COLUMN: Insanity, anarchy and the appreciation of art nouveau
I didn’t used to suffer from insanity. Oh no, I used to enjoy every minute of it.
But that all changed Wednesday night when, prompted by what must have been a mad desire to experience some culture, I took a date and headed to the collaborative productions of “A Soldier’s Tale” and “Eight Songs for a Mad King.”
Now, before I really get to it, let me explain that in no way am I suggesting that anyone forego this theatrical “tour-de-force,” unless, of course, they have difficulty appreciating post-modern and neo-classical works – in which category could safely be placed sport junkies, logicians, people with a weak stomach and anyone who demands that they actually understand what they are watching.
With that said and the understanding that everything I write might expose me as an “uncultured swine” who doesn’t “get it,” let’s begin.
“The Soldier’s Tale” was, for lack of a better word, amusing. The music, composed by Igor Stravinsky, was more simplistic than some of his more well-known pieces, but still quite distinct and interesting. With its recurring themes and modest instrumentation, it actually reminded me faintly of “Peter and the Wolf.”
The tale itself, an adaptation of the old Faustian legend where a man sells his soul to the devil in return for magical powers while on earth, was also interesting, and much of the dialogue was well-written. The only problem I could see came with the dancing that dominated the entire performance, and even that was, at least technically, well-executed.
For instance, in one dance, which I affectionately refer to as “The Silly Dance of Love,” the soldier and his princess (who has just awakened from a deathly sickness) give the audience a perfect re-enactment of what it’s like to be in love by frolicking this way and that across the simplistically set stage.
Also, periodically during the performance, four dancing women would enter the stage in somewhat synchronized choreography and then leave a few moments later. I still don’t understand their purpose, but I must admit that they did dance reasonably well.
As for the players, well-deserved kudos must be given for the performances of the dancing devil, Michael Risk, the toe-tappin’ soldier, Mark Wayne, and the narrator, John Belliston, all of whom not only acted but also looked their parts. For instance, I fully believe that if I ever met Risk in person, he would want to steal my soul.
Although the story ended rather abruptly and without a lot of resolution, the non-toxic fog certainly helped everyone believe the soldier was actually getting dragged down to hell, and that’s a bonus, right?
The 15-minute intermission, though filled with good conversation, wasn’t enough to prepare me for the anarchy to come.
When mad King George III, played by special guest Robert Osborne, took the stage, sanity and sense ran for cover. Though the virtuoso’s talents were unquestionable, sounding, at various times, like an old man, a 4-year old girl, and – strange though it may sound – a velociraptor, the material was too strange to be understood.
The three highlights of this piece of work were the harpsichord, played by Matt Asmus, seeing President Kermit L. Hall in his first cameo appearance, and watching the only coherent dance number which harked my memory back to Potipher’s song in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”
I guess the best way to help understand my experience at the theater is to say that if the production had been a painting it would have been done by Jackson Pollock, splattered here and there with brilliant colors that, when put together, amounted only to disorder and confusion. If you in any way like the work of “Jack-the-Dripper” or post-modernism in general, you should attend these productions.
Otherwise, rent a good flick, make some caramel popcorn, and stick to the realm of coherent entertainment.
Matt Wright is a junior majoring in English. Comments can be sent to mattgo@cc.usu.edu.