Phelim McDermott has often blurred the boundaries between theatre, music and visual art in his work with Improbable, but Tao of Glass may be his most personal creation yet.
Inspired by an abandoned plan to stage Maurice Sendak’s In the Night Kitchen, this collaboration with composer Philip Glass evolves into a deeply personal reflection on art, memory and the strange paths that lead us from one idea to the next. The result is a beautiful and often profound piece of theatre that occasionally overstays its welcome, but nevertheless casts a powerful spell.
The show’s structure is unusual. McDermott begins by telling us about his original ambition to adapt Sendak’s beloved children’s book, before the production gradually evolves into the story of how Tao of Glass itself came into being. What emerges is a fascinating mosaic of stories, memories and ideas, held together by Glass’s reflective score.
On paper, a production that moves between Lao Tzu, Arny Mindell’s theories on different levels of reality, garage conversions and coffee tables might sound impenetrably esoteric. Yet Tao of Glass never feels inaccessible.
McDermott is an immensely engaging performer and storyteller, guiding the audience through complex ideas with warmth, humour and an inviting sense of curiosity. Even at its most philosophical, the production remains grounded in human experience.
The storytelling unfolds in fragments rather than a conventional linear narrative. Anecdotes, memories, dreams and observations appear disconnected at first, but gradually weave together into something cohesive. By the end, McDermott has assembled a masterful piece of storytelling that feels both intensely personal and unexpectedly universal.
Much of the production’s success lies in its staging. Fly Davis’s design appears deceptively simple, dominated by three concentric circles that float above the stage, rising and falling almost imperceptibly as moods shift and ideas develop.
Paper becomes a surprisingly versatile theatrical device, transforming into characters, snowfall, landscapes and manifestations of mental states. Combined with Lyndie Wright’s understated puppetry, the visual language feels elegant and perfectly attuned to the show’s contemplative tone.
Philip Glass’s music is, unsurprisingly, a major attraction. Performed by an outstanding quartet of musicians under the musical direction of Chris Vatalaro, the score is mesmerising throughout. Relaxing and reflective, it provides the ideal soundtrack to McDermott’s meditations. Listening to these musicians perform at such close quarters feels like a genuine privilege.
The supporting company, who also operate the puppets, make a significant contribution throughout. Their work is never showy, but their presence enriches every scene, helping to conjure an ever-shifting world from deceptively simple materials.
If Tao of Glass has a weakness, it is its length. At over two and a half hours, the production occasionally mistakes stillness for profundity. A handful of scenes, particularly in the second act, linger longer than necessary.
Two sequences in close succession feature McDermott lying on the floor listening to music, and while both are individually effective, their extended duration begins to diminish their impact. A little more compression would allow the show’s strongest ideas to shine even brighter.
Yet these are relatively minor reservations about a production of considerable beauty and ambition. Thoughtful, visually striking and emotionally resonant, Tao of Glass invites audiences to slow down, listen and reflect. In an age of constant noise and distraction, that may be its greatest achievement.
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