“I will do my best to serve ALL citizens of Oz,” His Majesty the Scarecrow tells his subjects, having been appointed by the Wizard of Oz and Glinda the Good Witch to rule over Emerald City, where there is apparently no democracy, and therefore no possibility of deep disappointment in the electorate.

“The Scarecrow,,” one of the three shows I saw that were separately presented for three performances apiece earlier this week at the La MaMa Puppet Festival, is yet another riff on “The Wizard of Oz,” this one the origin story of the Scarecrow — and a grim origin it is. It’s a production that was, in turn, lively, inventive, intentionally horrific and unintentionally confusing.

The Scarecrow is portrayed (or rather, since it’s a puppet, manipulated) by Anthony Michael Stokes, who also designed the puppets, directed the show, and wrote both the book and the original songs. After he’s crowned, the Scarecrow then holds court, where he learns that all is not good in Oz. The cornfield where Dorothy had discovered the Scarecrow and brought him along on her journey – in Winkie Country, we’re told – is in crisis.  Its citizens,  Winkies, complain that the crows have taken over.

So the Scarecrow sets off on his own journey — yes, along the Yellow Brick Road (which, unlike the recent Broadway revival of The Wiz, was actually painted on the stage.) But his companions are new: He leaves Emerald City with Wogglebug (Zachary Garnery) ,who looks a little like a mutant Kermit the Frog (they’re both green, anyway), and serves as Scarecrow’s political advisor. (His full name is Professor H.M. Wogglebug.) Along the way, they meet Sawhorse (Tau Bennett), Angeline the Patchwork Girl (Leigh Marie), and, crucially, Golden Crow (Mia Sterbini.)

 At this point, the story becomes unclear, to put it mildly. The Scarecrow touches the Golden Crow, and they are apparently transported back to turn of the 20th century Kansas, where the Scarecrow becomes a Black human being named Stepney whom white vigilantes consider “too smart for your own good” and try to lynch him. The Golden Crow has become Ida, who is his defacto defense attorney, but is also a witch named Locasto, who tries to save him, but there’s also a racist white woman named Lily White who’s really an evil witch named Mombi (Amber Snyder), who turns the other Black people into crows, and…  

“What just happened?” Wogglebug asks.
“I’m not exactly sure, H.M,” Scarecrow answers.

You and me both, bud.

There’s just too much Stokes tries to do in a 50-minute puppet show – too much going on (I didn’t even mention the dream sequence); too many words, too little explained (or perhaps too much explained but too little I grasped.) It needs work. But it’s worth it. This is not just because its connection with a well-known story could draw a ready-made audience. The songs are tuneful, the puppets are fun, and there is an admirable effort to educate about a dark chapter in American history. The scene in Kansas is brutal but also intelligent enough that it could (maybe should) work in an independent (i.e. non-Oz) drama, or maybe in a series of Scarecrow plays.  The lyrics in that scene are memorable:

“Just another crop, rotting in the field,
Silenced by the mob, left for a crow’s meal.”

In Nature, a  corn field needs to be cleared of weeds (material that might belong somewhere else) for the corn to grow to full flavor. I’m hoping Anthony Michael Stokes keeps that in mind for future productions of “The Scarecrow.”

Puppeteer Claudine Rivest tells us that Kindred Widows was inspired by her great-grandmother who, she was told, remained mute for 18 years after the death of her husband. Words are inadequate to describe Rivest’s quietly wondrous show that slowly unfolds,  without words – its only sound the music from an accompanying violinist. It’s arguably a kind of uncanny fashion show, since she works a kind of magic with the costumes. We first see Rivest herself in an old-fashioned floor-length farmwife’s dress, slowly peeling an orange. But her head slowly sinks into her dress, until it disappears. It turns out, Rivest was standing  behind the dress, which was in fact its own puppet. From there, she makes her way to a dining room table, where her head pops up around where the turkey dish might be placed, and the story of her great-grandmother and her friends plays out around her with delicately carved puppets – we see the woman in a wedding dress, then it magically strips off, and underneath is a black dress of mourning. The black dresses of those around her turn into nun’s habits. 

Tanya Khordoc and Barry Weil hand out boxes of popcorn before the start of “Secrets History Remembers,” which is a reassuring sign that the show’s stilted title does not reflect the show’s tone, which is a high-energy vaudeville-like entertainment. There’s a constant bombardment of puppets and props, posters and video, representing pop culture over at least three decades – from a cereal box with sugar fruited “Hopes n’ Dreams” from the 1950s to glowing “Pac Man” puppets in the 1980s. There’s a sort of gameshow at one point, and a toy baby swirls around inside a toy washing machine at another.  At the center of the show is the unnervingly blank-faced larger than life-style doll that looks like a lady from the Victorian age. (The washing machine with the baby emerges from her stomach. Props emerge several times when  her head opens up like the hinge of a door.) I imagine there’s some significance in her, and surely there is meaning in  the occasional ominous knocks on the door, which the performers register with momentary looks of alarm. The clues to the meaning may be in the title.