Puppet masters aren't toying around

A marionette lies limp, facedown, on a box the size of an upturned milk crate, in the middle of a crowded room. Strains of Louis Armstrong issue from a source hidden inside the box, and slowly the marionette begins to crawl. He has few distinguishing features to speak of, but it's clear in an instant that he's seen better days. He moves slowly, achingly; he never makes it up off his knees. Is he dying? Drunk? Heartbroken? Stricken with some kind of curse? He crawls from one end of the box to the other, transfixing a circle of gathered onlookers. It is a short and arduous journey that seems to encompass all the sorrow of mankind.

By Holly Myers

May 17, 2009