STRATFORD SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL 2010
EVITA
For some, kitsch is the preferred artistic pinnacle of our time and, never fear, Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Evita presents only token cause to fear humanity’s darker side. This creation is made to distract and safely entertain with a combination of predictable ingredients that really don’t add up to much, other than theatrical, consequence. It does overwhelm, nonetheless, and doesn’t let go, even with Rice’s distancing device of inner commentary which doesn’t allow characters to exist spontaneously with flesh on their bones and be known.
Evita is given a dazzling Stratford production and, even in the compact Avon Theatre, there is much remarkable showbiz energy here. Although volume and dazzle do not tell a story as much as avoid one, this production doesn’t pause to inhale a breath and ladles on its musical goods without restraint. We too forget to breathe. Throughout we have rear projection like Evita’s funeral and close-ups of poker hands that help to overwhelm the eye. My fave line from Tim Rice’s lyrics that often make me cringe, is, “They seem to adore me, so Christian Dior me.”
Josh Young’s Che is no mythical hero, but an a compact, meaty and entertaining hustler of a man with wry attitude and insinuating, nudge-nudge eyes. He is young with young assurance, an interesting character with a contemporary feel. He is a strong yet unforced presence on stage, a richly conceived creation that people talk and read about at the interval. He is undeniably likable with just enough a dash of bastard appeal to deny too much comfort on one’s part.
Chilina Kennedy’s Evita is starry-eyed, spunky, self-willed, tenacious, and, whatever the show’s book may tell us, virgin to the grunge of life. She gets her way through energy, not manipulation. She doesn’t cynically scheme but bubbles instead with enthusiastic will, partly because Weber gives her few musical cues that suggest cynicism. This Evita is warm but independent, underplayed as a myth, but made of a subtle, unreachable remoteness that makes her an intriguing woman. Evita’s cool expression at Peron’s victory suggests an inner secretive force working through her. We never quite understand her. She is radiant.
Kennedy is a rich and resonant listen too, especially in lower register, and she negotiates Weber’s more demanding higher passages with grace and aplomb. She is especially a performer of maximum commitment and sometimes thrilling in her vulnerable passion, even in Weber’s commercially-savvy milieu. One feels a genuine human heart beating in her performance, pumping blood through Weber’s inorganic artifice.
In all, I felt more dazzled than moved after this performance, just as I did the opening week of Evita many years ago in London. Weber and Rice don’t expect subtlety of mind from their audience, they don’t reach beyond theatricality into the real world, they rarely provide music that isn’t made for effect, and they often set awkward clichés to music. But they do create theatrical hybrids that go loud and bright into that good audience of open arms and hook-loving ears.
JACQUES BREL IS ALIVE AND WELL AND LIVING IN PARIS
Stafford Arima’s’s direction of Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris creates a subdued and immediately seductive atmosphere with its sparse but hearty chamber ensemble, dim lighting of eerie footlights, restrained and almost lurking singing, and choreography whose steps collaborate with each phrase of the lyrics. With one significant miscue in casting, it continues throughout as very engaging theatre. This is appropriately so since Jacques Brel himself was consummately theatrical in lyric, music, and performance. Brel lived his art as he performed.
Of the four singers here, Brent Carver is consistently breathtaking with his instinctive sense of style, his compassionate interpretive way with human complexity, and his incisive insight into human essences. He is also graceful, fluid and potent as a performer and distinctive as an embodiment of Brel’s wide-ranging songs. As far as I can remember, he is certainly the most deeply human of any interpreters of Brel I have heard in English, and that includes many in French as well, since I first saw this show in Toronto in the late 60s. He too seems to live his art as he performs and is discreetly energetic in articulating Brel’s existential statements. His rendition of the famous Amsterdam is a thoughtful and concise study of a man sinking deeper into the mire of his rotted soul.
Mike Nadajewski has the physical elegance of a flamenco dancer, an almost threatening smirk, a tonally-rounded, versatile and very listenable voice that shifts with ease from tragedy to humour, and a pleasing ability to nail the theatrical potential of a word or a song. He performs Au Suivant/Next like an emotional breakdown and we pay attention. Robin Hutton, subbing for Nathalie Nadon, is a satisfying blend of crystalline purity, quietly enthusiastic involvement, reassuring poise, vulnerability, and a tonal sweetness that always feels genuine. Both give solid presence to all they do and are very enjoyable.
