FEATURES
July 18, 2002
There's no shortage of
blood or guts in Ashland this year, but auguries are mixed.
by Rob Kendt
Freddy, the
fretful actor in Noises Off so comically averse to violence and blood, would have a rough
time if he attended this year's Oregon Shakespeare Festival. On top of that
Michael Frayn backstage gem, which in Kenneth Albers' just-fine production has
the requisite bumps and scraping pratfalls, there's cruelty and gore galore on
the three stages of sunny Ashland--from the hacked flesh of Titus Andronicus to the multiple perforations of Macbeth and Julius Caesar, from the gathering world war of Idiot's
Delight to the guns and
snakes of Handler. And
certainly the psychological body blows of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? are as unsettling, maybe moreso, than any
real bloodletting. If only the grisly bear attack of Winter's Tale didn't happen offstage, and there weren't
such a nice production of As You Like It tucked in the program, this season would be poor Freddy's
worst nightmare.
For the rest of
us it's pretty rough going, too. Not because we don't like the peerless OSF
company to go grim--it can do so brilliantly, as in last year's biting Troilus
and Cressida, a harrowing
Trojan Women the year
before, a definitive Othello in 1999. Indeed, a season in the key of destruction might seem
especially timely (though these plays were selected well before Sept. 11), even
welcome from artists working at the top of their form. However, this year
doesn't find the company at its best, on the whole; there's plenty of bleeding
but not enough heart, a surfeit of guts and intelligence but a relative
shortage of imagination and soul. It's hard to point to any single culprit in
an enterprise so large and complicated. Great sports teams have their down
seasons, too.
The obvious
single person to blame, as in sports, is the head coach--or in this case,
artistic director Libby Appel. That's not entirely fair, perhaps, to her
pioneering leadership of this great organization, but Appel doesn't help
matters by doing some of the festival's less inspired directing. Case in point:
her unfortunate Macbeth.
You've got to admire the chutzpah of opening OSF's brand new 300-seater (minus
a naming gift, still the "New Theatre") with the notoriously unlucky
Scottish play, but apart from one eerie story that's making the rounds--that
the theatre's electrician, named John Macbeth, was shot and killed by his
wife's lover before building was completed--the only ill fortune to befall this
Macbeth is the very
un-supernatural fact that it's terrible.
Correspondent
Jean Schiffman already covered the show (BSW, 3/28/02), so I'll only add that
it points up not only a failure in concept--stripping the play down to two
hours and six characters to get at its archetypal psychology, thus leeching its
every drop of urgency--but the perils of repertory casting. G. Valmont Thomas,
one of the company's great clowns and character players, proves a weak and
puzzled Macbeth. What could have been a coup of bold casting-against-type is
here just a bad match.
On the expansive
outdoor Elizabethan Stage, another of OSF's brilliant comic chameleons, John
Pribyl, is similarly out of his depth as Leontes in Winter's Tale, giving that tough, maddening role a
superficial treatment in a production that could use more heart and soul.
Director Michael Donald Edwards, whose Henry IV, Part One and Merchant of Venice (also on the Elizabethan Stage) were
passionate, full-bodied modern-dress affairs, disappoints here, with a
tamped-down first act and a second act cloyingly decked in '60s flower child
drag. This crowd-pleasing conceit works well for Ray Porter's cutpurse
Autolychus, who crawls out of a trapdoor to the tune of Hendrix's "Castles
Made of Sand," but it works not at all to festoon the play's blank young
ingenues, Florizel and Perdita, with pookah shells and floral prints while the
actors, Jos Viramontes and Tyler Layton, give standard-Shakespeare line
readings.
The Bard fares
better in Penny Metropulos' lean, bucolic As You Like It, also on the outdoor stage, which has the
director's usual flawless taste and wistful wit, and which, more crucially, has
a sharp, sweet, entirely loveable Rosalind in the person of Deidrie Henry. At
times Metropulos' spare design--Michael Ganio's two-tone set, Deborah M.
Dryden's muted costumes, Alaric Jans' melancholy clarinet score--feels overly
ascetic, a killjoy; the early forest-of-Arden scenes are particularly lifeless.
But this laidback tone perfectly sets up the show's unlikely high point: the
casual comic summit between a poor shepherd (Josiah Phillips) and Touchstone
(Dan Donohue), which unwinds effortlessly as a small, exquisitely observed play
unto itself.
