Gentle ‘Hearts of Cranes’ invite you to heal the world

Manatsu Tanaka teaches you to fold origami and not to lose hope

When I was growing up, origami got very popular amongst my friends at some point. The Japanese art of folding paper was all the craze in my Russian middle school: frogs, boats, and flowers were spilling out of backpacks and pockets. And, of course, cranes. They represented a different side of origami art, aimed not at producing a variety of shapes but devoting oneself to a practice of making a single shape of a crane repeatedly. There is a belief that if you make 1000 cranes your wish will come true. We were told a story about a Japanese girl, Sasaki Sadako, who had leukemia in the aftermath of the radiation after the Hiroshima bombing. She started folding 1000 cranes hoping that her wish to live will be granted. Few hundred cranes in she became too weak to continue and died before her senbazuru (literally meaning “1000 cranes”) was completed.           

Manatsu Tanaka as Saki in 'Hearts of Cranes'

I haven’t folded origami since I was 12. But the memory of this practice is linked for me with the fun of communal activity and sadness of Sasaki Sadako’s story. I am reminded of both feelings at once at Hearts of Cranes, a remote performance piece, produced by You&I theatre company. Manatsu Tanaka, the author, and the actor portraying Saki, guides a single audience member through the process of folding an origami crane while sharing stories and inviting the participant to reflect on the power of wishing, hope, and healing. Landing somewhere in between an origami lesson and a friendly chat, Hearts of Cranes is a meditative performance perfect for quieting the anxieties of our trying times. 

If not for the repeated consent check-ins (which are not necessary for the most part) I would completely dissolve in this experience, relaxed by the spell of Tanaka’s soft and friendly voice. It might be difficult for a performer to read another person in the Zoom room so a constant verbal temperature check is used. “I want to tell you a story. Is this OK?” Such careful inquiries take me out of the natural flow of the conversation but at the same time make me revise my understanding of consent in immersive theatre. By buying a ticket to a show, what are we really agreeing to?

Don’t worry, Hearts of Cranes is not one of those experiences that try the participant’s limits. The most challenging part is to do all the paper folding right. Tanaka is there to guide you through the process patiently and even if you won’t produce the most elegant origami piece, it is what’s in the heart of the crane that is important (you’ll find out more at the show). There is something powerful and beautiful in the simple act of crafting together. It creates an extra plane of connectedness, aided, of course, by technology. 

Not only is Tanaka a skillful origami master and storyteller, but they are also quite inventive when it comes to manipulating the capabilities of a video call. At one point they scroll a sheet of paper in a tube and put it around the camera, so I can only see their eye. Fun and intimate and maybe a bit intimidating, I can’t believe I haven’t seen this gesture anywhere yet! The performer seamlessly navigates video transitions in simple yet effective ways. It’s easy to forget how demanding performing on Zoom is: not only do you have to maintain contact with the participant but also run your own tech. 

As much as I wish for COVID to go away, I will certainly miss the DIY, heartfelt, poetic shows like Hearts of Cranes. I guess I am off to making my 2000 cranes, one thousand for the world to heal, another for the theatre to keep the tenderness and gentle beauty of a folded paper bird.   

Manhattan Becomes A Charming, Surreal Montmartre in ‘Voyeur’ (Review)

Bated Breath makes creative use of pandemic restrictions in a sidewalk promenade show

I haven’t been to the theatre since March. So I was excited to approach the corner of Christopher Street and 7th Ave to see my first live (non-virtual) show in Manhattan since the beginning of the pandemic, Voyeur: The Windows of Toulouse-Lautrec. Conceived and directed by Mara Lieberman and produced by the Bated Breath Theatre Company, this promenade show is a sibling to the site-specific production which ran at the bar Madame X under the title Unmaking Toulouse-Lautrec in pre-COVID times. I was worried how the intimacy of a dimly-lit cabaret, with dramatic acting and the theatrical magic of working with props would translate to the mostly outdoor “pandemic-friendly theatrical walking tour,” considering the hustle and bustle of New York City streets, the need to keep social distancing, and that the performers would be masked. I will just briefly say that Voyeur: The Windows of Toulouse-Lautrec exceeded my expectations and was successful because it embraced the circumstances of our challenging times.

