Canada’s great Stratford Festival continues its 51st
season’s bewildering variety with six productions of classic plays, all
well-known but not previously performed at Stratford.
           Jean-Paul
Sartre’s No Exitteases
intriguing variations out of the cliché that “Hell is other people.”
Its perfect dramatic structure counterbalances three opposed new arrivals in
hell who are trapped in a room together forever, where they come to realize
that they are created to frustrate one another.
           Vincent
requires assurance of his decency — that he refused to fight in war as a
matter of conscience, not cowardice. He needs to convince Inez, who is
strong-minded and dislikes him, because the flirtatious Estelle assures him
that she has no interest in his doubts and will accept him as coward or
anything else if he will love her. But self-tormented Vincent has no interest
in beautiful Estelle, who defines herself in terms of men’s love and requires
it as a flattering “mirror” to affirm her value. Inez, a lesbian,
sees Vincent only as a rival for Estelle and taunts him as a coward, rather
than affirming his value. And, of course, Inez requires affection from Estelle,
who responds to her with loathing, then ignores her.
           Jim Warren
directs the characters’ interaction with effective touches of humor, but the
existential angst that Sartre wanted this merry-go-round to provide doesn’t
come through with anything like dramatic passion. Claire Jullien is beautiful
and flighty enough for Estelle, but as a girlish lightweight rather than a
man-hungry temptress. Chick Reid’s Inez is actually sexier than Estelle and dryly
sophisticated, so her attraction to Estelle as a girl-toy plays persuasively.
But Reid’s hard edge seems merely stylish rather than strong, and her
opposition to Vincent seems only a feminine game. Stephen Ouimette gets
everything right about Vincent but somehow doesn’t make us feel the anguish he
proclaims. The whole production, including Sue LePage’s forgettable designs,
seems a nicely executed exercise more than a compelling drama.
There are plenty of
theatrical high jinks in The Birds, the first ancient Greek
comedy to play at Stratford. But Greek-born director Nikos Dionysios doesn’t
make it connect with a modern audience as having much meaning. No translation
of The Birds that I know makes it
seem nearly as funny as Aristophanes’ great comedies like Lysistrata or even his raunchy literary satire, Thesmaphoriazousae.
           But the old
translation by Dudley Fitts used here is especially fusty. And the silly props
and “modern” suggestions used for the characters specially satirizing
ancient Greek targets — Poet, Prophet, etc. — suggest no meaningful modern
parallel. The in-jokes about the gods and myths — Prometheus with a bleeding
lower stomach, for instance — convey pedantry more than comedy. Teresa
Przybylski’s bird-costumes are certainly colorful enough but not very birdlike
and — except for the smart designer-showcase metallic costumes for Euelpides,
Pisthetairos and Epops — not effectively differentiated.
           I like
Dionysios’ very choreographed chorus movement, and the appearances of the exotic
birds in the aisles among the audience will certainly get your attention. The
whole first section with the two Athenian con-men, Keith Dinicol’s cocky
Pisthetairos and Bernard Hopkins’ grousing Euelpides, leaving Athens to start a
Utopian new society in Cloudcuckooland among their bird-converts is an
engrossing set-up promising more spectacular hilarity to come.
           But
Aristophanes’ whole point that these visionaries promise the birds freedom as
they simply enslave them is pretty much submerged in this high-styled, highbrow
production. After the plot makes us lose Hopkins’ adorable clowning, we have
only Dinicol to carry the comedy and an occasional bird’s funny line delivery.
The rest looks like a pointless pageant, not at all helped by Michael Vieira’s
academic music.
I guess the singular, sure-fire modern comedy among all this high culture, Noel Coward’s Present
Laughter, directed by and starring Brian Bedford, might be condescended
to as a popular safe bet. But undeniably first-class theater should never be
undervalued.
