Playwright: Quiara Alegra Hudes. At: Goodman Theatre, 170 N. Dearborn St. Tickets: 312-443-3800; www.goodmantheatre.org; $14-$45. Runs through: May 12
Ideally, Quiara Alegra Hudes' three-part family saga would be viewed in the order of the events it recounts. If only the author had known she was writing a trilogy when she began, or that the second play would win a Pulitzer (but won't be seen in Chicago until later this season), then there would be no necessity for a review to include a summary of what you need to know going into its concluding segment, currently playing at the Goodman.
Elliot Ortiz, an Iraq War veteran is troubled by a shrapnel-injured leg and memories of his first kill, both occurring in 2003. His aunt Ginny was a social activist in Philadelphia's Barrio Boricua, feeding the hungry from her kitchen garden, until her death from cancer in 2009 united her nephew with Yazmin, her music-professor daughter. As the two cousins conduct the funeral arrangements, Elliot comes to terms with his estranged birth mother, a former crack user now operating a chat room for recovering addicts. The final chapterthe one we're watchingopens in 2011 with Elliot working on location in Jordan as a consultant for a documentary film, and Yazmin continuing Ginny's mission in the ghetto.
Both are still embroiled in the upheaval of their timesYazmin leads protests against inhumane conditions in the medical clinics serving the poor, Elliot experiences flashbacks in the desert only "two countries away" from the so-called Arab Spring. Personal issues figure in their lives, too, as Yazmin is courted by an avuncular musician and Elliot grows increasingly close to a pair of fellow artists whose destinies are likewise complicated by their ethnicity. After many hard decisions, however, the last song ends with our young pilgrims facing a hopeful futureevidenced by not one, but two, pregnancies within the Ortiz clan.
Hudes makes no secret of her story's roots in the real-world experiences of her own family, so its atmosphere of nostalgic sentimentality is hardly unexpected. Edward Torres' direction affirms the romantic ambience invoked by John Boesche's scenic projections on the stucco wall connecting the widely disparate locales, further enhanced by the jabaro serenades of cuatro-guitarist Nelson Gonzalez. The ensemble led by Armando Riesco, as the haunted Elliot, and Sandra Marquez, as the harried Yazmin, lend depth to archetypes grown long familiar to American audiences. Ultimately, the aforementioned chronological dissonance makes for nebulous narrative, but the production's theatrical iconography redeems itself in the sheer warmth born of optimism and redemption.