‘Requiem’ a Cool Rendering of Atrocities

In Eve Ensler’s “Vagina Monologues,” there’s an account of a Bosnian rape survivor’s story, squirmingly graphic by design. In theatrical terms, it is the polar opposite of the cool, murmuring approach favored by the French playwright and director Olivier Py in the 90-minute elegy “Requiem for Srebrenica.”

Py’s work--elegant, glacial, frustrating--made its West Coast premiere over the weekend at Cal State L.A.’s Luckman Fine Arts Complex, following engagements in Boston and Northampton, Mass., and at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Created in collaboration with Philippe Gilbert, “Requiem” blanches out any messy, emotional outrage over the atrocities committed against the Bosnian Muslims in Srebrenica. It is not that sort of piece. Everything is abstracted.

It is a performance piece for three women, performed in French (with English supertitles). The text amalgamates a variety of information sources: newspaper accounts, interview transcripts, poems, Internet bulletin board messages. All relate to the events (a blip, sadly, for most Americans) of July 1995, when Srebrenica was seized by Gen. Ratko Mladic and the Serbian armies. Many thousands of Bosnian Muslims died in the subsequent “ethnic cleansing.” It was not the United Nations’ finest or most moral hour.

How does a late 20th century European city become a mass grave site in full view of its neighbors? “Requiem” asks this, while pointing a finger at France’s Francois Mitterand. He could have done so much, yet did nothing, in Py’s view.

It is the women of Srebrenica who are focused on here, though the trio of performers--Anne Bellec, Irina Dalle and Frederique Ruchaud--take on various male voices as well. The stage is backed by seven enormous chimes; a slew of tiny metal houses represent a city in chaos; a wheelbarrow full of gravel, perhaps, electronically amplified and rocked back and forth, creates a menacing metallic sound. Johan Allanic’s various electronic effects are first-rate, without being assaultive.

That’s the last word you’d use to describe “Requiem.” Py’s work--however pristine and controlled--is, in effect, an extended lulling hum, dramatically monochromatic. It’s a paradox: Clearly this is the achievement of a major director, and it’s not as if Py would be better off creating a chest-thumping docudrama on his subject, full of obvious flourishes. (That’s what American theater is for.) Yet when this “Requiem” is over, despite its easy flow and the muted eloquence of all three actors, you’re in a static place. The wrenching recent history at its core demands more urgent theatrical treatment.