Prepare to be disturbed. Nazareth Hassan's 'Practice' at Playwrights Horizons isn't just unsettling; it's a calculated assault on your comfort zone, designed to leave you reeling. This isn't your typical haunted house fare; there are no ghosts jumping out from the shadows, no buckets of stage blood splattering across the stage, and definitely no low-budget alien invasions. Instead, 'Practice' delves into a far more insidious kind of horror: the horror of manipulation, control, and the seductive allure of artistic ambition. But here's where it gets controversial... Is it possible that the very art form we cherish, theater itself, can become a breeding ground for abuse? Sara Holdren, a theater director and Pulitzer-finalist critic at New York, certainly thinks so, and 'Practice' served as a stark, unsettling confirmation of her fears.
Holdren notes that unlike most horror plays, 'Practice' eschews supernatural elements altogether. There aren't any otherworldly beings or gory spectacles. Instead, the play traps its audience in a claustrophobic atmosphere, much like flies caught in a spider's web. The characters are ensnared in a toxic environment with a monster – or perhaps multiple monsters – and for nearly three hours, we are forced to watch as they are slowly, methodically devoured. And this is the part most people miss... the horror isn't just inflicted upon them; they actively participate in their own demise, even vying for a place within the web of manipulation. It's a truly stomach-churning experience.
But Holdren suggests there's a deeper, more complex layer to 'Practice' – a twisted kind of love letter to the theater, reminiscent of James Baldwin's poignant critique of America in 'Notes of a Native Son.' Hassan, in an author's note, confesses a profound love for the art form that has saved their life while simultaneously arguing that theater is inextricably linked to power and manipulation. "Theater, in the western sense, is systematized manipulation," Hassan writes. The act of creating and consuming theater, according to Hassan, becomes an act of "emptying your vessel to be filled by the will of whomever can afford to be an artist these days." This bleak premise serves as the foundation for a battle plan: to exorcise the theater's addiction to power and sever power's grasp upon the art form. Viewed through this lens, 'Practice' functions as a piece of investigative journalism, exposing the insidious rot at the roots of the theater world. The story may be fictional, but the events it portrays are eerily familiar, echoing countless real-life scenarios from grade-school classrooms to artists' communes to professional rehearsal halls.
The play unfolds in a converted church in Brooklyn, where a self-proclaimed auteur named Asa Leon (portrayed with chilling precision by Ronald Peet) has assembled a group of actors for a devised performance experiment. The actors are told they’ll be drawing from their own lives to create a piece, living together for eight weeks as a collective. The carrot? A tour in Berlin and London, funded by a "commission from Schauspielhaus Scheiße" and Asa's MacArthur grant. (Asa modestly downplays the grant, adding a light touch of comedy to the otherwise serious subject matter.) After a seemingly innocuous first day of theater games and introductions, Asa introduces a chart designed to "hold each other accountable." Under a list of values, company members can mark where they think their colleagues "need some work." The number of marks received dictates whether "no adjustments necessary" or "a need to reassess your needs and our needs" is in order.
This is where the true horror begins. The beast is unleashed, lurking within the very structure of the project, and the first casualty is the individual autonomy of each participant. The fact that all seven actors willingly embrace Asa's plan, even collaborating on the values for the chart, amplifies the sense of dread. They are complicit in their own undoing, seeking validation at every turn.
'Practice' is divided into two distinct acts: a lengthy first act that immerses the audience in the rehearsal process, and a shorter second act that unveils the poisonous fruits of their labor, a performance titled 'Self Awareness Exercise 001.' Hassan, drawing on their experience as a dramaturg at the Royal Court Theatre, crafts a structure that is both deliberate and impactful. The play's voice is unique, blending Gen-Z slang with institutional artspeak, and beneath its casual veneer lies a scathing critique of the theater world. (Even the character descriptions are telling, including star signs alongside age, race, and pronouns.)
However, Holdren points out a potential weakness: the first act's length leaves little doubt about Asa's malevolence. The shadows of these artists loom large from the outset, particularly in the opening auditions, where actors stand in a spotlight and receive instructions from an unseen director via a microphone – the "God Mic." As each auditioner's demeanor shifts from confidence to vulnerability under the disembodied voice, Hassan's concerns about the power dynamics within theater become strikingly clear.
While the play's trajectory may seem predictable – from the sinister values chart to the manipulation of personal traumas to the psychological violence inflicted upon Mel – the second act provides a crucial and unsettling perspective. It adds another layer of nausea to the already disturbing events of the first act. And this is where it gets even more controversial... Is it possible that abusers are simply reenacting the abuse they themselves have suffered, desperately seeking to be stopped through these public displays of violence?
Ironically, Act Two becomes a showcase for the actors' talents as they embody characters consumed by the will of their leader while simultaneously delivering an extraordinary ensemble performance. The choreography, crafted with the help of director Keenan Tyler Oliphant and Camden Gonzalez, is both precise and captivating. While parodying experimental performance art can be easy, 'Practice' avoids cheap shots, presenting a satire that is both thoughtful and sincere. Hassan advances a hypothesis: that abusers are re-creating the abuse they received, begging, through public acts of violence, to be stopped. Holdren questions whether all brutality stems from such neatly diagnosable roots, but ultimately agrees with Hassan's core message: power, in practice, requires an exorcism.
What do you think? Does 'Practice' offer a valid critique of the theater world, or does it paint an overly cynical picture? Can the power dynamics within art ever be truly equal, or is manipulation an inherent part of the creative process? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
