BACK
STAGE WEST
May
31, 2001
Oregon Shakes' early-season offerings spin tales of
forgiveness--and set a few to music.
by
Rob Kendt
Forgiveness
is the dominant theme of the six plays mounted thus far in the Oregon
Shakespeare Festival season, but there is little to forgive in their execution.
As usual, they are produced, designed, interpreted, and performed at a
consistently state-of-the-art level that bests any theatre company I've ever
seen. I had to check my schedule to remind myself which plays had recently
opened (Oo-Bla-Dee, in the inviting 600-seat indoor thrust Angus Bowmer Theatre, and
Fuddy Meers, at the 138-seat in-the-round box Black Swan) and which had been
running since the start of the season (The Tempest, Life Is a Dream, and Enter the
Guardsman
in the Bowmer, and The Trip to Bountiful in the Swan), in mid-February. All have
the sort of theatrical surety and suppleness of shows that have been thoroughly
cogitated and well rehearsed but are still breathing. And they all start on
time.
With
75 actors in 11 plays over 10 months, that's quite a feat. Not that it's some
impersonal play factory. There is heft, as well as sheen, onstage at OSF. While
artistic director Libby Appel doesn't necessarily pick unifying themes for each
season, there are inevitably leitmotivs among even the most disparate
programming, and exploring these is one of the unique pleasures of the repertory
model--both for the audience and for the artists. That shared exploration
partly explains the festival's other distinct pleasure, which is to watch a
tight-knit ensemble of world-beating actors play an astonishing range of roles;
over the years, the skills and sensitivity of even the most veteran performers
seem to deepen and grow.
The
emphasis on the theme of forgiveness and mercy gives the season thus far a less
tragic or heroic cast than in previous years, in which plays like Othello, Hamlet, Seven Guitars, or The Night of the
Iguana
cast the tragic mold and a three-year Prince Hal trilogy set a triumphal tone.
From an ethereal Tempest to the freaked-out Fuddy Meers, the lead characters of
these plays ultimately find the rewards--often at great personal cost--of
making peace with the past and letting its lessons be a blessing rather than a
curse.
At
the center of the season is Penny Metropulos' haunting production of The
Tempest,
Shakespeare's rich, strange valedictory fable--and at the center of this
Tempest is a female Prospero, played by the grounded and graceful Demetra
Pittman. It's true, as some have said, that this sex change (as well as the
re-gendering of Prospero's scheming sibling to Antonia, to whom Linda Alper
lends a Lady Macbeth relish) is not necessarily "justified" by
Shakespeare's text, and certainly centuries of scholarship about the play's
father/daughter archetypes are useless here (dramaturg Barry Kraft had the task
of switching all the pronouns and "father"s to "mother"s).
But, for me, the production works on its own merits, in part simply as a chance
for one of OSF's most towering talents, Pittman, to assay a great role and
render those final speeches with her own brand of gravitas and dignity.
The
mother/daughter spin seems to awaken in both Pittman and her Miranda, Linda K.
Morris, a special kind of exile's bond--sort of a desert island Amanda/Laura
Wingfield dynamic, only with a happier outcome. Metropulos and Pittman even
seem to suggest that this female Prospero may have been exiled for a shame of
her own; there's special emphasis placed on Prospero's warning to Ferdinand
(the engaging, Aidan Quinn-like Gregory A. Linington) about fooling around
before marriage. And Pittman's final renunciation of revenge has about it the
liberated air of one who embraces forgiveness in part because she craves it
herself.
William
Bloodgood's set is a spare, rocky diorama with luminous, shifting billows of
clouds above, lit with cool clarity by Robert Peterson, and Christina
Poddubiuk's costumes are likewise lean, clean, and primal. John Pribyl's
chalk-white Caliban evokes a sad-sack crab and Cristofer Jean's Ariel a sly,
epicene lama, while Ralph Towner's music is appropriately more of the air than
the earth. Having built such a delicate microcosm, Metropulos still manages--as
she did years ago with her jazzy, transcendent A Midsummer Night's Dream--to integrate the
groundlings-baiting comic scenes, here enlivened by G. Valmont Thomas and U.
Jonathan Toppo, without disrupting the show's serene tone. Admittedly The
Tempest
is a notoriously undramatic conundrum of a play, and ultimately I'm not
convinced that casting Prospero as a woman helps crack it open any more than
any male-dominated production does. But much like the crew of sea-strewn nobles
on Prospero's shore, I felt pulled along by a steady tide of strong intentions,
however inscrutable.
