Mamie (Mona Armonio Leach) is stuck coming of age in the lonesome expanse that was the American Southwest in the middle part of this century. Chan wisely wants to use Mamie as a point of departure for a rumination on the eternal loss of innocence and the frustrated longings of women, but the metaphor gets awfully thick awfully quick. Enlivened by pop culture cowboy tales and entranced by the more subtle seductions of Chinese myths and gender roles, Mamie and her brother Sammy (Jose Abaoag) engage in a confusing verbal and (later) physical mating dance that consists of elliptical bursts of poetic proclamations. It's a heightened language that neither the earnest Leach nor Abaoag can handle. The yearning dementia of the children's mother (Vera Wong, who fares best in an inexpert cast), and the thoughtlessness of her absent husband (Chris San Nicolas) further layer the text, but the underlying reality is not grounded enough in either word or performance.
Director Jane Kaplan has some fun with the sassy courtship of Chan's mythological commentators, Moonlady and Oxboy (Leilani Wollam and Tony Colinares, respectively). She's also blessed with the skilled design work behind John McDermott's scrims and set pieces (one question: do we need real dust?) and Patti West's evocative lighting. Unfortunately, not all of Kaplan's ideas come to fruition, mostly because of the failings of her cast. Though Rancho Grande comes nicely back around to itself, a distinct lack of clarity hovers over the evening. The production whoops it up but lacks the technique to come back to earth.
A Confusing Meditation
A Confusing Meditation