I find that Greenwich Village is buzzing on a Friday night in October. Standing in front of the chalk-drawn “Bonjour” on the pavement, the starting place of the tour, I couldn’t stop turning my head in all directions. There are live music and dancing in Christopher Park behind me; dog-walkers, runners, and skate-boarders are taking advantage of the closed-off streets; and outdoor diners are enjoying the last warm days of the season. So when Voyeur began with three actors jumping out from the Duplex bar in front of our small audience of six, and three dancers in colorful and puffy skirts started emerging in the windows of the building, they looked organic in comparison to the hubbub of a busy street corner. Diners stop eating and pull their phones out and passersby are confused, suddenly finding themselves on the “stage” of the show. Suddenly, NYC’s Greenwich Village becomes Parisian Montmartre of the end of the nineteenth century and we are invited to time-travel to the giddy and tragic last years of the legendary French artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

The streets, windows, and doorways of the city serve as a backdrop for a series of dream-like vignettes inspired by Toulouse-Lautrec’s life. Accompanied by Maryia Vasileuskaya playing the violin and Chris Rehmann operating a music box hung on his neck, our procession makes its way through the streets to the melancholy Gnossienne №1 by Erik Satie. We see the artist’s father (Royston Scott) rehearsing what appears to be a eulogy in front of the mirror in a store window. We meet his mother (Megan Khaziran), an elegant lady atop a monumental skirt which is glowing from the inside and doubling as a screen for shadow puppet theatre. In another flashback scene, the young parents (Marin Orlosky and Ethan Pravetz) dance out their courtship along 8th Street, lit up by the empty picture frame they use as a prop. The swift and playful choreography (by Leila Mire and Kelsey Rondeau with Nate Carter) unfolds as we walk, making use of the architecture, and causing bystanders to turn their heads in perplexity and dogs to bark.

There are very few spoken words in Voyeur, and even those could be reduced further to heighten the hallucination-like atmosphere of the show. The artistic choice also has practical benefits: being able to hear masked actors through environmental noise while staying at a safe distance. (I must admit, there is something haunting in being unable to see the actors’ mouths as words are uttered.) Although interacting with the covered faces has become a new normal for me outside the theatre, encountering it in a performance context gave me chills because of how well it fits into the surreal world of Voyeur. Toulouse-Lautrec’s absentee father appears even more estranged, the beloved mother becomes even more unreachable (her six-foot skirt designed by Christopher Metzger certainly contributes to that effect, too). During a romantic dance of the young parents on 7th Street, the masks “spoiled” the idyllic picture, but not without a good reason. The artist’s parents were, after all, first cousins, and Toulouse-Lautrec’s genetic health issues are thought to be due to inbreeding.

There is also a “peep-show” number in Voyeur, which truly elevates the usage of masks from a safety measure to an artistic element by Bated Breath. In this scene, a young woman (Natasha Frater) performs a seductive dance inside the window of the storefront Chashama. But the only item of clothing she teases us with, and eventually strips with, is her facemask. This behind-glass scene is voyeuristic and funny, and yet also … pensive. As the showgirl addresses the audience through the window, in a long, seemingly heartfelt monologue, we can’t hear anything she says. This makes me think of the countless, often nameless dancers and prostitutes Toulouse-Lautrec depicted in his art, provocatively displayed and but also speechless, their stories untold.

Additionally, the facemask makes it easier for the puppeteers in the show to perform. Henry Toulouse-Lautrec is present in the production through a puppet designed by James Ortiz. The artist’s greyish face contains deeply cut lines and eyes narrowed by either pain, absinthe intoxication, or, perhaps, both. He drunkenly dances on a large pallet, climbs his mother’s skirt, or squirms on his deathbed without the puppeteer’s moving mouth drawing the attention away from him.

