in praise of density

The Internationalist, now playing at the Vineyard Theatre, is yet another lovely, lyric meditation from playwright Anne Washburn.  I have been following Washburn for quite some time, and I think that her pieces are some of the most subtle, layered, and thoughtful that I’ve ever seen.  Among her previous productions, The Internationalist wouldn’t jump to the top of my list (mostly due to some directorial and acting missteps—regretfully, I didn’t see the original 13P production), but it remains some of the best writing one will find in New York at present.

All of this is merely accentuated by Isherwood’s review in last week’s Times: “[The lead role] Lowell's odyssey is meant to be a metaphor for something, but Ms. Washburn isn't about to be so unsophisticated as to give us a clue as to what it is.”  He goes on to compare Washburn’s writing with Caryl Churchill, the latter of whom apparently ties up her loose ends successfully.  The sentiment is echoed in fellow intelligent blogger Matt Johnston's nytheatre.com review: "As a whole, though, the production falls short of providing any sort of exploration of the ramifications of a thoroughly American citizen adrift in a foreign land."  This belief is absurd: the play is not incomprehensible, and touches on many themes beautifully: power, love, alienation, even globalization.  (Our friend Jason Grote posted with similar, insightful concerns, and a string of great comments to boot.)  The fact of the matter is that none of these concepts is straightforward or simple to understand.  The position of the foreigner, layered with nationality, gender roles, and language is an incredibly difficult one to navigate.

This is brought out in the choice of the unnamed Central European country in which the piece is set, with a faux language invented by Washburn, who describes it as “1/3 Turkish, 1/3 Romance, 1/3 Asian.”  The characters speak it without the pretense of an accent, which only adds to the strange-yet-alien feel of the world that Lowell is thrust into, as a professional, friend, and lover.  Each of these identities is unclear, undefined, not to mention entirely bizarre at its core.

Opacity is not something to be admonished; while there certainly are productions that attempt this unsuccessfully, which come off as pretentious and downright painful, when utilized well, it fosters a valuable uneasiness and discomfort; think Richard Foreman, Joan Jonas, Mabou Mines, Radiohole, even Beckett for goodness' sake!

What's clearly happening here is that critics are setting up an artificial barrier between "high" or "performance" art and playwrighting.  Playwriting is supposed to lucid, laid out for the audience, while performance is meant to be, well, weird.  It's a struggle one would think a savvy critic would be able to get past by this point.  This blogger believes, despite the themes already mentioned, The Internationalist is not a play about love or nationality or politics or language.  I believe it could be considered a presentation of the impossibility of these themes.

The unwillingness of an audience member to think about Washburn's play, let alone stop others from considering it, is facile and contributes to the narrative drek that pervades the artistic zeitgeist.  The supposed "high-end" narratives that are lauded, particularly those on television—24 and Lost come to mind—which are designed to lend the spectator an “Oh, aren’t I clever for understanding this!” self-satisfaction, have made us lazy.  These are “unsophisticated.”  Plays like Washuburn’s can help awaken us to the more convoluted power relations and help the spectator reevaluate his or her position in the theatre and the world itself.

[Tweed's note: This post is among the first of many "Blogger Blasts," in which many bloggers weigh in on a single production at once.  We here at OJ greatly look forward to contributing to the power of the blog in the performance world.  For further Internationalist elucidation, check out posts on  Adam Szymkowicz, George Hunka, Jason Grote is not a crime, Parabasis, and Playgoer.  Whew!  That is some good Internationalist!]

Comments

[Jason Grote]

Ditto, Tweed! There is some impressive brain bank brain thinking happening in in this here theater blogosphere.

[isaac]

I would also argue that the idea that Churchill ties things up is bullshit. Mad Forest, for example, ends in absolute chaos, linguistically and naratively. As does Blue Kettle (to take a late period play).

It's part of the beauty of her (and Washburn's) work.

Great post, Tweed! my own is up at parabasis.