Entering the World of Kate Berlant, Yet It’s Theater After All

Last week, I was one of many in an expectant mob outside the East Village’s Connelly Theater. It was obvious to any passerby that there was something highly anticipated happening in the humble jewel-box space (it was built in the 1860s as a choir hall for an orphanage, and still looks the part). A man on a Citi Bike stopped to ask what we were waiting for. “‘Kate,’ …” a woman in line behind me whispered, “you haven’t heard about her one-woman show?” A man stamped my hand with an “A” and ushered me inside. The lobby had been retro-fitted into a museum — glass cases behind velvet ropes displayed Kate Berlant’s childhood notebook and signature black outfit; a white wall featured larger-than-life photos of her in various poses; and on a bench under a spotlight, startlingly still, was the comedian herself, donning black shades and a sign around her neck that read, “IGNORE ME.” Group A was herded toward another exhibition: this time an interactive room behind black curtains. A video of Kate’s childhood played in this mock living space with a newsboy hat slung onto the arm of a recliner; well-loved games under the coffee table; cigarette butts; spilled grape juice. In the theater, a black-and-white projection of Ms. Berlant, 10 feet tall, looked down on us. Big Kate watched as a smoke machine puffed clouds into the house. The woman seated next to me vaped freely. No one seemed to notice. “Steve, from Kate’s list,” a loudspeaker voice blared, “please see stage management.” Finally (and not without fanfare), the show began in earnest. Ms. Berlant’s genesis story unfolded from birth to childhood to New York City. She portrayed a variety of characters with extraordinary physicality and ease, bouncing from stage-sweep to mother to cougar in a jazz bar, periodically popping back into herself to address the audience, with a, “Now it’s me. You get that.” As an aspiring stage actor, she grapples with her fraught relationship with film and TV. In various confrontations with the industry, she masters all of the required acting techniques but one — she can’t cry. On multiple occasions, Ms. Berlant steps up to a live camera perched in the corner of the apron. The footage simulcasts on the scrim behind her, merging stage and screen as she attempts to prove her worth as an actor with a single tear.It’s here that director Bo Burnham’s fingerprints appear. A respected comedian in his own right who integrated songwriting into stand-up before Cat Cohen made it trendy, Mr. Burnham spent the pandemic training himself in cinematography. His most recent comedy special, “Inside,” which dropped on Netflix on May 30, details his quarantine pursuit — mastering the “cinematic selfie.”Near the end, Kate steps in front of the camera to deliver the show’s climactic monologue. This time, she’s supposed to cry, tying her story up with a pretty bow and endearing herself to Steve (who we’ve learned is an executive from Disney+, the kind of guy who makes things happen for a struggling comedian). Yet the tears don’t come and, as it turns out, Steve hasn’t come either. The facade shatters as Kate chucks a glass against the wall. The lights come up on the audience as she turns to us. “This show means nothing, you’re aware?” she says. “Theater is over. We’re LARPing right now.” The smoke machines and exhibitions and pomp and circumstance have amounted to nothing. The striving has ceased. “You feel yourself performing as much as I do?”In this moment, the audience was faced with a choice. Would we watch Kate try again, or would we all go home? Once more at our urging, she stepped up to the plate like a determined Kurt Gibson on wounded knees. Slowly, we watched a sheen of water form over her eyes, a rim form above her bottom lid, and, as we gripped the edges of our seats, a perfect tear broke loose and trickled down her cheek.The floodgates had opened. “I didn’t mean what I said about theater,” she implored. “I feel bad for film actors.” The woman next to me swapped her vape for a tissue. The audience laughed and cried, relieved.As I wove my way through the crowd in front of the Connelly later that night, I was touched. “It’s theater,” I thought to myself. “It’s not that deep.” And yet, “Kate” reinforces what we know in spite of ourselves: It totally is. No matter how many times we step away from the plate, we’ll always step back up again.

Entering the World of Kate Berlant, Yet It’s Theater After All

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