From what I’ve seen of Brel on the DVD box set of his complete filmed performances, titled Comme Quand On Etait Beau and highly rcommended, he was an assertive, risk-taking, emotionally-open performer who used his body as an uninhibited dramatic or comic tool. With his voice and approach firmly declarative, while poignantly sensitive as well, he was decidedly male if you will. I’ve long preferred listening to Brel –and who wouldn’t?- even with his inevitable crescendo in the finale, to interpreters who dazzle with Broadway gusto that signifies nothing or, much worse, the female whiners who sing flat to sound meaningful.
In this show, Jewelle Blackman sings with a gutsy sense of familiarity and solid urgency in the lower registers, but leans toward a mannered and uncomfortably airy blare up high and makes arbitrary sounds that fight lyrics whose reality tolerate no mannerism. I found Blackman idiomatically inappropriate and distracting because we were too aware of her bag of vocal tricks. But then, too many singers nowadays telegraph feelings without seeming to feel deeply them as Brel did. Such singers don’t penetrate the façade of bourgeois behavior but, instead, simply and ironically decorate the middle class mask that Brel despised.
KING OF THIEVES
King of Thieves, carrying on the tradition John Gay et al., begins in high gear with a banker trio’s song to –what else?- banking and then moves into a saloon in New York in the late 1920s. The stylish Evan Buliung as Mac, a thief, with fedora on head and switchblade in hand, is buying off a Pinkerton cop who asks, “What kind of thief ever used words like ‘overview’ and ‘economy?’” Buliung/Mac breaks into song, of course, because that’s what folks do in George Walker’s delightful show with songs and music of equal delight by John Roby.
Yes, we have cops and crooks and a singer called Jenny who has an animated bum, says “gorl,” and “will take a man for anything I can.” A surprising delight is Nora McLellan, once of more sedate expression at the Shaw Festival, now all twangy, wiggling, scratching her backside, showing some leg, and wielding a rifle. Sean Cullen is Vinnie the owner of the speakeasy and a human largesse of fun as he weaves all elements of the tale together. Meanwhile, the bankers nail the greed of their, and our, time as they talk of pushing the “system beyond any sustainable point” and observe that “taking can look like giving.”
Pork, ably played by Oliver Becker, gets the “Thief of the Year” award and we also have compromising photos for blackmail and an unfortunate victim of bankers’ thievery carrying a sign that reads “No work, no home, no hope.” In these times, who doesn’t feel ice in the stomach at that one? And don’t forget Feds who also play rough, and the paranoia about Bolsheviks and Reds, while so many in this perfectly cast bunch get bumped off and hauled away in a hilarious running gag. And who doesn’t love the extremely capable Polly, Mac’s wife, given a versatile spin by Laura Condlin? To be sure, this King of Thieves is more an engaging entertainment than biting social commentary, but it does offer enjoyment on all fronts.
THE TEMPEST
The Tempest opens with a loud primordial chaos of a storm while overwhelmed and powerless human voices strain for their lives. The sound that calms this tempest is the voice of Christopher Plummer as Prospero whose thoughts and speech and deeds are one. His centered resonance, his perfect sculpted sound, shapes clarity and perhaps meaning in this cosmic discord. The beginning is indeed the word in Des McAnuff’s production
and it is also the magic of Ariel who, at the outset, descend from the Festival Theatre’s sky high ceiling. This production remains magical with all manner of otherworldly doings, say, swords that float in the air. McAnuff also achieves a palpable tension between body and spirit in this world and we therefore remain both engaged and enchanted as we watch.
“You taught me language and I learned how to curse” says Caliban accusing Prospero who does not curse back but shapes a world of resonance in his words. Even the silences of Plummer’s Prospero speak the eloquence of words and his performance proves memorable as an experience of a passing theatrical style rarely found in theatres nowa- days. He ends phrases with implication of further meaning, changes mood in a syllable, orates in a whisper, modulates at will as he creates a Prospero of knowing beneficence. He commands the stage and commands our imagination with his presence. Who will forget this performance?
The relationship of Prospero and Miranda is gently buoyant with shared jokes, shared laughter and palpable mutual love. We feel the cycles of love and death in their loving repartee. Miranda is innocent but substantially present in body, earthy, and explosion of unrefined enthusiasm. She is open to discovery, she lusts for a brave new world with her feisty innocence, and she is naively predatory. She is indeed a wild child, blunt and arbitrary, sexy and awkward in social graces she does not know. She is impish and confident and has an inherent crazy wildness in her eye. Trish Lindstrom’s Miranda is another memorable performance.
