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Around the time Sarah Palin had debuted the first gen iPhone, I was more than a child, but less than a grown-up thing.

[misterboho]

“Do we even have a right to ‘own’ things?” —Ethan

Dr. 2 diagnoses Patient Deadheads, by Ali Viterbi

[misterboho]

Dr. 2's Surgery with EthiopianAmerica at the Victory Gardens Theater

Patient: EthiopianAmerica

Surgery Date: 05-17-19

Parents: Director Sophiyaa Nayar, Playwright Sam Kebede

Siblings: Simon Gebremedhin, Gabrielle Lott-Rogers, Freedom Martin, Joseph Primes

Surname: Definition Theatre Company

Address: 2433 N Lincoln Ave, Chicago, IL 60614

Insurance: Paperkutz

Symptoms: traditional, modern, tramodernal, assimilation blues

Diagnosis: Domestic smiling

"I just want to be happy! No bad things, just happy."  -- Girma Kifle

Operation Overview:

The Kifles are the most darling black Americans behind the modern white picket fence since A Raisin in the Sun. Joseph Primes as Mr. Kifle is occasionally out back tootin’ his McCiggies before his boys get home from playing basketball or being successfully deferred from Harvard. He jostles their robust manhood with old school wrestling matches every now and then. He’s just too damn proud his new men. I was as tickled as his sons from his throbbing traditionalist optimism.

Mr. Kifle is the king of daddy-os with his skinny-fat beer belly and in-between afro. He is truly the senior papa of suburbia. All he needs is a sassy apron for those backyard BBQs with the Joneses and he will be the new Chief Americano. I could just barely tell that Joseph Primes was affecting his voice with a thick Ethiopian accent. So damn sexy he brought a tear to my eye.

The show started earlier than the official curtain up with Johnathan Kifle (Simon Gebremedhin) jammin’ to 2010 bangers like Katy Perry. John is almost as sexy as Papa, with all the deliciously disgusting awkward movements a 17 year old nerd can produce when provoked with Katy Perry. Simon Gebremedhin… is, The Black Napoleon Dynamite, if not worse/better. He just about dances as well as him too. I almost gave him my handkerchief.

The playbill was a resume: boring, blank, except for Sophiyaa Nayar’s essay on the work. My goodness have I been thirstier than a bankrupt hooker this year for an artistic impulse from a playbill. Did you know that Actor X is excited for their X Theater Chicago debut? If it wasn’t for the enlightening essay, I would have likely given up playbills cold turkey.

Freedom Martin as Daniel Kifle is John’s suave antithesis brother. He likes water bottle vodka and slow walks on the beach. Daniel is a too cool punk… that cares. In this instance it wasn’t cliche. Freedom Martin was legitimately experiencing the character, or else the playwright’s words would have likely miscarried. Bad boy roles are sad when they’re aped. They often are. Sad, bro.

The patient’s frame was electrifying. The stage had basic cube edges that outlined the main room. It lit up at heated moments with an instant symphony of different lights that one wouldn’t expect for a black box theater. It was literally cool, never cattle prodding pointless action. I wondered at first if it was too telling… it wasn’t. The acting and Nayar’s directing gave simple ideas force in this low concept play.

The low-key to high-key misogyny was accessible but clever. Gabrielle Lott-Rogers as Elizabeth Kifle was the best-fit choice for Kebede’s Elizabeth. Liz was the perfect paradox to live out the implications of burgeoning female dignity in suburbia where Papa still reigns. 

Elizabeth Kifle’s sweet but never saccharine mommy-o-ism took my heart during high notes of domestic pathos while evoking my sobriety during her own clench for respect. Mr. Kifle consistently plays the “I planted the Tree of Life under your feet.” card while such a play is embarrassingly inaccessible to Mrs. Kifle, despite her owning half the house with her day job. Her vanity to clout a patriarchal respect is amplified by the contrast of her soft but competent personality. Gabrielle Lott-Rogers is Nayar’s secret sauce as Elizabeth Kifle is Kebede’s. 

From this subplot, the actors combusted with the most deft power plays amongst each other that I’ve ever seen. It’s a wonder how they had so much energy and synergy for these basic, familial scenes. Nayar and her actors have the talent to create the most striking, natural moments from a simple story.

