Showing posts with label Euripides. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Euripides. Show all posts

19 November 2021

'Children of the Gods': Launching The Shaliko Company (1973)

 

The audience is the Gods, the actors are the Greeks: watch in comfort as civilization collapses in this environmental spectacle of sex, power and selfishness

That’s the text of a display ad in the New York Times on Friday, 11 May 1973, for The Shaliko Company’s début production, Children of the Gods. 

Returning to New York in 1971 after the dissolution of his New Mexico guerrilla-theater troupe, the Appleseed (see “Cheerleaders of the Revolution” on Rick On Theater on 1 October 2009 and “Song in the Blood (Hiroshima/Los Alamos),” 5 August 2009), Leonardo Shapiro (1946-97) sought out the actors he’d known in the 1960s in New York University’s theater program. 

Among Shapiro’s other associates at New York University had been director André Gregory (b. 1934), founder of the Manhattan Project; Omar Shapli (b. 1930), who started the improvisational group Section 10; and director-teacher Richard Schechner (b. 1934), who had begun his Performance Group during those years. 

Gregory, Shapli, and Schechner had all started their companies after they had studied with Jerzy Grotowski (1933-99), who’d conducted his first American workshop at NYU in 1967, and based them in one way or another on the techniques Grotowski taught. 

Filled with ideas from Grotowski, and inspired by the examples of Gregory, Shapli, and Schechner, Shapiro, who never conceived of theater other than as a permanent collaboration among artists, put Shaliko together in January 1972 using former NYU students, including Candace Tovar (b. 1947), who was now his wife; Margaret Pine (b. 1948); Tom Crawley (1940-95); and Linda Putnam (b. 1944). 

Along with having been at NYU with Shapiro, Crawley and Putnam had also been in the 1967 Grotowski workshop (as had Pine’s husband, actor Larry Pine, b. 1945), and both Tovar and Putnam had been in New Mexico with him. 

The formation of The Shaliko Company was facilitated by a recently-conceived program at NYU.  Called the Ensemble Theatre Project (or, sometimes, Program; unconnected to the Ensemble Studio Theatre company of New York), the venture was intended as a showcase for the work of small performing troupes, limited to ten members, spawned by the School of the Arts in which “the performers use talents and skills acquired at the School to seek what is new in theatre and dance.”

The program, launched in 1971, was “an in-house project funded by the Rockefeller Foundation with the goal of creating small, viable performance groups comprised of graduates of the NYU theatre and dance departments.”  SOA Dean David J. Oppenheim (1922-2007) was pleased to see some students already working while they were still in school, as the cast of Brother, You’re Next (see my post on ROT on 26 January 2010) and the New York Free Theater (ROT, 4 April 2010) had done a few years earlier, so NYU set up a venture to raise money to seed small performing troupes. 

The idea was that these companies would be a step for the graduates from training to career without wasting the six to eight years of dispiriting non-creativity, and that the companies themselves would spin off into their own artistic orbits.  Shapiro became one of the NYU artists who availed themselves of the university’s largess—and it worked. 

In its time, especially as an adjunct of a traditional academic institution, the ETP was innovative—but right in line with Shapiro’s own ideas about the arts and education.  ETP’s founders conceived the project as “a movement away from the hired-hand notion of a company, and toward a community of artists” along the same path blazed by Gregory and Schechner—the precise philosophy voiced by Shapiro. 

Some of the other fundamental reasons for the formation of the ETP were later reflected in Shapiro’s artistic policy for The Shaliko Company.  For instance, the companies were expected to work as ensembles, developing their productions together rather than presenting the finished work of a playwright or choreographer. 

Even before Shaliko moved into what Shapiro called “company-developed” productions like The Yellow House (1986; ROT, 9 February 2018) and Strangers (1990; ROT, 3 and 6 March 2014), the troupe selected and developed its projects communally. 

Though the company eventually became merely an ad hoc collection of artists with whom Shapiro frequently worked, the early company was a group of young actors committed to exploring together the possibilities of performance as an expression of personal, artistic, and social concerns. 

On the model of other troupes of the 1960s and early 1970s, Shaliko was an ensemble.  Like Shapiro’s theatrical models and those that served as paradigms of social and intellectual symbioses like Black Mountain College (ROT, 20 June 2014), a cradle of what would become known as Postmodernism, and his own Windsor Mountain School, the progressive prep school in Lenox, Massachusetts, from which Shapiro graduated in 1963 (“Max and Gertrud Bondy,” ROT, 12 October 2011), Shaliko embodied a commitment not only to the art, but to the ensemble and to one another. 

Beginning as what Shapiro called “a shared idea in October, 1971,” the troupe “gravitated toward group theatre because it offered continuity of work, freedom to experiment and explore, and commitment to craft rather than commerce.”

In the early months of its formation starting in late January 1972, The Shaliko Company spent time getting to know one another through games and exercises.  The troupe stopped doing exercises for their own sakes, however, once they began working on productions. 

During these early investigations, the troupe spent time “developing skills,” for which purpose Shapiro created an exercise “in mistaken imitation of the Beijing Opera” that he called “blind combat,” in which the actors wear blindfolds and circle one another wielding wooden swords.  Out of this game eventually grew the company’s first project, Children of the Gods. 

Once Shaliko began working on Children of the Gods, however, they ceased physical work for its own sake and engaged in games and exercises only “for specific purposes, hoping that they will develop into something we can use,” though not everything did, of course.  “Things got worked on and dropped,” Shapiro said, “and a lot of stuff that got dropped was at the stage where it would’ve looked like exercise work, but it wasn’t for us.”

Shapiro described the process of arriving at the company’s first production:

We spent two months exploring our range.  Seeing what we could do and how far we could push ourselves.  Developing techniques that could use the new possibilities we were discovering.  By March, we became more text-oriented and started trying out material.  We went through texts rather quickly, using them as tools to further our own growth, pushing them to their limits, then moving on to richer material. . . .  We were looking for a script that spoke directly to the needs we felt we shared with our audience, a script strong enough to take all we could put of ourselves into it and still maintain its own integrity.  By June, we had discovered the Greeks.

Not surprisingly, considering Shapiro’s youthful aim to become a poet, among the earliest texts with which Shaliko experimented were poems.  After testing Kenneth Koch’s (1925-2002) George Washington Crossing the Delaware, “a grade school skit, celebrating the American myth,” in February 1972 and discovering that it was “too thin” and “would not bear our weight,” the nascent Shaliko took up W. H. Auden’s (1907-73) ballad “Victor,” a 1937 narrative of how modern society produces lost souls—elements of which sentiment found their way into Strangers in 1990—and, in May, Allen Ginsberg’s (1926-97) “September on Jessore Road,” a long lyric poem from 1971 describing the devastating 1968 floods and famine in India and chastising the U.S. for using its wealth to bomb Southeast Asians instead of sending humanitarian assistance to desperate Indians. 

At the same time that Shapiro and his new troupe were planning to work on Ginsberg’s poem, they also intended to begin work on another poetic theater piece, Vladimir Mayakovsky’s (1893-1930) Mystery-Bouffe.  This is significant, even though the planned “street show” adaptation never occurred, because a decade-and-a-half later, Shaliko would develop a modern version of this play about revolution (“Speaking Truth To Power: Shaliko’s Mystery History Bouffe Goof,” 17 August 2018).  During the planned rehearsals of Mystery-Bouffe, the company wanted to develop an adaptation of William Golding’s (1911-93) The Inheritors but ultimately could not secure the rights. 

Then, after a year, the demand to produce became “pretty intense” and, “blind combat” having evolved into the Trojan War, Children of the Gods, a composite of Aeschylus’ (525-456 BCE) Agamemnon and Euripides’ (480?-406 BCE) Electra, Orestes, and Iphigenia at Aulis, premiered in February 1973 at Philip Arnoult’s Theatre Project in Baltimore.  In May, Shaliko presented it in New York as part of an NYU Ensemble Theatre Project festival.  

Shaliko’s work on Children “took a year,” said Shapiro, “but I don’t remember how much time was spent working on the production and how much time was spent creating the ensemble.”

It is perhaps not surprising that these Greek plays would attract Shapiro’s attention.  The Aeschylus, for instance, centers on the murder of Agamemnon, the troupe’s “first attempt to make something forbiddingly ugly in the theater,” said the director.  Ever focusing on violence, “the romance” of which he wanted “to deconstruct”—as he would again 13 years later with Punch! (ROT, 4 September 2021), among other productions—Shapiro intended “to make murder seem ugly and hard and not at all fun.”

