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San Francisco Chronicle​

Review: Berkeley Rep's ‘The Aves' devastates in the best of ways

When we talk about aging, fatalism outweighs compassion. Lose eyesight or the ability to go for a jog, and the world might affect pity, sure. But really, there's nothing more natural than time's ravages, and getting older, as they say, beats the alternative. But what if there were another alternative? Such is the heady thought experiment of Jiehae Park's 'The Aves,' which explodes assumptions about decline and mortality. Berkeley Repertory Theatre's world premiere, which opened Wednesday, May 7, finds a way to express how the most ordinary and universal human experiences feel new, shocking and tragic when they finally happen to you. To reveal any more specifics about the ingenious scenario Park presents would constitute a spoiler. When the show begins, it could be about almost anything. An old man (Bill Buell) and an old woman (Mia Katigbak) sit on a park bench. At first, their small talk about the weather and birdsong might suggest they don't know each other; the main clue otherwise is that they sit a little too closely to be strangers. Their flatly delivered conversation seems of little consequence — the taxonomy of pigeons and doves, the likelihood of impending rain — for a frustratingly long time. You might find your eyes gravitating toward the wonder of Marsha Ginsberg's set design, in which the narrow path holding the bench sits above a massive pool of water speckled with chartreuse leaves. Somehow, the petal-like foliage drifts in a circle around the bench at the center, a bit like a watch's second hand in reverse (tellingly, movement is counterclockwise), perfect for a show about the passage of time. All that apparent chitchat, you'll come to realize, is freighted with meaning. It's a little inane and circular, but there's a peace to it. Over decades, the two characters — whose names are never given — have forged the kind of relationship where you don't have to sound smart or interesting. At their age, simple, nonjudgmental togetherness prevails; the pair might as well be cooing at each other as pigeons do. If that sounds liberating, one person's oasis is another's bondage. In 'The Aves,' contentment is doomed to perturbation, the same way birds keep rippling the set's pond. And since the show takes place in the near-future, the dissatisfied can do more than wallow. By the time a young man (Daniel Croix) and young woman (Laakan McHardy) enter, the elderly pair have made a devastating, life-altering, sci-fi decision requiring unspeakable sacrifice. But Under Knud Adams' direction, delivery stays uninflected, and it perplexes and unnerves to see such weightiness tossed off like it's nothing. Still, the offbeat rhythm helps you break out of your own comfort zone to genuinely ask yourself: Given the opportunity, would I ever do the same? And what would I do if my partner did? An expert craftsperson, Park writes the kind of jaw-dropping reversals that make you wish you could watch whole scenes all over again, knowing what you know now. As intoxicating as her premise is, though, 'The Aves' doesn't explore all that it might. In eschewing the histrionics that her idea might elicit in the real world, Park leaves unspoken a lot of jealousy and resignation, regret and recrimination that you and I might feel, but the actors just hint at. Melodrama just isn't this show's style, and keeping things X-Acto knife-lean likely serves its thought experiment nature. Maybe it's easier to imagine yourself in someone else's place when they're an outline you can fill in. In any case, 'The Aves' invites you to take that final step for the characters: cry the tears they don't on the way home from the theater, clutch your partner more firmly that night or wish all the harder for someone who might be willing to watch the birds with you in companionable silence.