Lovely, graceful imagery seems poorly matched against pretentious speechifying in this re-telling of the familiar Greek tragedy. Part Cirque du Soleil and part Klingon opera, this Icarus is at its best when it shuts the hell up.
David Catlin, as director, and choreographer Sylvia Hernandez-DiStasi get the credit for the beautiful flights of actresses suspended from long skeins of fabric, and for Mr. Catlin's sometimes artful directorial depiction of ancient legend. But as the author, David Catlin must take all the blame for the turgid prose that drags everything back to Earth again and again. Why the two Mr. Catlins never really stepped back to study what they were hearing on stage is anyone's guess. The often dull show does have a couple of anti-fugues, where actors in lab coats have compelling, overlapping modern speeches (doctors' notes, really)—but otherwise, it's a filigreed and round-about affair: whether lithe performers are floating in circles above the stage, or just forced to make circuitous and forgettable comments about their plight.