Edward Rubin
| pool
(no water)
It’s not enough that I succeed my best friend must fail — La Rochefoucauld Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies —
Gore Vidal Ravenhill returned to our shores in 2010 with A Life in Three Acts at St Anne’s Warehouse in Brooklyn, which he directed and co-wrote with its star, London based actor Bette Bourne. The evening, a light affair doused with sentiment and much nostalgia – particular attention is paid to Bourne’s early coming out gay years – was a Q & A event which featured Bourne – with Ravenhill sitting on the stage and asking questions – retracing his seventy some odd years of theatrical living with witty and touching stories, songs, photographs, and consummate showman that he is, a few vaudevillian dance steps. In his latest venture, Ravenhill returns to New York City, thanks to the One Year Lease Theatre Company at the 9th Space, with pool (no water), first seen at the Lyric Hammersmith Theatre in London in 2006. Forgoing the life of druggies and homosexual acts – though we do get a whiff of both – the playwright turns his sights on a group of six artists, three men and two women who are still struggling to make it, and one lucky lady who has acquired fame, fortune, and the much talked about pool in the play’s title. Though never seen on stage or called by any name other than cunt, as strange as it sounds, Miss Pool (my words) is the star of the play, as all actions taken, as well as words delivered, both for and against, are done so with her in mind. In ways the play, written as if coming out of the mouth of one person, seems less a play, and more a cleverly directed (Ianthe Demos) and beautifully choreographed (Naralie Lomonte), story-telling dance piece. This said, I can see, with the right actress or actor, (the latter with some minor male oriented tweaking) who can bring the bone-chilling words alive, a whole new life for the play, not to mention scads of theatre nominations and awards (acting, playwrighting, and direction) in the offing. In the right and able hands – Hello Pedro Almodovar and Julian Schnabel – it might even make a good movie.
For this production the director has broken up what could have been a monologue into separate lines and distributed them somewhat equally among the 5 young and athletic actors – Estelle Bajou, Christopher Bakes, Nick Flint, Christina Bennett Lind, Richard Saudek – all of who traverse the stage, in their best Pilobolus fashion, carting James Hunting’s set, a long narrow tables, one for each, which serve quite nicely as a chair, a bed, and various meeting places. Outwardly, the linearly recited story is simple. Inwardly, the verbalized thoughts of each self-torturing character, one minute infused with love compassion towards ‘Miss Pool’, the next filled with malice – is anything but. The play unfolds with the 5 actors singing paeans, with a tinge of
subtle doubt creeping in, to their beloved Miss Pool. "A pool,
she had a pool... Did she mean to impress? Was it for show? No. I
can't think. No. Because she's..."She's good. She's nice. She
has integrity…she hasn't forgotten us…she comes to our
exhibitions. Cramped little exhibitions in lofts in the bohemian quarter.
Our photos, our objets trouvés, she comes, she sees, she sometimes
buys. And she'll help our fund-raising drives…We adore her.
We adore her. We all absolutely adore her." As the play progresses,
feelings of jealously wash over the struggling, yet to make it, artists
as their feelings flip flop back and forth – taking us with
them which is the psychological electricity of the play – from
love to a hate, the latter usually tinged with feelings of guilt. Things take a turn for the worse when Miss Pool rounds up the crew
for a midnight-dark skinny dipping party. Failing to realize that
the pool boy drained the pool of its water, she ends up broken and
mangled at the bottom of the pool. Thus begins the intricate story
which involves clandestine photos taken by the artists as she lay
unconscious in the hospital – they have a future exhibition
in mind – drug-fueled days and nights at her estate, and a couple
of sexual encounters with the pool boy (or is it the personal trainer),
as they, not too patiently, wait for her to recover. And recover she
does. The scenes leading up to the ending, which I won’t tell
you here, are surprising, and mean, mean, mean. Suffice to say, everybody
gets their comeuppance. As for Miss Pool, she is a survivor and no
doubt will go on to even greater success, while the others will spend
the rest of their lives lamenting their failure. |
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