There is an awkward silence after the house manager makes his announcement to turn off cell phones and unwrap throat lozenges, assuring the patrons that the play will begin “without further ado”. The audience chuckles dryly, looks around, taps its feet, whispers amongst itself, taps its feet again. Finally the house lights go down and the stage lights come up. It is 7:50 pm. Twenty minutes after the play was advertised to begin. Bad start, but not as bad as what is about to ensue.
The plot is that of the classic novel by Mary Shelley, but supremely more difficult to follow. Victor Frankenstein, portrayed by Theodore Jackson, is a frustrated scientist who is distraught over his mother’s death. He decides to bring to life a monster (played by Starnes Franklin Reveley) who ends up killing people, forcing Dr. Frankenstein to hunt down and put an end to his own creation. Throughout the story he is visited by various characters who seem to be haunting him-- the Professor (Andrew Pollock) , his explorer friend (Christopher Viens), Elizabeth the woman he is in love with (Amanda Machon), his father (Drew Glover) , and his mother (Jessica Myers). David Horowitz effectively creates an eerie set-- a stark arctic landscape with a crack in the ice that the characters descend into and ascend from. Lighting design by Brian McNamara is equally impressive. Costumes by Dorothy Baca are appropriate except for the odd choice of the Gogo-boots for the Creature, which make the character look like he has walked out of the production of Rocky Horror Picture Show: On Ice. Overall, the technical aspects are commendable. The problem is the artistic direction by UNM’s Associate Professor of Theatre Kristen Loree.
As a rule, it is difficult to interpret what is the problem of the directing versus the problem of the acting. There is one exception: when the entire production is so painful to watch, when every single one of the characters seem to be so poorly executed you can do nothing but cringe, you can almost be certain it is the problem of the direction, and not the acting. Many times have I seen actors who I had otherwise considered inadequate do shining and even beautiful work in productions with skilled directors. Almost never have I seen any actor, regardless of their skill level, do anything other than flounder anxiously in productions with poor directors. Unfortunately, the latter is the case here. And my heart goes out to those actors who are the ill-fated guinea pigs of this director’s whims. No sane actor, regardless of skill level, would voluntarily moan, weep, cry, and scream onstage for anything longer than 30 seconds. Yet, these actors are urged by their director to persist in a pitiful exertion of emotional throw-up all over the stage for a period of ten minutes or more. A seemingly unending self-indulgent chorus of wailing and screaming actors, thrashing around the stage is a poor excuse for dynamic storytelling. It is apparent that there is a slight hesitation in these actors. Their basic instincts are cluing them in to how uncomfortable it all is for both them and their viewers, yet they are trying as best as they can to overcome these instincts and dutifully follow the direction they are given. I want to be clear. These student-actors are good sports, and this travesty of live theatre is not their fault.
Even if we are to give the director the benefit of the doubt, and assume that all the actors are beyond hope, we would still know that most of the blame must go to the director because of one thing solely in her control: the physical blocking of the stage action. I cannot even count the number of times during the production that the same blocking pattern is used again and again in a single scene to the point of exhaustion. The Professor and Dr. Frankenstein will walk in a diagonal line from one side of the stage to the other-- the Professor either clutching Frankenstein’s collar or brushing his shoulder every so often in an odd repetitive tic (another strange and pointless choice on the director’s part). All the characters are given these strange physical tics in place of developing real characters. The character Elizabeth has the oddest tic of all--dancing in between lines. Although Ms. Machon’s graceful dancing offers some relief from the poor storytelling, it is jarringly out of place. There is a moment where genuine talking and listening might actually occur between her and Dr. Frankenstein when she confronts him about why he is leaving the University, but unfortunately she is directed to turn away from her stage-partner and engage in a ballet combination.
Based on the Director’s Notes provided in the playbill, I can already guess at what Loree’s defense will be: “These repetitious movements and patterns reflect the surrealistic nature of the story-- the manifestation of our fears” or some equally esoteric “art speak”-- which is a statement with no other purpose than to impress the readers with fancy words as the wool is thrown over their eyes and the “artist” is given free-reign to do what they wish without criticism. It is the kind of phrase that the average reader feels would have the ring of coherence if only he or she were educated or cultured enough to decipher it. This is garbage. And artists, theatrical or otherwise, must call each other out on it. There is no excuse for this elitist approach to the arts.
None of the high emotional stakes are earned the way they should be earned in any play-- through real interaction between real characters which impels them to real physical actions. Instead they are falsified though a constant state of sobbing through the text. It seems as if the director has instructed the actors to “act distressed” instead of exploring what the characters want from the others-- what are their objectives-- and how do they achieve them. Whether a play is completely surrealist or kitchen-sink realist, it makes no difference. Every actor in every type of play must have an objective in every scene, in every action. And this basis of all acting and directing is sorely missing in this production. In yet another painfully static scene towards the end of act one, the Creature has Dr. Frankenstein in a choke-hold that goes on about five minutes (which is half an eternity in stage-time). Somewhere in the mess, the Creature sobs, “I am wretched. I am miserable beyond all living things.” Well, that makes two of us then. This is theatre at its worst. And it’s painful to watch this ship go down.
It is a shame. It is a shame that such a terrible production is allowed to happen in such an adequate performance space, with such a good budget, such good technical equipment, and so many support staff behind it all. The list of people working on this production is quite long-- with over seventy students in the various crews and the Student Production Lab. Obviously, there is good funding here. We all know the limits of what money can buy however.
Is it mere coincidence that the first play I decide to review in this town happens to also be the worst production I have seen in my theatre-going life? I do not think so. I think it is a golden opportunity-- a calling-- to bring this director and the university that employs her to task. If this is the caliber of theatre that comes out of a MFA-graduate of NYU Tisch School of the Arts, a woman “who has been studying creativity, performance, and vocology her entire life”-- either the art form is in dire need of a quick death or there is a phenomenon occurring here that is occurring in our universities everywhere. Professors are hired and kept in positions not because of their talent or skill in the craft they teach and even practice, but because of one thing: credentials. What do credentials mean if the actual work a professor does is sub-par and even disastrous? What does that piece of paper that dons the shining phrase “Master of Fine Arts” mean if the “fine art” that this “master” produces turns out to be a monstrosity?
The worst tragedy of the evening is the look on the faces of the audience members as we exit the theatre, most of whom are either students required to see the performance for a class or family and friends of those students involved in the production. It is that hopeless befuddled expression that seems to say “I paid for that?” And think about all those audience members, of which I’m sure there are many, who have never seen a play before. Old Mom and Pops who have driven in town to the Great University to see Little Susie’s big debut on stage-- how do you suppose their conversation will go on that long drive home? “That was god-awful, Margaret. Worst thing I’ve ever seen. Why are we letting our daughter study theatre again?” “Oh Harold, we just didn’t get it. It was art or something-- it was directed by that lady from NYU after all-- we’re just not theatre people-- we don’t understand the meaning of things like that.”
I want to take this chance to reassure all the Harolds and Margarets of the world that you did, in fact, “get it.” You got it spot on. This is not what theatre should be.
