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Question: What’s a piñata, a twittering bird in a cage, a garden gnome, a children’s book, and several bottles of gin got in common? Well, you’ll find the answer to that question in [amazon_link id=”0970904622″ target=”_blank” ]Erin Courtney’s[/amazon_link] play, [amazon_link id=”B003BH0S88″ target=”_blank” ]Demon Baby[/amazon_link].

Unraveling the meaning of these objects is the key to figuring out just what Courtney has to say about how we deal with displacement and the stuffiness of our lives.

Overview
Wren (Dawn Youngs) is an American woman dragged along by her husband Art (Tom Kondilas) to London for work. Left alone all day to do what she pleases, she attempts to work, instead, on a children’s book commissioned by Alan (Curt Arnold)—a book that is to comfort children who are displaced when their parents drag them along to new places to work. The book in question (as well as the work that Art and Alan do) is for a company that is overly concerned with the relocation of its employees—as Wren and Art frequently, in one scene at least, discuss a “relocation manual”—another loaded symbol for you—and Cat (Amy Bistok) discusses her “relocation advisor.” Throughout Demon Baby, this group (Wren, Art, Alan, and Cat) are joined by Charles (Arthur Grothe) and Sally (Teresa McDonough) for Gin-and-Tonic-infused parties with heavy smoking, eating, and vapid conversation.

The lifestyle of heavy drinking and isolation may be what leads to the sudden turn of events for Wren, when she suddenly wakens one night to find an immense garden gnome sitting on her chest. The garden gnome, whom Wren refers to as the Demon Baby (Wes Shofner), is a demon baby because “there’s something a little bit different about it.” At first, Wren is very put out by the Demon Baby and afraid, but soon she comes to hold conversations with it, and soon after the two are thick as thieves.

The rest of the play revolves around the increasingly erratic behavior of Wren as she is influenced (freed from constraint?) by the Demon Baby. This erratic behavior includes one provocative scene in which Wren attempts to seduce Alan, but not knowing how to do it she simply walks out stark naked (bravely carried forth by Ms. Young). As irony would have it, though, Alan is attracted not to Wren, but to her husband. Alan is alone with Wren, actually, to review the children’s book that Wren has finished. The book is very good, as far as Alan and the company are concerned—excepting the strange introduction of a demon baby—which the company cannot accept.

In the end, the book is decommissioned, no one seduces anyone, Cat’s husband (whom we never see) leaves her, Cat falls off a roof while trying to hit the piñata (she lives), the influence of the Demon Baby affects all the partiers, and, eventually, Cat recovers from her agoraphobia. The caveat being that it ends up on Art, who at the end of the play is being visited by the Demon Baby.

The power of this play lies in the interpretation of the images/icons I mention above and that Courtney weaves throughout the piece: the bird in the cage (wren), the piñata, the demon baby, covering furniture with sheets, the content of the children’s book, etc. Through them, I think, the subconscious/unconscious reaction to displacement and suffocation—the fears and threats—are made concrete and real. And these bizarre moments are drawn in sharp relief against the vapid, tiresome lifestyle of the characters in their “normal” life. I am not going to undertake an analysis or excavation of the play at this time, but I likely will in the future, as it struck me and I truly think that there is more to this play than meets the eye.

One thing that I noticed very early on, and throughout, for instance, is the reliance by all the characters (other than Wren) on what is written. That is, what is written has an authority of incontrovertible FACT. Whereas experience is dismissed. For instance, Wren’s experience of the Demon Baby is dismissed by Art as “sleep paralysis” or something else–but the experience itself, the effect of the experience, or its result are ignored. I think Courtney has something very serious to say about our willingness in modern times to rely too much on what is construed as “socially approved” explanation (or what is scientifically known), and the “sleep paralysis” that all of these characters seem to be undergoing in both their personal and business lives demonstrates the sedative effect of ignoring experience or of seeking new experience and simply taking life as it is lived day-to-day.

Thoughts
[amazon_link id=”B003BH0S88″ target=”_blank” ]Demon Baby[/amazon_link] is directed by Geoffrey Hoffman and it is his first stab at directing. For the most part, I think he did very well. There are some moments that I question—but, of course, who doesn’t indulge in the glory that is back-seat driving? Some of the more prominent moments include large swaths of dead time (scene changes, etc.) and those in which Hoffman deviates from the script. As a playwright, of course, the latter is where my great fear and offense lies. For instance, the script calls for incessant smoking by many of the characters—chain smoking, in fact. There is no smoking in the production. Now, this may have been done for political correctness (god forbid), or perhaps expediency—who knows? But it does take an element from the production that would have, at least, added atmosphere, if not demonstrated the high-strung nature of these characters through their behavior. Another, though minor, point, is an objection to the periodic use of the sound track from American Beauty. I think that sound track is overly loaded for anyone who has seen the movie, and it disrupted my experience. I think convergence-continuum and Hoffman ably used multimedia in this piece, especially in the setting—construction work outside the window and the passage of time; as well as to show—to demonstrate—the inner workings of Wren’s mind at an especially frazzled point (where the [amazon_link id=”B003BH0S88″ target=”_blank” ]Demon Baby[/amazon_link] is helping her write the children’s book). I think Hoffman was, in many ways, hampered by a script that, to my mind, calls for a great deal of subtlety in its handling and runs a great risk of being flat—which it was at some points. It was difficult, I think, as well because some of the actors lost their British accents, or periodically moved in and out of them, and some were unfortunately flat in their interactions as well: delivery, response, etc.

