Nevertheless, brow-furrowed leftist didacticism is the worst sort of fate to heap on any principled, progressive artist, least of all Brecht, who is frequently so very funny and deeply compassionate about the fate of his ragged characters. Why would anyone who despises entertainment constantly collaborate with the feverishly romantic, puckish songwriter Kurt Weill, or write a dry black comedy as laugh-out-loud clever as his fearless Mother Courage and Her Children (well, I laughed out loud when I read it).
This is the 100-year anniversary of Bertolt Brecht's birth, and theater companies around the world are staging a harmonic convergence of productions. Their reason: to remind us that the man's imagination, not his dog-eared copy of The Communist Manifesto (which, by the way, celebrates its 150th anniversary this year) provided the cathedral-like infrastructure for his sprawling, multi-character masterpieces about how not having enough money will harden your heart and make you wicked as surely as having too much.
The fact is, Brecht invites us to laugh and feel excited and sad and scared when we watch his plays, but he just doesn't want us to lose the sense that the lives being recreated on stage in front of us are our lives, or at least, the lives of communities inextricably linked with our own. What Brecht despised and distrusted was sentimentality; it distorts our reflection when he holds up the mirror and indulges us with one tasty frosted pastry of cheap emotion after another until we grow bloated and can't leave our theater seats. Brecht didn't want theater to be a refuge, a hiding place, a reason to disconnect from others. Hell, if Brecht were alive today, I'd be surprised if he didn't view Andrew Lloyd Webber and the creators of those cartoon-to-stage Disney musicals as part of some patrician free-market conspiracy along with Rupert Murdoch and the fast-consolidating banking industry. I know I do.
All that means is that if anybody could use a double shot of Brecht, it's Dallas. Thirty-seven-year-old Theatre Three and seven-year-old Kitchen Dog Theater bring our city into the global Brecht bash with productions of, respectively, his most famous musical collaboration and one of his least produced early works. One is edgy, profane spectacle; the other is dense, tense, philosophical comedy with a tragedy chaser. Both are suffused with that Brechtian wit of the downtrodden--the sense that when things aren't going to get much better, there's no excuse not to laugh. This humor isn't the language of the soul, it's the language of the soul's wounds. Brecht's chortles are accompanied by the taste of blood in your mouth.
The Threepenny Opera, the German playwright's 1928 collaboration with Kurt Weill, owes its massive success less to Brecht than to the lyrical tap shoe and melodic virtuosity of Weill. But while you're busy snapping your fingers to "Mack the Knife" or crooning that supreme plebeian overthrow anthem "Pirate Jenny," Brecht the Marxist lurks right behind you, whispering little anecdotes about how the sins of the poor look and feel so very much like the sins of the privileged, and that many of them can be traced to the same system that's placed them on opposite ends of the economic hierarchy.
As you might expect, Theatre Three emphasizes the pageantry side of The Threepenny Opera more than the political, but I don't suspect Brecht would much mind, especially because director Jac Alder has chosen to stage Michael Feingold's very naughty 1989 translation. There probably aren't many other shows where you'll hear the word "fuck" sung in alto, soprano, and bass, not to mention numerous other polite-company no-noes. The profanity feels perfectly appropriate, for there's nothing polite about the company kept by master criminal Macheath (Greg Dulcie), who divides his time between pimping at a Soho brothel and running a gang of killers and thieves. Macheath's courtship of Polly Peachum (Jamie Pringle) represents a kind of underworld class disruption in itself, since she's the daughter of Jonathan Jeremiah Peachum (Doug Jackson), C.E.O. of the London beggars' racket. Rivalry and even snobbery--Peachum may be skimming the top off a panhandling racket, but he's no certified criminal like Macheath--causes a collision between beggars, prostitutes, and thieves on the eve of the coronation of Queen Victoria.
T3's Threepenny Opera holds definite pleasures, but probably even more so for those of us who've never seen the Brecht-Weill story staged live. Alder sweeps his huge cast everywhere and back again throughout his in-the-round space, aided and abetted by Bruce Coleman's reliably wonderful costumes. In the process, several of the supporting performances captivate us like big, shiny gems on a call-girl's hand. Amy Mills as the police chief's daughter and another one of Macheath's spurned bedmates is a wild-haired cockney wonder, perfectly happy to contemplate homicide in the pursuit of her erstwhile lover. Doug Jackson as the beggar boss who orchestrates Macheath's downfall gallops about the stage with expert long-limbed fluster. Crook-Finger Jack (Alberto Ramirez), the most sniveling yet most outspoken of Macheath's thieves, exudes Brechtian wretchedness and resourcefulness with every rattly breath.