Theatre in Review: Volcano (Under the Radar/St. Ann's Warehouse)

	Luke Murphy (standing), Will Thompson. Photo: Marc Brenner

Volcano, from the Dublin-based company Attic Projects, is the latest serving of theatre under glass, a design affectation that has recently overtaken Anglo-Irish stages. The idea is to encase actors and scenery inside a vast, transparent box, creating a sense of distance between actors and audience, and making extra work for the lighting and sound designers. Recent examples of this cubist instinct include The Lehman Trilogy, the Young Vic production of Yerma (seen at Park Avenue Armory), and Phaedra at the National Theatre. Next up at St. Ann's Warehouse is Almeida Theatre's The Hunt, designed by Es Devlin (an enthusiastic purveyor of these structures), which traps a sizable cast inside a cramped, gabled, see-through house. I hope the ventilation is good.

Once seen as provocative, these human terrariums have faded into cliché, existing largely to signal that their productions are terribly serious. Their irritations are many, including heavily miked actors, and structural supports that block one's view of the action. Alyson Cummins and Pai Rathaya's set for Volcano comes with a twist: Inside the box is a decayed interior filled with shabby furniture; lamps with tatty, fringed shades; and spectacularly peeling wallpaper. Except for the video gear scattered about, you could stage a kitchen-sink drama, circa 1955, in it. Compounding the mystery, Volcano's opening sequence indicates that its characters are involved in intergalactic travel. Fine, but why are they seen in such squalid, dated surroundings? Is the Irish government blasting council flats into outer space?

Questions abound regarding the play's two characters, known in the script as X and Y: Why do they incessantly record each other with cameras? What is the meaning of the various comedy routines, impersonations, and game show skits ("Tell Me All About It, the show where you get to tell us just what the hell is going on") with which they pass the time? Why do the characters occasionally leak black liquid out of their ears and mouths? For that matter, are X and Y really traveling through space in a vehicle known as Pod 261? What about the sequence devoted to Morton Heilig, one of the fathers of virtual reality? And how to explain the extensive dance breaks whenever the vintage radio spontaneously comes to life?

They exist because Luke Murphy, who wrote, directed, and choreographed Volcano, in addition to playing X, is a specialist in hybrid dance/theatre pieces. In this case, his intentions are notably vague. As he notes in the program, "The narrative is pieced together through a series of clues and reveals." Actually, it consists of considerable hinting around followed by a massive hunk of exposition featuring a plot device reminiscent of the film Don't Worry, Darling. While we're on the topic of pop culture, let me add that Star Trek is repeatedly evoked: At one point, a sketch of William Shatner appears on the upstage wall and, in the production's most amusing sequence, Martin executes a spot-on version of Shatner's spoken-word rendition of the Elton John hit "Rocketman."

But, for the most part, Volcano remains a lengthy voyage with an unknown destination. The script touches on a variety of themes having to do with existential loneliness, father-son relationships, and man's search for meaning; there's also a faint undertone of homoeroticism. But despite a running time clocking in at just under four hours, little is clearly stated, and no conclusions are reached. (The action is broken up into four 45-minute episodes with two short pauses followed by a proper intermission after Part III. At the performance I attended, the audience rebelled after Part II, fleeing to the lobby for coffee and/or bathroom breaks, despite the ushers' martyred looks.)

Murphy and his co-star Will Thompson are gifted performers with true grit when it comes to maintaining performance energy over the long haul. They are especially engaging during the choreographed sequences, which draw on a modern dance vocabulary supplemented with some Fosse-style moves for Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing." In a lengthy sequence near the end, they strike an amusing series of rapid-fire poses that evoke Michelangelo's The Creation and Pietà, Marilyn Monroe in The Seven-Year Itch, ET, and Superman, in addition to a waltz, a kiss, a fistfight, and a hanging.

On the design side, the set works well enough, except for the lengthy Part IV changeover that leaves the audience sitting in the dark. Stephen Dodd's lighting moves fluently from warm to cool washes, treats the translucent ceiling with patterns, juices up some strobe effects, and generally evokes an otherworldly atmosphere. Too many sequences are staged in half-light, however, obscuring the actors' faces; this must be what Murphy wanted, but it's not a fruitful choice. Rathaya's costumes cleverly take a layered approach, allowing Murphy and Thompson to assume new identities with a simple change of jackets. Pato Cassinoni created the many video sequences promoting the pod/space travel project, and they are as slick and eerie as anyone would want. Rob Moloney provides original music; a cascade of music cues that include Billie Holiday singing "I'll Be Seeing You," "Crap Kraft Dinner" by the synthpop band Hot Chip, and "You're Welcome" by The Beach Boys; and ambient effects such as the "glitches," earthquake-like rumbles that signal the onset of brief mental short-circuits experienced by X and Y.

The most telling thing about Volcano is that a good two hours could be removed without materially affecting it. Conceived in epic terms, it lacks the elements -- a complex plot and characters plus a solid theoretical understructure -- that would justify such a length. You can't merely allude to your themes across such a timespan; audiences will get the nagging suspicion that the piece doesn't mean much of anything. Indeed, after an hour or two, I felt lost in space. --David Barbour