Review: "I Can't See"

Psycho Clan’s new multi-sensory theatrical horror, experienced blindfolded.

“This is decidedly NOT, we repeat NOT, a haunted house" states the website of I Can’t See. Nevertheless, the idea of going through an immersive horror experience blindfolded seemed rather scary to me at first. Upon arrival at Optecs, a fictitious clinic/research facility, we are greeted by a creepily smiling staff in lab coats. With a sleep mask, a second blindfold to ensure that no ray of light goes through, and a headset, we're instructed to prepare for a horror that will take place entirely in our imagination. Each person or group is given a sour “pill” and so begins the “download” of the experience into our brains.

Participants in I Can't See. Photo by Russ Rowland

I Can’t See is designed by Timothy Haskell and Paul Smithyman of Psycho Clan, the team behind the extreme serial killer experience This Is Real. Their new horror event is inspired by W.W. Jacobs’ classic ghost story "The Toll House" and invites the audience to a fun and creepy night out with friends. The voices in your head will address you by name (I was "Sam"), making it clear you are “playing” a character. Although playing might be a stretch since, for the majority of the experience, you will helplessly cling to ropes, banisters, and other objects placed under or in your hands by unseen facilitators.

Here we are at the carnival. Somebody hands me a stuffed animal while cheery carousel music accompanies a conversation between "my" friends. And now, holding a rough rope, we walk through the fun house; the floor beneath my feet wobbles to my immense pleasure, and I can’t stop giggling even though I don’t see any funny-looking reflections (a brilliant non-literal translation from the visual to tactile). A snake boy “licks” my neck at the circus show, spiky plant life brushes against my arm, while at the bar… I don’t even want to tell you, so as not to ruin the surprise.

I Can’t See reminds me of those DIY “haunted houses” you might have created as a kid—a blindfolded person would stick their hand into a pot of cold spaghetti ("brains") or be given a peeled grape (an "eye"). I Can’t See tricks you using similar sensory attraction, but with even cleaner products. And while you are offered a poncho, not wearing it will provide for the fullest experience. But definitely wear comfortable shoes and clothes, as you will be prompted to move around, sit down, and stand.

Besides the various textures that touch you or that you touch, a bit of wind, a little water, and even smells come into play. But for some reason, only the gross ones. The creators of I Can’t See proudly call the show “sensory assault,” but I can’t see a reason not to add a few pleasant smells of the fairground (like popcorn) alongside those of a dirty dive bar or creepy old mansion. (One's taste buds are also engaged in two scenes, but not in any violent or dangerous way.) Expanding the smell palette would certainly add to the atmosphere of each location, as well as help to enhance the contrast between the fun, joyous beginning and the mortifying finale.

I Can’t See has its scary moments, but most of them are fed to us through the marketing materials and  onboarding process. Of course there's also the fact that we are deprived of our vision. It's amazing how much I, as a sighted person, am used to relying on sight to get around. So an experience designed around storytelling through non-traditional means of touch, smell, and taste is exciting; I would recommend I Can't See to anyone who is interested in immersive theatre. The audio narrative and sound design (by James Lo) is on the more traditional side, but does its job in keeping the story together, so those who are new to immersive experiences will be comfortable too. I just wish the fact that we are sightless was woven into the narrative.

If you're nervous about the immersive part, I generally felt safe and had fun, even when I was a bit scared. The only time I felt real discomfort was when somebody pushed me against the bar—ever so slightly, but with their entire body. GIven that we are entirely in the hands of the facilitators, this feels way too intrusive and unnecessarily intimate. It seems as if anything that might come off as "unsettling"—even physical contact—gets reframed as “playing pretend." But Psycho Clan would be good to remember that their audience—who are blindfolded—might be more vulnerable than they would imagine. It is also strange that there is no safe word or any other reliable way of communication. My recording didn’t work for the first few minutes of the experience and I couldn’t tell if my signals for help were misunderstood, ignored, or missed.

