Writing under pseudonyms is hardly an unknown practice—consider the literary career of Jane Martin, the detective stories of Ed McBain, or Google a 1969 novel by Penelope Ashe called “Naked Came the Stranger.” Reputable artists may adopt noms de plumefor reasons involving contractual conflicts or simple mischief, but whatever the motive, sooner or later, the perpetrators are found out, and after owning up to their deception, everyone shares in the joke.
Unfortunately for the young scribbler in Jeff Talbott's comedy, he doesn't know this. All he knows is that he's composed what he is convinced is a brilliant play, titled “Call a Spade,” that recounts the struggle of an African-American family seeking to escape poverty and prejudice. Oh, but Danny Larson is white, gay and Ivy League-educated, his inspiration borne of a momentary epiphany on the subway.
Fearing that these factors will hinder his chances for success, he identifies the script's creator as "Shaleeha G'ntamobi" before offering it for production. His deception is harmless enough—until the prestigious Humana Theater Festival accepts the play. Rather than come clean, he hires an actress of appropriate gender and ethnicity to pose as its author.
This premise could provide the foundation for a mistaken-identity farce—did I mention Danny's boyfriend (who despairs of understanding the artistic temperament) or his het school chum (who quickly falls for co-conspirator Emilie)? It could also fuel a pointed satire on fashions in "diversity" prevalent among producing committees. Instead, Talbott explores the naivete that renders our wordsmith more comfortable with romanticized oppressed minorities than with face-to-face interracial dynamics.
As Emilie enjoys the accolades rightfully belonging to the play's actual sire, Danny begins to show his color (to invoke a now-socially incorrect expression), his sense of entitlement growing increasingly arrogant for being denied him. When Emilie calls him out on his egotism, the conflict escalates into an all-out shouting match riddled with every type of phobic accusations.
Pride Films and Plays director Jude Hansen and his cast never allow Talbott's salty dialogue to obscure the fundamental blamelessness of individuals as shocked as we are at discovering flaws in their smug self-images. Nicholas Bailey and Ginneh Thomas are careful to keep Danny (even at his most petulant) and Emilie (even at her most strident) from taking on any irredeemably ugly traits—though our sympathies are more likely to rest with sidekicks Peter and Trevor, played with welcome patience and tolerance by Edward Fraim and Adam Pasen. Sometimes, we all have to, well, walk in somebody else's shoes to feel the pinch in our own.
