Soul of a Whore

Written by Denis Johnson (author of Jesus' Son) and directed by Rob West, Soul of a Whore is the third installment of what Johnson calls The Cassandra Cycle, a collection of tales examining the dirty places and dirtier people of a "semi-mythical American West" (Part one is called Hellhound on My Trail and part two, Shoppers Carried by Escalators into the Flames, carries perhaps our favorite title ever).

Soul of a Whore tells the story of Bill Jenks (played by Erik Hill), a healer and former leader of the "Children of Jehovah." After time in prison for misappropriation of funds, Jenks wanders into a Texas Greyhound bus station where a handful of down-and-out characters wait for the bus to Dallas. He meets the beautiful Masha (Terri Weagant), an ex-stripper looking for the next thing. He is immediately enamored with her – maybe because she is a challenge to him (as their sparring dialogue so effectively shows), or maybe because he's just spent fourteen months behind bars. Either way, he wants her, man of the cloth or not. She thwarts his advances for some time, but by the second act, they are colleagues of a sort, traveling from place to place, ridding demons from the possessed. Along the way, from the Greyhound station, to a hospital room, to those locations in act three which I've only heard about, Jenks, Masha, and the audience encounter an assortment of Texan folks who bring to humanity new levels of dysfunction.

What Soul of a Whore is really about is, well, the point of it is – it's actually kind of a psycho-study of Capitol Punishment, or, no that's not it. It's about humanity's direness, or maybe a statement against Capitalism, or – shit. Truth is we have no idea what it's about or what message the play is supposed to convey. We thought maybe this was because we missed the third act, but according to everyone we spoke to who did stick around for the end, they have no idea either.

All we know is what we saw – that there's a demon Jenks seems to have a past relationship with (from an earlier installation of the Cassandra Cycle?), that this demon first possesses the body of Masha, then moves on to others, and that it doesn’t matter one bit what the play is about. Fact is, the acting is amazing and the dialogue is so clever and laced with such poetic irony that it's difficult to stay focused on the story. Take for instance, a confrontation between Masha and Will Blaine (Bill Badgely): Blaine has her backed up to a wall. He knows Masha from her nights as a stripper. He knows the things she did for money when the dance was over, but he doesn't care. He wants her. Masha tells him she "was never so undercover as when she was naked." Blaine persists. He tells Masha the things he can give her. The car she can drive. The house she can live in. He tells Masha he's going to kiss her. "Okay," she says, "You can do that." He puts his hands on her. He slides his fingers down the sides of her hips. He tells her he's going to lift up her skirt. "Maybe you can do that," she says quietly. "A little bit."

Soul of a Whore isn't all drama and suspense. It's definitely there, but there's also a lot of comedy. During a scene in the hospital room, as Jenks is conversing with the demon (now inhabiting an unfortunate coma patient), he recognizes the absurdity of the demon's actions and speech. "C'mon!" Jenks yells, "We've all seen this movie before!" And when Jenks refers to this nuisance as "demon," the thing ceases acting like a cliché, straightens up, and proclaims clearly, "I reject your terminology. Call me… Teenie Weenie Motherfucker!"

So like we said, we're really bummed that we missed the third and final act of this incredible play, but not because we missed any kind of closure with the story. What we missed was another hour of witty, funny, lyrical dialogue and an engaging performance of some of the best theater we've ever seen.

Big thanks to the gentleman running concessions at Theater Schmeater. We asked for a Jameson on the rocks and what he delivered was a glass of the good stuff so tall we nearly kissed him.