Berczynski's "Life Is a Dream'

Even the best playwrights must struggle to instill meaning into a 20-minute, one-person show. Aleksandra Berczynski's Life is a Dream reminded me of a Edmund Rostand's line: "It is even more beautiful because it is pointless."

But not entirely pointless. To be sure, twice in the past two Fringe Festivals Berczynski has plucked 20 irredeemable minutes of my life while returning only a soupçon of meaning. On the other hand, Berczynski's one-woman shows attempt to plumb the philosophical depths of narcissism, a subject that both fascinates and forms a large part of my existence. And she's certainly pleasant to look at.

An artist who can't draw

In her new work, Berczynski plays Alexa, an artistically talentless beauty. Reclining on a divan like one of Matisse's odalisques, she barely conceals her swimsuit-model body beneath a sheer lingerie top and a thong, and fidgets with a pencil before drawing a series of images in a sketchbook. With each hasty stenciling, she tears off the page violently, crumpling it before throwing it to the floor in disgust. "Alexa, the "'artist'," she laments nasally, "who can't even draw."

After a webcam conversation about how her dreams keep getting "crazier and crazier," Berczynski falls asleep, and sure enough, falls into an enacted reverie inspired by Life is a Dream, Pedro Calderon de la Barca's 17th-Century work about a man imprisoned since birth to avoid a prophesy. Although Berczynski did a better job of intertwining her life and Shakespeare's sonnets in How Do I Love Me last year, this time she doesn't complain so much as ponder the more unfortunate aspects of her existence, letting her dreams serve as escapist fantasy.

In her "real" life, Alexa can't draw a straight line, complains about gossipy friends and longs for attention from a grade-school crush. In her dream world, she strolls down catwalks in stiletto heels, signs autographs for eager fans (one lucky audience member, at least), drinks champagne until she passes out, and denies rumors of stealing Brad Pitt away from Angelina Jolie.

But rather than ask the simple question— which life does she prefer?— instead Berczynski delves into Calderon's play to ask which version constitutes her reality.

Accident of birth

It's a fascinating conceit: the beautiful young girl—who lacks ability yet yearns for self-fulfillment while dreaming of a celebrity lifestyle—delivering a monologue that contrasts true love, sincere friendship and real achievement vs. hedonism, anonymous adoration, and fame. It's fascinating because in either life, in either circle of friends, Alexa's appearance, lack of talent, and her character's nasally droned, imbecilic vapidity don't change.

In Calderon's tale, we know that some vast injustice (imprisonment from birth) plays out behind the scenes of his prince's life. In Berczynski's case, a similar accident of birth— her appearance— leaves her life empty and hollow. And like Calderon's Prince, this young girl who should have the world at her feet finds more happiness in eight seconds of REM sleep than any wakeful day she can remember.

But unlike Calderon's Prince, in Alexa's case nothing but the external trappings would change her life in dreams, and the real world would offer her no greater fulfillment— she'd still be punished for being born beautiful. So she's right to narcissistically plumb the horrible, nightmarish depths of what, to outsiders, must already seem like a dream.

Cheaper than a lap-dance

Unfortunately for Berczynski, an audience watching Calderon's play knows whom to blame (the King) and with whom to sympathize (the Prince). The trick for Berczynski lies in getting people to pity her misfortune at being beautiful— a problem suffered by models, actresses, and strippers, I'm sure. Ultimately she failed to enlist my sympathy— although I'll grant her point that the trappings of a life based only on surface appearances would grow tiresome.

In more skillful hands, Berczynski's exhibitionist performance could have become one of the Fringe Festival's more profound shows. As it stands, where else can you watch a 19-year old prance about in her underwear for just ten bucks? It's cheaper than a lap-dance, and much more meaningful.