Dance fever
The ART swings with The Bacchae
by Carolyn Clay
THE BACCHAE, By Euripides. Translated by Paul Schmidt. Directed by François Rochaix.
Scenic design by Jean-Claude Maret. Costumes by Catherine Zuber. Movement by
Amy Spencer and Richard Colton. Lighting by Michael Chybowski. Sound by
Christopher Walker. With Michael Edo Keane, Alvin Epstein, Karen MacDonald,
Leslie Beatty, Debora Cahn, Gin Hammond, Courtney Rackley, Vessela Stoyanova,
Rachael Warren, Tricia Williams, Will LeBow, Benjamin Evett, Robert Ross,
Dmetrius Conley-Williams, Stephen Rowe, and Randy Danson. Presented by the
American Repertory Theatre at the Loeb Drama Center, in repertory through
January 15.
As he demonstrated in the Eumenides finale of his Oresteia
and in last season's finely calibrated The Wild Duck, American Repertory
Theatre associate director François
Rochaix likes to dance on the fence
between tragedy and burlesque. It's a daredevil act and one he performs
again
with The
Bacchae (in a clear, rhythmic, eloquently conversational new
translation by Paul
Schmidt). At the ART, Euripides's last great tragedy offers
cataclysmic lighting and scenic effects including ashes that fall like a
continual drizzle over the blackened tomb of Semele, a sound design that
incorporates whoops and whispers of formal and improvised percussion, a
searing
moment of tragic recognition, and Alvin Epstein in a
dress -- as Kadmos,
founder of Thebes, going off to the Dionysian revels looking for all the
world
like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.
The Bacchae is among the most primal of the Greek tragedies
-- the
story of wine and theater god Dionysos's return to his native Thebes,
which has
failed to recognize his divinity. Despite the thrall in which the
attractive
young god holds the city's women, who have taken to nearby Mount Kitharon
to
dance his praises, the young king (and Dionysos's first cousin), Pentheus,
denies and insults the deity, who exacts a terrible revenge, causing
Pentheus
to be torn to bits by his own mother. In the view of Polish-born scholar
Jan
Kott, the play is a scapegoat staging of the ur-myth in which god is
sacrificed
and then ingested by man. From Dionysos to Jesus, it's just one long Last
Supper! (Indeed, Schmidt's translation includes distinctly Christian
imagery.)
Nietzsche argued that the play reflects Euripides's late-life decampment
to the
Dionysian. And our own Age of Aquarius refashioned the play, in which the
forces of repression are made to submit to those of religious and artistic
ecstasy, as an endorsement of free love. At the ART, The Bacchae
becomes, in the words of translator Schmidt, "a stunning take on what
happens
when you deny the irrational side of your mind. Particularly, it's about a
man
denying the feminine side of his nature and what the consequences of that
can
be."
Which is where the drag-show element comes in -- some of it
legitimate, some
not. In the exotic person of Michael Edo Keane,
Dionysos shows up in Thebes --
accompanied by an action-cartoon whoosh and bang -- in a pleated corset
that
exposes his nipples and a skirt, golden dreadlocks (what Pentheus calls
his
"girly-curly hair") cascading to his waist. He is one smug, androgynous
vamp of
a god -- sort of a cross between Bo Derek and Mick Jagger. Indeed, he is
given
to posing, paparazzi-worthy smile at the ready, with his Asiatic-maenad
groupies, the Chorus.
Later, Dionysos tricks the gender-insecure Pentheus into drag
before leading
him to the slaughter. But there is no legitimate reason I can see for
getting
those conciliatory ancients, Kadmos and the blind seer Tiresias, up in
drag;
bacchants are not required to dress as women (Pentheus does so to
infiltrate an
all-female rite), merely to don the acolyte's vestment of a fawn skin and
carry
the ivy-tipped staff, the thyrsos. Rochaix wishes, no doubt, to emphasize
the
comic pathos of the feeble elders paying their boogying respects to the
new god
in town. Indeed, tottering off to the mountain hand in hand, the pair do
recall
flower-bedecked Lear and blind Gloucester in the field near Dover. (And Will
LeBow's Tiresias is very convincingly blind.) But tarting them up in
coral
frocks, with a lipsticked Epstein kibitzing like some Beckett-esque
Quentin
Crisp in ballet slippers, tips the balance too much toward farce.
Similarly, the production's take on Pentheus as an "adolescent
despot" is
intriguing but overbroad. Benjamin Evett is an
uptight, ponytailed boy heading
an entourage -- something between the Secret Service and a gang -- of
similarly
attired young men in olive suits and (well, it is a Greek tragedy)
sandals. Dionysos, he sneers, is a "crazy, long-haired Asiatic who wears
perfume and spends his time with girls." Clearly, this is a young man with
gender issues, pushed too early to power by grandfather Kadmos. (The
Chorus, in
Schmidt's translation, calls him "Child.") Petulant and stubborn, he masks
his
insecurity with machismo, his prurience with Puritan rigidity. And he is
even
more infuriated by Dionysos's toying with him than he is by the god's
charismatic, ambiguous sexuality and his claim to divinity. It's like a
game of
rock-breaks-scissors; in this contest of adolescent-male bravado,
god-breaks-king.
