Exactly how I became known as “the pony lady”, I’ll never know. It was never my intention. I considered my enterprising twenty-something self a serious trainer of horses. Horses. When I flung open my barn doors for business, I posted professionally designed, informative flyers advertising nationally certified riding lessons, coaching and schooling at all county feed and tack stores. I handed out handsomely printed business cards with an embossed HORSE logo (certainly not a pony) to contacts across the region. I proudly nailed an attractive wooden sign to the front gate of my small north Texas farm, featuring a full-sized graphic of a horse. Not a pony. To my dismay, ponies appeared. They came at first as an occasional dribble, then a steady stream. Finally, like a river, a regular flood, of ponies….
With The Sandman, 1984
All sizes, types, ages and temperaments trooped solemnly down my driveway, past the full-sized horse sign, possessing unique, unforgettable traits. There were sway-backed, eagle-eyed broodmares who kicked so swiftly and accurately they could smash two by fours like toothpicks while placidly chewing a mouthful of hay. In crept exquisitely refined ponies with royal pedigrees and sad, doe-soft eyes, cringing in mortal terror at normal daily use of barn rakes, shovels and wheelbarrows. Up trotted the tiniest of ponies with trusting souls, manes ensnarled in mud and blood-stiffened nylon clothesline, wearing old rope halters that scarred deep grooves in their kindly faces. Cresty-necked palominos with jolly round bellies, curly manes and painfully foundered hooves limped on eggshells down the lane. High-stepping blood bays with four white matching socks and blazed faces with profuse, jet-black tails floating gracefully behind them paraded in. Ancient ponies with barbed wire scars crisscrossing their stubby legs and shoulders shuffled by, wise eyes beneath furrowed brows missing nothing. I welcomed them all as temporary residents, en route to humane, use-appropriate homes. Included in the wealth of beautiful, sad, heart-wrenching cases descending upon my “horse ranch” plodded a few incorrigible rogues, ponies who seemed impossible to “fix” and place. Invisible horrors carved deep grooves on their hearts. Among the latter was Surprise.
A stocky black and white pinto, coarse muscled, thick necked, with a mangy, matted tail and unruly bristle of mane, Surprise sauntered placidly out of a long-neglected, open-topped single horse rig and into my life one sun-washed, wisteria fragrant late spring day. He surveyed the serene farm scene with unruffled reserve, one long ear swiveling casually back and forth. North Texas’ tornado season had already come and gone; this short, fat equine whirlwind slipped as an unassuming afterthought, sans warning.
“This here good-lookin’ pony, he’s too much for ma’ grandkids to handle, needs a firm hand an’ a world of sweaty saddle blankets—I heard you’re the one to fix him real good, little lady. So I brung him.” The elderly gent grinned broadly while scratching his scruffy beard stubble. Before I could change my mind he stuffed my proffered three hundred dollars in cash (negotiated down from five hundred) into his sweaty hatband and lumbered back into his rusty Ford pick up. As I watched him disappear down the lane, empty trailer banging and clanging along behind, I could just make out his parting words over the whine of stiffly shifting gears. “Sometimes he bucks.”
Surprise’s ground manners proved to be impeccable. He led like on military parade, tied like a statue, reveled in a bath and politely offered his hooves for picking out. He didn’t hog his food or fight with pasture mates. He accepted a snaffle bit in his mouth gladly and obeyed verbal cues while circling me at the end of a schooling rope like any model trustworthy lesson pony. After several days of easing him into the work routine, I decided it was time to check out his behavior under saddle.
