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TFANA’S Scandinavian Rep: 'A Doll’s House' and 'The Father'

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I started June off with an interesting event.  Did you know that “Strindberg wrote The Father as a direct rebuttal to Ibsen’s A Doll’s House,” as Theatre for a New Audience’s publicity has it?  I didn’t—though I knew both plays.  According to TFANA, in his play, Strindberg is “fulminating against Ibsen’s tale of a woman bravely escaping a stifling bourgeois marriage.”  When I read that in TFANA’s season brochure, I considered the two plays and thought, ‘Yeah, I can see that.  It even makes sense.’  The Father had always seemed just a sadistic, misogynistic joke before—sort of a Gaslight with the roles reversed—but here was a plausible rationale for Strindberg’s having written it.

Theatre for a New Audience was going to present Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House and August Strindberg’s The Father, two vastly different examinations of the collapse of a marriage, in rotating rep with the same director, designers, and acting company at their new home in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, the Polonsky Shakespeare Center, in May and June.  (I saw TFANA’s Pericles there earlier this season, so there’s a profile of the company and its theater in that report, posted on 1 April 2015.)  It seems that neither A Doll’s House nor The Father has had a major indigenous staging in New York since 1997 and don’t appear to have ever been presented in English together before.  So when the non-subscriber seats went on sale, I booked the two shows back to back on consecutive nights.

Diana, my usual theater companion, and I saw Doll’s House first since it’s the older play and the one that inspired the Strindberg.  TFANA’s production was based on the 1937 adaptation writer Thornton Wilder (1897-1975) made at the request of Jed Harris (1900-79), legendary producer and director, for a star-studded staging he was putting together for Ruth Gordon (1896-1985), both of whom were friends of Wilder’s.  With Harris as director and Gordon as Nora, the rest of the principals were soon cast for the Broadway mounting (which was also expected to transfer to London’s West End after its New York run): Dennis King (1897-1971; Rose-Marie, The Vagabond King, The Three Musketeers, and as Gaylord Ravenal in the 1932 revival of Show Boat, all on Broadway) would play Thorwald; Paul Lukas (1891-1971; The Lady Vanishes, Grumpy, Rockabye; Oscar in 1944 for his role in Lillian Hellman’s Watch on the Rhine,which he also did in the 1941 Broadway première), Doctor Rank; and Sam Jaffe (1891-1984; Yiddish theater; The God of Vengeance, The Jazz Singer, Grand Hotel), Krogstad. 

The production did a three-week out-of-town try-out at the Sixth Annual Play Festival in Central City, Colorado, in July and August 1937, which was so well received that Harris planned a 10-week tour in the fall, starting in Toronto in October and ending in Chicago for two weeks in December.  On 27 December, Wilder’s Doll’s House opened at the Morosco Theatre in New York; it moved to the larger Broadhurst Theatre in January, where it closed on 30 April 1938 after 144 performances, a record for A Doll’s House on Broadway that stood for the next 59 years (Janet McTeer’s 1997 revival closed after 150 regular performances and 8 previews).  The Harris production went on to Philadelphia for two weeks, but it closed there and never made the leap across the Atlantic. 

Though there have been a dozen Broadway revivals (and countless regional and college productions) of A Doll’s House since the play’s 1889 début in New York, plus one Off-Broadway staging in 1963, except for three radio broadcasts (one in October 1937 and two, after the play closed, in 1938 and 1941), Wilder’s adaptation of A Doll’s House, based on German translations of the play (Wilder read and spoke German, as well as French, Spanish, and Italian), was never produced again until TFANA undertook it.  It wasn’t even copyrighted until 1969 and hadn’t been published until TFANA planned its revival when the Theatre Communications Group put out its edition this year.

(There hadn’t been English-language productions of A Doll’s House in New York City that originated here since 1997, but there have been variations on New York stages in recent years. There was, for example, a 2012 Off-Broadway production of Ingmar Bergman’s adaption entitled Nora, translated into English and adapted by Frederick J. and Lise-Lone Marker, directed by Austin Pendleton with Jean Lichty as Nora and Todd Gearhart as Torvald, presented by La Femme Theater Productions. In 2004, the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Next Wave Festival hosted an up-dated production in German of Nora, the traditional title for A Doll’s Housein Germany,translated by Hinrich Schmidt-Henkel and directed by Thomas Ostermeier of the Schaubühne am Lehniner Platz in Berlin, with Anne Tismer as Nora and Jörg Hartmann as Torvald.  Again at BAM, the Young Vic company of London presented a 2014 production of A Doll’s House directed by Carrie Cracknell from a translation by Simon Stephens with Hattie Morahan as Nora and Dominic Rowan as Torvald.)  

The two plays in TFANA’s Scandinavian repertory were both directed by Arin Arbus, Associate Artistic Director at the company who’s helmed many of the company’s productions over the years (King Learin 2014; Much Ado About Nothing, 2013; Othello with John Douglas Thompson, 2009), with the same design team and (except for the two children in Doll’s House), the same cast.  A Doll’s House, which ran two hours and ten minutes with one 15-minute intermission (Wilder’s script is written in three acts as was the practice in the ’30s, but Arbus presented the play as two acts), began previews on the Samuel H. Scripps Mainstage, the 299-seat, variable-space black box house at the Polonsky, on 10 May and opened on 24 May; the production was scheduled to close at the matinee performance on Sunday, 12 June.  Diana and I saw the evening performance on Wednesday, 1 June.

HenrikJohan Ibsen (1828-1906) was born in the small port town of Skien, Norway (about 80 miles southwest of Oslo—called Christiania until 1877 and Kristiania until 1925).  He was a descendant on both his father’s and his mother’s sides of prominent members of Skien’s political and business elite; his own son, Sigurd, became Prime Minister of Norway (1903–1905).  Ibsen became a major playwright, poet, and theater director, one of the most distinguished dramatists in European theater, credited with introducing stage Realism to Western theater.  Though some of his later plays (ADoll’s House, Ghosts), were controversial in their time, his works, which include the verse dramas such as Catiline (1850), Peer Gynt (1867), Brand(1866), and others, alongside his renowned prose plays, are the most produced theater pieces in the world after Shakespeare, with A Doll’s House ahead of all other plays since the beginning of the 20th century.  Ibsen influenced other writers like playwrights George Bernard Shaw (who was a strong advocate for Ibsen’s plays and his ideas—both literary and social), Oscar Wilde, Anton Chekhov, Eugene O'Neill, and Arthur Miller, and novelist James Joyce.  Though he was never a Nobel laureate, he was nominated for the prize three times. 

Though Ibsen went into self-imposed exile from Norway, living in Italy and Germany from 1864 until his return in 1891, his most productive years, he set most of his plays in Norway, often (as with Doll’s House) in towns much like Skien.  In July 1876, Ibsen wasinvited to Berlin to see a production of his Pretendersby the Meininger, a troupe under the direction of Duke George II renowned for applying realistic staging techniques to their productions.  He was subsequently invited to return with the company to Saxe-Meiningen, their home duchy, where he observed the troupe at work.  The plays the Meininger produced, however, like The Pretenders (1863), werent written in realistic style, but Ibsen was inspired to write for this new theaterHis first realistic prose play was Pillars of Society, completed in 1877, which was a moderate success.  His next effort, though, was A Doll’s House (Et Dukkehjem in Danish, the language in which Ibsen wrote his plays, sometimes translated as A Doll House, most notably by Rolf Fjelde, Ibsen’s chief American translator) in 1879, an immediate sensation across Europe—some of the reactions violent: there were riots outside theaters where Doll’s House was performed.  The notion of a wife and mother leaving her family was simply anathema to middle-class society in Norway and the rest of Europe.

Based on the life of a friend of Ibsen’s who experienced much of what happens to the main characters in Doll’s House, the playwright shaped the events into the successful drama we know:

Nora Helmer (Maggie Lacey) believes she’s happily married to Thorwald (John Douglas Thompson), a lawyer who’s about to become manager of the bank where he works.  They have two small children (Ruben Almash, Jayla Lavender Nicholas), who are in the care of Nora’s old nanny, Anna (Laurie Kennedy).  As the play opens, Nora’s returning from doing some Christmas shopping and, with the help of a porter (Christian J. Mallen), brings home a small Christmas tree.  She’s greeted by her husband who good-naturedly scolds her for her extravagance, talking to her as if she were a silly child—which is precisely how she behaves with him.  Thorwald, considers his wife careless and childlike, and often calls her his “little girl,” his “dear child,” or other infantilizations.  The maid, Ellen (Kimber Monroe), announces that a lady has called on Nora and that Doctor Rank (Nigel Gore), the Helmers’ “best friend,” has gone into Thorwald’s study to wait for him.  

Thorwald goes to join the doctor as Christina Linden (Linda Powell), an old friend of Nora’s, arrives.  Christina, a widow now, has come back to town to look for work, and Nora promises to ask Thorwald to give her a post at the bank.  Then Nora proceeds to tell her friend a secret she’s been keeping from Thorwald.  Soon after they were married, Thorwald became “terribly ill” and the doctors told him “to give up everything and go south.”  Nora had to obtain money in secrecy for a trip to Italy and so she borrowed it from Nils Krogstad (Jesse J. Perez), a lawyer who had been a fellow student of Thorwald’s and now works at Thorwald’s bank.  Because a woman can’t borrow money on her own, Nora went to her father; but he was dying, so she forged his signature on the loan papers.  Ever since, she’s been paying the loan back with money she’s saved from her housekeeping allowance and what she’s earned from small jobs.  

Krogstad arrives to speak with the man who will be his new “chief,” and Christina recognizes him as someone she used to know.  After Thorwald, Rank, and Christina all leave together, Krogstad returns for a word with Nora.  He’d seen Christina leave with Thorwald and asks about her.  Nora tells him Christina’s going to get a job at the bank, and Krogstad explains that that means he’ll be dismissed  because it’s his job that Christina’ll be getting.  In desperation, Krogstad threatens to tell Thorwald about Nora’s loan and the forgery unless she persuades her husband to let him keep his post.  When Nora tries to influence her husband, however, he dismisses her as if she were a simple child who can’t possibly understand the ways of business.  Thorwald insists on firing Krogstad, who was involved in an earlier forgery incident himself, and Krogstad makes good on his threat by delivering a letter to Thorwald detailing the whole story.  

As the letter lies in the Helmer mailbox, Nora becomes desperate.  At the same time, she’s convinced that out of his love for her, Thorwald will take the full responsibility for what she’s done, though Nora says she wouldn’t accept her husband’s sacrifice; she just wants to see him offer to ride to the rescue like a knight.  That’s the “miracle” she hopes for.  Doctor Rank comes to pay a call and tells Nora that he’s dying, the consequence of too much high living at his father’s table when he was young.  Nora considers asking him for help and advice, but when Rank declares his love for her, she can’t ask him for the favor.  Christina, however, who was in love with Krogstad when they were young, gets him to change his mind and withdraw his threats, but Thorwald has opened the letter and learned the truth.  He reacts with anger and fear; far from taking the blame on himself, as Nora hoped, Thorwald sees only the harm her actions will cause him and his “honor”—it’s all about him in the end.  He even shouts at her, “And the children . . . to think that they’ve been in your care all this time!  I can’t trust them to you.”  When another letter from Krogstad telling Nora and Thorwald that he won’t pursue his revenge, Thorwald does a complete reversal, expressing relief and delight that he’s out from under Krogstad’s thumb.  Nora, though, now understands that her marriage isn’t what she thought it was, and that it’s all been a sham.  She explains, “I’ve been your doll-wife, just as I used to be Papa’s doll-child.”  She decides that her action must be to leave her husband and children in the door-slam heard ’round the world

(I must add a note here about a common belief, then thought to be based in science, to which Ibsen subscribed.  He grounded parts of the plots of Ghosts and The Master Builder, as well as A Doll’s House, on the concept, which has two elements.  First, moral corruption can have physical manifestations so that someone who lives an immoral life can suffer physical illness as a consequence.  Thus, Doctor Rank’s youthful dissolution has resulted in his disease of the spine.  Second, such a diseased person can pass the evil on to her or his children.  “It’s like a poison,” says Thorwald of Krogstad’s infection, “especially for the children.”  Later Thorwald elucidates, “It’s really amazing to see how criminal tendencies in children can be traced to lying parents.”  Nora’s father, according to her husband, “had no notion of what principles are . . . no religion, no morality, no sense of duty.”  Once she hears this, Nora begins to shun her own children for fear of contaminating them; just before she leaves Thorwald’s home, she stops herself from seeing her children one last time, saying, “No, I won’t go in to the children.  I know they’re in better hands than mine.”  It’s why she leaves not only Thorwald for his self-centeredness, but must abandon her children for their wellbeing as well.)

TFANA’s variable-space theater had been set up with a runway stage with walls and entrances both up and down stage and the audience seated on the right and left of the platform.  The single set, designed by Riccardo Hernandez, was the white-walled front parlor of the Helmers’ apartment, furnished in late Victorian style.  (The color palette for Doll’s House was much sunnier and brighter than for The Father.)  To allow for the action of the play, the furniture was all along the right and left sides of the stage and the pieces were all low silhouette to permit spectators to see through and over them.  Actors who sat in the chairs on stage left or the sofa on stage right didn’t stay there very long so as not to block the audience’s view or to keep their backs to half the house for any length of time.  Director Arbus, however, managed to keep this somewhat unnatural configuration from seeming awkward and kept everyone moving so that the physical progress of the play flowed credibly.  (I remarked in my report on Allegría Quiara Hudes’s Daphne’s Dive, posted on 29 May, that directing for this “butterfly” stage configuration isn’t easy.)  Though trying to imagine the layout of this apartment was tricky—I suppose it must have been the 19th-century Norwegian equivalent of a railroad flat—Hernandez’s layout worked fine and looked marvelous, right up to the open frame of a coffered ceiling.  The stage was lit appropriately by Marcus Doshi for the gaslight era in a northern latitude in late December (it’s Christmastime). 

Susan Hilferty’s costumes set the right tone for a reputable middle-class family in a provincial city; those with lesser means or disreputable characters were suitably identified by their attire.  And I need to take special note of the work of co-sound designers Daniel Kluger and Lee Kinney who almost made an additional character out of the unseen entrance door to the Helmer apartment.  Every entry was preceded by doorbells and opening and closing doors and other sounds from the off-stage vestibule, making it clear that prospective arrivals were more than just a simple visit, they were either a messenger of joy or a harbinger of misfortune.  The noises from the foyer were always discernable—no one came without being announced with a fanfare—and we soon learned that it was either someone with good news and pleasure or bad news and trouble, one or the other.

The acting was generally fine, with a few shortcomings.  I found Wilder’s adaptation a tad brittle and awkward here and there, as if he were trying too hard to make it sound “colloquial” (for the 1930s, of course) “to give the play a twentieth-century feeling.”  It isn’t actually anachronistic, but it seemed to steer the actors into odd line readings now and then because, I think, the language is neither period formal nor exactly contemporary conversational.  (My recollection is that the language in James Costigan’s adaptation used by George Schaefer for the live 1959 NBC-TV broadcast, which starred Julie Harris and Christopher Plummer, and which I last watched over 25 years ago, was far more natural.)  By far the least effective performance in Arbus’s Doll’s House, however, was Thompson as Thorwald Helmer, who was stiff and seemingly uncomfortable throughout.  As Nora, Lacey played too much into the child-woman image, which I think was a mistake both from the actor’s and the director’s perspective, but Lacey played it believably, if not wisely.  Thompson’s Thorwald came off not just stiff-necked but pompous, even when he was supposed to be playful or tipsy.  It made me wonder why it’s taken Nora so long to be sick of him. 

Lacey’s over-indulgence in the baby-doll behavior made her about-face at the end seem artificial and contrived.  Part of the fault may lie with Wilder’s adaptation, but I think Arbus and Lacey needed to show more of Nora’s backbone, her hidden adult that led her to take command of the situation when her husband was deathly ill and her father was dying.  The rest of the cast had less trouble with their roles, which are a good deal more straightforward, to be sure, and acquitted themselves well.  I found Powell’s Christina convincingly strong and stalwart as Nora’s friend and a woman left to her own devices to get by, and Perez’s Krogstad, who could have come off as a mustache-twirling villain from 19th-century melodrama, was just truly desperate enough to make his sliminess explicable.  Unfortunately, the unevenness of the production as a whole made the work of these actors stand out more than it should have.

On the next night, Thursday, 2 June, Diana and I again drove over to the Polonsky Shakespeare Center to see August Strindberg’s The Father (1887) in a new English version by David Greig, a Scottish playwright and stage director.  (Greig, 47, was born in Edinburgh and has seen his work presented at many of the major theaters in Scotland, as well as London and across the U.K., including the Royal Shakespeare Company.  He’s currently the artistic director of the Royal Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh, where he lives.  Having previously adapted Strindberg’s Creditors in 2008 for the Donmar Warehouse in London, Greig has translated The Father on commission by TFANA, which is staging its world première.)  The TFANA production, which was presented as a long one-act (though Strindberg’s original is divided into three acts) running one hour and 45 minutes without an intermission, began previews on 1 May and opened on 25 May; its closing performance was scheduled to be the evening show on 12 June. 

Johan August Strindberg (1849-1912), known as a playwright, novelist, poet, essayist, and painter in his native country (but principally as a dramatist abroad), was born in Stockholm, Sweden.  In The Son of a Servant (published in Swedish between 1886 and 1909 and in English in 1913), an autobiographical novel (Strindberg’s mother was a barmaid), Strindberg characterized his childhood as fraught with “emotional insecurity, poverty, religious fanaticism and neglect.”  By all accounts, the nascent playwright’s youth, including his school experience, was harsh and unhappy, leaving a lasting impression that troubled him throughout his life.  He became a difficult and hypersensitive youth and adult, characteristics that were exacerbated by the early death of his mother, with whom he was not especially close, when he was 13—and his father’s precipitous remarriage to the children’s governess.  He drew heavily on his personal experience for his writing and over a span of 40 years, composed more than 60 plays and over 30 other works (not counting his 10,000 letters).  Though most of his best-known plays are realistic or naturalistic (The Father, 1887; Miss Julie. 1888; and Creditors, 1889), Strindberg was an inveterate experimenter and innovator, working with surrealistic and expressionistic effects (A Dream Play, 1902; The Ghost Sonata, 1908). 

Strindberg’s famous misogyny, much in evidence in The Father, developed after the failure of the first of his three marriages—before that he was actually a supporter of women’s rights (or what he later labeled gynolatry), though he came to call feminists “Ibsenites.”  His portrayals of “the battle of the sexes,” which arguably culminated with The Dance of Death (1901), was the burning core of most of his writing, both dramatic and novelistic, for the period of his naturalistic work.  The Father was Strindberg’s direct attack on what he saw as the cult of feminism that was promoted in Ibsen’s Doll’s House.  Though Strindberg vilified Ibsen publicly and vituperously, the older playwright admired his Swedish rival and respected his writing. 

Strindberg’s The Father (not to be confused with an unrelated play of the same title by Florian Zeller, currently at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre on Broadway until 19 June, starring Frank Langella—who, coincidentally played the Captain in the last Broadway outing of Strindberg’s play) has been on Broadway seven times since its 1912 New York début.  These included a 1962 visit by the Royal Dramatic Theatre of Sweden and the 1996 Roundabout Theatre Company revival adapted by playwright Richard Nelson and directed by Clifford Williams with Langella and Gail Strickland.  In 1973, Roundabout mounted an Off-Broadway production of The Father in its then-home in Chelsea, adapted and directed by Roundabout artistic director Gene Feist and starring Robert Lansing and Elizabeth Owens.

In the study of Captain Adolf (Thompson), a cavalry officer at a rural army outpost, the Captain and his brother-in-law, the pastor (Perez), are discussing a young soldier in the Captain’s troop who has apparently—and not for the first time—gotten a young woman pregnant but hasn’t taken responsibility for the situation.  The pastor wants the trooper’s commander to give him a talking-to and get him to own up, and the soldier, Nordstrom (Greig has changed some names from Strindberg’s original text), is called in.  The trooper won’t accept absolute responsibility because, he says, he can’t be certain that he’s the baby’s father.  A woman always knows she’s a child’s mother, but a man can never be sure, Nordstrom (Mallen) asserts in a fateful statement that will have disastrous repercussions.  When Nordstrom leaves, the Captain tells his brother-in-law that he and his wife, Laura (Lacey), disagree about their daughter Bertha’s (Monroe) education.  In a household of women, all of them have vociferous notions about the young girl’s future: while the Captain wants Bertha to move into town and study to be a teacher so she can support herself on her own, Laura wants her to stay at home and become an artist; his mother-in-law (Powell) wants the girl to become a Spiritualist, the child’s governess wants her to become a Methodist, the nurse, Margaret (Kennedy), wants her to be a Baptist, and the maids want her to join the Salvation Army.  The pastor warns the Captain that his sister has always insisted on getting her own way and uses any means to do so.  Indeed, she may not even care about the thing she seems to have wanted—as long as she wins.

When the pastor leaves and Laura enters the study, the Captain tells her that his decision about Bertha’s future will be final, and that the law supports him, because, he points out, the woman relinquishes her rights when she gets married.  The argument becomes heated until  Laura suggests that the Captain may, in fact, not have any authority in the decision because he can’t prove he’s Bertha’s father, throwing Nordstrom’s argument in her husband’s face.  The Captain departs and the new town doctor pays a call.  Laura persuades Doctor Ostermark (Gore) that the Captain may be insane, because, as an amateur scientist, he thinks he’s discovered life on another planet by looking through a microscope.  The Captain later explains that in fact he’s discovered signs of organic life by studying meteorites through a spectroscope (an analytical device used in astronomical studies) and we witness the way Laura manipulates facts and events to her benefit.  Laura also reveals to the doctor that she has obtained a letter that the Captain once wrote confessing that he himself feared he might go mad (a fear that the playwright actually shared).  The Captain becomes frustrated and responds with violence—he throws a lit kerosene lamp in the direction of his wife as she exits, smashing it against the wall and starting a fire in the wood-paneled room.  It turns out that Laura’s deliberately provoked her husband into committing this irrational act so she can have a reason to have him committed.  

Doctor Ostermark has ordered a straitjacket for the now-raving Captain, and the pastor exclaims to Laura how strong she is—and without leaving any incriminating evidence behind.  The Captain capitulates to Laura as the stronger person and breaks down entirely.  When the straightjacket arrives, it is Margaret, who was the Captain’s former nurse, who cradles him and soothes him as she cajoles him into the restraint.  As the captain suffers a stroke and dies, Bertha runs to her mother, who claims the girl as her own child. 

Greig made a few small alterations in the text in addition to the change in some names and he’s compressed Strindberg’s original three acts so it can be performed as a long one-act, but his language in The Father isn’t as alien to the ear as Wilder’s almost-80-year-old adaptation is (this despite the fact that Wilder was American and Greig’s a Scot).  He was, perhaps, facilitated here by Strindberg’s innate bombast—The Father’s a more emotionally explosive play than Ibsen’s well-made middle-class drama.  Besides, there’s an inherent artificiality to Strindberg’s situation anyway, so perhaps a heightened language style fits more convincingly—or less jarringly—here than in A Doll’s House.  In any case, it wasn’t the issue I found it to be the previous evening.

The same can be said of both the central performances.  (More than in  A Doll’s House, Strindberg’s husband and wife are the focal figures in The Father while the other characters are much more peripheral than their counterparts in Doll’s House are.)  Lacey’s Laura was much more on target—of course, the character’s far more single-minded than Nora is—than the actress was in the other play.  She identified her goal and went right after it like a hawk homing in on its prey.  And nothing shook her along the way, either.  Lacey wasn’t only in command of her role, but her Laura was in command of the situation.  Thompson’s Captain was more credible both as the military commander and as the gaslighted husband, even as he descends further and further into doubt, despair, and madness.  From his bio, I see that Thompson has most often played strong men of action (Othello, Brutus Jones, Antony, Tamburlaine) like the Captain was before his wife got to his confidence, less often the petit bourgeois types like the provincial banker Thorwald Helmer, and this predilection showed at TFANA. 

As I asserted above, the people orbiting the Captain and Laura are less integral to the events of The Father than the featured characters in A Doll’s House; they’re more bystanders and enablers.  Nonetheless, the actors handled them nicely, especially Kennedy as the old nurse, Margaret.  Kennedy portrayed a caring but concerned caregiver who steps up when her former charge, now a man driven to distraction, needs a gentle hand—even though she has no idea what’s really happened to him.  It was Kennedy’s nurse who cradled the doomed man as he dies.  Also well-played were Perez’s pastor, quite a different fellow from his Nils Krogstad in Doll’s House (which is half the fun of doing and seeing plays in rep like this) and Monroe’s teenaged Bertha, the daughter much torn between her two parents.

Arbus kept Lacey and Thompson constantly aimed directly at one another—the supposed object of their disagreement, Bertha, virtually became extraneous—like a pair of loaded and cocked dueling pistols.  At the same time, the director didn’t let the satellite characters fade off into the ether or skimp on their characterizations.  Doctor Rank, for instance, may have more to do with what transpires in A Doll’s House than Doctor Ostermark does in The Father, but Arbus assured that Gore gave us at least a glimpse of who the man is, as much as Strindberg allows. 

The scenic work of Hernandez and Doshi for the Strindberg was equally as effective as it was for the Ibsen.  (The wood-paneled study was oriented the same way as the Helmers’ parlor, on the up-and-downstage runway with the butterfly audience.)  The room was more masculine, with a rack of guns behind the Captain’s desk and a row of hunting trophies mounted on the wall above, the better to show how Laura boldly invades her husband’s domain.  Once again, Hilferty’s costumes, from the Captain’s military attire to Laura’s somewhat severe gowns and jackets, set the milieu visually.  The color palette for The Father was dark, mostly browns and greens (with the exception, of course, of the blue military uniforms); there was minimal color in this world.  Though, like Doll’s House, The Father takes place at Christmastime, there was little to betray the celebratory spirit of the season.  The Kluger-Kinney soundscape for the Strindberg included storms and thunder, as if the heavens were at war, too.

In its survey of 17 reviews, Show-Score gave A Doll’s House an average score of 86 and The Father, 88, with 100% positive reviews for both productions.  The Epoch Times was among the highest-rated notices, and Judd Hollander declared of TFANA’s Scandinavian repertory: “Offering up very different commentaries in regards to the age-old battle of the sexes, both productions of ‘A Doll’s House’ and ‘The Father’ are very well done indeed.”  Arbus’s staging “of both plays works well here,” reported Hollander, “especially in terms of building the tension of who will be found ultimately in the wrong,” and Hernandez’s scenic design “is essential in showing a happy and comfortable home for the Helmers and a much more somber and stark place for the Strindberg piece.”  The Epochalreviewer found that “Thompson gives two standout performances here, playing Thorwald as self-absorbed and unsympathetic, but never truly evil.  His performance as the Captain is a particular tour de force, taking him from an outwardly stern and commanding person to one tormented.”  As the two wives, “Lacey plays to perfection what is essentially both sides of the same woman.  In one case, she uses her wits to help her husband even at the risk of going to jail herself and learns to respect the person she has become.” 

In the New York Times, Ben Brantley asserted, “A noise of primal desperation emanates from each of the two suspenseful dramas that have been resonantly paired” at Theatre for a New Audience in Arbus’s “engrossing productions.”  The Timesman noted, “What really awakens the senses here is the feeling of suffocation that pervades two domestic battlefields, an impression of doom woven into the fabric of a social order,” and added that, seen singly, “each production makes this achingly clear,” then explained that viewing the plays “in tandem is to experience two of modern theater’s most influential minds locked in fierce dialogue.”  Praising Arbus, whose “first objectives are clarity and accessibility,” for her “refreshingly levelheaded” direction, Brantley found that her productions of the two plays “maintain a . . . low hysteria quotient (or as low as Strindberg allows), without sacrificing the plays’ anxious and compelling momentum.”  The Timesreview-writer was especially impressed with Thompson’s “power in conveying raw torment” in The Father, where his performance “is, in a word, brilliant.”  An actor “whose presence always reads large,” Brantley felt that Thompson “is hardly a natural choice for the small-minded Thorwald.  But for that very reason, the character’s egotism has seldom seemed so daunting.”  Lacey’s “ostensible ordinariness,” asserted Brantley, “makes her easy to identify with.”  The reviewer felt, though, that the actress “is more at ease as Nora, whom she endows with an innate shrewdness, but her calm, matter-of-fact portrayal of Laura keeps us from seeing the character as a castrating witch.” 

In the New Yorker’s “Goings On About Town” column, the reviewer called the twinning of the two Scandinavian classics “inspired” but felt that Arbus’s “productions tend toward stuffiness— . . . illustrating the classic plays more than reinterpreting them.”  Nevertheless, the New Yorker reviewer found that “together they provide a theatrical time machine, taking us back to an era when our minds were as cosseted as a bodice-wrapped body.”  Sandy MacDonald of Time Out New York labeled the Wilder version of A Doll’s House a ”loose translation” that “achieves a more accessible, universal resonance,” while Greig “manages to winkle out humor and insight” in his adaptation of The Father.  Lacey’s Nora “has the makings of a modern woman,” MacDonald found, “a smart cookie who has a plan in place.”  Thompson’s “inevitable eruption” as Thorwald “does not disappoint” and as the Captain, he “brilliantly straddles the line of is-he-or-isn’t-he (crazy).” 

The top ratings from Show-Score (three 95’s) were from the cyber press and one of those was TheaterScene.com, on which Deirdre Donovan reminded us that Ibsen’s Doll’s House“became an instant hit” in Stockholm 136 years ago and asked, “So does Arbus’ new outing of the war horse measure up?”  Her assessment?  “You betcha.”  (In contrast to TONY’s Sandy MacDonald, Donovan thinks Wilder’s translation is “taut.”)  In fact, the review-writer deemed Arbus’s Scandinavian repertory “a double slam-dunk.”  Asserting that the  “strong” acting ensemble “delivers the goods,” Donovan declared that Thompson “really displays his virtuosity” as Thorwald, but “balances his performance with displays of hubris early on and then the desolation of a man suffering a severe mental breakdown” as Strindberg’s Captain.  Lacey displays “the necessary range” as Nora, “gradually evolving from the doll-like wife to the determined woman” and then portrays “Laura with all the ruthlessness of Lady Macbeth.”  The cyber reviewer also had praise for Powell’s Christina, Gore’s Doctors Rank and Ostermark, Kennedy’s Margaret, and Monroe’s Bertha.  Hernandez’s “narrow set” for A Doll’s House“conveys the boxed-in atmosphere of the Helmer home” and his “Spartan set” for The Father“hits the mark with its plain furniture and hunting accoutrements.”  Doshi’s “lighting ensures that we catch each beat of” Doll’s House and “is downright eerie” in The Father.  Hilferty’s “period costumes” for the Ibsen “are pure confections” and those for the Strindberg “summon up the military and civilian look of” the time.  Donovan concluded that “this theatrical event is a must-see.”

Another high-scorer was the similarly-titled TheaterScene.net, whose Victor Gluck pronounced the pairing of Doll’s House (in Wilder’s “lucid” adaptation) and The Father“a brilliant idea” and found them “as timely today as when they were written.”  Calling the revivals “inspired,” Gluck deemed that “these productions are dazzling theater whether seen in tandem or seen separately.”  Lacey makes Nora “different in each act” and Laura “cold, calculating and scheming.”  Thompson “plays a low-key, suave, kindly but paternalistic” Thorwald in the first part of Doll’s House but “the fireworks begin” in the second part.  The actor “gives a titanic performance” as The Father’s Captain.  Gluck had complimentary things to say about all the members of the cast, as he did for the design team, especially lauding Hernandez’s “symbolic war zone” of a set for The Father.  The third of the highest-rated notices was on NY Theater Guide, and Jacquelyn Claire confessed, “I am still experiencing emotional aftershocks from the ground shifting so suddenly beneath my feet,” characterizing the plays as “two seismic eruptions” that Arbus has directed “with the magnitude of the Furies in full force.”  Describing both translations as “exquisite,” Claire thanked Arbus for giving “us two precious gifts.”  NYTG’s review-writer felt, “The cast wrestle the charged air with fearless focus,” with special mentions for all the members of the ensemble.  At the pinnacle were “the masterful and astounding performances” of Lacey and Thompson, who “each craft characters of intense complexity.”  Lacey’s Laura “is ruthless, self-possessed, conniving, and brutally honest” and her Nora “is diverting, sensual, frenetic, and transformative.”  Thompson “is a peacock” as Thorwald and his “tantrum is like a fire truck siren on a New York street—piercing, alarming, dangerous, and loud!”  Seeing his Captain is “to witness this unbelievable journey into the depths of a broken man.”  Hernandez’s set is “powerful . . ., a no man’s land between warring factions” and Hilferty’s costumes “gracefully give us the time, the status, and the rigid roles of our protagonists.”

On CurtainUp, Elyse Sommer characterized TFANA’s Scandinavian rep as “insightfully directed . . . [w]ith a terrific repertory ensemble” which resulted in “a wonderfully immersive experience” when she saw both plays in one day.  “It’s fascinating to see Lacey’s Nora turn from fluttery ‘doll wife’ to determinedly independent woman,” wrote Sommer, “and emerge as the always determined to have her way Laura in The Father.”  Thompson’s “Thorwald is . . . relatively understated until near the end,” then “in The Father . . . he gives full reign to the high octane dramatic chops that have earned him a reputation” as one of our best classical actors.  Featured actors Perez and Gore received praise for their dual roles in the repertory.  Hernandez’s set design allows “A Doll's House to reflect a cozier, happy home.  The Father’s set is less homey”; Sommer added, “Bravo is also in order for the costumes [of Susan Hilferty], lighting [by Marcus Doshi] and sound design work [of Daniel Kluger and Lee Kinney].” In the end, the CU reviewer acknowledged, “I can’t remember a more touching finale than this one” in Theatre for a New Audience’s Doll’s House and, though she admitted that she’s “always found The Father something of a yawn, hopelessly dated and excessively melodramatic,” she found that TFANA’s offering “didn’t have a boring moment, full of unforgettable moments.”  JK Clarke reported on Theater Pizzazz that TFANA’s Scandinavian rep productions “transcend the heaviness often associated with these plays.  They feel more accessible and tailored to a wider audience than ever” due to “the capable direction of Arin Arbus.”  The two lead performances, Clarke declared, were “outstanding”: Lacey was “dynamic” in Doll’s House, “more intense, resolute and scheming” in The Father; Thompson, “remarkably adept” as Thorwald Helmer, “confident, smart and authoritative” as the Captain.  Both performances, she felt, were “heart-rending.”  Clarke also gave special praise to Hilferty’s costumes and the “sumptuous sets” of Hernandez.

In Show-Score’s lowest-rated notice (70), Theatre’s Leiter Side’s Samuel Leiter labeled the notion of playing A Doll’s House opposite The Father“ambitious” and “commendable” but found that “not much new is to be gained from this particular rendition” at Theatre for a New Audience.  While the featured performances were “acceptable,” though “no one demonstrates the kind of chameleon-like transformation one looks for in repertory,” Leiter found defects with both the leads in the two plays.  “Melodrama . . . infects the performance of Thompson,” he wrote, especially when his Thorwald becomes angry in the second half of A Doll’s House and his behavior “is a touch overblown.”  As the Captain in The Father, Thompson gave “one of those grand, old-time performances” that swung “wildly” from “childish trembling to Vesuvian bursts of furious anger.”  This was “technically awesome,” but gave Leiter the impression more “of a gifted actor’s physical and vocal prowess than of truthful human despair.”  Lacey “works hard at capturing Nora’s chipmunk-like simplicity” in A Doll’s House,” observed Leiter, however “she always seems to be acting.”  In The Father, Leiter felt, “You understand all of Lacey’s choices as Laura and know precisely what she’s thinking,” but like her performance as Nora, “she’s unable to transcend the sense of an actress at work.” 

On TheaterMania, Zachary Stewart dubbed Arbus’s Scandinavian rep “excellent”—and “uncomfortably timely.”  In A Doll’s House, said Stewart, Lacey “endows Nora with innately comedic qualities.  She’s flighty and cartoonish”; as Laura in The Father, she’s “calculating in her malice.”  As Doll’s House’s Thorwald, Thompson “seems blissfully unaware of the negative effects of his paternalism,” noted the TM reviewer; the character’s “epic meltdown in the final scene is one for the ages.”  His Captain “comes across like an innocuous nut job.”  Stewart also found virtues in the performances of Gore and Kennedy as well as the design efforts of Hernandez, Doshi, and Hilferty.  Tami Shaloum stated enthusiastically, “Theatre For A New Audience has reaped the sweet fruits of their labors with two outstanding productions directed by Arin Arbus,” on Stage Buddy, and the “power dynamics of marriage have never tasted so bitter.”  Shaloum continued, “A strong cast carries both plays,” and made special mention of the performances of Gore and Perez.  Our Stage Buddy singled out “the effervescent Maggie Lacey,” who “plays the youthful, charming Nora” and Thompson, who’s “marvelous” as Thorwald and “at his most stunning” as the Captain. 

[I’ve decided to post my 2004 pre-ROT report on the German production of A Doll’s House (entitled Nora) I saw at BAM for, if nothing else, the curiosity value.  ROTters should look for the archival report on that up-dated adaptation on 18 June.]


'Nora' ('A Doll House') – BAM, 2004

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[I’ve just posted my report on the Scandinavian rep at Theatre for a New Audience (see 13 June), which included performances of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House and August Strindberg’s The Father.  In passing, I mentioned that among the recent appearances of Doll’s House on New York stages was a German production entitled Nora in an updated adaptation from Berlin back in 2004.  I thought it would be interesting to post my pre-ROTreport on that performance because it was quite different from Thornton Wilder’s adaptation that director Arin Arbus used at TFANA.  In fact, as you’ll read, I had some problems with the modernization—but I’ll let you discover what that’s all about for yourself.]

On Friday evening, 12 November 2004, I went to Nora, a new German version of Ibsen’s Doll House by Schaubühne am Lehniner Platz, a Berlin company, at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.  Nora is the standard German title for Doll House, but this was more than just a new translation—and less than a full adaptation.  The pay is reset in the 21st century, both in look and in language, but everything from the original is still in this version—the Helmers are still Norwegians (that is, they weren’t transported to Berlin or something); Torvald (Jörg Hartmann) is still a banker; Nora (Anne Tismer) is still a stay-at-home wife; they still have three kids (Milena Bühring, Constantin Fischer, Robin Meisner); Rank (still a doctor, played by Lars Eidinger), Krogstad (Kay Bartholomäus Schulze), and Kristine (Jenny Schily) are all still there in the same relationships as Ibsen put them in; and, most significant, Nora has still secretly forged her father’s signature on the loan agreement with which she had borrowed money to pay for her and Torvald’s trip to Italy when he was ill.  There are a few minor changes—there’s no nurse in this version, and Helene, the maid, has become Monika (Agnes Lampkin), an au pair from Africa. 

According to the Schaubühne’s dramaturgs, the story of Hinrich Schmidt-Henkel’s adaptation of Nora for managing director Thomas Ostermeier is as follows:

Torvald Helmer has worked too hard.  So much, in fact, that he could die.  To raise money for a journey south that could save his life, his wife Nora secretly takes out a loan and forges her father’s signature.  This secret is her pride and joy, and the fact that she has to pay back the loan builds up her self-confidence as a woman in a male-dominated society.  Nonetheless, she continues to lead the life of a devoted mother and childlike, dependent wife whose main purpose in life is to create a cozy nest for her family.  When her con is revealed, her husband betrays her and sticks to his bourgeois principles.  Nora will leave him and her children; she will face an uncertain future.

The Schaubühne did make some more significant changes to the text/story to make it seem more current, however, and some of them seem to have diluted the original dramatic impact.  One isn’t very large—though the meaning is more significant than it might seem: Rank isn’t dying of cancer; he’s got AIDS from having been omni-sexual in his youth.  Now this may not seem like much of an alteration, but it strikes me as weakening Ibsen’s point—which is, itself, a little hard to buy today also.  Ibsen believed, as did many in his day, that moral corruption is manifested later in physical illness—and could be passed on, like a hereditary disease, to the children.  This was a pseudo-scientific belief in the late 19th century, and Ibsen used it in a more prominent way in Ghosts, of course—where Osvald’s father’s sexual profligacy is inherited by Osvald as syphilis.  What’s the difference between this and the new version?  Well, as I see it, cancer isn’t a disease we generally blame on willfully bad behavior—especially in the 19th century when no one knew about the connection to smoking and other carcinogenic activities.  So, if Rank has cancer and he blames it on his corrupt youth, then it must be some kind of moral retribution since the youthful behavior didn’t directly cause the cancer.  However, if he has AIDS because he had unprotected sex with men, his illness is a direct result of his willful behavior.  (Because the play is now set in the 2000s, he can’t even use the excuse that no one knew what caused AIDS when he engaged in the behavior—unlike I can say when I go to the dermatologist and have lumps cut off my skin because of sun exposure when I was 8 or 9 when no one knew suntans and sunburns were actually carcinogenic.) 

Unless you subscribe to the notion that AIDS is God’s punishment for gays, the moral element has been erased from the situation.  (As I said, this aspect of the play is hard to play today, but it only works at all if the play remains set in the 19th century when people actually believed this theory.)  This is somewhat more significant than just as an element in the Rank-Nora subplot—the same theory is applied to Krogstad, who is considered to be morally corrupt and therefore a danger to his family, especially his children.  It is this moral corruption that permits Torvald to reject Krogstad and forces Krogstad to blackmail Nora with the letter and loan document he leaves for Torvald at the end of the play.  It is also this belief, which Krogstad explains to Nora, that impels her to leave her children when her transgression has been revealed—she can’t stay in the house with them for fear that she’ll infect them with her corruption.  Without this motivation, she doesn’t have to leave, and the play’s ending becomes a purely selfish act and has no dramatic strength.

Now, if all that’s true—have I convinced you?—then the other, really big change in this version has even greater repercussions.  According to the New York Times review, the company wanted to restore the shock Ibsen’s original audience felt at the end of the play.  (According to theater history, there were even riots when the play opened in Europe when Nora leaves, it was such a unheard-of action.)  If you haven’t read the review then you would never guess what translator/adapter Schmidt-Henkel did.  He has Nora shoot Torvald before she leaves.  And it’s not just one quick shot—she unloads an automatic pistol into him, even as he’s writhing on the ground, half in the giant fish tank that’s a prominent part of the starkly modern apartment set conceived by Jan Pappelbaum (and lit by Erich Schneider).  Okay, this is shocking, but it changes the whole dynamic of the ending, and makes Nora into a straight-out murderer rather than a distraught but enlightened woman who acts out of what she believes is selflessness. 

First, for her departure to be justified, she still has to believe that by staying, she endangers her children.  That’s hard to do in the 21st century, but with the “evidence” of the physical manifestations of mortal corruption no longer as clear as it was in Ibsen’s original, it’s even harder.  Second, Torvald’s only real fault is still that he doesn’t leap to Nora’s defense when he learns of her forgery on the loan document—just like in the original, he fears for his position at the bank and that Krogstad will now be able to manipulate him.  Perhaps even more today than in Ibsen’s time, this comes off as a supremely egocentric posture, and that makes him a chauvinistic pig, as we used to say—but it’s hardly a capital crime.  It justifies leaving him—maybe enough today not to need the matter of corrupting the kids—but hardly shooting him.  So, instead of being a brave and selfless woman, Nora’s a fugitive from a murder charge—and maybe even nuts.  This alone changes the entire meaning of the play.  The shock may have been restored, but it’s shock for its own sake, as a theatrical effect, not based on dramatic necessity. 

I suppose that’s enough to make the translation/adaptation questionable, but there were other problems I had with this show.  I know that Europe is behind the U.S. in enfranchising women, especially in the marketplace, but they’re not 50 years behind.  [At the time I wrote this report, a woman was the head of one of Germany’s major political parties, the Christian Democratic Union.  A year after I wrote this, in 2005, Angela Merkel was named Chancellor of Germany; in this country we’re just now celebrating the nomination of the first woman as a major party’s presidential candidate—11 years later.]  It’s hard for me to accept that a woman as self-consciously modern as Nora here—the costume she wears to the Christmas party isn’t some peasant outfit so she can dance a tarantella; she goes in complete punk get-up, blood smears and all (costumes are designed  by Almut Eppinger), and does a techno dance (of which the Germans are fond, I believe)—could be so bereft of options that a) she has to forge her father’s signature for a loan and b) she can’t resolve the problem by some more rational means than either leaving or, even more drastically, shooting Torvald.  The whole idea of the “doll-wife” (and that expression is still in the German text, by the way: Puppenfrau) is a throw-back, even in Europe today.  In fact, moving the whole thing up to the 2000s seemed to make everything a little incredible—contrived, I guess.  Instead of an indictment of a social problem that the playwright saw as universal, this version makes the whole thing a play about a seriously dysfunctional couple and their dysfunctional friends.  (I ought to add, too, that the very idea today that a sick man had to go to Italy to recover—and that this was his only remedy—is hard to buy also.  Germans still believed in “taking the cure”—going to a health spa for mineral baths—at least when I was living there, but needing to go south for one’s health is still pretty much an anachronism—more like Death in Venice than 21st century.  It’s another aspect that really has to remain in Ibsen’s own time to work.)

There was some problem with the acting—I presume the direction of Ostermeier, really—too.  The actors were good, and I didn’t have any problem believing them in their roles/situations most of the time (aside from the problems of the script above), except that every so often they went off their rockers emotionally for no apparent reason or motivation.  One character might all of a sudden shout (or bark) at another, or another character would behave as if he were in the grips of an epileptic fit or some other odd physical condition and throw himself about the stage violently.  (The final shooting was sort of like this.  Nora had the gun—she was contemplating suicide—but she’d put it away and had even gone off into her room off stage.  Then she came out, pointed the gun at Torvald for a few seconds, and started pulling the trigger again and again.)  Now, maybe I missed something in the German text or in the translation (titles), but I don’t think so.  (Those titles were a problem, too.  There were three screens—one just below the raised set of the apartment, but its text was pretty small for us in the mezzanine; the other two were on either side of the stage, but far enough away from the set that you couldn’t read them and watch the action at the same time.  Just to make it harder to follow, the dialogue came fast at times and the titles showed nearly every line so the screens changed rapidly, much faster than you could go back and forth.  I really wish my German were still good enough not to have had to refer to them as much as I did—even though I knew the play fairly well, having taught it up at the State University in Oneonta a couple of years earlier.  I did want to see what the translator did with the text.)  It doesn’t help matters that the performance was two hours and ten minutes without an intermission—and the Harvey Theater’s seats are notsoft!

Anyway, the experience was disappointing, but not actually bad.  I pretty much concluded that updating Doll House isn’t profitable—you lose too much that isn’t made up in the modernization—but it was interesting to see the attempt.  It also made me reconsider the original—and how good Ibsen was at constructing plays to say what he wanted, such that trying to make them say something else in part destroys them.  Ironically, I also concluded that though Ibsen must remain in his own period for the plot to work, the drama—the point, the message, the theme—still communicates to a modern audience.  I mean, we may no longer believe in the nonsense of moral corruption = physical decay, but if we accept that theydid, we can still see Ibsen’s point about trust and respect and honesty within a marriage.

[As I noted above, I saw Nora on 12 November 2004, but the production ran at BAM’s Harvey Theater from 9 to 13 November 2004.  Nora had its première at the Schaubühne in 2002.

[I didn’t do the review round-up back in ’04, so I’ll pick up a few notices that are still on line a dozen years later.  (BAM shows often don’t get a lot of coverage even today because their runs are so short and there are no previews a reviewer can see before opening.  Nora only played in New York for five evenings; a review written on day one would appear in print with only four performances left—if it came out on the next day.  Programs like BAM’s Next Wave Festival or the Lincoln Center Festival frequently get put off in favor of regular Broadway and Off-Broadway runs that get next-day publication.)  Since I didn’t do a survey, the only notice I saw before now was in the New York Times.

[The Times’ Christopher Isherwood called Ostermeier’s staging “slick,” but advised that “you have to listen carefully to hear the impact.” The “highly regarded, provocative” director making his U.S. début with Nora, “pumps up the volume in more ways than one in his brash contemporary gloss on” A Doll House.  “At unexpected intervals, the characters emit strange, sudden shrieks or fling themselves into the giant aquarium that dominates the living room,” reported Isherwood. “And as promised, the play ends not with a housewife's quietly delivered manifesto, followed by a seemly exit, but with an act of unexpected violence.”  [This was the passage I alluded to in my report above, by the way.]  “This strikingly designed, sensitively acted production,” asserted the Timesman, maintained an “overriding fidelity to the trusty mechanics of Ibsen's drama”; far from being “a radical, mind-bending reimagining,” the production was “a clever but essentially naturalistic updating, with a few eccentricities tacked on here and there, often, you suspect, simply to amp up the quirk factor.”  As one example, Isherwood described how Ostermeier's “actors are sometimes allowed to indulge in bursts of physical or vocal hysterics that are more showy than revealing.”  While Ostermeier’s adaptation “translates the play's social dimensions,” acknowledged the Times reviewer, he found that “it also violates its spiritual ones.”  Isherwood seemed to have agreed with me, at least somewhat, about the new ending: “In altering Ibsen's ending, Mr. Ostermeier has drawn a veil across Nora's spiritual awakening.” 

[In the Village Voice, Michael Feingold summed up one view of the Schaubühne’s Nora:
In 125 years of audiences, undoubtedly many women have wanted to shoot Torvald Helmer, but most directors, male or female, would hesitate to louse up a great play by turning the famous door-slam into a gunshot.  Leave it, one might say, to the Germans.  Thomas Ostermeier, artistic director of Berlin’s Schaubuhne, has managed, by giving Torvald a gun for Nora to borrow, to louse up not only a great play but what was in many ways a great production.  The gun wasn’t his only dumb idea: The one question in my mind is which will remain stronger in my memory of this Doll’s House after months and years have passed—the frequent brilliance of the acting and directing, or the equally frequent lapses into directorial self-indulgence.  It’s aesthetically unjust for an artist so gifted to be so foolishly wasteful of his gifts.
Feingold explained that “the element in the play that Ostermeier’s gunshot effectively killed [is] Nora’s spiritual transcendence.”  The Voice reviewer had many of the same complaints that the Times’ Isherwood and I voiced, so I won’t quote them again just to prove we all seemed to agree.  Like the man from the Times and me, Feingold also found that the cast’s “five principals were uniformly excellent,” giving “lively and detailed performances” that were largely wasted on Ostermeier’s self-indulgent production concept “to prove that he was up-to-date.” 

[Variety’s Marilyn Stasio capsulized her opinion thus:
It would be too easy to dismiss “Nora (A Doll’s House),[“] a trendy modernization of Ibsen’s seminal 1879 drama, as hopelessly wrong-headed.  For all the sound and fury of its iconoclastic production . . . this German import never makes its case that the European hausfrau of today is as enslaved to bourgeois convention as her 19th century sisters.  Still, the boldness of Schaubuhne artistic director Thomas Ostermeier’s smash-and-burn concept and the fierceness of Anne Tismer’s attack on the leading role make for invigorating theater.
Stasio conceded, “This is a production that grows on you—if you can survive the initial onslaught of the f/x staging, blood-sport performance style and rock-concert decibel level.” 

[In a wrap-up of 2004’s year in theater, Michael Lazan wrote of Nora in Backstage that Ostermeier’s adaptation “thrillingly manages to raise questions about violence as a legitimate reaction to social decay.”  The Backstager described the play’s last moment: “When Nora ends the play by shooting him to a bloody pulp, the audience watched, slack-jawed.  Quite an event it was.”

[On the website TheaterMania, David Finkle asserted that Ostermeier “tries hard to stun the complacent bourgeoisie with his Norainnovations, yet all of the rambunctious activity has a ‘been there, done that’ quality.  This includes the new ending, which calls for Nora Helmer to wave a gun where Ibsen has her merely slam the front door as she leaves her domineering husband.”  With the cast—except Schily’s Kristine, but including the children—behaving “as if their inhibitions have long since evaporated,” lamented Finkle, Ostermeier’s attempt “to reinvigorate Ibsen, . . . betrays him.”  The TM reviewer’s final words lined up pretty well with my conclusion above: “What we need is . . . the realization that a truly shocking new production of A Doll’s House would be a first-rate treatment of the unaltered original manuscript.”]

Parks Up & Parks Down

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“CRITIC’S NOTEBOOK: PROMENADING IN  NEW YORK, 30 FEET UP”
by Adrian Higgins

[The following article on New York City’s High Line Park is from the “Style” section of the  Washington Post1 December  2014.  I have written an article on this New York phenomenon, “High Line Park,” posted on 10 October 2012.]

NEW YORK — On Manhattan’s Far West Side, they built an elevated railroad in the 1930s because freight trains and pedestrians kept colliding down on 10th Avenue. The trains won.

On the High Line today, the locomotives are long gone, and the pedestrians have emerged the victors. Seven days a week, a shifting throng simultaneously observes and forms its own pageant. By 10 a.m., the early joggers, commuters and yoga students have melted away before the arrival of the walkers, heading up through Chelsea or down to the Meatpacking District. They stop like currents in an eddy for a while, or they find a grassy backwater, but mostly they go with the flow. The polyglot visitors find a trendy destination, the natives a transcendental sidewalk that stretches a mile and a half, now that the third and last segment opened this fall.

The path narrows to just a few feet for much of its course, yet almost 5 million visitors pass one another every year in relaxed good cheer. Just five years after opening, the High Line has become one of the top visitor attractions in New York — more popular even than the Statue of Liberty — and an emblem of the reversal in the historical decline of the American city in general and Gotham in particular.

It has become an archetype for cities everywhere craving their own High Line mojo. In Washington, it is the inspiration for a proposed elevated park where the old 11th Street Bridge crossed the Anacostia River and, separately, for a component in the long-range redevelopment of Union Station.

The reasons for its broad appeal are both tangible and elusive but reduce to this: The High Line serves up the Big Apple on a platter 30 feet high. Look eastward, and you can savor the view of Midtown’s iconic skyscrapers. Look west, and the Hudson River lolls by, black and sparkling in the autumn light. The High Line takes you, voyeuristically, past the windows of high-rise offices and apartments and, increasingly, close to the swanky condos rising around it. You can look down to the bistros of the once-gritty Meatpacking District, or the leafy cross streets of West Chelsea, or the ribbons of silver commuter cars in the Hudson Rail Yards.

For all the attention-grabbing vistas, the focus eventually settles on the park’s interior character. It is a runway where people go to see and to be seen, like a return to the 19th-century promenade — synonymously a place and an act, where generations past put on their Sunday best and headed to the park, not to walk but to strut.

And while the High Line propels movement, “that doesn’t necessarily mean getting from here to there,” said Chris Reed, a landscape architect who teaches at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design and who takes students to the High Line. “The act of the promenade is something we lost in the 20th century, and a project like this allows us to focus on just that, the experience of movement.”

The idea of reusing old transportation corridors is not new — in Washington, the C&O Canal, and the Capital Crescent and W&OD trails, are obvious examples of such reincarnations. But the High Line’s success has been so swift that its success appears in hindsight to have been preordained. This would be a misread.

From rail cars to wildflowers

After the last train squealed its way along the tracks in 1980, the High Line became just another peeling grave marker to old, working New York. In time, the rails took on a mantle of rust, and the rotting ties and track ballast turned into a growing medium for weeds. Some of the weeds took the form of pretty wildflowers — goldenrod, milkweed and Queen Anne’s lace; some were thuggish trees and vines. Together, though, they imprinted the idea of vegetation turning the High Line into a garden, however feral, apart from the city.

Robert Hammond and Joshua David, two civic activists who saw this potential, formed Friends of the High Line in 1999 and battled to save it. Over time, they marshaled the civic and economic forces necessary to succeed.

The first two sections, which opened in 2009 and 2011, run 20 blocks, from the Meatpacking District north through West Chelsea, and cost $152 million to design, engineer and reconstruct. The new phase, called the High Line at the Rail Yards, which officially opened in September, initially cost $35 million, though it is a scaled-back segment that will be structurally rehabilitated in about a decade as the adjoining rail yards become the platform for a whole new skyline above them.

The costs may seem high, but as the architects and landscape architects got down to work, they discovered that much of the infrastructure needed major renovation. The High Line is, essentially, an elongated rooftop garden, where the depth of the (highly engineered) soil is measured in inches rather than feet, and elaborate stormwater-management and irrigation systems lie hidden from view.

The clients — the Friends group and the city of New York — chose landscape architect James Corner Field Operations and architects Diller Scofidio + Renfro to lead the design. The force behind the park’s formidable horticultural presence is a Dutch plant designer named Piet Oudolf.

Together they have leavened the directional nature of the experience through planting effects, including passages through woodland motifs, and with design elements in broader parts that offer places to sit, view commissioned sculpture and other art, watch performances, and generally experience urban culture while floating above the city.

The first section also contains a small, squared-off amphitheater whose stage is a glass viewing wall down to 10th Avenue, where Manhattan’s surly traffic is tamed as a form of animated entertainment.

