Our Lady of 121st Street
Until now. Now there’s Our Lady of 121st Street. Stephen Adly Guirgis’s play about a mad funeral in Harlem is the ultimate Steppenwolf show, at least insofar as the critics’ favorite criticism is concerned: it’s absolutely pointless except as a series of great set pieces for actors.
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And what a marvelous, cussed feast he gives them. After Vic’s had his rant and Balthazar’s introduced his metaphor we meet Rooftop, a disc jockey who finds himself in the confessional with Father Lux after a life spent “lyin’, cheatin’, stealin’, and humpin’.” Further on there’s Flip, whose desire to keep his homosexuality quiet triggers a confrontation with his very fey lover, Gail. A building super named Edwin has painful, surreal conversations with his brain-damaged brother Pinky. Rooftop’s former wife, Inez, throws herself between a timid white woman and an angry alcoholic Latina named Norca. And then everybody rotates.
