Penny Plain is all about the puppets. They’re exquisitely crafted, detailed, and lifelike. Their strings are in the skilled hands of Ronnie Burkett. It would be a tragedy to be unable to see them clearly.
Well, I wish I’d brought a pair of opera glasses.
Penny Plain, the blind proprietor of a boarding house, is content to wait out the imminent end of civilization with her heretofore faithful canine companion Geoffrey, listening to events unfold on the television. Geoffrey, however, has other ideas—so, too, do her boarders: Wesley Dollop, a bank teller; Jubliee, a homicidal editor; Jubilee’s demented, decrepit mother Queenie; and Gepetto Jones (formerly Lorenzini), a retired puppeteer. The outside world also seems intent on invading the relative calm of the boarding house: Evelyn French wants a child; the Tittys, an American couple, want to establish a base; Pino Lorenzini wants some kind of reconciliation; and a strange boy in a gas mask named Oliver and a little girl named Tuppence just want to be of some help. Is the world going to the dogs, or just turning over a new leaf?
The multiple marionettes used to represent each one of these characters (every costume change, for example, requires a different marionette for the same character), are operated and voiced by Ronnie Burkett, whose Theatre of Marionettes is celebrating its 25th anniversary. Each one of the characters is his own creation, although he has a workshop and a team to craft and construct all the marionettes.
The published text of Penny Plain contains full-colour pictures of the stage, set and some of the marionettes. But no photograph can convey the full depth and intricacy of the set, which consists of a lower level suggesting the living room of a house and an upper level serving as both a platform for Burkett and a secondary stage. Its background is luminous, animated with lighting changes that set the mood and silhouette the action.
The foremost problem with mounting this production on the National Arts Centre stage is that it’s not only Penny Plain who’s blind; unless one is seated very close to the stage, the minuscule details of the marionettes are indistinct. The set is constructed so that one may easily see the marionettes hanging behind and to the sides; that Burkett and so much of the mechanics of the production are visible is entirely intentional. But the area where the action occurs takes up less than a third of the stage, forcing one to squint, strain, and finally give up hope of seeing any detail. You know the marionettes are exquisite; you just can’t really see them that well from a distance. Possibly to make up for the diminished visibility, the sound and music are quite loud.
Penny Plain reads rather better than it plays. The contrast between the delicate precision of the marionettes’ operation and the heavy-handedness of the trite moralistic dialogue is dissonant and alienating. The lack of depth of the characters is stunning, considering the rich possibilities and intricacy of the puppets themselves. Burkett doesn’t separate the vocal characterization enough for each one to be distinct, for one thing (this utterly deflates a couple of scenes of rapid-fire vaudevillian dialogue). For another, the female characters are all seeking either protection or completion, and almost exclusively from men. Whether or not the stereotypes relied upon to provide the forced humour are indeed sexist, racist, and homophobic is left to the individual’s judgement.
Writers of all stripes, and perhaps particularly playwright/performers, are often susceptible to a pernicious disease called “gratuitous author insertion.” This is not the same as semi-autobiographical fiction, which is perfectly fine. Burkett as a performer is visible and present on stage with his marionettes, and very much a character himself at the emotional climax of the piece; this, too, is perfectly fine. However, the inclusion of Gepetto, Pinocchio, and the entire plot arising from their unmotivated presence in the story, is rather suspect. There are already too many things going on for most characters to get a proper introduction, and almost none of the individual characters’ stories are actually resolved.
Despite these apparent shortcomings, the audience as a whole doesn’t seem to mind; they chuckle along with the one-liners, scatalogical humour, and oddly frequent hints at the subject of bestiality.
Go to Penny Plain to see the marionettes; they are, after all, the point of the production. This means either securing a seat close to the stage or investing in a pair of discreet opera glasses. There’s no question that the marionettes are exquisite and that Burkett is master of his craft. The problem is that the whole performance emanates a feeling of effort, that one is watching someone work hard. In the morass of indecision between which is important to show—the puppet show or the puppet master—the emotion and magic go missing, and that’s a disappointment.
Penny Plain plays Tuesdays to Sundays at the NAC until April 1, 2012. Tickets start at $22.
