity of harmful tropes, another point commonly raised about the work. I took it as an indictment of all craven men. Those who worship only commodity and leverage fall far from any aspect of humanity, no matter their background. 

There are many conversations to be had around The Lehman Trilogy beyond the scope of this review. What can’t be denied is the genuinely astonishing work done by the cast and creative team on this specific production. Leslie Nipkow, Ryan Hayes, David Lind, and the entire crew pull off a formidable, evocative, artistic high wire act. The questions about America in those boxes are undoubtedly difficult ones, but we should open them and sit with their contents.

The Lehman Trilogy plays at Le Petit Theatre through October 19th. Click here for more information and ticketing. 

First night review: Frankenstein by The NOLA Project @ Lafitte Greenway
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FIRST NIGHT REVIEW: Frankenstein @ The Lafitte Greenway
Review by Paul Oswell

The comic potential of Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel ‘Frankenstein’ has been heavily mined. Mel Brooks’ and Gene Wilder’s 1974 film ‘Young Frankenstein’ is so beloved that it is many people’s favorite film of all time. So numerous are the spoofs, you’d think you were looking at a literary corpse that’s pretty ripe, and not for new adaptations.

I know this thesis is one that I just suggested, but: you’re wrong. Enter The NOLA Project’s ‘Frankenstein’ (playing through Oct 17th at the Lafitte Greenway), written by Pete McElligott. They have, and yes I’m starting a glaringly obvious line of analysis so brace yourself for an indulgent run-on sentence, stitched together parts of the original and its many interpretations, and jolted new comedic life into this moribund cultural cadaver. It’s…and here comes the unforgivably predictable pay-off…alive. 

The Gothic world building around a bare concrete warehouse is instantly immersive thanks to the cast’s skillful character work. Back that up with Leslie Claverie’s razor-sharp direction and a script that’s as taut as a virtuoso skin graft and you’re in for quite a ride. If you saw last year’s ‘Dracula’ (also penned by McElligott), you’ll love both the tonal similarity and the cast’s astonishing theatrical dexterity, whisking through multiple roles at breakneck speed.

We open aboard a ship in the eerie Arctic seas (where Shelley's novel ends), and a beleaguered Victor Frankenstein (played with glorious scheming idiocy by Keith Claverie) has been rescued by a spooked collection of seafarers. The suave but seedy Captain Walton (Matthew Thompson pompously lording it on deck) wants to know more. "You wish to know my whole life story?" asks Frankenstein. "No. No. I don't think we have time for that...", but it’s too late, and with the first of many, many laughs, we’re spirited back to Victor’s childhood. 

The first half is a hailstorm of gags that come at you from all angles. Victor’s love for his adopted sibling Elizabeth (an adorably bratty Keyara Milliner) develops alongside his reanimation obsession. In college, his professor (one of a host of James Bartelle’s incredible weirdos in this show) inspires him to conquer death via an amazing extended riff on homeopathic medicine. 

Characters and plot points come thick and fast. Godrick the sexy graverobber (Noah Hazzard oozing seductive silliness), Victors’ fully mature ten-year old brother (Thompson again, stealing every scene he’s in with costume designer Jazzmyne Cry’s incredible visual), a suspiciously ardent cop (a pitch-perfect Kristin Witt), a dancing medium, and a cheeky postal worker (J’aiLa Christina dynamically nailing both) all pinball around the venue. 

Khiry Armstead’s (sound) and Adachi Pimentel’s (lighting) designs keep things engagingly atmospheric, and some fantastic human shadow puppetry against a hung sheet (among other deft touches) speaks to the talents of Lucas Harm’s production design.

Breaths caught in the interval, the second half introduces the creature, but don’t expect any clichéd neck bolts. Michael Aaron Santos brilliantly melds slapstick brutishness and humanity with genuine pathos. The source material is treated with refreshing fidelity, but it’s interpreted so imaginatively; see for instance the ingenious workaround that directs the creature’s learning. The joke rate is still frantic, but the climactic confrontation threads compassion into the comedy: “We are our own creations” becomes a poignant refrain. 

No joke set up is left hanging, the callbacks are flawless, and every supporting character (too many to individually admire here but see 'Extras', below, for added info) adds to the anarchic hilarity. Even a passing bike tour blasting music was seamlessly folded into the performance. Frankenstein is a triumph for cast, director, writer and crew. There’s a huge heart beating beneath this riotously funny monster of a show. 

The NOLA Project's 'Frankenstein' plays at the Lafitte Greenway through October 17th. Click here for more information and ticketing
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FIRST NIGHT REVIEW: THE LEHMAN TRILOGY
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Wendy, Darling @ The Midtown Hotel
Review by Todd Perley

“Where you’re seated, there’s a chance you may get splattered with blood. Is that okay?”

