Sacred Elephant

Reviewed by Paul Birchall
Odyssey Theatre
Through August 17

Photo by Rob Keith

If you don’t like elephants, you’re going to have a bit of a problem with performer Jeremy Crutchley’s solo show about the joys and sorrows of the great and wondrous species we call Elephantidea Proboscidea. Elephants, elephants, elephants. Big ones, little ones, African ones, Indian ones – they’re all discussed, analyzed, and raised to the level of near-deity.

If only this were truly a work of elephant theater!  And while watching the show, one’s mind can’t help but drift to consider precisely what kind of a play an elephant would like.  Would they enjoy ancient tragedies, such as The Tale of Babar’s Father (who died from eating a bad mushroom), or would they enjoy delightful musicals, such as the production of Dumbo, supposedly in development for a Broadway opening even as we speak (no joke, that)?

The play consists of a strikingly atmospheric and impassioned monologue about the mythology, biology and anthropology of the great beasts. It’s clearly aimed to spur environmental action, even though the general plotlessness is unable to sustain attention for its duration.  Certainly, there’s some pleasure to be had in just listening to the charismatic, gravel-voiced Crutchley, in his assured Shakespearean stentorian tones, as he declaims an adaptation of poet Heathcote Williams’s poem about elephants.  However, the play’s narrative is anything but elephant sized; rather, the events strain to fill the show’s 70-minutes. Although there may be something like twenty gazillion muscles in an elephant’s trunk, there are substantially fewer events to sustain this play.

Still, director Geoffrey Hyland’s somber staging boasts an eeriness that is surprisingly involving, though it steadfastly lacks any elephant-like punch.  Crutchley, dressed in a wrinkly grey schmatta, shaggy grey dreadlocks, with dusty grey make-up (and peeping, creepy red eye-liner), is credited in the program as a character named “The Other.”  However, if he is anything but an elephant, I’d eat my hat.  All he needs is a button on his lapel that reads “I ‘heart’ Babar.”

During the show, Crutchley staggers about the stage like a wise old beast, intoning bits of elephant trivia.  He wiggles his arms like an elephant’s trunk, and shakes his legs like huge pachyderm limbs.  It’s a performance that arrestingly and intriguingly conveys an elephant-like wisdom and personality from the inside out:  It’s real method acting, and it is indeed almost spooky to watch him amble over the stage, glare at us with his sad old eyes, and thump about in an elephant rage.

Sadly, it is here that the work falters:  Williams’s writing is described as a poem, but it is essentially little more than a Wikipedia essay on elephants.  “An elephant can walk on the tip of its toes!” notes Crutchley at one point.  “An elephant in distress will weep salt tears,” he claims elsewhere.   These are all wise and true points, yes, and the purpose is clearly to educate us to the grandeur and beauty of these great beasts, but as a work of storytelling, the piece seems disappointingly trivial, Crutchley’s moody performance notwithstanding.

Odyssey Theatre, 2055 S. Sepulveda Blvd, WLA; Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.; through August 17.  (310) 477-2055, odysseytheatre.com.