But it was Euripides’ works that are most in keeping with Shapiro’s temperament.  Of all the classical figures whom Shapiro might have included among his influences, the only Greek he named was Euripides—perhaps because, like several of his other models and inspirations, the Greek tragedian was an iconoclast and a harsh critic of his own society who was unpopular in his lifetime, ending up an outcast and an exile. 

The Greek tragedian’s characters express controversial views and question the traditional values of Athenian society, championing women’s rights and equitable treatment of foreigners, questioning the gods and, though Euripides had fought as a soldier himself, challenging Athens’ imperialism and the morality of its military campaigns. 

The butt of jokes, rumors, and the comedians’ jibes, he was accused of blasphemy and treason; yet, in behavior Shapiro was bound to esteem, he refused to curry the favor of his countrymen despite increasing official repression that saw his friends and colleagues exiled or killed.  Unappreciated by the Athenian establishment, Euripides did not win his first drama competition until 14 years after his debut, and won only four first prizes during his life (and a fifth posthumously). 

Only after his death was his influence—and his value to Athens, from which he had fled before his death—recognized; today, he is regarded by many critics as the first modern playwright and the one with the greatest impact on later theatrical development.  Such an artist who wrote against war when his nation was fighting against Sparta and invading Sicily is certainly a fitting choice for a company protesting war while its nation was fighting in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.

“[T]he story of the House of Atreus spoke directly to us,” averred Shapiro; “it was amazingly credible, especially at its most extreme moments.  Our war was ending and our half million Orestes and Electra[s], ready for action, were coming home.”  Using the Atreid saga to examine what happens when soldiers come home after ten years of waging war, Children was developed as “a redemption sacrifice to help heal the wounds of Vietnam.”

“We took this Greek material,” said director Shapiro, “to do a show about today—not by rewriting or changing the material, but by bringing ourselves to it.  The actors have stepped naked into these Greek plays bringing themselves and their world into the classical chain of blood crimes. They (the actors) are the children of our time.”

In the end, Children of the Gods was an environmental theater collage of the four classic Greek plays.  It doesn’t really have a plot in the conventional sense; there’s no real throughline with a beginning, a middle, and an end.  Generally, it recounts the saga of the fall of the House of Atreus.

I won’t retell the many legends that make up the story of the Atreides, but just to sort out the characters of Children, I’ll say that Agamemnon and Menelaus were brothers and the sons of the founder of the house, Atreus, King of Mycenae.  By the time of the plays, Menelaus was king in Sparta (and husband of Helen, the Greek beauty whose abduction started the whole Trojan War) and Agamemnon in Mycenae.

Agamemnon was married to Clytemnestra, whom he left alone in Mycenae when he went off to fight the Trojans, a war that lasted ten years.  They had a son, Orestes, and two daughters, Electra and Iphigenia.  Agamemnon was ordered to sacrifice Iphigenia to the goddess Artemis in order to secure a wind so his fleet could sail to Troy.

Agamemnon complied, angering Clytemnestra.  While her husband was away at war, she took a lover, Aegisthus, the son of Thyestes, Atreus’ twin brother.  Agamemnon, in turn, has brought back to Mycenae Cassandra, a priestess of Troy who has the gift of seeing the future—except that no one will believe her predictions.

When Agamemnon returned from Troy, Clytemnestra and Aegisthus kill him and Cassandra.  In anger at their mother’s act, Electra and Orestes plot to murder her and Aegisthus in revenge.  Clytemnestra curses her son, who is hounded ever after by the Furies.

Menelaus returns to Sparta with Helen and Electra, despite her part on the murders of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, is largely unaffected by the fate of her doomed family.

In Shaliko’s interpretation of the myths, descendants of Atreus are worthy of punishment because of the long list of blood crimes they have committed, starting with the murders of Thyestes’ children by his twin, Atreus—who then feeds the children to Thyestes.  To make sure the audience knows all this evil-doing, the program supplies a list of the major ones, including Helen’s betrayal of Menelaus and Agamemnon’s sacrifice of Iphigenia.

The troupe began improvising and Shapiro lifted scenes from Aeschylus and Euripides “wantonly” to assemble the story they wanted to tell.  For much of the rehearsal period, the director said, the company was not even sure what they were working on. 

As warm-up, the cast sat and listened to each other reading classicist and poet Richmond Lattimore’s (1906-84) translation of The Iliad, an exercise that taught them the value of storytelling and an appreciation for “the beauty of open transmission between a reader/performer and his audience,” both of which would become integral elements of the Shaliko theatrical philosophy.  Shapiro had an enduring interest in telling stories and he claimed that he married this concentration on narrative to his focus on poetry. 

The young Shaliko actors felt they were rediscovering “the roots of drama” and saw their efforts as “very pure and sincere” in contrast to what they saw in the mainstream theater of the city.  The twin kernels of Shapiro’s theater, narrative and poetry, grew as the company matured.

The company used improvisation and an “emphasis . . . less upon the lines than on physical action” to connect the various fragments, “skillfully shift[ing] from the story of Orestes and Electra to that of Agamemnon and Iphigenia.”  Though playwright and actor Wallace Shawn (b. 1943), a friend from the NYU days who followed Shapiro’s work from the beginning, pronounced Children “incredibly exciting,” the Daily News critic opined that “something [was] lost in the translation, not to mention the condensing”; he nonetheless gave The Shaliko Company “A for effort” and encouraged the troupe to continue experimenting. 

Coming directly out of exercises such as “blind combat” as it did, Children, which Shapiro described as “a violent and at times nasty show that took a sweet if tortured stand against violence,” was a punishingly physical production, beginning with blind combat. 

“It was a very physical production,” declared the director in a 1992 interview in which we looked at photos of past Shaliko productions.  “Incredibly physical.”  He pointed out an actress “thrown all the way across the theater.”  He exclaimed, “This is a person flying through the air being thrown by that person.”

“Everything,” Shapiro elucidated, “focused on the physical offering of the actor’s body.  We were doing with the play what Iphigenia was doing in the play.”  Indeed, the director pronounced what the cast was doing as “super-athletic and in fact dangerous.”

With Children of the Gods, Shaliko also began exploring what Shapiro called the “real-time event”—what actually happens at a performance while the audience is in the room—a concept obviously heavily dependent on the audience-performer relationship (see my post, 6 July 2021).  

If the actors present themselves as people like the spectators, doing actual things in real time, then, Shapiro hoped, the audience would become part of the event by making connections between actions that previously appeared unrelated.  Even as early as his days in New Mexico, the young director was quoting Grotowski: “The theatre is an act carried on HERE AND NOW in the actors [sic] organism, in front of other men . . . .”  The rest of Grotowski’s statement asserts that “theatrical reality is instantaneous, not an illustration of life,” linking the audience and the performers in one actual experience. 

Unrehearsed and unregulated, the real-time event could vary the length of the performance by as much as an hour either way, but without changing what Shapiro called its “score.”  Shapiro’s use of this term is similar to that of Ryszard Cieślak (1937-90), Grotowski’s principal actor and interpreter, who provided two analogies to explain it: a glass with a candle burning inside it and the bed of a river.  The glass, as the score, contains the flame, but the flame changes with each performance, responding to the moment, just as the riverbed channels the water, which is always “new and unknown.”

While the score remains constant, even rigid, but imperceptible, it is the flame or the river that the spectator sees, and which alters in response to the audience and the environment.  Shapiro described how this applied to the murder of Clytemnestra in Children of the Gods:

[T]he thing was that it was a game.  [Orestes and Electra] had to make her . . . be absolutely silent for, I think it was as long as it took to clap their hands three times.  If she made any sound at all they had to let her go for another three claps.  They could do anything they wanted to her—anything.  . . . .  One night, she actually got out of the theater and they chased her down Second Avenue and brought her back.  Some nights the murder would take, you know, ten minutes, some nights it would take thirty seconds.  It was all up to [Clytemnestra]; it was all up to her guts.  She was just so stubborn that she really wouldn’t let go.

Another example of real time in Children came at the very beginning of the performance.  The actors actually played blind combat as a real game.  There was no way to know how long that would take, Shapiro emphasized.  When someone was “killed” in the game, the actor started his or her opening monologue.  When all the monologues were spoken, the scene started. 

Shapiro had to rig the game, however, because he wanted Cassandra’s monologue early and the actress always was too good.  She kept winning, the director explained, making the balance wrong.  So Shapiro ended up having her wear anklets made up of bells so that she couldn’t be too good and the others could get her early enough to make Cassandra’s monologue like a prologue.

(When Shapiro told me this anecdote, I replied that it was ironic because he’d wanted to rely on real time, but had to rig the game so that it came out the way he needed.  Shapiro’s response was that he wanted it to be real, but he wanted it to be his way.)

