The aesthetic of British author Clive Barker has been likened to that of American artist Ivan Albright: death, disease, decay, body fluids, scabs, pimples - all the icky natural shocks that flesh is heir to - are graphically represented in their depiction of this imperfect universe. But while Albright often hints at compassion for his all-too-human victims, Barker revels in misanthropy of the cruelest kind. Eventually, he would ration his shockers out to alternate with intervals of narrative calm, but in this literally "heart-wrenching romance," the horror and disgust come as fast and thick as one could ask of a novelist attempting his first play.
Our story is set in a South American country during - what else? - the overthrow of a totalitarian regime. One of the rebel leaders is Cesar Guerrero - called "El Coco," or "bogeyman" - a hideously scarred field officer said to walk through flaming infernos unharmed. His personal quarry is Dr. Joseph Frankenstein, in whose government-funded laboratories terrible experiments are conducted. Other characters include the beautiful (despite extensive surgical alteration) Veronique, the dashing mercenary Cockatoo, the usual gallery of corrupt public servants and our guide, the undead gypsy clairvoyant Maria.
Even with the abridged text utilized by this Will Act For Food production, our orientation is hindered by the storefront auditorium's configuration into a sort of double-circle promenade (similar to that of the currently-running Threepenny Opera at the Steppenwolf Garage, but in much, much smaller quarters), with the physical action swarming around audience members isolated in small groups throughout the space.
Lest this intimate visual proximity diminish the mystery, however, director Gregory Gerhard and "violence director" Greg Poljacik have located the more stomach-churning atrocities in the many shadowy corners and alcoves provided by C.W. Van Baale's serpentine scenery and Dan Tamarkin's noiresque lighting, their lurid menace heightened by Rachel Sypniewski's wardrobe of bloody bandages, Amanda Fox's vivid array of skin lesions and, of course, our imaginations.
"Fasten your seat belts ... until the ride comes to a complete stop" warns a note in the stagebill. This brand of neo-Grand Guignol spectacle is difficult to pull off, especially given Barker's affinity for schoolboy humor that could easily topple the suspension of disbelief into Mel Brooks farce. But though the plot doesn't kick in until the second-act entrance of the icy Doctor F, the play's grotesquely-upbeat ending justifies any vertigo we may have endured on our way there.
