Written by Rita Kalnejais
Directed by Jack Serio
Reviewed by David Roberts
Theatre Reviews Limited
Elodie (Francesca Carpanini) and Otto (Uly Schlesinger) reunite in a bedroom after they meet in a town square in Chartres, France in August 1944. Crazy things happened in the square including Elodie having what seems an epileptic seizure. A woman laughed at Elodie, and Otto wanted to spit on her. Before Elodie arrives, she has visited the bombed out Gornall’s house where she rescues a “a dirty, bloodied egg.” This is the beginning scene of Rita Kalnejais’ “This Beautiful Future” currently playing at the Cherry Lane Theatre.
After cradling the egg, debating the soon-to-be chick’s parentage, and a spontaneous pillow fight (feathers and all), Elodie learns that Otto is a Nazi soldier who has “killed lots of men,” including men she knows. She also hears on the radio prior to her tryst with Otto that the Nazis have surrendered. Later in their time together she tells Otto, “The Americans have taken the south. That was days ago Otto. They landed in Normandy yesterday. They’re already in Paris.” This apparently is news to the young avid recruit who still maintains he is leaving in the morning.
All of this as Otto continues to prepare to leave, believing he has been ordered to move with Hitler’s troops toward Paris. “My squad’s gone. There’s boot prints scuffed all over the square. They’ll be marching towards Paris now. I set off marching after them. I need a piece of bread and some sausage. I’m the only man on the streets in uniform. I haven’t defected!” Like Juliet of old, Elodie convinces her Romeo to stay the night – and beyond. More mayhem and love-amidst-mayhem follows.
There are five parts to Rita Kalnejais’s narrative. They are arranged in no specific order, moving freely from past to present, inside of and outside of the apartment. Two older people Angelina and Austin (Angelina Fiordellisi and Austin Pendleton) observe Elodie and Otto from behind a sliding glass panel and sporadically take turns singing karaoke-type love song lyrics. Sometimes they sing them together. The songs are not credited to anyone although they seem to be “familiar” copyrighted songs. There is only credit given to a sound designer whose work often leaves the casts’ words undecipherable.
The songsters and the songs are from some present time. The lyrics are about young love, past love, and many “would have/should have” regrets which intensify as time passes. A sample: “I’ll get fitter.” “I’ll offer to help if I see someone struggling with a stroller on a bus.” “I’ll stop calling the police on my neighbors.” “I won’t dismiss miracles. I’ll get better at phone sex.” An interesting juxtaposition to the horror rehearsed in the bedroom. Things do not always make sense in this beautiful future.
It does not matter that the action does not always make sense. What does matter is whether the action is significant and relevant to an important narrative. The relevance to the present is obvious. It is clear which world leaders Otto’s words allude to: “Mr. Hitler started out as nobody. I mean…like you or me. And he ended up ruling Europe. Almost.” Within the play’s plot, though, there is nothing new.
This is not a tender love story. It is not any sort of love story. It is not the von Trapp family saga. At one point Otto asks, “Do you like me?” Elodie responds, “I don’t know.” Despite its occasional playfulness, “This Beautiful Future” is a story of human violence within nation-state violence. It is a story about generations after violence promising to “do better” and “never let it happen again” and continuing decade after decade to do nothing of any importance or integrity. Certainly, nothing to prevent future genocide: witness Russia’s bloody attacks on Ukraine. And nothing to prevent racism, gender-based atrocities, or mass killings. Witness the daily news.
“This Beautiful Future” has nothing to do with a beautiful future. It is a tale overwritten, overwrought, and pretentious. Even the live bird crossing the stage to Otto (on cue) cannot lift the gravity of the narrative.