When Mary Zimmerman's athletic-acrobatic-abstract exhibition made its debut in 1993, nobody knew what to make of an evening of kinetic display allegedly based on the aesthetic, scientific, and metaphysical precepts/contemplations of the Renaissance Man who defined the term. Was this multi-disciplinary mosaic to be viewed as dance, accompanied by words instead of music à la Martha Graham? Was it an "acting-out" game (Simon says "light reflects off solid objects")? Were we supposed to focus on the dazzling gymnastics or the explanations of their purpose? And what, precisely, is the "purpose" of, let's say, a large sharp-beaked bird that lures the keeper of the titular coded journals — represented by eight actors of varied ages, genders, shapes and vocal ranges—off to explore the vast unknown beyond?
Whatever it was, its technique won Mary Zimmerman a Tony in 2002, so that now we are free to ignore taxonomical imperatives and just experience the sheer amplitude of the spectacle inspired by the memoirs of the endlessly inquisitive genius who painted the Mona Lisa, invented a prototypal flying machine and proclaimed the superiority of painting over sculpture like that of his popular contemporary, Michelangelo. Zimmerman's predominant motif, however, is the human body, the possibilities of which are demonstrated in feats of physical agility executed on Scott Bradley's intricate jungle-gym scaffolding—for example, the petite Cruz Gonzales-Cadel effortlessly lifting a partner twice her height and thrice her weight, or the muscular John Gregorio seeming to hover in the air, while in reality balancing in prone position on a single barre. Bradley's shell of cabinet doors also pop open to bring forth ingenious objects employed to fashion Cornell-box collages, including a massive cat's-cradle covering the entire stage, assembled like a giant spider-web before our very eyes by the ensemble. Oh, and did I mention the sentimental Big Band-ballad invoked to illustrate the mechanics of voice production?
Despite the advantages bestowed by the Goodman's Owen auditorium—notably, its abundance of theatrical toys and the casting of an actor or two whose verbal, as well as anatomical, prowess serves to guide us through this dazzling wonderland—playgoers may yet emerge puzzled by Zimmerman's departure from conventional dramaturgy (particularly during the lull in the last third of the running time). No need for shame, though—if it took the rest of America eight years to overcome their culture shock, no one will blame you for not getting it all in just eighty minutes.
