Theatre in Review: The Old Man and the Pool (Vivian Beaumont Theatre)

	Mike Birbiglia. Photo: Emilio Madrid

In the most uproarious part of Mike Birbiglia's latest solo effort, he asks the audience not to laugh. More to the point, he calls for a moment of silence, memorializing the subject of an anecdote about a man who dropped dead while trying to hold his breath. (I could give you the background to this story, but we'd be here for hours, so intricately constructed are Birbiglia's scripts.) Of course, being asked to assume a solemn tone, even for a moment, is the funniest thing in the world, and no amount of stern looks from the star can make it happen. (A woman seated a few rows behind me fell into a laughing jag from which there was no return.) Finally, to sweeten the deal, Birbiglia tells us that if we can hold our collective peace, he will reward us with "one humorous detail about his death" -- which, of course, causes an explosion of laughter.

I'm not going to reveal that detail -- out of context, it would mean nothing -- but I can add that it slays, prodigiously, like just about everything else in The Old Man and the Pool. This is the fifth volume in Birbiglia's theatrical memoirs, and each one is richer, funnier, and more insightful than its predecessor. He remains unparalleled in his ability to convert life's most difficult moments -- ranging from the mundane to the truly ghastly -- into unbridled hilarity.

This is Birbiglia's mortality piece, if you will, its action rooted in the news that he runs the risk of serious pulmonary disease, followed by the onset of type 2 diabetes. Longtime fans will remember that he is also a survivor of bladder cancer. And of course, there is the bizarre disorder, discussed at length in Sleepwalk with Me, that led him to walk through a plate glass window. This time, however, he is staring the likelihood of early death in the face -- and, as ever, cracking wise about it.

Of course, spending as much of his time on the road as he does, a healthy lifestyle is a challenge. Not that he tries very hard: His doctor's recommendation of a five-day-a-week cardio workout is dismissed as the height of improbability. When his pulmonologist suggests swimming five days a week, Birbiglia scoffs that not even Michael Phelps maintains that schedule. But a glance at his winsome daughter at bedtime triggers sober thoughts about the adults in his life who died young. Suddenly struck with the responsibility of keeping himself alive for her sake, he steps, haltingly, onto the path to better living.

Naturally, the path is crooked and filled with detours. There's the nutritionist, whom he characterizes as "an annoying friend, who charges you." He muses, "The thing about healthy food is, it goes to bed early," while pizza stays up all night. (He freely admits that, to him, a regular-sized pie constitutes a single portion.) He recalls his dire high school wrestling career, when, weighing one hundred fifty pounds, he was easily defeated by an opponent one-third lighter. (It was, he notes, like "a paperweight being pinned by...paper.") Deciding to give swimming a whirl, he describes himself as the possessor of "a river corpse body." (A childhood trip to his local pool left him marooned in the men's locker room, surrounded by "a hundred penises at eye level.") Dropping in at the local YMCA, he demonstrates his lack of technique to the in-house instructor, who decides that training him will be too time-consuming. This cues the shocking, only-in-showbiz realization: "I auditioned for swim lessons and I didn't get the part."

In The Old Man and the Pool, Birbiglia retains his ability to spin what seems like dozens of digressions into a remarkably unified narrative, and his delivery is as fresh as ever. Having started out in smallish Off-Broadway theatres, he works the cavernous Beaumont with ease, sitting cross-legged at center stage and taking a thousand spectators into his confidence, then pacing the stage furiously, working himself up into a comic frenzy. His other trademarks still serve him perfectly: the nasal demurral, the pause before delivering the final, detonating, word of a punchline, and the slightly guilty smile that acknowledges our complicity in his wicked thoughts. But, as in his previous show, The New One, there is a deepening of feeling, an awareness of the good fortune life has offered him in the form of his beautiful daughter and loving wife. Lest things get too sentimental, he admits to a certain nervousness about naming his spouse his health-care proxy, imagining her, on certain days, dispatching him with a thumbs-down, like Emperor Nero. But there's little doubt that he is a happy man.

Seth Barrish, who has guided all of Birbiglia's previous shows, does so expertly here, aided by his design team. Beowulf Boritt's set, a curved wall taken from the bottom of a pool wall, cuts the enormous Beaumont stage in half, pushing the action downstage to good effect. Aaron Copp's lighting and Kai Harada's sound are solid contributions. If Hana S. Kim's projections feel a tad redundant -- they mostly consist of quotes from Birbiglia's journal -- they are well-done. Toni-Leslie James has dressed the star in his typical style of jeans, untucked shirt, and sneakers. Thanks to the regularity with which they appear, Birbiglia's pieces are rather like a catch-up with an old friend. As The Old Man and the Pool cruises to a conclusion, the star's prospects for longevity are looking up. It's excellent news: Life without him would be a much duller, and much less entertaining, place. --David Barbour