Of course, with the most charitable of interpretations, mere understanding might be beside the point in this sort of show. One is ultimately just supposed to sit back – or in the case of Kennelly’s site specific-style staging, follow the action on foot around and around the building – as the dazzling music and startling images waft around one.
In terms of plot, “Patty” can perhaps best be explained as a study of the corrosive and empty nature of fame, as depicted by a figure (played by three actresses) who might be either Patty Duke, the sugary actress from the 50s and 60s, or Patty Hearst, the infamous heiress who was kidnapped by the SLA and (afflicted with Stockholm Syndrome) joined her captors in a bank robbery. The underlying theme, and perhaps it’s one that doesn’t bear too much scrutiny, is that Patty Duke’s abuse and brainwashing on the part of her domineering mother who wanted to create a “star” for a child, is somehow similar to Hearst’s being tortured to the point of goofiness by the Symbionese Liberation Front. One may also extend the premise to the idea that women generally are forced to adhere to stock roles that are forced on them by malevolent outsiders. Of course, these are only guesses, as the Pattys are portrayed by three actors simultaneously (rather in the same way that Joe Orton’s screenplay for the Beatles portrayed the group collectively as one figure).
Still, the stagecraft here is dazzling – frankly, the crew of computer and sound engineers stationed right in the center pit of the stage are sometimes as interesting to watch as the performers. The pacing of Kennelly’s staging is frenetic, but every gesture is totally controlled with Kabuke-like intricacy. The all female cast possess gorgeous voices – although this is performance art more than a drama, it’s hard not to leave humming the tune to Duke’s paeon to ‘dolls’, ”Colors,” or to be amused by a hilarious video-and-rap combo that’s executed as a Star Search-esque production number.
Marina Malgahaes’ choreography possesses a crisp gorgeousness that’s part lavish MTV video and part dreamlike myth. The score, credited to several composers but mainly Jonathan Snipes, is pure rave party – but the shrewd listener occasionally may detect homages and nods to rock anthems of the 80s and 90s. Kennelly's skills sometimes seem to be more as a videographer and DJ than as a nuanced delver into emotional truth, but there's no questioning his eye for spectacle and for energy.
Indeed, some of the performances resemble those of the back up girls from the old Robert Plant “Addicted to Love” video – and, in one scene, Kennelly tosses in a drum major number that would make one think of Madonna at the Super Bowl half time show, were the words not those of the Goddess Shiva (and Oppenheimer at the atomic blast). Although some of Kennelly’s theatrical tropes are familiar – reminding us of an MFA thesis or a Laurie Anderson performance of the 1980s – it’s hard not to be enthusiastic about the energy and precision of this unusual, imaginative experience.
