Theatre Review: Our Lady of 121st Street

Stephen Adly Guirgis’ Our Lady of 121^st Street (directed by Joe Palese) is Sister Rose, the antithesis of Sister Mary Ignatius and a fresh attempt at presenting a more humane view of the Catholic Church (or, at the minimum, a less disparaging take on the scandal-infested religion as of late).  The comic premise resembles something out of the theatre of the absurd: former students pay their last respects to their favorite nun, except someone or something has absconded with her body.  Like in No Exit, the characters are trapped in a confined space and their Hell is each other, at least, until Sister’s Rose corpse surfaces, if it ever does.

A cop Balthazar (a sympathetic Ronnie Marmo, who is also the artistic director and founding member of 68 Cent Crew Theatre Company), investigates matters, while also attending as one of her former students, but his official duties are pretty marginal.  Like seeing old acquaintances after ages have passed, as in the recent Follies, muscle memory kicks in and the temptation is to revert to where one has left off. 

One of the main storylines involves a divorced couple Rooftop (Moe Irvin) and Inez (Katy Jacoby), the former of which seeks absolution from a jaded Father Lux (Daniel Hutchison), who lost his legs in the Vietnam War.  Edwin has taken care of his mentally disabled brother Pinky since their youth.  Partially-closeted Flip (Jonté Legras) reluctantly brings his very out boyfriend Gail (Timothy Alonzo).  The performances are strong across the board and provide the play’s saving grace.  Both Jacoby and Monzon are emotionally towering (the former of which wears the fuck out of her lipstick red cocktail dress) and Irvin has excellent timing.  Heidi Rhodes is often quite humorously caustic as the bipolar, asthmatic Marcia.

Alonzo flames up in the part exactly as written.  He hits all of his flamboyant notes and never misses an opportunity to snatch each laugh.  The role itself is slightly dated (written only nine years ago), as the especially effeminate actor-wannabe becomes extremely self-conscious in a somewhat unwelcoming foreign environment.  Out of nervousness, his whole storyline revolves around his desperate need to tap into his more masculine side in order to be accepted.  And without the emotional investment, it’s difficult to care for his plight.  While we mostly laugh with him, the play inadvertently makes light out of Gail’s sexuality.  There are moments to laugh at him producing a tinge of homophobic awkwardness.  “Why don’t you not act like a faggot for a couple of hours” would have been funny and may have been a line from La cage aux folles, but, by the time the Hollywood film version came out in 1996 for mainstream America, it was time to stick a fork in that joke.  Nathan Lane got the remaining laughs available in The Birdcage and it was time to move on.  But still, there is plenty of warranted laughter to be had: “Denial is like a pair of Prada pajamas: the price is too high.”  In an ascot, pink shirt, white belt lining his black slim fit jeans, Gail declares, “I studied with Lee Strasberg.”  Flip’s response: “That’s probably what killed him.” 

Best in show would have to be Claudine Claudio as Norca the potty-mouth chola with a huge chip on her shoulder.  The raw, sassy nerve manages to be both a train-wreck and circus; it’s hard to take your eyes off her.  Asked about her whereabouts at the time of the corpse-knapping, she gives Balthazar her entry-level attitude: “I was at your mother’s house fucking her ass with a strap-on.”  She has understandably bad taste in men (“He was no robber, he was a suspect.”)  And, the most sympathy she can muster for the dearly departed is, “I just don’t want to talk about that penguin bitch.”  Saying she has no filter is putting it mildly, yet missing is what lies beneath her disdain and the resentment she feels for a life steered off of any meaningful course. 

Moe Irvin, Daniel Hutchison

The scenes are long and pensive, and framed and separated by sudden blackouts; they often play like vignettes.  The through-line is the mourning, but the characters couldn’t be any more disconnected, as is often the case in these types of gatherings.  The silent and lonely stationary set is divided up into a living room, funeral home, and bar.  The lighting options of the non-traditional space make it difficult to appreciate Matt Richter’s design. 

This is a crime comedy-drama where solving the mystery is truly ancillary to the play.  With a spin on Sartre’s “Hell is other people,” we get the less misanthropic, “despair is the absence of hope,” leaving some room for optimism.  “I’m afraid I won’t turn out to be the person I used to think I had all the time to become,” muses Rooftop.  Aren’t we all?  Lucky for him, he finally realizes it.

The 68 Cent Crew Theatre Company is a nifty little theatrical nook on Sunset where one would zoom pass on their way to the 101, completely oblivious to its existence, expecting to find nothing more than check-cashing stores.  Our Lady closes June 10^th.  You can buy tickets here.  [7/2 note: Did I mention there's a top-secret parking lot ON TOP of the building.  You'd never know it's there!]