The mythologies of John Moran (and his neighbor Saori)

When I first ever saw a work by John Moran, it was at the Kitchen, and he had just gone through terrible heartbreak. After his long-time German (I think?) partner and girlfriend left him, he incorporated the sad event into his lush looping Goldberg Variations, weaving this beautiful wistful story of loss through seamlessly interwoven and looping soundtracks and choreography. That was the first time Saori worked with him, and whatever conflicts or dramas they might have had, together I think they are wonderful artistic collaborators.

Their latest at PS122 was not really about (as the titles of the piece suggested) what if Saori had a party? but it was instead a rather dark meditation on mortality and loss of innocence. The top of the show introduces Saori as a super-cute robotic anime-type character who lives in a bubble (think Astroboy + Teletubbies + Twiggy x a dose of acid). She is "not real" as she admits, and desires nothing more in the world than "to exist" (i.e. be real). Her companion, Mr. Computer (which is just the voice of a talking mac) informs her that today, somehow, her wish can be granted -- today is her first ever birthday. A singing telegram man shows up with a surprise birthday present -- which turns out to be a baby. Saori must then learn to take care of this baby, who fusses and cries, and repeatedly goes through a cycle of "growing up." Eventually in an effort to understand why the baby suffers, and what loss means, Saori is burst out of her bubble and experiences the suffering of life first-hand, all the way to death. It's a poignant Pinocchio story without glorious salvation or redemption. Though it never reaches the depths of grotesqueness and despair that compares to the height of its saccharine sweetness, Saori's Birthday was still a great display of Saori's phenomenal physical control and grace of movement, Katie Brook's precision and sweetness, Joseph Keckler's awesome singing voice and John's deeply emotional sound-score that spirals the audience into intimate moments of vulnerability.