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Los Angeles Times
a day ago
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
Jake Brasch's ‘The Reservoir' suffers from arrested character development at the Geffen Playhouse
All unhappy families of addicts are unhappy in their own way. Unless, of course, you're a stage family, overrun with 'characters' who don't so much speak as deliver laugh lines and dispense nuggets of moral wisdom. Those families tend to be all alike, regardless of the superficial differences among them. Grandparents play a larger role than usual in Jake Brasch's 'The Reservoir,' which opened Thursday at the Geffen Playhouse under the direction of Shelley Butler. But the theater's ability to turn family dysfunction, be it alcoholism, Alzheimer's or just garden-variety existential agony, into entertainment and instant illumination, has long been a staple of the American stage. My tolerance for the artificiality of the genre may be lower than most theatergoers. Some take comfort in hoary comic patterns, souped-up eccentricity and reassuring pieties. Overexposed to this species of drama, I slump in my seat. Indeed, my patience was as thin for 'The Reservoir' as it was for 'Cult of Love,' Leslye Headland's drama about a family breakdown during the holidays that made it to Broadway last season after its 2018 premiere at L.A.'s IAMA Theatre. Neither play is beyond pandering to its audience for an easy laugh. Serving as protagonist and narrator, Josh (Jake Horowitz), the queer Jewish theater student on medical leave from NYU who wakes up one morning after an alcoholic bender at a reservoir in his hometown of Denver, exhibits the snappy, manic banter of a drunk not able to face up to his problem. Patricia (Marin Hinkle), his long-suffering mother, has had it with Josh's relapses, but how can she turn away her son who lies bleeding on her couch? With his mother's help, Josh gets a job as a clerk at a bookstore as he tries once again to pull his life together. Fortunately, Hugo (Adrián González), his manager, is quick to overlook his lax performance. Apparently, drinking has so scrambled Josh's brain that alphabetizing books takes every ounce of his strength. I didn't quite feel as indulgent toward Josh, but not because I didn't sympathize with his struggles. My beef was that he sounded like an anxious playwright determined to string an audience along without forced exuberance and sitcom-level repartee. (Compare, say, one of Josh's rants with those of a character in a Terrence McNally, Richard Greenberg or Jon Robin Baitz comedy, and the drop off in verbal acuity and original wit will become crystal clear.) What gives 'The Reservoir' a claim to uniqueness is the way Josh's four grandparents are conscripted not just into the story but into the staging. Seated in a row onstage, they serve as chorus to their grandson's travails, chiming in with their own opinions and acting out his description of the way his thoughts compulsively take over his mind, like an unstoppable train or a raging river. Each also has an individual role to play in Josh's recovery. Patricia's mother, Irene (Carolyn Mignini), for example, has been transformed by dementia since Josh has seen her last. She's always been his favorite grandparent. He fondly recalls baking cookies, playing Uno and singing along to 'The Sound of Music' with her. Even when she pulled away after he came out in high school, his affection has remained steadfast. He would like to connect with her again and fears he has lost his chance. At the bookstore, he reads up on Alzheimer's disease and hatches a plan to build up the cognitive reserve of all his grandparents by feeding them spinach and keeping them mentally engaged. He's trying, in effect, to save himself by saving them, but they're too feisty to be corralled by their unstable grandson. Irene's fiercely protective husband, Hank (Geoffrey Wade), an arch religious conservative, is too grumpy. As for Josh's paternal Jewish grandparents, Shrimpy (Lee Wilkof) is too much of a practical joker with sex on his mind. And Beverly (Liz Larsen), an electrical engineer who doesn't mince words, is too gimlet-eyed not to see that Josh is focusing on his grandparents to avoid doing the hard work of recovery. Having been sober for many decades herself, Bev recognizes the narcissism of addiction, the way addicts have a tendency to put themselves at the center of the universe. She offers Josh the tough love that he needs, forcing him to see that a grandparent isn't just a grandparent but a human being with a complicated history that needn't be worn like a Kleenex visible from under a sleeve. Josh sets out to be a savior but ends up getting an education in the reality of other people. Brasch's intentions are noble, but 'The Reservoir' doesn't plunge all that deep. The play draws out the distinctiveness of the grandparents by ratcheting up their zingy eccentricities. How easily these characters fall into a punch-line rhythm. Larsen has the most consequential role and she imparts just the right note of astringency. But the staginess of the writing makes it difficult for any of the actors