Willem Dafoe and Alenka Kraigher (Photo: Joan Marcus)By Lauren Yarger
I knew it was going to be “out there” and “brainy,” but within the first 30 seconds of Richard Foreman’s Idiot Savant starring Willem Dafoe in the title role Off-Broadway at the Public Theater, I had a sinking feeling in my gut that this was not going to be a fun time at the theater.
I was right, and if my seat had been on the side of the house by the exit door, I probably would have bolted, because truth be known, this type of avant-garde theater really is not my cup of tea. I like to be able to follow a plot, or in this case, for the play to actually have one, instead of trying to figure out what the heck is going on for 80 minutes (no, there’s no intermission. It’s not a good idea to put one in these types of plays because most of the audience might leave.)
Now I’m a theater critic, and I could put on my theater critic’s cap, stroke my chin while trying to look knowledgeable and say something brainy like, “deep … interesting … thought-provoking … engaging” or some other description that wouldn’t actually require me to try to explain what took place, but I’m not that kind of critic. I’m truthful, and truth is, I didn’t get it, but I’ll do my best to convey what I experienced and let you decide whether you get it.
Dafoe plays the Idiot Savant, in whose mind, we have somehow landed. That mind, as designed by Foreman, who also directs, includes Dafoe clad in an outfit that’s a cross between Samurai warrior and court jester, a lot of black and white shapes, numbered, padded mirror backs into which Savant slams himself from time to time and other strange props, as well as some other characters.
Enter the Guenevere-looking Marie (Alenka Kraigher) clad in a long, black velvet gown and Olga (Elina Lowensohn) who wears riding pants and a sort of breast-plate-looking bodice thing. There also are some servants (Joel Israel, Eric Magnus and Daniel Allen Nelson) who move a lot of the props around and who occasionally come out with bows and arrows threatening to shoot the others. The costumes, which made me want to laugh, are the fault of – I mean designed by – Gabriel Berry.
“What makes chosen words magic?” Marie asks.
“Who among us is prepared for an explanation,” Savant replies.
Well, I was, for one, especially since the question was asked at super-slow speed in a creepy kind of hushed way.
“The experts are confused,” bellowed an off-stage, god-like voice. He kept saying that throughout the play, apparently to remind us that experts are confused about what really takes place in the mind of an idiot savant. The experts weren’t the only ones confused, I thought. Another voice screamed, “Watch Out!” at intervals. At least this was a good warning, I thought, hoping folks outside the theater could hear it and act appropriately before entering this madness.
Loud music pulsed while everyone polished the numbers on the mirror backs. A black table symbolized mental stability.
“I understand,” said one of the women. I wanted to laugh out loud.
The Savant dons a yellow, polka-dotted jacket to protect himself from words and people. I found myself wishing for a jacket that could protect me from the rest of this play which seemed more and more like one of those a 1960’s weird theatrical performances with bongos that you swore someone on drugs had written while having a really bad trip and that really wasn’t all that thought-provoking, but you felt stupid if you said so because everyone else seemed to get great meaning out of it (perhaps because they were high also).
At one point, the two women became spiders and a masked man carrying a bird cage walked by. Then the women felt the need to show their bras and the voice said, “The secret is no longer hidden, friends. Rejoice! Rejoice.”
By now, I was having a hard time containing my laughter and the play’s shift into more brainy questions like "is this play really happening," "does the Savant really exist" and "how many versions of him might there be" failed to interest me at all.
My favorite part was the appearance of a large duck who was likened to a god, but which looked more like a mutant fly. The characters feared him until they realized they could eat duck. The duck said he would prefer a roast beef sandwich, then played some golf. I was eternally grateful my friend, Ron, was not attending the theater with me that night, because the duck would have been the end of any control over the laughter and the ushers would have had to roll two convulsing, sputtering, laughing people out of the theater.
I think I wore out the muscles controlling my left arm by longingly looking at my watch every minute of the 80 making up this particularly painful ring of theater critic hell. If you see a plot or great dramatic prose in anything I have described, you’re smarter than I (and please send me your contact information so I can send you in my place to review the next one in this genre). Foreman is considered by many to be a genius in the creation of avant-garde theater. As for me faithful readers, call me an idiot, but I didn’t get it.
Idiot Savant runs through Dec. 20 at the Public, 425 Lafayette Street, NYC. Tickets are available at 212-967-7555.
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