Hooray for Electric Nudity

Did the title suck you in? Thought so. Let me set the scene for you:

Last night Amy and I go to see a...piece of performance art?...called "Modern Prometheus LLC," perpetrated by L.A.-based group Osseus Labyrint. I'm not typically one to pay for an event of this sort, because hey -- as a theater major, I saw plenty of it in college for free. And I've been known to make my own performance art right here at home, which is also free and far more entertaining. But since the event is taking place on our stage at New Deal, we get comp tickets.

It's difficult to describe, really. The premise is that this company, (Modern Prometheus LLC), is holding a demonstration for its potential investors (the audience). They've created "human analogues" which are "built from the atom up." Modern Prometheus LLC has "enabled humans to become the first species to acquire control of its own evolution through artificial selection."

Amy and I know, going in, basically what the evening is going to hold. Everything Osseus Labyrint does involves the two main performers being naked and hairless, doing a fair amount of writhing to otherworldly sounds against a visually interesting backdrop. But it's so creepy and freakish and (uhh, mostly) androgynous, there's really nothing overtly sexual about it. We are expecting modern dance in the extreme. We've also been told that the harsh, industrial set includes giant functioning Tesla coils, and some nifty arcing electricity. The generator for the coils is so loud, we have been told, that our stage manager "recommends ear plugs."

Naked hairless dancing people and electricity. Okay then.

So we get there early because it's general seating, but no one has yet given the comp list to the will call table. So we do what any well-connected people in Hollywood would do: we go around to the back entrance to find the people we know, and they let us in, and we grab the best (?) seats in the house. Unfortunately, this does mean that we miss part of the atmosphere of the show. Apparently, some "employees" of Modern Prometheus LLC are taking inner-cheek-swab DNA samples from random people in line (these same "employees" then hawk the DNA samples along with Osseus Labyrint t-shirts after the show, stating you can either buy back your own DNA or someone else's).

The usual artsy L.A. crowd filters in: the young hipsters; the moneyed sophisticates reeking of pre-show sushi and sake (they do share their Mochi ice cream with us though, which is nice); the creatively pierced art and theater students for whom this is probably required viewing; the artificially tightened old ladies who deem it appropriate to don knee-socks despite their, ahem, maturity; the guy (?) in the floor-length lime green and violet spotted coat seemingly constructed of carpet and/or the kind of stuffed animals you might find in one of those "grappling hook" arcade machines; and one (as Cathy Seipp would put it) "Silverlake Dad" with a cute little nine-year-old girl in tow. The house fills, the lights dim. Kenny, our stage manager, is kind enough to get us some earplugs.

Unfortunately, no one has told us to bring eyeplugs.

I'm going to try to describe this for you...but be warned, as there is virtually no dialogue in the show, the meaning and purpose of the actions I'm describing are purely my own speculation.

First, we're treated to a speech by the Big Brother-esque "CEO" of Modern Prometheus, via talking-head video projected high on the walls. Then "Dr. Pank" (no kidding, I swear) and his other jumpsuit-clad cronies bring out the analogues. One male, one female. Everyone is moving in what seems to be slow motion...slow motion, that is, as interpreted by any number of Jim Henson creations circa 1982. Seriously -- have you seen the Dark Crystal? The Skeksis in particular? (Fellow puppetry nerds will know what I mean.)

Anyway, some jumpsuit guys bring out this handtruck/dolly thing, with the analogues lying on it. Naked and wrapped in Saran wrap. They unwrap the two of them, then hang them by their ankles and move them over to a big metal contraption at center stage, where the analogues start figuring out how to move their arms and shoulders, et cetera. Then they're dipped into this...liquid? gel?...presumably to wash them. Because now they're wet and shiny.

Still hanging by their ankles, the analogues are lowered into a mobile vat of some sort. They're unhooked and the hatch of the vat is closed on them. My best guess is that it's a giant dryer, because after the vat shakes back and forth for a seemingly interminable period of time, the analogues are removed, and suddenly they're dry. (Of course, all I can think during this seemingly interminable period of time is "If the vat is rockin', don't bother knockin'..." and I try my best not to crack myself up laughing. I look over at Amy for a brief moment, who is subtly using her hand to "knock" on the bleacher seat between us.)

Then the analogues are removed and placed on the floor, where they're zapped (no joke) with electric prods here and there to stimulate muscle movement. More "hey look, I can move this part of my body" discovery. Aaaaaaaaagonizingly slowwwwwww discovery.

Then they're hung by their heads for no discernible reason. For a long time.

Suddenly, things take an interesting turn. The jumpsuit Skeksis wheel out this little round metal table, with three metal stools placed around it. The doctor takes a seat. Slowly and awkwardly, each analogue makes its way to one of the other stools and situates itself. The doctor "teaches" them facial expressions.

Then some other jumpsuit guy brings out a tray with a decanter full of blue-green liquid and three shot glasses. At this point I become suspicious, and rightfully so...because the analogues then proceed to learn how to get drunk, dance awkwardly and hook up.

By the time the female analogue gives birth to a ball bearing, dropping it from her nether regions into a giant metal wok, I'm pretty much done. I have a fleeting pang of sympathy for the performers when that moment brings some muffled and probably unintended laughter from the audience, but then return my pity focus to those who have spent $35 on a ticket to the birth of a ball bearing.

And believe it or not, it actually goes downhill from there in terms of anything that will hold my interest. There's more floor-writhing, more mid-air hanging-by-my-head business, and some lighting cues that suggest the analogues are receiving/growing/building/whatever their internal organs. Not quite sure why the climax (uh, sorry) of the show isn't the actual birth scene, as that seems to be the logical conclusion of the "we've created life" scenario, am I right? Toward the end, there seems to be a vague hint at something gone awry, but whatever it is, is undecipherable -- at least to anyone as ready to get the heck outta there as I am.

The electricity at the end isn't even very exciting. Based on what I've heard, I am expecting things to get all Dr. Frankenstein. Lemme tell ya, Dr. Pank is no Dr. Frankenstein. Tesla coil, zippity-zap, whoop-de-doo.

Fleeing for our lives at the end of the show lest someone actually ask our opinion, Amy and I seal ourselves safely in her car before the inevitable commentary begins...and it occurs to me: somewhere in L.A. tonight, there is a very disturbed nine-year-old girl. Scarred for life, I'll wager.

I know I am.