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Midsummer Magic

Without any effort—or, indeed, desire—on my part, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” has recently emerged as the Shakespeare play I have seen most often live on stage. From some initial encounters ranging from indifferent to downright embarrassing, our relationship has grown and developed into one of admiring understanding.

My favorite among the comedies was always “Twelfth Night”, simply because I saw a televised version of it as a child. The bumbling duo of Sir Andrew and Sir Toby impressed me the most, and remains my favorite pair of comedic incompetents in the entire canon. As for “Midsummer”, we did not meet until I was in college.

I saw several productions over the years, from my beloved Stage West Theatre in Fort Worth to the Stratford Festival in Canada. Most of them were competently entertaining if not affecting. Let’s face it, the young lovers’ plight and predictable resolution is not what makes this play so popular; it is Bottom and Co. and the fairies. And here is where it usually lost me—I have never really enjoyed them as characters on stage. I have always felt that so much effort goes into the fairies, their costumes, their makeup, their habitat that every else kind of gets lost in the forest, pun intended. The set is too green, or too blue, there is too much mood lighting, too much gauze/glitter/sparkle/fog/flutter of wings, etc. I think there is temptation—not entirely surprising—to just get overwhelmed by the external while putting on a play that involves the magic realm. If I remember nothing else from some of the productions of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, I remember a lot of shrubbery and a lot of wings. I never actively disliked it, but neither did I seek it out.

Not sure who gets the credit for this photo; it was shared with me by a cast member. Hippolyta/Titania and Theseus/Oberon.

So imagine my surprise when, in a fancy suburb of Chicago which I have distrusted since that fateful day when I visited a client there and could not find my way back. https://oldladywriting.com/2021/08/08/bad-day-in-chicago/ Spoiler alert: Napierville redeemed itself with the most imaginative and heartfelt rendition of “Midsummer” I ever had the privilege of enjoying.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream – BrightSide Theatre

Aside from the quartet of young lovers, who just basically do their thing, the characters in this production are familiar and yet somehow new. In a smaller theater, with a thrust stage and actors occasionally breaking the proverbial fourth wall, you cannot help but feel part of the story. But in this version, the relatability is more than a function of proximity. Theseus of Athens and Hippolyta of the Amazons are played by the same actors as Oberon and Titania, and their attendants in the opening scene also morph into fairies and back again. Grounded in the corporal world, the fairies are certainly creatures imbued with supernatural powers, but, human-presenting, albeit gorgeously and colorfully costumed, they convey the message that magic is in and all around us. This double casting, for me, creates a more tightly knit, unified story that is more than just a series of connected plots. Regal Theseus’ humanity never leaves Oberon, wry elegance of a courtier stays with the mercurial Puck, and Hippolyta is both proud and hopeful as Titania. So powerful is this bond between the two worlds that I am not sure I ever want to see “Midsummer” again where these roles are *not* played by the same actors.

The play’s funniest scene, when the indomitable troupe of rude mechanicals perform the ill-rehearsed and even worse-written “Pyramus and Thisbe”, is as hilarious as anything I have ever seen. Peter Quince’s earnestly overwrought introduction, Tom Snout’s exasperated attempts to focus “the wall” on Nick Bottom’s pompous meanderings, Robin Starveling’s laborious attempts to handle two objects at once, and Snug’s brave overcoming of stage fright as the gentlest of lions are all full of humor that never spirals into caricature. In this production, you root for everyone, even the overly confident yet somehow endearing, wide-eyed Nick Bottom.

I am that pedant who pays attention to and gets distracted by false notes in costuming. This “Midsummer” did what I have seen once before in another play and remembered forever. It starts in monochrome and gradually becomes more and more colorful. It is not just that Athenians appear in shades of gray and citizens of the magic realm are in color. It is not just that Theseus goes from somber black as a ruler of Athens to royal purple as the ruler of the magic kingdom. The young lovers also gradually transform from gray business professional attire to red and blue silks and lace. With each exit and entry, I was anticipating the next development of the costumes (and coveted some for myself!).

As for the set, absent are the usual overpowering prop trees and astroturf. Truly, they just bog down the text and the action (I always knew that). Instead, there is an abundance of confetti, in all shapes and sizes, and strewn about in every way, including through cannons, which creates an atmosphere of joyful celebration. And original music written for this production adds another layer of enchantment and lyricism.