           Bedford is
a proven master of high-style comedy as director and actor, and he surrounds
himself here with hand-chosen actors and designers to produce a perfectly
polished entertainment. Coward played with his own famous image in Present Laughter:It is autobiographical and farcical without quite descending into
autobiography and farce. The comedy is elegantly poised between a satirical
picture of London’s pre-World War II theatrical haut monde and a bedroom farce
about a star actor-playwright and the wicked interplay between his supportive
inner circle and his rapacious admirers.
           Bedford,
who was Coward’s friend and an admired performer of roles Coward originally
wrote for himself, tosses of a portrayal of the star-role, Garry Essendine,
slyly balanced with an imitation of Noel Coward. I’m not entirely convinced or
enchanted by Sara Botsford as the femme fatale Joanna, wife of Garry
Essendine’s producer, Hugo. Joanna seduces Garry as well as Morris, Garry’s and
Hugo’s business partner. And, though they’re reasonably effective, Raymond
O’Neill and Shane Carty could do more with the roles of Hugo and Morris,
respectively. But the roles with more comic play are impeccably cast.
           Patricia
Collins as Essendine’s sharp-tongued Scandinavian cook, Brian Tree as his
unflappable manservant, and Domini Blythe as his suave wife, all ideally handle
Coward’s verbal gems and assured displays of sophisticated manners. Seana
McKenna is so sure-handed with the sarcasm of Essendine’s essential secretary,
Monika, that we wish he’d marry her.
           Two
outsiders who offer farcical complications bring the hilarity almost to a boil.
Tim Macdonald deliberately teeters hilariously close to caricature as
Essendine’s crazed admirer, a would-be playwright and confirmed nutcase. And
Michelle Giroux is the ultimately awkward, annoying ingénue chasing after
Essendine, neatly supported by Lally Cadeau as her well-placed, unaware mother.
This sumptuous physical production — Michael Yeargan’s richly detailed set
and Catherine Zuber’s period costumes, both stunningly lit by Michael J.
Whitfield — would have pleased Noel Coward.
The background on the House of Atreus is mentioned in the dialogue of all three “Greek”
plays, which take us through the mythology of Aeschylus’ Oresteia. You need only know that there’s a curse on the house. The
reason isn’t part of this action and is more disgusting than Shakespeare’s
stolen version in Titus Andronicus.
           We start
with Agamemnon, Aeschylus’ tragedy in Ted Hughes’
contemporary translation. I assume that the interpolation of Cassandra’s later
dialogue with the chorus, as a prologue before Aeschylus’ prologue, is director
David Latham’s, not Hughes’. The succeeding choral ode, the longest in all of
surviving ancient Greek drama, is mercifully cut. But Cassandra’s later,
interminable scene is not only played out very slowly to the last syllable, but
also excerpted for that extra prologue and again as a voice-over after the play
is over. Latham wants us to get the point that her prophecy was always right
and never believed, although Aeschylus’ text says that twice anyway.
           The plot is
fairly simple: King Agamemnon returns victorious from the Trojan War to Argos,
where his wife, Queen Clytemnestra, kills him and his trophy captive, Princess
Cassandra of Troy. Clytemnestra says she is avenging Agamemnon’s sacrifice of
their daughter, Iphigeneia, which he did to insure the Greeks’ successful
voyage to Troy. The people threaten their Queen, but her lover, Aegisthus,
scares them off.
           I like the
choral odes, staged with clear meaning and intensity. Karen Robinson is
sometimes over the top as Clytemnestra, but she’s nothing if not intense and
commanding. Sara Topham is touching and tragic as Cassandra, but her speeches
do go on and on. And Scott Wentworth is a potent Aegisthus. There’s a clear
sense of tragic acting, but not much feeling of real tragedy here.
Next we move to a
pre-World War II French treatment of Aeschylus’s Choephori, the story of Electra and Orestes. Jean Giraudoux’s Electra has the Gallic wit and offbeat approach you would expect of an anti-war,
sophisticated French playwright who also became a part of the collaborationist
Vichy government. Electra doesn’t know that her mother killed her father; she
just hates Clytemnestra because she senses that her mother is evil. And,
anyway, her mother seemed to hate her, and they argue over whether Clytemnestra
or Electra tried to drop her son Orestes and hurt him. Orestes is back, and
doesn’t know that his mother killed his father, but thinks he should have
inherited the throne from his father.
