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Drowning in the line of duty It’s pouring rain as I arrive at the Exchange Theatre to see Doug Dunn’s solo, Time Out. Inside, he’s standing, facing into a corner, his feet pointed toward each other, parallel to the walls. Dunn is dressed in a sweatsuit with a hood, soft boots, and mittens. He hasn’t moved since the house opened at 8. At 8:35 he lies down lethargically and, on his side and bent at the waist, snuggles his body into the corner. Stillness. Silence. He could be sleeping. After a while he sits up into another position, his torso and limbs extended along the intersections of the three planes created by the walls and floor. Stillness. I start counting: one-and-a-thousand, two-and-a-thousand… 70-and-a-thousance, and he starts repositioning. I start wondering if the position variations possible on three planes are infinite. Someone behind me murmurs disconsolately: “It’s the death of art.” Someone else, indignant: “Shhh!” Silence. One-and-a-thousand, two-and-two-and-… pat… pat… pat… The roof has started to leak. Drops of water plunging through the stillness, distracting. It must be driving Dunn crazy. The repositionings are coming more frequently now, about every 40 seconds. Pat… pat… I can see the puddle. I hope this solo ends before we drown. Christ, I hope it has an ending. He yawns. Or is it an extended silent scream? It takes about 30 seconds before I decide it’s a yawn. He’s waking up. Leaving, disappearing behind an upstage screen. It’s 9:05. Dunn returns, dressed in a sweater and jeans, carrying the Times. Glance at the paper, put a page in front of a chair, turn, climb on chair, turn, jump on page, scuffle, stuff it under sweater. Repeat, with variations, until the Times is gone and his sweater bulges ridiculously. The death of art. Shh. The last variation is a tumble off the chair onto five pages of the Times. A minimal kind of climax or sort. What next? Next comes sleeping in a sleeping bag while an unloaded projector flickers in the darkness. Wake up and get dressed, but slowly: the morning routine arrested by molasses air. He’s got a gun. He’s aiming it at the audience, and I’m nervous. Time Out is only theatre. So why am I so uneasy? Because it’s a real gun. Dunn runs, spins, aims. BLAM!, sparks; my stomach cold, acid gunpowder in my nose. I feel foolish as he segues into a slow Cunningham-style dance. Dunn’s good. You can see his control as he sinks to the floor or pretzel-twists to change direction. He leaves, reappears as a cowboy, sits in the chair, waits, stands up, sits down, waits, stands up… over and over and over. He looks nervous. The face is immobile, but I’m fascinated by the eyes. Depending on how he blinks, or lowers his lids, or stares into space, he looks sad, angry, or thoughtful. There is an entire dance in the eyes alone. He’s gone again, after a few runs around the stage, but I know there’s more. Not much is conventionally logical here, much conventionally logical here, but there is a conventional dance structure, and the last climax and denouement is yet to come. The screen slams to the floor, revealing a table piled high with clothes, and Dunn, standing there dressed in a tuxedo, unbearably embarrassed, looking beseechingly at the audience, at imaginary balconies. His hands clasp and unclasp gently. Fingers twitch. He walks hesitatingly toward us. He wants to say something, starts to, but his throat convulses in a stifled gag. Some members in the audience are hysterical with laughter. Some, like me, are too fascinated to laugh. Maybe they, too, sense a horrible pathos in this figure slowly walking up the center aisle, trying to summon the courage to express himself. When the applause dies down, I notice that the pat… pat… pat has become a dribble. I had forgotten about it. I’m glad I came.
The Village Voice |
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