I went to see The Black Rider last night with my sister and
aunt. It was such an easy theater choice—collaboration between Tom Waits,
Robert Wilson, and William S. Burroughs is pure genius. I expected nothing less
than what I got: a visual trip of artistic lighting and design, lyrics that hit
my core and vibrate well into the next verse, not to mention a full orchestra
and then some when you add the conga and the didgeridoos, a surreal story
lodged in history and reality difficult to ignore. The acting was brilliant and
the post-modern dance added an element usually rare for me to connect with. It
was a love story meets vaudeville, uprooted with addiction, then grounded by
music, lights, and movement. The woman to my right turned to me and said, “I
don’t know how to describe this...it’s like German Kabuki.”
You can imagine how disconcerting it was to be so absorbed in this aesthetic experience when, about 20 minutes into the first act, the first couple got up from their seats, crossed in front of the stage of actors, stepping across other theatergoers to exit the theatre. Their movement out the door seemed to give permission to at least 30 or more people, some as little as five minutes before intermission, to get up and leave. During intermission, I tried to figure out what had made so many Angelinos walk out—the pact with the devil, the make up, the striking vocals that sang so beautifully in their obscurity? I wondered why these patrons couldn’t pick one thing, the orchestra, the visuals, or the characters, and just ride with it until the intermission and leave then. What made it so important for them to leave when they did, to make such ruckus? Did they attend just to re-enact what they’d read in LA Times? What did they expect from Wilson, Waits, and Burroughs anyway? I don’t know.
The good news is by the second act so many seats were vacated that everyone in back moved to the front and we all truly enjoyed the show. The second act was even more inspiring than the first as the drama intensified and the dancing and music went deeper. But then again, did we expect anything less from Wilson, Waits, and Burroughs?
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