John

Classic Britcom ‘Served’ up hilariously

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By John Lyle Belden

The hit 1970s British sitcom “Are You Being Served?” returns to Buck Creek Players (last seen in 2005) with the marginally competent staff of London’s Grace Brothers department store at your service.

On the fine clothing floor, Mr. Rumbold (Lindy Meyer) and Captain Peacock (Tim Latimer) supervise young Mr. Lucas (Hayden Walker), less-young Mr. Grainger (Tom Smith), and dandy Mr. Humphries (Ben Jones) on the men’s side, with lovely Miss Brahms (Anna Ely) and colorful Mrs. Slocombe (Sharon Winderlich) on the women’s side.

This is not an ordinary day at Grace Brothers, as it prepares to renovate for a storewide celebration of the European Common Market. This crew’s part will be a celebration of German culture and products – little-regarded and cheeky maintenance man Mr. Mash (Patrick Murphy) has found authentic costumes for their presentation. Meanwhile, the company nurse (Ben Poppelwell) is on hand to deliver injections for their travel on a company holiday.

The second act finds our sales staff in sunny Spain, at a resort run by Don Bernardo (Ron Pittman), assisted by Conchita (Maria Manalang). It turns out these are less than ideal accommodations, but after a rather restless night, what more could go wrong?

The cast also includes Nickie Cornett as a Spanish revolutionary, Dennis Karr at his scene-chewing best as passionate rebel leader Cesar (Karr and Cornett also play customers in the first act), and David Shetterly as “Young” Mr. Grace himself.

Written by series creators Jeremy Lloyd and David Croft, these stories make full use of the show’s trademark slapstick and double-entendres. Matt Spurlock, in his directing debut, gets splendid timing and execution of all the characters’ quirks and foibles. – For the fans, yes, we do get to hear about Slocombe’s pussy(cat). – The production’s look comes together nicely with sets by John Walker and costumes by Sue Kuenhold.

Funny, silly, a bit nostalgic, and a little naughty, “Are You Being Served?” has one weekend remaining, April 7-10, with tickets selling fast. Get info and tickets at buckcreekplayers.com.

Summit: Much revealed in women’s sacred space

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By John Lyle Belden

On a mountain in France, what appears to have been a Medieval monastery has been repurposed as a unique women’s retreat in “The Convent,” a play by Jessica Dickey given a full production by Summit Performance Indianapolis following a successful staged reading last summer, directed by Summit founder Lauren Briggeman.

Mother Abbess (Jolene Mentink Moffatt), founder and leader of the facility, had been a regular American wife and mother who gave up her ordinary life to seek God. Unsatisfied with religion organized in His name, she instead dedicated The Convent to Her spirit. Upon arrival, each seeker gives up modern clothing and conveniences (including the smartphone). She receives simple clothes, is expected to do the chores of centuries past, and must study to identify with her “Nomen,*” a historic female Christian Mystic.

British heiress Cora Dimlin (Carrie Ann Schlatter), assigned Catherine of Siena, has done many such retreats, and acts as The Convent’s number two. She arrived first, as did her friend Bertie (Chynna Fry), a naïve survivor of an isolated cult, assigned St. Clare of Assisi. Jill (Maria Argentina Souza) arrives next; she is at a crossroads in career and marriage, and assigned Teresa of Avila. Wilma (Miki Mathioudakis) is a nun who finds herself unable to pray; she is assigned St. Hildegard. Tina (Shawnte P. Gaston) is trying to change from seeking pleasure to seeking purpose; she gets Juliana of Norwich. Running in late, to past participants’ dismay, is brash bratty Patti (Dekyi Ronge), still holding her Nomen card for Mechtilde von Hackeborn that she received in a previous session.

Feel free to Google the Saints (none are fictional), however, we do get to learn a bit about them during the play.

As these women undergo their journey of self-discovery, they undertake various exercises (including physical). At mealtime prayer they express, “I want…,” starting with trivial things that pop into their heads, adding items until a true deep desire comes forth.

