103. MR.
BURNS: A POST-ELECTRIC PLAY
Imagine
that the world’s nuclear power plants have suffered some form of apocalyptic
meltdown and that electricity is no longer available. People will have to find
alternative means by which to survive, of course, but whatever innovations they
create to get by will not, simply on a practical basis, be enough because
survival without pop culture would be too depressing. In Anne Washburne’s MR.
BURNS: A POST-ELECTRIC PLAY, at Playwrights Horizons, the post-apocalyptic cultural
standard is TV’s long-running, socially
aware, cartoon series “The Simpsons,” which the characters struggle to
reconstruct from memory. If, like me, you're only faintly familiar with this
show (nothing against it, just a matter of time!), you’re going to be at a serious loss when watching MR. BURNS, even though
it has many things that you might find theatrically innovative and witty.
The play begins at night around a campfire somewhere
in New England where a handful of survivors are occupying themselves
remembering the lines from a “Simpsons” episode. (Reportedly, this is how the show's creation began, with the company--called the Civilians--doing something similar.) One, in particular, Matt
(Matthew Maher), has the best recall, but keeps stumbling over key lines. A man
named Gibson (Gibson Frazier) wanders in and, after being held at gunpoint
until he demonstrates his peaceful intent, engages in a back and forth as the
others seek to know if he has any knowledge of friends and family whose fates are
unknown. He also soon is able to participate usefully in their “Simpsons”
exercise, and adds the extra skill of being familiar with Gilbert
and Sullivan, some of whose songs, like “Three Little Maids from School,”
will figure in the action. All of this is played more or less straightforwardly
and shows promise of developing in interesting directions.
The next scene is seven years later,
and the action is set in an abandoned factory building where the same people
are now a full-blown theatre troupe energetically rehearsing their reconstructed
“Simpsons” episode. There is still no electricity, so they must use natural
light and candles for illumination. Their survival seems to be dependent on presenting
these episodes in competition with similar troupes, and a barter system has
been established for buying and selling lines and even complete episodes. The
material itself keeps morphing as the actors adapt it based on their memories
and proclivities. The actors also enact musical commercials and do a lengthy
medley of famous pop tunes, which they dance (with fun MTV-like choreography by
Sam Pinkleton) and sing around a car husk rolled in on a primitive platform. Suddenly, there is catastrophic gunfire and the act ends. This scene, while more theatrically
heightened than the first because so much of it concerns performance, has a lot of
excellent material, but by now the Simpsons thing is beginning to wear thin and
it’s becoming unclear where everything is headed. Still, some elements of
a plot remain.
After a 15-minute intermission (the
play runs 2 hours and 10 minutes), we are 75 years in the future, and the entire
set is that of a stage with an old-fashioned false proscenium within which the set proper shows the stern of a houseboat. (The talented designer is Neil Patel.) Whatever plot
the first act may have suggested is gone. We never learn what happened at the
end of act one or what its outcome is. We are now totally in the world of
theatrical production, with a full-scale performance of a musical
version of the “Cape Feare” episode of “The Simpsons,” inspired by the two CAPE
FEAR movies, the first starring Robert Mitchum as the bad guy and the remake
with Robert De Niro in the role. (Many
other cultural references pile up as the show within the show proceeds.)
This act is performed with broad theatricality, including footlights (the lighting is by Justin Townsend) casting eerie shadows on the actors' half-masked faces (the surprising source of the lights is revealed at the very end). The Mitchum/De Niro role is enacted by Montgomery Burns (Gibson Frazier), the series villain who employs Homer Simpson (Matthew Maher) at the Springfield nuclear plant he owns; he is portrayed as a radioactive, Green Goblin-like maniac who murders the Simpson family and then, in a loudly screamed scene that goes on forever, pursues Bart (Quincy Tyler Bernstine) with a samurai sword. (Fight direction is by J. David Brimmer.) Michael Friedman’s music comes into its own here, blending recognizable TV and other tunes with original ones, creating a pastiche of the familiar and unfamiliar. The action is a mélange of theatrical styles, from Greek tragedy to melodrama to Grand Guignol to commedia dell’arte to musical comedy.
