by Helen Kaye
[Below is Helen Kaye’s newest
installment of “Dispatches from Israel,” a small collection of her reviews from
the Jerusalem
Post.
The first is the review of a Hebrew translation of Anton Chekhov’s Three
Sisters, written by Hanan Snir, the adapter
and director of 2016’s stage version of the novel To the Edge of the Land by David Grossman, Helen’s review of which appeared
on ROT on 12 September 2016 in “Dispatches
from Israel 8.” (That play will be part
of New York City’s Lincoln Center Festival in July 2017 under the English title
of the novel, To the End of the Land,
and I will be seeing it there and reporting on it on this blog over the summer.)
The other JP notices
cover a stage adaptation of George Orwell’s famous futuristic novel, 1984 (currently playing on Broadway with an
official opening on 22 June), and The Play that Goes Wrong (also now on Broadway). All these productions took place in Tel Aviv, but in
three different theaters: the Cameri, the Habima, and Bet Lessin.
As usual, Helen’s comments are perceptive and I’m delighted to be able
to share them with ROTters.]
Three Sisters
Translated, adapted and directed by Hanan Snir
Set/costumes/masks by Polina Adamov
Music direction by Yossi Ben Nun
Cameri Theater, Tel
Aviv; 11 April 2017
Hanan Snir and his
team have produced a masterpiece.
This Three Sisters looks at Olga (Lea
Kenig), Masha (Gila Almagor) and Irina (Evgenia Dodina) 50 years on, still
living in a provincial town, still relying for their intellectual and social
stimulation on the garrison’s army officers, and still longing, longing to go
back to Moscow, their Promised Land.
Chekhov always
insisted that his plays were comedies and was furious with Stanislavsky who
turned them into brooding tragedies, thereby ensuring generations of often
pompous, pretentious productions that would have made Chekhov livid!
But this Three Sisters is as fresh, as lively,
and as funny as if he had dropped the manuscript into Mr. Snir’s hands, page by
page. And because of that it is also able to be touching to heart-breaking,
with all the layers in-between as the well-known tale unfolds, at whose end the
three sisters stand watching as the utterly superb marching brass quintet leads
off the garrison.
That same quintet
starts the show, marching down the aisle as the Prozorov household watches from
behind the (none-too-clean) French windows of the definitely gone-to-seed
mansion. And music pervades the production from the band’s solos to the
folk-songs it accompanies, to the younger soldiers’ very neat dancing to
Vershinin’s (Eli Gornstein) elegant cello solo.
As always in a Snir
production, the acting leaves you both exalted and wrenched to the core. As
always the characters are rounded, speaking as much from their silences as from
their words. As always the characters are talking to rather than at each other
so that they are spontaneous, immediate.
Lea Kenig gets
laughs just by walking onto the stage, never mind the beloved little schticks she employs. Not this time.
The laughs come because her Olga is compassionate, wise, ironic, a woman who
knows she’s missed the boat to fulfillment as a woman, but isn’t bitter about
it in the least.
That bitterness
lashes Masha’s soul, leaving room for nothing but heartache and regrets so that
when Vershinin, the new brigade commander, walks into her life she’s totally
unprepared. Almagor lets love for him remakes her every molecule so even her
body changes as her spirit expands. There’s the most glorious episode as the
elderly lovers, coming home for tea, giggle helplessly at everything because
everything is radiant and oh-so-ridiculously funny. The leave-taking at the end
is almost unbearably poignant.
“Take her Olga,”
says Vershinin, unable to deal with it. For Gornstein’s Vershinin duty replaces
life so he’s utterly unprepared also for the love that penetrates the carapace
he lives behind. The warmth he experiences at the Prozorovs draws him like a
moth to a flame.
Dodina’s Irina is a
woman who refuses to grow up until, quite suddenly, she does, gaining the depth
that is hinted at and that will stand her in good stead with or without Count
Tusenbach. Igal Sadeh plays the Count almost puppyishly at first, then, as his
love for Irina grows he begins to understand a bit more, and to grow up.
And so it goes. Rami
Baruch’s pathetic Andrei broadcasts futility; Natasha is a vulgar harridan, a
liar and a bully. Maya Maoz, swanning about most of the time in night clothes,
plays her so well you want more than ever to hit her; Dvora Keidar imbues aged
Anfisa with both fear and feistiness; Shlomo Vishinsky’s Ferapont, an
unrepentantly comic creation is precisely that, as is Ezra Dagan’s
unrepentantly ignorant drunk Dr. Chebutkin. Let’s not forget Oded Leopold’s
arrogant, social-climbing Solyoni nor Dov Reiser’s self-effacing Kulygin, the
school-teacher wimp who’s Masha’s husband.
Reiser particularly
engages us as Kulygin because he leads us from a kind of contempt for his
shameless toadying to a realization that his is a brave and generous spirit.
Which is, when all is said and done, what the characters have. Which is what
this production has completely.
Like I said, a masterpiece.
*
* * *
1984
By George Orwell
Adapted by Robert Icke and Duncan Macmillan
Hebrew by Eli Bijaoui
Directed by Irad Rubinstein
Habima Theatre, Tel Aviv; 10/5/17
In 1984 George Orwell sounded a tocsin for its time
that is tolling again today when totalitarianism seems to be more than a
specter raising its ugly head. He wrote it in 1948, basing its world roughly on
Stalin’s USSR, the awfulness of which wouldn’t fully be revealed until
Khruschev’s disclosures at the 20th party congress in 1956. Recently
1984 has once more been selling like hotcakes, impelled (it would seem),
by such as Mr. Trump’s election, the rising tides of populism or Wikileaks. And
so also the play, given on its small stage in the intimate space of Bertonov
Hall at Habima, itself an irony because intimacy is proscribed in Oceania’s
brave new world.
