'Thom Pain (based on nothing)' (Signature Theatre Company)

Until 10 days ago, I’d only seen two of Will Eno’s plays, The Open House in 2014 and Wakey, Wakey in 2017.  (Reports on those performances are posted on Rick On Theater on 16 March 2014 and 24 March 2017, respectively.)  They were both quirky, interesting, surprising, and fun, and I put Eno on my list of writers on whom to keep tabs.  So when I saw that a revival of the 53-year-old playwright’s break-out play, Thom Pain (based on nothing), was to be part of the Signature Theatre Company’s 2018-2019 season, I included it among my subscription selections.  Diana, my usual theater companion (and my STC subscription partner) met at the Pershing Square Signature Center in Theatre Row on Friday night, 16 November, for the 7:30 performance in the Irene Diamond Stage of the intermissionless, 70-minute, one-man show.

The presentation is part of this season’s Legacy Program at Signature, which the theater bills as “a homecoming for past Playwrights-in-Residence,” showcasing premières of new works or revivals of older plays by writers who have had Residency 1 or Residency 5 seasons previously.  (Eno, the first “graduate” of Signature’s Residency 5 program, was a resident writer from 2012 to 2017.  The two plays I saw were presented during that tenure.)  The current revival of Thom Pain, directed by Oliver Butler (who also staged Open House) and starring Michael C. Hall (Hedwig and the Angry Inch, The Realistic Joneses; he’s probably best recognized for his eight seasons as the title character, the serial killer in Showtime’s Dexter) began previews on 23 October 2018 and opened on 11 November; it’s currently scheduled to close on 9 December (after two extensions from 25 November and 2 December).

The world première of Thom Pain (based on nothing), after a Launch Pad reading at the Soho Theatre in London, was at the Pleasance Courtyard at the Edinburgh Festival from 24 to 30 August 2004; the Soho Theatre Company production, directed by Hal Brooks with James Urbaniak as Thom Pain, won the First Fringe Award at the festival.  The production returned to London and the Soho Theatre for a regular run from 3 to 24 September 2004.  Thom Pain’s New York and U.S. première was at the Off-Broadway DR2 Theatre in Union Square from 1 February to 4 September 2005; Urbaniak was nominated for the Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Solo Performance for the production and Charles Isherwood proclaimed Eno in the New York Times as “a Samuel Beckett for the Jon Stewart generation.”  Thom Pain (based on nothing) was a finalist for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for Drama.  

Since then, there have been many revivals around the U.S. (Seattle Repertory Theatre; Dallas Theater Center; Theatre Wit of Chicago; Austin, Texas’s Hyde Park Theatre; Actor’s Express in Atlanta, and others) and the world (Finland, France, Israel, Holland, Norway, Portugal, China, Mexico, Germany, and more); the script has been translated into over a dozen languages.  The  current STC revival is the first in New York City since the 2005 début.  A filmed adaptation of Geffen Playhouse’s production of Thom Pain (based on nothing) starring Rainn Wilson (and also directed by Oliver Butler) was aired on the streaming service BroadwayHD in January 2018.  (The text of the monodrama is published by Oberon Books [as Thom Pain (based on nothing): Published with Other Monologues for Theatre, 2004], the Dramatists Play Service [2005], and the Theatre Communications Group [as Thom Pain (based on nothing): With Other Monologues for Theatre, 2018].)

I included a brief biography of Will Eno, along with a discussion of his dramaturgy, in my report on The Open House, noted earlier, but to bring it up to 2018, his play The Realistic Joneses was presented on Broadway in 2014, receiving a Drama Desk Special Award; it was named Best Play on Broadway by USA Today and best American play of 2014 by the New York edition of The Guardian.  The Open House won the Obie Award for Playwriting for its 2014 production at the Signature Theatre Company and the 2014 Lucille Lortel Award for Outstanding Play; the cast and Eno all won Drama Desk Award Special Awards for the production as well.  The citation, which was for both the Off-Broadway Open House and Broadway’s Realistic Joneses, read: "For two extraordinary casts and one impressively inventive playwright.”  Last June, New York Times theater writers Ben Brantley and Jesse Green included The Realistic Joneses in their list of “the best 25 of the last 25 years.”  Of Eno’s writing, Brantley and Green wrote:

A philosopher and a wisecracker, Mr. Eno is a playwright who favors ideas over plot.  He also makes space for the language that gets those ideas across, the crackle of a quip, the snap of an upturned cliché. 

At home, Eno and his wife, actress Maria Dizzia, now have a four-year-old daughter, Albertine.

There’s no plot per se to Thom Pain (based on nothing)—which began as a character study of American revolutionary Thomas Paine (1737-1809), then Eno’s concept shifted when he realized his own “present and past pains” were the better vehicle for his message.  Even an event-by-event description of the 70-minute play would be longer than the performance.

It’s a monologue that might be called stand-up Existentialism (a label coined by Charles Isherwood in the New York Times).  Variously described as a “Beckettian monologue of a tortured soul,” “a combination of a Samuel Beckett-like meditation on the absurdist vicissitudes of life and a caustic monologue by one of those lesser late-night talk-show hosts,” “a mixture of a Shakespeare comedy and a (Samuel) Beckett piece,” “a stand-up routine that self-destructs as it goes along,” “a hybrid of stand-up com[edy], motivational speak[ing] and storytell[ing],” and “a Rorschach test . . . that never clarifies the point,” the play wanders with apparent aimlessness (but carefully planned by Eno) from subject to subject like a mental pinball.  An Absurdist mental pinball.  Describing the work, the playwright says: “Thom Pain is trying to tell his life story and gets interrupted by the fact that he’s alive.”

Eno has added a note on the Wikipedia page for Thom Pain that explains that it

is painstakingly constructed to create the effect of humanness in action . . . .  Because of his own defects, strengths, anxieties, and personality, he finds himself asking major questions about human life and how we define it, narrate it, value it, and ultimately live it.

In a program note for the Queensland Theatre Company (South Brisbane, Australia) production of the play, the playwright dismissed the notion of that Thom Pain is a playwriting experiment.  He said: “I guess I just think of it as a play.  Or, to be honest, more of a ‘thing’, I guess . . . I don't know.’"

The bare Diamond Stage is full of junk—not trash or garbage, but odd pieces of furniture, drop cloths, ladders, plastic sheeting on the wall, protective netting on the ceiling, and other odds-and-ends, as if it were a storage space for the detritus, discards, and left-overs of life.  It might be a basement somewhere (there are no windows) or an abandoned building.  It might be the theater itself, under reconstruction but the work has been halted.  Up right is a door to another room inside which is more stuff.  (The costumes and sets were designed by Anita Yavich and Amy Rubin; Jen Schriever's lighting leaves pockets of dark into and out of which Pain moves.)  The lights go to black. 

Pain (Hall), the play’s sole character, enters in the darkness—we can hear his shuffling footsteps—and after some preliminary feints, he asks, “Do you need to see me to hear me?” adding “If so, sorry.  Not yet.”  Then the lights go on and Hall’s standing down rightish, dressed in dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie.  He wears glasses which he’s cleaning with a handkerchief. 

Eventually Pain begins to tell the audience a story about a little boy writing in a puddle with a violin bow.  The story will reappear, but at the end of the introduction, Pain tells the spectators to go fuck themselves.  Hall’s remoteness makes it clear that the audience’s wishes are not Pain’s concern.

The tale of the little disabled boy whose dog is electrocuted in a puddle is just one of many bleak images Pain, a man who himself has suffered pain, imparts to his viewers as he muses about the awfulness of existence: “You just try to keep on living but it all seems so useless,” and “Maybe I was just born with a headache.”

