Horrible Histories and Shakespearean Insults

Found a new Horrible Histories on Shakespeare. This one goes with my Shakespeare Insults Mug. :-D

A Midsummer Night’s Nightmare

Review of University of Portland's A Midsummer Night's Dream, 13 April 2012

At the closing of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Puck addresses the audience:

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends. (5.1.2275-2290)

Normally, when I hear this, I find myself thinking there’s no offense to mend, nothing to pardon, no amends to restore. It has been a happy dream, and I’m more than willing to extend my hands to Robin Goodfellow in friendship.

Not so at the University of Portland’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. By the end, as much as I wished it possible, I was sure that no amount of pardoning could mend such an atrocity. I realize that this is a college production, and nowhere near in the same league as “professional” theatre… but even with that consideration, I give it a D-. I can’t remember seeing another play where I spent the first half wondering if I should stay for the second.

It would be one thing if it were just a play, poorly done, badly interpreted and ineptly staged. But this was the product of a college drama department, where students ought to be learning theatre skills and techniques – how to do things right, how to look and act appropriately to their parts and, most of all, how to be true to the script.

The purpose of all aspects of theatre is to advance the story and help the audience feel like they’re there, not to draw attention to themselves. Theatre is storytelling, and the minute we forget that is the minute we stop being true to the script. All departments would do well to remember this – costuming, make-up, lighting, sound, set design, and certainly the actors themselves. A drama program that neglects to teach its students this has grievously neglected their education.

Stage make-up, for example, is there mainly to make sure we can see the facial expressions of the actors under the lights. Oh sure, there are some characters whose make-up is part and parcel with their costuming – the odd scar here or there, the 1940’s glamour-girl make-up or, in this case, the fairies with their other-worldly face paint. And that’s fine, as long as it helps to define the character and stays true to the text. But that’s not the kind of make-up I’m talking about for the moment. The audience doesn’t want to see that the guys are wearing make-up. Deep down inside, we all know they are, but unless it’s part of their character (say, a clown or a cross-dresser), the make-up shouldn’t draw attention to itself.

It did. Distractingly. You see, not all stage make-up is created equal. And the amount of make-up you use for one venue and lighting scheme is different than the amount you use for another. This is what makes stage-make-up artists earn their living. Their job is to put just the right amount on so that the audience can see the facial expressions and the actors can look “normal” under the lights… but not more. I can see a drama department giving its students experience with a wide variety of types and styles of make-up… but if they don’t also give them the wisdom to know what is appropriate when, they’ve missed the mark.

Costuming, also, should enhance and help explain the characters. It should be consistent. It should look good on the stage. And it should have a reason for being the way it is. It is never OK to try something new with a costume just because you’ve always wanted to. It must help the story telling.

Megan La Fleur, senior at U. of P. and costume designer for Dream, has yet to learn this. Why in the world did she put Theseus (played by Clarke Orr, arguably one of the tallest people on that stage) in a suit coat with shoulders reminiscent of Lady Gaga or Romulans from the early 1990’s? They had no purpose, did not help define his character, and weren’t consistent. And it wasn’t like his entire world (because there are four worlds present in Dream) had the same look. He was the only one. And it looked weird.

She also needs to realize that it’s her job as costume designer to make sure that everyone’s costumes look right on the stage. Poor Cobweb’s costume was a pale yellow leotard with a black, sheer, cobwebby overlay, but under the stage lights she looked naked under the overlay. It was distracting and inappropriate. I’m guessing that in the costume shop it looked fine, but the costume designer’s job is to design for the theatre, not the costume shop.

I could go on, but I haven’t even come to the most problematic part: Puck. Whether the lion’s share of the blame goes to the director, Andrew Golla, or to the actress, Jessica Hillenbrand, is academic. But Puck was all wrong. From the moment she came on stage, I wondered if I had come to a strange mash-up of Midsummer Night’s Dream and Macbeth, because Hillenbrand was certainly channeling all three of the weird sisters, if nothing else. Her voice and physicality suggested pure evil, not a mischievous but good-hearted fairy. And if that wasn’t enough, she heaped on layers of completely inappropriate gestures – inappropriate to the play (because they didn’t go with her words at all, but distracted from them) and inappropriate to polite society in general (to my mind, at least, she was far across the line between physical and pornographic). Her best moments were when she dropped the act and stomped off stage in response to something Oberon told her to do.

