Reporting from Stratford, ON, at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival, I should clarify to any who read this that my expertise, as it might be termed, is strictly as a casual theatre goer; a single college level course; an enthusiastic, but unrabid, fan of the annual Fringe. Should plays cater to the enthusiast, the cultist, or the uninformed?
This evening was occupied with the viewing of a production of Possible Worlds, by John Mighton.
Off on another topic, the lady to the right of my lovely wife, along with five or six other audience members, appeared to think the entire play was a comedy. If the thought processes of some members of an audience are not congruent with those of the balance of the audience, are they fully members of the audience, or members of some other ontological category?
Am I?
The play concerns the actions of a man who is aware of a dozen, a hundred, possible lives, how he handles such an awareness – or how to break down when confronted with hundred variations of someone else. Each decision brings forth the results for all of his possible decisions, and it’s gradually driving him towards isolation, paralysis, and all that follows.
How many times should someone have a chance to love that special someone?
The play concerns a man of a hundred lives, as he watches it change as he makes a decision. As a science groupy, watching this reminded me of the Multiverse theory: the idea that new universes are generated each time a decision is made, such that all possible values of a decision are covered by the new additions of universes to the Multiverse. Into this seemingly insane scientific maelstrom is injected a man who has become aware of himself in all of those other decisive Universes – his own little corner of the Multiverse. He sees what happens in response to each decision – and then he tries to adjust for those decisions that went terribly wrong – and then those adjustments go –
Possible Worlds is a murder mystery play. The victims have had their brain excised.
So, as a few members of the audience insistently laughed at inappropriate moments, I wondered at their laughter, it’s effect on my perceptions of the play, and whether they were, perhaps, plants intended to produce just such an effect. Which did not stop me from feeling anger at their reactions; for God’s (Gods’?) sake, do you not feel any pity for these poor characters? But the anger was diluted with suspicion of outside manipulation; mixing with exhaustion from today’s trip throws my emotional state off on a strange tangent of self-awareness, down a dusty lane hardly ever taken.
Good thing I didn’t follow through on my reactions.
Physically, the production stage consists of a pool of water, perhaps a half inch deep and maybe twenty feet in diameter, some floating boxes, a chair or two, and a concourse. Lighting was critical, as it illuminated the functioning of brains, and projected certain textual information for the audience; most of the projections were on, or into, the pool of water, easily visible to the audience. The Studio theatre, which will be the production’s home for the season, is a stadium-style venue, with a very high pitch; it will host 260 audience members.
As an audience member who may not be equipped with the same operating instructions as most of the rest of the audience, perhaps I reach very different conclusions than did the majority. Did Mighton, the author, intend any conclusions? The production’s program implies not; it also, coincidentally or not, mentions Dr. Mighton holds a doctorate in mathematics, so perhaps the Multiverse theory impacted the construction of the play, though not mentioned in the program.
Given my possible atypicality, is it appropriate to report my reactions to the production, as they may mislead potential attendees into mistaken expectations? Were I truly circumspect, I would delete this report. Instead, I offer it in the spirit of self-examination, in honor of this unusual mind-state borne of exhaustion and novel theatrical conception, as refracted by my peculiar preconceptions.
To my untrained and inexperienced eye, the acting seemed uneven; but I suspect this is a very hard play. Portraying insanity, as at least two actors must, due to a break in the very fabric of reality, must be difficult, at least in a striking, empathetic manner. But what defines a great performance of a role? What does an actor strive to achieve? I have given little thought to the matter and so should be cautious offering up judgments on the matter.
What happened to me in those other Universes where I was not so cautious?
The final act offers a rational explanation to the whole of the madness, a decision which I must admit, at least in this single production I have seen, I detest. A full-fledged bull-roar of madness has been offered for the appreciation of the audience; and now that they have grasped the nettle in trying to accept it, they have it pulled away, the mad logic at once falsified through the removal of a foundation of the play: now it was all a dream. A mad dream of a sane man, driven over the precipice by disembodiment and deprivation. The nettle may leave its thorns embedded in the minds of the audience, but the poison is now dilute, and the more conventional audience members will nod and say to their dinner-mates, But it was just a dream, the rest was madness, and from madness one learns so little. Care for another tart?
Best to have left this little peek into madness, of decision-making, and into a special little bit of scientific insanity, to stand defiantly on its own.