The festival's
third outdoor production, Titus Andronicus, more or less succeeds on its own modest terms--which,
under traditionalist resident director James Edmondson, are the reassuring
paces of straight-faced B-movie horror. Indeed, to see Shakespeare's youthful
blood-feast, which has lost none of its shock value since 1594, rendered
without winks or stylization is something of a relief; we might not be as able
to shake off the real horror of a more high-minded production. William Langan's
Titus bucks up and delivers the goods without fuss--he's especially effective
in his feigned-madness sequence--and Judith-Marie Bergan's Tamora is a delicious
slice of glamorous Old-Hollywood witchery. And while Derrick Lee Weeden wrings
every drop of complexity from Aaron the Moor's perversely principled villainy,
there's not much room in this production for ambivalence.
Of Laird
Williamson's Julius Caesar, indoors on the Angus Bowmer thrust stage, there is little to add
to Jean Schiffman's glowing review (BSW, 3/28/02) except to marvel at Williamson's stage sorcery,
in particular his ability to make bold, even foolhardy theatrical gestures--Brechtian
commentary, cinematic slo-mo, modern-dress pop references, ghostly death scenes--come
off brilliantly, with a pointed lyricism that makes Shakespeare sing.
Another visionary
guest director, Bill Rauch of L.A.'s Cornerstone Theater Company, worked a more
soulful, earthy brand of magic on Robert Schenkkan's lopsided new play Handler, recently closed in the New Theatre. Set
among believers in a Pentecostal church where the spirit moves worshippers to
dance and whirl, lay on hands, speak in tongues, and handle poisonous snakes, Handler plays theme-and-variations on the
prodigal son story: First it's Geordi's (Jonathan Haugen) literal return from
prison, then his miraculous resurrection, and at last a more shadowy internal
reckoning after a wilderness sojourn. None of these goes smoothly, not for
Geordi or for his embittered wife Terri (Robynn Rodriguez) or their pastor Bob
(Ken Albers), and Schenkkan's raw, rough-hewn play burrows deep into their soul
sickness.
Inscrutably deep,
finally. For when Geordi goes missing in the second act, the play goes with
him, disintegrating into monologues and dubious symbolism. More's the pity
after a first act warmed by a palpable sense of hardscrabble lives and the
respite of community; in Rauch's production the Pentecostal worship sequences
in the theatre's avenue staging reached a pitch of authentic spiritual ecstasy
that was more than moving, it was transporting, with Albers' pastor leading the
congregants and Robert "Hawkeye" Herman's onstage band into a
frenzied gospel hoedown. And the indelible, searing performances of the three
leads carried us safely through the jagged second act; actors so absolutely
fused to characters, so rich in backstory and subtext, can make us feel the
texture of a play's world even when the play has evaporated, and so it was with
the elusive, haunting Handler.
The actors in Who's
Afraid of Virginia Woolf?,
on the Bowmer stage, are just as deeply invested in Albee's bipolar after-hours
world, in which real-time naturalism and schematic, absurdist role-playing
coexist in a tenuous continuum; William Bloodgood's disheveled set is both a
realistic portrait of domestic disarray and a timeless theatre of psychological
war. Under director Timothy Bond, it's the most satisfying and consistently surprising
production of the season. Just when I worried that Andrea Frye's blowsy,
statuesque Martha was veering too close to Tennessee Williams territory, in
waltzed Richard Elmore's crabbed, impish George with a clutch of snapdragons to
the tune of Albee's wicked Streetcar reference ("FloresÉ flores para los muertos").
Christine Williams offers a stronger, stranger Honey than we're used to seeing,
and though Jeff Cummings is a bit petulant and self-conscious as Nick, his and
Bond's conception of this cocky young sycophant clicks perfectly.
Also clicking
perfectly are the festival's other two Bowmer shows, Noises Off and Idiot's Delight. Jean Schiffman already crowed about
these crowd pleasers; I would only add my reservations about the pacifist naivete
of Robert E. Sherwood's 1936 world-war warning, which director Peter Amster
mounted beautifully if all too faithfully.
Opening later
this summer are two productions in a lighter vein: Eduardo De Filippo's Saturday,
Sunday, Monday and
Mustapha Matura's Playboy of the West Indies. These will inevitably change the
festival's balance sheet of gloom and sunshine. Here's hoping they also provide
a soft landing for this uncharacteristically off season at the country's best
repertory theatre.