RACECAR RACECAR RACECAR: Escape from an Endless Road

Gabriel Reyes

“Coming home is terrible…” So begins the poem Bonedog recited by Jessie Buckley’s character in the 2020 Charlie Kaufman film I’m Thinking of Ending Things. It’s an almost prophetic dirge that preludes the homecoming at the center of the movie, a thematic tonesetter. And to me, as I sit down to write this review with Kaufman’s movie in the background, this repeated mantra about the terrors of returning home feels like a trace DNA fragment of Kallan Dana’s play RACECAR RACECAR RACECAR. Produced at Portland’s ART as part of their 2026 season and directed by Melory Mirashrafi, Racecar could be most succinctly described as an absurd surrealist thrilling raucously funny memory play. Structured around a road trip with a nameless father-daughter duo , the play follows them from one nightmarish scenario to the next in a series of vignettes set across the United States. They encounter a slew of ghoulish characters on the road until the barren road set opens up and the dream-ish world collapses into a half remembered reality. The father disappears and the daughter is left alone outside two hazy windows looking into an idyllic home, where she struggles to connect with a new set of characters who seem to represent the rest of her family, or at last half-remembered representations of them. As the play reaches its conclusion we return to the roadtrip and travel backwards through the states we visited in the first half, allowing the piece to end as it began and reflect the palindrome motif present throughout the show. 

I had the privilege of speaking about this production of Racecar with Kallan Dana who kindly shared some insights into the development and context behind the piece. Dana cited Lynch’s Mulholland Drive as a stylistic influence when building the shifting reality of the play and Erin Courtney’s play A Map of Virtue, which she compares to Racecar as “another symmetrical language play–in a way, it has the same “shape” as Racecar–the front half and back half mirror each other, and there is a world-altering event in the middle” (Dana 2026) Dana also credited Fuddy Meers by David Lindsay-Ablaire, the aforementioned I’m Thinking of Ending Things and the works of Young Jean Lee and Adrienne Kennedy as influences on the development of Racecar. Time, generational trauma, memories, dream logic, linguistic deconstruction, alienation and auto-biography are just a few of the aspects of these works, but the common thread of surreal imagery used to explore the artist’s reflections on their own inheritance, upbringing, and aspirations. Racecar seemingly inherits these themes from its surrealist predecessors and spins them into a deeply personal and troubly tale that leaves you asking questions long after you have left the theater. 

One of my favorite aspects of how Racecar operates is the small cast; it lends itself to the dreamlike quality of the piece to see the same face appear across multiple characters. The script groups sets of characters to be played by a single actor, for example Actor 3 is meant to play Handsome Man and Raggedy Man. While talking with Kallan Dana she revealed that an earlier draft of Racecar called for a much larger cast with individual actors playing each role. Dana changed this for practical reasons, a smaller cast lets the play be more produceable, but also said there were artistic reasons for the change. “I think it’s important for the audience to see the same faces coming back again and again. In the play’s first half, it’s unnerving and funny and dreamlike to see the same performers reappearing in different and increasingly absurd ways–but near the end of the play, the actors get to settle into more real/grounded characters” (Dana 2026). The characters in question are the previously remembered symbolic representations of the Daughter’s family and loved ones, a duo of Christmas apparel wearing women who become her sisters and her imaginary boyfriend who leaves her for an imaginary fairy godmother. It may sound ridiculous the way I am describing it, but this is really as ordinary as a character can get in this play. 

The least ordinary character only appears for a fraction of the play’s runtime, an unnervingly large puppet child that bursts from the floor and becomes the Daughter’s own daughter in some future, or again some version of the future, where the Daughter sort of repeats the same trauma inflicted by her father in a conjuncted repetition of the Dad’s dialogue from prior scenes as a mirror of her own relationship with her parent. The back half of the play is focused on these kinds of scenes, investigations of the Daughter’s perception of her father and how her relationship with him has become intertwined with alcohol abuse. This damages her ability to relate to the rest of her family, as seen with the party goer/sister characters, and engage in risk taking behaviors. A creatively disturbing scene is detailed in Dana’s script in which the Daughter, having asked a stranger she seems to have met on the road to sexually humiliate her, is “puppeted” by the man and made to antagonize her loved ones. In Artist Rep’s production the Raggedy Man moves his hands like a puppeteer pulling at the Daughter’s strings, moving her in a lurching stilted manner. He voices the Daughter too in this scene, slurring words and blurting out expletives, giving the impression to other characters that she is drunk. 