Voyeur effectively plays with scale, contrasting the intimacy of the puppet theatre with its spectacular opening, which uses the entire facade of a building, or with the vast emptiness of the mostly empty Judson Church (the action briefly moves inside for the finale). Bated Breath are able to create a majestic show while making sure every audience member feels safe: there is always an opportunity to keep social distancing, hand sanitizer is provided, and even cute branded masks are offered for sale upon check-in.

Safely hidden behind my mask, I can’t stop beaming with joy while chasing the show’s dancers down the street. I regularly forget to “pick up” my dropped jaw in astonishment of the beauty of sounds and sights surrounding me on the streets of Greenwich Village. Voyeur: The Windows of Toulouse-Lautrec, through its many thoughtful details, immerses me in a world where the past and the present, fantasy and reality, and tragedy and hope interlace in a beautiful, shimmering flow. 

(This review was published on NoProscenium.com on October 27th)

‘The Homes We Build’ Questions Our Notion of Family (Review)

Twin Alchemy’s LARP for two explores love and life-long commitment

I have already forgotten the innocent sweetness of “playing house” in kindergarten. By using tree leaves as “money” to pay for the “groceries,” “baking” sand cakes and decorating them with dandelions, and tucking “kids” to sleep under the tall elm that served as a bedroom in our imaginary house, we did everything we saw adults do and strove to recreate our own perfect nuclear family.

In some sense, The Homes We Build by Austin-based Twin Alchemy Collective invites its participants to revisit this childhood activity, only with all the cultural and experiential baggage we’ve acquired as adults. This interactive, participatory experience is a role-playing game in which two people relive a 60-year relationship over the duration of four hours. They can be themselves or create characters, using a questionnaire that the creators of the experience—Katie Green, Sean Moran, and Michael Rau—have included in the orientation package.

The Homes We Build starts with the orientation package, a long and thoroughly constructed PDF, which is emailed to the participants in advance. I would like to emphasize how well it is designed, as it made me feel safe and cared for for the duration of the entire journey. It covers every question I could think of, starting with props that will be needed (nothing extravagant), safety and consent guidelines, worksheets for creating characters from scratch, and ending with a questionnaire to facilitate safe off-boarding and reflection on what happened. The experience itself is self-guided and there is an MP3 file that comes with the bundle. It can be completed in one session or multiple sessions.

For those who would like to clarify something or generally receive the information better aurally, there is a Zoom meeting preceding the experience. Sean Moran and Michael Rau go over the orientation file and answer participants’ questions. Attendance is optional; however, it is helpful in terms of highlighting the importance of details that can be missed in a quick skim of the initial document. Seeing two of the three authors of The Homes We Build on the screen also created an additional level of trust, and trust is key in LARP. You have to trust the other person enough to go through such an intimate experience and for The Homes We Build you have to be physically in the same space. Luckily, I didn’t have to search long in my quarantine bubble before I was able to enlist my friend Natalia to play my other half. So, armed with a coin, a rolled-up sock, a trashcan, and a few other props, we ventured into a new life as “Chris” and “Nora” by pressing “play” on the audio player.

A placid male voice comes in after the sound of a meditation chime. The narrator acts as a sort of director, describing various situations, voicing the thoughts of our characters, and giving prompts for improvisation. He also tells us how much time we have for a scene. The Homes We Build consists of a couple dozen of vignettes, each a glimpse into the lives of two people in a romantic relationship. The journey together appropriately starts with the first date, the scene to which the longest period of time is allocated. Understandable, since both of us need not only to find out everything we want to know about the other person, but also to find out who our characters are and slip into a new skin. The awkwardness of the first date layers perfectly on the awkwardness of the beginning of the LARP. But you would be surprised how quickly the transition to a full relationship happens. By the end of the 25-minute “snapshot” of our first meeting, I could literally feel the butterflies in the stomach of my character, Nora, who was falling for her new guy.

