Theatre in Review: Albatross (59E59)

	Benjamin Evett. Photo: Carole Goldfarb.

In what may be the oddest literary event of the year, Albatross aims to give us the inside story of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Well, why not? Not having read Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem since college, I had forgotten its many fantastic set pieces; as ocean adventures go, it is practically a treatment for a Steven Spielberg epic, complete with the framing device of the Ancient Mariner terrifying a bridegroom with his tale. There's the brace of angry spirits in pursuit of the Mariner's ship. There's the lost-at-sea section, when the ship's water runs out and the crew becomes crazed with thirst. And there's the ghost ship, manned by Death itself; the death of the Mariner's fellow crew and their subsequent resurrection in zombie form, and the spectacular finale, in which the Mariner sees his ship break apart and vanish in a whirlpool. If Johnny Depp ever dips into a volume of Coleridge, get ready for Pirates of the Caribbean VI.

Anyone who admires the sweep and concision of the original poem is likely to be bemused by Albatross, in which the Mariner, who is condemned to roam the world for all time, telling his story over and over, comes on stage looking like a weathered remnant of another century, yet toting a smartphone. He grumbles that he ran into Coleridge in "1790...something," told his tale, "an' a few years later I see it in print, done up as a Goddamn poem." He is more than a little put out, implying that Coleridge more or less founded Romantic poetry on his back. And, of course, he insists, the poet left all the good stuff out -- which he now plans to impart.

There's no doubt that the Mariner provides more of everything. We get his backstory (drunken wife, dying kid). We also get additional characters (Rodger the Dodger, a ship's mate with Uriah Heep tendencies; Hermit, the local loon, who wanders the streets, singing made-up hymns; Crimp, a shanghai artist with a gimpy leg; Black Dog, the captain, whose name tells you all you need to know.) And we are told how he is maneuvered into a blackout state of drunkenness and taken onboard Black Dog's ship.

After that, the action pretty much follows the poem, recounting how the ship, lost in Antarctic waters, is led to safety by an albatross, which the Mariner later cruelly, unthinkingly murders. After that, the universe seemingly rises up in fury, punishing the crew in terrible ways. Matthew Spangler and Benjamin Evett, the authors of Albatross, write in Technicolor, and each episode is described in lurid detail. When the water runs out, the men turn to drinking their own urine repeatedly -- and we are treated to descriptions of how that liquid turns darker each time. Crazed in their search for something moist, the crew lays waste to the hundred or so penguins in the hold (don't ask) in an epic act of slaughter. This is nothing next to the description of frostbite, in which one's foot "swells up...a pus-filled balloon." We are not spared the details of amputation with only a little rum for an anesthetic.

You can see how the authors thought that filling out the poem with such gory set pieces might add to its theatricality, but many of them are off-putting, grueling pictures of suffering that do little to make one care about the narrative's outcome. It's rather like listening to the pitch for a Hollywood film version, by Ridley Scott, maybe, with Russell Crowe in the lead and tons of CGI effects added. (I can even see the ad copy: "The bird you thought you knew. The story you don't.")

Evett, who also plays the Mariner, is a powerful presence with oceans of technique at his disposal, but his performance would be infinitely better if he cut the intensity level by at least thirty percent. He bellows in rage, he howls in agony, he laughs with the deranged cackle of those pushed beyond human endurance. (He even strips down to a pair of filthy long johns, the better to see him sweat.) All of this might work in a theatre seating a thousand or so audience members. But we're in 59E59's intimate Theater B, and his full-throated, aim-for-the-balcony approach becomes wearying, then assaultive. The director, Rick Lombardo, has either encouraged, or was unable to dial down, his sole cast member; indeed, he adds to the sound and fury with many sound effects and a tidal wave of projections, by Garrett Herzig, depicting Bristol, England, various oceans vistas, and the albatross, along with a montage of human suffering, including American slave ships.

The rest of the production's design is more restful. Cristina Todesco's set is meant to evoke a bare Victorian stage, with the Mariner dragging onstage and hoisting old, patched-together sails, which serve as projection screens. Herzig's lighting fluently modulates itself for each new episode. The costume, by Frances McSherry, is just what one imagines an ancient mariner to wear.

But even with passing references to such ills as slavery and the despoiling of the oceans with plastic garbage, Albatross seems to exist entirely to give its leading man a workout -- and the result is something of an ordeal for the audience. All the additional detail only has the effect of making one appreciate how neatly Coleridge told his tale. I began to long for dry dock. -- David Barbour