Review: Caryl Churchill Times Four Makes an Infinity of Worlds
“Glass. Kill. What If If Only. Imp,” a new collection of one-acts by the great British playwright, is a cause for celebration, wonderment and grief.A girl made of glass. A god — or, really, all of them. Ghosts, but of the future. An imp who may be trapped in a bottle.Just another day in Caryl Churchill’s world.The arrival of new work by Churchill is like the arrival of a new theorem in a supposedly settled body of knowledge. “Cloud Nine” (1979) explored gender as colonialism; “Escaped Alone” (2016) domesticated the apocalypse. “Drunk Enough to Say I Love You” (2006) reframed the alliance of Britain and the United States as a sloppy date. Clones and multiverses are part of her world. With a mathematician’s precision, she posits ways of thinking about the universe and its inhabitants that, even when baffling, give more dimension to our experience of both.Her latest investigations take the form of a collection of four one-act plays at the Public Theater, under the portmanteau title “Glass. Kill. What If If Only. Imp.” Written separately over the last few years, each is pointed enough on its own: short and edgy. But together, in a splendid and surprisingly emotional production directed by James Macdonald, a frequent Churchill collaborator, they are so sharp you hardly feel them slicing your skin.“Glass” is the most literally shattering. The life of a girl made of the substance, who lives on a mantelpiece for safety, is encompassed in 13 minutes. Her mother frets over her, her brother brags about her, her mantelpiece neighbors — an old clock, a plastic dog, a painted vase — compete with her. (She may be pretty, the clock says, but he’s useful.) Soon the girl (Ayana Workman) meets a flesh-and-blood boy (Japhet Balaban) who is entranced by the transparency of her feelings: He can see straight into them, with no need for words. When his own feelings are spoken, in the form of whispers we do not hear, the express bus to tragedy departs.The way intimacy opens to loss is a theme here; the way abstractions become characters is a miracle. Somehow, it takes just a moment to adjust to the bizarre setup and the ensuing complications. (The mother warns that if the girl goes out for a walk with the boy, she had better wear Bubble Wrap.) Nor do we trouble ourselves that the production makes no attempt to literalize the figurines. They’re just us.In a 12-minute monologue, Deirdre O’Connell looks down on the ancient parade of human viciousness.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesWe are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More