to transcend the shtick that's been assigned to them. Hinkle brings a depth of realism to her portrayal of Patricia, but the character isn't fully developed. Whole dimensions of Patricia's life are veiled to us. Both Hinkle and Gonazález gamely play other characters, but these sketched presences compound the general impression of a comic world drawn without much nuance. The staging is frolicsome but visually monotonous — a problem for a play that is much longer than it needs to be. More than two hours of looking at the fey-preppy outfit costume designer Sara Ryung Clement prepared for Horowitz's Josh becomes a kind of fashion purgatory for audience and protagonist alike. I'm not sure why a production that doesn't take a literal approach to settings has to repeatedly trot out the front seat of a car. The spry assistance of stagehands, who not only move set pieces but help flesh out the world of the play, is a jaunty touch. But the sound and lighting effects get rather heavy-handed during Josh's hallucinatory meltdowns. Blame for the inexcusably clunky dream scenes, a writing fail, can't be pinned on the designers. Horowitz had the Geffen Playhouse's opening-night audience in the palm of his hand, but I heard an actor playing his comic lines more than his character. Horowitz, however, is only following the direction of a playwright, who has a harrowing story to tell and needs you to enjoy every tricked-up minute of the zany-schmaltzy telling.
Los Angeles Times
12-02-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
Douglas Lyons writes comedies centering Black women. How his trilogy could change theater
Douglas Lyons stays booked and busy. The seasoned stage actor, also a musical composer-lyricist and a writer on Apple TV+'s 'Fraggle Rock: Back to the Rock,' is currently in Los Angeles for IAMA Theatre's workshop production of 'Don't Touch My Hair,' the final installment of what he's titled 'The Deep Breath Trilogy, New Plays for Black Women.' Each play is a celebration of its respective genres — so far, to noted success. The first, the funeral-centric family comedy 'Chicken & Biscuits,' debuted on Broadway in 2021 and subsequently became one of the most-produced plays in America. The second, the restaurant-set romantic comedy 'Table 17,' made its world premiere off-Broadway last year in a twice-extended run. This third piece, Lyons acknowledges, is a bigger swing: The time-traveling buddy comedy follows two friends who, after smoking a uniquely potent blunt, get transported back to an active plantation. Still, each entry in Lyons' trilogy centers Black women as not merely survivors of painful experiences, but agents of joyous, bountiful lives — a decision that's both an artistic mission and a business strategy. 'Growing up with so many Black women ... they're all strong and vibrant and have real personalities, and I rarely see those depictions in the American theater,' he explained. 'The actor in me is like, why not write some different offerings for my peers so they can have more work?' Ahead of the nine-performance run of 'Don't Touch My Hair,' which opens Thursday and runs through Feb. 24, Lyons tells The Times about finally trying playwriting, developing stage work in L.A. and creating texts of levity as a form of protest. This conversation has been edited for length and clarity. How did you come to write this trilogy of plays? When I started, I didn't know if I could do one play, let alone three, because I wasn't a writer. I don't have a writing degree, I have a BFA in musical theater from the Hartt School, and I had only written music and lyrics before, that's where I felt safe. And then, during my 45-minute breaks in 'Beautiful, the Carole King Musical' on Broadway, I started writing about my own family relationships. I'd write 10 pages at a time backstage, walk a few blocks down the street to the Directors Company to do a reading of it, and then head back to do the show. That became 'Chicken & Biscuits,' which got mixed reviews in New York, but people thought it was funny, and since then, there have been 37 productions performed and another 10 or so on deck. And it just became evident to me — maybe I'm not writing for New York. I'm not writing for critics, I'm writing for audiences. I'm writing for Black women. And if that's what I'm doing, then there's more to mine. What do you mean by that? Looking at the theatrical landscape and canon, there aren't a lot of plays that center Black women without harm. They're not programmed, they're not seen because there's this obsession with Black pain — oh my God, they're crying, and did you see the snot? And the Black actresses I know always have to do that work to be considered brilliant, as if our laughter is not considered brilliant. Y'all are too comfortable with that being our standard; don't let the American theater fool you into thinking these are the only sides of Black folks! Even musical theater-wise, it's like, we gotta do 'Dreamgirls,' we gotta be the Dynamites in 'Hairspray' or Becky in 'Waitress.' Yes, those are roles that aren't all on pain, but they're not juicy and contemporary and vibrant and powerful, like the