Yet another special player in this special production is the Ariel of Julyana Soelistyo. She is a genuinely otherworldly creature, but one with a conscience and a heart. She delights in chatting up her deeds, she gives her all, and she is devoted to Prospero though she leans to tantrums when crossed. She is reachable in her human qualities, but out of reach as a spirit. She can be caught but not contained in essence. And that is part of the magic of this unique take on Prospero’s spirit friend. I have never seen an Ariel like this -a petite, self-contained, completely independent will with a humane essence- a spirit who could be a pal, a dream or a CEO.
Caliban is reptilian and slithery, rock hard muscular but cowering, hungry to do malice until caught. The other male characters are also theatrically rich creations, each one dense with detailed characteristics. Peter Hutt offers a clueless, hapless, perhaps dim-witted as Alonso. The magnificently world-weary clown Trinculo is performed by Bruce Dow with pin-point comic timing and loads of comic charm. Stephano, played by Geraint Wyn Davies, is an endearing but clueless drunk who seems to reason out each moment he lives. He points each word he speaks in judgment and certainly spices up the place.
At the end, Caliban stands erect and then Prospero and he bow to one another, now man to man, we assume. It’s a moment that is both touching and unsettling because we want magical powers to save us. One feels, moreover, a genuine sadness at Ariel’s freedom to leave us as we learn, once again, that such merciful and magical creation can disappear into thin air.
PETER PAN
An evil voice with an evil laugh warns the audience to shut off their cell phones and unwrap their candies now, and so Peter Pan begins. We are already full of glee and soon we become more child, if we are young, and child again if we dare think we have lost our instinct for wondrous fantasy that this wonderful production delivers.
To begin J. M. Barrie is the narrator who on occasion addresses the audience. Nana the huge but agile dog, with a tick-tocking tail, is adorable to the max, a quaint Victorian world of loving propriety and articulate assertive children is the setting, and anticipation fills the atmosphere. Wendy’s wide-eyed urgency and enthusiasm are a catalyst for magic to happen and magic indeed arrives in the form of Peter Pan whom we find is a lad of rough social edges, deep psychological wounds, a gymnast’s agility, and a desperate need to escape into fantasy.
Add a jealous and subversive but self-sacrificing Tinkerbell, a monstrous crocodile whose wide jaws might swallow the whole stage, an elegant, slightly peevish, problem-prone Hook, a paunchy and physically inept Smee, “a lovely darling house” that gets built in a minute, some Amazons, an altruistic bird who come to the rescue of Peter, a maternally efficient Wendy on the verge of sexuality, a very splendid pirate ship, and magic abounds. After all, we the audience save Tinkerbell by believing in fairies and clapping our hands, don’t we?
It is heartwarming to hear so much delight, including one’s own, in an audience. This Peter Pan is ably directed for wonder by Tim Carroll and the perfect cast includes Michael Therriault as Peter, Sara Topham as Wendy, and Tom McCamus as Hook.
A WINTER’S TALE
Is there a dry eye in the Patterson Theatre at the long-delayed reunion of Leontes and Hermione, in Marti Maraden’s carefully paced and carefully composed production of A Winter’s Tale, when forgiveness is finally all? It’s an unforced and satisfying interpretation that, with its air of life wisdom unfolding, befits late Shakespeare and I found myself sitting forward and savoring every undercurrent, every subtly musical word. In this intelligently-directed production, Maraden keeps all dramatic threads tight with unwavering but subtle dramatic tension and finds engaging rich sense and energy throughout the text. As well, this is a cast with acute instincts for pinpointing and uniting their human, theatrical and conceptual roles in the narrative context.
Ben Carlson immediately suggests a seething propensity for jealousy and seems diseased with suspicion. His physical presence is a mirror of his agitated mind as he thrusts in all directions with irrational rage and seems no less than a walking sneer in manner. After all, he doesn’t heed even the Oracle. Carlson raises the production’s emotional bar and keeps it high. Yanna McIntosh’s Hermione is a stylishly-centred and pleasantly earthy queen whose low-key response to Leontes’ outburst suggests she has long experienced his mercurial swings of mood. She is elegant in understatement, noble without apparent effort.