While each has to come to terms with what feelings and needs brought them to this place, the main struggle is between Mother Abbess and Patti, for reasons that soon become clear. Though their connection is easy to guess, Moffatt and Ronge excellently portray their fraught relationship. Fry gives us a charming girl who finds more than her spirit awakening, while Schlatter embodies the English ideal of stiff-upper-lip control, at least for as long as Dimlin holds out. Gaston does a good balance of portraying a woman acting like a “tourist” yet still open to the retreat’s purpose. Mathioudakis plays another strong character; she allows Wilma to shift paradigm without abandoning the person she vowed to be. Souza gives us Jill’s inner chaos that didn’t stop with a change in scenery.

No real sacrilege here, but still for mature audiences, “The Convent” is a fascinating and thought-provoking examination of the continuing struggle and need for women to define themselves in the worlds they live in. There are a number of laughs, a tear or two, and a few unexpected sacred visions.

Feel free to say, “I want” tickets – performances run through April 9 on the Basile Stage of the Phoenix Theatre Cultural Centre, 705 N. Illinois St., downtown Indianapolis. Info and tickets at PhoenixTheatre.org.

(*Ancient word for “name,” or perhaps reference to “gnomon,” the indicating part of a sundial.)   

Before the ‘bang:’ A visit with Van Gogh

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By John Lyle Belden

Welcome to the world of Vincent Van Gogh!

Our entry is via the path of “Exhausted Paint” by Justin Maxwell, a playwright and Associate Professor at the University of New Orleans (another world of French style and cool cafes), presented by MFA student Drew Stroud with tour producer and wife Carly Stroud, directed by Baton Rouge-based R’Myni Watson. The Strouds have brought this one-man performance to the IndyFringe Indy Eleven stage for a single weekend before taking it to Illinois in April.

The subtitle, “The Death of Van Gogh,” is a bit misleading. The troubled genius painter was presumably alone when shot in the chest by a small-caliber revolver. It wasn’t the bullet that killed him, but the ensuing infection, 30 hours later on July 29, 1890. This isn’t covered in-depth in the play, though we eventually see it coming. (Theories have abounded in the years since, from an apparent suicide attempt to accident and even murder, but look elsewhere to expound on that.)

However, we do meet him in his final years, 1888 in Arles, France, through the birth of the namesake nephew he would never meet, in January 1890, to the day he wanders off with the gun. Correction: Time travel isn’t real (sorry, Doctor Who fans) so we’re meeting him in 2023 on a cluttered stage with painting supplies, an easel, random objects and some sort of rotating drum. And here is Vincent, who admits he is more a pop culture object now, embodied for the moment by an actor who speaks bad French (“His Dutch is even worse,” Van Gogh quips) yet through this theatre graduate student with hair dyed the copper sheen of one of the famous self-portraits, he remarks on that two-year period, based on the numerous letters he wrote to his brother – the man who financially supported him, as only one of his multitude of paintings sold in his lifetime.

Since the artist is being channeled through an improv performer, and befitting a history of various unspecified mental disorders (he leaves that up to others to define, but admits syphilis as a factor isn’t out of the question), Vincent frequently spins the drum, which has numerous parchment words stuck to it. He then pulls one, and lets the prompt guide his next brief monologue, memory, action, or audience encounter. He drinks wine, he drinks turpentine (not recommended), he bandages his head (you probably know why), he offers a bite of his potato. He labors at the canvas in bold strokes, then shows you his whole world in an envelope. He is amused, he is troubled, he is in touch with God, he is lonely, he pursues the light, he finds color in darkness. Nature – the crow, the tree root, the very atmosphere – mocks him. Another hasty drink, and the drum spins again. Stroud noted after the show this structure is indeed random, helping make no two performances the same.

Despite attempting only one French phrase, our 21st-century man does an excellent job embodying the master, complete with tics of mental distraction that don’t sink to caricature, in a modern colloquial style – complete with a few F-bombs – that would befit an Impressionist genius who just appeared, a la “Bill and Ted,” in our lecture hall. Thus I highly recommend this to anyone, teenage an up, interested at all in the man, his life and work. Through this appropriately unconventional means, we gain surprising insight into his story, and what makes his paintings – which you could have picked up back in the day for a handful of francs – worth multiple millions of dollars today. (This irony is not lost on the spirit of Vincent, either!)