Finally, there is *that moment* that transforms everything https://oldladywriting.com/2021/05/25/who-tells-your-story/. Francis Flute, a mass of nerves as he should be, suddenly loses the high-pitched voice and simpering manner and delivers Thisbe’s farewell speech to the “corpse” of Bottom with the heartfelt pathos of the finest tragic heroes. I would like to have said that there was not a dry eye in the house, but that would not have been true—still, a hush fell over the audience, and that is no small feat for this play and for this scene.

It never ceases to amaze me how, while staying true to the text and the plot, some productions of Shakespeare’s plays find a truly unique voice. I give credit to The Bard, of course, for his words are timeless and multilayered. But I also have to give great credit to the immensely talented team that brought the old story to live in this particular, extraordinary way. If you are anywhere near Chicago for the next couple of weeks, see this show, before it disappears like so much fairy dust…

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Fat Ham, or Not Your Father’s Bard

Disclaimer: I am not a theater critic, nor could I ever be one. I am excited to share and recommend what I like, but with the wisdom (and empathy) of the years, I do not feel sufficiently invested in discouraging folks from seeing shows I do not enjoy. I just cancel my season subscription. Well, of course I will call a couple of my gal pals to warn them, but all of this is to say, we here at #oldladywriting are not panning any shows, especially in our local theater community. We do not need the negative energy. And so, here comes another glowing review, well-deserved.

Sometimes I see a show because I know it or about it, and I am excited to experience it. Occasionally, it is because someone I know is in a show. And then there are the theaters where I want to see everything, because they are consistently good. And by “consistently” I mean, sometimes for a quantity of years and depending heavily on the artistic director. As of this writing, I made a one-year commitment, with an option to renew, to the Detroit Public Theatre.

“Fat Ham” just opened the 10^th season at the DPT. I am not ashamed to admit that I knew nothing about it (because I am also not a literary critic). I actually vaguely assumed it was a Hamilton parody. I was completely wrong, as it is actually a modern-day reimagining of Hamlet with a queer Black protagonist. Shakespeare again—and Hamlet again! https://oldladywriting.com/2024/04/06/rosencrantz-guildenstern-are/

I have seen different Hamlets, cerebral, brooding, vengeful, and eliciting different levels of compassion dependent on the production and its star. But it is always his story. We know the end, but it is the mind’s journey to the inevitable conclusion that captivates. “Fat Ham’s” sweet, sensitive protagonist Juicy, a child of no privilege, is a lot less self-centered and a lot more caring than Hamlet has ever been. How much more relatable is a young man who is not a prince, but just a regular person who is burdened by the world in which parents range from neglectful to abusive, friends are equally beleaguered by the big and small tragedies of everyday existence, and life was never fair to begin with.

Some of the Bard’s iconic plot points are there: the father whose death was engineered by the uncle who then married the mom, the father’s ghost calling the son to avenge his death, the mom whose loyalties and motivations are suspect. But quite a bit is different, too (spoiler alert): far fewer people die, even when justice is served, fate takes back seat to positive action, and ultimately, the kids are all right.

I fought the urge to give Juicy a hug and tell him that it will all work out in the end. I kept thinking of one those rhetorical questions, “what would you say to your younger self”, because I saw a bit of my younger self in Juicy. Not everything, and obviously not the part of uncle killing father and all that, but just that general feeling of not having agency, of being trapped in a situation with limited means to change. I wanted to tell him that breaking free from the ties that bind and gag is essential. Polonius’ famous advice is not quoted in “Fat Ham”, but I have always taken it to heart: “To thine own self be true”. And say what you will about that old courtier, but as a parent, he is one of the best in the Canon, for he loves his children and tries to do right by them.

And then there is the humor. “Hamlet” is not particularly funny, other than that scene where Polonius is desperately kissing up to the prince while the two are cloud-gazing. “Fat Ham”, however, is joyously hilarious, heartfelt and witty, introspective and warm, and rowdy and raucous as life itself. The acting in this particular production is absolutely effortless. There is not a single false note in the cast. I am continuously amazed and impressed by the abundance and caliber of local talent. And also, let us not forget the fun set, an impressively detailed backyard complete with the pig rotating on the spit, kind of like a warped interpretation of “Pleasant Valley Sunday” come to life. I am thinking that these meticulous lifelike sets are almost a trademark for the Detroit Public. The last couple of shows I have seen there were equally impressively immersive.

