In Paul Auster’s 1985 novella, part of his New York Trilogy, a wrong telephone number sparks a descent into disintegrating identity and madness. So it is in this visually ravishing staging, adapted by Duncan Macmillan from both the original story and a later graphic novel version. But is there such thing as a wrong number in a world of chance and random occurrences?
Daniel Quinn is a writer of mystery fiction who leads a reclusive life after the death of his wife and son. A late-night call from a man named Peter Stillman, asking for a private detective called Paul Auster, sends Quinn on a wild goose chase across the city, where he discovers multiple realities. Stillman’s abusive father is about to be released from a mental hospital and has threatened him. Quinn, taking the persona of Auster, agrees to follow the father. But has he got the right man? And does he even know who he himself is any more?
The adaptation is directed by Leo Warner for 59 Productions, whose technological sleight of hand has enhanced shows for directors from Katie Mitchell to Melly Still. Underpinned by Nick Powell’s urgent, tense score, Warner’s staging has film noir overtones. It is frequently jaw-droppingly impressive, too, making you question what you’ve seen as one scene folds into the next with dreamlike ease.
It’s a dislocating production that creates its own alternative realities through cunning use of video and animation. Quinn’s apartment transforms into Stillman’s home and then into Grand Central station, with the old masters on the walls of the Stillman residence becoming the arrivals and departures board. As Quinn’s world is telescoping, video sequences invoke the shadowy, dangerous city beyond, its buildings suddenly shattering in animations.
City of Glass is a stunning technical achievement, but the cast of five – who play multiple characters that bleed into each other – are largely reduced to being puppets. While you watch in wonder, it’s hard to feel emotionally engaged. Quinn’s odyssey leaves both him – and us – in the dark.
- At Home, Manchester, until 18 March. Box office: 0161-200 1500. Then at the Lyric Hammersmith, 20 April-20 May. Box office: 020-8741 6850.