Seanna McKenna’s seasoned stage voice is both folksy and oratorical. It’s a voice that seems to sing at will as it choreographs the atmosphere around her. She plays Paulina with bold but defined strokes and is indeed an “audacious lady.” Her venom is a blunt and bashing experience. With extraverted vulnerability, Sean Arbuckle as Camillo, is a meticulously thinking man; Randy Hughson creates a moving Antigonus of deep human substance; Brian Tree aces the rustic old Shepherd as one always out of his depth. Claudio Vena’s middle-eastern musical strains weave through the show and engage both hips and spirit. This is a fine production for both mind and heart.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
The audience for Dean Gabourie’s production of Two Gentlemen of Verona reacts throughout with spontaneous laughter at all the confiding asides, the precise physicality of the comedy, and the choreographed energy of the sprite company on the Studio stage. Shakespeare’s early work doesn’t allow these characters to speak without innuendo, without a clever pirouette of meaning, or without a quick and sharper retort in any repartee, so the director mines the potential of word, voice and body for a conspicuous theatrical style that has kin in the Commedia dell’Arte and vaudeville and silent film comedy.
A youthful joy in performance is palpable here, as if one creates fun by having fun. One does notice at times that some actors speak with a rich and centred resonance that is based in years of classical theatre, while others at times seem to follow direction well, but obviously so. Nevertheless, this is an very digestible unsubtle play of wit for the pit and a very uncomplicated and very happy entertainment indeed. It is theatre of types and not psychology, theatre of overt purpose and not subconscious nudges, theatre of wink-wink meanings that incorporate the audience at every step throughout. Both playwright and director intend to entertain and they certainly do. One cannot help but join in the spirit of this production, and isn’t that what theatre should be?
There are many fine nugget performances here. As Lucetta, Trish Lindstrom underplays her jam-thick and testy attitude just enough to keep us constantly on our toes to determine her true meanings. Claire Lauter’s Silvia, with the longest self-pitying wail on record, flows in every direction with playfully self-referential glamour. Each monologue from Bruce Dow as Speed, with occasional dips into Jackie Gleason, is a dictionary of comedic devices used to best effect. Robert Persichini is a compelling, weighty and life-tested Launce, but one who can chuckle at his own jokes. A special pleasure is John Vickery as the Duke of Milan, a man who is melodramatic, monocled, and measured in elegance as he speaks with inherent authority. Crab, Launce’s dog, a master of deadpan, is played by Otto and understudied by Keppy.
FOR THE PLEASURE OF SEEING HER AGAIN
Lucy Peacock as Nana, in Michel Tremblay’s For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again, celebrates the playwright’s mother and also all mothers as an essential sustenance of every human existence. She is dynamically maternal, desirable in her bold femininity, given to sentimental passion that feeds itself, overwhelming in everything she does, lovable through and through, and unable to tolerate contradiction. She takes to heart the melodramatic historical novels she devours, takes issue with every word her son attempts, fights to win every verbal exchange, needs to be right however wrong she may be, and is poignantly limited to a self-protected scope of reality. Nana punches out her declarations in unselfconscious French-Canadian rhythms but, thankfully, foregoes an accent. She has an almost lusty, clipped manner of speaking that is echoed in jerky gestures that punctuate her opinionated outbursts. She talks like a tidal wave that swallows up everything before it.
Lucy Peacock is breathtaking, plain and simple, as she embodies Nana. We don’t see Peacock’s performance, of course, because, for one, Nana is herself a woman of constant performance. More to the point, Peacock seems an inconspicuous tool of every word and gesture and feeling of the woman she portrays. One suspects an especial collaboration here of actor, director, translator, and playwright, a collective effort that makes Nana an overwhelming and lovable mom and also an unyielding force of nature as she waddles about, stooped, in slippers. This is one of the most consummately realized and memorable performances I’ve seen, over many decades, on a Stratford stage.
As Narrator/Son, Tom Rooney grows up before our eyes in an evolution that progresses through gradual awareness and understanding into manhood. His performance is made of endless subtleties that ring true each time he speaks in voice or with eyes nuanced by change of purpose or mood. He begins as a boy learning his way, embodies childhood that balances loyalty to mother and personal will, and develops through truths only he, as a teen, can know for himself. Rooney’s performance is potent with gentleness.
The conversations of mother and son feel spontaneous and genuine. The undercurrent of maternal and filial love comes early and remains to the end. The shared understanding, one of the other, gives painful weight to the impending death of Nana, for this is often understanding beyond words. But the writing/translation is eloquent throughout and, for one example, Nana says, “I feel like I am living pregnant with my own death.” The writing in translation is as colloquially poetic and true as the lives it depicts. Translated by Linda Gaboriau, directed by Chris Abraham, and take note of the portable record player and LPs of French and Quebecois singers from the fifties.