Christian Cagigal is a dark little conjurer with a thoughtful view on evil and an experiential one-man show threaded with gothic whimsy. “It won’t be the feel-good show of the year,” he says. But if you let down your defenses, Cagigal promises to give you magic.
He’s also hatching good-natured plots to steal your soul, so be sure to keep that shit close. (I stuffed mine in an empty wine glass and shoved it under the seat. Seemed to work.)
If you were a virginal young woman more willing to use your brain than your boobs to get ahead in the world, how would you feel if you came home from Cambridge to discover that your mother is a notorious madame and the luxury of your childhood was bought via the virtual enslavement of women not so different from yourself?
Plowing through your day is so much easier when you don't stop to consider the possibility that you might be accidentally mowed down in a grocery store parking lot and wake up to find yourself immobile in a hospital bed. Lydia Stryck's deftly written script contemplates just such a scenario - and what happens when the man behind the wheel becomes a friend to the woman who can no longer move her arms.
Calling all playwrights: Think you can recreate the dirty mouths and terse dialogue of David Mamet's characters? In conjunction with the West Coast premier of Mamet's latest play, the political satire November A.C.T. is sponsoring its fourth annual David Mamet Writing Contest. The rules are pretty straightforward: Write one scene, three pages max plus an intro, with no more than four characters. Aspiring Mamets have three styles to choose from: retell a moment in US history a la Mamet, write a concession speech a Mamet character would give, or Mamet-fy a politically themed movie, TV show, or play. Submissions are due October 28, and the contest is open to everyone except for David Mamet.
The problem with “zany” and “kooky” is that sometimes you get “Dr. Strangelove” and sometimes you get dumb-goofy and annoyingly silly. There are a few moments in ACT’s new revival of John Guare’s“Rich and Famous” that approach Peter Sellers-esque kookiness, wackiness in the best sense of the word. And then there’s the rest of the play.
There was no valet parking on Mission or Valencia streets 15 years ago. No one was no waiting 10 minutes in line for Tartine or Ritual coffee. The only slightly gentrified business on the Valencia strip was Val 21 – (now Dosa) right next to the lesbian bookstore. 23rd Street was inhabited by Radio Valencia (serving up pre-mp3 mixed music), instead of people drinking absinthe at Beretta.