The Living Room

Jerzy Grotowski was one of the great theatre makers and thinkers of the 20th century, developing the idea of ‘poor theatre’, which got rid of lavish costumes and sets and focused on the performance of the actor. His legacy lives on in the Workcenter, now run by Grotowski’s protege Thomas Richards. 

That’s the context. Without it, The Living Room would seem like a bunch of actors smiling simpering smiles, singing in tongues, spouting pretentious (meaningless?) poetry while we sit in armchairs and sip tea. 

The thing is, it’s impenetrable to the uninitiated. There’s so little to latch onto—certainly no narrative (not that that’s necessary in a piece of theatre)—and the format so repetitive. The performers speak poetic lines, they sing, they gesture. They repeat. The tedium is almost offensive. 

Unlike most theatre, this isn’t representation of events but an event itself. You have to take it on its own terms, clutch at the possibility that these songs have archaic origins in different traditions (maybe). That the poems and gestures speak to some subterranean notion of fertility (maybe). 

But 90 minutes in, the novelty of having been offered tea and coffee on entry now faded and the generosity of spirit that’s important for getting along with this show now depleted, it’s far, far too tempting to see this instead as an inexplicable, unremitting, excruciating waste of time. 

While the production’s methodology may be as thorough as anything going, it just doesn’t kindle the benefit of the doubt that’s needed to actually enjoy the show. The space is pretty, though, with antique furniture and tables laid out with afternoon tea. And we get to eat chocolate cake.