Theater of the Imperfect and Impossible

The thing that drives me crazy about theater/live performance, is that it is inherently NEVER PERFECT, or rather, it highlights and revels in everything that is imperfect about being human. Of course this is where the beauty of performance lies as well -- spaces between the elements/layers that allow room for spontaneous, magical experiences. Performers hit the stage every night with a different body, a different energy, and a different audience; even within a set structure the event that coalesces can blossom into a different creature every time.

But then there is the grappling with the impossible, that can cause someone like me to develop an ulcer or burst a blood vessel in my head.

Basil Twist's Dogugaeshi is one of those shows that valiantly and beautifully wrestles with the imperfect that verges on the impossible. Commissioned by Japan Society, it premiered there in 2004, and it's back for a remount before it tours to Japan next month. It is, hands down, a unique show and beautiful -- comprised of probably about 100 gorgeously painted sliding screens set in complex systems of frames, Twist as his 3 puppeteers unravel a journey of images from old and new Japan. Once in a while a white fox puppet appears and interacts with the sliding and dividing pictures adding a lot of charm to the piece (interesting to note the audiences need/desire for a recognizable "character"). It is not only constantly changes images, though, that inspire awe. The multi-layered soundscape full of fun, surprising montages and live shamisen/koto improvisation by Yumiko Tanaka (amazing woman) and the elegant projection design (Peter Flaherty, who seems to have a monopoly on this kind of work) work in confluence with the screens for this potentially mind-blowing experience.I say potentially because, well, it is clear, without a doubt, that this is a very special, unique work of art, but having seen probably a dozen performances of it, I don't think I've seen it executed perfectly. And ok, so what is "perfection" in this kind of work? For one thing, the physical execution of a very complex sequence of moving objects. It is a fact that physical objects are clumsy. But, unlike the volatile energy and emotional states of a living breathing actor, the objects' characteristics are more predictable and reliable and consistent. So on one hand it seems perfectly possible to expect inanimate objects to achieve perfection in a way that living breathing humans cannot.

Actually in the week it's taken me to write this darned post, the show has really blossomed -- as if these painted panels are now breathing. Pretty darned amazing. Showing for two more nights. Sold out, but you should try to get waitlisted.

Life as a Labyrinth

Basil Twist's latest project, Behind the Lid, reaches in so many directions it's hard to know where to begin. The audience (limited to something like 20 per performance) is gathered into a small, dark holding area at the beginning of the show. Blue lights turn on and then voiceover, layered with live voice. Something about the process of decay as in actuality a process of crystallization, those living things that succumb to the course of time and die, sink to the bottom of the ocean, where they are refined and purified, and brought into high relief, awaiting the moment they will be brought back up to the surface of the water by a pearl diver (the artist), to be examined under the light of day. So begins Basil's journey through history -- a personal history, a history of the world through the last century, a history of the theater, a history of the human imagination -- as reflected by the late Lee Nagrin, director, playwright, singer, choreographer and visual artist who was considered one of the first prominent female artists who worked experimentally to combine mediums in performance.

Co-created by Nagrin and Twist over the last 9 years, the work travels through perspectives, history and space -- literally -- as the audience is first guided through a womb like tunnel by Twist himself (who appears throughout the play as himself!) and a puppet of Nagrin to a stage where we see the holocaust take place; then the audience seating bank glides forward into a new playing area (reminiscent of NTUSA's What's That on my Head?!?) this time, the setting for the Macah Indian Reservation, where Nagrin connects to a greater spirituality of the indigenous people of the Northwest -- then into the dropping of the atomic bomb on Japan -- and on and on. Through a variety of inventive ways, the audience is led or is actually physically moved through time and space (at one point to a outdoor stage built around a tree in the East Village courtyard), catching somewhat choppy vignettes and meditations of Nagrin's life, dreams, and treatises on art. We are immersed in her world, through her paintings, through the ubiquitous sound of her voice through recordings, and in the final scene, the image of her face is perfectly projected onto the face of the Nagrin puppet, creating an eerily life-like representation of this woman, sitting amongst the stars in the vast beautiful universe.

Without having much prior knowledge of Nagrin -- essentially only what was in the playbill, which explained that Nagrin herself had passed away only a few days after the show opened -- the ever-surprising and shifting modes of theatrical story-telling and expression were richer than Twist's previous dazzling underwater Symphonie Fantastique, and the content more varied and profound than the ambitious flying monstrosity Red Beads. As an evening of theatrical performance, it was sprawling, inventive, yet somehow detached. Much of the story was told through snips and clips of fragmented text, which created an impression of a scene rather than a chiseled dynamic story. But as a homage to the life of a great artist-pioneer, Behind the Lid resonated beautifully.