But if Pentheus's threatened masculinity is overemphasized, at the
expense of
his rashness, Dionysos is able to seduce him with it. Once he has the
young
king dazed and in a dress, he lures him to his death purring, "Only you
are man
enough for this." In this interpretation, Pentheus's masculine posturing,
combined with his insecurity, becomes his tragic flaw. And just as his
"manliness" makes his appearance in drag the more ludicrous, his
boyishness --
his sweet, blurry surrender to Dionysos -- heightens the horror and
poignance
of his fate.
Moreover, it makes Dionysos's behavior, however seductive, the
more chilling.
A tender, gently mocking avenger he may be, but he's also a cruel and
implacable one: an Old Testament God in fawn's clothing. Unfortunately,
that is
a point that's easy to miss in this production, which inexplicably
truncates
Dionysos's final, deus ex machina appearance, cutting Kadmos's
crucial
admonition that, though Dionysos was wronged by Pentheus and by Thebes,
gods
should not be merciless. In the words of the William Arrowsmith
translation,
they should be "exempt from human passion."
For the most part, the comic risks taken with Dionysos himself pay
off. Edo
Keane and the translation have moments of sly-boots humor that are too
glib,
but the god cuts an ironic, sexy, imperious, and decidedly Asian figure --
like
the monarch out of The King and I, with superhuman powers. "I am
the god
who loves noise!" he bellows, and he delivers no little of it, in the form
of
thunderous voiceovers and loud bass vibrations that shake the theater if
they
don't exactly wreck the palace when they're supposed to.
Perhaps the greatest risk Rochaix takes is to preserve, amid his
modernizing,
the ritualistic integrity of the Greek Chorus, here an octet of
red-dreadlocked
women (led by Karen
MacDonald) in gauzy dress and combat boots, two of whom
serve "the King of Uproar" on various percussion instruments, from tribal
drums
to snare and ghostly xylophone. The Bacchae's Chorus is an unusual
one
in that the women are not neutral (i.e., audience-representative)
figures but bacchants whose benign if intense worship of Dionysus stands
in
contrast to the more possessed doings of the Theban women up on
Kitharon.
Schmidt has streamlined the choruses, giving them incisive
rhythmic cadences
that sometimes recall Vachel Lindsay's. On stage for most of the play, the
thyrsos-brandishing Chorus is at times reduced to cliché'd posing,
hissing, or gyrating. But its diction is precise. And if Rochaix, abetted
by
movement directors Amy
Spencer and Richard
Colton, hasn't fully solved the
problem a Greek Chorus presents, he hasn't ducked it either. There are
wonderful elements, among them the women's scraping a frenzied, metallic
rhythm
on the vine-bearing bars of Semele's tomb or taking over the porch of
Pentheus's palace. Moreover, the Asian maenads serve as a mirror of
Euripides's
shifting attitude toward Dionysos, moving as they do from righteous
indignation
at Pentheus's blasphemies to something more sinister and vengeful. "What's
the
best thing/That the gods give to men?/A knife at the throat of someone we
hate"
is the disturbing refrain of one stasimon.
It can be a problem for modern audiences, accustomed to Pulp
Fiction
and the like, that all the gore of Greek tragedy is unleashed off stage.
Both
messengers in The Bacchae bear their eerie, bloody tidings well, Stephen
Rowe bringing to the cowherd's prescient report of butchery on
Kitharon a
Shakespearean-rustic persona and Dmetrius
Conley-Williams delivering his
account of Pentheus's agony with appalled authority. But it takes the
appearance of Randy
Danson's giddy, blowzy Agave, her son Pentheus's bloody
head on a stick, to bring the tragedy home. When, after some cream-licking
bragging and a bit of disorientation, Danson's Agave realizes the carcass
she
holds is no lion's head but her son's, she goes rigid, then spastic, with
horror. It's a goosebump-inducing moment that subsides into slacker grief,
but
it captures what Greek tragedy is about.
Rochaix skims over the redemptive follow-up, when Kadmos and Agave
achieve
some manner of wisdom (sophia, the Greeks called it, the acceptance
of
necessity, which teaches compassion) by piecing Pentheus back together. In
this
post-Vietnam rendition, his body parts are in three trashbags on a
stretcher
where Agave deposits the head almost as a matter of course. In a somewhat
hoky
bit, Dionysus appears on high behind a bank of microphones to issue his
final,
ruthless edict: "Too late. You should have known me sooner." What follows
is
some pretty impressive destruction. You think it's not nice to fool Mother
Nature? Don't even think about fooling with Father Theater.