Puppeteer Tom Lee with Mike Disfarmer
I kept expecting Mike Disfarmer, the reclusive small-town Arkansas portrait photographer at the heart of Dan Hurlin’s puppet performance, to impatiently shake off his puppeteer handlers. “I can do this myself, leave me alone!,” I could almost hear him saying. Happily for the audience, Disfarmer didn’t succeed in completely coming to life and shedding his larger companions because the interaction between the puppeteers and the Disfarmer puppet was one of the most arresting pieces of a fascinating performance.
There was so much to marvel at. The lighting design a true tour de force from Tyler Micoleau; I didn’t know light could be manipulated so delicately on a stage. The original music by Dan Moses Schreier with violins, banjo, and accordian all used to amazing affect. The narration by Dan Hurlin, done in perfect cantankerosity. And so I found that I could absorb the production on Thursday night at the Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center on several different levels.
I could be engaged only in the sheer technical ingenuity of the production. At times I found myself floating along like a small child might, content to grasp the story and the mood from the evocative music alone. At other times I got lost in tiny details and would wonder at it for several seconds before moving on to the next tiny, perfect moment, such as how Disfarmer gently tucks his hand in between his legs while nestling into bed, as if to comfort himself. Sometimes I had to remind myself that the puppeteers were not supposed to be the main point of focus. Maybe it’s just my over-infatuation with the human body, but the image of a puppeteer standing aloof from the group, his silhouette against a blue background, leaning slightly away from the group but taut and ready to assist as needed…. it was as compelling as anything that the puppet did.
But I wasn’t involved with every cell in my body until Disfarmer started shrinking. The photographer continued to go about his day-to-day, but getting smaller each time, which proved to be an ingeniously open and ambiguous device. I read it as a disability narrative, as Disfarmer kept compensating and adjusting as his life became increasingly difficult to navigate. But he was no less alive, no less human. Or he could have been simply aging, or becoming circumscribed by his own madness, or choosing an ever-more-complete isolation.
The end was no less ambiguous. I was watching keenly the whole time, expecting death for Disfarmer and curious to see what it was going to look like. Eyes peeled. And yet somehow, I missed it. He climbed up into the cloth drape of his camera and then he was gone. I know I missed other bits as well, but I’m glad to have had a glimpse into the life of tornado foundling Mike Disfarmer, and to have witnessed the affection and tenderness flowing into him from his expert puppeteers.
