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Dominique Morisseau came to playwriting through acting.
Theyre built for capital-AActing.
Whether or not they always come together into fully compelling pieces of theater is another question.
Its long on argument but short on a more expansive, less literal expression of drama.
Although that may seem like the obvious move, it sets too high a bar.
Both are guarded, solemn, and intense, molded by different kinds of suffering.
At the center of most ofSunset Babys altercations is a collection of letters.
Oh right … robbing an armored truck.
In the name of some bullshit cause … To steal capitalist dollars in the name of third-world democracy.
Kenyatta cringes at his daughters impenetrable cynicism.
Build the revolution in the offspring.
The cringe goes both ways.
Kenyatta wants the letters (I just need to read them, he claims).
Theyre worth a fortune!
Nina snarls at her father.
Oh … you didnt know these letters were the hot shit?
As far as she can see, the revolution failed.
This is your progress … me.
Im your fuckin progress … What the fuck did you achieve?
Her development is largely subcutaneous what we actually witness are her decisions.
I want kids of my own …
I wanna sit … and watch the sun rise and set.
I never even saw a fuckin sunset!
Its pretty easy to walk outside at 7 p.m., even in a place thats not exactly Bali.
I couldnt help thinking of Werner Herzogs claim thathe doesnt know the color of his own eyes.
I love you, Werner, but come on.
The more resonant aspect of Morisseaus title is its reference to the waning days of the Black Power movement.
As a sunset baby, Nina is a child of the revolution but not of its bright dawn.
Although Nina Simones music suffuses the play, Tupac is there in the shadows.
It needs rest and grace; it needs to soften.
The sun will rise again, and the revolution unglamorous, daily, personal, imperfect will continue.
Sunset Babyis at Signature Theatre through March 10.