My initial interpretation of Racecar Racecar Racecar, strictly on an emotional and reactive basis, was that it was specifically about alcoholism and substance abuse. However, through writing this review and my own exchanges with Kallan Dana, I find the play communicates a much deeper message than a simple moral about the dangers of drinking. When I asked Dana about the role alcohol played in Racecar, she began with “The play is absolutely about legacy and cycles of behavior within families–and for this particular family, alcohol is a part of that … the relationship to alcohol is just one interconnected piece in a web of pain and denial and regret that the father and daughter are caught in” (Dana 2026). The play communicates this via its palindrome structure and constant repetition; the familiar face of an actor appearing as a new character, the palindrome word game the father and daughter play, the ominous insistence from the people they meet that they have been here before, the two car crashes that mirror each other, the montage where they travel backwards through the same states they visited in the first half. And when they arrive home, The Daughter frantically asks her father if it is too late, if he can change, because if he can change then it would confirm that change is possible for her as well. But the Dad doesn’t acknowledge this, instead continuing to parrot her words backwards at her, seemingly insisting on not changing their dynamic. Racecar doesn’t leave you with a nice warm feeling, it doesn’t give any indication that the daughter or her father will grow past their dysfunctions. They don’t even leave their car. Instead, you are left with the eerie feeling that the events of the play will simply occur again and again, the same roadtrip repeated over and over. This isn’t exactly subtext, the characters make reference to past and future events that they remember even though they have not occurred yet. While the lights fade to black the father daughter duo sit in their car, both eager to part ways but stuck in place. The script closes with a final stage direction, “They don’t move”. And I really cannot think of a more poignant summation of Racecar Racecar Racecar.

Searching for a Golden Hawk in the sea of Red Delicious:
ART’s APPLE HUNTERS! and the state of Portland Theater Criticism

By Gabriel Reyes

The Golden Hawk is the fictional titular apple E.M. Lewis’ band of middle aged men
search for in her new play Apple Hunters!, put on by ART as the “feel-good” play in their 2026
season. The boys read an old newspaper article that describes this lost apple as exquisite, a
perfectly juicy and crispy specimen of a fruit. The ideal apple, homegrown and from a “simpler
time”. American as well, apple pie. The Red Delicious, by contrast, seems a perfect ruby red
from the outside, but when bitten into is discovered to be mealy and flavorless. That eye-pleasing
red skin is thick, bred for looking good in the grocery aisle and to be resistant to bruising during
transportation, but lacks that ever so satisfying crunch. It’s an apple bred for marketability, one
the apple hunting quartet agrees is “not delicious”. So why am I rambling on about these apples?
Am I trying to make some clever comparison about Apple Hunters! trying to be a perfect Golden
Hawk but ending up as a substanceless Red Delicious? Not in the slightest. To my mind Apple
Hunters! doesn’t lack emotional depth. Its characters have pathos and are well acted by a clearly
talented cast. The set is maximalist and cluttered while not being distracting. The lighting serves
the story. The ending doesn’t tie everything up in a neat bow, but leaves you feeling uplifted.
And I could go on down the list, blasely pointing out all the elements that make Apple Hunters! a
good show. And it was a “good” show. I left the theater after the 2pm matinee feeling “good.”
Mission accomplished! Serviceable.
Okay, perhaps I’m coming off as a little disdainful. Please believe, I enjoyed myself that
afternoon. Before the play started, I heard an excited pair of theatregoers remark that they’d
rather see a “bad live performance than a good pre-recorded piece of media.” And I agree. I fell
in love with the theater because you get to experience these emotions alongside the actors in real
time and, when you’re on the other side of the proscenium you can feel that invisible emotional
connection between yourself and the audience. I go to the theater to feel, not to simply
“feel-good.” But some people do, and that’s a function of theater here in Portland not a flaw. I
don’t have a problem with Apple Hunters! itself or the people that saw it and loved it. I do find
issue with the way the show has been critiqued thus far and see it as symptomatic of the state of
Portland’s theatrical ecosystem.

