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His personal trainer hooks him up to “electrodes that his muscles into tightness.” Yet he occasionally loses control and eats an entire jar of peanut butter, then “ sadly at the scraped jar,” “the spoon licked clean by his surprisingly pink tongue.” Prone to such sudden reversals, his feelings toward Alex naturally sour. He rises at six every morning to climb 80 flights of stairs on a machine and swim laps in his pool until sunrise. He is childishly and almost endearingly eccentric. Simon, “a kind person, mostly,” is an island unto himself. Up to this point, Alex has been working as an escort in the city and supplementing her precarious income with bouts of petty theft. It follows 22-year-old Alex, who is vacationing in the week leading up to Labor Day with Simon, her wealthy middle-aged boyfriend. Like Sun & Sea (Marina), The Guest is set on a beach-specifically, one on the East End of Long Island. One of fiction’s quirks is its ability to conjure a melodramatic afternoon on a sunny beach with just a few choice words, words Emma Cline wields stunningly in her second novel The Guest. Subsequently, this work of art I’ve only ever seen online, in one- to five-minute segments, became my mental image of the type of vacation I have never taken, but would gladly take-I think-even if all I ended up doing was suffer under the sun. cities, and each time I’ve managed to miss it, and for budgetary reasons I was unable to see its original, award-winning iteration.

Over the years, it’s traveled to four U.S. This is despite-or, more likely, because-I’ve never actually seen it. It occupies a niche in my mind reserved for vague resentments, envy, loathing, and obsession. I think about Sun & Sea (Marina) at least once a week. What a relief that the Great Barrier Reef Viewers look down at the performers, as if observing strange specimens in a vitrine, from a mezzanine, a position of moral superiority. The light-flooded performance space blanches the tableau into a comically exaggerated postcard picture: the swimsuits are overwhelmingly pastel, the beach towels milky white. In the opera, swimsuit-clad vacationers lounge and writhe on towels and in beach chairs. Directed by Rugilė Barzdžiukaitė, written by Vaiva Grainytė, and composed by Lina Lapelytė, Sun & Sea (Marina) won that year’s Golden Lion, the Biennale’s top prize, and has since traveled the world, with presentations in Europe, North America, and parts of the Middle East. At the 2019 Venice Biennale, the opera Sun & Sea (Marina) turned the Lithuanian Pavilion into a bright, hot artificial beach.