If you happen to catch this review as I post it, you have a couple more opportunities to see “Exhausted Paint” in Indianapolis, today and Sunday (March 25-26) at the IndyFringe building, 719 E. St. Clair St. Get tickets at indyfringe.org. Upcoming performances are in Jacksonville, Ill., April 13; Springfield, April 14-16; and Decatur, April 18. Get info at ExhaustedPaint.com.

Belfry presents literary classic of age of excess

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By John Lyle Belden

It has become common practice when staging a Greek or Shakespearean tragedy to place it in another time and place than its original setting – such as America in the “Roaring” 1920s. However, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel “The Great Gatsby” is already very much at home in that era, which gives heft to the Simon Levy stage adaptation, presented by Belfry Theatre at Theater at the Fort in Lawrence.

Directed by Andrea Odle, this production presents people caught up in the roar of jazz, fancy cars, bootleg booze, and easy money, oblivious to the fact it was all too good to last. If a sip of gin made everyone an outlaw, what other sins were fair game? And what if even the slickest con man had honest feelings?

Our narrator and guide through this gilded world, Nick Carraway (Troy Bridges), visits his cousin Daisy (Rachel Bush) and her husband Tom Buchanan (Mike Lipphardt) at their swank Long Island home. She introduces Nick to tennis star Jordan Baker (Tessa Gibbons) with hopes of matchmaking. 

Nick’s rental is next to the palatial estate of the mysterious Jay Gatsby (Samuel Smith), thrower of frequent wild parties. Upon meeting, Nick finds Gatsby is a fellow World War I veteran – a fact obscured by numerous rumors about his life and wealth – who had a past relationship with Daisy. The tangled web of characters includes Tom’s mistress Myrtle (Jessica Hawkins) and her unsuspecting husband George Wilson (Jackson Stollings), New York City socialites Chester (Zach Thompson) and Lucille McKee (Erin Chandler), and Gatsby’s business associate Meyer Wolfsheim (Nicholas Maudlin). Maudlin and Chandler also play a Policeman and witness to a tragic event in the second act.

Bridges ably plays Nick as one both fascinated and repulsed by the excesses around him. Smith presents Gatsby with a shrewd eye, likable even when you don’t quite trust him. Bush gives us a sweet young woman with everything but bravery. Gibbons, on the other hand, plays Jordan strong but addicted to the glamour of a life she feels she earned. Hawkins wins our sympathies as someone who didn’t get the breaks but keeps hoping to the point of delusion. Lipphardt manages an interesting but mildly detestable character living in a time and place where bigotry could get a person quite far in society. 

The play presents a fascinating insight and commentary on a past era that resonates so well with our own, when the lifestyle of excess is still splashed upon our screens and reported with the news. Perhaps the 2020s have a roar of their own. 

Remaining performances are 7:30 p.m. Friday and Saturday, 2 p.m. Saturday and Sunday, at 8920 Otis Ave. For info and tickets, see thebelfrytheatre.com and artsforlawrence.org.

Entertaining ride on ‘Orient Express’

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By John Lyle Belden

There are two kinds of people who watch a production – film or stage – of the Agatha Christie mystery “Murder on the Orient Express.”

First, there are those who have never seen how it ends. If you encounter such a patron at the Booth Tarkington Civic Theatre production of the play, running through March 25, DO NOT TELL THEM WHODUNIT. Being one of the most famous and creative reveals in the genre, it’s best to be savored as it happens.

Then, there are the fans of stage, screen, or the original text, who know the answer and just enjoy the widely varied and wildly interesting cast of characters, all falling under the scrutiny of Christie’s eccentric Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot.

Penned by Ken Ludwig (at the request of the Christie estate), this “Murder on the Orient Express” more than satisfies both groups. The blizzard of clues – too many, in fact, Poirot notes – will keep newcomers guessing, and Ludwig’s comic touch ensures at least as many laughs as thrills.