Some prompts are only meant for one pair of our ears and we have to toss a coin to determine who will possess information that the other one doesn’t have. I found these moments in The Homes We Build to be the most fruitful in terms of improvising a scene together. There was one vignette where I was offered a choice of three situations that lead my character into a certain state of mind. That narrative fork felt like a relief after being told what is happening to me by the experience. As much as my character wanted control over her life, I, as a player, wanted to take some authorial control and to challenge the character, to build her arc as well as as embody her reactions. As the player, I was given a chance to be creative with how the story unfolds. But as a character, I got to make my own decisions ( right or wrong) and not just react to the circumstances that were handed over to me by the almighty “playwright.” I wish there were more instances like this, yet, there were limitations to that creative license.

The experience of going through The Homes We Build is likely to be unique to every twosome of players. (I also enjoyed how Twin Alchemy Collective incorporated physical touch into the experience but don’t want to give away any spoilers.) Despite the pre-existing script, we each bring our own baggage and fantasies to the experience, which might bring forth different aspects of it. Along the way come topics of trust, responsibility, commitment, caregiving, and death.Going through scenes indicating relationship milestones of various significance and scale evoked a lot of emotions in me. Living through happy occasions, trying times, and everyday moments together mostly felt very real but, occasionally, it was puzzling and pushed me out of the experience.

It felt like the characters that we had created, an asexual trans male and a cisgender female, were shoe-horned into the paradigm of a heteronormative relationship. The experience’s creators didn’t set limits on who we dreamed up but the scenarios they gave us didn’t really take gender and sexual fluidity into account. We might be discussing how the institute of marriage means very little to us, and then, in the next scene, we would be asked to say our wedding vows by the LARP. We could be talking about focusing on our careers for a while and not having kids, and then next prompt joyously announces that we are pregnant (or had gotten a green light on adoption). For myself and my friend, in order to keep up with the development of the story that somebody had already pre-written for us, we had to really stretch our imaginations. Spoiler: that’s how we ended up with going parachute jumping instead of a wedding and an adopted son who was practically left on our stoop. As my LARP partner noticed, “Sometimes things just happen.”

But both my character and I were outraged by how control over one’s body and personal life can get snatched from you in an experience like this, especially for non-conforming subjects. This might be read simultaneously as both the flaw of the experience (I felt like I am being forced to do something I don’t want to do) and its biggest success (in a very dramatic way, I faced the pressure marginalized others feel in real life). Learning not only about yourself, but also getting closer to understanding the experience of the “other” is precious.

After all, isn’t that what art is about?

(This review was published on NoProscenium.com on 9.11.10)

‘The Delegation’ Reminds Us of the Power of the People (Review)

Coney puts Russians and Brits into a virtual hotel for a diplomatic treaty 

“I wanna be in the room where it happens.” 

This is a sentiment expressed by the character of Aaron Burr in the musical Hamilton but is also a desire familiar to many people. But what if there is no single room where a small group of powerful people determines the fate of the world? What if there are, in fact, many rooms in which decisions are made daily and it’s the summation of them that constitutes an outcome?     

The Delegation, an interactive virtual experience by the British company Coney, looks into the power distribution of pandemic capitalism on the international arena. To do that, the director Tassos Stevens has created a virtual hotel, “Hotel Zajets,” where he acts as a concierge/moderator during a convening of two diplomatic delegations. The audience members (numbering a little over 30 participants on the day I attended) are assembled into delegations of two countries, Russia and the UK. The experience was a part of the International Summer Festival of Art’s The Access Point, a platform for site-specific and immersive work taking place in Russia and all over the world, online. As an attendee of this festival, I find myself as part of the  Russian delegation.

We, the delegates, are encouraged to “check-in” via the hotel’s web site before our scheduled Zoom meeting. Among other things, I am asked to select a room number, think of my favorite word in my mother tongue, and choose a song to represent my country. The songs will be played later during time set aside for socializing and our  favorite words will be offered as a prompt to strike up conversation during  more intimate hangouts at the virtual bar.          