Though Shapiro’s use of real time eventually got more subtle, and in later work he never returned to the overt use of it that appeared in early Shaliko productions, it was still a practice to which Shapiro came back again and again in his work and in discussions.  In a statement of the company’s purpose and goals, which alluded to his circus influence, he wrote: “Shaliko’s actors focus on the present, they improvise, they react to the moment with the concentration of a tight-rope walker, living the emotion of the present, not of a past evoked with artifice.”

Also starting with Children, Shapiro, invoking the actor-audience contract, made “the audience the active participant that connects the dots,” his application of Sergei Eisenstein’s (1898-1948) theory of attractions (ROT, 31 January 2010) as Shapiro understood it from Vsevolod Meyerhold (1874-1942). 

As New Leader critic Bermel noted, “Around and above the playing area . . . stretches a rectangle of scaffolding with plushy mattresses.  Loafing on them, spectators unavoidably become the gods looking down on their would-be worshipers,” with, as Shapiro put it, “the actors . . . always doing everything for the audience hoping the audience would love them and give them favor.”  In what Shapiro called “a wrestling match with the passivity of the audience,” Shaliko strove to “enter into a relationship” with its audience “and try to get them to play their parts.”

This precept can also be traced back to Grotowski and Shapiro’s earliest contacts with him.  At the time of the Theater Laboratory’s first New York visit, Grotowski pointedly invoked Polish actor and director Juliusz Osterwa, his only acknowledged antecedent, who he said “treated acting as a human experience that exists not for the public, but vis-à-vis the public.”

As the gods to the actors’ Greeks in Children of the Gods, the spectators were acknowledged presences for the actors, but in later productions, there was no substantive contact between the spectators and the actors.  This latter form of audience-performer interaction became the norm for Shaliko productions, though sometimes the spectators didn’t recognize their roles. 

Furthermore, Shapiro essentially eschewed “character” in the Stanislavskian sense.  “From the beginning of our work as a company,” explained Shapiro, “I was never interested in . . .  character.  We just threw that out and made everything based on . . . making sense and pursuing the objective.”

“Part of the conception of the actors’ job is role playing as opposed to character,” Shapiro expounded further, “playing the definition of their relationship with the audience and the story that is being told.”

On Shaliko’s work on Children of the Gods, the director affirmed that he didn’t see Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, Iphigenia, Menelaus, Orestes, or Electra as characters, “but was fascinated by them as hereditary 3,000 year-old roles as fresh today as when their garments were first produced by exploited children laboring in Athenian sweat shops.” 

For Shapiro, they were “[t]he greedy King, the unforgiving Queen, the sacrificed Virgin on the altar, the stormy Uncle, the wounded, disillusioned Young Hero, the Sister who has been unhinged by the thirst for revenge.”  Shapiro called this form of “role-play” “psychodrama.”  (I go into this Shaliko technique in “Acting: Testimony & Role vs. Character,” 25 September 2013.)

Children of the Gods, which ran about 75 minutes (depending on the real-time elements), premièred at the Theatre Project in Baltimore from 15 to 25 February 1973.  It transferred to the Ensemble Theatre Project in the Normandy Room at Central Plaza (111 2nd Avenue), New York University, New York City, from 10 to 26 May.  (There was a single performance at New York City’s Town Hall in the Theatre District on the evening of 8 March.  It was sponsored by the Cooper Union Forum, a program of free lectures and non-credit courses offered by the college.) 

The cast comprised Mary Zakrzewski as Cassandra and Iphigenia, Tom Crawley as Agamemnon, Margaret Pine as Clytemnestra, Jordan Clarke as Aegisthus and Achilles, Bruce Cobb as Orestes, Candace Tovar as Electra, and Tony Swartz as Menelaus.

The costumes, like the play itself, were collages of mixed pieces (Agamemnon, for instance, wore a life vest)—perhaps bricolage is a more accurate word here.  All the actors had their characters’ names inscribed in one way or another on their costumes; actors who doubled roles changed the costume bits with the names displayed.

The setting for Children was a 24' by 8' rectangle of two-inch rubber matting for Argos, surrounded by a four-foot-wide perimeter.  Aulis was a 24' by 32' runway of the same black rubber matting.  There was no actual “scenery,” nothing built, no furniture.  The “furniture” was, say, a sheepskin rug that an actor laid on or sat on.  There was no chair or table or anything three-dimensional. 

Both areas were on the floor of the performing space (that is, no raised platform) and were in place all the time.  Sometimes the action shifted from one area to the other; Agamemnon’s arrival from Troy after the war was the first scene, for instance, then the action moved to Aulis and his sacrifice of Iphigenia before the war was the second scene, a flashback.  Sometimes scenes took place in both spaces at once.

There was scaffolding to create platforms for the audience to sit on, looking down from above.  The scaffolding, against the walls on all four sides of the room, was wrapped in newspaper so spectators don’t see it as scaffolding.  It looked very sort of primeval, Shapiro felt, because of the shapes that it made: very thick, organic, clumsy. 

The New Leader’s Bermel credits Norvid Ross with the set design, but he’s the only review-writer who names a scenographer.  (The Village Voice review mentions “a designer” without giving a name.)  The press releases also don’t say anything about a designer, but they also don’t name any of the cast, either. 

Knowing Shapiro as I do, I suspect he had a technical adviser who oversaw the set’s construction, but that the director devised the concept—especially the scaffolding, which was a favorite technique of Shapiro’s in Shaliko’s early years.  The director worked that way often over the 20 years The Shaliko Company existed.

On the platforms above, in a complete rectangular arena configuration like an elevated boxing ring, the audience lay on long pillows the director had made at a factory in Brooklyn.  Beneath the scaffolding were the actors’ home bases, little alcoves.  There the off-stage actors could be seen relaxing between scenes, changing their costumes, touching up their hair, or speaking lines out to the main acting area.

So the audience is looking down and the actors are on this rubber-matted floor.  And because the actors are the Greeks and the spectators are the gods, the actors do everything for the audience in the hope that the gods are looking and that the Greeks will get their favor and the Greeks are competing with each other for the gods’ favor. 

I didn’t see Children of the Gods (I was still in the army in Berlin at the time), though I have seen still photos of the Theatre Project and Normandy Room performances.  A couple of reviews described the performances in some detail, so I’m going to do something I rarely do: I’m going to quote extensively from them—I’ll let the reviewers tell you what they saw.

In the Village Voice, Julius Novick reports, “The performers describe their work as a ‘collage.’”  He continues:

The dialogue seems to stick fairly closely to Aeschylus and Euripides, with an occasional “okay” or “motherfucker” thrown in for good luck . . . .  The action switched back and forth between Aulis, where Iphigenia is sacrificed by Agamemnon, and Argos (10 and more years later, after the Trojan War), where Agamemnon and Cassandra are killed by Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, and Clytemnestra and Aegisthus are killed by Orestes and Electra.  Often action talks place in both locales simultaneously. 

The playing area is an oblong arena spread with mats; the audience surrounds this area on all four sides, sitting on large cushions and looking steeply down at the action.  (According to the press release, “The actors are the Greeks, the audience is the Gods,” but I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t been told.)  As we come in, the lights are dim; various performers are moving in the arena, while others are ululating softly in corners.

The lights come up on Cassandra, in Argos, speaking the agony that precedes her death, while two men with clubs move around her miming a combat, and other performers moan and whisper on the sidelines.  Clytemnestra comes out to welcome Agamemnon home from the wars, writhing lasciviously on a large sheepskin as she does so.  This is a very physical production.  Agamemnon embraces a boy before sending him off with an important message.  Clytemnestra carresses [sic] Electra as she as she tells of the murder (I cannot just now recall which murder).  Aegisthus rapes Electra (a detail Aeschylus omitted), spits on her (ditto), and tells her the story of his father Thyestes, and then goes back and hugs Clytemnestra.  Achilles runs around the perimeter of the arena and does calisthenics as he delivers an expository speech.  Menelaus cuddles Agamemnon while persuading him to sacrifice Iphigenia.  Iphigenia jumps into her father’s arms.  Orestes, revealing his identity to Electra, does a somersault as he tears off his mask, after which Electra jumps onto his shoulder.  As Agamemnon talks to Iphigenia, Electra and Orestes embrace in a distinctly unfraternal (and distinctly unsororal) manner.  And brother and sister work themselves up to their task of murder by means of cartwheels and splits.

