In
If You See Something Say Something, at the Joe’s Pub space of the Public Theatre, monologist Mike Daisey offers some pungent views on the state of
national
security, as relates to current world politics and the traditions of
Xenophobic
paranoia with roots in WWII and development of nuclear weaponry. With
the kind
of eye and ear for sharp irony that characterizes topical humorists
like Bill
Maher, Jon Stewart and George Carlin, yet more long-form-essay-like
organization,
Daisey brings a good deal of research to bear—academic and
personal—putting it through a filter characterized less by cynicism or
archness than by awe. He also does audiences the unique service of not
telling
them what to think, but rather presenting the data and his observations
on it
in such a way that we may have a little something to discuss and debate
afterwards. A hefty, round-cheeked fellow, he sometimes seems like a
karmic,
liberal counterbalance to the Dark Prince who is Rush Limbaugh, with
more
generosity of spirit and less fear of audience reaction. If all the
media
madness surrounding the Presidential election hasn’t given you enough
to think
about and/or you’re just a junkie for this kind of thing, Mike Daisey
is among
the shaper comedy pundits putting “the scene” into perspective.
********
In
Lee Blessing’s A
Body of Water, a
middle-aged couple (Michael Cristoffer and
Christine Lahti) awake
in a
well-appointed home, possibly a summer house, near a river, and have no
idea
who they are, or whether they know each other, and if so, how
intimately. Nor
if the twentysomething woman (Laura Odeh) who eventually shows up at the house is
someone who works for them,
like a lawyer (which she at times claims to be) or their daughter
(which she
claims to be at other times). Mr. Blessing keeps shifting the paradigm,
sometimes keeping the characters off-base by constantly changing the
rules,
sometimes even more insidiously letting them get comfortable with a
particular
possible reality, and then slyly showing them what may be a crack in
what may
be a façade.
The
playwright is himself something of an anomaly: he has a very
mainstream,
colloquial style, yet he likes to apply that to experiments in
theatrical
genre. And here he is—clearly?—in the world of Pirandello, which is
to say his agenda is to make the audience wonder which interpretation
of events
constitutes reality. The difference here is that Mr. Blessing is
missing a
fundamental technique that Pirandello always took care to employ: in a
Pirandello play, reality isn’t controversial because the universe
changes its
configuration (a la a latter day Twilight Zone episode or the science fiction thriller The
Cube series of films) but
because motivation is rendered
mysterious. (i.e. A man long believed to be insane, having adopted a
historical
identity, declares himself sane, though his behavior remains erratic.
As
complications reach their climax, he stabs the doctor sent to work with
him,
who is also the rival for his wife’s romantic attention. And then he
resumes
his regal persona. Whether he’s sane or insane the story tracks. The
events are
real, what’s mutable is the nature of causality: is the killing an act
of
vengeance, protected by the guise of madness? Or is it truly the act of
a
madman?) In A Body of Water, the
story doesn’t track
through each
variant proposition of reality, and at the end, Mr. Blessing asks us to
question even whether what we see and hear is real, let alone the truth
about
what’s behind it.
Though
Mr. Blessing is almost always an entertaining writer (and remains so
for a good
deal of the proceedings here), there does come a point where you
realize, not
only won’t he give you the answer to the riddle, he won’t even give you
the
full riddle upon which to formulate an answer. At which point, despite
fine
performances and respectable direction by Maria Mileaf, it’s very easy to check out, mentally,
and stop
caring.
********
In
an era where many people try to spend their theatre
dollars wisely, Clay,
the
self-styled “hip-hop musical” for solo performer, may well be the best
twenty
bucks you spend this season. Midtown at the Duke on 42nd Street, the
play (and
it really is something more of a play with music than a musical per se)
and its
score are the creation of its current actor, Matt Sax. A press release says, that Clay
“tells
the coming-of-age story of Clifford, a suburban boy who escapes his
fractured
family and finds a mentor in Sir John, a master of the spoken word.
Clifford
becomes hip-hop star Clay, but he discovers that he can't escape his
past.” The
story is actually richer and quirkier than that—not shockingly
original,
no, but its treatment very much so—though it occurs to me that
describing
it in any deeper detail risks depriving you of the fullness of genuine
discovery and revelation you may feel watching Mr. Sax (under the
direction of Eric
Rosen) do his thing.
And
a mesmerizing thing it is too, not only the sharp musicality and
equally
distinct characterizations, but the way those characterizations morph
and grow,
the way he attaches movement-as-motif to them (especially striking, for
example, is a father figure on the attack, late in the game, we’ve seen
him
many times, but now with each salvo he seems to rise from the dead,
like a
puppet with his strings suddenly pulled, again and again; it’s abstract
and yet
a perfect picture of a nightmare made real). A story and a performance
full of
pathos, passion, humor, irony and even victory, it’s worthy of
inclusion with
the great solo performance evenings such as Hal Holbrook’s Mark
Twain Tonight,
James Whitmore in Paul Shyre’s Will
Rogers’ USA, Mark Linn Baker in
Lee
Blessing’s Chesapeake, Alec
McCowen in St. Mark’s Gospel and
William Windom in A James Thurber Evening. Oh to be sure, it speaks a whole different
language
for a whole different generation—but it has the feel of something quite
classic…
********
It’s
been quite a few years since I saw a genuine musical
theatre train wreck—quite different from a “flop” or a “show that
doesn’t
work,” or even “a bad show,” this would be such an incompetent,
clueless mess
that sometimes, things and people really do crash into each other, by
accident and
design—but that’s Romantic
Poetry by
John
Patrick Shanley (alleged book
and alleged
lyrics, and while we’re at it, alleged direction) and Henry
Kreiger (music, both woefully
familiar-sounding and
instantly forgettable—typos can be revealing: I just caught myself
hitting the keys for regrettable), at the Manhattan
Theatre
Club. I won’t even try to
sum it up, it’s so incomprehensible, save to say it has something to do
with
new romantic partners vs. old and the existential angst of love, and
seems to
have been written on a chemically induced or deeply schizophrenic
stream-of-consciousness high. A good cast seems to be wasted and
abused, though
several bios attest to some having been part of Romantic Poetry’s initial development at New York
Stage and Film.
Which just blows my mind, because it means both that MTC had a chance
to see this thing in advance, and that the holdover
actors signed
on for more. Yes, I know, MTC may
have already announced it, and often for an actor
work is work, but
Jesus Christ.
Yes, it is that bad, and not Carrie or
Springtime for Hitler redemptively
bad, just please-don’t-even-waste-your-curiosity-let-alone-your-money bad. Hold onto what you admire and/or
respect about
the prior accomplishments of the mssrs. Shanley and Kreiger and just
make
believe this doesn’t exist. Because history, in due course, I
guarantee, in all but
some data base archives, will do the same…
Return to Home Page
Go to David Spencer's Profile