The second segment is especially rich in its horticultural effects — a tunnel of trees called the Chelsea Thicket opens to a popular resting spot, with a lawn and banks of seats.

Keep going and you pass through an idealized and richly planted herbaceous meadow, until the line arcs westward to the new segment past the elegant lines of the Radial Bench.

The underlying design philosophy of the whole High Line, James Corner said, was to recognize the sheer power of its passage through the city and the drama of its years in the wilderness. The new section features a discrete children’s play area, but the High Line is free of dog runs, playgrounds and conventional park planting schemes. Bikes, skateboards and cigarettes are banned. The plants, now maturing, give the High Line its singular spirit.

“We wanted a wild, dynamic landscape that was interesting not just in winter, spring, summer and fall, but almost every week having different blooms and colors and textures and scents,” Corner said.

Beyond the average shrub

Piet Oudolf, the plant designer, turned 70 in October but has a timeless, rugged look about him that suggests a Viking elder. His passion for perennials and ornamental grasses was informed by German horticultural researchers and has been honed over a lifetime as a nurseryman and plant designer. He works out of his farm and trial gardens in the Netherlands, and is a well-established leader of a naturalistic movement in gardenmaking that is ecologically informed but artistically driven.

Among his high-profile commissions in the United States have been the Lurie Garden in Chicago, Battery Park in Lower Manhattan and, at the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx, the Seasonal Walk. He has yet to do a major project in Washington.

To achieve the dynamic qualities he is known for, Oudolf taps uncommon plant varieties and groups them in rich layers. This bestows them with texture, volume, movement and a vitality that persists after the top growth dies back at this time of year.

“I want to show the world there’s more than the average shrub,” he said. “I never go for the average.” Even plant geeks are caught off guard by some of his choices.

Todd Forrest, vice president of horticulture at the New York Botanical Garden, said he was astonished to find on the High Line plantings of a wildflower from Arkansas named Penstemoncobaea. “I thought this was great — in the most highly designed of locations, you find a true curiosity.”

Oudolf also used an enveloping tunnel of bigleaf magnolia, a junglelike tree native to the eastern United States and hardy, but rarely planted outside arboretums.

In what’s known as the Wildflower Meadow, Oudolf developed a matrix of Korean feather reedgrass that slowly yields to a matrix of switch grass. Both are heavily interplanted with clumps of perennials chosen for their late season of bloom and interest.

The success and high profile of the High Line have served to put the practice of landscape architecture, so often overshadowed by architecture, into the limelight. The sophistication of the plant designs is undoubtedly lost on the great majority of visitors, but the effect — of a restless, changing, naturalistic form evoking the original wildflowers — is not.

“It should take you in, and you don’t have to know about plants,” Oudolf said. “You have to feel it.”

[Adrian Higgins has been writing about the intersection of gardening and life for more than 25 years, and joined the Washington Postin 1994. He is the author of several books, including the Washington Post Garden Book and Chanticleer, a Pleasure Garden.]

*  *  *  *
THIS NYC GARDEN GROWS FRUIT WHERE THE SUN DOESN’T SHINE
by Corinne Segal

[The following story on a new underground park beneath New York City’s Lower East Side, dubbed the “Lowline,” was broadcast on PBSNewsHour “Art Beat” segment on 29 October 2015, soon after the park opened to the public.]

NEW YORK — In a forgotten corner of the New York City underground, Dan Barasch and James Ramsey are growing pineapples.

“It’s ripe,” Ramsey said, examining a fist-size pineapple nestled between thyme, sage and dozens of other plants. “One bite of pineapple.”

These plants are the first step toward New York City’s first underground park — the Lowline, a project that has been in development for seven years.

The park, which is planned to open in 2020, will be housed beneath Delancey St. in New York City in a 60,000 square foot trolley station that was built in 1903, according to Barasch, the Lowline’s co-founder and executive director. The station served as a turn-around point for trolley cars running between Manhattan from Brooklyn over the Williamsburg Bridge, but stopped operating in 1948.

The Lowline Lab, a prototype and test drive for the project, is housed at 140 Essex St. in New York City, an abandoned space that formerly served as the Essex St. Market. The building’s age and layout is similar to the Delancey St. trolley station, Ramsey said.

Ramsey, designer and co-founder, had an idea for the project back in 2008 and teamed up with an engineer in South Korea to create new solar collection technology. They built a system that uses heliostats — or mirrors that track the sun — to collect sunlight from the exterior, drive it into a concentrating mechanism and then redistribute it to plants underground.

“We had to build this stuff — it’s never been done. So we had to learn from it, and learn how to deploy light in a way that keeps stuff alive,” he said. “The math all works. Now we have to couple that to horticulture.”

The team consulted with botanists and the Brooklyn Botanical Garden about what types of plants to grow in the underground space. Ramsey called the plants, which range from herbs to fruits and tropical plants, “a 3-D graph of light intensity.” They are also working with botany and landscape teams to track the plants’ growth and learn more about their reactions to the space.

In the early stages of the project, the team consulted with community leaders in the neighborhood. Their reaction: “Yes, unequivocally, unambiguously, we need more public space,” Barasch said. “People started hopping on board with the idea and saying, let’s really advocate for it.” It has additionally received support from local politicians, including U.S. Sens. Charles Schumer and Kristin Gillibrand [both of New York].

They also plan to host community events, including a lecture series titled “Bright Eyes” for people in science, technology and design to share expertise. They have partnered with CityScience, a Brooklyn-based STEM education organization, to create science curricula using the space for the high school Young Designers program. That program began this month [October 2015] with 25 New York City public school students.

Their next goal is to raise $70 million to build the technology into the full space, Barasch said. So far, the  dollars in pledges.

[You can visit the Lowline Lab at 140 Essex St., New York City. You can access it Saturday and Sunday from 10 a.m.-4 p.m. For more information, visit www.thelowline.org.]
                                                         

'Shuffle Along' (Redux)

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On 23 May 1921, an odd little musical fillip opened atDaly’s 63rd Street Music Hall, 22 West 63rd Street in Manhattan, “a theater of no consequence on a street of no consequence” about ten blocks above the northern reaches of what’s usually considered the Broadway theater district.  (Between Central Park West and Broadway, Daly’s was about 1½ blocks east of where Lincoln Center now stands, in the neighborhood of slums and tenements where, four decades later, West Side Story was filmed before it was razed by New York City’s master builder, Robert Moses, to make way for the performing arts complex.)  Off the beaten track for commercial theater, there wasn’t much in the show that marked it as even a modest hit: it had a silly plot on which to string its music, but oooh! that music and the dances that went with them.  By the time the curtain came down on the première of Shuffle Along, it was a certifiable smash by any standards of the day.  The début production—there would be revivals and national tours—closed on 15 July 1922 after 484 performances in an era when long runs were unknown.  (The remake says there were 504 performances, but I don’t know where the discrepancy comes from.  Adding the total performances from the 1921, ’33, and ’52 productions comes to 505.  Though the production’s promotional literature specifies the 504 figure was the New York run, perhaps it actually includes the performances in Shuffle Along’s test runs outside the city.)

The expectations Shuffle Along defied started with its cast—all African-American performers.  In the early years of the 20th century, that was exceedingly rare.  Institutional and deliberate racism and a paternalistic attitude toward African Americans by white society took an immense toll on the show’s creators and performers.  Among other issues with which they had to contend was the tradition that black performers had to appear in blackface, a common but disturbing aspect of the era, because blacks weren’t accepted as genuine human beings on stage; by the same token, a love song or realistic romantic relationship between black characters was unacceptable to white audiences—the actors could actually be tarred and feathered by angry spectators—until Shuffle Along braved the potential backlash.  (Though Shuffle Along overcame these potential problems, they weren’t erased and some of the play’s follow-up was caused by white America’s innate bigotry—though, as the remake makes clear, some was also generated by the prickly personality conflicts among the four creative artists.)

Beyond that, it was the first piece of theater in the United States that became a general success, meaning with white audiences, that was written by black artists.  The book of Shuffle Along was the creation of two black vaudevillians, F. E. (Flournoy) Miller (1885-1971) and Aubrey Lyles (1884-1932), based on one of their comedy sketches, “The Mayor of Jimtown.”  The jazz score was composed by the song-writing team of James Hubert (Eubie) Blake (1887-1983), who wrote the music, and Noble Sissle (1889-1975), lyrics.  No one had seen anything like Shuffle Along before; even the great “black” musicals of the coming decades were created by white writers and composers: Porgy and Bess (1935), music by George Gershwin, lyrics by Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward, and book by Heyward; Cabin in the Sky (1940), music by Vernon Duke, lyrics by John Latouche, and book by Lynn Root.  (I saw an Encores! concert performance of Cabin last winter and posted a report on ROT on 23 February 2016.  Some history, including a mention of Shuffle Along, appears in that report.) 

F. E. (Flournoy) Miller and Aubrey Lyles, a pair of Tennesseans (Miller from Columbia and Lyles from Jackson), met as students at Nashville’s Fisk University, where Lyles was studying medicine. They launched their performing careers while at school, but in 1905, the duo were hired as resident playwrights for the African-American Pekin Theater Stock Company in Chicago where they introduced the characters of Steve Jenkins and Sam Peck (the roles they played in Shuffle Along).  They went to New York in 1909 and began performing in vaudeville and by 1912, they had become the vaudeville duo of Miller and Lyles and were touring the United States. In 1915, they traveled to England to perform.  Their blackface comedy act consisted of Southern small-town humor and dance sequences.  Shuffle Along, the ground-breaking musical they created with Sissle and Blake, ran until 1924 and Miller and Lyles went on to write plays and make recordings, but the act broke up in 1928.  The performers reunited to appear on radio.  After Lyles’s death from tuberculosis at 48, Miller became increasingly engaged in the film business, moving to Hollywood to write and act in many motion pictures from the 1930s to the 1950s, including several black Westerns.  He died in Hollywood at age 86.

Jazz composer, lyricist, bandleader, singer, and playwright Noble Sissle, son of a minister and a school teacher, was born in Indianapolis.  As a youth, he sang in the choir of his father’s church and in his high school glee club before attending DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana, and then Butler University in Indianapolis.  He left college to devote himself to music full time.  Just before the World War I armistice, Sissle joined the famed 369th Infantry Regiment, the Harlem Hellfighters, and performed as a singer, violinist, and drum major with the regimental band under ragtime and jazz bandleader Lt. James Reese Europe, mustering out after the war as a second lieutenant.  He continued with Europe’s civilian successor of the band where he worked with pianist-composer Blake.  The two musicians had met in 1915 in Baltimore, where Blake was born.  They started writing songs together and eventually appeared in vaudeville as the Dixie Duo before moving on to playwriting.  In 1923, following the success of Shuffle Along, the duo appeared in two sound films featuring songs on which the pair had collaborated.  Sissle made other films into the ’30s and in 1954 signed with Loew’s Theatre Organization to appear as a disc jockey at one of its radio stations on which he featured the music of African-American artists; he died at 86 in Tampa, Florida. 

Blake, born in 1887 according to official records (though he insisted it was 1883) to parents who’d been born into slavery, started music training when he was as young as four or five.  He was declared a musical prodigy but began his paying career as a pianist, unbeknownst to his parents, at a Baltimore brothel at 15.  He claims that he composed his first piece of music, “Charleston Rag,” in 1899, when he  12, but he didn’t yet know how to write music so it wasn’t written down until 1915.  In 1912, he joined Europe’s Society Orchestra (which played for the dance team of Vernon and Irene Castle) and after the World War, Blake rejoined Europe and his pre-war colleague Sissle until the two musicians formed their vaudeville act and went on to write songs and musical shows.  Twice-married, Blake was also known, much to his wives’ chagrin, as a ladies’ man; it became an open secret among the Shuffle Along company that the composer was in love with his leading lady, Lottie Gee (1886-1973), who also had considerable influence on the content of the musical.  (It was Gee who insisted that “I’m Just Wild About Harry” be rearranged from a waltz to an up-beat one-step.)  After Shuffle Along, Blake joined Sissle in the films that featured their work and a third of his own compositions.  Blake played for the USO during World War II and, after enrolling in New York University in 1946 (at the age of 59) when his career was diminishing, he saw the interest in ragtime pick up again in the ’50s and his career along with it, culminating in the 1978 Broadway revue of his songs, Eubie!, which ran for 439 performances (and was filmed in 1981).  He appeared on numerous television shows in the ’70s (including Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show and Saturday Night Live)and received many honors, including the Presidential Medal of Freedom from Pres. Ronald Reagan in 1981.  Blake died at 96 (or 100, if you take his word for it) in Brooklyn.  (ROTcontributor Kirk Woodward mentions seeing Blake perform in his article “Some Of That Jazz,” posted on 7 June 2015.)

According to the website for Shuffle Along, Or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followed, which revisits the 1921 hit, songwriters Sissle and Blake and vaudevillians Miller and Lyles learned of each other from bandleader Europe.  The two teams met at an NAACP benefit in Philadelphiain 1920, and Miller and Lyles thought that one of their sketches, “The Mayor of Jimtown,” could become a full-length musical.  Though none of the four had ever written a musical play before or worked on Broadway, the result of their maiden collaboration was Shuffle Along.    

Among the play’s gifts was the hit tune “I’m Just Wild About Harry,” Shuffle’s most famous song (borrowed by Harry S Truman as the theme song for his 1948 presidential run), and the ballad “Love Will Find a Way” (of which the opening-night audience demanded an encore).  During Shuffle Along’s run, future black stars such as Josephine Baker, Paul Robeson, Florence Mills, Fredi Washington, and Adelaide Hallappeared on the Daly’s stage; the orchestra included future symphony and opera composer William Grant Still and Nat “King” Cole was a pianist on a national tour.  In the weeks that followed the opening, New York theatergoers from all over the city beat a path to Daly’s.  “It seemed to attract this highbrow/lowbrow, uptown/downtown phenomenon,” observed George C. Wolfe, director of the new re-examination of the play.  Among the ticket-seekers were so many fellow actors that Shuffle Along scheduled a midnight performance on Wednesdays so they could see the show.  The traffic along the upper-west side street became so heavy that the city had to make 63rd a one-way street.  

Among the famous figures who came to see the phenomenon were then-novice poet Langston Hughes, George Gershwin, singer-actress Ethel Waters, singer-movie star Al Jolson, Ziegfeld Follies comedienne Fanny Brice, esteemed African-American actor Charles Gilpin, and renowned theater critic George Jean Nathan.  A persistent tale, of which the new re-examination makes a major point, was that Gershwin stole riffs from Blake to create “I Got Rhythm” in a case of cultural appropriation.  Audiences at Shuffle Along were mixed, but the theater still segregated the spectators by race in the auditorium, even though they mingled in the lobby and the aisles during intermission and after the performance.  According to Wolfe, Shuffle Along was “the catalyst” for “different worlds . . . meeting on that stage, and backstage, and there was this connection.  And some people credit it with creating this energy in downtown culture at the time, where there was this phenomenon of slumming and going to Harlem.”

In the story of Shuffle Along, two crooked grocery store owners, Sam Jenkins (Lyles—in blackface) and Steve Peck (Miller—ditto) run for mayor of all-black Jimtown, Dixieland (“Election Day”).  (The two characters of Sam and Steve were longtime vaudeville personae of Lyles and Miller.)  The business partners promise each other that the winner will appoint the other police chief.  Honest Harry Walton (Roger Matthews), their opposing candidate for mayor (“I’m Just Wild About Harry”), pledges to put an end to the corruption, but he refuses to engage in his opponents’ dirty tactics and loses.  Harry’s engaged to the lovely Jessie Williams (Lottie Gee), but her father (Paul Floyd) won’t allow them to marry unless Harry wins the election (“Love Will Find a Way”).  Sam’s elected with assistance from Jimtown’s vote-buying political  boss, Tom Sharper (Sissle), and keeps his promise to make Steve chief of police.  The two politicians, however, quarrel over all kinds of things and they resolve their disagreements with an extended comic fight-ballet (“Jimtown’s Fisticuffs”).  Sam and Steve continue to  argue until their dishonesty and thievery is exposed by Jack Penrose, a New York detective known as “Keeneye” (Lawrence Deas), hired by Sharper.  Harry’s named the new mayor and runs Sam and Steve out of town. 

The show was interspersed with comedy blackouts and songs in front of the curtain essentially used to cover set changes.  (It was also rife with both black and rural Southern stereotyped behavior, jokes, and minstrelsy, including characters named Uncle Tom and Old Black Joe.)  The end of the performance has no dialogue after Harry’s inauguration, but Blake, who conducted the orchestra in 1921, came on stage and, joined by Sissle, stepping out of his role as Sharper, did a set of whatever they wanted from their songbook.  After the impromptu concert, Blake would return to the orchestra and Sissle resumed his role as Tom Sharper for the finale (“African Dip”).

After its initial New York run, Shuffle Along went out on tour, playing in Boston and Chicago and then continuing across the country to Milwaukee, Des Moines, Peoria, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Toledo, Grand Rapids, Detroit, Buffalo, Rochester, Philadelphia, and Atlantic City.  Still performing before mixed audiences, Shuffle Along did what no African-American show had dared in what were usually whites-only theaters. 

(Before the New York opening, Miller, Lyles, Sissle, and Blake previewed some of their songs for producer John Cort, 1859-1929, with the help of manager Al Mayer of the Nikko Producing Company, Shuffle Along’s production company.  Cort, for whom Broadway’s present-day Cort Theatre is named, was so taken by “Love Will Find a Way” that he financed a two-month tour to try the show out on the road, the company’s first performances before paying audiences.  Without scenery and using costumes pulled from stock, the show started in New Jersey, moved on to Washington, D.C., and Maryland, and concluded with a series of one-night stands in Pennsylvania.

(On a personal and nostalgic note, I was thrilled during Shuffle Along, Or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followed, the reexamination of the 1921 hit, when D.C.’s Howard Theatre came up as the venue for the performance of Shuffle Along in Washington.  When I was a boy, my dad’s company, District Theatres Corporation, owned the Howard—though not until after World War II.  Long converted to a movie house, it still did a live show in those days: concerts by the likes of Pearl Bailey, Ella Fitzgerald, Sammy Davis, and native Washingtonian Duke Ellington, or comedy shows with “Moms” Mabley, “Pigmeat” Markham—in his first and second careers—and Redd Foxx.  I did a post on the two historical flagships of the company, “Lincoln & Howard Theatres: Stages of History,” 2 December 2011.)

Five-time Tony-winning director and producer George C. Wolfe (Angels in America: Millennium Approaches, 1993; Angels in America: Perestroika, 1994 – Best Play; Bring in ’da Noise, Bring in ’da Funk, 1996; Elaine Stritch At Liberty, 2002 – Best Special Theatrical Event; Take Me Out, 2003 – Best Play) began piecing together the story of how Shuffle Along came to be, having discovered that pretty much all the facts other than its historic run and some now-famous names had been lost to the footnotes of the history of the American musical.  There’d been a couple of revivals of Shuffle Along, but neither had been remotely successful: one in 1933 ran 17 performances and one in 1952 ran 4.  So Wolfe decided he had to do something different to bring this important piece of theater history back to the public’s consciousness.  Featuring the original show’s music and lyrics by Blake and Sissle, and a new book by Wolfe inspired by the 1921 text by Miller and Lyles, the new Shuffle Along, Or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followed(a title way too  long to be this report’s headline!) simultaneously tells the backstage story of Shuffle Along’s creation—and how it changed the theater world it found when it arrived on Broadway. 

Born in Frankfort, Kentucky, Wolfe, 61, is also a playwright and lyricist, having penned the books for 1992’s Jelly’s Last Jam and 2000’s The Wild Party, in addition to Shuffle Along: The Making (as I’ll call the new show for short to distinguish it from the original musical), and the lyrics for Bring in ’da Noise, Bring in ’da Funk in 1996 (which he also conceived).  He studied theater at Pomona College in Claremont, California, and then got an MFA from the dramatic writing program of New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts in 1983.  After writing his first play, Tribal Rites, or The Coming of the Great God-bird Nabuku to the Age of Horace Lee Lizer (which the playwright described as “some sort of homage to Abraham Lincoln”),while teaching in inner-city Los Angeles (it was produced in L.A. in 1977), he had some success Off-Broadway in New York with the musical (with composer Robert Forrest) Paradise (1985, Playwrights Horizons) and the play The Colored Museum (1986, Joseph Papp Public Theater); in 1989, Wolfe won an Obie for best Off-Broadway director for his adaptation of three Zora Neale Hurston tales in Spunk (Joseph Papp Public Theater). 

Wolfe leapt to national renown in 1991 with his L.A. staging of Jelly’s Last Jam, a musical about ragtime and jazz pianist, composer, and bandleader Jelly Roll Morton with Gregory Hines in the title role, which moved to Broadway in 1992 and garnered 11 Tony nominations.  That was followed in 1993 by his Tony-winning production of the first part of Tony Kushner’s Angels in America and in 1994 by the second part.  From 1993 to 2004, Wolfe served as artistic director of the New York Shakespeare Festival/Public Theater (the second successor to founder Joseph Papp).  While in that post, Wolfe created Bring In ’da Noise, Bring In ’da Funk with young Savion Glover (1995), which moved to Broadway in  ’96.  In 2000, he co-wrote the book and directed the Broadway production of Michael John LaChiusa’s The Wild Party.  After leaving NYSF to pursue film directing, Wolfe staged many New York productions, including the 2002 Pulitzer Prize-winner by Suzan-Lori Parks, Topdog/Underdog, at the Public in 2001 and on Broadway in 2002.  He’s active in civil and human rights causes and was installed in the American Theater Hall of Fame in 2013. 

Shuffle Along: The Making started previews at the Music Box Theatre on West 45th Street, west of Broadway, on 15 March and opened on 28 April for an open-ended commercial run.  It was nominated for 10 Tony Awards, including Best Musical, but won none.  It did win four Drama Desk Awards, including Outstanding Musical, out of seven nominations, and the New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Musical.  My friend Kirk Woodward, his daughter Erin, and I saw the new musical on Wednesday evening, 15 June.  (The show’s producers have announced Shuffle Along: The Making’s unexpected closing for 24 July; see my exit comments below.)

It’s substantially from this historical material that director and book-writer Wolfe composed the narrative of Shuffle Along, Or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followed.  Wolfe’s intent is to demonstrate the historic and social importance of the original creation and its phenomenal success to modern American theater and culture, and black history.  He wants then to go on and examine “how something could go from so significant to ending up as someone’s footnote.”  The director/book-writer asserts that Shuffle Along“just seems to me this seed from which a whole lot of other things sprang forth. So when you’re in the historical moment the show is set in, you feel you’re in that moment, but you’re also in 2016 . . . .”  

Act one of the new meta-musical is the backstage saga of “the making” of 1921’s Shuffle Along, and act two is “all that followed,” covering both the response by the American theater and the American public and the after-history of the artists involved in the sensation that was Shuffle Along.  (The original Miller-Lyles “Mayor of Jimtown” plot of Shuffle Along was jettisoned, which is clearly why the 2016 Tony committee wouldn’t let Shuffle Along: The Making compete as a revival.  Aside from the Blake-Sissle score, this is an entirely new play, telling a totally different story from its 1921 source.)

The act one-act two split is why I found myself a little disturbed by the ending—really the whole second act.  It’s such a downer—nothing but disputes, rivalries, jealousy, break-ups, bad luck—and finally deaths.  After the exuberance of act one, it’s a come-down.  Given the material Wolfe’s working with—the history and the aftermath of Shuffle Along—I don’t see what else he could have done—but I wonder if there isn’t some other route he could have taken than the one he chose.  I get that this is part of his point—he feels that Shuffle Along, and especially the creative and participating artists, have been forgotten by theater and cultural history (as critic and patron of the Harlem Renaissance Carl Van Vechten, 1880-1964, played by Brooks Ashmanskas, sings prophetically to the show’s creators towards the end of the play: “They won’t remember you!”)—but maybe that isn’t the only way to conclude the play.  I’m no playwright, so I don’t know what else a writer might come up with—but just because something’s true doesn’t mean you have to use it in the play (or novel or movie, or whatever).  I said something very similar with regard to John Patrick Shanley’s Prodigal Son (see my report on 28 February 2016), and George Bernard Shaw, who knew a thing or two about playwriting, wrote (in his preface to “The Six of Calais”): “Life as we see it is so haphazard that it is only by picking out its key situations and arranging them in their significant order (which is never how they actually occur) that it can be made intelligible.”  (I note here that Kirk Woodward has written a five-part response to all Shaw’s plays and prefaces, which he read in one sitting, and which I’ll be posting in installments shortly on this blog.  This statement, one of two Kirk quotes on the same point, is in the last section of Kirk’s series, which will be entitled “Re-Reading Shaw.”)  In any case, I haven’t decided how I feel, as a consumer, about this ending.  I’m unsettled, so to speak. 

I reported that Kirk and his daughter were my companions for this show, and naturally we’ve talked about it some afterwards.  When I raised these second thoughts about the play’s ending, Kirk, who is a playwright (including of musicals), responded, “It seemed to me that the structure of Shuffle Along[:The Making] resembles that of [Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s 1986] Into the Woods.  In the first act adversity is overcome and everyone is exhilarated at the end of the act.  In the second act, trouble—a giant, or envy and competition—enters the picture and the whole thing turns gloomy.”  I hadn’t considered this structural parallel (I haven’t seen Into the Woods since 1988), but Kirk continued, “I also think that Wolfe is committed to educating his audience, and finds it almost impossible to finish with a ‘happy ending.’”  A bit later, he added, “I’m afraid he just feels the burden of history too heavily to, for example, let the show end with its opening (if the musical could have been stretched out that long—this is just theory).”

I’d been thinking the same thing about Wolfe’s tendencies.  But as I said, just because it happened in history doesn’t mean it has to be part of the play.  It’s not, however, that it ruined the performance for me.  It just bothers me a little—dramaturgically.  Shuffle Along: The Makings hardly a documentary play (though a couple of reviewers did use that term to label it), but one of the criticisms of that form is that it’s often better history/current events than it is drama/theater. (I wrote an article on the documentary play, “Performing Fact: The Documentary Drama,” in which I touch on this issue.  The article was posted on 9 October 2009.)  Wolfe’s proclivity, if Kirk and I are right in parsing it, may fall into that trap.  (I gather, however, that Lin-Manuel Miranda’s mega-hit Hamilton doesn’t go there—if the audience and critical response is any indication.)

The work of Shuffle Along: The Making—especially the “presentation” (I haven’t come up with a better word yet)—is terrific.  I like the presentational style (to use the same word in a different sense) and the “present reference” (as when Lottie Gee/Audra McDonald talks directly to the band in the pit) a lot.  I don’t know if Wolfe meant it to—I suspect he did—but it was reminiscent to me of vaudeville itself (which is where Lyles, Miller, Blake, and Sissle all came from, of course).

By presentation I mean more than just the staging.  It’s the aggregate of Wolfe’s directing, Savion Glover’s magnificent choreography, the acting, acting style, and ensemble work, all as an expression and out-growth of the staging concept—the “look” Wolfe conceived above and beyond the stage design (Santo Loquasto’s scenery, Ann Roth’s costumes, Scott Lehrer’s sound, Jules Fisher and Peggy Eisenhauer’s lighting—all of which are evocative, witty, and delightful) in coordination with the musical direction of Shelton Becton.  It’s the way Wolfe and his whole team stage the material, the way they show it to us.  Part of that concept is the presentational style of performance, which includes direct address to the audience or the breaking of the fourth wall, the theater expression that means that instead of the audience and the performers being in separate planes, with the dimensional “wall” across the proscenium opening, the actors and the play lower that barrier and relate to us in real time and space, as if we’re all in the same room.  (The opposite style is “representational,” meaning that the actor’s inhabit their characters and aren’t present as performers or for us as people.  They exist in a world into which we can see—that fourth wall is, of course, invisible—but in which we can’t participate.) 

Another manifestation of the presentation style Wolfe and his company devised is what I called present reference, defined as a character’s acknowledgment of people, objects, or actions on stage with them.  (Present reference is one of the connective devices I discuss in “Theatrical Structure,” 15 and 18 February 2011.)  It draws us into the real-time event occurring on stage while were in the theater with the performers (that is, the performance), rather than watching a representation of events, real or fictional, that occurred at some time in the past and are being recreated for our consumption.  It’s a way of nudging us to look critically at the actions being demonstrated for us, in this case the creation of 1921’s Shuffle Along and its aftermath, rather than becoming emotionally absorbed into a fiction and abandoning our objectivity.  (For those who haven’t already tumbled to it, these are Brechtian practices, but they’ve been incorporated into mainstream staging techniques.)

In terms of performances, Shuffle Along: The Making is an odd duck.  The cast’s loaded with stars, emerging stars, and A-list Broadway actors—Brian Stokes Mitchell (2000 Tony and Drama Desk Awards for Kiss Me Kate)is Miller, Brandon Victor Dixon (2004 Tony and Drama Desk Awards for Hedwig and the Angry Inch) is Blake, Joshua Henry (2007 Drama Desk Award for In the Heights) is Sissle, Audra McDonald (6 Tonys—a record, 5 Drama Desks, 1 Theatre World) as Lottie Gee, and Brooks Ashmanskas (2007 Tony and Drama Desk nominations for Martin Short: Fame Becomes Me) plays an assortment of very important figures in the history—which isn’t a common pathway to ensembleness.  Yet that’s what Wolfe and his troupe have wrought—and it’s fabulous to see.  (Billy Porter, who usually portrays Aubrey Lyles, was ably replaced the evening we saw Shuffle Along: The Making by Arbender Robinson, Porter’s understudy.)  Despite their distinction as “stars,” these five actors blended in splendidly with each other and the rest of the company, who each often stood out as one or another of the several characters they played in the Shuffle Along saga. 

Additionally the performance of Shuffle Along, Or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followed is such a whirlwind of action, dancing, singing, and scenes (some short, some extended—Shuffle Along: The Making is a 2¾-hour performance with one intermission) that it’s difficult to spotlight any single performance.  If forced, I’d have to note Mitchell’s suave yet earnest F. E. Miller and McDonald’s monumentally talented and confident leading lady, Lottie Gee.  (In McDonald’s hands, Gee’s scene with replacement actress Florence Mills, 1895-1927, played by Adrienne Warren, training her how to put across a song the right way, is endearing—and not a little daunting.  Not long before seeing Shuffle Along: The Making, I watched the actress’s portrait of Billie Holiday in the HBO broadcast of Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar & Grill and the difference between her assured Gee and the disintegrating Holiday is remarkable.) 

I can’t really write a report on this show without at least mentioning Glover’s choreography.  Glover, of course, has been a dance phenom since he first tapped onto the scene in The Tap Dance Kid (1983) when he was 10.  Not only is his dance style exciting and powerful, with his signature loud, hard taps, but he passes this power along to his dancers, whether they’re students he’s teaching (which he’s done since he was 14 in Newark, New Jersey) or pros he’s choreographing, as here.  (Glover had to invent his own dances for Shuffle Along: The Making, which make no pretense of hewing to period style, since the dances of Lawrence Deas, the original’s choreographer, have been lost.)  He’s also learned, as exemplified in Bring In ’da Noise, how to make tap, traditionally used in theater to invoke high spirits and exuberance, express some more complex emotions like anger, pain, and sorrow.  You can’t really miss Glover’s hand (or foot) in the dances of Shuffle Along: The Making—his tapping is uniquely his own, and works so well with this production.  (Of course, he and Wolfe have a long history of collaboration starting in 1992 with his performance as Young Jelly in Jelly’s Last Jam, so their names are sort of linked, at least in my mind.  In a move that’s now obviated, Glover was slated to join the cast of Shuffle Along: The Making on stage on 26 July, though his role in the musical had not been determined.)

Based on a survey of 46 reviews, Show-Score gave Shuffle Along: The Making an average of 84, with 87% positive notices, 13% mixed, and just 2% negative.  That’s not a surprising spread, given the quality of the work.  Let’s see what the reviewers have said.

Among the highest-scoring notices was Elysa Gardner’s in USA Today, in which she declared that despite what might be called the Hamilton Effect, Shuffle Along: The Making“qualifies” as “an event.”  (Gardner went on to quip: “. . . and not just for the length of its title.”)  Asserted Gardner, “The stars, all excellent, provide portraits that are at once recognizably human and lavishly entertaining” and the production “also benefits, greatly, from the exuberant gifts of choreographer Savion Glover.”  In the end, the USA Today reviewer labeled Shuffle Along: The Making“exhilarating” as a “tribute” that “burns . . . brightly.”  Also high in Show-Score’s survey was the New York edition of London’s Financial Times in which Max McGuinness wrote that the “Pirandellian meta-musical is at once an old-fashioned all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza and a thoughtful meditation on the history of race relations.”  And while McGuinness characterized Mitchell’s F. E. Miller as “Sidney Poitier-esque” (clearly meant as a compliment, but I wonder how welcome to Mitchell), the FT review-writer proclaimed that “[a]mid an all-round impressive ensemble,” the “real star power comes from Audra McDonald” who displays “infectious exuberance and sass.”  McGuinness did single out Ashmanskas “for the dexterity with which he performs all of the white parts.”  Overall, the reviewer for the Pink ’Un found, “Wolfe lays on the exposition a little thick at times.  But his Shuffle is a courageous work on many levels.”  In his assessment, McGuinness reported, as I have: “In a breach with musical convention, there is no happy ending.”

In the Wall Street Journal, several rungs lower on the ratings ladder, Terry Teachout made this comparison: “The first half of George C. Wolfe’s ‘Shuffle Along’ is to 2016 what ‘Hamilton’ was to 2015: It’s the musical you’ve got to see, even if you’ve got to hock your Maserati to pay for the ticket.”  Teachout styled the cast “as charismatic as you’d expect,” praising Glover’s “near-nonstop choreography,” which the WSJ reviewer reported “explodes off the stage with the unrelenting impact of a flamethrower.”  He shifted gears after intermission, however, when “what had looked like a masterpiece goes flat and stays that way.”  Having “tried to cram two different but related shows onto the same stage,” Teachout asserted, Wolfe’s “problem is that the first act . . . is so viscerally entertaining that you can’t help but feel disappointed when the dancing stops and the talking starts.”  The review-writer felt that “the entire second half feels like an epilogue, an hour-long dying fall, and by the time it’s over, the sense of letdown is palpable throughout the theater.”  In Teachout’s estimation, “The fault lies in Mr. Wolfe’s understandable desire to tell the story of ‘Shuffle Along,’” which “has led him to stuff us up with too much information.”  Despite this drawback, the Wall Streeter insisted, the show has “countless excellences,” especially Glover’s “tap-driven choreography.”  Shuffle Along: The Making’s “a pure ensemble show, so none of the performances stands out from the whole, but all of them are comprehensively satisfying.”  If Wolfe “failed to weld the parts of ‘Shuffle Along’ into a convincing whole,” nevertheless, “his directorial touch is otherwise as sure as ever.”

In the Guardian, one of the lowest-ranked reviews on Show-Score, Alexis Soloski described Shuffle Along: The Making as “sometimes inspired and sometimes listless” with some scenes “dramatic, some didactic.”  Shuffle Along: The Making“comes to seem as much a lecture-demonstration as a drama.”: 

Wolfe’s script dispenses with Miller and Lyle’s contribution almost entirely.  (As the book relies on caricature, blackface, and elements of minstrelsy, one can see why.)  This devalues the book in favor of the songs—though Wolfe also wisely elides some of the less palatable numbers, like Uncle Tom, Old Black Joe and Oriental Blues—and undermines the argument for the importance of the collaboration among these four men.

Furthermore, Wolfe’s production, said Soloski, “is only intermittently successful as art and diversion” as it’s “sometimes edifying and sometimes entertaining, but rarely do these twin aims coincide.”  The Guardian reviewer concluded, however, that “when the feet are tapping, the fringe is swaying and the voices of the leads and chorus are celebrating the thrill of syncopation . . . the musical lives again.”

The New York Times’ Ben Brantley called Shuffle Along: The Making a “tart and sweet, bubbly and flat, intoxicating and sobering concoction” which, he said, “has been suffering from an identity crisis.”  Is it “old or new?” asked Brantley, answering, “. . . both, though not in the ways you might expect.”  The “old-as-the-Rialto story line”—the tale of “those beat-the-odds showbiz soaps,” as the Timesman put it—“is . . . what’s new,” but it’s also “what feels stalest.”  It’s the singing and dancing, though, that “makes the reincarnated ‘Shuffle Along’ one of the season’s essential tickets.”  Unfortunately, Shuffle Along: The Making“time-travels with plenty of baggage, which Mr. Wolfe unpacks with pedagogical annotations and sentimental mistiness.”  Brantley reported, “Often you sense that Mr. Wolfe has a checklist of historic points he must, but must, cover before the show’s end.” These “Wikipedia-style biographical summaries delivered to the audience” are “clunky, shoehorned-in exposition,” but they don’t “overwhelm the sweeping grace of ‘Shuffle Along’ whenever it sings or dances.”  The Times reviewer had great praise for all the lead performers, though he singled out McDonald as “a one-woman time machine de luxe,” but he added that they “all more or less manage to bend their distinctive charismas into the sinuous contours of early Broadway jazz.”  In Long Island’s Newsday, Linda Winer declared that Shuffle Along: The Making, which she “bottom-lined” as “Extraordinary, talent-stuffed musical history,” “is not a conventional show,” adding, “Nor should it be.”  The musical’s “a bold and wistful, playful and important musical-about-a-musical.  It is overstuffed with ambition and talent, sure, but why shouldn’t it be?”  In a show with “dual missions—education and entertainment, . . . there is a lot of exposition, a few too many back stories and, every so often, the narrative inertia of an illustrated history.”  Then the Newsday reviewer went on, “But what illustrations these are—choreographed for the terrific dancing chorus by Savion Glover.”  With lavish compliments for both the cast and the design team, Winer concluded, “It is hard to imagine a better group than this one, finally, to tell the world about ‘Shuffle Along.’”

Joe Dziemianowicz of the New York Daily News felt that Shuffle Along: The Making“dazzles like no other show this season—but it also disappoints,” despite “an all-star cast and a bang-up group of hot-footed hoofers.”  Reported Dziemianowicz, “When the cast is singing and tearing up the floor with choreographer Savion Glover’s muscular and thrilling tap-dancing it’s pure unmitigated heaven,” but he went on to complain that “between numbers, biographies are sketched out and behind-the-scenes blow-by-blows are shared” which “turns entertainment into dull lecture hall.”  The Daily News review-writer explained “Stretches of hearing ‘and then we wrote’ and ‘then we went to Baltimore’ are a drag.”  With praise for the cast, especially McDonald, Dziemianowicz ended by observing, “Even though the narration lacks drama, the tap-happy new show gleams with ambition and topnotch talent.”  In amNewYork, Matt Windman also raised the question of whether Shuffle Along: The Making“is a new musical or a revival” and then stated, “Whether old or new, it is a hot mess of the highest caliber—a dazzling and dizzying documentary mixed with star turns, syncopated rhythms, stylish attire, fierce tap-dancing and weak subplots.”  Windman described the experience as “like climbing aboard a rocket that doesn’t stop spinning” as “‘Shuffle Along’ throws at its audience nonstop sound and fury and historical detail.”  He complained that “the storytelling is chaotic and choppy, and the characters are painted in broad strokes” and added that act two “comes off as superfluous.”  Suggesting that “something so experimental and ambitious needs more development,” Windman acknowledged, “Still, there’s no denying its thrills and palpable excitement.” 

Christopher Kelly of  NJ Advance Media, publisher of the Newark Star-Ledger, characterizing Shuffle Along: The Making as “a kind of Broadway version of VH1’s ‘Behind the Music,’” described it as a “proudly flashy, impressively ambitious show.”  Kelly felt that the musical “sometimes bites off more than it can chew” and that with six principal characters, “keeping track of their assorted backstories and rivalries proves daunting.”  While the “first act is a particularly fluid dramatization and distillation of a tremendous amount of historical information, presented through a series of razzle-dazzle, tap-heavy production numbers . . ., the second act seems to meander—until the show abruptly concludes with a ‘where are they now’-style epilogue.”  The Jersey reviewer reported that Wolfe assembles “a dream team” of a company that performs with “unadulterated joy,” but while he “does a fine job conveying the social and cultural complexities” of Shuffle Along, “some of the essence of the source material is lost.”  The New York Post’s Elisabeth Vincentelli promised that Shuffle Along: The Making’s not “an earnest history lesson,” but “a crackling, high-energy tribute to the joys of creating entertainment.”  The musical remake “packs in an inordinate amount of music . . . and dance,” wrote Vincentelli.  “You’re always looking forward to what choreographer Savion Glover will come up with next, and his set pieces here are just thrillingly fun.”  The Post reviewer reported, “The pace doesn’t flag until sometime in the second act,” and the show ends “on a bittersweet note, though without dimming the immense joys that preceded.”

In the New Yorker’s “Goings On About Town” section, the reviewer, calling the productiona “razzle-dazzle history lesson,” described Shuffle Along: The Makingas “one showstopper after another” with “sumptuous costumes . . . and sets.”  The New Yorker writer noted, “Though he tries to avoid making a musicalized PBS special, Wolfe finds much importance, but too little drama, in his behind-the-scenes story,” though the anonymous writer found that “his stagecraft is insurmountable.”  With a “a fine design team, and a dream cast,” wrote the Village Voice’s Elizabeth Zimmer, the “wonderful thing about Shuffle Along, or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followed. . . is that it’s about working, about creating jobs for folks who couldn’t get good ones.”  In Wolfe’s production, the “talent keeps coming at you.  There’s strong music and movement by a crackerjack ensemble . . . and blizzards of Glover’s tap choreography, historically on point and inventive.”  Zimmer was so impressed with the production’s designers that “[a]fter a few minutes I stowed my notes and surrendered to the sensory overload,” even though “[t]here’s not much of a book.”  She noted, “The structure is a picaresque: one crisis after another, a chronology rather than a web of connections between people with real feelings.”  Furthermore, Zimmer found, “Act II unspools with a dying fall.”

Shuffle Along: The Making“is explosive not simply in the auditory sense,” proclaimed Jesse Green in New York magazine, “though the shattering artillery onslaught of Savion Glover’s choreography may ring in your ears . . . forever.”  Act one, said Green in one of Show-Score’s highest-rated notices, may make you “feel that the outer show . . . is one of the best old-fashioned entertainments—tunes, dances, comedy, costumes, the whole hotcha package—to hit Broadway in years,” but, the man from New York explained, Wolfe “has been preparing you from the start for Act Two: the ominous ‘All That Followed,’” in which he “lets the story elements peter out.”  Wolfe’s argument “about cultural appropriation” that occupies act two “is theatricalized quite stunningly,” using all the director’s “passion and accumulated know-how.”  The New York reviewer praised Shuffle Along: The Making as “expertly staged,” and was especially impressed that it was “lit gorgeously—often terrifyingly.”  He described act two as “a series of solo psychodramas in song,” each of which Wolfe makes “a powerful statement of suffering.”  Green continued, however, that “this is almost too much undramatized richness, without enough context to help us understand” and concluded that “if Act Two sometimes seems like a PowerPoint presentation, with astonishing slides but bullet-point arguments, the show as a whole is nevertheless revolutionary theater.”

The Hollywood Reporter’s David Rooney declared of Shuffle Along: The Making, “Scene after scene dazzles in one of the most electrifying entertainments on Broadway.”  Indeed, he reported, “It's almost impossible to stay still in your seat when the internally motorized ensemble of Shuffle Along explodes into one of choreographer Savion Glover’s seismic tap routines, or when the thoroughbred leads wrap their velvet pipes around those syncopated jazz sounds.”  Even “if the resulting historical reappraisal is more successful at charting the creative high than the deflating hangover that came after,” added Rooney, “the performances alone make it unmissable” despite “Wolfe’s overstuffed shambles of a book.”  And “while the showmanship is extraordinary” and the “cast is magnificent” (with extraordinary plaudits for McDonald), the HR reviewer continued, Shuffle Along: The Making“spreads its focus among five principal characters, leaving it without a strong protagonist or a unifying point of view.”  As a result, “it works better as the reanimation of a lost Broadway milestone than a portrait of the creative team behind it,” nevertheless, “the project’s strengths far outweigh its flaws.”  Rooney lavished praise on Glover’s “astonishing’ work and the “top-notch” visuals, but “Wolfe’s book exacerbates that by attempting to cover too much and sacrificing focus,” resulting in a “loss of buoyancy” as “too much of the concluding information is imparted documentary-style.”  The review-writer concluded, “However, even if the structural limitations of Wolfe’s undertaking are unable to support the scope of his noble intentions, it’s a genuine thrill to watch this outrageously talented cast.” 

In Time Out New York, David Cote dubbed Shuffle Along: The Making“a breathtaking piece of showmanship, featuring more talent crowding a stage than pretty much any other Broadway show,” that “is part archaeological dig, part documentary, part Afropunk collage of fact and fantasy.”  The show has “outstanding design” and “miles and miles of ecstatic, syncopated genius, courtesy of Savion Glover.”  The cast, said the man from TONY, is “incandescent” and Wolfe’s staging is “a constant flow of miracles,” but while the “first half is sensational; the second is difficult,” though “there’s an abundance of joy and style that smooth[e]s over stylistic rough edges and knotty stitching of history to myth.” 

Marilyn Stasio bluntly asserted in Variety, “‘Shuffle Along’ is to die for.”  Calling Shuffle Along: The Making a “dance-drunk show,” Stasio went on to write, “In his zeal to illustrate the full impact of this landmark production, helmer (and book writer) George C. Wolfe piles it on, stretching the show’s baggy structure all out of shape.  But an incoherent book seems a small price to pay for the joy of watching Audra McDonald cut loose.”  Lavishly praising the production, from the acting, to the dancing, to the designs, to Wofle’s staging, Stasio acknowledged that in act two, “the show is actively fighting with itself.”  Wolfe, she asserted, gets caught up in “rich material, but he really should have stopped himself from cramming it all into this show.”  In Entertainment Weekly, Caitlin Brody quipped that Shuffle Along: The Making“is a refreshing burst of energy, no caffeine necessary.”  She asserted that “the jazzy musical boasts so much star power, at times it seems unfair to the rest of the Broadway circuit.”  Choreographer Glover’s “rhythmic tap is the true pulse of Shuffle Along[: The Making].  The clickety-clacks heard from 30-plus dancers at once . . . ignite every seat in the theater and quickly become the only beat we need.”  Despite its length, Brody reported, Shuffle Along: The Making“never feels long—it’s a dazzling production that celebrates art, dreams, and equality.”  The EW reviewer ended her notice with a telling little anecdote: “And when the man behind me emphatically screamed out, ‘Damn!’ after the final number, I had to nod my head and agree.”

On TheaterMania, Zachary Stewart called Shuffle Along: The Making“an enchanting night on old Broadway, overflowing with talent and kept in constant motion by the brilliant choreography of Savion Glover.”  Stewart described the Brechtian and meta-theatrical elements of the production—the projected scenery and song labels at the top of the proscenium, the actors’ acknowledgment of the orchestra and the audience, and even the way the show begins with the sounds of a dance rehearsal coming from behind the closed curtain—and catalogued some of the “impressive moments from this star-studded cast,” lauding many of the individual performers.  “While the singing and acting is top-notch,” insisted Stewart; however, “it’s the dancing that really wows” as “Glover exceeds all expectations with his heart-pounding and scrupulously constructed choreography.”  Calling the production “exuberantly directed” and “brilliantly choreographed,” with “a large, to-die-for top to bottom cast,” Elyse Sommer of CurtaniUp characterized Shuffle Along: The Making as “a most enjoyable, invigorating new look at a savory and worth thinking about slice of musical history.”  The first act “is a sensationally entertaining homage” with “so many riches that it’s easy to forgive its somewhat disappointing execution of the . . . second act” with its “lecture-like format.”

On Deadline, Jeremy Gerard made an astonishing declaration: “Shuffle Along, or The Making . . . is an angry musical, its solid outrage sublimating not into bitterness or brutality but instead into a kind of suffusing sorrow over the cultural loss that is as fundamental to the legacy of racism as its more violent aspects.”  Gerard characterized Wolfe as “a writer and director blessed with the sharpest mind, the quickest wit, the wildest imagination and the fastest mouth in town”—and then he added one more “ingredient”: “I don’t know any other artist of Wolfe’s stature who has channeled rage into so brilliant and identifiable a catalogue raisonné.”  Out of these characteristics, Gerard considered that Shuffle Along: The Making arose.  But the cyber reviewer complained that the show, while “unquestionably entertaining,” “never resolves into a story.  Instead, it’s a series of historical scenes that tell, rather than show, and that’s deadly for a musical.”  Furthermore, while the physical production “has the confident, polished look of a no-expense-spared endeavor,” the Deadliner found that the show “struck me as both rough and unfinished.  It falls or flies on its kinetic energy, but the tap dancing is muddy,” for which he faulted Glover.  “More important,” Gerard continued, “the show is conceptually flawed.”  Still, such a fan of Wolfe’s is the reviewer that “I want to see all of his work, for all of it engages and challenges and even entertains me, even when, in the end, it doesn’t come together.”  Michele Willens of Theatre Reviews Limited described Shuffle Along: The Making as “a rather original hybrid of entertainment, story telling and history” in which act one “is pretty much pure joy from start to finish . . . chock full of dancing, song, dazzling costumes,” but act two “sort of loses the emotional threads and becomes more of a history lesson.”  This didn’t bother Willens, she said, because “I appreciate when dots are connected and knowing where all these folks ended up,” but she added later, nevertheless, “You can almost feel the energy dissipating as we get near the end.” 

The “opening night of the legendary Shuffle Along . . . caused a sensation,” Carol Rocamora reminded us on Theater Pizzazz.  “But I can’t imagine it being as sensational as its re-imagined reincarnation.”  In Rocamora’s view, “The joy of Wolfe’s Shuffle Along lies in the fabulous song-and-dance numbers” based on the “remarkable combination of energy and precision” of Glover’s choreography “that has audiences jumping to their feet, cheering in exhilaration.”  The show is performed by “an amazing all-star cast” on “Santo Loquasto’s sleek, snazzy set.”  The TP reviewer ended by saying of the play’s conclusion that she “found it especially touching.”  On Broadway World, Michael Dale declared that Wolfe’s “exhilarating” Shuffle Along: The Making“may not be perfect, but damn, it’s brilliant.”  The first act, reported Dale, is “lightening-paced” and by the time it’s over, “[t]here's little plot left, save for a series of disappointments.”  Nonetheless, continued the BWW reviewer, “that doesn't mean the second half is lacking in exciting moments.”  The Wrap’s Robert Hofler remarked, “In a year of pandering, corn-pone musicals, ‘Shuffle Along’ exudes elegance and intelligence at every turn.  While it’s big in its ambitions, theatrical thrills, and the emotions it stirs, Wolfe achieves much in very small ways.”  In another of Show-Score’s high-ranked reviews, one of two in the cyber press, Hofler continued that “whenever their words threaten to turn into a Wikipedia entry, Wolfe the writer hands the reins to his better half: Wolfe the director,” getting “an assist” from choreographer Glover.  “Both,” asserted the Wrapper, “have no equal on Broadway this season.”  “‘Shuffle Along’ abounds with such moments of inspired simplicity,” advised Hofler, “and that sophistication is reinforced by the work of veteran designers Santo Loquasto, Ann Roth, and Jules Fisher and Peggy Eisenhauer.”

Calling Shuffle Along: The Making an “extravagant new venture,” Matthew Murray explained on Talkin’ Broadway that it “doesn’t exist to relive or teach the past, but rather explain its role in creating the present we now enjoy.  And it does by blending the vocabularies of the early 20th century and 2016 into a single dramatic language that doesn’t look, sound, or feel like anything you can see anywhere else.”  Proclaimed Murray, “This is an evening that is packed, adventurous, and, in its own lighthearted way, powerful, though it never loses sight of what it’s saying or where it’s going.”  As for the production, the TB blogger asserted, “It’s a thrilling kaleidoscope, both comfortable and unpredictable, that translates for us a vernacular we no longer speak as a culture” with “electrifying” dances by Glover that are “a heady fusion of timeless tap-hearted hoofing and the edgier, more experimental stuff for which he’s acclaimed.”  Nonetheless, the show “suffers from two big problems.  First is that we don’t see (or hear) enough of Shuffle Along in context to judge it against our own standards. . . .  And the second act . . . lacks the dynamic narrative thrust of the first, and struggles to maintain the same vibrancy.”  In the other high-scoring cyber notice, Steven Suskin called Shuffle Along: The Making“a theatrical explosion” on the Huffington Post and reported that “the standard theatrical elements—music, story, staging, dancing and design—[are used] to propel the show in a novel and exciting manner” provided by “stellar performances, a sterling production, and an astoundingly talented ensemble.” In Suskin’s view, director Wolfe and choreographer Glover, “[e]ffortlessly avoiding the familiar or cliché, . . . have come up with a fascinating, colorfully grand entertainment.”  The HP reviewer summed up with, “But among a surfeit of riches, it is the combination of Wolfe and Glover that makes Shuffle Along[: The Making] a veritable explosion of theatricality, an unorthodox and vital new-style Broadway feast.”

On WNBC television (New York’s Channel 4), Robert Kahn characterized Shuffle Along: The Making as an “amalgam of backstory and revival” that’s “a passion project” for Wolfe.  Employing “the finest Broadway talent,” Wolfe’s production “is stylized to evoke an era and focus on big scenes, which can become burdened with exposition,” pushing “individual personalities into the background, which keeps us from getting to know better the ensemble players.”  Despite “elaborate tap sequences” brought to life by Glover, lamented Kahn, the show “is moving, in fits and starts.”  Despite “a large ensemble which dances and sings with precision and joy,” WNYC radio’s Jennifer Vanasco complained of Shuffle Along: The Making that “after an exuberant, thrilling first act, the weight of all that history drags down the second.”  Characterizing the show as “one long coda—a ‘whatever happened to . . .’ narrative,” Vanasco found that “Wolfe invests so little time in the dreams and motivations and backstories of his characters in the first act that we don’t feel emotionally tied to them in the second,” which, she reported, “is something to endure, instead of something to enjoy”—though the “first act is really astonishing.”  Mark Kennedy of the Associated Press described Shuffle Along: The Making as “a genre-jumping show, something not comfortable in one box.  It’s not a rev[ue] or revival,” Kennedy thought.  “It’s more like a history lesson that will blow you away.”  He reported, “There is a bit of bloat, too much exposition . . . but Wolfe nicely captures the timeless craziness of creation and the glory days of a special show.”

[On 10 May, Audra McDonald announced that she’s pregnant and would leave Shuffle Along, Or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followedon 24 July for maternity leave.  (The show’s producers also announced that Savion Glover, Shuffle Along: The Making’s choreographer, would be joining the cast on that date.)  On 23 June, however, the producers of the remake of the 1921 musical-theater sensation announced that the production can’t continue without McDonald (though a replacement, Grammy Award-winning singer and musician Rhiannon Giddens, had been named and had started rehearsing) and consequently that the show would close on 24 July, the date the cast changes were scheduled to happen.  In a written statement, Scott Rudin, the show’s lead producer, explained, “Audra McDonald is the biggest star on Broadway, and audiences have been clamoring to see her in this role since the first preview of ‘Shuffle Along’ in March of this year.”  He added that “the need for Audra to take a prolonged and unexpected hiatus from the show has determined the unfortunate inevitability of our running at a loss for significantly longer than the show can responsibly absorb . . . .”  According to a further statement, ticket sales, which had been running in excess of $1 million a week, have already dropped off severely for dates following McDonald’s announced departure.  When the $12-million Shuffle Along: The Making closes, it will have played 100 regular performances and 38 previews.]


Re-Reading Shaw – Plays from 1885 through 1902

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by Kirk Woodward

[About two months ago, Kirk Woodward wrote me that he was “going to read all six volumes of [Shaw’s] ‘Collected Plays and Prefaces.’”  He was taking notes as he read, he said, and “almost certainly have a Shaw article in my future.”  Well, a month later, Kirk sent me not one article on the great Irish playwright, but five, all based on his close reading of the six- volume Bernard Shaw: Complete Plays with Prefaces, (New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1963).  He arranged the sections in chronological order according to the years in which Shaw finished writing the plays (the years of first productions are often much later); the first installment is published below.  I’ll post the remaining four articles of “Re-Reading Shaw” over the next two months (more or less), one every couple of weeks or so.

[I see no point in telling you, even in précis, what Kirk found to say about the writings of Shaw.  As regular ROTters will know, Kirk’s a longtime fan of Shaw, even as he recognizes the playwright’s shortcomings and deficiencies.  I’ll let you all discover for yourselves what Kirk has come up with.  Besides, Kirk’s comments are all tailored to each play and its preface—though some themes do emerge.  I will add that one of the wonderful benefits of Kirk’s somewhat monumental task is that we all get to learn something about the many Shaw plays we haven’t read or seen ourselves—of several of which, I’ll admit, I’d never even heard.  Beyond that, I hope you’ll read Kirk’s remarks here with the same relish I did (it was piccalilli), and that you’ll come back for the next four installments.  ~Rick]

I’ve recently finished a lengthy and surely noteworthy task: I’ve read all six volumes of Bernard Shaw: Complete Plays with Prefaces (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1963 – from here on I will call it the Plays), including, as the introduction to the first volume says, “some sixty plays and playlets, ranging from three-page Beauty’s Duty to four-hundred page Back to Methuselah. . . . His Prefaces, Notes, Handbooks, Postscripts and other ancillary prose total almost as many words and pieces as the plays themselves.”