Then he breaks into questions about life (“I disappeared in her and she, wondering where I went, left.”) interspersed with a bunch of non sequiturs: “It’s sad, isn’t it? This dead horse of a life that we beat all the wilder, all the harder, the deader it gets? . . .  On the other hand, there are some really nice shops in the area.”  Is the deconstructed setting a visualization of Pain’s disjointed mind?

At the end of the performance, Pain says, “I’m done with this.  Important things will happen, now.  I promise. . . .  I know this wasn’t much, but let it be enough.  Do.”  Then he adds, “Boo.  Isn’t it great to be alive?”  

That’s about the best I can do, people.  As you can gather, Thom Pain was a decidedly peculiar experience.  I have no idea what to make of it!  It sounded to me like a parody of Spalding Gray on acid channeling Ionesco or Beckett.  If you can conceive of that.  I’d need to read (and, probably reread) the script to unpack this play—and that’s not really any fun, and it’s decidedly anti-theatrical.

I can’t think of a way to report on this play.  I can’t even describe it much beyond what I just said—much less evaluate it or interpret it.  So, I’ve decided to approach this report from a completely different angle.  (Check what I did for Perfect Crime, an awful mystery play Diana and I saw seven years ago.  I couldn’t write about that play, either, so I decided to write about how the producers kept it on stage for what then had been almost 25 years despite how bad it is.  That report was posted on Rick On Theater on 5 February 2011.)

Taking Ben Brantley’s New York Times “review” as a starting point, I’ll examine reviewing a play like Thom Pain.  What Brantley did, which really ticked me off, was write about how this production differed from the Soho Theatre production he saw in London in 2004.  (Don’t confuse London’s Soho Theatre with New York City’s Soho Repertory Theatre.)  Maybe he just couldn’t come up with anything cogent to say about the STC mounting, or he didn’t want to write this review.  (I know—this is similar to my own situation.  But, first, I’m not being paid to render a judgment of the shows I see—that’s not my job, but it is Brantley’s and all who call themselves “drama critic.”  Second, I’m not posting “reviews” on Rick On Theater; I’m posting “reports,” and I reserve the right, as this is my blog, to cover the shows I see from any perspective that strikes me as interesting.)

Brantley wasn’t the only review-writer to use the earlier production of Thom Pain (based on nothing) as a yardstick by which to measure Butler’s version for the Signature Theatre Company.  (Other than Brantley, though, all of the others based their comparisons on the play’s 2005 New York début.)  The Times reviewer, however, was the only one I read who based essentially his whole critique on the comparison.

On 1 December 2010, I posted ”Dante update neither divine nor comedy,” a film review by Kyle Smith of the New York Post.  Smith had found a clever way to write about a movie he obviously didn’t want to bother reviewing, Jackass 3D.  What Brantley did wasn’t close! 

In my introduction to my repost of Smith’s review, I wrote:

I got the sense that Smith didn’t really want to review Jackass.  It’s his job and he was handed the assignment, so he couldn’t just blow it off, and writing a “serious” review would have been dull—both to do and to read, I imagine. . . .  But Smith found a way to do something interesting while still fulfilling his responsibility: telling us what he thought about the movie.

What Smith had done was find references and parallels in Jackass 3D’s “trademarked gross-out shenanigans” to Dante’s Divine Comedy, surely one of the most classic poems of all classic literature.  (He even found parallels between Johnny Knoxville, the movie’s producer, and the medieval Italian poet himself, Dante Alighieri.)  The mismatch was surely meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but Smith never addressed that juxtaposition.  He treated the comparison as legit, even upbraiding Hollywood for sneaking in so much surreptitious education into a boorish popular entertainment.  (I  congratulated Smith for his “delicious—and effective—use of irony.”)

In my afterword, I pointed out, “What gets me most here is how Smith, even while taking a humorous approach that clearly is meant to make fun of the movie itself, still manages to tell us what he thinks of it (even though, until the last sentence, he doesn’t directly state his opinion).”  I concluded: “I think this may be one of the best reviews of a bad movie (in the opinion of the reviewer, of course) I’ve ever seen.”  I added at the end of the intro, “There’s a lesson here for all writers . . . who are required to write about something in which they find little of interest or value.”  (ROTters who are interested—and I strongly recommend this—should read Smith’s review: https://nypost.com/2010/10/15/jackass-3ds-dante-update-neither-divine-nor-comedy/.)  Brantley didn’t learn it.

I feel Brantley’s review of Thom Pain, which I’ll try to summarize later, was a cop-out.  He dodged his responsibility and revisited an experience he already digested 14 years ago.  He opened his review by stating: “Audiences already familiar with Will Eno’s ‘Thom Pain (based on nothing) . . . may find this Stygian space roomier and less oppressive than they remembered.”  Well, that’s not me.  The Timesman went on to describe the STC revival in terms of Soho’s première and Hall’s performance with respect to James Urbaniak’s.  Cop-out.  Unhelpful cop-out. 

What pissed me off was that, not having seen that London production, I have no way to understand what Brantley thought of the Signature version or how he felt about it.  For me, it was a meaningless review because he assumed knowledge or experience I didn’t have; I had no frame of reference.  It’s a version of the blind man and the elephant—me being the blind man and the elephant being the play.

As far as I can find, Brantley didn’t publish a notice on either the 2004 Soho Theatre mounting or its subsequent 2005 transfer to Off-Broadway in New York City so I also wasn’t sure what Brantley’s opinion of his original experience was, either.  That left me with a vague impression of one experience compared with a vague impression of another.  A double whammy.

There’s also the fact that Brantley based his opinion of the STC production on a previous experience, but since I’d be seeing the play (like many in the audience, I imagine, more than a few of whom would have been pretty young 14 years ago) for the first time, that kind of assessment is useless.  As far as I’m concerned, Signature’s is the definitive interpretation of the play—their staging is how the play’s supposed to be done.  (I don’t know how involved Eno was in the STC revival, but since they promote the notion of playwright engagement in rehearsals, and Eno is a former resident writer at the theater, I’d guess he was involved.)  I want to know how Butler and Hall stack up, not against another director-actor team but against their own goals and aims for this presentation.  “Comparisons are odorous” as Shakespeare’s Dogberry proclaimed.

This kind of reviewing really isn’t fair to me and theatergoers like me.  It tells me little about the play I’m going to see and fills my head with extraneous information I don’t need, don’t want, and can’t use.  At the same time, even though this isn’t a reviewer’s responsibility, it’s not fair to the actors, director, and designers who worked on the current production.  Director Butler and actor Hall aren’t trying to make a comparable version of the Soho’s Thom Pain; they’re trying to make the best performance of the play they can based solely on Eno’s script and their artistic imaginations and creativity.  If Brantley didn’t think their interpretation works, that’s fair.  He should say so—and, if he can, say why he didn’t think so.  But simply saying, as Brantley essentially does, that the STC revival is different from the Soho première doesn’t do me any good and does Hall, Butler, his team, and the Signature Theatre a great disservice.

Okay, let’s look at the overall critical record.  Based on 21 published notices (as of 24 November), Show-Score gave Thom Pain (based on nothing) an average score of 76, which is middling in my experience with the review compiler.  Of the tallied reviews, 76% were positive and 24% were mixed; there were no negative notices in the Show-Score survey.  The highest score was one 95 for More Than The Play Blog, backed by two 90’s (WNYC radio and Front Row Center); the lowest a 55 for DC Theatre Scene, preceded by three 60’s (New York Times, TheaterScene.net, and New York magazine/Vulture).  My review round-up will comprise 17 notices.