Then, in The New Leader, Albert Bermel gives this account:

The evening is aggressively theatrical.  Around and above the playing area, . . . stretches a rectangle of scaffolding with plushy mattresses.  Loafing on them, spectators unavoidably become the gods looking down on their would-be worshipers.  The latter, for quick identification, have their names stitched on pants or shirts or, in Agamemnon’s case, on a lifejacket.  When they are not on stage, they can be observed in cavelike cubby holes under the scaffolding, dragging on cigarettes, changing costumes, remaking their hair styles, draining coffee from styrofoam cups, and shouting choral lines into the arena. 

They warm up with one of those coming-to-birth exercises: Wearing red bindfolds, circling one another warily and waving wooden swords to feel their way, they give out wailing sounds.  Blue lights furnish a familiarly eerie glow, and a mood of acute déjà vu settles, but is swiftly shattered.  Once the players get rid of the blindfolds and fumbly preparations, they turn out to be, of all things, comedians.  Having chosen the stern material of the classics they are damned if they’re going to handle it solemnly.

Electra . . . murmurs to Orestes . . ., you better take Aegisthus’ head and hide it so mother doesn’t see it till she’s dead.”  Iphigenia . . . flies up on the shoulders of Agamemnon . . .; her face is now on a level with the gods and she proceeds to chat with them about her pending execution.  Clytemnestra . . . begs her husband for the truth, though every time he opens his mouth she cuts in to tell him he’s lying. 

On a stage combining a conceptual gymnasium and a sports stadium with a battlefield, the actors do not spare their bodies.  Two of them rush toward each other; at the moment when you expect them to thud together with an almighty crashing of bones—they do.  Achilles . . . races around and around like a quarter-miler and handsprings over two actresses while delivering a soliloquy.  Aegisthus . . . hurls Electra to the ground, dives on top of her and pummels wickedly at her ribs and chest.  Orestes thrashes about in his madness, banging his head, back and heels against what is audibly a hard floor.

After 75 minutes of such nonstop punishment, the cast is still able to get to its feet and smile graciously at the applause.  No wonder the number of performances is limited.  Throw in one matinee a week and they would all be drawing workmen’s compensation.

The criticism was mixed, but leaning toward the positive, and even the negative reviews were generous—possibly because Shaliko was new company making its début in a notoriously unforgiving business.  (It may also have been Shapiro’s and Shaliko’s good luck that no one named Simon, Kerr, or Kalb, they of the censorious bent, was assigned to cover the show.)

Shapiro acknowledged that Children of the Gods was commercially unsuccessful, but he asserted that it had created a strong impression on his peers and had an influence on theatrical technique that was still spreading.

Of the Baltimore performances, John P. Sullivan wrote in Performance magazine:

Improvisational theatre can only be successful when the actors are well-disciplined and able to recognize the value of theatrical mannerism and a good script.  Because most of the groups who have experimented with improvisational theatre have not been able to cope with this requirement, most of them have failed.

The Shalako [sic] Company . . . provides a refreshing bright light in the field of improvisational theatre.  This group has been able to deal with the hazards that have destroyed so many other groups.

Sullivan added: “The greatest problem in improvisational theatre us that it usually fails if the audience is aware that the actor is improvising.”  The reviewer pronounced, “The audience is seldom aware that there is improvisation going on in the performance of the Shalako Company.” 

“In their staging, Shalako Company strips away all distractions,” Sullivan reported.  He had one reservation, though, concerning the role of the audience as the gods, as Shapiro laid it out: “I am not sure that the audience was conscious of any such role,” he decided, but added he doubted “that that particular illusion is necessary.”  In conclusion, Sullivan affirmed that “the acting is quite competent.”

In the Baltimore Sun, R. H. Gardner caviled that “I have found the results [of improvisationally-created plays] generally disappointing, owing to the anarchy it tends to breed.  A notable exception is ‘Children of the Gods.’” 

In the presentation of the Greek tragedies collected into Children, Gardner found that “the emphasis is less upon the lines than the physical action.” 

Specifically what the Shalako [sic] troupe has done is to use certain key incidents in the plays—the arrival of Agamemnon, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, the murder of Clytemnestra—as themes for dancing, tumbling, fighting, etc.  But because they have exercised great restraint in the development of this choreography . . . the production avoids the meaningless motion typical of the genre.  On the contrary, it has a definite form; and since the physical action usually enhances the action of the lines, the effect is often a dramatically powerful one.

The Sun review-writer concluded, “The result is not simply a rehash of the fall of the house of Atreus . . . but an entirely new work—for which the Shalako Company is to be commended.”  At the end of his column, Gardner advised that “all who do not mind sitting on elevated scaffolds, in lieu of conventional seats, would be wise to attend.”

Of the New York mounting, Patrick Pacheco stated in the entertainment magazine After Dark:

What is often boringly yet respectfully treated, the Greek classics, this imaginative and talented troupe managed to make exciting and dynamic.  Using untested and new techniques in live theater which center on the event of the performance . . ., the Shaliko Company proves that vitality and creativity of “experimental” theater.

In The New Leader, Albert Bermel declared:

Suddenly the House of Atreus is flourishing again, and open to visitors.  The old foundations stand, but the upper floors have undergone renovations.  Hauled out of various closets, the skeletons . . . have been dusted down and reanimated; they now glow with novelty, as they should.

Bermel echoes the sentiment that Shaliko is standout among improvisational troupes:

There are people who berate improvisational actors for their self-indulgence.  The Shaliko troupe, however, confirms that hardly anything is more enjoyable than watching performers who enjoy what they do.  All it takes is confidence of the most brazen kind; a text on which to embroider crazy variations to their hearts’ content; a director/orchestrator like Leonardo Shapiro who knows how to spin several incidents along at the same time; a willingness to risk getting crippled; and work, work, work.

The Associated Press’s Mary Campbell averred that Shaliko’s Children of the Gods “worked with great effectiveness” by acting out the story straightforwardly so that “it isn’t hard to follow and it is very effective,” Campbell repeated.

In the Village Voice, Julius Novick characterized Shaliko’s Children as “deficient in intelligence and lacks any perceptible point; . . . but it is not bad fun—for a while at least.”  Upon describing the physical action of the play, Novick remarked, “Whatever may have been the intention, there is in practice no good reason for most of this.” 

“Mostly they seem to be in earnest; sometimes they seem to be trying to burlesque their material,” complained the Voice reviewer.  “Not infrequently, I was unsure of how they meant certain moments to be taken, and I wondered if they knew.”  Novick continued:

“Children of the Gods” is really, when you come right down to it, a rather preposterous enterprise; but its preposterousness is its charm, and its strength.  The legendary creatures of tragedy, still speaking their mighty speeches and doing their terrible deeds, are turned . . . into a bunch of ingenious, energetic, barefoot, simply . . . clad, nice American kids.  The performers have the familiar arrogance of American actors; instead of subjecting themselves to the characters they play, they subject the reality of the characters to their own personal realities.  But they are so up-front about this, they do it so completely and without hypocrisy, that it becomes acceptable. 

I’m going to break in here and make a comment.  What Novick is complaining about in that last passage, concerning the characters’ realities and the performers’ own, is the Shaliko technique of “testimony.”  I’ve tried to write about this (in the already-referenced “Acting: Testimony & Role vs. Character”), though I don’t know how successful I was explaining the concept. 

Novick wasn’t the only person who had trouble with this notion, which is derived from a Jerzy Grotowski theory.  The principal exemplar of its practice was Ryszard Cieślak—but he was extraordinary and no one else could quite accomplish was he accomplished.

Novick went on with his critique:

In most cases, [the Shaliko actors] do not even attempt a delivery that would match the elevation of the language; they bring the words down to their own level, speak them colloquially, and by doing so they manage to put some real emotion behind them. . . .  Speeches are not boomed out into the air; these people really talk to each other, and when they are not talking to each other, they really talk to the audience, addressing lines to individual spectators and looking them in the eye.

The reviewer from the Voice compared the environment of Children to the setting Grotowski created for The Constant Prince and quipped that “you can bet that this is no coincidence.”  I have no doubt that it isn’t.  Leonardo Shapiro was a devoted student of Jerzy Grotowski, crediting him with being one of his two principal artistic models (the other was Brecht). 

The Constant Prince, one of Grotowski’s most iconic productions, dating from 1967, was performed in New York City in December 1969.  It’s uncertain if Shapiro could have seen that performance as he wasn’t in New York at the time—but he wasn’t far away and could very well have made a point of coming here to see it. 

Even if he hadn’t seen the production by the time he mounted Children, he would certainly have made every effort to learn everything he could about it.  It would not surprise me in the least to learn that The Constant Prince had been a model for Children.

Novick also commented that Grotowski’s apparent influence on Shapiro was not thoroughgoing: “But the spirit of the Shaliko Company is not the gloomy, angst-ridden, ponderous Grotowskian spirit; this is a lively, bouncy, refreshingly unpretentious group of—I have to say it again—nice kids.”

