I’m glad when they arrive and I’m glad when they leave. I’m glad when I hear their heels approaching my door and I’m glad when those heels walk away. I’m glad to fuck. I’m glad to care. And I’m glad when it’s over. And since it’s always either starting or finishing I’m glad most of the time.

– Charles Bukowski

It’s obvious that Austin McCormick’s grasp of creating a theatre experience reaches far beyond what merely happens on stage. The more I attend performances in the Company XIV space at 303 Bond Street in Brooklyn the more I am treated to McCormick’s all-encompassing way of choreographing not only movement but sensation. From the way the space transforms each time into a whole new configuration to the heady red wine that greets you (or bubbly sparking water for those who don’t partake) to the strange set that seems almost unfinished in spots, you know it’s all carefully constructed – nothing haphazard or random ever occurs here – and once the lights go out and the projections appear it all makes sense.  More than sense – it all makes magic.

Laura Careless as the embodiment of Bukowski's women (photo by Corey Tatarczuk)

Settling down in your seat, drink in hand, you’ll notice there’s a room constructed to the side which you passed on your way in.  It’s an almost 1940s type film noir room – glass panes cloaked in clunky venetian blinds – the old ones that hardly appear in homes anymore, but make such a striking frame for a room forged in the aftermath of too much booze, countless failed love affairs, and an avalanche of evocative poetry.  This room designed by Zane Pihlstrom and offset by Gina Scherr’s hypnotic, dramatic lighting, will later become an area where we can voyeuristically watch the man and his women – be it through the slightly open blinds or aided by several cameras.  Keep looking around and it’s as if the air seems to bear the perfume of resignation as the music curls around you.  “Take a walk on the wild side …” it urges.  Shed your conventions and see what happens on the other side of that wall.

Laura Careless and Jeff Takacs as Charles Bukowski (photo by Corey Tatarczuk)

LOVER. MUSE. MOCKINGBIRD. WHORE begins with the voice of Bukowski himself – strangely familiar … if you’ve heard it even just once you’ll know it immediately.  Soon enough the reigns are taken up by Jeff Takacs who channels Charles Bukowski so thoroughly, so eerily that when he begins to speak the transition is virtually seamless; he is a perfect reflection of an imperfect man.

These women are supposed to come and see me but they never do. There’s the one with the long scar on her belly. There’s the other one who writes poems and phones at 3 a.m. saying, “I love you” …

… begins the litany of woman, all of whom are -or will be- embodied by the exceptionally gifted Laura Careless who not only spends the evening donning different dresses, garters, bras, wigs, shoes and stockings but also different identities all embodied with different natures, vulnerabilities, personalities and dispositions.  Yet ultimately this endless string of women spells the same thing for the man who simultaneously held them in awe as well as in contempt  - Trouble.

All I’ve ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics, whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen. When one leaves another arrives worse than her predecessor. “Don’t ever bring a whore around,” I tell my few friends, “I’ll fall in love with her.”

To fully embrace what McCormick has created you must first understand the poet Bukowski or, short of that, you should at least understand the poetry of Bukowski.  Which is a rather tall order if you’ve never encountered him before, but well worth it if you have. (If you’re of the “never before” school here’s a great place to start your education).

Laura Careless and Jeff Takacs as Charles Bukowski (photo by Corey Tatarczuk)

An appreciation for Bukowski’s poetry brings with it the realization that joy comes in many forms, sometimes enjoyment comes in the recognition of pure despair.  And no one gave a snapshot into skid row despair the way Bukowski did – his works open up a parallel universe, where – if we dare step into it – we can try on another life which can be treated brutally, carelessly, one that we fold and crease and crumple; one  that takes us out of stability and comfort and into the bottom of a bottle which has been tossed amid the rumpled, stained sheets and forgotten.

Where the disparity (and the genius) between Bukowski’s words and McCormick’s vision occur is that The Poet adored women plural but destroyed woman singular and in an effort to celebrate them in his art he impaled them with each line of text. McCormick, on the other hand, understands that the boundary between magnificence and malignancy is flexible.  It can often be played with, twisted and turned inside out.  So even as Laura Careless is moving – writhing at times, jerking, she herself twisting and turning inside out – her natural agility and grace as she executes McCormick’s intricate gestures bring life to Bukowski’s words in a way that is haunting and unforgettable.  Perhaps in a way that no other medium could capture with as much passion, pathos and power.

Charles Bukowski gained acclaim by proving that poetry didn’t have to be lovely in order to be heartfelt.  By choreographing, staging and directing a dance/theatre meditation around this poetry, McCormick proves that dance doesn’t have to be lovely in order to be heartfelt either.  LOVER. MUSE. MOCKINGBIRD. WHORE is more – heart felt, heart breaking, ground breaking … and one more outstanding achievement from Company XIV.

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Related Posts:

• The Fairest Of Them All: Company XIV – Snow White
• The Halloween Plays – Three Bursts Of Fire, Fear And Fantasy
• Not Your Father’s Circus: Le Cirque Feerique (The Fairy Circus)
• Nutcracker Rouge – The Way The Nutcracker Should Be
• Austin McCormick – Dancing Through Life

Tagged as: Austin McCormick, Charles Bukowski, Company XIV, Gina Scherr, Jeff Takacs, Laura Careless, Lover. Muse. Mockingbird. Whore., Zane Pihlstrom