It isn't that I disagree with my blog-colleague Tweed. 'Tis true, as he writes, that "through the shifting set design, bizarre array of props, in the form of false gifts, mostly, and physical and mental strenuousness, Foreman stages the paradox of wordpower." And true as well that Willem Dafoe's starpower brings a different affect to the show--as does the relocation from the guarded intimacy of the Ontological-Hysteric to The Public (an unintended pun, perhaps, on the show's somewhat more readable aesthetic?). Yet while ASTRONOME felt, as it was, like a collaboration, Idiot Savant suggests more of a compromise: one between Foreman's and Dafoe's presence onstage. That Foreman enacts via words this tension--or, really, drawing directly from the words themselves, this confusion--over who this play belongs to is strangely right. It is through his language, both in a verbal and symbolic sense, that one is so often and so happily lost; now, familiar with his lexicon if not its exact meaning, one finds Foreman himself, "sounding like God with a hangover," as Ben Brantley writes in the New York Times, speaking through the unexpected guise of a Giant Duck. Suddenly things begin to make some sort of sense: perhaps the spiders lurking in the corners of this play refer to that certain chain of Hollywood extravaganza Dafoe so conveniently left out of his Playbill bio; and perhaps the notion of two women competing over his character's attentions refers to that other bit of downtown scandal tripping through Dafoe's history. And perhaps the jeweled box is really... hmmm. Trying to find a way through that particular lexicographical web leaves this theatregoer starting to question whether the Idiot Savant here is Foreman, Dafoe, or just, really, herself. Even a relative latecomer to Foreman's oeuvre, I feel, like Tweed, a certain nostalgia for the disconcerting fabulousness of Foreman's early shows. After talking with my students, for many of whom Idiot Savant was their inaugural Foreman experience, I wonder if the first time is always the most memorable. The Gods Are Pounding My Head! AKA Lumberjack Messiah remains my favorite of the Foreman plays, though whether it's because of the play itself or that it was my first I can't exactly say. While ASTRONOME may have been Foreman's, and John Zorn's, ironic take on opera, Lumberjack Messiah--ending with one of my favorite scenes in all of my theatre experience, what with its massive partridge and chalices of "magic potion"--had a rather sincerely operatic touch to it. And from the moment Dafoe enters, center stage, like a soprano who garners applause even before singing her first note, to his splayed legs under the closed curtain, having fallen (quite literally) victim to the search for the "magic word," Idiot Savant, too, plays out its own operatic flair. Art trips lightly and sometimes fantastically into life... and sometimes life trips so, or trips over itself, into art. In Richard Foreman's yearly extravaganzas, a mainstay of the downtown avant-garde scene that seemingly keeps reproducing itself in endless variation, one might hazard a signifying guess toward meaning within interpretation (the scenes within Foreman's 2006 ZOMBOID!, for instance, that reverberated against images of prisoners being tortured in Seymour M. Hersh's then-recent Abu Ghraib expose), but it's the constant state of unknowing that remains, for me at least, the most evocative draw. In Idiot Savant however--and not so differently from Foreman's last show, ASTRONOME: A Night at the Opera--these strings of interpretation, like those more tangible ones pulled taut across the stage, might yield something a little bit closer to truth. Or something like it.
2009.11.09
2009.11.07
emoticon: idiot savant
Before heading out to the Public for Idiot Savant, a number of friends and colleagues commented on how this was the most “accessible” Richard Foreman piece they’d ever seen (all things being relative, of course). And this is a powerful mindset to go into it with: understandable, as we’re out of the Foreman-centric world of the Ontological, where anything goes for the Total-Work-of-Artist (patent pending). The Public brings with it a subscription audience, new funders, and the now-star power of Willem Dafoe. (A huge difference can be seen right off in the Public’s site promoting the piece, with a simple headshot of Dafoe and the promise that the piece runs a manageable 80 minutes.)
But upon seeing the piece, it’s clear that the only addition of “accessibility” is Dafoe himself—which is to say, he emotes.
For those used to the depersonalized, experimental actor on Klonopin approach in most of Foreman’s work, Dafoe is almost absurdly dynamic, drawing co-stars Alenka Kraigher and Elina Löwensohn in a bit with him. For the moment, I’ll reserve judgment.