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I Can’t See plays at 133 Greenwich Street, through November 3, 2019. The running time is 45 minutes with no intermission. Performances are Tuesday through Saturday at 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 (you must enter during your allotted time slot). Tickets are $45 until 10/17; $50 after that. Student rush tickets are $20 with ID (ages 12-15 must have a parent; under 12 not admitted), and can be purchased 30 minutes before the show. For tickets and more information visit at nightmarenyc.com.

I Can’t See is by Timothy Haskell and Paul Smithyman, based on "The Toll House" by W.W. Jacobs. Produced by Psycho Clan. Production Design by Paul Smithyman. Sound Design by James Lo.

(This review was published on theasy.com on 10.3)

Review: 'Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe? The Cooping Theory 1969'

An immersive psychological thriller kills with its stellar visual and audio design but lacks narrative coherence.

I sit at the table in a funky karaoke bar, when Crispin (Brian Alford) asks me if I have any books at home that I haven’t read yet. I nod. “What makes you think that when you open one of those books, you won’t just see blank pages”? Okay… He then says something about some people being similar to those blank books: there is nothing behind their eyes, no inner life. Crispin stares at me intensely, his face inches away from mine, and I can’t tell if he is messing with me or truly believes his own words. After all, this is a gathering of he Poe Society and we are here to summon the writer's spirit.            

The cast of Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe? Photo by Michael Gallo.

Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe? is a remount of Poseidon Theatre Company’s 2017 production, and casts the audience as new members of the Poe Society. This time around, the action takes place in 1969, not 1949, and the format is an immersive sandbox, meaning that audience members are not confined to their seats or specific tracks and are free to explore and follow any character.  

For the first hour of the show, we are encouraged to have drinks and food and mingle with the established society members: paranormal activity scholar Gina (Samantha Lacey Johnson), free-spirited musician Jimmy (Johnny Pozzi), eccentric Anna (Makaela Shealy) and Tom (Aaron Latta-Morissette), the owner of the joint. Siblings Crispin (Brian Alford) and Cordelia (Estelle Olivia) are attending for the first time but seem to fit right in with their calm and slightly creepy demeanor.   

All of these characters have their own experience with the paranormal, which they gladly share with anybody who asks. I venture into the discussion about fate with Cordelia and sing along to "The House of the Rising Sun" with Gina and Jimmy. For a moment I even forget that I am in a theatre. The happening seems exactly what it portrays: a 60’s-themed cocktail party in an artsy underground club (venue design is by Seok Huh), which, by itself, is pretty cool. The period design—costumes by Samantha L. Johnson and hair and makeup by Jeremy Gatzert—is spot on. Some audience members even dress up as a nod towards the era, which creates delightful confusion around who exactly are actors and who participants.               

The ring of a bell interrupts conversations mid-sentence. As explained during the onboarding, we have to refrain from speaking once the seance starts. Highly theatrical motions of purifying the room and the show-stopping appearance of Madame Harlow (Dara Kramer) are perfectly suitable for the occasion. Anticipation builds and then…the seance goes out of control as spirits possess the members of the Society one by one. Heavy metal doors are slammed and tiny karaoke rooms become chambers of fear, hope, despair, and pathos. The original score (by Manuel Pelayo and Giancarlo Bonfantia), coupled with the sound design (by Sung Oh), makes the hair on my neck stand up. The spectacular lighting evokes the gory, mind-twisting atmosphere of Dario Argento’s giallo films with restlessly vibrant, contrasting colors.

Since its premiere two years ago, Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe? has significantly advanced in some aspects, but failed to achieve more clarity in others. Changing the format from a dinner party to an immersive experience serves the show well; bringing the action to 1969 allows for some alluring visual design, and the designers thrive on it. However, the structure and the plot still remain somewhat underdeveloped. There are some vague hints as to the personal circumstances of each character that comes through, but the parallels could be clearer.

After spending an hour mingling with our hosts, I got attached to some of them and would love if the poetry would allow me to look more deeply into their souls. The mysterious circumstances of Poe’s death and "the cooping theory" are briefly addressed in the beginning of the show, but are soon dropped from the picture. Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe? might not give you a clear response to the titular question, but if you are up for an atmosphere of new perspectives on theatre, this show is for you.

