Go see
Blackbird. I don't see as much theater as I'd like to. When I say theater, I don't mean the kind of tiresome drama of performing on a panel, being bored by the predictable tantrums drive by fragile (or obnoxious) egos, or the daily frustration of deciphering the psyches of the 3 furry critters in my home who keep peeing indoors. I have too much of that.
In this instance, I mean the kind of theater where one sits in a stuffy seat and watches live people without mics tell stories from little worlds they make on stage. Thanks to an arts-informed friend who works at the ACT in San Francisco, The Monkey and I had the opportunity to see David Harrower's, Blackbird. I won't give it away, but it was an experience that evoked a blurry range of emotions and thoughts that if cohesively presented would make no sense since I'm not smart and cohesive like that, it starts with the harsh, sterile flourescent lights and endswith the little bit at the very end that elicits the collected gasp from the audience In between, I felt:
whoa, harsh lights. Why are flourescents always like that?
why's she dressed like that?
wait
why the terrible unplaceable british accents?
how old?
she's got issues. mad issues. hella issues if she's in the bay area.
dude, he's a pedophile.
not right.
own your shit
are those wrappers of british snacks all over the stage?
what great acting
wait, what's the age gap?
damn...why can't i do even simple arithmetic?
wow, they we're in love.
wait, what am i thinking.
what's it mean when something "feels authentic?"
it's still wrong to act on it.
life is not so cut and dry
what am i thinking, it's still wrong.
she's so traumatized.
he so can't deal.
she stuck in that moment forever.
and he does it again.
or does he.
It's be interesting to see different productions of this with racially mixed Ray and Unas
and queer Rays and Unas.
wait.
WHAT?
uh, uh.
didn't go there.
whoa.
I think my head is going to explode.
Blackbird, go see it.
American Contemporary Theater, San Francisco
In New York