In that New York Times review (which received a Show-Score rating of 60, the site’s second lowest), Brantley described the play as a “full-frontal attack on the audience that Mr. Eno had engineered” and “a sustained, cryptic, circular apologia pro vita sua” that is “70 uninterrupted minutes” of Pain “wallowing in bitter self-consciousness.”  In comparison to the 2004 London version, Branltey found that Oliver Butler’s revival “lets some fresh air and even a sliver of sunlight into the nocturnal depths of its title (and only) character’s imagination” and Hall’s Pain “appears as less of a lost cause than he once did” in James Urbaniak’s hands.  “I can’t honestly say that this transformation is for the good,” the Times reviewer proclaimed.  (I’m not going to recap all of Brantley’s characterizations of the Soho Theatre staging.  Interested ROTters can read the review for themselves at https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/11/theater/thom-pain-review-michael-c-hall.html.) 

In 2004, Brantley acknowledged, “I may have wanted to take a shower immediately, but I was also electrified”; however, he found the play “seems to have shed its ability to shock.”  The Timesman posited that “that’s partly because we have had a chance to become accustomed to the skewed perspective of Mr. Eno,” but added that “this relative tameness is also a matter of Mr. Butler and Mr. Hall’s interpretation.”  In Hall’s performance, Pain’s “narrative of self-catechism and self-laceration has the carefully modulated quality of a classically trained actor doing an intense audition piece.”  Brantley felt that “this Thom is seldom lovably loathsome enough to make us squirm” and therefore, “the script now registers as the product of a restless and very talented young dramatist, showing off and playing with the influences he has absorbed.” 

“It’s Mr. Eno’s love for and grasp of rhythmic language that most impress here,” affirmed the Times writer.  “The ghost of Beckett still hovers, but so do, just as visibly, the specters of T. S. Eliot, Edward Albee and Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man.”  In conclusion, Brantley wrote: “Thom’s angst may feel a trifle sophomoric now, like something he might grow out of.  But his way with words, and that of the man who created him, is already deliciously ripe.”

“‘So what was that all about?’” Max McGuinnes[s] quoted his companion at the performance in the U.S. edition of the Financial Times.  “In lieu of an answer to that question,” the FT review-writer continued, he described what he saw on stage.  (Sounds a little like my dilemma, doesn’t it?)  Of Pain’s monologue (a taste of which I’ve tried to supply), McGuinness observed, “It would be wrong to call these musings stream-of-consciousness since they do not flow so much as limp along in fits and starts.”  The reviewer found, “At just over an hour, Thom Pain goes on a bit too long”; however, “the play remains mostly entertaining thanks to Eno’s deadpan humour and some playful audience interaction, which leavens its knowing solipsism.”  Noting that monologues challenge a director to decide what, aside from talking, the actor should do on stage, McGuinness deemed “Butler’s stripped-down staging acquits itself admirably on that front.”  Hall, he felt, “seems at once pitiable yet faintly intimidating.  And by the end, we still only have a hazy idea of who he really is.”  The FT writer’s overall assessment of the STC Thom Pain was: “What we see here is a man struggling, without much success, to hold it all together and make sense of everything that has happened to him.  Which is what life and theatre are all about.”

Sara Holdren of New York magazine and Vulture, whose notice also scored a 60, declared that “I found myself recoiling from [the play’s] aggressive flippancy.  There’s something brittle and deceptive about Thom Pain’s systemic self-deprecation.”  Thom Pain “gropes tentatively, and I believe sincerely, after compassion and beauty, but it cuts itself off at the knees over and over again with its paralyzing fear of commitment—to earnestness, to theatricality, to anything bigger than the self in pain.”  Holdren insisted, “Thom Pain is not Beckett.  Its heart is still about three sizes too small and its ego is bigger than it thinks.”  She reported, “The pleasure of the production is watching Hall in moments of simple, full presence.”  But she continued, “The problem is that what Thom Pain wants to be and what the play is are two different things.”  Holdren explained that she only knows what Eno wants the play to be because she’s read interviews, notes, and analyses of it.  “Meanwhile, the actual experience of sitting through Thom Pain feels like watching someone blow up one tiny, feeble balloon after another and then contemptuously pop them all, one by one.” 

She gave plenty of examples and illustrations from the text of the way “Thom is constantly appealing to our sympathy while simultaneously resorting to snide escape hatches.”  In the end, however, Holdren felt, “I don’t want to be cruel, to dismiss the scale or weight of the character’s suffering, but that’s the kind of gaze that sees the entire world in its own navel.”  The play’s “endless cycle of reaching and running starts to feel self-defeating in ways that go past intention,” she found, and “it’s also addicted to a coldness, a nonchalance that too often exhibits the very same fear it would like to examine.”  She ends by lamenting, “I feel for Eno’s poor Thom . . ., but there are limits to sympathy when its object, for all his trying, still possesses very limited courage.”

. 

In National Review, Kyle Smith (apparently the same writer who composed the Jackass notice discussed earlier) started his review by describing encountering a man in a bar who closely resembles the Thom Pain of Eno’s play.  The NR writer then noted:

The play is a digressive series of melancholy memories interrupted by absurdist asides and pointed witticisms.  There is no story or lesson here, just a drolly self-aware character protecting himself behind the barbed wire of irony.  In other words, the play is almost perfectly on the wavelength of, say, a self-loathing alcoholic theater critic.  No, I’m not thinking of anyone in particular, why do you ask?

“Michael C. Hall . . . nails the role, delivering a series of shaggy-dog stories and updates from his consciousness with a kind of poisoned panache that leaves the audience off balance,” Smith reported. “Thom is playing games with us, like a jaded, WASP Andy Kaufman.”  The NR reviewer confessed, “Eno’s words made me laugh intermittently,” but added that “the intentional shapelessness of the play vexed me.”  His last word was: “Two hours of Thom’s pain would, I think, be insufferable.  Luckily the show ends after an hour.  Like many others in the audience, I applauded politely and walked away briskly.”

Helen Shaw, describing Thom Pain as an “elliptical, existential monologue” in Time Out New York, asserted that “Eno’s text is a wonderfully light thing—a butterfly’s erratic passage through a man’s mind as he tries to narrate both his past . . . and the constant, irritating demands of the theatrical present.”  She explained, “Eno so exactly reflects a scattered self to us that he amplifies the scattering. When you try to recall Thom Pain, your thinking can't penetrate it; it's like trying to shine headlights into a blizzard.”  Director Butler “has given it a very handsome and polished revival,” but Shaw found that the play “has to fight a little too hard to be heard in the” large Diamond house.  Hall, she felt, “performs Eno’s script with immense charm (if not danger), but it’s a piece that requires the intimacy of a mind moving very close to yours.”  The TONY review-writer observed, “You can almost see the lightning leaping between Hall and the first four rows, but he has to cover such a huge space and so many people that the effect is necessarily intermittent.” 