I realize that I have said a lot more about the play itself than about this particular production, but truly, this is because for me, it is almost impossible to separate them now. So if you are in Metro Detroit over the next few weeks, see “Fat Ham”. If you are not so fortunate, keep it in mind for future productions. It is a hopeful message of a glorious triumph of love and self-awareness over toxic masculinity, and that is a beautiful thing.

https://www.detroitpublictheatre.org/season-ten

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The War of the Roses

Five years ago, I wrote how in my quest to complete the Shakespeare canon, I was still five plays short. As of this writing, I only [still?] have two to go (“Troilus and Cressida” and “Two Noble Kinsmen” for those keeping track at home). “Henry VI” trilogy is done, and how!

I have to note that it took me fewer attempts to get to Henry (three) than to Vienna (five). I literally had tickets to see it at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in the fall of 2020, and we all know how that went. Michigan Shakespeare Festival was going to produce it this summer but sadly, had to go dark. I was merely wondering what might be playing at The Old Globe in San Diego during my upcoming trip next spring when I noticed that it is actually doing “Henry VI” this summer. And so I said to myself, who am I if I am not true to this glorious quest? I found the perfect weekend when the “Henry VI” Parts 1-3 would play on two successive nights, reserved a hotel room, and spent a couple of months in happy anticipation of a visit to the place of which I warmly think as American Crimea.

Credit to production designers: Lawrence E. Moten III, Scenic Design; David Israel Reynoso, Costume Design; Mextly Couzin, Lighting Design; Melanie Chen Cole, Sound Design; Caite Hevner, Projection Design.

I have been to The Old Globe several years ago, and loved their production of “Red Velvet”. However, checking the tickets shortly before the trip, I was slightly dismayed to discover that “Henry” is being staged at an outdoor venue. I pictured lawn seats, actors scurrying to not be seen behind awkward wooden set pieces, and lots of bugs. In the Midwest, I have missed more than one outdoor performance and sporting event (yes, I have been known to attend a baseball game, don’t look so shocked!) that have been rained out. However, I know as well as anyone that it never rains in Southern California, and was willing to put up with the rest of the potential unpleasantries just to cross this elusive trio of plays off my list. Spoiler alert: this did not turn out to be your usual Shakespeare in the Park.

Now, much as all I know about French history I learned from the novels of Alexandre Dumas, all I know about English history I learned from Shakespeare. While I still need to recite the opening lines of “Richard III” to help myself remember who is York and who is Lancaster (and need a mnemonic device I heretofore have not found to identify which rose is red and which is white), I am happy to have finally filled the gap between “Henry V” and “Richard III”.

It turns out that the gap includes some pretty exciting stuff, such as Joan of Arc’s last stand, epic battles between the English and the French, and intense subsequent plotting and fighting for the crown among the various English heirs and pretenders. What’s not to like? Ah, here is what: my least favorite line in all of Shakespeare, “let’s kill all the lawyers”, makes its annoying appearance. Even though in the play (and I knew this before seeing it) it is meant as the first step to chaos and political instability and is spoken by a villainous character, it has been misquoted for centuries. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I have been seeing Shakespeare performed primarily at the Stratford Festival in Canada, which is as good as it gets. I have seen some fantastic interpretations elsewhere, innovative, beautifully acted, creatively staged, but I have always thought that Stratford’s scale and scope is second to none. Until now. And unexpectedly, this “Henry VI”—actually, styled as “Henry 6”—an English Civil War saga 600 years old, filled me with patriotism. I was all like, look at our American actors being as good as Canadians!

First, the outdoor theater at the Old Globe is basically the same as any other theater but without a roof—and a roof is not critical to a play unless you are dropping a chandelier from the ceiling. But the way the natural surroundings of the gorgeous Balboa Park worked with the set, however, was both unique and exhilarating. Every time those giant doors opened to let actors on stage and we saw, instead of the usual backstage darkness, majestic trees lit in the night, it was a spectacle like none I have ever experienced. The most powerful moment came early on, when Lord Talbot, The Sword of England, first burst on the scene, from the actual forest, backlit and accompanied by stirring rock music. It was just too cool!

Second, rarely have I seen a Shakespeare production that is so accessible, yet still recognizably classic. The inventive prologue gave a quick summary of The Henriad (Richard II/Henry IV, Henry V–it was yet unwritten by Shakespeare at the time of the staging of Henry VI) and set the stage for what is to follow. The costumes, the crowns, the crowds, the chaos—oh, it is history all right, but what gripping history! Maybe these are earlier plays, but what they lack in familiar soliloquies they more than make up in the absorbing (and true) story that is better than any tragedy (or comedy) from the pen of the same author.

