In one of the many insightful comic bits from Chris Rock in his 1999 special “Bigger and Blacker,” he drops some critical commentary about his lot in life, and the lot of white folks who don’t have his money, fame or prestige.

“There ain’t a white man in this room that would change places with me. None of you. None of you would change places with me, and I’m rich!”

As I watched the absolutely phenomenal production of San Francisco Playhouse’s “The Glass Menagerie,” this morsel came back to me as I observed Amanda Wingfield prance around the stage basking in past glories. And as the story continued to unfold, it was a certain commitment to her whiteness, so disturbingly subtle that it was jarring but insanely effective.

The production is directed by Jeffrey Lo, a friend and very good theater practitioner. I tend to cover lots of his work considering we are both based in the South Bay, which is my theater beat for the San Jose Mercury News. As a Filipino American playwright, director, and one who heads up casting at TheatreWorks Silicon Valley, his sensibilities around cultural literacy are deliciously high, and “Menagerie” allows for his direction to breathe in this current zeitgeist very specifically.

For those who don’t know, Tennessee Williams’ classic 1944 memory play is about a family in crisis, but not in the “We’re in a tornado and our house might land on a witch” kind of crisis. The females in the house include the aging matriarch Amanda (Susi Damilano) whose most glorified days are firmly in her past, daughter Laura (Nicole Javier) who walks with a stiff limp and stiffer personality, an anxiety-ridden young adult whose entire life seems to be shelter in place without the excuse of a pandemic. Finally, the leader of this merry band of melancholia is Tom the writer (Jomar Tagatac), a big brother and dutiful son who mysteriously finds himself at the movies every night. 

The fourth character is the highly sketchy “Gentleman Caller,” charming the pants off everyone in some rather deceptive ways, waltzing into the shamble-filled world of the Wingfields to incorporate mighty disruption. The actor who takes on this enigmatic bag of breathing bones is William Thomas Hodgson, he of the sweet face and chill disposition. It’s this laid-back aura of culture and charm that sets up the inevitable horrendous payoff of hurt and confusion, with Lo’s direction and the scintillating touches he sprinkles on the story paying huge dividends.

Any time you can observe a great piece of art means that the conversations around said art are long-lasting. Luckily, this evening’s plus one was my friend of 20 years whom I’m calling Doctor Gilas Monster, in town to celebrate his Ph.D. graduation party (Gilas = Gilroy). Our night started off with birria tacos in San José, because his taco options in Fort Collins, Colorado, where he is a theater professor, ain’t Calífas. A nice long ride with quesabirria tacos that filled our tummies with sustenance, greatly aiding our usual non-stop talk about theater. 

As we arrived, we were greeted with maybe the largest set design I’ve seen in the “Empathy Gym,” a massive Christopher Fitzer creation of tables that stay in place, a fully rotating turntable along with various bouts of signage that inform the memory slyly and smartly.

As we buckled in for the next 150 minutes, we realized something that became an issue. We were full of birria tacos which seemed to activate as Mexican tryptophan, which led to a roller coaster of fatigue (I had finished a deadline at 2 a.m., he woke up at 3 a.m.). Fortunately the show was so good, we powered through its conclusion and were ready for the best part of the night; the long drive to Gilroy for a drop-off that moved quickly thanks to those wild and wacky Wingfields.

Other than the fascinating conversation about why the play kicked so much proverbial ass, I was mesmerized by the shittiest can of Pringles I ever bought in my life. Whoever worked at the plant literally forgot to add salt to the machine, and no, nothing on the can indicated these would be saltless. Ironically, as a guest on KQED Forum the previous Friday, espousing my love for Pringles on the show was followed by utter shattering heartbreak just a few days later. Over the next few days, I was my own Tom Wingfield, but instead of life kicking my ass, bad Pringles did the deed. 

Some observations on the artistry of Menagerie:

If you are around the theater scene, certainly as a critic, specific plays and their productions will flood your inbox. There is no doubt that much of the Williams canon is sacrosanct. His plays are what we consider “classics,” which always comes across as code to me to signify white casts for white audiences and white problems. But the thrill in this production is that people of color make a strong case to claim Williams and force a viewing of the play’s themes through a different lens. I’m sure plenty of classics absolutists abhor that strategy. For Lo to have three people of color as performers struggling through some of life’s most horrendous hurdles is universal, and exciting as all get out.

That leaves Damilano as the only white character on the stage (Amanda’s absent husband, who is present in offstage chatter only, comes across as a less hot Pepe el Romano). Her take on Amanda did one thing that took me out, and it was a stroke of sheer brilliance.

There is a subtle reference to Amanda’s past life, and it had to do with how nostalgic she was about living on the plantation with servants. 

Well, if she’s referencing 1940s Mississippi, which kinds of servants might she be speaking of? Forgive li’l ol’ me, but I have some strong assumptions. On top of that, as the play faces its final throes and Amanda comes by with some lemonade, it’s the perfect time to sing the lines “Lemonade/ In the shade/ stirred by a spade.”

I’m sorry, what was that? That moment took me so out, it put me completely all-in.