The audience watched the family watch too much TV. Yep. I’ll get the scalpel. Too much Jeopardy is bad for the soul. Perhaps it was necessary to lead into the Ethiopian, shoulder thrusting dance maneuvers. Again, more sexiness from Mama and Papa.

The familial theme was a bit cloy, but healthy, as it naturally is. In the beginning, it hurt the story because it elongated the exposition: e.g., watch the cute family do more cute family things that don’t move the plot forward with abrasion. 

The worst error is Kebede’s ability to back up, or even squarely draw up, Mr. Kifle’s mysterious flaws. The story is isolated in the present because Mr. Kifle, as the blessed, central, “Tree of Life,” has his backstory missing and his tomorrowstory missing. They came from Ethiopia. They are traditional. They want a darling life in America. Jr.’s leaving for Big College. Okay, but it’s not enough, particularly to explain Mr. Kifle’s snake in the grass. His demons were seemingly born on stage. A single walk on character could cure this by giving him some context outside of his home. Where does he even work? Does he? I missed it.

Playwright Kebede, however, hits the mark with Mr., Jr., and Mrs. It must be their own nonfiction story, because it barely exists in the brief transition of cultural assimilation from Africa to America. The window of opportunity for this one generation story is as skinny as Jr. Does anyone notice that these stories are predominantly dated? One day, there will be one, assimilated, uninterrupted America. 

As such, it represents a true masterpiece in modern American theater: combating the on-going battle of compromising Old America, New America, and EthiopianAmerica. The patient is in near perfect health.

Rx: More McCiggies

[misterboho]

Dr 2's diagnosis of Elevator Girl by Donna Hoke

Patient: Elevator Girl

Legal Guardian: Donna Hoke

Insurance: Paperkutz

Symptoms: elevator erections, elevator blowjays, elevator mystique

Diagnosis: Going down

"How can a real woman compete with that... that biological impossibility? An obscene rack and a magical mouth?"  -- Vanessa

Patient Description:

Somehow, the intro that debuted with sex and superheroes… was flat. The centerpiece elevator counterbalanced with a profound tone to backup the everyday, “every girl” Elevator Girl conception amongst the characters. The whimsical theme of superheroes was always inviting, but it was consistently a let down: superheroes were a very bare prop for the legal guardian. It was so bare, it was excruciating and nauseating. Yes, it was: tights, capes, masks, “Captain” This and That. It’s a wonder how the character Peter is paid United States currency to be a comic artist for these cereal box caricatures. What’s worse, there’s apparently an in-story social network rave for Elevator Girl. I could care less about Elevator Girl.

An inside joke walks into an elevator: it became the milked dry through-line of this play. The plot robs itself of subtly with plot billboards such as Vanessa. There is authentic dialogue; it’s a wonder where the logic gets off when the story needs natural direction. The drama sneaks up on the reader because its foreshadowing was paradoxically absent or telling. The dull vulgarity is dull, “turbo deep-throat.”

Only after the patient’s diagnosis did I research its #Metoo themes. Without briefing, I didn’t get these from the patient at all. Victimization, pathos, sex, not sure, it was all unimpressive. Was it Richard, the lame douche stock character? I hope he doesn’t represent Every Guy.

EG is a healthy platform for a modern, casual play. The playwright's goal is on the right floor. One day, perhaps, their patient will be up, UP, AND… revised.

Rx: Captain Cliche-Away

[misterboho]

Dr. 2's Surgery with 25/25 Anniversary Show at the Trap Door Theatre

Patient: 25/25 Anniversary Show

Legal Guardians: Director Beata Pilch, Playwrights: lots

Surname: Trap Door Theatre

Address: 1655 W Cortland St, Chicago, IL 60622

Insurance: Bookmarx Medical

Symptoms: mythic, absurd, raw

Diagnosis: Too spooky

"Send me a bill for whatever... this, was."  -- Miss Elliot

Operation Overview:

Sixteen years ago, I knew a little mortal who’s stepdaddy took his mommy on a first date to the Trap Door Theatre. As a darling Brazilian Christian, the mommy was immediately unsettled by the goth atmosphere of the lobby. When the troupe started slamming a doll baby against a table repeatedly, she was done. She was almost done with the stepdaddy, too. They were happily married at the nearby Saint Mary’s cathedral a year later. The Trap Door Theatre almost ruined someone’s family and thus, their life.

