Entering the CFA Theater to see “Disfarmer” two Saturdays ago, I have to admit I was skeptical. I had been persuaded by friends to pass up Omar Sosa for “Disfarmer,” and I imagined that it would be an artistically engaging, if dramatically less-than-thrilling, puppet show. To some extent, I was right. “Disfarmer’s” narrative component is secondary to its artistic and atmospheric elements, and it is a puppet show—but after seeing it, I’ll think twice before dismissing puppet shows as childish or dull again.

Conceived by Dan Hurlin, a major artist in the field of puppetry, with music by Tony Award nominee Dan Moses Schreier and a script by playwright Sally Oswald, “Disfarmer” is a show with a serious pedigree. But even knowing this, I was astonished by the depth of human emotion evident onstage. In their attention to the details of Disfarmer’s mysterious life, the creators have crafted a piece of theater that tells us more about human life than many movies or plays, without a single “real” human in the spotlight.

Mike Disfarmer, the Depression-era photographer whose portraits of ordinary people are currently on display at the Zilkha Gallery in the CFA, is the sole subject of “Disfarmer.” He was an “eccentric” his entire life, convinced that his parents were not his real parents and that he had been snatched up by a tornado and placed on their doorstep as a baby (this is the first scene of the show, played out by the performers on a miniature stage). This background information, explained in the program, sets the stage for the enigmatic behavior we see during the show, which depicts the last few years of Disfarmer’s life.

            Disfarmer is basically the only character we meet in the course of the entire show, but the puppet is handled (by professional puppeteers) and voiced (by Hurlin, who directed) with such skill that it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that there is no actor onstage playing the character. Every movement—walking, sitting, or opening a door—is coordinated by the three or four performers controlling Disfarmer, so the naturalness and fluidity we see onstage is almost like magic.

            The set in itself is a visual pleasure. “Disfarmer” is a modern example of tabletop puppetry, a traditional technique in which a puppet is manipulated on a flat surface like a table. In this show, several large black rectangular set pieces on wheels serve as the basis for all the action. Three of them are set up to show the interior of a house—one, for example, shows Disfarmer’s darkroom, another his bed. The entire set is composed of these black pieces, which are rearranged with extreme precision and efficiency by the performers.

            The performers, dressed in black to blend into the black backdrop, are the invisible heart of “Disfarmer.” In addition to periodically playing roles (neighbors, community members, portrait subjects), they are responsible for the unbelievable personality of the main character himself. Disfarmer is a prickly, sour near-hermit who does little but obsessively rewrite a letter to his “foster nephew,” drink beer, eat ice cream, and—occasionally—take photographs. His routine eccentricity is conveyed in few words, the director (like Disfarmer himself) preferring to show, not tell. Music takes on an important role, and at one point a “slideshow” of Disfarmer’s photographs plays against the wall (it starts as a montage, but turns into a digital effect that shows the photos starting to burn and ripping off the back wall), but the artist’s life is without question the central focus of everything in this production.

            Ultimately, “Disfarmer” is the story of one man’s struggle with growing old and facing death, and its treatment of this theme is its main narrative triumph. At times there doesn’t seem to be any action—we see Disfarmer doing the same thing over again, and, yes, it gets a bit monotonous from time to time. But this monotony is part of the show’s message—routine is a way of life for the crotchety old man we come to know intimately. And his decline into weak old age is painfully illustrated by the gradual shrinking of the puppet: at the beginning of the show, Disfarmer is a very large figure, handled by three or four people, and by the end he is so small that one puppeteer controls his motions with a rod extending from his head while another handles his feet. The performers surround Disfarmer, and their constant presence seemed sympathetic and protective as we watch him age. It’s unexpectedly affecting and hard to watch.