Review: The Burning Cauldron of Fiery Fire, Anne Washburn’s Hippie Commune Mystery

It was the right thing to do. The adults of a small farming commune in California are certain that their choice to cremate the body of a deceased member of their community, rather than notify the authorities and leave that decision to his legal next-of-kin, was the morally, spiritually, ethically correct one. But it was also illegal. And when their homemade pyre fails to completely incinerate the remains, leaving charred flesh clinging to a skeleton, they must communally decide what to do next.

That’s the macabrely gripping premise of Anne Washburn’s new play, The Burning Cauldron of Fiery Fire, now making its world premiere with the Civilians at Vineyard Theatre. It was certainly enough to hook me, but your ability to remain engaged with this shifty, inscrutable, occasionally baffling tale will really depend on your tolerance for loose ends, unresolved tension, and unreliable narrators.

There’s also Washburn’s magpie style, wedding subtext-laden realistic drama to flights of poetic fancy. Of all the characters, only one, six-year-old Milo (player by grown actor Bobby Moreno, a startlingly clear-eyed chaos agent), speaks to us directly and with the benefit of hindsight, suggesting an adult looking back on the past. “I don’t need to see the body to know something has come to an end,” he tells us, lemony pity dripping into the wound of our end times anxiety, “In a time of change / deep unsteadiness / the crumbling of the foundations / I move among you – / like a god.”

His mother, Mari (Marianne Rendón), had a sexual relationship with Peter (Tom Pecinka), the deceased, though she seems to also have something going on with Thomas (Bruce McKenzie), the oldest male. While the sexual and spiritual politics of this seemingly egalitarian community are never spelled out, we do see a lot of idiosyncratic prayer. We also see McKenzie expertly walk the border between touchy-feely hippie and snarling separatist patriarch.

“I’m subject to a federal government whose hegemony over this good earth I do not recognize and whose laws I find generally offensive,” he says after receiving an uncomfortable phone call from Peter’s mother. His solution? Rip the phone lines down.  But when Peter’s brother, Will (also Pecinka), shows up looking for clues pertaining to his whereabouts, everyone on the farm instantly defers to daddy to make this problem go away.

Washburn is a master of the art of dramatic striptease, offering her audience tantalizing flashes of possibility. Are we about to see a farce set in the chasm between woo-woo ideals and banal reality? Is this a searing look at adult self-absorption through the eyes of a child? Maybe we’ll get a good old-fashioned murder mystery starring a flinty detective (with his hawk-like gaze and air of alluring menace, Pecinka is perfect for this role). Or could this be a play about dizzy hippies, hopelessly out of date and depth when confronted by a cold and calculating son of privilege? Washburn gives us a good look at every option before abruptly drawing the curtains shut.

The only aspect of this show that feels overexposed is a second-act pageant in which the commune children attempt to make sense of the recent strange activities of their parents through a fairy tale about a brave young man named Peter leaping into a cauldron of fire for his love, the princess. It seems highly unlikely Thomas or any of the adult would want to wave this red flag in front of Will, but it does allow Washburn and director Steve Cosson (who also helmed Washburn’s far more successful Mr. Burns, a Post- Electric Play) an opportunity to dabble in their old magic.

Cosson deftly navigates the wild tonal shifts in the play while delivering a sturdy production. Andrew Boyce’s set conveys rustic DIY, a thin coat of ash on the floor never allowing us to forget the inciting action. Emily Rebholz’s costumes these back-to-the-land hipsters with just the right amount of whimsy. Amith Chandrashakar’s evocative lighting transforms the set into both indoor and outdoor locations. And Ryan Gamblin’s sound design and original compositions underscore the proceedings with eerie tension, a drumroll promise of things to come. It certainly tricked me into believing that this play was headed to a spectacular climax.

Sadly, The Burning Cauldron of Fiery Fire feels like off-Broadway’s own version of Lost. A final scene that dives head-first into fantasy and calls into question all that we’ve just witnessed has the plausible whiff of a brilliant psychedelic trip, but it might just be absurdity standing in for a solid ending. Beautiful and fascinating, it is by no means satisfying. That’s true to life, but it makes for frustrating viewing in the theater.