This is Drama Masks, a Bay Area performing arts column from a born San Franciscan and longtime theatre artist in an N95 mask. I talk venue safety and dramatic substance, or the lack thereof.
It really says something about the Bay Area arts scene when the phrase “I’m gonna see holes dug up on a beach in SF” gets the reply “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
A few months ago, a high-profile scavenger hunt had local residents deciphering clues on social media and digging up holes in the hopes of finding $10,000 in cash. If that sounds familiar, you may recall something similar happened in 2014. Every time this happens, the creators say it’s all in good fun, but the truth is blindingly obvious: someone with more money than compassion wants to amuse themselves by watching broke San Franciscans tire themselves out for the chance to get out of debt. The really sad part is that the need for that kind of cash has only grown in the past decade.
Even leaving out the hole-digging aspect, there was the fact that the show I was attending, the location of which was only given out a few days before the show, was at Ocean Beach. If you’ve heard anything about SF politics of late, you know that Ocean’s now-open road was the catalyst for the upcoming recall election for Supervisor Joel Engardio. Despite the fact that I’ve lived and voted in the Sunset for over a year and a half, this would be the first time I’d visited the former Great Highway. As the days count down to the election, with Engardio supporters and detractors both facing scrutiny, I honestly hope the end result is keeping the gorgeous road as the domain of bikers and walkers like myself.
Then there’s the fact that SF performance venues and troupes have been shutting down left and right. Independent theatre has never been lucrative, but there was a blessed time when it was at least sustainable. A lot of furrowed brows are signs of the stress that currently abounds regarding the uncertain future of several longtime institutions.
Yet, as a critic and de facto historian of the scene, it’s clear that art doesn’t have to be about the venue as much as the work itself. One wonders if the next evolution of indie theatre will bring an even-greater reliance on nomadic site-specific performances like the SF Neo-Futurists’ HOLE (Sundays through September 21, various SF locations)? Granted, not every show could function in this manner, nor will all audience members willingly forego a climate-controlled room for something that may possibly blow their mind.
Such was the sort of mental baggage I brought with me to Ocean Beach on this particular Sunday afternoon. I’d been personally invited to see SF’s premiere performance art troupe do a show about digging holes, and I walked down the beach wondering how we—artists, journalists, activists, people of color, queer folks, San Franciscans, and everyone else trying to stay afloat under this right-wing theocracy of dunces—had found ourselves in this abyss.
I also wondered why I didn’t bring flip-flops. Boots are most certainly not the best footwear for walking in sand.
Help us save local journalism!
Every tax-deductible donation helps us grow to cover the issues that mean the most to our community. Become a 48 Hills Hero and support the only daily progressive news source in the Bay Area.
Nevertheless, my personal baggage may have been just the right state of mind for attending HOLE, one of the rare full-length productions by the Neo-Futurists. The show does indeed consist of the company’s assembled members—Sam Bertken, Mars Ibarra, Amy Langer, Bahaar Taj, and Willie Caldwell—digging an actual hole in the sand. (“Legally, we have to fill it back in,” we’re told at the end.) If you’re wondering why anyone would do that, well, that’s sort of the point.
Before they start digging, we audience members gather around a pre-chosen spot on the beach. A lone set piece by Wallace Yan features a wooden frame with a fabric canvas stretched across it. A soon-to-be-removed hole has already been dug out of it. The beach being a public area, there are sunbathers to the left of us, volleyball players to the right, and the vast Pacific ahead. There’s also a large flipboard with the play’s title. Before the show proper begins, the pages of the board are turned over to reveal such queries as “Q: What is a hole? A: A hole.” But of course.
Spades are planted in the sand as Nine Inch Nails’ “Head Like a Hole” plays, prompting co-writers/directors Langer and Taj to begin their dance routine. As the latter will tell us, “We had an idea: let’s dig a hole.” They implore us not ask why as they insist that a hole is not a grave or a tunnel. “A hole lives, breathes, dies, and is reborn through obsession,” they say.
And so, the digging begins.
If the above description has you lost, don’t worry: they cast are just as astray, though by design. Using audio of “The Simpsons” episode “Homer the Moe”, in which Bart starts digging a hole for no apparent reason, the Neos begin building their own chasm in this lone piece of San Francisco beach as an excuse to ask why anyone would do such a thing. Caldwell, who didn’t take part in the initial dig, comes upon the others and observes, “You started the hole with a goal, but all you think about is the digging.”
Actually, they think about a lot more. Mainly mortality. Sure, a hole isn’t inherently a grave, but how long will it be before we all inevitably wind up in one? During one of the moments in which we step away from the hole, Ibarra looks out at the Pacific as she openly ponders relationships she’s broken off because toxic behavior. She tries to reconcile things with her religious upbringing and wonders what the Devil would tell her if he passed by her on that beach.
As our cast members ponder the literal and figurative nature of holes, a great many jokes are made about the title word. There are several more audio clips played, some with instructions on how to properly dig, some with further songs that incorporate the title word. There’s even a couple of audio interviews of Courtney Love explaining the origin of her groundbreaking band’s moniker.
Through it all, the dark thoughts are never far off. Many “How did we get here?” questions are asked. The sunk-loss fallacy is name-checked as a way of reminding everyone that the way out isn’t always through. The show is a lot like the recent Are You Okay?, in the way it slowly immerses its audience into uncomfortable thoughts of their own insignificance on a universal scale.
Still, like Are You Okay?, HOLE has the audience occupy themselves with activities that emphasize just how much we all do matter. In between juvenile jokes about the title and apparent rivalries between cast members, we’re also given tiny plastic shovels with which to dig our own little chasms. One audience member spends most of the show “onstage” as unofficial sixth cast member, “Holey”. The latter is amusing, the former is Zen. It brings us into the cast’s thought process of how routine can become addiction just as easily as an escape. The world is scary and we don’t know how to fix it. So, why not just dig a hole to take your mind off it? Makes as much sense as anything else.
Given the nature of the show, it’s inevitable that the cast members would eventually have us all climb into their little crevice. It gets pretty deep, all things considered. I briefly pondered why the audio clips didn’t include that one scene from “West Wing” before I noticed how the world itself seems to change perspective when your physical position shifts.
The SF Neos don’t provide any answers with their new show. Instead, they allow everyone attending to join in on asking the question. No, that won’t solve a single pressing world problem—but there is something reassuring a joining others in a shared experience. Even if it’s just digging a hole.
(Although this is an outdoor production, I still wore a KN95 mask, as did a handful of other attendee. Fortunately, it was a clear day in SF, so my Aranet4’s CO² levels stayed around 492ppm as we took in the ocean air.)
HOLE runs Sundays through September 21. Various San Francisco locations. Tickets and more info here.
