REVIEW: Drunk on language and love

I told myself I’d only have one glass of wine at dinner. It was Shakespeare after all. But in the event, I ended up having two. And then we split the charcuterie platter (lots of cured meat and cheese and bread)—and the maple-glazed pork chop. Walking into Open Book for the latest from Ten Thousand Things, I suddenly realized—as a theater-maker myself—how often our audiences must make a night of it, arriving at their seat stuffed silly with food and alcohol. It wasn’t sleep that concerned me, but a sudden and embarrassing lapse into happy coma. I needn’t have worried. Peter Rothstein’s electric production of Romeo & Juliet takes the stage with such ferocious beauty, my brain demanded my body’s attention—here was wit and language and emotion to match and then surpass my earlier feast. Oh, what language! Nothing could be goofier than complimenting Shakespeare’s writing, but something about Rothstein’s adaptation makes the language pop as never before. By stripping the story to its essence, he not only showcases the sturdy bones of the plot, but gives our 21st Century brains an hour or so less of Shakespeare’s language—and in this case less is definitely more. I’m a child of Joe Papp’s social experiment—I learned my Shakespeare, free of charge, from burgeoning celebrities in New York’s Central Park. At first the language was incomprehensible, then it was beautiful and dazzlingly clever, then it was overwhelming. It’s this last phase this lean adaptation avoids—we don’t drown in a sea of Shakespearean verse, but float on wave after wave of incredible imagery, metaphor and rhyme. Some of it so beautifully spoken it brings tears to your eyes—and that is no metaphor. It’s not just the language that pops, but even certain details of the story—is Juliet really supposed to be 14?—come alive. This serves the production but not always the play—the telling is so vibrant, by the time we get to Friar Lawrence’s famous potion scheme, it seems overcomplicated and not a little ridiculous—why not just put Juliet on a pony and send her to Mantua that instant? And do we really need a confusing sidebar about the plague to explain how the Friar’s messenger misses Romeo—some of the clunkier windings of the plot reminded me of my colleague Tory Stewart’s repeated claim that Shakespeare was, in her words, “dramaturgically unsound.” Yes, I’m actually reviewing the play! That’s a credit to Rothstein’s production—he makes the whole thing new again. This would be impossible with a lesser cast, but Bob Davis, David Darrow, Kurt Kwan, Namir Smallwood, Dennis Spears, Anna Sundberg, Regina Marie-Williams and Karen Wiese-Thompson carry the flow of passion and poetry with such muscular skill my brain and heart soon became as happily stuffed as my belly. Sundberg and Smallwood in particular may be the best star-crossed lovers I have ever seen. Grit is the wrong word—it’s not a West Side Story—but there’s something a little less woozy and dewy about the two actors that lends their passion great credibility. At no point does either performer’s voice soar to the kind of gauzy falsetto that sometimes makes this play more poetry recital than drama. Romeo’s quick switch from Rosaline to Juliet may seem flippant from our perspective—and a shrewd commentary from Shakespeare—but Smallwood sees it not, and is overwhelmed not by the sound of his own voice, but the depth of his feeling for this young girl (14?!?). Similarly, in Sundberg’s deep characterization, Juliet’s immediate jump to marriage elicits no smug 21st Century snark—can’t they just sleep together and be done with it—but a poignant sympathy for this woman who sincerely wants her passion to have the blessing and validation of the marriage bed. Shakespeare’s attitude toward both children and adults shames the way our current culture deals with young love—often portraying grownups as bumbling clowns and the teens in question stewards of some vast, secret wisdom. Some of the adults in Romeo and Juliet are indeed irrational and wicked—but they’re no fools. Nor does the playwright judge the young—though it’s clear they are not yet wise, and would do well to heed the Friars and Nurses of this world. Shakespeare gives everyone their due, and tries neither to be hipper than the kids, nor to score points with his own demographic at their expense. All these textual revelations heap credit on Rothstein and his incredible cast. Peter Vitale’s sound and music—which in some TTT productions can overwhelm rather than compliment—are a perfect partner to the event. Perhaps because Rothstein and his actors are as genuine in their violence as their passion—the menace is real (fight choreography by Annie Enneking), the heightened emotions truly high—and so the sound and music collaborate with the action. There’s also a happy dearth—though not complete absence—of that mysterious pelvic thrust performers deem so essential to Shakespearean acting. All in all, a production that does exactly what theater is supposed to—rouse you heart, mind and soul, leaving you more awake than when you arrived, and more alive.