           They all
argue with a beggar, who seems to be an omniscient chorus. Aegisthus recognizes
that Princess Electra is a threat and wants to marry her to the Gardener. The
Judge is an accomplice but doesn’t want his nephew, the Gardener, to marry into
the troublesome house of Atreus. His wife, Agatha, is cheating on the judge,
tries to seduce Orestes, and has slept with Aegisthus. And this chorus of
Eumenides, first silly young girls, then older, then full-blown women, keeps
showing up and causing trouble. Eventually Orestes will kill Aegisthus, though
Aegisthus is needed to save Argos from threatening barbarians. Mostly, it’s all
a debate.
           Sara Dodd
gives a strong, multi-leveled performance as Electra. Dion Johnstone is
handsome and heroic as Orestes. Robinson and Wentworth are splendid in
Giradoux’s more complex roles of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus. And Sean Arbuckle
is funny and strong and memorable as The Beggar. The three new commoners —
Walter Borden’s harrumphing Judge, Rami Posner’s cleverly underplayed Gardener,
and Sara Topham’s hilariously slutty Agatha — almost steal the play from the
major players.
Finally, Jean-Paul
Sartre’s masterpiece, The Flies, in Stuart Gilbert’s
standard translation, is an Existentialist treatment of Aeschylus’ Choephori and Eumenides written during the Nazi occupation of France.Beginning with the story of Electra, it
ends with Orestes as an individualistic Existentialist Hero. Aeschylus turns
the Furies into the Eumenides, the “Kindly ones,” as Orestes’ jury in
a trial. Denying the whole Aeschylean concept of personal vengeance becoming
state-administered justice, philosopher-dramatist Sartre has Orestes make his
own decision, avoid any trial, and lead the Furies off from the state as he
becomes engaged in determination of his own fate.
           Sound
preachy and overly intellectual? Well, it is; but Sartre’s genius is that he
can make philosophic debate dramatically compelling while no less complex than
Giradoux’s witty paradoxes. Electra falls by the wayside here because she
thinks in the old terms of personal revenge. Aegisthus, though he ironically
recants his villainies and becomes a virtuous leader, still represents the cant
of political necessities and subordination of individual will to the good of
the state. Orestes has no such outside motivations: he wants to find his own
existential truth.
           The same
actors continue in these roles: Robinson not as powerful as before because her
role is more circumscribed, and Wentworth stunningly persuasive as Aegisthus.
His counterpart is Electra, beautifully played by Dodd. And the stars here are
really the major antagonists — Dion Johnstone as the heroic Orestes, and
Steve Cumyn as Jupiter — all powerful in the old system but forced to
acknowledge Orestes’ individual mind.
           Peter
Lichtenfels directs with lucid strength. Lorenzo Savoini memorably designed all
three plays in the small Studio Theatre to make use of distinctive symbols on
the same Greek Temple-style set: a huge head of Jupiter in The Flies, for instance, or a blood-red drape in Electra. Appropriately, The Flies may be the strongest of the
three productions, but it gains impact when seen as the culmination of this
fascinating movement of the Greek trilogy through modern history.
Stratford Festival: Jean-Paul
Sartre’s No Exit at the Patterson
Theatre through August 29, Aristophanes’ The
Birds at the Patterson Theatre through September 27, Noel Coward’s Present Laughter at the Avon Theatre
though November 1, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon at
the Studio Theatre through August 29, Jean Giraudoux’s Electra at the Studio Theatre through August 30, Jean-Paul Sartre’s
The Flies at the Studio Theatre
through August 30.
           Call
1-800-567-1600 for information, special events, and tours, accommodations, and
tickets in a range of prices from $20.70 to $105.40 Canadian dollars [currently
$15.46 to $78.71 US dollars]. E-mail: orders@
stratfordfestival.ca. Website: www.stratfordfestival.ca.
This article appears in Aug 6-12, 2003.