women I know in real life. Growing up with so many Black women — my mother is one of seven, my father is one of eight, I have so many cousins — they're all strong and vibrant and have real personalities, and I rarely see those depictions in the American theater. So the actor in me is like, why not write some different offerings for my peers so they can have more work? I've seen this impact in real time: Ebony Marshall-Oliver, who played [the central matriarch] in 'Chicken & Biscuits' on Broadway, came into the audition room and understood every single part of it. There are actors out there who have all the assets to be capable of leading a show and have just never been given an opportunity. That's been happening in a lot of regional productions too. So if I can whip up work that pulls artists who are rarely seen because they're maybe not the commercial or typical thing, and puts them center stage, that's so exciting to me. You revised 'Table 17' while performing in 'Parade' on Broadway. How were you able to create such a joyous text while acting in a devastating musical? It was very hard. I can rewrite quickly; it's harder when you're formulating ideas for a new play. For me right now, once the orange Cheeto got into the presidency again, I told myself, I am going to use my pen, my page, my cursor as my sword. Because if I don't, and I just scroll on social media where there will only be despair, I just can't survive in that place, I will literally crumble. Words outlast life, so I'm just determined to find my joy through the page, and bring as much light and levity to this burning world. That's why it's called 'The Deep Breath Trilogy' — toward the end of 'Chicken & Biscuits,' everyone takes these deep breaths. I thought, I can't make the characters overlap across these plays, but I can put in a moment in each one where a Black woman stands center stage and takes a deep breath. In the world we live in right now, that's revolutionary. 'Don't Touch My Hair' is a hallucinogenic, time-traveling adventure to an active plantation. Where did the idea come from? I started writing it during the pandemic. I may or may not partake in the edibles of life, as we will call them, and I was inspired after seeing 'A Strange Loop' — as in, as a writer, you can go much further with your imagination. Can I literally give them superpowers? I wanted to be wild and wacky, like the buddy comedies we see a lot of in Hollywood. Also, after seeing 'Slave Play,' I wanted to write something that dealt with race but did not harm Black women. This isn't a direct response, but it inspired me and made me wonder if there's another way to do it, in my voice. I honestly would love to see both plays back-to-back and have a conversation on how they were received and how one inspired the other. This being a workshop production — as in, not a fully-staged world premiere — what have been the developmental priorities? A big part of the rehearsal process has been about tone and intimacy. I think this play scares people a little bit, and they're courageous enough to go for it and see what happens. It really goes to some places — yes, through a comedic lens, but like, there's a whip onstage and it is used. And there's also sensual moments in it. So, it's been a conversation of having a collective understanding of, we acknowledge that we're asking you to do some crazy things, let us know when you're safe. It's also been a lot of laughter and joy, which we need right now. Design-wise, hair and costume got more budgetary love. It will look like a world, maybe not as specified in set as you would see at a premiere [production], but what this does is it really focuses on the relationships before you. And if you can be cackling laughing without a full set twirling in automation, that proves that the bones of the play are solid. If we've done it right, which I think we have, your imagination will go on the journey, even though all the lines aren't colored in. I'm so excited that L.A. will be the first to see this play. There's this mentality that New York theater is the definition, and that's such a lie. Theater is becoming a lot more commercial in New York — as in, I don't know that we're as interested in the stories that we're telling as we are in making the money from them. Yes, I'm gonna get my coin, but that's not why I was attracted to the theater. So I'm going to the communities that understand my work, laugh with them, cry with them and develop this with them. And if you don't get it, that doesn't mean I don't deserve space. Having ventured into playwriting, what advice would you give to others debating a similarly daunting creative leap? So many artists I know are afraid to bet on themselves for fear of failure, as was I for a long time. 'Chicken & Biscuits' started as an experiment, but it was my writing sample for 'Fraggle Rock' and it got me my first TV deal, and now I'm developing television with Ryan Reynolds' company and Skydance. So in 2025 in Beyonce's America, you owe it to yourself to try it, because it may be the thing that catapults you to your next path. If you don't do it, who's going to do it for you? Period.