Although the Zoom-based Hotel Zajets has no depiction of its interiors, its bare-bones design provides the delegates with all the expected facilities. On Zoom, there is a common space for official business, breakout rooms for deliberations, and the hotel bar for more intimate gatherings. These “quarters” are regulated by the moderators of the experience and the participants are simply moved from one room to the other at the appropriate time. In addition to Zoom, there are some parts of the hotel which the participants can use freely, namely the Conference Center hosted on a separate web-based platform with a mysterious Diamond suite guarded by a passcode. In addition to these tools, there are a couple of Google Docs to which the participants can contribute and a WhatsApp channel for those who seek an alternative way to communicate. And simultaneous audio translation to both Russian and English is available during the official program to all. 

The imaginary grounds of the game property are vast and the program is packed. We have “three days and nights”-worth of activities (which comes to nearly two and a half hours in real-time). The main agenda of each of the three days is to divide a certain amount of points between the two countries. Each delegation is split in two parts, North and South, for working out the best strategy for each round and over the long run. Every day after the strategizing session, Russia North meets with the UK North to negotiate, as do their Southern colleagues. At the final stage, everybody comes together and, after building up suspense, the score is announced.        

Although the main agenda of this game appears to be that of diplomacy, dividing an arbitrary number of points seems suspiciously superficial to me right away, especially without any correlation with the real world. The moderator of our group assures us that these are just points, and, if we wish, we can assign them some meaning. But with such an oblique set of instructions, how can you not become suspicious of your fellow delegates, or the representatives from the UK, or even the conference organizers? The seemingly transparent design of the game screams of conspiracy to me. 

Even when I am left alone in my “hotel” room every night, I can’t shake off my paranoia. After each day of lectures, deliberations, and mingling, the delegates are offered to shut the door to their room by turning off their camera; we each listen to an audio track in solitude. These mini contemplative sessions are a nice counterbalance to the highly interactive and occasionally intense main body of the experience. The recordings are also used to reinforce the suspicion and to pour some oil on the flames of secrecy. You are alone in your room. Or are you? What will you do if somebody tries to reach out?    

There are also informal interactions at the hotel bar in small groups of three or four  people every evening. We receive prompts for these sessions, some quite innocent sounding (our favorite words in our languages), some potentially heated (opinions on how your respective governments are managing the pandemic). Depending on who is in the room, these icebreaking chats  can be very awkward or heartfelt, just like in real life. The synchronous live language interpretation that is provided during the official events of the day is absent here, so the delegates are left to figure out the language barrier on their own. I enjoyed these pockets of total improvisation in the otherwise structured game. The participants were free to continue talking about work, use the given prompts, or just talk about whatever they want. 

(A few minor spoilers follow.)

As we soon find out, the game itself allows for some radical creativity coming from the participants, if that’s what your delegation chooses to explore. I won’t give away any spoilers or go much deeper into any detail, but towards the third round of dividing points my group (Russia North) decides that we are through with the meaningless activity of dividing points, and propose to our British colleagues (UK North) an action of solidarity with those who are repressed by our governments. It might sound like an idea coming out of the blue in my retelling of it, but there is a point in the experience where the program takes a sharp political turn. 

Soon, nearly everybody else joins in and the points are forgotten. We are reminded that our actions in the world of the game might have consequences in our lives, and it’s up to us to make it happen. Unfortunately, the big reveal in The Delegation lands a little flat because of our political activism and only confirms the same conclusion that we the participants came to collectively: that power is distributed into many hands and it’s up to us to use it for the right cause. Rather than speculating about some room where all decisions are being made by others, we should take charge and seek to make “the room where it happens” our own.         

(This review was published on NoProscenium.com on 7/31/20)                                        

'To My Distant Love’ Serenades Us Over the Phone (Review)

A most intimate opera invites you to fall in love from afar

NYC’s On Site Opera has been challenging the proscenium setting, traditionally associated with this art, since 2012. The company has produced site-specific work at the Bronx Zoo, the Astor Chinese Garden Court at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and at the Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen, among other unexpected venues. In their new remote production of To My Distant Love, a one-on-one live telephone experience, the audience member is invited to choose their own setting. Where would you take a call from your long-distance beloved? In your favorite armchair by the window, at your desk, or maybe during a walk? Making this decision already feels like an act of co-creating the piece, especially since this responsibility is bestowed upon you from the company whose entire artistic premise is to base the production on a specific location. 

