Don DeLillo Poses For Candid Camera

VALPARAISO

Directed by David Wheeler

At the American Repertory Theatre

Through Mar. 17

A man who should be flying to Valparaiso (say: "val praise oh"), Indiana finds himself en route to Valparaiso (say: "val puh raise oh"), Florida and finally arrives in Valparaiso (say: "val puh rise oh"), Chile.

This is a ridiculous idea. The media subsequently takes this man's journey and turns it into a huge event involving interviews, talk show appearances and documentary films. This is also a ridiculous idea. But this is the simple premise of Valparaiso (say: "val puh rise oh"), the new play making its stage debut at the American Repertory Theater this month. Its simple premise, however, is deceptive: Valparaiso was written by Don DeLillo, a master of illustrating the complex nature of even the simplest situation and the inherent ridiculousness of the culture we live in.

Underworld, DeLillo's previous work, is a novel which could be loosely described as a personal history of the Cold War, an examination of what has brought us to where we are today. Underworld observes the transferal of the dominant systems of power and control from the government to the media. In Valparaiso, DeLillo explores how life is to be lived in the world thus created: the media, it would seem, is just as empty as that which preceded it.

In the first act of the play, we meet Michael Majeski (played by Will Paton), newly returned from his trip to Valparaiso, Chile. He becomes an instant celebrity, telling his story to vacuous interviewer after vacuous interviewer. Majeski is a wonderful subject: he always tells the story with the same words, with, as he later notes, "the same thoughtful pauses in the exact same places." He leaves nothing uncovered; his obsessive wife Livia (Caroline Hall) happily joins the circus, offering reporters intimate details about their life and marriage. The reporters eat it up: Livia boasts that Michael has done "65 interviews in four days and three-and-a-half cities." Michael soon quits his job as a consultant ("They're such docile, dreary pockmarked people," he notes), so that he can concentrate full time on being a media darling.

In the second act of the play, the set is turned into the set of a talk show: the audience in the theater becomes the studio audience. The host is Delfina Treadwell (Randy Danson), an unholy combination of Ricki Lake and Oprah Winfrey intent on getting at her guest's deepest, darkest secrets. Her guests on this occasion are Michael and Livia Majeski. "What are you hiding in your heart?" she asks Michael. A series of revelations ensue when she doesn't believe Michael's story, necessitating a major reinterpretation of what has transpired.

The A.R.T.'s production of the play is impeccable. David Wheeler, who directed the debut of DeLillo's previous the-atrical outing, The Day Room (also at the A.R.T. in 1986), has taken a few minor liberties from the published script which pay off well. Complementing Eigsti's set design, lighting designer John Ambrosone and sound designer Christopher Walker have made a special effort to bring the audience into the production: spotlights search faces and the roaring sound of wind disorients the audience. Simple passivity is difficult for the viewer.

The cast uniformly shines. Paton brings a wonderfully deadpan delivery to the character of Michael Majeski, sounding strangely like a sedated Garrison Keillor, while Hall is wonderfully neurotic as Livia. Danson and Derrah, as Delfina Treadwell and her assistant are guilty pleasures--the most cartoonishly satirical elements in the story.

Regardless of cast and set, Valparaiso is clearly and firmly Don DeLillo's play. Despite DeLillo's published statements that the play is much looser than his novels, the script is incredibly tight. Here, DeLillo's inexperience as a playwright shines through: as several reviews have evidenced, the play is too densely constructed for much of the audience to understand in a single viewing. DeLillo's brilliant use of words is wasted by the speed at which they are spoken. Repeated viewings, however, bring to light connective strands of the plot; the script is a sheer pleasure to read.

The metafictional elements of Valparaiso could keep grad students busy for the foreseeable future. The distinction between the play and reality are blurry: as previously noted, the audience of the play becomes the audience of the talk show within the play. DeLillo dedicates the play with no small degree of irony to Frank Lentricchia (author of Introducing Don DeLillo), a man who has built a career out of explicating DeLillo. It's a telling gesture: the vast majority of the press for Valparaiso has centered not around the play and what it means but the author himself. Newspapers and magazines fawn over the man, congratulating themselves on snagging interviews with him. DeLillo's reclusiveness overshadows his work, creating a scenario almost as ridiculous as that of his play.

DeLillo has examined the impact of the media in nearly all of his work. But the numerous reviews that have pegged Valparaiso as a simple excoriation of media culture are missing what's really happening.

Peeling away the layers of mediahype, we come to the core of Valparaiso: a story about a man who, having a meaningless life with a largely negative impact on those around him turns to the media in an attempt at salvation. His wife, not strong enough to effect change for herself, jumps on board. Michael Majeski uses the media just as much as the media uses him.

The media, however, is ultimately empty: it cannot save Michael, and, ultimately, destroys him. Michael gives the media everything: he holds nothing back. But the media is an insatiable god: after every detail of his life has been brought to life, Delfina turns on him, reading between the lines of his story, in the hope of bringing to light an even bigger story, but there's no glory to be found at the core of Michael Majeski's story, just a broken life. Valparaiso is, at its heart, a Death of a Salesman for a radically changed world. While the world has changed, people have not: the existential questions that Willy Loman could not solve remain unanswered.