In the Hollywood Reporter, Frank Scheck’s “Bottom Line” was “Hall delivers a riveting turn that makes this challenging play fully accessible.”  He quipped, “If Samuel Beckett and James Joyce had a literary love child, it would be Will Eno’s Thom Pain (Based on Nothing),” which Scheck described as “an existential stand-up routine, delivered by a man riffing on life’s disappointments and absurdities in alternately comic and bitter tones,” but it “never really coheres into a discernible storyline, which will certainly prove frustrating for those looking for a linear narrative.”  Nonetheless, the HR reviewer asserted that “the play’s deliciously clever wordplay and theatrical inventiveness provide myriad rewards for the more open-minded.”  The STC revival “particularly highlights the work’s strengths, thanks to [Hall’s] formidable charisma and charm.”  Scheck reported, “It’s all very dense and requires intense concentration, and you may find your mind wandering at times.  But it doesn’t take long for it to spring back to attention, thanks to the brilliantly inventive language and such memorable phraseology.”  Hall, the review-writer found, “is mesmerizing throughout” and “makes the piece accessible and engaging.”  Scheck concluded that “Thom Pain may not be for all tastes, but adventurous theatergoers are unlikely ever to experience it in a more riveting presentation.”

Marilyn Stasio, calling Thom Pain  “unsettling” in Variety, said that “the play was deliberately designed to make us uncomfortable about all the supposedly immutable verities, from the objective reality of our common language to truth itself.”  Stasio affirmed that “Eno’s intellectually dizzying drama is still a dangerous thrill.”  The Variety reviewer explained:

Although Eno was a protégé of Edward Albee, his absurdist sensibility reaches further back to Albee’s less playful philosophical mentor, Samuel Beckett.  This non-linear narrative—an explosive outburst of dazzling wordplay concocted of unfinished anecdotes, unstructured asides, and stream-of-consciousness ramblings—is decidedly, triumphantly Beckettian.

Hall, she reported, is “persuasive” and his “deadly deadpan is deeply funny, in an unnerving way.”  Stasio found that he “tries his level best to be true to this self-absorbed character; but he just can’t help himself.  He’s a fine actor, but a personable one, much too likable to pull off the character’s blinding, self-regarding narcissism.”  She concluded, “If you look it in the eye, Eno’s soul-searching monologue is nothing less than a searing meditation on the meaning of life.   But if you look at it sideways, it’s more of a sick joke.”

On WNYC radio, an NPR outlet in New York City, Jennifer Vanasco warned that “nothing much happens in this 70 minutes of seemingly aimless ruminating.”  Then she added, “And yet there’s so much beauty and humanity in it.”  Pain’s narrative “should be sentimental or sad or feel manipulative, but it’s not and it doesn’t,” reported Vanasco in her review that scored a 90 on Show-Score.  “Partly this is because of Eno’s beautiful and eccentric verbal imagery,” she explained, “and the way he undercuts each perfect word picture with eerie tragedy.”  Hall, the reviewer felt, “brings out the dark poetry of this play.  He is ingratiating without ever being fully knowable, esoteric while still grounded in his body.  He’s funny, charming and completely believable.”  She summed up by observing, “This is an astoundingly intimate show.  It’s a direct look into someone’s unfiltered brain—sometimes wandering, ugly and shallow, while at other times focused, lovely and profound.”

Show-Score’s highest-rated review, a 95, was Domenick Danza’s notice on More Than The Play, in which the reviewer declared:

The subtleties are astounding in Will Eno’s Thom Pain (Based on Nothing).  This play tells a captivating tale of loss of innocence, finding love, losing love, and maintaining hope.  Mr. Eno plays with words in this seventy-minute, one-character play that vividly depict the dichotomy of life’s journey.  His use of language brilliantly paints the landscape of emotion that floods the turning point events that define a life.  

Butler’s direction “seamlessly connects moment to moment, pulling truth to the surface of this distinctive theatrical work that is rich in subtext.”  Danza felt that Hall “maintains composure and distance, while engaging the packed house on an emotional level” and “evokes a sense of empathy from the audience.”  In the end, Danza found, “This play is a unique and intimate experience that will speak exclusively to each person who sees and hears it.  Don’t miss it!” 

Once again, New York Stage Review posted two notices.  Elysa Gardner asserted, “Thom Pain is . . . something of a magic act . . .—a bleakly comic, brutally detailed study of human frailty and suffering that somehow . . . becomes life-affirming.”  Calling it a “significantly meandering 75-minute monologue of a play” and a “ruminative monodrama,” Michael Sommers labeled Thom Pain “a journey through the existential tangles of one middle-aged man’s mind.”  Sommers was the second reviewer to report that the Diamond stage “is not so conducive to an intimate solo show,” but he added that “Butler’s supportive production and Hall’s intriguing presence usually are able to bridge the distance.”

On Talkin’ Broadway, James Wilson thought that Thom Pain, which he dubbed a “discursive, confounding, and invigorating monologue,” “demonstrates the futility of words and the limitations of language to connect thought with feeling, experience with reflection, and the individual with the world.”  Wilson asserted, despite the difficult personality of his narrator, that “Eno has created a highly entertaining, poignant, and intellectually stimulating evening.”  He affirmed, “Under Oliver Butler's direction, this is also a master class in comedy” and “Hall is outstanding.”  (Unlike the other reviewers who felt that the Diamond’s large stage was a drawback, Wilson found that the “larger space intensifies the feelings of isolation.”)  In the end, the TB reviewer advised, “The most effective way to experience the play is to give oneself over to it and luxuriate in the moments of linguistic playfulness and emotional catharsis.”

“In its own deliberately aimless way, Thom Pain (Based on Nothing) is a profoundly existential work,” observed Kenji Fujishima on TheaterMania, “with Pain’s struggle to give his own life meaning peeking through the numerous bits of trickery and wordplay he employs to avoid confronting the big questions.”  The TM review-writer explained, “Because so much of the interior drama in Eno’s play lies in what Thom Pain doesn’t say, it’s up to the performer to locate and transmit the psychological desperation between the lines” and continued that “this is where director Oliver Butler’s new production falls short.”  He felt that “a sense of pained inner life is lacking in Hall’s interpretation, with the actor seemingly prizing speed over depth in delivering his character’s ramblings, skating right over his character’s tragic pathos as a result.”  Fujishima asserted, “The experience of watching Thom Pain is akin to chasing after smoke.”  In conclusion, the TM reviewer reported that “this new production leaves us feeling more like we’ve gone on an entertaining roller-coaster ride through a man’s mind than truly gotten a glimpse into his agonized soul.  More than anything, this Thom Pain unsettles us less in its evocations of existential desire than in the sense that this material has much more to yield emotionally than it lets on.”

On CurtainUp, Charles Wright, whose review scored a 65, reported that “Thom’s recollections, though colorfully phrased, are often cryptic, with a seeming randomness that guarantees the audience occasional surprise if little in the way of suspense.”  (After quoting Isherwood’s 2005 New York Times praise of Thom Pain, Wright wondered “how Eno . . . might have fared—and what course his career might have taken—had Isherwood not been on the Times theater desk 13 years ago.”)  Having seen the 2005 production, Wright found, “The play struck me then, and strikes me now, as intriguing on the surface, with what’s beneath having only a glancing connection to lived experience.”  In comparison, he felt that “the 2018 Thom Pain is no more satisfying; but the magnified scale of this production suits the grandiosity of Eno’s exercise in synthetic Beckettry.”  The CU reviewer concocted a decidedly unusual finale for his assessment:

The fact that Thom Pain (based on nothing) is getting this superb revival suggests that there’s a sizable audience that will share Charles Isherwood’s enthusiasm for Eno’s Beckett-inflected navel-gazing.  Others, though, are bound to identify with the hapless audience member to whom Hall, as poor Mr. Pain, says, “If I were you, I’d be sick of this already.  I’d feel restless.  I’d feel like eating or urinating.”  Or, perhaps, be wishing for an intermission to permit a discreet exit. 

