Theatre in Review: 9 Kinds of Silence (Playco/PS122CC)

	Hend Ayoub, Joe Joseph. Photo: Cindy Trinh

Abhishek Majumdar's new play takes place in a kind of all-purpose hell, which, in a way, is the problem with it. It's a concrete bunker near the seaside, the floor covered with sand, with plastic where the windows should be. We only get glimpses of what's outside, but it is wartime, and one senses the landscape is deeply scarred if not actively ruined. Along with the roar of the surf, explosions are heard, plus rattling gunfire and packs of barking dogs. Inside, a female functionary sits at her desk, alternately typing and interrogating a soldier who, clearly traumatized, remains silent. Her job is to get him to speak, affirmatively, about the war; if she does, she says, he will go home. If not, he will be killed. Maybe she will be, too.

There are a lot of maybes in 9 Kinds of Silence, largely because the playwright has constructed his nightmare world out of bits of varying world crisis spots, aiming for universality but often ending up with confusion. We are, apparently, somewhere in the Middle East, but the flag on the wall is unidentifiable. The ruling regime is a theocracy, with the functionary talking of "new saviors to protect us from the brutal, god-hating world outside." Then again, her frequent references to "the prophet" seem to hint at another, older belief not sanctioned by the state; in any case, she makes frequent references to the paradise to come, as if clinging to a hope beyond her current squalid circumstances. The characters are named Mother and Son and the idea of a blood connection is, briefly, entertained. It's all very mysterious, but not in a good way.

To be sure, Majumdar has a fine ear for the language of Orwellian obfuscation. "I know that when you had left, there was a different supreme leader," Mother tells Son. "Another father at work. And then there was the supreme contender. And now the supreme contender is the supreme leader. And there is a new supreme contender for the new supreme leader." Not entirely a true believer, she confesses, "I mastered the art. Of recognizing no meaning. The perfect recipe to build a great nation. A society of love and...and families of forgiveness. We say what is given, what is approved by the nation. The meaning is in the form."

And indeed, there are moments when 9 Kinds of Silence vividly suggests the terror and violence running wild these days in hotspots ranging from Iran to Libya, Niger, and the Sudan. (No doubt you can make your own list.) But this is also why the play suffers from a persistent vagueness that undermines its effect. The difficulty extends to Mother's futile attempts at getting Son to cooperate. What has he done to offend his superiors? How did he end up in his current state? If he is sent home, what will he be returning to? The atmosphere is sinister, but the details are sketchy and the playwright's vision resists coming to life. The action mostly consists of Mother enumerating various kinds of silence (dumb silence, the silence of the young, the silence of missing), leaving the impression Majumdar has written a kind of poetic essay masquerading as a play.

This is regrettable because Mamjudar is getting at an interesting idea, suggesting that silence, used properly, might be the most effective form of resistance against totalitarianism; it indicates an interior self that exists beyond the reach of those bent on erasing your soul, filling the empty space with lies and meaningless slogans. It's a notion deeply foreign to our fractious, everyone-has-an-opinion culture, and it is certainly worth exploring. But, unlike, say, Harold Pinter's later politically themed plays, like Mountain Language, which evoke a terrifying atmosphere of repression, 9 Kinds of Silence often feels lost in a forest of generalities.

It's telling that Hend Ayoub, who was so effective last season as a tough-minded NFL mother in the Off-Broadway drama First Down, often seems so tentative in her delivery. In contrast, Joe Joseph's Son -- ravaged, enigmatic, yet acutely responsive to what he hears -- is a presence not to be ignored; then again, he doesn't have to wrestle with the text as his co-star does. Majumdar, who also directed, has not been able to detect a consistent undertone of tension that would stave off the play's essential dullness.

The production design is, if anything, the most potent element on offer, making a stunning impression when one enters the theatre. Jian Jung's set is a model of desolation, a crumbling refuge in a blasted landscape; her costumes are appropriate to the characters and their stark situation. Emma Deane's lighting, which follows a night-into-day progression, artfully offers up blood-red sunsets and icy-white looks. If M. Florian Staab's original music and sound design are a little heavy on underscoring, he unsettlingly suggests a world of deadly battle just beyond the set's doors.

But, dealing with some of the most incendiary issues roiling our world these days, 9 Kinds of Silence, despite flashes of intelligence and power, remains largely inert. In trying to make a big, comprehensive statement, it inadvertently mutes itself. When calling out evil, details make the best weapons. --David Barbour