David Adams as the Messiah’s stepfather in Jesus, My Boy.

Credit: supplied

STAGE REVIEWS: Jesus, My Boy; The Sweetest Swing in Baseball

JESUS, MY BOY
By Steven Schelling
To Dec. 27 at Pacific Theatre (1440 W. 12th), 8 pm (Wed-Sat). Matinees: Sat, 2 pm. Tickets $16-$32 from 604-731-5518.
As someone with very little stomach for either religion or sentimentality, the idea of a 90-minute monologue by Jesus’s (earthly) father, Joseph, performed in a church basement during the holiday run-up, seemed nothing short of terrifying. That Jesus, My Boy didn’t pain, but actually entertained, was nothing short of a Christmas miracle.

From his basement workshop, Joseph (David Adams) tells us what it was like to raise the Messiah. Starting with his courtship of a young Nazarene, Mary, and ending with his son’s crucifixion, Adams infuses Joseph with a sprightly world-weariness and all the forbearance required of the world’s most famous cuckold.

Joining Adams on stage are musicians Jeremy Eisenhauer and the Feist-y Sheree Plett, whose indie-folk interludes (including traditional carols and pop classics) are at times poignant, and at others, unwelcome interruptions.

The script, by British comedian John Dowie, isn’t subversive — or terribly clever, for that matter. The comedy is decidedly soft and ecclesiastical-friendly, with its ribbing falling mostly in the father-son-relationship category. When Biblical joshing arises, it takes aim at such ‘safe’ topics as the relative wiseness of the Magi, or Joseph’s annoyance at his portrayal as an old man in Renaissance paintings.

Perhaps the best review of the show came from my companion, who announced plans to take his mother to see it when she comes to town for the holidays. While neither challenging nor mesmerizing, the pleasant, low-key charms of Jesus, My Boy hold their own against the earnest velvet-clad choirs, big-budget family-friendly fare, and endless annual revivals on offer elsewhere.

THE SWEETEST SWING IN BASEBALL
By Debby Reis
To Dec. 20 (except Mon.) at Beaumont Stage (316 W. 5th), 8 pm. Tickets $20 from 604-733-3783, ext. 305. Pay-what-you-can Sundays.
It’s a stark look at the relationship between mental illness and artistic talent, but playwright Rebecca Gilman’s The Sweetest Swing in Baseball nonetheless abounds with hilarity.

Artist Dana Fielding (Lori Triolo) overreacts to criticism, doubts her merits as a painter, and is uncertain of her boyfriend’s sincerity. When her art show fails, her relationship soon follows suit. A suicide attempt puts her in a psychiatric hospital, where she finds herself engaged in occupational therapy with rehab repeater Michael (Nic Rhind) and psycho-stalker Gary (Scott Miller).

When her insurance company cuts her treatment short, Dana enlists both men to help her fake a second personality. Thanks to the limited selection in the hospital’s library, the only reference material available for the scheme is the autobiography of baseball star and former junkie, Darryl Strawberry. Making due, she studies the life of her new symptom, and her initial ignorance of Strawberry is a significant, though not singular, source of the play’s humour.

Soon after Dana starts painting baseball-playing chickens to fool the doctors, she begins to blur her fantasy with reality. Doctors disagree on her condition, and the audience is left wondering: Has her baseball fixation merely become a metaphor for her art, or has she really lost her connection to reality?

Despite its glorious craziness (for lack of a better word), moments of sincerity ground the production. Kate Twa, as Dana’s art dealer, Erica, handily conveys the impotence of friends and family when faced with mental illness. When Dana and her boyfriend (also played by Scott Miller) meet up once again, it is with the touching awkwardness familiar to anyone whose relationship ended due to circumstance and not lack of love.

Triolo takes Dana beyond the caricature of a crazy artist, making her authentically complex. She maintains Dana’s desperation and anxiety while evoking Strawberry with masculine mannerisms and speech. Also worthy of note is the performance by Jenn Griffin, whose pretentious, bird-like art snob, Rhonda Block, is so endearing, you wish she had more stage time.