An Ark Off-Broadway Reviews

In 47 minutes, “An Ark” spans the arc (ark?) of human life, from birth to death, with a lyrical script by acclaimed British playwright Simon Stephens (Tony-winner for “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” and recent Off-Broadway adaptor of “Vanya.” ) Neither Simons’ lyricism nor producer Todd Eckert’s pioneering mixed reality will work for everybody. The experiment might not wholly satisfy anybody, but it’s too intriguing and artful for me to dismiss.

For all the supposedly novel tech involved, it’s a rather dull experience. Even at a compact 45 minutes, An Ark began to lose this critic’s interest after the first 20. While a live performance of this text staged in the same way wouldn’t be much more interesting, at least its liveness would connect the performers and audience members. The ephemerality of the mixed-reality venture, meant to conjure the liminality of not-quite the afterlife, is compelling in theory, but the show does little to challenge or excite beyond its gadgetry.

And when these apparitions vanish, the text’s overriding theme—of life’s evanescence but also its beauty—does finally dovetail with the ghostly images created by the technology. If “An Ark” were presented as a traditional play, it would be gossamer-thin. Dressed up in the latest digital wizardry, it becomes a memorable, even unforgettable experience.

Despite the polished delivery by the barefoot cast, the story can get confusing. Aside from Kene’s character, who feels obliged to exit after accidentally killing a woman while driving drunk, you never really get a grasp on any of these people as individuals. Stephens’ script seems to have slipped into the uncanny valley itself, with fuzzy descriptions of the human experience that offer moments of piquant poetry before slipping back into generalities that are amplified by repeated use of the second person.

Ultimately the play, directed by Sarah Frankcom, proves more serviceable than profound, but it works effectively in the unique format. First, for no apparent reason, you’re asked to take off your shoes (the venue had the same requirement for their recent immersive production Viola’s Room, making you think that someone there has a foot fetish). Then you take a chair in a large, carpeted space adorned with a huge white orb on the ceiling, and are outfitted with the headset that fits snugly on your noggin. Wearing glasses with it on would prove virtually impossible, but not to worry; corrective lenses can be inserted. It’s like a trip to the optometrist!

Did it work? I’m sure not for everyone. This is, after all, the first effort in what I’d call a high-tech existential thought experiment. But despite all the hoopla about the innovative technology, the play’s still very much the thing here, and this is a sweet one.

Director Sarah Krankcom attempts to wrangle a more intimate, humanistic approach, with varying success. McKellen’s vast film experience pays off, as does Golda Rosheuvel’s (Bridgerton), both understanding that this is, essentially, film work. But as for being a piece of theater, An Ark is lost at sea.

Stephens’s script attempts to envision death in order to pay homage to life, but neither great mystery feels freshly illuminated by a project that invests so little in actual presence, actual vigor. When An Ark was done, a hesitation preceded dutiful applause. The woman beside me joined in but turned to her friend with a short, uncertain laugh. “What,” she asked, “are we clapping for?”