Street of Crocodiles: Review

Theatre de Complicite's visually stunning production of The Street of Crocodiles is a succession of hallucinatory images, changing restlessly like colorful patterns in a spinning kaleidoscope. Although based on the works and life of Bruno Schulz, the influential Jewish writer slain by the Gestapo in 1942, it is less a play than an evocation, accurately described by its subtitle: "A Dance of the Mind." With director Simon McBurney at the helm, the Queen’s Theatre becomes a dreamscape of dusty old books and personal remembrances on a single man’s journey of memories, a journey which blurs the line separating reality from fantasy.

Near the start of the play, the main character is sorting books for either cataloging or burning in Nazi-occupied Poland. It is clear he is a writer simply by the reverence with which he handles the books, deciding their fates, smelling the pages. When he pulls his own collection of stories from the pile he freezes - his face is illuminated by the page itself. Slowly, as his memories whirl upon him, a mackintoshed figure slowly walks down the back wall of the theatre, disrupting our sense of space and serving as herald to the fragments of time lost that will jostle through the mind of Joseph, Schulz's alter ego. Suddenly, the other actors in the troupe emerge from all over the space becoming a flock of birds sweeping over the stage, sending Joseph in flight before them.

Simon McBurney directs the Theatre de Complicite with an undeniable edge of painful reality. His actors metamorphose into each new character with ease and complete physical dedication. In one instance, the transformation from a family at dinner to a flock of various squawking birds manages to be both comical and haunting. With a carefully flicked fan, a flurry of well-placed feathers and meticulous physical realignment, the cast emerges as a surreal gaggle of prancing fowl. Such antics of this versatile troupe make each new scene a joy to experience. Supported by fantastic lighting, non-stop physical invention, and a heart-stopping soundtrack of music by Shostakovich, Janacek and Alfred Schnittke, you will not see a more formidably cohesive ensemble on the London stage.

The emphasis on the visual elements and striking series of images purposefully leaves the audience at a bit of a loss. Although we anxiously await the next stage picture to materialize through another magic trick of props, we feel strongly allied with the befuddled protagonist. He holds only the broken, fragmented pieces of an unsolved puzzle, trying to make sense of the whirl of sensory experiences around him. We follow him through this dense imagistic ballet, trying to find the missing link that will make the meaning of all of this beauty and pathos clear to us. Only as the last series of melancholy images plays on our raw emotions, that the realization hits us like a wave; there is no need to spend agonizing hours on background research to grasp the ensemble's message.

Schulz/Joseph, shot in the head, slowly undresses and is passed, huddled fetally, from the arms of one family member to another, at once infant and Holocaust victim. Like a memory heard through a prism, these inspired images and gestures crystallize one man's experience into a vision of life, creation, longing and death, to be shared by all. This cathartic evening has less to do with specific explanations than it has to do with bestowing upon the audience the transcendent gift of a communal artistic and emotional experience.

Both the seemingly chaotic movement and the carefully choreographed staging invoke a world where matter and objects have a life of their own. As a repeated theme states, “the transformation of forms is the essence of life.” Handkerchiefs, hats, books, snapping desks, chairs and dramatic sheets of fabric dance with the human ensemble to create a vivacious fantasy world. The evening slips into melancholy with the appearance of somber hymns, shadows, and a grim depiction of Nazi mob mentality. Regardless of changing emotional tone and the disregard for gravity's regulations, the prominence and importance of the vivid visual world is never compromised.

Theatregoers often embark on their journey in order to come away with a rationally solved human dilemma presented clearly on stage. Sometimes all of this realism can become stifling. In the world of predictable naturalistic performances of safe works that makes up the recent West End offerings, The Street of Crocodiles is a blast of innovative fresh air breathing life into seasoned audience members and lovers of the theatre.

Feb 23, 1998
The Street Of Crocodiles
Queen’s Theatre