All in all we are talking about some 4,600 pages of material. Remarkable enough, and Shaw, of course, over the course of his long life (1954-1950), wrote a great deal more than that.

I have always enjoyed reading Shaw, but I realized that my reading was spotty: some plays I had read, some I had not, some I had only read pieces of.

My impression is that Shaw is not an academic favorite – that professors of literature tend to think of him as a journalist, an impression with some justification, since he worked as a journalist for years, a brilliant one, and the prefaces to his plays, in particular, give the impression that he writes them to promote ideas he’s got about various problems in society.

Every year or so I hurl at [the reviewers] a long play full of insidious propaganda, with a moral in every line. They never discover what I am driving at: it is always too plainly and domestically stated to be grasped by their subtle and far flung minds; but they feel that I am driving at something: probably something they had better not agree with if they value their livelihoods. (From the Preface to “The Six of Calais”)

However, although the point has been made before, it’s worth noting again that Shaw’s prefaces and plays don’t necessarily have a one-to-one relationship to each other. Occasionally a preface will clearly be written in support of a play, but frequently it either tangentially relates to the play being discussed, or it carries a polemic far beyond what the play suggests.

Eric Bentley has pointed out in his book Bernard Shaw (New Directions, 1947), for example, that although Shaw was a Socialist and frequently wrote supporting his position, there is little direct championing of Socialism in the plays themselves.

Shaw’s major rhetorical game in his prefaces is to make his points with such energy that both readers and opponents find him difficult to answer. Bentley, in his essay on Shaw in Thinking about the Playwright(Northwestern University Press, 1987), accurately writes:

The very tone of Shaw’s writings . . . shames the reader or listener into feeling he is the deluded ignoramus who needs to have his consciousness raised by this engine of enlightenment [Shaw himself]. It is odd that Shaw is held to be fond of discussion, since what his rhetoric tends to do is: put topics beyond discussion. Brilliance after all doesn’t make one see. It dazzles. Clever rhetoric bewilders.

As we go along I will note exceptions to Bentley’s comment, where Shaw’s tone in a preface is more genial, but I will also note places where his prose has the effect of a battering ram.

On, then, to the plays, in chronological order of the year their writing was completed. Shaw’s spelling and punctuation are unusual (he does not put a period after abbreviations or, often, an apostrophe in contractions); when I quote him I reproduce them.

TRIFLES AND TOMFOOLERIES is Shaw’s title for a collection of six of his short plays:

. . . there is a demand for little things as well as for big things, and . . . as I happen to have a few little things in my shop I may as well put them in the window with the rest.

He wrote a number of these. In these pieces the titles of the shorter plays will contain lower case letters.

Releasing himself now and then from the requirement to improve the world, he is able to be just a working playwright, at his most human. For example, in many of the plays he exercises his enthusiasm for silly names. My favorite, a character only referred to, is Roosenhonkers-Pipstein.

The dates after the name of each play indicate first the year in which it was written, then the year it was first performed. In Shaw’s case both dates matter: sometimes he could not get a play produced for years after it was written.

I am not aiming for completeness in these essays. To be thorough about Shaw would require a book, or more likely a library. I will simply record points that interest me. This is not, so to speak, a six month residency abroad, just a city bus tour with a chatty guide.

WIDOWERS’ HOUSES (1885-1892 / 1892) – Shaw’s first play, originally a collaboration with the drama critic William Archer, who gave Shaw a plot for a three act play that Shaw used up by early Act III. Archer didn’t like what Shaw had written and the project languished for seven years, until the newly established Independent Theatre needed material and Shaw dusted off and completed his old manuscript.

The atmosphere of the play is upper class (the first line is “Two beers for us out here”). The drama is somewhat primitive; in particular, the male lead, Dr. Trench, has a companion or confident unfortunately named Cokane who appears to exist only so people will have someone to talk to. Act III is somewhat hard to follow.

But the resolution is clear: everyone decides there is no alternative to accepting the income generated by the unscrupulous slumlord Sartorius. All of us, in other words, are at fault for poverty and its conditions. The play was performed two evenings by the Independent Theatre and caused quite a fuss.

THE PHILANDERER (1893 / 1905) – Shaw wrote in 1930 about his second play:

There is a disease to which plays as well as men become liable with advancing years. In men it is called doting, in plays dating. . . . I make no attempt to bring the play up to date. I should as soon think of bringing Ben Johnson’s [sic] Bartholomew Fair up to date by changing the fair to a Woolworth store.

With the passage of even more years, The Philanderer doesn’t seem dated at all, because it’s now definitely a period piece, and a good one.

It is a heady mix of elements: a man who effortlessly attracts women, and two women who are attracted to him; a doctor who has discovered a disease by dissecting animals, and is crushed to find that it isn’t really a disease at all and that his patient is going to live; an Ibsen Club, where the members (men and women) try to apply the Norwegian’s lessons to everyday life; and so on.

Shaw was 39 when he wrote this play, and his skill is already noteworthy. It is produced now and then, and the roles in it are terrific; actors must love to perform it. Shaw knew how to write for them.

MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION (1893-1894 / 1905) – that is, prostitution; she’s a madam, a businesswoman who provides well for her staff. If that sounds like Undershaft in Major Barbara, that’s because the situation is the same – except that in this earlier play Shaw doesn’t try to pretend that money is the only value in the world. From the preface:

Mrs Warren’s defence of herself is not only bold and specious, but valid and unanswerable. But it is no defence at all of the vice which she organizes. It is no defence of an immoral life to say that the alternative offered by society collectively to poor women is a miserable life, starved, overworked, fetid, ailing, ugly. Though it is quite natural and right for Mrs Warren to choose what is, according to her lights, the least immoral alternative, it is none the less infamous of society to offer such alternatives. For the alternatives offered are not morality and immorality, but two sorts of immorality.

At this point Shaw’s focus is humane. That will change; he will come to put systems above individuals, the very thing he originally sets out to attack.

The first act of the play briskly – too briskly – sets up the kinds of character reversals Shaw will develop throughout his writing, but they lack the clarity he will later achieve. There is an early “hidden secret” in Vivie, the daughter’s, parentage: because of her mother’s occupation, the men don’t know who her father is, so who can she safely marry?

However, this issue largely evaporates. The dramaturgy is creaky: everybody has to be brought together, everybody has to say things that set the others off, and in the last section of the play Vivie starts to sound like an automaton.

A widely repeated quotation comes from a character in this play:

I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can’t find them, make them.

This statement, like Hamlet’s “To thine own self be true,” is rousing, but it too is ironized by its context in the play, which is written to demonstrate that poor women often cannotchoose their circumstances. The play raises that subject, but it doesn’t seem to me to really dramatize it.

ARMS AND THE MAN (1894) – set in Bulgaria, during and immediately after a Balkan war; but the setting is domestic, and the events so romantic that they were later turned into an operetta (The Chocolate Soldier, 1908, with music by Oscar Straus, which Shaw hated). [editor’s note: I posted a report on Arms from a visit I made to Canada’s Shaw Festival; see “Two Shaw Plays (Shaw Festival 2006),” 25 September 2012, and “The 2006 Shaw Festival (Part 2),” 11 December 2015.  ~Rick]

Some of Shaw’s plays feel like school assignments, not surprisingly since he always has a didactic purpose somewhere in mind. Arms and the Man, however, is a delightful play about the gap between ideals (that is, illusions) and facts, and it does not feel like an assignment at all. Shaw certainly never aimed to make an audience happy – heaven forbid! But I can’t think of any play that makes me happier. It is, to put it colloquially, a peach.

CANDIDA (1894-1895 / 1897) – Shaw’s continuing theme of the struggle between romantic ideals and concrete reality takes an interesting turn in this play about a romantic triangle. The three are a Christian Socialist minister; his wife, the Candida of the title; and a poet, Eugene, more than a decade younger than Candida and intensely in love with her. Eugene tries to disabuse Candida of her illusions about her husband so she will leave the minister for him.

But does she have illusions about either man? And doesn’t the poet desire her in order to replace one set of illusions with another? At the end of the play he seems – perhaps – to have found a way to live without romance. But we must figure out what that means for ourselves. Shaw subtitled the play “A Mystery.”

Shaw had a hard time getting the play produced, but once it succeeded (first in the United States, then in England) it became a sort of craze. The character Candida is charming, and more than that, she is maternal. Grown men with careers are mere babies in her hands. This fact surely has one kind of appeal to men, and another kind to women.

Candida is not the first or last play of Shaw’s we will see where the woman is wise and the men are more or less fools.

The dialogue and characterization are first rate, and there is plenty of comedy. It seems to me that the minister’s early uncertainties about his wife, and Candida’s compulsion to choose between the two men, are extreme; but the play as a whole sparkles.

It is, inevitably, one episode in the continuing saga of Shaw’s struggle with religion. Since the play is about idealistic illusions, the minister’s Christianity must be seen to be mistaken, no matter how much the minister claims to believe it (as previously occurred in Major Barbara); even his Socialism is used for laughs.

THE MAN OF DESTINY (1885 / 1897) – Shaw wrote The Man of Destiny with the famed actress Ellen Terry (1847-1928) in mind. “The man of destiny” is Napoleon, and Shaw wrote that role for Henry Irving (1838-1905), the actor-manager of London’s Lyceum Theater, where Terry was its, and Irving’s, leading lady. Irving, infuriated by things Shaw said about him in reviews, pretended for a long time to be interested in the play, strung Shaw along, and never produced it.

The description below of Lady Cicely in Captain Brassbound’s Conversion may be applied to the Lady, the role intended for Ellen Terry in The Man of Destiny, except that the Lady is nowhere near as entertaining as Lady Cicely. Neither is the play, which reads as a not very interesting attempt to write a “vehicle” for two performers, without much else going on in it – and that’s what it is.

YOU NEVER CAN TELL (1895-1896 / 1899) – Shaw was the drama reviewer for The Saturday Review when The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) opened in 1895. Shaw’s review was unenthusiastic about the play, asserting that it was heartless and that he hated being tickled into laughter.

However, it must have made an impression on Shaw, who knew Wilde and frequently promoted his work. You Never Can Telldistinctly shows the influence of Wilde’s play. The tone of the first act, and the rapid delivery necessary to play it, are distinctly Wildean, and the story shares many plot elements with Earnest.

MRS CLANDON [relentlessly] On your honor, Mr Valentine, are you in earnest?
VALENTINE [desperately] On my honor I am in earnest. Only, I have always been in earnest; and yet - ! Well, here I am, you see.
MRS CLANDON That is just what I suspected.

From the second act on, the play is more Shaw than Wilde, but it does not lose the brightness of the first act. The young people who make up the core of the play are irrepressible and outspoken, and William, the waiter, has a knack for being at exactly the right place at the right time with the right thing to say.

I saw this play performed once, years ago, and I remembered it as mostly conversation. I was wrong; there is plenty of plot. Reading the play by myself, I laughed out loud when I saw one particular plot twist coming. In fact I laughed through most of the play from there on. It is a thrill to watch a master craftsman at work.

BOHUN. . . . It’s unwise to be born; it’s unwise to be married; it’s unwise to live; and it’s wise to die.
WAITER. Then, if I may respectfully put a word in, sir, so much the worse for wisdom!

Shaw’s theme of the Life Force working through Woman makes a couple of appearances, and at this point in my reading it is hard to get excited about it, but so what. This wonderful play should be performed regularly for the sheer fun of it. And I second the last words of the play:

Cheer up, sir, cheer up. Every man is frightened of marriage when it comes to the point; but it often turns out very comfortable, very enjoyable and happy indeed, sir – from time to time. I never was master in my own house, sir; my wife was like your young lady: she was of a commanding and masterful disposition, which my son has inherited. But if I had my life to live twice over, I’d do it again: I’d do it again, I assure you. You never can tell, sir: you never can tell.

THE DEVIL’S DISCIPLE (1896-1897 / 1897) – in his earlier plays Shaw often borrowed forms of theater popular at the time, and inverted them. Here the popular form is melodrama; Shaw says he used as many elements of it as he could – the black sheep brother, the reading of the will, the downtrodden scullery maid, the threatened hanging, the last minute escape, and so on – in this play set during the American Revolution.

But the core of the play is pure Shaw: at least two people, maybe more, find out in the moment of decision who they really are, and who they are not.

The first I knew of this play was watching the 1959 film version, in which Laurence Olivier plays General Burgoyne with such style and ease that I fell in love with it. Nothing quite matches the high comedy of the Burgoyne scenes that dominate the third act of the play; but the other scenes are highly satisfactory as well.

One sentiment in the play resonates throughout Shaw’s career: “You see, men have these strange notions, Mrs Anderson; and women see the folly of them.”

CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA (1898 / 1901) – Shaw complained that Shakespeare’s Caesar says nothing at all that a great man would say. I think that statement is misleading. Shakespeare’s Caesar just doesn’t say as much as Shaw’s does.

Although Caesar is the title role and although his influence permeates Shakespeare’s play, he is actually in it only briefly. All he needs to do in order to appear “great” is to carry the name of a great person, and not say anything really stupid.

Shaw’s Caesar says:

He who has never hoped can never despair. Caesar, in good or bad fortune, looks his fate in the face.

Shakespeare’s Caesar says:

Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.

Shakespeare, it seems to me, wins that contest hands down.

The play, of course, is based on historical events. One element of Shaw’s brilliance is that out of those events he chooses the strongest and most interesting for his play. (One would think that’s de rigueur, but it’s not.)

Alan Jay Lerner borrowed the setup of the first act, where Cleopatra meets Caesar in a lonely place without knowing who he is, for the opening scene of the musical Camelot (1960), and it is the strongest scene of that musical.

Most of Caesar and Cleopatra is as entertaining today as it was over a hundred years ago. The only parts that may have dated are some of the gags – continually mispronouncing the name of Cleopatra’s frightening lady-in-waiting Ftatateeta, and characterizing Caesar’s British slave Britannus as the antecedent of a Whitehall gentleman.

Caesar is an early Shaw portrait of what he will come to call the Superman – the person who has grown past our everyday world and lives above it. Caesar is much more complex than that brief description makes it sound, but he’s a start. Caesar, Shaw says, is “simply doing what he naturally wants to do.”

CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND’S CONVERSION (1899 / 1900) – This delightful play is not often performed, perhaps because the lead role, Lady Cicely Waynflete, requires a particular type of actress to play it. I saw Ingrid Bergman in the part in a short-lived Broadway production in 1972. Ms. Bergman was lovely but entirely wrong for the part. She was all too genuine (and the rest of the production was much too unfocused).

Lady Cicely is one of Shaw’s best representations of a woman who both fascinates and frustrates: she cheerfully agrees with men on everything, while knowing that everything they say is foolishness and acting accordingly. She is maddening; but she is wonderful, and extremely funny.

“The Admirable Bashville, or, Constancy Rewarded” (1901 / 1902) was based on a novel, one of five that Shaw wrote, called Cashel Byron’s Profession, Byron’s profession being boxing. All five novels were financial failures – until Cashel Byronbegan to sell in the United States, causing Shaw to fear that he would lose his copyright.

He wrote “The Admirable Bashville” in a week to preserve his rights. It has an old-fashioned romantic plot, and no lesson about society’s faults to teach.

And Shaw wrote it in blank verse – because that was easier than prose, he says. As with “Cymbeline Refinished” (part 5 of this series), I don’t feel that the verse has much relation to poetry. But it keeps on coming in waves, and after a while it begins to create a kind of manic charm.

[The next section of “Re-Reading Shaw” covers the plays written between 1901 and 1909.  I hope you’ll come back to ROT in about two weeks to read the second part of Kirk’s series.]

“Anatomy of a Broadway Flop”

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by Michael Paulson

[The following article was published in section C (“The Arts”) of the New York Times of 23 June 2016.  “Anatomy of a Broadway Flop” is presented as a sort of theatrical post mortem of four big Broadway musicals that failed this season.  I know little about three of the shows in the article aside from the Times reviews, but I think that Michael Paulson, the acting theatrical ME, was probably gentler than I suspect the shows deserve.  If I didn’t know better, I’d come away from the article thinking, ‘Gee, they made a couple of little mistakes.  That’s hardly worthy of a death sentence.’  But I can attest at least in the case of Bright Star, the only one of the four plays covered here that I saw, that the creators and producers didn’t do much right from my perspective (see my report on 11 April—I didn’t pussyfoot!).  Bright Star almost certainly wouldn’t have even made it to a Broadway stage (or, probably, even the Kennedy Center) if the name Steve Martin hadn’t been attached.  (I doubt Edie Brickell carries that much weight.)  Bright Star shouldn’t have been in the lofty position it finagled for itself and couldn’t sustain its unearned prominence.  (It’s sort of the theater counterpart of the Peter Principle: the show rose to its level of artistic incompetence and failed. I’m sorry for the artists who’ve lost their jobs—but theater, especially commercial theater, isn’t a jobs program.)

[American Psycho, with a book by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa and music and lyrics by Duncan Sheik, began previews at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre under the direction of Rupert Goold on 24 March 2016, opened on 21 April, and closed  on 5 June.  The review-survey website Show-Score gave American Psycho an averagerating of 62 based on notices that were 49% positive and 30% negative with 21% mixed.  American Psycho won Drama Desk Awards for Outstanding Sound Design, Outstanding Lighting Design, and Outstanding Projection Design, plus five additional Drama Desk nominations and two Tony Award nominations (Best Scenic Design and Best Lighting Design).  The musical also received eight Outer Critics Circle Award nominations of which it won two (lighting and projection design) and two Drama League Award nominations.

[Bright Star has a book by Steve Martin, music by Martin and Edie Brickell, and lyrics by Brickell and began previews under the direction of Walter Bobbie at the Cort Theatre on 25 February and opened on 24 March; the show closed on 26 June.  Show-Score reported that Bright Star received 66% positive reviews, 18% negative, and 16% mixed, accumulating a score of 67.  Bright Star won one Theatre World award for Carmen Cusack’s performance and one Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Music; the musical was nominated for six additional Drama Desks and five Tonys (Best Musical, Best Book, Best Original Score, Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role, and Best Orchestrations).  It also won two Outer Critics Circle Awards (Outstanding New Broadway Musical and Outstanding New Score) from seven nominations, and one Drama League Award (Cusack) from two nominations; it also received two Fred and Adele Astaire Award nominations.        

[Disaster! began previews at the Nederlander Theatre on 9 February, opened on 8 March, and closed on 8 May.  Directed by Jack Plotnick, Disaster! has a book by Plotnick and Seth Rudetsky based on a concept created by Seth Rudetsky and Drew Geraci using popular songs of the 1970s.  Show-Score gave Disaster! an average score of 65, with 67% of its reviews positive, 26% negative, and 7% mixed.  The jukebox musical was nominated for one Tony for Jennifer Simard’s featured performance and one Drama Desk Award for the featured performance of Baylee Littrell.

[Tuck Everlasting, with a book by Claudia Shear and Tim Federle, music by Chris Miller, and lyrics by Nathan Tysen, started previews under Casey Nicholaw’s direction at the Broadhurst Theatre on 31 March, opening on 26 April and closing on 29 May.  Show-Score’s rating of 63 was based on an average of 45% positive notices, 24% negative, and 31% mixed.  Tuck received one Tony nomination, for the costume designs of Gregg Barnes, and won a Theatre World award for the performance of actress Sarah Charles Lewis.  There were also three nominations for Outer Critics Circle Awards, two Drama League Award nominations, and two Fred and Adele Astaire Award nods.]

Roger Bart in “Disaster!” (Sara Krulwich/The New York Times)
The woeful wordplay writes itself. “American Psycho” met a gruesome end. “Tuck Everlasting” was not immortal. “Bright Star” ran out of fuel. And “Disaster!” proved to be — well, you can finish that one yourself.

Broadway is a brutal business, in which real success is enjoyed by a handful of shows, while a vast majority crash and burn. And this season was especially tough, because one show, “Hamilton,” gobbled up much of the attention, enthusiasm and awards that motivate potential ticket buyers.

For musicals that opened this spring, it was an especially unforgiving season. Broadway is increasingly saturated with long-running hits, and four musicals that opened last fall — “School of Rock,” “On Your Feet!,” “Fiddler on the Roof” and “The Color Purple” — reached the new year still running strong.

“People don’t have to go to their ‘I don’t know, maybe I’ll like it’ show when there are so many ‘You’re going to love it’ shows to see,” said Jordan Roth, the president of Jujamcyn Theaters, which owns five of the 40 Broadway houses.

Ultimately, shows fail because not enough people buy tickets to see them. Maybe the title wasn’t as popular as the producers thought, the performers not as appealing, the stories not as dramatic, the songs not as memorable. And, in an era of high running costs, many producers can no longer afford to wait to let an audience build.

Four shows flopped this spring at a total loss to their investors. Here, based on interviews with a variety of Broadway figures, is an autopsy report of sorts for “American Psycho,” “Disaster!” and “Tuck Everlasting,” all of which closed in recent weeks, and “Bright Star,” which wraps up on Sunday.

Benjamin Walker in “American Psycho” (Sara Krulwich/The New York Times)

‘American Psycho’

The run 27 previews, then 54 performances after opening April 21 at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theater.

The story A hunky and status-obsessed investment banker who is (or at least appears to be) a sex-crazed serial killer in New York City in 1989.

Cost to produce $9.8 million

Onstage The title character, Patrick Bateman, was played by Benjamin Walker (“Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson”); the cast also featured a reunion of the “Next to Normal” co-stars Jennifer Damiano and Alice Ripley.

Offstage An A-list creative team: music by the singer-songwriter Duncan Sheik (“Spring Awakening”), set design by Es Devlin and direction by Rupert Goold (“King Charles III”). The lead producer was Jeffrey Richards.

What were they thinking? The title is well known and has an established fan base through the polarizing 1991 novel by Bret Easton Ellis and the cult film adaptation in 2000. The musical seemed sexy and fearless, with a critique of the go-go ’80s that might resonate in this era of intense discussion about income inequality; an initial production, at the Almeida Theater in London from 2013-14, received some encouraging reviews. The show was scheduled then to go to Second Stage, an Off Broadway nonprofit, for further development, but the rights holder was so confident of the prospects that it forced the cancellation of that production and moved straight to Broadway.

Critical response Divided, but several of the most influential critics hated it. The show was nominated for two Tony Awards, for scenic and lighting design, and won neither.

Why it failed It was always going to be a risk. The blood-drenched material (at one performance, a misfiring blood pack splattered an audience member) was unsuitable for families and unappealing to tourists, who make up a large constituency of Broadway ticket buyers. But the show proved divisive even for adventurous theatergoers. Some raved about its bold look and daring content, but others suggested it underplayed the satire; many found the explicit and misogynistic violence offensive. Also noteworthy: British-developed shows satirizing the United States (see “Enron”) have recently tanked on Broadway.

Carmen Cusack in “Bright Star” (Sara Krulwich/The New York Times)
‘Bright Star’

The run 30 previews, then 109 performances after opening March 24 at the Cort Theater.

The story Inspired by a news account of a baby found in a valise, the musical, set in North Carolina in the 1920s and the 1940s, tracks the intertwining stories of a young soldier and the editor of a Southern literary magazine.

Cost to produce $10.5 million

Onstage Instead of going with a well-known star, the show’s creative team chose Carmen Cusack, who had been with the project from the start; she got great reviews and was nominated for a Tony Award for her Broadway debut performance as the editor, Alice Murphy.

Offstage The comedian and musician Steve Martin and the singer-songwriter Edie Brickell collaborated on the score. The show was directed by Walter Bobbie (a Tony winner for “Chicago”), and the lead producer was Joey Parnes, who had shepherded “A Gentleman’s Guide to Love & Murder” into an unlikely hit.

What were they thinking? The producers and creators were encouraged with what they saw at two pre-Broadway productions, a premiere at the Old Globe in San Diego in 2014, then a run in 2015 at the Kennedy Center in Washington; they believed that the cultural cachet of Mr. Martin and Ms. Brickell would attract audiences and that a combination of buzz and awards would broaden the appeal.

Critical response Mixed. Charles Isherwood of The New York Times praised the show as “gentle-spirited, not gaudy,” but Terry Teachout described it in The Wall Street Journal as “a really bad bluegrass-pop musical.” The show was nominated for five Tony Awards, including for best new musical, but won none.

Why it failed Although some were charmed, few were wowed, making it hard to build word of mouth. As an original musical, not adapted from a film or novel, and with a complex plot, it was hard to explain to ticket buyers. Some found the show’s denouement laughably predictable. The musical was nostalgic; it was often described as quiet, or small, which has worked for some recent musicals (“Once,” “Fun Home”), though not this year. As “Bright Star” struggled at the box office, Mr. Martin and Ms. Brickell, among others, lent the production more money to keep it running, and on about a dozen occasions Mr. Martin joined the band onstage for an instrumental entr’acte, but it was not enough to save the show.

A scene from “Disaster!” (Sara Krulwich/The New York Times)

‘Disaster!’                                                                                                                            
The run 32 previews, then 72 performances after opening March 8 at the Nederlander Theater.

The story A spoof of 1970s disaster films (particularly “The Poseidon Adventure”), the show depicted the misadventures of the passengers and crew members on an ill-fated floating casino in New York City in 1979.

Cost to produce $6.5 million

Onstage Seth Rudetsky, a Broadway booster and a co-writer of the musical, starred as a disaster expert and enlisted several stage notables to ham it up alongside him, including Roger Bart (“The Producers”), Kerry Butler (“Xanadu”), Adam Pascal (“Rent”) and Faith Prince (“Guys and Dolls”).

Offstage The musical featured jukebox classics from the disco era and was directed by Jack Plotnick, who wrote the show with Mr. Rudetsky. The lead producer was Robert Ahrens.

What were they thinking? This show was an effort at counterprogramming — it had two successful Off Broadway runs, in 2012 and 2013-14, and the producers hoped that the enthusiasm for a campy night out could be replicated on Broadway.

Critical response Mr. Isherwood, writing in The Times, praised the show as a “delirious goof,” but other key critics were less impressed; in New York magazine, Jesse Green called it “a tiny entertainment that should probably have been left in a basement rec room.” Jennifer Simard’s uproarious performance as a nun with a gambling problem received the only Tony nomination; she did not hit the jackpot.

Why it failed The musical struck many as an extended, one-gag skit, without enough star power, spectacle or drama to justify Broadway prices (or a two-act running time), and it sank.

Andrew Keenan-Bolger and Sarah Charles Lewis in the musical 
“Tuck Everlasting.” (Sara Krulwich/The New York Times)

‘Tuck Everlasting’

The run 28 previews, then 39 performances after opening April 26 at the Broadhurst Theater.

The story A young girl who meets an immortal family in the woods of rural New Hampshire and must decide whether to drink from the water that would allow her to live forever.

Cost to produce $11 million

Onstage The Broadway veterans Terrence Mann (“Pippin”), Carolee Carmello (“Parade”), Michael Park (“Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”) and Andrew Keenan-Bolger (“Newsies”), along with an 11-year-old newcomer, Sarah Charles Lewis.

Offstage A beloved children’s book, published in 1975 by Natalie Babbitt, was the key ingredient. Add in the hitmaker Casey Nicholaw as director and choreographer, changing pace from his go-for-the-guffaw spectacles — “Aladdin,” “The Book of Mormon” and “Something Rotten!” The musical’s initial book was by Claudia Shear, and then the producers added Tim Federle to help revise it for Broadway; Chris Miller and Nathan Tysen did the score. The lead producer was Beth Williams.

What were they thinking? An initial production in Atlanta was well-received; Mr. Nicholaw has a track record of commercial success; and family-friendly musicals often do well on Broadway.

Critical response Tepid, with a few exceptions. The show was nominated for one Tony, for costume design; it did not win.

Why it failed Without big stars, it had low advance sales, and some argued that its leafy logo was unhelpful. The story is a bit of a fairy tale — often hard to execute. Adults perceived it as a show for children, and family shows without the Disney imprimatur are hard to sell. “Tuck” was sweet and lovely, but those are not the adjectives a musical needed this season to be heard above the din.



Dispatches from Israel 7

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by Helen Kaye

[Last spring, my friend and frequent ROT-contributor Helen Kaye sent me a couple of her Jerusalem Post reviews, but I was so loaded on the blog at the time that I couldn’t shoehorn them in for posting until now.  As late as this is, I’m running Helen’s “Dispatches from Israel 7,” the latest in her occasional series of drama notices from Tel Aviv, where she lives, Jerusalem, and frequently elsewhere around the country.  Below are presented Helen’s assessment of a Hebrew translation of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew and a British Play, Daytona by Oliver Cotton, both produced in Tel Aviv by Bet Lessin.]

The Taming of the Shrew
By William Shakespeare
Translated by Dori Parnes
Directed by Udi Ben Moshe
Bet Lessin, Tel Aviv; 10 January 2016

Scrumptious, irreverent, farce with an edge! This is a 21st century Shrew to revel in from A – Z and back again.

It starts with a nifty monologue by Yossi Segal on how it’s the guys’ turn in these our “anything you can do I can do better,” days and never lets up for 100 captivating, rollicking minutes.

Dori Parnes has worked his usual sleight of hand with Shakespeare’s text. His wordplays, puns and other verbal pranks preserve Shakespeare’s spirit via up-to-the-minute Hebrew that has the audience in stitches.

Then there’s Udi Ben Moshe’s rib-splitting visual pranks as well as his thoroughly smart take on what this play’s about (won’t be a spoiler – sorry!) that carries through to Lily Ben Nahshon’s enclosing set of doors and revolving panels, Orna Smorgansky’s apt-to-all-times costuming, Adi Cohen’s clever music and Keren Granek’s no-nonsense lighting.

We all know the story. Rich merchant Baptista (Ilan Dar) has two daughters; blond Bianca (Agam Rodberg), a sweetie (?), and redhead Katarina (Maya Dagan), the shrew. Until Kate marries (a remote possibility), Bianca cannot, and who in H… would marry Kate? Enter Petruchio (Yuval Segal) and we’re off!

Shrew is all about Kate and Petruchio, so you’d better make sure you have good ones. Dagan and Segal have us rooting for them from the getgo.

Dagan’s Kate is bruised and bruising, violent and vulnerable, smart and smarting. When we meet her she’s in riding pants and a shirt, mean as an adder, and unloved to boot. We watch, enthralled, as she succumbs oh-so-gradually to being loved and to the elation of partnership.

Yuval Segal’s Petruchio is a riot from his s*#t-kicking grin to his beef-cake swagger compounded by Israeli macho. He transforms too, from gold-digger (“I’ve come to wive it wealthily in Padua)” to joyous appreciation of endless possibilities, getting there with more changes than a chameleon.

Not that the other actors are standing about. We have Vitali Friedland’s yummy, slippery Grumio, Yaniv Biton’s ebulliently posturing Tranio, Ilan Dar’s gorgeously clueless Baptista, Agam Rodberg’s fleety flirty Bianca, Mordy Gershon’s marvelously inept Hortensio among the splendid rest, not forgetting the delicious cameos by Yossi Segal and Albert Cohen.

This is a Shrew with brio in shovelsful, but you know what it has most of? Ease and fun!

*  *  *  *
Daytona
By Oliver Cotton
Translated by Yosef el Dror
Directed by Alon Ophir
Bet Lessin, Tel Aviv; 16 March 2016

They’ve made a life for themselves after That Time. What happened Over There is never talked about. Not ever. This evening in 1986 Elli (Liora Rivlin) and Joe (Rafi Tavor), now in their 70s, are rehearsing to Frank Sinatra’s “Dancing Cheek to Cheek” for tomorrow evening’s Seniors Ballroom Dancing event. They’ve won cups that are squashed on a shelf in the living room of their modest Brooklyn apartment. It’s not the cups, it’s the dancing, you see, and in a bit Elli is off to get her dress for the competition.

Then Billy (Avi Oria) arrives. No luggage, but enough Chinese takeout for a small army. He’s all smiles, talking a mile a minute, apparently oblivious that Joe’s welcome is, shall we say, lukewarm. He’s on the run after putting three deliberate and lethal bullets into one Franz Gruber in the swimming pool at his vacation hotel at Daytona, Florida; SS Franz Gruber, now blameless Chaney, formerly a sadistic killer at Stutthof  concentration camp, and whom Billy recognized because of the birthmark on his neck.

After all, where else would he go?

Now? Now he arrives, 30 years after disappearing without a word, demanding his brother’s help.

Yes, Billy and Joe are brothers. The relationship between them and with Elli, when she returns, is the meat of Cotton’s tight family drama. You have to gulp a bit, here and there, but dramatically, theatrically it works. Orna Smorgonsky’s set and costumes – lots of beige and browns - and Nadav Barnea’s lighting add to that.

Director Ophir has wisely elected to avoid pathos, reflected in the actors’ speaking reticence. We get the sense (as it should be), that there’s so much they’re not saying and this adds real punch to their performance.

Rivlin’s Elli is tightly reined in. Even when she spills her guts – and she does – she doesn’t raise her voice; her voice and body are barely there, she holds with effort onto Self. Oria’s Billy is at once overwhelmed at the enormity of what he’s done yet convinced of its correctness and he lets us see the conflict. Rafi Tavor as Joe is more volatile. Of the three, he’s the one who’s managed to grip at life more securely but Billy’s arrival shakes him to the core and Tavor does a gorgeous job with that.

The gulp or two aside, Daytona has heart.  Its humanity holds us.

[Helen’s previous contributions to ROT include “Dispatches” 1 through 6 on 23 January 2013, 6 August 2013, 20 November 2013, 2 June 2015, 22 August 2015 (which also includes an article Helen wrote on the Israel Festival), and 6 October 2015.  (I also posted another of Helen’s JP reviews, Molière’s Tartuffe, on 2 November 2014 as a Comment to “Dispatches 3.”) ROTters might also enjoy looking back at ”Help! It’s August: Kid-Friendly Summer Festivals in Israel,” 12 September 2010; ”Acre (Acco) Festival, Israel,” 9 November 2012; “Berlin,” 22 July 2013; “A Trip to Poland,” 7 August 2015.]

Re-Reading Shaw – Plays from 1901 to 1909

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by Kirk Woodward

[This is part 2 of Kirk Woodward’s series, “Re-Reading Shaw,” his commentary upon reading all six volumes of the playwright’s Complete Plays with Prefaces (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1963).  The first section, covering plays written from 1885 to 1902, was posted on ROTon 3 July, and though there are some references to earlier parts of the series in later ones, each section substantially stands on its own.  Nonetheless, I strongly recommend reading them in order to get a sense of the sweep of Shaw’s work over the 65 years of his playwriting career.  (Even before the Irishman turned to writing for the theater, he had a significant career as a respected music and theater critic.)]

MAN AND SUPERMAN (1901-1903 / 1905) begins with the inscription “To Arthur Bingham Walkley” (1855-1926), drama critic for the Times of London, who Shaw says suggested that he write a play about Don Juan, the fictional womanizing libertine.

Shaw then goes on to write a preface of dumbfounding folderol, crammed with assertions like “It may seem a long step from [John] Bunyan to [Friedrich] Nietzsche, but the difference between their conclusions is merely formal” (like hell it is), and the claim that his Don Juan character is a direct descendant of the original fictional Don.

There are in fact only the small differences that he is neither a womanizer nor a libertine – he’s only a society radical who has written a book called The Revolutionist’s Handbook (which Shaw has written and attaches to the play, and in which Shaw, following his usual pattern, redefines the concept of Revolution into something unrecognizable).

The high-sounding nonsense of the preface leads into a lively comedy of social relations, mixed with a heavy dose of discussion and enough plot to make one think it might equally well have been a novel.

It is a four act play, and in Act III a famous “set piece” interrupts the plot, a discussion between four main characters of the original Don Juan story – Don Juan, Dona Ana, the Commodore (her father), and the Devil – that has become known as “Don Juan in Hell.” Hell, in Shaw’s vision, is the place where everyone is completely entranced by ideals.

The four characters are played by the actors who play their counterparts in the other three acts. (Some productions cut this act; occasionally the act has been performed by itself.) I had not realized until this reading of the play that the third act is not all that different from the others.

They are all filled with talk about ideas – if not Shaw’s ideas, at least ideas of interest to Shaw; but in Acts 1, 2, and 4 the ideas belong to their characters, and are not arbitrarily assigned to them.

I do not feel the same is true of Act III, “Don Juan in Hell.” In the rest of the play Jack Tanner, the Don Juan character, is so extreme that he comes across as a bit loony (“possibly a little mad,” Shaw says in his description). But in Act III he, as Don Juan, clearly speaks for Shaw.

I am not saying the scene is only a pamphlet – the dialogue is very clever – but from the time Don Juan begins his series of monologues on the subject of the Life Force and Woman as its instrument, I find myself increasingly irritated by the repetition of concepts that aren’t original, difficult to understand, or fundamentally very interesting, and are repeated so often that taking a swig every time a character says “Life Force” would make a potent drinking game.

What is this Life Force, exactly? I remember listening to a recording of “Don Juan in Hell,” as performed by Charles Boyer, Agnes Moorehead, Cedric Hardwicke, and Charles Laughton, with my friend Steve Johnson. When it was over, Steve said he didn’t think Shaw was clear whether the Life Force was personal or impersonal. Is it blind or mind?

It seems to me that Steve is correct and that Shaw wants to have it both ways – or at least to allow his audience to think that it could be either. In any case, the Life Force, Don Juan says, “needs a brain . . .” “The Life Force is stupid.” Personally I am not sure Don Juan is putting the blame in the right place.

“Every child,” Shaw says in another preface, “is an experiment by the Life Force.” But an experiment requires a scientist or an observer – an experimenter, one who stands above the experiment. Shaw does not appear to notice this.

The third act does not begin with the “Don Juan in Hell” scene, incidentally. It begins with an extraordinarily articulate group of brigands in the mountains of Spain. Of course they are articulate. In this play everyone talks. (At one plot point, the chief brigand exclaims, “A dramatic coincidence!”)

One sees in Man and Superman Shaw’s ability to draw on a huge range of reading and to synthesize what he reads.

In the case of this play, Walkley, I suspect, challenged Shaw to write a Don Juan play to goad him into writing something with more sex in it than Shaw usually chose to include. Shaw answers him by writing a play about the sexual instinct, which he sees as an instrument of the Life Force that uses woman’s manipulation of man to advance the species.

One can get tired, however, of Shaw’s continual insistence in the play on the sexual instinct and on how woman drags man along – or rather about the talk about it by John Tanner, the title character (both the Man and the Superman). At least I do.

Act IV seems to me a bit schematic, although I have not seen it performed and might feel differently if I saw it staged.

It was while reading Act IV that I realized that the play is Shaw’s version of what he thinks Shakespeare should have written in Much Ado about Nothing. (Matt Wolf made this same point in a review of a London production of Man and Superman in the New York Times,11 March 2015.)

Shaw severely criticized the characters of Beatrice and Benedick:

Paraphrase the encounters of Benedick and Beatrice . . . and it will become apparent to the most infatuated Shakespearean that they contain at best nothing out of the common in thought or wit, and at worst a good deal of vulgar naughtiness. . . nothing more than the platitudes of proverbial philosophy, with a very occasional curiosity in the shape of a rudiment of some modern idea, not followed up. (The Saturday Review, 26 Feb 1898)

Shaw attempts to correct Shakespeare’s alleged insufficiencies by making his Ann Whitefield tricky, and his John Tanner full of complaints about being entrapped by women and the Life Force. As with the character of Julius Caesar, it seems to me that Shaw does not surpass Shakespeare here – rather the contrary.

About that “Superman”. . . not a bird, or a plane . . . Shaw took the term from Nietzsche’s “Übermensch,” but a better translation might be Over-Man, or perhaps Beyond-Human. Shaw uses the term to suggest that humanity might somehow outgrow itself and become something greater – “the ideal individual being omnipotent, omniscient, infallible, and withal completely, unilludedly self conscious: in short, a god.”

Shaw knows at some level how unappealing  this sounds; but it’s the Devil, interestingly, who says, “Beware of the pursuit of the Superhuman: it leads to an indiscriminate contempt for the Human.” Shaw’s plays illustrate the Devil’s comment more than once.

The word “superman,” along with the concept, has lost its charm and now seems as ghastly as Nietzsche’s other futuristic idea, the “Eternal Return,” which Shaw nods to in Act III but doesn’t otherwise promote, being allergic to an “eternal” anything. Shaw uses “the Superman” aspirationally but fails to suggest any way it might actually be an improvement on our present condition.

As Shaw grew older and more frustrated with the pace of change in society, he appears to have begun to think he had discovered the Superman in real human beings – for example, in Lenin and Stalin. The size of his mistake is the measure of his desperation.

JOHN BULL’S OTHER ISLAND (1904) – Shaw’s play about Ireland, his homeland, written for and rejected by the Abbey Theatre because, as William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), the theater’s manager, said, it was technically too demanding to produce, but also, as everyone understood, because Shaw presented the Ireland of his day realistically:

It was uncongenial to the whole spirit of the neo-Gaelic movement, which is bent on creating a new Ireland after its own ideal, whereas my play is a very uncompromising presentment of the real old Ireland.

Shaw actually understates the matter. The play is an attack on everything an Irish audience could possibly believe about itself. Shaw claims that he gets his effects by telling the simple truth about things, but in fact he frequently goes out of his way to be as obnoxious about them as possible; his denials of this are disingenuous.

It makes sense that the play had to succeed in London before it could be performed in Dublin; success at least took a bit of the sting off it.

(As a tip of the hat to the Abbey Theatre, the third act includes a long scene in which a large group of people sit and talk – the kind of staging for which the Abbey was most noted.)

There are three prefaces to the play, less overbearing in tone than some of his more didactic introductions, dated 1912, 1906, and 1929. In the first, Shaw predicts how events will work out in Ireland; as he admits in a note, he was completely wrong. In the second, written for the play’s first publication, he analyzes the Irish and English national characters. In the third, he summarizes the ghastly historical events – the Easter Rebellion, the Black and Tans, partition – that shaped the Ireland we know today. In the course of these essays he makes trenchant observations on colonialism, for example:

A healthy nation is as unconscious of its nationality as a healthy man of his bones. But if you break a nation’s nationality it will think of nothing else but getting it set again.

Acquired rights are deduced from political constitutions; but political constitutions are deduced from natural rights.

A political scheme that cannot be carried out except by soldiers will not be a permanent one.

We settled the Irish Question, not as civilized and reasonable men should have settled it, but as dogs settle a dispute over a bone.

What is left of John Bull’s Other Island, now the Irish Question has been (more or less) settled? The play became famous when King Edward VII, at a special performance, laughed so hard that he broke his chair, and it was a commercial success for Shaw. But the humor is of a particular kind. It’s a comedy of reversals – in particular, reversals of the ideas that the characters have about themselves.

In this sense it resembles the plays of another Irishman, Eugene O’Neill, whoseThe Iceman Cometh (1939 / 1946) and Long Day’s Journey Into Night (1941-1942 / 1956) also dramatize the destruction of illusions. O’Neill is not a funny writer; Shaw’s tone here, of course, is comic, but also bitter. “My way of joking is to tell the truth,” says the former priest, Keegan, who has a lot of Shaw in him; “It’s the funniest joke in the world.”

Broadbent, the English businessman who in 24 hours manages to dominate an entire swath of Ireland, is a version of Undershaft, the arms dealer in Major Barbara, but without Undershaft’s self-awareness; and there is nothing humorous about Undershaft anyway. As the Irish character Larry Doyle says in the play, “I wish I could find a country to live in where the facts were not brutal and the dreams not unreal.”

There’s a fine line between illusion and poetry. Shaw tells us that our poetic image of Ireland is an illusion – and that the same is true of most of our lives. Whether or not that’s so, poetry is forbidden territory for Shaw, although Keegan’s “vision” at the end of the play sticks in the mind. I see it as a bleak play, a decade and a half before the melancholy Heartbreak House. One wonders what the King was laughing at.

“How He Lied To Her Husband”(1904) was written as a curtain raiser for “The Man of Destiny,” which wasn’t long enough for a full evening. It is a telescoped version of Candida, with a married woman and a younger man who idolizes her. When the poems he wrote about her are lost, and presumably found by her gossipy sister-in-law, she becomes utterly realistic, and the poet is disillusioned. Then the husband comes home...

“How He Lied,” like “The Glimpse of Reality,” is a marvelous short play, funny and smart, and well worthy of production.

MAJOR BARBARA (1905) – This play has an excellent reputation. When I first read it years ago, my impression was that it (like Saint Joan) was essentially a tragedy – that is, a play about a mighty conflict between powerful forces that will not yield.

I still feel that “tragedy” describes the play at its best. This time around, though, I see more clearly what Shaw is up to, and I can’t applaud it. It is in Major Barbara that Shaw shows among the first definite signs of the ugly pattern that will disfigure his later life – his admiration for dictators, primarily Stalin, at times Hitler and Mussolini as well, and others in theory.

“Major” Barbara is a Salvation Army officer, working to save the lives and souls of the poor, and her father, Andrew Undershaft, also dedicates himself to lifting the living conditions of his workers – except that his business is weapons and munitions, so he is equally to be credited for good working conditions, and for countless brutal deaths throughout the world. He offers to underwrite the work of the Salvation Army. Barbara finds this outrageous; the Army finds it a miracle. Barbara’s faith is shattered.

Undershaft’s position is that there is no active force in life except money; that poverty is the only evil, and abundance the only good; that the only moral question is whether one is well-off or not. Shaw astonishingly writes his preface to the play, not as though he were Shaw, but as though he were Undershaft – as though he believed exactly what Undershaft believes, even to the point that, as the arms czar says, a person doesn’t really believe in something until he’s ready – not to die, but – to kill for it.

For me, the effect of this is ghastly – not that the character of Undershaft should feel this way, because that’s appropriate, but that Shaw should appear to. This preface and play prefigure Shaw’s future fascination with dictators, and his cheerful acceptance of executions as a means of improving the world.

The critic Eric Bentley, in general an admirer of Shaw, called him out on this point, asking: is killing really the only way to improve the world? Are there no alternatives? Shaw becomes unsettlingly ready to accept the sacrifice of human life for the benefit of – human life! Reading the preface and play this time around made my skin crawl.

Murder is also the theme of “Passion, Poison, and Petrifaction” (1905), a lunatic farce in which the victim, among other actions, eats some of the ceiling. There is a whisper of a theme here about the role of ideals in our lives, but mostly you can’t hear the whisper over the knockabout farce.

THE DOCTOR’S DILEMMA (1906) – The first play in the collection is one I had always avoided on the understanding that it wasn’t top drawer Shaw. To my delight, it turns out to be a well-crafted melodrama about the dangers of being a Professional, whether in medicine or some other field (this play includes Shaw’s famous – and accurate – aphorism that “all professions are conspiracies against the laity”).

The core of the plot is a story of sexual desire – a doctor lusts after the wife of a potential patient, a dishonest, slippery con man who also happens to be a brilliant artist. Perhaps the doctor ought to save the artist’s life because of his potential for great contributions to society? On the other hand, the man is essentially a sociopath, and if his life is not saved, the doctor may be able to marry his wife! People who consider Shaw’s plays “bloodless” might want to consider what happens in this one. The dialogue is clever throughout.

“The Interlude at the Playhouse”(1907), written for the opening of a new theater, is a comedy sketch for the theater’s actor-manager, scheduled to give a speech, and his wife, trying to prepare the audience to like it. Except for a bit of preaching at the end, it is consistently funny, showing again that among many other things, Shaw was a fine comedy writer.

GETTING MARRIED (1908) has a preface on marriage almost a hundred pages long. Is there that much to say about marriage? “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” But that was Tolstoy, not Shaw. However, this is one of Shaw’s more agreeable prefaces, because it is one of his least utopian.

We shall in a very literal sense empty the baby out with the bath by abolishing an institution which needs nothing more than a little obvious and easy rationalizing to make it not only harmless but comfortable, honorable, and useful.

This is not always the note we hear in Shaw. (Another exception is the waiter's speech from You Never Can Tell quoted in the first article in this series.)

The preface is long, among other reasons, because Shaw doesn’t consider any social problem to be separate from society as a whole. “Until we abolish poverty,” he says, “it is impossible to push rational measures of any kind very far.” This perspective opens the door a good deal wider than does a simple proposal for the liberalization of divorce laws, which is Shaw’s basic recommendation.

The preface predictably contains numerous unsupported generalizations delivered as settled fact. But there are also shrewd observations. Among these are reflections on the advantages of large families; on the difference between the “what” of a problem (identifiable by popular opinion) and the “how” of its solution (probably requiring expert help); and on Othello’s feeling for Desdemona (“this is not what a man feels about the thing he loves, but about the thing he owns”).

Getting Married and its preface have a comfortable relationship: the preface illuminates the play, or the play illuminates the preface, take your pick. Shaw wrote the play in one long act, in which the characters try to figure out what marriage is and what they think of it.

There is a central situation – an engaged couple read a pamphlet about marriage just before their wedding ceremony, and it frightens them – surrounded by many other existing and potential marriages.

There is a lot of talk – too much for the play to support – and yet another female character entering toward the end to give the play a boost. “Marriage,” says a Wisdom character in the play, “is tolerable enough in its way if youre easygoing and don’t expect too much from it. But it doesn’t bear thinking about. The great thing is to get the young people tied up before they know what they’re in for.”

THE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNET(1909) – Blanco Posnet is a one-act play, set in the American West. A notable fact about Shaw is that, while his ideas remain basically consistent and reappear in play after play, the plays themselves have a great variety of forms and settings. In externals, one play by Shaw seldom resembles another one. Shaw certainly had never been in the American West, and his picture of it has been picked at, but it does the job.

Shaw being Shaw, of course, Blanco Posnetis not a typical Western, being a story of spiritual redemption. Posnet says, toward the end of the play:

By Jiminy, gents, theres a rotten game, and theres a great game. I played the rotten game; but the great game was played on me; and now I’m for the great game every time. Amen.

The play suggests that there are good points in Christianity, but that there is something greater; in this play, Shaw doesn’t make explicit what that is. We can guess he means the Life Force, but an audience member who knew nothing about his theories would have to work hard to extract specifics from this play. In any event, the basic effect of it is highly spiritual.

Blanco Posnet was submitted to the Lord Chamberlain’s Office – the censor of the stage – who denied it a license for performance, on grounds of blasphemy, unless Shaw agreed to make changes including removing references to God from the play – leaving in it, as Shaw pointed out, all the things one would expect God would oppose.

Shaw refused to make the changes; Yeats and Lady Gregory (1852-1932) arranged for the play to be produced unaltered at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, where the Lord Chamberlain could not block it.

The preface to Blanco Posnet tells the story of the battle with censorship and the attempt to have it abolished – an attempt that did not succeed until 1968, eighteen years after Shaw’s death. Since then the British theater, needless to say, has flourished. (Blanco Posnet finally had its U.K. premiere in 1909, but for only two performances, in a “private club,” not a licensed theater.) 

“Press Cuttings” (1909) – Shaw burlesques the government’s treatment of the Women’s Suffrage movement in a nearly absurdist sketch demonstrating once again that women and men are practically different species, men being buffoons, and women, brilliant. Reading the sketch works best if one imagines the Monty Python troupe doing the all roles, including the women.

The Censor predictably refused to license the sketch if names resembling those of real politicians and military men were used. Shaw therefore changed the names of the General and Prime Minister to General Bones and Mister Johnson, borrowing them from minstrel shows and thereby making his point even more satirical.

“The Fascinating Foundling”(1909) was written for a charity event at the request of the Prime Minister’s daughter, and Shaw came through with a lively sketch that touches gently on a few social issues but mostly presents people trying to get what they want, totally oblivious to anything else. Fast and funny.

I am not saying that Shaw’s characteristic themes don’t ever pop up in these short plays. The title of the dashing “The Glimpse of Reality” (1909 / 1927) is almost a summary of Shaw’s entire output. The glimpse occurs to a nobleman about to be murdered by well-organized scoundrels; he understands for the first time who he really is, and ironically his insight makes the murderers think he is crazy, so they spare his life (for a price).

This is a really excellent little piece and I’m surprised it’s not more often performed. If you didn’t know the author was Shaw, I’m not sure you’d guess; but who else could the author be?

[As I said in the first installment  of Kirk’s Shavian commentary, there are three more sections of “Re-Reading Shaw” and I’ll be posting them every couple of weeks.  Part 3 of the series covers the plays Shaw wrote between 1909 and 1920; I hope you’ll come back to ROT at the beginning of August to read what Kirk has to say about the period of the great writer’s work.]


Two Looks Back

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(Play Reports from Rick’s Archives)

LADY DAY AT EMERSON'S BAR & GRILL(2006)

[In my recent report on Shuffle Along, Or, The Making of the Musical Sensation of 1921 and All That Followed (posted on 28 June as “Shuffle Along (Redux)), I mentioned in passing that I’d recently watched Audra McDonald, who stars in Shuffle Along: The Making, in a televised performance of Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar & Grill and compared her work as Billie Holiday with her portrayal of Lottie Gee in Shuffle Along: The Making.  I decided to post my brief comments on an earlier production of Lady Day at Washington, D.C.’s Arena Stage.  Interestingly, I found the opinion I formed of the 2006 stage presentation pretty much unchanged by the HBO cable-cast of March 2016.]

On 26 April 2006, my mother and I went to the Arena Stage to see their revival of Lanie Robertson’s Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill with Lynn Sterling (The Life)as Billie HolidaySome folks may remember that this musical bio piece played Off-Broadway in ’86-’87 with Lonette McKee in the title role (briefly—she left for medical reasons) and has been floating around the country for almost 20 years now.  (Coincidentally, Mom saw another revival at Washington’s Studio Theatre back in ’88-’89.)  I’m afraid the only reason for its popularity that I can see is the chance, depending on fortuitous casting, to see a simulation of Billie Holiday singing some of her signature songs (“God Bless the Child,” “Strange Fruit,” “Taint Nobody’s Biz-ness”); it’s really a jukebox musical—though that term hadn’t really become current yet.  

The theater is often set up like a nightclub—the Arena’s Kreeger, the proscenium space, had several cafe tables set up on what would have been the apron and some spectators were seated there—and the only other cast member with lines is the piano player.  Lady Day gives her concert, gets progressively drunker/higher, and recounts the ups and downs of her life from childhood in Baltimore, to her failed and abusive marriage/relationships, her arrest and imprisonment for drug possession, and the final years before her death.  (She died in 1959, the year the play is set in Philadelphia, of cardiac arrest at the age of 44).  

Now, from what I know of Lady Day’s singing (my dad was a fan and a jazzophile), Sterling does a credible job channeling her in the songs, but the monologues are predictable, obvious, and both undramatic and untheatrical.  Maybe a superb actress (or cleverer director than Kenneth Lee Robertson) could do something to enliven the talk, but I doubt it.  There’s nothing there that wouldn’t work better in an A&E Biography or an MTV Behind the Music—or in a biographical book.  Just ‘cause someone dressed like Billie Holiday is saying the words don’t make it theater!  It doesn’t help, I suppose, that Holiday’s story is downbeat and sad—poverty, prejudice, Jim Crow segregation, drugs and alcohol, abuse and violence.  (None of this is entirely unfamiliar, of course.  Aside from the general commonality of the experience with many black performers and other African Americans whose stories have been told in books and film and on TV, Holiday’s story has been available in her own 1956 autobiography, Lady Sings the Blues, and the 1972 film of the same name starring Diana Ross.)  Both for her and for us, the music is the only relief.  I’d rather have listened to a record.

[What I determined after watching the HBO cable broadcast of Lady Day, directed by Lonny Price (who staged the live version at the Circle in the Square Theater on Broadway, where it ran from 13 April through 5 October 2014), was that the problems I identified with the monologue parts of the performance were as substantial as they had been at the Arena—as I predicted.  I can’t imagine a better actress to embody Billie Holiday than Audra McDonald, who won her record sixth Tony for the role, because she’s an actress of peerless talent both in dramas and musicals.  (Among her six Tonys, McDonald has also won an award in all four of the categories for which an actress can be considered; her other three are: Leading Actress in a Musical for the Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess, Featured Actress in a Musical for Ragtime and Carousel, and Featured Actress in a Play for Master Class and Raisin in the Sun.)  

[Yet, even this monumentally accomplished performer, whose renditions of Holiday’s music is spot-on from what I could judge, could do nothing to enliven the long sections of patter between the songs.  It was still just as untheatrical in her hands as it was when assayed by Lynn Sterling.  Just as clearly, director Price didn’t bring anything more to those moments than didKenneth Lee Robertson at Arena.  The only benefit, and it was slight, was that in the TV version, which allowed the opening-up of the setting because a camera could follow McDonald around the set, Holiday could move about the bar/cabaret while she talked.  I can’t say it helped much with the real problem—it was just eyewash.]

