Review: ‘Hand to God’ at Keegan Theatre flips the bird at religion and repression

Robert Askins’ perverse parable pulls no punches, becoming increasingly crass (and, frankly, hilarious).

By D.R. Lewis
February 10, 2025

This review originally appeared in DC Theater Arts.

There’s something a little slithery about the way Drew Sharpe maneuvers his sleeve-and-stick orange puppet Tyrone in the first moments of Hand to God at Keegan Theatre, even before it opens its toothless mouth. It looks innocent enough, with side-facing eyes and tuft of red hair. But as Sharpe’s hand spreads and a vulgar diatribe on the origins of the society and evil comes spewing out, one can’t help but look instead at the snakelike arm that’s enlivening the possessed puppet. You half expect, in the midst of this slick sleight of hand, for Tyrone to offer you an irresistible apple.

There are no apples to be found in the Cyprus, Texas, church that is home to playwright Robert Askins’ perverse parable of religion and repression. But in this puppet show, extremes as distant as good and evil are the writer’s bread and butter — a timid nerd consumed by vengeful violence, the personification of Satan in a Sunday school classroom, a church educator soliciting an underage student, emotional emptiness in morbid obesity, unapologetic vulgarity in an innocent homecoming dance proposal, the list goes on and on — as Askins asks the audience to consider the worst and best parts of themselves, and whether they’re lucky enough to live somewhere in the in-between.

Sharpe plays Jason, a high school student whose recently widowed mother Margery (Shadia Hafiz) has been appointed leader of their church’s puppet ministry program. Desperate for a win, she attempts to whip her trio of actors — Jason, plus good-natured Jessica (Hannah Taylor) and vulgarian bully Timmy (Jordan Brown) — into shape ahead of a prime-time command performance for flirty Pastor Greg (Dominique Gray). As Jason’s puppet Tyrone begins to poke at his personal trauma and prod the angst of his awkward puberty, he launches into a spree of destruction and violence that leaves the classroom in shambles and his neighbors scarred (well, maimed). Askins’ play pulls no punches, becoming increasingly crass (and, frankly, hilarious) as Jason and Tyrone’s hunger for revenge grows and grows. This villain is eerily reminiscent of another blood-thirsty puppet, Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors. But whereas that plant’s growth was driven by greed, Tyrone’s rise at Jason’s hand (literally) is one of yearning for agency.

There’s a certain potency in employing polar extremes here; in framing this helpless teen’s cry for control, stability, and relief from his embarrassing adolescence through a potty-mouthed felt puppet. But, as far as tone, it’s also a tricky line to walk. On the one hand, it’s an effective repellent to overly sentimental “life gets better” triteness. But it also requires extraordinary discipline and commitment to grounding the play in straight-faced realism.

Under Josh Sticklin’s direction, most of the production elements adhere successfully. Puppet designer Luke Hartwood’s contributions — whether they be the increasingly scary Tyrone or a suddenly gussied-up Jolene (Jessica’s puppet) — are made of raw materials the audience can see clearly, but which can come together quickly to startling effect. Scenic designer Matthew J. Keenan’s turntable set is gorgeous, offering on one side a sweetly adorned (until it’s not) church classroom, on another side a cramped pastor’s office, and on the final side a flexible space that easily becomes a car, a bedroom, and a playground. Sage Green’s lighting design is largely naturalistic, but bursts into a red wash when Tyrone is at his most devious. Brandon Cook’s sound design helps to conjure the Lone Star State with a playlist of Christian country before curtain and at intermission. And Logan Benson’s costumes, though realistic, perhaps unintentionally reveal a bit too much skin.

The performances are less uniform. For his part, every aspect of Sharpe’s performance makes it clear that he understands what his roles require, and he portrays both Tyrone and Jason exquisitely. Incorporating distinct movement and voice stylizations to separate the two characters, he’s able to switch between them in an instant. You never get the sense that the actor is in on the joke, or that the character is fully aware of the absurdity of his situation. In Jason’s submission to Tyrone, Sharpe captures the boy’s terror and the puppet’s ecstasy. And, every so often you find that it’s suddenly a little harder to see where one starts and the other stops.

It’s not that Hafiz, Brown, and Gray play their scenes for laughs, as much as they lean into the absurd elements of their characters that would likely be more effective if played a little straighter, whether it be Pastor Greg’s creepy flirtatiousness, Margery’s desperation for puppet ministry mastery, or Timmy’s immature horniness. At times, it feels as though their characters are competing against Tyrone for the audience’s attention, but not in a way that heightens the dramatic tension. This is especially evident in a well-executed scene between Sharpe and Taylor, where their respective puppets explore each other’s fabric bodies (they get felt up, if you will). While Tyrone and Jolene are miming a variety of sexual acts, Taylor and Sharpe engage in an earnest conversation that is perhaps the play’s clearest illustration of Jason’s emotional struggle and the ultimate origin of Tyrone’s existence.

Maybe Askins is partly to blame for the unlevel field. His play, for all its exciting octane, falls into the same trap that so many farces do by winding the play up to a degree that untangling its messy strands is practically impossible to accomplish in a clear and satisfying way. He tries to paper over the rapid wind-down by employing the ol’ “button” trick: put the characters back where they started in a nod to the opening scene. Exactly what point he was trying to make — that religious repression paradoxically nurtures destructive sins, that each of us is hiding metaphorical demons beneath our outer facades, that you should seek help even if you suspect that your church-assigned ministry puppet is beginning to exhibit signs of possession — is less transparent. But maybe, unlike a Sunday school lesson, Hand to God isn’t really about the moral. Maybe the real treasure is the demonic puppets, dysfunctional teenagers, and messy adults we met along the way.

Running Time: One hour and 45 minutes with one 15-minute intermission.

Photo by Mike Kozemchak