This production is full of fun anachronisms, including a hilarious presentation by Richard of York to explain his right to the throne with the aid of an overhead projector. I have to add that, besides the valiant Talbot, Richard was my other favorite character. Is he supposed to be sympathetic? I found his sincerity and single-minded focus on the throne endearing. There was one scene where others are talking, planning, plotting, and he just paces around the stage, literally circumnavigating it, talking to himself. I caught myself with my mouth literally gaping open, trying to absorb everything that was going on.

I liked the first part more than the second one, for purely subjective reasons—more of the French (Charles the Dauphin bearing hilarious resemblance to King Herod in “Jesus Christ Superstar”), Talbot and the cult of Talbot, and just a lot more humor. The second part, all about the infighting and plotting for the English throne among the English themselves, is quite a bit darker. And once that madman Richard III shows up on the scene, events start snowballing, and you know it will end badly. He gets his own show later; let’s see more of the other people.

Also, Part 2 started right off with the reenactment of the January 6 riot, complete with the QAnon Shaman, albeit with the Union Jack painted on his face—and, obviously, with Shakespeare’s words, which, I imagine, elevated that particular disaster. It was disturbing and a terrible reminder that we humans never change and learn nothing from history. We live through these cataclysms and they shock us, but there is nothing new under the sun. Shakespeare already wrote about it…

The thing about Shakespeare is, his words, or even what we take to be his words, are constantly edited and reinterpreted. Having seen “Henry VI”/”6” for the first time, I do not know if I have fallen in love with the play itself, or with this particular version of it. But does it really matter? It was a magical experience that touched my heart, and that is what great theater does.

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Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are

When I first read “Hamlet” in a high school literature class, Shakespeare’s language was still difficult and unfamiliar, but I immediately and always felt affection for its conflicted [anti]hero. A family friend told me about “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead”, which I also immediately read, intrigued by the concept, and understood nothing. I have seen some magnificent productions of “Hamlet” over the years, and have been fortunate to ponder and debate its themes with folks much smarter and more astute than myself. Until now, I have never seen the parallel universe version.

When “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern” rolled into Toronto, with two of the Hobbits, Dominic Monaghan and Billy Boyd, as the leads, I was determined to make the trek. Now, the Hobbit connection is of no use to me—I slept through all those movies, sitting upright and with my eyes wide open, and actually listened to the book on tape, all 197 hours of it, and retained none of it. But, I appreciate both the tremendous stage training and presence of the British actors, and the immense talent of Tom Stoppard, one of the greatest—if not THE greatest—living playwrights. I have come a long way since I first read his words.

Toronto, on occasion, has served as an extension of my theater playground. It tends to have a slightly different lineup for big Broadway shows through the Mirvish theaters, and some straight plays in addition to the major musicals. I do not know the city, just how to find my way to the couple of theaters and, obviously, to the Hockey Hall of Fame. My favorite restaurant, Le Marché, fell victim to the pandemic economy, so the play was truly the only focus of this trip.

I was not disappointed (spoiler alert: far from it!). But I was surprised. My memory of this play was so hazy as to be almost nonexistent. I just knew what is common knowledge: absurdist tragicomedy, similar to “Waiting for Godot”, minor characters from a major play. All of this is technically true, and none of it is sufficient. I did not find it absurdist but actually quite heartfelt and authentic—unless life is absurd, and that is a premise that I refuse to countenance. And as for being minor characters—well, maybe they only passed through “Hamlet”, but they are the heroes of their own story. I was reminded of how Fredrik Bakman weaves the same cast of characters through several novels, with some front and center in one book but only episodically appearing in another. Stoppard did it earlier.

These guys were so gentle and genuine. Rosencrantz in particular was sweet, befuddled, with a hint of Eric Idle-esque wide-eyed mischief. Guildenstern was a bit more anxious and focused, and also wistful. There is so much to absorb and contemplate. They live in a parallel universe and we know how their story will end, but they do not know it. They are not entirely sure of anything, including the limits of their own power and will. They are floundering, but they are living—as are we all. And that is really the story. We might think that they do not have agency, but that is only because the title of the play gives it away. And even despite that, I was waiting for it to unfold differently. I did not get the sense that they are marching toward an inevitable conclusion. They are just making some decisions that will affect their lives in dire ways—as do we all. The Casablanca quote came to my mind, the one about how “the problems of three [let alone two—OLW] little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world”.

And there is no predestination, just a series of circumstances and how people make the best, and occasionally the worst, of them, because they are not omniscient. It is a story of two guys who are not necessarily worse than anyone else. And in this production, it also helped that Hamlet himself was the worst character in the ensemble: bearded middle aged man, prone to bulging eyes, with a startlingly booming voice and an utterly charmless manner. He was manipulative, callous, and revenge-driven. It was impossible to care, let alone root, for him. Perhaps that was intentional, but I do not know the play—I only know what I felt. This all goes back to who controls the narrative—“who tells your story”.

