Moby Dick at Harbourfront Centre (Plexus Polaire/Why Not Theatre)
Photo by Christophe Raynaud de Lage
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet… then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
Page one of Moby Dick briefly mentions protagonist Ishmael’s habit of “bringing up the rear of every funeral” he meets. The novel next mentions funerals halfway through, in reference to a whale death.
But Plexus Polaire’s 85-minute theatrical adaptation of the novel turns this line into a motif that runs throughout the whole show.
It all begins when a mass of cloaked figures emerge from a cloud of haze. In a monologue, Ishamel contextualizes these figures, telling us that he sneaks into strangers’ funerals to scream in despair without judgement. Even once Ishmael goes to sea on Captain Ahab’s Pequod, these figures stalk around in the shadows and sing ominous requiems.
Yes, this is a Moby Dick about death. And because Plexus Polaire’s work revolves around life-sized puppets, the show is able to render it vividly. While a puppet-less production might struggle to depict whale deaths, director Yngvild Aspeli relishes in them — at one point, the skin of a whale slowly, painstakingly peels away to reveal the bloody puppet organs beneath; the hunters discard the carcass into the watery depths, and the whale’s baby, which was at its side the whole time, is left drifting alone.
Ishamel’s shipmates are puppets, too, and though they each introduce themselves with a one-line zinger, that is the extent of their characterization: asleep in the ship’s cabin, they are another anonymous mass of funeral goers. The sea, it seems, is an even better place for Ishmael, who keeps watch on the ship’s mast while everyone else sleeps, to scream.
With a short runtime and a strong thematic angle, it may seem like Moby Dick is, like Ahab, trying to conquer something bigger than itself. Trying to squish the sprawling expanse of Melville’s novel into an easily consumable theatrical box.
This is not the case. Though its dramaturgy is focused, the sprawl of this Moby Dick manifests itself visually. Puppets cross the stage slowly, invoking the vastness of the sea. Projections of constellations and seafaring calculations serve no narrative purpose, but have an appeal that is quite literary: it is up to the audience to engage with them, to “read” them, to search for patterns in their abstraction and open themselves up to their striking beauty.
Moby Dick’s sound design supports both its visual freedom and its conceptual perfection. The atmospheric score is performed live by three musicians: bassist Guro Skumsnes Moe, percussionist Ane Marthe Sørlien Holen, and guitarist Havard Skaset. They perform it flexibly, responding to what the performers are giving them in a back-and-forth exchange that feels very free and in-the-moment. That is, until the show hits a climactic plot point. Then the musicians take the helm, and Holen’s steady beats mesh with Skaset’s ferocious strumming to propel the show forward with cinematic confidence. For a moment, the show seems totally unliterary. Cause-and-effect threatens to take over.
But then they stop playing. Someone dies, or the funeral procession returns. We look at the stars. And breathe.
These ups and downs roll into us like waves smacking the Pequod’s keel. Ishamel is our anchor, but he has no answers: he doesn’t address the audience to tell us what’s happening, but to try and work it through for himself. He is in a constant search for meaning. Perhaps he would prefer to be the narrator of a novel, where everything must be interpreted through his eyes, and nothing exists unless language can capture it. But he isn’t.