Inspired by making the creative choice of the location for To My Distant Love, I head to the local park. I sit on a bench, allowing the sounds and smells of the environment to sink in. I pull out my phone and re-read two letters from my beloved, one sent to me the day before, the other one, two hours before the scheduled call. The letters are brief but full of tenderness and longing. They include the English translations of Beethoven’s An die Ferne Geliebte (“to the distant beloved”) song cycle. I read the translated poetry of Alois Isidor Jeitteles once more to tune into the feelings of anxious anticipation of reuniting with a loved one. The first couplet reads:               

I sit on the hill, gazing 

Out into the misty blue land,

Toward the distant fields, seeking the place

Where I first saw you, my beloved.

I lift my gaze towards the Manhattan skyline, made to look like an impressionist painting by blue haze. Living in New Jersey, I haven’t been to my favorite city in nearly three months and can fully relate to the yearning of a separated lover. As I admire the city, so seemingly distant but so close to my heart, my phone rings. 

“Darling, is that really you?” says the voice on the other end. 

A brief dialogue follows in which I improvise my replies about how much I miss seeing my beloved. The interaction feels effortless thanks to the warmth radiated by Jennifer Zetlan’s voice. But I can feel that my beloved is anxious to share her songs with me, which she says she wrote to keep me company while we are apart, and we move to music after a short prelude.  

Depending on the date and time of your personal performance, you might be connected with Jennifer Zetlan, soprano, or Mario Diaz-Moresco, baritone. David Shimoni and Spencer Myer, respectively, play the piano. Six songs of the cycle are sung in the original German and follow each other in a seamless flow. A sweet monologue in English (by Monet Hurst-Mendoza) reminiscing on our anniversary celebration is added to reinforce the personal connection to the songs.  

Unfortunately, the singing, the most anticipated part of this 20-minute experience, was mostly disappointing. And not for a lack of talent by the performer. It quickly became apparent to me how unfitting phone technology is at carrying musical nuances. I made sure to use noise-canceling headphones and we tested the connection during our dialogue in the beginning, and everything worked just fine. But as soon as we transitioned to music, the connection started lagging. It sounded to me like as the singer got farther away from the microphone her voice became a bit robotic, distorted by the phone and the acoustics of the space she was in, kind of like when you are talking to somebody in speaker mode. The specific qualities of the sound over the phone I perceived as normal during the dialogue felt disturbing during the musical part. 

The digital format of our new virtual theatre is especially cruel to music-based live performances, twisting and distorting beautiful voices and virtuosic instrument playing. Luckily, the premise of To My Distant Love gave me firm ground to stand upon and still enjoy the performance. After all, my beloved was calling me on the phone and I could clearly hear her giving her best to serenade me. I closed my eyes and let myself be taken by the songs, no matter the imperfect audio quality. 

To My Distant Love is grand and intimate at once, much like love itself. There is something spectacular in combining the monumental sound of opera singing with the intimacy of a phone call. I only wish the technology would cooperate.   

(This review was published on NoProscenium on June 24th)  

Review: "The Corona Variations" Mimics Real Life Too Closely

The set of short plays amplifies frustrations of the present moment

When art gets too close to real life, it becomes a bit unsettling. This was my main insight after my encounter with The Corona Variations, a phone experience produced by the Toronto-based Convergence Theatre. The piece consists of six short (about 10 minutes each) “phone plays,” delivered to one audience member, or one household, over the course of one evening, one every half an hour. In some of them, you eavesdrop on other people’s phone conversations. In others, you participate by reading from a script (which is sent in advance). 

Among the assorted vignettes: the ways high school students navigate social life while self-isolating; a blind phone date; a secret affair; a broken marriage; and a sisterly squabble. The Corona Variations tries its best to counterbalance the emotionally loaded scenes with comedic moments, but a thick cloud of melancholy hangs heavily over even the most cheerful jokes. Some of the characters are loosely connected between the plays, but the real connection between all of them is the mutual experience of being stuck in one’s home at the moment and in the tiring uncertainty of the coronavirus pandemic. 