One morning soon after Surprise’s arrival I invited a neighbor colleague over for coffee with her nephew in tow. A gangly, athletic teen-ager, Gary helped his aunt with barn chores and routinely climbed up on “green” Quarter horse two year olds for the first few unsteady rides. My friend had agreed it would be amusing to watch him ride Surprise the first time. Gary was humiliated. He was used to climbing up on full-sized Quarter horses with hot racehorse and champion roping blood coursing through their veins. What could possibly challenge him in riding one sleepy-looking black and white fatso who didn’t even reach as high as his waist? Gary slouched sullenly out to my round riding pen next to the main barn, where a saddled and bridled Surprise waited, snoozing in the sun, a back hoof cocked, tail swishing lazily in the breeze. I handed Gary the reins, instructing him to walk and trot both directions in the small pen, check out gait smoothness and responsiveness to standard cues, see how reliable Surprise’s ‘whoa” was. The basics. No need to canter. Gary rolled his eyes and grunted assent. His aunt and I retreated indoors to my kitchen, where we could observe the trial ride from a large picture window and sip coffee out of earshot. As I stirred milk into my steaming cup, I recalled the pony’s previous owner’s parting words. ” Sometimes he bucks.”
Aside from the fact that Gary’s legs hung down so long they almost scraped the ground with his boot toes, the first try-out proceeded in perfectly ordinary fashion, reflecting Surprise’s excellent ground attitude. The pony meandered along at a snail’s pace walk, halted obediently, neck-reined in figure-eight loops, even backed up without fussing, gaping his mouth or tossing his head. He looked bored. Gary glanced up at his aunt and me standing in the kitchen window and stuck out his tongue. I yelled, “Wake him up! He’s half-asleep! Pick up a trot!” Gary shrugged and curled his knees up and kicked the pony’s flanks with his heels. Gently. Surprise swiveled an over-sized ear in response and continued to plod, plod, plod. Gary kicked him again, more emphatically. The pony pricked both ears decidedly forward.
My coffee cup halted halfway to my mouth. With the speed and efficiency of a high-powered slingshot, Surprise ducked his head and launched the unsuspecting Gary far across the riding pen. His aunt and I whooped in unison. It was a “surprising” feat. Surprise then halted and waited, unflappably gazing past the barn. Gary crawled slowly to his feet, dusting off his brand new Levis and muttering a few choice words to cover his acute embarrassment. He hardly ever got tossed off his aunt’s high-spirited Quarter Horse colts…. He glanced up at us standing at the window bug-eyed and stuck out his tongue again when we both gave him the ‘thumbs up” to remount. “Ride ‘em, cowboy!” his aunt snickered. I took another sip of coffee and said with a straight face, “I guess he does buck sometimes.”
Over the next half-hour my friend and I polished off a large pot of coffee, while we observed Surprise demolishing any hope of his ever becoming a trustworthy child’s mount. He tossed the now sweaty, despondent and dust-coated Gary no fewer than twenty times. No matter how hard Gary worked to stay astride, Surprise’s calculated skill at unseating him persevered whenever Gary asked him to pick up a trot. When Gary finally dragged his beaten, bruised ego out of the round pen, Surprise had barely broken a sweat under the saddle blanket. I had to hand it to the pony. What he did, he did to perfection. But what could I do with him if he wasn’t safe to ride beyond a walk? He’d make a high maintenance lawnmower.
Surprise’s impeccable ground manners continued to make him a delightful pony to handle on the ground. I invited Gary back several times for a re-match. On each occasion Surprise ditched him with the same determined gusto when encouraged to move out of a walk. It foreshadowed a dim future for one incorrigible, fat black and white pony.
Then I got a phone call from a recent Dallas transplant to my rural corner of Collin County. Mark McMillan, congenial and earnest, inquired about riding lessons for his adopted special needs son Tyler, who was developmentally disabled. Tyler did not fit the profile of my average riding student—he was male, highly excitable, and possessed the physical coordination of a six-year-old child (in an eleven year old body), and worse, the emotional maturity of someone considerably younger. I was neither trained for nor particularly interested in providing riding instruction for the developmentally disabled. But Mark McMillan insisted. He hoped to introduce his adopted son to as many elements of the natural, country life as possible. Including horses. Reluctantly, I agreed to allow the man to bring Tyler for a trial visit. If all went well, I would agree to let the boy pet and brush a horse a short while, up close. Maybe.
