In Ro Reddick’s Cold War Choir Practice, the 80s don’t feel so far away. Born after the turn of the millennium, I have no personal connection to the time whatsoever, and yet Reddick’s dark dramedy—set during the Regan administration—feels modern and recognizable, speaking directly to our experiences today through the lens of Cold War-era America.
Opening with a radio host introduction and followed by a haunting Christmas tune, we meet Meek, played by Alana Raquel Bowers, a precocious 10-year-old whose Christmas list consists of a Pound Puppy, a Speak + Spell, and a nuclear radiation detector. Bowers plays Meek with a childlike joy that’s both endearing and heartbreaking in the Cold War context. We follow Meek—who wants to make a friend just as much as she wants to make a well-stocked, totally secure fallout shelter—as she and her family’s personal and political worlds collide under the pervasive threat of nuclear war. Lyrical, mysterious, and brimming with humor, Cold War Choir Practice takes us on this family's tumultuous journey through estrangement, healing, and maybe a cult—laughing all the way.
Consisting of a Christmas tree, a TV set, a few stools, a reclining chair, and a window for the radio host/choir leader/DJ, the set (designed by Afsoon Pajoufar) is cleverly used, seamlessly transitioning from a living room to a choir room to a bus to a roller rink. The whirlwind of locations would not have been as clear or effective were it not for such genius choreography by Baye + Asa and direction by Knud Adams. The space is deliberately ambiguous and liminal leaving the audience in carefully curated uncertainty, interspersed with moments of clarity delivered with mime-like behavioral specificity. Instead of creating a roller rink or having all the actors put on literal roller skates, Adams directs the sneaker-clad cast to pantomime the activity, creating the fully convincing essence of skating, while prancing, twirling and sliding across the stage. One actor even fearfully clings to the wall, staggering across the stage before eventually sinking to the ground in roller skate-induced despair. The deliberate ambiguity is so satisfying because of the actors’ specificity about the world they occupy—and with a cast so charismatic, we as the audience happily follow them anywhere.
Bathed in the color red—a red tree, red floors, red lighting—the audience is cleverly set up to hold two realities side by side, which is a common ask throughout the play. Backed up by a trio of carollers (Nina Grollman, Grace McLean and Suzzy Roche, all armed with impeccable comedy chops and the voices of angels), and followed soon after by Meek asking her father, Smooch (Will Cobbs), for a nuclear radiation detector for Christmas, we feel not only the yuletide festivity, but the ever-present and oppressive fear of the burgeoning war with the Soviets. When Smooch’s brother comes home to drop off his recently ill wife, omnipresent anxieties of the Cold War are set next to the equally tragic realities of a family at odds. We as the audience are asked to examine both the micro and macro, encapsulating the feeling of being at a loss for and inevitably buffeted by larger-than-life global feuds while navigating our own lives—family feuds feel like global issues and rock our personal worlds.
Smooch is doing his best as a single parent, and between running a roller rink and reminding his daughter not to run in the house, he navigates his brother’s betrayal and abandonment. Cobbs brings incredible depth to this character; his chastising of Meek and his vitriol towards his brother always come from a place of immense love for his family. Bowers expertly balances comedy and tragedy as a kid whose two priorities are stocking a fallout shelter and making a friend. Played with an innocence and matter-of-fact directness that leaves us rolling or just as easily breaks our hearts, Meek reminds us of the particular cruelty of children being forced to carry the weight of the world, as well as the singular hope that no matter how small, one can create positive change.
There are very few pieces of theater I’ve seen that feel like all aspects of production are totally unified in what the piece is trying to achieve. From the set to the eerie choir to the lyrical, poignant script, everything added to the constant anxiety and uncertainty that your average American family during the Cold War must have experienced—and certainly speaks to what I feel today. Comparing toothaches to grief and using childhood toys as propaganda machines, we’re reminded that far too many of us are growing up in crisis; Meek’s bomb shelter building reminded me of times tables and science projects getting interrupted by “What To Do In Case of an Active Shooter” lessons, which are only two experiences in the much wider scope of the world as we shift from crisis to crisis.
While it’s made clear that a 10-year-old’s only worry really should be about making friends, we’re still left with the hope that we all have the power to create change, no matter how big or small. Cold War Choir Practice speaks to the dual experience of the tragedies and joys of our mundane lives along with the weight of violence committed and threatened by the state, seamlessly bridging intangible threats with the physical and grounding them in reality. And while the world can feel scary and we can feel small, we’re never entirely helpless. Caring for our communities, standing up and showing up for our people in our day-to-day lives leaves a bigger impact than we might think.
Reddick’s script soars, at once incisive and empowering and bitingly funny, packing so much detail and intentionality and wisdom in only 90 minutes. With a truly standout cast and such creative direction, I genuinely cannot sing this production’s praises more. Reddick is bringing the 80s back, and you don’t want to miss it.
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Cold War Choir Practice is now running as a part of Clubbed Thumb’s Summerworks festival through July 1.