When we love a show we sing its praises to the rooftops, people will say “You HAVE to
see this show!” The reviews are glowing, they’ll claim your faith in humanity will be restored,
that you’ll cry your heart out or laugh till you crack a rib. And this is good, it gets butts in seats.
But when a play or musical or reading or what have you is something you simply like, or
(goodness gracious!) something you don’t like, what do we say then? In Portland, more often
than not, it’s nothing at all. Yes, the show is reviewed by the usual arts publications and gets the
required coverage to get people through the theater doors. But, what’s written generally includes
a cleverly worded summation of the plot followed by a who’s who of the cast and production
team, or a surface level observation on the effectiveness of a lighting choice or a piece of sound
design, concluding with a neat closing paragraph recommending the show and even providing a
link for the curious theatregoer to purchase their own tickets. Our criticisms regarding the
effectiveness of a show, whether its emotional beats brought you towards catharsis, if a certain
actor’s performance contributed or detracted from the production, how a given play holds a
mirror towards a certain political/social/cultural issue, these points aren’t interrogated to a
thought provoking depth. We save these “harsh” critiques for our friends on the drive home or to
post on internet message boards like PDXBackstage. Why is that?
By my estimation this trepidation comes from fear, for lack of a better descriptor. This
might seem like an extreme stance, after all common wisdom dictates that all publicity is good
publicity. Surely reviewers aren’t afraid of giving their honest uncensored criticism of a show.
Consider that the barrier of entry to theater is higher than it is for other forms of art especially in
the digital age. You can watch a movie, observe a painting, or listen to an album from the
comfort of your own home. The vast majority of live theater doesn’t come to you, you have to go
to it. A first time theatregoer may see a show they don’t enjoy or actively dislike their initial
experience with theater and never return. In this way it has become much harder to create new
theater enthusiasts than it is to get someone interested in the artistry behind a new film or the
latest album. By this logic, a “bad” review could kill someone’s curiosity for the artform in the
proverbial cradle. Economically detrimental to the theatrical ecosystem especially at a time when
arts funding is at an all time low. But performing artists need real in-depth thoughtful critiques to
hone their craft. I know that if I had never gotten any feedback from my professors and peers on
a performance I gave, directing choice I made, or a script I wrote I never would have learned
how to improve as a theater maker. Artistry is a lifelong pursuit and learning how to be a better

artist doesn’t stop after a play has closed or when you cross the graduation stage or even when
you put down the pen for good. An honest (and sometimes “brutal”) critique is necessary for
development of new, daring and provocative theater. So, how do we strike the balance? Is a
review for the creator or the consumer?
I would argue that the review should be written for the reviewer themselves. Just as we
seek out theater to scratch an emotional itch we might have been unaware of previously, writing
in reaction to theater should come from the same place. I’m not here to say that every review
should be a perfect juicy flavorful Golden Hawk that leaves juice dribbling down your chin with
every word. The Golden Hawk isn’t real. But, conversely, we shouldn’t aspire to write reviews
that are Red Delicious in nature; bred for marketability with a shiny inviting outer layer while
lacking a distinct flavor. In Apple Hunters! the characters list a bevy of different apple heritages
with such feverish excitement you can’t help but become wrapped up in their quest for that
perfect apple lost to time. My opinion is that theatre criticism should aspire to the same level of
diversity. An apple for every season, a review for every palette. Perfection may be an impossible
benchmark to set for oneself, but the quest for perfection will always be inescapable. It’s why
actors act, painters paint, writers write, it’s why we continue to see theater in the hope that the
next line will resonate with us in a new and unexpected way. So, yes, I am going to end this
review somewhat hypocritically with a recommendation. You should go see Apple Hunters! at
ART, and you should see the next show they produce and the next one and the one after that. But,
instead of keeping your opinion at the post-show debrief, sit down and write something. It
doesn’t matter if it’s a review or a reflection or if you share it with a thousand people or just one.
Keep writing, keep thinking and keep looking for that golden apple you’ve been questing after.

