. . . My Heart Belongs To Daddy
Equity Showcase (closed)
by Louis Lopardi. . March 25, 2001
Not since last season's James: A Soul On Fire (Howard Simon) have I seen a work which on the surface was ethnic theatre but had such a rich universality. I say ‘ethnic' - in this case Afro-American - but perhaps what I really mean is ‘ritual', for that is what such theatre is all about at heart; the rituals we as human beings create and maintain in order to come to terms with what can be a hostile world.
The play opens with a series of monochromatic vignettes into the characters' lives - a modern time saver which appeals to busy contemporary audiences with their concomitant shorter attention spans. Ms. Flemings handled the device well, using it rarely and for just long enough (she has an infallible eye for pacing). We meet the youngest son Michael, living a secret life as a drag queen in the big evil city; His older brother Brock, a macho and sexy paragon - albeit dysfunctional; Their sister Vanessa, severe and neurasthenic corporate climber; and of course Mom and Daddy. The children are invited home to a surprise: daddy's corpse adorns the living room chair after his passing. Daddy is ‘home' indeed, and this is the crux of both the comedy and the tragedy in the play, as the characters come to face their own feelings about dad, while plumbing their mother's reasons for the surprise.
Karen Kitz gave a controlled performance as the daughter, a role ripe for overacting. She convinces us with her bargain - a dangerous loss of soul for advancement in the corporate world - and convinces us again when she finds herself with Daddy's help. Yolanda Karr's Mama is a frightening blend of voodoo and sheer will power. She conjures up theater magic as readily as the spirits she summons to heal this family. Lee Dobson was restrained and dignified as Daddy, whose blocking and movement seemed wooden and contrived - but then he was playing a corpse. Spencer Scott Barros played Michael/Mandy with power and aplomb, easily and convincingly switching personas as needed in this somewhat pat role, as do many faced with such a double life. Omar Jermaine as older brother was a constant surprise. He manages to seem delightfully type-cast one moment, then stands the audience on it's head with a deep and powerful acting skill.
Victoria Ward's eye for costuming was sharp and insightful, except for Michael/Mandy's pitiful attempts at drag homebody- but then perhaps pity was intended. Melanie Loveday made adequate use of a repertory plot to light a confusing set by Josh Iacovelli, who has an eye, and is not the first artist defeated by this oddly-shaped stage. A program which lists the cast in order of appearance is a small request, and would have helped an audience which one hopes is made up of more than just friends and relations.
The play is an all too brief powerhouse. The legends it plumbs - like Oedipus and Elektra - are primal and gut-wrenching. The humor is deep, in that it allows us to laugh at ourselves in the Eastern sense. And when we cry, we are crying for ourselves, and thus take part in a healing experience. This is mythic theatre.
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