In an intense and bold performance of one of ancient Greece's supreme myths of terrible desire, (mostly) '03 cast succeeds in performing that most mundane yet exotic and tragic of dances, that of too much love in all the wrong places.
Matthew Maguire's new Phaedra (1995) rewrites Racine's Phdre (which, in turn, rewrote the Euripidean Hippolytus), taking from the Greek legacy the fate, infatuation, and fatuousness of good tragedy, and from modern day the trappings of leveraged buy-outs and multinational corporations. But unlike other updates, in which mobile phones or Internet jargon epitomize a 21st century ethos, Maguire's writing stays current only modestly. He has a CEO, instead of an Athenian chief of state; take-overs instead of wars; "under contract" instead of "enslaved to," and some tricky WASP-ish names instead of forgettable Hellenic ones. His play moves along with intelligence and intrigue and, avoiding melodramatic slop, remains close to the spirit of the Greek.
Directed in Moore Theater since last Thursday by Donny Levit, this play, welcome in its newness, siphons the pressure placed on man by the gods over to that which is placed on man (and woman) by one's own character. The fickle deities of classical times are gone (how could an actor now feign real faith?), but human fickleness, the irritating manifestation of deep and sheer personal "issues" (which is, for the solipsist -- which most tragic characters are -- the "really real"), parades on stage.
This summer's mainstage performance makes thoroughly obvious the manifold arrows of desire stinging the love-cramped air. Thomas (Jackson Burke) marries Faye (Alexis McGuinness), both parents from previous marriages, and per the eternal rules of family, William (Andrew Wilkins, inheritor of the role of Hippolytus, and son of Thomas, or Theseus) perceives that Faye hates him. In fact, she should die without her stepson's love. As should Aricia (Liv Rooth), "under contract" to Thomas as inventory from a previous cutthroat business deal. Thomas wishes a more than fiduciary relationship with Aricia. The mentors to Faye and William (Deborah Meschan as Nonny and Philippe de Richemont as Angus) both have great and unfulfilled longing for their respective friends and for each other.
But this is no comedy of errors, and besides avoiding the silly hilarity of love triangles, the production avoids, thankfully, being clever. William is disgusted by love. But for Aricia, he has been afflicted with attraction (or is it inflicted?). His mind should be on horse racing, but the pool is drying up -- resistance to her affections becomes maddening. In the Greek, Aphrodite, he believes, has punished him with his feelings toward Aricia; here, it can be nothing other than the id.
The job of the id in the contemporary world is, of course, to be repressed by the ego and super-ego. William takes this job seriously. Acted, Mr. Wilkins takes this job almost too seriously: as a Hamlet who keeps his rending soliloquies to himself. He does once, in a daring display of erotic passion released under pressure, open up -- maintaining the composure of one with lots of frustrating, stirring things on his mind -- but usually he stands, like a manic stoic, at angles to the other actors.
The best of the actors, not incidentally, is McGuinness. She leads with a dark fury, choking on a bolus of lust and decorum. She must avoid infidelity, and more -- incest has remained one of the few universal moral wrongs -- and so she would wish her death. But there are other things for her to wish for in the meantime. She moves rhythmically and shows the pain she feels -- it is Dartmouth's fortune she has years before graduation.
The other actors do their jobs admirably, if much in the tradition of previous Dartmouth student performances. Mr. Burke does not always act as naturally as a powerful leading figure should, seeming one-sidedly tyrannical; but when playing a hubristic chief executive, his vigor does not condemn his playing outright. He actually rather redeems his humanity, though not his solemnity, when, on the opening night, he nearly broke out in laughter in the famous "making sweet love to the furniture" scene.
Both Ms. Meschan and Ms. Rooth excelled in their sensuality, exuding physicality -- the body as dangerous and wonderful -- and playing down their roles as diagrammatic voices (Aricia was supposed to have been a management guru, though little of a guru's insight came through) and emphasizing their allure.
Mr. de Richemont, as Angus, edged toward the frivolous, but importantly so: while neither funny, nor trying to be, his appearances on stage provided a curious refreshment to the determination and consternation of the other actors. That he was both William's moral voice and court jester, he with the eye to the lighter sides of the life, could easily be possible. Neither a Kramer nor a George, he seemed more like Michael J. Fox -- disarming, endearing, trustworthy.
Thomas, all are told part way through the play, dies while on out on a drive. Each of Faye, Aricia and the Corporation, freed from Thomas' harmful and stifling pride, move in on William. Thomas, we learn later, is not dead. How people are so overwhelmed with psychic and social assets and liabilities, before and after Thomas' "resurrection," drives the play's dramatic action.
Angus and Nonny are less secondary figures than one would expect. They partake in this rage of moral and biological hormones, but they also act as the tragedy's chorus: reflecting common sense, breaking the dramatic action to allow it to build again, modulating our affective response as Aristotle would be proud to see.
The set, light and music design and engineering, all "industrial," mirror and update a minimalist Hellenic sensibility. A sparse stage (concrete backdrop, not-subtle Ionic column, precarious ladder) allows the tension of great openness and claustrophobic confrontations; smart geometrical lighting includes a few odd video clips; good but common techno-industrial music interlards the action, becoming playful in spots.
Ancient tragedy tends toward the verbal, even the disembodied verbal, shouts from static masks. In "Phaedra" here though, tragedy has been made bodily. Passion and sexuality trump internal strife and rhetorical control. On this stage, however, we're glad to witness (dare we say it?) love, with all its beautiful and horrible accoutrements, in action, not in theory.