As always, Foreman is suited to a certain taste, which I believe I’ve stated clearly time and again that I love and respect. Foreman continues to be a challenging and, contrary to many opinions, evolving artist. Idiot Savant continues to bring the Fantastic Voyage into the unconscious to audiences, and this one is quite legible, literally. The esoteric element of Savant is words themselves, and the false lexical idolatry we worship. Through the shifting set design, bizarre array of props, in the form of false gifts, mostly, and physical and mental strenuousness, Foreman stages the paradox of wordpower.
As Dafoe says, drilling his arm into a padded door: “I’m interested in confusion.”
As for the sadistic sense of emotion Dafoe brings to Foreman’s aesthetic, I don’t think it’s a blessing or a curse necessarily. As always with these productions, it’s all about how you “read” them.
Naturally, I was a bit nostalgic for the more distanced, melancholic delivery of typical Ontological productions, but the added sense of knowingness that the emotions of the actors imbued didn’t harm the production. It becomes more of a sadistic and manipulative relationship among characters and, by extension, the words they exchange. In the end, the words get them nowhere, and Dafoe is left literally knocked to the ground, his legs still sticking out halfway from the curtain. As if to drive the point home, Foreman’s on-high voice informs the audience that the actors have completed their tasks and will now leave, and we should do the same. The inefficacy of words and slavery to routine keep a very unsure audience silent and immobile for an uncomfortable period: Do we leave? Are they serious? Shouldn’t we applaud? Et cetera.
I suppose one could make the counter argument as well, that the emptiness of the words should be reflected best in Foreman’s typical style, but I’ll leave that to the formalists and not only keep an interest in the confusion, but enjoy it as well.
PS—As if the bizarre Savant isn’t enough, perhaps the most confusing plug I’ve seen to date is the precious tour of Foreman’s flat in TONY. Very strange, indeed.
2009.11.04
when you don't need directions
Holy crap: Sesame Street turns 40 today.
Despite Snuffleupagus no longer being imaginary, and despite Cookie Monster's health kick, I'm still filled with giddiness at the news. It makes me feel like a, well ...
women and walsh
Being a huge fan of Enda Walsh’s Walworth Farce last year, I was on the edge of my seat for the return of the Druid company and Walworth’s companion piece, New Electric Ballroom. And on the surface I was very pleased: an amazing company of actors in a smart, fun, and dark piece, reiterating Walsh’s place as one of the best young playwrights of today.
In Ballroom, we’re
given a similar pretense: a trio of women reenact two sides of one night
decades ago, when two sisters (Rosaleen Linehan and Ruth McCabe) both vie for
the love of a visiting rock star. Naturally, both lose out, albeit in different
ways, leading to an abandonment of love and a masochistic tendency to repeat
the episode ad nauseum from the comfort of their home. Their playacting has
taken on an instructional tone for niece Ada (Catherine Walsh), who they
attempt to school in the ways of fatalism. And, much like Walworth, the entrance of simpleton fishmonger Patsy (Mikel Murfi)
presents an interruption of activity, the possibility of escape, and the
ultimate lesson in life’s cruel tragedies.
And while the piece is incredibly sharp and enjoyable, I couldn’t help but take a bit of offense to the manner in which Walsh counterpoints the “male” Walworth with the “female” Ballroom. Much like Neil Simon’s Odd Couple had its fair share of gendered double standards, his gimmicky Female Odd Couple was out and out disgusting in its exploitation and cementing of women’s roles in deference to the unmarked men.
While not nearly as heinous an offense, Ballroom focuses the compulsion of the women upon their dependence upon one man, the image of celebrity to be more precise, and their entire psyches and sexualities are shaped and cemented by a single disappointing encounter. In Walworth, at least, the men were fixated upon the heightened drama of crime and deception, and Walsh wrote a much more nuanced and effective portrayal of the quotidian in the flat, while Ballroom does very little service to create a farce in a disturbing environment of the everyday. The closest we get is the women’s desire for cake and tea. I believed the men existed in such a bizarre cycle, whereas these women seem to be more caricatured, less profound, and I can’t help but think the problem is rooted in a reductive understanding of gender roles, and even what constitutes farce for each, according to Walsh.
Taken in isolation, perhaps I could have appreciated New Electric Ballroom a bit more, but the eerie complement accentuates the simplistic misogyny that is endemic to most serious, mainstream drama.