Joel Benjamin of TheaterScene.net was another reviewer who not only compared the Butler-Hall Thom Pain with the Brooks-Urbaniak production but found the new one a shadow of the original version.  Benjamin based his objections largely on the differences between Hall’s Pain and Urbaniak’s.  (He did complain about the “overzealous production” in the Diamond Stage.)  Hall, the TS reviewer thought, “is a fine actor who keeps the audience fascinated, but he turns the play into a standup routine.”  He asked, “[W]hy spend an hour-plus with a pleasant, slightly irritating person [Hall’s Pain] when you could just as easily be moved, shocked and titillated by a borderline lunatic [Urbaniak] (knowing full well that the relationship would last only a finite period).  Which is the better theatrical experience?”  Benjamin also found that Butler “gives Hall great leeway, making for a relaxed atmosphere, rather than a pacing-in-a-prison-of-his-own-making presentation.”

New York Theatre Guide’s David Walters told us, “At the beginning of the play, Thom says that he doesn’t like magic, but just as nothing is everything, ultimately this is a play all about magic.  The magic of human interaction.”  Walters reported, “The thoughts and observations falling out of [Pain’s] mind are not linear and dance from avoidance, to gallows humor, to deep profundity that will leave you searching those parallels in your own life.”  The NYTG writer characterized Eno’s writing as “a deep poetry . . ., a poetry of reflection, judgement and the bitter irony of what befalls us as we grumble, stumble and tumble through our lives.”

On DC Theatre Scene, which received Show-Score’s lowest rating at 55, Jonathan Mandell (whose review also appears on his blog, New York Theater) quipped, “Like a boxer faking out an opponent, Michael C. Hall as Thom Pain plays tricks on the audience.”  Mandell then observed, “But a prizefighter feints to win the match,” asking “What’s the point of the 70 minutes of  the mild audience abuse, self-conscious digressions and interruptions, deliberately unfunny jokes and funny non-sequiturs, bleak stories, and self-pitying effusions that make up Thom Pain (based on nothing) . . .?”  Answering his own question, the DCTS reviewer stated, “The easy out would be to answer that a good performance at least keeps our attention.”  He surmised, “Those theatergoers who have seen a previous production are likely to be disappointed by the Off-Broadway revival at the Signature.”  Mandell admitted, “I struggle to see anything profound in Thom Pain,” though “I can’t deny Eno’s sly wordplay.”  Still, the review-writer asserted, “For Thom’s jousts and jabs to feel like something more than random cleverness and intermittent entertainment, the actor must somehow show us an interior life that’s seething, longing, striving,  bursting with sadness and anger and resentments and pain that he’s trying to mask.”  As his final comment on the play and the character, Mandell wrote, “When [Pain] asks, ‘Does it scare you?  Being face to face with the modern mind?’ your answer might be: If only.”

I peeked at some past reviews of  the original production of Thom Pain in 2004/05 and some of the earlier revivals, and they all left me just as confused as the STC performance itself.  Still, it’s astounding how laudatory most of them were!  I wonder if there’s an “Emperor’s New Clothes” dynamic operating—no one wants to admit they don’t know what the hell Eno was on about.  

[When I was but a lad, back in the late ’50s and early ’60s, one of the comedians we used to listen to—they were on TV variety shows (anybody remember those?) and we bought the albums and listened to them over and over until we knew the routines by heart—did a bit on the plays of writers like Harold Pinter.  It might have been Shelley Berman, but if not, it was one of his contemporaries.  Anyway, after talking about these plays in which the characters struggle and fail to communicate, the comic raised his voice and proclaimed, “I think that people who can’t communicate should just shut up!”  Of course, if that had happened, about three-quarters of modern drama would cease to exist.  Nonetheless, I think of that line maybe once every three or four months.  This was one of those times.]

'Wakey, Wakey'

A dying man making an appearance in a theater?  Whoaaa!  That might well be your reaction—it was mine—when you twig to what Will Eno’s come up with in his new play Wakey, Wakey, having its world première at the Signature Theatre Company’s Pershing Square Signature Center on Theatre Row.  But don’t be put off by my very skeletal characterization: though it did seem to affect some spectators—a few, like the woman sitting in front of me, even profoundly—it’s not morbid or depressing.   Think Samuel Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape with humor.

Wakey, Wakey, Eno’s final production in his five-year, three-play stint as STC’s first graduating Residency Five playwright, started preview performances on 7 February in the company’s Alice Griffin Jewel Box Theatre, the small, 191-seat proscenium house, and opened on 27 February; after two extensions (from 19 and 26 March, respectively), the play’s scheduled to close now on 2 April.  My subscription partner, Diana, and I met at the Signature Center on Friday evening, 17 March, to see the 7:30 performance.

Eno, who also makes his stage-directing début with this production, has been represented at STC with Title and Deed, his freshman outing in his residency in 2012, and The Open House in 2014 (see my report on the latter play, 16 March 2014, which also includes a brief bio of the writer).  2014’s The Realistic Joneses was Eno’s Broadway début; his breakout play was 2005’s Thom Pain (based on nothing), a film version of which, co-directed by Eno, is currently in post-production.  A Helen Merrill Playwriting Fellow, Eno has also received many other accolades for his writing: he’s a 1996 Edward F. Albee Foundation Fellow and a 2004 Marian Seldes/Garson Kanin and Guggenheim Fellow; he was inducted into the Theater Hall of Fame in 2004; Thom Pain was nominated for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for Drama; and he’s the recipient of the 2012 PEN/Laura Pels International Foundation for Theater Award.  In addition to the Pulitzer nomination, his plays have won numerous honors as well: Middletown won the Horton Foote Prize for Promising New American Play in 2010, Title and Deed received a Lucille Lortel Award nomination for Outstanding Solo Show in 2013, and The Open House won both the Lortel for Outstanding Play and the OBIE Award for Playwriting in 2014; also in 2014, the Drama Desk gave Eno a Special Award “For two extraordinary casts and one impressively inventive playwright” for The Open House (Off-Broadway) and The Realistic Joneses (Broadway).

Wakey, Wakey is inspired in part by Eno’s friendship with James Houghton, Signature’s late founder and a mentor to the playwright who died in August 2016 at age 57, and also the September 2016 death of playwright Edward Albee, a former writer-in-residence at STC who remained a loyal friend and supporter.  (“I was thinking of Jim and Edward a lot as I worked on the play,” Eno acknowledged to Theater Pizzazz cyber journalist Carol Rocamora.)  As Eno tells it, his third residency play “was supposed to be something else,” as his main character says of his presentation.  About a year before Houghton’s death, he and the playwright began texting back and forth about ideas for Eno’s last STC script.  “So, we started working on that play,” Eno relates in an interview, “and he was going to direct it and that was really exciting to me.”  But then Houghton went into the hospice where Eno spent a lot of time talking with his mentor while he was dying.  “And then Jim died on August 2nd,” said the dramatist, and he put aside “Jim’s play.”  “I started writing this thing a little while after,” Eno explained. 

The writer was thinking a lot about his friend and mentor while he wrote Wakey, Wakey, but, he insists, “it’s not a play about Jim.”  Eno adds, however, “I hope it’s a little bit with him, somehow.”  

He’s a guy who, I don’t know how to say this, but, he lived with such clarity and integrity and directness, and so you always knew where he stood, and if I’m thinking about something now, I feel like I have a good idea where Jim would stand on it, so it feels like the conversation continues.  I really hope this will feel like a thing that happened, not a play you went to.