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SHE LOVES ME (2007)

[On 30 June, the Roundabout Theatre Company live-streamed its current production of the musical She Loves Me at Manhattan’s Studio 54.  Nine-and-a-half years ago, I saw a live stage production of the musical, based on the same Hungarian play that was the basis of the 1940 Jimmy Stewart-Margaret Sullavan film, Shop Around the Corner at Arena Stage on New Year’s Eve 2007.  I wrote up my brief remarks about the performance, part of a longer report like the Lady Day comments, and I’m posting them now as a look back at this charmingly old-fashioned theater piece.  (As I mention in the report below, I also saw the Broadway revival that starred Boyd Gaines and Diane Fratantoni when I caught it in May 1994.  That performance, produced like the current one by the Roundabout Theatre Company, predated my practice of writing up my play-going experiences, however.)]

When I’m with my mom on New Years, it’s our custom to try to find a play on the 31st and then go home and toast in the New Year—sometimes with friends and sometimes just en famille—as we watch the ball drop in Times Square.  This year, the Arena Stage was doing She Loves Me, the 1963 Jerry Bock-Sheldon Harnick-Joe Masteroff musical adaptation of the 1937 Hungarian play on which the 1940 Jimmy Stewart-Margaret Sullavan movie Shop Around the Corner is based.  (By some coincidence, one of the cable channels ran both that movie and then the 1949 film musical adaptation—In the Good Old Summertime with Judy Garland and Van Johnson—the week before we saw the stage musical.  That was kind of fun.  The same material is also the basis for 1998’s You’ve Got Mail, the Tom Hanks-Meg Ryan romantic comedy, but the cable station didn’t run that one.  All of these are based on Miklós László’s Parfumerie, which, as far as I can tell, has never been performed either on or off Broadway.  I’m not sure the script is even available in English.)  

She Loves Me is an old-fashioned musical in the vein of My Fair Lady and Damn Yankees, though a lesser effort.  (Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick, of course, had been previously responsible for Fiorello!—my very first Broadway play—and would ultimately create Fiddler on the Roof.  Joe Masteroff would go on to write the book for Cabaret three years later.)  Still, it is charming and fun, even if the songs are not especially memorable, and it made a perfect entertainment for the New Year’s Eve hours leading up to the propitious moment.  

Arena’s production, which included no stars or actors whom I knew, was even, solid, and much more than just competent, though no performance stood out in the ensemble.  Director Kyle Donnelly made good use of the Fichandler’s arena platform—I always feel that staging a musical in the round is particularly hard—and everyone’s voice was strong (they were miked, as usual these days) and vibrant.  I especially liked Arpad’s one solo number, “Try Me,” his self-promotion.  Clifton Guterman, the young actor playing the delivery boy-who-would-be-a-clerk, may look a tad older than a teenager, but his tenor is youthful and his enthusiasm in selling himself (and the song) was delightful.  But in the end, this was an ensemble production (though its past includes stars: Barbara Cook as Amalia Balash in the original Broadway run along with Jack Cassidy, who won a Tony as the self-serving Steven Kodaly; and near-stars: Boyd Gaines, who won a Tony as Georg Nowack in the 1993 Roundabout/Broadway revival, and Louis Zorich, “Mr. Olympia Dukakis,” as Mr. Maraczek); the cast as a whole did a very nice job in what I had actually forgotten (until I watched the movie again the week before) is really a Christmas story. 


'Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme' (Lincoln Center Festival 2016)

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Molière may be more popular with theater folk—actors and directors—than audiences, at least on this side of the Atlantic.  His plays are read in college courses, particularly French language and literature classes, and they appear on university and rep company stages around the country, but commercially, I don’t know that they sell so well.  Except for the raucous adaptation of the commediafarce Scapino in the mid-1970s, nearly all Broadway revivals of Molière plays have had very short runs.  (The non-profit Off-Broadway subscription troupes, like the regional reps, have mounted many productions, 24 since 1956, but no Off-Broadway productions were commercial runs.)

Still, Molière is the most famous theater name in France.  He is to the French stage what Calderón is to Spain, Schiller and Goethe are to Germany, or Shakespeare is to Britain.  France’s national theater, the Comédie-Française, is known as the House of Molière and the country’s national theater award, the counterpart of our Tony and the U.K.’s Olivier, is the Molière, first presented in 1987. 

As part of the 2016 Lincoln Center Festival, C.I.C.T./Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord, the Paris-based international troupe, has brought its  production of Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, billed as a comédie-ballets with music by Jean-Baptiste Lully, to the Gerald W. Lynch Theater at John Jay College of Criminal Justice (a division of the City University of New York) on West 59th Street west of Columbus Circle.  The visit from Paris provided five evening performancesin French with English supertitles between 20 and 24 July; Diana, my usual theater companion, and I caught the 7 p.m. show on Thursday, 21 July.  The production débuted at C.I.C.T.’s home theater on the Boulevard de la Chapelle near the Gare du Nord in Paris’s 10th Arrondissement from 19 June to 21 July 2012 and again from 26 June to 26 July 2015. 

The Centre International de Créations Théâtrales (C.I.C.T. – International Centre for Theatre Creation), formerly known as the International Centre for Theatre Research (C.I.R.T.), was founded in 1970 by Peter Brook, British director, experimentalist, and theoretician, and Micheline Rozan.  (I posted a research paper about “Peter Brook’s International Centre of Theatre Research” on ROT on 23 August 2011.)  This multicultural and multinational company, an assembly of actors, dancers, musicians, and other performing artists, travelled widely in the Middle East and Africa in the early 1970s on a three-year quest to explore the “common stories” of world culture.  In that period, Brook’s troupe presented some very large, experimental productions around the word, such as Orghast I & II, performed in 1971 at the Shiraz Arts Festival in Iran in the Achaemenid ruins of Persepolis and Naqsh-e Rostam, and The Conference of the Birdsdeveloped in West Africa in 1972.  In 1974, C.I.C.T. took over Paris’s Bouffes du Nord theater,a derelict former music hall and variety theater, built in 1876.  In 2008, Brook announced that he would gradually hand the reins of C.I.C.T. over to Olivier Mantei, Bouffes du Nord’s head of musical programming and former deputy director of Paris’s Opéra-Comique, and Olivier Poubelle, a theater entrepreneur specializing in modern music.  Mantei and Poubelle assumed leadership of C.I.C.T.in 2011 and the company now focuses on a mixture of popular music, opera, classical music, dance, and theater.  (In September and October this year, Brook and Marie-Hélène Estienne will be bringing C.I.C.T.’s Battlefield,an excerpt of Jean-Claude Carrière’s monumental stage adaptation of The Mahabharata,to the Brooklyn Acadamy of Music, where, in 1988, they staged the full nine-hour, three-part spectacular.) 

Molière, the stage name of Jean-Baptiste Poquelin (1622-73), was born in Paris to an upholsterer, a prosperous member of the bourgeoisie, the French middle class.  At 21, he left the family business, abandoned the study of law and took up a career in the theater as an actor and, eventually, a playwright.  His first appearances on stage were with the Illustre Théâtre, a short-lived venture which soon went bankrupt in 1645.  After a brief stint in debtors’ prison, Molière adopted his professional name and rededicated himself to a life in the theater, spending most of the next dozen years barnstorming the French provinces with Madeleine Béjart, the Illustre’s leading lady and his mistress, and other itinerant performers, honing his skills as a comic actor and playwright (though he longed for success as a tragedian), and turning out a number of farces inspired by the Italian commedia dell’arte troupes he encountered in his travels. 

The company returned to Paris in 1658 with Molière as their manager and had a great success with his farce Les Précieuses ridicules (The Affected Young Ladies or The Pretentious Young Ladies).  Invited to perform before Louis XIV (b. 1638, reigned 1643-1715), Molière’s troupe quickly won the king’s favor, and was granted the use of the Petit Bourbon (a court theater adjacent to the Louvre) and later the Palais-Royal for their farces, character comedies, and lavish court entertainments.  In 1662, Molière married Madeleine Béjart’s younger sister (or perhaps daughter), Armande, who became a leading actress in his company, beginning with his next play, L’École des femmes (The School for Wives), which propelled the playwright into the ranks of France’s greatest dramatists.

In 1661, Molière introduced the comédies-balletsin conjunction with Les Fâcheux (The Mad), called a diversion for the King’s amusement. These ballets were one of the first steps toward musical comedy in which dialogue, music, songs, and dance were combined in a coherent whole.  (We’ll see that in the case of Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, I don’t really feel this is actually accomplished.)  Commissioned to mount both a play and a ballet in honor of Le Roi Soleil,Molière decided to combine the two.  The idea succeeded and Molière was asked to produce twelve more comédies-balletsbefore his death.  Molière’s collaboration with Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632-87), the king’s court composer, began with Les Fâcheux, to which Lully contributed one song.  But Lully was also a dancer and choreographer and the king brought the two artists together to create more comedy ballets.  These musicaltheater pieces demand that the dancers and the actors both play important roles in advancing the plots.  Molière and Lully created Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, their ninth collaboration, in 1670, followed by several lesser-known pieces, but in 1672, Lully and Molière split and the playwright collaborated with composer Marc-Antoine Charpentier (1643-1704) on the last play Molière wrote, The Imaginary Invalid.

A number of Molière’s plays were critical failures, however, and both Tartuffe ou L’Imposteur (1664) and Dom Juan ou Le Festin de pierre (Don Juan or The Feast with the Statue, 1665—usually simply called Don Juan in English) were censored despite the patronage of the Sun King.  Nonetheless, by 1665, Molière’s company was awarded regular pensions from the crown, and awarded the title of La Troupe du RoiLe Misanthrope ou L’Atrabilaire amoureux (The Misanthrope, or the Cantankerous Lover, usually simply The Misanthrope in English) and Le Médecin malgré lui (The Doctor in Spite of Himself) premièred a year later, followed by L’Avare ou L’École du mensonge (The Miser—the subtitle, not used in English versions, means “The school of lying”—1668) and Les Femmes savantes (The Learned Ladies, 1672).  

Molière’s next play, Le Malade imaginaire (The Imaginary Invalid, 1673), which ironically featured the playwright as a grousing hypochondriac, was to be his last: Molière, who was debilitated by tuberculosis (possibly contracted while in prison) since about 1665, collapsed on stage with a coughing fit.  The great writer insisted on finishing the performance, but died from severe hemorrhaging shortly afterwards.  He hadn’t received last rites because two priests refused to attend him (because he was an actor, an outcast profession), and a Christian burial was initially denied him.  The archbishop of Paris, however, responded to petitions from Molière’s widow and grudgingly allowed a private nighttime burial in the parish cemetery.

Just about all of Molière’s titles are well known, even if the plays themselves aren’t: The Miser, The Misanthrope, The Imaginary Invalid, TartuffeLe Bourgeois gentilhomme, the writer’s farcical send-up of social-climbing and class pretentions, belongs in this category (between 1879 and 2003, only three productions of The Would-Be Gentlemanwere mounted on Broadway, including one in French; none have been staged Off-Broadway).  

Unlike most of Molière’s other works, though, the title of Bourgeois gentilhomme often goes untranslated because it’s a little tricky.  One common rendering, The Would-Be Gentleman, is accurate but clumsy, another, The Bourgeois Gentleman, is misleading.  The title’s meant as an oxymoron.  A brief (if grammatical) explanation, then:  the word bourgeois in the title is a noun rather than an adjective.  A bourgeois, which is what Monsieur Jourdain is called in the list of characters, is a wealthy member of the middle class—a member of the Third Estate of the French- realm.  The word gentilhommeis used adjectivally (in English grammar, it’d be called an “attributive noun”).  A gentilhomme is an aristocrat, a man of “gentle birth,” often called in the play “une personne de qualité”—a member of the Second Estate.  Neither word refers to a man’s character, discernment, or social demeanor.  It’s solely a matter of birth and lineage: a “gentleman” in France was by definition nobly born, so there couldn’t be such thing as a “bourgeois gentleman.”  The meaning of the play’s title, then, isn’t ‘the gentleman who is bourgeois,’ but ‘the bourgeois who would be a gentleman.’   

Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, commissioned by the king for performance by La Troupe du Roi at his hunting retreat at the Château of Chambord on the Loir River, satirizes attempts at social-climbing and both the bourgeois and aristocratic personality, poking fun on the one hand at the vulgar, pretentious middle-class and on the other, the vain, snobbish aristocracy.  Though Molière was always careful not to attack the monarchy itself, and the theme of Bourgeois gentilhomme is the fatuity of the bourgeois who would become a gentilhomme, it shouldn’t be lost on the spectators that the aristocrats in the play, Dorante and Dorimène, are scoundrels, liars, parasites, and dissemblers while the admirable characters, Cléonte and Madame Jourdain, are proud members of the middle class.  The members of the original audiences for Molière’s farce, all part of France’s Deuxième État, laughing at the foolishness of M. Jourdain, played by Molière, himself an actual member of the bourgeoisie, were, in fact, laughing at the mockery of their very own class.

Le Bourgeois gentilhomme takes place at Monsieur Jourdain’s house in Paris.  Jourdain (Pascal Rénéric) is a middle-aged bourgeois whose father grew rich as a cloth merchant.  The foolish Jourdain now has one aim in life: to be accepted as an aristocrat.  To this end, he orders splendid new clothes and is delighted when the tailor (Alexandre Steiger) mockingly addresses him as “Monseignieur” (“my Lord”).  He hires instructors to educate him in the gentlemanly arts of fencing (Manuel Le Lièvre), dancing (Thibault Vinçon), music (Julien Campani), and philosophy (Francis Leplay).  (Elisabeth Vincentelli, the reviewer for the New York Times, called Jourdain “the original culture vulture.”  Jerry Hochman of the website CriticalDance even suggested that in his 17th-century get-up, Vinçonresembled court dance master and Bourgeois gentilhomme choreographer Pierre Beauchamp, 1631-1705, and Campani looked like Lully—but I wouldn’t know and I wonder how may theatergoers today, even among the French audiences, would recognize these figures.)  

In pursuing his refinement, Jourdain continually manages to make a fool of himself, to the dismay of his hired teachers.  His philosophy instruction becomes a basic lesson in French elocution and language in which he’s surprised and delighted to learn that he’s been speaking prose all his life without knowing it.  (Of the elocution lesson, Vincentelli quipped that it was “a riotous scene that should haunt every American who has ever struggled with the French ‘u’ sound.”  I can relate to that, but what it called to mind more for me was distinguishing the German ü, which, when I mastered it, I felt a palpable sense of accomplishment.)

Madame Jourdain (Isabelle Candelier), the bourgeois’s down-to-earth wife, sees that he’s making a fool of himself and urges him to return to his customary middle-class life, and to forget all he’s learned.  A cash-strapped count named Dorante (Campani) has attached himself to M. Jourdain, though he secretly despises the man.  Dorante continually flatters Jourdain for, by telling the fool that he mentioned Jourdain’s name to the king at Versailles, the count can get Jourdain to pay his debts.  Jourdain’s hopes of being upper-class go higher and higher.  He dreams, for instance, of wooing a Marquise, Dorimène (Bénédicte Guilbert), and having his daughter, Lucille (Elodie Huber), marry a nobleman.  But Lucile’s in love with the middle-class Cléonte (Vinçon), a former soldier, while Cléonte’s valet, Covielle (Steiger), is in love with Lucile’s maid, Nicole (Manon Combes).  Of course, M. Jourdain refuses his permission for Lucile to marry Cléonte.

To hoodwink Jourdain into letting his daughter follow her heart, Cléonte, assisted by Covielle  and Mme. Jourdain, disguises himself as the son of the Sultan of Turkey and presents himself to Jourdain to ask for Lucile’s hand.  Jourdain, thrilled to have his daughter marry royalty, is taken in.  He’s even more delighted when “Son Altesse Turque” (‘His Turkish Highness’) informs him that, as father of the bride, he, too, will be officially elevated to the noble rank of Mamamouchi (a nonsense title) at a special ceremony.

Jourdain is invested in la cérémonie turque, an absurd Orientalist masque of dervishes, turbans, and carpets in a sequence that was especially requested by Louis XIV to travesty the snobbish behavior of the Ottoman envoy to the French court a few months earlier.  (These scenes proceed with the “Turks” speaking Sabir, a kind of pidgin used by sailors and traders around the Mediterranean basin from the 11th to the 19th centuries.  Based on various Italian and Iberian dialects of the late middle ages and early Renaissance, it borrowed also from North African languages and Turkish, French, Greek, and Arabic.  Sabir would have been intelligible to French-speakers, but translation is difficult, so English renditions often use Pidgin English for the comic effect.)  The play ends with this absurd ceremony, the “Ballet des Nations,” with much singing, chanting, and dancing.  (Denis Podalydès’s staging significantly truncates this intermèdeapparently.)

(A note about the travesty of Turkish and Muslim rites: my companion wondered how such obvious ridicule went unanswered by France’s often volatile Middle-Eastern populace.  The cérémonie turque and Le Ballet des Nations were certainly meant to be insulting—that’s what Louis XIV had wanted, after all—and Molière’s script even called for a Koran to be used as a comic prop, a bit that the Bouffes du Nord wisely cut.  As far as I know, no French reviewer made any mention of this cultural misstep, but also, no group or individual protested this aspect of the play.  This was apparently so even though I understand that the 10th Arrondissement, Bouffes du Nord’s home district, is heavily Muslim in population.)

A five-act comédie-balletwrittenmostly in prose, unlike Tartuffe and Le Misanthrope, the language of Bourgeois gentilhomme is very simple and its structure is almost elementary.  (It was good I still remember the play from reading it many years ago because the supertitles were useless.  One reviewer made this same complaint.)  It’s often criticized as comprising three acts of comedy, the first two of which are a nearly plotless series of lazzi, and two of extraneous comic buffoonery.  Diana called the play “vacuous nonsense,” but that’s just a (negative) take on Molière.  The playwright’s farces, unlike the high wit and comedy of manners of the next century, were founded on the low physical comedy of the Italian-style commedia dell’arte that was still popular when Molière was touring the provinces.  Molière had refined the comic clowning and humanized the stock characters of commedia into recognizable denizens of 17th-century French society, but his plays aren’t deep or intellectually challenging.  Diana’s response is a critic’s response—especially a literary critic’s.  Molière knew how to please an audience, however, and his plays, whatever their excesses, work.

Bouffes du Nord’s Bourgeois Gentilhomme, however, was interesting, but loooong (three hours and 15 minutes with one intermission).  The music (directed by Christophe Coin) and dance (choreographed by Kaori Ito)—which for this production wasn’t conceived as period-appropriate—for the most part were attenuating rather than enhancing.  (In addition to Lully’s compositions for the original Bourgeois gentilhomme, Denis Podalydès and Coin added music by other composers.)  The exception was the opening intermède (‘interlude’) which is M. Jourdain’s music and dancing lesson and he interacts with the singers, dancers, and musicians.  (This also sets the tone for Jourdain’s buffoonish grasp of the refinements of the Deuxième État.)  The performances, however, were excellent—especially the Jourdain of Rénéric, who’s a brilliant physical comedian.  (The marvelous ensemble cast, in fact, is clearly superbly trained and experienced in physical acting, far more than we Americans are for the most part.)  The company was Peter Brook’s former troupe (he relinquished the directorship in 2011), but director Podalydès, is from the Comédie-Française.

While Podalydès, in collaboration with choreographer Ito and musical director Coin, evoked the world of 17th-century France as parodied by Molière, they created an interpretation that was modern in both movement and behavior.  Set designer Éric Ruf lined the back wall of the upstage area with bolts of fabric on vertical racks, revealing the reality of Jourdain’s life as a tradesman (a fact he desperately denies).  For the most part, though, this is the entire pictorial environment of Bourgeois gentilhomme, with the exception of occasional chairs, rugs, or other props added and removed as needed.  There was no further period décor.  The large cutting table, which is moved about on casters, became all kinds of platforms for one activity or another. 

At stage left were the instruments of Coin’s musical ensemble (L’Ensemble la Révérence): cello, flute, oboe, violin, and harpsichord.  Costume designer Christian Lacroix used rich fabrics to suggest the excesses of the costumes used in the Sun King’s court's sumptuous entertainments (which Financial Times reviewer Max McGuinness labeled “Versailles-era bling”), and M. Jourdain’s absurd attire was a spot-on visual read-out of his ridiculous efforts to purchase good taste.

As a general rule, I find that seeing a play performed by a company from the culture—French actors doing Molière, Russians doing Chekov, Norwegians doing Ibsen—provides a special pleasure.  Obviously, that’s a generalization, but somehow they just get it in a way that foreign casts simply don’t.  It’s not just the language or the plot elements or even the characters, it’s the whole theatrical milieu endemic to the script.  The Brits, for instance, used to be terrible at doing Tennessee Williams or Neil Simon (they’ve gotten better somehow).  It was always slightly artificial, like Americans doing Restoration Comedy or even Oscar Wilde.  (When I was in Berlin in the army, our theater group got friendly with the Brit amateur troupe.  They came over to our place at Tempelhof and did a reading of some comedy—I don’t remember what it was anymore, but I think it was a modern play rather than a classic, maybe something Noel Cowardy—and they just nailed the style as if it were simply natural for them.  I recall being especially impressed with how expertly they handled throw-away lines.  Remember, these were amateurs: British soldiers and dependents.)  

Classic French comedy demands a style of its own: the slapstick hijinks and frenetic movement and speech are an acquired taste for non-Francophile spectators.  Podalydès’s cast pulled off the style so effortlessly that seeing Bouffes du Nord present Bourgeois gentilhommewas a true revelation—and that right there was more than worth the price of admission.

Lincoln Center Festival performances have such short stage lives that few papers and websites cover them.  The New York Times is usually there (‘the paper of record”) and a few other review platforms publish notices, but the pickings are often slim.  (For Bouffes du Nord’s Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, not even Show-Score covered the show and surveyed its reviews so there’s no average score for me to report.)  There are, of course, reviews of the Paris performances, a few of them in English (notably a review by Catherine Young in the Theatre Journal of May 2013), available on line, but I generally stick to local notices when I have the choice.

The Financial Times’ McGuinness, praising “the consummate physicality of classically trained French actors,” declared, “Under Denis Podalydès’s brisk direction, every smirk, grimace, cocked eyebrow and pratfall has a method to it in this touring production.”  McGuinness asserted that “the performances are so wittily demonstrative that we always grasp what’s going on, even without understanding French or reading the surtitles,” giving ample credit to “Kaori Ito’s simple yet elegant choreography and a clear-voiced troupe of singers.”  The FTreview-writer also complimented the acting of Rénéric as Jourdain for managing “to seem wretchedly pleased with himself and totally awkward in a comic tour de force reminiscent of Jacques Tati” at the same time, and Isabelle Candelier as Mme. Jourdain for “providing an earthy yet charming foil to her grotesquely deluded husband.”  He dubbed Lacroix’s costumes, “which bring the central theme of material extravagance to sumptuous life,” the “other star of the show.”  With the production’s “sense of pure riotous theatricality,” McGuinness said that “Le Bourgeois remains as weird and wonderful as when it was first performed.”

In the Times, Vincentelli dubbed “the giddy production” at the Lynch, “a grin-inducing delight.”  The production, “opting . . . for a refreshing unfussiness,” boasts an “energetic” director in Podalydès and “sumptuous periodish costumes” by Lacroix, “perfectly suited to Sun King-style ostentation.”  Rénéric, Vincentelli reported, “is a marvel of breathless comedic invention.”  

CriticalDance’s Jerry Hochman declared, “Molière’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme was a hit in its initial run in 17th century Paris. It’s a hit again.”  The CD reviewer wrote, “It’s an effervescent production that spares no comic expense, overflows with dry (and not so dry) wit, and is as bright and sparkly as champagne (French of course).”  Expecting a recreation of the 1670 staging the audiences at Louis XIV’s court saw, especially the choreography of Pierre Beauchamp, but finding that “the production is an ‘update,’” Hochman saw “how quality contemporary sensibility grafted onto a 17th century form can make the piece work for today’s audiences.”  He found that “in a lot of ways the staging of this production makes it appear spiritually closer, aside from the costumes, to contemporary farce productions” such as Noises Off (Michael Frayn’s 1982 back-stage farce that played on Broadway in 1983-1985).  “From the opening moments,” noted Hochman, “the pace rarely slows.”   With kudos for Manon Combes’s Nicole and Alexandre Steiger’s Covielle, the CD reviewer felt that Rénéric’s M. Jourdain is “the glue that holds the play together.”


'Butler'

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On 16 May 1861, Benjamin Franklin Butler (1818-93) was promoted to major general in the Army of the United States by Pres. Abraham Lincoln.  (The Civil War had started in earnest on 16 April when secessionist troops fired on the Union forces at Fort Sumter, South Carolina.)  The former Massachusetts lawyer, born in New Hampshire, was immediately dispatched to take command of Fort Monroe on the mouth of the James River in southeastern Virginia.  He arrived to take up his new post on Wednesday, 22 May—and the Virginia legislature ratified the vote to secede the very next day, joining  South Carolina (seceded 20 December 1860), Mississippi (9 January 1861), Florida (10 January 1861), Alabama (11 January 1861), Georgia (19 January 1861), Louisiana (26 January 1861), Texas (1 February 1861), Arkansas (6 May 1861), and North Carolina (20 May 1861); of the ultimately 11 Confederate States, only Tennessee hadn’t yet seceded (it would do so on 8 June 1861). 

On the same day as Virginia’s official separation from the Union, three runaway slaves rowed across the inlet separating Union-held Fort Monroe from the Confederate stronghold at Sewell’s Point in Hampton Roads, all of 15 miles on the water, but an incomprehensible gulf in the mind and in politics, the gulf between slavery and freedom, between one world and another.  At least, that’s what the three men, Frank Baker, about 42; Shepard Mallory, 20; and James Townsend, 36, must have thought.  Presenting themselves to  the fort’s commander, the escaped slaves requested sanctuary.  The three men, forced by their owner, rebel Colonel Charles King Mallory (1820-75), to build fortifications and artillery emplacements to oppose the Union fort, provided intelligence about Confederate fortifications, armaments, and troop strength. 

The men’s request for refuge at the fort, however, prompted Butler, known as an attorney for his ability to weave his way through any statute and discover a way to demolish his opponents’ arguments, to devise the innovative legal theory that these escaped slaves, because they’d been used to further the enemy’s war efforts, were “contraband of war,” no different from a canon, a musket, or a cavalry horse, and did not have to be returned despite the articles of war, the U.S. Constitution, and the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act that declared they must be.  This was an astonishing move for Butler, a staunch Union man but, at his own admission, no abolitionist.  He’d even voted for Jefferson Davis (who, by February 1861, was President of the Confederate States of America) against John C. Breckenridge at the 1860 Democratic Convention in Charleston as his party’s presidential nominee to run against Republican Abraham Lincoln. 

No sooner had the general declared the three runaways contraband, legally retained by the Union army, than a virtual flood of escaping slaves, having heard the story through a remarkably efficient slave grapevine, followed their example; on Sunday, the 26th, eight more escapees showed up at the fort’s gates and on the 27th, there were 47 more—including women, children, and old men.  Maj. Gen. Benjamin Butler, an army officer for all of four weeks by this time, became an unlikely hero of freedom from slavery a year-and-a-half before President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation.  Lincoln ultimately endorsed Butler’s decision and commanders throughout the Union military adopted his practice regarding Southern slaves. 

(The general’s subsequent military career was mostly successful but undistinguished.  He was, in fact, considered by Southerners in areas he administered such as New Orleans as brutal and ruthless, attaining the sobriquet “Beast Butler.”  Even today, Butler’s a despised figure among some Southerners.  After the war, however, Benjamin Franklin Butler, who served in the Massachusetts state senate before the war, would go on to be elected to congress from Massachusetts from 1867 to 1875 and 1877 to 1879, and then served as Governor of Massachusetts from 1883 to 1884.  He ran for president in 1884 as the nominee of the Greenback and Anti-Monopoly parties but lost to Democrat Grover Cleveland; Butler came in a very distant fourth, behind not only Cleveland but Republican James G. Blaine and Prohibition Party candidate John St. John.  He returned to the practice of law, a profession in which he was deemed a brilliant practitioner, his difficulties in other fields of endeavor notwithstanding, and died in a Washington, D.C., court on 11 January 1893 at the age of 74.)

Having read about this bit of historical lore in a footnote in a biography of Abraham Lincoln, playwright Richard Strand (Clown, The Bug) was intrigued.  “The information was tantalizing because it didn't make logical sense,” insisted Strand. “I couldn't understand why an anti-abolitionist supporter of Jefferson Davis would take such a personally risky stand against slavery.”  Additional research didn’t solve the puzzle for the dramatist, so he decided to write a play about the momentous historical footnote and the man who perpetrated it; in 2012, that play became Butler, which premièred at the New Jersey Repertory Company in Long Branch, on the Jersey Shore, from 12 June to 13 July 2014.  “Writing the play,” explained Strand, “was my attempt to find a plausible explanation for something that seemed inexplicable.”  The dramatist has acknowledged that he composed Butler to suggest one scenario of what might have occurred at Fort Monroe in May of 1861.

That NJ Rep staging, directed by Joseph Discher, eventually moved to New York City where it began previews as part of the 5A Season at the 59E59 Theaters on 15 July for an opening on the 27th, scheduled to run in Theater A until 28 August.  Though it’s my preference to see a play after it opens—I don’t like seeing productions that aren’t finished yet—my usual theater companion, Diana, and I went to Butler at its first preview on Friday, the 15th.  (For further description of 59E59 and its programs, see my report on “Summer Shorts 2015, Series A,” 12 August 2015.)  Prior to this New York première, there were independent productions of Butler in small theaters around the country, including the Peninsula Players Theatre in Fish Creek, Wisconsin (20-31 August 2014); the Barrington Stage Company, Pittsfield, Massachusetts (14 May-13 June 2015); the Florida Studio Theatre, Sarasota (9 December 2015-5 March 2016); the Phoenix Theatre, Indianapolis (7 January-7 February 2016); the Detroit Repertory Theatre (7 January-13 March 2016); the Majestic Theater, West Springfield, Massachusetts (25 February-3 April 2016); and the Northlight Theatre, Skokie, Illinois (11 March-17 April 2016).

The plot of Butler is essentially the history I laid out above, though most of the play, said Strand, “is conjectural.”  Strand’s play begins with Major General Butler (Ames Adamson) at his desk in his office (designed by Jessica L. Parks, and lit by Jill Nagle) when he’s interrupted by Lieutenant Kelly (Benjamin Sterling), a young West Pointer who’d started in the army as a private, fighting in the Mexican War (1846-48) before attending the academy.  The general’s aide (the only character of the four in Butler who’s fictional, as far as I can determine) enters to inform the commandant that a “Negro slave” is demanding to speak with him.  Well, this sets Butler off on a tear (which I later realized was Butler’s style of courtroom cross-examination).  He’s “astonished,” he tells Kelly, in no uncertain terms, and demands that Kelly explain why he’s astonished and not merely surprised.  Because there’s a runaway slave in the fort and the general didn’t know it until now, guesses Kelly.  No, that would only be surprising, retorts Butler.  Because there are not one but three slaves in the fort?  No again.  

Because the slave—Kelly never asked the man’s name, which displeases Butler all the more—has “demanded” to speak with the commandant, not requested or asked.  Butler reminds Kelly that no later than the day before, he’d explained to the lieutenant that one thing that he most dislikes is people who make demands on him.  The only people who can do that, Butler elucidates, are President Lincoln; Secretary of State William Seward and other cabinet members; Gen. Winfield Scott, general-in-chief of the army; any officer who outranks him . . . and, Kelly chimes in, the general’s wife.  But what really got Butler’s dander up, he instructed the young officer, was that Kelly had reported that the Negro slave had made this demand! 

By all accounts, General Butler was a rough, uncouth, and irascible man, and it seems that this initiating scene is meant to establish that personality in a slightly humorous way.  (Butler isn’t a comedy, but there are many funny lines and moments in it.)  In any case, the inadvisability of making demands on Butler is a leitmotif in Strand’s script.  Butler is reputed to have had one other character trait  that’s important to the play’s unfolding—and which comes closest to explaining why this particular man took the action he did: he’s said to have had a soft heart.  So when he tells Kelly at first that he won’t see the slave and Kelly observes that if the men are sent back to their owner, they’ll likely be killed for escaping, the general hesitates.  He can’t offer the men sanctuary at the fort because that violates both the law and the articles of war, not to mention President Lincoln’s own statements about not interfering with slavery where it was legal.  But he can’t send them back to die, either.  So what can he do?  He orders Kelly to show the slave in, and we finally meet Shepard Mallory (John G. Williams), who’s made himself the spokesman for the three asylum-seekers.  (We never see the other two men, though their names are mentioned more than once—as is the name Colonel Mallory, the slave-holding former judge to whom the men belong.)

Butler and Mallory (the question of whether Shepard and the rebel colonel are related is raised a few times because of their last names, but left unresolved) finally meet, and Butler becomes intrigued with the well-spoken man (he’s learned Butler’s full name from reading the crates with the general’s belongings that are scattered around the headquarters—he’d been taught to read against custom and law—and he uses the word “convoluted,” which actually makes Butler stop for a second or two) who has landed on the officer’s doorstep.  The two men engage in an unexpected and extraordinary battle of wills and wits.  Mallory, it turns out, is just as obstinate as Butler is—in fact, they are something of kindred spirits, which may be part of the reason Butler is impelled to find a way to help the three escapees.

Meanwhile, Butler reveals that he’s received word that the Confederates are sending an officer under a flag of truce to retrieve Colonel Mallory’s property.  That officer, not by coincidence Shepard Mallory reckons, is Maj. John B. Cary (1819-98), the colonel’s artillery expert who doubtlessly has been assigned to take advantage of the situation to gather information on Fort Monroe’s armaments and emplacements.  When Cary arrives, Butler’s decided to blindfold him, and it turns into a sight-and-sound gag off stage as he’s obviously guided by Kelly so that he bumps into furniture and open doors on his way to General Butler’s office.

When Major Cary (David Sitler) enters and is relieved of his blindfold, he proceeds to read the demands—oh, that word!—Colonel Mallory has sent with him.  Cary, whom Butler insists he met at the 1860 Convention when the then-Massachusetts state senator supported Jefferson Davis, steadfastly denies any acquaintance with the Union officer.  Uniformed like a Confederate peacock, in gloves he makes a elaborate display of removing and tall, black cavalry boots, his gray tunic embellished with a red sash around his waist and more gold braid on his sleeves than the late Chief Justice William Rehnquist, carrying a cavalry hat with an impossibly broad brim, and wearing expansive side whiskers, Cary even refuses to take a glass of the general’s “particularly good” sherry with him.  This is something in which Butler apparently puts great store as he made Mallory take a glass earlier and will insist again at the end of the play.  (In addition to the sash, Sitler’s costume also has copious red trim signifying an artillery officer, and Cary may actually have been one, though I only found a few mentions of this on the ’Net.  Lieutenant Kelly wears an artillery officer’s uniform, too, though there’s no mention in the play—or the program—of his military specialty.  It may merely have been that the costumer, Patricia E. Doherty, liked the look of a blue uniform with red trim—although photos of most of the other productions of Butler that depict Kelly, show him in the red-trimmed uniform of an artilleryman.)  

So, making demands on him, insisting they never met, and refusing to drink with him, Cary has seriously ticked Butler off but good, which is certainly the second part of Strand’s reason for the general to deny the return of the fugitive slaves.  Nearly foaming at the mouth as Kelly puts the blindfold back on him, Cary is sent back to his colonel empty handed—bringing back neither useful intelligence nor the escaped slaves.  But now, Butler has to come up with a rationale for doing what he just did—or he and Kelly will face courts-martial and Mallory will be returned to face execution.

As the play ends, Butler has begun writing his dispatch justifying his actions to the president, secretary of war, and general-in-chief, and he, Kelly, and Mallory swear to keep the act secret, but we hear a large commotion on the parade ground outside the commandant’s office.  Kelly reports that eight more runaways have entered the fort—what we know, but they don’t, will be just the beginning of a flood.  (Historically, we also know that Butler’s “contraband decision” becomes the foundation of a general order for Union forces during the Civil War.)  The men drink a toast . . . “to contraband!” 

There’s little biographical information available on Strand   He wrote his first play, a one act entitled Harry and Sylvia, while he was a college student in 1976.  He directed it himself and it won two national awards and was published by Hunter Press in Edinburgh, Scotland.  A full length version of the same play, called Clown, premiered at the Victory Gardens Theater in Chicago in 1981.  His scripts have premièred at the Actors Theater of Louisville, GeVa Theatre, Victory Gardens, Steppenwolf, Mixed Blood, the Eugene O’Neill Center, and other venues.  The Bug, Strand’s most successful play so far, has been translated into five languages for productions in France, Germany, Greece, Spain, Italy, and the United States.

Strand is currently the chairman of the theater department, technical director, and set designer at Mt. San Antonio College in Walnut, California (near Los Angels), where he also teaches playwriting and the history of theater; he lives in California with his wife.  Previously, he was production manager at Columbia College School of Dance in Chicago and at Centre East in Skokie, Illinois.  In addition to his plays, Strand’s written articles on technical theater that have been published in Dramatics magazine.  He has an MFA from the Playwright’s Workshop at the University of Iowa.

The New Jersey Repertory Company was founded in 1997 by husband-and-wife partners Executive Producer Gabor Barabas and Artistic Director SuzAnne Barabas.  Located in Long Branch in Monmouth County on the New Jersey shore (about 55 miles south of New York City), the theater’s goal is the development and production of new plays.  Since its inauguration, New Jersey Rep has produced more than 90 plays in pursuit of this mission, including over 60 world premieres,in its small, 64-seat playhouse (on Broadway!), a few blocks west of the boardwalk.  (The company is currently negotiating to purchase two additional properties in Long Branch for an expansion of its services to the community with a movie house for art films and an art museum.)  The theater has committed itself to nurturing the work of both established and emerging writers and, maintaining an open-submission policy, receives scripts from throughout the U.S. and around the world.  In 2012 New Jersey Rep received a National Theater Company Award from the American Theatre Wing, sponsor of the Tony Awards, and 2013’s Broomstick, by New Orleans playwright John Biguenet, was nominated for the Steinberg Award by the American Theatre Critics Association.  The theater has also received several New American Plays Awards from the Edgerton Foundation of Beverly Hills, including one for the world première of Butler, which won the award. 

The problem I had with Butleris that Strand clearly never satisfactorily worked out his puzzle.  He hasn’t come up with an explanation for why Butler, the anti-abolitionist who voted for Jefferson Davis as his party’s presidential nominee, would invent a legalistic rationale for not returning escaped slaves to their “rightful owner.”  Butler’s entirely a semi-humorous treatment of the historical moment that has no real dramatic point.  If it weren’t largely fictionalized—the dialogue is  imagined by Strand, and he’s invented one of the four characters—it would be a classroom role-play or a History Channel docudrama.  

The script is well enough written and the production is well done, however, and the performances are creditable without being exceptional.  As enjoyable as it is, though, Strand has relied on Butler’s reputed kind heart, hidden behind his peppery bluster, and his obvious exasperation with Major Cary’s arrogance to motivate the momentous action the general takes.  Though I compliment Strand on not telegraphing Butler’s soft-heartedness—it’s never mentioned by anyone, we just glean it from his response to the plight of Shepard Mallory and his companions—it and his irritation at Cary’s behavior are rather wan motivation for defying orders, the law, and the constitution.  (Okay, I’ll admit that the reason there isn’t a cogent explanation for Butler’s decision in the history books may well be that it was just peevishness and tender-heartedness that led him to it, but life isn’t drama, and real life isn’t necessarily dramatic.  To paraphrase something that George Bernard Shaw wrote which I quoted recently, it’s a playwright’s job to enhance the facts of history to make a story stageworthy.  As I said of George C. Wolfe’s remake of Shuffle Along in my report of 28 June, Butler isn’t a documentary play, but it is a history play, and even Shakespeare meddled with fact to make great drama of recorded events.) 

On the positive side, Strand has found wonderful ways to enliven history with humor without resorting to jokes and slapstick, or even ridicule.  (He may have let a little of the last slip into his portrait of Confederate Major Cary, who’s portrayed as something of a popinjay—though some of that’s surely the responsibility of Sitler and director Discher.)  As Aaron C. Thomas wondered in American Theatre, “The Civil War is an unlikely setting for a comedy.  After all, how do you mine humor from one of our nation’s bloodiest periods? Can a play about America’s shameful legacy of slavery manage to shine light on a neglected corner of that story—and also get laughs?”  The answer appears to be yes.  

Strand believes that it’s the very situation depicted in Butler that is the basis of the humor.  The “very absurdity of slavery,” as AT’s Thomas put it, generates the comic circumstances.  “I was aware that both Butler and Cary (the Confederate officer) accept the absurd premise that one man can own another man,” explains the playwright.  “I knew that their acceptance of that premise would force them to defend things that were indefensible and, therefore, that portions of the play could become humorous.”  He’s not making fun of slavery or slaves, as some might fear at first blush; he’s making fun of people who twist themselves into pretzels to justify a tacitly absurd and indefensible practice—and the equally absurd lengths others found it necessary to go to in order to oppose it.

The humor, however, isn’t either a sidelight or a mask.  It doesn’t distract from or cover over the serious and, indeed, unpleasant truths inherent in the play’s situation.  In large part, it serves as the “spoonful of sugar” that helps the disturbing facts go down.  But some of the comedy acts as a spotlight—or perhaps a fluoroscope is a better image, letting us see things hidden behind the immediate circumstances.  In scene three, for instance, when General Butler notices that the runaway slave and his owner have the same last name, he asks, “Is he a relative of yours?”  It’s a laugh-line, made funnier by Shepard Mallory’s response: “Not as far as I know.  But I‘m a little hazy on just who my relatives are.  Colonel Mallory owns me.”  At the same time, though, without actually raising the issue, the exchange alludes to the practice among slave-owners to rape and father children by the African-American women they owned.  (Not all of the abhorrent realities of slavery and its era are handled with humor.  The whipping of slaves for minor and even perceived misdeeds is confronted straight-on when Mallory shows Butler the scars on his back and the general is genuinely shocked.  This launches a difficult and perceptive exchange about why people with power perpetrate violence on those they control.  It will be understandable if spectators start to think about Black Lives Matter and its cause of action.)

The writer’s also telescoped time enough to keep the story rolling—the real events took five days (plus the aftermath); the play runs two hours—even though the play’s mostly talk—some of it animated, granted.  Strand also wisely stays away from attempts to make the language sound like mid-19th-century prose, even as he’s also avoided obvious rhetorical anachronisms, so that we hear what the characters are saying rather than how they’re saying it.  As Thomas of American Theatre observed, Butler “shows how two men in a room can break each other’s defenses down, make each other (and the audience) laugh, and develop a respect for one another as intellectual and moral equals, no matter their official status.”  Butlerisn’t great drama (or even good dramatic literature), but it does make good theater—Ken Jaworowski of the New York Times stated categorically a the time of the Long Branch début, “Just call it splendid”—especially in the hands of an accomplished director and cast.  (As a spotlight on an obscure moment in American history that ended up having far-reaching consequences, Strand’s play serves an honorable purpose beyond art.)

Though some reviewers and spectators will complain that Strand’s light-hearted rendering of history—especially such a weighty moment—is wrong-headed and flip, I find it endearing that a great historical decision may have been based on no more than one man’s prickly personality.  It recalls my response to the 1969 musical 1776 in which the decision to declare independence for Britain’s American colonies hung on the choice of one delegate in Philadelphia, James Wilson of Pennsylvania, to vote for independence because it was easier to maintain his historical anonymity as one of the many who voted in favor than as the one man whose vote defeated the proposal.  Wilson’s fellow Pennsylvanian John Dickinson asks, “And is that how new nations are formed—by a nonentity seeking to preserve the anonymity he so richly deserves?”  Well, in Strand’s view, the momentous determination not to return escaped slaves to their Confederate masters turned on a lone major general’s snap decision in a fit of pique at a hubristic secessionist.  How fundamentally, endearingly human!

Joseph Dischler manages to keep the production on target, never letting the comedy overwhelm the serious theme but, conversely, not allowing the often dire aspects of the story to swamp the humor.  In Parks’s tight office set, a prop-cluttered space, Discher, who’s directed Butler twice before aside from the New Jersey début (the two Bay State stagings at the Barrington Stage and Majestic Theater), prompted the actors to move and behave completely naturally even when there were four men on stage together.  (Thanks to fight director Brad Lemons, Williams and Adamson even engage in a brief tussle in the cramped office—and pull it off rather nicely.)  The actors, however, all came off a little stiffly—far from historical animatronics, but not quite warm-blooded beings, either.  Even though Diana and I caught the very first preview of the New York run, I’d have thought after performing the month’s run in Long Branch they’d have been more comfortable in their roles.  Perhaps the two-year lay-off was more than the Off-Broadway rehearsal period could overcome (which is why I prefer to see plays after they open).  Adamson and Sterling’s opening scene, for example, was brittle and artificial as Butler and Kelly fenced through the general’s response to the announcement of Mallory’s arrival at the fort.  It seemed not only contrived, but as if the two actors didn’t quite believe what they were saying.  Some of Sitler’s interview with Adamson, especially Cary’s and Butler’s first lunges and parries, was similarly remote and canned.  I hope that the cast works its way out of this rabbit hole by 27 July, but I lay the problem at the feet of Discher.

Parks’s set is a model of a busy man’s cluttered work place, filled to overflowing with the boxes of his newly-arrived personal belongings, his papers and books stuffed into his secretary and other nooks and crannies, a desk at center-left, several chairs, a wash basin and pitcher on a stand, the requisite flag in a corner (33 stars?—it was draped so I couldn’t tell) and portrait of Lincoln on the wall, a map of the fort and its environs, and the table with the sherry decanter and glasses up center.  The room is lit effectively by Nagle and the realism of the production’s look is completed convincingly by Doherty’s three soldiers’ uniforms and Mallory’s earth-toned garb (perhaps a little clean and neat for a slave who’s lit out in the midst of a day at hard construction labor).  The costume designer outdid herself with Major Cary’s foppish look, however, including his outlandish mutton chops—closely resembling the famous side whiskers of Union General Ambrose Burnside, namesake of ‘sideburns.’  They defy gravity!  (Wigs and, I presume, prosthetic whiskers, are designed by Leah J. Loukas.)

(A totally irrelevant sidebar: Back in the 1960s, when the Civil War was marking its centenary, there were hundreds of articles and books, both fiction and non-fiction—and many combinations of the two—on the war and its many personalities.  I devoured a lot of these, including a slim volume called If the South Had Won the Civil War by  MacKinlay Kantor.  I remember one article, published where and by whom I don’t recall, in which the author did a survey of Civil War generals and correlated the volume of their whiskers with their success on the battlefield.  Statistically, the writer demonstrated, the most successful field commanders on both sides were those with the most facial hair.  In the majority of match-ups, the commander with the biggest beard beat his less hirsute opponent.  General Burnside, with his distinctive side whiskers but no beard, fared less well than his more heavily bearded counterparts.  By this standard, General Butler would be at a decided disadvantage since he wore only a small mustache and no beard or side whiskers at all.  Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant were fairly evenly matched in the beard department, but Jefferson Davis’s goatee was no match for Abraham Lincoln’s chin whiskers.  I just think it’s a fun factoid.)

Adamson’s Butler is appropriately stuffy and petty when we meet him, but the actor manages incrementally to reveal the general’s quirks and idiosyncrasies, as well as his shrewd legal intellect.  Despite some line problems on the night I saw the play, Adamson gives us a solid portrait of the title character’s complex personality as he deals with the dilemma that could at the very least end his military career, land him in a stockade, and potentially mean the death of his accidental charges.  As the slave Mallory, Williams seems to have taken some liberties with his status and the era—encouraged, to be sure, by Strand’s script and Discher’s direction—but creates a believable figure in extremis, a man who knows that he’s caught between the rock of the law and convention and the hard place of summary execution at the hands of his former master.  Strand has made Mallory not just intelligent, even astute—he reads Butler pretty accurately and knows himself pretty clearly as well—but self-educated and Williams plays these characteristics forthrightly.  Yet he doesn’t overlook the more elemental, emotional aspects of the character’s situation, not only when he shows Butler the flogging scars he bears but his panic when the general tumbles to the fact that this slave can read and Mallory fears that the officer will reveal his secret.  Strand doesn’t say so in the script, but if we know that a slave who’s been taught to read—and any person who teaches one—is a punishable offense in the South, we can understand Williams honest reaction to this possibility.

Sterling’s Lieutenant Kelly is really a glorified messenger, bringing the world outside the commandant’s office in, but Strand has given the young officer enough of a character for the actor to build upon.  Sterling allows us to see the touch of disdain the West Pointer who came up through the ranks holds for the general who used influence and political pressure to gain a lofty rank (at the time, Major General was the highest rank in the Union army) and a command and even more strongly, the contempt he had for Shepard Mallory and his slave companions.  But Sterling also shows us how, over the several days of contact, he comes to respect Mallory, a transformation that comes somewhat abruptly in the script, but which the actor pulls off successfully.  In Sitler’s hands, Major Cary is stiff-necked and condescending.  Although the character was a schoolteacher before the war (Cary was headmaster at a military academy and in the 1880s was appointed superintendent of Richmond’s school system), Sitler, who strongly resembles actor Željko Ivanek,  plays him as an aristocratic member of the FFV, looking down not only on the black slaves but Northerners like Butler.  While Sitler’s Southern accent (and the Tidewater region of Virginia, where Cary and Colonel Mallory came from, has a very distinct accent of its own, derived, many believe, from the 17th-century English spoken by the original British settlers) was a little strained, his characterization of Major Cary was vivid and solid, making him a viable foil of the testy Butler—and a credible motivation for the general’s refusal to turn the slaves over to him for repatriation.

Since I saw the play early in its preview run, I waited until opening to survey the reviews.  That also meant that not all the weeklies and monthlies had posted notices yet, so the pool of reviews was shallower than it might have been later in the play’s run.  Show-Score, which included in its average rating the coverage of the out-of-town productions, posted only eight reviews from the 59E59 New York première.  (My round-up will include a larger sampling of press coverage, and I’ve recalculated Show-Score’s rating to exclude the reviews of performances beyond New York.)  The website’s review collection,  all highly positive (89%) except one (11%), averages out to a fairly high score of 86.

The New York Times merely reran excepts from Ken Jaworowski’s 2014 review of the 2014 Long Branch première.  After acknowledging, “It’s hard to categorize ‘Butler.’  The play is part comedy, part historical drama and part biography, often all at once, and sometimes none of those,” the “Paper of Record” repeated the reviewer’s declaration that it’s “splendid.”  Jaworowski reported, “The beauty of the script . . . is how it approaches these thorny topics.  In short, it’s a hoot.”  The Timesman explained, “Rather than dry exposition or long-winded discussions, these men use wordplay that is by turns sarcastic, droll and witty.”  He praised Adamson for “a powerhouse performance” and Williams as “smooth.”  Jaworowski summed up by affirming, “At the end, it’s still not clear how to classify this two-hour show. . . .  Only one category really matters to theatergoers: good play.  Into that slot, ‘Butler’ fits effortlessly.”  (The full text of the 2014 notice is on line at http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/29/nyregion/a-review-of-butler-in-long-branch.html.)

The Times was the only print outlet that published a review while I was compiling this survey.  The remaining notices were all on websites.  Carole Di Tosti called the play “superb” on Theater Pizzazz, adding that it’s “tightly directed.”  Sterling’s Lieutenant Kelly is “played with vigor and likeability,” said Di Tosti, “Adamson is a knockout” as Butler, and Williams’s Mallory is “wonderfully portrayed.”  The “plot development is neither pat nor obvious,” the TP reviewer reported, and “set-up in the extremely capable hands of” Discher.  “The play is full of explosive confrontations when Butler and Mallory go head to head,” Di Tosti added, thanks to “Strand’s brilliant writing.”  In conclusion, the TP writer declared, “The production is just stunning!  Butler is marvelous theater.”  On CurtainUp, Elyse Sommer characterized Strand as “shrewd” and his “talk between Butler and Mallory” as “both amusing and witty.”  Sommer predicted that Butler“will have a solid life” ahead of it and that “audiences will respond to” it. 

Samuel L. Leiter characterized Butler as “both informative and highly entertaining” and an “engaging historical comedy” on his website, Theatre’s Leiter Side.  “The vibrant verbal volleys between Mallory and Butler,” reported Leiter, “invest the piece with wit and wisdom” and “Strand has comedic fun playing with the relationships among the” three military men and the fugitive slave.  Praising the physical production, Leiter cautioned, however, that the play’s “style is heightened for dramatic effect, its tone is mildly anachronistic, and its details conflated, so you have to take much of it with a grain of salt.”  Philip Dorian of Scene on Stage asserted, “Rarely has a slice of history been as entertainingly portrayed as in Butler.”  “Deftly directed by Joseph Discher,” continued Dorian, “Strand’s characters evolve from mutual hatred to grudging respect and even gestures of friendship and equality.”  With compliments for all the actors, the SoS reviewer concluded, “Making imaginary or real characters so sympathetic, so funny and so relevant, is damn good playwriting no matter the source.”

On Broadway World, Marina Kennedy dubbed Butler a “comedic-drama” with an “artful script,” “meticulous direction,” and “four excellent actors,” and affirmed that “the show is a wonderfully staged, unforgettable story of humanity.”  Kennedy reported, “The cast of Butler captures the spirited, intense, often humorous dialogue that makes this show completely captivating,” adding kudos to each member.  Her overall assessment of Butlerwas, “More than an entertaining show, it is a significant piece of theater and a timeless exploration of social conscience and individual responsibility.”  Howard Miller of Talkin’ Broadway called Butler a“glittering seriocomic play” that’s “amusing stuff, but rather puzzling” at its start.  Strand, however, “has taken an actual historic event and characters and turned it into an engrossing, non-pedantic play,” affirmed Miller, adding, “More surprising, the play is delightfully funny, packed with wit, farce, and slapstick.”  Of the staging, the TB review-writer said that “under Joseph Discher's sprightly direction,” all four characters are “splendidly realized.”  He concluded, “All told, this is a terrific show.”

TheaterMania’s Zachary Stewart suggested that Butler “might just be the funniest play ever written about Civil War-era slavery.”  The play, however, “is simultaneously thought-provoking and sidesplitting,” continued Stewart.  Stewart went on to make some astonishing comparisons, too: “the physical style of performance . . . owes much to classic sitcoms like The Odd Couple and I Love Lucy,” observed the TM writer, but “Adamson and Williams . . . play their scenes as if they were performing Beatrice and Benedick from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing.”  David Roberts labeled the play “scintillating” on Theatre Reviews Limited, in which Strand “delineates [the] conflicts carefully and—with the help of history—creates an admirable level of authenticity.”  Within Strand’s “well-written script,” Adamson’s and Williams’s “performances could not be more irresistible” as directed by Discher “with passion and sensitivity and brings out the best in his talented ensemble cast.”

The sole negative notice was David Barbour’s on Lighting and Sound America, in which the writer asked, “Do we really need a boulevard comedy about slavery?”  Barbour contended that Strand “has aims to illuminate a little-known piece of Civil War history in the manner of, say, Kaufman and Hart or Garson Kanin, an ambition that, on the face of it, seems weirdly out of step with our times,” and he attested that it made him feel “queasy.”  Describing the opening scene between General Butler and Lieutenant Kelly as “remarkably unfunny,” because “the playwright wastes pages of dialogue” comprising “endless back-and-forth.”  The L&Swriter labeled the scene “tiresome, one of the least felicitous examples of exposition in recent memory.”  Barbour felt that “Strand never effectively makes the case that a bond exists between” Mallory and Butler and, further, the reviewer insisted that “there's a pervasive feeling that the characters are following the playwright's dictates rather than their own hearts and minds.”  He found that “the second act's clever construction and sometimes witty dialogue are undermined to the degree that they require soft-pedaling the horrors of slavery and minimizing the crimes of those who supported it.”  Barbour praised the design and production team, but had only grudging compliments for the actors and director—blaming Strand for their deficiencies.  The review-writer concluded by noting that “throughout Butler, there's a nagging question of taste.”  Observing that the “99% white” audience at the performance he attended “ate it all up with a spoon,” Barbour posited, “I suspect that a black audience wouldn't be nearly as amused.”

Re-Reading Shaw – Plays from 1909 to 1920

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by Kirk Woodward

[Below is the third installment of Kirk Woodward’s series of articles on the theater writings of George Bernard Shaw, based on his reading of all six volumes of the Complete Plays with Prefaces (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1963).  The first and second segments, covering, respectively, plays written from 1885 to 1902 and 1901 to 1909, were posted on 3 and 18 July.  While it’s not necessary to read parts 1 and 2 before you read part 3, it’s helpful—and I recommend reading the whole series in whatever order in any case because, whether or not you’re a Shaw fan (as both Kirk and I are), he’s an endlessly fascinating figure and Kirk’s take on his work and ideas is more than worth reading.]

