it’s the most highly anticipated performance event of the new season.

isabelle huppert in “4.48 pyschose”.

the first presentation of UCLA live’s “international theatre festival” at the freud playhouse.

that’s not “freud”, as in sigmund “freud”. no, this is pronounced “frood”, some impossibly obtuse and pretentious uber-european pronunciation that only the most sophisticated and in-the-know art patrons and culture vultures would venture saying aloud.

the 2005 fall LA arts and culture season has already produced “dead end” at the ahmanson, the unwieldy and anachronistic dinosaur of a show that has filled the theatre’s former orchestra pit with hundreds of tons of water to create a facsimile of new yawk’s east river with all the money saved by cutting the politically-correct, but unproductive multi-cultural writers’ labs at the mark taper forum.

redcat, the avant garde mini-theatre run by cal arts in the bowels of the gleaming and better known disney concert hall, has already presented a tedious collaboration between the infamous wooster group of spalding gray-willem dafoe fame and an obscure solo belgian choreographer which turned out to be only a duet between a self-involved, sometimes nude, dancer and a man who crawled around like a bug.

now it’s isabelle huppert in “4.48 psychose”, a two-hour interpretation of british phenom sarah kane’s “4.48 psychosis”, “a play about a psychotic breakdown and what happens to a person’s mind when the barriers which distinguish between reality and different forms of imagination completely disappear.”

how could i miss this?

i mean, this is the second time in two years that ms. kane’s “psychosis” is at UCLA, this time featuring the internationally renowned film star, isabelle huppert, whose name looms larger and above the title in celebrity-obsessed LA. that’s isabelle huppert, who in case you didn’t remember, was best newcomer for her role in “the lacemaker”, starred in such memorable films as “heaven’s gate”, “coup de torchon”, “madame bovary, “la cermonie”, and “the piano teacher”, and is

“one of the most enduring and respected actresses in french cinema”.

then again, you might have missed the tragic sensation of sarah kane herself, who shortly after penning the suicidal, poetic fragments of “4.48 psychosis” was discovered hanging by her shoelaces in a nearby toilet at the tender age of just twenty eight years old.

and if you’re not hip to the 4.48 reference, that’s the exact moment in the middle of the night when the mind reaches utmost mental clarity and at which exact moment, action can be taken.

i mean, the buzz for this event, presented in the small but intimate “frood” playhouse was overwhelming. you had to be there or be square; that’s what the LA times indicated, not to mention the LA weekly, KCRW and KPFK public radio, nor the hipsters and trendsetters on the street.

certainly any culture vulture worth their salt would be at “frood” for one of the two nights ms. huppert would be making her LA stage debut.

certainly i would be.

i mean, i was an inveterate and compulsive culture vulture, having been raised that way by my new yawk culture-consuming parents.

i mean, by the time i had reached adolescence, i had already been to the met, the whitney, the guggenheim, and MOMA, many times; i had seen the original broadway productions of “my fair lady”, “bye-bye birdie”, and “oliver”; i had been to city center and lincoln center, seen the joffrey, ABT, and balanchine’s new york city ballet; i had seen belafonte, leon bibb, and theodore bickel, not to mention joan baez, pete seeger, and beverly sills.

i had most definitely and intentionally been dipped in the arts and culture pot, and now, i was making “culture vultures” out of my freshman students at one of LA’s most prestigious private universities, by holding a semi-annual “culture vulture competition” and awarding a semi-annual “culture vulture” prize for the student who racked up the most points for attending the most cultural events over the course of the semester and/or who changed his or her own personal cultural landscape by doing something new and unique for the first time. for example, you could get a culture vulture point for getting drunk or dying your hair red for the first time, but definitely not the second time. you could get a culture vulture point for talking to a homeless person for the first time or eating octopus for the first time, but no longer the second. you get the point.

and i was the head culture vulture.

i went out in LA three to five times a week. never mind my marriage, my job, my tv addiction to the lakers, or my having a life. i was a vulture. i went to “grand performances” at the downtown water court two times a week when i was in town over the summer.