Eric Reiberg is pitch-perfect as Poirot in, a credit to him and director John Michael Goodson, a fairly laid-back portrayal of the character. Rather than have an exaggerated look and personality, even his famous curled mustache is understated, letting the various suspects on board the train do the clowning. Still, his bearing, accent, and little quirks are true to character and exert the proper gravitas (in this story, the detective is already world famous).

To set up the play, we get some disturbing audio, as well as Poirot addressing the audience that what we see is a flashback to one of his most complex and troubling cases. With this, we open in Istanbul, Turkey, in 1934. Needing a quick ride across Europe, the detective travels the famed Orient Express, bound for Calais, France, as the honored guest of the director of the rail line, Monsieur Bouc (Rex Wolfley).  

Various men and women board, including a very cocky yet nervous American businessman, Samuel Ratchett (Lee Russell), who tries to hire Poirot to find out who sent him threatening letters. Offended by his rudeness, the detective refuses. But when, with the train halted by a snowdrift in what was then Yugoslavia, Ratchett lies dead of multiple stab wounds, Hercule Poirot finds himself on the case.

Aside from ever-patient conductor Michel (Ronald May) we have our suspects – in fun performances by Evangeline Bouw, Luke Faser, Lauren Frank, Susan Hill, Alexis Koshenina, Sherra Lasley, and Clay Mabbitt – who all have alibis. And what might the motive be? As Poirot peels back the layers of the mystery and discovers hidden identities, he can only come to one conclusion. Or, perhaps, two.

A script like this allows for going a little over the top, and Lasley is a hoot as our brash American who married into riches and belts into song. Bouw is sweetly memorable as a countess who happened to go to medical school. Hill is commanding as the Russian princess; Koshenina is retreating as a shy missionary. Mabbitt and Frank slyly arouse our suspicions even before their characters board – but we actually see where they are at the apparent time of the murder.

I’ll say no more. You need to see this for yourself, but tickets for this wild ride are selling fast.

The Orient Express was an actual rail line, but, alas, its last departure was in 2009. Next best thing is to see this version. Performances are in the appropriately intimate confines of The Studio Theater at the Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Carmel. For information and tickets, go to civictheatre.org or thecenterpresents.org.

Catalyst creates outstanding ‘Streetcar’

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By Wendy Carson and John Lyle Belden

With all of the winter weather we are having, it is satisfying to have Catalyst Repertory bring us a steamy trip to 1950s New Orleans with its imaginative production of Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire.”

The first clue to the uniqueness of the show is the inventive set design of Nick Kilgore. He has basically cut apart the walls and rooms of an apartment house to make them easily flow into each other without losing each location’s identity. The actors enter, exit, and perform within the full 360 degrees of set as well as multiple levels available to them. With the size of the stage, you might think this is incredibly cramped, but it never feels claustrophobic. In fact, the layout causes a rare intimacy to occur between the troupe and audience, seated “in the round,” which makes the whole a more enjoyable evening. A couple of pieces – a bedroom vanity, a nearby bar piano – even extend into the audience space naturally. The concessions bar for patrons at intermission is even part of the set, suggesting a piece of nearby Bourbon Street.

For those unfamiliar with the tale: Fading Southern belle Blanche DuBois (Sara Castillo Dandurand) turns up on the shabby doorstep of her younger sister, Stella (Anna Himes) and Stella’s husband Stanley Kowalski (Ian McCabe). Blanche lives in a world of delusion she consistently concocts to keep her from realizing that she is desperate, alone, old, and without any other place to go. After months of living with her disdain and lying, Stanley is determined to send her packing.

This description, of course, doesn’t do justice to the genius of Williams’ drama, and in the practiced hands of director Casey Ross – herself an artisan of plot and dialogue – narrative richness and tension as thick as Louisiana humidity imbues the play from start to finish.  

