This is Not a Life

I went to see this show last night at the Project Arts Centre in Dublin and it was the least enjoyed performance thus far in my Irish theatre-going and by a surprisingly large margin. They were clearly trying to do something novel, but it rang false and forced throughout. The versatile Cube space was used, set up like a conference room with seating at the table and further back around the perimeter. (We sat on the outside seats rather than at the table.) There was a silver metallic back wall to the performance space (much smaller than the actual theatre space) that opened up for the extended playing space in the second act.

The first act is like a marketing research group with the four actors (who are doing their 'work') except they don't want any audience participation other than our commitment. We were, about 15 minutes into the show, invited to leave if we were tuning out because that wasn't being committed; we were encouraged to respect ourselves enough to really be present or to go home. The guy leading the seminar was like a less-focused managerial character from The Office (BBC version). None of the characterizations really moved out of 2-D.

The show was a juxtaposition of obliquely made commentary on the current public participation in global/domestic issues and interpersonal drama (including self-aggrandizing, eating habits, and adultery).

The second act was at the host couple's home. The most interesting moment was when two of the actors (not the host couple) are describing what it was like being nearby when a bomb went off in Dublin (presumably in the 48 hour time lapse between the first and the second acts). They were talking and then the hostess walks in and dumps flour on them so they look like they are covered in ash. And then the female-bomb-victim pours red wine on her face so she looks like she's been injured. An interesting visual.

Other than that, there was a moment when the now drunk hostess sits upstage with the drunk male bomb victim in her lap and looking like the Pieta while the drunk host and drunk female bomb victim wriggle on the floor to 'Light My Fire' by The Doors. The image was particularly striking when the male host began to play his leg like a guitar, including strumming on his butt cheek.

Other than that, I was either awkwardly stunned or thinking of leaving.