And so this experience just confirmed, yet again, my firm belief that plays need to be seen, and the power of live theatre to make one think and feel is unsurpassed. I wrote before about that one moment for which I wait in each show, and here there was the instance that I realized what is coming, and spouse whispered to me, “This is how they die”. So invested was I that I forgot the title of show! And then when Guildenstern said, “There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said — no. But somehow we missed it”. It broke my heart. And that is really it; “the rest is silence”.

Who Tells Your Story?

Although I love theater, I am almost never at the forefront of seeing something before it becomes popular. A lot of it is because I do not live near where shows start—although I am given to understand that “Fiddler on the Roof” premiered at Detroit’s Fisher Theatre in 1964, that was literally before my time. The odds of me finding myself, during my travels, near a Broadway or West End show that is not yet big but will be are pretty slim. While it has happened more than once that I saw a show that I thought was destined for greatness which later went nowhere[1], the opposite never happens. Probably the biggest missed opportunity, not counting all the shows I regret missing in Stratford over the years, was during a 2015 visit to New York.

My actor son was living in Brooklyn and about to leave on tour with “Aladdin”[2]. The family was visiting him, and naturally, decided to see a Broadway musical. Walking past the Richard Rodgers Theatre, I noticed the not-yet-familiar black silhouettes on gold background.

“What is this all about?” inquired I.

“It’s a new rap musical about Alexander Hamilton”, replied son, dismissively.

“Hmm, that sounds really stupid”, opined I, disdainfully.

“It does indeed”[3], agreed son, and we moved on, chuckling to ourselves. This was too much even for this theater-appreciating family. Spouse, in his low-key way, was noting that “Something Rotten!” “looks good”. When this man says that something “looks good”, it means that he is super-excited and jumping up and down inside with the mad desire to see whatever this is. We bought tickets to “Something Rotten!” and enjoyed it immensely, witnessing a standing ovation in the middle of Act I—which, of course, is an incredibly rare occurrence, and a sure indication of potential long-term success[4].

I did not give “Hamilton” another thought until, on a Christmas flight to London, I saw the soundtrack as one of the offerings of Delta in-flight entertainment. I tried to listen, and it was nice enough, but the flight is an overnight one. I sleep on overnight flights. I fell asleep.

And then I woke up with a jolt, because something terrible happened to the Hamilton family (OK, they also turned the lights on and started serving breakfast)! I am neither proud nor ashamed to say that my knowledge of American history is limited to two years of high school—and the first year, my English was not good enough to fully grasp the goings on. Alexander Hamilton was covered that year, and I remembered that he was shot in a duel by Aaron Burr, but who knew that his son was also killed? It was sad! It was like “Les Miz”!

I landed in London a “Hamilton” fan, and decided to travel to New York in the foreseeable future and see this musical in person. I mean, how much could it cost, if we fly with miles and grab a hotel room with points? Couple of hundred bucks for tickets?

Not so fast, newly-minted-fans! This brought back memories of “Phantom” in the ‘90s [https://oldladywriting.com/2020/04/25/team-phantom/]—but, times have surely changed, and in the classical dilemma of time versus money, I had a little bit less of the former and a tiny bit more of the latter. Tickets were procured, and their extortionate cost was somewhat balanced out by the fact that we flew to New York on Spirit Airlines, and with no more than a handbag per person.

Was it worth it? Yes, yes it was—although spouse did say, after it was all over, “It was great, but not like the first time I saw “Les Miz”. I will not dispute that, because “Les Misérables” holds an extra-special place in my heart. I also will not do a review of “Hamilton”, because I doubt that anything is left unwritten about it. But this is what it means to me.

In theater productions, I live for that one moment when everything shifts and you remember it forever, either because it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard:

“A handbag?!” in “The Important of Being Earnest”

“The whole staff was slaughtered” exchange in “Hothouse”

or it breaks your heart:

“Could you ask as much from any other man?” in “Jesus Christ Superstar” (because you know what happens to him…)

As soon as the miners appear in “Billy Elliott” and sing “The Stars Look Down” (because you know what happens to them…)

or, in some cases, the entire play is brilliant: “Art”; “August Osage County”

I will not call it an “aha” moment, because it is not a moment of cerebral discovery, but it is more of an “oh”—or “aww”?—moment, which is purely emotional in nature. It is the “wait for it” or “catharsis” moment. It is what live theater does best, that moment of unity of hearts and souls between the characters on stage and the audience.

