The compelling Out of Time, a co-production of NAATCO and The Public Theater, consists of five monologues, directed by the accomplished Les Waters. It’s performed, in order of appearance, by Page Leong, NAATCO actor manager and co-founder Mia Katigbak, Rita Wolf, Glenn Kubota, and Natsuko Ohama. The monologues come from Jaclyn Backhaus, Sam Chanse, Mia Chung, Naomi Iizuka, and Anna Ouyang Moench.
This review’s matter-of fact opening tone is intended as a lead-in to the accumulative effect the five monologues gather as they’re superbly performed and immaculately directed. Put succinctly, the Out of Time whole ultimately exceeds the sum of its parts.
The soloists represent a contingent of contemporary Asian-Americans who continue to feel unaccepted in the greater population. As they tell their stories, they don’t express that perception explicitly. The monologues are related in a general and at the same time profound way.
Each character unburdens her —in one instance, his—specific experiences. The speakers indicate they’re alienated from their physical and mental states. They reveal that—whatever the particulars reported—there’s an underlying connective angst. It’s a sense that, ironically, distance is what allies them.
The implication of distance is inherent in the very first sentence when an unnamed woman (Leong) speaks in Moench’s “My Documentary”: “I remember the last time I touched someone.” Leong delivers it not with nostalgic warmth but coolly, even with a disturbing chill presaging the weight of what’s to come.
It’s clear the monologues are assembled for the separate effect achieved and maybe even for the greater effect achieved as representing a rife global anxiety. The notion of psychological distance has inarguably resulted from the social distance practiced for over two years. It’s resulted from the tremors caused by the contemporary battle between democracies and autocracies. This week, it’s compounded, of course, by the intensifying Russian-Ukraine war.
So, it can be said of Out of Time that five people are only airing problems significant to themselves and, from one perspective, are no more than momentarily involving as their outpourings pass. And I thoroughly enjoyed them as they went by on a modest set that designer DOTS sends out: chairs, a lectern, a screen, and artistically adaptable curtains.
“Enjoyed” is probably the wrong verb. The mostly grim speeches are engaging without sticking to the memory as a strong dramatic plot does. Now, however, having refreshed my memory with the script, I know why each monologue, rendered by a person of a certain age, has something worthwhile to impart and why each soloist—as she or he enlivens the authors’ observations—is working in top form.
I also know why the monologues are akin to meeting a stranger on a plane, having him or her tell you things more easily told a stranger than a friend. You listen with interest, but when you leave the plane, you leave what you heard behind—unless it jibes with your own life.
In Moench’s “My Documentary”: an unnamed woman (Leong) unfolds her mounting anxiety by getting around to hugging and what it possibly implies about interpersonal contact today. She discusses coming to this country and meeting her husband. She reflects on her career. The understanding of herself is intelligent, human, enthralling.
In Chung’s “Ball in the Air”: Ena (Katigbak) enters with a paddle ball toy and begins philosophizing She spends much of her time recalling a car trip she made with her husband and if they were even on the same wavelength. During her discourse, she pulls the ball from its line, tosses it up a few times before it disappears. (Steve Cuiffo is the magic consultant). It’s life’s dismaying illusions she’s compulsively considering.
In Backhaus’ “Black Market Caviar”: Carla (Wolf), seen only on a screen, begins by going over her family’s cancer history, then it careens her into caviar. That brings up her fear, such that the winding near diatribe remains enthralling throughout.
In Iizuka’s “Japanese Folk Song”: a man who introduces himself as Taki (Kubota) but then suggests he’s standing in for a different man (perhaps a relative to whom IIzuka dedicates the piece) asks in an early remark, “What do we really know about anything?” Included In his observations and confessions are the many times he’s escaped death and his hatred of jazz. A compelling interlude.
In Chanse’s “Disturbance Specialist”: Leonie (Ohama), a novelist whose reputation has weakened, addresses an audience at her alma mater about a talent for surviving painful setbacks. She’s speaking during the pandemic (the only Out of Time contemporary reference). Haranguing and cajoling, she wins the esteem of, if not the unseen audience, the audience directly before her.
Yes, there’s plenty to take away from Out of Time, much of it moving in the moment, even more revelatory in the broader recognition of widespread 21st-century unease.
Out of Time opened March 1, 2022, at the Public Theater and runs through March 13. Tickets and information: publictheater.org
