The Goat Ate My Homework
"The Death of Little Ibsen" combines whimsy with Nordic neurosis.

Location: Chelsea's Sanford Meisner Theatre (Running Through June 11)
Cost: $20 (A little steep for a bohemian on a shoestring, I know)
Bohemian Factor: Moderate
Geek Factor: Low


Watching a famous tortured artist writhe helplessly in ennui is much more entertaining when his inner demons harmonize in a singsong duet, rather than the boring interior monologues that the rest of us get. Such is the fate of playwright Henrik Ibsen, or rather, Little Ibsen, as he is called in Wakka Wakka Productions’ “The Death of Little Ibsen,” which is about to complete its extended run at the Sanford Meisner Theatre in Chelsea. Careening through various biographical tidbits, the puppet Ibsen (Yes, puppets again!) regretfully contemplates his career choices, his legacy as a playwright and poet, and - as some of us would like to infer from his biography- his lousiness as a boyfriend.

Wakka Wakka doesn’t hesitate to exploit a medium where realism is besides the point, opting to reject narrative for vaudeville. “Little Ibsen” condenses Ibsen Dramaturgy 101 into visual capers, surreal voiceovers and, yes, silly little songs. In the first wordless scene, Ibsen is conveniently pulled from the womb with prematurely large, white sideburns. As a precocious, brooding student, he feeds one of his first rejected manuscripts to an adorable goat, initiating what seems to be a series of tempestuous transactions with cute animals. (Perhaps there is a deeper metaphor going on here? Ibsen scholars, anyone?) When the first of a series of women declares passionate love to a less-than-ardent playwright, she wins him over by girlishly declaring “I love your hair. And you’re so smart!” (Gee, if only this tactic was as effective for the rest of us.) It also helps that she bares her puppet breasts at this juncture.

Henrik Ibsen the puppet articulates lofty goals for his art and his social beliefs, but his aspirations at the grandiose are undermined by his wide-eyed, Candide-like innocence when coping with the results of his own bad decisions, as well as his voice, which is very close in timbre to Fozzy Bear. Kirjan Waage, who designed the puppets, and the other actors/puppeteers imbue even the most minor characters with admirable characterization, as do the other actors/puppeteers while dressed appropriately in Victorian garb.

How autobiographical are Ibsen’s plays in which an artist single-mindedly pursues his craft, immersed in foreign adventures and infidelity while his loved ones are left behind? Did he regret running away from his illegitimate child? Did he agonize over whether there should be limits to the rights of the individual? Although the hour- long production brings these lofty and thoughtful questions to the table, they are not explored in depth, apparently, since they can be breezily touched upon with a sight gag, or better yet, a song, delivered by whimsical “demons” in the shape of large overstuffed sausages with carrot-stick noses.

Then again, in one hour’s time, who wants pedagogy when you can get a serenade?