What the playwright took from this experience was how Houghton “lived with more reality, on one hand, and more lightness, on the other,” even “in the last week of his life.”  Eno summed up his vision for Wakey, Wakey: “So all these things are qualities I hope—and again it’s not a play about Jim in a biographical way, at all—but I hope the play might have some of his personality.”  As the main character in Wakey, Wakey says, “It’s important to honor the people whose shoulders we stood upon.”

At preset, while the audience filters into the Griffin, Maurice Ravel’s “Boléro” is playing.  After the usual announcement about turning off phones and checking listening devices, the music switches to the theme music for the 1960s-’70s TV show The Dating Game.  A recorded voice, the playwright-director’s I believe, comes up and repeats the customary announcement about cell phones and so on, and there’s a kind of rumination about children, accompanied by the voice of a little girl, possibly Eno’s own daughter (who’s just shy of 3), and a reference to eating a banana.  When the lights go down and come back up, a man in pajamas is sprawled face-down on the floor.  He lifts his head and asks, “Is it now?  I thought I had more time.”  Was he passed out?  Did he just wake up from a nap on the carpet?  The lights dim again.  A lighted sign admonishes: “NO APPLAUSE.”

When the lights return, the 60-ish man (Michael Emerson; TV’s Lost and Person of Interest, Off-Broadway’s Gross Indecency: The Trials of Oscar Wilde) is sitting in a wheelchair, a suit jacket over his pajama shirt, and, referring to note cards, offers his insights in a casual, gentle, humorous stream of consciousness about life and death.  The man, whom the program calls “Guy” (though that may not be his name—he doesn’t have one in the script—just his label), is in a characterless room with no furniture, possibly at his home, surrounded by packing boxes and a pile of clothes (the set is by Christine Jones), and is apparently dying.  There’s a door up left, never used as all entrances and exits are made up right: death’s door, do you suppose?  The play’s decidedly Beckettian (to connect to Krapp’s Last Tape, there’s that allusion to a banana!) as Guy meanders through various and sundry topics.  There are slides (starting with two of a toddler who looks remarkably like he could be Emerson as a child—and one of a little girl eating an ice cream cone that might be Eno’s daughter) and home movies, YouTube videos, word puzzles, distant sound effects—a siren (police or an ambulance, he wonders), a cell phone ringing, crickets chirping—and Guy always acknowledges the audience (unlike Krapp and his tape recorder). 

About three-quarters of an hour into the 75-minute performance, Guy’s caregiver, Lisa (January LaVoy), an attractive, stylish younger woman, enters. (Costumes are by Michael Krass.)  Carrying a small picnic cooler—and her own chair—Lisa patiently attends to Guy’s needs and even anticipates some—she brings a kit for making soap bubbles, which Guy admits he loves, and a bag of fortune cookies.  Little by little, Guy loses the thread of his recollections, shows signs of physical weakening, and loses focus as he quietly passes away.

Then the theater erupts in a montage of slides and videos, disco lighting and strobe effects, rock music,  bubbles, and balloons (projections designed by Peter Nigrini, lighting by David Lander, and sound by Nevin Steinberg).  Stage hands bring out baskets of fortune cookies which they place on the edge of the stage, signs inviting us to help ourselves, and the audience goes out into the Griffin’s lobby for refreshments in what can only be called a wake. 

(Going in, I assumed that Eno’s title,  Wakey, Wakey, referred to waking from a sleep, but this final bit makes me realize the playwright’s evoking a wake for the dead as well.  In his STC interview, he confirms this: “I wanted something that sort of has that sense of ‘time to get up’ in it, and also of a ‘wake’—as in an Irish wake, but also has a silly, nursery rhyme thing to it.”)

I enjoyed Wakey, Wakey, and even Diana seemed to have liked it even though it’s an idiosyncratic play.  It’s also slightly metatheatrical—Guy not only addresses us directly but seems to acknowledge that we’re in a theater.  It’s a very quirky play—Eno’s a very quirky writer, and it seems he comes by that naturally (as opposed to putting it on from the outside, like a suit of motley).  He’s clearly not everyone’s cuppa; I don’t say he’s an acquired taste—I don’t think you acquire a taste for Will Eno—but rather you either take to his idiosyncrasies or you don’t, as can be surmised from disparate responses from two reviewers.  “Wakey, Wakey never manages to quite transcend [its ‘seemingly insignificant’] moments; as lovingly as they are described, they just don’t build into a play,” wrote  Elizabeth Wollman on Show Showdown, characterizing the performance as “a bit half-baked.”  On the other hand, Lindsay Timmington acknowledged, “The beauty of Will Eno’s work is that there is always so much more to what you’ve seen and that something will linger with you long after you leave,” on OnStage.  Timmington summed up by reporting, “I leave his shows feeling a tiny bit befuddled, a little exhausted by the marathon of experienced emotions and totally in love with his work.”  I wouldn’t wax as hyperbolic as Timmington, but I fall closer to that end of the continuum of Eno appreciation.  (I enjoy his quirks—they’re like the bubbles in champagne.)

I said I liked the play, but this is another case of my not being certain what the writer’s trying to say.  Eno’s writing about “life and death” (really, the process of dying), obviously, but I haven’t decided what he’s saying on the subject.  (This is my second play in a row at  Signature whose subject is passing from one plane of existence to another.  Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’s Everyman adaptation, Everybody, treated the same idea in an entirely difference style.  See my report on 6 March.)  I found it intriguing both theatrically and thematically.  (I can tell Eno’s saying something, perhaps very personal, even if I haven’t figured out exactly what that is yet.  Does that make sense?)

The theater’s promo puts it this way:

What are we here for?  Is time a friend or an enemy?  Do we all eventually end up in the same place, but take different routes to get there?  ‘Wakey, Wakey’ challenges the notion of what really matters and recognizes the importance of life’s simple pleasures.  (All of which might sound dreary, but there’s a chance this will be a really good experience.)  

In the interview with Signature Literary Manager Jenna Clark Embrey, the author gives a clue to what he’s thinking about:

It’s a play that is kind of about . . . people you love and people dying and how do you think about that and what is, uh, what is a person’s—what remains of a person.  Things like that.  And how do we think about our own death and all that—not to be glum because all these things are things you ask yourself or you ask about other people for the purpose of trying to live a more grand and a meaningful, helpful life.

We’ll see if I can figure out Eno’s point by the time I finish this report!  It’ll be interesting to see how close I can get.  (I don’t think Eno, or whoever penned the blurb above, was intentionally echoing Tennessee Williams, but his 1959 play Sweet Bird of Youth started out as a one-act entitled The Enemy—Time.  Guy, and probably Eno, is ambivalent about our relationship to time—that is, aging—but Williams was adamant that time was not man’s friend, leading inexorably to decay and diminishment.)

Michael Emerson’s performance is remarkable, too.  (He was Oscar Wilde in Gross Indecency Off-Broadway in 1997-98; earning an Outer Critics Circle Award nomination.)  I believe he should at least get an OBIE nomination for this work.  He’s so completely natural and organic in a very odd circumstance, he made me think it was entirely reasonable—despite all the evidence to the contrary.  Astounding work.  (His partner, January LaVoy, is equally good, but in a much less tasking role; she’s only on stage for half an hour of a 75-minute play.) 

The acting of the character of Guy here is immensely important, more than for most other lead characters, because handled badly or misguidedly, the play will slip into maudlinness or pretentiousness.  With Eno himself at the helm, the guidance is clearly in good hands—he knows exactly what the part needs to make the play work.  (The tyro director either learned from observation how to work effectively with an actor, or was fortuitous/discerning in his casting.)  As writer, Eno wanted to capture some of James Houghton’s spirit, especially in his last days, and as director, he seems to have guided Emerson toward the same goal.  “If Emerson is not playing Houghton, per se, he is certainly channeling his spirit and perhaps some of the wisdom he left behind,” suggested Hayley Levitt on TheaterMania. 

