A Thought in Three Parts

Recalling the events of A Thought in Three Parts is to focus on odd specifics that make me wonder if I am relating to the show in perverse ways. If, I mean to say, the scenes I remember reflect some inner, psycho-sexual drama that is unspeakable in life. Yes, there’s perversion, there’s tits and ass, there is even squirting liquids from well-chosen phallic paraphernalia. But none of that really matters. It’s the substance of the subliminal, the hidden caves of the psyche, the impenetrable secrets we hold inside that is so magnificently, decadently oozing out of the script and into the performance that matters.

First part: a man and a woman, in a hotel room perhaps, maybe they’re honeymooners. A party goes on outside their window; some kind of fun which the couple is not enjoying. Instead, the woman, played in appropriate superficiality by Adriene Mishler, tries desperately to look good in a various assortment of dresses. The man, humbled as her ever-eager lover, attempts to find the key to open her willingness to have sex. He’s a man who has lied to himself about contentment through commitment, about desire, by suppressing his underlying urge to bang the living shit out of the woman. And her urge? To try anything if only she could be convinced that it feels good. Mark Stewart as David, is full of tension and remorse, a recognizable sign of blue-balled anxiety. The couple talk to relieve their insecurities and suppress their lust. Small, inconsequential banter, anything but the truth. Finally, after their entertaining display of aggravated attempts to fuck, the conversation turns and the lights go dim.

The set, mostly comprised of a bed and two door frames, makes the transition easier.

Second Part: The Youth Hostel is the juicy, wet fulcrum of the show. Young people acting out their urges to infinite degrees. I am reminded of that recurring dream. You know the one. You in some random place and time meeting another person and just going at it for no particular reason other than that the urge exists. Animalistic, primal, tingling and intense. But after a while the sex loses all meaning and instead becomes trivial gaming, a way to pass the time.

I had played the role of the dildo-wielding diva, Helen, in a reading of the script. It was nice watch the slapping of the pussy with the tip of the toy demonstrated again. Rosaruby Glaberman pursued her dildo pleasure with vigorous intensity. Josh Meyer as Dick played perfect stoicism and boredom against the erotically hungry Helen. Matt Hislope bravely tackled the high-pitched, cum-splashing, jerk-off Bob. Kelli Bland as the sweety-girl, faux virgin Judy, complimented all the rampant buffet of sex, sex, and more sex.

In fact, the actors were all excellently prepared for the complete strip down (figuratively and literally) of ego, body and self. It was impressive to witness the lack of discomfort the actors seemed to embody. If they had been uncomfortable showing penis, tits, ass, and bushy pelvis, then most likely, the audience would have wanted to look away the entire time. Then again, I might be biased. I’ve seen a lot of naked performance art. Hell, I’ve DONE naked performance art. The nude body on stage, performing, is a luxurious taboo in theater today. Doing it usually harvests stale bravado or shock. Not here.

Third part: a wildly patterned wallpaper background envelops Mr. Frivolous, played by the deliciously controlled David Yeakle. Disquieting for reasons unknown, Mr. Frivolous describes a day and his life in dreamy details. A rambling kind of monologue, his engagement with the audience felt more like a freak show demonstration of a tedious man’s personal home life. This piece, a gigantic drop in energy from the previous anarchy of the “Youth Hostel,” was difficult to frame intellectually while watching, but visually, it was stunning, much like a psychedelic trip full of wavy, nonsensical sentences and elongated gestures.

For Wallace Shawn’s play, all this stripping down and nonsense is essential to his point: take the audience and the actors into the secret spots simultaneously. Let us all see what we think, and don’t do. And better yet, make us all sit quietly, discreetly still in our seats as a man and woman simulate fucking, naked, in clear sight. Sure, a camera angle might be missing a penetration shot, but don’t we see enough of that in our secret pornography? And what’s even more interesting is that the audience simply watches without being able to enact, react sexually due to the protocols of theater! The play almost jokingly suggests, “Do try this at home.”