Through the Cortland gangway, the Trap Door Theater has been playing for 25 years. This year I’ve been breaking records on the small sizes of black box theaters in Chicago. The Trap Door has only four rows of audience members with a stage in the corner: cuatro. I was content to be greeted with a complimentary beer by the director herself, Beata Pilch, while the theater quickly filled. Thank you!

There was a pre-show documentary that visually narrated 25 years at the Trap Door. They’ve done a lot of fucked up shit in great taste, man. They are true American-European tragedians that deserve the highest esteem for their ironic work. I didn’t catch the name, but their early previous show with two men injecting drugs in a derelict washroom shocked me as the actor shot up via ass cheek. Their convulsing, greasy, weeping bodies were a rare experience in the theater’s art of living. The miserable mise-en-scene may seem simplistic, but it was organic and nourishing because of the old actors’ talent: raw and accessible like a bitter vegetable.

The show started with the players already getting ready at the far edges of the stage. Madman & the Nun was a disaster in dialogue. It was explicit and undramatique. It was the worst opener possible. Keith Surney’s energy quickly rebalanced from the somber fumble. Road to Nirvana was an awesome late ‘90s vid with something about a homo woman, maybe? It was just awesome, like young-adult-late-‘90s awesome. Can someone please link me the video? It was awesome…

I sensed that many dead moments were not a result of my misunderstanding, but a failure to launch. I’d prefer the patient’s legal guardians be more economical with their irreverent leaps. There were times where I didn’t feel invited amidst the ritualistic absurdity. Because the show was a timeline, I already saw improvement from the legal guardian over the years on the issue. If I was writing in this tricky territory, I would have a notebook full of justifications for every ambitious and recherché line to back myself up against this criticism.

I’m not gunna lie. There were many misfires. The song about going to the bathroom in the lobby’s literal trap door played by Holly Cerney tickled a chortle; then it was a check-the-time frown along. Crazy Locomotive ‘00/’05 was when their absurdity completely backfired. I understand that it showed random scenes out of context, but my handsome head was too dizzy to find a rational through line. A Couple of Poor Polish Speaking Romanians had a robust script structure, but was very crude in execution. It was not funny, then offensive. Fairy Tale Lives of Russian Girls made up for this callused European flop with some perspective.

Let’s run down the line: Mike Steele is a smooth pedophile with his trumpet and musical instrument; Leslie Ruettiger is veritably adroit at crying like a worthless bitch; Dennis Bisto is shitty Romanian: who is shit; Antonio Brunetti is a pompous, sacrilegious asshole; I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-is-the-continuity-of-Holly-Cerney’s-psychology-something-about-a-Russian-circus-and-little-girls; John Kahara is a Hallmark card transvestite; Ann Sonneville has too much talent with talking to herself; Keith Surney and the Painted Eyebrows.

Honestly, I’m ready to snipe this theater on a bad day. Their anniversary show was impossibly vivid but I’d like to see them on a regular night when my scalpel is hungry for healing and the abstractions run dry. In a sense, their actors are cheating, because they have a constant access to the high-octane absurd. That is what their dark piety curiously grants them. I’d like to see Brunetti Atticus Finch himself out of a paper bag. He can do it.

Rx: Go to the Saint Mary’s church down the lane; sense up some nonsense, you damn pagans.

[misterboho]

Dr. 2's Surgery with Not for Sale at the Urban Theater Company

Patient: Not for Sale

Legal Guardians: Playwright Guadalís del Carmen, Director Wendy Mateo

Surname: Urban Theater Company

Address: 2620 W. Division St., Chicago, IL, 60622

Insurance: PagePay Plus

Symptoms: We-got-the-gringos, we-got-some-Puerto-Ricans, we-got-it-all.

