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Natebegins with a silly, excessive, gooberishly stereotypical display of masculinity.
He chugs protein powder and then sets it on fire.
Its all clownishly big and also absurdly too small.
The motorcycle is miniature.
It begins in some small and fairly straightforward ways.
Nate pulls a guy onstage as part of a motorcycle stunt.
while miming a gentle groping gesture.
If they say no, he backs off.
Theyre opening salvos inNates intertwined twin projects, consent and performance.
Consenting participation withNateis not easy or comfortable, which is part of the point.
But the spell works, and it works remarkably well.
He waits for a minute, and theres silence.
By this point, Nate has prepped his audience well.
People shifted uneasily in their seats, but Palamides was cheerful and relentless.
She had to shout Hey, Lucas!
for what felt like an unbearably long time, but finally a guy a few rows away relented.
Hey, Nate, he answered, a little chagrined.
The play of consent would feel less immediate and less urgent.
It does, a little, but it also matters less than I feared it might.
I dont want to describe the rest ofNatewith much detail.
Because it feels like big, heady, serious stuff, and it is!
At the end Nate asks a question and invites the audience to respond.
I dont know what the answer to it is, and Nate doesnt either.
ButNateis a weird, remarkable journey to the end point of being able to ask that question.
What the audience does with it next is up to them.
This review was originally published on November 25, 2020.