The risk of the challenge I’d agreed to hit me hard. Whatever horse I selected to allow Tyler near had to be utterly dependable and unflappable. It couldn’t make one false move to frighten or injure this fragile young boy. McMillan had mentioned that Tyler was easily intimidated and hypersensitive. I worried that a full sized horse might frighten him badly. As I walked through my small herd of normal-sized lesson horses, I realized not one of them was the right size. My gaze fell upon Surprise, dreamily munching his grass hay in the last stall in the barn, ears just visible over the stall door. I slid the door back and stood beside him tugging my fingers through his unruly mane. “Looks like you’re it, buddy, it’s your turn to shine.“ Surprise sneezed and rubbed a bony eye socket vigorously on my leg. “Don’t you dare let me down.“
The next day Tyler and his father arrived right after lunch and immediately confirmed my concerns. Tyler was slight, awkward, gestured oddly with his hands and uttered random grunts and whoops as he got out of the car. He shook like a leaf, hooted and clung to his dad as we slowly approached horses sunning themselves behind a pasture fence. Any sudden movement or sound—a stamped hoof or casual head shake or swished tail— elicited a piercing shriek from the boy, and he buried his face on his dad’s pant-leg. The idea of trying to introduce Tyler to a horse up close, hands-on, any horse, seemed ill conceived. I expressed my concern to Mr. McMillan, who looked mournful and patted Tyler’s head. Then I noticed Surprise observing us intently, nostrils flared, over the rim of his stall door, ears pricked tautly forward.
I motioned them to follow me down the barn aisle and carefully rolled the door open partway. Mr. McMillan managed to pry Tyler’s face away from his pant leg long enough for the boy to glimpse the pony watching him intently just inside the stall door. I knelt next to the opening and whispered, “Here’s someone who wants to be your friend. This is Surprise.” Tyler blinked timidly at the hairy black and white muzzle looming over him, ready to bolt. Surprise didn’t budge but softly blew into Tyler’s hair with a gentle “whoosh”. Two or three tense seconds passed. A delighted grin spread across Tyler’s face. He cautiously reached out a hand, stiff and quaking, flapping it in the general direction of the pony’s face. Then Tyler whistled, crammed his fist in his mouth, and hid his face on his dad’s leg again. Surprise’s gaze never left the boy as I haltered and stepped him back a few paces so we could all enter the stall.
From a small red bucket I pulled out a child-sized red rubber curry brush and started rubbing it in wide, overly slow circles on Surprise’s neck and shoulders. Tyler watched the process intently, then let go of his dad and tried to grab the curry and stuff it in his mouth. I guided his hand towards Surprise, helping him brush the pony’s neck. Tyler grinned again and gurgled, seemed fascinated by the physical contact. I repeated the procedure with a soft brush on Surprise’s face and handed it to Tyler. When he inadvertently poked Surprise in the eye with the brush, I firmly caught his hand and said “No-no, OUCH!” I stroked Tyler’s face with the brush to show him how it felt and worked. He made a face, chortled, and turned back to the pony, ignoring his dad completely for the first time. Tentatively, he brushed a few more strokes on the pony’s cheek, repeating, “No-no ouch” to himself, then brushed his own cheek again and giggled. I felt we had made enormous strides, even as I rescued the brush from Tyler’s mouth yet again. It seemed enough for a first visit.
When I announced it was time to go, Tyler whimpered. He stared at the pony, astonished, when I told him Surprise was very, very tired and needed a nap. I asked him to give Surprise a kiss good-bye so the pony would feel loved. He stared at Surprise, serious and still. In a flash Tyler puckered his lips and smacked loudly on Surprise’s nose. The pony’s eyes opened full wide, and the two misfits held each other’s gaze for several seconds. The connection was clear. Suddenly embarrassed, Tyler buried his face once more on his dad’s leg. I asked quietly if he’d like to come back to visit Surprise again. Tyler’s response was muffled and unintelligible but definitely affirmative. At their car, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as Mr. McMillan and I congratulated each other on a successful first session. “What a marvelous pony you have, so well-behaved!” he exclaimed. I nodded, straight-faced, and thanked him. I watched their car retreat down the lane, chewing on my lower lip, and returned to the stall to gather Surprise and turn him loose in the nearby pasture with the other lesson stock. The pony was dozing again, wearing his usual droopy-lidded, bored expression. During the short, intense visit, he never took his then wide-open eyes off Tyler. It made me wonder.
