Philadelphia Weekly

Anodyne
Through April 29.
$9-$16. Smoke,
233 Bread St.
215.627.1883.
www.pigiron.org

Truth be told, theater artists lie. A lot. After all, theater uses only the appearance of reality to tell its stories.

We know the rules regarding these illusions and so we accept them in our search for the truth. But every so often an artist comes along who refuses to play by the rules. Whether it's the illusory world of Jean Genet or the chaotic spectacle of Antonin Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty, we find this mode of performance both disturbing and confusing.

What are the rules? Where is the truth?

In Anodyne, the Pig Iron Theatre Company's spectacular installation-performance-spectacle-theater piece, the relationship between art, violence and authenticity are explored in a borderless production that uses deception to challenge the way we view art and its subject matter.

Normally, this is where the critic offers some description of the performance. But in the case of Anodyne, with all its deceit and fakery, revealing the precise mechanics involved would grossly diminish the viewing experience. Suffice to say this mammoth work is loosely based on Jerzy Kosinski's novel The Painted Bride, and that the show unfolds in two distinct sections.

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After being ushered into an immaculate art gallery, we encounter the photos of Jozef Galinski, who as a young WWII orphan recorded the images of Eastern Poland's displaced children. The stark black-and-white photos are disturbing in their depiction of suffering, but they're also surprisingly pristine.

It's a strange experience, sipping wine and munching hors d'oeuvres in a sparkling white gallery while viewing images of carnage. The patrons nod accordingly as they quietly discuss the photos' artistic merit.

In the second, far more mysterious section, the gleaming white gallery has been replaced by an industrial wasteland of discarded parts and people. We encounter in Jorge Cousi-neau's brilliantly designed space a new reality where suddenly the art is no longer contained, the children not as innocent. For this is now a theater event and the gallery's victims have escaped their frames to become a screaming, dirty band of wild-eyed savages who send our wine, cheese and sensibilities flying.

Presented by director Dan Rothen-berg in a stunning hyper-realistic style, the action has a disconcerting tone of surreal authenticity. Describing rather than staging the play's violence, the actors use gestures, space, texture and sound (the soundscape of clanking metal and screaming orphans is deafening) to portray not so much the horrors of war, but their reaction to it.

The subject matter in the two sections is exactly the same, but it's our response that undergoes a drastic change. In the gallery the violence is quietly intriguing, an object of fascination.

In this theater without boundaries, the children are uncontrollable, threatening and more than a little scary. The silent victims are now the aggressors and our pity has turned to fear.