By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
I don't visit Joe Dickinson's Pocket Sandwich Theatre very often, but lest the readers think I'm too snobby to lob a handful of popcorn with the Pocket faithful, let me rush to confirm that I've desperately wanted to hurl comestibles at a few shows during the just-ended Dallas theater season. Maybe it's that Dickinson and company not only give you permission, but actively encourage you to toss heated corn kernels, that takes all the fun out of it. Add to this the fact that Dallas Theater Center and Dallas Summer Musicals offer a plethora of expensive out-of-town performers to pelt, and I can only say that the Pocket Sandwich ranks far down on the list of companies that require my opinions in mid-show, projectile form.
Actually, the popcorn-throwing spoofs and melodramas are not the only fare offered here -- they also serve non-participatory spoofs and melodramas, along with beer by the pitcher and enough varieties of fried food to clog a rendering plant. It's a time-tested, box-office-friendly combo, which is the main reason I don't make a point of reviewing their shows: They don't need anyone's help. The longer a Pocket Sandwich show goes into its run, the harder it is to get tickets, which always drives home one of the truisms spoken half seriously by a member of a struggling company -- alcohol and salted fat could be the savior of the Dallas theater scene. Of course, your average Undermain show doesn't properly prepare the digestion for cheese fries, but the point is larger than that: Live theater, which (generally speaking) doesn't assault your senses like movies and (usually) doesn't let you eat and drink during the show and often won't even let you leave your seat until intermission, can be an uncomfortably ascetic experience.
I'm the first to rail against lazy, hazy-minded contemporary audiences, who for the most part have lost the inclination to meet the stage and the visual arts halfway by exercising their imaginations. Here's the challenge to people who want to survive and entertain with live theater: What makes people relaxed enough to open their minds a little bit and allow them the chance to cram a gigantic wad of ancient art into their craniums?
Beer and comfort food do. But what's happening on stage at the Pocket right now is their equivalent -- the non-participatory Bride of Frankenstein: The Musical. The question of art vs. commerce, of how-far-do-we-go-to-further-accommodate
-coddled-modern-audiences-but-still-sling-art, is irrelevant in this cheerful universe. The onstage servings are cooked up to coat your tummy and buzz your brain every bit as much as what comes out of the kitchen. The good folks at the Pocket, completely without need of media exposure, crammed a last-minute request by a theater critic who not only didn't pay for his ticket, but consumed one lousy cup of ice water during the whole three acts. And although my vision wasn't blurred from seared animal lipids and fermented hops, I was still in the frame of mind to tell the difference between good junk food and bad junk food, theatrically speaking -- and the surprisingly subtle, expertly delivered Bride of Frankenstein: The Musical left me smacking my lips at final bows.
Even at its most frivolous and fatty, theater still requires a greater investment of concentration than, say, Sister Sister. Written by Sandwich stalwarts Rodney Dobbs and Mary Duren, this sequel to their previous musical effort about Mary Shelley's pitiful bachelor creature has a vaudevillian attentiveness to its audience that belies what you might expect: director E. Lee Smith seems to have spent a lot of time smoothing out the spaces between dialogue, coaching his actors to work with an audience primed to have a good time rather than guiding the performers to bust their humps trying to manufacture that good time from scratch. It's a subtle difference, and rarely articulated well, but one of the problems with past Pocket shows (and something that seems to have become a degenerative disease over at Pegasus Theatre, a kindred comic spirit) is that the material seems to be delivered with the expectation that the audience will laugh rather than an understanding that they want to laugh. This difference, that a talented comic performer must be tuned to ticketbuyers' receptiveness and shape his or her performance night by night rather than barking one-liners at the audience like drill commands, may seem hair-splitting, but it's actually monumental. Stop and think about it -- how often do you, as a theatergoer, feel ignored by a comedy because its writers and performers take too much for granted, assume they already know what you think is funny rather than letting you find it on your own? The cast of Bride of Frankenstein has for the most part forsaken canned humor to give performances that have one ear pitched to the noisy darkness outside the footlights and all their energy aimed at one another.
And the enthusiastic patrons, while still mostly chowing down and sipping, rose to the occasion. In my experience, the popcorn-throwing shows are scattershot successes and almost impossible to review fairly -- the audience is either too shy to throw or too drunk to listen. The actors are left flailing, posing, beating you with punch lines that feel like they were written on baseball bats. There's no 'corn to be thrown in Bride of Frankenstein, just the story of the Creature (Mark Richmond), his some-assembly-required lover (Nhaila Hendrickse), and their hapless creator Victor Von Frankenstein (Bill Owen), who divides his attention between their demands and those of his new bride, Elizabeth (Sally O'Casey).