Matthew Romantini in ‘The Rage of Narcissus’, Photo by Dahlia Katz
Dragging his thumb across his upper lip self-consciously, he mimes this gesture of Jean-Paul Belmonda, fetishizing a moment from Jean-Luc Godard’s film Breathless. This imitation doesn’t have quite the same sex appeal; it feels too deliberate and burdened with intention. And who is this man, anyway? Buckle up; there’s a lot to unpack here.
He (Matthew Romantini) is an actor playing himself in the role of a playwright (Sergio Blanco) who has written an auto-fiction—the play we are watching—in which he references this gesture of an actor, playing a character who was mimicking an idol of his own—Humphrey Bogart.
The Rage of Narcissus is… a lot. A meta-textual narrative game, it feels—not convoluted, exactly, but—relentlessly reflective. When we look at this man, or at ourselves, who do we see? This thematic question is echoed in the vast array of mirrors mounted on the back wall of Theatre Passe Muraille’s Backspace. It isn’t just our playwright/actor/protagonist who must contemplate himself, we the audience are forced to as well.
Blanco’s story places this imagined version of himself at the centre of a grisly mystery. In Toronto for an academic conference, he prepares his lecture on how Narcissus’ gaze is like the artist’s gaze, gets kinky with a local Grindr hook-up, and obsesses over some ominous reddish-brown stains in the carpet of his hotel room.
He talks to us directly, dragging us with him as he spirals into himself. For the most part, Romantini is a comforting presence, warm and affable. Even as dark patterns form and reverberate, his hybrid Romantini-Blanco persona is immensely endearing. During poignant Skype calls with his mother, glitchy tech frustrations give way to a deep sadness catching in his throat as he reveals that Alzheimer’s is gradually erasing him from her memory.
A crime scene, a detective, a sexy and mysterious homme fatale—noir tropes rear their self-aware and subversive heads in familiar and amusing story beats. Past and present, reality and fabrication—all come crashing together in a ghastly and cataclysmic scenario that feels both surreal and uncomfortably authentic. It’s so intense, in fact, it was jarring to realize it isn’t the actual end.
Director Marcio Beauclair and his design team establish a theatrical artifice that conjures a persuasively mythic space. Renato Baldin’s set and costuming provide garish punctuation—a motif of bright red objects: shoes, chair and coat stand. Brandon Gonçalves‘ lighting fluctuates dramatically to indicate shifts in location and mood. It bounces off the many mounted mirrors in hypnotically fragmented patterns. At key moments, a bright wash is aimed directly in our eyes, exposing us—self-conscious and vulnerable.
At Blanco’s request, the narrative has been adapted by Beauclair to incorporate elements of Romantini’s life and the city of Toronto, showcasing specific locations and municipal issues. These references sometimes feel clunky, though this is likely by design, another layer of whimsical contrivance that is calculated and purposeful.
Also by design: the story has a meandering, shaggy dog quality that is ultimately charming; though I did find it somewhat tiresome whenever the narrative momentum felt particularly laggy. The archly meta deconstruction of mythos—both classic and personal—and a compelling performance absolutely make up for this.
Stylized yet sincere, a poetic and playful celebration of queer sexuality—if this sounds like your bag, The Rage of Narcissus will surely be a treat.