The interactive parts of The Corona Variations are designed with a reserved audience member in mind, meaning that the improvisation is minimal; for the most part, I just listened or read my dialogue as written from the provided script. What would normally be perceived as a relief (I rarely enjoy the spotlight) felt like a cruel limitation to me and sent me further down a dismal spiral. Some of the other remote experiences that I have done lately have shown how magical and intimate “one-on-one”s over the phone can be. Reading the words that didn’t resonate with me while being not in character felt more like lying.       

My first conversation is with Jean, a 72-year-old woman who lives alone. By the time I picked up the phone, she had already spent about three hours on hold for a “Tele-Therapy” hotline and is now relying on me, a “specialist” who is supposedly equipped to provide an express fix-up. I have the script for the conversation in hand, and, unwilling to “break” the experience, I proceed with reading the damn lines, trying to convey as much compassion with my voice as I can. Intellectually, I know I’m talking to an actress on the other end. But somehow it doesn’t make the tough conversation easier. 

And, in the end, I don’t think my effort makes any difference and I was left confused about what this short play is supposed to evoke. How Jean and (other single elderly people like her) are able to find a moment of bliss in baking and watching funny videos? Pity for the mental health practitioners who are experiencing an immense work overload and have to turn to pre-written scripts in order to accommodate as many people as possible during shortened sessions? It is easier to shake off the distress during the plays that keep the fourth wall up, but less so with the ones where I get to play a part. And the situations in which I find myself during The Corona Variations are painfully close to real life. And it makes me angry that—even in the world of fiction—I feel that I am unable to make a difference. 

I also realize that the 20-minute intermissions between phone calls contributes greatly to my dissatisfaction with this experience. Left with no guidance on how to spend the in-between time, and feeling the familiar pressure of being “productive” while waiting, I busy myself with daily tasks. I read the NY Times’ updates on the lockdown. I write to my sister-in-law with condolences for a friend she lost to COVID-19. I get a text from a friend about her unsatisfactory online date. I go to the kitchen to make some tea and hear my mother-in-law on the phone with her lover, who was about to sneak out of his marital house. I feel like my life could be this show. Anybody’s life can, these days. 

One’s inner state can affect the perception of artwork greatly. It is true especially now when we can’t escape our life circumstances, housing situations, and shifting moods. In real life, I am unable to contact my elderly friend who lives alone; this fact couldn’t not affect my interaction with Jean. And if normally I am able to process parallels like this internally and not drag my entire self into my reviews, I found it especially challenging with The Corona Variations. Nothing “horrible” happens in these plays, but their close proximity to the reality around me, the structure that prompts the “productive” waiting and limitations in my agency (save for one scene) makes the overall experience disconcerting.    

I would be happy to hear that somebody else’s experience with The Corona Variations is uplifting and reassuring. There was a glimmer of light at the end of the experience, true. But it is not enough to rescue me from the vast darkness that our world feels like by my last phone call. It’s great that Convergence Theatre decided to take a stab at a timely topic and engaged with their audiences despite the social distancing limitations. However, the company missed the mark in both the format and the tone. They say misery loves company, but, evidently, it’s not enough to commiserate together. My hope is that we can be more mindful of what kind of “company” we provide others—both in making art and in our everyday interactions.   

(This review was published on NoProscenium.com on May 26)

Review: ‘The Ministry of Mundane Mysteries’ Uncovers a Sense of Wonder

A serial phone adventure made about, and for, a single person: you

A while ago on a subway, I saw an ad for personalized children’s books that insert a child’s name into the narrative to make a kid the main character of the story he or she reads. How in tune with the times where experience design becomes increasingly personalized, I thought. But also, how cool that must feel to be the main character of a fairy tale that somebody wrote for and about you! I kind of felt like a kid reading one of those books during the week that The Ministry of Mundane Mysteries was unfolding: excited, surprised, overjoyed. 

