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Theatre in Review: ADA/AVA (Manual Cinema/3LD Arts and Technology Center)

Drew Dir, Sam Deutsch, Sarah Fornace. Photo: Howard Ash.

I know it's only June, but I'm going to go out on a limb and make a prediction: It is highly unlikely that this season will produce anything as odd and altogether original as the experiment in puppetry and shadow play known as ADA/AVA; that it is also beguiling is the icing on the cake. It's a production of a Chicago-based troupe known as Manual Cinema, a name that is notable for its accuracy. Using a battery of overhead projectors -- those dreadful pre-PowerPoint machines that made your high school classes so tedious -- and the shadows of actors posed against a screen, the members of the company create something very close to a silent film for the theatre, a procession of handcrafted images that eloquently bring to life the story of elderly twins separated by death.

The result is like something lifted from Dr. Caligari's cabinet, the German expressionist film you never got to see. The merger of human shadows with static backgrounds and artfully deployed (and often tiny) paper puppets, as handled by a team of nimble, hardworking puppeteers, generates one striking image after another, each one encompassing the close-ups, long shots, and dizzying shifts of perspective that one typically associates with the motion picture camera. The title characters are sisters in their 70s; the actresses Kara Davidson and Julia Miller wear facial appendages that, seen in silhouette, give them identical profiles. They live in a house by the sea and attend to a nearby lighthouse, collaborating in the replacement of its oversized lightbulb when necessary. In a few brief strokes, Ada and Ava's total dependence on each other is swiftly established. Then, one night, Ava dies, slumping onto a chessboard in the middle of a game with Ada.

Ava is buried and Ada struggles to adjust to life alone, but soon she is having nightmares and visions in which she seems to glimpse Ava in the distance, or slipping out of view. A visit to a hall of mirrors in a carnival is far more terrifying that one imagines would be possible in this medium, but the constantly shifting images, with their changing spatial arrangements, achieve a surprising level of disorientation; one feels Ada's fear at being lost in this strange and hostile environment -- especially when she cannot tell if she is looking at herself or Ava. Later, Ada appears to be studying her image in a mirror. She turns away, but her image remains, looking at her, another sign that Ava is not totally out of reach.

Then Ava appears to return from the grave and the sisters seem to regain their equilibrium once more. Alas, it doesn't last. During a chess game, Ava moves a piece on the board, revealing the hand of a skeleton. Such incidents recur, becoming more macabre each time. Finally, Ada, driven to the brink by such experiences, takes action to right the situation once and for all.

Using a palette that ranges from black-and-white to sepia, with occasional discreet splashes of color, the images combine with the clever sound design and an original score, by Kyle Vegter and Ben Kauffman, to striking and often moving effect. The sight of Ada, alone in her parlor, surrounded by pictures of her and Ava, with only the ticking of the clock, is a surprisingly touching comment on the deprivations of age. Later, when Ada is surrounded by the same sisterly pictures, now rendered as skeletons, the chill is palpable. A view of Ada, in extreme long shot, walking down an enormous and steep staircase to reach the hall of mirrors, is like something out of a Fritz Lang silent thriller; equally impressive is the sinister spiral staircase that leads to the top of the lighthouse. Even more remarkable is the fact that the process of creating ADA/AVA is on display for the audience to see. The puppeteers manipulate the images on the overhead projectors in full view, and we can also see the actresses posing against the screen to create their shadow images. (Dinah Miller's lighting allows us to keep tabs on the production process.) That none of this distracts from the magic on screen is all the more remarkable.

The audio aspect of ADA/AVA is nearly as impressive. Vegter and Kauffman merge sound effects, such as thunder, radio broadcasts, and that ticking clock, with live performances on cello (often powerfully distorted), clarinet, guitar, keyboards, and synthesizer, by Maren Celest, Michael Hilger, and Vegter himself. The puppeteers are Sam Deutsch, Drew Dir, and Sarah Fornace. ADA/AVA is a rare bird, both simple and sophisticated and more powerful than many more high-tech presentations. In today's theatre, video often seems to be taking over; there are projectors in every available spot, including, quite possibly, under one's seat, and the stage is populated with video screens that often seem bent on mowing down most of the supporting cast. Compared to the frequently unnecessary use of technology in so many shows, Manual Cinema's use of old-fashioned techniques seems positively avant-garde -- like opting for vinyl rather than a CD or an MP3 download. I have no idea where the company goes next, or what the limits of this method may prove to be, but whenever they return, count me in. -- David Barbour


(24 June 2015)

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