This act is performed with broad theatricality, including footlights (the lighting is by Justin Townsend) casting eerie shadows on the actors' half-masked faces (the surprising source of the lights is revealed at the very end). The Mitchum/De Niro role is enacted by Montgomery Burns (Gibson Frazier), the series villain who employs Homer Simpson (Matthew Maher) at the Springfield nuclear plant he owns; he is portrayed as a radioactive, Green Goblin-like maniac who murders the Simpson family and then, in a loudly screamed scene that goes on forever, pursues Bart (Quincy Tyler Bernstine) with a samurai sword. (Fight direction is by J. David Brimmer.) Michael Friedman’s music comes into its own here, blending recognizable TV and other tunes with original ones, creating a pastiche of the familiar and unfamiliar. The action is a mélange of theatrical styles, from Greek tragedy to melodrama to Grand Guignol to commedia dell’arte to musical comedy.
The connection between act one and act two is purely
thematic, and whatever happened in act one is forgotten. Steve Cosson’s overtly
“experimental” production mingles realism with out-and-out theatricality,
allowing him to play with imaginative movement, lighting, costumes (by Emily Rebholz), and sets. Everything
is put to use in the interests of expressing the idea of society’s need to hand
on its stories as cultural artifacts that inevitably assume mythical
proportions, but that keep evolving in terms of society’s needs. Or perhaps
something else, as this is the kind of material that allows for multiple
interpretations. Here, for example, is the playwright herself on the play's meaning:
When people ask me what this play is about—and I will be honest, I hate that question; if a play can be summed up in one word or phrase it probably isn’t worth the time—I usually say it’s about storytelling. Which is true. But there are all kinds of storytelling. There are stories we create from the air, for fun, and there are the stories which are meant to be acts of remembering. Our culture—national, family, peer, personal—is defined, not so much by what has happened to us, but by how we remember it, and the story we create from that memory. And since we don’t really create stories from the air—since all stories, no matter how fanciful, are in some way constructed from our experiences, real or imagined—all storytelling is a remaking of our past in order to create our future.
When people ask me what this play is about—and I will be honest, I hate that question; if a play can be summed up in one word or phrase it probably isn’t worth the time—I usually say it’s about storytelling. Which is true. But there are all kinds of storytelling. There are stories we create from the air, for fun, and there are the stories which are meant to be acts of remembering. Our culture—national, family, peer, personal—is defined, not so much by what has happened to us, but by how we remember it, and the story we create from that memory. And since we don’t really create stories from the air—since all stories, no matter how fanciful, are in some way constructed from our experiences, real or imagined—all storytelling is a remaking of our past in order to create our future.
All this may sound pretty cool on paper, and the show does have
some memorable bits, but well before it concludes it grows irksome
and self-conscious. The funniest parts are those lifted from “The Simpsons"; they are, fortunately, well performed by a valiant ensemble, including, in addition to those already mentioned, Susannah Flood, Nedra McClyde, Jennifer R. Morris, Colleen Werthmann, and Sam Breslin Wright. Each of their characters is listed in the program by the actor's own first name, except for Nedra McClyde whose role is Edna Krabapple in the cast list but Nedra in her bio. Most are difficult to identify in their masked roles, and the program offers no help.
Since MR. BURNS: A POST-ELECTRIC PLAY is a parody that keeps finding new ways to explore its central concept, it jumps along from scene to scene hoping for the best. Many have jumped along with it and proclaimed it brilliant. There are moments that flicker to life with artistic inspiration, but, for me, the creative floodlights simply aren't bright enough to illuminate the basic premise. A lot of energy could be saved by cutting down the wattage by at least half an hour.
Since MR. BURNS: A POST-ELECTRIC PLAY is a parody that keeps finding new ways to explore its central concept, it jumps along from scene to scene hoping for the best. Many have jumped along with it and proclaimed it brilliant. There are moments that flicker to life with artistic inspiration, but, for me, the creative floodlights simply aren't bright enough to illuminate the basic premise. A lot of energy could be saved by cutting down the wattage by at least half an hour.