i saw chinese puppets, cambodian dance, persian sufi whirling; i saw ten events in ten days at LA’s world sacred music festival, including tuvan throat singers from siberia, korean traditional musicians from seoul, and ladino sephardic folk singers from the spanish jewish diaspora. at the old san fernando mission in mission hills. and just the night before, i’d seen boubacar traore, the national guitar-playing treasure from mali at the skirball museum, atop the mulholland pass. but isabelle huppert at the UCLA live’s “frood” playhouse, that was worth at least three, perhaps four, culture vulture points in and of itself.

the only problem was the yankee-angels game that started at 5:15, and which, by the time i had to turn off the tv and drive west on the 10 freeway to UCLA from echo park at 7:10 sharp, was tied 6 to 6.

the yanks had come back from a 5-0 deficit, scored four runs in the fourth, and two more in the fifth to take the lead, but now the scrappy angels had tied the score again and were threatening to re-take the lead.

you see, i was also an inveterate and compulsive yankee fan. i grew up in the great new yawk diaspora of “longisland” in the late 50s and early 60s, and as such, i was a maniacal yankee fan. i worshipped the almighty pinstripes, idolized mickey mantle long before i found out he was a womanizer and a drunk, and still today, i combed the yankee box scores in the LA times, watching as owner george steinbrenner, the donald trump of sports, replaced old, out-to pasture yankees with the best sheffields, A-rods, giambis, and big units he could buy. so now it was a choice between the yankees and isabelle huppert.

what could i do?

i couldn’t let down “the captain” (derek jeter)

it was 7:55 as i approached the UCLA parking structure along hilgard, and the angels had re-taken the lead 7-6. the yankees now had two men on in the bottom of the sixth, with hideki matsui, another steinbrenner all-star purchase from japan, at bat, and i would lose my radio reception as i pulled into the parking structure.

i paid my mandatory eight bucks and pulled just inside the parking structure. i turned off the engine.

ball four!

matsui worked the count for a walk. what an artist!

now the rookie, robinson cano, who had thus far been the hero of the playoffs for the yanks, was coming to bat. bases loaded. a few cars had driven around me and a few others looked wild-eyedly at me as they exited the lot.

i wasn’t going anywhere. ms. huppert would have to wait.

a blue and white UCLA security SUV pulled up to my white corolla station wagon. i was stopped at an odd angle, engine idling.

cano was hitting his cleats with his bat, i could just picture him as he stepped into the box.

the uniformed guard rolled down his window. i did the same.

“can i help you, sir?”

i was paranoid as hell, but i managed a

“no, thanks, i’m just listening to the game.”

he didn’t smile – but he did nod and drive off.

the angel pitcher reared and threw to cano. i can’t remember which middle reliever it was, just one of those pesky angels who were the only team to have a winning record over the yankees the last several years. hell, they eliminated the yanks in the ALCS in 2002 when they went all the way to win the world series. damn angels.

cano swung, first pitch, and lined the ball to left field – right into the glove of leftfielder garrett anderson. inning over. no runs, one hit, two walks, no errors.

still 7-6.

i turned off the radio, parked the car, and ran to the elevator.

i would catch the end of the game later, by videotape, when i got home.

i’m sure ms. huppert would understand if i was a few minutes late.

i ran along the underpass, worrying that they wouldn’t let me in if the show had already started.

i had heard that ms. huppert would be standing in one spot, her feet rooted to the stage for the entire two hour show, and there would be no intermission.

i ran past the sunken and sweet-smelling sculpture garden, and into a crowd of trendy, fashionably late theatregoers. could they all have been listening to the bottom of the sixth? i wouldn’t bet on it.

but i made my way into the theatre, and was told,

“second door to the left” by one of the white-haired volunteer ushers.

when i got to row D, i thought, i discovered that i was the last seat on the aisle. side aisle, that is, against the wall, at a harsh angle, on the opposite side of the theatre.

