Mnemonic
Riverside Studios, London

Adriano Shaplin

Beginning with a Robin-Williams-turned-motivational-speaker routine from Simon McBurney and closing with a spectacular display of fancy lighting, projections and movement, Complicite's Mnemonic has all the hallmarks of a big budget, avant-garde production. It is a cool-blue amalgam of cut-and-paste themes, techno-wizardry, and evocative choreography, clearly designed to change your life.

Does it surprise and delight? Yes; particularly when they shut off the videos and the Steven Reich and let the ensemble interact. Does it disappoint? Yes; particularly when neo-colonial fantasies about the interconnectedness of the human race and New Age hooey about memory and imagination threaten to derail this otherwise playful treatise on postmodern angst/bliss. Will it change your life? Maybe. More likely you'll feel a slow burn as the two main stories gradually intersect like two cautious lovers and finally intersect in a (thankfully) wordless Darwinian dance-off.

The friction between the two main stories makes for an exciting bit of lovemaking. On the one hand we have the discovery of a 5,000 year old corpse, and the accompanying media circus and scientific analyses. On the other, we have one woman's reckless search for her family roots. At the eye of the storm, presumably because all of Complicite's ideas are filtered through him, is a frequently naked McBurney.

The synthesis of this clever juxtaposition between ancient man and frantic woman is that the past is fractured and unknowable, always in need of imagination to fill in the gaps. As a beautiful bit of pomo liberation from absolutes and essences, it succeeds visually and thematically. We are encouraged to dream and wish alongside the rest of humanity. As politics, frankly, it stinks; reeking of privilege and stoned philosophy. When roots, borders, and heritage have you running for your life or unable to catch a cab, imagination won't come to your rescue. Reinventing yourself or resisting categories remains a luxury of the elite, and this is a critical blindspot in so much contemporary theatre with universalist leanings.

That said, Complicite are a thoughtful group of professional image-makers, and possess the ability to dazzle even as they frustrate. The opening monologue from McBurney, using only a microphone and spotlight, effectively collapses the boundary between fiction and first-hand account; the Iceman puppet, which appears from the ruins of an old chair, is a brilliant and economical stage object; and the scientific panel discussion lets each member of the cast shine as they mock the notion of scientific certainty. Just beware an avant-gardist who wants to teach you about your position in the human collective. You might end up on the wrong side of Artaudian anthropology; ask the Balinese.

A key question is raised by this production: where is theatre going? When the Iceman finally walks with aid from the cast, he's more lifelike than a thousand Jar Jar Binkses. Why then does a company with such a firm grasp of the organic power of theatre insist on relating to it's audience mostly through microphones, backing tracks, and plastic sheets? I can only hope when McBurney's trusty cell phone fails towards the end it is more than just a comment on modern technological alienation. I tried to take it as a moment of self-reflection on the limits of techno-theatre, but maybe that's just my imagination tinkering with my memory.

Run over

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