The Hologram Theory
Now that I've been exposed to it, I'm looking back in puzzlement. She's clearly got a lot on her mind, but how it isn't just a rehash of everyone else who's ever despaired about society coming apart at the seams eludes me. How it is at all fresh or illuminating also escapes me.
In a literal way, it actually does illuminate--at least in the Blue Light Theater Co.'s production, for which lighting designer Ryan M. Mueller has rigged equipment not only to throw thick, blaring beams (and strobe light effects) on the stage, but also to hit the audience square in the eyes every once in a while. It's as if the ticket-buyers have been assembled for a police grilling.
Which does follow a certain logic, since in The Hologram Theorya police inquiry is set in motion when a young woman called Patricia leaves her Trinidad home to visit New York City. Patricia is prompted to travel because she's concerned about her twin brother, Dominic. As it happens, Patricia communicates with Dominic in her reveries, and in his most recent telepathic dispatch, he gave her disturbing news: he was dead.
To her chagrin, Patricia's premonitions are confirmed. Dissoluting around town under the name Shango, Dominic had patronized a club called the Palace. There, he fell in with four club kids who murdered him and then, on orders from their leader, Joe Buck, chopped up his corpse and stashed it in Mylar-covered boxes. (Goldberg's has based her work on the club-related Angel Menendez killing a few years back.) One of the kids, Julian, is so conscience-ridden that he finds himself spilling the beans about the crime to a reporter, his girlfriend Mimi's stepsister Sara.
Unfortunately, Goldberg's play in the end symbolizes what she's condemning: self-induced anomie. In a series of fragmented--almost hallucinogenic--scenes, she flails around for meaning while her characters writhe on the floor and those rotating light fixtures implicate the audience in the destructive behavior. Mimi is so undone by a fear that her body won't obey her that she often can only rock herself rhythmically. Sara, however, is so caught up in finding a news story with which she can make her name she doesn't even notice her stepsister's plight. (She's as obtuse as Patricia is astute.)
And speaking of Sara and investigative journalism, what kind of journalist is she? Apparently, she has neither affiliation nor scruples--she's prepared to sleep with both Julian and Simon if she thinks that'll boost her chance of a scoop. Moreover, why is Greg carrying out the investigation into Dominic's disappearance and murder by himself? The answer to these and numerous equally baffling questions is not forthcoming.
In the overwrought contemporary melodrama, Goldberg gives the impression she's declaiming too many profundities to be held to dramaturgical sense. She's in good company, too, since her collaborators seem to think they must underscore her significance with loud noises and crinkly Mylar backdrops and searchlights and shiny Venetian blinds. (In addition to his work on lights, Mueller designed the tall, predominantly black-and-red set with Scott Spahr; Ray Sweeten, not living up to his name, is responsible for the original music and sound design.)
Director Ruben Polendo hasn't controlled any of the excesses, either. It's more like he's encouraged his players to keep going over the top until they can wave from an orbit somewhere in outer space. For the record, those doing ensemble scenery-chewing include Kellie Overbey, Daniel Bess, Corey Stoll, Bill Torres, Elizabeth Reaser and Chris Messina, who succeeds in making Joe Buck extra-special creepy.