Neighboring
A review by Gabriel Reyes for Fertile Ground 2026
To my own personal detriment, I’ve never been a huge devised theater person. Learning the
methodology in college I sat through plenty of floundering attempts at devising pieces and
created a few myself. To my mind a devised play far too often falls into the category of
incomprehensible performance art where it lives in a vague state which doesn’t commit to a solid
story or create fleshed out characters you can empathize with. I think we’ve all seen a show or
two like this, so it genuinely impresses me that Trick Pony was able to defy my expectations of
devised theater with their piece Neighboring, staged as part of Fertile Ground’s 2026 festival of
new works. Featuring a cast of five, the piece moves at a steady clip and I never felt like I was
watching repetitive movement exercises. The movement was lively and filled with personality,
you “got” who each character was just from the way they entered the room and knocked on an
imaginary door. I felt like I learned more about these characters in these small moments than
from the scant lines of dialogue in the show, to the point where I almost wished the show had
foregone the spoken words and let me keep guessing as to who these people were. Neighboring
was an entertaining experience from both a casual theater going perspective and through the lens
of craft; watching Trick Pony’s troupe play off each other is a pleasure, it’s clear that the group is
well practiced and has an intuitive playfulness that keeps the energy of their pieces dynamic. The
ending movement of the piece was a little too saccharine for my tastes. The show asks the
question, “why is it so hard to connect with the people we’re physically closest to?”, but the
answer Neighboring provides is to simply begin talking, to be open to connection and the
connection will happen. I felt like I missed out on why exactly these characters were so scared of
taking that first step towards connection, reasons that would’ve made the ending much more
satisfying with the understanding of what the neighbors were overcoming by breaking down the
invisible walls between them. It’s a sort of simplistic solution and whether it feels satisfying is up
to individual preference. That being said Neighboring was far more accessible to me than some
of the other devised pieces I’ve caught in Portland and my hope is that Trick Pony has a long
career ahead of them with many more shows like this one.

Sudden and Severe Hunger

A review by Gabriel Reyes for Fertile Ground 2026
Last year a friend told me I should watch The Walking Dead and I ended up binging all 11
seasons. The show was so addictive and it really wasn’t because of the zombies. What makes
zombie media work isn’t the shambling corpses, it’s the human characters. It asks a question of
the viewer; if the world were coming to an end, who would you hold close and how far would
you go to keep them with you? Meg Schenk’s fresh play Sudden & Severe Hunger, produced as a
reading during this year’s Fertile Ground festival and directed by Melory Mirashrafi, explores
this central question through the story of the two slightly estranged queer siblings Sam and Liv.
We eavesdrop on a series of phone calls between the two throughout a zombie apocalypse which
turns out to be more banal than gruesome. Not unlike the ending of Shaun of the Dead, the
emergence of the undead doesn’t cause the complete downfall of society. The reanimated dead
are turned into tools of industry and workers agree to allow companies to continue “employing”
their zombified bodies post-mortem in exchange for a signing bonus. The droll way Sudden &
Severe presents the governmental response to the zombie virus feels disturbingly realistic and a
comparison can be drawn to A.I. replacing humans in the workforce, or the persistent
mishandling of public health during the pandemic. It’s no coincidence then that the siblings are
queer.
While their sexualities aren’t the explicit focus of the story, only being mentioned in passing, it
was the main element that prevented the play from coming across as a baseline zombie genre
parody and kept me thinking after I left the theater. Perhaps because I am one half of a queer
sibling pair myself separated by state lines much like Liv and Sam, but also because of what it
means to be queer in times of global crisis. Queer people live in an intersection of being most at
risk and least protected, violence against the queer community is under reported and Schenk’s
zombie apocalypse acts as a metaphor for how the state systemically devalues queer lives. When
the siblings become infected they decide to turn together and travel to join a zombie horde. The
pair reflect on their unfulfilled dreams, reconcile their differences, and wonder if they will
recognize each other after the change. And they do! The play doesn’t explain the nature of
zombiehood save for the fact that it feels “powerful”. In rejecting their place in the capitalist
death machine and choosing to exist as free range zombies the siblings achieve true
understanding of each other, they become liberated. It’s a profound conclusion sparkling with
possibilities for a staged production. The telephonic nature of Sam and Liv’s exchanges in the
first three quarters of the play could hinder the flow of the piece when it comes to being staged,
but this isn’t an insurmountable obstacle and I’m eager to see what form Sudden & Severe takes
on next.