“Hamilton” both starts and ends on that moment. The opening number is so big, so smart, so creative, so instantly recognizable, and when we heard, “What’s your name, man?”, and there was that little pause, and Lin-Manuel Miranda appeared and said “Alexander Hamilton”—well, the entire audience of 1,300+ lost their collective minds! Not to take away from “Something Rotten!”’s standing ovation in Act I, but that was a rock star-caliber moment. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s presence is electric, and his charisma and enthusiasm on stage cannot be overemphasized. I would say that I knew, once again, that I was in the presence of greatness [https://oldladywriting.com/2020/07/26/all-my-world-is-a-stage/]—except that by the time I got to see “Hamilton”, live and with the still original cast, that would have been a major understatement.

And then there is that closing number, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story”. I love a good ending. I mean, who doesn’t, but I really, *really* love a good ending. A good ending is worth the price of admission even more than a good beginning, because it stays with you, even after the curtain falls. “Hamilton” ends like it begins, with the satisfying big number, but with more poignancy. It’s the combination of “Anatevka”, “Impossible Dream”, and “Do You Hear the People Sing?”, these other great finales, because it is both tragic and hopeful, tender and confident, wistful in the loss of a promising life cut short, yet satisfying in the summary of its legacy. It earns my inarticulate but sincere praise of “I cried and cried”.

Who tells your story? Little by little, I am trying to tell mine…

[1] My spouse still laments “Martin Guerre” by Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil, the creators of “Les Miserables” and “Miss Saigon” fame. You haven’t seen that version of “Martin Guerre”? No one has.

[2] Small print--not THAT “Aladdin”.

[3] This is why my writing career is still fledgling. I cannot write dialogue.

[4] This was after “The Musical”, which I still think is one of the most fun and clever numbers of the genre, basically an entire “Forbidden Broadway” in several minutes and on a major stage. And to be fair, Christian Borle did get a Tony for his part in this, not to mention eight other nominations for the show itself!

It was a magical weekend overall. We also saw “Bright Star”, starring the wonderful Paul Nolan, who deserves an award for every role which he graces with his talent, and stayed at the Algonquin, Harpo Marx’ old stomping ground. Those are stories for another day!]

All My World Is a Stage

In my pre-plague life, I never had a spare weekend. I [used to] see a lot of live theater. Over the past couple of decades, most other hobbies fell by the wayside as this one escalated.

A few people asked me about the origins of this love. One was Geraint Wyn Davies[1]. He was just being polite and making small talk, but I launched into some inane monologue of sharing a birthplace with the first professional theater in Russia, the Volkov, named after its founder, Fedor Volkov. This is factually true, but really, in my day the Volkov was a disaster. It is a gorgeous classical building of pale yellow, with white columns and ornate façade, second in appearance only to the Bolshoi. Many famous theaters are so nondescript from the outside. The House that Moliere Built is simply stunning in its unimpressiveness, despite being home to the largest and deepest stage I have ever seen. But the Volkov is beautiful, and sits in a strategic location, facing the large round Volkov square containing the statue of Fedor Volkov himself (no surprise),

and one of the oldest historic monuments in town, the 17^th century Banner (Znamenskaya) Tower. It is a spectacle—but a spectacle that used to be entirely external.

Oh, to be sure, it is also magnificent inside—with its marble red-carpeted stairs, frescoed walls, sculpted ceiling, velvet curtains, and a buffet serving delectable pastries. Unfortunately, what used to happen on stage in the ‘70s was either stale plays by Ostrovsky (in all fairness, I have never seen or read any of them), stock Communist plays (I have certainly never seen those either), Nutcracker (with substandard local or traveling cast), and an occasional Moliere or other permissible Western classic (performed in a standard static declamatory style). Before the Young Viewer’s Theater was built (after my time), my class would occasionally troop over to the Volkov on a field trip to see a morality play about the Young Pioneers.

The pastries were always excellent!

Right before we left the Soviet Union forever, my grandmother and I spent a few days in Moscow. The family friend with whom we stayed knew someone who worked at the Satire Theatre, and managed to get us in to see “Pippi Longstocking”. If one was to have such luck as to get into the Satire, or really any Moscow theater in those days, one would be hard pressed to find anything less exciting than “Pippi Longstocking”. Nonetheless, as proverbial beggars cannot be choosers, it was still thrilling. There were a couple of actors whom I knew from TV, and that was enough. I still recall one tune from the musical, for that is indeed what it was, and that is no small measure of an impression it made on me almost 40 years ago. I never heard this tune again except in my head. Those were the days when memories were made.

