‘MISS YOU LIKE HELL' IS A FORMIDABLE MOTHER AND FORMIDABLE DAUGHTER TALE

Does mother know best? Gizel Jiménez and Daphne Rubin-Vega. Photo: Joan MarcusHENRY EDWARDS  New York - May 1, 2018

We’ve all seen movies and shows about road trips (“Easy Rider”; “National Lampoon's Vacation”; “Little Miss Sunshine”) and mother-daughter conflicts (“August Osage County’; “Precious”; “Postcards from the Edge”). Both forms claim center stage in “Miss You Like Hell,” the chamber musical at The Public’s Newman Theater.

Genre formulas are so overworked they often seem to be nothing more than tool kits stocked with clichés, and “Love You Like Hell” dishes up more than its fair share of corn and sentiment. But thanks to its tunefulness and good-heartedness, it’s hard to resist.

The one-act musical is set in 2014 before the Trump presidency, but does have as a central character an undocumented Mexican immigrant.

Good vibes aside, the odious onstage immigration policy felt so up to date, it was hard not to think about DACA, the “wall” and the separation of parents from their children at the U.S.-Mexico border while I was watching the show.  

“Love You Like Hell” is the work of book writer and co-lyricist Quiara Alegría Hudes and composer and co-lyricist Erin McKeown, in her theatrical debut.

Hudes is the first Latina to win a Pulitzer Prize (“Water by the Spoonful”), and a proud recipient of a Tony award (“In the Heights”). McKeown is a genre-breaking instrumentalist and folk-rock singer-songwriter.                                                            

The show evolved from Hudes’s 2009 drama “26 Miles,” and premiered in its current musical form at La Jolla Playhouse.

Obie winner Lear deBessonet directs and Danny Mefford (“Dear Evan Hansen”; “Fun Home”) choreographs.

 “Miss You Like Hell” is staged on designer Riccardo Hernandez’s shiny, ground-level, blue floor in front of an upstage blue frame.  Appealing images of white birds are painted on both.

 Upstage, an eight-member ensemble sits on mismatched chairs, serving as a chorus or joining the action as characters. Six musicians sit on a raised platform in front of Tyler Micoleau’s beautifully backdrop.

Beatriz (a fiery Daphne Rubin-Vega at her most fiery) is the 40-ish mother in this particular tale; sixteen-year-old Olivia (an equally impassioned Gizel Jiménez) is her out-of-wedlock daughter.

Four years have elapsed since Beatriz lost custody of her daughter to the girl’s white, American father and she went on her way.  Having borrowed a friend’s broken pickup and driven from Los Angeles to Philadelphia, from out of nowhere, she arrives unannounced and all smiles at Olivia’s apartment in the middle of the night.

“It’s been four years,” snaps the surprised and far from delighted adolescent. “This is weird, Beatriz. Come after school. We’ll grab slices and get caught up.”

Beatriz is a feisty, unorthodox (she has duo-tone hair whose ends are tinted bright red) and likable example of flawed motherhood.

Olivia is an angry, unlikable, and seriously unkempt book-loving writer. Her blog for other “castaways” like her is named CallingAllCastaways.tumblr.com), and (believe it or not) has at least one dedicated follower.

 Beatriz’s plan is to scoop up her daughter and take her on a seven-day road trip that will at long last provide them with the opportunity to bond.

 Both women are shouters and they engage in plenty of shouting before Olivia reluctantly gives in and accepts the invitation.  

Incapable of deciding whether she is angrier at her mother for leaving her a “castaway” with her father or for returning suddenly to reclaim her, in between fights, Olivia begins to believe that Beatrix is on a rescue mission to save her, and that pleases her.

As they travel the women grow closer and closer. However, when they reach Illinois and Olivia has no chance of escaping, Beatriz confesses that despite living in the U.S. for almost two decades and having a U.S. citizen for a daughter, she is an undocumented Mexican immigrant on the verge of deportation.

In order to save her skin, she must do two things, expunge an old marijuana arrest from her record and produce a character witness at her imminent immigration court date in Los Angeles. That witness, Beatrix insists, must be her daughter.  

Olivia doesn’t believe the story and refuses, resulting in the ugliest of arguments.

Eventually, after calming down, they have no other option but to continue on their way.

In Skokie, Ill., the travelers encounter a grizzled, Harley-riding, retired and married gay couple, husky Mo (Michael Mulheren) and pint-sized Higgins (David Patrick Kelly. As it turns out the Vietnam vets are in the midst of their own odyssey, that of getting married in all 50 states. 

Gizel Jiménez, Daphne Rubin-Vega, Michael Mulheren, David Patrick Kelly. Photo: Joan Marcus

To Olivia’s delight, they take a side trip to Yellowstone National Park to find Olivia’s avid follower, the especially sunny junior ranger Pearl (Latoya Edwards).

Trouble sets in when police officer (Marcus Paul James) stops Beatriz for a broken tail light, discovers she is paperless and places her under arrest,  

Nor does it help when a legal clerk (Shawna M. Hamic) in South Dakota refuses to expunge a marijuana infraction cooperate even though Beatriz’s future depends on it.

There’s also a widowed, Peruvian tamale peddler (Danny Bolero), who ditches his business to act as their chauffeur.

By now, Olivia is more than willing to testify (and clean-up for her court appearance).

The road trip reaches its conclusion at Beatriz’s deportation hearing. Under the watchful eye of new found friends, Olivia takes the stand and pays tribute to her mother in delivers a wrenching version of the title song.

A shocking coup de théâtre brings the show to a jolting conclusion. When mother and daughter meet for the last time, a border wall slides out to divide the stage from rear to front into Tijuana and San Diego, and shockingly, mother and daughter are not on the same side of it.

Any performance by Rubin-Vega is going to be big and hyper-intense, and this one is no exception. In an authentic star turn that bodes well for a spectacular future, Jimenez matches her co-star's intensity every step of the way.

“Miss You Like Hell” is musically captivating, lovely to look at – and ultimately as distressing as the daily news.      For More information visit:  PUBLIC THEATER

Jiménez and Rubin-Vega. Photo: Joan Marcus