Here's a riddle: What is it that a. everyone does and b. no one talks about? Did you say "sex"? Well forget it. Obviously you haven't seen The Vagina Monologues, Sex and the City or the Clinton/Lewinsky transcripts. No, as some of you realized, the correct answer is "death." After all, when was the last time you perked up a cocktail party with your theory of the afterlife? How long ago was it that you and your mate discussed the various coffins you might rest in or the type of funeral service you'd prefer? Let's face it, in the era of Dr. Ruth, only death is the great taboo, the one subject we simply don't mention in polite conversation. And if the psychiatrists are right, all this repression must be causing us psychic tension. On some level of consciousness, we must want to relax our vigilance and let our morbid thoughts come out of hiding. I mean, how many hyper-violent movies can we attend before we have to admit that death is, somewhere or other, a real issue for us? Here's the good news: There's a play currently showing that, with grace and restraint, allows us to think about death and the afterlife in some provocative, unexpected ways. The Tibetan Book of the Dead is Jean-Claude Van Itallie's adaptation of a Tibetan Buddhist holy text from the eighth century which purports to guide a dying soul through its last hours on Earth and its first encounters in the world beyond. In the Jobsite Theater production at the Shimberg Playhouse of the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center, this odyssey is treated with the utmost respect, and with genuine, carefully crafted artistry. The seven-member ensemble — Shawn Paonessa, Christen Pettit, Harry Richards, Grace Santos, Joan Strohman, Mark Trent and Summer Bohnenkamp-Jenkins — employs an ethic of real equality in its use of the stage. Sets, costumes, lighting and music all work wonderfully to create just the right meditative atmosphere. I'm no Buddhist, but I found The Tibetan Book to be a lovely, satisfying experience and a rare attempt to think theatrically about the possibility that our souls might, after all, outlive our bodies. And what a pleasure to see the taboo on death-talk finally broken without shame or sarcasm.
The play begins with strange, evocative music; then the actors arrive, each wearing a white sleeveless shirt and loose trousers that stop at the ankles. One of the actors carries a bowl; another carries a basket. The smell of incense begins to pervade the theater, and the actors, now kneeling, sway with the music. There's no set — only a bare floor on which four intersecting circles have been painted, representing earth, air, fire and water. Now two actors, back on their feet, put a cloth scarf on the shoulders of the actress who will play "the dying." Then the somber, poetic speech begins: "Oh you/ Who have come to this place/ Sisters and brothers, friends/ This person is dying/ She has not chosen to do so /She is suffering greatly/ She has no home, no friends/ Falling as from a cliff/ She is entering a strange forest/ Driven by the winds, swept by the ocean/ She feels no solid ground / She is embarking on a great battle/ Moved from state to state/ She is alone and helpless/ Embrace her with your love."
What follows, amid the actors' dancing and the strangely affecting music, is just that movement from "state to state" which Tibetan Buddhists believe follows the moment of death. First the dying one is confronted with a clear white light and urged to merge with it. When she does not — out of fear, misunderstanding or failure to realize that the light is her most "awakened" being — she moves to the next encounter with the five peaceful families, "the universal energies." When she fails to recognize these energies as emanating from her, she moves on to an encounter with the "angry" side of these same energies. When, again, she fails to see that these negative energies are hers, she descends to another level, wherein she tries, unsuccessfully, to regain her old body. Finally, her only recourse is to be born again, to find a new womb: "So be careful/ Choose a body to help all living beings/ Be born for the good of all/ Choose now but watch what you choose/ A good home/ May be taken for a bad one/ A bad home/ May be taken for a good one."
All the time that we're hearing this solemnly poetic text, we're also enjoying Katrina Stevenson's precise direction and the carefully synchronized movement of the actors. Interestingly, the role of "the dying" is transferred from actress to actress in the course of the evening, as if to emphasize death's democratic nature. And, speaking of "democratic," the seven actors here work so well together, one never makes the mistake of seeing any one of them as predominant. Yes, there are just slightly noticeable marks of personality — like the shake of the head that Strauman gives when she's rejecting one of death's possibilities, or the touch of anger in Paonessa's voice when he alternates lines with his colleagues. But for the most part, this production belongs to the actors as a group, not to anyone in particular.
Which is as it should be. Because The Tibetan Book of the Dead is about the one experience which we all share with one another, the one experience that recognizes no hierarchies. "Death has happened/ It happens to everyone," says the actor; and this is also the implicit message of this ensemble. So maybe you don't believe in the transmigration of souls, maybe you don't even believe that you have a soul; still you can't deny that we're all condemned to die, and that, like it or not, this gives us a kind of solidarity with one another. The Jobsite production of The Tibetan Book of the Dead speaks to that solidarity as much in its acted form as in its textual content.
And that makes this production, quiet and brief though it may be one to remember and to treasure.
Contact Mark E. Leib at mark.leib@weekly planet.com or call 813-248-8888, ext. 305.
This article appears in Mar 27 – Apr 2, 2002.