If costuming and make-up, and indeed all aspects of theatre, should be drawn from the play itself and should enhance the story telling not detract from it, how much more, then, should the actors’ performances be drawn from the text. Hillenbrand’s wildly inaccurate and inappropriate representation of Puck was a huge distraction from the play itself. Puck is such a central character. Get him wrong, and practically the whole play is ruined.

I have to say “practically” because there were a few bright spots on the stage, even with everything that was so awful. The four young lovers – especially Helena (played by Eleanor Johnson) – were fairly well done. But then, Shakespeare is such genius, that no matter what you do with the two couples, it leads to hilarity.

The other bright spot was the Rude Mechanicals – especially Bottom (Charles Lattin). When they were on, I felt like I was finally seeing the play I had paid for.

But it wasn’t enough. The whole production was such a shambles that it was unredeemable, even though it was Shakespeare. And by that, I mean they used Shakespeare’s words… but they didn’t draw everything from the play itself, and that’s where they fell down. Drama is not license to do whatever you feel like, whether you are a costume designer, lighting tech, actor or even director. It’s a responsibility to be true to the play. And by doing a production like this, I feel that the drama department at University of Portland has let its students down. Perhaps they’ve gone through the steps and are working on their technical skills, but if all of that comes at the cost of actually producing the play whose text you are using, they’ve failed.

Contested Will

While I normally avoid the authorship debate like the plague, I recently listened to James Shapiro's Contested Will on CD while working on graphics projects. Since it was recorded and I was doing other things while I listened, I can't give as deep and thorough a review as I would like to. But I did learn some fascinating things along the way.

Instead of looking at each claimant and his case, Shapiro looks at the history of the authorship question, which began in 1785, but didn't really take off until the mid-1800's. What I discovered is that the history of the authorship debate is really more of a history of philosophy and our approach to all literature for the last 250 years.

We tend to forget (or at least I do) that people haven't always looked at things the way we do now. We take our assumptions and filters and philosophies so much for granted that, even when we do acknowledge their existence, we still assume that they have always been there, and that everyone has the same ones.

Contested Will has challenged me to think about the assumptions I make about all literature. Much of the debate grew out of the idea that fiction is, at heart, autobiographical -- that the author can't help but write about what he knows personally, what he has experienced first-hand, and what he has felt himself. The fact that the man from Stratford doesn't seem to have had the life-experience to have done everything in the plays attributed to him is the main argument of anti-Stratfordians.

As a writer, I have always been a little uncomfortable by this mining-the-story-for-the-author's-life-and-feelings approach to literature. When friends ask which character in my novel is "me," I'm not sure what to say. Certainly, one character may be more like me... but they are my characters, my creation. 

But how often am I guilty of doing this very thing to Shakespeare? How many times have I looked at Hamlet and seen the connection to the death of Shakespeare's son Hamnet? How often do I nod in approval when someone points out that in Shakespeare's later plays, he writes about the relationships between older fathers and their daughters (King Lear, The Tempest, etc.), obviously mirroring his thoughts about his own daughters? And how many times have I put down my copy of the Sonnets, my brain spinning because of what I assume are the implications of what I see there? I am as guilty as the next person when it comes to making assumptions about the author's life from his fiction.

Assumptions are at the heart of the debate. What Shapiro does so well is highlight these assumptions and show us their sources. Anyone genuinely interested in the history of how we study literature ought to read this book. Anyone even remotely interested in the anti-Stratfordian position (and I use that term not in a derisive way, but simply to group together the Oxfordians, Baconians, and all the others who believe that Shakespeare wasn't the author of the plays that bear his name) would do well to look at the history of the movement. All of us ought to be aware of the assumptions we make and recognize how they color our world.

I have some other thoughts bouncing around in my head after listening to this book... but I think those may find their way into another post. More on that later...

One Reason I Love Shakespeare

I had a discussion with some of my students last week about why one should study Shakespeare. One asked for clarification in an email later, which gave me the chance to write this:

Shakespeare understood human nature -- what makes us tick -- and he wrote about it so well, that being familiar with his characters helps me understand the people around me. That's why his plays have survived 400+ years -- because deep down the people in the plays are the same people that we live with, that we work with, that we meet on the street or at the library.

Macbeth isn't really a story about witches -- it's a story about a man with ambitions and with a wife who pushes him to "succeed" no matter what it takes. He could be an executive, trying to be CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or a Senator aiming for the Presidency. And we see people like that in the news all the time.

