I have been doing massive amounts of interviews for grad school- for MFA directing programs- and that is a post and a half all itself... for later.
But at the interview for the Theatre School at DePaul I got into some great conversation with Kevin, one of the first years in the program (whose full name I unfortunately didn't get), and a few other of the applicants. We were talking about the eternal question- "why theatre now?"- and of course, the best theatre that we had seen.
Kevin mentioned that I should see the Neo-Futurists while I was in town and I got excited. I hadn't (at that point) seen the original Chicago Neo-Futurists, but my friend Maiken had taken me a couple years before to see the NY Neo-Futurists, and I was utterly inspired and amazed. The Neo-Futurists do a show- Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, which I had originally heard of on This American Life. They attempt to do 30 'plays,' in 60 minutes. These plays are about 2 minutes long, and follow the Neo-Futurists' code of conduct that everything that happens on stage is actually happening on stage. Performers are referred to by name; if they tell a story, it's a story that actually happened to them, etc. It makes for an energetic, engaging, funny, haphazard and very alive show. Some of the plays just sink like stones. But when they do, it's not a big deal because they're over in 2 minutes. Some of the plays, however, hit you like nothing else can. And the NY Neo-Futurists, consequently, was where I saw one of the best pieces of theatre I've ever seen.
They happen quick, and because of that, memories of their shows can be hard and fast. But what I remember is that a woman stood center stage (which, in their small space, was pretty close to UC, RC, DC, etc), with a contraption that reminded me of the boardgame Mousetrap from growing up, which consists of an elaborate set-up of simple machines and cartoon-like contraptions- levers, pulleys, falling cages, etc- that work in sequence to perform a simple task (in the game, catching the mouse) at the end. At the end of the machine was a small pendulum, which sat next to her finger, which was poised next to a cellphone. She started the machine with a marble in one end, and then we watched as the machine worked it's magic and then ended up hitting her finger, which hit the phone and dialed a number.
The phone was on speakerphone and up against a mic and the formerly raucous audience was completely silent as we listened to it dial and then a young man's voice answer. The young woman onstage announced herself, told him he was live on the phone at the show, and he said hello to the audience.
Then she, believably nervously, said that "I just wanted to let you know...I still love you.".
You could hear bar noise in the background and he asked her to repeat herself, which she did, and there was a tension and shared breath that I have not felt anywhere since. I swear you could hear a pin drop all the way in the Bronx from our tiny hipster theatre space in the Village.
The ending of the 2 minute piece was anticlimactic. He drunkenly (it was Friday night at midnight, after all) and good-naturedly said that he loved her, too. I swear she breathed a sigh of relief, but that could be my memory being creative.
In the end, it doesn't matter, because that vulnerability and that utter sense of shared risk and community completely REMADE theatre in my mind.
That is why I do what I do. And that is why I am continuing with this crazy, panic-inducing process.
