Two plays dealing with women of strength and resolute power are among the productions at this year's Stratford Festival: Medea, the tragedy by Euripides in the Robinson Jeffers' translation, and Elizabeth Rex, a new play by novelist-playwright Timothy Findley, with the assistance of fellow-Canadian Paul Thompson. Both plays are at the Tom Patterson Theatre, the intimate three-quarter arena space, and the choice of venue enhances the plays' themes as much as it enlivens the characters' engagement with the audience.
Medea tells the familiar story of a woman who, wronged by her husband, travels a path of vengeance and retribution more horrible than any other found in most literature. Implacable rage cannot be mitigated enough for her to spare the lives of her two children. Nor can she be spared the grief of all onlookers, in this case the woman who attends her and the three other women who represent the women of Corinth. In Jeffers' free adaptation, Medea is as steely as she is flippant, as histrionic as she is matter-of-fact. The language is simple, unadorned and positively contemporary. At the same time, it pays due respect to the tradition from which it springs and never sells itself short by trading eloquence for easy access.
Miles Potter, who has directed, understands the spare nature of this text as much as he acknowledges the value of spareness in his staging. Set on a stage essentially bare, he orchestrates the passages of the Chorus to create a pulse in rhythm and increasing tension that is crucial to sustaining the conceit of the three female figures. Their movement, almost as clean as the lines they intone, reveals a smart blend of naturalism and stylization, neither one canceling out the other, but both serving to highlight the internalized nature of the writing.
The tension generated by Michael Becker's sound design is reinforced and advanced by Potter's careful attention to the text. The production resembles a chamber ensemble, each musician contributing to a greater whole, but each musician also singled out for specific attention. Rita Howell, as the Nurse, sets the opening theme firmly and without restraint. Her keening prepares us for the fine vocal work of Patricia Collins, leader of the female trio. Collins explores the deepest part of her voice with relish, cutting away at the language in the same way that Euripides cuts away at the senses. Kate Trotter is a compelling second voice and Michelle Giroux works hard to balance the group. (Her hunched physical presence and lighter voice make the distinction between actors unhappily apparent.)
But it is Seana McKenna, playing the title role, who defines the world of this play. And McKenna thrashes her way through the two hours with energy, driving passion and tireless exhilaration. Her Medea is a thing possessed, irreconcilable and occasionally psychotic. While it is clear from the outset that she will not rest until she has been revenged, it is also true that she challenges herself with the task of following through on her hideous plan. The moments during which she pauses to consider moving ahead or retreating are fascinating because they catch her by surprise. We are permitted the rare insight of an action evolving in the moment, of one step leading to the next. And the process by which McKenna takes us through that journey with her is never less than thrilling. And for all the turmoil, she is capable of great humour. (The Jeffers' adaptation is droll at times when humour would seem the least likely choice.)
The production, then, is a serious achievement. Greek tragedy is not renowned for drawing large crowds and, once gathered, for mesmerizing them into a silent mass. In the current production, it would seem that McKenna and Potter, along with the other members of the company, have done great service for the cause of the classics.
Also playing at the Patterson, is Timothy Findley's new play, Elizabeth Rex.
It is the evening of Shakespeare's death and he recalls a meeting between Elizabeth I and Ned Lowenscroft, a portrayer of Shakespearean women.(The character of Lowenscroft is Findley's creation.) It is 1601 and the play spans a night during which Essex, the queen's lover, is to be executed. In her distraught state, Elizabeth demands distraction and the acting company obliges. The play centres on scenes between the queen, Lowenscroft and Shakespeare himself. Before the evening ends, and the sound of cannon shots signals Essex's execution, the three characters will have confronted their fears and confessed their hearts.
The play requires some patience at the outset, for the evening is heavier on ideas than it is on emotions, more involved with puzzles of the mind than in revealing the workings of the heart. And the text, rich in its references to several of Shakespeare's plays, takes its time in introducing a larger community of the players who might have represented the core of such a travelling band.
Directed by Martha Henry, the pacing is never rushed and the text is always clear and pointed. There is not a throwaway or lost line in the two-and-a-half-hour evening, and the considerable stage business is never gratuitous or fussy. This is a production that serves the text and, more than that, mines as much Findley as one can imagine possible. Henry's respect for her playwright is as powerful as the playwright's respect for the Bard. The sense of shared discovery is palpable.
But plays of ideas are not always compelling in the hands and mouths of actors, however well delivered and carefully paced. And though the company is exceptionally well integrated, there is a bloodless quality that leaves the evening somewhat less satisfying than it might be. For a play that addresses sexual appetites and passions as much as this play does, I found there to be little or no sex on the stage. Brent Carver, in the role of Ned, sweeps onto the stage in wild outrage and then moves deftly between outbursts of regret, anger, compassion and, finally, acceptance. Diane D'Aquila as Elizabeth, ploughs into every scene with a vocal power unmatched by the other women in the larger company. This actor is an ideal choice for the role, since she is never self-conscious or self-adoring in her acting choices. She exults in rough-hewn emotional contacts and she further plumbs the character's life by attacking scenes without care or caution. For all this, however, her moments of vulnerability and indecision fail to register as anything more than intellectual notions. And with these two actors unable to get through to the real guts of the people they are portraying, I have to conclude that the script is the problem.
Peter Hutt, as Shakespeare, offers the least theatrical of the principal roles and, perhaps because of this, he gets closest to suggesting a three-dimensional human being. Hutt is gentle in his responses to characters and events that surround and define him, but he succeeds in expanding his persona to reflect a living and breathing creature. Maybe, too, Findley hasn't burdened him with the massive story lines that weigh down both the Queen and the Actor. And maybe, too, Findley's consuming fascination with Shakespeare has helped him to create a character whose life is no less worthy because he responds in ways far closer to humans that we know and meet in our own lives.