Playwright and performer Phillip Howze opens his current run at Brooklyn Jack, Self-Portrait (Deluxe), with a quiet request for introduction. As he holds the microphone to the crowd, Howes' friendly expression reflects the tone of each person's voice. It's an incredibly empathetic prologue to a tricky and abstract 80-minute show.
In sputtering, stream-of-consciousness style prose, the author explores moments of self-reflection and social condemnation. Howze doesn't think he's ever heard of a black man dying in a bathroom, he confesses his penis is quite small, and wonders if there's a condom for his life experience. (Flushing sounds emphasize each discourse riff.)
“Make yourself at home.” He speaks to the audience as he sits at various angles in the center of a low-ceilinged space the size of a convenience store. “The only way out is through.”
This statement foreshadows, in both intentional and inadvertent ways, a heightened sense of captivity throughout the Bushwick Starr production, presented with Jack and directed by Dominique Rider. Strobe-like effects (by Masha Tsimring) and soundscapes reminiscent of an abandoned city on the moon (by Kathryn Ruvuna) add tension and occasional drama to the ensuing collage of performance art interludes. Howze's obsession with shame and death creates a tenuous through line.
In the next scene, Howze is lying on a mattress under a hanging fun house mirror, skis hanging from the ceiling, practicing his final thoughts. This is a nod to the death of actress Natasha Richardson, who suffered fatal head injuries in a skiing accident in 2009. There are less unpleasant ways to implicate the audience (who were predominantly white on the night I attended) in an injustice that involves debasement. For black men than to suggest that dying on a slope is a relatively luxurious and distinctly white path.
As a provocateur, Howze is neither as subtle nor as sensitive as his appearance suggests. In a sequence that would be humiliating to anyone who hates audience participation, he gently implores a handful of patrons to stand with their hands up and their foreheads pressed against the wall, as if they were a line of assailants. (“Do you mind? What about me?”) It feels more like a violation of good faith than a bold coup. Because if someone refuses to do so, they will suffer a different kind of humiliation.
Before practice was over, the only black participant in the performance I attended ended up lowering his hand and returning to his seat, looking embarrassed. It was a devastating display, although not in the way Howze clearly intended. (In the script, the black contestant is the last contestant to be dismissed and must receive a whispered confirmation from the actor.)
After a moment of sensitivity in the dark, Howze makes his decision in song. “I’m trying to be that,” he sings. Accompanied by a string quartet, this piece seems at that point to be more of an indulgence than a theatrical excavation.
Self-Portrait (Deluxe)
At JACK in Brooklyn through February 24; thebushwickstarr.org. Running time: 1 hour and 20 minutes.