row D, seat 1, audience way left.

i made my way to my seat and waited another ten minutes as later comers than me made their way into the theatre.

by 8:15, the house was almost full, but in my inimitable style of always looking for the best opportunity, or in this case, the best seat in the house, i spotted a couple of empty seats in the very front row center.

i got up, looked around carefully, and squeezed between the stage and the front row, taking one of the empty seats.

hey, i figured, i would be sitting right in front of isabelle huppert, and i’d be able to watch her every thought and impulse.

so what if she was suicidal and wouldn’t be moving for the whole play; i was ready.

at 8:20, a heavyset usher with high black socks climbing up her thick claves, came down the audience left aisle.

i was sure she was looking for me and was going to ask for my ticket, putting me back in my proper seat.

i tried to make myself invisible. instead, she came right down to the front row, turned out to the house, and made her announcement.

“as many of you already know, this show will run slightly under two hours without an intermission. please turn off your cell phones and electronic devices, and if you need to take any last minute precautions, please do so now. the show will start in approximately one minute.”

as the daunting reality settled over us that we would be sitting in our seats for almost two hours watching someone on the verge of doing herself in, a few of the more timid audience members, or at least those with weaker bladders than others, literally ran up the aisles, presumably taking their last-minute precautions.

as promised, the lights dimmed in approximately one minute, and ms. huppert came out in the dark and took her place.

there she was, approximately six feet directly in front of me, in the dark, planting her accomplished feet in place from where they would not move for the next one hundred and twenty minutes.

i had to crane my neck to look up at her.

the stage was not very high, perhaps only four feet, but it was directly in front of me. and ms. huppert was so close to the front of the stage, that i had to tilt my head back at almost a forty-five-degree angle to see her face.

if i wanted to make it easy on myself, i could look just slightly up and stare directly at her – feet.

but i had come to see isabelle huppert, and i had snuck into a front-row center seat to see isabelle huppert, so i craned my neck and prepared for takeoff.

the lights came up. and there she was – isabelle huppert – star of stage and screen – now fifty years old – directly in front of me.

no makeup, just a little lipstick. eyes already pink with despair, arms plummeted at her sides, fists clenched, bulging blue veins popping out of her wrists and lower arms. she looked – old. unglamorous. very brave.

she stood there, in silence, brightly lit, for what seemed like an eternity.

she was suffering. it was clear. she was in despair. clearly.

finally, she spoke. in french. a french drone. a monotone. a french monotone.

some of the audience most have known what she said. i didn’t.

of course, we had been warned. UCLA live had actually sent us a mailer during this same week to say that the show would be in french with “abridged english supertitles”. the supertitles would have a double role.

“1. to communicate the essential themes of the text.

2. to show samples of the laconic and modern writing style of sarah kane”. furthermore, director claude regy, told us in the program notes,

“we want to avoid the overuse of supertitles which muddle up the intimate – secret- relationship between the audience and the actors.”

oh, there would be a second actor, “an imaginary man, a desired-hated lover”, a man whose name was not above the title, behind a scrim in the background behind ms. huppert. mr. regy’s program notes concluded,

“… the language of the soul is immaterial.”

and so ms. huppert spoke – in a french monotone – and we listened. her voice rarely changed tone or inflection. she spoke and we listened to the language of a soul in turmoil.

occasionally, a tear rolled down her exquisite face.

occasionally i understood the french from my five years of junior and high school french classes with bald monsieur teitlebaum.

occasionally, the supertitles were projected on the very top of the stage.

“ who took the piss when i shaved my head.”

“who lied and said it was nice to see me.”

the language of the soul.

if sitting in the front row made it difficult to see ms. huppert’s face, sitting in the front row, made it painful to see the supertitles. it was like looking up from the base of a long willowy coconut tree, trying to find the coconuts.

it was excruciatingly ridiculous.

of course, if i had stayed in row D, or had been sitting almost anywhere else in the house, it would have been no problema.

but no, i had grabbed my opportunity by the horns, i had stolen a front-row seat; so i was staring up into the face of isabelle huppert, and i was tilting my head up at a 90-degree angle, straight to the top of the stage, to see the supertitles — even though the language of the soul was immaterial.