Surprise’s sessions with Tyler continued to delight and amaze all involved. Tyler became bolder and more engaged, more at ease around Surprise, with each short lesson. Surprise perked up whenever Tyler appeared, when he heard the boy’s voice. Something clearly remarkable was happening. A skeptical realist, Tyler’s mother came to witness the nascent, unique relationship she’d heard described in glowing terms by her husband. She was as equally impressed with the obvious attachment growing between the boy and pony as she was with Tyler’s increasing dexterity and improved skill retention elsewhere. She gave us her blessings (and permission), and Tyler’s grooming sessions with Surprise lengthened.
It felt like the right time for Tyler to get on Surprise’s back. After grooming, I showed Tyler how to tack up properly with a youth-sized Western saddle. I demonstrated safe mounting and dismounting technique several times, slowly, and took a deep breath. He watched, but did he really understand? I was treading unfamiliar ground but willing to let the boy and pony explore their growing bond further. As a safety precaution I wrapped a chain attached to a stout leather lead across Surprise’s face, just below his bridle noseband. I frowned at the pony, staring directly into his eye. While Tyler gave his dad an effervescent pre-mounting hug, I growled,” You make one wrong move, Surprise, you’ll regret it.”
I stood directly behind Tyler as we both faced across Surprise’s back. I curled his hands around the saddle horn. It took several attempts to convince him he needed to hold on tight, not let his hands slide off the horn. On the count of one-two-three, I boosted him up across the pony’s broad back. Tyler found himself sitting tall and proud on top of Surprise, hands clasped tightly on the horn, huge grin on his face. Surprise stood like a dignified statue, arching his thick neck and swiveling a mulish ear as if to telegraph reassurance to Tyler. Exhilarated, I remembered to keep breathing. I pried one of his tightly clenched fists off the horn, urging Tyler to stroke Surprise’s neck. He cooperated shakily and whispered, “Good boy! Good S’pwize!”, enthralled. We inched forward a few tentative steps, with my one hand gripping Tyler’s thigh while the other guided Surprise. They looked made for each other, and Tyler’s grin widened. Surprise was completely relaxed, attentive and obedient. We expanded our inching along to strolling several small circles. Piece of cake. Tyler’s mounted lesson Number One was a major triumph for all involved.
Tyler’s dismount from the pony’s back proved to be a daunting challenge. His coordination and sense of self-preservation were severely limited. He trusted me and Surprise completely, so when I said, “It’s time to get down now,” Tyler immediately let go of everything, whooped and tumbled in a relaxed heap under Surprise, staring goofily up at the pony’s belly from underneath him in the dirt. He slid off so fast I couldn’t catch him, and Mr. McMillan froze stiff in horror. My heart leaped to my throat. Before I could bark “whoa” and pull the pony up sharp, Surprise showed his true mettle. With utmost care, he stepped well clear of Tyler, disengaging cautiously one hoof at a time. He bent his muzzle down to Tyler’s face and blew a soft “whoosh”, to reassure the prone boy. Tyler lay there on his back, wiggling, giggling and stroking at Surprise’s muzzle with total delight. Uncannily, Surprise knew exactly what to do. Mr. McMillan’s eyes met mine. We felt we had witnessed a unique moment: two very different species reached out across the murky chasm of hit and miss communication and found a common language. I got goose bumps. My respect for one incorrigible pony ratcheted up a notch.
