Theatre in Review: Isolde (New York City Players/Theatre for a New Audience)Isolde left me speechless; I hasten to add that this is not a compliment. This was my first experience with the theatre of writer-director Richard Maxwell, who, over the last couple of decades, has built a following for his distinctive brand of anti-drama. Reams have been written about the characteristic features of his work: the absence of dramatic action, the actors' flat-affect line readings, the sets that look like something mocked up for the rehearsal room. As I took my seat at TFANA, I felt well-versed in the theory of Maxwellian theatre. But nothing could have prepared me for the astonishing dullness of it in practice. Many theatre artists, especially those operating below 14th Street, have little or no patience for the niceties of conventional drama, but they generally bring something else to the party: visual spectacle, provocative political commentary, sharp satire, structural fun and games. Maxwell's method is subtractive rather than additive. He seems to be testing how many elements he can remove from a production and still have a viable theatrical event. Oddly, one of Isolde's biggest problems may be that it is apparently the Maxwell work that is most like a conventional drama; this may raise expectations that a more overtly stylized work may not. The title character is an actress who is also appearing in a stage version of the Tristan and Isolde legend. (Much has been made of the play's so-called parallels with the latter, but really the only thing they have in common is that both stories feature adultery as a main plot point.) Isolde can no longer remember her lines, and is a little bit in denial about her failing powers. To distract her, or perhaps offer some kind of solace, her husband, Patrick, a contractor, is building her a new house. They have engaged Massimo, a famous architect; as time goes by, however, Massimo's inability to produce any architectural drawings at all becomes a source of conflict. Of course, it's no wonder he can't get any work done; he's too busy sleeping with Isolde. I can't begin to tell you how little Maxwell makes of this situation; then again, it seems clear that he doesn't really want to. In any case, he basically circles around it, letting the characters repeat themselves in voices largely devoid of emotional coloring. I've heard it claimed that his purposely banal dialogue and long sentences are full of Pinterian meaning and menace, but rarely have I encountered such deadpan line readings -- and, apparently, for this production, the performances are supposed to be uncharacteristically lively. The most amusing moment, however unintentional, comes when Gary Wilmes, as Massimo, having ravished Isolde, pulls up his pants and says, "I've never, ever known pleasure like this. It's so intense!" -- speaking with all the ardor of automated telephone directory. I must add that Tory Vazquez, as Isolde, is a compellingly mysterious presence. She alone manages the trick of making each of her brusque line readings reverberate with unspoken feelings. Otherwise Wilmes; Jim Fletcher, as Patrick; and Brian Mendes, as Uncle Jerry, who drops by from time to time, move through the proceedings as if in a haze. The scenes in which Patrick goads Massimo -- which, in another writer's hands would fairly bristle with tension -- are among the most somnolent here. The set design, by Sascha Van Riel, consists of undecorated ceiling flats, although near the end, when Isolde resumes her career, a beautiful painted drop, depicting a forest scene, is unfurled. Van Riel also designed the lighting, and I have no doubt that she has given her director everything he wants; nevertheless, the final play-within-a-play sequence contains some of the most appalling lighting I've ever seen, an unflattering green wash that mostly avoids the actors' faces. The costumes -- originals by Romy Springsguth, additional contributions by Kaye Voyce, -- are perfectly solid. The success of an avant-garde artist's work usually depends on finding an audience that can easily get on his or her wavelength. Given the duration of his career, Maxwell has done that, but I suspect it's an all-or-nothing proposition: You either get him or you are lost in bafflement. Watching Isolde, I felt I was trapped in an exercise in anhedonia. Never has passion felt so limp. -- David Barbour 
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