It's like chasing a dream—one that you somehow catch sometimes. That moment when you lean in, hand to your face, and feel more than you were ready to. Or the time language soars so high you glide away with it.
I wait for those. I long for them. When it’s a Dominique Morisseau play, those moments now are more likely than not. Last night she delivered again with Pipeline. I first fell under Ms. Morisseau’s spell at her freshman production, Detroit 67, for New Playwrights at The Public. I was like wait a minute, where did this voice come from. I knew they didn’t come along all that often. I didn’t know she might become our new August Wilson (note: I am the world’s biggest August Wilson fan).
As they say: you go to the movies to laugh, you go to the theater to cry. There was a scene between mother and son that ripped the fabric of the theater apart. Between father and son at the border of love and malice.Namir Smallwood as the son is making a brilliant debut. Karen Pittman as his mom and Heather Velasquez as his trash-talking girlfriend register high on the performance Richter scale.
I loved Pipeline. For all of you who love theater, who love language--you will too.
Ron Gallen
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