Theatre in Review: Zero Cost House (Public Theatre/Under the Radar Festival)

	Photo: Pig Iron Theatre Company

It's a truism that in the theatre -- in all art, really -- the best work is personal. Only hacks worry over what the audience wants before the work of writing begins. The rule isn't so much write what you know, but write about what obsesses you, what causes you to love or hate; if you do it well, your highly singular experiences will cause that little shock of recognition in others, that electric connection, that makes a great play.

Sometimes, however, a work can be too personal, its focus too firmly on the author's feelings and perceptions; suddenly a line is crossed, and we're in the land of solipsism. That, I fear, is what has happened in Zero Cost House; the Japanese playwright Toshiki Okada has tried to open a window into one of the great disasters of recent years; however, the window only reveals a mirror, reflecting back on Toshiki Okada.

The event that most informs the making of Zero Cost House, which was created in conjunction with the members of Philadelphia's Pig Iron Theatre Company, is the failure of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant following the earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan in March 2011. Given these events' shattering effect on the Japanese psyche, Okada's approach is surprisingly lightly humorous, almost cheeky. (Okada's works are known for their highly colloquial dialogue, drawn from the slang of Japan's twenty-somethings, as well as his use of stylized movement based on everyday gestures.) At the top of Zero Cost House, a member of the company appears, introduces himself as Okada, and, with a sly mixture of embarrassment and pride, adds, "Some even said I'm a talent that comes along once in a decade." Of his work, he says, "I suppose you could call it experimental." Behind him, a young woman sitting at a desk and writing with great concentration, snickers in derision.

That young woman is, apparently, the younger version of Okada. (The members of the company switch off throughout the evening, each of them taking up a different role at a different time.) Both Okadas encounter Henry David Thoreau, whom the playwright first worshipped, then later dismissed, and once again sees as an object of fascination. His interest in Thoreau's Walden has a deeply personal significance: Alarmed by reports of radiation spreading through the nation's food chain -- reports that are made all the more disturbing by the government's bland assurances that there is no danger -- Okada is planning to make a Walden-style retreat, fleeing Tokyo for a village in the country's far west. The playwright's manager warns that he is putting himself out of the mainstream; he counters, "The whole nation is too Tokyo-centric."

Is Okada, as his manager suggests, getting to be too full of himself? In enters Kyohei Sakaguchi, a kind of modern-day Japanese Thoreau and author of Zero Yen House, which documents the tiny, thrown-together, and ecologically superb lean-tos that certain citizens of Tokyo have erected along the banks of the Sumida River. (He also opened the Zero Center, in western Japan, for refugees from the effects of Fukushima.) The A-word rears its head again, as Sakaguchi is humorously rendered as a monomaniac who establishes his own nation, with himself as head of state. In his defense, we are told, "In working to make the world change for the better, you can't help becoming arrogant."

It's a profoundly Japanese dilemma: Even when faced with a toxic nuclear meltdown and a flurry of demonstrably dishonest government statements regarding public safety, the playwright worries about raising his voice in criticism too strongly, even more so about fleeing to find refuge when it clearly seems like the smart thing to do. He even shies away from making his conflict too starkly dramatic, turning it into a series of whimsical, mildly funny sketches and tossing in a pair of life-sized rabbits, who, I think, are meant to represent characters in a play by Okada. (I freely confess that my heart sank every time this furry pair appeared on stage.)

There's imagination at work here, but the author's wry, self-referential jokes don't fit the occasion, considering how terribly these events traumatized his homeland, and all too often the focus, unbecomingly, is on Okada, as he wonders about his role in it all. Given that people died, much of the nation's food supply was potentially rendered toxic, and a fundamental bond of trust between a government and its people was broken, perhaps irreparably, Okada's troubles seem a little beside the point.

The members of Pig Iron are not identified, beyond having their names listed, so I will merely say that they perform their many tasks capably. The production features a notably minimal design, except that the upstage wall of Mimi Lien's set is raised and made to hover over the stage, for reasons I can't really explain. Interestingly, the house lights remain on, at half, through most of the play.

It's possible that Okada's inner conflicts may resonate more with audiences in Japan, where conformity is more valued. In this country, where writers regularly savage politicians, religious leaders, and members of the arts establishment with no holds barred, Zero Cost House seems timid, almost tongue-tied, despite the many deeply important issues it raises. The real drama lies in what happened, not in what Okada feels about it. --David Barbour