Jackie! Zhou reviews 600 Highwaymen’s A Thousand Ways (Part One), which focused on providing physical immediacy while transcending distance…through a phone call.
Earlier this summer, I experienced “A Thousand Ways (Part One): A Phone Call,” the first part of a triptych presented by the theatremakers, 600 Highwaymen. I’m a sucker for live experiences designed for one. I’m also a sucker for art which utilizes the phone as a medium--so much information can be shared through the sound of someone’s room, their voice, their breathing. “A Phone Call” is a play designed for two audience members, connected by a phone number they are instructed to dial at the time of their ticketed showtime. I attended a showing which was presented by The Public Theater--taking advantage of the remote nature of the experience to participate in some NYC theater via an hour long phone call.
As I dialed the phone number, I was nervous. While I have the gift of gab, partaking in a conversation with a stranger on the phone could go in many directions and the feeling of the unknown was both exciting and daunting. An operator greets me as the show begins. It’s a digitally generated voice, but one that feels human and is coded feminine.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
I hear the other person’s voice. It feels like I can hear her age, the exposed brick in the room she’s taking the call in, loving glances at her husband as she closes the door. The last two details I’m projecting, but the sound of her voice felt so rich with information in contrast to the digital operator. We decide between ourselves who is Person A and who is Person B and dive into the shared experience. Person A’s voice is clear and present. I think about how if I was in the place of her phone, how close our faces would be.
The operator presents us with various directives, some asking for short answers, others inspiring longer stories or anecdotes. “Person A, what year were you born.” “1956.” “Person B, do you have tattoos?” “No.” “Taking turns, describe something yellow in the room you are in.” “A lamp.” “A pillow.” “A book.” “My friend’s jacket.” I learn her childhood smelled like mangoes, she learns I play clarinet. She tells me about Sandra, the cheerleading captain from her high school. I tell her about Emily, one of my first childhood friends in California. She was 18 when her father died, both my parents are alive.
Throughout the exchanges, the operator reveals a liveness--sometimes asking seemingly related follow up questions and occasionally catching herself asking a question she had asked before. She reminds us of our own liveness--reacting organically to questions, both of us leaning into our regional accents and colloquialisms as we search our memories for answers. Our pauses and hesitations feel like musical rests. The digital operator interludes the questions with occasional statements. “I hope it’s okay to be visible like this.” “This is all we have.” The entire experience is stripped of visual assistance and other than light grounding instructions of touching our face or taking a seat, it was a play entirely driven by our voices. Similarly, the perceivable sound design, which felt so intentionally minimal, was born from the organic sound of both sides of the phone call and the rooms we found ourselves in.
For an hour, I focused on Person A’s voice, treasuring the storytelling it offered with each answer. As both actor and audience in the experience, the play unraveled in real-time--two strangers connecting with each other. “A Phone Call” was born from the lack of participation in the digital theater which evolved throughout the pandemic and “digital alienation”. Sound and voice offer a live experience which can offer physical immediacy while transcending distance. Part of what makes live experiences magical is their ephemeral nature--you can’t walk away or replay things. You can’t pause someone’s voice and analyze each component of it. I can remember Person A’s voice, but I can’t replay it. While we have many digital tools to stay connected, a phone call proves to be a timeless and intimate portrait of each other through solely our voices.
(Source: Public Theater)
