What The Toad Knew and how or why he knew it is anybody’s guess. He (or is that she?) is a glorious coup de théâtre about which no more will be said here, out of respect for this surprising and glorious effect. Why the performers do what they do through the course of this 90-minute, almost wordless performance is also a puzzle. This is as its creator, scenographer, composer and main performer James Thiérrée (grandson of Charlie Chaplin, great-grandson of Eugene O’Neill) intends it to be. He writes in the programme: “In this play, there are tiny mysteries that will swallow up big mysteries… I do not make theatre to explain what shakes our inner workings but rather to roam around.”
What he and his five fellow performers do is move in extraordinary ways under, over, in and through a constantly reconfiguring set of mobile, colour-changing lightshades, a pop-up spiral staircase and a small pond (sometimes covered), while bathed in atmospheric, mood-altering lights. They deliver a disconnected sequence of circus or cabaret-style numbers (the violin that sticks to the hand and won’t be thrown away; the multiplying plates; the woman and man linked by hands that won’t undo). These numbers, though, do not build in relation to the audience’s response. They are executed in a hermetically sealed private world that offers no key to its codes; no drama, but a series of events showing-off physical virtuosities. I found the performance beautiful but empty; the rest of the audience, however, stood and cheered at the end for many minutes.
