Review by Carol Rocamora . . .
“When it’s not a storm, it’s a railway strike; when it’s not a pandemic, it’s war. When it’s not war, it’s still war.”
Ukrainian-born director Igor Golyak understands that truth all too well. It’s uttered in Delirium, his electrifying adaptation of Ionesco’s Delire a Deux (Frenzy for Two, written in 1962), which he’s also directed, now playing at the Space at Irondale in Brooklyn (an Arlekin Players Theatre production). It’s the most thrilling piece of absurdist, surreal theatre I’ve seen in years, and its universal truth regarding war and the human condition is devastating.
Imagine this: a couple is locked in their apartment in an unnamed city (at an unnamed time) while a war rages outside. As in Sartre, there’s no exit – and that’s on several counts. First, the couple (She and He) can’t leave the apartment, for fear of getting killed. Second, they can’t leave each other, because they already left their respective spouses seventeen years ago to live together, and it’s too late to part and start over again elsewhere.
But here’s the problem: there’s a war raging within the apartment, too – between them! They argue incessantly about everything – from the difference between a turtle and a snail to the name of a statuette (Venus de Milo or the Statue of Liberty) to each other. “Moron!” they scream, exchanging insults. “Seducer!” “Liar” “Murderer!” He: “We’ll never hear each other out!” She: “How could we?” Outside, explosions crescendo, accompanied by relentless gunfire, terrifying screams, thundering footsteps on the stairs, banging at the door and pounding on the buzzer (Spectacular lighting design is by Jeff Adelberg; sound design is by Denis Zabiyaka). Meanwhile, the raging within crescendos too, growing even more absurd.
HE: This isn’t a telephone.
SHE: Yes, that’s a telephone.
HE: It’s called a cheese – No, a music box.
SHE: A music box is a rug.
JHE: The rug is a lamp
SHE: The ceiling is the floor
HE: And the floor is the ceiling
SHE: The wall is a door
What’s so spectacular about this production is the violent pas de deux, as choreographed by this inventive director. It makes Strindberg’s Dance of Death and Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf ? (George and Martha) look like tea parties. The stage (designed by Jan Pappelbaum) is bleak and bare, with only a few set elements: a single door and a window frame (both unhinged and loose), a pile of three mattresses, a single mirror, and a metal balcony above – with iron sheeting as a backdrop. Stage center, a large tank with an orange goldfish is the only sign of life. Enter He through the unhinged door. He repeats his entrance in the style of mime – a signal that we’re already in the world of the surreal. After feeding the fish, He sits on the mattresses, under which emerge a lady (She) dressed fashionably in a leopard-skin coat and high heels (colorful costumes by Sasha Ageeva). She is inert. He applies electric shock to revive her.
And they’re “off to the races” of absurdism in a choreography of mad physical comedy, tumbling on the floor, bouncing on the mattresses. He grabs her blond wig and throws it into the fish tank; she grabs his cap and throws it in, too. They douse each other with water. They dance the mambo; they laugh. They make love. They argue again. A grenade flies into the apartment. He throws it off the stage – it explodes. Rubble falls from the ceiling. Shrapnel flies in, too. An incoming missile shatters the mirror. Sounds of planes and tanks crescendo outside.
Suddenly the sounds and the shower of falling plaster stop. Is the war over, they wonder?
SHE: And what are the ones who didn’t win doing?
HE: Eiother (sic) they’re dead or they’re weeping.
SHE: Why are they weeping?
HE: Because they’re sorry they were wrong.
SHE: Why were they wrong?
HE: Wrong not to win
SHE: And the ones who won?
HE: They were right.
Terrified by the sudden quiet, She asks him to tell her a story. As He narrates, they leave the stage, and wander through the audience. They are now in a fantasy. Bubbles fly from the ceiling over our heads, while She and He climb up to balconies above us to visit the sun and the moon (projected by the lighting design).
But the sounds of the door buzzer draw them back to the stage. They stand there as the upstage walls collapse, revealing headless bodies in white space suits hanging from above. Dazed, they repeat their ritual all over again – they argue, they laugh, they cry, they dance. Then as more rubble falls from the sky, they put on the white space suits, too… and exit the theatre…
Andrey Burkovskiy (HE) and Chulpan Khamatova (SHE) are utterly amazing, performing Herculean roles that demand exhausting, non-stop movement through a breathless ninety minutes.
Rarely does one experience a theatrical explosion like Delirium – all happening in the tiny second-floor Space at Irondale in Brooklyn. It’s a trip well worth making – to see such a sensational production born from the creativity, ingenuity, and humanity of the one of today’s most exciting directors. And to hear his clearly stated, ominous truth about war and humanity:
SHE: That’s what society is.
HE: They’re killing each other.
Delirium is at the Space at Irondale, 85 South Oxford Street, Brooklyn, NY 11217 through November 14th. For ticket information please click here.
Photos by Austin Ruffer.