Diagnosis: Gringophobia

"That Puerto Rican Flag [...] is a flag of resilience [...] through hurricanes and tornadoes."  -- Reynaldo

Operation Overview:

I didn’t know the gringos took Lincoln Park. That is wise Chicago history the patient gave me. I knew about the great metal Puerto Rican flags that fly high over Division street in Chicago. Humboldt Park has a strong Puerto Rican past and present, but I did not notice the gringos were on the prowl for her. It makes sense. Driving west on North from Damen and one will see the stark transition from “Eclectic Clothitoriums” to street side torta sellers.

The artistic director and executive director, Miranda Gonzalez and Ivan Vega, gave their comments before the show on why they brought the script to life: one reason was to keep Chicago stories real, particularly against theatrical transplants. I liked that. Many come to the Big City for Big Opportunity or Big Spending, but who was raised here? Who knows the rhythm of her streets? This short intro was analogous to the patient’s story with “decolonizing the culture” in Humboldt Park.

I was fascinated by the Urban Theater Company’s capacity to fit a black box into their street side theater. Their lobby is a closet, but their stage is... a big enough closet. The mise-en-scene was cute: two lil’ shops n’ such. As such, transitions were always quiet and simple—my favorite. I was sittin’ pretty, but the playbill was sour because it was merely a mass resume, advertisement, and boring questionarre. No info on the play, but there was a pretty shot of the Latina playwright. At least there was a short paragraph of Urban Theater’s mission before two pages of generous actor bios.

The play started strong as a pseudo facebook status update on the gringos in the hood. Andre Truss as Devin Thompson and Andrew Neftalí Pérez as Ricky Gonzalez ally-yooped each other robustly throughout. Pérez’s feisty actor plasm spat a tear to my eye. The stage needs ten more of these boys by tomorrow. The Sokolovs, played by Saemus McMahon and Rebekah Roberts, were thoughtfully darling. In all my years, I’ve never seen more talented encroaching cosmopolitans. I never will.

Frankie Davila as Reynaldo Rodriguez shocked me with his simple, masculine authenticity. He was no less than the Puerto Rican Marlon Brando touring Humboldt Park. He was the perfect personification of the playwright’s thesis on Puerto-Rican American culture. There is no replicating what he did: only he has the years on him to live on the street as a Latino. He was a gem for the playwright.

Past Puerto Rican zest, Soli Santos as Alderwoman Nancy Torres recited the lines rather than spoke to other characters on stage. At first I thought it was initial stage jitters, but she consistently droned. The bureaucratic role invited this flaw, in addition, the lines of this bureaucratic role were… bureaucratic. Guadalís has an unforgivably linear idea about Aldermen: Torres was always a lame one-liner machine. Nothing the Alderwoman said was exciting or inciting, even when she tried. “Here’s my card.”

The intermission drama was so cliche and unwarranted I had a heart attack.

McMahon and Davila had a timeless dialogue, but it ended in a cloy mush. It’s moments like those that I want to break my vows as an Angel Doctor and Do Harm to Some: the playwright. Devin Thompson didn’t make sense. Was he a bodyguard to the Alderwoman? Then isn’t it steep for him to run for office? If he was more than a bodyguard at City Hall, why is he in Humboldt Park? Humboldt Park is not bad—that’s why the gringos want it—but his status was too magical for me.

The simplistic language flowed with the authentic dialogues but stifled all drama. All drama.

Act 2 was Act 1 with a 2 stapled onto it. It was the continued abrasion of culture wars from the first act without anything new. The plot wouldn’t dare evolve. It was a carousel of authenticity, namely Davila, refreshing, but boring by the third run around. Very boring.

The worst flaw of modern street side theater occurred: the solutions were Sesame Street. They were horrible and simple. Act 2 could have devoted more time to naturally build up to these solutions to make them more legitimate. Instead, something-something-something-something-decolonize the culture-something-something-We did it?

The playwright’s consistent flaw is an inability to close her work. Act 2 as a whole was flat. Dialogues ended flat. Plot resolution is flat. Neither the noble themes nor Davila could save these closing issues. These flops are always a paradox because they exist beside strong primal spirits.

This patient was ready for a perfect health rating, but Guadalís’s crooked spine needs to be straightened out immediately. It has been a testament to the playwright’s contribution to the stage: no amount of theme, actors, staging, culture, or energy, will ever precede the necessity of a healthy script.

