4799 Shattuck ave, Oakland
May 24–June 7, 2026
The scent of earth, freshly overturned and overpowering, perfumed the air of Omni Commons long before the set of Oakland Theater Project’s “The House of Bernarda Alba” by Federico Garcia Lorca came into view. A large square of dark earth, bisected into quadrants by a white cross, is the only sure footing the actors will have for the duration. But more on that later. A large white cross on the back wall mirrors the cross on the floor. High Plexiglass walls line the three sides of the stage. The audience is seated around the walls. We stare in at the women trapped there. Dressed in black, a lone woman sits in each quadrant, straight backed, staring forward, eyes bare of emotion. Four more women sit watching along the back wall. Only one woman stands, dancing in black and holding a red flower.
We seemed to have walked into an exhibit of caged animals at a zoo or Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon. In the mid 1700s, the English philosopher and social theorist came up with the social control mechanism that would change the modern prison system. How to monitor the prisoners with the fewest possible guards? A central tower with a ring of cells. Everyone is watching everyone else. If one steps out of line, what will the others say?
“What will they say?” is a calling card and a driving force in Lorca’s work. More powerful than any single emotion is the fear of being judged. This play, written in 1936 as an attack against the patriarchy and church rolled into one, and the cultural and military currents that created the dictatorship of Franco, presents each character as an archetype, and their name has dual meaning. Like the reflections that warp on all sides of the stage, director Michael Moran makes some very intentional choices in producing this play at this moment.
It begins with a funeral. Bernarda Alba’s husband has died, leaving five daughters to mourn him. “For the next eight years, we will mourn,” Bernarda (Lisa Ramirez) tells her daughters in Chay Yew’s new adaptation. She is sure that nothing will enter or exit the house without her control. She offers her daughters, who often move in a distracting synchronized dance, the option of doing needlepoint. “Needle and thread for women. Whiplash and mules for men.” Ramirez hurls each word with thorns. Bernarda Alba is hubris incarnate, sure of her ability to see everything, yet blind to what is important. Ramirez does a tremendous job of playing a deeply terrible human.
However, caged animals will always try to find a way out or else turn on one another. Pepe el Romano (Jaden Ramsey), the most handsome man in the village, stalks and creeps around the perimeter, staring at each woman in turn through the walls. He never speaks, but his predatory presence is felt deeply by each woman inside. His ability to seem to be everywhere and nowhere is apt as Pepe symbolizes the Roman Catholic Church. He promises marriage to 39 year old Angustias, or Angst (Sarah Jiang), a woman twice his age. It is an acceptable social move for him, even as it is clear that he chooses her money, not her self.
In contrast, the youngest sister, Adela (Antonella Scogna), is all youth and vitality. She is Eve and the tree of knowledge together. Pepe cannot help but be drawn to her, and she to him, counterpoints to one another. Though all the sisters yearn for him, it is only Adela who takes the initiative to catch his attention. Emotionally going from very low to very high in repetitive and fatiguing fashion, she screams and rants her way through her desires. Her performance is intentionally volatile, though at times it threatens to flatten the character into pure intensity.
Just as unhinged is the girls’ grandmother, Maria Josefa (Angelina Fiordellisi), who begins by yelling insanities but sometimes slips into the role of truth teller. Darting from madness to hard truths, Fiordellisi gives us a moment to breathe in this heavy story. Èssa Vilanueas as Martirio, the martyr, and Jacinta Kaumbulu as Poncia lend powerful presence to the production, bringing nuance to the story in surprising ways. It seems in this world, if a woman is autonomous and has her own agency, she must be insane, and to seek her own way will bring destruction on herself and those around her.
It can be difficult to find the meat of the story as the characters shout and fight over one another. The microphones cut in and out on opening night, adding to the auditory chaos. The projections on the back wall felt like overkill, as the Plexiglass already reflected every movement in triplicate. Still, the scent of raw earth coming from inside the house and the use of dance and light made for a visually striking production. Lorca’s deeply nuanced work, which leans heavily on the Spanish language and symbolism, does not, and maybe cannot, have a direct translation. This adaptation chooses to focus more on interpersonal dynamics but does retain some of Lorca’s concept of duende, that powerful and painful spirit of inspiration that a person can receive when the moment requires it of them. It is not something you can own or something you can confer on yourself. It is only something that you can receive.
Raw and unabashedly brimming with rebellion against unjust systems, “The House of Bernarda Alba” speaks directly to people living under pressure and forever pushing against those who seek to oppress them.
