FAILURE HAS ALWAYS BEEN a ripe subject for theater. The stars don’t ever align for Romeo and Juliet. The three Prozorov sisters will never live happily ever after. Godot won’t arrive.
The world’s stage is no different. The current spectacle of the forty-fifth President—his sociopathic twists of fact and fiction, stories told to seize the spotlight, to succeed—promises no happy endings either. It is part of the dispirit of our age that we must recognize that certain people seek not only to align themselves with power and money, but, barring real access to these things, they land their pride on the right to entertainment. Call it zeitgeist, or writing our own fate, but three recent productions in New York took on the subjects of failure and entertainment and how, to some degree, one might triumph over, perhaps even trump, the endless onslaught of both.
“Here I am, a successful man, with a lotta good stuff going on, full of vigor and yeah, I have that little something.” So brags Ric (Ric Royer), the jittery-slick game-show host–cum–motivational speaker at the center of The Psychic Readings Co.’s sublimely absurd comedy-of-terrors, The Failures. Written by Royer and Peter Mills Weiss, the play is as crackerjack as it is crackpot, presenting for our viewing pleasure a pair of failures, played by Mills Weiss and Sarah Lamar as pitch-perfect portraits of deflation in gold-sequined sweatshirts and blue hospital pants. “They do not like their life,” explains Ric. “They don’t like being perpetually locked in an inescapable cycle of incapacity.” Tonight, we’re told, the failures will be given mundane tasks to perform. If they fail, then all remains as it is. If they succeed, they will unleash the wrath of Zothe (Anoushe Shoja)—“a merciless and heartless administrator of cosmic consequence”—on the hapless and unsuspecting Loth (Jon Swift), freshly plucked from the front row. No matter the outcome, the audience is, of course, encouraged to enjoy the show.
Needless to say, the failures fail. (It’s their destiny as well as their duty, after all.) We watch as Zothe shanks Loth in the kidneys with a screw, forces him to drink expired Drano, cuts off his thumb and shreds it between the whirring blades of a fan, sending pieces flying everywhere. As he’s tortured, Loth howls in mortal agony, spewing some of the play’s most disarmingly astute lines: “The real horror here is that it’s not experienced as horror, but as comedy!” and “It’s fear of failure that leads one to design systems in which failure is the desired outcome.”
“The key to success is failure!” sings the cast in the play’s buoyant but sinister denouement, which involves Zothe becoming “not weird anymore,” finding a romantic partner, and opening a chain of donut shops. As it turns out, success can seem a lot like failure, depending on how you look at it. As a monster, Zothe was at least charismatic, strange, determined. Now she’s smug, well-off, and not as fun to watch. Why choose success? As Loth says in the moments before his death: “There are only three independent impulses in the human nature! And none of them are to entertain! They are to survive, survive, survive.”
Survive—of course we must—but to what end? There’s no mortal threat hanging over the three characters in Forced Entertainment’s exasperating comedy Real Magic. Rather, the condition in which company members Claire Marshall, Jerry Killick, and Richard Lowdon find themselves is that of eternal return, stuck as they are in an endless, tedious game show from which they cannot seem to free themselves. The consequence of their failure is repetition: They keep going round and round for more rounds. Think of it as Sartre’s No Exit for the twenty-four-hour infotainment era: It’s never made clear if an escape from all this canned dazzle is impossible, or if in truth, is “wanted.”
The game that Claire, Jerry, and Richard play seems designed to fail: They’re asked to read one another’s minds to guess the word that one of them is thinking. Each in their turn plays one of three roles: guesser, thinker, and host. The guesser has three chances to get it right, the thinker holds up a sign for the audience with their word written on it, and the host oversees the game. Claire’s word is CARAVAN. Jerry’s is ALGEBRA. Richard’s is SAUSAGE. Yet every time, every guesser guesses the same three wrong words—money, electricity, hole. After the game is lost they swap places and start all over again. The contradiction of their condition is that, of course, they play because they lose, and they lose because they play. Even as their patience, steam, and focus wane, they remain in the game. In fact, they can’t even cheat their way out of it.
Real Magic is in part a theatrical essay on one of the most bewitching forms in contemporary culture: the loop. As distinct from, say, Dante’s infamous circles, which led to deeper realms, a loop is stagnation in motion: self-arresting, ouroboric, collapsing backward and forward momentums into the same direction. A loop produces erosion, fatigue, confusion—a devolving that certainly incites change, though not the rousing kind. Forced Entertainment never lets up on this point, refusing to buoy the pummeling experience of watching the play by granting motivation or meaning to Claire, Jerry, and Richard. “Sometimes the answer to your problem is right in front of you,” says Claire as she and Jerry try to prompt Richard into just reading the sign when it’s his turn to guess. (He doesn’t.) Perhaps we’re to understand that one possible way forward—of up and out—is to simply pay better attention.
A similar spirit possesses Philippe Quesne’s La Mélancolie des dragons, a languorous and enchanting production that recalibrates the scales with which to measure magic and wonder, both in the theater and out in the world. Failure too kicks off this story: A stalled Volkswagen Rabbit has stranded a merry band of metalheads and their trailer in a snowy wood. They’re soon discovered by Isabelle, a mechanic—what luck!—who assumes they’re in a band. As it turns out, the men run a touring amusement park—we are independent, one explains—a series of spectacles that they offer to put on just for her. What unfolds is at once silly, sweet, and profound, as Isabelle (and we the audience) are treated to modest yet magnificent sights.
Their first trick: “Invisible Men,” an installation of wigs suspended on fishing wire, lit by stage lights, and blown around by a fan while loud music plays. Incredible, says Isabelle, agog. They show her how the trailer doubles as a library, housing a few stacks of art books, children’s books, and a copy of Artaud’s The Theater and Its Double. One machine fills the air with bubbles, another with smoke, a third with snow, “so that we can make winter in the summertime!” they tell Isabelle. Images of warm places appear in the cold landscape via a video projector. A bucket of water and a hose become a gurgling fountain. Enormous black plastic bags are inflated to become quivering monoliths in which the people move, but the floats stay in place.
The men explain every amusement as they go along, leaving no mystery as to how it’s all made. All the while, Isabelle oohs and ahhs, her amazement growing for the strange and funny show played before her. Seams out, the metalheads’ park creates real magic simply by failing illusion—or at least by proving that the power to produce wonder, via art, literature, theater, requires the eye of the beholder too. In other words, what we see is what we beget in the world. The only failure that must be guarded against is that of the imagination.
The Psychic Readings Co.’s The Failures was presented on January 13 and 14 at Vital Joint as part of The Exponential Festival; Forced Entertainment’s Real Magic was presented from January 5 to 8 at La MaMa as part of P.S. 122’s 2017 COIL Festival; Philippe Quesne’s La Mélancolie des dragons was presented from January 10 to 14 at the Kitchen as part of The Public Theater’s Under the Radar Festival.