April 13, 2003
It was a weekend of theater, last weekend. Actually the past two weeks have been packed with theater.
I like going to the theater frequently. It makes me feel productive. Why, I've got no idea. Like sitting in an uncomfortable seat, watching live people act out a story is somehow more productive than sitting on my comfortable couch, watching a tape of people acting out a story. But whatever. It just feels that way. Kind of like the feeling I get from reading. I can read the most God awful, waste-of-time crap – you know, serial killer novels with bloody knives on the covers – and yet, it just feels more productive than watching Masterpiece Theater on television.
First I saw a wretched production of Twelfth Night at the Arden in Philly. When Olivia has got at least twenty years on Viola and Sebastian and everybody is acting like there's nothing odd about the age difference, it's not an interesting directorial choice, it's just plain creepy. (They're tearing the actress who played Olivia apart in every paper in Philly. I'd feel sorry for her if I didn't know what actresses are like. Well, except for me. Naturally.)
Meanwhile, the Arden is supposed to be where it's at for good Shakespeare in Philadelphia. God help us all. As Scott said, “Kate, if the only positive thing you can say about a production of Twelfth Night is that you liked Fabian [the most minor character in the cast, for those of you non-geeks out there], then they might as well just close the show before it opens.”
After that particular crime against the Bard, Corina, Wes, and I saw the Philadelphia Shakespeare Festival's valiant attempt at Macbeth. (Yes, I see A LOT of Shakespeare. Mostly because Sabrina sends me out as her spy.) Anyway, Philadelphia Shakespeare tried, they really did. They had a great concept. Well, at least I thought they did until I read the director's notes. He set it in a time and place reminiscent of WWI, which made for a terrific opening scene. The raging battle featured soldiers in gas masks (something that always creeps me out) and on their first meeting with Macbeth, the witches were nuns in a field hospital, which was just so good. At one point, two of the nuns are left onstage alone with a wounded man on a stretcher and they smother him with a pillow. So when the third one enters and asks, “Where has thou been, sister?”, the answer of “Killing swine” took on a totally new meaning. That first scene was excellent. And I thought the WWI setting worked on the level of evoking the turmoil and imbalance of the world at that time. When you think about the fact that the assassination of an archduke in one country was sort of the catalyst for an entire World War, the murder of Duncan by the Macbeths is imbued with a deeper sense of importance.
So, yeah, I was behind this vision. Until, like I said, I read the director's notes. Apparently the director set the show in WWI because it was the last time men really fought with swords. No, I'm not kidding. That was his reasoning. That and the uniforms. Really. He liked the look of the uniforms. Although I can sort of understand at least the footwear thing, with all these men tramping around in these fabulous knee-length boots. You would think that even if the swords and the uniforms were his real reason for setting the play when he did, he would have come up with some academic blather about Archduke Ferdinand and the precarious balance of the world in 1918 or whatever. But, no, it was swords and uniforms for him. So I'm going to pretend he never admitted that and go on believing that the setting was a justified, logical choice that was trying to say something about the human condition.
They also had leads that could handle the text. Macbeth was excellent. Lady Macbeth was too much of a soccer mom for me, but at least she sounded like she understood the words that were coming out of her mouth. Banquo was a bit of a nonentity, but, again, he knew what he was saying. Seriously, you can tell if you're seeing relatively decent Shakespeare if the actors sound like they understand what they are saying. Bad community theater Shakespeare (well, aside from horribly envisioned Shakespeare, which is a whole different crime that can be perpetrated by professionals as well as amateurs) is when the words come out of the actors' mouths in a rush or as a perpetual question because not one of them has any idea what their lines mean so they just say them to get them out. Amazing, transcendent Shakespeare is when the lines seem as if they are spontaneous utterances, things that the characters think right then and there and are saying in the moment, and this only happens when the actors really, truly understand every single word that Shakespeare has put into their mouths and the other actors' mouths and why. And the best thing about that is, if they understand what they are saying, YOU will understand what they are saying, rather than just having to try to catch the gist. (Wanna see an amazing, transcendent production of Macbeth? Watch Trevor Nunn's 1979 BBC version of his stage work with Ian McKellen and Judy Dench as the Macbeths.)
Anyway, Philadelphia Shakespeare's Macbeth and Lady Macbeth weren't Sir Ian and Dame Judy, but they still had enough dexterity with the text to be believable. Unfortunately, and this is where the production began to fall apart, they and Banquo were backed up by a supporting cast that ran from passable to “How did this guy even get past the first line of his audition piece, let alone get offered the role?” Macduff was dreadful. He alternated between roaring at the top of his voice and mumbling. And he looked exactly like George Papdapolis from Webster so I spent a lot of time imagining Emmanuel Lewis running around Macduff's castle. It was a little tough to get over.
