Bread and Puppet Double Bill
The recent swell of adult-oriented puppet theater defines itself in its opposition to the norm rather than its relation to the larger tradition. From Broadway to Comedy Central's Crank Yankers, the puppet artists of mainstream theater and pop culture create foul-mouthed, libidinous Muppets to show us the new face of puppetry, a gritty version of the kiddie counterpart.
Bread and Puppet Double Bill proves that the avant-garde techniques the Bread and Puppet Theater Company used to establish its reputation in leftist political theater during the 1960s have not lost their strength. The mammoth puppets that deconstruct U.S. foreign policy are part of world traditions rather than emulating the work of Jim Henson, and the forlorn puppet faces that represent the spoils of war stir audiences of all political persuasions. Although the Eastern European brass tunes and Living Theater-inspired movement techniques employed here come from past eras, they deeply affect modern day audiences caught in the whirlwind of an ever-changing world. Don't let the mock-mythical iconography and floral artwork fool you: The modes of expression that this company uses aren't just relics of the hippie era.
Yet much of the content of the first piece, "How to Turn Distress Into Success: A Parable of War," seems rather unfocused and out-of-date. One skit has a passing reference to the military draft that seems more appropriate to the Vietnam conflict than the war in Iraq. A march of "horses" played by actors in cheesecloth costumes makes for a pretty uninteresting spectacle, and there's an easy, familiar Santa Claus parody about commercialism. Artistic director Peter Schumann delivers the grand finale: Wearing 20-foot stilts and a hat of stars, stripes, and skeletons, he plays an enormous, menacing Uncle Sam. It's almost too cute to be subversive but it rounds off the tepid first act on a high note.
Act II, a continuation of "How To Turn Distress Into Success," represents the type of political theater that gave the company its name. It begins with a September 11 re-enactment in which two crude cardboard towers fall on a mother called "Truth" and her daughter, "Population." This staging doesn't aim for subtlety or beg interpretation; it confronts the New York audience with a simple and painful image. Truth's mask, somewhat reminiscent of the Japanese Noh Theater, strips her of identity and turns her into an Everywoman mourning her child; the quasi-religious memorial that follows, with chants from the Republic of Georgia and subdued lighting, is respectful and deeply moving. The piece's political allegory begins tactfully after this ceremony: Tears that fall from the buildings become drumsticks that beat the timpani of Rage. The infant Population learns the art of war in a butcher's shop and the "Collateral Damage Dancers" perform a solemn number. Criticisms of the war in Iraq may or may not be facile, but Bread and Puppet's presentation is sophisticated and effective.