My overall impression
From the beginning, the main character, Sylax, confirms his “otherworldly foreignness” with restless stream-of-consciousness, detached matter-of-fact humor and hesitantly quirky musings—all told by an analog taped recording relaying its words seemingly from a hollowed out, baby-mobile-bedecked television that’s accompanied by a haunting cello being played in a barely lit corner of the stage. The artist has yet to be seen, her silvery, handmade cloth spacesuit protected from unruly first impression; if a major gesture of performance art is to spring the artist full force into the world, uninhibited, then this would make a reasonable starting point. Instead of flinching or cringing or protesting at the tentative awkwardness of it all, the viewer delights in the whimsical embrace of Sylax. The urge is to not look away at what is to unfold at a leisurely pace, guided earnestly by Jessie Proksa’s nuanced take on self-discovery amid paradoxical middle-American obsessions. Joining her to assist in the journey is God in all of his rudimentary nonchalance—a simply worn white sign stating “God” will suffice as far as his costume goes. An interspersion of sight gags, music and dancing varies the proceedings in-between the subliminally subversive anecdotes and dry humor. By the end of the brisk running time, the viewer has started to question their own belonging in the here-and-now of their choosing, and whether a tactile existence in this absurd world can ever be reconciled with the unbounded and fearless self.
