Review of ‘Slaughterhouse-Five’: “One-dimensional adaptation is lost in space”

I’m not against postmodernism. Or aliens. Or postmodernism tales about aliens. What I might have a problem with is shows that carry little meaning and demonstrate zero aptitude for engaging with their audience. It doesn’t need to be an easy watch. In fact, I like to be challenged. But there’s no actual challenge throughout the performance apart from the excruciating tedium viewers are forced to endure from start to finish.

Based on the critically acclaimed 1969 novel by Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five take us through the nonlinear life of Billy Pilgrim, a man with war-related PTSD who claims to have been abducted by the Trafalmadorians, a superior entity from outer space with the power to see four dimensions and understand time in a more malleable way.

The book is often regarded as a masterpiece, considered one of the finest antiwar literary works. Such accomplishments precede an expectedly compelling play. Yet, the lack of grip, character depth, and overall rhythm Eric Simonson’s adaptation suffers from makes it the exact opposite — dull, unappealing, and ultimately pointless.

It’s virtually impossible to get invested in the protagonist’s journey. The saddest part of it is that his is not particularly event-scarce. He fought in the front line of the Battle of the Bulge in Luxembourg. He was taken hostage by the Germans and witnessed the most horrific deaths, one of which he was unfairly blamed for. His former comrade swore he would take revenge on him and have him killed when the time came. And he was exhibited as a zoological oddity in an extraterrestrial zoo.

All of this and the many other occurrences the plot is filled with should have resulted in an absorbing recount infused with action and, if properly handled, pathos and introspection. The script makes a few attempts at all three. Wistfully, they are all hopeless. And the inevitable reaction is a prolonged yawn that solidifies the apathy towards what’s presented.

Eventually, it feels like the play is going nowhere. Its disjointed structure is not responsible for that problem. The script’s consistent difficulties with pacing and tension are. Consequently, by the time the show is over, the whole thing comes across as a first act — there hasn’t been any real evolution, as all that we’ve been given is mere exposition.

The production still earns a few points through its adequate set design. There’s nothing impressive or groundbreaking about it, but at least there’s an intention to generate dynamism and to build a visual identity. For that effect, a scrim stands middle-stage, where sketchy cartoon projections interact with the actors- sometimes as pieces of scenery, sometimes as characters -, conferring it a cinematic, neo-conceptual art essence.

The entire company delivers an acceptable rendition, some exhibiting a satisfactory range when transfiguring from one role to another. Their slight callowness pervades, nonetheless. And as a result, their technique is robust, but the sense of ease and confidence that would have consolidated their portrayals is not quite there yet. Simultaneously, their execution doesn’t brim with rapport or flair either.

Despite its premise, audiences are unlikely to consider this theatrical experience out of this world, but chances are many of them will be spacing out while begging to be beamed up. The significance of its source material is undeniable. Still, such worth is not reflected in the stage adaptation of Slaughterhouse-Five, which ranks as a much lower effort with barely any achievements to its credit.

Contrary to its protagonist’s beliefs, this play is dead from the very beginning. And until its very end. There’s nothing one can take home after sitting through these painfully long-feeling 100-minute incursion into dramaturgical abyss, other than maybe using its catchphrase as a coping mechanism. So it goes.

Slaughterhouse-Five plays at London’s Southwark Playhouse until 4 July. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara