The Black Book
Sargent Theatre
17 October 2015
4 Stars
Book Tickets
“Complicated. Confused. Complex.
Uncertain of what you’ll do next.
Tension. Pressure. Stress.
Holding so many secrets yet to confess.
As this burden crushes down…
You find yourself asking questions.
Why? When?
When will that moment finally come?
I’ve been holding out for so long but your feelings won’t succumb.
Only one answer.
Time…defines us all.
Whether we slow down or speed ahead…
It’s not lone before I’m…”
Insert your own last word. That seems to be at least one of the ideas at play here.
This is The Black Book, a remarkable piece of newish writing now playing off-Broadway at the Sargent Theatre. Written and directed by Phil Blechman, the play is a response of sorts to the unexpected suicide of a classmate of Blechman’s, started in 2007 and first produced in 2011.
In the programme, Blechman says of the play:
“(It) explores a mind seeking clarity while verging on collapse: The triggers of dissociative identity disorder, the suppression of traumatic memories,and the contemplation of suicide. It may be confusing at first, as is the subject matter of mental illness. However, collectively, perhaps we can make a significant step toward healing madness.
Chess is a game of both perfect information and infinite possibility; similar to how we think. There are 8 characters, each represented by a chess piece… (Kings, Queens, Knights, a Bishop and a Rook). You are sitting in a 64 seat house – the same number of squares on a chessboard.
Often times we miss the details. But details are important. Sometimes, noticing and taking them seriously could make the difference”.
The Sargent Theatre is an uncomfortable, hot, black box of a theatre, although the seats are old-school faded plush and accommodate you nicely during the 90-100 minutes this play occurs around you. Whether you like it or not, you are part of the experience – some of the dialogue is spoken directly to you, actors connect their eyes to yours. It’s deliberately discombobulating, and effective. At the start, you wonder if you are actually supposed to answer questions; as time goes by, you are grateful that your sense of self-preservation kicked in.
Which may well be the point.
This is as unsettling a drama as any I have seen in recent times. It lives up to the first three words of the poem, reproduced above, which is central to it. When the play starts you are led to believe that a missing poetry student has left that fragment of his work for a first-day new Professor. The poet is missing from class and the Professor is worried.
Except, the poet is talking to the audience, sitting amongst the audience and not being seen by the Professor even when he is standing in front of him and calling out. So, things are not what they seem.
And they never are.
I confess freely that, while the play was happening, I had very little idea what was going on. This is, no doubt, about my own idiocy; but, in my own defence, I doubt people are meant to follow the narrative line intently and that part of the central point here is obfuscation and deception. Suicide, and it’s causes, is not a crystal clear concept.
But in the hours since I saw the play, since the thoughts and actions of the characters have frolicked and filtered through my mind, it does appear to make a lot of sense.
Indeed, in many ways, the incomplete poem tells you everything you need to know.
But the visceral pleasure of the other elements cannot be denied: the jigsaw-puzzle of encounters; the conundrum about whether murder lies at the root of possible suicide; the relationships between the players; the reason why several men wear red ties; whether the Professor can’t see the poet or the poet can’t be where the Professor is; the man with the rope around his neck who wonders if he has the right branch; the apparently lunatical woman in a straight-jacket doing endless House of Tobias Fogg acting; the self-harming shared by so many; the question of who loves whom, when and why; the importance of the chess pieces and where they are moved – and when.
What, in fact, does checkmate mean to a person intent on suicide? Or perhaps, a person on whom suicide is intent?
All of the hoary old chestnuts are roasted in this dramatic feast: who suffers more, the departed or those left behind? Does time mean tragedy has greater or lesser impact? Does memory trick you into action? What, actually, is reality? Can you be dead and still think? There are many more – but the point is not that the roasting occurs, but the way in which the roasting occurs.
This is a dynamic, challenging and gripping piece of dramatic theatre. It’s confronting in a number of ways, especially if you have known someone who took their own life. There are sections full of lyrical beauty, others dripping with trenchant scepticism. Sometimes it is easiest to listen to the actors rather than watch them, because the subject matter is so close to the bone.
The design from Ann Beyersdorfer is at once cliched and utterly perfect. The chessboard irritates at first, but you can see why it works. The sense of imprisonment, of claustrophobia in ordinary environments, of always being watched, of never being quite alone, cleverly conveyed. The professor might not see the poet but who can’t see you? Beyersdorfer’s design, like a surprise volcano, provides a familiar landscape which delivers uncomfortable, hot surprises.
At the performance I saw, alead character, Colin Archer, was played by the author, the actor David Siciliano being indisposed. In most places, the combination of director, writer and actor would spell certain horror, but not here. Blechman was impressive throughout, engaging and alienating in equal measure.
There was no one in the cast who did anything but exemplary work, and all were happily engaged on the same task. There were no stars or prima donnas here: just good actors, doing their best to make a difficult piece of dramatic theatre sing. Especially good were Gabe Templin, Haley Dean, and Joe Reece, each of whom, in various ways, had extremity of character to assail and did that well.
This is that remarkable thing: new writing which looks and sounds trite but which actually isn’t. It is absorbing and confusing and bewildering- but there is a sense of human endurance threaded through it which keeps you fascinated while it plays out and contemplating long after the final bow has been taken.
The lighting (Susannah Baron) and the sound (Christopher Marc) is clever and as much a part of the dramatic fabric as the poem fragment.
There is murder, multiple personality, shared grief, jealousy, indignation and overwhelming guilt motivating the movement of the chess pieces – and, later, working out the moves and why they occurred, well, that’s what martinis are for!
One sees many, many new plays. The Black Book is better than most, challenging for cast, creatives and crew, but it does that fundamental requirement of good modern drama: it makes you think while it demands your attention and long after that demand has been sated.
Complicated. Confused. Complex.
And Clever!
Oh, that London saw new plays this interesting more often.
