The Toronto Theatre Review: Dave Malloy’s Octet
By Ross
Well, this one certainly got under my skin and had me thinking late into the night. It also forced me, quite intensely, and wisely, to think twice before each and every impulse I had to look at my phone in the early hours of the morning. Encoded deep inside the insightful Octet, the musical, by the spectacularly talented Dave Malloy (Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet…), there is a clear warning for us all; one that resonates completely and accurately. It may be the first musical that really does make you want to turn off your phone, and keep it off, even after the show ends.
In a dimly lit church basement, eight souls have come together, courtesy of the mysterious, unseen, and all-knowing Saul. At his invitation, this eclectic group gathers in a circle of folding chairs to share and confess their dependence on those pesky screens and the endless hunt for scrolled external validation. They are all here to support one another, through captivating hymn-like songs and an honest 12-Step confessional. This band of struggling addicts chimes in, a cappella style, about the personal struggles we as a society are all having within our obsessive-compulsive relationship to our handheld technology. And how we are losing the fight.
Diving in deep to face the fear of the smartphone monster, Malloy, who is credited with the music, lyrics, book, and vocal arrangements, gives us a surprising myriad of styles to connect to, from baroque fugues, doo-wop harmonies, and hymns of yearning, building an a cappella ritual that feels both ancient and startlingly contemporary. Directed with a crystal clear clarity of vision by Chris Abraham (Crow’s The Master Plan), the deliriously good musical and its striking attention to the psychological details of our societal addiction play strong within our brain. It sings with sublime lucidity, asking us to look intricately inside our own shocking dependency to this damning handheld device that is complicating our spirituality and our innate need for honest IRL human connection. Anxiety and depression are just a few of the outcomes we are informed about when conversing online. And not just for the addict, but all those hooked on the “stale pale glow,” knowing intuitively that we are “not wired to handle” its pull.
Octet has a passionate power we dread looking at or talking about. But there it is, in bright projected hues across eight songs that deliver the dilemma brilliantly. We spiral through addiction, shame, and revelation, following the chemical-induced urge for an ego search that escalates and deepens the connection to our digital dependence. “Click, swipe, fuck” is the chant of the phone addict, in more ways than one, and as sung with precision by the desperate Jessica, dynamically depicted by Jacqueline Thair (Shaw’s My Fair Lady), we can’t help but lean in. “Refresh” is the optimal position, and then there is Henry, who loses himself in his ritualistic game, “Candy”, embodying that compelling awkwardness of emotional escape with expertise by the always fascinating Damien Atkins (Soulpepper’s De Profundis:..). It’s a colorful song and dance with deep, disturbing tones of displacement and desperation that will change how you look at your phone and its idea of play.
“Glow” is newly roped-in ringleader Paula’s sad, sweet confession, captivatingly crafted by Zorana Sadiq (Crow’s Trident Moon), that hits hard, and “Solo”, performed beautifully by the majestically gifted Hailey Gillis (Soulpepper’s The Seagull) as Karly, and the deeply engaging Giles Tomkins (Pacific Opera Victoria’s The Little Prince) as Ed, is completely captivaitng, unpacking a private place where they all find themselves leaning towards, even as they look outward for connection. Toby, powerfully portrayed by Andrew Broderick (Shaw’s Sweeney Todd), delivers the dynamic “Actually“ like a force of nature let loose. It strikes unforgettably hard like a bolt of lightning from the skies above.
Marvin, fantastically decoded by Ben Carlson (Crow’s Rosmersholm), gives us a complex “Little God“ that rapturously entangles our souls. Together, the eight form an achingly human chorus. None of them knew that the monster would mean so much to them in the long run, but within their truths about addiction and the rhythms and harmonies of distorted connection is an ALL CAPS or lower case/no punctuation opinion that is laid out in details sublime most harmoniously before the beauty of the trees. Even the language of the show mimics the compulsive rhythm of the apps it critiques, restructuring idioms into a new kind of Gregorian chant.
All of this confession and compulsive craving would feel untethered without an authentic space to hold it all within, and the production beautifully gives them one — a lit-from-within digital confessional cloaked in cathedral shadows. In that color-coded framing, they sit in that gentle institutional space in chairs, placed dutifully on the magnificent video floor, designed impeccably by Joshua Quinlan (Crow’s Wights) with an enhancing video design created by Nathan Bruce (Buddies’ Reina). The perfectly aligned costuming by Ming Wong (Crow’s The Wrong Bashir), dynamic and detailed lighting by Imogen Wilson (Soulpepper’s Old Times), and a clear, concise sound design by Olivia Wheeler (Stratford’s Forgiveness) do their magic. It’s a perfect setting for Malloy’s meditation on technology, spirituality, and the human craving for connection. Feeding us the idea of self-reflection, if we can only get ourselves outside its pull, and see the beautiful forest beyond the trees.
“When will the three cherries line up?” they ask in glorious unified reflection, as Octet, co-produced by Soulpepper Theatre, The Musical Stage Company, and Crow’s Theatre, which hosts the production in their Guloien Theatre, lays the groundwork for our internalized struggle and displays it with wise constructions and visualizations. Yet, it is in the frantic, uncomfortable radicalism of the late-to-the-party Velma, touchingly portrayed by the captivatingly sincere Alicia Ault (Musical Stage’s In Real Life), where the piece finds its glimmer and glory. It beams forth the core truth of complacency and complicity inside her gorgeously delivered “Beautiful”, elevated by the fine work overall of music director Ryan deSouza (Shaw’s Gypsy) and the expert choreography of Cameron Carver (Stratford’s La Cage Aux Folles). It is in that wondrous mythos rant that we discover the wonder of where small things flourish, and we find ourselves unable to look away.
Somewhere in that matrix, we can’t help but see a powerfully sneaky threat to our dependency, and it exists quite deceptively within the screen of our smartphones. It’s a very real one, this menace, as we watch the world around us bury their collective heads in messaging social apps, smartphone games, and the desperate accumulation of ‘likes’ on our Instagram feeds. And it’s only getting worse and worse each passing day.
If only we could look up from our phones or turn them to silent for a mere moment or two, in spaces of time that feel longer than what we can do now. How have we gotten here? And how can we dig ourselves out of this dangerous coding emergency and stop with the “click, swipe, fuck“? But what makes Octet hit hardest is its refusal to scold or offer optimistic solutions. Instead, it mirrors our own screen-lit souls back at us, showing the hunger for transcendence that fuels every scroll. Malloy isn’t saying “phones are bad”; he’s saying the device in your palm is just the latest mask for timeless human longing and its opposite: isolation. Technology, addiction, distraction, spirituality — all braided together in the same baroque fugue.
By the time the final harmony concludes, Octet doesn’t just critique our devices; it exorcises something in us. Malloy and Abraham mirror our screen-lit souls back at us, letting eight voices attempt to help us cast out a demon that lives in our palms. And will it work? I’m not sure, but leaving the theatre, I didn’t check my phone, nor did I want to. I just walked out into the night air, humming a silent tune and ignoring the glow in my pocket that suddenly felt a little less necessary and a whole lot colder.
