The Cross: Crucify Yourself

An actor is preparing for the smallest of walk-by cameos, in the background, on a soap opera. "I have to get from here [pointing to X on floor stage left] to here [points to X on floor stage right]. Why?" Thus begins "The Cross", a one man Fringe Festival play starring Toby Wherry. What begins as a compulsive method actors' private exercise quickly spirals out into an extended self-analysis. Or merely a stream of dream-logic fantasy; it becomes hard to tell. Either way, the cross of barely 5 feet seems hardly worth the hour-long trip.

Mr. Wherry is the actor and author of "The Cross". He is no stranger to the Fringe; his previous play, "Man in the Flying Lawn Chair", appeared in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, as have other plays he has had a hand in as an actor/writer. He is directed by fellow playwright and documentarian Laura Strausfield.

Wherrys' latest effort, though progressing through a limited physical space, is an extended journey of the mind. His character describes, in baroque detail, moments from his life, though whether these memories are real or works of motivational fiction becomes increasingly unclear. He decides, initially, that he is beginning his short journey across the set by leaving a church, then a gas station, and later on a different church, then a different gas station. His destination becomes joining his father in the car, which eventually leads to a reminiscence of a driving lesson on his dads' lap at the age of six. His meandering path of memory takes him past rainy nights, small umbrellas, kitchen knives, and the many women he loves and leaves. Were these relationships real? Were these women really as he describes them, if they existed at all? Just as he seems to tip his hand or settle on the answer, he will pull up short, abandon the detailed scenario, and declare, "No. I move to LA and become a tennis pro."

Herein lies part of the problem with "The Cross". As he carefully constructs a reality, a memory, a character for himself, he will suddenly jump track and destroy it randomly. The memories, characters, and talismans reoccur, but it becomes harder and harder to try to care about any of the versions he creates of himself when they just get crumpled and tossed in the wastebasket by his mental desk. Is this really purely an acting exercise? Is his character making the whole thing up? The piece also has a strangely dated feel, and there is little to satisfy the audience at the end.

The words and the images they create are often lovely, and Mr. Wherry is an engaging actor. I'm certain some will find the hour thought provoking. However, the threads of the piece are too thin and loose to hold the weight of a theatre piece.