Anything that could go wrong will go wrong: Krymov Lab NYC returns to La MaMa
A child attacks Shelby Flannery, who holds the remains of a decapitated python, with birdshit.
Metamorphoses, the latest from Krymov Lab NYC, revels in the accidents we cannot control. Written and directed by Dimitry Krymov with his trademark irreverent humor, this “dark comic romp”—which runs at La MaMa until March 23—is a 90-minute exercise in how Murphy's Law might apply to a funeral. The play’s breathless subtitle, “A Few Ways of Keeping a Child From Running Around at His Great Uncle’s Funeral,” tells you all you need to know. Spoiler alert: the kid runs around anyway, and almost everything that could go wrong, does.
As a director, Krymov has mostly divested his practice from Aristotelian convention. Metamorphoses is structured, rather, like a piece of classical music, with a theme and variations. The capo goes like this: a man (Amen Igbinosun) and child attend a funeral to pay their respects to the departed. The man brings flowers, while the kid—actor and puppeteer Natalie Battistone disguised in a paper mache mask—carries a bouncy ball. Meanwhile, an out-of-tune soprano (Grace Bernardo) sings standard funeral repertoire, such as Mozart’s “Lacrimosa.” Inevitably, the child loses control of the ball, knocking the coffin over. Chaos ensues. A murder of puppet crows is revealed among the rafters. They caw and (pretty convincingly) shit all over the stage: a cherry on top of a perfectly disastrous funeral. This sequence repeats itself several times, with variations of course, but the end result never changes. It always ends with birdshit.
The repetition doesn’t feel dull, however, in part because Krymov includes digressions to break up the funeral sequences. Shelby Flannery shines as the emcee to these less-than solemn affairs. Dressed like a silent film tramp (no character names are given) Flannery’s initial speech—which is mainly a list of potential uses and hazards for glue—is pretty emblematic of the discursive monologues that follow.
Flannery’s role is a challenging one—she has like 80% of the play's lines—but she rises to the occasion, engaging in some mental gymnastics to interpret all the crazy stuff Krymov throws at her. Late in the show, for instance, a camel designed by Leah Ogawa and manned by two actors, makes a surprise entrance; Flannery wonders if its appearance has to do with her erstwhile fondness for Camel cigarettes.
At another point in the play, a dog (more puppetry) reminds Flannery of a similar canine that belonged to a childhood friend. The appearance of the dog prompts the introduction to an offstage character: Flannery’s old pal “Jimmy,” who we learn suffered a tragic accident. Jimmy becomes something of a throughline for Flannery’s addresses, which she delivers with a winning combination of genuinely felt emotion and deadpan gallows humour, two of Krymov’s favorite registers—and mine. When recounting the tragic accident that left Jimmy blind, I truly felt that I was experiencing Martin Esslin’s description of absurdist theatre, which “does not provoke tears of despair but the laughter of liberation.” Appropriately, the quote is included in the program notes.
Although Krymov once ran a state-funded theatre in Russia, he’s become what I would call a frugal maximalist in the East Village. The set looks as if it could have been furnished from a couple visits to the Salvation Army. Almost everything—the pews, the backdrop of the church, even some cutout silhouettes of mourners—is made of cardboard, which proves to be surprisingly durable. At one point, the audience is presented with a pile of old stuffed animals, but even these grimy props shine bright. In a time when ticket prices to top Broadway shows are creeping near four figures, it’s refreshing to enjoy a great piece of theatre that feels as if it were furnished from whatever was lying around grandma’s attic—and for just 45 bucks!
Ultimately, the funeral ends, and the cycle is broken. (As it turns out, there are some instances in which you simply cannot keep a child from running around at his great uncle's funeral). Perhaps this is the transformation at the heart of the play’s title? The old die off, and the young inherit whatever mess is left behind. Certainly, we leave the Ellen Stewart Theatre a very different place from how we found it. The place looked as if a tornado had blown through: a mishmash of cardboard, stuffed animals, and fake birdshit—all the makings of a theatrical evening well spent.
Seeing a Krymov production is to experience highly orchestrated chaos—and to enjoy the riffs and tricks it's composed of. One image, not at all integral to the story (if we can even call it that) comes to mind: Flannery finding a piece of red string from behind her ear. She tugs at it, pulling out a surprising quantity, then mimes flossing between her ears. Superfluous? Probably. Delightful? No question.
Another comes at the end, when Flannery, a la Clark Kent, rips off her suit and wig to reveal a scarlet cocktail dress and cheeky bob. “We’re merely actors—and barely even that,” she says, winkingly, and invites the audience to dance onstage. When Flannery extended her hand, I didn’t hesitate.