“who lied.”

“your truth, your lies, not mine.”

i couldn’t possibly see the great actress and the supertitles at the same time.

it was going to be a very long night.

i have always been a theatre sleeper. i don’t actually know if i have a clinical case of narcolepsy, but i do know that given the unique unreality of the dark and insular space of the theatre, i am prone to very definitely, and frequently, nod off. sometimes i think it’s just the darkness, that it’s so relaxing, and so conducive, to sleep. sometimes i think i just haven’t slept enough the night before, or, that i live so intensely when i’m awake, that given the womb-like incubator of the theatre, i just take advantage of the downtime, and… conk out.

other times, i actually think i am a perfect barometer for the power of the play. good play, a dynamic, interesting or funny play, and i almost never dose off. a boring play, a slow or inaccessible play, and i’m out like a light. but this night, within half an hour of the droning french and coconut tree supertitles, i was in serious battle – with myself – trying not to fall asleep.

it always happens slowly, first a little nod, a recognition that i may have missed a word or two. then it becomes more insistent, a nod or bob to the right, a sudden jerk of my head back to consciousness and attention. maybe a little drool down the side of my mouth. then it becomes a lost cause, a nod to the right, then to the left, a full bob to the front, a sudden jerk back to the play and i have no idea what’s happened since i last was cogent.

it’s embarrassing, and frustrating, but i’ve done this for years. much to my own dismay. it’s not so bad in the movies (i’m not a snorer), but in the live theatre, it’s definitely not cool.

when i go with my wife, it’s not so bad either. she can constantly be giving me the elbow, monitoring my nods, so as not to fall off too deeply. but when i go by myself, it’s a lost cause.

and since i’m in the theatre business, and often go to the shows of colleagues or students, or with them, i simply don’t know how many times i’ve humiliated or embarrassed myself without knowing it.

but i’ve also learned over the years, to take a tactical approach to the problem.

i sit in the back of the house, or on the side, so as not to make my dosing obvious or distracting to anyone else. or i drink a strong cup of coffee, a caffenated, ice-blended frappocino if there’s a starbuck’s around, before the show, whenever i can.

but tonight, what was i thinking? in my greed for the most optimal cultural experience, for the full metaphorical monte of the great isabelle huppert, i had thrown pride and caution to the wind, and i had stolen a front row center seat. yes, i had grabbed the precautionary coffee, but this lethal combo of french drone, no stage movement, and extremely forced neck angle was too much for me.

it’s a hopeless situation. i’m trapped. no exit. jean paul sartre.

the event of the season. “frood” playhouse. UCLA live.

trapped for another hour and a half, with no possible way out, nodding and drooling all over my culture-vulturing self.

i mean, i couldn’t possible slip out. everyone in the audience would see me. if i stand up, my head would be up to her knees. if i move even a little to the right or left, i’m sure i will disturb someone’s sight line and concentration.

mon dieu!

this is certainly culture vulture hell.

what had i done to whom?

how was a going to survive?

“I JUST HOPE TO GOD THAT DEATH IS THE FUCKING END.”

huh!

my head jerks violently upward.

ms. huppert’s voice has suddenly exploded into a hiss of wrath and brought me back to consciousness.

i’m craning my neck skyward.

“NOTHING CAN EXTINGUISH MY ANGER”.

it’s the supertitles. sarah kane and isabelle huppert are speaking directly to me. it’s providential.

they are so pissed at me for having dosed off during their play that i’ve now become part of it. ms. huppert’s eyes are even pinker than before. she’s gone though a series of stage blackouts where, from the front row, i can see her stretch her jaw and her hands before the lights come back up and the audience still sees her rooted to her immovable position.

i’m sure i’ve missed a cavalcade of tears. not to mention reams of supertitles that have given the audience the essence of ms. kane’s meaning and despair. i just can’t keep craning my neck.

i’m sure if ms. huppert could, she would spit on me herself.

what must the rest of the audience be thinking?