The close relationship between Tyler and Surprise continued to blossom. Tyler came to visit and ride more often, even learned to assist some with saddling. I discovered that he paid much better attention when his parents were not in sight, so Mr. McMillan disappeared around the barn regularly. Tyler had moments when the casual observer might not guess he was “different.” Dismounting safely continued to be an issue. I concluded that Tyler enjoyed sliding off Surprise like a rag-doll and landing on his back underneath the pony. Surprise never lost patience, expertly extracted his feet every time and never once stepped on him. If ever a pony adored a child, Surprise loved Tyler. The feeling was deeply and clearly reciprocated.
Sometime during this initial lesson period, I determined that Surprise pulled a cart nicely, even trotting on command, minus any tendencies to buck. Tyler was so taken with the idea of driving Surprise (“I can see him, I can see him!” he crowed), we expanded his lessons to include driving. The three of us wheeled all over the farm and up and down the gravel road in front, sometimes with Surprise at a smart trot. Tyler felt Surprise needed serenading. We must have presented quite a picture as we toured the vicinity with Tyler singing merrily along to his friend, completely off key and unintelligible. Surprise telegraphed his signature ear swivel and continued to maneuver circles and figure eight loops with measured dignity.
Before Christmas, I had a serious discussion with Tyler’s parents. It concluded with them buying Surprise and arranging for him to come home. What an incredible, special day for Tyler when I drove up with my truck and trailer, bearing one black and white Christmas “Surprise”, along with the pony’s brushes, cart and harness. Tyler stood speechless on his driveway, not taking his eyes off Surprise, who began eagerly grazing on the front lawn. Tyler touched me softly on the cheek, then put his hand over his mouth and hurried over to Surprise to stroke his face with the same gentle touch. He went back and forth between us several times, shaking his head, to make sure we were 100% real. He finally stopped and sighed, “MY S’pwize!” I gave Tyler a big hug and answered, “Yes, YOURS….” I could not have imagined a better fate for the pony—he was loved and he knew it. He had a real job, and he loved performing it. No more hopeless and incorrigible. He was home.
I abandoned giving Tyler riding lessons as he neither understood nor respected the need for a safe dismount. I worried that someday Surprise would get distracted and unintentionally hurt his special master. The McMillans accepted Surprise into their family with open arms and took delight in the hours of companionship he provided for Tyler through grooming and driving. Mr. McMillan took lessons so he could substitute for me in the cart. Tyler enjoyed “showing off” independently for his dad, without me there. He continued to serenade Surprise, to the dismay of all within earshot.
Tyler had reached his limit in learning, and Surprise doted on the boy in total contentment. I needed to let go. I reminded Mr. McMillan about Surprise’s unfortunate habit of bucking off “normal” riders, warned him against letting anyone else handle or ride Surprise. Sure enough, several months later I received a sheepish phone call explaining how Dallas relatives with pre-teen children had paid the McMillan family a visit and begged incessantly for rides on ‘that perfect, gentle pony of Tyler’s.” “I was so astonished” Mr. McMillan chuckled, “Surprise launched them across the backyard like he was aiming for Ft. Worth. It won’t happen again.”
I visited Surprise and Tyler occasionally over the next year. Tyler hit a major growth spurt, so it worked out just as well that he drove Surprise instead of riding him. They maintained their intense, loving bond. Mr. McMillan shared with me that he knew Tyler’s increased confidence with tasks and improved communication with his family and peers were a direct result of Surprise being in his life. I felt so proud of Surprise, honored and thrilled to help discover and develop this worthy niche for the fat little rogue, gratified to know how much of a difference the pony made in Tyler’s life. As for me, his impact was immeasurable. He had opened unexpected, new vistas. I was now very glad to have had such rogue ponies enter my life.
Shortly after, my river of ponies simply dried up and blew away. A few odds-n-ends remained, half-buried in my tack room: a well-worn pair of double ought sized horse shoes rusting on the floor and a petite English bridle with a 4” Kimberwicke bit at the end of my bridle rack. I found myself immersed in the full-blown challenges presented by full-sized horses and their “normal” owners’ interests and needs. The magical promise of professional show barns in California’s expanding horse show scene enticed me away forever from the uncomplicated lifestyle I’d lived as the “pony lady” on a sleepy North Texas horse farm.