In the end, Novick concluded:

“Children of the Gods” is ultimately a little tiresome, because what is done is so arbitrary; there is so little mind in it, so little purpose and point of view.  (There may be—there probably are—all sorts of profound and significant intentions in the hearts of the director and the performers; but since these intentions never become manifest in what is seen and done onstage, for all practical purposes they might as well not exist.)  The difference between the Greek heroes and the American kids who perform them is potentially an interesting one, raising all sorts of possibilities for irony, but it is never really used.  Still, the Shaliko Company is attractive and, perhaps, gifted, and they certainly do throw themselves into their work.  After all, can Sir John Gielgud turn somersaults?  The question now, is to figure out what to do with the somersaults, how to make dramatic metaphors of them, how to integrate them into some kind of meaningful theatrical structure.

In the New York Times, Mel Gussow prophesied that trying to “condense [the four Greek tragedies of Children] all into 70 minutes . . . is an over-ambitious, if not impossible, undertaking.”  “There are occasional notes of silliness and of pomposity,” Gussow found.  “But despite the obvious deficiencies, this work has an interest.

“The actors,” felt the Timesman, “view the characters from their own perspective . . . .”  Gussow clarified: “This Atreus is about rejected youth.” 

The Times reviewer observed:

To a large extent, “Children of the Gods” is a sporting event.  The characters wear their names on their costumes as if they wore team numbers . . . .

They throw themselves through the air like javelins.  Achilles triumphantly jogs around the stage as if it were a board track.  When an actor is not performing in a particular scene, he sits on the sidelines—benched. 

“At times,” Gussow found, “the action is distracting but it does add a certain rhythm—and even a cohesion—to the production.”  In addition, he noted, “The actors can, for the most part, handle the lofty language . . . with as much ease as they perform their gymnastics.”

Dubbing Children “an ambitious environmental theater experience,” the Daily News’ Michael Iachetta deemed that there was “something lost in the translation, not to mention the condensing.” 

Complaining about the “not-very-soft mattresses” on the scaffolding, Iachetta found the “story is confusingly told through forward action in different time tracks so that dead characters appear on stage alive after they have been murdered.”

“‘Children’ tries to deliver too much too soon but gets A for effort,” judged the Daily News reviewer.  “Shaliko should be encouraged to try again.”

Well, Mr. Iachetta: it did.  It kept trying for 19 more years.  It never made it big—came close once or twice (Woyzeck in 1976, starring Joe Chaikin; The Yellow House, 1986)—but it made some terrific theater.  Oh, and by the way: Shaliko kept on trying to deliver too much too soon.  That was the thing about Leo Shapiro: his reach always exceeded his grasp.  He never learned; that was just the kind of guy he was.

01 March 2020

Some Greek Classics from the Archives


HECUBA
by Euripides
Royal Shakespeare Company
Brooklyn Academy of Music
Howard Gilman Opera House
Peter Jay Sharp Building
20 June 2005

I saw Vanessa Redgrave in Hecuba by Euripides (c. 480-c. 406 BCE) at the Brooklyn Academy of Music on Friday evening, 17 June [2005].  The performance and production were, in a word, terrific—at least as far as I’m concerned.  There was a rather cool review by Charles Isherwood in the New York Times today [20 June] and his main complaint—he labeled it a “passionless production”—was the very aspect that I found praiseworthy in Redgrave’s performance of the captive Queen of Troy—her emotional reserve. 

Diana, my frequent theater partner, said she hadn’t been “engaged,” though she didn’t know exactly why.  I suspected that that had been her response, and when I read Isherwood’s review, I guessed that she would agree with it.  (I gather, from the review, that the reception in London was similar—especially, as Isherwood said, in comparison with a better-reviewed production of the same play earlier.) 

My response was different: I saw Redgrave’s reserve as a portrayal of a woman who had just been wrung dry—that there wasn’t much left.  Maybe what I saw as “talkiness” in the script (see below) was really this lack of strong emotion, but I didn’t feel that way while I was watching.  It looks, though, like I’m in a pretty small minority.

Hecuba (c. 424 BCE) was presented as a one-hour-and-40-minute one-act production in a single set of the slave encampment for the captive Trojan women, and Redgrave is center stage virtually the whole time.  The set (designed by Es Devlin and lit by Adam Silverman), which depicts the tent camp of the slaves crowded together climbing up a steep hill toward the rear of the stage, is all in various shades of a subdued olive (maybe avacado) green—sort of sun-faded and dusty.  (I’ll remark later that I kept wondering if the director’s intent was to evoke Iraq and the Middle East—but my impression began here.) 

All of the action takes place in front of the tents, where Hecuba’s is down center (and the only one that’s actually used).  The costumes (also by Devlin) of the Trojan women are similarly “dusty” and subdued, but include shades of blue and blue-green and, I think, wine-red.  All the women wear some sort of head covering, but one or two of the chorus wear what can only be described as hejabs, the Muslim head scarf.   

Next to the physical production and the acting, the most impressive thing I noted was that I could hear and understand nearly every word of the dialogue—even the chorus, which sings (not chants) its lines.  I don’t think the production is miked—the voices sound too natural and seem to come right from the stage, as opposed to speakers in the house.  (I was sitting near the house-right wall, right below a set of speakers, and I couldn’t hear anything coming from them.) 

I may be wrong, but it sure sounded like everyone was projecting like actual actors rather than film performers.  And still, I could hear and understand everything (except one brief scene when Polymestor, the treacherous king of Thrace—where the scene is set—is inside Hecuba’s tent.  She is killing his sons and blinding him in revenge for his having killed her son who had been under Polymestor’s protection.  Nice folks, those Greeks.)

As far as the acting is concerned, the only person worth talking about is Redgrave.  As the script has been rendered, hers is the only full character in the play; all the others are little more than cameo appearances, with one or two discrete scenes (with the exception of Polymestor).  In fact, except for a couple of actors, only Redgrave plays a single character.  So, focusing on her Hecuba, I have to say that it was an excellent job of acting in all that that implies.  Redgrave can be a scenery-chewer, but she’s perfectly restrained here, except when outrage and grief drive the character to a legitimate extreme. 

This is, after all, the character about whom Hamlet asks in the famous “rogue and peasant slave” speech in Act 2, scene 2: “What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, / That he should weep for her?”

If you don’t know the story—Hecuba isn’t one of Euripides’ more-often produced plays—the former Queen of Troy is now a slave along with the other women of Troy.  King Priam and her sons who fought at Troy have all been killed; her daughters Cassandra and Polyxena are captives with her (Cassandra, who doesn’t appear in the play, has been taken by Agamemnon), and her youngest son, Polydorus, who was spirited away to Thrace by Priam, fearing that Troy would fall to the Greeks, so that one son would survive, was placed under the protection of Polymestor, Priam’s longtime and trusted friend, with a hoard of Trojan gold as his legacy. 

Before the play starts, Polymestor has had Polydorus (Matthew Douglas) killed after the news of Troy’s defeat and sacking has reached Greece, in order to take the Trojan gold.  Hecuba doesn’t know of this yet, but Polydorus’ ghost delivers the prologue and lays out the whole story, including that the Greek army has voted to sacrifice Polyxena (lotsa Polys in this play) on the tomb of Achilles in order to secure a wind to take them from Thrace, where they have been becalmed, home to Athens and the Peloponnesus. 

Just after Polyxena (Lydia Leonard) is sacrificed (off stage, of course), and Hecuba has made the burial arrangements with Agamemnon (Malcolm Tierney), who is her friend and defender, her servant drags a covered body onto the stage.  Hecuba thinks it is her daughter, then sees that it is her last son and learns of Polymestor’s treachery.  So you can see that there is ample cause for Hecuba to go off the deep end—it is a Greek tragedy, after all—and Redgrave handles all this very well, not going overboard (which, I suppose, is possible, especially for her). 

I mean, if you buy the premise that this is a woman brought horribly low, seen her family slaughtered, her home destroyed, one of her last two daughters sacrificed on the demand of the enemy army, and now her last surviving son murdered by a presumed friend, Redgrave is pretty much believable in her grief, anger, and, finally, thirst for revenge. 

When she lures Polymestor and his sons to the camp and then into her tent—on the promise that she will reveal where Priam’s hidden treasure is—and with the help of her women kills the boys (John Dominici, Christopher Madden, Otto Pippenger; two of these appear im each performance) and blinds Polymestor, you know she’s a woman who has just lost all reason to go on.  She has nothing more to lose and only wants to make her treacherous former friend suffer what she has suffered.  Redgrave is angry, but not hysterical. 