Sebastien “Inspector” Heins. Photo by Dasha Peregoudova

Produced by Outside the March, Toronto-based immersive theatre company, this highly personalized and improvised adventure is a series of daily phone calls, each about 10 minutes long. A personal mundane mystery that you submit at the beginning of the experience is investigated by the Ministry and your job is to provide honest information when called upon. But what mundane mystery to choose? 

Why is my unemployment status pending? Will I lose all of my summer gigs? When will I be able to see my family? Those are just some of the mysteries on the tip of my tongue, but looking through the FAQ (which is hilarious to read by itself), I got the impression that The Ministry of Mundane Mysteries wouldn’t be interested in any of these. Socks missing their partner wouldn’t work either, the company explicitly said that the Ministry is “socked out” on their FAQ. What can it be then? My gaze turned to two pots of soil on my window sill with sprouts in them. You see, I planted hot pepper seeds recently but only in one of them. The other one was empty but now has a mystery plant growing in it. Bingo! And so the "The Case of the Adjacent Hot Peppers" was opened.              

On Monday, I received a phone call from Inspector Curry (Shannon Currie) assigned to my case, a bubbly and excitable woman, in whose company I felt at ease right away. She casually asked me about my papers, my household, and my lifestyle while collecting the information regarding my case and hence the material for my personalized adventure. From that initial conversation and a follow-up interview, characters sprung up that were so amusing and hilarious that it was hard to control my laughter during the daily calls. I eagerly waited for my call at 6:30pm every day with great anticipation, having no idea who would be on the line and what new twist the case of the adjacent peppers might take!

On Tuesday, Tomas Green (Colin Doyle) called me in great secrecy to share that something similar happened to him; a cucumber vine was growing in his English ivy plant. He struck me as an honest, somewhat shy, and curious person, so I had no problem sharing my deepest thoughts about flora with him. After a 10-minute hearty conversation, we decided that some sort of hopping seed conspiracy is going on and we just happened to be hosts for some of the rebellious plants. The next day a woman (Sheri Godda) called from a company that manufactures and delivers fertilizer. With the dexterity of a skilled salesperson, she got my story and my stance on the hopping seed theory, only to eventually reveal herself as Rose Pip, a VP of marketing and Brand Awareness of the Federation of Seeds and Seed Planters and to scold me for spreading dirty rumors! Our entire conversation was a seesaw of hostility, flattery, threats, and genuine respect, all very stimulating, I must note. 

Over the next three days, I chatted more with Inspector Curry as the case turned suspenseful and mysterious. I also encountered the most bizarre and grotesque character, Dr. Vladislav Luget (Jonathan Shaboo), the head chemist from the Little Squirrel Chocolate labs (earlier that week, in the conversation with Inspector Curry I reported Little Squirrel to be the last chocolate I ate). In his heavy Russian accent, he conveyed to me that, as part of an aggressive marketing campaign, a small dose of an addictive hallucinogen had been added to the chocolate, which made people see visions of tiny plants and sometimes tiny squirrels. As an apology for the inconvenience, the company was offering a three-month supply of Little Squirrel chocolates. With hallucinogens in them, of course. At this point, I was practically rolling on the floor laughing.                 

The Ministry of Mundane Mysteries is one of a few experiences where spoilers are nearly impossible since it is tailored to the circumstances of each participant, so don’t worry that the detailed account of my case will ruin your own journey. However, I will hold on to the finale, but will just mention that the ending was as hilarious and satisfying as the rest of the mystery. Did it really explain how a single sprout got into a pot where nothing was planted? Not quite. But it hardly matters anymore. More importantly, I was able to get a break from my “real life” worries and to live in a fantasy where anything is possible.           

Every minute of The Ministry of Mundane Mysteries was engaging and every call was a surprise. All the actors were very responsive to my ideas and improvised wonderfully, no matter how tricky my questions were. Using accents as comical props, the cast created a world where I couldn’t be sure what was true and what was just a game of imagination. I felt like the star of my own fairytale detective story. It was magical to see how the tiniest, most mundane details of my life were re-shuffled and made into an exciting narrative of mystery, romance, and hallucinogenic Russian candy.     

_____________

(This review was published on noproscenium.com)