Emerson approaches the role with a quiet sincerity, but not without humor—a light touch that never leaks over into preachy or pedantic.  (“Jim . . . had a way with being funny that—since it didn’t seem like it was his first priority—it just made things funnier.” recounts Eno.  “I don’t know how a person can be an incredible leader and a sort of class clown and prankster, but he was a little bit that.”)  He keeps the monologues conversational, as if he were really talking to us and making up his spiel as he goes along, taking cues from the visuals or his memories—or occasionally his notes, which seem to have mostly become irrelevant after he assembled them.  While LaVoy is a tad more actorly as Lisa, Emerson never seems anything but natural, as if he were improvising the whole performance.  (What might look like improvisations or accidents aren’t, as proved by the published reviewers—which I’ll get to at the end of this report as usual—who all comment on the same moments that drew my own attention even though we each will have seen different performances.) 

Furthermore, the actor strikes just the right tone—not quite diffident and not quite in command—to make Guy not only sympathetic as a character, but the regular guy his label identifies him as.  Like the title character in Jacobs-Jenkins’s Everybody, Eno’s—and Emerson’s—Guy is all of us.  (I don’t know if Eno would have objections, but I think Guy could easily be played by a woman; there’s nothing really gender-specific in the part—aside from its designation in the program.)  Maintaining this balance convincingly—and I found it totally convincing—is why I assert Emerson is earning an OBIE nod.  It looks simple, but it’s far from it—as actors and acting students will immediately recognize.  (Given Emerson’s past roles, we can also know that this is work, not just his natural behavior.  He just does it in a way that looks like his normal demeanor.)  Let me just add that this is one of those rare occurrences in theater: the perfect alignment of role and actor.  Kudos to both Eno (for casting Emerson) and Emerson for his stage work!

By the way, one additional remark: this is a play that should appeal to small companies and college theaters—it has the most minimal of sets, two actors, and easy tech (slides, recorded music, and a few simple light and sound FX)—plus it’s very short, a good student-directing candidate if the student can handle the acting style.  (Apparently it’s already in press by Oberon Books for publication on 30 March; the Drama Book Shop is advertizing it now.)

On Show-Score, Wakey, Wakey accumulated an average rating of 72 based on a survey of 34 notices.  The site tallied 68% positive reviews, 12% negative, and 20% mixed.  Show-Score's highest rating was 95, of which there were two, with five 90’s; the lowest score was a single 35, with one 41.  (I’ll be reviewing 19 notices for my round-up.)

In the New York Daily News, Joe Dziemianowicz characterized Wakey, Wakey as an “odd but gently urgent play” in which “the going gets curious.”  Guy’s reminiscence “tends to be elliptical, cryptic and trails off into dead ends,” added the Newsman.  “No matter,” wrote Dziemianowicz: Emerson plays Guy “with a magnetic open-hearted humor, so we stay connected.”  For the suburban Bergen County, New Jersey, Record, Robert Feldberg asserted that Wakey, Wakey “isn’t really a play.  It’s an accounting of the things that matter in life.”  Wrote Feldberg, “Presented with quiet authority and a soft, ironic humor by the remarkable Michael Emerson . . ., observations that might otherwise seem random, and sentimental, coalesce into a painful but brave last embrace of ordinary pleasures.” 

“Though the man telling the jokes is sitting down (he’s in a wheelchair), dying is a stand-up routine in ‘Wakey, Wakey,’” observed Ben Brantley in the New York Times, dubbing it a “glowingly dark, profoundly moving new play” and a “short, resonant tragicomedy.”  Comparing Eno’s work to Albee’s, Brantley also asserted, “‘Wakey, Wakey’ retains a Beckettian sense of human existence as an absurdist vaudeville, a slapstick of failing and falling, despite all aspirations to dignity.”  The Timesman continued, “But Mr. Eno’s play is warmer and less magisterial than most of Mr. Albee’s work.  You could even call it cozy, which is not to say it doesn’t chill.”  The playwright and Michael Emerson “together tap into the show business in the business of breathing your last,” reported Brantley, praising the actor’s portrayal “with a master’s blend of pretty much every emotion there is.”  The Times reviewer declared, “The astonishment of Mr. Emerson’s performance is how universal and particular it is,” characterizing him as a “magnetic presence” and “the show’s most dazzling special effect.” 

The New Yorker’s “Goings On About Town” reviewer described Wakey, Wakey as “theatrical games” and pronounced that the “script’s perfect unpredictability” is “for a long while . . . thrilling.  But, as the protagonist’s energy flags, so does the show’s.”  Emerson, though, “makes for engaging and funny company.”  In the Village Voice, after characterizing the play as “chatting desultorily about life,” Michael Feingold asserted, “It all sounds absurdly trivial and random, which is part of writer-director Eno’s intention,” and then added, “But Wakey Wakey’s sharp writing, heightened by the easygoing asperity of Emerson’s performance, stirs deeper feelings.  Granted, the truth it conveys is small, rarefied, and overly hedged with decorative distractions.  Even so, it’s genuine.” 

Opening his notice in New York magazine with the statement, “The first half of . . . Wakey, Wakey . . . is a neat summary of everything theatergoers either love or hate about Will Eno.  I will write from the latter perspective,” Jesse Green described the play as “a rambling monologue of no apparent consequence.”  After presenting a list of the play’s deficiencies, all emblematic of Green’s complaints about Eno’s dramaturgy, the man from New York concluded, “The topics, however absurd on the surface, all collapse into meditations on mortality; to bring home the point Eno even gives us a YouTube video of animals screaming.  I may have been among them.”  Then LaVoy’s Lisa, “so radiantly warm onstage,” enters and Green reported, “The struggle between insincerity and urgency that Guy has been enacting gives way, under Lisa’s gentleness, to something more direct and beautiful.”  He acknowledged, “I felt my hostility toward the first half of Wakey, Wakey, with all its dull cuteness, beginning to melt.”  Emerson, said Green (in contrast to most other reviewers),”though technically excellent, cannot get so far with his character.”  (The New York review-writer suggested that Eno’s direction is in part to blame for this failure.)  Acknowledging that “the physical production . . . is ideal,” the New York reviewer caviled that “the play as a whole does not yet reward so much care.” 

Comparing Wakey, Wakey with that other Signature production about death and dying, Frank Rizzo labels Eno’s play “a work of humor, humanity and grace that makes you want to hug your lover, your neighbor and maybe an usher on the way out” in Variety.  Emerson “offers a captivating, playful and deeply moving performance” as the dying man, “a loving transition, theatrically told in a sui generis style that is Eno’s own.  As Guy would say, ‘Wowee.’”  Dubbing the play “quietly beautiful,” Time Out New York’s David Cote explained that Eno “makes a spectacle of vamping and false starts, awkward yet deeply felt pauses, as the keen, funny, transfixing Emerson reads from index cards, gets his slides confused and bathes the audience in his gentle, beatific fussiness.” 

