Robert Wilson’s version of A Dream Play—August Strindberg’s odd mix of proto-Surrealism and ur–New Age kitsch—is, of course, a theater production. But it’s also a sequence of quite extraordinary images: thirteen tableaux in which actors, props, lighting, and sound play equally important roles. Empathy and psychological identification would seem to be excluded from the outset. In a work of art, nothing is for real—why pretend otherwise? Wilson makes that clear from the opening curtain. Here everything is mechanics and artificiality: The actors move like automatons; their voices, dodging the