Tim Crouch’s An Oak Tree is a brainteaser of a play, a cubist chaos of perspectives that surprises, baffles and, most of the time, pleases. Possibly its greatest provocation is its employment of a different actor each time it’s performed, and moreover, an actor who hasn’t ever seen the script. Working with this intrepid soul at the Gorilla Theatre each night is local thespian Steve Mountan, who feeds lines to his counterpart — Emilia Sargent, at the show that I saw — aloud, through an electronic feed to an earpiece, and via script segments that she’s given to read from (for the first time).
The play therefore exists on three levels: First, there are the two actors, Mountan and Sargent; next, there are those same two actors, but playing themselves according to pre-written dialogue; and finally, there are two fictional characters, The Hypnotist (Mountan) and the Father (Sargent), who encounter each other one night after the former has run down the latter’s daughter with his car.
As if these competing levels weren’t enough to worry the audience, the play is also full of mirror images and scrambled characters. For example, the contrite hit-and-run Hypnotist tries to mesmerize his subjects into thinking that they, not he, just killed a girl, and at one stunning moment, the unprepared Sargent, working from her script, instructs Mountan on what words to say as if he were the newbie and she the old hand. In all, then, the play is about acting, storytelling, illusion and delusion and just plain old confusion. And when it’s not unthinkably complicated — which it becomes from time to time — it’s a delightful experience.
If you’re patient and have a good memory, you’ll see that there is a core narrative to An Oak Tree. Andy (played by the unprepared actor) is married to Dawn, and they’re parents of two girls, Claire and Marcy. One night, Claire puts on her Walkman and starts hiking to her piano lesson a short distance from her home. But the Hypnotist (Mountan) runs into her — her fault, it seems — and kills her. While Dawn is naturally devastated by the loss, Andy goes into denial — even choosing to believe that a tree out on the road is the daughter he’s missing. Meanwhile, the Hypnotist, too, is traumatized by the accident. He loses all taste for his work and only goes to his bookings out of a sense of responsibility.
Three months after the accident, Andy finally comes to see him — to try to get some closure on the death of his daughter — but the Hypnotist doesn’t recognize him and eventually convinces him to play a nonexistent piano (another memory of Claire?) and to imagine that he’s stark naked and humiliated in front of an audience.
At the end, nothing is resolved; but we’ve seen Andy’s (and everyone else’s) story as if painted by Picasso: fractured, multiplied, turned inside out, looked at from six different directions. It’s been a remarkable experience.
As the Hypnotist, Mountan gives one of his best performances ever. The actor has an extraordinary, even otherworldly look — long gaunt face, long black hair — and it turns out to be just right for this play, which turns reality unreal and repeatedly questions the concept of character. Mountan is particularly good when encouraging the actor playing Andy (“Take it easy. We’re in no hurry. … I’m sure you’ll be great”) and when trying, with mixed results, to present his hypnosis act without stumbling. As Andy on the night I saw the show (coming up this weekend are David O’Hara, Jim Wicker, Nevada Caldwell and Karla Hartley), Sargent was nothing short of brilliant. Her emotions were so real, her grasp of new situations so immediate, I could hardly believe that she hadn’t rehearsed for six weeks. Particularly moving was her appeal to the Hypnotist once he’d recognized her (or “Andy”): “I thought you could help. Will you help? I need help. My wife — Dawn — she’s very unhappy. I’m so sorry about this.”
Ami Sallee Corley’s direction is topnotch, reaching perfection in a scene where Mountan plays Dawn trying to force Andy into reality, while he, still in shock, attempts some silly New Age visualization exercise. Lynne Locher’s set is basically a bare stage backed by a wall full of mostly empty picture frames, but her fine sound design features some haunting Bach and blaring Carl Orff.
I don’t understand why costumer Jennifer Cunningham dresses Mountan as if he were a 19th-century snake oil salesman, but Sargent’s black slacks and blue top were nicely modern. I should mention that every performance ends with a talkback with cast and director. So even if you do feel confused, you’ll have a chance to ask your way to a better understanding.
Kudos to Gorilla Theatre for finding this gem and bringing it to Tampa.
It’s challenging and moving — and unlike anything else you’ve ever seen.
Wilde at Heart. Gypsy Productions is back with Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde, and it’s a solid, if not outstanding, production. Author Moisés Kaufman (The Laramie Project) found trial transcripts, personal letters, newspaper reports and memoirs about Wilde’s prosecution for committing homosexual acts in the 1890s England. He’s fashioned a documentary play that allows us to understand the forces that tragically robbed Europe and the world of one of its greatest artists. (Wilde’s health was broken while he was in prison, and he died not long after his release.)
All eight actors offer workmanlike portrayals, but Michael Titone as Wilde’s lover Lord Alfred Douglas is superb: angry, vulnerable and rebellious, and dangerously ignorant of the calamity that’s brewing. Welcome back, Gypsy. This is an eye-opening, important play and a fine way to announce your rebirth.
This article appears in Sep 10-16, 2008.