I didn’t look back much at the time, or even think to snap photographs of that special duo. Today, I believe it was no accident that the river of ponies brought Surprise to me, and Tyler to us both. That river led Surprise to a purposeful life he otherwise would have missed, where his latent noble spirit could manifest in spades. Thanks to that river of ponies, I got to witness love’s power in action and to participate in the breathtaking, powerful reality of interspecies communication at its most viable. I took my fond memories of Surprise and Tyler with me to California, memories that often gave me courage in the face of imposing challenges. My career in the horse world unfolded, from high desert, iron-gated ranchos outside Riverside in the south to pine and oak-dotted grassy expanses in the Sierra Nevada foothills up north. I will always praise the river of ponies. I still hum a special tune, like Tyler, to honor that one proud, black and white rogue we loved named Surprise.
Short Bio: Alexandra Bonifield spent over thirty years living her life’s passion as a professional horse trainer and nationally certified riding instructor. A former AHSA judge, she was nationally recognized for her work with women and horses on her northern California farm, where she created and ran an arts and equestrian camp for girls. She currently works as a freelance journalist and arts advocate in Dallas, and is an NEA/ Annenberg Fellow in theatre criticism. Read her reviews at: http://sjamaanka.wordpress.com
ghborhoods in shifts, endlessly phone calling “undecided’s” and likely supportive “1’s and 2’s” from computer generated precinct lists, penning volumes of personal postcard notes, working coffee receptions and speaking events — and attending caucus training sessions to learn about this upcoming process. We “grokked” the 15% viability concept and played pretend caucus using musical genres in place of candidates (I lobbied successfully for the “Blues” preference group), learned about last minute voter registration and the sanctity of the 7pm closed-door deadline for inclusion in the official headcount, absorbed what chaos to expect during “re-alignment”, and how to propose resolutions for the state platform. Most importantly, we learned that as Californians we could observe (but not vote in) the caucuses from the rear of the rooms, wearing our t-shirts and campaign buttons, but not handing out literature nor stumping for our candidate (unless we were publicly elected officials ourselves). It was made very clear that only Democrats duly registered in the specific precincts would be included in the head count. All participants would have their names checked against a master list upon entering the room and get asked to register immediately and provide verifiable residence if not on the list. It sounded complicated, staff support heavy; but if lots of Iowans regularly participate in the caucus process, I figured it must work. Shortly after the caucus I learned that only a tiny percentage of Iowa residents actually participate on a regular basis.
Heavenly Audacity: T3 Lost in the Stars
Posted by sjamaanka on 26 May 2009
In his 1949 Broadway opening-night review of Kurt Weill’s Lost in the Stars, New York Times critic Brooks Atkinson commented: “Mr. Weill has given the theatre some fine scores, but… it is difficult to remember anything out of his portfolio as eloquent as this richly orchestrated singing music… overflowing with the same compassion that Mr. Paton brought to his novel…. The music is deep, dramatic, and beautiful.” In Theatre Three’s current production of Lost in the Stars, set main stage in the round at the Quadrangle, the entire ensemble struggles on occasion to master the near operatic challenge the complex score presents. No matter. The soaring eloquence of the music and its sincere expression of the collective human soul’s heart-felt desire for universal acceptance and transcendence allow Theatre Three’s talented, diverse acting ensemble to reach a superb performance level in spite of any vocal technique shortcomings. Their rawness adds veracity to the score’s richness and contemporary potency to the production. The audience exults in the hauntingly expressive music, while treading every anguished step alongside the main character Stephen Kumalo in his Orpheus-like descent to Hell and back. It’s transformative, enriching theatre in an accessible modern vernacular.