Polymestor (Darrell D’Silva, who also plays Odysseus in his one scene near the beginning of the play) has the only other part that requires a range of acting.  (Odysseus only comes to tell Hecuba of the army’s vote to sacrifice Polyxena; Agamemnon, who has several scenes, pretty much also only comes to bring news or get some—in the case of the discovery of Polydorus’ body; and Polyxena has only the one scene where she is taken for the sacrifice and asks her mother not to beg for her life, to let her accept her fate with dignity.  That last requires some nuances, I guess, but it’s all one piece—well enough accomplished, but little variation.) 

So D’Silva, as the villain of the play, I guess, gets the best scenes with Redgrave—he starts out as her trusted friend and comes to mourn her losses (having just learned of Polydorus’ death, don’t ya know), then turns to barely suppressed greed as Hecuba tells Polymestor of Priam’s hidden gold (on top of the cache he’s already stolen—which he’s told Hecuba is safe back at his palace, don’t ya know) and follows her into the tent with his sons to learn where the treasure is hidden. 

Finally, when he emerges blinded and defeated by the “terrorists” (yes, that’s what he calls the Trojan women who got the drop on him inside the tent), and then stumbles on the bodies of his two boys, he’s enraged, “destroyed” (that what he calls it), and aggrieved.  (Actually, D’Silva’s the scenery-chewer here—though not without plenty of reason!)  It’s the scene with all the flash and pyrotechnics, but not more than you’d expect given the envelop.

By the way, there was one well handled (and designed) tech thing that first appears here—and used again at the end.  Polymestor’s railings after his blinding and the deaths of this sons are echoed as if bouncing off the hills above the camp.  It’s a very evocative effect, and it appears again when Hecuba keens over the body of Polydorus as the play ends.  (The sound design was by Fergus O’Hare.)

As I hinted, the script seems to have been severely cut, perhaps to focus it entirely on Hecuba.  (I haven’t looked at a translation to see what might have been removed.)  While the translation (by Tony Harrison, described in the program as “Britain’s leading theater and film poet,” who also seems to have directed—more on that in a bit) was fine—not stilted or overly literary, but not too contemporary, barring a few obvious references: the aforementioned “terrorists” and the habitual use of “coalition” to designate the Greek forces. 

I don’t know if the cuts or the translation made the play virtually all talk—except for the scenes with Polymestor—or if that’s the nature of the play.  Greek tragedies do tend to be almost all speeches, of course, since all the violent acts have to take place off stage.  This being the case, the shortness of the performance was probably a good idea—and so was the singing chorus, which at least alternated the spoken speeches (there isn’t a lot of actual dialogue—stichomythia, if you will) with a different kind of delivery. 

(In another hint of evoking the Middle East, I detected a slight redolence of Middle Eastern rhythms in the chorus music (composed by Mick Sands and directed by Bruce O’Neil).  Just occasionally, to my ears, it sounded like Jewish, rather than Arab, music.  I may have projected this onto the production, though; I’m not sure it was intentional, even as slight as it was.)

One thing about this production is slightly odd: there’s no director specifically credited.  The program bills this as “a new version by Tony Harrison,” and his bio identifies him as a director (not the director: his function in the company is listed as “new version of Hecuba”) as well as a poet and translator.  

(The New York Times review identified the original director, Laurence Boswell, and also reported the news that his name had been removed from the production credits in London.  The article didn’t say why that had been the case, but did suggest that Tony Harrison, the adapter, had taken over the task of directing, hinting, however, that it had been a company collaboration, too.  A horse designed by a committee.) 

I guess I’m assuming Harrison’s also the director, for lack of any alternative choice, but the production does bear what I’ve often seen as the hallmark of a play directed by its writer: the focus is almost entirely on the words.  (I saw the Broadway revival of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf back in 1976 which Edward Albee directed, and it was the same phenomenon: I came away saying to myself, “Wow, what a great script!”)

My impression is that this production was very specifically designed to showcase Redgrave.  If she initiated it, or if Harrison did, or if they came up with the idea together, I have no idea, but the way the script was cut so that it focused entirely on Hecuba, a role for a strong older woman—how many of those are there in the canon?—and stage design that puts Hecuba center stage all the time, the lack of any other major character to share the stage—even Polymestor has only one scene, longer though it is—and the casting that didn’t include one other recognizable name to balance against Redgrave—it all suggests that this was deliberately orchestrated to be a star vehicle for Redgrave.  Not that that’s a bad thing, of course; this isn’t really a criticism but just an observation.

Now, about the potential contemporary references: I don’t know how far Harrison wanted it to go.  It’s clearly intentional: the play’s synopsis in the program starts off saying, “The first Great War between the East and the West is over,” and, of course, Troy was in the Middle East (Asia Minor, anyway—part of what is now Turkey) and Greece is European. 

But despite the uses if words like “coalition” and “terrorists,” I don’t know how the situation of Troy and the circumstances of the captive women are really parallel except in the most general way.  (I kept trying to see if the gold for which Polymestor lusted could somehow be a substitute for oil, but it doesn’t work really.) 

It seems to come down to an examination of the plight of a defeated and captive people, but not specifically the Iraqis (who, for all the errors and deceits of George W. Bush and Tony Blair, et al., aren’t really captive in the same sense—and might not even be said to be defeated, since it was pretty much just Saddam and his army who got smashed). 

In the end, I don’t think Harrison (or Harrison and Redgrave) intended this Hecuba to be a comment on the current conflict in the Middle East/Iraq, but to evoke it; the refs where meant to resound without being a direct parallel.  Anyway, that’s how I see it, despite Redgrave’s well-known support of the Palestinians and other subjugated peoples of the region.  

By the way, if this is Hecuba’s first New York production, as reported by the Daily News, that makes it a U.S. premiere.  If it had been on Broadway, it would have qualified for a Best Play Tony!  (Didn’t that happen recently with another ancient classic?  I have a vague recollection.  [I still don’t remember a previous instance for sure, but it did happen later with Mark Twain’s unproduced 1898 Is He Dead?, on Broadway in 2007-2008.  It was eligible for a Best Play Tony but wasn’t nominated.])

*  *  *  *
OLD COMEDY AFTER ARISTOPHANES’ FROGS
by David Greenspan
Classic Stage Company
26 May 2008

My friend Diana and I took a subscription to the Classic Stage Company this year [2008] because there were two shows that looked promising.  CSC had a subscription plan whereby we could take four tickets and divide them up anyway we wanted—four single seats to four performances, three seats for one play and one for another, and so on—so we took one four-seat subscription and planned to go to two plays together, skipping two of the announced schedule, Richard III with Michael Cumpsty and The Seagull starring Dianne Wiest and Alan Cumming. 

As it turns out, that may have been a mistake.  I’ve already described my problems with the first of our two selections, New Jerusalem, the play about philosopher Baruch Spinoza we saw back last February [see my report posted on Rick On Theater on 20 April 2014].  Now, on Friday, 16 May [2008], we went over to CSC (in a pouring, all-day rain) to see a new adaptation of a classic farce billed as Old Comedy After Aristophanes’ Frogs, the last show of my planned season (though there may be some Lincoln Center Festival stuff when that comes along later in the summer). 

The pretentious title should have been a giveaway, I suppose.  (Playwright David Greenspan said in an interview in amNewYork that the title was “a way of suggesting that it’s more of an original play than an adaptation.”  So, is that a good thing?)

CSC didn’t actually produce this play, adapted by Greenspan and directed by David Herskovits.  It was a product of one of New York City’s fairly new companies, the Target Margin Theater (on the scene since 1991). You might remember that Herskovits, Target Margin’s artistic director, was also the director of The Jew of Malta in March 2007 [in “Some Plays about Jews from the Archives,” posted on 15 February 2020]. 

I don’t know the explanation for CSC’s adoption of the Target Margin show but I suspect there was at least some element of financial consideration involved in the decision—it’s cheaper to co-produce a play another theater is already developing than to come up with an original one from scratch.  I don’t really have a handle on Target Margin’s style and production quality, but they have something of a rep for good and interesting work, and I suppose CSC could have bought the production to fill out their season, based on the facts that it’s a classic and promised to be an interesting and provocative take (Greenspan has won a playwriting Obie) by a good troupe. 

Wrong!

The review in CurtainUp called the play “an incomprehensible hodgepodge” (it also called it a “mess”), and while that’s perfectly accurate—it’s also generous.  Variety called it “twee” (which itself is kind of twee, isn’t it?) and “pretentious.”  The Times said it was “desperate-to-be-current.”  All of these are true. 