“who is the jerk in the front row snoozing and doing the head-nodding dance? how rude. how unbelievably fucking rude!”

the language of the soul – and of the masses – “is immaterial”.

“I DREAMT I WENT TO THE DOCTOR’S AND SHE GAVE ME EIGHT MINUTES TO LIVE.”

the supertitles again. what time was it? how much longer would this nightmare go on?

i look to my right. a distinguished, white-haired gentleman who looks very west-side, is craning his neck the same way i’ve been doing before succumbing to sleep. h’s rapt in the “psychosis” journey.

what’s wrong with me?

i look to my left. a young, student-age, very pretty brunette is also craning her neck, looking rapt at the stage. and what is that? look. tears are rolling down her cheeks.

what is wrong with me?

i’m sure it is four in the morning and the show was now on a continuous loop. maybe it’s exactly 4:48 and none of these people are actually here anymore. just me. on this continual “psychosis” looping re-run.

or maybe the play is really working.

i DO feel like killing myself.

who knows anymore?

am i awake? or asleep? conscious? or not?

“I’D BEEN SITTING IN THE FUCKING WAITING ROOM HALF AN HOUR”.

no. not half an hour. almost two hours now. it’s the bleeping supertitles again.

and then, mercifully, the show is over. finally!

the blackout is longer than before.

that’s how i know.

then the man-actor-lover-doctor comes out from behind the scrim.

he joins isabelle huppert down center, the lights come up brightly, and they take a bow.

the audience erupts in applause. the pretty brunette to my left is the first to leap to her feet.

unfortunately, the stage is so close to us that when she stands, her feet hit the front of stage and she falls immediately back into her seat.

isabelle huppert smiles empathetically at her.

maybe it’s isabelle huppert’s daughter.

in a moment, the girl is back on her feet, and what seemed like the entire audience rises as one to join her.

everyone seems to be on their feet, offering applause, “bravos”, and all the perfunctory kudos of being the perfect UCLA live audience.

me? i stay seated, feeling out of place, contrary, and relieved.

how could i stand? i had slept through a good half of the show.

how much of a hypocrite did i want to be?

it would have been easier to stand. to join the masses. to acknowledge the brave and committed performance.

but i simply sit there. and applauded. until, after a second curtain call, the house lights came back up, and we we’re finally all relieved of our theatrically-induced “psychosis”.

the audience files out. slowly.

since i’m in the front center row, i’m one of the last people to escape.

i walk past the sweet-smelling and sunken sculpture garden again. this time i pause to soak up the fragrant and now chill aroma.

i suck in the air. it’s the first breath of relief and reality i’ve taken in over two hours. it feels good.

i walk to my car, refusing to turn on the radio for fear of finding out the result of the yankee-angels game.

i drive home quickly on the 10 freeway from the trendy west-side, to the now becoming-trendy and gentrified east side of echo park.

i bolt into the house and rewind the tape, careful to turn off the tv’s sound, so as not to randomly catch any box score results on ESPN or any other late news shows.

i play the tape. the yankees had lost, scoring only one more run.

merde! (a shout out to isabelle huppert!)

the pesky angels scored four more times. final score, 11 to 7, angels.

it wasn’t my night.

the mighty yankees were on the verge of elimination. were they going to fall again to their west coast nemeses?

i couldn’t worry about it now. i turn off the lights and fall asleep in about sixty seconds – thinking – perhaps dreaming – of isabelle huppert and the hardest culture vulture points i have ever earned.

Travel the world with “e-travels with e. trules” blog

Become a Subscriber of his Santa Fe Substack.

Listen to his travel PODCAST

Or go to his HOMEPAGE

Eric Trules’ Twitter (X)  handle: @etrules