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Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe? The Cooping Theory 1969 plays at RPM Underground, 244 West 54th Street, through November 2, 2019. The running time is 2 hours with no intermission. Performances are Mondays at 7, Wednesdays at 3 and 7, and Saturdays at 3 and 7. Halloween week performances will be Monday at 7, Tuesday at 7, Wednesday at 3 and 7, Thursday (Halloween) at 8, Friday at 7, and Saturday at 3 and 7. On Halloween, all ticket holders will be invited to a costume party contest hosted by the Poe Society. Tickets are $75 and are available at knock3xs.com. There is a $25 beverage/food minimum per guest.

Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe? The Cooping Theory 1969 is conceived and directed by Aaron Salazar. Co-direction and Book by Nate Raven. Additional Material by Edgar Allan Poe. Original Score by Manuel Pelayo and Giancarlo Bonfanti. Sound Design by Sung Oh. Venue Design by Seok Huh. Costumes by Samantha L. Johnson. Hair and Makeup Design by Jeremy Gatzert. Associate Producer is Rachel Shaw. Stage Manager is Allie Marotta.

The cast is Brian Alford, Samantha Lacey Johnson, Dara Kramer, Aaron Latta-Morissette, Estelle Olivia, Johnny Pozzi, and Makaela Shealy.

(This review was published on theasy.com on 10.03)

Review: 'Antigone'

The Ancient Greek drama, seen through the prisms of Japanese and Indonesian traditions, captivates with its universal timeliness and theatrical magic.
 
The grandiose, 55,000-square foot Drill Hall of the Park Avenue Armory seems a perfect space to host Antigone, directed by Satoshi Miyagi for the Shizuoka Performing Arts Center. The stellar design by Junpei Kiz features an 18,000-gallon pool of water in lieu of a stage, where 29 performers glide ankle-deep, dressed in white garments suggesting futuristic kimonos or superheroes’ attire. This is the first image one sees when taking a seat before the show begins; the quiet splashes of black water have a tranquilizing effect. In fact, I suspect I was hypnotized and spent the intermission-less 105 minutes drifting in the subconscious of world theatre.

The cast of Antigone. Photo by Christophe Raynaud de Lage.

This Antigone is performed in Japanese (with English supertitles). But don’t worry if you have trouble following or don’t remember all the twists of Sophocle’s tragedy: there is a playful and unexpectedly comedic prologue in English, which summarizes the plot. Two brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, kill each other fighting for the throne. Creon, their uncle and now the king of Thebes, orders Eteocles to be buried with honors but lets Polynices’ corpse rot in the sun, as he was the aggressor. Their sister Antigone flouts the king’s edict and conducts a burial ritual over her “traitorous” brother’s body, proclaiming that the laws of gods are superior to human laws and choosing to follow her heart in protest of patriarchal authority.        

This drama about morality, resistance, and justice, seen through the prism of Buddist philosophy, proves to be timeless and universally significant. Every society has to manage the dynamics of power, whether between rulers and citizens or men and women; every culture establishes a relationship with death and rituals of transition. In many spiritual belief systems, water is considered to separate the world of the living from that of the dead. That’s where the magnificent set design comes into play. In this Antigone, everybody already belongs to the world of the dead, to history, to the canonical texts of western civilization. 

The story comes alive when a monk-like figure appears (the only person not dressed in all white), arriving on a boat and distributing the wigs that transform some of the chorus members into key players. Miyagi combines Japanese Noh and Indonesian shadow play to tell this ancient Greek story. The action is decoupled: for each character, one actor stays atop of one of the rocks scattered in the pool and performs the movement (minimal, yet expressive and doubled by a giant shadow); a second actor kneels in the water and delivers the speech. Splitting the characters in the Noh manner demonstrates the wisdom of Buddist detachment and the beauty of one-ness. Enchanting live music and occasional choral enhancement of the dialogue creates a dynamic soundscape (by Hiroko Tanakawa) that spellbinds the audience even further.      