Rx: Colonize the Denouement

[misterboho]

Dr. 2's Surgery with The Darkness After Dawn at the Factory Theater

Patient: The Darkness After Dawn

Legal Guardians: Playwright Manny Tamayo, Director Mandy Walsh

Surname: Factory Theater Ensemble

Address: 1623 W Howard Street Chicago, IL 60626

Insurance: Paperkutz

Symptoms: Gunny McShooty, artistic duress, the Filth

Diagnosis: Cliches After Dawn

"What makes you think the funds in your bank will satisfy me?"  -- Renzo

Operation Overview:

I was physically nauseated for unrelated reasons before entering surgery. I went to a three star restaurant earlier and ordered their fried seafood dinner. They gave me so many scallops, Nurse 911… so many scallops. My plate was like a private island mound… of scallops. I believe I will win the Unbiased Doctor of the Year Award because of my dedication to withstand a whole surgery while wafting stomach sickness but disallowing it to intervene with the patient’s surgery.

The Factory Theater is a modern storefront theater with an authentic reminder for their audience: “most Chicagoans created theater companies because they didn’t want to wait for the right kind of shows to appear—they wanted to make them.” Props to the Factory for not including their actors’ resumes in the playbill. More theaters need to leave room only for art. Their black box was decked out with sublime seats for the audience. The stage was well suited for the particular play, but it’s so simple, clever, and pliable, that I can imagine the layout being the back drop of almost any interior scene with little interchange. Lighting, tech, and set crew accented the scenes perfectly.

After the facade, the patient turned terminal. Their vital script was unsalvageable during surgery. The actors and dialogue came on strong, but after the first scene’s movement, the seams ripped into a full malfunction. The actors where faithfully invested and bringing their A-game, but the script is so simplistic and unoriginal that no special delivery or magical celebrity could repair it. It has all the tricks of an eleventh-hour drama. The only gimmick the writer forgot was… “What about… the baby?!” I had no idea what the through-line was. Tamayo attempted some tricky-dickens tripartite deception, but I would suggest they mend their basic forms before attempting such a maneuver. I wondered why the portrait on the easel, the centerpiece of the play’s symbolism, was pantomimed and blank. If it’s important, commission an artist. The rough n’ tumble scenes were uncomfortably amateur; I’ve seen better fights from impromptu.

The actors had their personal flaws apart from the stilted one-liners. Blake Dalzin was feisty as Renzo, but his character in particular was a megaphone for the script’s flaws. He was often out-of-tune and unable to mitigate the awkward lines. Bradford Stevens as Hughes was as energetic and deaf as his partner in crime. Allison Cain as Rosemary was a beacon of organic speakin’. Her lines, however, were not free from the script’s bumps; I found myself cringing with her as well. Jose Cervantes as Jaime and Samantha Newcomb as Aurora were notably dedicated minors bringing real visceral moments to the performance. Their roles had the least amount of script croaks.

The patient will not make it. Harvest the actors from the piece and donate them to a new patient. The script is dead at one star. I’d like to give the actors a four star rating, but their performance was so curved by the ill script that I cannot say I know their true ability. The patient will be buried with a two star health rating with a diligent effort from the actors to bring it to life.

After I got home, I went to the washroom and instantly upchucked an explosion of sour scallops. I was dripping with catharsis.

[misterboho]

Nurse 911's diagnosis of Man of the People by Dolorez J Diaz

Patient: Man of the People

Legal Guardian: Dolorez J Diaz

Insurance: Paperkutz

Symptoms: randomness rashes, inexplicable self-elevation

Diagnosis: Jump Cut Contamination

Patient Description:

Sorry for the delay, Doctor. I’ve come back from my continuing education courses on theater nursing. I am now trained in onstage and offstage CPR! Today’s patient is a simple piece: it’s filled with simple people in a simple time within 1930s Kansas. In this simple story there is a doctor intent on making himself known as a miracle worker within the medical community. Amateur detectives from the American Medical Association are hot on his trail to find out what makes Brinkley hailed by the townsfolk. I was enjoying this simple story until the constant gaps in its progression. Scenes cut to the next almost randomly without much context for explanation. Guiding actions lack subtlety and grace to offer the plot no natural flow. The characters themselves seem to cut to different personalities between scenes. Why does Brinkley go from a resolute man of his trade to a menace of society within the time it takes to heat a hotpocket? In any case, this piece needs some work beefing up each of its scenes with more content. I've issued a health rating of 2 out of 5 stars with a prescription of whey protein.

