Playwright: Trevor Dawkins. At: The Neo-Futurists at the Neo-Futurarium, 5153 N. Ashland Ave.. Tickets: 773-275-5255; Article Link Here ; $20 . Runs through: June 28
When he was 13, Trevor Dawkins wrote a screenplay he titled "Tears of Shanghai." Now, at the ripe old age of 27, he is joined by the Neo-Futurist ensemble in presenting the first, and possibly last, production of his early foray into manly-man fiction. Ooooh, but once an author invites others to share in his make-believe game, he renders his scenario vulnerable to negotiation with its participants, many of whom are not afraid to voice opinions regarding his fantasy—or, even more disturbing, the events inspiring its composition.
This detached approach—not so much "watch our play" than "watch how we make our play"—is the trademark of the Neo-Futurist aesthetic, so if you find yourself confused by the progress of our movie's Yankee mercenary hero and femme fatale heroine in their struggle against Nazis, gangsters and faceless assassins ( even with a scenic design that includes a chalkboard ledger to help us keep track of the body count ), it's not important. The familiar tropes—Paris bistros, waterfront opium dens, the obligatory dimly lit abandoned industrial sites—serve mostly as clues to the psychology of pre-adolescent boys and how it, in turn, shapes the adults they become.
Don't come expecting some stiff-lipped academic treatise, however. The hypothetical film providing our story's premise mandates re-enactments of precision-choreographed physicality taken to evermore operatic extravagance, beginning with simple punches and kicks, and escalating to helicopter throws, dives through "broken" windows, a ninja-style flashlight stalk and a slo-mo battle with a creature so big it takes eight actors to play it. Adding to the visual dazzle is the propensity of the play's action to scramble up the aisles or pop out of corners behind the audience ( some of which are occasionally drafted into service during the course of the show ).
So much adrenaline can exhaust the most thrilling spectacle, though. As of opening night, Dawkins' text could stand to lose about 15 of its 100 minutes ( not the expository sequences protested by his fellow cast members, but pared from the romantic passages—a little smolder goes a long way ). The configuration of the Neo-Futurarium auditorium also makes for impaired intelligibility at times, but there's no denying the visceral exhilaration of almost non-stop acrobatics executed at barely arm's distance, nor the lingering contemplations—the mandatory silence imposed on Asian characters, for example, or the folly of "soliloquizing to a paying audience"—sparked by the candor of performers commenting on their own task.
