La Casa de los Espiritus (The House of the Spirits)

Photo/Michael Palma

I have to break my usual third-person narrative here--and in fact, step back from reviewing the new show at Repertorio Espanol--to get a few personally problematic things out of the way. Repertorio Espanol provides a valuable service to the community, but for an English-only speaker like myself, their productions present somewhat of a problem. While it's true that headsets are provided, their live translations are perfunctory at best and fairly distracting in practice--it's hard enough to invest in a theatrical illusion, harder still when your hear it whispering in your ear. (There's a reason operas use supertitles: you want to hear the language.) Given this technical issue, there are many things I can't, in fairness, review.

However, as I said earlier, Repertorio Espanol provides a service, and it's one worth noting, especially to those who speak Spanish. After all, where else can you see a new Caridad Svich play? And though it's just an adaptation of Isabel Allende's debut 1982 novel, director Jose Zayas directs it with a modernist's touch, using projections and layered blocking to show multiple perspectives--and to keep the protagonist Alba on stage throughout, though she isn't actually born until Segundo Acto. From what I understood, it didn't seem as if Svich was playing to her strengths--everything seemed a bit too ordinary--and Zayas's work seems to have been toned down for the Repertorio's audience. (The sort of rape scene that flew at PS122's Southern Promises might be out of place here, but it's the sort of physical energy needed for this play.)

It doesn't help that La Casa de los Espiritus spans such a long period of time--three generations. At two and a half hours, there seem to be gaps in the plot, as with the physical relationship between patriarchal Esteban Trueba and his prostitute and the cultural implications of the era (for instance, explaining why Alba is abducted and tortured). Worse, though the novel is described as a feminist One Hundred Years of Solitude, none of the magical realism has made it through, though both Zayas and Svich are capable of dreaming up fantasies and giving them flesh. Again, I'm reluctant to speak with authority here, but if you only speak English, you might be better off with the novel.

Zombie

Photo/Dixie Sheridan

Joyce Carol Oates is a technically proficient writer, which is to say that she writes a lot, and that she writes well. This is not to say, however, that her stories are particularly good. A similar issue hits Bill Connington's theatrical adaptation of her 1995 novella, Zombie. Connington is a skillful actor, consistent in his approach, and the source material--a first-person diary--translates well to monologue form. However, the tale of lonely old Quentin P., who lives in his dead grandmother's basement and becomes a sexual serial killer, is a little too up close and impersonal. At times, it is easier to appreciate the carefully measured artifice of it all--director Thomas Caruso does a terrific job--than to get behind the actual performance.

The play begins immediately, as the lights flicker black for a moment, only to suddenly reveal the mild-mannered Quentin, sitting across from a tall but child-faced mannequin, playing chess by himself. He speaks factually, without looking at us, which fits his self-description: "I make no eye contact with anybody. Eye contact has been my downfall." That makes his occasional glances at us all the more creepy: sly winks to an implicit audience, secret smiles at a delicious memory, and an emphasis of how trivial this all is--to him. Because the actions are so deliberate--for instance, the way Quentin uses a white king and a black pawn to demonstrate his final crime--things remain largely cerebral, relying too heavily on the sparse atmosphere of a one-table set.

Furthermore, because Connington's performance is so forcibly restrained, his sudden bursts of anger come across as premeditated, or intellectually deployed. He comes across more as a mimic of, say, Hopkins's Hannibal, or of the real-life Dahmer (from which Zombie was loosely inspired) than of a man of mixed emotions. Which is, again, not to say that any of this is bad--in fact, such control leads to moments of brilliance, where the clockwork recedes into the background and we see only the maddening face of a man who fears rejection so much that he performs self-researched "transorbital" lobotomies on his victims (an icepick through the eye) in order to make them his willing slaves. He wishes not only to hear them say "Fuck me in the ass master until I bleed blue guts," but also for them to share pizza and cuddle in bed with him. His tragic flaw is that he's a romantic, something best shown by the varying degrees of force he uses when interacting with the mannequin.

It's hard to say whether or not the hour-long Zombie provides enough meat to the audience, or if the performance is too focused to be enjoyable. It will, however, certainly satisfy those who share an affinity for a zombie's favorite treat--the thing most on display here is the brain.

What Sounds Cool: March 2009

Nerve (3/5 - 6/18) - One of the neat tricks of a repertory company is that the strength of one member suggests equal strengths from the others. Jason Howard (currently appearing in Universal Robots) makes me want to see his company's "dark, metaphysical thriller," as does the location (Brooklyn's Lyceum), not to mention their "recession" special: $10 tickets (in March) with the code "Nervy" here: http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/53358.





Red-Haired Thomas (3/7 - 3/28) - I caught a glimpse of this intriguing show in its '08 ICE Factory run (on account of director Oliver Butler, of The Debate Society), but I stuck around for Robert Lyons' intriguing script, which jumped through time to deal with identity, capitalism, terrorism, and other topically irrelevant issues.





Rambo Solo (3/19 - 4/12) - Every time I hear a description of a Nature Theater of Oklahoma show, I'm generally dismissive--a silent, comic dance piece? a six-hour recitation of transcripts? Dismissive, that is, until I see the shows, which are always transcendent. This time Zachary Oberzan delivers a one-man rendition of Rambo: First Blood, a piece that, albeit obsessed, is certain to out-Stallone Stallone.