Cedric Neal, Akin Babatunde, Liz Mikel
Talk about hope-filled audacity. Some vision composer Kurt Weill and lyricist Maxwell Anderson must have had in 1949 to create and mount a musical stage adaptation of Alan Paton’s disturbingly realistic 1948 apartheid novel Cry, the Beloved Country. What musical swept the Tony awards in 1949? Cole Porter’s Kiss Me Kate, hardly in the same league as far as provocative social commentary goes. How could Weill/Anderson have expected their show to go on tour in 1949? Where could they have fed and housed a bi-racial cast in segregated America, the land of separate but equal drinking fountains, hotels and restaurants? What race-related roadblocks must they have faced even in mounting the show in the “enlightened” New York of that day? And where at that time would they find a substantial number of African-American singers versed in operatic-dimensioned expression to fully realize the major roles? Weill must have planned carefully. As his lead Stephen Kumalo, he cast the incomparable operatic baritone and actor Todd Duncan, the first African-American to sing with a major opera company (1945), and the first black person to sing in an opera with an otherwise white cast (the New York City Opera). Duncan was quite the outspoken desegregation advocate. While playing Porgy in Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess during the show’s 1936 Washington run at the National Theatre, he led the cast in a protest of the theatre’s policy of segregation. Duncan declared that he “would never play in a theater which barred him from purchasing tickets to certain seats because of his race.” Management succumbed to his demands and allowed the first integrated performance at the National Theatre. No one on earth could have better brought the plight of Stephen Kumalo to life both vocally and experientially for that first production. Todd Duncan had walked that walk, fought that battle, himself.
How does a modern company cast that pivotal role? Theatre Three features multiple award-winning Akin Babatunde as Stephen Kumalo. Babatunde brings phenomenal stage presence, reverential compassion and ferocious dignity to his portrayal. Trained at the National Black Theatre in Harlem, he has acted, directed, coached and taught extensively nation-wide and abroad. His co-written play Blind Lemon Blues, has earned national acclaim, with his performance as Blind lemon receiving glowing praise . Accordingly, he brings a gravelly blues sensibility to his song interpretations that makes Kumalo a vivid Everyman dealing with life’s unspeakable horrors. This musical isn’t mounted very often, possibly because it’s hard to cast. With Babatunde as lead, Theatre Three not only bypasses the inherent casting challenge, it transforms the show to reach today’s audience head on. Could Theatre Three have found a stronger African-American operatic singer for the Kumalo role today? Undoubtedly. Would he have brought the show as effectively to life in the era of “Yes, We Can” as Babatunde with his soulful blues intonations and common man demeanor? Probably not.
The rest of the ensemble creates unforgettable, transformational moments as well. Liz Mikel’s raunchy fun “Who’ll Buy” kicks Act I into high gear, while her stirring, heartfelt rendition of “Cry, the Beloved Country” in Act II warrants an extended encore. TeCo Theatrical Productions’ trained young artist Raliegh “Tre” Jones delights the audience in his cameo solo “Big Mole”. The tragic role of Stephen Kumalo’s son Absolom seems tailor-made for Dallas Theater Center resident actor/singer Cedric Neal. His soaring rendition of “The Wild Justice “ in Act II expresses such vivid contrast in bright and dark tones that it shines a poignant light on the relentless determination of his father Stephen Kumalo to find resolution and salvation as much as it reveals his character’s inner conflict. Neal’s Absolom never begs for mercy; his honesty brings on his death while providing redemptive inspiration for all lives he touches. The father’s single-minded dignity is mirrored in the son, although their life paths carry them far apart. Through Absolom’s committed resolve the audience, along with Stephen Kumalo, are no longer “lost in the stars.” Through Weill’s music all are transported to that grace-filled magical place.
Lost in the Stars, dealing with the most serious subject matter of any show currently running in the region, delivers its message of reconciliation through loss with a powerful musical wallop. It matches our times of hope and challenge, warrants attendance by all who believe that great theater can inspire transformation as well as provide exquisite entertainment.
Theatre Three’s production of Kurt Weill’s Lost in the Stars runs through June 14.
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Posted in Political Commentary, Theatre Reviews | Tagged: akin babatunde, dallas theatre center, kurt Weill, maxwell anderson, national black theatre in harlem, national theatre of washington DC, new york city opera, teco theatrical productions, theatre three, todd duncan | Leave a Comment »