Neither is enough in SF Playhouse's production of Sarah Ruhl's vapid Stage Kiss and the Cavalia's horse extravaganza Odysseo.
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The shock of RAWdance’s Mine is that it demands so much of us. In less than an hour, choreographers Wendy Rein and Ryan T. Smith plunge us into a world of military precision punctuated by dancing so slippery in meaning that it feels like a new vocabulary.
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Friday the 13th: At the end of the Berkeley Repertory Theatre’s production of Ayad Akhtar’s Disgraced, the cast comes out for the curtain call, takes in the applause, waits for it to die down, looks out at the audience for a good while, and then leaves.
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Many contemporary American plays are overstuffed with needless backstories and baroque explanations of plot. The Rude Mechs' The Method Gun, in its quiet way, is a corrective to all that.
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Every time I think of joy, I think of the post-punk band Joy Division: That its members named the band after a concentration camp brothel where Jewish prisoners serviced SS officers is just the first of a series of tragic gestures that ended with lead singer Ian Curtis swinging from the rafters of his Manchester flat.
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We're such a young country that the past is always a tricky deal. Yet, it’s hard to think of a country that is as swathed in myth as we are. Next to Coca-Cola and corn syrup, the mythic past is what America does best.
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And perhaps too revealing for the Aurora and especially the Berkeley Rep.
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