Truth
nytheatre.com review by Larry Kunofsky
October 7, 2006
Mike Daisey talks to you for a living. He walks out on stage, sits at a desk, takes a sip from a glass of water, and then tells you about any number of things, all of which seem to relate to his own life, which, in turn, seems relatable to your own life. Mike Daisey is really good at his job, and you are one of his biggest fans.
How do I know so much about you? Well, I'm taking a guess here, but it's not a wild guess. I never saw Mike Daisey perform before, but after seeing his latest monologue, Truth {the heart is a million little pieces above all things}, I am now officially one of Mike Daisey's biggest fans. So, it seems, is everyone else who packed the house at Ars Nova that night. So it's fairly safe to assume that you'll be one of Mike Daisey's biggest fans, too.
It doesn't seem like that big a deal, does it? Just walk onto a stage and talk about stuff. Well, if that's your job, part of doing your job is to make the work seem not like work at all. But it's a tough gig. By the very nature of the profession, a monologist's talent—not unlike that of a singer/songwriter—must have many facets. The talent to hold an audience's attention through one's sheer presence (requiring incredible concentration, vocal technique, stamina, and charisma) is not the same talent as crafting a compelling, cohesive, and entertaining monologue. Perhaps, as that song by the Who goes, it's the singer, not the song, but, despite the old adage, would you really pay to hear even the greatest singer sing the phone book?
So when I say that Mike Daisey is good at his job, I mean that he's very good at a lot of things that make up something really special. Truth is an excellent monologue because it's a great piece of writing, but it's one that can best be appreciated by watching its author present it as he sits at his desk on stage before you.
Authorship is very much on Daisey's mind here. This is a monologue that explores the nature of authorship and identity. Its subtitle is a little play on words, referencing the titles of books by James Frey and JT LeRoy, two authors who have garnered a great deal of fame (and infamy) because of certain elusive truths regarding their work and lives. (James Frey claimed that his novel was actually a memoir, and JT LeRoy is not only a pseudonym, but a completely invented person.)
Whether you're up on these scandals or are out of the loop, you will be riveted by the Daisey version, the way that he makes many stories into one large, expansive, and seemingly all-encompassing story. You will delight at Daisey's brand of literary criticism (he's not a big fan of Frey's A Million Little Pieces, and he's very forthcoming about it) and he's suspect of the star-lovers (although he uses another word for them) who turned JT LeRoy into a cult idol. You'll also be amazed at how Daisey weaves in tales from his own life. These personal anecdotes work as connective tissue to the tales of literary malfeasance, but, more importantly, these stories become a funny and touching self-portrait that somehow, miraculously, also reveals something about ourselves, as well. So, all in all, you won't believe how Mike Daisey can weave Winona Ryder, Larry King, Oprah Winfrey, the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, the humor magazine McSweeney's, and most of all, Mike Daisey's own life, all into one monologue. But you'll have to see it to believe it.
Mike Daisey's job is confessional by nature. There is at least one blatant confession in this monologue that I won't dare reveal. I also feel reticent to summarize any aspect of this monologue, since it is always, whether topical or confessional, surprising. And why spoil the surprise? I'll just say that along the way we meet a number of stranger-than-fiction personalities. We meet a high school buddy of Daisey's who is obsessed with the concept of The Jesus Year (dying at the age of thirty-three). We also meet a student of Daisey's who can't seem to write a decent monologue because he has so many secrets locked away inside him. We meet Daisey's dad, a counselor for Vietnam vets who reveals to Daisey some of the veterans' less-than-truthful war stories. Everyone we encounter struggles to reconcile their version of themselves with the bigger picture of life itself. This story is not just about truth, it's about mortality. It's about loss, but it's also about connection. It's about forgiveness, letting go, and moving on. It's about storytelling itself, a story familiar to Mike Daisey, and, of course, to all of us. This story is comical without ever being smug. This story is redemptive without ever being maudlin. This is a true story in the best and fullest sense of the word.
Two hours is a long time to watch a guy talk to you as he sits at his desk. And yet, because he is so forceful a storyteller, because the story is so enthralling, and, because he has the great directing skills of Jean-Michele Gregory to shape and ground his performance, Mike Daisey has your complete attention at all times, leaving you wanting more and making you his biggest fan. Don't take my word for it. See the truth for yourself.