In the US, we were astonished to learn, theater tickets were distributed on a sort of first come, first served basis to those who had the means to pay, rather than on a complicated favoritism scale as a part of a behind the scenes black market economy. That was an incredible concept, although I did not know the actors and did not want to see them. Whenever my mother and I found ourselves in New York at the same time, she dragged me to Times Square to stand in line for half price tickets. The first Broadway play I saw was “Foxfire”, with Jessica Tandy, Hume Cronyn[2], and Keith Carradine. We must have already been living in the US for a bit, because I knew who Keith Carradine was[3]. I understood almost nothing, as my English was so poor and certainly not theater-ready at the time, but I did understand that I was in the presence of greatness. I held on to the memory and still cherish. I wish I had kept the program…

We saw a few great shows over the years when I was in high school: several G&S productions https://oldladywriting.com/2020/03/29/it-is-a-glorious-thing/, and an amazing production of “As You Like It” in Jackson before Michigan Shakespeare Festival settled there. https://www.michiganshakespearefestival.com/ It is still the gold standard for that play for me. Each act was done in a different setting. The city was all shades of gray and furs and muffs, the forest was all pastels, and the rest I do not remember. Nonetheless, for what was my first encounter with Shakespeare in the language I was still learning, it certainly left a lasting impression. But the real theater life started in Fort Worth.

When I was in college and my parents (I use the term loosely when it includes my late stepfather) lived in Fort Worth, they discovered a small regional theater called Stage West. https://stagewest.org/ In a tiny space of about 100 seats, they used to put on a fantastic variety of plays—and still do. My first exposure was to a dysfunctional comedy at Christmas called “Seasons Greetings”—we still laugh about “Pig number one, pig number two”, although I have never seen it performed since. From then on, every time I visited my parents, we would go to Stage West. It was always a delight, with an underlying feeling of uncomfortable incredulity about how a troop of local actors in some shed on a rough dockyard-like street would do a better artistic job than the permanent staff of the oldest professional theater in all of Russia, working in a gorgeous building with delicious pastries.

As an aside, I had the great fortune of revisiting Stage West a few years ago during a work conference in Dallas. My mother joined me, and we saw Stoppard’s “The Real Thing”. As a purportedly more sophisticated theater goer after the passage of almost three decades, I was still astonished. It was a world-class production. And one of those moments when I said to myself, I am the luckiest girl in the world. Gosh, I just live for those moments!

And then there came Stratford. https://www.stratfordfestival.ca/ This is a story that has been told often, and at almost every Stratford social event. It is just a conversation starter—how long have you been coming, what was your first experience? In my young married life, theater was not a factor, as we had neither time nor money, and never both at the same time. One fine day in 1996, my college friend suggested a girlfriends’ day to see a play. So the three of us drove three hours, arrived on a rain-soaked Saturday in August, ate some weird concoction prepared by one of us (not me!) for lunch in the car, and entered the Festival Theatre to behold the great William Hutt as King Lear. It was unquestionably one of the defining moments of my life. I wish I had kept the program…

Initially it was an annual trip. Initially it was just Shakespeare. Then we added other shows that sounded interesting, and once a season became not enough. Then some years later my friend lost interest and was replaced by my spouse. Then my kids started coming, and several other friends came along, and I even went by myself once when I could not sell anyone on “Fuenteovejuna”[4].

Along the way, I started to go to the theater everywhere I have traveled for work or leisure, and then planning trips with seeing plays as the goal. It became my identity— “I go to the theater”. It is what I do and who I am. For the time being, I do not and I am not. It feels like an intermission of my life. With theaters closed for the foreseeable future, I no longer know who I am and what to do with my after-work life. As I see it, I have two options: (1) reinvent and find some new interests, or (2) hunker down with my memories and wait it out. Or maybe both? Stay tuned…

The new Tom Patterson theater–as of this writing, it has not yet opened…

[1] I am just name dropping here. J

[2] Is it a coincidence that Hume Cronyn is Canadian? I think not.

[3] I saw Keith Carradine on a BroadwayCon panel a few years ago, and he actually mentioned “Foxfire” with fondness. What a full circle!

[4] Anyone who has not seen this Stratford production should be living with regrets. I am just saying.