I’m glad I saw it, as I read it first and it is always better to see a play than to read it, and I will likely go see it again. This is the first of the clubbed thumb deliveries to be at con-con.

So much for silly giddiness.

At the 3 hour mark of the final rehearsal last night we came to a long speech. Very long. Brutally long. It is the moment of possession for my main character: possession of a great spiritual energy bursting from the woods; and a moment in which the main character finally possesses himself for the first time: instead of being punched around like a beach ball. Did I mention that the speech in this moment is long? And after three painful hours of watching even mild speeches get a blistering cold reading that consisted of shredded and swallowed and then choked out lines–well, I nearly fainted in the face of my own long tirade.

Aside: Let me just take a moment to say that the director, Clyde Simon, and all of the actors: Geoffrey and Stuart Hoffman and Tom and Evan Kondilas are doing absolutely fabulously and I would not in any way disparage them.

Panic

There were two distinct moments when I wanted to cut lines. No, not just cut them; I wanted to just rip them out and throw them on the floor and then stomp on them. I didn’t want anyone to hear them: least of all me. There was a genuine moment of terror in which I contemplated calling the whole thing off; and then there was a briefly-swift moment where I wanted to vomit. Other than this, the rehearsal went quite well.

It was grueling. During the first rehearsal, which lasted four hours and covered a dry reading and the blocking of the first part of the play, I laughed. It was very pleasant; alright, hilarious at points. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Last night, however, it was the last part of the play and it took 4.5 hours to get through it. I felt like we all were trudging. It was vapid, tedious, and terrible. God, I only hope it was the time of day; or the weather; something…anything…other than what I fear it was most of all.

The Dreams of the Nighttime will have Vanished by Dawn

Today, I’m a little bit more introspective and upbeat. I feel that it will most certainly move fast. I remind myself that the length of time on both occasions was the blocking, the enactment, the re-enactment, the reading and re-reading and so on. The go and stop and the ‘do-it-again.’ This, of course, won’t happen during the reading. And then I recalled, ‘hey, this is the point of a reading.’ I gave pause. I took a beat. This isn’t a production. This isn’t even the final version of the play. It is rough. It is supposed to be rough. Lighten up, tight ass. Slowly, now. Slowly. Unclench them. Ease up.

I was preparing for the night of, today. I had to send a bio to the marketing person. I had to pick out a “moderator” who would lead the post show talk: a no-brainer for me–Mike Geither. I thought about where I could pick up a Viking helmet with the fake braids under it and maybe even a breast plate with two big breasts–and how all those Slim Jims would go over. (You think I’m kidding, don’t you?) Then I shopped around the web looking to swipe post-staged-reading questions from others who have gone through this. I found a couple solid sites that talked about it. But the best, perhaps, was DAM*Writer, who on January 15th of this year wrote:

As anyone who’s even glanced at this blog now and again knows, I have a real love/hate relationship with staged readings. The rehearsal process and the readings themselves can reveal all sorts of wonderful/horrible things that don’t always make themselves known in the space between my ears when I’m sitting alone in my office, tapping away or even reading out loud. Since plays are meant to be experienced by audiences, it can be very helpful to get a sneak peek at the effects of one’s work on people experiencing it for the first time.

On the other hand, a staged reading is a misleading, watered-down presentation of any but the most traditional of dialogue-heavy, standard-narrative, linear-storyline plays. The further you go out on the experimental branch, the less likely it becomes that a staged reading is going to support the work, its intentions, its style and the author’s voice.

Hear, hear… and my play is out a bit on the experimental branch. It’s not full out whacked, or extreme expressionism, but it sure has elements that are like that and is heavy on the visual elements of theatre–not good for a reading. Clyde though is taking a damn fine crack at it. As I mentioned in an earlier post, he’s done not only a fine job, but I’ve worried that the person reading the stage directions (Stuart Hoffman) will be mistaken for a character.

Sigh

Oh well. I console myself by knowing that it will all be said and done by Wednesday at 10:00pm. I will have my answers, though not for the sake of a live audience. As David mentions on his site, it is unlikely that you can rely on what the audience has to say…although, they might point out one thing or other that surprises you. But, as Mike Geither said to me earlier on the phone:

You’re the one closest to the work and you know it best. You can’t rely on the audience to tell you what to do. The feedback isn’t even for you, really, it’s to let the audience think that they have some input in the process; but mostly, it’s for the theatre…

Presumably to demonstrate that they’re the kind of theatre that does these sorts of things. Okay. Right on. It is nonetheless helpful to hear the thing read aloud. To see it staged, however modestly. To get a sense of its rhythm (or lack there of). To know what works and what doesn’t. To hear the audience laugh, or moan, or yawn, or swear, or ask, aloud, WTF is this and who gave me this ticket anyhow?

We’ll see. I have a tendency to overreact and jump to conclusions, overly harsh conclusions. If you would, cross your fingers with me, then say the following: “middle biddle fumble and ding” three times really fast.

Or not.