‘The Fall of Heaven’ @ Jubilee Theatre

Photos by Kyra McGhee

—Rickey Wax

What happens when a Harlem man refuses to die the way heaven intended?

That’s the pitch—and the punchline—of The Fall of Heaven, a hip, sharp-tongued, and soul-searching play by Walter Mosley, adapted from his novel The Tempest Tales, now playing at Jubilee Theatre in Fort Worth. Directed by Calvin Walker, this production puts big questions about good, evil, and eternal judgment on trial—and the verdict isn’t nearly as simple as “guilty” or “saved.”

Mosley, the acclaimed author best known for his Easy Rawlins detective series (Devil in a Blue Dress being his most famous), has always been a literary provocateur. He digs into the systems that try to define us—race, class, law—and exposes their cracks. Here, he takes on the ultimate system: the afterlife. The result is a metaphysical satire wrapped in Harlem bravado, carried along by an R&B playlist that feels like the heartbeat of an early 2000s sitcom.

Tempest Landry (played with effortless charm by Jalen Xavier) is shot dead in Harlem and finds himself at the gates of heaven, where Saint Peter doesn’t mince words: “Hell.” But Tempest—who’s equal parts streetwise philosopher and divine agitator—refuses. Not out of fear, but out of principle. He knows who he is, and more importantly, who he ain’t. Leave it to a New Yorker to outtalk Saint Peter and find a loophole in the divine bureaucracy.

The loophole? A technicality forces heaven to send Tempest back to Earth with an angel in tow—Joshua (Nate Davis), a celestial case worker who looks like he’s just come off an unpaid internship at the DMV of righteousness. His mission: shadow Tempest and track his moral behavior to determine his eternal fate. But as with any bureaucracy, even heaven’s paperwork gets complicated. Especially when you mix in women, temptation, and the devil’s charming PR guy.

Xavier anchors the show with charisma that never slips into schtick. He cracks jokes one minute, then lets quiet dread flicker behind his eyes the next. The balance keeps Tempest human, a man laughing to keep from crying. When Joshua asks him, “Is anything wrong?” Tempest snaps back, “Is anything right?” That exchange sits like a stone in the stomach, hovering over the laughter that surrounds it.

Davis lends angel Joshua a voice that rolls in like distant thunder wrapped in velvet. It’s commanding, almost regal, yet threaded with vulnerability. Davis shows us an angel who memorized procedure but never practiced improvisation; his bafflement in Tempest’s presence feels authentic and oddly touching.

Brandon Wilhelm plays Basil Bob (say it slowly), a sharply tailored emissary of darkness who doesn’t breathe fire—he negotiates terms. This isn’t your grandma’s devil; this is temptation as a business consultant in an Adidas track suit. And Wilhelm oozes danger in the most delightful way, as if every syllable is written in fine print.

The supporting cast is equally divine. Johanna Nchekwube’s Branwyn Weeks brings grounded warmth, serving as a moral compass who might just be the love Tempest doesn’t know he needs. Becca Spencer is a standout in her double roles as Alfreda and Darlene—two sides of the same seductive coin, flipping expectations and testing Tempest’s will with every scene. And Christina Hollie’s cameo as both “Woman” and a fast-talking New Yorker gives the play an extra dose of local flavor, comedy, and soul. Her accent alone deserves a curtain call.

Jubilee’s production values elevate the script without overwhelming it. Scenic designer Mya Cockrell gives us a minimalist Harlem that feels like a dream-state city block—towering concrete forms that echo both divine courtrooms and street corners. When the lights dim between scenes (thanks to the evocative work of lighting designer Nikki DeShea), the entire set is bathed in gray, like moral ambiguity made visible—or the concrete jungle. But whenever heaven calls—or listens—the stage glows in pristine white and ethereal blue. One moment in particular, when Joshua speaks upward to St. Peter (bathed in cool blue light with nothing visible above)…well, it’s chilling in its simplicity. It captures the terrifying quiet of blind faith, the pause between question and answer.

And let’s talk about that playlist. Sound designer Rayven Harris mixes R&B with the precision of a DJ sent straight from the Book of Revelations. Sade, Lauryn Hill, Jill Scott, The Fugees—every musical cue hits like a reminder that divinity might just sound like your favorite slow jam. (Seriously, I actually would like a copy of the playlist from the show.) The music softens Fall’s heavier philosophical jabs, grounding cosmic questions in rhythm and groove.

Thematically, The Fall of Heaven asks if the systems we trust—be they divine or earthly—are equipped to handle the nuance of lived experience. Can redemption be earned, or is it only granted? Does resistance to authority make you a sinner, or simply someone who asks better questions? Tempest becomes an avatar for anyone who’s ever stood in front of power and said, “You got it wrong.”

Each character functions as metaphor: Tempest is free will with a Brooklyn fade. Joshua is institutional obedience laced with doubt. Basil Bob is the corporate seduction of sin—make it clean, make it contractual. Branwyn, Alfreda, and Darlene represent the spectrum of earthly temptation: love, lust, legacy. Even the silence from St. Peter becomes a character of sorts—a reminder that answers, even divine ones, are often inconveniently delayed.

There’s even a quiet moment when Tempest takes a bite of an apple—nothing flashy, just a man, a gesture, and a choice. But it lands heavy. It’s defiance. It’s knowledge. It’s Harlem’s own Adam saying, “I’ll decide what’s good and evil, thank you very much.”

And that brings us to the title. The Fall of Heaven isn’t about Tempest’s fall. It’s about heaven’s.

Mosley paints a world where the divine isn’t beyond question—it’s bound by process, prone to error, and shaken when someone dares to challenge it. At one point, Joshua, burdened by doubt, quietly confesses, “I have been stripped of Heaven.” The line hits hard. Not because he’s fallen from grace, but because he’s begun to see the cracks in the system he once served without question. His fall is from certainty. From silence. From blind allegiance. Mosley doesn’t imagine a heaven that strikes back. He imagines one that must listen.

The moment Joshua speaks to that empty blue-lit corner? Whew. That’s pure stage magic. It captures what it feels like to call out to something bigger than yourself and get nothing but silence in return. We’ve all been there—talking into the void, hoping someone, somewhere, is keeping track of what we’re saying...or, at least, that we’re not talking to ourselves.

Director Calvin Walker handles all of this with a smooth hand. The pacing is tight, the transitions are clever, and the tone walks the tightrope between comedy and contemplation. There are laughs, but they’re always followed by a pause, a breath, a moment to consider what just got said between the punchlines. Walker trusts Mosley’s language to land the jokes and trusts the actors to linger in doubt.

In the end, The Fall of Heaven is about justice. The kind that’s often missing from both the criminal system and the celestial one. Mosley dares to imagine a heaven that has to reckon with systemic bias. And in Tempest Landry, he’s created a character who won’t be quiet just because someone hands him a harp.

So go ahead—take the ride, tap your foot to Lauryn Hill, and prepare to question everything you thought you knew about sin, salvation, and street smarts. Because if anyone’s going to rewrite the Book of Judgment, it’s a man who knows how to survive Harlem... and still make heaven wait.

The only question left is—will you be Team Joshua or Team Tempest?

WHEN: June 6--July13, 2025
WHERE: 506 Main Street, Fort Worth
WEB: www.jubileetheatre.org