Hamlet isn't just an emo kid who is commissioned by his father's ghost to revenge his (the father's) murder. Hamlet is a scholar, pushed into a world of action. But he's a thinker... and he finds himself paralyzed by thought. The "To be or not to be" soliloquy isn't about suicide -- it's about how thinking too much about which course of action we should take ends up keeping us from taking any action. I know people who are Hamlets in this sense -- they think and consider all the options and on and on and on... and things just don't ever get done around them... because it's always think first and make sure you've thought about it all.... Knowing Hamlet helps me realize that that's the way they think, and I can relate to them better because I've seen how Hamlet reacts when he's pushed into action (it doesn't go well).

Merchant of Venice is a story of the kind of loyalty you want in your friends -- and how important it is that your spouse and your friends get along, too. Merchant is such a beautiful story of friendship... it's almost a shame that it's clouded over with controversy about anti-Semitism (which isn't really in there... but a lot of people would debate that one).

Othello and Much Ado About Nothing are both warnings against believing everything you hear -- the tragedy (Othello) shows the horrible, horrible consequences, and the comedy (Much Ado) shows in what a tangled mess you can put yourselves and others if you don't verify rumors and accusations. And in this day and age where people are so quick to believe anything they read on the Internet, we could all use that reminder more often.

Henry IV is a coming of age story -- only here you have a dissolute prince who is having to deal with the consequences of his "sewing his wild oats" and become the kind of man he needs to be in order to be a good king. Those consequences (including having to abandon old friends and turn your back on the people who were closest to you) are quite painful and not easily dealt with. So this teaches me a couple things: (1) don't go there in the first place (personally), and (2) don't be quick to judge those who are having to clean up their act.


This is obviously just a smattering of examples. For the moment I've left out Lear, Julius Caesar, As You Like It, Twelfth Night, The Tempest and a whole passel of others. And Shakespeare isn't the only one who knows human nature and who expresses it in memorable ways. The reason he is one of the best, though, is that he created a massive cast of characters... so he has a wide range to explore. Not many people have that opportunity.

So that's one reason I love Shakespeare. One of many. What about you? Why do you love him?

Robin Hood and the Forest

(I realize this isn't specifically and totally about Shakespeare... but he's in here... I promise. More than that, though, this is a muse on Literature in general. And because I can, I'm putting it up here.) :-)

I went for a stroll in the forest the other day, got lost and haven’t made it out yet. It all started with Robin Hood, although the forest was not Sherwood. It was the Forest of Literary Criticism.

I don’t suppose I should be surprised that Robin led me thither: his, after all, is one of the Old Stories. References to Robin Hood date back to the 13^th century, and he has featured in tale and story ever since. Even Shakespeare mentions the famous outlaw, comparing a banished duke and his entourage to Robin and his Merry Men in As You Like It.

       But it wasn’t the evolution of an epic or the staying-power of certain tales that led me off the path and into the Wild Woods, although I will admit to wandering up those paths along the way.

It was clichés.

I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen so many clichés in one place as I did when I watched the BBC’s Robin Hood show. I wondered, and still wonder, if the writers were perhaps in a competition to see who could include the most… and the most inappropriate for the setting. If I am ever brave enough to watch an episode or two over again, I will count exactly how many make an appearance. And it’s not just the catch-phrase type of cliché. It’s the whole spectrum, from major plot arcs to smoldering glances and everything in between.

But as I sat, puzzled by the depths to which some people lower their writing by filling it with clichés, I remembered that not too terribly long ago, I was praising Shakespeare’s use of tropes. And what, exactly, is the difference between a cliché and a trope? A literary trope is a device or a convention of a certain genre, a commonly recurring motif. A cliché is, perhaps, a trope that has been done to death, to the point that it no longer has any meaning. But they really are just shades of the same thing. If we are talking about a cliché, we call the character a “stereotype”; if it’s a trope, it’s a “stock character.” We belittle the one and admire the other. An author who uses clichés is a hack, whereas one who employs a literary trope is clever, playing with intertextuality, doing something Literary!

And, with that, I looked around and realized that I was deep in the Forest of Literary Criticism, with no hope of finding my way out any time soon. But there was the faintest glimmer of a path over by Intertextuality, and for lack of a better direction, I took it.

Intertextuality is the way that one text references another. It could be Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings or Hobbit echoing Beowulf. Or Shakespeare directly comparing Duke Senior to Robin Hood. Or the new version of Hawaii Five-O referencing its previous incarnation. Or Doctor Who’s Christmas Special paralleling A Christmas Carol. It’s Ray Bradbury writing “Usher II,” deliberately playing off a preexisting understanding of all the best Poe stories. It’s Agatha Christie titling her book By the Pricking of My Thumbs, or The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side (a line from “The Lady of Shalott”) or even One, Two, Buckle My Shoe.

