Already this may be more than you want to know.
Indeed, this show is not for the faint of asshole, so to speak. As in past shows, Los Angeles performance artist Miller gives a, um, blow-by-blow account of his life via monologue, dance, film, and music; it's a genre that might be called "interdisciplinary auto-erotography." In early work, Miller took truth-telling to hilarious extremes -- announcing the real names, addresses, and phone numbers of his ex-lovers as they appeared in his stories -- and in 1990, he earned notoriety as one of "the NEA four" de-funded by Congress. Since then the performance scene has become glutted with confessional monologues detailing transgressive sexuality. The problem is that the form is inherently limited, almost always hinging on solipsistic self-revelation. But in Carnal Garage, Miller has unearthed a new, potentially richer form: the confessional duologue.
The men begin to trade snatches of poetry, coming together in a kiss so elaborate as to be acrobatic. Purring rhythms of electric guitar build as the two men narrate the story of their love affair. With their nimble bodies and the creative use of hot candle wax, a pair of jumper cables, and sand, the two men create an elegant S/M frisson. The older, more experienced Miller relies on simple, direct storytelling and self-deprecatory humor, where McCartney exhibits a youthful enthusiasm for poetic concepts like "memory" and "the body."
Under Miller's visceral, unpredictable direction, this slice of gay love often eclipses the need for story and approaches pure ritual. When the two men describe seeing each other for the first time, they clap their hands over their eyes and recount the moment in almost pathological detail. "I smell traveling on his body." "His hair is so curly. Curlier than I remembered. I worry I'm not as good-looking as him."
For a time the plot focuses on whether they should fuck each other without a condom (they do and it's hot), but from there the delicate narrative structure begins to collapse into pastiche. They wander round the city horny; they each remember formative childhood events that now affect their sexuality. Miller pours hot wax on McCartney's chest and plants a candle on it; then he squats over it, burning his arms, balls, and hair. Miller's powerful tale of burning down his garage at the age of 11 only to have his father beat him with jumper cables (which McCartney blithely re-enacts on Miller's pink behind), offers a moment of thematic cohesion to Carnal Garage, but by the time McCartney links his desire to be wrapped in plastic with his mother's affair with the local butcher, the variations on transgression feel redundant.
The final image of the two men simply sharing a bottle of water implies a journey coming to an end, but we're still waiting for the departure. Despite the lucid tapestry of movement, props, and language, two charming personalities, and the brave new form of confessional duologue, the piece failed to transcend the pair's private love affair, and create a moving narrative arc. Sometimes the bare-assed truth isn't enough.
-- Carol Lloyd