Diana, who said the New York Times had been kind, added that the troupe was trying hard to be clever, larding the play with all kinds of references to every cultural figure they could come up with from the past 2500 years, and focusing heavily on BushCheneyRove & Co.  (I could make short work of this report by simply pasting in Neil Genzlinger’s short Times review.  But I’m a masochist, so I soldier on . . . .) 

I responded to Diana that clever was too tolerant.  They were trying to be smart-ass!  (I’m smarter than YOU are!  Lookit all the pop and cultural refs I can throw in here!)  That’s not clever.  Clever might be to make Macbeth a template for a conspiracy-theory take on the assassination of JFK (ummm . . . that’s Macbird!, in case y’all missed it).  This was frat-boy weisenheimer.  (In that amNY interview, Greenspan called it “a parody of political malfeasance in our own time.”  Riiiight.)

The reviews, especially Genzlinger’s in the Times, made a point that all the pop references went by so fast and were so voluminous that there wasn’t any way to catch them as they flew by.  Even if any of them were funny—and I never heard anyone laugh; I sure didn’t—we never had a chance in Hell (well, okay, Hades—it is Greek comedy, after all) of glomming onto any of it.  (I’m not saying the material wasn’t funny—just that I never had a shot at finding out.) 

The Times described Herskovits’s direction as “high-energy”; I might have used a word like “frenetic,” instead.  As several reviewers noted, in addition, the refs to The Bush League were so flat and commonplace that we’ve heard them all many, many times before—and he’s so close to being outahere that it’s almost irrelevant now to boot.  (W may be our worst president ever [remember: I wrote this before November 2016!]—let’s not debate that now, any of you who disagree—but how many times do we have to hear that.  It’s not news!  Preaching to the converted may work in politics—lookit the presumptive Republican presidential nominee, John McCain, these recent days—but it makes awful theater.) 

The whole enterprise had the ring of a bunch of college kids sitting up through the night, drinkin’ and tokin’, telling each other their best BushCheneyRove jokes . . . back in 2004!  (And worse, after they sobered up, they still made the rest of us listen to the jokes they thought were sooo fuuunny when they were stoned!) 

The icing on this cake of shame is that Target Margin isn’t a bunch of college kids (or recent grads), they’re older than that and should know better and be capable of more, deeper thought.  Aristophanes, as far as I know, wasn’t a dummass; he had things to say to his Athenian audience back then.  He wasn’t writing the predecessor of today’s TV sitcoms—more like, maybe, That Was the Week that Was.  (Tom Lehrer rules!) 

Greenspan and the Target Margin troupe seem to have dummed Aristophanes down and lost an opportunity to tell us things we might not have thought of or, at least, put them in startling new perspective.  (A mind, to paraphrase Dan Quayle—if that’s even possible—is a terrible thing to waste.  Mine, not theirs!)

You may have noticed that I haven’t actually described the play much.  Or at all, really.  I can’t.  Diana dozed off, but I didn’t and I still can’t tell you what I saw because it was so incoherent and haphazard I not only couldn’t retain it—I couldn’t follow it while it was going on in front of me. 

That CurtainUp review characterized the production as “the kitchen sink method of playwriting and performing.”  I can tell you that that isn’t a metaphor: as he was departing the stage, Dionysus retreats to the back of the playing area, where all the props and set pieces are stashed in view of the audience, and brings out . . . an actual kitchen sink . . . which he carries off with him.  Ain’t they just too much? 

I didn’t nod off like Diana, but I zoned out, at a complete loss to keep untangling and deciphering what was happening on stage.  I left with the impression that the actors had all been speed-talking—but I don’t think they really were.  Might as well have been, though.

I can also tell you that Greenspan kept the basic plot of Aristophanes’ Frogs.  (I’ll let you all look that up if you don’t already know it.)  The outline is still there, as far as I could remember.  (I didn’t reread the Aristophanes before I saw the CSC production.)  He just larded it with contemporary references—in addition to The Bush League, he invokes Arthur Miller, Judy Garland, Gertrude Stein, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Walt Whitman, and James Joyce, as well as the Iraq war, torture (with allusions to waterboarding), contemporary Broadway and its audiences, the Jewish and Christian Bibles, and Roman mythology.  (Variety dubbed this “so much preening, in-jokey shtick.”) 

I also haven’t said anything about the performances, so I’ll just observe that no one embarrassed himself (except maybe Greenspan and Herskovits), even as no one made much of an impression.  (That’s why I’m not going to mention anyone by name.)  Everyone had lots of energy—they had to—but the end product, as the CurtainUp critic wrote, was “for the birds”!  (Get it?  For the birds?  The Birds—another Aristophanes comedy?  Huh?  Huh?)

Oh, well . . . .

The performance lasted only 90 minutes—no intermission.  Diana opined that that was done deliberately—to keep anyone from leaving.  (CSC has a three-sided house, but the whole audience was in the center section—probably to keep the theater from looking like Yankee Stadium on a non-game day!)  Nonetheless, at least two spectators walked out during the show.  Since that required walking along the edge of the playing area, it’s a pretty good signal of their response, wouldn’t ya say?

Needless to add (but I will anyway), Diana and I are not taking out a subscription for CSC next season. 

*  *  *  *
THE BACCHAE
by Euripides
National Theatre of Scotland
Lincoln Center Festival
Rose Theatre
Time Warner Center
22 July 2008

My theater friend Diana and I went to one of the Lincoln Center Festival events on Friday, 11 July [2008]—and, generally speaking, I wish we hadn’t.  Sorry.  We went to the “new” Rose Theatre (in the immense Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle—where the old New York Coliseum used to be) to see Alan Cumming in the National Theatre of Scotland’s new adaptation of Euripides’ The Bacchae (405 BCE).  (That’s quite a mouthful, all together!) 

Apparently the production was the bomb at Edinburgh last year, and most of the reviews here were at worst complimentary of the theatrics and the acting, but I found the whole experience unmoving and contrived.  (Oddly, the only review I read that was negative was Back Stage, which I usually perceive as being purposefully kind to actors—nearly the whole of its readership, after all.  Adam Perlman’s 7 July criticism, however, actually dealt Cumming a bad notice.  Perlman even called the production boring!)

First of all, it’s a musical.  Yes!  A musical.  Well, okay—”a play with music” if you insist, but, whatever . . . .  Perlman likened Tim Sutton’s music to Galt MacDermot’s score for Hair, but he’s off base.  It was soul music—old-time Motown.  It was Dion(ysus) and the Supremes: the female chorus, all dressed in gowns of different styles and various hues of red, were all Afro-Europeans (or, in some cases maybe, African Americans—I couldn’t be sure) and I swear they were all channeling ’60s girl groups. 

Now, I think this was the heart of the problem.  Pop music isn’t weighty—even the sad songs.  (Tragedy in pop music is when your boyfriend is killed in a motorcycle accident.)  It’s a light genre, not like, say, grand opera or art songs—or even folk songs.  It’s impossible, it seems to me, to come off such a dynamic and get to the abject and awful tragedy of a mother who has murdered her beloved son. 

Not just murdered, of course, but torn him limb from limb with her bare hands—and is proud of her feat (because she thinks she and her sister Maenads have rent a mountain lion).  I’m afraid it’s like the old joke: You can’t get there from here.  You can’t get to that kind of horrific tragedy from the Supremes manquées.

I can’t say I was much bothered by the contemporary adaptation, by playwright David Greig from a new literal translation by classicist Ian Ruffell.  Particularly given the overall style of the production (directed by John Tiffany), the modernness of the speech was not part of the problem.  Or maybe it was just overridden by the more harmful elements. 

Along with the playfulness of the musical atmosphere, for instance, was an accompanying flipness of approach.  This was essentially signaled at the very start when the god Dionysus (Cumming, of course) descended to the stage from the flies suspended upside down and handcuffed, wearing a gold lamé skirt/chiton.  The chiton, gravity not having been suspended as well, hung down over Cumming’s head, leaving his butt bare; he wore nothing underneath.  (The New York Post review on 7 July made quite a point of this—with puns aplenty!)  A bare-assed god.  Now, except maybe for Cupid, that’s not what you’d call a dignified entrance, I wouldn’t say.  And the intimation of S&M doesn’t add to the tone of seriousness for a tragedy-to-be. 

Okay, so maybe Tiffany was playing with undercutting the tragedy, subverting it for some dramatic or thematic purpose.  I don’t know why he would—but what do I know?  (I’ve always felt that the musical beauty of the songs in Peter Weiss’s Marat/Sade and Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd made the subjects all the more devastating because the melodiousness was in such contrast with the lyrics and the plays’ themes.)  