MISALLIANCE (1909-1910 / 1910) – The preface, “Parents and Children,” begins aggressively enough in tone to raise suspicions that Shaw wrote it out of frustration over his marriage and his wife Charlotte’s fear and revulsion (according to Michael Holroyd’s 1997 biography Bernard Shaw) at the idea of having children.

Whether this is so or not, the preface ferociously redefines all the aspects of childrearing that Shaw can think of – children are “slaves,” doctors are “quacks,” “the family ideal is a humbug and a nuisance.” Underneath one can feel Shaw’s pain from his own childhood. 

The preface does calm down somewhat as it goes along, although Shaw continues to make statements that are, to say the least, arguable, for example that “families are not kept together at present by family feeling but by human feeling,” an assertion that to say the least takes in a lot of territory.  

“We must reconcile education with liberty,” he says; urges toleration; and writes, “What is needed in dealing with children is not logic but sense.” Ultimately, “Fine art is the only teacher except torture.”  

In a sense the preface is written backward; an acknowledgement that few families resemble each other comes toward the end, when it would have been more helpful at the beginning.

Misalliance, a long play in one act, although usually performed with one or two intermissions, is a play that Shaw does seem to have written by starting to write and seeing what happens, rather than by plotting it out first.

It and its preface have an interesting relationship: the preface expands on the themes and topics in the play in ways that the play only lightly suggests.

The play itself is a romp, or perhaps we should say, a ripping good time. Unfortunately the characters in the play are not really very interesting. Aristotle may have been on to something when he said that plot is the soul of the drama.

The play has precious little plot, so it sails along on the strength of its dialogue, but it’s hard to be interested in anyone in it. Nothing very good or bad is going happen to them. It feels like a Heartbreak House where no one is particularly worried, depressed, or threatened.

In the middle of the play, an airplane crashes; it turns out to contain, not a bomb, but a young female Polish acrobat, vibrant enough to stir up a great deal more talk about marriage. She is definitely a dea ex machina, if not for the storyline, at least for the play itself.

Holroyd writes:

The extravagant ideas and incidents that cluster within the second part of Misalliance. . . all help to establish Shaw’s kinship with Ionesco . . . and show him to be, in R. J. Kaufmann’s words, ‘the godfather, if not actually finicky paterfamilias to the theater of the absurd.’ G.B.S. was familiar with early modernist experiments and had his own agenda for clearing away the dominance of the well-made play.

Shaw even comes close to “breaking the fourth wall,” the imaginary separation of the stage and the audience. We will see more of this kind of daring.  I forgot to mention that there is also a mysterious intruder with a gun who hides in a Turkish bath.

The play, in other words, is not a model of tight construction. I wonder if Shaw, who was criticized for borrowing the plots of other plays, was irritated when people criticized him because he didn’t.

“The Dark Lady of the Sonnets” (1910) – Shaw knew Shakespeare’s verse, including the Sonnets, backwards and forwards. He wrote this one act “occasional piece” as part of an effort to create a British Shakespeare National Theater. In it Shakespeare, pursuing his “Dark Lady,” has an unexpected encounter with Queen Elizabeth.

At least the first half of Shaw’s preface, in which he describes why he decided to use Mary Fitton (1578-1647) as the “Dark Lady” in this playlet, is engaging, and the preface contains a line that sets him extremely high in my estimation.

He describes spending his days at the British Library reading, and making the acquaintance of an obsessed Shakespeare researcher named Thomas Tyler, a friendless and solitary man of “astonishing and crushing ugliness,” disfigured by two large goiters on his face.

Shaw struck up an acquaintance with Tyler because “I am not,” as he declares magisterially, “to be frightened or prejudiced by a tumor.” That surely is (to use W. S. Gilbert’s words from H.M.S. Pinafore) “greatly to his credit.”

Shaw had a remarkable ability to make friends, many that one would assume would be his enemies. He was also, of course, a handful, leading Oscar Wilde to call Shaw “an excellent man; he has no enemies, and none of his friends like him.” Friendship is complex; but Shaw did have many friends.

FANNY’S FIRST PLAY (1911) is the surprising answer to the trivia question: “Which play by Shaw had the longest initial run?” It ran for 622 performances, an astonishing number, and deserved its long run. It is a charming comedy.

The preface is short and one of Shaw’s best:

Mere morality, or the substitution of custom for conscience, was once accounted a shameful and cynical thing: people talked of right and wrong, of honor and dishonor, of sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of morality and immorality. The word morality, if we met it in the Bible, would surprise us as much as the word telephone or motor car.

Fanny’s first play – meaning the first play she has written – is a play within a play; she has invited several London critics to see her work (they don’t know she wrote it) and tell her what they think. Shaw has fun with this concept: he doesn’t name himself as the actual author, and he models the critics on reviewers of the time. (One of them, Arthur Walkley, who also suggested the idea that became Don Juan in Hell, liked this concept so much that he helped the actor who played “him” with his makeup and movement.)

The play within a play is the only one by Shaw to have a group of young people as its central characters. They and their parents make up most of the play. The young people have all been in jail recently for various hijinks, and those experiences have helped them reach authentic understandings of who they are. Their parents are shocked, and must do their own growing.

Although Shaw calls the play a potboiler – it certainly is an audience pleaser – it contains a number of his themes: women who are miles ahead of men; the way people pretend to be anything but who they really are; the idea that we are better off doing what we want to do, and taking the consequences, than spending our time doing what we think we ought to do in order to please others.

Shaw writes in the preface:

Is it any wonder that I am driven to offer to young people in our suburbs the desperate advice: Do something that will get you into trouble? . . . I hate to see dead people walking about: it is unnatural.

ANDROCLES AND THE LION(1912 / 1913) – Shaw said he wrote Androclesto “show what a play for children should be like.” With its dancing lion, it has reminded many of a British Christmas pantomime. It had a short initial run (55 performances), apparently because it was reported to be irreligious. In fact it characterizes its Christians fairly, if skeptically. The preface is another story.

Shaw’s hundred-page preface (for a two-act play, and seven more pages of explanation follow it!) is titled “Preface on the Prospects of Christianity: Why Not Give Christianity a Trial?” Christians excited by the title might want to calm down. Shaw seldom accepts anyone else’s definition of a concept, a belief, or anything else. He redefines everything.

In this case, he redefines Christianity, re-creating Jesus in his own image. This is not a unique phenomenon, as Fr. Raymond Brown, in An Introduction to the New Testament (Doubleday, 1997) has pointed out:

In The Quest for the Historical Jesus . . . A[lbert] Schweitzer passed judgment on more than a hundred years of such “historical Jesus” research. He contended that most of the investigation . . . told us more about the investigators than about Jesus, for they were describing their own mirror-image reflection.

Here is Shaw:

I must still insist that if Jesus could have worked out the practical problems of a Communist constitution, an admitted obligation to deal with crime without revenge or punishment, and a full assumption by humanity of divine responsibilities, he would have conferred an incalculable benefit on mankind, because these distinctive demands of his are now turning out to be good sense and sound economics.

Shaw’s preface can be intelligent. But it is limited both by his Enlightenment-based scholarship, which has been in many cases superseded; and by his assumptions, which rule out anything he would call supernatural – this from a man who champions the Superman and the Life Force! – who therefore has to assume that toward the end of his ministry Jesus became delusional.

Needless to say, Shaw has no belief in Jesus’ resurrection, which leaves him the problem of accounting for what motivated Jesus’ followers to have the effect they did on the world. He explains this by asserting that the apostle Paul basically invented a new religion using Jesus’ name. This explanation too is seldom today considered credible on the evidence.

Anyone creating a new Jesus story confronts the same problem: the gospel texts and the other New Testament books are the only source materials from the period (the gnostic writings come significantly later).

So anyone trying to pick and choose a Jesus story from those sources is like Dickens’ character Mrs. Todgers (in the novel Martin Chuzzlewit, 1843-44) “a dodgin’ among the tender bits with a fork, and an eatin’ of ‘em.” Making a “version” of the story means choosing the parts one likes, based on one’s own assumptions, and discarding the parts one doesn’t like.

Shaw buttresses his narrative with by now familiar overwrought assertions:

The attitude of the Roman Emperor and the officers of his staff towards the opinions at issue were much the same as those of a modern British Home Secretary towards members of the lower middle classes when some pious policeman charges them with Bad Taste, technically called blasphemy…

After the preface the play is a relief. Androclesshares with The Devil’s Disciple (and others of Shaw’s plays) the theme of a person – numerous persons in this case – who with death imminent finds out what she or he really believes. It is hardly a play for children.

But it is exceptionally well written. Shaw takes religion seriously. The theological discussions in the play emerge from the characters and their situations. Androcles is a wonderful character. So is the lion. The second act is a marvel of dramaturgy: everyone gets a moment.

“Overruled” (1912) – In his preface, Shaw writes about “my playlet, which I offer as a model to all future writers of farcical comedy.” “Overruled” is farcical in its situation: a man and woman, in love with each other on a ship, find that their spouses are also on the ship – and also in love with each other. Aside from this, the play is not a farce but a comedy, in which sex is thoroughly discussed and analyzed.

Shaw’s preface, remarkably serious-minded considering the play that follows it, begins with a discussion of what Shaw calls “polygamy” and most of us would call “infidelity;” jealousy as a learned response; the lack of statistical information on sexual behavior; revenge; farce; sex on stage; realistic stage scenery; the purpose of art; and the failure of farce to fully illustrate sex. It’s hard to think what he left out.

Noel Coward was familiar with Shaw’s plays (Shaw defended him when Coward was accused of plagiarizing the plot of You Never Can Tell for 1921’s The Young Idea). The situation in “Overruled” reappeared in 1930 in Coward’s brilliant play Private Lives.

PYGMALION(1912-1913 / 1913) – Shaw’s biggest popular success is not this or any of his plays, but the musical My Fair Lady (1956), based on this wonderful play about the dictatorial, oblivious language teacher Henry Higgins and the flower seller Eliza Doolittle whom he teaches to act like an upper-class lady.
                     
Alan Jay Lerner, librettist and lyricist of My Fair Lady, took significant pieces of dialogue intact from Shaw’s play. He also brought Higgins and Eliza together at the end of the play, which Shaw would have strenuously objected to, except that he had died in 1950.

My own reading of the play is that Lerner is correct in his estimate of the trajectory of the plot, and Shaw is not; I find his notes about what happens to the characters after the curtain goes down unpersuasive. On this matter opinions, of course, differ.

What I think is unarguable is that Pygmalionis a brilliantly written play, a practically flawless comedy, with an original and engaging plot, vigorous characterization, and frequently hilarious dialogue based, not on gags or jokes, but on the characters themselves.

Shaw claimed that he didn’t work out the plots of his plays in advance, but wrote them as the words came to him, without any thought for structure, and this same comment is often made about his plays as an objection to them. For example, C. D. Warner, in The Library of the World’s Best Literature (1917), writes:

As a playwright, Shaw has never been particularly interested in problems of construction. In his earlier pieces, he was satisfied to pour new wine into old bottles. The content of these early plays was new, but the structure was based upon the pattern which Pinero had previously borrowed from T. W. Robertson. In his later plays, Shaw has introduced no notable improvements in technique. At times he has discarded altogether the pattern of “the well-made play”; at other times he has reverted to the loose and easy pattern of the Elizabethan “chronicle-history”: but in such experiments as these, he has merely revolted against the rigors of contemporary dramaturgy without offering any acceptable substitute for the structure which he has attempted to discard. As an architect of plays, Shaw is certainly inferior to Pinero and Jones, and possibly to Galsworthy. He has never made a pattern so remarkable as that of ‘The Thunderbolt’ or ‘Mrs. Dane’s Defense’; and he has never built a structure so self-sustaining and so rigorous as that of ‘Strife.’

The plays of Bernard Shaw may lose their potency within a score of years, because they were so novel at the time when they were written.

I see contradictions in this passage. In any case, it’s possible that Shaw wrote some of his plays by starting at one end and writing until he was finished, without prior calculation. It’s equally possible that he was so aware of the requirements of play structure that he didn’t have to think much about it.

But it’s just as likely that a number of his plays were carefully plotted in advance, whether on paper or in his mind. The structure of Pygmalion is impeccable. It’s just a marvelous play in every way.
  
“Great Catherine” (1913) is a raucous playlet about the Russian Empress and an English military man. It has no obvious purpose – Catherine is not even a superman! – beyond contrasting the presumably sexually uninhibited Catherine with the rigid Englishman for laughs; it premiered at London’s Vaudeville Theater. The preface begins by defending the play’s version of history, but gives that up and settles for observations on theater:

Playwrights do not write for ideal actors when their livelihood is at stake. . . . [But] in the long run, the actors will get the authors, and the authors the actors, they deserve.

“The Music-Cure” (1913 / 1914) was written as a curtain-raiser for Magic (1913), a play by G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936). A spindly young man who has had a breakdown, and can only play popular songs on the piano, is confronted by a brilliant, forceful lady classical pianist. They work out a sort of duet and decide to get married. Shaw subtitled the play “A Piece of Utter Nonsense”; it took him nine months to finish. From the preface:

This is not a serious play: it is what is called a Variety Turn for two musicians. . . . As a last desperate resort a pianola behind the scenes can be employed; but the result will lack spontaneity.

There is, however, no pressing reason why the thing should be performed at all.

“O’Flaherty V.C.” (1915 / 1917) – “V.C.” stands for “Victoria Cross,” England’s highest military honor. O’Flaherty, who has won it, is an Irish peasant lad who went to fight for England in World War I because his home life in Ireland was so frustrating, irritating, stultifying, and boring.

As a truth-telling experience the play ranks with John Bull’s Other Island, but Shaw tells us in his preface that it was designed as a recruiting poster for the Irish. In effect it says, “Join the English Army – your life in Ireland is so wretched that fighting for England can’t be any worse.”

Remarkably, England’s military was not enthusiastic about the play, particularly one in which a character says “It’s in the nature of governments to tell lies.” Eventually it was allowed to be produced, in 1917, for troops already in Belgium.

“The Inca of Perusalem”(1916) is Kaiser Wilhelm II, then fighting England in the World War. We see him in disguise, on a romantic errand. In the course of the play he makes it clear how little control he has over the actual war. One cannot imagine this approach was very popular at the time.

“Augustus Does His Bit” (1916 / 1917) is one of several short plays Shaw wrote during World War I. The play is a satire on the way England is conducting it, and it mocks everybody except the troops. 

Augustus is a War Office official, a nincompoop and straight man to two comedians, one his clerk and one, a woman, trying to steal a confidential list on a bet, which she does. With the war in such hands . . . . Shaw knows how to write comedy scenes, and does.

“Annajanska the Bolshevik Empress”(written 1917, performed 1918), a variety show sketch, is a spoof on the Russian Revolution and to my mind remarkably unfunny. Annajanska is a princess who has escaped and become a Bolshevik. Good luck with that, honey.

Apparently it went over like a house afire because of its performers. Shaw says the only compliment he got on his writing was from a friend who commented, “It is the only one of your works that is not too long.”

HEARTBREAK HOUSE (1913-1919 / 1920) – Shaw had a hard time getting this play produced, despite his substantial reputation as a playwright. It was finally produced to, it appears, a number of critical yawns. My guess is that many in his audience were suffering from World War fatigue.

In any case, I find the play, which Shaw called a fantasia on Russian – that is, Chekhovian – themes, one of his most appealing. Heartbreak House is a play about weakness. Captain Shotover, the owner of Heartbreak House, is substantially insane, and his guests are all damaged goods; even the billionaire in the play is a timid fellow.

So many of the characters in Shaw’s plays strenuously try to justify themselves. The characters in Heartbreak House know that that effort is futile.

[For those who haven’t been following Kirk’s series, I’ll restate the plan (such as it is).  There are five segments in the collection and I’m running them every couple of weeks.  The next section, covering plays from 1918 to 1933, will appear (as if by magic—which, of course, is how computers work) in about two weeks.  I hope you’ll come back to ROT to read Kirk’s further thoughts on the Irish playwright and his works.]

'Oslo'

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At a few minutes after noon on a sunny Monday, 13 September 1993, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin of Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization chairman, Yasser Arafat, reached across President Bill Clinton and shook hands at a ceremony on the South Lawn of the White House.  Seconds earlier, Israeli Foreign Minister Shimon Peres and Mahmoud Abbas, the foreign policy aide for the PLO, (along with U.S. Secretary of State Warren Christopher and Foreign Minister Andrei Kozyrev of Russia), signed the ”Declaration of Principles on Interim Self-Government Arrangements,” better known as the Oslo Accords, while three thousand spectators, including former Presidents Jimmy Carter and George H. W. Bush, watched in amazement. 

One year later, Arafat, Peres, and Rabin were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize “for their efforts to create peace in the Middle East.”  A year after that, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated in Tel Aviv at a peace rally by a right-wing Israeli militant who opposed the Oslo Accords. (Arafat died in 2004 at 75 of causes still clouded in uncertainty.)

But that very public signing ceremony has a twisty, tortuous back story, mostly cloaked in secrecy, that involved a number of less-familiar names, including a handful of Norwegian diplomats and international-affairs academics, PLO functionaries, and Israeli university professors.  The Oslo process, in fact, stretched back to April 1992, almost a year-and-a-half before the historic signing in Washington, and centered on the Borregaard Manor, a 19th-century wooden mansion 60 miles east of the Norwegian capital.  These secret back-channel meetings are the threads out of which J. T. Rogers wove his new play, Oslo, now having its world première at the Lincoln Center Theater.

Oslo began previews at the Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater, LCT’s Off-Broadway house, on 16 June and opened on 11 July.  The current production will close on 28 August, but Lincoln Center Theater announced on 27 July that it will transfer with the same cast to the company’s Broadway venue, the Vivian Beaumont Theater.  The Broadway run is scheduled to begin previews on 23 March 2017 and to open on 13 April, allowing it to compete for Tony Awards in the 2017-18 season (which officially ends around the end of April).  My frequent theater companion, Diana, and I saw the evening performance on Friday, 22 July. 

As the successor to Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts’ original stage company, the Repertory Theater of Lincoln Center (1965-72), the Lincoln Center Theater was established in 1985 under the leadership of Chairman (and former New York City mayor) John V. Lindsay, Director Gregory Mosher, and Executive Producer Bernard Gersten.  (The theaters at Lincoln Center were run by Joseph Papp’s New York Shakespeare Festival—now known as the Joseph Papp Public Theater—from 1973 to 1977.  The theaters were either dark or rented to commercial producers for the ensuing three years, then for one year they were operated by the short-lived Lincoln Center Theater Company.  Renovation then closed the space until 1983.)  

Currently under the direction of Chairman J. Tomilson Hill and Producing Artistic Director André Bishop, LCT produces dozens of productions for millions of theatergoers at the 1060-seat Beaumont, the company’s Tony-eligible Broadway house; the 299-seat Newhouse, its Off-Broadway venue; the 112-seat Claire Tow Theater, the experimental and emerging theater site, and other spaces on and off Broadway.

In June 2012, LCT opened a new two-story addition on the roof of the Vivian Beaumont.  The expansion includes the Tow Theater, rehearsal rooms, office space, and a roof terrace.  It’s the home of LCT3, the company’s program devoted to producing the work of new playwrights, directors, and designers.  Through tours, telecasts, films, publications, recordings, and its website, Lincoln Center Theater reaches audiences around the country and the world.

In addition to its public productions, LCT also offers the Directors Lab, a developmental symposium for new and emerging artists; Open Stages, an arts-in-education program operated in cooperation with New York City public schools; Lincoln Center Theater Review, a literary journal available in the Theater's lobbies and distributed free-of-charge to schools and libraries, and the Platform Series of free conversations with LCT artists.

Rogers, 48, lives and writes in Brooklyn, but his plays frequently deal with matters of world import.  In the Guardian of London, Michael Billington described Rogers as “that rare creature: an American dramatist who writes about global issues.”  Before Oslo, examining the Israeli-Palestinian peace process, he composed Blood and Gifts in 2012, a play which moves from Washington, D.C., back rooms to huts on the Afghan border during the Soviet occupation from 1981 to 1991.  Like Oslo, it was staged at LCT’s Newhouse Theater after a début at the Lyttelton Theatre of London’s Royal National Theatre.   His earlier plays include The Overwhelming (Roundabout Theater Company, 2007), setin early 1994 on the eve of the Rwandan genocide, and Madagascar(Salt Lake Acting Company, 2004; SPF Summer Play Festival, New York, 2005) takes place in a hotel room in Rome.  The playwright said in his 2008 Laura Pels Keynote address for A.R.T./New York (Alliance of Resident Theatres/New York), the organization of non-profit theaters in New York City, that his travels made him realize “that as a playwright I had to lift my eyes from my navel and look out into the world.” 

Rogers’s work has won him considerable recognition, including multiple awards for his plays and his writing.  In 2009, Rogers was the only U.S. playwright among 11 British dramatists to contribute to The Great Game: Afghanistan for London’s Tricycle Theatre, out of which came Blood and Gifts.  In 2004, Rogers served as artist-in-residence at the Eugene O'Neill Theater Center in Waterford, Connecticut.  He’s also been guest artist at Truman State University in Kirksville, Missouri; and lectured at the schools of drama at Columbia University in New York City, Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois; Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut; the University of Utah in Salt Lake City; and the Claremont McKenna College School of Economics, Claremont, California.  Rogers has a 1990 BFA in acting from  the University of North Carolina School of the Arts, Winston-Salem, which awarded the playwright an honorary doctorate in 2009; he’s also lectured at UNCSA’s theater program.

According to Rogers’s own account, Oslo, which was workshopped at the New Play Development Conference at Drexel University in Philadelphia, part of PlayPenn, a new-play development program, in July 2015, began over drinks one evening in December 2012.  Bartlett Sher, the director of Blood and Gifts, which was on stage at LCT at the time (and is the director of Oslo), invited a friend who’s a sociologist from Norway to see a performance.  Sher’s friend turned out to be Terje Rød-Larsen, director of an Oslo think tank devoted to applied social sciences.  After the show, Rød-Larsen, the central figure in Rogers’s yet-to-be-written play, approached the playwright and “said that he had been waiting years for someone to tell a story that involved him and his wife [Mona Juul, a Norwegian diplomat and another main character in Oslo] and the 1993 Oslo peace accord between Israel and the PLO.  And he had decided that I was that person.”​  At a restaurant near Lincoln Center, Rød-Larsen spoke of his involvement as Rogers asked questions.  The playwright explained, “I had watched the Rose Garden ceremony on TV that had President Clinton, Shimon Peres, and Yasser Arafat.  But I didn’t remember anything Norwegian about it.”  Engaging in extensive research, “I learned the full story of how the Oslo Accords came to be—a story that is documented, yet almost completely unknown.” 

“I had been wanting to write about the Israelis and Palestinians for years,” admitted Rogers, who’d retained a memory of that historic handshake 23 years on.  “But I hadn’t found the right story.”  Rød-Larsen and Juul’s tale seemed like the right one through which  to examine “the meaning and legitimacy of” the Oslo process “that led to that handshake.”  As he acknowledged, “Both as a dramatist and a citizen, I remain gripped by the unimaginable political will it took for those on both sides to create the opportunity for that handshake, and by the courage it took to stand face to face with the enemy as they struggled to find a way forward—together.” 

Rogers cautions that while the play is “the story of a hidden history that lies behind a public history,” it’s his“version of this history.”  The events Rogers recounts all occurred, but not necessarily in the order or in the time span laid out in the script.  (The playwright insists, however, that “the lively, sometimes even crazy stuff in the play is mostly true.”)  Each of the characters is “named for a real person,” Rogers affirmed, but some actual players in the real-life drama were eliminated and others have been reconceived “through my sensibility” from their historical counterparts.  The words the characters say in the play are Rogers’s words. 

Though it essentially follows the arc of the historical outline, the plot of Oslo revolves around Terje Rød-Larsen (Jefferson Mays), director of the Fafo Institute for Applied Social Sciences, and his wife Mona Juul (Jennifer Ehle), an official in the Norwegian Foreign Ministry.  In early 1992, the couple propose the novel idea of initiating and facilitating secret back-channel talks between representatives of Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization that became known as the Oslo Channel.  Rød-Larsen and Juul first have to convince the Norwegian foreign minister, Johan Jorgen Holst (T. Ryder Smith) and his deputy, Jan Egeland (Daniel Jenkins), to take the enormous risk they propose.  Multilateral negotiations sponsored by the U.S. are already in progress in Madrid since 1991 (without the PLO, which had been labeled a terrorist organization), an attempt to revive the Israeli-Palestinian peace process, but they hadn’t been getting anywhere.  What the two Norwegians are putting forward was a secret, under-the-radar negotiation without the interference of a major world power and the spotlight that goes with that.  They’ve gone to great lengths to keep the Oslo Channel unknown to both the Norwegians’ foreign ministry superiors and the Americans.

Aside from the secrecy, though, there were other potential problems.  For one, it was against Israeli law for an official of the country to meet with a member of the PLO, so the organizers select a couple of economics professors from the University of Haifa, Yair Hirschfeld (Daniel Oreskes) and Ron Pundak (Jenkins) who have no official link to the Israeli government.  The New York Times’ Ben Brantley refers to them as “Rosencrantz-and-Guildenstern-ish”—whether Shakespearean or Stoppardian isn’t specified.  For another, no high-ranking PLO official would risk his position in the organization and even his life by meeting openly with Israelis, even with tacit approval by Chairman Arafat, so the Norwegians invite Ahmed Qurie, also known as Abu Ala (Anthony Azizi), the Finance Minister of the PLO, and Hassan Asfour (Dariush Kashani), the official PLO liaison with the Palestinian Delegation at the talks in Madrid.  The matter of secrecy and avoiding the spotlight is accomplished by holding the sessions at the Borregaard Manor outside Oslo where the negotiators can pass themselves off as academics holed up in this remote mansion to write a book.

The initial meetings between the PLO officials and the Israelis are prickly, but they soon begin to make progress, lending support to Larsen’s theory that private, personal, incremental negotiations might succeed where public, impersonal, comprehensive talks have failed.  The Israeli professors are eventually joined and then sidelined by Uri Savir (Michael Aronov) Director General of the Israeli Foreign Ministry, and Joel Singer (Joseph Siravo), a Washington, D.C., attorney with ties to the Israeli government.  Israeli Deputy Foreign Minister Yossi Beilin (Adam Dannheiser) and Foreign Minister Shimon Peres (Oreskes) also make periodic appearances. 

Oslo, which runs two hours and 55 minutes with two intermissions, has a cast of 14 actors who play 21 roles.  Though it unfolds mostly in the salon of the Borregaard Manor where the participants gather after negotiating sessions, which take place behind closed doors, for drinks, snacks, and banter, Oslo also ranges from Middle Eastern sites like Tel Aviv and Tunis (Arafat’s home base at the time), to European cities, to, finally, Washington, D.C.  The play covers April 1992 to September ’93—a year and five months—with a coda that extends 11 years into the future after the historic White House signing.
                                                   
I found Oslo less theatrically exciting that the Shakespeare’s Globe production of The Merchant of Venice I saw two nights later (see my ROT report on 18 August), also three hours long, though Diana really liked it.  It’s all talk, which for three hours is enervating enough, but there’s a lot of narration delivered by Ehle’s Mona Juul—the oral equivalent of Brechtian labels: short (sometimes no more than a few words) identifications of new characters (there are a lot—requiring a good deal of double- and even triple-casting) or filling a gap in time.  Furthermore, the negotiations themselves take place off stage, so we get after-action reports and down-time interaction.  The final scene is at the White House that momentous September day (though it’s “back stage”), but the play ends with the characters doing that familiar epilogue where they stand in formation and tell us what happened to everyone after the signing.  I find all that anti-theatrical.  Furthermore, the back-story of the accords isn’t a) all that surprising or b) all that exciting.  (I’m a foreign-service brat, so the intricacies of diplomacy aren’t a revelation to me.  I grew up around it.  I was also an intelligence officer in the army, so the mechanisms of secrecy are familiar to me as well: accommodation addresses, cover identities and code names, vehicles registered in false names, covert telecommunications.)

The “big” dramatic hook is that it all had to take place in secret and off the official level—but that’s hardly much of a playable action and after about an hour, it stops being much of a discernible focus on stage; we forget about it until Rogers sees fit to remind us with a line or, once or twice, a potential breach of the secrecy.  (It does make clear why diplomacy can’t always be conducted transparently and why communications shouldn’t always be made public—take note, WikiLeaks and Edward Snowden!)

The performances are fine, and one or two of the actors actually manages to channel a recognizable world figure (Peres, Kissinger), but since most of the characters, while real people, aren’t famous, the cast is free to create figures in a play rather than political celebrities on TV.  The big problem for me was that even good acting can’t enliven what’s basically a Weltpolitikrole-play.  Diana kept insisting that Oslo ought to be televised so that everyone, especially young people, can see what happened in this backstage story of history. 

Actually, a TV production might make Oslo more interesting to watch.  (Now that it’s going to Broadway, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see it on HBO or Showtime.  Both Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar & Grilland All the Way were televised after Broadway runs recently.)  The camera can make the illusion of action where there is none and close-ups, wide-shots, and two-shots can vary the visuals in ways that stage pictures can’t.  It also might make the play shorter, since the production almost became a play about moving furniture!  The cast has to rearrange the set pieces—furniture on casters—between every one of the 53  scenes.  (The minimalist scenic design is by Michael Yeargan and the props are supervised by Faye Armon-Troncoso.)  Without that, with which a TV version would dispense, the three hours would probably be closer to 2½!  And all those narrative inserts and the concluding speeches would probably be replaced by screen titles and a crawl at the end.  Down to 2¼ hours maybe.

Sher handles the sweeping range of the play and the large cast very well, guiding each of the actors into distinctive characterizations for their often multiple roles.  (Ben Furey, by the way, was the dialect coach who helped the cast master accents from Norwegian to Arabic to Hebrew—and German for Michael Aronov as Uri Savir when he impersonates Henry Kissinger as well as a couple of out-of-place tourists.)  I wish he and Rogers had come up with a way to stage Oslo without the narration and the constantly-moving furniture, but given that distraction, he kept the three-hour, darkly comic drama flowing, with enough humor and passion to add variety and emotional fluctuations to the performance to allay the potential impression that Oslo’s just a static reenactment of history. 

Yeargan, a multiple-Drama Desk- (The Light in the Piazza, 2005; Awake and Sing!, 2006; South Pacific, 2008) and -Tony-winning (The Light in the Piazza, 2005; South Pacific, 2008) vet, created a fragmentary, representation of the Borregaard salon (based on photos taken by Rogers on a visit to the negotiation site) with a single, soothingly neutral, bluish-gray wall, symbolic of the atmosphere intended to keep the parties calm and focused, with a single, prominent, somewhat-ornate door—the visual symbol of the play’s focus—up center on the Newhouse’s thrust stage.  Otherwise, the space is fairly barren aside from Armon-Troncoso’s props, giving the impression of a dreamscape, slightly surreal.  (The single set stands in for all the locations of the play, with projections, by 59 Productions, for distant locales and news events that are recounted in Mona Juul’s narration.)  Donald Holder’s lighting, which subtly conveys the passing of time, and Peter John Still’s sound add to the vaguely disembodied reality of the setting. 

Once again, the cast here is an excellent example of an ensemble.  Even though Rød-Larsen and Juul are the threads that stitch the group together by their near-constant stage presence, particularly Mays’s Rød-Larsen, and the play couldn’t happen (any more than could the Oslo Channel itself) were it not for the Norwegian duo, they are only the first and second among equals when it comes to the performance.  Nonetheless, as I asserted earlier, the actors each carve out a well-defined individual character—or characters, in many instances.  Mays’s Rød-Larsen is a dynamic, charming, raconteur who revels in managing the near-chaos—a perfect MC for the mercurial negotiations.  (It should be noted that Mays, a 2004 Tony recipient for I Am My Own Wife, was the object of some astonished praise in my report on A Gentleman’s Guide to Love & Murder, posted on ROT on 16 October 2014.)  As his wife, Mona Juul, Ehle is an elegant, controlled calming influence, a woman who knows how to soothe the savage breast (of which there are quite a few here), so to speak.  She has a strong will—her husband’s complement—but also a sharp wit, which, as one of only two woman in the manor, she needs and is unshy at displaying.  (Ehle is also a Tony-winner, one for The Real Thing in 2000, and—wait for it!—three for The Coast of Utopia in 2007, one for each part!  That has to be some kind of record.)

Oreskes’s Yair Hirschfeld, the senior Israeli professor, is a bit shy and a bit out of his depth, but earnest and passionate about his responsibility and willing to take a risk to make it work.  (His Shimon Peres is a spot-on impersonation.)  As Hirschfeld’s junior colleague, Ron Pundak, Jenkins is more social than his comrade, livelier, perhaps even a little too much so.  Azizi is a formidable and committed politician as the chief Palestinian negoiator, Ahmed Qurie, a man who believes he’s important—he has Arafat’s ear—and isn’t afraid to show it.  He has strong feelings about his role in history, but he’s also a consummate actor and can play a role when it serves him.  He’s a practical man, not an intellectual, and something of a hedonist—and a would-be ladies’ man.  Qurie’s partner, Hassan Asfour, is a colder, less flexible figure in Kashani’s hands than his senior negotiator, and he’s an unreconstructed, slogan-spouting, Patrice Lumumba University-educated Marxist.  Angy and unforgiving, Kashani’s Asfour is a dour and stiff-backed character.

Of the less-central figures, Smith’s Norwegian Foreign Minister, Johan Jorgen Holst; Aronov’s Uri Savir, Director-General of the Israeli Foreign Ministry; Adam Dannheisser’s Yossi Beilin, Israeli Deputy ForeignMinister; and Joseph Siravo’s Israeli lawyer, Joel Singer, also stood out for strong characterizations.  And I must take special note of the work of Henny Russell as Toril Grandal, the housekeeper and cook at Borregaard Manor, who, with her husband Finn (played, between appearances as Holst, by Smith), seemed to keep the place up and running and all the temporary inhabitants (relatively) happy despite the tension and weighty responsibilities.

The press coverage for Oslo, still an Off-Broadway production until its change in venue next spring, was extensive.  Aside from several features and interviews in both the print and on-line media (and the entire summer issue of the Lincoln Center Theater Review), the website Show-Scoresurveyed 29 reviews.  (I use my own list, admittedly with considerable overlap, so the tally is different.)  Reporting that Oslo received 100% positive notices (that’s right: not a single negative or even mixed review!), Show-Score posted an average rating for the consensus of 86.  (This reception might in part explain the move to Broadway.  As late as a month before this posting, there were no plans for that transfer, according to the show’s press representative.)

The U.S. edition of the Financial Times’ Max McGuinness asserted that Rogers’s “engaging new play” may be the only thing remaining of the Oslo Peace Process; “It all seems very long ago,” he said.  Though “we know it is all destined to end in failure,” noted McGuinness, “[t]he play itself succeeds in drawing us into the minutiae of now dimly remembered diplomatic brawling.”  He warned, however, “It’s a dramatically conventional and occasionally heavy-handed work lacking the intellectual zing” of similarly-themed work by other writers, “[b]ut the many frustrations and occasional triumphs of the year-long negotiations are scrupulously conveyed.”  Sher’s directing, “in keeping with the gravity of the subject,” is “by-the-book.”  McGuinness expressed particular praise for the Joel Singer of Joseph Siravo and Mays’s Rød-Larsen.

In the New York Times, Ben Brantley, dubbing Oslo“absorbing drama,” characterized the play as “long and dense enough to make you wonder if you should have packed an overnight bag.”  The Timesman added, however, “Yet what Mr. Rogers and the director, Bartlett Sher, have created is a streamlined time machine, comfortably appointed enough to forestall jet lag.”  Further, “‘Oslo’ affectingly elicits the all-too-human factor” and “it’s a vivid, thoughtful and astonishingly lucid account” in which Rogers doesn’t take sides.  “Only occasionally does the script resort to the telegraphic shorthand of cute, defining quirks,” reported Brantley, and he praised the entire cast of negotiators and disputants, with special notice for Mays and, most enthusiastically, Ehle.  The result of the cast and creative team’s efforts, Brantley declated, is “the stuff of crackling theater.”

Matt Windman of am New Yorkcharacterized Oslo as a “long-winded . . . but smart, occasionally humorous and objectively-observed ensemble drama” with “excellent” performances and “spare,” “seamless,” “video-enhanced staging.”   The amNY reviewer concluded, “The play may be dense and choppy, but a more narrow and delicate treatment probably could not have captured the scale and intensity of the political process.”  Newsday’s Linda Winer, whose “Bottom Line” was “Unknown Middle-East history, grippingly told,” dubbed the play an “ambitious three-hour, fact-based fiction” that’s “lovingly, painstakingly staged” and which will “probably” fascinate you.  The play’s “pretty talky,” warned Winer, but added that “Rogers, Sher and their generous, marvelous cast do much to lighten the agonizing back-and-forth . . . with convivial unlikely scenes of eating, joking and drinking among fierce adversaries.”  Although Oslo has a “cinematic quality,” the Newsday reviewer found that it “feels naturally theatrical” in Yeargan’s “spare” set. 

Christopher Kelly of the Newark ­Star-Ledgerand NJ.com pronounced that the “story of process, patience and the painstaking art of negotiation . . . manages a seemingly impossible feat: It transforms three hours of talk about the Oslo Accords into gripping and urgent entertainment.”  Still, never once does any of [Oslo] feel confusing or bloated” as the production is “[c]risply directed” by Sher.  Rogers makes [the] process thrilling to witness”—and “[f]unny, too.”   Kelly lauds the “exceptional” cast, “with particular props to Mays and Ehle.”  Bergen County, New Jersey, Record reviewer Robert Feldberg warned on NorthJersey.com that Oslo is “overlong” but “well-acted” and “surprisingly lively and involving.”  Feldberg also reported that Rogers “injects crowd-pleasing humor and sentimentality, but in reasonable doses.”  As the Recordreviewer noted, even after the historic signing at the White House, “peace didn’t follow,” so Oslo“concludes with a glass-half-full sentiment.” 

Miriam Felton-Dansky dubbed Oslo a “good-hearted, occasionally frustrating, three-hour epic” in the Village Voice, “at heart, a friendship saga.”  Although Felton-Dansky felt that “the tension slowly mounts” over the course of the play, in the end, she found, “Theatrically, Oslo falls somewhat flat” because “Rogers supplements his dialogue with repetitive direct-address narration, and between scenes, projected newsreel footage.”  The Voice reviewer continued, “Most disappointingly, Oslo lends little depth to the Norwegian diplomats themselves.”  “Still,” she concluded, “Oslo contains a form of thoughtful hope that is welcome” in today’s world. 

In the New Yorker, Hilton Als, calling Oslo a “good, if overlong, piece of journalism-theatre—you know, a play that’s been ‘ripped from the headlines’ or the history books, presumably to add heat and immediacy to the proceedings,” reported that “it has moments of strangeness that suggest what might have been had the playwright, J. T. Rogers, and his director, Bartlett Sher, been more interested in taking risks.”  During one early scene, Als got the notion that “Rogers and Sher might be on their way to making something that was more reflective of the times than the ‘truth,’ a dissonant opera of talk and movement, lies and evasions and beliefs: the stuff of politics.”  But, the New Yorker review-writer realized, though Rogers “mixes fact and fiction . . ., he uses reality not to buoy his imagination but to shore up a ‘Family of Man’-type plea to end war and hate.”  Als sang the praises of Mays and Ehle, “both of whom are killer in their roles,” but concluded, “Sher and Rogers drive home ‘Oslo’ ’s ultimately banal point: that tolerance sometimes, just sometimes, begins with the nicest people.”

Jesse Green opened his New York magazine review with a surprising statement: “It’s not often I think a three-hour play could profitably be longer, but J. T. Rogers’s gripping, big-boned Oslo . . . needs all the meat and muscle it can pack on its frame.”  Green “detected the hallmarks of overhasty surgery on the play; what were once longer scenes, perhaps, are now in effect vestigial tails or title cards.”  And though they started as central figures, “Juul and Larsen are too frequently reduced to interstitial narrators” even as Sher keeps them “hovering around the edge of the action.”  Sher’s staging is “remarkably swift and entertaining,” however, and the “gallery of types makes for exciting scene work” by the “exacting actors.”  Though their roles are “a bit underwritten.” Mays and Ehle “manage to make something solid out of dialogue that is sometimes a hilarious kaleidoscope of evasive diplomatic phrases.” 

Marilyn Stasio of Varietydeclared Oslo “unequivocally fascinating” and a “compelling drama” presented by LCT in a “striking production” featuring a “flawlessly cast ensemble.”  Describing “Rogers’ . . . clever dialogue” as “witty,” delivering the facts “with intelligence and humor by this dream of a cast,” Stasio affirmed, “It’s the petty stuff . . . that makes these intimidating characters so human.  And so funny.”  She asserted that the play’s three acts, “constructed very much as a suspense drama,” “fly by like hours spent at the circus.”  Sher makes the LCT production, with “impeccable casting of these superbly drawn characters,” “compulsively watchable” and Stasio declared in her final assessment, “This is what we call drama, and it’s what we live for.  So, go, already—live!”  Adam Feldman wrote in Time Out New York that Oslois “informative and even-handed” and that despite its length, Sher’s “seamless cast of 14 keeps it from seeming dry, even when Rogers’s writing . . . slips into overt exposition.” 

Recognizing, “The best historical plays are the ones that send you into a Google spiral immediately following the curtain call” because they make you want to know more, Entertainment Weekly’s Melissa Rose Bernardo continued, “You’ll find your curiosity similarly piqued after J. T. Rogers’ intense, intellectual Oslo.”  Calling the play a “deep dive,” Bernardo acknowledged, “Rogers has a bit of a gift for transforming contentious, complex historical subjects into digestible, but not dumbed-down, entertainment,” which is, despite its running time, “by no means a slog.”  The EWreviewer further reported, “There’s even plenty of profane humor packed in” and “enough backstory . . . to fill in the necessary blanks.” 

In the Hollywood Reporter, David Rooney’s “Bottom Line” was “A riveting humanized history lesson.”  He described Oslo as a “terrific new political thriller” in a “very fine production, directed with unerringly precise attention to detail.”  But while Sher emphasizes the play’s “mechanics as a theatrical presentation . . . from the start, they enhance rather than impede our involvement in a fascinating true story.”  In Rooney’s opinion, it’s a play that’s “alive with tension, intrigue, humor, bristling intelligence and emotional peaks that are subdued yet intensely moving, which concludes unexpectedly on a poignant note of hope.”  The HR reviewer reported that “Rogers’ drama artfully locates the human story in a delicate account of political diplomacy.  This is a richly insightful play about culturally diverse people.”  Rooney expanded that “without dumbing anything down, Rogers, Sher and their faultless cast deliver maximum clarity as well as urgency, drawing out the distinct personalities with great nuance and a considerable amount of wit.”  Greatly praising the acting ensemble, the HR writer noted that “it’s virtually impossible to single out any one performance, since the ensemble works with an uncanny combination of cohesion, sensitivity and efficiency.” 

Among the cyber reviews, Elyse Sommer of CurtainUp received a Show-Score rating of 100, the highest for this show and the only max score I’ve seen since starting to use the site.  Sommer labeled Oslo“a fact-based but highly original drama that’s as entertaining and suspenseful as it is informative and thought provoking.”  She acknowledged that the play’s “talky and probably could have been trimmed a bit,” but also “staged with dynamic simplicity” so that the “fourteen top drawer actors [were able] to bring twenty-one historic characters to vivid life.”  The CUreviewer admitted that she “couldn’t wait for the two intermissions to end and all that very witty talk to continue”; she added that Oslo is “the best play I’ve seen all year” (and, hence, the 100 score for this notice).  Sommer characterized the production as “riveting” and “a thriller” with “ever escalating tension.”  Jonathan Mandell called the play “fascinating” on New York Theater and singled out Anthony Azizi’s Ahmed Qurie and Daniel Oreskes’s economics professor Yair Hirschfeld and Shimon Peres as “stand-outs.”  In his final analysis, the NYT reviewer judged that Oslo“gives us not only a lucid refresher course on the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, and provides us entertainment that is both surprisingly funny and suspenseful.”

On Broadway World, Michael Dale characterized Oslo as “fascinating, entertaining and realistically funny drama” in a “swift and tense production” which “never sags” over its three-hour length.  “The play is abundantly talky,” observed Dale, “but it’s the kind of crisp, clever talk that continually stimulates.”  Tulis McCall of New York Theatre Guide declared that Oslo“is the kind of brilliant production that will leave you a teensie bit worse off than it found you.  It will leave you a bit rattled.  It will leave you with new skin and and refined eyesight.  You will look at political events . . . with a more critical eye.  When one hand is waving to you, you will wonder what the other hand is doing.”  McCall blamed this condition on “three very extraordinary hours listening to a team of excellent actors spin the tale of the funny thing that happened on the way to the Oslo Accord.”  With an “extraordinary cast,” the “verbal and incident packed obstacle course” of the play becomes “not only comprehendible, [but] urgent and arresting.  We not only understand, we feel,” continued McCall.  The on-line reviewer concluded, “Oslo will bring you back around to where you do not want to be: thinking of these people as your family.”

“I thoroughly enjoyed this play,” declared Michele Willens on Theatre Reviews Limited, after listing all the drawbacks and apparent problems the play presented (its length, its talkiness, and so on).  “‘Oslo’ is pretty much what it sounds like,” reported Willens: “a lot of heady conversation and human fireworks.  But there is also a good deal of humor.”  The script is made up of “excellent and timely dialogue” and “the acting is . . . superb”—with special mention for Mays, Ehle, and Aronov.  The production, said Willens, is “lovely” and Sher’s staging “keeps things moving with little distraction,” though she added, “Some of the narration along the way could probably be excised, but it is handled with speed and precision.”  Willens ended by warning that “this is obviously not a play for everyone,” but noted that “it is serving a purpose in at least humanizing the people behind all that passion.”  On NY Theatre Guide (different from the earlier-cited New York Theatre Guide), Elizabeth Glasure felt that Oslo “was riveting; it was wonderfully impossible to relax from curtain to close.”  Glasure thanked Sher “for for the multitude of seamless transitions” and asserted that he “manages to evade any single monotonous moment.”  The cast, from which Glasure singled out Mays, Ehle, and Azzizi, “are simple and direct.”  In conclusion, the cyber reviewer declared, “Oslo is a must-see, a truly important and beautifully poignant political drama that stirs a deep inner justice.” 

“The art of writing may be inherently undramatic,” observed Talkin’ Broadway’s Matthew Murray, “but that doesn’t mean it contains no possibility of vitality.”   Murray makes a comparison to the 1969 musical 1776, another successful play about politicians creating a historic document, to demonstrate that the process can be “riveting, rewarding entertainment.” The playwright, said Murray, “mines every occurrence, no matter how minor, for new forms of tension and release,” though the director “has provided a staging that is perhaps drier than ideal, imparting a stiff atmosphere.”  Nonetheless, Sher focuses “on the matters at hand, and keeps things thoroughly followable and digestible,” with help from the “dynamite cast.”  Because of the “catastrophic problem” of the ultimate failure of the peace overtures between the parties, however, Murray pronounced Oslo“ultimately unsatisfying.”  Anyone who has even the remotest familiarity with the history of the Middle East will see this. Murray contended, and be disappointed with the play’s conclusion.  “[I]t’s the playwriting equivalent of throwing up one’s hands,” asserted Murray.  Carol Rocamora of Theater Pizzazz labeled Oslo “a riveting political play” whose “scope is ambitious.”  The production, said Rocamora, is “[s]eamlessly directed” and the “ensemble offers superb performances,” with special praise for Mays, Ehle, Aronov, and Kashani. 

On TheaterMania, Zachary Stewart called Oslo an “excellent new play,” and then asked, “Who would have thought that bilateral diplomacy could be this thrilling?”  A “massively complicated tale,” its “pace and scale . . . gives [sic] one a physical sense of just how exhausting and tenuous these negotiations really were.”  The TM review-writer felt that Sher’s production and Rogers’s text “draw us into the world of international diplomacy,” but affirmed that it’s “the performances that hold us rapt,” giving special mention to Mays and Ehle.  Stewart summed up by stating that “Rogers has crafted an invaluable and incredibly watchable drama.”  Steven Suskin of Huffington Post, calling Oslo“gripping, provocative, wrenching, funny and altogether riveting,” reported that “you’ll find yourself on the edge of your seat.”  Though it’s a three-hour play—which “flies by far quicker than some eighty-minute one-acts”—of men talking “across a table,” Suskin found that “it turns out to be a wildly suspenseful and sometimes dangerous ride.”  The HP reviewer asserted, “Credit rests equally with” Sher and a cast that’s “remarkable on just about all sides.”  Once again, the review-writer singled out Mays and Ehle, and continued, “They are surrounded by a marvelous ensemble.”  In the dog days of summer, Suskin suggested, “A true-life, historical, intellectual thriller about government and international politics might not sound like what you are looking for, but Rogers, Sher and LCT have given us the real thing.”  At the end, he added, “Inquiring playgoers, be apprised.”

The Associated Press’s Jennifer Farrar characterized Oslo as “a riveting political thriller with a personal approach” that “features tense, behind-the-scenes dialogue.”  Farrar continued, “Such is the skill of the production . . . that we feel caught up in real negotiations of the so-called Oslo Accord” during which “[d]arkly humorous comments permeate the tense conversations.”  The play is composed of “swiftly-paced scenes” that are “deftly” performed by a “top-notch ensemble.”  The AP reviewer stated in the end, “The talents of cast and crew in ‘Oslo’ make a complex historical event feel understandable, intimate and profoundly affecting.”  On WNBC-TV (New York’s Channel 4), Robert Kahn, dubbing the play a “new political thriller,” wondered, since we know now that the Oslo Accords failed to bring peace, “Is there still drama, then, to be mined from a story about the agreement’s genesis?”  His conclusion: “The answer, assuredly, is yes.”  Sometimes the script “is more playful than its subject matter might suggest,” Kahn thought, but he found, the “writing and staging are literal-minded.”  Lending the story “heft” is Rogers’s studied neutrality. 

Because of the subject matter, I thought it would be interesting to hear from the press of some of the parties involved in the play’s history: Norwegians, Jews, and Israelis (I didn’t find a Palestinian comment on the play).  In the Norwegian American, Arlene and Thor A. Larsen (relation to Terje Rød-Larsen unknown), posited that “Rogers has an interesting way of drawing the audience into these negotiations so that even though we are well aware how history played out in the Middle East, we still feel the same hope and possibility for peace as the main facilitators,” Rød-Larsen and Juul.  “Anyone with a sense of justice, especially if they are Norwegian,” continued the columnists, “cannot help feeling a bit disappointed and regretful that at the actual signing of the Accord, Mona and Terje were relegated to looking on from the back of the room receiving no special accolades or recognition of any kind.”   The NA writers found, “The playwright and the director make sure you do NOT want to leave your seat, even for a moment, as you become totally engaged with the drama,” concluding that Oslo is a “must-see for anyone who appreciates historical drama, the Middle East, and especially those who want to understand the role Norwegians played in realizing the first of the Oslo Accords.”

Anna Katsnelson, in the Forward(formerly the Jewish Daily Forward), cites a “famous” psychological study that states: “One key pattern associated with the development of a close relationship among peers is sustained, escalating, reciprocal, personal self-disclosure.”  Oslo, posited Katsnelson, “re-creates something like a geopolitical test case for this theory.”  She determined that the play “will hold the attention of those with an existing interest in the history of the Middle East peace process and the challenges” that are inherent in it.  Oslo “also comes replete with Arafat and Kissinger jokes.  But it struggles to convey larger moral implications.”  Katsnelson felt, “No inherent criticism of the Accords is permitted, and with this absolute certainty comes a lack of nuance.”  The Forward reviewer thought, “A play about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict with a happy ending may seem hard to believe, and it does gloss over some important facts,” such as the failure to deal with the Jewish settlements in the West Bank.  In conclusion, Katsnelson asserted, “‘Oslo,’ [u]nfortunately, lacks . . . historic weight and immediacy.”

Adi Eshman opened her column on Osloin the Jewish Journal by stating, “If you want to see the Middle East that could have been—and, with any hope, could still be,” you should see Rogers’s play.  With a “cast of talented performers,” director Sher begins the first act “in fog”; “actors enter even before the house lights go down.  A cloak of secrecy swallows these players, and we, the audience, must focus to discover their motivations.”  Eshman explained, “What animates [the] dialogue—indeed, the whole play—is the idea of seeing one’s opponent for the first time.”  In her final analysis, the JJ writer contended, “Whatever the future may hold, Rogers’ must-see play affirms the bravery of men who fought to see their enemies as partners.”  In Haaretz, Israel’s oldest daily paper, Yael Friedman focused largely on the history both of the Oslo Channel negotiations and of the creation of Rogers’s script, but she acknowledged, “Few playwrights were perhaps more perfectly poised to conceive the dramatic contours of a story like” that of the Oslo meetings because Rogers is adept at “portraying personal dramas cast amid larger political ones.”  She also affirmed that this history was “a natural fit for the stage,” though the distinction between Rogers’s play and other recent history plays (Friedman cited the Lyndon Johnson bio-drama All the Way) is that Oslo “does not rely on the outsized personalities of the big, familiar, players”; instead it focuses “on those carrying the actual burden and the glory of changing history.”  These instrumental figures “may have worked, and to some extent may have remained, in relative obscurity but they are now receiving their due.”

In surveying the press for this production, I noticed that most of the reviews were pretty long, but I found that most spent the bulk of their length on the history of the Oslo Accords and the plot of Oslo.  Remarkably little space was given to a discussion of the dramatic or theatrical aspects of the play despite the laudatory quality of the overall assessments.  I couldn’t help forming the sense that the reviewers were influenced in their critical opinions by the historic (and historiographic) nature of the subject, dismissing any dramaturgical deficiencies (such as the play’s enormous length, three-act structure, talkiness, and the constant narration) out of a sense of duty: the play is “important” so it must be good.  If my assessment is accurate, it may account for the 100% positive rating Oslo received on Show-Score.  As much as my companion, Diana, liked Oslo—she seems to have a predilection for talk plays: she liked David Ives’s New Jerusalem and I didn’t (see my report on ROT on 20 April 2014)—I found much of it enervating and, as I already wrote, undramatic and anti-theatrical.  Too many of the review-writers I read swept all that aside for me to believe something wasn’t operating sub rosa.


'The Merchant of Venice' (Lincoln Center Festival 2016)

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On Sunday, 24 July, Diana, my usual theater companion, and I took in our second of three Lincoln Center Festival shows this summer, the evening performance of the Shakespeare’s Globe mounting of The Merchant of Venice.  (The first was Le Bourgeois gentilhomme from C.I.C.T./Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord, the report on which was posted on 28 July, and the third was 1927’s Golem, on which I’ll be reporting in about a week-and-a-half.)  The attraction for this production—we’d both seen Merchant nine years ago at Theatre for a New Audience with F. Murray Abraham in the lead (see my archival report, posted on 28 February 2011)—was its star, Jonathan Pryce, the Welsh actor who made his Globe début as Shylock in this staging.  (Diana and I had also seen Pryce perform before, as Davies in Harold Pinter’s The Caretaker at the Brooklyn Academy of Music in 2012.  My report on that performance was posted on 14 May 2012.) 

This production of Merchant, directed by Jonathan Munby, was at the Globe 23 April-7 June before going out on tour.  It’s first stop was in Liverpool (9-16 July) before traveling to New York City from 20 to 24 July in the Rose Theater in Jazz at Lincoln Center’s Frederick P. Rose Hall (in the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle).  From here, the production makes two more stops in the U.S.: the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C. (27-30 July), and Chicago (9-14 August).  Merchant will play five gigs in China after that: Guangzhou (Canton; 2-4 September), Hong Kong (7-11 September), Beijing (15-18 September), Shanghai (22-25 September), and Nanjing (28 September).  The show returns to home base at London’s Globe (4-15 October) before playing in its namesake city, Venice, from 19 to 21 October. 

Shakespeare’s Globe, founded by the American actor and director Sam Wanamaker (1919-93), is dedicated to exploring Shakespeare’s work and the playhouses for which he wrote.  In 1970, Wanamaker established the Shakespeare Globe Trust to research, plan, and ultimately build an accurate reconstruction of the original 17th-century Globe Theatre in which Shakespeare’s company, the  Lord Chamberlain’s Men (later, the King’s Men), performed.  The trust’s work proceeded based on academic research and “best-guess” conjecture, creating plans drawing on the scant record of Elizabethan theater construction from the few records of other contemporaneous theaters near the putative site of the Globe on the south bank of the Thames.  Then luck struck.  In 1989, the foundations of the Rose, a theater much like what the Globe was believed to look like, were uncovered at a site near where the Globe was felt to have stood.  That same year, a portion of the Globe’s own foundations were unearthed, giving Wanamaker’s trust much actual information in which to base their conclusions about the appearance, size, and construction of Shakespeare’s main theater.  Eventually, the rest of the Globe’s foundations, on which had been built not only the 1614 later building, rebuilt after a fire the year before and then torn down by the Puritans in 1642, but the original 1599 theater Shakespeare and his company built.