Rods and Cables (3/20 - 4/11) - The small, intimate fashion of cabaret seems, at first, to be at odds with the extravagant spectacle of 3LD's high-tech multimedia spaces. Until you think about all the "vulgar" stuff they've done there, from Renaldo The to Chuck Mee. That this is a first-time work by designer Allison Keating just means that there will be fewer boundaries and more cartoons. (Rods and cables, yes, strings attached, no.)



Housebreaking (3/24 - 4/4) - Part of Cherry Lane Theater's Mentor Project, so you can be forgiven for not recognizing the name Jakob Holder. However, he's paired up with mentor Charles L. Mee, and his director is the very talented Daniella Topol. He's also got an original plot, involving a restless man who decides to "reform" a homeless man by bringing him into his family. These things, for the record, tend not to end well--at least for dramatic purposes.

Synesthesia 2009

Every so often, words fail, and that's why theater will always have the edge, especially the tent-pole-widening version that Electric Pear's all about. (Why stop at three dimensions, or a fourth wall, when theater can reach all five senses?) In the 2009 edition of the annual Synesthesia festival, an original thought crosses ten genres as each artist's interpretation is reinterpreted--a mix of Telephone and Exquisite Corpse. A fortune cookie's wisdom is quite trite, but it quickly becomes personal when Aja Monet channels the "soul food" images it brings to her mind into a spoken-word poem. Nine performers and eighty minutes later, those emotions lead back to food for thought--literally--, thanks to the chocolate-making Mast Brothers.

Along the way, however, art flies all over the place--and that's part of the fun. In a clever bit of direction from ringmasters Ilana Manaster and Gregory Stuart Edwards, each piece is preceded by a taped introduction, in which we see the performer's gut reaction to the previous "step" before we see their creative reaction. Not only does this help smooth over scene changes, it also invests us in the process, like good DVD commentary. (Piehole, a group of puppeteers, have some choice words.) Above all, it never ceases to impress just how creative this bunch is: it's one thing to observe an artist's technique. It's quite another to make it your own--especially in only two weeks. (For some reason, the quickfire challenges on Top Chef come to mind.)

Given the diverse nature of the show, it's pointless to single out specific moments--from Harry Hancock's ornate painting to Kevin Colden's black-and-white comic to Juliana Trivers's violin and keyboard composition, everyone's bound to have different favorites. Jessica Delfino's Sarah Silvermanesque musical comedy is pretty quotable though: "Guys I date don't mind [my awkwardness], because they know I'm less likely to carry a baby to term." So is a joke from Kara Lee Corthron's New Georges-sponsored short: "What do you get when you cross a lesbian and a dinosaur? Lickalottapuss." And lest you think that only comedy is universal, wait until you see Dan Sharnoff's avant-garde film and Ed Rice's gymnastic dance (with limes).

Aside from the killer concept, Synesthesia is also a unifying work of theater--it's built from a community of passionate artists, but in no way excludes the casual theatergoer. Republicans are welcome to continue thinking that art cannot stimulate the economy (though the packed house begs to disagree), but no-one will ever be able to say that art doesn't stimulate the senses.

Fire Throws

Photo/Richard Finkelstein

In 2007, Rachel Dickstein said, of her company Ripe Time’s dance-theater adaptations (Betrothed and Innocents), that she wanted to tell the story in a “more total way.” Fine, but the lesson learned by this otherwise excellent revisionist Antigone story, Fire Throws, is that sometimes less is more.

Dickstein starts on the right foot: the haunting image of a girl in a long, flowing red dress, repeating slow, yogic movements. Behind her, in the shadows, is her mirror image. The two move as one to the sound of breathing and the hum of meditation; projected words veil them both in a sense of inevitability. “Underground” hints at the trapezoidal green that limns the first girl; “ambition” reverberates in the red cloth and the second girl’s poise. These are two Antigones—the 2,400-year-old figurative legend “Who Is” (Erica Berg) and the actual girl—the stubborn, short-sighted martyr—“Who Was” (Laura Butler). This one device brings new insight—hindsight is always 20/20—to a very old plot while also enhancing the tragedy.

The play continues swift-footedly, too: whether it’s the influence of Baris Tunggal warrior movement or not, the image of blood-red silk slashing smoothly through the air is effective. It’s also an intriguing balance for the actions of King Creon (John Campion), who sentences Antigone to death for burying her brother in defiance of him. Just as the dancers move percussively but still trail fluid lines behind them, Creon’s fluid attempts to quell anarchy are what end up causing his lovesick son Haemon (Jorge Rubio) to die, and his wife, Eurydice (Paula McGonagle), to commit suicide. Autumn leaves move like scythes around these doomed characters; silk tethers wrap around their arms and bind them, only to slacken and lead to their collapse.

The one element that isn’t working is the unaffecting videography. Maya Ciarrocchi’s work is fine, but it doesn’t compliment or enhance what’s already there. Sure, twin projections—zoomed in on Creon’s mouth—can show us how the words of law imprison Antigone long before she is actually entombed. But they also distract from what’s present on the stage: Campion, releasing himself to anger so that he can throttle back his tears. The dancers provide enough visual stimulation already—it’s somewhat telling that the best moments (a gymnastic rope suspension, a sly defense of Antigone by Haemon) do without these secondary images.

Dickstein must know this—after all, her writing, choreography, and directing speaks to the economy of theater. If presence is not the point, why bother introducing a second Antigone? If immediacy is overvalued, why bother to perform Jewlia Eisenberg’s music live? This isn’t saying that the shadows that the fire throws on the wall behind her aren’t a cool effect—it’s just a note that Fire Throws can be more than just an effect.