Malcolm came across as a blockhead for most of the show because the actor had no idea was he was saying. But when it came time for his big “testing Macduff's loyalty” scene, he pulled it out. I suspect they worked the poor kid like a dog on that scene to make sure it was good and then just gave up and let him rush his way through all his other lines because they were just so exhausted.
The rest of the supporting cast was equally shaky. And aside from the first scene, they show's vision suffered from a creeping indecision about just who in the hell the witches were (were they these very distinct, separate outsiders, or were they everywhere, inhabiting every woman in the show?). And whoever coordinated their fights should be taken out and severely beaten in a REAL fight, just so he'll have a point of comparison. In Banquo's murder scene, Banquo took on three thugs, one at a time, while the other two just stood there with their mouths open. Finally, they miraculously got over their paralysis, piled on top of him, and stabbed him 3,000 times. Maybe it was because they heard me muttering, “Why are you just standing there? There's three of you and ONE of him. You do the math.” I was in the front row, so it's possible.
In every fight scene, the actors threw punches so wide that there was no possible way for anyone in the audience to suspend their disbelief THAT much. At one point during Macbeth and Macduff's final battle, Macduff seemed to realize that Macbeth should have knocked him down, so he simply threw himself on the ground while Macbeth just looked at him. I actually laughed out loud. And that time, I know they heard me.
But they tried so hard and, really, I appreciated their efforts. Particularly after the crap that the Arden tried to pass off as professional theater. Besides, Donalbain was mighty cute. A total blockhead like his brother Malcolm, but so cute that it was forgivable. He was so cute they could have put just him onstage, let him mumble through two hours of text, called it Donalbain! and I would have watched.
After Macbeth at Philadelphia Shakespeare, it was Shaw's Man and Superman at Swarthmore Players' Club. Basically, I saw this one because my friend Peter was playing Jack Tanner in it and I'll go see Peter in anything. Even Donalbain! Or Seussical! Peter was Oberon for Rose Theatre two summers ago. I mention him here. He's the guy who wouldn't take me home to change out of my fairy costume.
Despite that horrid mistreatment, I still went to see him in Man and Superman last Friday. He was great. He always is, but this was like Shaw created Jack Tanner knowing that someday some trumped-up community theater in Swarthmore, PA was going to do his play and cast this big, beautiful bastard of a man in that part. Or maybe it's just that my judgment is always a little clouded when it comes to Peter.
Either way, I thought Peter was great. And the actors that played Henry Straker, Octavius, and Mr. Malone were talented as well. Other than that, the production was strictly amateur hour. While the actor playing Hector looked like Jimmy Stewart, he certainly didn't act like Jimmy Stewart. For a while there, it was touch and go if he was going to remember all of his lines. The mothers were broad caricatures that drew laughs because of the audience's familiarity with the type. And Ramsden didn't present Peter's Tanner with much of an adversary. Worse yet, Ann and Violet were far, far, far too old. Ann looked 37 and in a play where a major plot point is that two men have been appointed to share her guardianship, that's not such a good thing. (Apparently, Philadelphia theater has a "Mrs. Robinson" thing going on.)
The production was bourgeois to boot. They completely cut Act III – the Don Juan in Hell sequence. Granted, that act should always be cut to smithereens – too much of Shaw's philosophical gymnastics and not enough to engage the audience – but totally eliminating Act III transforms the play from a metaphysical musing on the nature of love, gender, and the human race's ultimate purpose into a rather ordinary, if charming, romantic comedy. And, really, leaving an abbreviated version of Act III in the show wouldn't make it less of a romantic comedy; it would just add another level of depth and (God forbid!) maybe make a few of the audience members actually think.
So Man and Superman at Swarthmore Player's Club: Peter, good; most everything else, eh.
And, finally, and I'm sure this is probably the only thing in this entry that any of you even remotely care about, I saw Kymm's show last Sunday.
Yes, the curse has finally been broken. After months of my attempts to see Kymm's shows being foiled by freak rainstorms, Teddy's inability to tell time, and the Septa Regional Rail line, Teddy and I made it to one of her shows. And Kymm's right: I made it because she told me the show started at 8 when it really started at 7 and that was enough to shatter the evil spell. They even held the show for 10 minutes to make sure we got there and Kymm put chairs in the front row so we'd be able to see everything. I imagine it was quite a bit like how people treated Princess Di. Although think of the fun I could have had if I had missed yet another show but this time because Kymm herself had screwed up.