The reconstruction of the new Globe began in 1993, the year Sam Wanamaker was made an Honorary Commander of the British Empire in September and died at age 74 in December.  Only partially completed, Shakespeare’s Globe opened for a “workshop” season in 1995 and then a  “prologue” season in ’96.  The theater, as close to a replica of the original Elizabethan theater as can reasonably be created given our knowledge of Shakespeare’s 17th-century building and modern safety regulations, began regular performances in 1997,débuting with an all-male production of Henry V starring Mark Rylance, the new company’s first artistic director.  Aside from its public performances, the theater offers workshops, lectures, and staged readings, as well as an exhibition and guided tour of the Globe Theatre.

Shakespeare’s Globe presents plays, principally between May and the first week of October because the stage and seats are the only areas of the theater that are covered (the yard, or pit, where the “groundlings” stand, is open to the elements), ranging from productions employing some of the original practices of Shakespeare’s era to premières of new plays.  Every play in the Shakespearean canon has now been performed at the Globe.  In addition to the Elizabethan Globe Theatre, the company added the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse, an indoor Jacobean theater (lit by candles!), in 2014 to offer a year-round program of plays, concerts, and special events.

The new Globe’s outreach programs include the 2012 Globe to Globe, the theater’s contribution to the London 2012 Festival and Cultural Olympiad.  Globe to Globe presented every Shakespeare play, each in a different language.  In 2014, the theater launched a worldwide tour of Hamlet, whose ambition was to perform in every nation on earth by April 2016; it played in 197 countries.  Shakespeare’s Globe tours productions throughout the U.K., Europe, the United States, and Asia.   

Along with educational outreach programs, the Globe films many of its productions and releases them to movie theaters as Globe on Screen productions and on video.  In 2014, the company launched the Globe Player, which makes its back catalogue of productions available on line. 

Lincoln Center Festival, which just completed its 21st season, presents performing arts programs from all around the globe.  The festival has presented 1,422 performances of opera, music, dance, theater, and interdisciplinary forms by internationally acclaimed artists from more than 50 countries.  LCF has commissioned 43 new works and offered 143 world, U.S., and New York premières.  (A more detailed profile of the program is in my report on Ubu Roi, posted on 27 August 2015.)  LCF uses many venues off the main Lincoln Center campus, including the Gerald W. Lynch Theater at John Jay College (where Le Bourgeois gentilhomme and Golem played) as well as the Rose Theater.  Built in 2004 as part of the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle, a block south of the lower end of the performing arts center’s main site, the  Frederick P. Rose Hall, of which the theater is a component, is the regular home of Jazz at Lincoln Center.  A 1,094-seat concert hall, the Rose, coincidentally, shares its name with the Elizabethan theater near the original Globe that was excavated shortly before the foundations of Shakespeare’s home theater were discovered.

Shakespeare is believed to have composed Merchant between 1596 and 1598.  (That’s the approximate era in which Jonathan Munby set the modern Globe’s revival.)  It was almost certainly Shakespeare’s response to Christopher Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta, probably written in 1589 or 1590, which was very popular when it was first shown and revived many times between 1592 and 1594.  The Jew of the title, Barabas, is portrayed as so detestable that his enemies boil him in a cauldron and this depiction influenced Shakespeare’s portrait of Shylock—and Shakespeare’s play was often nicknamed “The Jew of Venice,” affirming the connection.  Elements of Shakespeare’s play are also present in Giovanni Fiorentino’s 14th-century tale Il Pecorone (The Simpleton), published in Milan in 1558 (the “pound of flesh” as surety for a loan, testing the three suitors, the rescue of the debtor by his friend’s wife disguised as a lawyer, the demand for the ring as payment); The Orator (Epitomes de cent histoires tragicques, 1581) by Alexandre Sylvain, published in translation in 1596 (parts of Shylock’s trial); and “Gesta Romanorum” (“Deeds of the Romans”), a Latin collection of tales probably compiled at the end of the 13th century, translated into English between 1510 and 1515 (the testing of the suitors with the three caskets).  Oddly, The Merchant of Venice was catalogued as a comedy—which really only means it’s not a tragedy or a history. 

It’s also considered one of Shakespeare’s most troublesome “problem plays,” not just because of the naked anti-Semitism in the text (and there are also strong redolences of misogyny, classism, and xenophobia as well), but because the juxtaposition of comedy and dark drama don’t mesh easily (making it an irresistible draw for modern directors).  Time Out New York’s David Cote supplied a perceptive metaphor for Merchant’s composition:

It’s as if Louis CK and Ricky Gervais collaborated on a really dark satire about religious bigotry, full of characters corrupted by money and prejudice . . . then forgot to say that anti-Semitism is a bad thing.  Worse: That if the state forces you to convert to its religion, that’s a happy ending.

The earliest record of a performance of The Merchant of Venice was in 1605 at the court of King James I, though it was undoubtedly premièred right after it was written, as would have been the custom in Shakespeare’s time.  It’s been a popular script for the centuries since, but because of the problems inherent in the play it’s also been subjected to adaptation and bowdlerization.  (Needless to say, it was a popular play in Germany during the Third Reich.)  Many of the world’s most illustrious actors have played Shylock; one of the most astonishing perhaps being Jacob Adler (1855-1926), a star of New York’s Yiddish theater at the turn of the 20th century, who played the role first in a Yiddish theater production on New York’s Lower East Side (the Yiddish Rialto) and then on Broadway in a 1903 presentation in which he spoke Yiddish while the rest of the characters spoke English.  In the past half century alone, actors with very recognizable names have assayed the role: Lawrence Olivier, Patrick Stewart, Antony Sher, and Al Pacino, to name but a few.

Until the early 19th century, Shylock was presented as a villain, an avaricious, cold-hearted monster, or a hideous clown.  Edmund Kean (1787-1833), an influential star of the British stage, changed the perception of the character in his first  appearance in the role in 1814.  After Kean, all great actors—except the American star Edwin Booth—played Shylock with an air of dignity and sympathy.  There have been many film versions of Merchant, starting in the silent era and including the 2004 Hollywood adaptation starring Al Pacino as Shylock (with Jeremy Irons as Antonio and Joseph Fiennes—the title role in the 1998 film Shakespeare in Love—as Bassanio), and several operatic adaptations. 

There are Broadway records of dozens of productions starting a far back as 1768.  Dustin Hoffman played the moneylender in a 1989 production directed by Sir Peter Hall (which had previously been seen in London) and Pacino played the part in a 2010 Joseph Papp Public Theater/New York Shakespeare Festival mounting staged by Daniel Sullivan that had begun the previous summer as Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theater.  At an earlier Central Park production in 1962, George C. Scott portrayed Shylock.  Off-Broadway productions have stretched from 1962 to the 2007 TFANA revival starring F. Murray Abraham that I saw.  The TFANA production was restaged in New York City in 2011 at Pace University’s Michael Schimmel Center for the Arts in lower Manhattan after a successful tour to London. 

The action of Jonathan Munby’s interpretation begins at a street carnival of musicians and revelersin Commedia dell’Arte costumes and masks (the Carnival of Venice?).  (Music for the production is composed by Jules Maxwell and directed by Jeremy Avis.)  Onlookers are dancing and capering until the mood darkens considerably several minutes after the merriment starts when Shylock (Jonathan Pryce) and another Jew, Tubal (Michael Hadley), pass by and are assaulted by three Venetians for no apparent reason and left beaten in the darkened street.  (The production’s fight director is Kate Waters.)

Meanwhile, Bassanio (Dan Fredenburgh), who needs money to become the suitor to Portia (Rachel Pickup), a wealthy heiress of Belmont (a fictional region near Venice on the mainland), asks his friend Antonio (Dominic Mafham), a merchant of Venice, for a loan of 3,000 ducats, a very large sum.  Antonio’s money’s tied up in shipments on the seas, so he approaches the moneylender Shylock, whom he makes no pretense about despising.  Shylock agrees to lend Antonio the money on the condition that if the merchant doesn’t pay it back on time, Shylock may cut out a pound of Antonio’s flesh.  Antonio agrees and Bassanio prepares to leave for Portia’s palazzo in Belmont, taking his friend Gratiano (Jolyon Coy) with him.

Launcelot Gobbo (Stefan Adegbola), Shylock’s servant, decides to leave Shylock’s service.  He wrings some tortured comedy out of his rationale for his action by bringing a couple of (coerced) audience volunteers up on stage with him to enact his moral dilemma, one serving as his “fiend” and the other as his “conscience.”  Lorenzo (Andy Apollo), Salarino (Brian Martin), and Gratiano plot to help Jessica (Phoebe Pryce), Shylock’s daughter, escape her father’s house so she can forswear her Jewish faith and elope with Lorenzo.  While Shylock meets with Antonio, Jessica and Lorenzo flee with some of Shylock’s money and jewels. (In Jewish custom, a daughter who marries outside the faith becomes a non-person and her family behave as if she never existed; a son who marries a gentile is considered to have died and is mourned with prayers for the dead.)  Shylock is more distraught over the loss of his ducats than at his daughter’s betrayal of their heritage.

Portia’s late father decreed that she must marry the man who chooses from three “caskets” (small chests), one each of gold, silver, and lead, the one containing her portrait.  But Portia’s displeased with her suitors.  Fortunately for her, the Prince of Morocco (Giles Terera) and the Prince of Arragon (Christopher Logan), having been misled by the surface splendor of the gold and silver caskets, both choose the wrong ones.  When Bassanio arrives, he chooses the right casket and Gratiano reveals that he’s fallen in love with Nerissa (Dorothea Myer-Bennett), Portia’s maid.  Portia and Nerissa, now pledged to Bassanio and Gratiano, present their betrotheds rings as tokens of their love and make them swear never to part with them.

Back in Venice, Antonio’s and Bassanio’s two friends, Solanio (Raj Bajaj) and Salarino, hear that some of Antonio’s ships have been lost and Shylock vows to redeem his bond.  Tubal also brings his friend Shylock word of Antonio’s losses and Jessica’s profligate spending in Genoa.  (The Globe production broke here for intermission and upon returning, Munby staged the second of his inserted musical interludes, a celebratory revel at Portia’s house for the two newly-wedded couples.)  Solanio arrives at Belmont with Lorenzo and Jessica, bringing news that Antonio, unable to repay his loan, has been arrested and that Shylock is demanding his bond.  Shylock refuses to listen to Antonio’s pleas.  Bassanio returns to Venice with money from Portia to repay the loan.

Disguised as a “learned judge” from Rome called “Balthasar” and his clerk, Portia and Nerissa travel to Venice to defend Antonio against Shylock, leaving Lorenzo and Jessica in charge of the house in Belmont.  At the court, the Duke of Venice (Hadley) hears Shylock present his case and though he protests, he accepts the legality of Shylock’s claim.

Shylock rejects Bassanio’s offer of Portia’s money and demands his bond.  “Balthasar” arrives and agrees that if Shylock refuses to be merciful, he must take his bond—but only if the pound of flesh alone is cut from Antonio’s breast without spilling a drop of blood.  (Antonio has been bound to a beam with his arms outstretched, in the attitude of a crucifixion.  This clearly places Shylock, the Jew, in the role of the Christ-killer.)  Realizing this can’t be done, Shylock tries to leave, but because he’s attempted to take Antonio’s life, his goods are confiscated and his life is placed in Antonio’s hands.  Antonio allows Shylock to live if he agrees to become a Christian and give his possessions to Lorenzo and Jessica as a dowry.  Shylock submits abjectly and leaves.

As “a tribute” for their service, the disguised Portia and Nerissa each ask for the rings they’d given to Bassanio and Gratiano in their true identities.  After strenuously refusing at first, the men reluctantly give up the rings.  Portia and Nerissa then return to Belmont where Jessica and Lorenzo are waiting.  When Bassanio and Gratiano arrive soon after, along with Antonio, the women trick their men into begging forgiveness for giving their rings away.  The women then reveal their deception at the court.  Antonio learns that his ships are safe.  They all celebrate their good fortune and Shylock’s defeat with music, dancing, and drink.

Following this ending is an epilogue Munby added, Shylock’s forced baptismal ceremony in Latin and solemn pomp during which Jessica kneels down right and keens a Hebrew prayer (which may have been the Kaddish, the prayer of mourning, but I couldn’t hear her clearly enough over the musical accompaniment and the Latin mass) in a belated twinge of regret.  At the end of the ceremony, Pryce descends from the stage into the auditorium, walks dejectedly to the nearest exit down near the stage at house right, and essentially slinks away

I was thinking during the intermission of Merchant that I don’t off hand know another Shakespeare play with so many “central” plots.  There are three, which all unfold separately from one another (though they intersect at a couple of points) and each has about the same weight in the text.  There’s the best-known plot, Shylock and Antonio, then there’s the Bassanio-Portia plot, and the Lorenzo-Jessica plot.  It’s almost as if Shakespeare had these three stories, but none of them was long enough for a full play, so he stitched them together.  Can anyone think of another Shakespeare play with so many main plotlines?  Lots of the plays have subplots, but they’re not equally weighted.

The Globe production of Merchant was, like Bouffes du Nord’s Bourgeois gentilhomme,  long.  (It seems to be a contagious disease: LCT’s Oslo, on which I reported on 13 August, was three hours—with two intermissions; Le Bourgeois gentilhomme was 3¼ hours, and The Merchant of Venice was two hours and 55 minutes.)  The most surprising thing to me was that Diana proclaimed the play “anti-Semitic.”  I told her that wasn’t a revelation and how come she never noticed before—since we saw the TFANA production together in ’07.  Diana didn’t remember, which is a problem she has.  

Still, some critics see The Merchant of Veniceas a play about anti-Semitism—in other words, Shakespeare’s criticism of the view and treatment of Jews in Renaissance England.  That, however, strikes me as probably an interpretation that arose in the 19th century rather than a theme the Bard intended in the 16th.  (This contrasts with Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s Nathan the Wise, which I reported back on 26 April was that writer’s response to the maltreatment of Jews in Enlightenment Germany and Europe.  Of course, Lessing got himself in trouble for his view.)  What this reading depends on, I think, is Shakespeare’s ability to create complex characters, including Shylock, with multiple psychological and emotional dimensions that can be interpreted and reinterpreted endlessly.  Director Munby, however, seemed to have elected to portray his and Pryce’s Shylock as a deserving target of opprobrium.

Munby inserted several interludes, including two long-ish dialogue-less musical scenes, that helped attenuate the production, in my opinion.  One was the street performance at the beginning of the performance, the music for which sounded to me like klezmer.  (Later musical accompaniments, like the wedding party, didn’t sound like that, so I’m inclined to think the reference was intentional, not just to my ear.)  Klezmer, first, is an Eastern European, Ashkenazi musical form, and, second, originated in the late 19th century.  (This Merchant was set in the Renaissance. Only one reviewer, of the Chicago performances, made note of this anomaly: Hedy Weiss of the Sun-Times.)  

The Jews of Italy, especially in the 16th and 17th centuries, were Sephardic (and a note in the program said that the few remaining Jews of Elizabethan England, about whom Shakespeare might have known, were largely from Spain and Portugal, refugees from the Inquisition, also Sephardim), so their music wouldn’t be remotely klezmer—even if it weren’t two to three centuries too early.  Later in the play, Munby inserted a scene between Shylock and his daughter, Jessica—played, coincidentally, by Pryce’s daughter Phoebe—in which they argue in Yiddish.  It’s more likely that Shylock and Jessica would speak Ladino, the language of the Sephardim, based on medieval Spanish rather than German.

(I have just learned that last January, the American Sephardi Federation presented a 90-minute, Sephardi style adaptation of The Merchant of Venice at the Center for Jewish History in the Flatiron District of Manhattan.  The adaptation starred David Serero as Shylock and an additional cast of four singing Ladino songs.  The 33-year-old Sephardi, a French-Moroccan actor and opera baritone who was born in Paris and lives in New York City, also directed the adaptation, which had its world première at the Center in June 2015.) 

Pryce’s performance got a good review in the Times on 23 July, and it was deserved—he’s a two-time Tony winner for Miss Saigon (1991) and Comedians (1977)—but I still had some problems with the overall directorial concept.  As Diana noted, Merchant is a pretty anti-Jewish play—Shylock in Shakespeare isn’t the “good Jew” of Something Rotten! (see my report on 14 May and another by Kirk Woodward on 11 May)—but he gets a measure of sympathy in the “Hath not a Jew eyes” speech (and even, to an extent, in the “It is in my humour” speech at the trial), but Munby may have trimmed the first speech (if not, Pryce went through it awfully fast) because I missed its impact.  (To be sure, Rachel Pickup’s Portia also underplays her “quality of mercy” oration in the trial scene, so I gather director Munby chose to deemphasize the famous speeches.)  Shylock’s Yiddish argument with Jessica helps establish, along with Mike Britton’s costuming, his status as an outsider and foreigner in Venetian society, and it also reinforces the impression, supported by the text, that Shylock isn’t such a loving father, but distant and controlling.  This makes him even less sympathetic and helps justify Jessica’s betrayal and abandonment.

This production, as I suggested earlier, seemed to want to make Shylock a true villain.  There was even applause from the audience when Antonio declares that Shylock must convert to Christianity in exchange for his life.  Oddly, this all transpired even though, at the end of that opening street performance Munby added, Shylock and Tubal are beaten—showing that Shylock isn’t wrong to feel aggrieved by his treatment at the hands of Christians.  Indeed, there’s no dearth of anti-Semitic violence from the good Christian souls of Venice, as Shylock’s spat upon and cursed by Antonio and his friends even as the Venetian merchant turns to the despised Jew for help.  Still, the Globe production seemed to present Shylock as entirely deserving of his fate, particularly with Antonio assuming the image of the crucified Jesus at the Jew’s hands.  At the end of the performance, Munby’s added conversion ceremony and Pryce’s exit seemed a manifestation of his view of Shylock. 

Munby, aside from his interpolations (against which he also made some cuts and compressions), kept the three-hour production moving.  The added sequences didn’t so much make the show longer as interrupt or delay the play’s action and attenuate some moments.  Moreover, they didn’t seem organic, as if the production were changing gears every time they occurred.  These scenes can all be justified on thematic grounds, but I didn’t feel the trade-off was worthwhile.  The director’s work with the actor’s, however, was mostly excellent, though I had some reservations on this score as well.  Some problems may have been intentional, such as the broad hints in Antonio and Bassanio’s relationship that suggested an unconsummated homoerotic attraction, made clear when Antonio moved in for a kiss after the trial and Bassanio rebuffs him—he’s a married man now, after all.  Perhaps Munby felt the need to explain why Antonio puts himself on the line with Shylock for Bassanio and why Bassanio swears such allegiance to Antonio during and after the trial even over his new wife.  In any case, it adds a dimension to the play that is barely relevant and, therefore, distracting.  (The Guardian’s Emma Brockes remarked, “I wonder if there isn’t a way to make gay subtext slightly more subtextual.”)

Other misses were the noticeable lack of romantic chemistry between Jessica and Lorenzo, making the point, I assume, that Lorenzo and Christianity are just means of escape for Jessica from her father’s controlling grasp.  There’s also less passion in Portia for her Bassanio once he’s chosen the correct casket; it’s as if, first, her wish for him to win the contest was more to avoid the buffoons who were Bassanio’s rivals than to have him for himself and, then, to be his “master” the way Portia’s father had been hers.  The decision for Gobbo to enlist two spectators to make some comedy—in Washington, actor Stefan Adegbola selected a local reviewer as one of the two—may well have been a desperate choice to enliven a fraught bit that’s often a problem in this “problem” play.  (One of Munby’s deletions is the character of Launcelot’s father, who’s even less funny than the son.)

As for the production’s look, Munby and his design team devised a sumptuous period look, with touches that evoked the wealth of 16th-century Venice and the exoticism of the inhabitants of its Jewish ghetto.  Designer Mike Britton’s dark, wooden sets (supplemented by atmospheric—that is, shadowy—lighting by Oliver Fenwick in an auditorium where the house lights remained aglow) frame the action simply (reminiscent of an Elizabethan theater on which the modern Globe is modeled), while the ornate gold-capitaled columns remind us how prosperous and prominent the city was at the time.  Britton’s rich costumes are reminiscent of Renaissance art, based on traditional garb, with several historical elements such as Shylock’s and Tubal’s red hats (kippot) and the small, yellow circle on the upper left breast of their tunics, symbols Jews were required to wear in Renaissance Venice when they left the ghetto, underscoring their status as “the other.”  Venice’s position as a world crossroads is reflected, too, in the music (in Maxwell’s score and Avis’s direction) played by a band of minstrels (clarinet, cello, percussion, and voice) roaming the stage at various points in the production, which added to the theatrical richness of the production even though I felt it was dramatically unnecessary.  (Other sound design was by Christopher Shutt and the dances were choreographed by Lucy Hind.) 

The acting, as you might expect from a company like Shakespeare’s Globe, was top-notch.  Standouts were Pryce’s Shylock, Phoebe Pryce’s Jessica, and Rachel Pickup’s Portia, with nice turns by Dorothea Myer-Bennett, Dan Fredenburgh, Dominic Mafham, and Andy Apollo.  I didn’t always agree with their interpretations, but they were always executed with thorough commitment and care.

Pryce’s moneylender is consumed by anger and bitterness; he makes little of the sympathy-generating “Hath not a Jew eyes” speech, but spits out his deprecations of Bassanio (“I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you”), Antonio (“I hate him for he is a Christian!”), and Christian Venice in general (“I have a daughter; / Would any of the stock of Barabbas / Had been her husband rather than a Christian!”) with as much bile as they, in turn, expectorate actual spittle in his face.  Any hint of a softer nature is snuffed out by the will for vengeance.  In other hands, though, this would have made Shylock a caricature of the Christian-hating Jew, but Pryce’s skill and even, dare I say, gentle soul, makes his Shylock the product of years of mistreatment and abuse and centuries of prejudice and bigotry heaped upon his ancestors.  It won’t make the moneylender loved, but it makes him understandable.  As Shlyock’s daughter, Jessica, Pryce’s real-life daughter Phoebe is sublime: quietly determined, independent, and rebellious, this Jessica may not really love Lorenzo, but she’s firm about her decision to get out from under her stern father’s hyper-protective restraints.  Phoebe Pryce’s look of anguish in Munby’s coda conveys Jessica’s ambivalence over her abandonment of her father and over his fate.

Rachel Pickup handles a multidimensional Portia smoothly, though this snobbish, entitled woman is less than entirely admirable.  Passionate and witty as the society lady, she’s also racist (her distaste for the Spanish and Moroccan suitors is palpable and she shows disdain for Jessica, the former Jewess) and classist, not to mention dismissive of her husband as something resembling a plaything.  However intelligent and resourceful Pickup’s Portia proves to be, her overkill of Shylock, which the New York Times’ Christopher Isherwood described as “almost sadistic,” and manipulation of Bassanio over the ring are cold and unlikeable acts.  Yet the actress commits marvelously to it all and never falters in her credibility.  As her maid Nerissa, Dorothea Myer-Bennett displays a devilish sense of humor, even as she echoes her mistress.  Myer-Bennett has a light touch, even when she doesn’t speak, that leavens the role with a sense of fun.

Dan Fredenburgh and Andy Apollo as the husbands Bassanio and Lorenzo are both more ardent than their brides—and put others at considerable risk in pursuit of their desires.  Fredenburgh and Apollo are stalwart and loyal—sometimes to their own detriment—and seem not to recognize that their beloveds don’t share their passion.  (It makes me wonder what wedded bliss will be like a few years down the line.  I once did a reading of a play that put Romeo and Juliet, who didn’t die at the end of Shakespeare’s play, in a middle-aged marriage watching their daughter fall into the pattern of young love that had so dramatically affected their lives as teenagers.  It was a hoot, but the marriage was a sad affair.)  If Merchant were a sitcom, Fredenburgh’s Bassanio and Apollo’s Lorenzo would be the straight men.

Dominic Mafham’s Antonio was a tough row to hoe, I’d imagine.  Part steadfast hero and friend who puts himself in jeopardy for Bassanio and is prepared to pay his penalty even at the cost of his life, he’s also a rabid anti-Semite who doesn’t hesitate to spit in Shylock’s face even as he begs for a loan.  Both Bassanio and Gratiano are more open and fun-loving than Mafham’s Antonio, who comes off as a little gray and stodgy when he’s not vituperating at the Jew.  I found his hints of sexual attraction for his friend Bassanio dramatically un-called-for, as I said, but Mafham plays them sincerely.

Once again, Show-Score tallied reviews from performances outside New York City, so I recalculated its ratings to include only local notices.  Of the seven New York reviews, Show-Score reported 71% positive notices, 29% negative, and no mixed reviews.  The average rating of the New York press was 79.  (My review round-up included 11 notices.) 

Calling the Globe’s Merchant of Venice a “stylistically jarring production” in her “Bottom Line,” Linda Winer of Long Island’s Newsday described Pryce’s portrayal of Shylock as “complex” and “blazingly internalized,” and Munby’s production “handsome” and “modest” but “a mixed treasure.”  Winer complained that it’s “obnoxious in its audience-participation clowning, routine in too many major parts,” but “harrowing in its violent juxtaposition of the merry Venetian gentiles and their unspeakably casual cruelty to the Jews.”  Munby “underlines the anti-Semitic horror” of the play but “ignores . . . the play’s gender oppression” in a staging that “is not a speechifying production.”  In am New York, Matt Windman, affirming that Pryce “gave a deeply felt performance as Shylock,” reported that “Jonathan Munby does evoke Renaissance Italy with rich costumes and period music” in “a striking production that emphasized the brutal violence, mockery and intolerance facing the moneylender Shylock.” 

In the U.S. edition of the Guardian, Emma Brockes declared the Globe’s Merchant“the very best of what a traditional production can be, throwing light on the text but with enough new touches to preserve against boredom.”  She continued, “It is also . . . a barometer for the anxieties of the times.  Through subtle direction and inflection, the shading around Shylock, Antonio and even Portia is recalibrated to provoke or withhold sympathy in line with modern definitions of victimhood.”  Decrying the faux-Elizabethan practice of players “leaping across the stage and running up and down the aisles inciting the audience to clap their hands,” Brockes suggested it might work better in the reconstructed period theater of the Globe, but at Lincoln Center, she complained that “it brought on a slightly frozen self-consciousness” to the audience (though the reviewer liked Launcelot Gobbo’s audience-participation bit better).  Munby’s “staging, with minimal scenery and dim lighting, rendered the darkness of the times,” and Pryce’s Shylock, “stoop-shouldered and by turns cowering and full of a frothing bravado, rescued the role from being a ‘comment’ on race.”

In the Times, Isherwood labeled LCF’s Merchant a “brooding, powerful production” in which “[l]ight barely seems to penetrate the atmosphere,” as if the darkness were meant “to hide the iniquity so vividly on display.”  Director Munby’s “lucid and strongly acted staging” made us “aware that while this Shakespearean play is classified as a comedy and is poised ambivalently between light and dark, it will generally be the baser aspects of humanity that prevail.”  Pryce’s “eloquent, beautifully rendered Shylock” is “deeply moving,” the Timesman felt, as he “illuminates Shylock’s anguish so vividly, his face a contorted mask of spiritual suffering, that it all but erases any sense of contrasting light and dark in the play.  We have reached the heart of the matter, and it is a place where mercy, love and what we commonly think of as simple humanity hold little sway.” 

David Cote, after delivering a lengthy peroration on Merchant and its implications for audiences modern and Renaissance, characterized the Globe production in Time Out New York as “a stodgy, underwhelming affair” the staging of which “is unfussy and direct, but rarely exciting.”  Pryce’s “Shylock [is] a generally passive, cerebral performance,” the man from TONYcomplained, “all in the voice and very little in the body,” adding, however: “Still, what a grand voice.”  Cote also warned, “The visuals aren’t helped by a drab design, murky onstage lights and the decision to keep house lights on low.”  He concluded, “Otherwise, it’s a standard, competent Merchant that evokes mixed feelings of happiness and horror, silliness and tragedy.”  Variety’s Marilyn Stasio wrote, “Jonathan Pryce makes a strong case for Shylock’s infamous demand for a pound of flesh in Shakespeare’s Globe‘s gorgeously stylized production of ‘The Merchant of Venice,’” then went on to point out that “to pull off this tricky adjustment . . ., director Jonathan Munby had to flip the customary dynamic and turn Shylock’s Christian adversaries into heartless fiends.”  Stasio added, though: “The stagecraft is so stunning, and the acting so dazzling, you might think the play had actually been written this way.”  Pryce’s Shylock, declared the Variety reviewer, was “a towering performance,” as the actor “delivers Shakespeare’s immortal lines on the common humanity of all mankind . . . with deeply, honestly felt emotion.”  Director Munby “assists in bringing out such unorthodox character nuances with copious bits of stage business.”

In the earliest of two Huffington Postreviews, “First Nighter” David Finkle asserted that Munby “has been ingenious while looking the how-to-handle-Shylock-and-his-oppressors puzzler directly in the face.”  In addition to the textual references to Shylock’s abuse, Finkle noted, the director “makes certain that ticket buyers witness the persistent effrontery” so that the production “keeps the disdain for Jews prominent.”  For the transfer to a conventional proscenium house, he’s also made efforts to compensate for “much of the Globe amenities” that are missing from theaters like Lincoln Center’s Rose, namely the daylight from the open roof and the open pit for the groundlings.  All Munby’s work succeeds as well as it does, said the “First Nighter,” because “[h]e has a first-rate cast performing for him.”  Jil Picariello, the second HP reviewer, pronounced Pryce’s “portrait of Shylock in the dark and powerful production of The Merchant of Venice. . . is brilliant and tragic.”  She continued effusively, “He is a man of our time, a man of all time.  His famous speech about the similarity of his sufferings to ours has never been more compelling or more moving.”  Picariello also reported that “all the performances, under the direction of Jonathan Munby, are excellent, with particularly stellar turns from the three women” and that the “simple set by Mike Britton and the shadowy lighting by Oliver Fenwick are brooding and gorgeous, a stylized representation of the darkness that shrouds this world.”  While noting the “hilarity” provided by Gobbo and Portia’s suitors, this review-writer asserted that “it is the darkness that rules in this production.”  Picariello acknowledged that the “challenges in the text to a modern audience are dealt with well,” but remained puzzled “over the addition” of some of Munby’s insertions, particularly Antonio’s attempt to kiss Bassanio—but she found Shylock’s baptism “heartbreaking.”  Picariello concluded, “It’s a punch to the gut, a brilliant production, and a performance that will stay with you long after the torches go out.” 

On TheaterMania, David Gordon declared, “When Jonathan Pryce takes the stage in the Shakespeare's Globe production of The Merchant of Venice, time stops.”  It’s a “multifaceted performance . . . so nuanced that he dominates” the production.  “When he’s not onstage, though, the nearly three-hour evening has a tendency to sag,” lamented the TMreviewer.  “During Pryce's offstage scenes," Gordon observed, especially in the “romantic moments between the lovers,” which “never quite gel,” the production “is disappointingly black-and-white.”  Jerry Beal of Theater Pizzazz asserted that, despite its difficult nature, director Munby “is bold, imaginative, and thoroughly in charge of his vision” for the production.  He reported that “while the cast is . . . uniformly outstanding,. . . Jonathan Pryce is luminous” as Shylock. Elyse Sommer dubbed the Globe’s Merchant“striking” and Pryce’s Shylock “Memorably moving” on CurtainUp.  She described the production as a “fascinating tackling of this dramatic schizophrenia.”

 [In addition to Diana’s appraisal that Merchant is an anti-Semitic play, she also wondered whether any court would actually accept Shylock’s claim as valid.  I have no idea what the law of Venice would say in the 1590s, but I’m pretty sure that today in the United States such a contract would be deemed unenforceable.  I’m no legal authority, however, so why not turn to someone who is to ponder this question?  As it happens, such an expert has weighed this case—no less a judicial personage than Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg of the U.S. Supreme Court.  And where should she hear this case, an appeal on Shylock’s behalf?  Why, in Venice, of course!

[There’s a long tradition of legal heavyweights presiding over mock trials from Shakespeare’s plays—trials of Macbeth and Richard III for murder, hearings to determine if Hamlet is competent to be tried for the death of Polonius, divorce cases for Katherina and Petruchio , and so on.  The following article, Rachel Donadio’s “Ginsburg Weighs Fate of Shylock” (New York Times, 28 July 2016), published shortly after  I saw the play, reports on one such mock tribunal.  I thought it was pertinent enough to append to my report on the Globe’s staging of The Merchant of Venice:

[VENICE — What do Supreme Court justices do on their summer vacations? For Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg — longtime liberal standard-bearer, recent Donald J. Trump critic — this year’s answer is: Go to Venice, watch your grandson perform in a production of “The Merchant of Venice” and preside over a mock appeal of the city’s most notorious resident, Shylock.

[And so, on Wednesday afternoon, in the monumental 16th-century Scuola Grande di San Rocco, beneath ceiling paintings by Tintoretto, Justice Ginsburg and four other judges, including the United States ambassador to Italy, John R. Phillips, heard arguments on behalf of Shylock and two other characters, before reaching a unanimous ruling.

[“I’d describe it as fun,” Justice Ginsburg said of the coming mock appeal in an interview on Tuesday, in which she talked about Venice, which she first visited on her honeymoon in 1954, and Shakespeare, whose work she loves — but not about Mr. Trump, weeks after she said she regretted her remarks criticizing the man who is now the Republican presidential nominee.

[The mock appeal began where the play ended: Shylock, the conniving Venetian Jewish moneylender, insists on collecting a pound of flesh from Antonio, who has defaulted on a loan. But a judge, actually Portia disguised as a man, finds Shylock guilty of conspiring against Antonio and rules that he must hand over half his property to Antonio and the other half to the state.

[Antonio says he will forgo his half, on the condition that Shylock convert to Christianity and will his estate to Jessica, Shylock’s wicked and rebellious daughter, who has run off to Genoa with Lorenzo, a Christian. Shylock, humiliated, agrees.

[After about two hours of arguments and about 20 minutes of deliberations, the judges issued a unanimous ruling: To remove the question of the pound of flesh — “We agreed it was a merry sport, and no court would enforce it,” Justice Ginsburg said — to restore Shylock’s property, to restore the 3,000 ducats that he had lent to Antonio, and to nullify the demand of his conversion.

[“The conversion was sought by Antonio,” Justice Ginsburg said. “The defendant in the case was decreeing the sanction. I never heard of a defendant in any system turning into a judge as Antonio did.” She added, to laughter, “And finally, after four centuries of delay in seeking payment, we think that Shylock is out of time in asking for interest.”

[The court was not unanimous in what to do with Portia. The judges ruled that because Portia was “an impostor,” a “hypocrite” and “a trickster,” she would be sanctioned by having to attend law school at the University of Padua, where one of the judges, Laura Picchio Forlati, taught. Then she would have to pursue a master of laws degree at Wake Forest University, where another of the judges, Richard Schneider, is a professor and dean.

[Mr. Schneider said it wasn’t daunting to share the bench with Justice Ginsburg. “Because she was wonderful and welcoming,” he said.

[The audience was gripped, even in sweltering heat. “It’s an intellectual version of reality television,” said Dominic Green, a Shakespeare scholar and professor at Boston College, who attended.

[It was an all-star Shakespeare event. Before deliberations began, F. Murray Abraham recited the “hath not a Jew eyes?” speech. While the judges deliberated, the Shakespeare scholars Stephen Greenblatt and James Shapiro discussed the play.

[The mock appeal was linked to a production of “The Merchant of Venice” being staged in the main square of Venice’s Jewish ghetto, performed by the New York-based Compagnia de’ Colombari, part of a series of events this year marking the ghetto’s 500th anniversary.

[Justice Ginsburg said she’d become involved in the mock appeal after learning about the “Merchant of Venice” production from friends who spend time each year in Venice, including Judith Martin, who writes as Miss Manners, and the mystery novelist Donna Leon. (Asked who had paid for her visit, the justice said she had come to Venice after speaking at a conference hosted by New York University in Barcelona.)

[Over the years, Justice Ginsburg has presided over several other mock Shakespeare appeals. “In the one I like most, the question was whether Hamlet was competent to stand trial for the murder of Polonius,” Justice Ginsburg said. “My judgment was, yes he was. But not only Polonius, but the grand jury should consider whether he should be indicted for Ophelia’s death.”

[After Justice Ginsburg expressed interest in a mock appeal, the play’s director, Karin Coonrad, did a Skype audition with the justice’s grandson, Paul Spera, an actor who lives in Paris. She cast him as Lorenzo, who runs away with Jessica, Shylock’s daughter.

[“He’s very, very good,” Justice Ginsburg said of her grandson’s performance. “I admit to being a little prejudiced on the subject, but I thought he was wonderful.”

[Mr. Spera, 30, said his grandmother had noticed that they had cut two lines from a famous scene with the refrain “In such a night as this.” “My bubbe was a little disappointed by that,” Mr. Spera said after opening night. Yes, he said, he calls her “bubbe,” the Yiddish term for grandmother.

[There had been some controversy among Jews in Venice about performing such a problematic play. “When I was going to school, ‘The Merchant of Venice’ was banned because it was known as an anti-Semitic play,” Justice Ginsburg said. She said she agreed with the assessment. “That’s what Shakespeare meant it to be,” she said. “Shylock is a villain. He’s insisting on a pound of flesh. He’s sharpening his knife.”

[Shaul Bassi, a professor of Shakespeare at the University of Venice and a key organizer of the mock trial and the play, sees it differently. “It’s not an anti-Semitic play, it’s a play about anti-Semitism,” he said. Mr. Bassi, a co-founder of the nonprofit organization Beit Venezia, said he hoped the production would show the ghetto as a meeting place of cultures. “This is an incredible opportunity to rethink this place,” he said.

[The Jewish community of Venice, which numbers 450 people, is raising funds to restore the five synagogue buildings on the ghetto’s main square, which are crumbling after lack of maintenance, and to reimagine the Jewish Museum. “It’s not a mausoleum, it’s not a look at the past,” said David Landau, who leads the community’s restoration committee.

[Back at the mock trial, after the judges wrapped up, the last word didn’t go to Justice Ginsburg but to Arrigo Cipriani, the owner of Harry’s Bar, which sponsored a cocktail reception after the ruling. Justice Ginsburg entered to applause, and was promptly handed a Bellini.]


Re-Reading Shaw – Plays from 1918 to 1933

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by Kirk Woodward

[This is the fourth in the five-part series of commentary on George Bernard Shaw’s works by Kirk Woodward, based on his reading of the Complete Plays with Prefaces (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1963).  Parts 1, 2, and 3 of “Re-Reading Shaw,” covering plays written between 1885 and 1902, 1901 and 1909, and 1909 and 1920, were posted on 3 and 18 July and 3 August, respectively.  Though you can easily read the segments in any order you wish, I do recommend going back and catching Kirk’s earlier remarks if you haven’t been following the series because his thoughts on the great Irish writer’s works and ideas are well worth hearing.  Kirk’s been a fan of Shaw for a long time, I daresay since his high school days at least, and while he recognizes the playwright’s errors and misjudgments, he has a pretty clear view of the man’s indisputable strengths as well.  (Kirk’s written before on GBS for ROT; see “Bernard Shaw, Pop Culture Critic,” posted on  5 September 2012, and “Eric Bentley on Bernard Shaw.” 3 December 2015.) ]

BACK TO METHUSELAH (1918-1920 / 1922) – I avoided this play – actually a linked series of five relatively short plays – for years, possibly because its subtitle, “A Metabiological Pentatuch,” scared me off. Shaw says he wanted to write a “world classic,” on the order of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt or Goethe’s Faust (1806 and 1831).

Frustrated by the slow pace of change in society, he envisioned a world in which one or two, then a few, then an increasing number, then all people would live not for perhaps seventy years but for three hundred years or longer. Given all this time, Shaw felt (or claimed to feel), people would become wiser and would handle life better.

This idea – one can hardly call it an argument, because it’s only stated and not argued – strikes me as riddled with flaws. Is there any reason to believe that longer lives would be wiser ones? This seems highly debatable to me, and Shaw certainly doesn’t “prove” it. It seems to me his thesis comes down to hoping that humans will eventually do better than they’ve done so far. I can’t imagine sustaining that thesis for some 400 pages, and I don’t think Shaw sustains it, either.

Isn’t it possible that people with shorter life spans would accomplish more because they were aware that they only had so many years left to them? I have known this to happen more than once. And do people in general live as though they know what their life spans will be? Don’t we live to a significant extent “in the moment” – and if we don’t, shouldn’t we?

Shaw promotes what he calls the “Life Force” (borrowing the term, and the idea of “creative evolution,” from Henri Bergson, 1859-1941), and in support of this idea he employs a remarkable amount of Christian imagery in Methuselah (and elsewhere), but he doesn’t extend that belief to the survival of personality beyond death; he finds the idea of immortality “terrifying.”

Well, then, would people find living three hundred years less terrifying than living seventy? For that matter, by Shaw’s logic shouldn’t people who believe in a “life after death” be more productive and wiser, rather than less? But Shaw dismisses that idea out of hand.

The evidence of wisdom in the “long livers” of the plays is scanty. They are unable to understand the simplest metaphor (Shaw mentions this, then drops the subject); they are completely self-absorbed; the ones who live the longest are downright scary. They kill without compunction. Exactly what is this presentation supposed to persuade us to believe?

Eric Bentley points out that, as a matter of fact, Shaw posits two means for improving humanity. One is living longer; the other is putting Asians in charge of the world. (Race is a frequent subject in the five plays, always to the disparagement of the English.)

One of the many garbled lines of thought in Methuselah is the issue that we might call talent versus experience. Shaw’s idea of extended lives assumes that experience will make people wiser. This is debatable; possibly wisdom is a given while experience is a variable? In any case, Shaw is aware of cases – Mozart, for example – in which a person seems to be born with remarkable ability that centuries of experience could not provide. But Shaw does not follow up on this hint; it does not lead where he wants to go.

And the other side of that coin is that Shaw recognizes that learned characteristics are not passed on from one individual to another. How then are the Life Force’s “experiments” productive? One can point to examples of people’s influence that continue, sometimes, for years; but nothing says they will withstand the fall of a civilization, and war often reverses years of human progress. And what about lives that have no influence, people that live in obscurity and die in silence? Are they total failures of the Life Force?

It seems to me that Shaw’s “Life Force” is really the Victorian idea of Progress, dressed up. That’s an idea that notoriously today is hard to accept for many people.

Wikipedia says that “Critics found the five plays strikingly uneven in quality and invention.” Truer words were seldom spoken.

In the Plays, Methuselah itself is preceded by a fragment called “A Glimpse of the Domesticity of the Brothers Barnabas,” a draft of an act that was discarded before the play was produced, interesting primarily because it contains a very funny spoof of Shaw’s friend the writer G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936), impersonated as Immenso Champeroon.

Following that, the first three plays of the five strike me as almost unreadable. The characters are routine, the gags (they are gags) frequently feel forced, and the logic of the situation, as I said, is all over the place. 

Then, unexpectedly, comes a piece of pathos: in the fourth play, “The Tragedy of an Elderly Gentleman,” the gentleman in question is clearly Shaw, or close enough – a senior citizen too old to adapt to the new times, but by no means valueless, holding on for dear life to his ideas as best he can. But the long livers are both unpleasant and ruthless, and the Elderly Gentleman comes to a bad end. In the final play the envisioned future makes one happy to be a short liver.

Two observations seem to me useful in considering Methuselah. One is by Arthur and Barbara Gelb in their book O’Neill (1962), their excellent biography of the playwright Eugene O’Neill. They note that O’Neill, who had children, showed minimal interest in them and looked backwards in nearly all his plays, while Shaw, who was childless, invested his attention in the future.

Methuselah is not in my opinion a satisfactory vision of that future, or a desirable one, but the point is that Shaw did care about the future; he wanted it to be better than the present.

The other observation is by G. K. Chesterton, who described Shaw as a man who, when he notices that the baby’s bathwater is dirty, says, “Get a new baby.” Since humanity is living in unsatisfactory ways, Shaw says, get a new species.

Three oddities about Methuselah:

The saying that the late Senator Robert Kennedy frequently quoted, “Some see things as they are and ask why. I see things as they might be and ask why not” is from the first section of the play – spoken by the serpent in the Garden of Eden!

And Shaw envisions two elements of today’s life that did not exist in his time – cellular phones (represented in Methuselahas tuning forks) and Internet “sexting” – by a politician!

JITTA’S ATONEMENT (1922 / 1923) is a collaboration with Siegfried Trebitsch (1868-1956), Shaw’s translator into German and also a playwright. Shaw’s relationship with Trebitsch is worth a play in itself. Most commentators feel that he was an inept translator, but Shaw credited him with making him a success in Germany before there was much interest in his plays in England.

Shaw, wanting to help Trebitsch financially, took the German’s most recent play and created an English version of it. Shaw was hardly adept in German:

At first I was preoccupied with a quite minor matter. I can neither claim knowledge of the German language nor plead ignorance of it.

He had someone make a literal translation of the play, and working with it and the German text, fashioned an adaptation that made a play of complications and suspense about adultery – a “well-made play” (with a strong Ibsen influence) – into an absorbing and highly intelligent melodrama, an intense and exciting play. Shaw made the ending more positive than Trebitsch’s conclusion. He says:

Trebitsch, being a German poet, has a certain melancholic delicacy which escapes my comparatively barbarous and hilarious occidental touch. I could not help suggesting, by a few translator’s treacheries here and there, that the ill-assorted pair settle down on reasonable human terms, and find life bearable after all.

Once again, Shaw’s professionalism is impressive. The original of Jitta is the kind of play Shaw seldom endorsed as a reviewer, but he takes his assignment seriously and makes a version of it that is both entertaining and humane. 

SAINT JOAN(1923) – According to Holroyd’sBernard Shaw, after Methusela Shaw thought he had written himself out. However, he had thought about Joan of Arc for some time, and her canonization by the Roman Catholic Church in 1920, along with urging from his wife, fired his imagination. His masterful play about Joan is widely assumed to have clinched his winning the Nobel Prize. (The prize was actually awarded for the year 1925, leading Shaw to say that he won the prize for a year he hadn’t written anything.) 

After Methusela, Saint Joan is a relief. Joan was a real person, and although Shaw certainly makes her over in his image (and, according to Holroyd, also the image of T. E. Lawrence, 1888-1935, “Lawrence of Arabia”), he does not indulge in flights of fancy that don’t take off, but dramatizes the actual events of her life – again, of course, in his own way.

His preface to the play makes interesting reading, although it shares some dubious characteristics with other prefaces: he exaggerates, he presents opinions as known and confirmed facts, and when you think he’s said everything he could possibly say, he still has pages to go.

His perpetual argument with the idea of a personal God leads him to use the Christian vocabulary in sometimes inventive and sometimes unscrupulous ways. One wonders if the Roman Catholic Church was grateful for his advice on how it ought to reform.

Nevertheless, he is on the trail of facts, he is entitled to his own opinions, and his evaluation of the Joan literature is that of a writer perceptively writing about other writers.

In the play Saint Joan, the characters are so well drawn and the dialogue so interesting that one can believe Shaw is giving an exact picture of what actually happened. He is, as he acknowledges, giving his picture. The fact that the trial scene is based on the original transcripts lends the play a patina of authenticity; but the rest of the dialogue in the play is Shaw’s invention.

He writes candidly that in particular he makes Joan’s primary antagonist, Bishop Cauchon, more reasonable than the record supports. In making that point, Shaw reveals a major principle about the way he writes dialogue:

The things I represent these [characters] as saying are the things [that Shaw believes] they actually would have said if they had known what they were really doing.

The characters, in other words, see themselves more clearly than people ordinarily do – they reveal themselves as though they were as conscious as Shaw is of their natures. One sees this technique throughout Shaw’s plays. A particularly glorious example is Eliza Doolittle’s father Alfred in Pygmalion, whose lectures on middle class morality are both hilarious and extraordinarily self-aware.

A common objection to Shaw’s plays is that he writes them like a pamphleteer. This is not correct, for the most part. But it is true that Shaw’s characters tend to talk like pamphleteers. They state positions and support them with arguments that probably would not often be heard in everyday conversation.

Their awareness is Shaw’s, and he lends it to the characters; but using such a dramatic convention does not make Shaw a propagandist. As he puts it, the characters are (usually) saying what they could say “if they had known what they were really doing.”

In his preface Shaw mentions the people who feel the play is too long, and could be easily cut. He has great fun describing what the play would be like if certain theater managers got their hands on it. But he is certainly aware that Scene 4 of Saint Joan, for example, is a lengthy discussion between English and French church officials and soldiers, in which the plot is not advanced and Joan does not appear.

But the scene is central to the play, because the characters give voice to the mighty forces that will collide over Joan, burn her, experience her influence for centuries, and eventually declare her a saint. For Shaw, and I think for us, that’s where the real story of the play is.

In many ways Joan is the same woman we see in other plays by Shaw – the woman who sees through men’s pretentions, and easily shows them up. And in many ways the men in the play are familiar Shaw characters too – representatives of public positions that in private they know are foolish, but that they still defend, for reasons that are either selfish or expedient.

The irony, of course, is that Joan really does believe in God, really does believe in the church, really does believe in France – which is more than can always be said of the men who kill her, or connive at her killing.

THE APPLE CART (1929) – Shaw would never admit it, but he was not above seeming to agree with other people now and then. The Apple Cart led many to believe he approved of monarchy, because its protagonist is King Magnus, who thwarts political opposition by announcing that he intends to resign his throne, run for office, and win.

In his preface to the play, Shaw claims that his play teaches lessons about democracy, not monarchy, and that’s probably correct, but he also had a fondness for monarchs – don’t deny it, Mr. Shaw! – particularly Queen Victoria (1819-1901), as Sidney Weintraub documents in his book Shaw’s People (Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996). A monarch, after all, though not a superman, does have a leg up.

The preface includes some trenchant observations on democracy (and a speech by Shaw on the subject as well), but little of that matters in the play itself, which is set in an unspecified future and has a dreamlike atmosphere despite its political setting.

The nation involved is not really England; the cabinet does not really act like a cabinet, or the King like a king. (Noel Coward played Magnus in a 1953 revival, one of the few roles not written by himself that he played; he must have been marvelous.) Crises turn into bits; arguments turn into quips; the big political event in the second act – I won’t give away the surprise, such as it is – is entirely imaginary.

The play is, basically, a fairy tale, an almost absurdist comedy about politics. He hardly even tries to keep the elements of the play in touch with each other. An interlude between acts shows the King and his mistress (modeled, Holroyd says, on the actress Mrs. Patrick Campbell, 1865-1940); and the Queen, who appears immediately afterward, apparently sounds a great deal like Mrs. Shaw herself. What are they doing there?

Oscar Wilde’s observation that “I can resist anything except temptation” becomes, in The Apple Cart: “I never resist temptation, because I have found that things that are bad for me do not tempt me.” I am afraid I do not believe that.

TOO TRUE TO BE GOOD (1931 / 1932) – a brilliant title. The preface begins with an assertion that almost makes it seem Shaw has run out of things to say and is scraping bottom:

Our capitalistic system, with its golden exceptions of idle richery and its leaden rule of anxious poverty, is as desperate a failure from the point of view of the rich as of the poor.

One recalls the song in the movie White Christmas (1954) about the sad plight of generals after they retire from the Army. . . . Shaw’s point, of course, is that capitalism is not good for anybody. But it is awfully difficult to make the case that making lots of money harms the rich – however true that may be – without causing some eye-rolling.

Shaw does not improve things when he asserts that the best system for administration is that of the Roman Catholic Church (with a nod to the recently converted G. K. Chesterton), which he sees as identical to that of Stalin’s Communist Party.

The play itself has nothing to do with any of that. It finds Shaw so discouraged by World War I and its effects that he can’t maintain his characteristic optimism:

They are all . . . falling, falling, falling endlessly and hopelessly through a void in which they can find no footing. . . . This dreadful new nakedness: the nakedness of the souls who until now have always disguised themselves from one another in beautiful impossible idealisms to enable them to bear one another’s company. The iron lightning of war has burnt great rents in those angelic veils. . . . Our souls go in rags now. . . . I have no Bible, no creed: the war has shot both out of my hands.

In such a world, there is no point writing a play that tries to convince people of ideas; what would it convince them of? So the play is fantastical, close to absurdist, barely connected from one end to the other. It does tell, more or less, the story of a pampered young lady who regains her health when she runs away with a pair of criminals.

However, this summary ignores most of the play, which begins with a giant microbe sitting by her bedside; introduces a British Army officer who is primarily interested in painting, and an enlisted man based again on T. E. Lawrence (“Lawrence of Arabia”); and ends with the speech from which I just quoted, a message of despair.

There is energy to the play; but it is the energy of desperation. Audiences found it mystifying, and it had a short initial run. Perhaps it was in more than one sense too true to be good. [editor’s note: For more details on Too Good, see my ROT reports “Two Shaw Plays (Shaw Festival 2006),” 25 September 2012, and “The 2006 Shaw Festival (Part 2),” 11 December 2015.  ~Rick]

“Village Wooing” (1933 / 1934) appears to have been inspired by a woman named Jisabella Lyth, the postmistress of Ayot St. Lawrence, the village where Shaw lived. She and her husband had hardly moved there when he died, leaving her not well off.

Shaw, ordering stamps from her, would send each request in a signed letter. He never acknowledged his purpose, but she was able to sell the autographs and supplement her income.

Shaw imagined himself – although he denied it – as a widower increasingly involved, over three scenes, with Mrs. Lyth as one of his unerringly deft and funny women, much like Gracie Allen (1906-1964; American vaudeville and TV comedian and wife of George Burns). The play is a delight, charming and fun. The woman, as nearly always in Shaw’s plays, is an instrument of the Life Force and gets her man.

ON THE ROCKS (1933) begins with a jaw-dropping preface on what Shaw calls “extermination” or “killing as a political function.” “Extermination,” he writes, “must be put on a scientific basis if it is ever to be carried out humanely and apologetically as well as thoroughly.”

The cheerful tone of the discussion is chilling. “Every Government is obliged to practice [extermination] on a scale varying from the execution of a single murderer to the slaughter of millions of quite innocent persons,” he writes – quite a sliding scale.

As an example, he uses Jesus. Then it occurs to him that the execution of Jesus was not a particularly good idea, Jesus being the kind of non-conformist Shaw prizes. So Shaw begins to talk about tolerance, leading up to an imagined dialogue between Jesus and Pilate that Jesus actually wins, due to his cleverly quoting both himself and Shaw:

By their fruits ye shall know them. Beware how you kill a thought that is new to you. For that thought may be the foundation of the Kingdom of God on earth.

This roller coaster ride of a preface has almost nothing to do with the play, in which a Prime Minister, faced with social upheaval, takes a pile of books by Marx with him on a rest cure and returns to propose a Socialist overhaul of the country. At first it looks like he may get away with it; but it’s too late, the country is on the rocks for real, and he resigns.

This bare-bones description of the play ought to suggest its nature as an exercise in wish fulfillment for Shaw that ends in deep disappointment even though it is his own fantasy. It’s also true that the dialogue is generally lively and entertaining. Holroyd says that at recent productions, people have been surprised at how timely the play is.

However, the storyline wanders; domestic issues wind through the play, tangentially related to its theme, and their resolution followsthe climax of the political dilemma, a strange anticlimax.

Generally, instead of plot, Shaw is writing situations; instead of characterization, he is presenting personality traits. Instead of names, the characters could just have their functions written on signboards – “The Socialist,” “The Royalist,” and so on.

[I’ve been publishing Kirk’s Shaw series one section every couple of weeks, as you’ve seen.  Part 5, the final installment covering playsfrom 1934 to 1950, will be coming up on 2 September.  I hope ROTters will return to the blog to read Kirk’s final comments.]


'Golem' (Lincoln Center Festival, 2016)

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According to Leo Rosten’s The Joys of Yiddish, golem, which is pronounced like (but is otherwise unrelated to) the Lord of the Rings character Gollum, is a Hebrew, not Yiddish, word that means ‘matter without shape’ or ‘a yet-unformed thing.’  The word appears in Psalms 139:16 and elsewhere in the Old Testament, as well as the Talmud, which explains how Adam was formed from dust, became a ‘shapeless mass,’ and was eventually brought to life.  In Jewish legends developed during 5th to 15th centuries, the golem was an image or form that’s given life through a magical formula.  Folk stories arose of wise men in eastern and central Europe who could, by using charms, instill life in anthropomorphic clay effigies that were believed to offer special protection to Jews against anti-Semitic attacks and pogroms. (It’s also a Kabbalistic legend.  The Kabbalah, the book of Jewish mysticism, features numerology and the magic of letters in certain arrangements, and one of the ways a golem is brought to life is by placing a Hebrew word or series of letters in its mouth or on its forehead.)  There are many tales differing in location and how the golem is brought to life and afterwards controlled.  As Rosten recounted the phenomenon:

The most famous of these imaginary creatures was the Golem of Prague.  In the seventeenth century, a legend grew around Rabbi Judah Lowe (or Low) of Prague [1526?-1609], a renowned scholar who was supposed to have created a golemto help protect the Jews from many calamities the anti-Semites attempted.  The golemhelped Rabbi Lowe bring criminals to justice; he exposed spreaders of anti-Semitic canards; he saved an innocent girl from apostasy by force; he even discovered in the nick of time that the Passover matzoshad been poisoned!