[misterboho]

Dr. 2's Surgery with Patient Red Bike at the Jedlicka Performing Arts Center

Patient: Red Bike

Legal Guardians: Playwright Caridad Svich, Director Samantha Nieves

Surname: Morton College

Address: 3801 South Central Avenue, Cicero

Insurance: PagePay Plus

Symptoms: Yearnin’ and peddlin’

Diagnosis: Dude

"People ask what my parents do. I tell them, 'They make people happy.'"  -- Alejandro Salinas

Operation Overview:

“RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE.” Damn it, it’s in my head. “RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE. RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE.” I liked the stage lights. They were red. The stage was pulsing red when they said “RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE.” It was aggressive, bold. Wow.

The actors were picturesque while the scene was a properly tiered mess—what a dump. The last time I came over to the Jedlicka, the backdrop for The Last Five Years was the monolithic iceberg from the movie Titanic. This time, the scene and lights created something cozy but energetic, just like the lil’ dreamers themselves. The theater’s surrounding town of Cicero is like any other suburb around Chicago, but to me, it felt more spacey and slower than the rest. The young adults in this play were an organic local harvest.

Svich’s narration consistently tugs the audience to listen in on these kids’ soliloquies like ecstatic diary entries. The tone was transcendent and mostly not bogus. The young actors where enthralling; they perfectly synthesized with Svich’s script. “When I grow up,” where the magic words of this world. The story, though, was far from immortal. I was distracted at the middle and towards the end, almost not catching it. Drama is present, but its impact was laced with a dash of cliches (RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE-RED-BIKE) too simplistic even for a YA theme. This includes the light antagonist. The style and plot was about gazing at the stars and planning one’s future by connecting the dots. I still felt… that… the symbolic antagonist… was not prominent…. enough… or else what was the necessity… of peddling desperately away on… RED-BIKES-RED-BIKES-RED-BIKES?

The patient was convulsing with amateur hour. Lines were shaky and sometimes droned. The playbill introduced fresh student actors, but for the full priced ticket and mainstream advertisement that reeled in moi, these issues should have been addressed for a crisper showtime. They really knocked down the show’s quality. The spirit was there but considerably lacking in articulation. Mara Galeno was appropriately darling and optimistic but overly wonky, as to be unbelievable and lame with half her stage presence. Alejando Salinas had the loudest authentic voice, but even he had his stilted deliveries. I liked Marco Arias; he was a go-getting young leader, but still he lacked sophistication with the rest of his stoop kid troupe. In a way, these flaws made the kiddies more appealing as kiddies within a play, but I still couldn’t help cringing from my seat.

The play’s message was noble and nostalgic, but did not leave any memorable taste in my mouth. The characters, tone, and dialogue took off with Svich’s talent, but I never departed with it. I was never naturally brought to a conclusion because the lack of an involved antagonist did away with one. I grew weary of the speculative style; this would have been fine if it weren’t for the small ideas that were deceptively too small for this small town script. I didn’t leave with anything more than my first impression from the posters: young kiddies dreaming from their RED-BIKES-RED-BIKES-RED-BIKES. With sharper actors and a more sober script, this patient will heal well to a four star health rating, but currently rests post-op with a three star health rating.

[misterboho]

Dr. 2's Surgery with Patient Monger at the Greenhouse Theater Center

Patient: Monger

Legal Guardians: Playwright Mary Bonnett, Director John Mossman

Surname: Greenhouse Theater Center

Address: 2257 N Lincoln Ave, Chicago

Insurance: Paperkutz

Diagnosis: Hobbyist

Symptoms: teenage angst, casual criminality, broken dreams

"Are you a Jake, Dad?"  -- Eddie

Operation Overview:

I entered the patient’s surgery room with slight surprise. It was immediately immersive. It was the set of a seasoned theater designer. It was the best deal a minimal black box had to offer: a kiss of minimalism while still feeling full. The screen projections that displayed the perverse computer lurking of the monger were framed with a (finally) tasteful fragmented design. These typical typing sessions could have been dangerously boring to the audience, but their creeper chat rooms totally brought a Law and Order SVU vibe to the stage. That is hard to do with authenticity. I’m so tired of Mademoiselle A being pounced by Evil Stalker Guy B—BUH BUH. I’m glad Christopher Meloni left SVU late in the show.

