By Heather Hoch
By Eric Schaefer
By New Times
By Rachel Miller
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch and Lauren Saria
By Robrt L. Pela
By Heather Hoch
"Sister" Patti herself orders more glamorously -- an "Acapulco Express."
Then she offers me her views, which are considerably less autocratic than Sister's, on everything from Catholicism to the theater to the weather.
With that last topic, for instance, she recently had a close call. The producers of Late Nite Catechism "were gonna send me back to do a couple shows East," she says. "They wanted to send me to Detroit. I said, 'Let's think about this. There's a kind of momentum going here. Things are going well. Why don't we just leave me here?'" She laughs her big, hearty laugh. "I'm talking by the side of the pool! I can hear the wind chill blowing through the line."
Her smooth talk worked. The Detroit assignment went to another of the half-dozen-odd actresses who play Sister on the road in Catholic-heavy towns such as New Orleans and Boston.
Late Nite Catechism is a sort of benign spin on Christopher Durang's Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All for You, though the writers and producers would likely resist the comparison. Durang's scabrous, uneven and often very funny play about the petty tyrannies of parochial school nuns is unmistakably anti-Catholic; Late Nite, by Chicago bards Vicki Quade and Maripat Donovan, is gentler and more affectionate in its ridicule -- to the point, Hannon tells me, that performances of it have often been booked in churches. Though it's definitely a satire, says Hannon, "It's asking people to look with a light heart at how you grew up, at how education was in a time, in an era."
But the format is largely the same as Durang's -- a nun stalks about the stage, vigorously and strictly lecturing the audience as if it were her class, explaining church doctrine and tradition in humorous terms. Catholic-school vets lap it up. Following a smash initial run about a year ago, the piece has been enjoying a wildly successful return engagement at SCA since this past summer.
The conciliatory, nostalgic tone is the secret of the play's success, suggests Hannon, who has also played the role in Boston and in New York. She went to Catholic grammar school and high school herself, and while she's no longer practicing, she says, "I've never been bitter or antagonistic about it. If this show has done anything for me . . . I always felt a little jealous of people of the Jewish faith, 'cause I had so many friends who say, 'I'm Jewish, culturally, but I don't do the faith anymore.' I never felt I could say that, but now I recognize that Catholicism in itself has its own culture, and you can never take that out of me."
The "Saint John" is set in front of me, and I start in. It's pure grease, of course, but also pure bliss. No less appealing is Hannon's "Acapulco Express" -- an omelet wrapped around chorizo, avocado, onions, cheese and chiles. She's also overjoyed to find that there's even seedless blackberry jam on the table for her muffin.
It was a nun, in fact, continues Hannon, who first encouraged her interest in acting. "Sister Modesta, my fourth-grade teacher," she recalls. "Did you ever have that teacher that you thought you'll probably never have, because she'll probably be dead by the time you get to her grade, and then she's there? You never can figure out how old she is, and then you come back 10 years later and she's still there? That was Sister Modesta. She was quite a loving, compassionate person. I could cry when I think about her."
Sister Modesta gave Hannon an "honorable conduct" pin for her performance in a play. "I can remember that feeling of carrying that wash basket. Again, I was an ethnic character, the Irish laundry lady." She rumbles laughter again. "Even in the fourth grade, my very first role, I was always the ethnic!"
Despite such fond memories, Hannon recognizes the difficulty of reconciling old-fashioned Catholic doctrine with modern social mores. "You put yourself in such a bind when you're infallible," she observes. "Because reasoning can't begin to create a change. I still think it's gonna take a couple more popes before it really changes. And then, basically, we'll be Looderns."
Excuse me? Did she say "looters"?
She cringes with embarrassment. She said "Lutherans," of course, but she said it Chicago style.
"I worked so hard to get that Chicago outta my mouth, and then I've been doin' Sister for five years," she grumbles. "I let it roll for her, and it doesn't go away."