Dandurand transforms into Blanche, wearing her pride like a fading flower, masking dysfunction with flirtatious charm so well it fools everyone – except Stanley. For his part, McCabe ably puts on Kowalski’s working-man swagger. He is devoted to Stella, but has issues (to put it mildly), complete with a low-simmering rage fed by a lifetime of being called a Pollack, among other things. Perhaps the fact he has to present a public mask helps him detect Blanche’s. The two circle each other throughout, like a pampered cat and a mangy dog, claws out, fangs in their smiles. Himes is also wonderful as a Stella who sees the good in Stanley, is eagerly the yin to his yang, and tries to be at peace with the fact her debutante days may be gone forever.

Making a stunning dramatic debut is Brian DeHeer as Mitch Mitchell, Stanley’s bowling and poker buddy who knew him since their WWII service together. Feeling lonely as he tends to his ailing mother, Mitch starts falling for Blanche – it won’t be a soft landing. 

In excellent support are Audrey Stonerock and Matt Kraft as neighbors Eunice and Steve Hubbell, as well as Tom Alvarez as poker buddy Pablo, Mitchell Wray as a boy who comes around, and Viviana Quinones as a local flower-seller. Alvarez’s partner in Magic Thread Cabaret (a co-producer), Dustin Klein, tickles the ivories at the corner piano, with old tunes and his new compositions to underscore the action. At the club microphone is the exquisite voice of Courtney Wiggins. David Mosedale and Wendy Brown complete the cast, mainly in the final scene.

For either those new to “Streetcar,” or Williams fanatics looking for something fresh, we cannot recommend this production enough. There are adult themes and herbal cigarettes (though perhaps the first-ever Ross-directed play without an F-bomb), yet if you can take the heat, you won’t regret the experience of this scorching masterpiece.

Performances run Fridays through Sundays, through March 19 at the IndyFringe Basile Theatre, 719 E. St. Clair, Indianapolis. For tickets, go to IndyFringe.org.

Embrace your inner ‘Betty’ at the District

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By John Lyle Belden

I always liked the name of Betty Rage Productions, picturing classic pin-up queen Bettie Page in a feminist fury. But from White to Rubble, there are many kinds of Betty, and we experience that variety in “Collective Rage: A Play in Five Betties,” by Jen Silverman, directed for Betty Rage by Kait Burch at the District Theatre.

With touchstones that include Shakespeare and The Vagina Monologues, in this story we meet five women named Betty who are searching, each in their own way, for something more meaningful.

Our first Betty (Tracy Herring) is very concerned about things in the news, very rich, very restless, very frustrated with her husband, and very rich. 

Betty No. 2 (Courtney McClure-Murray) doesn’t come first on this or any list – in fact, she’s realizing she apparently has no real friends at all, or does she? 

Betty three (Sarah Zimmerman) is street-smart and expanding her horizons. She just discovered “The Thee-ah-tah” by seeing a show that had summertime and a dream or something, and now wants to “devise a play.” 

Betty 4 (Jenni White) seems content to be constantly fixing her truck, but is starting to feel left out of things that involve the other Betties (especially one in particular).

The fifth Betty (Kallen Ruston) is out of rehab and in the gym she owns, helping others find their inner strength. Her present challenge: Betty 1.

Through odd dinner parties and unpredictable rehearsals, these five clash and meld in hilarious scenes. Through their unique personalities, we can see a little of ourselves in at least one Betty – even if we don’t have the same body parts.

Speaking of that, be prepared for a lot of discussions about sex, sexuality, queerness, and calling out the labial-vaginal area by its feline nickname. This is actually essential to the plot, especially when one Betty gets the courage to look at her pussy, and discovers a lion.

Each actor is a badass Betty on her own, as we’ve seen them all in various drama and comic ventures, and Burch has helped them to blend these talents in a way that makes sisterhood, or even becoming lovers, feel natural. I don’t like to pick favorites, but I think the one playing Betty was just awesome.

For a fun and unconventional story of self-discovery and empowerment, engage in “Collective Rage,” this Thursday through Sunday, March 9-12, at the District Theatre, 627 Massachusetts Ave., Indianapolis. Get tickets at indydistricttheatre.org.