Intertextuality exists. There’s no use denying it. To what extent does it exist? Well, that’s another question.

Ecclesiastes tells us there’s nothing new under the sun. If you believe that, then every story has been told before. And with part of my mind I heartily agree. The Quest, the Coming-of-Age Story, perhaps even the Robin Hood Story – they’re all types, forms. As readers, we recognize them subconsciously. And that’s why we’re incensed when the BBC turns Robin Hood into Hamlet. It’s the wrong form, the wrong story.

But, even though half my mind deeply believes the idea that there are really only a few stories out there, the other part of me looks at my big, beautiful bookshelves and heartily denies it. If there are only a few stories, how do we get Austen and Dickens, Kipling, Lewis and Poe, Shakespeare and Sayers, Tolstoy and Wodehouse?

But surely even the book-loving part of my soul has always known this “few story” theory to be correct. How, otherwise, do I have The Mark of Zorro right next to The Scarlet Pimpernel on my shelf? Is that anything but an admission that they are, in fact, the same story?

But now the author part of my brain is kicking and screaming, so we must give her a chance to speak. How, she wants to know, is one expected to write under these circumstances? Originality is such a virtue, and the fear of someone dismissing your hard work as “copycat” or, worse yet, plagiarism is overwhelming.

And we’re back to clichés and tropes. Can one get away with writing the same stories if one acknowledges the fact and embraces it? Can I, like Shakespeare, deliberately pick stock characters to people my book, and by that make people think back to the original source of those characters and deepen their experience with my story?

In Cymbeline, Shakespeare uses fairy tale tropes, and a lot of them. How does he get away with that? How is his audience not groaning, throwing popcorn at the stage, and thinking, “Seriously? Another wicked step-mother queen?” “A girl dressing as a boy! Never seen THAT one before!” “Lost princes. How original. NOT!”

There may be some debate about the extent to which Shakespeare gets away with using these tropes, but I think there’s a reason for them. The easily-recognizable fairy tale motifs remind us that Shakespeare’s story, too, is a fairy tale, not a tragedy. They also give us a feeling of recognition – this is a story we know. Maybe it has twists and turns we didn’t expect, but what keeps us on the edge of our chairs is not the fascinated horror of inevitable doom (that’s for tragedies), but more of a Wodehouseian “how are they going to untangle this mess?” feeling.

So, the “go back it’s a trap!” feeling we get when Juliet gets the poison-that-is-not-a-poison-but-makes-you-look-dead is not the feeling we have when Imogen gets the same mixture. With Imogen, it’s more of a “here we go again, and won’t this make a convoluted and amusing mess!” They’re different stories… and we know this by the way Shakespeare uses what has been written before.

And we’re back at the Intertextuality Path, because this understanding of genre and types of stories only comes as one story references another. And maybe this path isn’t that far away from the tropes vs. clichés path after all. Dare I suggest that a trope enhances our understanding of what’s going on and deepens our appreciation for the work, but a cliché doesn’t add any layers of meaning or any depth? It’s a working theory, at least.

This may be why we find tropes so satisfying and delightful, while clichés make us roll our eyes and throw popcorn: When we see a trope, we realize that the author is deliberately entering into conversation with texts of the past. We greet the stock characters like old friends. We’ve seen the jealous stepmother many times before. We realize that the author isn’t putting his characters on a boat simply because it’s there or a way to get from Point A to Point B… because boats are made for shipwrecks just like forests are made for getting lost. (If you don’t follow me on that one, don’t worry. I didn’t believe it for the longest time.) And this understanding comes from the older texts.

If we know those older texts, we have Light Bulb! moments. Like the moment we realize that the Prince Florizel of Bohemia in Robert Louis Stevenson’s New Arabian Nights is at least as old as Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale. Or the time we find the line “Abandon hope all you who enter here” in Dante’s Inferno and realize that Disney has just called the Pirates of the Caribbean ride Hell. (Or is the “abandon hope” line a cliché? Either way, it gave me a light bulb moment!)