I have a soft spot for a self-aware theatre. People can watch a TV show or go to the movies if they are only looking for drama, but the theatre is still needed to allow audiences to congregate and reflect on the ways of our species, silently yet collectively. Shizuoka's otherworldly Antigone provides this experience by bringing the generous gift of Eastern theatrical traditions to the predominantly Western audiences of the Park Avenue Armory. 

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Antigone plays at Park Avenue Armory, 643 Park Avenue, through October 6, 2019. The running time is 1 hour 45 minutes with no intermission. Performances are Monday through Thursday at 7:30, 
Friday and Saturday at 8, and Sunday at 2 and 8. Tickets are $65 and are available at armoryonpark.org or by calling 212-933-5812.

Antigone is by Sophocles. Translation by Shigetake Yaginuma. Directed by Satoshi Miyagi. Space Design by Junpei Kiz. Lighting Design by Koji Osako. Composer is Hiroko Tanakawa. Costume Design by Kayo Takahashi. Hair and Makeup by Kyoko Kajita.

The cast is Kazunori Abe, Maki Honda, Micari, Kouichi Ohtaka, Yoneji Ouchi, Daisuke Wakana, Takahiko Watanabe, and Soichiro Yoshiue.

(This review was published on theasy.com on 10.5)

Review: 'Theatre In The Dark: Carpe Diem'

This Is Not A Theatre Company performs in your mouth and your nose.

Theatre In The Dark: Carpe Diem is exactly what the title says: it happens in complete darkness. You can’t see anything. If you came to see Play!, which runs in repertoire with Theatre In The Dark, you wouldn’t even know that it happens in the same space. After checking belongings and washing hands, audience members are given a sleeping mask. Blindfolded, they are led...somewhere...in chains of four, hands on the shoulders of the person in front. This is a lot of trust that is asked for by a stranger, but thanks to Mee’s mom-like demeanor ("wash your hands before the meal") and thorough safety instructions (there are substitutes if you are allergic or have a specific diet) everybody warms up to the affair quickly. 

Audience members in Theatre In The Dark: Carpe Diem. Photo courtesy of This Is Not a Theatre Company. 

The show consists of a half dozen thoroughly curated “scenes.” Through speakers somewhere in the space, we hear sketches by Jessie Bear, Anonymous, TS Eliot, and Proust, each accompanied by things we can touch, smell, and taste. A gentle touch on the shoulder or a whisper in one’s ear informs us that it is time for a new treat. On the velvet table cloth, my hand finds a piece of food or a small plastic cup with liquid. As instructed by the subtitle, I savor the moment and enjoy the sudden unveiling of poetry, not only in my ears but also in my nose and mouth. A truly mind-blowing experience! 

For a medium that traditionally relies heavily on visuals, depriving an audience member of their sight is a fascinating concept for a sighted person. Dining without seeing proposes that our sense of taste is heightened by the darkness. These tastings then “narrate” through the experience. An existential dialogue between a vase and a bottle is followed by an invitation to choreograph a dance of the chocolate. I find a piece of chocolate in front of me and roll it around on my tongue, trying to match my movement to the music. I feel a feather touch my neck for a brief moment; another tickling sensation comes as somebody whispers close to my ear. The evening consists of several unconnected vignettes, which might not seem like coherent storytelling. But surrendering the narrative puts the “spectator” in the dark, allowing for a new kind of theatre, one with its own strange and beautiful logic.         

This Is Not A Theatre Company is known for site-specific shows. But this time they outdid themselves by bringing the performance to the audience’s mouths. Sure, other theatre productions feed the audience: the recent revival of Sweeney Todd, Network (for those who paid), Midsummer: A Banquet to name a few.  But rather than merely enhancing the experience, the food here becomes the focus of one’s inner journey, an equal artistic means. There is also the use of smell: different scents are sprayed during different scenes, to accompany the storytelling.    

Conceptually elaborate and effortlessly executed, Theatre In The Dark is a successful innovative experiment. The only thing I wish were different: the speed with which the scenes follow each other—I could barely keep up. I enjoyed the few brief moments without verbal narrative—if only there were more. Given the heightened use of the other senses, there is the temptation, if not the time, to linger, savoring each little crystal of sugar on the tongue, and sniffing that strange yet familiar scent until it thins off to the point where you can no longer grab it on your next inhale. 

