Theatre in Review: Life and Times: Episodes 1-4 (Public Theater)

	Photo courtesy of Nature Theatre of Oklahoma

Life and Times: Episodes 1-4 is a Dadaist oratorio based on a series of telephone calls. It runs ten hours.

Is the room empty yet? No? All right, I'll continue. A production of the New York-based Nature Theatre of Oklahoma, co-presented by the Public Theater and Soho Rep, it is the creation of Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper, who have used this interview-by-telephone approach before. In this case, they have taken transcripts of ten telephone calls with Kristin Worrall, a company member, describing the thoroughly unremarkable details of her Rhode Island upbringing. These have been stitched together into a stunningly rambling monologue, touching on such ephemera as Play-Doh, ballet class, bell-bottom jeans, school reading groups, and her father's copies of Playboy. Various schoolteachers are described in detail, as are Worrall's triangular friendships with girls named Cindy and Cheryl. Every pause, hesitation, and half-pronounced word has been seemingly retained, along with every use of "like," "you know," and "hah." A typical passage: "I'm all in, like, swaddling clothes, and I have black hair, and I'm looking at the camera, you know, through these squinty eyes. And, uh...I even look them...I look...Oh, my God...I'm like a very serious baby!" (Thanks to the Village Voice for this excerpt; the flow of words in Life and Times is so nonstop that it is very difficult to take down more than a few at a time.)

All of this is set to music that is occasionally lovely, but more often so repetitive it makes Philip Glass sound like the King of Pop. The text is delivered by all nine members of the company. In Episode 1, the women appear costumed rather like attendants on a budget European airline; the men sport outfits reminiscent of gas station attendants or employees at, say, a Home Depot. Their movement is almost constant, the ladies taking part in a nonstop series of knee dips that, I fear, will require the attentions of a physical therapist if Life and Times enjoys any kind of a run. Occasionally, red bouncing balls are produced, then tossed into the audience. At other times, a series of plastic yellow rings are produced; the performers clutch them and form a circle, bending backwards rather like Eulalie Mackecknie Shinn and her lady friends forming Grecian urns in The Music Man. The text of the show is projected on a pair of video screens: I confess that, as day faded into night -- I saw the marathon version, rather than surrender three full evenings -- I found myself, largely as a strategy against a wandering mind, focusing more and more on the words and less and less on the clearly talented people on stage.

Some of Episode 1 is sporadically amusing. Contemplating a baby picture of herself in a diaper, the narrator confesses, "I formed a lot of my aesthetic from that picture." Later, discussing a difficult episode, she describes it as "my first existential moment that I had." Sometimes the conjunction of a conversational commonplace with a musical flourish produces genuine humor. When, in a moment of self-consciousness, she chides herself, saying, "God, this must be so boring for you. I'm sorry," we certainly know where she's coming from, and the laugh that follows is unforced and real. And really, Liska and Copper don't expect enraptured attention from the audience. According to a recent Village Voice interview, they expect viewers to fall into spells of boredom; they speak of exploring the "the epic banal," with "joy, beauty, humor." Liska says, "A Shakespeare text is already a work of art. You can only fuck it up." But, he adds, "The distance we have to travel from a telephone call to a work of art onstage is very, very far. That's what the project is all about."

As it happens, the audience still has a far, far distance to travel, too. Episode 2 features the cast in candy-colored Adidas track suits, taking part in movements that look like Robert Wilson crossed with an evening at a discotheque. But we're only at the halfway point. After intermission, the stage is reconfigured with tacky painted scenery suggestive of an English country house; the performers are dressed for a community theatre revival of The Mousetrap. They continue speaking the text -- sometimes with music, sometimes not -- but act as if they were appearing in a rattletrap thriller, with anguished cries, sneering sideways glances, furious accusations, and faces buried in hands in gestures of despair. They are often accompanied by melodramatic organ flourishes, like one used to hear on soap operas 50 or 60 years ago. Monty Python once did a sketch like this, and it was very funny; of course, it lasted less than ten minutes.

These latter episodes were, for me, the last straw. I believe I appreciate the creators' intentions -- and only an utter fool would attend Life and Times expecting plot, character, and theme -- but what I cannot understand is why they need to conduct this exercise at such crushing length. It was during Episodes 3 and 4 that, instead of drifting through a sea of banalities in a modestly pleasant haze, the entire enterprise became intolerable. Perhaps it was a mistake to attend the marathon performance, but if I had chosen the three-night option, I would never have returned after the first night.

In any case, the company members perform with a level of energy and commitment that is truly astonishing; the only sign of wear and tear across a hard day's night was a certain deterioration in some singing voices. (Few of them are really vocally gifted, anyway; again, nobody involved wants to make anything like beautiful music.) The musicians also perform their tasks capably. Peter Nigrini, who usually handles projections, is listed as the sole designer, and he certainly seems to have fulfilled Liska and Copper's vision. I must add that a good portion of the audience seemed to be on their wavelength, continuing to roar with laughter as the midnight hour approached.

And, in a way, Life and Times is beyond criticism; you can make what you like of it, because its creators are more interested in evoking random audience reactions than in casting a spell, capturing one's interest, or making anything like a point. In a way, it's like those stories one hears about occasionally, where someone builds a model of the White House using sugar cubes; in a way it's impressive, but why is anyone doing it? Reportedly, this is only the beginning; the final version may run as long as 24 hours. I'll have to find somebody to tell me all about it.--David Barbour