Another irony, vicious this time, is Paulina Adamov’s
Rubik’s Cube set, a series of interlocking transparent cubes that serve both as
storage for props and /or memories as well as the story’s various venues. It’s
that the Rubik Cube has some 43 quintillion possible permutations but only one
solution, like the one permissible way of life in The Party’s orbit. Behind the cube is a globe of various-sized
screens from which – amid the rest of Guy Romem’s excellent and unsettling
videos - Big Brother’s all-seeing eye glares balefully out.
But there’s an added dimension. We are watching through the
eyes of a group of identically clad people from 2084, and they aren’t sure: is
this or is this not a fiction?
We know the story. Outwardly, Winston (Alex Krul) and Julia
(Oshrat Ingedashet) are enthusiastic, compliant, grey-overalled cogs in The
Party’s debased, dehumanized world. Inwardly, perilously, they are rebels. Not
only does Winston keep a diary, he and Julia are in love. Cardinal sins both.
They snatch greedily at joy knowing beyond all doubt that they will be caught.
Their nemesis and merciless embodiment of the regime is
called O’Brian (Gil Frank) who swiftly breaks them utterly. Now they are become
perfect citizens. They love Big Brother devotedly.
Krul and Frank have worked together before as Oedipus and
Creon in Sophocles’ Oedipus. There it was as patient and healer; here
it’s victim and torturer.
Krul’s Winston is at once fearful and reckless, bold and
timid, his body language reflecting his moods. There’s a wonderful moment when
he takes off his overalls; it’s like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. I
do wish he’d pay the same attention to his voice. There are many nuances
between conversation and shouting.
As Julia, Ingedashet is out of her depth. She’s very much
alright with the physicality of her role but not with the tempestuous inner
rioting that impels Julia to rebel.
Uri Hochman’s Tom Parsons is touching as time and again he
extols the regime and his daughter, even desperately exalting her betrayal of
him while in the dual role of antique shop owner and food server, Shahar Raz is
suitably diffident as the former and crawlingly servile as the latter.
Then there’s Gil Frank. His chillingly colorless O’Brian
becomes the more frightening the more he seems to efface himself physically. He
never raises his voice, speaking sweetly, reasonably, regretfully. He is the
perfect avatar of the regime, an Eichmann. Frank grows with every role he
undertakes and to this ambitious, hard-edged yet too remote production, he
gives its needed depth.
* *
* *
The Play that Goes
Wrong
By H. Lewis, H. Shields and J. Sayer
Hebrew by G. Koren, M. Rozen and U. Ben Moshe
Directed by Udi Ben Moshe
Bet Lessin Theater, Tel Aviv; 14/5/17
Allow me to present the Drama Group of the Community Center
at Ramat Hashikma who, courtesy of Bet Lessin, are presenting “Murder at
Hamilton Manor” directed by Omri Ronen (Liron Baranes) who introduces the play
and the cast with winning modesty and confides to us that, owing to the
indisposition of a cast member, he will play Inspector Parker.
Please enjoy the performance which is set in Hamilton Hall
and an upstairs study. And we do, laughter bubbling, rippling, exploding as
cues are missed, props go awry, doors stick, lines are forgotten, sound goes
silent and lights fail.
But the Show Must Go On, and it hilariously does with the
various cast freezing like rabbits caught in the headlights when something
particularly awful happens in this play within a play which is actually the
play.
There’s nothing more difficult for professionals than
playing amateurs and this talented cast sails
through Play’s cumulative disasters with serene aplomb.
Baranes shuttles gracefully between efficient Inspector P
and horrified director Omri scarcely believing his eyes. Sharon Huberman plays
femme fatale and beauty salon owner Iris Confino alias Flora Peacock at full
wiggly blast while Yuval Yanai harrumphs and blusters his highroad through
Avishai Borko alias Thomas Peacock. Yanai is also responsible for the
“atmospheric” music.
Uri Lazerovitch relishes to the full shameless crowd-pleaser
and complete neophyte Matan Ben Baruch, also Phillip, brother to the
apologetically restless corpse of murdered Henry Hamilton aka Yaron Bello whom
Ofri Biterman gleefully inhabits. Ofir Weill is Danny Gez who’s Perkins the
Hamiltons’ beautifully inept butler.
Last but not least we have techies Bacho Abayev (Yaniv
Suissa) on lights and sound and Stage Manager Anat Ganon (Naama Amit). As the
beautifully gormless Bacho, Suissa about steals every scene he’s in with Amit
throwing herself with abandon into shy, yet winsome, not to mention ambitious
Anat.
Sasha Lisianky’s rickety set, Orna Smorgonsky’s on-the-nose
costuming and Nadav Barnea’s light all contribute to the “catastrophe”, but
it’s Ben Moshe’s comic expertise that adds the cherry.
Towards the end the gags started to repeat – the play could
easily have lost 15 minutes – and The Play that Goes Wrong has not a
single redeeming social value, but does it ever make us laugh! And as they say
“laughter is the best medicine.”
[For readers new to ROT, Helen’s past “Dispatches,” are well worth looking
back at. ROTters might also enjoy
looking back at her other contributions to this blog: ”Help! It’s August: Kid-Friendly
Summer Festivals in Israel,” posted o 12 September 2010; ”Acre (Acco)
Festival, Israel,” 9 November 2012; “Berlin,” 22 July 2013; and “A Trip to Poland,” 7 August 2015. Helen’s currently on a trip to Vienna,
Austria, with her daughter, during which she’ll be keeping a travel journal, and she’s promised to share it with readers of
ROT.]
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