Originally passed on by oral tradition as a warning against hubris, the story has been transcribed numerous times over the centuries.  In the 20th century, it’s also been the subject of a number of films, starting in the silent era.  The legend was probably an inspiration to Mary Shelley (1797-1851) for her novel Frankensteinin 1818 and may have had significant impact on Wolfgang von Goethe’s (1749-1832) “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” (1797) and the play R.U.R. (1921) by Prague dramatist Karel Čapek (1890-1938), which introduced the word robot into the English language.  

The best-known rendition of the story is arguably Der Golem, a 1914 Austrian novel by Gustav Meyrink (1868-1932).  Another rendition is a 1921 Yiddish-language “dramatic poem in eight sections,” Golem by H. Leivick (pseudonym of Leivick Halpern, 1888-1962).  In 1923, Romanian composer Nicolae Bretan (1887-1968) wrote the one-act opera The Golem.  Nobel Prize-winner Isaac Bashevis Singer (1902-91) wrote a children’s version of the legend in 1969 and Elie Wiesel (1928-2016) also wrote a children’s novel based on the folktale in 1983.  Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) discovered the Meyrink novel sometime after World War I and it influenced his subsequent writing greatly, especially his works of “magical realism.”  In 1958, Borges published the poem about “El Golem.”  In the 21st century, there have been female golemsand both genders have appeared in comic books, graphic novels, and video games, as well as films and TV shows. 

In Meyrink's expressionistic novel, the unnamed narrator assumes the identity of Athanasius Pernath, a Christian jeweler and art restorer who lives in the Prague ghetto, during a visionary dream.  While the novel generally centers on Pernath’s life, it also chronicles the lives of his friends and neighbors.  The story is a disjointed and fragmentary tale of encounters Pernath has with people in the ghetto, meant to convey mysticism and hallucinatory episodes.  Meyrink reveals over the course of the novel that Pernath, who’s forgotten his past, suffered some sort of mental illness when he was younger and was institutionalized and the veracity of his accounts is in question.  The Golem of the title doesn’t figure prominently as a character in the novel, but is rather a vague presence that used to stalk the ghetto in the 16th century.  It begins to appear in Pernath’s visions after a man brings him an ancient book of Jewish mysticism (almost certainly The Kabbalah), whose illuminated initial letter needs to be restored.  (Believe it or not, I actually read this novel in a German course in college, though I have very little specific recollection of it.  It’s extremely difficult to follow—even in English, much less German.)

1927, founded in 2005 by director, writer, and performer Suzanne Andrade and animator and illustrator Paul Barritt, specializes in combining performance and live music with animation and film.  Central to 1927’s vision is the exploration of the relationship between the live performer and animation to create dynamic and innovative live performances.  “1927 began when I started working with Suzanne,” said Barritt.  “She’d done theatre before and I was making films.  We named the company after the year that saw the end of the silent film era, and the release of Metropolis”—the film by Fritz Lang that was one of the last great silent movies, though other sources assert the name refers to the year The Jazz Singer, considered by some the first full-length talkie, was released. 

The troupe’s hybrid work combines speech, film, music, song, movement, and handmade animation and aims to fuse these disparate elements in an intricately choreographed harmony.  It takes the troupe as much as two to  three years to create a show and nine or 10 months to rehearse it.  Having started out on London’s cabaret scene, 1927 made its début with Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2007, winning several awards.  Devil went on to two seasons in London and toured around the U.K. and across the globe.  The company took home the 2008 Peter Brook Empty Space Award for Best Ensemble and two 2008 New York Drama Desk Award nominations (Unique Theatrical Experience and Projection & Animation).

The company’s second production, The Animals and Children Took to the Streets, premièred at Australia’s Sydney Opera House in 2010 and again garnered acclaim and awards, eventually being performed over 400 times in 80 venues across 28 countries on 5 continents.  In 2012, 1927 collaborated with Berlin’s Komische Oper to create its first opera, a reimagining of Mozart’s The Magic Flute co-directed by Andrade and Komische Oper’s director Barry Kosky with animation by Barritt; the show is still in the opera company’s repertoire and has seen new productions around the world.  Paul Barritt’s short film, White Morning, débuted at the 2014 London Short Film Festival, again winning critical attention, and went on to further film festival appearances. Since that time, 1927 has experimented with and explored new and challenging combinations of live performance, film, and animation (on a relatively low-tech level: they don’t use computer animation or CGI, though computers do aid in controlling the performances). 

In 2014, 1927 created a stage adaptation of the golem tale inspired by Meyrink’s novel. which Barritt describes as “a kind of mystical, hallucinogenic thriller.”  As we’ll soon see, 1927’s Golem diverges substantially from the 100-year-old book.  The play wasdeveloped at the Harrogate Theatre in Harrogate, England, in July 2014 and had its world première on 22 August 2014 at the Salzburg Festival in Salzburg, Austria, running there through 27 August.  Over the following year, Golem played in several theaters in England, principally London (Stratford Circus, 14 November 2014; Young Vic Theatre, 9 December 2014-17 January 2015; Trafalgar Studio 1, West End, 14 April-22 May 2015) and Brighton (The Old Market, 21-22 November 2014), before going on an international tour to Taipei (National Theater and Concert Hall, 12-15 March 2015), Paris (Théâtre de la Ville, 27 May-4 June 2015), Moscow (Chekhov International Theater Festival, Mayakovsky Moscow Theater, 23-27 June 2015), Beijing (National Center for the Performing Arts International Theater Festival, NCPA Drama Theater No. 2, 29-30 August 2015), Madrid (Festival de Ontoñio a Primavera, Teatros del Canal, 9-12 December 2015), and Adelaide, Australia (Adelaide Festival of Arts, Dunstan Playhouse, 8-13 March 2016).  Golem, co-produced with the Salzburg Festival, the Théâtre de la Ville, Paris, and the Young Vic Theatre, London, made its U.S. première this year at the Spoleto Festival USA in Charleston, South Carolina (Sottile Theatre of the College of Charleston, 8-12 June), and then came to New York City from 26 to 31 July as part of the Lincoln Center Festival, where Diana, my frequent theater partner, and I saw it at the Gerald W. Lynch Theater of John Jay College, west of Columbus Circle, at the 7:30 performance on Friday evening, 29 July. 

Likening Golem, written and directed by Andrade with animation created by Barritt,to “a giant graphic novel burst into life” in its Lincoln Center Festival publicity, 1927 characterizes its “synthesis of handmade animation, claymation, live music, and theater” as “a dystopian fable for the 21st century” which explores “who—or what—is in control of our technologies?”  In an interview with David Tushingham, dramaturg of the Salzburg Festival, Barritt stated: “If there is one part of his book that has ended up in our show, it’s that social comment aspect.  The rest of it, whilst it was certainly a spring board into the idea of doing the Golem myth, we dismissed fairly early on.”  In this “dark and fantastical tale,” the company posits that “humankind’s downfall comes about through a time-saving, life-simplifying gadget bought by the masses—a nightmare of the digital revolution made all the more ghoulish by the candy-colored world in which it is set.”

The performance starts with a voice-over narrator (Andrade) explaining, ”We live in a world where people want for nothing, we are safe and secure—we are progressive, we believe in the new . . . .”   Taking us back to a simpler time, when people used pencils and ate aspic jelly with corned beef, the voice introduces us to the family of librarian Annie (Esme Appleton), her nerdy brother Robert (Shamira Turner), and their Gran (Rose Robinson).  Annie leads a punk-rock band called Annie and the Underdogs made up of her brother and their odd-ball friends who sing about revolution and anarchy in a basement.  Robert has a tedious and repetitive data-entry job in a department that “backs up the backup” of Binary Back Up.  Among his co-workers, who have their own communication system in which they converse in binary code—0’s and 1’sis Joy (Robertson), who catches his eye (Robert never having had a girlfriend) and is soon promoted to “head of stationery” (where her post, high above her co-workers, is in the Stationary Station [sic]).

Robert’s daily walk to work is a marvelous juxtapostion of animation and mime as he walks jauntily (think Chaplin’s Little Tramp without the cane) in place before a stage-width projection of the rundown shops and businesses (the names of some of which are chuckle-worthy on their own: Cod Is Dead Fish and Chips, Bog Standard Restaurant, One Eyed Jack’s Optometry, Helen Back’s Osteopath) along his route.  (Barritt based the streetscape on photos he took of downtown Los Angeles when he was there with another 1927 production.  It’s part of L.A. that’s “kind of been left and you’ve got all these old 20s cinemas, which are just empty,” says the animator.  The Huffington Post reviewer, though, likened the street scene to “Bleecker Street circa 1970.”)  On his way home one evening, Robert visits the store-front shop of inventor Phil Sylocate (Will Close); Robert’s former schoolmate convinces him to purchase his newest creation, a Golem, a giant clay man (more-or-less anatomically complete) who’s programmed to obey its master’s every wish.  (Phil Sylocate’s name is a pun on phyllosilicate, the mineral of which clay is largely composed.)

To bring Golem to life in the morning, Robert just whispers the magic words, and repeats the spell to deactivate him at night.  While Golem is awake, it tirelessly follows Robert’s every command and soon Robert has it doing all the household chores and even assuming his duties at work.  When Golem starts to speak (in the soothing, automated voice of Ben Whitehead, reminiscent a little of 2001: A Space Odyssey’s HAL), however, Robert is at first surprised.  But Golem seems loveable and helpful at first, and Robert is recognized at work for his efficiency.  Golem begins to give Robert fashion suggestions, career counseling, and dating tips, and the advice is so effective that Robert’s life is significantly improved, as he attracts Joy’s attention and advances his position at work.  (Ironically, Golem is himself influenced by technology: he gets the ideas he passes along to Robert from the advertising slogans and sales pitches he hears on television.)  Robert, with a newly-acquired girlfriend, dresses more fashionably (in costumes, designed by Sarah Munro, that seem inspired by those of Italian Futurist performances on the 1920s).  But soon Robert upgrades to Golem Version 2, which is trickier and more powerful.  “Move with the times or you’ll be left behind,” Golem 2 repeats as it takes more and more control of Robert’s life.
                                                                                           
As Golem becomes more and more prominent in Robert’s affairs, the street of independent shops along which Robert walks is rapidly taken over by chain stores all bearing the name “Go” Something-Or-Other (“Go Pasta,” “Go Friends,” “Go Fiends”—even a travel agency called Go Away); the divey little hang-outs where Robert and his friends used to go turn into strip joints.  It’s all indicative of the take-over of mindless consumerism and corporate branding.  The specter of mass-conformism takes hold of Robert’s formerly individual and slightly anarchic world as 1927’s Golem asks, “Do you want to be a nobody or an everybody?”  It’s an old threat—as familiar as the aforementioned HAL computer or Čapek’s R.U.R.(which, Barritt contends, “suggests that one day mankind will never have to work, left to think and create and better himself”): our labor-saving devices make us so dependent on technology and mechanical assistance that they become the masters and we humans, the servants.  (No less a scientific luminary than Stephen Hawking told the BBC in 2014: “The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race.”)  “Although we are very reliant on the technology,” says Andrade, “we also dictate the technology and are constantly dirtying it up.”  The universe of 1927’s Golem, however, is so cleverly depicted that its hoariness is not a tremendous detriment.    

As 1927’s own mission statement asserts, combining live performance with animation is the troupe’s stock-in-trade, its principal focus.  The entire performative experience becomes cinematic and multi-dimensional.  As a play, Golem lacks a number of attributes—if it were longer than its 90 intermissionless minutes it would have become enervating, for instance—but the actors interact so seamlessly with the animated environment that the production feels like a single, integrated entity rather than disparate technologies stitched together.  (In addition to Barritt’s animation and film work and Munro’s costumes, Golem has a projection screen design by James Lewis, sound designed by Laurence Owen, and music by Lillian Henley, all of which are as important to the production as the actors and the animation.)  One reason might be that the performances of the actors, as directed by Andrade, and Barritt’s film animation are developed at the same time, with Barritt attending rehearsals and using input from the stage work to guide and inform his graphics.  So we see animated-film neighborhoods pass by as the live actors mime-walk down the sidewalk, live characters heads popping out of cartoon windows in the backdrop, or snoring ZZZZZZZZ’s appearing on the backdrop above live actors’ sleeping heads.  (In one wonderful scene, the claymation creature holds a cartoon umbrella over live-actor Turner’s head—and it looks absolutely believably real.)   As the actors do their work, however, production technical manager Helen Mugridge controls when the animations happen in real time in line with the 500-plus cues.  At the same time, live on stage, Henley on the piano and Close on percussion synchronize Henley’s silent-movie score with the technical cues so that the live music, the animation, and the acting all work in sync.

The technique of coordinating live actors with animation on a screen isn’t a cake-walk, apparently.  “By interweaving a near-constant stream of live animation with the performers’ actions, 1927 requires that its actors stay close to the 300-square-foot backdrop on which the animation is projected,” observes New York Times reporter Eric Goode.  “But not too close.  Bumping into it also interferes with the illusion.”  To fit with the animation, the actors’ marks for every position are set out on the floor in glow-tape in a “baffling array of dashes, plus signs, arrows and other glyphs.”  (Goode described the stage at the Spoleto Festival USA as “riddled . . . with ‘spikes’: pieces of glow-in-the-dark tape designed to help actors find their exact spots on an unlit stage.”)

Barritt explains: “Try as we may to deepen the playing area, it doesn’t really work.  The actors really can’t interact with the animations that way.”  Even an actor turning her or his head to look at an image on the screen “would ruin the visual.”  Goode calls it “useful but risky technology [that] fits perfectly with the subject matter of ‘Golem’” and dubs it the company’s “droll Edward Gorey-meets-Max Fleischer aesthetic.”  (Gorey, 1925-2000, is most known for his eerie cartoons in such publications as the New Yorker.  Fleischer, 1883-1972, was an early animated filmmaker who between 1918 and 1957 created, among other films, the cartoon characters Betty Boop and Koko the Clown, and the series of shorts of Popeye the Sailor and Superman.  He often used live action in his animated movies.)  Actress Turner affirms, “It’s like trying to make a play and a film at the same time.”  Of working with Golem on the screen, Turner says, “Getting the logic down of how to interact with him took me a while.”  Will Close, who plays Phil Sylocate among others, explains: “The way Suze [Andrade] directs is to make as much as possible in the animated world three-dimensional, so that draws out Golem.  He’s not just on the screen; you can really feel that he’s at the table, which is partly achieved by animation and staging techniques but actually the acting goes such a long way with it, and he comes out of the screen if it’s done in the right way.” 

The animation isn’t just a backdrop, the projected version of painted scenery in front of which the performers act, it’s also the play’s environment, the virtual version of three-dimensional constructed scenery and the actors pop in and out of projected windows and doors.  (Think an animated rendition of the Joke Wall on the old TV show, Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In.)  Whether constructed, 3-D set pieces or projected animation, however, both scenic environments are stylistically of a piece so that designers Esme Appleton and Barritt’s flats and wall fragments and Barritt’s projections coordinate to create a variation of a silent-movie world.  In addition to Henley’s music, many of Barritt’s cinematic techniques continue this evocation of the silents of the ’20s.  One frequent practice is ending a scene by “Looneying,” a fade-out that ends in a small, black circle that shrinks to nothing as at the end of a Looney Tunes cartoon, a tactic that just reeks of old-time flickers.  (The actors’ Chaplinesque walk further evokes the silent-film era.)

Golem’s costume and make-up style is another continuation of the silent-movie look.  Sarah Munro’s designs include mostly monochromatic (in the beige scale), slightly geeky clothing (lots of sweater-vests) that might have looked at home in the 1920s, paired with the Futurist attire I mentioned earlier, a theater and art style that was also in vogue in the ’20s (and, perhaps not coincidentally, focused on technology and modern engineering, among its other concentrations).  The characters’ make-up is also based on silent movies, with while face-paint, heavy eye make-up, and Harpo-Marx wigs.  (Robert’s is a brick-red “Carrot Top” afro which, with his round-lensed, black-framed spectacles, contributed greatly to his nerdy appearance.)

Given the needs of this show, the acting was magnificent.  (As Christopher Isherwood of the New York Times rightly observed, “The performers are not required to do much in the way of emoting.  The characters are essentially cartoons themselves.”)  It’s unquestionably idiosyncratic and even eccentric, not suitable for ordinary pays from the Greeks to Shakespeare to David Mamet and Nicky Silver.  But for Golem (and probably most, if not all, of 1927’s output: “It doesn’t really differ that greatly” from the troupe’s other shows, says Barritt), it was extraordinary.  I’ve tried to reveal some of what’s demanded of the actors to coordinate with the animation, but aside from—or outside of—that, the troupe’s performance style is demanding and exacting.  Clearly, not only the actor’s blocking must be precise for the illusion of interaction between the live action and the animation to work, but the timing has to be virtually perfect so that the actor’s lines and movements mesh with the background and the animated characters.  (This is where Mugridge’s expertise comes in.)  1927 has this down pat.

The acting company is, needless to say, an exemplary ensemble.  But it’s an unusual kind of ensemble.  In most ensemble companies, the actors all work together in a way that makes them appear to be parts of an integrated whole and no individual performance stands out above any of the others.  The actors are like moving parts of a performance machine.  In Golem, the actors worked together seamlessly enough, like that performance machine—but they each stood out individually as a unique and differentiated persona, even several personae since most of the cast plays more than one character.  Will Close’s Phil Sylocate was as distinctive as his Julian, one of Robert’s co-workers.  Rose Robinson’s Gran stoods out as clearly as did her Joy.  In fact, if I’m honest, I’d never have guessed that these roles were played by the same actors if I hadn’t looked at the cast list after the performance.  And yet, taken together, the whole company was of a single piece—as if, if they’ll pardon the unintended implication, Barritt had created them along with Golem and the denizens and structures of the neighborhood.  As a theatrical experience, watching 1927’s Golem was truly exhilarating. 

I’m going to comment about one performance, not because it was better than the others or somehow violated the ensembleness of the production but because one peculiarity enhances its effectiveness.  The performance was Shamira Turner as Robert and the peculiarity was the casting.  I have no idea why Andrade cast a woman as Robert; I know that she’s new to the company and Golem is her first 1927 production.  Her work in the show was flawless—and I didn’t know the actor was female until, again, I looked at the program afterwards.  But what I did notice was that this Robert seemed very young, little more than a teenager, and very innocent.  I kept thinking the actor was a kid.  (Upon considering the performance, I’d also add it was reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin, which may have been the source of Turner’s mime-walk style.)  Not only did this make Robert vulnerable and open to influence and manipulation, but also endearing and engaging.  A harder or more resistant—more mature, shall I say—Robert would have damaged the play’s performance, I’m convinced.  Putting Turner in the part clinched it—at least for me.  I don’t know if Andrade knew this going in and acted on that intuition, but even if it was just a happy accident or the result of necessity (which, as we all know, can be a mother . . .), it worked out like gangbusters.  (As those great philosophers Keith Richards and Mick Jagger once said:  If you try sometime you find / You get what you need.)

When asked about the band members of Annie and the Underdogs, Barritt laid out his vision of the theme of Golem:

These characters are representative of a politically impotent generation, in other words our generation [Barritt was born in 1958, making him 57-58] and all of those that are growing up behind us.  Everyone can see what is wrong with the world.  It is not a difficult thing to pick apart the problems with the way industrialized consumer-driven democracy doesn’t work.  What is difficult is finding a solution: something that generations of people brought up on the sickly sweet heroin of market-driven popular culture are finding impossible ways to comprehend, let alone do anything about. . . .  And what are we doing?  Making a massive theater show about the subject that will be viewed by a, relatively speaking, elite class of wealthy consumers . . . I rest my case.

But a theme alone doesn’t make a play.  Longtime ROTters will remember that I have a two-part criterion for good theater: it must do more than tell a story and it must be theatrical, that is, use the unique assets of the live stage as much as possible.  Well, there’s little doubt that Golem is theatrical—it uses the attributes of live performance and then some—but the story part is deficient.  Now, 1927 has a point it wants to make, to be sure, so on the surface Golem meets both parts of the criterion—but it’s such a cliché that it’s little more than an excuse to hang the cleverly told story on, like a wire hanger holding up an elaborate, magical costume.  (It doesn’t help, at least in the articulating, that Barritt often sounds like an old-line socialist reciting Marx . . . and I don’t mean Groucho!  Fortunately, that’s not in the play, only in Barritt’s head.)  If it weren’t for the stunning and mesmerizing tech of 1927’s production, Golemwould be downright silly.  Happily, however, that production is more than sufficient to enliven the 90-minute performance enough to outweigh the inadequacies of the text. 

Andrade’s script is also too enamored of the distracting sidebar, the little vignette that’s curious and perhaps emotionally evocative, but has little to do with the story or its point save atmospherics (a melancholy French chanteur named Les Miserables, played by Close, for example), and indulges this penchant often enough to dilute the overall impact of Golem; even Annie’s punk band seems to have been an idea conceived originally to be central and significant, but which now adds little to the play.  Furthermore, in the end, the revolutionary impulse that Andrade and Barritt seem to want to inculcate comes to naught since the consumerism represented by the Golems is inescapable, like the proliferation of the computer and the smart phone in our world.  Resistance, it seems, is futile.

Show-Scoreonce again used out-of-town performances in its tally of reviews, so I’ve recalculated its findings to include only notices of the Lincoln Center Festival appearance of Golem.  (This includes a review in the PhiladelphiaInquirer, even though it’s an out-of-town paper.)  Show-Scoresurveyed nine reviews of the New York City presentation of which 89% were positive notices and 11% were mixed; there were no negative reviews in Show-Score’s sample.  Golem received an overall score of 84 for the New York notices alone. 

In the Wall Street Journal, Heidi Waleson, affirming that 1927’s “silent movie” approach in its previous productions “was a lot of fun,” wrote that Golem“is even more dizzily inventive and colorful,” even if the play ends up “a heavy-handed metaphor for the pernicious rise of consumerism.”  Though Waleson determined, “At 90 minutes, the piece feels long, and the music . . . is a nattering background,” she found that “the variety and deployment of Mr. Barritt’s deceptively simple drawings are astonishing” and “so well done that it is sometimes not entirely clear what is real and what is not.”  Calling 1927’s Golem a “sinister work of science fiction” in am New York, Matt Windman noted that it has “a plot that sort of resembles ‘Little Shop of Horrors.’”  Windman reported that the performance “meticulously combines five clown-like performers, booming narration, live music and film animation, leading to a wholly coordinated piece of theater that defies ordinary characterization, resembling a trippy art installation and an animated movie brought to life.”  “[T]old in a visual style,” the amNY reviewer wrote, it “recalls both the European avant-garde movements of the early 20th century and claymation cartoons meant for children.  It’s Fritz Lang’s ‘Metropolis’ meets ‘Pee-wee’s Playhouse.’”

Christopher Isherwood, calling Golem“visually dazzling” and “mind-pinching” in the Times,labeled it “a fable that feels both contemporary and ageless, combining live performance and music with sophisticated stop-motion and traditional animation.”  Isherwood gave a great deal of credit “for its seamless ingenuity” to Barritt, “the creator of its kaleidoscopic film, design and animation.”   The Timesman characterized the setting as “fantastical” and said it was “as lively a presence as any of the performers onstage.”  Isherwood declared, “The integration of Mr. Barritt’s animation and the work of the cast is the show’s most singular and bewitching achievement.”  “For all its dark intimations,” the Times reviewer reported, Golem“remains playfully comic in tone and spirit.”  He concluded, “The moral of ‘Golem’ isn’t drawn in particularly subtle strokes.  But its tart critique of a modern world. . . has been imbued with such hallucinatory visual allure that your attention is held fast . . . .”  And he added a cautionary epilogue: “And after watching it your attitude toward your smartphone may require some readjusting.”

I don’t usually include out-of-town papers in my review survey, but in this case, the Philadelphia Inquirerran the only mixed notice in Show-Score’s tally of reviews of the Lincoln Center Festival presentation of Golem, so I figured it’d be important to record it.  David Patrick Stearns (the paper’s music reviewer), giving a brief précis of the use of computer-generated animation in live theater and, especially, opera (1927 will bring its version of Magic Flute to Opera Philadelphia in the fall of 2017), characterized Golemas “told in the broadly satirical manner of The Simpsons.”  Stearns stated, “Beyond bringing [Golem] to life, the animation . . . was mainly of use for secondary matters, almost like incidental music, bolstering transitional passages and scene-setting, although it was so imposing that everything else . . . was secondary.”  The actors, he added, “were too often reduced to narrative automatons.”  (As you might expect from a true music guy, Stearns decided that the Magic Flute characters wouldn’t likely suffer the same fate because “Mozart’s music gives his stick-figure characters a warmth and humanity that cool, more impersonal digitally-crafted imagery can’t take away.”  It’d be interesting to see if he’s right, or if Stearns has to eat his own words next year.)

Show-Score didn’t include the Village Voice in its round-up, so Helen Shaw’s less-than-positive review was omitted from the ratings.  Describing 1927’s production style as “a hybrid form of avant-retro video-theater,” she called Golem“chilly,” the play a “projection-saturated fable,” and the sound-mix “muddy,” rendering “some lines inaudible.”  All of this “muted” the production’s message, Shaw affirmed.  “If you’ve never seen the troupe’s work, you’ll find it a genuine wonder, a gorgeous amalgam of image and wit,” she concluded, but lamented, “Unfortunately, even such aesthetic sophistication can wear badly.”  She complained that “the group’s delight in computer animation has hamstrung the show’s Luddite message.”  “[W]orst of all,” the Voice reviewer wrote in her final analysis, “writer-director Suzanne Andrade doesn't sustain her critique.”  In Time Out New York, David Cote opened his review by explaining:

To describe the acting in Golem as cartoonish is simply factual—though I have used the term slightingly before. It’s not just the jerky walking, the rubber-faced grimaces or the nasal vocal inflections. The performers are literally embedded within a giant animated projection in this wickedly ingenious satire on consumerism and conformism.

Cote added that “rarely do you see those varied elements absorbed and transformed in such dynamic fashion” as in 1927’s “ghoulishly effective allegory.”  “Yes,” remarked the man from TONY, “the Golem is the Internet, but the critique comes with so much quirk and weirdness, it has the dark enchantment of every good fable.”  He dubbed Barritt’s animation “brilliant” (“dazzling [to the] the eye,” Cote wrote) and Andrade’s writing “witty, broad and fetchingly lyrical”; the “sheer technical achievement . . .,” Cote summed up, “is rather mind-blowing, and the frisky, adorable performers endow their two-dimensional costars with three-dimensional weight.”  In his final comment, Cote quipped, “It’s a rare show that measures success by how well its actors blend into the scenery.

In the sole cyber review I read, Jeremy Gerard called Golem“ingenious and ultimately quite moving” on the Huffington Post.  Combined with “a mesmerizing score,” Andrade and Barritt have “produced an eye- and ear-filling riff” on Meyrink’s novel.  The play, Gerard remarked, “reminded me in places of Elmer Rice’s The Adding Machine (1923), on the one hand, and Spike Jonez’s Her, on the other.”  Then the HPreview-writer presented his “quibble”: 1927’s Golem “is so charming . . . that the ontological tale gets pretty lost.  And so the general takeaway—technology bad, punk-rock good—seemed kinda banal.”  Still, Gerard concluded that “the show is a wonder, and here I am, still thinking about it.”


Re-Reading Shaw – Plays from 1934 to 1950

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by Kirk Woodward

[This is the final installment of Kirk Woodward’s series of commentaries on George Bernard Shaw from his reading of the Complete Plays with Prefaces (Dodd, Mead & Company, 1963).  The four previous parts, covering the plays written from 1885 to 1902, 1901 to 1909, 1909 to 1920, and 1918 to 1933, were posted on ROT on 3 and 18 July and 8 and 23 August, respectively, and I recommend going back, either before reading part 5 or afterwards, to catch up on Kirk’s thoughts on the great playwright—not so much because part 5 is informed by what came before but because Kirk’s considerations are more than worth reading for their own sakes.  (In my introduction to part 4, I noted that Kirk’s written on ROT before about GBS and listed his past blog articles. I also recommend having a good look at those as well.)]

THE SIMPLETON OF THE UNEXPECTED ISLES(1934 / 1935) – People in society are known by the company they keep, and Shaw’s plays are often known by the prefaces they consort with. This play suffered because of the reputation of its “Preface on Days of Judgment.”

It begins calmly enough, with Shaw’s usual sleight-of-hand switching of categories:

When we refuse to believe in the miracles of religion for no better reason fundamentally than that we are no longer in the humor for them we refill our minds with the miracles of science, most of which the authors of the Bible would have refused to believe.

Religion is the mother of skepticism: Science is the mother of credulity. There is nothing that people will not believe nowadays if only it be presented to them as Science, and nothing they will not disbelieve if it be presented to them as religion. I myself began like that; and I am ending by receiving every scientific statement with dour suspicion while giving very respectful consideration to the inspirations and revelations of the prophets and poets.

This mild scrambling of preconceptions suddenly takes a sharp turn:

But what of the people who are incapable of restraint except that of intimidation? Must they not be either restrained or, as the Russians gently put it, liquidated.

Then Shaw, for not the last time making a fool of himself over the Soviet Union, gives a merry and sanitized rationale for the state murders carried out by Lenin and Stalin, which gives an unpleasant punning quality to the term “Days of Judgment.” This effect spilled over into Simpleton, and many saw in it a similar enthusiasm for improving the world by killing people.

The Simpleton itself has no explicit relation to its dire preface, except in one ugly passage:

If the angels fail us we shall set up tribunals of our own from which worthless people will not come out alive. When men no longer fear the judgment of God, they must learn to judge themselves.

Aside from its enthusiasm for governmental murder, The Simpleton is Shaw at his most avant garde. It must have been quite a novelty for its first audiences. “Why don’t you do The Simpleton?” Shaw once asked a producer. “It is a lovely play.”

It is certainly a most interesting one. Not to keep harping on age, but Shaw was nearly eighty when he wrote it. It is unusual, imaginative, daring; for the time its ideas about polygamy and mixed-race marriage were shocking. The dialogue is consistently clever.

Three little scenes (the Prologue) introduce us to the Isles – tropical lands that have recently emerged from the sea – and we observe their oddness and unsuitability for normal British ideals. A place, in other words, where strange things can happen.

We then see the Simpleton – a nebbish of an Anglican clergyman – explore what the Isles, in succeeding years, have become. Four people – two English, two not – have become the group parents of four children, to all appearances the most beautiful young people imaginable.

But the Day of Judgment arrives, and it turns out to be the day of Shaw’s judgment:

The Day of Judgment is not the end of the world, but the end of its childhood and the beginning of its responsible maturity.

The four children are among those who just disappear. They were Ideals – their real names were Love, Pride, Heroism, and Empire. So there is a thematic relation between the play and the preface after all. Those who do not work and produce, as Shaw sees they should, ought to and will disappear – however that happens.

“The Six of Calais” (1934) dramatizes Jean Froissart’s (c. 1337-c. 1405) story of the six merchants who surrender to King Edward III to be hanged in return for his lifting the siege of their city, and whose lives are spared through the queen’s intervention (from Froissart’s Chronicles). Shaw adds a twist to the story that gives it a lively comic ending.

In his fine preface Shaw claims that in this play “I am not driving at anything more than a playwright’s direct business,” which is that

Life as we see it is so haphazard that it is only by picking out its key situations and arranging them in their significant order (which is never how they actually occur) that it can be made intelligible. . . . All interpreters of life in action, noble or ignoble, find their instrument in the theatre; and all the academic definitions of a play are variations of this basic function.

Despite Shaw’s disclaimer, it is worth noting that the play does present a revolt of the proletariat of the time against the ruling power structure, and that the religious expressions of the six burghers are distinctly Protestant.

THE MILLIONAIRESS (1935 / 1936) – in his “Preface on Bosses,” Shaw identifies, but does not solve, an issue that afflicts Democratic societies but equally bedevils Socialist thought: the fact that some people rise to the top, whatever that “top” may be, regardless of the obstacles, and often the laws, around them.

Both Socialism and Democracy promote equality; but the fact is that some people cannot help triumphing over circumstances. They seem to make money in spite of themselves; or they get into higher and higher positions of power, or both. (This can even happen in the United States!)

The tyranny of the talented individuals will remain. Again I ask what are we to do with them in self-defence? . . . The problem is how to make sure that the decisions shall be made in the general interest and not solely in the immediate personal interest of the decider.

It comes as a shock to realize that Shaw, who has solutions for everything, has no solution for this problem, except that we become more aware of the situation and its dangers. “What are we to do with such people?” he keeps asking.

Worse, he can’t help admiring them, as his descriptions of Mussolini and Hitler in the preface make clear. Hasn’t he urged the Superman on us? Could they by any chance be Supermen?

The Millionairess uses money as the arena for demonstrating this dilemma – it stays out of politics, although the same points apply. Epifania, the title character, finds herself required to raise a large amount of money out of almost nothing, and she does. Shaw calls the play:

a comedy of humorous and curious contemporary characters such as Ben Jonson might write were he alive now.

The comparison with Jonson (1572-1637, author of Volpone and The Alchemist) is apt in the sense that Jonson wrote comedies that are forceful but difficult to stage successfully. So is The Millionairess. Katherine Hepburn, Shaw’s ideal for the role, did play it on stage, and must have been perfect for it with her brittle voice and angular bearing. Aside from Hepburn’s performance, the play has proven problematic.

Epifania, the title character, is driven, focused, and humorless. “There is nothing one can get,” she says, “but more money.” She ignores any other values. She is a parody of Shaw’s women who are miles ahead of the men around them. Epifania is miles ahead of everyone, but not in the service of Life, just in the service of herself.

Does she remind the reader of anyone?

SAGAMORE. He is taking an action against you.
EPIFANIA. An action! Very well: you know my invariable rule. Fight him to the last ditch, no matter what it costs. Take him to the House of Lords if necessary. We shall see whose purse will hold out longest. I will not be blackmailed.

If you read the role in the voice of, say, a billionaire you envision, you will understand the feel of the whole play. At the end of the play, Epifania has gotten everything she wants; some people have benefited from her activities, some have suffered from them; but she is indifferent to all results except that she is on top.

I am surprised at how highly I think of this play, contrary to my expectations. Shaw isn’t preaching, he’s presenting, and, like Ben Jonson, presenting without sentimentality. Productions that offer the play as a fun evening of theater probably won’t work. But if Shaw isn’t offering easy solutions, he’s identifying a problem, or trying to. All the more credit to him.

“Cymbeline Refinished”(1937) – Shaw scorned the last act of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline for years as jumbled and confusing. When he was invited to write a new fifth act for a production, he read the play again.

I began by reading the authentic last act carefully through. I had not done so for many years, and had the common impression about it that it was a cobbled-up affair by several hands, including a vision in prison accompanied by scraps of quite ridiculous doggerel. For this estimate I found absolutely no justification nor excuse. . . . My notion that it is a cobbled-up pasticcio by other hands was an unpardonable stupidity. The act is genuine Shakespear to the last full stop, and late phase Shakespear in point of verbal workmanship.

However, Shaw also realized that the only way to do the act successfully is to do it full-out, in particular the masque, which requires special handling. So he wrote an alternate ending that does not require unusual staging.

To my ear his verse, although it scans as iambic pentameter, is not otherwise poetic. But the act is efficient, and Shaw excuses himself: “All I can say is that the temptation to [rewrite someone else’s play], and sometimes the circumstances which demand it, are irresistible.”

GENEVA (1939) again looks at politics, but this time the setting is the League of Nations instead of Downing Street, and the cast of characters features the dictators of the time, stand-ins for Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco (but not, notably, Stalin).

The preface, on the other hand, was written in 1945, six years later, after World War II was over.
It seems to me to go off the rails after a while, in its summary of Hitler’s and Mussolini’s careers (“those poor devils”), and in its repetition of the hope that the human species will achieve longer life spans.

Shaw could hardly resist drawing morals not based on experience, and making predictions based on the idea that everyone else thought the way he did.

But it is fascinating to see how the war and the world looked to an intelligent man in 1945, and much of the preface is highly quotable:

England will do nothing outside her routine until she is thoroughly frightened; but when England is frightened England is capable of anything.

The drawback to England’s capacity for doing impossible things when in danger is her incapacity for doing possible things (except repeating what was done last time) in security.

It is sometimes better not to think at all than to think intensely and think wrong.

Ethical victories endure. Discoveries cannot be guaranteed for five minutes.

At the age of 89, Shaw seems less certain of his ideas about the Life Force than in earlier years. He writes for example that

Civilizations have never finally survived: they have perished over and over again because they failed to make themselves worth their cost to the masses whom they enslaved.

Do the “experiments” of the Life  Force have any value if they can’t be passed on? Shaw says, in fact:

All the evidence available so far is to the effect that since the dawn of history there has been no change in the natural political capacity of the human species.

On the other hand,

            It is life that is natural and infinite.

Infinite? Really? In that case – but I digress.

Shaw says that he found the key for the tone of Genevain a translation of the comedies of Aristophanes by his friend Gilbert Murray. The result is a play of remarkable vigor for any playwright, much less one 83 years old. It is a farce, and the characterizations, as is the case in On the Rocks (part 4), have no depth, nor are they meant to.

Played with energy and speed, it must have delighted its first audiences, with its topical references to current international relations that Shaw kept rewriting as the news changed. The first production ran for a remarkable 237 performances in London, followed by a tour.

Then World War II broke out, and the play plummeted in popularity. It is hard to read it today, with its back and forth debates of rational concepts. It was not robust enough to account for the activities of dictators who turned out to be both brutal, irrational, and genocidal.

“IN GOOD KING CHARLES’S GOLDEN DAYS” (1939) is a title taken from the old satirical ballad “The Vicar of Bray.” The play brings together on stage not only Charles II but, among others, Isaac Newton, Charles Fox (the founder of the Quakers), the actress Nell Gwynn, and the artist Godfrey Kneller (who was included because Shaw’s first choice, William Hogarth, could not quite be fitted in the play’s date of 1680).

I can hardly express the pleasure this play gives me. That an 83-year-old wrote it is remarkable; that anyone can write such a warm, smart, sparkling play is little short of miraculous.

It began as a film script, and I think it would be better known if it had been used as one. It would have been a sort of seventeenth-century My Dinner with Andre, with dialogue and relationships between characters as the focus.

On stage, its two acts are of drastically different lengths, and there is no dramatic climax. Reading the play this time, I felt that the second act, a dialogue between Charles and his Queen, is stronger than I previously thought. However, it doesn’t give us anything much that we didn’t know after Act I.

Beatrice Webb, reading the play while it was being written, said, “If he can bring in some sort of striking incident into the play and not limit himself to sparkling talk, it may turn out A.1.” He did not, but perhaps he felt that inserting that kind of incident would be artificial.

However, if Shaw could repair the last act of Cymbeline, I can repair at least the last moments of Good King Charles. After [The clock strikes five.], insert:

VOICE. (Offstage) Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Would it please you to come out as soon as you can? Your brother has got himself in a bit of mischief!

CHARLES. Odsfish! And I have a Council meeting. I must go, etc.

That would help.

In any case, the play is by no means a failure on stage. It is lovingly revived periodically, and in 1957 it was a surprise off-Broadway success, running for almost two years. For actors it is a delight; and it has a glow and a kindly spirit unique in Shaw’s work. “Golden” is an appropriate word.

Which is not to say that the play is all sweetness and light. There are ferocious arguments over art, religion, science, and politics; there is a fist fight; there is much discussion of the perils of being a king. Charles is thinking about his own death, which does not seem to him to be too far off.

“The world must learn from its artists,” Kneller says, “because God made the world as an artist.” Shaw wrote this play as a great artist.

“Playlet on the British Party System”(1944) is an imaginative visualization in dialogue form of the rationale of the British parliamentary system, included in Shaw’s book Everyone’s Political What’s What. At the age of 88 he could, apparently effortlessly, devise an informative, well-crafted piece like this. Remarkable.

BUOYANT BILLIONS (1946-1948 / 1948) – Shaw finished this play in his early nineties, and, remarkably, wrote three more shorts ones after it. The play is brief, the plot disconnected, the themes familiar. There are Shavian mots but they sometimes seem formulaic, for example: “I am never happy. I dont want to be happy. I want to be alive and active. Bothering about happiness is the worst unhappiness.”

“Shakes Versus Shav” (1949) – a Shaw contribution to the Malvern Festival, where many of his later plays were first performed. This is a play for puppets acting out a rivalry between Shaw and Shakespeare, including the two of them thwacking each over the head.

The little play shows Shaw’s professionalism: he knew just what was expected in a puppet play. The dignified preface includes an answer to people who feel the man from Stratford was too low-class to have written Shakespeare’s plays.

FARFETCHED FABLES (1949-1950 / 1950) has a preface that reprises Shaw’s favorite themes, including the Life Force, equality of income and talent, official lying, miracles, the Roman  Catholic and Anglican churches, Marxism, Democracy, leadership testing, education, the atomic bomb – it’s a long preface – and art:

As events as they actually occur mean no more than a passing crowd to a policeman on point duty, they must be arranged in some comprehensible order as stories.

The play itself consists of six scenes (one a long monologue), each set further in the future than the one before, none that make one want to be there. Shaw’s fecundity at the age of 93 is impressive.

“Why She Would Not” (written 1950) is the last play Shaw wrote; opinions differ on whether he completed it or not. It’s a straightforward set of five short scenes tracing the relationship of a woman who likes her well-to-do life and a man who, as he succeeds in business, changes her situation in ways she doesn’t like. Whether Shaw thought the playlet was finished or not, it could use a concluding punch at the end.

*

Most of my conclusions about Shaw’s plays are included in the survey above. The variety of settings, plots, and characters in his plays is astonishing. Critics have pointed out areas of life that he does not include; but look at how much he gets in! He is, as I said, a professional writer: he can produce a serious play, a comedy, a farce, a sketch, an occasional skit, even on demand.

Certainly not all his writing is equally successful; he lived a long time and wrote a great deal. He has many successes, and some of them are successes indeed. In particular I was surprised at my positive response to several of his later plays. I felt this reading project introduced me to gems I either was not familiar with or had underappreciated.

Obviously Shaw was not a typical commercial playwright. He wasn’t just writing plays; he was creating a theater that at that time really didn’t exist, and along those lines he intended to do what he could to improve the world through his writing. Shaw’s major themes are easy to spot, including:

·         The clash between ideals and reality, and the related conflict between what people profess to believe, and what they really believe when the chips are down.
·         The Life Force as an always-developing instrument working in human life, and the obsolescence of traditional religion, particularly Christianity and its beliefs as traditionally understood. (We should note however that Shaw’s objections to orthodox Christianity do not stop him from frequently using its language.)
·         Woman as the primary instrument of the Life Force, and their general superiority to men.
·         The importance of the superior person, the Superman. (Why “man”? Why not “woman”? In his plays they are usually the ones leading the advances.)
·         The need for Socialism (noted mostly in prefaces), and the futility of Democracy in the face of the inequalities of individual ability. (This dilemma is the context of The Millionairess.)
·         The basic lack of worthiness in the professions, including medicine, law, politics, the military, and the clergy.
·         The importance of work as the supreme value in life.

Shaw isn’t a thinker with a lot of depth. After a while one notices his favorite points appearing over and over, almost reflexively, like pebbles in a pudding. I began to wish that some of these themes would not pop up so often – they seemed rote, and I began to get bored by them. 

However, it makes sense to me that Shaw’s themes might be themes of interest to a writer of comedy, as Shaw unquestionably was. For instance:

·         Comedy is always about the clash between the ideal and the real. “Take my wife – please!” contrasts the ideal of marriage and its reality. And so on.
·         Comedy thrives on energy – a slow comedy is probably not a comedy at all – so life could easily be conceived of as the Life Force by a comedian.
·         Comedy is usually about sexual relations. Ralph Cramden’s wife Alice on The Honeymooners (U.S. television sitcom, 1951-55) could be a character out of a Shaw play.
·         Comedy often includes Supermen – and then typically knocks them down, as Shaw also sometimes does.
·         Comedy, in the form of satire, frequently mocks the professions; Molière in particular was a master of this.

What can we learn from Shaw’s plays today? Obviously the task is not to be like Shaw. His era and generation are gone. More to the point, few of us can match his humor, his intelligence, and his enormous curiosity about everything in life.

And we don’t want to emulate Shaw’s faults, not that that hasn’t been done. He is the master of special pleading, of assumptions snuck into an argument as though they were facts, of straw men, of mistaken and misapplied “factual evidence.” He uncritically accepts the obsolete and misleading “facts” Marx embodies in Capital (1867); his Bible scholarship is shaky. His admiration for dictators, his naivety about Stalin and the USSR, and his growing enthusiasm for executions are horrifying.

Outweighing all these things is Shaw’s basically ethical viewpoint, which as Eric Bentley points out in his book Bernard Shawis at the center of all his interests – economic, religious, and political. He does not care much how we got where we are. He is interested in where we are going, and he wants us to understand that our actions today determine what the future will be like.

Looked at from that point of view, Shaw’s plays are a continuing challenge to us to live in ways that count, to do everything we can to help the world be what it can be. Shaw uses the word “love” carefully, often redefining it as he does every other expression of the ideal. But his plays urge us, in particular, to work out the implications of the command to “love your neighbor as yourself” in the personal, but even more in the public, sphere.

[Well, that concludes Kirk Woodward’s remarks on George Bernard Shaw—at least for the time being.  As I observed in the fourth installment of this series, Kirk’s been a devoted and thoughtful fan of Shaw’s for a long time, so it wouldn’t surprise me to hear from him that he’s writing something else Shavian.  (Just a hint, Kirk: There are still the writer’s collected critical pieces on which to comment! ) 

[I know that any ROT-reader who’s followed this series will have picked up something interesting about GBS, and perhaps even something useful.   For the time being, however, ROTters who haven’t gotten enough Shaw for the moment may turn back on this blog not only to Kirk’s own past articles, but to several reports on productions of Shaw plays: “Two Shaw Plays (Shaw Festival 2006),” 25 September 2012, and “The 2006 Shaw Festival,” 8 and 11 December 2015.]


'Life Among the Ruins'

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[In part 5 of Kirk Woodward’s series “Re-Reading Shaw,” which I posted on ROT on 2 September, he introduces a short piece called “Cymbeline Refinished” from 1937.  According to Kirk, Shaw “wrote an alternate ending [to Shakespeare’s play] that does not require unusual staging.”  Since Shaw rewrote William Shakespeare’s ending for Cymebline , I thought I might use that as an excuse to post my “archival” review of New York Shakespeare Festival’s production (directed in 1989 by JoAnne Akalaitis, Joseph Papp’s successor, as part of the NYSF’s multi-year Shakespeare Marathon).

[The following reviews were published together in the New York Native of 19 June 1989.  The Native  ran reviews in pairs, so there are two plays in the column.  (The paper gave me so many words for both plays, but I could divide them up any way I wanted.)  I saw the New York Shakespeare Festival/Public Theater’s Cymbeline, which ran between9 May and 25 June 1989, in May and the Circle Repertory Company’s Florida Crackers, 17 May-25 June,  in June.  Even though the Florida Crackersreview is totally unrelated to Cymbelineor Shaw, I’m leaving the two co-published pieces together here because . . . well, that’s the way they appeared in print 27 years ago.]

CYMBELINE
by William Shakespeare
New York Shakespeare Festival
Public Theater/Newman Theater

The ninth production in Joe Papp’s Shakespeare Marathon, Cymbelinecertainly has elements of a gothic romance: twisted plots, separated lovers, lost and stolen children, disguises, poisons and potions, and ghosts.  A plot too complex to synopsize here—the program includes a page-and-a-half précis—it befits opera or all-day Kabuki.  It seems appropriate, therefore, that JoAnne Akalaitis sets her production in the mid-nineteenth century of Dickens, Austen, and Poe.  The final scene, with the entire cast unraveling the dozen or so complications, outstrips Gilbert and Sullivan. 

The shadowy, often fog-shrouded production, on George Tsypin’s chameleon set moodily dance-lit by Pat Collins, is over three hours long, but has such verve and energy it seems only half that.  The gothic ambience is enhanced by Philip Glass’s score of romantic viola with percussive counterpoint.

Sounds of a thunderstorm establish the atmosphere about fifteen minutes before curtain.  (Perhaps it was the air-conditioning, but I actually began to feel chilly.)  Then, two gentlemen complete with umbrellas step through the curtains and fill us in on the marriage of King Cymbeline’s daughter, Imogen, to impoverished Posthumus; the latter’s banishment to Italy, and the mysterious disappearance of Cymbeline’s two sons.  The curtain opens on “Celtic ruins” covered by heavy ground fog, lit sparsely from above and the sides.  Two large, square columns are center stage, the floor is covered with runic drawings and a Stonehenge-like ruin is projected on the backdrop. 

Scenes in England, Italy and Wales are quickly created by new configurations of the columns and new projections of forests, caves, walls and interiors—even a rippling stream.  The projections, black- or sepia-and-white, are unspecific, often fragmentary, and, combined with the shadowy lighting, evoke impressions rather than literal pictures.  In this way, Tsypin’s set accommodates the swiftness of Akalaitis’s direction, which moves the production without turning it into a headlong rush. 

The brooding elements, though constant, still permit Akalaitis occasional whimsy.  Twice, for instance, Cymbeline (George Bartenieff) on his throne is flown onstage from the wings, and Iachimo, gathering false evidence of Imogen’s seduction, peeks shyly down the sleeping princess’s bodice.  Broader humor is generated by Cloten, the Queen’s oafish son, played by a chubby Wendell Pierce.  His physical appearance, accentuated by an absurd page-boy mop of hair and outlandish clothes of clashing patterns and colors, belies the earnestness with which Pierce plays his lust for Imogen and his thirst for revenge on Posthumus.  The contrast, occasionally off-putting—especially when Pierce tries too hard—is often hilarious.

There is also considerable charm in the performances of Joan Cusack as Imogen, Jeffrey Nordling as Posthumus, Peter Francis James as Posthumus’ loyal servant Pisanio, Michael Cumpsty (who here resembles Robert Goulet or the late Guy Williams, TV’s Zorro) as the oily Iachimo, Frederick Neumann as the wrongly banished Belarius, and Jesse Borrego and Don Cheadle as Cymbeline’s long-lost sons Polydore and Cadwal.  These last two, it must be added, display virtuosic acrobatics in their several fights, and, as feral innocents, may be the most confused characters in the convoluted circumstances, for they fall naïvely in love with Imogen, disguised as a boy, not knowing that she is a woman, a princess and their sister.  The audience clearly appreciated Borrego’s and Cheadle’s performances, for their curtain call received the loudest applause.

Cusack is strong and stalwart, though her voice has a hoarseness that precludes much vocal variety despite the obvious emotional variety the actress commands.  Still, I found her more forceful and sympathetic here than in her last New York appearance, Circle Rep’s Brilliant Traces.  Joan MacIntosh’s Queen, a sort of Junior League Lady Macbeth crossed with a real-life version of Snow White’s queen, would be easy to caricature as a dragon lady, but MacIntosh and Akalaitis keep to a believable level of evil. 

Cumpsty’s unctuous smarminess as Iachimo, a sleaze if ever there was one, is clear without being telegraphed.  As a rake, he presses Imogen, importunes her fervently and then backs off quickly when she refuses him.  Having snuck into her bedroom while she is asleep, Cumpsty peeps down her nightgown with puerile glee, showing what a little boy this poseur really is.  Without this detail, the audience probably couldn’t forgive him, as Imogen and Posthumus do, for the near tragedy he causes.

Among the production’s remarkable moments is a choreographed battle with stylized individual combat, a slow-motion mass attack—and a leap by Borrego from a ten-foot-high ramp into a crowd of enemy soldiers.  Later, there is a literal deus ex machina as Jupiter, in the guise of boy alto Jacob White, sings an aria suspended on a giant bird. 

As steadily as it keeps its many balls in the air, Akalaitis’s Cymbeline is not without problems, however.  Whimsical as it is, the flying throne comes, literally and dramatically, out of nowhere.  And the good performances aside, it is momentarily troublesome that Cymbeline and his first queen should have a white daughter, a black son and an Hispanic son.  More difficult to accept is that Imogen, awakening from a drugged, death-like sleep, would mistake the headless corpse of Cloten, a stout black man, for her husband, a tall, slim white man.  (Cloten was wearing Posthumus’ clothes, but rather than explaining the confusion, that only raises the question how the tubby prince could fit into them.)  Also, the director includes Posthumus’ ghostly family, who appear to him in a dream shimmering like translucent holograms, in other scenes throughout the play, as if they are silently watching over the events of the story.  This presence seems unnecessary; however, like Akalaitis’s other inventions, it doesn’t ultimately harm the production. 

As the audience left, one spectator concluded that Cymbeline is the strongest entry so far in the Marathon.  I can’t necessarily go along with the exclusivity—James Lapine’s Winter’s Tale still stands out for the acting and individual character portrayals—but Akalaitis has unquestionably put together a marvelously atmospheric and theatrical spectacle.

FLORIDA CRACKERS
by Wm. S. Leavengood
Circle Repertory Company

There is a public service TV commercial that shows two young men sitting around a bedroom smoking pot.  One says he doesn’t believe marijuana is dangerous; after all, they’ve smoked it since they were twelve and nothing’s happened to them.  Then the man’s mother asks if he’s even looked for a job that day.  “No, ma,” he answers, and the voice-over declares, “Marijuana can make nothing happen to you, too.”  That, in a thirty-second spot, is what Wm. S. Leavengood seems to be saying over two hours in Florida Crackers

In John Bishop’s hyperrealistic production, in which real eggs are cooked, real sand is spread over the Circle rep’s stage and aisles and real barbells are bench-pressed, brothers Joe (John C. McGinley), Grant (Michael Piontek) and Russell (Scott Rymer) essentially dream their lives—and inheritance—away as they smoke, snort, deal, and deliver pot and coke around St. Petersburg, Florida.  Too enervated to do anything else, they know only one way to make money for their various pipe dreams.  It’s an unpoetic, brutish Iceman Comethà la 1979.

The boys’ favorite song is the Eagles’ “Take It to the Limit” (1975) whose key line seems to be “I’ve always been a dreamer.”  Seven scenes spread over two acts reveal the lassitude of the brothers and their friends and lovers until they are finally galvanized by Grant’s arrest for transporting pot.  As to why these former preppies don’t break out of their self-destructive rut, the play’s only explanation is the description of fish caught in the deadly red tide: even though the algae will inevitably poison or suffocate the fish, they don’t swim away because they don’t know any better.

A talented cast, a detailed set (by John Lee Beatty), and appropriate but uninspired direction, however, can’t make these people interesting or worthy of sympathy.  Their lives weren’t ruined by some outside force against which we can root for them to struggle; they are victims of their own selfishness and inertia.  They get what they deserve.

[In my commentary on Kirk Woodward’s book The Art of Writing Reviews (Merry Press/Lulu, 2009), I related an anecdote that pertains to my New York Nativereview of Cymbeline, the one republished here.  In Part 3 of “The Art of Writing Reviews by Kirk Woodward” (11 November 2009), I wrote that after a contretemps I had in print with John Simon, New York magazine’s drama reviewer, over The Winter’s Tale, an earlier entry in the NYSF marathon, my Cymbeline notice was published.

On 19 June, however, my review of another NYSF production, Cymbeline (part of NYSF’s then-ongoing marathon of all Shakespeare’s plays over about a decade), came out in the Nativeand unbeknownst to me, the editors had put a banner headline on the front page of the edition saying, “Hey, John Simon: We Loved Cymbeline.”  Simon had obviously panned Cymbeline(12 June)--it was a controversial production under the direction of JoAnne Akalaitis--but the banner was clearly more directed at my difference of opinion with Simon over Winter’s Tale.

[In a later section of my comments, I quoted Kirk’s statement that “reviewers often are not responsible for headlines” and other accompaniments to their columns.  Though most of my reviews did appear under headlines of my own devising, I not only had no hand in writing that banner about Cymbeline that baited John Simon, but I didn’t even know about it until the issue came out.  Since my deadline was often 10 days before the issue date, I’d written my copy before Simon’s negative review of Cymbelinehit the stands.  (I no longer subscribed to New York and didn’t seek out Simon’s reviews anyway; I wouldn’t have known about his response to the play until someone told me about it.)]


