by Sherilyn Forrester
Downtown at Beowulf Alley Theatre, there's a whole different kind of comedic adventure on display.
Flaming Guns of the Purple Sage, by Jane Martin (which many think is a pseudonym), pulls together an odd assortment of folks in a story that feels like a cross between The Lone Ranger, Friday the 13th and Silence of the Lambs. It's actually a very inventive combination that manages to make us laugh— sometimes uncomfortably—and gasp with surprise and horror.
On a ranch facing foreclosure in Wyoming, the plucky Big 8 (Susan Arnold) is a former rodeo wonder who has been forced into retirement. She now reluctantly—and questionably—calls herself a healer and takes in injured rodeo cowboys for her special style of rehabilitation. Her current subject—er, patient—is RobBob (Lucas Gonzales), a sweet young thing exuding innocence and fascination with cowboy lore and its clear division of good guys and bad.
Appearing as a thunderstorm booms forebodingly is a young, punked-out woman who identifies herself as Shedevil (Holly-Marie Carlson). She is prone to Tourette syndrome-like outbursts and claims that Big 8's son has not only knocked her up, but has stolen thousands of dollars from her. She also claims that she's being chased by her current boyfriend, a Harley-riding Ukrainian prone to fits of violence.
Shedevil's presence sets off a sequence of events which would shock and amaze even the really, really bad guys of the old Wild West. Shoot, that was a time of storybook innocence compared to this.
Beowulf Alley's production, under Steve Anderson's direction, is solid, although on opening night, it didn't quite have the energy and rhythm needed to make it zing, especially in the first act. By the second act, the players pretty much found their stride.
The set by Joel Charles is very handsome, and the other technical elements—and there are some demanding ones—are quite well executed.
