The text
below was written in 2000, when this show debuted at the same theatre in which
it’s playing now, in a kind of anniversary comeback. My opinion abouty the show
hasn’t changed (except that my appreciation for it is deeper) and nothingmuch
about the show itself has changed either—except maybe it has deepened a bit
too; everybody’s a little older and they’ve lived with the material for a
decade. Oh, and it’s been moved a little closer to the audience: where it used
to be performed on a proscenium, it’s now on a slight thrust. The show utterly
deserves its return to the boards. And you owe yourself a visit.
Recently a
bright and articulate reader wrote to object to an observation I’d made. The
fellow had some nice things to say about me as analyst and wordsmith, but felt
strongly that my criticism was often "too categorical"—by which (I
assume) he meant too often guided by preconceptions of theatre and writing
craft that might blind me to the virtues of pieces not conforming to standard.
I have no idea if this is true—it’s something I’d given some thought to, even
before he raised it—but I admittedly put a high premium on the basic principles
and disciplines. So understand how profoundly I mean it when I tell you that a
small, low-profile off-off Broadway entry that conforms to no neat categorization, nor established philosophies
and principles, quietly rocked me to my very core with the depth and breadth of
its originality and uniqueness. It’s called "And God Created Great
Whales", it’s not like
anything else that ever existed, it deserves a much longer life than its
limited off-off Broadway run, and if you miss it, you’ll be shy one
lifetime-worthy theatrical memory.
Written,
composed and performed by Rinde Eckert, the 75-minute piece is about a composer who—we learn before the
action begins—has been informed by doctors that he is losing his mind (possibly
to Alzheimer’s, but no disease is ever specifically mentioned). The
deterioration is inevitable and unstoppable.
And
he hasn’t completed his opus yet: an opera based on "Moby Dick".
When
the action starts, our hero, Nathan, rises from his piano, a tape player hooked
around his neck and duct-taped to his waist. He seems bewildered. He presses
PLAY. And his voice comes through the speakers, reminding him of what is
happening, what he is meant to do (finish the opera), how he is to proceed, and
the function of all the other tape recorders hung from strings about the space.
An orange one for philosophical ruminations, a yellow one for new musical
material, etc. He can stop and rewind the tape at any time he feels secure
enough to proceed. The further along he needs to listen to his instructions,
the further he has deteriorated. There is also a mysterious woman (Nora Cole)—a muse who exists only in Nathan’s mind. But the
instructions insist that, no matter what happens, he is to listen to her and
follow her advice at all costs.
What
follows is a little surreal, a little avant-garde and—when you least expect
it—surprisingly linear and logical in its unfolding drama. Thematically it’s a
fascinating riff on the nature of artistic obsession—the need to create as a compulsion,
even a primal force. And what better metaphorical representation than the need
to complete an opera based on "Moby Dick"—featuring Ahab, the ultimate
obsessive. The completion of the
opus is Nathan’s great whale.
(The piece never draws this parallel directly—it’s just there.)
The
language of the piece combines fragmentary dialogue with modern opera
compositional technique. Even here, the balance is subtle and delicate—the
language of madness—of lucidity that turns on a dime into desperate rambling—is
authentic, if you’ve ever witnessed a manic depressive episode, or an Alzheimer
victim’s attempt to put forth an incomprehensible position. Also authentic are
the musical styles employed by Mr. Eckert: clearly they’re a gloss on the
current mod-op vocabulary; but for all that they’re comments, they’re not sly
or wry or glib: the text and the music to which it is set are completely
sincere—you never doubt Nathan’s professionalism, nor his ability to deliver a
credible opera. The fact that he is a viable artist, worthy of his own ambitions, is what keeps you
rooting for him.
Of
course, Mr. Eckert’s knowing performance helps too. Bald, middle aged, stocky,
he creates a haunting picture of a man stuck on a metaphorical sea—sometimes
unable to pull out of an uncertain limbo that has him half-lidded and reaching
out for some indeterminate substance, occasionally allowed the blessed relief
of being temporarily anchored. And he sings with a lovely, powerful tenor
voice.
As
his muse—and the woman upon whom the muse is based—Nora Cole is not quite so
haunting, but it’s not her job to be; in an interesting irony, it is she who keeps pragmatism alive for Norman as long as
possible. Ms. Cole is herself a fine actress and a versatile mezzo-soprano.
There’s
more to say about "And God Created Great Whales"—one could
extravagantly praise the atmospheric direction by David Schweizer, the striking set by Kevin Adams, the unusually meticulous sound design by James
Rattazzi, the iconic costumes by Clint
E.B. Ramos (the duct tape belt
alone is unforgettable)—but you’re best merely seeing for yourself.
I
dunno. Maybe I am too categorical. Sometimes. But I’m also reminded that when
you’re in the presence of genuinely remarkable originality, your other reflexes
and biases are bypassed. Critical faculties take a hike, save those that stick
around to marvel, wonder and encourage. As my friend Pat Cook has remarked, and
I think wisely, "‘Good’ shuts everybody up."
And
"And God Created Great Whales" is good.
That
good.
Maybe
that great…