The Merry Wives of Stratford

Some years ago, I decided that I needed to complete the Shakespeare canon. For a spectator like me, that means only seeing the shows, not acting in them or directing them (I laugh because this is true). As I see several Shakespeare stagings every year, I am ever surprised by the universality as well as timelessness of his works. I mean, after a few centuries, they are not dated (unless the director allows them to be, which is decidedly NOT the goal). I am also occasionally surprised by how my relation to the various plays has changed over the years—the ones I thought I loved I occasionally outgrew, the ones I either did not know or did not much like I grew to appreciate more, and so forth. As of this writing, I have five plays left to see, which seems like a shockingly large number considering how long I have been at it—so, if anyone hears of Henry VI being done anywhere, please let me know. I do mean anywhere, I will travel for this!

I have deliberately been avoiding The Merry Wives of Windsor for years. I glimpsed it once on TV, must have been on Masterpiece Theater, and I hated it. It seemed like a lot of commotion of people running around in bonnets and pumpkin pants, laughing at jokes that made no sense, and the language itself was unintelligible to me. It also had Falstaff, a character many like, but I kind of hate. I just do not find him funny or endearing or charismatic in any way. I just find him annoying.

But, with so few plays left to complete the canon, and with Stratford Festival—the greatest theater in North America, if not the world—staging Merry Wives this season, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet. Spoiler alert: I am glad I did, but I am still not crazy about this play.

Antoni Cimolino, the Artistic Director of the Festival who directed the play, set it in 1953. It was the year the festival was founded by Tom Patterson. Is it weird that I immediately thought that it was the year that Stalin died? Seems like it was a much more carefree year in Canada than in the USSR, but maybe not so much when it came to women’s rights. Frankly, though, I did not find the story to be too offensive in the #MeToo era. Falstaff is lecherous and pushy, but easily confounded and disarmed. Mr. Ford is jealous not like Othello, but like Moliere’s clueless and pompous husband characters. The women outsmart and outplay the men with ease, plus great humor and spirit. So, I am inclined to just view this story as a harmless farce rather than a statement on gender relations.

And what a farce it is—but I am not against farces. I am an easy laugh, but what of it? A peculiar mix of Monty Python and I Love Lucy is not the worst to which a comedy can aspire—and achieve. In this particular production, the stars of Stratford are out in full force. Brigit Wilson as Mrs. Page is just the most luminous wide-eyed Lucille Ball impersonation ever, and I mean that in the best way possible. The incomparable Geraint Wyn Davies is possibly the only Falstaff I can stomach, and he actually made me feel sorry for the fat buffoon at the end. Aww, Geraint with that sparkle in his eyes, his Falstaff exuding the benign mirth that reduces the creep factor almost to zero! And Lucy Peacock as Miss Quickly is channeling the comic relief housekeepers straight out of the Soviet comedies of the death-of-Stalin era, whose kerchief, ankle boots like my grandmother would wear, and intermittent snacking made me feel all warm and fuzzy and nostalgic. Ben Carlson, as the Welsh parson, is the funniest I have ever seen him be–and Ben is usually witty funny, not ha-ha funny, so this was a joy to behold. When he agrees with Mr. Ford that Falstaff in drag as the old woman of Brentford must be a witch because she has whiskers and a beard, I died laughing! (I use this phrase to excess; I guarantee you will see it again.) Graham Abbey as Mr. Ford, while very funny as well, is basically Tartuffe’s Orgon, whom he played on the same stage two years ago. It is not his fault that this part is so similar—after all, I have seen Geraint Wyn Davies play Falstaff before, which is literally the same character. I am just saying it was not a surprise, that’s all.

The Monty Python theme plows through the play in the character of Dr. Caius. Gordon Miller plays him essentially as the French Taunter from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, complete with pronouncing every letter in “knight”. When you hear it, you just can’t unhear it. He even throws in John Cleese’s silly walk. It’s all very funny, but a bit much, including the exaggerated French accent that is at times utterly unintelligible, although every second word is “bugger”.

So, I walked out of the theater not feeling that I saw a Shakespearean play. Is that necessarily a bad thing? I do not think so. I laughed a lot, I had a good time, and that is a value in itself. The fact that a comedy written 400 years ago still retains the humor of a much more modern piece is astonishing. When Antoni Cimolino mentioned that Merry Wives has funnier jokes than Neil Simon he was not kidding (see what I did there?). If there was a deeper message, I might not have gotten it. But, in the words of John Cleese’s Pope in the Penultimate Supper sketch, “I may not know much about art, but I know what I like!”

P.S. E.B. Smith needs to have a bigger part in this play, and really in every play.