Seriously, though, I'm glad that I didn't miss this show. It was an evening of one acts and all of them were excellent. But the one Kymm was in, Women at the End of the Road, was absolutely riveting.
I have to admit that I was a little nervous about seeing this show. From Kymm's entries, I was rather expecting soft-core porn. And then she wrote about how the opening night audience HATED the show. So I wasn't sure what to expect. But, considering that Rose Theater's signature show features a woman getting raped by the devil and that's always been a point of pride for us, I figured I'd just better suck it up and not be a baby about a little (er, well, A LOT of) erotica.
And I am glad that I sucked it up because Kymm, Cynthia, Omar and the other actress (whose name I can't remember) did a brilliant job. The concept of the play was really interesting: It dealt with what happens to us after death and about facing a choice between reincarnation and the unknown of whatever lies beyond this one. Everything was tied up with sex, hence the erotic action. Omar played a man who had just died. He found himself in a mysterious place with three women – the women at the end of the road. They must help him choose between going back or moving forward. Kymm's character was the gatekeeper; she guarded the passage back to the world through reincarnation. If Omar chose to be reincarnated, then he had to have sex with her to be reborn. And since this was her primary duty, Kymm kept trying to get him to do just that. The actress whose name I can't remember represented Omar's memory of his former life. She was both a distraction and a source of hope to him. I'm not entirely sure what Cynthia's character represented. At times she had a more maternal presence, but her dealings with Omar were highly sexualized as well, so I don't know. She seemed to be there to help him remember his former life and let go of it enough to make a decision about what to do next.
Ultimately, Omar had to choose between Kymm's character and the unseen, unknown Ferryman who would carry him to the other, unfamiliar side. I won't get into how it turned out, but I thought it was really an interesting concept. And I would formally like to request that my Men at the End of the Road be Billy Boyd, French Stewart, and Penn Jilette.
Omar was cute, cute, cute (and talented). Cynthia was poised and empathetic. But Kymm….Kymm was AMAZING. She was vibrant and sexy and earthy. She exuded strength and confidence and she was tremendously at home with herself and in her body. She enjoyed herself and what she was doing. She made Omar's job a million times easier because it has to be a piece of cake to be erotic with an actress who is at ease with herself and her body. Of course it didn't hurt that there was a palpable attraction between them. But Kymm was terrific and I have no problems admitting that I was a little envious of her sensuality and her ability to tap into this open and frank sexuality. I talk a good game (sometimes too good), but Kymm walked the walk. She put herself out there for everyone and anyone to see.
And, really, witnessing my friend being sexy and brave and captivating was the best theatrical outing I've had, not just in these past weeks, but in a long, long time.
7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions
Pride:
Envy:
Wrath:
Sloth:
Avarice:
Gluttony:
Lust:
Book:
Tune:
Well, she aint' such a beauty.
Task at Hand:
Quest for Publication:
You go, Kymm. Get down with your bad self, girl.
Like I said in the entry, I talk a good game, but Kymm has got it where it counts.
With the arrival of spring, the tourists flock to the city. I swear I am going to go out one day and run down as many of them as I can.
I still haven't read all of the books I assigned for my Witchcraft in Literature class and it starts in three weeks.
I think my job should pay for my drycleaning. I mean, they make me wear this business-casual crap; they should pay for it to be cleaned.
I ate dinner with my parents BEFORE Kymm's show and with Teddy AFTER it. I hate it when he cons me into eating with him. He's all like "C'mon, just hang out. We never get to spend any time together. Just come and have a drink." Meanwhile, he knows damn well there is no way I can be around other people eating and not eat. Yes, somehow it's Teddy's fault that I'm weak and have no willpower.
I've taken to watching Hercules on Toon Disney because French Stewart does the voice of Icarus. I need help.
Finished April Witch by Majgull Axelsson. Such an amazing book. Seriously. Read it. Just started Witches of Eastwick by John Updike. Yes, yes, I am not forgetting my resentment of Mr. Updike and my desire to name my literary journal "We Hate John Updike", but there is just no way to teach a class on Perceptions of Witchcraft in Literature and not teach this book.
Nick Lowe, "Ragin' Eyes":
Hardly a Juliet.
But she can roll a Romeo
in to do his duty
With those ragin' eyes.
Ragin' Eyes
Reading. Reading. And more reading.
Total Submissions: 51
Rejections: 24
Acceptances: 1
Withdrawals: 7