It is a little disappointing to take off the mask at the end and discover the mundane scene: a bare room, plastic tables covered with black velvet, six strangers looking confused. It’s like when somebody explains a magic trick: the satisfaction in knowing the "how" is then followed by disappointment. Not everything should be brought to light when the mysterious might be anything.                 

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Theatre In The Dark: Carpe Diem plays at Theaterlab, 357 West 36th Street, through October 6, 2019. The running time is 45 minutes with no intermission. Performances are Thursdays through Saturdays at 9; and Sundays at 7. Tickets are $30 ($25 for students with valid student ID). Discounted tickets are available for those who see both Play! and Theatre in The Dark: Carpe Diem on the same night. For tickets and more information visit thisisnotatheatrecompany.com.

Theatre in The Dark: Carpe Diem is conceived and created by Erin B. Mee. Text by Jessie Bear, Anonymous, TS Eliot, and Proust.

(This review was published on theasy.com on 9.22)

Review: 'Play!'

A new experimental piece by This Is Not A Theatre Company reflects on the importance of play in everyday adult life.

This Is Not A Theatre Company, under the artistic direction of Erin Mee, is known for bringing its audiences to unconventional venues—they have staged work in a pool, a cafe, and a gym. So the choice of the more conventional Theaterlab for their new show Play! might seem...strange. But even confined to this new circumstance, This Is Not A Theatre Company continues to tease the traditional understanding of the concept of “theatre.”

Jonathan Matthews in Play! Photo courtesy of This Is Not a Theatre Company

There are some familiar elements—the “white box” theater, and a few rows of chairs along two walls.  And there's performer Jonathan Matthews, who executes elaborate choreography while delivering an absurdist monologue for the first thirty-five minutes. His athleticism and charisma, witnessed up close in this intimate venue, are irresistible. The special magic—of watching someone unapologetically enjoy the performance process—reminds me of those kids' games that only make sense to them. But in Play!, the sense of joy and freedom that comes from playing is put to the service of building a better society.        

“A body is a  microcosm of society. Movement is a metaphor” Matthews proclaims while fishing objects like silk ribbons and fans out of a small inflatable pool (the only element of set design). To illustrate what exactly “a just society should” do, Matthews recruits a volunteer and demonstrates the virtues of an ideal society through the metaphors of movement. Gradually, more people are pulled out of their seats until every single audience member is on their feet tossing beach balls to each other to Kool & The Gang’s “Celebration,” some Russian folk music, and other cheerful tracks.    

I was initially taken by the transition from passive observer to playmate. It starts with a game where everybody needs to maintain a triangle with two other people—without telling them who they are—in a constantly moving crowd. But once left to freestyle play and dance, the awkwardness inherent in much audience participation sets in. Blowing bubbles is fun, as is playing volleyball. There are other props too—perhaps a fan with a silky tail if you feel like trying out some dance moves. But in doing all of these activities, I felt reliant on props to keep me occupied in a stressful situation, like drinking or snacking at a party where you don’t know anybody. 

Play! relies on its audience for the finale, which probably works on some evenings—when the chemical reaction sparks the eruption of joy and everybody dances around like it’s Burning Man. It didn’t quite do it for me. The interaction is definitely conceptually motivated: after listening to the definition of “play,” it seems logical to experience the concept by practicing it. But in reality, it is all a bit sudden, even forced. Or maybe I simply forgot how to play? Perhaps we all should adopt Matthews’ advice: develop the habit of playing for ten minutes every day.                                       

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Play! plays at Theaterlab, 357 West 36th Street, through September 29, 2019. The running time is 45 minutes with no intermission. Performances are Thursdays through Saturdays at 7; Sundays at 5. Tickets are $25 ($20 for students with valid student ID). Discounted tickets are available for those who see both Play! and Theatre in the Dark: Carpe Diem on the same night. For tickets and more information visit thisisnotatheatrecompany.com.

Play! is by Charles Mee, Erin B Mee, Jonathan Matthews, and Ezra Brain.

