Playwright: Gloria J. BrowneAt: ETA Creative Arts Foundation, 7558 S. South Chicago Ave.Phone: (773) 752-3955; $25Runs through: Aug. 10—————————————-
When big-shot attorney John Power dies of rat poison in his scotch, the question is not so much ‘whoever?’ as ‘which one?’ His son, bullied by his dominating sire into running for mayor? His mistress, piqued at her consort’s recent neglect? His assistant, disgruntled at his departure from the lofty goals he once shared with her activist father? His secretary, a pious woman devoted to him and all his clan? The janitor, whose strychnine-laced pesticide provided the lethal weapon? For that matter, how about the police detective assigned to the case, whose agenda is likewise compromised by past dealings with the deceased?
Murder-mystery mavens are enjoying a bumper crop of whodunits, what with adaptations of Arthur Conan Doyle and Donald Westlake both currently running in the Chicago area. But Gloria J. Browne’s exposé of high-level intrigue is a made-from-scratch original, no more melodramatic than its genre demands, its characters marginalized social status—did I mention that all these people are African-American?—rendering restoration of order all the more expedient. But if Browne’s explorations of the issues surrounding the foul deed sometimes run to debates better suited to prose than to dramatic narrative—as do the obligatory smoochy scenes—her experience as a lawyer makes for articulate arguments to ponder after the immediate culprit has been apprehended.Initial reviews of this production indicated some opening-night rockiness, but by its second weekend, under the deft direction of Ilesa
Duncan, the actors were wearing their roles comfortably. As the smart and sexy snoop who solves the case, TayLAR resists the impulse to shrillness, while Ira Carol McGill lends strength and conviction to the role of the maternal office retainer and J.J. McCormick makes the comic-relief custodian as unembarrassing as the text allows. And if James T. Alfred’s police detective still lacks his archetype’s requisite gravity, he is more than redeemed by Willie B. Goodson’s chewy performance as the allegorically named Power, a self-made man who worships his maker.
Killing Me Softly might fall short of Raymond Chandler, but the lobby-and-latrine conversation at intermission was devoted almost wholly to the identification and motive of the criminal. How often do you see playgoers THAT involved?