Does that mean, the author side of me wants to know, that clichés are used unwittingly while tropes come from a conscious decision? Perhaps. I’m not positive that all clichés are used unwittingly. If using a cliché is a conscious decision, is it a wise one? Not usually. Should the author have known better? Undoubtedly. But tropes… Can an author include a trope that she doesn’t intend? (And though the Path of Authorial Intent beckons, I’m just not going there. There be dragons!) For a trope to enhance our understanding of a text, doesn’t it have to be conscious on the part of the author? Can an author include layers of meaning that she herself isn’t necessarily aware of? (I thought I wasn’t going there!)

And does intertextuality play by the same rules as tropes? We know that intertextuality is everywhere. As a child, you read the Chronicles of Narnia and fall in love with Edmund. Sure, he has his problems… but he turns out to be a great chap. Then later you read King Lear and find that maybe there’s more to Edmund than you thought. Perhaps, Lewis is giving us the other side of the story: If Edmund hadn’t learned his lesson, if Aslan hadn’t sacrificed himself in Edmund’s place, would he have turned out like Shakespeare’s duplicitous villain? Edmund’s transformation in Narnia takes on a deeper significance when compared with Lear. But how much of that was a conscious connection on Lewis’s part?

My author side wants to observe that it is possible for an author to reference another work without being completely aware of it. What we read becomes part of who we are and then can’t be separated out again, and it can resurface when we least expect it and in ways we couldn’t have imagined. I have had light bulb moments with my own writing – and that’s just plain weird. (I was re-reading a Doug Adams book when I came across a sentence that I had chuckled over in my own novel, and realized that I was somehow channeling Adams when I was writing that day.) On the other hand, I think this unaware intertextual conversation doesn’t happen as often as my author side would like to think. And why should it? The times when the conversation works best is when the layers of meaning are intentional. And once again, I abandon the Path of Authorial Intent. That way madness lies.

But this perhaps helps us understand also why the Forest of Literary Criticism and the Woods of Lit Theory can be such a daunting and frightening place. Forests are for getting lost in, and being lost can be scary. But it can also be a time of discovery. This particular forest is filled with many paths… some to beautiful glens with sparking streams, and some to dark places as frightening as Mirkwood. But it isn’t completely inaccessible. The Intertextuality Path, especially, is a lovely place. But if one doesn’t know the stories – the Old Stories, the Great Stories, the Few stories (because there really are only a few) and the Many (because there are oh so many!) – one will never find the Intertextuality Path. So go read a story. Introduce a child to a fairy tale – not a Disney one, although they, too, are a part of the Intertextuality Conversation. Bring a book and sit just inside the edge of the Forest and enjoy the cool shade and beautiful view. And if you see Robin, tell him “hi” for me.

Upcoming Shakespeare -- Updated with links to reviews

This list is for me as much as it is for anyone else. I'm trying to find a way to keep track of all the productions I want to see. People keep telling me that I should put all this in one place, so here are the upcoming productions of Shakespeare in the Portland area (at least, the ones I can find; if you know of others, please let me know!):


Cymbeline -- Portland Center Stage -- through April 8th. 
http://www.pcs.org/cymbeline/
I've already seen it once, and will see it again...
Here's my review of Cymbeline. 

Much Ado About Nothing -- Northwest Classical Theatre Company -- March 23 - April 22
My review of Much Ado can be found here.

A Midsummer Night's Dream -- University of Portland -- April 13-15, 19-21
Here's a link to my review of this production.

And then it appears there's a dearth of Shakespeare in May... but things really pick up in the summer.

Hamlet -- Portland Actors Ensemble -- June and July 2012
Here's my review.

Measure for Measure -- Northwest Classical Theatre Company -- June 22 - July 15
This is what I thought of it.

A Midsummer Night's Dream -- Post5 Theatre -- June 29 - July 20
My review is here.


Twelfth Night -- Portland Actors Ensemble -- July 21 - September 3
My review... with lots of deep, philosophical thoughts.

Much Ado About Nothing -- Willamette Shakespeare --July 28 - August 19
My review: Not Much Ado

Henry IV Part 1 -- Post5 Theatre -- August 17 - September 8
http://post5theatre.com/2012season
My Review: Princes and Theatre Groups Have to Grow Up


In November and December, Portland Center Stage is doing A Midsummer Night's Dream. http://www.pcs.org/blog/item/25th-anniversary-season-announced/

And I know there will be more announced later. :-)

PCS's Shakespeare's Amazing Cymbeline (10 February 2012)

I will admit to being extremely skeptical of Portland Center Stage’s Shakespeare’s Amazing Cymbeline. First of all, anything that’s an “adaptation” puts me a little on edge; those tend to be the ones where the people with strange agendas, incomprehensible “concepts” and artsy ambitions crop up. And then, when I got there and realized that it was going to be done with a grand total of six actors – one of them being the piano-playing storyteller – I was even more concerned. On top of all that, when I saw that the part of the evil stepmother Queen was to be played by a guy, I started sharpening my wit and my tongue in preparation for tearing the whole production apart.