The cast is Jonathan Matthews and the audience.

(This review was published on theasy.com on 9.22)

Review: "Remembrance"

An exquisite show about how Alzheimer's affects patients and their loved ones  

When I get home from Margaret’s birthday party I find a voicemail from her in my email. 

In a slightly trembling voice—as if she is unsure of who is she calling and what we talked about a couple of hours ago—she says: 

“I just wanted to say thank you for coming, before I can’t say it. Before I... you know… before I am really not ‘me’ anymore.”

I feel such sudden sorrow in my heart that I am unable to breathe for a few moments. 

My hour and a half spent in the home and mind of Margaret, a character from Linked Dance Theatre’s Remembrance, felt so strangely and beautifully real to me. So even if I wanted, it would be difficult to forget Margaret.        

Maya Gonzalez, Cintia Rosenthal, and Rita McCann in Remembrance.

Photo by Jordan Chlapecka

. . .

At Remembrance, the audience members are guests at Margaret’s 65th birthday party. And because it is a surprise party, we are quietly let into a red brick house on Governors Island in small groups, by Frankie (Edward Mylechreest, also the producer of the show), a male nurse. Another nurse, Fran (Kendra Slack, Co-Artistic Director and writer of Remembrance), meets us inside and offers a flower of one of the three colors: pink, yellow or blue (more on that later). By the time we meet the third nurse, it all starts to seem like déjà vu.            

“Hi, I’m Francis, I’m new.”  

A third nurse (Kellyn Thornburg) greets us in the living room with the same cheer and nervousness. She quickly puts the guests to work, asking for volunteers to decorate the homey-looking living room and to sign a birthday card for Margaret. I drift around the space aimlessly looking at photographs. I was warned in the invitation email that Margaret was diagnosed with Alzheimer's three years ago. As I walk around the living room, I notice how the decay of her mind makes its way into the surroundings: half of the faces on the photographs are now pixelated to the point of abstraction, and there are noticeably unpainted patches on the bright orange walls. And what about the three nurses with similar names saying the same things over and over? It seems like all of Margaret’s caregivers over the years have started to blend together.  

Soon Margaret’s reality reveals even more cracks. As I finish reading a poem framed on the wall—‘Tell Me a Story’ by Robert Penn Warren, inscribed by Margaret’s son, Tyler—Fran takes the frame off the wall. She takes a few steps away, then comes back and hangs the poem back, then repeats the same actions in loop. Before I am able to make sense of this scene, quietly unfolding away from everybody’s eyes, Margaret (Cintia Rosenthal) comes down to her guests, accompanied by her son, Tyler (Jordan Chlapecka, Co-Artistic Director and writer of Remembrance). She seems to be genuinely and pleasantly surprised, but also nervous and put on the spot. Margaret sweetly engages in small talk with her guests and receives gifts. As she unwraps the presents, we find out more about her: for instance, she likes flowers, and she is a painter. 

But behind the tender and quiet facade there is a storm of feelings. Love, grief, doubt, confusion, joy, and anger inhabit her past. The realistic exposition of the birthday party fades away as soon as we are left alone with Margaret and is followed by poetic choreography and monologue. There are three “Margarets” now (Maya Gonzalez and Rita McCann playing her two younger versions). They wear similar turquoise dresses dotted with lilac flowers, and  pearl brooches pinned to their chests, and neat white shoes (costumes by Nicolas Smith). The three Margarets invite the audience to travel through memories with them, while the doors to those memory can still be open. We are free to follow any of the characters and walk anywhere but only through the open doors. 

This  sandbox format allows us to travel through several rooms on the first floor of the house and meet Margaret at various stages of her life. We find out about her dreams to become an artist, the conflicting goals of being both a painter and a mother, and the progression of her Alzheimer’s. In any given scene, it’s not easy to tell whether we are seeing a flashback or a distorted memory. I am in Tyler’s bedroom, where he is nine years old and Margaret (Rita McCann) is putting him to sleep. Tyler begs her to read Peter Pan, but, unable to see the words on the page, she sheepishly asks one of the audience members to read it for her. As the volunteer proceeds, soft music fills the room, and the mother-son duo engage in a beautiful dance number. Site-responsive choreography, created by the artists in collaboration, is a signature of Linked Dance Theatre’s work; here it reminds me of  Third Rail Projects’ Then She Fell.                