I feel that any event where I don’t go home splattered with blood is a night wasted. My friend MJ whispered, “Is this Gallagher on crack?” We nodded assent with big, stupid grins and were handed airline- sized bottles of 'Jack’s Red Rum', and that, plus the sanguinary caveat, had already created an immersive experience even before getting to the pool where much of the action of the play would be...well...immersed.

We begin with the ensemble gathering in 1920s togs as Midnight and the Stars and You is played by The Bomb Pulse, our live band for the evening. If you know Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation, this melody is the quickest and most effective way to set the scene. Champagne and ballroom dancing, and a quick dip in the pool for our first water ballet. The audience howls, hoots, whistles, laughs, and applauds, turning the space into an all-inclusive party.

Set in the Underglance Hotel in New Orleans, the Torrance family was warned, before the hotel closes for the season, “Are you sure you want to be here through the summer? It can get very lonely and isolating.” (No lie!) And so begins the tale-as-old-as-time story of Stephen King’s 'The Shining' wrapped in a tortilla of snarky parody.

Psychic son Danny (Riley Elise) is college-aged, and mom Wendy (Rebecca Poole) knows to use the they/them pronouns, while self-absorbed, frustrated Jack Torrance (Cody Keech) never catches on and obtusely sticks with he/him. This is a subtle detail that both brings the story into the 21st
century, and establishes Jack as the asshole, with succinctness.

Danny is visited by their childhood ‘imaginary friend’ Tony (dressed as a cartoonish tiger, natch) and is warned of the dangers of the Underglance Hotel for those who shine. Dick Hallorann, the hotel’s resident drag queen chef, also warns Danny telepathically, but assures them what they see can’t hurt them. Yah, right.

Most of the scenes are punctuated with a water ballet sequence set to contemporary music expertly played by The Bomb Pulse. Throw in a little pole dancing from the Grady Twins (why not!), and a wet hedge maze constructed of leaf-adorned paddle boards just for funsies, and the Torrance’s season of turmoil has never been so hilarious. Keech’s Jack is genuinely frightening amidst the camp of the rest of the performances, which adds a touch of danger and tension. Danny’s complicated relationship with Tony the Tiger illustrates how alone they’ve been throughout a life spent with the shining talent.

I’m not too concerned with spoiling the plot of The Shining. IYKYK, after all. But I’ll refrain from any further spoilers of how Aquamob and especially the deft direction of Lizzy Collins skewers these well known plot points. It’s best to go into this as blind as possible. Let each irreverent moment surprise you. And they will.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of Wendy, Darling is the atmosphere the company and band manage to create. No polite clapping at the end of each ballet scene. Screams and whistles are encouraged, more akin to a rock concert. During intermission (through which the band plays some rockin’ good tunes), my friend MJ was regaled by the woman seated next to them about the eight seasons of Aquamob plays she had seen, as she vowed she would never, ever miss a production by this company.

I looked around during intermission and saw everyone talking to everyone, friends and strangers alike, and the whole courtyard felt like a Mardi Gras parade with that New-Orleans-specific sense of community and bonhomie. I can’t say I’ve ever been to a play that evoked this special feeling that only our city can understand. I don’t know the precise recipe to create this world, but Aquamob thankfully does. You leave the show just feeling so connected and damned good!

Although I left without a drop of blood on me, the night was most certainly not a waste. A bloody good time. You may have 'Midnight and the Stars and You' stuck as an earworm for the next few days, but it’s an acceptable price to pay. I’m with MJ’s neighbor -- a new convert, I will henceforth be at every year’s Aquamob production. Absolutely do not miss Wendy, Darling!

Wendy, Darling plays at the Midtown Hotel through October 11th, click here for more information and ticketing

READ OUR INTERVIEW WITH DIRECTOR LIZZY AND AQUAMOB FOUNDER ALAYNE
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Dear Evan Hansen
Rivertown Theatres
Review by Beth D'Addono

If an anxiety-riddled teenager falls out of a tree, does anybody care? This is just one of the driving issues in the show Dear Evan Hansen, which won six Tony awards in 2017 including best musical. Eight years later, the story still resonates, a heartbreakingly raw tale of teen suicide, loneliness, social media fake news and ultimately, flawed redemption.

Dear Evan Hansen is a genre-bending musical, with Grammy-winning music and lyrics by Benj
Pasek and Justin Paul (the writing duo behind the songs in the films La La Land and The
Greatest Showman) and book by playwright Steven Levenson.

Set against the backdrop of the social media age, with ever-changing screens depicting the
relentless power of online “community,” Dear Evan Hansen manages to be both high tech and
low touch at the same time. The show tells the tale of an awkward and lonely teenager who feels
unseen and unimportant. When his classmate Connor Murphy dies by suicide, a misunderstanding about their relationship leads Connor’s parents to Evan, who perpetuates what starts as a little white lie, but blows up into a complex web of deceit.

