This might come as a surprise, given the subject, but there is a good deal of humor in this play. And we are clued in to that fact during what has become a routine announcement before performances, that photography and recording are prohibited. Here we are told they are "strictly prohibited and punishable by death" by "order of the podesta." And as the play begins, the podesta (Robert Mammana) directly addresses the audience, telling us, "Individuality is a myth." He says it with such authority. It's an interesting way to set things in motion, for the very first line gets us thinking about free will and power over our own lives. What really does cause us to make each decision we make? For most of us, the idea of individuality being a myth is frightening, and something within us instinctively braces against the idea, and so against the character giving it voice. The set, by the way, includes two screens, which are used to great effect throughout the performance. When the audience enters, one of the screens shows a bay, helping to place us in the scene. But during the opening speech, different photos are shown, photos of statues of Rome. And soon we come to the question of pornography, a central question of the play. What constitutes pornography? Who should be the judge of that? And what should be done with images deemed pornographic?
Pancrazio Buciuni (Massi Pregoni) is under investigation, for he has come into ownership of the photographs in question, photographs in which he himself is often the subject, as well as the entire photography business, and he has taken some pictures of his own too. The photographs are now considered pornography by the fascist regime, depicting, as many of them do, nude men in classical poses. When he admits that there is one time he did something of which he is ashamed, the investigation focuses on that time, and the action shifts to December 1897, when he was eighteen. His relationship with the photographer becomes clear, especially through the interactions with a visiting writer who is interested in getting some photographs of his own. That writer, Sebastian Melmoth (Rob Nagle, who was excellent as Toby in a recent production of Twelfth Night), takes great pleasure in helping to pose the young Pancrazio, and perhaps even more pleasure in educating the young man regarding mythology and history. There is a good deal of joy to his character, to his actions, but with a greater, deeper misery that we begin to sense underneath, as well as a longing. And when he says that he once was beloved, we can't help but think of Sir Andrew's line from Twelfth Night. Von Gloeden tells Pancrazio that their guest is very famous, and we in the audience begin to guess his true identity early on.
There is an intriguing love triangle among the characters, and there is a question of how much of a say Pancrazio has regarding his own actions, not because individuality is indeed a myth, but in part because he feels he owes much to Von Gloeden. There is also clearly an economic element to his position. He does, however, stand up for himself at times, and it is one of those times that gives the play its title, with Pancrazio saying, "You are offering me to him like a tasty little rabbit." Interestingly, Pancrazio breaks from the action occasionally to address the audience directly, and in those moments we can't help but feel that we are part of the inquisition into the photographs and his possible guilt not just in possessing them, but in his part in creating them, that we are in a position of judgment. And it places us in both time periods simultaneously. The action, by the way, moves with ease between the two time periods, and it is never confusing where and when we are, and which characters are being portrayed. These transitions are done quickly, with minimal changes in costume, so the whole thing has a very fluid feel, to the point where it almost doesn't matter what year we are in. There is the sense of a great continuum, a conversation that bridges the decades, not just between 1897 and 1936, but between then and our time.
The play touches on the fact that social norms and mores change over time. Sebastian says at one point, "Today's blasphemy is tomorrow's orthodoxy." It's a funny line, and true. There is the unfortunate implication that for some people, many people perhaps, the change from blasphemy doesn't come soon enough. It comes out in the dialogue that Sebastian spent time in prison for his sexual orientation. What's interesting is that long before the end of the play, the question of what constitutes pornography ceases to concern us. For it is the characters that we care about now, and their personal stakes in the issue rather than the issue itself. And we find our allegiance shifting throughout the performance, from character to character. This is in part because of the excellent, riveting performances by all three actors. And though Rob Nagel might seem a tad older than the forty-three years of the writer he plays, he gives such a delightful and nuanced performance that it doesn't matter. In fact, one of the most powerful and moving moments of the play is on his delivery of the line "Why? Why did you let go?" This play also has moments of touching beauty.
Toward the end, Pancrazio, facing out to the audience, says, "Government officials cannot judge art." And so we have become the government officials, we have become the judges, whether we wish it or not. And by then, we likely have no desire to act as judge, and would distrust anyone that does.
Tasty Little Rabbit runs through June 6, 2025. See the theatre's website for the complete schedule. The play is approximately ninety minutes, and runs straight through without intermission. Moving Arts is located at 3191 Casitas Ave. in Los Angeles. There is a free parking lot next to the theatre.
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