Remembrance contains three parts and based on the price of a ticket (indicated by the blue, yellow, or pink flower pinned to one’s chest upon the entrance), the experiences last a different amount of time. Those who just want to get a taste of the show can pick up free tickets for the first part of the experience on the day of, on a first-come, first-served basis. (The show also functions as a public art installation with documentary audio, which anyone can tour on their own for free outside of the performances). Those with paid tickets have access to parts two and three, which take place on the  second floor of the house. 

Margaret’s confused state of mind becomes fully evident through the design of the second floor, featuring several art installations (design by Chis Kelly). The indoors and outdoors intertwine in the design of the upstairs rooms, “Tyler” becomes Paul, Margaret’s late husband, memories mix up even further. The sandbox format remains, but with fewer audience members the scenes become more intimate. Occasionally, an attendee is taken away for a one-on-one scene. Mine happened in the storage closet, where Margaret keeps her secrets in small numbered boxes. This playful scene has a couple of simple magic tricks, which, connected to her stories, have a mesmerizing effect on me. I don’t remember ever being that surprised or delighted by the revealing of an object from a seemingly empty box. After witnessing a few moments of her vulnerability, I develop a strong connection to the incarnation of Margaret portrayed by Rita McCann, so trust comes easily. Without an effort of will or imagination, I truly feel like I am just hiding away from the world with a friend in a closet. But this brief moment of clarity and joy is soon over and I am off to the finale, the darkest part of Remembrance.           

The third chapter of the show is performed to three audience members and is increasingly disturbing throughout. Margaret’s various anxieties of the past all seem to channel into a single terrifying thought: “Will I have enough time?” My heart breaks every time as each of the three Margarets falls out of reality again or forgets who I am. But eventually, the remaining guests are brought downstairs, and asked politely by the nursing staff to leave, as the hostess is not feeling well. I give up the flower pinned by my chest and somberly stroll away from Margaret and her memories, carrying the smell of lavender on my wrist.       

Being put in the position of Margaret’s friend, I feel pain for her with all my heart, but I also feel childish joy during her “brighter” moments, like the scene in the closet. That’s why listening to her voicemail is so bittersweet. The voicemail  means that not all the doors in her mind have closed yet. But how long until they will? How much time does she have? And how much time do I have?  

In one of the scenes Margaret (Maya Gonzalez) offers me a simple test to diagnose Alzheimer's:

to draw an analog clock. It takes me a few strokes of a pen to complete my clock, while she, on the other hand, struggles to even give it a recognizable shape. She looks at my work with a mixture of pride and envy, then folds it and gives it to me. 

“It’s your time. Spend it on the ones you love.”

Remembrance had a profound and cathartic effect on me and not only because it deals with the sensitive topic of Alzheimer's, but also because of the way it treats it. Emotionally intelligent, and tightly put together from an artistic standpoint, the show takes care of its audience by providing a beautifully designed, safe environment and a touching and relatable story through which one can truly feel real emotions. When creating immersive theatre it’s so easy to get carried away by elaborate concepts, cool designs, and the multitudes of the media. Linked Dance Theatre manages to have all of that and get to one’s soul.

(This review was published on NoProscenium.com on 9.19)

Review: "BAD NEWS! i was there..."

Joanne Akalaitis' site-specific promenade play looks at the role of the messenger in the theatre of Ancient Greece.

Long before the institution of mass media, not to mention social media contributors armed with instant photography and live stream video, eyewitness accounts were the only source for knowledge of an event. Using messenger speeches from ancient Greek drama, renowned theater artist Joanne Akalaitis invites the audience to join together on a site-specific journey through the hallways of NYU Skirball. 

Rachel Christopher and Jasai Chase Owens in BAD NEWS! i was there.... Photo by Ian Douglas.