Damilano’s brilliance, an artist whom I became smitten with beginning with her 2017 performance in “The Roommate” has much to do with the levels she reaches within the role. Her Amanda no longer looks out and sees a southern sunset as her cotton dresses fight to remain pristine amongst the grunt and sweat of plantation dirt. Oh how the whitey have fallen! Now, Amanda is forced to inhale a jazz club under her nose, its bright lights and thin walls overpowering her house now filled with the jazz sounds of 1940s Black America (Fitzer’s big, obnoxiously blue sign that literally screams “Paradise” is another deft touch in his detailed craftsmanship which enhances plot consistently, no matter the show). Still, this doesn’t discourage her from suffocating her two children, a fading belle whose presence among those who habitate beneath her sticks in her craw. The hand of Tom is finally forced, reaching his breaking point with his mother, silently seething as he faces a devastating reckoning with his sister.

I mean, Damilano needs to be arrested based on all the scenes she stole. (Cheesy? Yes. Deadly accurate? More yes.)

Some other observations on what makes this production such balm:

– Talking to Doctor Gilas all night, a guy who might have read a million scripts, meant that i got to share in his fascination for how the production leans so deeply into its lies. The play has to live in two worlds – the world of the perceived truth and the world of unapologetic fibs, which Tom tells you about immediately as the play commences. It is not that we necessarily lie on purpose, but as time marches forward, recollections fade, and everything is wistfully questioned. Did that happen? Did I dream that? The commitment to each world unifies the narrative brilliantly.

– Tom claims he is going to the movies nightly. But due to the ambiguity of Tom’s sexuality, is that what he’s really doing? The movies? There is one moment, an absolute morsel of brilliance from Lo’s direction, that throws Tom’s narrative into the lurch. Hell, it also throws off the scent of the Gentleman Caller possibly. I mean, maybe it did? But as Doctor Gilas stated, “That moment was all brilliant direction right there.”

– Javier is in a tough spot yet she executes her arc with aplomb. Doc Gilas absolutely hates the way the second act is written. “It’s boring as hell, and you can’t get away from the fact that it’s two people on a shitty date,” he told me as we awaited checkout at Walgreens for our soon-to-be sad post-show Pringles. But something funny happened on the way to Shitty Dateville – the dialogue, the situations, and the horrific confusion of the Caller’s intent made the scene sparkle with wonderment. I mean, it is so damn uncomfortable to watch, and Javier’s portrayal, which is a great combination of misery without being pathetic, is terrific. It is that classic case of what makes an honest moment onstage – find the humor. Javier’s smile radiates (the setup) before her Amanda is dropped on her head (the payoff) and shards of glass are metaphorically strewn everywhere. Fantastic variance right there.

– Hodgson is a great listener with some sharp Meisnerian sensibilities, which informs so much of his character’s intentions. A BIPOC performer lends itself to some critical shifting of intentions, especially as it relates to how Amanda has to now react to the potential suitor for her daughter in front of her. For me, this is what it means to have texts evolve. Talent and vision exploits the evolution. Boom!

– Jomar Tagatac, as busy an actor as there is in the Bay, has proven he is ready for a classic role such as this one. He doesn’t just walk around the stage, but lurks in each shadow, preparing his next move at all times. One eye remains on the immediacy of the current situation, the other is at the exit door, where a life of freedom awaits on the opposite side. His Tom is a man who’s trapped inside his own body, a challenged mind and the guilt which may come as he reckons with his damaged little sister.

With all the greatness within this work, there are some challenges in the production. For the utter brilliance of the stage turntable, which seems to metaphorically go in circles without a real way to escape, the machinations were distracting too often. Kinda loud.

That staging also featured a record player that I found clunky and confusing, the intention of that choice not completely clear to me. That set piece feels out of period and came across as more Jazzy Jeff and less Wingfield Posse. 

At the risk of spoiling an 80-year-old play, there are so many ways to go with the ending, and this particular choice felt apt. Might the candles remain lit because Tom can’t get himself to extinguish his memory of his sister? How about the lessons of his mother? What about some specific potential moments that might have taken place with the Caller? If we as an audience are told what we are witnessing may not be real, how does that affect our perception of possible truths all over the stage?. The fact that there are so many possibilities within the play’s denouement reminds us just how brilliant Williams’ play remains, and how thrilling the debates continue to be. 

There are plenty of theater lovers who may say, “Do whatever you want, but leave us the classics.” While a film may be released in a certain zeitgeist, we watch theater in the time we are living, with the potential to have that play speak to us in new and exciting ways. This interpretation of “The Glass Menagerie” forces us to reckon with so much of who we are, what we believe, what is the truth. It also explores a specific examination about race, one that never spoke to me as a BIPOC critic until this staging. 

One important dynamic of Rock’s astute observation is that without self-interrogation, self-destruction will soon follow. We see it in Amanda, as her destruction is assisted in no small part from her archaic ideas and delusional pride. There is so much to love in how this production exploits those ideas.

Now here’s another idea – if someone can just make sure the Pringle making machine has salt next time, I’d appreciate that. Too many long, late night drives from The City thinking about shows are in my future, making a quality chip quite the necessity. 

“The Glass Menagerie” runs through June 15 at San Francisco Playhouse. For tickets and information, click here.