Dispatches from Israel 8

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by Helen Kaye

[On 10 July, Helen Kaye, my friend who reviews for the Jerusalem Post, sent me a collection of some of her recent notices.  (I just posted two from last spring on 13 July.)  When she asked if I was interested in receiving these pieces (as if I wouldn’t be!), Helen noted that these “imply a comment on current affairs here”—meaning, of course, events and concerns in Israel and the Middle East.  What Helen, who ROTters will recall lives in Tel Aviv, means is that embedded in the plays and reviews are ideas that bear on how Israelis live and think today (even, you may be surprised to find, plays written or set long before Israel even existed).  Because the JP, the major English-language newspaper in Israel, gives Helen so little space for her reviews and because she’s writing primarily for other Israelis who already know most of the references, Helen doesn’t explain or identify them.  For us Americans (and other non-Israelis), I’ll give a brief explanation of some of the events, people, and expressions which Helen mentions.  I’ll provide those explanations following each notice.]

On the Grill
Written and directed by Dror Keren
Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv; 11 December 2015

The last 15 minutes of Dror Keren’s from-the-heart On the Grill are worth its somewhat rambling (too much small talk), structure, and I was probably not the only one in the vociferously applauding audience with tears in their eyes. Not strictly because of what happens, but because it has to be that way, now, and for the foreseeable future.

The play’s title is actual and a metaphor; a metaphor because we’re all on the rack here [to be explained]. Actual because it’s set in the backyard of a home on a veteran kibbutz in the Jezreel Valley where the family is gathering to celebrate Independence Day, and where Zvika (the peerless Rami Baruch) is getting ready for the traditional Independence Day barbeque.

He’s brought the steaks, the chops, the sausages from the Arab butcher in the nearby village – “What a mob scene! You’ve no idea . . . but he saved them specially for me.” – because the whole family will be together, and the family is a microcosm of today’s Israel.

Grandma Gisella (Miriam Zohar) is a holocaust survivor, was an illegal immigrant, married a kibbutznik and the past. Now she’s in a wheelchair, cared for by Raja (Adam Sheffer) from India. Avinoam (Yossi Kantz), an old and still fiery rebel, is Tirtza’s (Irit Kaplan) dad and she’s rigid with worry because “the situation” may send her son Gilad (Asaf Maron) into combat. His cousin Mordi (Avishai Meridor), suffering from PTSD from a previous war, has been living in Berlin for four years. He’s come for a visit with his non-Jewish German partner Johanna (Lena-Ann Castrup). Also invited is his former lover Alona (Shelly Ben-Yosef), now divorced.

And holding it all together is no-nonsense, practical Rochale, Zvika’s wife, Mordi’s mother.

As the tension builds, as jets roar above, as they watch TV and wait for the phone to ring, it doesn’t take too long before the anger, the resentments explode, before the generations collide, before the present replays the past.

The acting is so good that it seems we’re eavesdropping, not sitting in a theater. Avishai Meridor  and Adam Sheffer need work on diction and body-language respectively, but experience will provide that, and these are quibbles against simply superb ensemble work.

Now for the explanation. We’re on the rack because our lives here are schizophrenic. We live normal lives in an abnormal situation. We realized a dream and are destroying it.

“Is that fireworks, or artillery?” asks (I think) Rochele as explosions split the night sky. That’s our reality here. That’s what On the Grill shows us. Like Hanoch Levin’s Murder, Dror Keren’s On the Grill  is an important play.

[Israeli Independence Day is marked, according to the Hebrew calendar, on 5 Iyar (the eighth month of the secular year; in 2015 that corresponded with 23 April and in 2016, 12 May).  The “dream” to which Helen alludes is, of course, the establishment of a Jewish homeland after the horror and death of the Nazi Holocaust of World War II.  It was “realized” when the State of Israel was established in 1948, but I think Helen sees its destruction in the bad decisions of some of its post-independence leaders and the continuing intransigence of its current administration to any kind of accommodation with Palestinians and its militant rejection by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his government of  a two-state path to peace.  (Please note that this is my own interpretation of Helen’s comment, although she’s expressed such sentiments to me often.)]

*  *  *  *
To the Edge of the Land
After the novel by David Grossman
Written and Directed by Hanan Snir
Joint production of Habima and Cameri Theatres, Tel Aviv; 14 March 2016

The book has been translated into a score of languages and ecstatically reviewed. The play is in Hebrew. It explains us to ourselves but it’s also the portrait of us that the world doesn’t see encapsulated into a phenomenal, unforgettable, illuminating, wrenching evening at the theater.  Just for that it deserves an English version.

An added and awful irony is that Mr. Grossman’s son Uri was killed in the 2nd Lebanon War while he was close to the end of, but still writing, the book.

For a few years now we’ve been uneasy about ourselves, about where we’re going, about what we’re doing to ourselves (and to others), as a people, as a nation.  As a people, as a nation, we’ve tried to reconcile lives that are lived on the edge of an abyss; to live normally in the fractious spaces between the endless wars.

Our theater reflects this existential dis-ease . It pops up everywhere, in plays like Mr. Snir’s brilliant take on Oedipus Rex, in the edgy, questing offerings at such as the Acre Festival, even in modern classics, such as West Side Story.

The Hebrew title of Edge is A Woman Fleeing Tidings– evil tidings, that is; that awful knock at the door, the ‘tidings’ etched on the serried ranks of military gravestones that punctuate our wars.

Edge starts and ends with war.  Ora (Efrat Ben Zur), Avram (Dror Keren) and Ilan (Amnon Wolf) meet as teens in hospital during the six day war in 1967. The relationship then established somehow endures. Now estranged husband  Ilan is somewhere in South America with their son,  Adam.  Avram lives a half life of agony, fear and regret. Ora plans on a hiking trip to the Galilee with her son Ofer (Daniel Sabbag), whose biological father Avram is. Then, on the day of his demobilization, Ofer gets a special ops call-up from the IDF.

If she flees, Ora’s panicked mind tells her, then she’ll avoid those tidings, then Ofer will be safe. She rousts out Avram, forcing him to go with her. The journey is the story of the ties that bind, that heal, that destroy, the ties of love, of pain, of joys and fears among and for us and the bruised, beautiful, laden land in which we live.

Hanan Snir has set the action in Roni Toren’s high, seemingly doorless, white walled space – itself a metaphor – on whose surface the Galilee will be drawn, and into which are brought the beds, the screens, the stones, and the other bits and pieces needed to move things along. Like an IDF troupe, and moving with military precision, the superb company punctuates this and the action with songs in Hebrew and Arabic.

The versatile Rinat Matatov neatly plays the tambourine, an Arab and a Russian nurse. Guy Mesika as Sami, a wry Arab taxi driver, has a moment of high comedy and desperation as he unleashes an avalanche of curses on Ora and Avram, getting a well-deserved round of applause, as will Ora when she precipitates a different avalanche while making Ofer an “Arabic” (very fine-cut) salad.

Ben Zur, Wolf and Keren drive the play. Watching them, I had to remember to breathe. Had to stop myself from racing up there to comfort them, to encourage them, to hear and listen.

Keren, an expert and deft comedian, here powerfully reaches tragic hero. His stumbling, pitiful, brave Avram unfolds step by painful step. As passionate, impulsive Ora, Ben Zur scales new heights. Wolf impacts boldly as Ilan . . . but then Hanan Snir always coaxes from his actors more than they realize is in them.

To the Edge of the Land will keep you on the edge of your seat. A must see.

[The book by David Grossman, a 62-year-old Israeli author, was published in Hebrew in 2008 and in English (as To the End of the Land) in 2010 by Knopf.  The Second Lebanon War Helen mentions above, also known as the Israel-Hezbollah war, took place in 2006; the First Lebanon War (or the Lebanese Civil War) occurred in 1982.  Hanan Snir’s Oedipus Rex, to which Helen refers, was called Oedipus – A Case Study, and I posted Helen’s review in “Dispatches from Israel 4,” 2 June 2015.  Helen’s reviews of the 2012 Acre (Acco) Festival, posted on 9 November 2012. gives a little background on the annual festival.  The abbreviation “IDF” stands for Israel Defense Forces, the all-service organization of Israel’s army, navy, and air force.]

*  *  *  *
Mephisto
By Hillel Mittelpunkt
After the book by Klaus Mann
Directed by Omri Nitzan
Cameri Theatre, Tel Aviv; 16 March 2016

Watching the multilayered, biting Mittelpunkt/Nitzan production of Mephisto, a famous quote comes to mind: “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing”. In other words, we can’t a) sit around like befuddled poultry and let evil grow and/or b) see only what serves our own interests.

We, that is the audience, are ‘a’ and the playindicts all of us. Hendrik Höfgen (Itai Tiran), the hero of Mephisto, stands in for us as ‘b’. Klaus Mann (1906-49) based Hendrik on his one-time [brother]-in-law, the actor/manager Gustaf Gründgens (1899-1963), insinuating that the latter collaborated with the Nazis.

“What do they want from me, I’m only an actor,” grumbles Hendrik at the end of the play, refusing even then to recognize that he has sold his soul to the devil to get what and where he wants. Driven, relentlessly ambitious, Hendrik will climb over anything and anybody for fame and recognition.

“Politics and theater don’t mix,” he says impatiently to Nicoletta (Helena Yarolova) his Lesbian colleague, but they will when Hitler comes to power in 1933, and he’ll let them because he’s unwilling (or unable) to make connections, and that takes him from Hamburg to the National Theater in Berlin, to prominence as its director, to fame for his Mephisto, the role he’s wanted all his life, and to the betrayal of former friends whom he sheds like old skin when they might endanger his future. Like his wife Barbara (Anastasia Fein), his black mistress Juliette (Ruthy Asarsay), his mentor and colleague – they’re Jews – Krug and Beck (Eli Gorenstein and Simha Barbiro), and all the rest.

Roni Toren’s set puts us on a stage of the stage where the entrances and exits are among racks of clothing, racks that will change dramatically for act II, where upstage are curtains and the footlights of the stage’s stage. Keren Granek’s lighting takes us from place to place, mixing light, shadow and darkness. Wagner and Mendelssohn make musical points alongside period music, and Polina Adamov dresses the women (not all) in sexy underwear and deprives the men of their shirts – it’s time for Omri Nitzan to leave his actors’ underwear where it belongs – under clothing. We get the often-made point that underwear reflects vulnerability.

But Mephisto will still stand among his greatest productions because the whole – we’ll get to the acting in a moment – is like a fist to the soul.

“Think” it commands. “Don’t just sit there. Don’t just talk about it. Act. We are striding down the wrong path and it will destroy us.”

“To be an actor is to know how to change masks,” says Hendrik and Tiran’s achievement in the role is that we don’t believe him as Hendrik because he never lets us see the real Hendrik, except once when the General (alias Herman Goering) verbally flays him to the bone. The phenomenal Dudu Niv plays Goering as the bully he was, reveling in the role and the power the Reich affords him, and Hendrik stands there quivering, the naked nobody he believes himself to be. Onstage, masked by the role, he’s powerful.

No wonder he’s exhausted by play’s end.

Eli Gorenstein magnificently plays three different roles: He’s Krug, manager of the Hamburg theater, Hendrik’s mentor, cynical, warm-hearted and a political realist. He’s Bruckner, Barbara’s stiff-necked, stiff-minded father. He’s von Munk, fanatical Nazi and cleanser of German Culture; and Gorenstein has different body language, stance and speech for each of them.

Asarsay has gone deep into herself for Juliette and has emerged with her most powerful performance to date, especially the scene in which she urges Hendrik to inform on her.

Yaralova’s lovely Nicoletta is wary, compassionate, and like Krug, a realist. Irit Kaplan too shines in her roles, among them the pathetic Actress and the quietly assured Leidenthal. Simcha Barbiro’s anxious, brave Beck is excellent.

Indeed, the entire cast can pat itself on the back for a job well done.

Ours is still to come, and we’d better get to it.

[The quotation Helen uses at the beginning of her review is usually attributed to the great (and much-quoted) Irish statesman, Edmund Burke (1729-97), but the fact is, its actual source is unknown and doesn’t appear in any of Burke’s published writings.  The statement has been used, in various forms, by many public figures, including John F. Kennedy, but its origins are obscure.  Novelist Klaus Mann, the son of Thomas Mann, wrote Mephisto in 1936; the role Helen says Hendrik Höfgen“wanted all his life” is Mephistopheles, the Devil’s representative, in Goethe’s Faust.  (I published a three-part article on “Faust Clones” and I discuss Goethe’s version in Part 1, posted on 15 January 2016.)  Field Marshal Hermann Goering (or Göring; 1893-1946), was commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe, the German air force in the Third Reich.]

*  *  *  *
Blood Wedding
By Federico Garcia Lorca
Translated by Rina Litvin
Directed by Kfir Azulay
Beersheva Theater, Beersheba; 3 May 2016

The beginning of Kfir Azulay’s vision for Blood Weddingis so visually dramatic that your breath almost stops; and indeed, where do you go from there? Headlong into a dark tale driven by a culture of blood and death, death, blood, greed, and lust, and played out amid darkness in Yehudit Aharon’s tall black box of a set that’s lit by moveable rows of globe lamps, serried ranks of little moons, and the moon – as we know – is a symbol for lunacy and death. The costumes (also Aharon) are also mostly black.

None of the characters, except one, have names. They’re called by their function; the Bridegroom (Tom Avni), the Bride (Avigail Harari), the Mother (Shiri Golan), and so forth. The exception is Leonardo (Tom Hagi) because seen or unseen, he’s the catalyst for all that follows. Seen or unseen, he is Nemesis; Azulay deliberately draws parallels to classic Greek tragedy: the Young Girls and the Young Men, innocence gone, are here a black-clad chorus. The prescient Woodcutters become the Three Fates.

Symbolism abounds in the songs set to Elad Adar’s marvelous music with its deliberate dissonances, songs to the stallion (rampant masculinity, potency), to being a bride (innocence, desire), to the treacherous moon, the vagaries of fate.

How did Shakespeare put it?

“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends/Rough hew them how we will . . . ” (Hamlet).

The hard facts of the tragedy? Approving the unity of their extensive lands, the Mother, and the Father of the Bride (Yonatan Tcherchy) approve the uniting of the Bride and Bridegroom. But the Bride was once engaged to Leonardo, a romance the Father ended because Leonardo was poor. The wedding is celebrated – the reception is brilliantly portrayed by shadows on a sheet like a Javanese puppet play – but before the lustful Bridegroom can consummate the union, the Bride and Leonardo run away together. Inevitably he and the Bridegroom die and the Mother, who has lost both husband and elder son to clan conflict, is now bereft of all her men.

And how many here are in a similar situation? On both sides?

It’s the Mother, bitter, relentless, unforgiving, who is the center of Blood Wedding. She’s a stretch for any actress, but Ms. Golan is more than any actress and she latches onto the Mother like a hungry shark. Hungry also describes Tom Hagi’s restless, powerful and powerfully sensual Leonardo. There’s a viscerally erotic scene between him and the Bride in the forest.

Tom Avni’s neatly nebech Bridegroom tries to project a masculinity he hasn’t got, while Harari’s Bride is beautifully torn between her fear of and her desire for passion aka Leonardo.

The always versatile Tcherchy makes the corrupt Father a work of art – the handkerchief floating from his little finger is inspired while Ora Meirson, though her reading of the Wife (Zohar Meidan) lacks nothing, scales a new summit as Death with her dispassionate, ironic reporting of what has been, and what now is, that the two young men are so uselessly “killed for love . . ./With a knife/that penetrates deep/through the startled flesh . . .” as the Mother says.

Azulay intends, I think, to jolt us, to jerk us into awareness of what we’re doing here, and he nearly succeeds, so very nearly. If only he had let his (and Lorca’s) perceptions do their own talking but he’s so busy signalling ‘Pay Attention, This Is Important’ that the message itself falters.

[Spanish dramatist Federico García Lorca, (1898-1936) wrote the poetic tragedy Blood Wedding, based on a true story,in 1933.  (A supporter of leftists in Spain, Lorca was executed in 1936 by Francisco Franco’s right-wing Falangists.)   Helen labels the Bridegroom as played by Tom Avnias a nebech, a Yiddish word that’s often spelled and pronounced as nebbish in English.  According to Leo Rosten (The Joys of Yiddish, McGraw-Hill, 1968), who’s definitions are amazingly complete and delightfully amusing, a nebech is an “innocuous, ineffectual, weak, helpless or hapless unfortunate.  A Sad Sack.  A ‘loser.’”  (I find it droll that Helen uses a Yiddish characterization for a character in a classic Spanish play!  Droll, but not inaccurate.)]

*  *  *  *
The Actress
By Gur Koren
Directed by Gilad Kimchi
Bet Lessin, Tel Aviv; 30 June 2016

“Man proposes, God disposes” is what springs to mind after watching TheActress, Gur Koren’s perceptive, wickedly funny morality play on who we are today in the light of what we were, or might have been, yesterday. Right on p. 1 of the program there’s Koren’s vigorous disclaimer: “the play, based on [some] actual persons now deceased, is an imaginary tale . . . sections of which have no basis in reality.”

That’s fine, because the reality, as happens so often in our little land, might have been even less believable, probably bloodier, and as aspiring actress Shlomit (Neta Garty) tartly says “In this country, if you manage to escape a situation, be assured it’ll catch up with you.”

Let’s start with Orna Smorgonsky’s spot-on period costumes, Eran Atzmon’s admirable Li-La-Lo backstage set of big boxes, some of which open up into things like a bathroom, or jail cell, and with Yoav Cohen’s vibrant video art for which the boxes act as screen. Li-La-Lo (1944-54) was a popular variety stage. Another popular hangout to appear in the play is the then-Café Pilz – with owner Arye Pilz urbanely played by Lior Michaeli – down by the beach and now a McDonald’s.

The action takes place in 1947 marked by a) Etzel and/or Lehi resistance or b) Etzel and/or Lehi terrorism (depending which side you were on) against the British mandatory authorities, the saga of the Exodus and the historic November 29 UN vote approving the establishment of the State.

Shlomit, the not-so-successful aspiring actress, is backup for Shoshana Damari (Eti Vakhnin-Sober) at Li-La-Lo. She is tasked by her brother Aaron (Nadav Nates), a member of the Etzel, to lure to an Etzel safe-house English officer Adam Shinwell (Lior Baranes), son of the then UK Labor minister Emmanuel Shinwell. The aim is prisoner exchange – one Brit for three condemned Etzel men.

But, what with one thing and another, actually quite an entertaining lot of them, one of which is that Adam and Shlomit fall in love, the plan doesn’t work out, and at the end actual reality (more or less) transcends people’s dreams.

Gilad Kimchi’s direction is, and bravo, deliberately, a tad over the top and it works very well. Even better for us English speakers, the English actually speak English, albeit with atrocious Israeli accents (dialogue coach anyone?). Surtitles provide the Hebrew. 

Garty, Baranes, Nates dig with gusto into their roles, as do the other members of the ensemble, mentioning especially Zviki Levin as the very nimble manager of Li-La-Lo, Vakhnin-Sober as the temperamental Damari and Maayan Weissberg as blissfully self-centered Hanna Meierzak, better known to us all as the late and lamented Hanna Meron

Chuckles, giggles, titters punctuate the play throughout, but there’s only one real belly laugh. No, I’m not going to be the spoiler. Have fun. Go see it yourselves.

[Helen writes of Li-La-Lo, which was an Israeli vaudeville or music hall  theater in the middle of the last century; Café Pilz operated from 1938 to 1951 and then reopened in 1982 and operated until 2009.  (Arye Pilz lived from 1908 until 1992.)  She also invokes two paramilitary organizations of the Jewish struggle against the British Mandate in Palestine in the years before World War II and the establishment of the State of Israel: the Etzel and the Lehi.  Etzel was another name for the Irgun, essentially an anti-British guerrilla/terrorist force (of which former Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin was a member); Lehi was also known as the Stern Gang, a militant Zionist force which split from Irgun in 1940.  The 29 November UN vote to which Helen refers above was, of course, the 1947 United Nations resolution to partition Palestine into Jewish and Muslim states.  (The passage of the UN resolution was the starter’s gun for Israel’s War of Independence.)  Hanna Meron (more often spelled Maron; 1923-2014) was a Berlin-born Israeli actress who held the world’s record for the longest career in theater.  She was much honored and many Israeli actors name her as an inspiration and model.

[Helen’s previous contributions to ROT include “Dispatches” 1 through 7 on 23 January 2013, 6 August 2013, 20 November 2013, 2 June 2015, 22 August 2015 (which also includes an article Helen wrote on the Israel Festival), 6 October 2015, and 13 July 2016.  (I also posted another of Helen’s JP reviews, Molière’s Tartuffe, on 2 November 2014 as a Comment to “Dispatches 3.”) ROTters might also enjoy looking back at ”Help! It’s August: Kid-Friendly Summer Festivals in Israel,” 12 September 2010; ”Acre (Acco) Festival, Israel,” 9 November 2012; “Berlin,” 22 July 2013; “A Trip to Poland,” 7 August 2015.]

'A Day by the Sea'

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My sense about plays that have been forgotten or neglected has always been—and I’ve seldom been proved wrong—that most have been so for an excellent reason: they’re not very good.  (I wrote about this impression on ROTin “Vanity, Thy Name Is Actor-Director,” posted on 22 September 2011.)  It’s exceedingly rare, I’ve found, that an overlooked gem is discovered.  (I’m thinking of Paul Osborn’s Morning’s at Seven, which was originally produced on Broadway in 1939 and then found a new audience in 1980 and ran in revival for 580 performances, winning three Tonys and five Drama Desk Awards.  A 2002 revival ran another 132 performances.)

Jonathan Bank of the Mint Theater Company, which specializes in reviving old plays, has complained that the “classic plays that are produced all the time in U.S. theaters . . . are always the same dozen or so.”  Leaving aside that Bank is speaking of “classics”—he specifies “Four Chekhovs”—not merely “oldies” (golden or otherwise), I dispute that there are only a “dozen or so.”  To begin with, there are five full-length Chekhov plays (including Ivanov) that are often staged, six if you count The Wood Demon, and a slew of popular one-acts.  Then there are the works of Barrie, Büchner, Gogol, Gorky, Ibsen, Jarry , Maeterlinck, Pinero, Rostand, Shaw, Strindberg, Wedekind, and Wilde—and that’s just the 19th century, like Chekhov, and some of the better-known writers.  Come forward into the 20th century, even just up to the ’50s, and there are scores of standards and modern classics that are popular with both theaters and audiences.  (Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur’s The Front Page from 1928 is about to get a limited Broadway run; 1939’s The Little Foxes by Lillian Hellman is coming to the Manhattan Theatre Club in the spring.)  So, from my perspective, Bank is wrong to start with.  He’s deliberately understating the truth for the sake of argument.  What I suspect he really means is that the old plays that are commonly produced on American stages aren’t the obscure, forgotten scripts he likes.  As to that, I refer everyone back to my opening assertion.

None of this means I don’t like old plays, because I do.  I have criteria that are apparently higher than Bank’s, however.  So when Diana, my frequent theater companion, suggested we catch the Mint’s revival of N. C. Hunter’s A Day by the Sea (1953) at the end of last month, I had my doubts because of my past experiences with the troupe.  The choice was Diana’s, however, and I deferred to her inclination.  (Neil Genzlinger’s rave review appeared in the New York Times the day before Diana and I saw Day, and that also made me belay my instincts.)  It turns out that my intuition, if not my decision, was right.  I also found that the ability I often have to discern whether a show will be good or bad from a publicity blurb—or, when I was acting, a casting notice—is still intact.

The Mint Theater Company, founded in 1992, declares in its programs and on its  website that its mission is to find and produce “worthwhile plays from the past that have been lost or forgotten.”  Bank, the company’s current artistic director, took over in 1995 and since then, its publicity states, the Mint’s presented “close to 50 neglected plays . . . that might otherwise have been lost forever.”  New York Times theater reviewer Ben Brantley dubbed the company “resurrectionist extraordinaire of forgotten plays” five years ago.  The troupe’s reach has gone back as far as 1852 (George Aikins’s adaptation of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 1997) and 1886 (Leo Tolstoy’s The Power of Darkness, 2007) and as recent as 1957 (J. B. Priestly’s The Glass Cage, 2008).  The Mint’s efforts have been rewarded with not only a string of good reviews, but also an Obie Grant (2001), a special Drama Desk Award (2002), and the New York Theatre Museum’s Theatre Preservation Award (2010), as well as several Drama Desk and Lucille Lortel Award nominations. 

Though the Mint is happy just to “scour the dramaturgical dustbin for worthwhile plays from the past,” the company’s especially pleased when it introduces a writer in a new light.  A. A. Milne was best known as a children’s author, especially on the strength of his Winnie-the-Pooh books, but the Mint presented his Mr. Pim Passes By (1921) in 1997-98 and again in 2004 (in rep with 1922’s The Truth About Blayds); D. H. Lawrence was only seen as a novelist until the Mint staged The Daughter-In-Law (1912) in 2003 and The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd (1911)in 2009; Ernest Hemingway wrote only one play, the forgotten Fifth Column(1938), which the troupe produced in 2008.  But the company’s proudest achievement is arguably its focus on women dramatists, who “have always been neglected,” points out artistic director Bank, “and women playwrights fifty or sixty years ago wrote some fine drama.”  Over half of the Mint’s productions have been by women playwrights (Zona Gale, Githa Sowerby, Rachel Crothers, Teresa Deevy, among many others); its show just prior to A Day by the Sea was the U.S. première of Hazel Ellis’s Women Without Men (1938) last January through March.

The Mint started in 1992 as an actor-training program.  When Bank become the company’s executive director, he shifted its focus to production.  The Mint began staging historical plays in 1997 with Uncle Tom’s Cabin and now produces three to four old scripts a season.  Bank, who combs through play anthologies and pours over old reviews, has said, “We try to find plays, frankly, that nobody has ever heard of.  People can come here, taking a bit of a gamble.”  And the Mint not only produces old plays, they publish them as well, in a series of Reclaimed collections (now up to five) edited by Bank and distributed free to libraries, theaters, and schools.  The Mint also hosts symposiums about the plays featuring authorities in fields related to the texts or their milieux. 

Beside being a history buff, Bank has a penchant for narratives.  His interest is primarily in “a well-written play with a good story,” he says; indeed, the company’s motto used to be: “Good stories well told.”  Bank compares today’s playwrights with those of yore and finds that past writers “were better storytellers. . . .  I think too many playwrights today think they are writing movie scripts for the theater.  There is a big difference.”  In preparing scripts for production at Mint, the company may trim some excess dialogue that Bank doesn’t think will resonate with today’s audiences, but they never rewrite or adapt the plays. 

N[orman] C[harles] Hunter was born in 1908 in Derbyshire, England, and died in 1971 in London.  He intended to follow his father, a decorated army lieutenant colonel, into a military career and even attended the Royal Military College in Sandhurst, Berkshire.  Commissioned in the Dragoon Guards in 1930, he resigned three years later to become a writer.  (To support himself, Hunter took a job on the staff of the British Broadcasting Corporation.)  Before World War II, Hunter wrote six plays and four novels, although, despite showing great promise, success in either genre eluded him.  All of Hunter’s early plays are comedies with elements of farce, but as his dramaturgy matured, his writing would develop poignancy and poetry. 

The nascent dramatist served in the Royal Artillery during World War II and spent some time convalescing in a Devon military hospital during the war.  In 1947, Hunter returned to writing plays.  His scripts showed a marked change, however, perhaps as a result of Hunter’s wartime experience.  More despairing and realistic, Waters of the Moon in 1951 and A Day by the Sea in 1953 provided Hunter with a reputation as an “English Chekhov.”  (Of course, Hunter wasn’t the only playwright of his era to be given that sobriquet.  Rodney Ackland—The Dark River, 1943—and Wynyard Browne—The Holly and the Ivy, 1950—were others, though, like Hunter, mostly forgotten today.)  In his review of the Broadway production of A Day by the Sea, Brooks Atkinson, calling the characterization “a synonym for preciousness and languor,” wrote in the New York Times: “To call a playwright ‘Chekhovian’ today is to utter opprobrium and to consign him to the doghouse.”  

Time, unfortunately, wasn’t kind to Hunter and his plays fell out of fashion with the arrival of a new breed of writers composing dramas concerning the working classes such as John Osborne (Look Back in Anger, 1956) and the Angry Young Men in the ’50s and then Joe Orton (What the Butler Saw, 1969) and Shelagh Delaney (A Taste of Honey, 1959) in the ’60s.  Hunter wrote four plays in the decade preceding his death at 62 in 1971 (The Tulip Tree, 1962; The Excursion, 1964; Henry of Navarre, 1966; The Adventures of Tom Random, 1967) but compared to the new revolutionary writers whose work dealt with topics and used language far from the drawing-room dramas of N. C. Hunter, these looked quaint and old-fashioned.  

Nonetheless, in their time, Hunter’s plays attracted such notable actors to perform them as John Gielgud (A Day by the Sea), Wendy Hiller (Waters of the Moon, 1975 revival), Sybil Thorndike (Waters of the Moon, 1951; A Day by the Sea), Ralph Richardson (A Day by the Sea), Vanessa Redgrave (A Touch of the Sun, 1958), Michael Redgrave (A Touch of the Sun), and Ingrid Bergman (Waters of the Moon, 1975).  TV films were adapted from several of his plays in the U.K.  The Actors Company Theatre (TACT) presented the New York première of Waters of the Moon in its minimally staged Salon Series in 2009.  Hunter’s 1951 play A Picture of Autumn (which received only a one-night staging in London) was revived Off-Broadway by the Mint Theater Company in 2013 (with a cast that included George Morfogen, Jill Turner, and Katie Firth of the current production). 

A Day by the Seaopened on London’s West End in 1953 and ran for 386 performances in a production that starred Sir John Gielgud (who also directed, as Julian), Dame Sybil Thorndike (Laura), Irene Worth (Frances), and Sir Ralph Richardson (Doctor Farley).  Directed in New York by Sir Cedric Hardwicke, the play opened at the ANTA Playhouse (now the August Wilson Theatre) on Broadway on 26 September 1955 with Jessica Tandy as Frances and Hume Cronyn as Julian and ran only 24 performances until 15 October.  The Mint Theater’s Off-Broadway presentation of A Day by the Sea, the only Hunter play to run on Broadway, is the first New York revival of the 1953 play.  It began previews at the Samuel Beckett Theatre on Theatre Row on 22 July and opened on 25 August; the production’s scheduled closing has been extended to 23 October from 24 September.  (Day,Mint’s inaugural show for the season, is the company’s début production in the Beckett, its new home.)  Diana and I met at the Theatre Row complex on West 42nd Street to see the 7:30 performance on Saturday evening, 27 August. 

Directed for the Mint by Austin Pendleton, the two-intermission Day by the Sea runs two hours and 50 minutes.  The story takes place over 24 hours in May 1953 at the Dorset estate of Laura Anson (Jill Tanner), a 65-year-old widow, on the English Channel 120 miles southwest of London.  Laura is occasionally visited at her home, with its quiet garden terrace by a river and a private beach where the family picnics and strolls by the sea, by her 40-year-old son, Julian (Julian Elfer), a mid-level British diplomat posted to Paris.  Also living with her is her octogenarian brother-in-law David (George Morfogen), who shifts between his memories and the present, and an attendant physician, the alcoholic, embittered Doctor Farley (Philip Goodwin).  It’s an idyllic and privileged location, undisturbed by the outside world which doesn’t seem to dare intrude aside from the daily newspaper and the “wireless radio.”  (Television, which 21% of Britons had by 1953, isn’t even mentioned.  My guess: the Ansons don’t have a set.)

Also returning for a visit this summer is Frances Farrar (Katie Firth), an orphan who was raised by the Ansons and, after a 20-year absence, is seeking refuge after leaving her suicidal second husband, with her daughter, Elinor (Kylie McVey), and son, Toby (Athan Sporek), along with their governess, 35-year-old spinster Matty Mathieson (Polly McKie).  The family solicitor, William Gregson (Curzon Dobell), pays a call during the course of the play, and Julian’s superior in the Foreign Office, Humphrey Caldwell (Sean Gormley), makes an appearance bearing portentous news.

Hunter has given each character an opportunity to take the stage and reveal her or his story, but in act two, the main focus becomes Julian’s situation.  The play is essentially about his personal and professional mid-life crises (an expression I don’t think was current in the 1950s).  His foreign service  career has been middling as younger officers have been promoted ahead of him and Caldwell has come to inform him that he’s being recalled from Paris—principally because he’s not well liked at the embassy, where he’s seen as a humorless workaholic—and he sees that his life of lost opportunities and missed chances has been wasted and unappreciated.

Julian’s biggest failure, which he’d never even recognized until now, is the possibility of marriage to Frances, who’d been in love with him since their shared childhoods.  They went their separate ways two decades ago, but Julian suddenly imagines that he can reignite Frances’s interest.  It’s too late, of course, and the same fate befalls the desperately lonely Miss Mathieson, who makes a proposal to the doctor.  Beyond contemplating Julian’s unfulfilled life, Day is about words unspoken, dreams unattained, feelings unexpressed, and hope unrealized.  The play ends on a note of despondency as no one gets even a glimmer of change for the better.

A Day by the Sea is the third Mint production I’ve seen, but the previous ones (a two-play bill of George Kelly’s The Flattering Word, 1929, and Harley Granville-Barker’s A Farewell to Theater, 1920, and Arthur Schnitzler’s 1911 Far and Wide) were as far back as 2000 and 2003.  I stopped going to the Mint because I had a recurring problem with its repertoire: I questioned the need to revive the old plays they staged.  I’m afraid I had the same problem with Daythat I had with the earlier Mint shows.  It doesn’t have much to say to us in the 21st century.  Hunter’s study of “the strains and stresses of middle-age” isn’t a particularly new or under-explored topic, and it’s not terribly dramatic.  Day is all talk—for nearly three hours (one character even dares to ask, “Does something happen soon?  It’s pretty dull, this”)—and the situation and characters are so contrived that what little drama there is, is phony anyway.  (Even the acting, which I’ll get to in more detail shortly, is artificial and I suspect that the play, which isn’t a “style” piece, drove the actors into that mode somehow.)

(Diana, by the way, liked Day.  She seems to like talk plays; I had the same difference of opinion with her over Oslo in July and some years ago over David Ives’s New Jerusalem.  See my reports on, respectively, 13 August 2016 and 20 April 2014.) 

As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfectly understandable that Hunter fell quickly out of fashion as soon as Osborne and the Angry Young Men came on the scene three years after Day went on stage—and why, despite Timesman Genzlinger’s mystification, it ran only 24 performances in New York in 1955.  Furthermore, I see no damn good reason to give him a second life except as a museum curiosity. 

In its statement of the Mint’s mission, the company’s webpage posts: ”We do more than blow the dust off neglected plays; we make vital connections between the past and present.”  It’s an important point  for the troupe, and in a profile of the Mint and Jonathan Bank, the author repeats that the theater is “famous for presenting plays from the recesses of history . . . that connect to the modern world.”  As I said earlier, I don’t see it, especially not in A Day by the Sea.  Oh, yes, there are almost always some parallels and connections between period plays and today—and 1953 wasn’t all that long ago, really.  But central links, substantive associations?  No.  Universal truths about the human condition?  Nothing beyond the banal.

(A personal sidelight: In 1977, I saw Cronyn and Tandy in D. L. Coburn’s The Gin Game, another play in which there’s no real action.  Not only did the acting couple make the playeminently watchable, despite its inactivity, but they kept it running.  Gin Game stayed at the John Golden Theatre for 528 performances, but E. G. Marshall took ove for Cronyn in June 1978 and Maureen Stapleton replaced Tandy around September—and the show closed on 31 December.  Revivals in 1997 and 2025 ran respectively 164 and 115 performances, suggesting to me that the Cronyns were the reason Gin Game did so well at the box office.  Yet they couldn’t manage the same result for A Day by the Sea in 1955.  I posit that even though the Cronyns were already a renowned acting couple, the play was impervious to their appeal.)

The Anson estate is hermetically sealed against the outside world.  Julian makes gestures of involvement in the world of affairs—he carries a newspaper with him everywhere, but hardly actually reads it—but this stance is mostly used as a way to berate Laura for being uninterested in anything beyond the borders of the family estate to which she’s devoted.  In the Ansons’ version of Dorset, momentous events like the 1952 death of King George VI and the succession of Princess Elizabeth to the throne don’t seem to have happened.  Beyond Britain, the United States got a new president, Dwight D. Eisenhower, who had been the supreme commander of the Allied forces in the recent war; Joseph Stalin died in the Soviet Union, which got a new premier; Dag Hammarskjöld became the second United Nations secretary-general; the discovery of DNA was announced; Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay reached the top of Mt. Everest—all before the end of May 1953.  None of it penetrated the time warp of Hunter’s artificial, denatured world.

(By the way, also never raised is the circumstance of Frances’s divorce from her second husband.  My understanding of British divorce laws in the ’50s is that there was only one admissible grounds: infidelity.  Either Frances or her husband had to have committed adultery in order for a divorce to be granted in England at the time.  Now, I’ve heard of couples seeking a legal divorce deliberately setting up a case for infidelity, but in A Day by the Sea, nothing at all is mentioned.  Perhaps this was in the bits Bank and Pendleton cut from the text as irrelevant, but a 1950s London audience would surely have known the requirements.)

This disconnect is part of what impels me to dismiss A Day by the Sea as a viable piece of theater.  Julian is built up as engaged in the global issues of the time, rattling off a few matters his mother doesn’t even acknowledge.  But it’s an imitation of a what we’d call today a “foreign policy wonk”; not only has the accession to the throne of England’s first queen in over a generation not mentioned, but the Cold War doesn’t even get a nod.  That’s just the macrocosm—the big picture.  At the individual character level the play’s no more real.  As I said, Julian’s portrayed as someone concerned with affairs of state, but he does no more than give them lip service.  It’s a construct, not a reality, and all the other characters cleave to the same pattern.  Hunter has limned a set of characteristics for each one—Frances is lost and confused, Laura is devoted to the estate, Doctor Finley is embittered and depressed, Miss Mathiesonn is lonely and desperate—and the actors toe the line like puppets.  But there’s no humanity in it; it’s all pro forma, not an organic feeling in the lot. 

On top of that, Hunter’s set up each character’s personality and circumstances so that, like a little jigsaw puzzle, all the pieces fit perfectly into the schematic plot.  (Giving each character a moment to shine, however, attenuates the play without always advancing its point.  Each one explaining him- or herself at length and in detail is an anti-Chekhovian technique, spelling out what the great Russian writer made us piece together.  One’s storytelling, the other’s drama.)  Julian’s and Matty’s proposals fail because they have to, not because the characters do.  In fact, they have to make the proposals because the story demands it—Hunter’s seen to that.  Julian’s a workaholic because if he’s not, he can’t be the failure Hunter needs him to be so he can have that career and personal crisis.  Of course, like any good artificial life form, the characters of A Day by the Sea don’t change even after they have their crises; they all go right back to the way they were before the play started, a little worse off for the experience but unchanged fundamentally.  It’s a virtual drama.

I don’t know if Bank or Pendleton acknowledge this—I suspect not—but set designer Charles Morgan might have.  His scenic design suggests he recognized the artificial nature of the play.  First, the opening set, which we see when we take our seats since there’s no front drape, is a little too perfect, like a computer-generated 3-D picture.  (What it reminded me of more than anything is a scene in one of those View-Master slides we used to look at when we were kids.  It looked real, but somehow not quite.)  While the principal scenery—the garden terrace and its concrete wall and planted flower urns, the swing, the patio chairs and table, the wood-framed lounge chair—are all realistic in style, the periphery of trees and foliage isn’t; it’s slightly impressionistic, vague, fuzzy.  Again, not real.

But the first of two give-aways is that on the back wall of the stage isn’t a cyc or a painted backdrop of a receding vista, but a huge, framed painting showing the view of the hills and the river of the nearby countryside.  The painting style was sort of Hudson River School Romanticism (or whatever the British counterpart would have been).  The idealized and romanticized view of the landscape depicted by that art movement is a perfect evocation of the timbre of Hunter’s play.  (In the beach setting of act two, the river painting is switched for one showing a seashore.)  

The second manifestation of this sense of unreality I attribute to Morgan is strikingly unrealistic: the gold-and-ivory frame that demarcates the background painting is repeated around the proscenium opening and then again, halfway back over the center of the playing area above the terrace.  Together, this device calls to mind those infinitely recursive pictures sometimes seen in product packaging.  (I’ve learned that this is called the Droste effect: a picture appearing within itself, the smaller version containing an even smaller version of the picture, and so on, ad infinitum.)  It signifies to me that this is a world that folds in on itself endlessly.  Furthermore, since there’s a second “proscenium ach” within the set, it signifies to me that not only are the actors playing roles, but the characters are also playing parts.

Aside from this scenic interpretation, Morgan’s design seems to have created a directorial dilemma for Pendleton, which he wasn’t able to solve.  It looked like there’s too much distance between the off-stage edges of the set and the main playing areas downstage, where almost all the activity happens.  (Both the terrace furniture and the beach paraphernalia are down front.)  Actors entering during on-going scenes have to come onto the stage several feet, then stand for a minute or two awaiting their cues before speaking and completing their entrances.  It looks as if they’re eavesdropping, but they aren’t; they’re just waiting, and it looks very awkward and telegraphs that a new scene’s about to start.

No other design element makes this statement.  Martha Hally’s costumes are perfectly reflective of the times and class presented by the play.  Aside from lawyer Gregson and Julian, the other summer inhabitants of the Anson estate wear seasonal country or beach attire compatible with the time (the early ’50s) and place (the U.K.—let’s face it, they’re just more formal than we are here in the colonies).  Julian and Gregson, though, never appear without a dark suit; the lawyer’s on the job, so that’s understandable, but Julian probably doesn’t own even the light grey version that his Whitehall superior, Humphrey Caldwell, wears when he pays his visit.  The music of Jane Shaw and the background sounds she employs blend in the same way. 

The performances vary slightly.  I found all of the acting brittle and forced, less than natural, and I attribute that to the nature of Hunter’s script and the inherent requirements of Day: its time, place, and class.  I’ll assume that actors of the quality of this cast don’t have problems putting themselves back in time to the mid-20th century.  Next to learning lines, if they can’t do that, they’re in the wrong business.  But perhaps the upper-middle-class British milieu of Hunter’s world throws them a bit, maybe with the addition of a plummy accent as well.  (Miss Mathieson is a Scot, so Polly McKie has a different task.)  Whatever it is that makes everyone on stage take such care with their speech and behavior, it comes off as if they’re all thinking their way through every moment and each word.  That’s for rehearsal, not performance; by then, an actor should have internalized all that care and effort and I shouldn’t be seeing and hearing it.  Given how I feel about this play, I posit that the actors all sense the artificiality of the script and just can’t commit to it on a visceral level.  Just a guess, of course, but that’s my sense of what’s going on on stage.

Several of the actors, however, seem to go a step further.  As I said earlier, Day isn’t a style show: the acting is supposed to be naturalistic; but some of the cast come very close to doing style, a kind of Restoration drama-manqué.  The clearest example is Julian Elfer as Julian Anson.  (In his black suit and inability to unbend, Elfer reminded me repeatedly of English actor Ben Miller as Detective Inspector Richard Poole on the British police procedural Death in Paradise, the ultimate fish out of water.  Detailed from London to the Caribbean island of St. Marie, Poole also insists on wearing a dark suit at all times.  It doesn’t hurt this resemblance that Elfer, who’s British-born, sounds remarkably like Miller’s uptight DI Poole.)  Also suffering from this excessive artificiality is Katie Firth as Frances.  It’s less pronounced than in Julian’s performance, but Firth, too, seems always to be on guard.  That’s not Frances being wary, but the actress treading carefully.  As artificial as I found the play on its own, the performance problems I identified added another level of unreality to the production.

Other, more fundamental problems are contingent on the acting and the directing, however.  First, though Ben Miller’s DI Poole was intended as slightly comic and eventually became endearing, Elfer’s Julian isn’t funny and never becomes a figure of sympathy.  He’s a prig with a stick up his butt and doesn’t deserve any better than he gets.  As the focal character in the play, that doesn’t bode well for the whole enterprise.  As for Laura, Tanner and Pendleton never make it clear if she’s somehow responsible for raising her son to be an ineffectual twit or if she did her best but Julian turned out the way he did despite her.  As solid as Tanner’s performance is, Laura’s little more than a catalyst for the plot: if it weren’t for her and her seaside home, the other characters wouldn’t have come together for the play.

Obviously, Pendleton is responsible for these developments, but did he select them, guide the actors to this behavior?  If he did, I can’t see any rationale for it, not artistically or dramatically at any rate.  But if the director didn’t point the actors to these performances, then why didn’t he pull them back from it or ease them out of it.  After all, that’s part of what a director is there to do—serve as the outside eye, the audience’s surrogate before the paying spectators arrive.  To be the performance editor, paring away what doesn’t belong, to shape the production the way a book editor helps the author shape her novel.  So, either Pendleton chose this manner of acting for Day, or he allowed it to remain by default.  As far as I’m concerned, he didn’t serve the play well, either way.  I doubt anything a director could have done would have made A Day by the Sea more than a middling piece of theater, a cultural-history curiosity, but the performance style of the Mint’s production only exacerbates the deficiencies I perceived.  At three hours, even small problems are magnified.

One final note on the actors: George Morfogen as Uncle David received the warmest notices, and the actor does a terrific job embodying the doddering dear old man—but poor David serves almost no purpose except as a repository for the audience’s excess sympathy and fondness.  Along with Miss Mathieson, David’s easily one of the only two truly appealing characters in the play, but what’s he actually there for?  (I might ask the same question about Elinor and Toby Eddison, Frances’s young children.  Like David, their presence adds nothing to the play.  They’re set dressing.)  Morfogen’s excellent performance is just wasted.

Based on a tally of 22 reviews, Show-Score reported that the Mint’s A Day by the Sea received 63% positive reviews, 14% negative, and 23% mixed.  The production accumulated an average rating of 77, in the positive range but moderately low from my observation of the site.  (What’s more, though Day had several 90’s and 95’s and one 100, it also got several of the lowest-scored negative notices I’ve seen so far.)

The high score went to Terry Teachout’s Wall Street Journal review, in which he lauded the company’s “refreshing originality of taste.”  Declaring that the Mint “has outdone itself” with A Day by the Sea, “the finest of the noteworthy plays” the company’s produced, Teachout pronounced the play “that rarest of rarities, a forgotten masterpiece, acted by the best ensemble cast I’ve seen in recent seasons and staged with taut vitality.”  He labeled Day“a quiet character study written in the manner of Anton Chekhov” that’s “trivial only if you think the lives of ordinary middle-class people are trivial.”  Continued Teachout, “Those are the same people about whom Chekhov wrote, and Hunter cared no less for them, portraying their sorrows with a sensitivity—and wit—that are worthy of his master.”  (The WSJreviewer held British critic Kenneth Tynan, who, Teachout asserted, “favored the Angry Young Men of the British stage and had little use for plays without a political message,” responsible for Hunter’s demise as a successful playwright.)  Singling out Firth and Elfer for special notice, the Jounalist reported that the cast all “give vividly drawn performances” and that Pendleton “knows that the trick to making a play like ‘A Day by the Sea’ work is to winkle out the laughs and let the pathos take care of itself.”  Teachout added that “everything about this staging is as right as the play itself,” noting that the “sets are uncomplicated but utterly right” and the sound design “set just the right mood.”  The Journalreview-writer concluded, “Would that Broadway were still a fitting home for plays like ‘A Day by the Sea.’ Like everything the Mint does, it deserves a much wider audience.”

The lowest score in Show-Score’s tally (30) went to north-central Connecticut’s Journal-Inquirer in which Lauren Yarger quips in her opening paragraphs that in Day, the members of a family “gaze out expectantly on the horizon waiting for something to ride in on the tide.”  But “they are disappointed—and so is the audience—because very little happens in the three-hour-with-two-intermissions production.”  In contrast with previous, more successful Mint revivals, Day “has us wondering how this play ever got produced in the first pla[ce], let alone beat out others more deserving of a revival.”  Pendleton’s Day, wrote Yarger, “features good actors, but the slim plot, sketchy character development, and exposition-laden dialogue don’t give them much to work with, unfortunately.”  Yarger also saw a similar meaning in the scenic devices in Morgan’s design to what I described earlier, the “blurry leaves hanging overhead and large impressionistic paintings”: “The blurry art is indicative of the characters efforts to bring a sharper focus to the meaning of their lives.”  The reviewer lamented, however, “Not much happens in the way of developing any of [the] plots, however, despite moments of hope for insightful thought.”  Suggesting that “most of Act One could be cut,” she went on to present a list of dramatic deficiencies inherent in Day and the Mint production, including “so laced with explanations of past events to give us background,” “characters sing for reasons that escape me,” and “awkward entrances by the actors throughout” as “actors seems to be walking onto stage, distracting attention, just so they can get to their marks for upcoming lines.” 

In the New York Times, which got a 90 rating from Show-Score, Neil Genzlinger opened his review by declaring, “There’s so much to like about the Mint Theater Company’s revisiting of ‘A Day by the Sea’ that it’s hard to know what to single out for first-paragraph attention.”  The Timesman called A Day by the Sea a “very well made play” about “an economically comfortable family in an anxious age,” and he asserted that director Pendleton “gets the most out of it.”  (Where the Journal’s Teachout wondered “how Hunter . . . could have dropped off the map of English-language theater,” Genzlinger marveled, “How the 1955 Broadway production of this play ran only a few weeks, despite Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy in the roles, is a mystery.”  I believe I’ve made my take on both questions clear.)

Michael Feingold opened his Village Voice notice by recounting one moment: “‘How much longer are we going to sit here?’ grouses an elderly uncle to the country-house clan gathered for a seaside picnic.”  Feingold added, “Many in the 2016 audiences . . . may share his irritation” (and even suggested that this might have explained the short run of the Cronyn-Tandy Broadway mounting). He provided a list of things that don’t happen (Julian doesn’t get promoted and doesn’t marry Frances, Doctor Finley doesn’t get sober or lose his job, and so on) “while Hunter’s inaction winds through its three languid hours, with two intermissions.”  Feingold had mixed feelings about Hunter’s “rhetorical expansiveness,” those long speeches his characters give.  On the one hand, he said, “his characters sometimes rise to quite vivid oratorical passages”; on the other, the “grand speeches . . . make the characters seem like empty allegorical figures, while the touches of quirky individuality turn the rhetoric hollow.”  This dichotomy, averred the Voice reviewer, “gives his plays their peculiarly cloggy quality, heightening the work’s oddity while diluting its intensity.”  As for Hunter’s dramaturgical fate, Feingold observed, “Times had changed; in due course England’s . . . theater changed with them.  Hunter’s playwriting, poised on the cusp of change, did not.”  The “Goings On About Town” column in the New Yorker called Day a “leisurely play” in a “glowing revival” which “does great honor” to the “legendary” London cast of 1953.  “Hunter’s lyrical dialogue,” wrote the New Yorker reviewer, “concerns matters practical and philosophical.”

Time Out New York’s David Cote remarked that Hunter “wears” his Chekhovian influence “slavishly,” and with some of the more obvious echoes of the master playwright, “you’re just begging for unflattering comparisons with the Russian master.”  Complaining of Hunter’s “derivativeness,” the man from TONY quipped that “it’s as if Hunter wrote on tracing paper laid over Uncle Vanya.”  Still, Cote observed, the playwright “is a sensitive observer of English neuroses and resilience” and the “fine cast . . . navigates the quippy, stiff-upper-lipness with vibrant grace.”  The play’s “a melancholy study of middle-age malaise leavened by flashes of wit and humor, good for the Anglophiles and Downton Abbey addicts,” Cote concluded, “even if this tidy revival doesn’t wash the previous criticism away with the tide.”

On Theater Pizzazz, Sandi Durell reported that, despite a ”talented cast” “wisely” directed by Pendleton, A Day by the Sea is “an all too lengthy and tedious 2 hours 55 minutes!”  Nonetheless, the play “does have its many moments of humor and heartfelt sincerity.”  “While the feelings presented in this play are universal,” wrote David Gordon on TheaterMania, “they're strained by the three-act structure, with too little action to justify its length.”  “A Day by the Sea is surprisingly relevant,” noted Gordon, but the “attractive” production, which “moves at a leisurely pace,” “cannot overcome the tediousness of the script.”  Before “any semblance of action occurs,” much of the three-hour performance must pass, and the “enigmatic quality of the moods on display doesn't help.”  The production is “pleasing to look at,” with “breezily picturesque” scenery, “lovely period costumes,” and “authentic seaside lighting.”  With the exception of a few—Gordon named George Morfogen and McKie—“most of the company is too actorly to be truly believable.” 

Samuel L. Leiter warned, “Very little happens” in A Day by the Sea on Theatre’s Leiter Side: “Lengthy monologues expressing cynicism about the state of the world as well as idealistic visions of the future mingle with casual, throwaway trivialities. After nearly three hours, the play concludes with a tone of bittersweet regret for lost opportunities and the somewhat forced sense that a new and better phase in the lives of all concerned is about to begin.”  But Leiter lamented, “The best one can say of the revival (and of the play itself, for that matter) . . . is that it’s dully respectable.”  The blogger specified:

The staging is uninspired, the casting flawed, and the acting uneven; moreover, the slow-paced, relatively plotless play, although not entirely lifeless nor without moments of dry humor, suffers too many longueurs.  And Hunter’s writing in act one offers a lesson in how not to introduce exposition.

The set, however, is “pretty,” reported Leiter, and “there are generally effective performances from the venerable George Morfogen, . . . Jill Tanner . . ., and Polly McKie.” 

On CurtainUp, Elyse Sommer described the Mint’s Dayas a “handsomely staged, splendidly performed production” that “proves that old-fashioned, well-made plays of the 1950s can still entertain and overcome their dated aspects.”  She also reported that it’s “three-acts in which nothing much happens except for a lot of exposition,” yet Sommer labels Day“distinguished.”  The CUreviewer further noted, “It’s a talky play, but for the most part talky in the best sense.”  That talk, Sommer explained, is the play’s chief asset, for though “we can pretty accurately guess what’s going to happen just ten or fifteen minutes into the play,” Hunter “makes it all fresh and, yes, timely” by “a series of revealing and acutely observed conversations.”  Pendleton keeps the traffic flowing “smoothlyso that the actors can make the most of their well-developed characters and the witty interchanges.” 

Michael Portantiere complained on Talkin’ Broadway, “The play’s length and its three-act structure seem ill advised, and at least one of the 10 characters seems entirely superfluous.”  (He meant solicitor Gregson, as he later explained.)  He also observed that there are “rather too many” subplots and characters and that those plots and the “interrelationships between the characters are interesting in themselves, but they are not woven together very well by the playwright,” especially under the “flaccid direction” of Austin Pendleton.  The director, Portantiere asserted, “seems to have concentrated more on blocking and stage business than helping the cast connect with the text and with each other.”  Despite these flaws, the TB reviewer found, however, that “the Mint has given A Day by the Sea a typically gorgeous, thoroughly professional production,” with sets and costumes that “couldn’t be lovelier” or lighting “any closer to perfect.” 

In the Huffington Post, David Finkle quoted the theater critic W. A. Darlington of London’s Daily Telegraph on A Day by the Sea in 1953, who thought other critics were “demonstrably wrong” when they “treated disparagingly” the work of N. C. Hunter, whose “sense of character was acute and full of original observation”—and Finkle affirmed, “I won't attempt to put it any better.”  The HPFirst Nighter asserted, “A Day by the Sea practically runs down a checklist of Chekhovian aspects,” and names several of them, adding, “This is Chekhov territory, all right.”  All the actors (including, Finkle reported, the choldren) “bring infinite subtleties to their assignments” as they perform on Morgan’s “unusually elegant set” in Hally's “flawless period costumes.”  Director Pendleton “is attuned to Hunter's Chekhovian blend of disillusionment, humor and eventual acceptance and . . . brings it all to vibrant, plangent life.” 

[A completely irrelevant comment: There are two children in A Day by the Sea.  Though Hunter seems to have made a point of pinpointing the ages of nearly all his characters, he didn’t specify how old Frances’s daughter and son are, but we do know that they were born during World War II and that they were too young to really know their father, Frances’s first husband, when he was killed in combat.  Remembering that the war in Europe began in 1939, Elinor and Toby Eddison could be as old as 14 and, say, 9—but I imagine they’re about the same ages as the actors who play them at the Mint.  Kylie McVey, who plays Elinor, says she’s about to start eighth grade, which I figure makes her about 13; brother Toby is played by Athan Sporek, who says he’s 8.  During the show, I calculated how old I’d have been in May 1953.  I’d have turned 7 on my next birthday—close to the age of little Toby in the play.  Obviously we’re separated by nationality and, to a large extent, class, but in the broadest sense, I’d have been Toby.  Laura Anson isn’t the children’s grandmother by blood, but they consider her as such; my mother’s  parents didn’t have an estate, but every summer they used to take a house in Deal, New Jersey, a town on the Jersey Shore, and I vaguely remember spending time there with my mom and dad.  (There are lots of photos of me at the Deal house.  One shows my mother’s grandfather, her mother, my mother, and me sitting in a diagonal line down the steps of the house’s front veranda—four generations in chronological order.)  Toby’s and my lives were certainly nowhere near alike, but in the world of Hunter’s play, the character who most closely represents me is Toby.

[As I said: completely irrelevant.  I’m just sayin’.]


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