Actor/singer Jacob Morris rises to the challenge as the show’s angst-ridden main character.
Morris has a strong, expressive voice, owning the show’s heart-tugging anthems while perfectly
embodying the nervous tics of a broken, isolated teen.

The stakes are high. While Evan manages to eventually do the right thing, it’s hard to cheer him on as he perpetuates the lie. He’s clearly embracing the charades limelight, but then again, this is a kid who nobody ever noticed. Morris mines Evan’s sensitive core, keeping it real through a roller coaster of emotions.

Morris is matched by a consistently strong ensemble, with shout outs to stirring performances by
Lewis as Connor and Ruby Rae Levin, as his tough yet vulnerable sister Zoe. Ryan Reilly is wonderful as the jammed up, grief-stricken dad Larry Murphy. When he sings To Break in a Glove to Evan, both characters are shattered by loss and wishing for what will never be. Ashley Lemmler delivers a strong performance as Evan’s mother Heidi, an over worked single mom who sings a showstopping version of the poignant ballad, So Big/So Small.

There were lots of sniffling and passed tissues on opening night. Dear Evan Hansen is a long and intense performance that rings true in an age where everybody else seems to be living their best
life on Instagram and TikTok, leaving so many of people of all ages “On the outside, always
looking in,” just one of the powerful lines in the first act anthem, “Waving Through a Window.” It's is a profound musical that rings true for anyone who's ever felt unseen in a crowded room.
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That it’s onstage at Rivertown is a big deal. The licensing company reached out to the Kenner
theater, asking director Kelly Fouchi to present the first non-replica production in the U.S. Instead of this being a bus-and-truck traveling version of the original, Fouchi and her team were able to flex their own creative muscles. The company offered fresh aspects to the production, including stunning digital screens recreating school and home settings as the story unfolds. Scenic designer Ben Needham and lighting designer Gabby Brown created an eye-popping, high-tech context for a story that literally unspools screen by screen.

Bryce Slocumb co-directs with Fouchi, who also choreographs. Musical director Elise Spurlock
and the band of musicians did a bang-up job with this gorgeous score, with Mathieu Silverman.
conducting and on keyboard. Never mind if there were times when the balance of sound seemed off - hanging on every word goes with the territory for this gorgeous heartbreaker of a musical.

Dear Evan Hansen plays through Sept 28th at Rivertown Theatres. Click here for more information and ticketing. 

Beth D'Addono is a culture and food writer - her newest book, 'City Eats: New Orleans' - is out now. (Read our review)
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​Out Cry: the Two-Character Play
Lower Depths Theatre at Loyola University
Review by Dorian Hatchett

The best way to turn a palace into a prison is to lock the doors.  Out Cry: the Two-Character Play by Tennessee Williams examines the compulsion of the artist to create art, and the inherent fragility of the human psyche.  

Endless poetry written in praise of the adaptability and kindness of the human heart completely discounts the truth. That for every love sonnet or ballad of fortitude, there's a sinister library of loss and depravity. Our hearts are monsters. That's why our ribs are cages.  

Tracey E. Collins is Clare. She's forceful and vibrant and hyperbolic and made of fear and bravado in equal measure. Her and her brother are trapped in the vicious cycle of the poor artist. The need to perform, to create, to produce is constant and endless. Without creating, there is no audience. Without an audience, the actor is alone and hungry with only their own thoughts to keep them company.  

Kyle Daigrepont is Felice. He is secretive and steadfast. He sees his sister's whimsy as weakness. His creativity stems from a deep well of responsibility, and like so many men, he considers himself rational. He's not, of course, but instead has convinced himself that his emotions are simply factual rather than facetious.  

Out Cry is among the most rarely staged of Williams’ work. He rewrote it constantly, from the first draft in 1966, to a second and third version in 1975. The demands of such intensity and deep range on a cast of two makes it difficult to cast and even more difficult to perform. Collins and Daigrepont are sublime in their roles.

At times hard to watch, simply overwhelmed in second hand desperation, the rapt audience seemed acutely aware that what they were watching was the active dissembling of two people, broken again and again on the wheel of creative license and expectation, and sharing something that may be folie à deux, or may just be aching truth.

The line between character and actor is blurred time and time again, as the play within a play flows back and forth between Felice and Clare and their character's needs on the stage within a stage, and the personal triumphs and sorrows of the actors playing them, on the stage that is their lives.

The final, quiet resolution to simply continue the play, because nothing ever ends, is distressing, but also allows the audience and actor alike to let go of the responsibility of knowing, and move on to acceptance. To get lost in this play is an honor, but also a pyrrhic victory of the highest order. The stage may be a prison for the actor, but Out Cry takes no prisoners.  

Out Cry: the Two Character Play runs through September 21st at the Lower Depths Theatre at Loyola University. Click here for more information and ticketing

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