The first words uttered by our narrator after he rolls onstage—literally—are "I'm not from here." We never learn what country of curious customs claims him as its son, but his resemblance to the hero of Samuel Beckett's Theater I hints of realms bordering on Waiting for Godotterritory, described by a character as birth occurring astride a grave—"The light gleams an instant, then it's night once more." Though our tourist displays the resignation engendered by this knowledge, he is determined to be cheerful during that brief gleam's last hour.
Bookworms doing their homework before arriving at Lookingglass Theater's quarters in the Water Works will have already anticipated the Beckett influence. Will Eno's earlier plays aspire to Stoppardian prestidigitation in their efforts to utilize language as a means of conveying information while simultaneously analyzing the means by which it accomplishes its task. This particular project, Title and Deed, was written to showcase Irish actor Conor Lovett, a member of County Cork's Gare St. Lazare Players and no stranger to the epistemological enigma characterizing the dramatic universe of mid-20th century Absurdism.
Given the number of fledgling playwrights who attempt to re-map Beckett's existential void, Eno's 65-minute monologue could easily have emerged as little more than academic fan-fiction, if not for guest artists Marti Lyons and Michael Patrick Thornton. The story recounted by the wayfarer identified in the playbill only as "Traveler" may be uneventful, his recollections of social interaction as dimly sketched as dreams, his linguistic musings reflective of solitary amusement ("Love is a many splintered thing" for example, or the disclosure that a girl has a "significant" birthmark), but under Lyons's direction, the most banal revelations are rendered intriguing—perhaps even hinting at insightful—by Thornton's slyly mischievous phrasing.
In a departure from Lookingglass's customary bells-and-whistles spectacle, Daniel Ostling's scenic and lighting design is almost painfully minimalist, with nearly half the seats in each side section roped off to spectators. This puts audiences within eye-contact proximity of the stage and one another—not unlike the configuration in the Gift Theater, Thornton's home-base storefront playhouse—creating an intimacy that allows our host to address playgoers directly (hearing a chair scrape, he entreats its fidgety occupant, "Please don't leave yet!"). It's a reasonable request to make of a "nice clump" of strangers providing the opportunity for a friendly chat before the sunset glow signals the dying of the light.