Less
all-of-a-piece but more satisfying, in the manner of a ripping good yarn, is
Laird Williamson's adaptation of Calderon's Life Is a Dream. It doesn't compare
favorably to his brilliant Greco-Roman Pericles of two years ago, and
it's guilty of some design excess--Robert Blackman's translucent puzzle-piece
screens and Taymor-esque set pieces, as well as Deborah M. Dryden's
cartoonishly storybook costumes, veer dangerously close to vintage Star Trek--but it's forcefully
and convincingly performed, and it moves. Kevin Kenerly's growth as Segismundo is
a study in character arc, and he illuminates the play's philosophical
quandaries with a keen, exhilarating sense of discovery; Vilma Silva, Jeffrey
King, and Richard Howard lend weight and juice to relatively stock characters.
In the jester's role of Bocazas, understudy David A. Lewis was dryly funny and
sneakily sympathetic.
The
two contemporary plays on the mid-size Bowmer stage are musicals of a sort: Enter
the Guardsman in the more traditional operetta mold, Oo-Bla-Dee in a more
deconstructed, docu-drama performance style. Guardsman is the 1994 adaptation
(by composer Craig Bohmler, librettist Scott Wentworth, and lyricist Marion
Adler) of Molnar's frothy 1924 backstage farce, The Guardsman, which deftly
dramatizes the challenge of assaying marital roles over a "long run."
If the OSF acting company at times resembles a vintage studio roster a la MGM
or Warners, the Swiss-watch perfection of director Peter Amster's production
clinches the analogy: From the leads--Michael Elich and Suzanne Irving as a
self-involved husband-and-wife acting team, Richard Farrell as a voyeuristic
playwright--to the supporting cast--Linda Alper, David Kelly, Christine
Williams, and Charlie Kimball as a gossipy but pliant backstage staff--this is
a cast worthy of Lubitsch or Sturges. Bohmler's and Adler's score is an often
inspired facsimile of Herbert via Rodgers, and it's delivered with surpassing
aplomb and skill by these singing actors and six onstage musicians.
Regina
Taylor's Oo-Bla-Dee is at least as well produced and cast, by director Tim
Bond, with Richard L. Hay's multileveled set evoking a tenement, a club, a
recording studio, and the open road all at once, and the cast etching fresh
portrayals of a female jazz band in 1946. The first act promisingly lays out
the classic backstage premise: Country-girl sax player (the beatific BW
Gonzalez) comes to play with big city jazz band and overcomes the bandleader's
skepticism (Andrea Frye, edges so sharp you could cut yourself). And the tense
rapport between them and the other musicians (Deidrie Henry, Maya Thomas) and a
glad-handing manager (G. Valmont Thomas) suggests Ma Rainey's Black Bottom with a feminist twist.
But in the second act the characters disappear behind a litany of portentous
aphorisms and un-illuminating musings on time in all its forms--musical,
sociological, historical--and on the intertwining heritage of jazz and the
African-American experience. The characters briefly re-emerge to act out a forced,
unbelievable tragic denouement, but too little too late.
In
the Odyssey Theatre-style Black Swan is a pair of American plays that almost
couldn't contrast more. First, there's Horton Foote's elegiac masterwork The
Trip to Bountiful, given a luxurious, finely nuanced production under director
Libby Appel, with a beautifully contemplative but unsentimental lead
performance by Dee Maaske as the old woman who wants one last look at her
childhood home--and a chance to recover her better self--and Michael J. Hume
and Robin Goodrin Nordli as the frustrated, frustrating couple who make her
life in a Houston flat a bleak purgatory.
And there's Fuddy Meers, David Lindsay-Abaire's irreverent Off-Broadway romp, in which an
amnesiac spends her day in a disjointed picaresque of discovery; it's like one
long black-comic riff on recovered memory, and the memories aren't pretty. As
the amnesiac Claire, Judith Marie Bergan has too knowing a glint in her eye to
be convincingly naive, but this does make Claire's turning of the tables on her
tormentors quite delicious, and the supporting cast--Richard Elmore as a
crippled biker, John Pribyl as a well-meaning nudnik, Gregory A. Linington as a
surly pothead, Catherine Coulson as Claire's sweetly exasperated and
unintelligible mother, Ray M. Porter as a pathetic, puppet-wielding loon, and
the riotous Eileen DeSandre as a dumbly jealous biker chick--is as weirdly,
disarmingly sympathetic as a John Waters cast. If James Edmondson's direction
occasionally veers toward the cutesy, at its best the production nails
Lindsay-Abaire's gift for front-loading dramatic punch lines with comic setups,
and vice versa.
And this
season's showings thus far demonstrate OSF artists' gift for giving both the
comic and dramatic dimensions of human behavior their full theatrical due.
Ashland's stages are one place where, as Portia will say in this summer's
production of Merchant of Venice, the quality of mercy is not strained.