"The Record" at the Public Theater The stars of "The Record" - all 45 of them - do not really do much. They stand stock still on a bare stage, strike some funny poses then walk around a bit. They do a little running, too, and assemble in groups and sometime stretch out on the floor. Just now and then, one will stretch out a hand to touch another, or a young woman will fall backwards into a man's arms, in a moment of connection that registers with soft surprise. And yet this simple but sublime production from the troupe called 600 Highwaymen, part of the Under the Radar festival at the Public Theater, touches the deep wellsprings of our attraction to theater. In the course of just an hour, the audience's immersion in this wordless dance-theater piece creates a feeling of quiet but intense intimacy, and even a shivery sense of reverence for the communal experience not just of theater, but of life itself. Directed by Abigail Browde and Michael Silverstone, "The Record" sounds pancake-flat when its mundane details are described. On a wide expanse of unvarnished wood, under a white canvas through which light falls gently - moving from bright to dim to brighter, suggesting clouds slowly moving across the sun - a collection of people gather and disperse. First just one man enters, walks to a precise point on the platform, stands still for a minute or so then slowly turns and bends his knees, lifting his arms at the same time. He's later joined by a companion, then a few more. Everyone is dressed in everyday clothing, presumably their own, as if they've just been pulled off the street and hustled into the theater: jeans and sweaters, leggings and boots, the odd hipster hat. One grizzled-looking old fellow wears a headset for the duration. For the most part the performers do not acknowledge each other's presence, although sometimes they move in tandem. Slowly they will step forward a few paces at the same time, or put their fists up in a vaguely pugilistic stance or wave their arms gently in the air. Time ticks by. In the background, Fjola Evans saws mournfully away on a cello that's electronically amplified, while Brandon Wolcott, who composed the music with Emil Abramyan (a snippet of Piatti's Caprice No. 2 is included), fiddles away at a Macbook Pro, presiding over the progress of the ambient noises - a chorus of murmurs, some rhythmic thumping, an occasional symphonic crescendo - that supply a kind of sonic dance floor for the movement taking place in front of them. As they enact their quirky little rituals, the men, women and children onstage - the age range looks roughly from 5 to 65 - almost always rest their gaze on the audience. It takes a while for the oddity of this to register, since they look upon us with a blankness almost cleansed of emotion. Perhaps there is a little benevolence flickering in the eyes of one, a studied curiosity in another. They are essentially contemplating us, as we are contemplating them. The steady gaze of strangers is, at the theater as in life, initially unsettling. Think of a ride on the subway, and how studiously we avoid looking into our fellow travelers" eyes, as if to meet another's gaze would somehow be an invasion of privacy. In a marvelous phrase the playwright Sarah Ruhl once called a subway car "a tomb for people's eyes." This piece collapses that distance: We are here, the performers" unflinching looks tell us, and you are here too. What can we make of this? In its unhurried way, "The Record" makes something wonderful and beautiful of it. The show alerts us to the awesome strangeness, and the utter ordinariness, too, of being alive in the here and now. As we watch the performers watching us, we are startled into an awareness of the moment-by-moment progress of life - and reminded that this awareness is a rare experience. While we study the men and women onstage we are also awakened to the news - that's how it feels, really, since you don't often wander around pondering these things - that we are sharing the free gift of life with millions of other souls, all but a few handfuls unknown to us, never to be known to us. When, as the show moved toward a conclusion, the great mass of performers began to leave the auditorium in groups, I have to confess I found myself shaken by a confused mixture of loss and joy - and reminded sadly that while loss is inevitable, joy can be elusive. Like theater, life is transitory: a few poses, a few walks, a rest here and there, some meaningful connections, many more missed ones. And then we all have to leave the auditorium.