Mamet’s Land of Equal Criminality

“There are no solutions, only the rearrangement of problems.” So exclaims President Charles H.P. Smith [Andrew Polk], the apparent Commander-In-Thief in David Mamet’s latest play, November, which follows the president and all his man, aide Archer Brown [Anthony Fusco], as he nears the end of his first and (likely) only term.

Yes, that’s just one man. Soon after the curtain rises it becomes clear that Smith has lost his way and his base; even his Secret Service detail has defected for coffee without so much as offering to bring back a cup for their boss. With no money for TV ads, “numbers lower than Gandhi’s cholesterol,” no legacy, and — horror beyond horrors,  no commemorative library! – Mamet’s president manifests a moral bankruptcy that alludes not to any one president in history but rather to the nation’s empty, lint-lined consciousness right now.

While November surely enjoyed maximum traction when it debuted on Broadway in January 2008, amidst election frenzy and Bush fatigue, it is no less timely or fun in its current run at San Francisco’s American Conservatory Theater (A.C.T.).

In fact, Mamet’s greatest strength in crafting November is his care not to reveal a set point in time, let alone clear sides. Indeed, several times the script refers to our nation’s best asset being the existence of more than one side to take, that the very meaning of freedom is the ability to stand for and against something at the same time. “What we are is a democracy,” says Smith’s disheveled yet socially level speechwriter, Clarice Bernstein [René Augesen], whose desire to wed her lesbian lover on live television serves as the catalyst for Smith’s potential downfall or redemption, depending on which camp he wishes to please.

Keep in mind that Mamet’s POTUS aims only to serve his most critical constituent: himself. Throughout the play, Mamet sets up Smith, who’s more puppet than master, for various known U.S. political pratfalls — last-minute pardons, prison camps, refusal to acknowledge gay marriage, and the pillaging of Native Americans for personal gain — ultimately revealing the president and his nation as a bunch of bigoted, racist, homophobic, greedy, corporate shills hellbent on leveraging power for profit. Even still, when the day is done they have the audacity to wonder, blinkingly, what went so wrong.

Sound familiar?

After depicting this overweight, overwrought American everyman as he blusters and bumbles through his last days in office, Mamet punctuates his vision with one final Pee-fuckin’-Ess:

“I had despaired, these past five years, of that entity I described to myself as ‘The American People.’ This people, to my mind, had elected, reelected, and suffered the depredations of an unprincipled, ungovernable band of thugs. These had cheapened the dollar, enrolled us in an absurd war, alienated immemorial allies, abrogated rational treaties, drowned the country in debt, and knew neither remorse nor obligation. The good news is it’s a spectacular country … we’ve been around for 230 years in spite of human nature. It’s a great place to live.”

David Mamet’s November is playing at San Francisco’s A.C.T. through Nov. 15. Ticket prices start at $10 on several nights. Click here to view showing times and ticket price ranges.

— Kay

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The Not-So-Real Housewives of Rectal, Texas

From the gated communities of Orange County to the strip malls of New Jersey, modern reality programming has offered us exclusive access into the lives of the spoiled, over-privileged American matriarch. Perhaps documenting the inevitable deterioration of the idealistic nuclear family of old, we are now being presented with the perfect guilty pleasure in family dynamic— the nuclear meltdown of tradition and culture. America is ready for its close-up and it ain’t that pretty a picture.

It is often said that Texas is like a whole other country. If this is to believed, then Rectal is its unequivocal, make-believe Gomorra. It is in just such a town that we find our newest guilty pleasure take shape. From the same twisted minds that brought you Attack of the Killer B-Movies and Wicker Man (a rock opera) comes a sordid tale of murder, mayhem and makeovers. The titular Stale Magnolias are a gaggle of Aquanet-loving, sweet tea-dependent women who are as much a product of their environment as they are a victim of it. CC Chesterfield (played by Julia Mitchell, the play’s only faux queen) is the proprietress of the Last Chance Salon, through which all of Rectal comes to live and dye.

sm_pressphoto2Our hair-oines invite us on a lyrical and topsy-turvy ride equally rife with blow dries and blow outs. Will lifelong frienemies Spuvina (Arturo Galster) and Raven (Jef Valentine) survive the vitriol of their Dynasty-akin relationship? Will Rectal’s own roller girl Louisiana Morales (Rik Lopes) realize her dream of touring with the Ice Capades? Has old age taken all the dance out of Fanny’s (Sean Owens) step? And is the new bowl girl Sugar Sweetly (David Bicha) really to be trusted? It’s a bawdy, ballsy, and bald-faced farce that dares to expose America’s heartland for what it’s worth. And maybe that’s what makes it so fun to watch.

Stale Magnolias runs Saturdays and Sundays* at 8pm through June 14. Performances held at the Glama-Rama Salon, 417 South Van Ness in San Francisco. Buy tickets online here. *dark on Sunday May 31.

—Michael

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