In the Hollywood Reporter, David Rooney, calling Wakey, Wakey the writer’s “typically idiosyncratic little play” and his “latest existential inquiry,” asserted, “Will Eno’s plays tend to live more in his characters’ minds than in any experiences we witness them going through.”  The HR reviewer reported, “The hook that reels us into this abstruse, tricky, stream-of-consciousness contemplation of mortality is a beautiful performance from Michael Emerson.”  In “this unexpectedly affecting (almost) two-character piece,” Eno and Emerson create “also a sense of playfulness.”  There are moments, said Rooney, when “you wonder whether this is more of an inspirational seminar or a play.  In fact it's a little of both and neither.”   He noted, “While the thematic richness of Wakey, Wakey creeps up on you . . ., few will make the claim that this is a major addition to Eno's distinctive body of work.”  Rooney concluded, however, “Eno's unique voice—quizzical, perceptive, assertively compassionate—is one to be celebrated.” 

In the cyber press, Hayley Levitt on TheaterMania quipped, “Only Will Eno could find the playfulness in a dying man’s end-of-life ruminations.”  Levitt observed that Eno ends his Residency Five term “not so much with a bang, but with a wink and a knowing smile that patrons willing to listen intently will receive with warmhearted joy.”  The TM reviewer explained that “Eno’s dialogue remains stilted and aloof.  It serves the play’s purposes—and could not be given a more naturalistic performance than the one Emerson is delivering.”  She warned, however, that “if you require peaks and valleys of drama to keep you engaged in a story, you may get sleepy within Wakey, Wakey’s microscopic modulations and extended silences.”  On CurtainUp, Simon Saltzman dubbed the play “contemplative” and reported, “Never morbid, it is surprisingly illuminating and insightful, even revelatory.”  Of all Eno’s plays, Saltzman said, Wakey, Wakey, “sensitively directed by the playwright,” is “his most easily embraced and most deliberately accessible.”  In the end, she concluded, “The press release has this hopeful line: ‘. . . there’s a chance this will be a really good experience.’  It was . . . and more.”

“I’d love to tell you what Wakey, Wakey . . . is about, but it ain’t easy,” admitted Talkin’ Broadway’s Matthew Murray in the opening of his review.  He offered an explanation of what he says Eno thinks the play is about, then cautions, “But as with so many of Eno’s plays, what makes sense on paper makes nonsense in practice, with whatever points it might have the potential to make crushed beneath the weight of its creator’s enforced artifice.”  Murray then declared, “That it’s his best play since his New York breakthrough . . . is all but irrelevant: How much should any artist be praised for fulfilling the bare minimum of the challenges he sets for himself?”  The TB reviewer asserted, “Emerson does everything he can with” Eno’s script, but “[t]he shtick gets tiresome quickly.”  He continued, “Around its edges, however, Wakey, Wakey evinces more discipline than Eno has displayed in years. . . .   Your reaction to what happens will depend entirely on whether you buy what he’s selling and how he’s selling it.”  On TheaterScene, Joel Benjamin asserted, “Wakey, Wakey is Will Eno at his surreal, troubling, beautiful best, a play both challenging and easily absorbed.  

Theater Pizzazz’s Carol Rocamora opens her review by asking, “What’s this?  A stand-up comedy routine?” adding that the actor in the wheelchair is “not making sense.”  She determined that Wakey, Wakey is “initially mysterious and ultimately deeply moving,” and that Emerson delivers “a mesmerizing monologue that plays with your mind and ultimately with your heart.”  On Theatre’s Leiter Side, Samuel L. Leiter described Eno’s play as “an idiosyncratic, essentially plotless, seriocomic, elliptical, but heartfelt rumination on mortality.”  Yet Leiter warned that Eno “has a gift for unusual situations and quirkily delightful dialogue, and he knows how to get laughs with verbal surprises, but in Wakey, Wakey, he offers little new or revelatory about the human condition.”  Nonetheless, Emerson’s performance “makes you hang on every word, even if you don’t always know precisely what he means.”  Leiter’s concluding thoughts are:

As Wakey, Wakey moves inexorably toward its anticipated conclusion (climax is too animated a word), its unhurried pace slows . . . to . . . a . . . crawl, making its title seem a misreading for Wake Me, Wake Me.  Its acting and production elements score highly, but while some visitors will certainly be touched others are likely to find Wakey, Wakey  too wishy-washy for their tastes.

                             

Emily Gawlak of StageBuddy labeled Wakey, Wakey “overwhelmingly joyous, moving, and unpredictable” and declared, “With Wakey, Wakey, Eno and Emerson achieve a stunning feat, compelling an audience of strangers to deeply mourn the loss of a man who is not only a stranger but a fiction.”  Gawlak concluded, “Wakey, Wakey is a truly great play, one that reasserts the unique power of theatre to create a space for catharsis and community building.  You’ll want to recapture the heart-bursting, life-affirming feeling again and again.”  On Broadway World, Michael Dale acknowledged, “Emerson makes for appealing company and Eno’s meandering text has its cute and funny moments.”  He then added, “But there’s also a redundant meta quality that gets tiresome.”  Echoing one of Guy’s lines, Dale finished up quipping, “As for any further descriptions, I don’t know exactly what to say to you.”

Tulis McCall started off by praising Emerson’s performance in Wakey, Wakey on New York Theatre Guide, then continued, “Would that the material itself held up as well.”  Emerson, McCall asserted, “is apparently very funny if you were to judge from the reactions of the audience the night I attended.  I found his work intriguing and introspective, but not funny in the least.”  The NYTG reviewer observed, “Eno writes with sly winks and nods and intellectual forays thither and yon.  It can be a pleasure to listen to, especially in the hands of Emerson who is both deft and grounded . . . .”  Then she lamented, “In the end, however, there is not enough ‘there’ there on which you can hang your hat.”  McCall’s conclusion?  “Wakey Wakey is an event that falls short of becoming a piece that hits you where you live, or, in this case, expire.”  On New York Theater, Jonathan Mandell, dubbing Wakey, Wakey “the latest ethereal, esoteric play by Will Eno,” referred to a line of Guy’s—“They say practicing gratitude can physically change the shape of the brain, in a good way”—which he actually looks up on the ‘Net.  (It turns out to be true.)  Then he added, “I doubt my brain is going to be changed very much by ‘Wakey, Wakey,’ but I did like it better than anything else I’ve seen by Eno, whose comic, cosmic, cryptic approach to playwriting has consistently charmed other people.”  Mandell went on to admit, “Too often, I’ve found his impish sensibility grating.”  Though the NY Theater review-writer found, “With gentle humor and a lack of fussiness, Michael Emerson manages to woo us through the deliberate vagueness, starts-and-stops, meta interruptions, of his monologue,” in the final analysis, he felt, “Much of what Eno’s script is trying to induce about the celebration and uncertainty of life and death has been done better and with more clarity elsewhere.” 

Okay, so what did I learn—about Eno’s point, I mean?  Leaving aside the tribute and homage to James Houghton, the playwright’s private message embedded in his play, I’m going to have to say that Wakey, Wakey is Eno’s lesson in saying goodbye.  “There’s always someone or something to say goodbye to,” says Guy, and Eno’s told us how much he learned from Houghton’s last days.  It’s not portentous last words that matter, Eno says, but first words.  Learning to say goodbye might help us learn to say hello better, says Guy.  Then we can talk about all the trivial small things that make up a life—our own and other people’s.  We don’t learn much about Guy’s circumstances—but we do learn something about his . . . well, what should I call it?  His soul.  Eno just called it “what remains of a person.”  Eno’s obviously not a subscriber to Dylan Thomas’s view on dying, for Guy chats with us, shares his thoughts and feelings, and then goes gentle into that good night.  What Eno wants us to understand, then, is how to do that with class.  What d’ya think?  How’d I do in the end?