Reviews
The Critical Review
Review: by Amanda Leslie
Asheville Arts Monthly
Volume One, Issue ThreeANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY
BY P. O’CONNOR PUPPETSAs someone who’s more or less a full-fledged grownup, I’m a little embarrasses to admit that the only puppets I’m familiar with are the fuzzy blue creations of Jim Henson. Thank goodness for p. o’connor puppets and its sophisticated “puppet theatre for adult audiences.” The recent Anatomy of Melancholy (based on the 1621 book by Robert Burton) is a meditation on human sadness that is striking for its breathtaking imagery. In a prologue called “autumn – The Most Melancholy Season,” the only “puppet” is a single oak leaf and its only action is to float gently on the breeze as a woman attempts to catch it. Anatomy of Melancholy is at its best in moments of stillness like this, when the image on stage transfixes the audience.
Appropriately, Anatomy of Melancholy focuses on evoking a mood rather than telling a story. Most of the play is divided into “partitions” that each address a cause or remedy for melancholy. The very loose narrative features an unnamed central figure whose feelings have overwhelmed him. Puppeteer Yoko Myoi deftly expresses the weight of his sadness as he attempts to get out of bed in the morning, only to let his head fall heavily back on to his pillow. Meanwhile, outside his window, the sounds of life rise and fade, as if they’re passing him by. Designed by Pamella O’Connor and animated at different times by puppeteers Betsy Browning, Yoko Myoi, Sadye Osterloh and Nina Ruffini, this boxy, abstract puppet is more lifelike than some human actors I’ve seen.
The greatest strength of this show is in its amazingly expressive imagery. Each “partition” was done skillfully, but a few moments stand out for their pinpoint accuracy in depicting human emotions.
In the segment called “Passions and Perturbations,” the puppet figure sits in contemplation as two black-clad puppeteers approach him. Inquisitively, they lift the top of his head and reach inside his brain, pulling out long strands of differently colored thoughts, which they yank back and forth, as the puppet figure shivers in agitation. In another scene, a puppet agonizingly heaves a red ball up an incline, only to have it toll back down the slope to the bottom. A woman in the audience at Saturday’s performance audibly whispered to a friend, “That’s what I feel like at work!”
The show is also distinctive for its skillful use of multimedia projections. The two projection screens are sometimes used to display the titles of the segments or set a mood. More often, in the hands of projectionists David “McConville and Nicole Tuggle, they become breathtaking works of art themselves. In one spectacular image, a burning red sun rises on one screen only to set on the other screen in perfect synchronization. In another, more jarring moment, the screens erupt with loud static, and then flash a quick video montage of 21st century horrors.
Set designer John Payne wisely does not try to fill the entire Diana Wortham stage. Instead, he places his skeletal scaffolding down center stage, leaving the space around it empty and black, so that puppets seem to float in and out of the scene. Flanked by two enormous projection screens, the scaffolding frames the space, essentially creating a set out of negative space. Payne’s design is perfectly fitting for a show that depends so much on restraint and omission.
Similarly, Jessica Klarp deserves praise for the uncluttered silences in her script. Klarp has a challenging task in adapting a 17th century work of philosophy into a watchable performance. She succeeds remarkably well, letting her script serve the images and moods of the pieces. Klarp also shows a wry sense of humor. In one scene, “Loneliness,” the narrator dolefully describes the sorrow of being “mateless” as a single sweat sock is jerkily pulled across stage on a clothesline.
In a lengthy monologue, Klarp attempts to condense Robert Burton’s writing on the symptoms of melancholy. This is less successful, if only because it stands out against the striking minimalism of the rest of the play. This section never becomes tedious, thanks to the excellent Ralph Redpath as the narrator. Redpath’s impressive and versatile voice is crucial to the show’s success, because he is called on to speak every line of dialogue in the play.
As an exploration of human emotion, Anatomy of Melancholy is fascinating and moving, but the cure for melancholy seems to be more mysterious than its causes. In a wonderfully woozy sequence, a puppet balances precariously on an enormous white pill only to be unceremoniously dumped back into his bed. Clearly, medication is not the answer. The show never presents an alternative answer, and people who have lived with real depression may be frustrated by the implication that sadness is something you just snap out of. Nevertheless, p. o’connor puppets has given us a hauntingly accurate expression of mood, and the mesmerizing images of Anatomy of Melancholy are likely to stay with you.
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