Nurse, why have we been seeing so many three to two man patients? Is there profit in this? Is there a mall kiosk somewhere in Broadway, New York, selling these scripts by the dime? The story was good, but you know, I’m just sayin’. Ira Amyx as J.B. Benton stole my heart with his sexslavephilia. He was boyish in his relationships with family and clients but delicate with his sinful pornography, wretchedly wonderful.

Legal Guardian Mary Bonnett has a refined taste for dialogue, but the child/parent dynamic was too unbalanced to ignore. Joshua Zambrano as little Eddie had too much power. He shut down the stakes for his dad too early. I’m not sure what the parent had to lose with almost no limiting circumstance. The play’s flaw is in disguise as the character’s flaw as a teenage brat, but even brats get spanked sooner. Mr. Benton’s authoritative personality was irrationally patient toward his son; this bothered me beyond a mere projection of my own morals upon him.

There was no meandering, but certain segments were inescapably drawn out. The story had good action to keep things moving, but a few scenes could have been almost half as long as they needed to be: Ms. Edward’s interviews were the main sinners. Jamise Wright as Ruth summoned a mother’s woe-ridden thunderstorm to the stage, but the script’s pauses, stretches, and repetition dampened her energy. I experienced the creeping impetus and rising suspicion of the grieving parent, but the scenes need some sacrifice with the scalpel. With these issues addressed, the patient will be a devilishly handsome five star political piece.

The Doctor salutes The Dreamcatcher Foundation which provides support and specialization for the prevention of human trafficking. They provided an inspiring talkback after the show with a former prostitute who shared an intense journey of love, camaraderie, and hope found through the program. Good work, ladies.

[misterboho]

Dr. 2's surgery with patient The Aliens at the Collaboraction's Pentagon Theater

Patient: The Aliens

Legal Guardians: Playwright Annie Baker, Producer Alexandra Shields, Director Gus Schlanbusch

Surname: Aegis Theatre Company

Address: 1579 N Milwaukee Ave Chicago, IL

Insurance: Bookmarx

Symptoms: second hand smoke, psychedelics, guitars

Diagnosis: Geniuses

"You guys aren't supposed to be back here."  -- Evan

Operation Overview:

This diagnosis agonized me. I did and didn’t enjoy Ms. Baker’s script. The entire story felt like a subplot. That was the plot. The marginalized lost boys smoked cigarettes, weedijuana, psychedelics, and plucked the guitar at the back of a restaurant. It’s plain; I get it; I didn’t like it. I had friends like these so I’m not alien (hah) to the genre. It reminded me of the cinema Stand By Me with its small town American boys just trying to grow up.

The indulgent pauses in the intro demanded rather than invited a tone of authenticity. This quickly put me on guard. Peter Giessl started the show with America’s favorite bad boy pastime: cigarette brooding. Oh, hell yea—more… pausing! Griffin Johnston was a perfect Evan. I like the way he, like, the calls… he, um. I liked the calls he made with his… um. It was like—the way he… Anyway… at least there’s Evan. Miles Potter kept kindling the audience with KJ’s humor, but Ms. Baker’s script continued to bog down action with a swamp of thought speculation from the characters. I imagine she’d argue that the pauses are for the realism but it’s already there, Miss. It was present the first three times.

I yearned for a more dramatic back ally plot in Nowhere town. The writing was too offhand. Again, this was the content of the genre! Is it I who is simply not immersing themselves in the narrative? No, I held on to my impression: I wasn’t. I didn’t make the essential bond with the characters. One more act could have done it. When the climax’s sickle came swinging for the harvest I wasn’t moved.

The story brought drama to the table, but if a few undulations of emotion defined a healthy patient, then I wouldn’t be in the business of curing the weak in spirit because none could be defined as such. I’ll assign four stars for the Aegis Theater company actors and three for Baker. It was… alright.