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Theatre in Review: The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity (Second Stage)
Desmin Borges and Terence Archie. Photo: Joan Marcus

If you're looking for the pure, jolting, hilarious thrill that happens when you encounter a new theatrical voice, you can do no better than to get to Second Stage for The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity, which begins by spoofing the exaggerated and flagrantly false theatrics of, say, the World Wrestling Federation, and ends up indicting the way we live now. A (literally) smashing production, The Elaborate Entrance... uses the crazed world of the fictional THE Wrestling, to comment on populist politics, immigration, and this country's complex ethnic pecking order. If that sounds too serious, don't worry. Thanks to reams of endlessly quotable dialogue and an electrifying design, this production is practically guaranteed to rock the house.

Our narrator is Mace, a Puerto Rican guy from the Bronx who, since childhood, has dreamed of being part of the THE Wrestling. So what if, in the network's scripted universe, he's been permanently cast as a loser, doomed to take a fall each week against Chad Deity, the all-powerful Sun God of the fake-wrestling universe? (According to Chad's introduction, "He is THE one and only wonder of the world. He is THE American Dream. He is the undefeated, undisputed, unrepeated, and undiluted THE Wrestling champion.") The first of many rollicking projection sequences by Peter Nigrini consists of Chad's entrance video, a delirious montage of muscles, bling, and shapely models, all designed to make Chad seem unattainably glamorous.

Mace puts up with a lot in his job. For one thing, his real name, Macedonio Guerra, is out. "That other name is too hard to pronounce," says Everett K. Olson, or EKO, THE Wrestling's chief mogul. "For white people," Mace counters. "I can't pronounce it," says Chad, who is black. "For non-Spanish-speaking Americans," insists Mace, getting nowhere. Still, he sees himself as indispensable -- after all, Chad Deity has to beat somebody. And, as he points out, "Wrestling is the most profound expression of the ideals of the United States." But he unwittingly destabilizes the entire wrestling universe when he discovers Vigneshwar Paduar, or VP, a crazy, hip-hop Indian guy who plays basketball like a dream, scores with the ladies, and talks a blue streak. ("Motherf-----, you step on my sneakers again, and I will f-your ass up," he says to a street-corner nemesis. "Me and my whole country got the capabilities. Long-range nuclear missile status doggy. We the new superpower.")

VP might have a star personality, but he's not much of a wrestler. Still, EKO, ever ready to manipulate mob sentiment for better ratings, reinvents VP as The Fundamentalist, with Mace as his Mexican sidekick, Che Chavez Castro. (Che apparently represents a new axis of evil, in partnership with Russia and France.) In a universe where shamelessness knows no bounds, Mace ends up dressed in a sombrero, accessorized with shoulder straps loaded with bullets. The fact that he looks like a refugee from the chorus of a musical version of Viva Zapata is beside the point. For weeks, he and VP, in a turban and fake beard, do nothing but glower at the camera, driving the fans into a frenzy.

Then it is discovered that VP has one great move, a knockout kick that EKO instantly names "the sleeper cell." (He tries calling it the "Koran Kabal Kick," but Chad Deity, who is sensitive to such things, wonders if they really want to promote the acronym KKK.) Soon, VP is beating the pants off flag-waving opponents like Billy Heartland, Even Chad Deity is impressed. ("You remind Chad Deity of Chad Deity," he says revealing his supple use of the third person when referring to himself.)

There's no way that this scheme is going to go well, but, before it goes sour, the playwright, Kristoffer Diaz, mercilessly spoofs the way pop culture is used to support the racial/social status quo. His method is fast-paced, profane, and garrulous, composed of run-on sentences that turn street talk into pure adrenalized poetry. The way these characters run on at the mouth, nothing is sacred; even in a farcical melodrama about wrestling, Diaz finds time for a show-stopping gag about Amy Morton's performance in August: Osage County.

Under the galvanic direction of Edward Torres, The Elaborate Entrance... unfolds in a rush of turbocharged monologues, street-smart wisecracks, wickedly satirical video sequences, and furiously staged fight scenes. (The latter are more realistic than anything you'll see on cable television these days.) As Mace, Desmin Borges makes an ideal host and narrator, winning us over and making us care about his increasingly precarious fate. "I work in a subtle business," he mutters as EKO cooks up another video atrocity. Later, when the narrative slips away from him, he asks us, "I should stop attempting to narrate, right?" No he shouldn't; he's making a stunning New York debut.

There's also first-class work from Usman Ally, as VP, especially when he becomes fed up with being used as an all-purpose symbol of anti-Muslim loathing; Terence Archie, oozing self-adoration as Chad (in a moment of candor, he admits his real name is Darnell Deity); and Michael T. Weiss, superbly oily as EKO, chomping on his cigar and plotting his next strategic move. ("Chad Deity's elaborate entrance makes soldiers remember what they're fighting for," he insists, offering one of the non sequiturs on which his career is founded.)

The Elaborate Entrance... practically begs for a knockout production design and that's what it gets here. Brian Sidney Bembridge's set places the action in and around a wrestling ring surround by box truss loaded with lighting gear, the better for Jesse Klug to stun us with color washes, strobe chases, blinder cues, and other in-your-face effects. Nigrini's video sequences include some riotous excerpts from THE Wrestling broadcasts in which The Fundamentalist and Che appear to threaten the American way life, as live IMAG of action in the ring. Mikhail Fiksel's sound design fills out the projections with amusing effects and paces the action with several hip-hop numbers as well as the shamelessly amusing use of "Sweet Home Alabama," and "Born in the U.S.A." Christine Pascual's costumes include any number of outlandish and/or body-hugging wrestling outfits.

It's true that this is something of a one-joke show, and the action climaxes in a rushed manner, with a swift turn towards seriousness that doesn't feel fully earned. But debuts like this don't come along every day. The Elaborate Entry of Chad Deity is loaded with names we're likely to be hearing from again.-- David Barbour

(21 May 2010)