I was wrong. Utterly, completely and totally wrong. The entire production was brilliant, and I loved every moment of it.

Director Chris Coleman (who also adapted the play) obviously started with a love for the play and a huge amount of respect for it. In his adaptation, he didn’t stray from the plot or the words, or twist anything out of alignment. All he did was make the story a little easier to follow by adding the storyteller (that and figure out how to make all the doubling work).

Cymbeline is really a very funny play – as you might expect when Shakespeare trots out the old fairy tale tropes and gives them his signature touch. There’s the evil stepmother Queen; the poison-that-is-not-poison; the princess in disguise; the henchman who is supposed to take the princess out, kill her and bring back a bloody souvenir; the princes who don’t know they’re princes; the slimy villain trying to worm his way into the princess’s affections; the woodsmen living in a cave in the middle of nowhere (i.e. Wales); the girl-dressed-as-a-boy bit; the banished lover; the idiot suitor…. It’s all there, and more. And, as you might expect from something that’s so full of twists and devices, it’s a little hard to follow at times. And when we do follow it, sometimes we forget that it’s all a fairy tale, and therefore doesn’t take itself as seriously as perhaps we think it ought.

That’s where the piano-playing storyteller (played by Michael G. Keck) comes in. With a bit of introduction here, a word or two there, an explanation or reminder of what’s going on judiciously placed, and the ever-present hint that this is a fairy tale, he helped the story along. He reminded us that, yes, it’s OK to laugh; the story is supposed to be funny. And his dry delivery highlighted the absurdity of it all. And as if that wasn’t enough, he provided lovely piano interludes as he narrated.

The rest of the casting was gold, also. With such a small cast, it’s hard to single out which performances I liked best. They were all extremely well done. Especially impressive were those who had to switch back and forth between “British” (more like Irish) and “Italian” accents.

Ryan McCarthy played both Posthumous, Imogen’s banished husband, and Cloten, her repulsive suitor. I wasn’t really sure how that was going to work, until I remembered that Imogen has to somehow mistake Cloten’s headless body for that of her husband. And that’s when I realized just how brilliant the doubling of parts was. Ryan did a very believable job in both parts – making Posthumous sincere (if a little gullible and rash), and Cloten slimy, brash and idiotic. He also played Belarius, the old woodsman who lives with his two “sons” in a cave. The three (Belarius, Arviragius and Guiderius) reminded me for all the world of three of the seven dwarves… and I’m pretty sure that’s what Shakespeare was going for.

Arviragius was played by John San Nicolas, who also played Iachimo (the villain) and the evil Queen. I was skeptical of a guy playing the Queen, but then I realized that having a woman play the queen would mean adding another whole actor to do just the one part, and the casting choice made a lot more sense. And John did an admirable job. The Queen was perhaps a little stiff, but I attribute that more to the costuming than to anything else. John’s Iachimo was cunning, duplicitous and slimy – just what the part calls for. One isn’t supposed to like villains, but I do tend to like it when the baddie is well done, as Iachimo was. It made me wonder what he could do with Edmund in King Lear. In contrast, Arviragius was adorable (in a “Seven Dwarves” kind of way), innocent, eager and hysterical.

Space does not permit me to go into the detail I would like about Kelley Curran (Imogen), Scott Coopwood (Cymbeline, Philario, 1^st Lord and Captain), and Danny Wolohan (Pisanio, Frenchman, Caius Lucius, Guiderius). Together they all created an amazing and believable fairy tale world and wove a complex story into a beautiful tapestry – no mean feat for six actors.

But I would be totally remiss if I did not mention the costumes (designed by Jeff Cone), and the amazing work everyone did with the quick changes from character to character. One might think that all the changes and doubling of characters would be distracting, but the whole thing was so artfully done, that I found it rather enhanced the experience than otherwise – for me, at least.

The production runs through April 8^th, and I’d highly recommend going, if you can. It’s in the studio theatre way down in the depths of the Armory, so it was a nice, intimate space. I had forgotten that it was general admission… but even so, we managed to get front-row seats. The show is in the round, and actors are entering just about everywhere. I doubt that there were any “bad” seats. Ours turned out to be particularly good, however. And it was definitely worth the money.