Don’t judge the play by its title because what curious fare this is: like having a bagel or fries with your authentic Indian curry. The spicy part is the satire, and the carbs are the feel-good factor. In fact, Indian-American playwright Dipika Guha may even have invented a new genre with Yoga Play: kind satire. In a program note, she says that she wrote it because she needed to laugh, and it mostly works for us, too, as she skewers the southern California yoga industry.
Guha satirises racism, racial stereotyping and southern California’s health and image obsessions with keen observation and deft wit. Mina Morita’s production is dazzlingly designed by James Lew, catching assorted business and new age tropes, aided by Mark Bolotin’s multimedia work. Morita’s cast generally excels at sharpening the satirical shears, although just occasionally they settle for the lowest-hanging laughs, and become overly cartoonish.
When fellow loner Connor Murphy commits suicide, Evan doesn’t correct the belief that these letters were actually penned by Connor; that they were secret friends. Suddenly grieving for Connor becomes hip: kids who usually only communicate via devices find themselves rolling down a hill in an ever-growing snowball of shared grief and imagined connections, with Evan as the griever-in-chief.
Infinitely happier are the design elements, especially Jeremy Allen’s elastic set, so at least you’re engaged visually, as you wait forlornly to be engaged by the rest.Ria’s in a digital debunker posse, a new-gen internet missionary of truth. Flick’s spent her whole life in a desert bunker thinking the world is flat.