Before the show, the audience is invited to congregate in the lobby, where they can contribute an anonymous note with bad news to one of the dropboxes, and take a look at the art installation (lobby video by Ian A. Belton shot by Yvette Mattern; sound installation by Margan Green and Bruce Odland). The entire wall is dedicated to prints of ancient Greek personas, events, and maps mixed with photographs of contemporary catastrophes torn from newspapers. In the center of it all is a massive genealogical tree of the gods and heroes of Ancient Greece.                    

The cast of eight, all dressed in neon yellow construction vests (a peculiar costume choice by Julie Archer), poses as a Greek chorus; each actor is also assigned a specific role. Aside from the opening and finale (done all together), the audience divides into four groups, each visiting in turn the four locations around the theater to witness the story of each character. Two cast members and a child singer await at each “stage” to tell and sing the stories of Medea, Thyestes, Phedre, Oedipus, Antigone, and others. 

The transitions between the parts become an event in themselves. Led by guides holding makeshift lanterns (clear makeup bags holding LED lights), the streams of people resemble ritualistic processions, heightened by the beautiful singing. “Paris, Priam, Hector, Hecuba…” repeat the cast members and guides in somber unison; “Cassandra, Cassandra” occasionally punctuates the soprano somewhere near or behind, the sound seemingly coming out of thin air. 

Although we hear wonderful soloists throughout the show proper, nothing chilled my blood like the single line chanted on a loop during these transitions. From suddenly emerging all at once, to the final moments of anticipation before the last epic scene, the chant holds your hand on the journey through the hallways and orchestra (where the access to the seats is blocked by yellow caution tape) with ceremonial mystery and comforting consistency.  

In the shop in back of the theater, a heavy dolly, secured with sandbags, functions as a stage. Brooms, sheets of plywood, and other building and cleaning paraphernalia, normally hidden from the eyes of the audience, serve as a backdrop. Hidden away, we sit quietly on mismatched folding chairs to hear stories about Hecuba (Rachel Christopher) and Orestes (Jasai Chase Owens) and learn about the origins of the concept of “fake news.” This modern term, we find out, is rooted in Greek mythology. 

“I was there. I will tell you everything” is repeated as a refrain throughout. Committed to telling the truth in all the gory details, the messages of each story become “possessed” by the heroes and heroines. Based on texts by Sophocles, Euripedes, Aeschylus, Racine, and Brecht, the ancient news is told from a third-person perspective, but with a first-person passion. Even without the aid of costumes or special makeup effects, one can vividly imagine Oedipus’s eyes dangling out of their bloody sockets, or the terrible death of Glauce by Medea's gift of a poisoned dress.   

Script-wise, BAD NEWS! i was there… is a storytelling masterpiece, but unfortunately, because of the proximity of the four “stages” that operate simultaneously, the sound bleed from one space to the next becomes a disadvantage. And while a couple of small altars tucked into corners sparked my curiosity, there was no opportunity to explore them en route. Given the minimal scenic design (also by Julie Archer), these altars seem like an unnecessary distraction. Using a bare theater building as a set, while disallowing traditional seating, is itself simple and effective— such a concept doesn’t need much embellishment.               

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BAD NEWS! i was there... plays at NYU Skirball, 566 LaGuardia Place, September 6-8, 2019. The running time is 2 hours with an intermission. Performances are 9/6 at 7:30, 9/7 at 3 and 7:30, and 9/8 at 3 and 7. Tickets are $40. For more information visit nyuskirball.org. 

BAD NEWS! i was there... is created and directed by Joanne Akalaitis, based on texts by Sophocles, Euripedes, Aeschylus, Racine, and Brecht. Original Score by Bruce Odland. Music Director is Ian Axness. Scenic and Costume Design by Julie Archer. Lighting Design by Jennifer Tipton. Stage Manager is Dustin Z West.

The cast is Katie Lee Hill, Jenny Ikeda, Rocco Sisto, Kelly Curran, Howard Overshown, Henry Jenkinson, Jasai Chase Owens, and Rachel Christopher. Children are: Jah-Sire Burnside, Devin Coleman, Donovan Coleman, and Riley Velazquez.

(This review was published in theasy.com on 9.11)