Theatre in Review: Los Otros (Premieres NYC at ART/New York Theatres)

	Caesar Samayoa, Luba Mason. Photo: Russ Rowland

For much of its running time, Los Otros appears to be the story of two perfect strangers; that they are linked by one degree of separation doesn't become clear until near the end. Instead, librettist Ellen Fitzhugh and composer Michael John La Chiusa gamble that we will be beguiled by the oddly similar experiences, unfolding across several decades, of a Californian woman and a Mexican immigrant. In less experienced hands, this format, consisting of intertwined monologues, could be tedious; thanks to Fitzhugh and La Chiusa, it has the quality of fine fiction, leading to an emotionally binding finale. It's a seemingly modest piece that makes a big impact.

First up is Carlos, who, looking back at 77, slyly identifies himself as part of "that wave of gay Mexican accountants who breached the border." He comes to the US as a boy in 1933, accompanied by his iron-willed mother, who gets them through a hurricane by tying him (and, presumably, herself) to a tree. A few years later, on the cusp of adolescence, he is working in a hardware store in Carlsbad, California, spending his summers picking plums alongside his best friend Paco. Well, they're more than friends. "Something happens with Paco and me," he says. "Then we make it happen many times." But, decades later, possessor of a successful career and domestic partnership with "a white man who was once the escort of Ava Gardner," he is still haunted by unresolved feelings of exclusion.

The countermelody belongs to Lillian, who, in 1952, is a troublemaking kid living in "temporary government housing" near San Diego. She gets her first lesson in injustice when she finds an immigrant family hiding out from the law. Years later, a two-time divorcée with a couple of kids and a lousy job, she and one of her exes make a run to Tijuana to hire a housekeeper, smuggling her into the US in the trunk of a car; the housekeeper, Madalena, briefly transforms Lillian's disorganized family before leaving to reclaim her own life. In 1967, now tending bar for a living and hitting the bottle hard, Lillian picks up Arturo, a virginal Mexican teenager, for an encounter that has unexpected repercussions.

While we're wondering exactly when Carlos and Lillian will intersect, Los Otros paints a complex picture of immigrants and native-born Americans living in uneasy coexistence. Carlos works overtime at ingratiating himself with the store's customers; he also trains himself not to react when anyone uses the term "wetbacks." But, surveying the farm from on high, using the owner's binoculars, he has a revelation: "I see how we look to him/Little bent-over people who repeat and repeat/Like toys you wind up." Later, feeling faintly stifled among the "exquisite clutter" amassed by his Lalique and Bakelite-collecting partner, he muses about "this Anglo world I navigate/Through the straits of gay and straight/I give thanks for small successes." A misunderstanding about anniversary gifts causes Carlos to believe the man he loves is trying to humiliate him over his Mexican heritage.

The young Lillian, discovering that family hiding in a cave, is, for the first time in her life, galvanized into meaningful action, wondering, "If something falls in front of you, like people, don't we have an obligation?" Attending a party, she is entranced by Madalena's family and friends; she also feels suddenly ashamed for not bringing her kids, fearing that Mexicans would inevitably inhabit a bad neighborhood. Her seduction of young Arturo -- which, in another context, might seem ugly or exploitative -- is accompanied by mild harassment and an act of vandalism, leading to an unexpected outcome.

That this episodic narrative works so well is due in no small part to the first-class performances. Caesar Samayoa, in astonishingly good voice, delivers a Carlos loaded with can-do energy and radiant over the discover of his sexual identity. Luba Mason's Lillian faces the world with a wry, skeptical demeanor and slightly upturned chin; wait for her defeated look -- her face seems to collapse -- when she catches herself telling a transparent lie. ("Girls of fifteen have such merciless eyes," she says, in another context, knowing that her daughter isn't buying her lame excuse for staying out all night.) When Carlos and Lillian finally get together, it's like a long-delayed reunion, the performers creating an extraordinary atmosphere of warmth and grace.

Director Noah Himmelstein guides both performers with the surest of hands; neither Samayoa nor Mason ever put a foot wrong. The same is true of the design team: Junghyun Georgia Lee's simple set features an arrangement of chairs backed by a canted mural, depicting a blue sky dotted with clouds, which is frequently transformed by lighting designer Adam Honoré's subtle infusions of color. Ken Travis' sound design is a model of clarity and transparency; one might not notice that amplification is used. Alejo Vietti has dressed both performers attractively and appropriately.

Fitzhugh's narrative structure almost guarantees that there will be plenty of holes; both Paco and Carlos' mother abruptly drop out of the story, and one can't help wondering whatever happened to Lillian's children. (It would be good to know more about Carlo's partner, too.) But LaChiusa's music provides a strong connective thread. As is his wont, there is a strong rhythmic underpinning to many numbers, and the melodies are carefully tailored to the words; even a simple key change can signal a major emotional shift. In its sometimes-elliptical way, Los Otros gets beyond the signal noise of current political debates, presenting a pair of fully rounded characters whose bond is cemented by lifetimes of dealing with, or being classified as, others. Carlos and Lillian make a most enchanting club of two. --David Barbour