CCP presents funny whodunit

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By John Lyle Belden

In the whodunit world, things are never as they first appear. “The Musical Comedy Murders of 1940,” by John Bishop, is presented by Carmel Community Players, but in Noblesville, as CCP is still raising funds for a hometown stage.

Also, there’s not a whole lot of music. It’s more about making and staging a musical, with only a couple of choruses sung. And, really, it’s about the murders of 1938, when the show “Manhattan Holiday” flopped in part because the cast mutinied after chorus girls were knocked off one by one by the Stage Door Slasher, who was never caught.

So, now, in late 1940, we are in the home of “angel” investor Elsa Von Grossenknueten (Richelle Lutz), who is gathering fellow persons involved in “Manhattan Holiday” who wish to pitch a new musical, “White House Merry-Go-Round.” She also invited a friend, Michael Kelly (Sam Brown), a very thinly-disguised NYPD Detective. We should also note that the maid, Helsa Wenzel (Tanya Haas), a fellow Bavarian who Elsa brought to America when things got rough in Germany (note the date), was apparently killed by a masked phantom in the opening scene, then comes back unharmed doing her regular duties minutes later. Also – and this is important to both the plot and the comedy – the house is riddled with secret doors and passages, with practically every wall on stage capable of opening or revolving.

Arriving through the snowstorm that will trap them there (naturally) are charming but unfunny comic Eddie McCuen (Jeffrey Haber), stage and screen director Ken De La Maize (Kelly Keller), chorine turned actress Nikki Crandall (Hannah Janowicz), overbearing producer Marjorie Baverstock (Eboni Wallace), Irish tenor Patrick O’Reilly (Robert Fimreite) and bickering songwriting duo Roger Hopewell (Eric Bowman) and Bernice Roth (Amber Roth). Note that by the final curtain, a number of these characters will each turn out to be someone entirely different – this includes, of course, the Stage Door Slasher!

Directed by Elizabeth Ruddell, whose assistant, the mysterious O. Carrier, performs the phantom, this play embraces both mystery and farce. The former is complicated by encroaching shadows of war, and the latter gets wacky even to the point of a “Scooby-Doo” moment among sliding and spinning doors. Standout performances include Haas being full of surprises, Keller stylishly dropping names in his alleged films, Haber showing the talent it takes to be good at being “bad,” and Janowicz playing a true triple-threat – singing, dancing, and firearms.

Four performances remain, Thursday through Sunday, March 2-5, at the Ivy Tech Noblesville Auditorium, 300 N. 17th St. Get info and tickets at CarmelPlayers.org.

This is ‘Happy’

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By John Lyle Belden

Decades before the popular “This is Fine” meme showed a cartoon dog smiling through a burning hellscape, famed Irish author and playwright Samuel Beckett penned the play, “Happy Days.” If pressed for a quick explanation of this unusual two-person show (completely unrelated to the 1970s TV sitcom), I would say it is as if the unfortunate but contented pooch had two acts to elaborate on how “fine” things are, and were.

Long considered by commenters an excellent example of Theatre of the Absurd, “Happy Days” is presented by Clerical Error Productions this weekend (through Feb. 26) at the District Theatre.

Clerical Error founder Kate Duffy is Winnie, just your typical Irish woman who is buried at least to her waist in a burning desert. A bell sounds to awaken her, and another will signal the end of the day. She awakens with a beaming smile and declaration that this is a happy day – as time passes she will, with optimism that borders on delusion, reiterate that the day is indeed happy. She has her routine. She has her black bag. She has her toothbrush. She has her hat, parasol, tonic, lipstick, Brownie the gun, and her music box. She has her song, but best not to sing it too soon.

She also has her husband. Just over the dirt mound is Willie, played with surly patience by David Mosedale. Where she is endlessly talkative, he is a man of few words, or sometimes none at all. Unable to stand, Willie makes his way in and out of his own tunnel. “What a curse, mobility,” Winnie chides him.

One gets a sense that for this couple, and perhaps the world in general, there is little future, so for our lady there is always the past, with frequent reflections on “the old style.” There is the recent memory of their last visitors, and a long-ago story of a girl and a doll.