Let’s say he was subverting the tragedy.  But the final scenes, when Agave (Paola Dionisotti—which, by the way, I think is some kind of Italian variation on ‘Dionysus’) came down from Mount Cithaeron holding her son’s head and was discovered by her father, Cadmus (Ewan Hooper), who had gathered the severed parts of his grandson’s body, were totally piteous.  It’s an exceedingly bloody ending, by the way. 

There was no irony in Tiffany’s treatment of the ending, and no winking sop to the earlier lightness.  There was no segue from the playfulness of the seduction of Pentheus (Cal MacAninch), the macho-posturing Theban king, dressing him in women’s clothes, and sending him up the mountain to spy on his mother and her cohorts. 

The mountain bacchanalia and dismemberment took place off stage, of course, so we got the flip teasing of Pentheus, the adorning him as a woman—about two-thirds of the play, I’d say—then, bam, the tragedy of filicide and Agave’s realization of what she’d done.  I don’t think it works—it didn’t for me.  It’s not only too mercurial (to stay with the ancient god theme—even though that’s his Roman name), it sets us up for something we’re not going to get—or fails to set us up for what we do get.  In other words, if we don’t know how The Bacchae ends, we’ve been misled, in a theatrical sense.

(Incidentally, Dionysus is the Greek name for the Roman god Bacchus, the god of wine and drunkenness.  Hence the play’s title—The Bacchae, the followers of Bacchus/Dionysus—and the invocation of a bacchanalia, above.)

Now, Tiffany did accomplish a lot of theatricality, which from a technical perspective might have been interesting—if it had been in aid of something effective.  The Motown verve wasn’t bad in itself—though, of course, it was already a success in Dreamgirls over 25 years ago.  (Before that, of course, MacDermot did parody the Supremes in one number in Hair.)  

That entrance from the flies was certainly effective if all that was desired was to make us sit up and take notice.  As Dionysus spoke of his mother’s grave, red poppies magically popped up from the stage (and I still can’t figure out how they accomplished that!). 

At one point early on—there’s no intermission in the nearly two-hour production, but it was earlier than halfway—the whole set burst into flame (gas jets camouflaged along the walls) which not only was a startling visual effect, but an auditory and sensory one as well: there was a very loud whoosh as the flames lit up and you could feel the heat all the way to the balcony where we were sitting. 

This was more an effect for its own sake than anything dramatic.  Dionysus destroys Pentheus palace, but a) there was no palace set on stage and b) the god does this by toppling the palace, not burning it.  This was just Dionysus showing off his powers, which I suppose is useful.  (God does it in Exodus, doesn’t he?) 

The set, by Miriam Buether, was very stark and minimalist.  It was essentially a serpentine wall from the proscenium arch up around the back and down again.  (To be precise, it was really two walls; the stage entrance was the gap between them which was obscured in the upstage darkness.)  Everything was white—though the floor changed color and texture (I never figured how they did that, either—it was obviously an illusion, but I don’t know the tech). 

Along the walls were a pair of parallel rails so the chorus (and occasionally Dionysus) could stand on one and use the one above as a hand-hold.  (I think the gas jets were embedded in the lower rail.)  My impression was that this was inspired by (or ripped off from) Brook’s 1970 Midsummer Night’s Dream, though that production may now be so much a part of our theater—and theater design—memory that no one realizes when she’s taking from it anymore.  (On the other hand, maybe I’m just projecting.) 

Buether seems also to have done the costumes which, except for Dionysus’ gold chiton (which, however, could pass for a girl’s party dress), were contemporary clothes.  Well, mostly contemporary—Cadmus and Tiresias (John Bett), two very old men, wore cut-aways and top hats with spats on their shoes—very Jazz Age.  Then they do a soft-shoe tap routine, canes and all!  (Sort of Greco-Scottish Chevalier-Boyer.)  See what I mean by theatricality?

I’ll also say that the individual performances (and the girl-group routines of the chorus) were well executed.  Cumming may have been a perfect choice for this god of drink and party, reviving his androgynous party-boy persona from Cabaret (1998-2004; revived 2013) and his bad-boy villainy of Mack the Knife (The Threepenny Opera, 2006).  (He’s currently being seen here as the host of PBS’s Masterpiece Mystery—the former Mystery program that airs all those great British TV crime shows.) 

Furthermore, in a rare confluence of genres, the actor got to display both his classical chops and his musical acumen.  Just to be sure he passed the visual test, his skirt-like chiton was complemented by a Shirley Temple-curled dark wig (he took it off at one point—to show us he’s a fake and dissembler—so we know it’s a piece); and if he didn’t actually mince, he did move in a sexually ambiguous gait.  Cumming, though, sublimed from the gleeful manipulator to the stone-cold avenger as if he’d just thrown a switch—but that’s the nature of the role, I think.  His charisma, however, was in no way diminished and Cumming carried off the seduction of his arrogant cousin with complete conviction. 

The other performances, including Agave’s, tended to be one-note but that wasn’t the fault of either the actors or the director, but the playwright: they appeared in scenes whose emotional/psychological content has been keyed to one heightened moment in the plot.  We never saw Agave before she went up Mount Cithaeron, for instance, so we only know her after she had torn her son to pieces.  We did see the shift Dionisotti made from delusional ecstasy to total desolation (which happens to be where the previous lightness conflicts with the progress of the play, but that’s not Dionisotti’s responsibility, either). 

Cadmus was seen first as the pixilated old-timer off to dance in the woods in praise of Dionysus, then as the blood-smeared and devastated grandfather who has gathered Pentheus’ body parts from Mount Cithaeron, but we didn’t get to see Hooper make the shift, only play the final stages of each state.  This, of course, is the nature of Greek drama: transitions occur off stage. 

The cast, indeed, can’t be faulted for any of this and handled everything excellently (though, as we actors all know, it’s easier to play emotional extremes than subtler states or evolving ones).  In contrast, we did get to watch the staid and unmovable Pentheus willingly become a cross-dressing spy (did MacAninch get in touch with his feminine side, I wonder?) as he stopped just short of giddiness at the prospect of joining the women in their bacchanal.  (When Dionysus dolled him up in the dress the god has selected for him, Pentheus didn’t actually ask if it made his butt look big, but such a question hung in the air somewhere.)  

I’d never seen the National Theatre of Scotland before (they were here last season with the Iraq-themed Black Watch, also directed by Tiffany, but I didn’t see it), but from this single exposure, I believe they are a terrific company on a par with other national companies like the Abbey in Dublin or the late Ingmar Bergman’s Royal Dramatic Theater of Sweden. 

My final problem was that in the end I didn’t know what Tiffany was trying to say.  If he wasn’t trying to say anything, then shame on him.  Why do a Greek tragedy, especially if you’re going to re-adapt it and make it so contemporary, if you’re not going to say something?  Do Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (yeah. I know—that’s Roman).  Do Boys from Syracuse (and that’s Shakespeare—get off my back!)  If he was trying to tell me something, say about the wages of irreverence or the penalty for choosing emotion over reason, I missed it.  Cost me $36.50 to do it, too!

Given the modern trappings of this production, from the language to the dress, it’s probably inevitable that I’d look for a contemporary point.  Was there something in here about fundamentalism, especially of the Taliban-Iranian kind, that punishes in extremis anyone, both believer and infidel, who strays from the narrow interpretation of the faith postulated by a few rigid fanatics? 

Was it perhaps a political comment on blindly following a leader who uses deception and trickery to persuade and maneuver his constituents?  (Do we know anyone like that?  [Reminder again: this was written before the advent of DJT!])  Were the creators telling us that forcing our moral views on someone else (I don’t know—like, maybe gay folks?) is the route to tragedy?  There was nothing but my own imagination to lead to these notions, so I don’t know if Tiffany or Greig had them or something like them in mind. 

This is all a dramaturg’s point of view, of course.  Our three fundamental questions are: Why this play?  Why now?  Why here?  You don’t do a play unless you have a reason to put it on.  Now, that reason can simply be that it’s entertaining and diverting, to be sure.  There’s nothing wrong with that—at least not in my epistemology. 

But Greek tragedy, especially if you’re going to the lengths of re-adapting it, doesn’t fit that model, I don’t think.  On the other hand, the flip side is that maybe Tiffany and Greig did have some point to make, and maybe they even made it, but I’m just too dense to have seen it. 

That’s more than possible, but, then, if I missed it, so did my companion and so did all the reviewers I read on this production.  (Several verbalized some form of Euripides’ point—The Bacchae, which was the writer’s last play and was left unstaged at his death, is his most ambiguous with respect to theme, and scholars debate its message continuously.  Anyway, none of the reviewers had anything to offer concerning what Tiffany or Greig added or revealed with their version.)  So, I’m not alone in my denseness.  Like I said: Shame on them!