In 1990, before she’d won her Tony Award (2002) or even her MacArthur “genius” fellowship (1996), Mary Zimmerman was the subject of a short feature by Reader contributor Justin Hayford. “I had this moment onstage a few years ago when I was supposed to be witnessing someone’s death,” Zimmerman told him. “There we were, all laced up in our corsets, our hair sprayed back, all that. We were trying so hard to be upset about this man’s death. And I suddenly realized that it was just so fake. Without being art, without being artificial. It was nothing but effort.”
Zimmerman takes the romantic tack too. Her White Snake is an avid self-improver who’s been studying the Tao for 17 centuries, accruing such enormous spiritual power that she can defeat demons, make her own weather, fly—and, of course, manifest herself in different corporeal forms. She hasn’t managed to cross over into the most sublime state of being, however, because she owes a karmic debt to the man who saved her life when she was just a wee snakelet.
Not that Zimmerman gets all ethereal with The White Snake. Opulent, dancerly, fluid, and funny, her production takes place on a distinctly physical plane—a consummate embodiment of the vision she shared with Justin Hayford way back in 1990. The moon is a man with a stick and a light. Doubt is a woman with long, long fingernails she drums on Xu’s back. Snakes are stick puppets that skitter charmingly—and somehow, believably—across the stage. Rain comes in literal sheets from the ceiling, its sound produced by sand or seeds dropped into a bowl. A single clever mechanism by scenic designer Daniel Ostling serves as a bed, a store, a source of horror. At this stage of her career, Zimmerman has the powers of a Bai Suzhen, and the result is transcendent.
Through 6/8: Wed 7:30 PM, Thu 2 and 7:30 PM, Fri 8 PM, Sat 2 and 8 PM, Sun 2 and 7:30 PM Goodman Theatre 170 N. Dearborn 312-443-3800goodmantheatre.org $25-$86