Among actors, this play is held in the same esteem as Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot” and for the same reason: with limited physical action, this becomes the supreme test of a thespian, to engage and hold an audience for two acts with just endless talking. Duffy seems to relish the challenge, and comes through with a performance that draws you in. Directed by Jon Lindley, she accepts and goes with the absurdities in such a way that you come to feel that no matter how odd things get, this is just the way they are. Then, when the next day dawns and things have shifted, you can’t help but feel for her, wish her to have the former weirdness we had grown accustomed to in the first act.  

While observing, it is only natural for us in the audience to try to make sense of it. Beckett’s cleverly vague composition gives room for endless interpretations and metaphors. Hints and clues abound, but resolution? We are left stuck, like Winnie. Perhaps it’s best to just find an answer we are happy with.

For fans of Mr. Beckett, Ms. Duffy, or the curious open to it, this is a fascinating experience. Wendy and I found it quite entertaining – though our tastes do run to the weird, like dogs in hats in ironic webcomics.

The District is at 627 Massachusetts Ave. in downtown Indy. For information and tickets, see ClericalErrorProductions.com or IndyDistrictTheatre.org.

Our moment and old myths meld in ‘Mojada’

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By John Lyle Belden

“Medea” is one of the most produced tragedies of all time, going back to when Euripides set this mythical woman’s story on a Greek stage in 431 BC. In this past century, the play is often produced through a feminist perspective, a woman in a man’s world driven to dire acts to reclaim herself. To this, contemporary Chicano playwright Luis Alfaro layers on the story of today’s Latinx immigrants, complete with the ancient spiritual energy of the Americas.

Indianapolis Shakespeare Company presents Alfaro’s “Mojada” at the Phoenix Theatre Cultural Centre, directed by Maria Souza.

Medea (Erica Cruz Hernandez) makes her living as a seamstress working from her present home in a rapidly developing neighborhood in California. She came here from Zamora, Mexico (deep in the country, west of Mexico City) with Jason (pronounced “Ha-sohn,” played by Christopher Centinaro) and their son, Acan (Jasmin Martinez), as well as a woman only known by the word for a dear aunt, Tita (Isabel Quintero). While Jason works his way up from construction laborer to assistant to Armida (Kidany Camilo), the woman who owns their house, Medea never strays far from her front door, looking to Tita, a curandera (healer), to keep her connected to her old homeland. Neighbor and pastry baker Josefina (Camilo), who sports blond hair and wants to be called “Josie,” encourages Medea to “be of this place,” but she refuses, even as her man – as well as young Acan – spend ever more time at the boss’s luxury estate.

Even without knowing the Greek source material, you can tell this won’t end well.

This production, in the intimate confines of the Phoenix’s Basile Theatre, is bilingual – and at times trilingual – with projected captions on the back wall in English, Spanish, and Nahuatl (Aztec language). This bit of inclusivity and culture aids understanding and context, but works best seen from the stage-front section of seats. The gods and spirits invoked here are of the New World, including sacred animals, the Guaco bird and Monarch butterfly. Tita is our guide in this way, as well as the classic function of Chorus.

While Centinaro, Martinez and Camilo ably play relatable roles of those wishing to assimilate, Hernandez is fascinating as a woman who is both stuck, unable to move from her past, and justifiably stubborn, not wanting to pull off her native culture like an old garment. Quintero nimbly works from sweet to flinty, and ever wise, like anyone’s favorite aunt.

In a flashback scene, we see what these immigrants endured and sacrificed to arrive at this place, and why Medea can’t go home. This may be the most important part of the play, a lesson for those who only know their struggles from a few words in the news, while deepening the reasons for the coming madness.

“Indy-Shakes” chose wisely to open its 2023 season with this hybrid legend, made richer by the contributions of both Euripides and Alfaro, brought excellently to life in – naturally – the Phoenix. Performances of “Mojada” run through March 5 at 705 N. Illinois St., get info at indyshakes.com and tickets at phoenixtheatre.org.