Theatre in Review: Titus Andronicus (The Public Theater) Buckets of blood are deployed in the Public Theater's Titus Andronicus -- and, no, that's not a figure of speech. During the murder spree that constitutes the climax of Shakespeare's most unashamed potboiler, pails of gore are carried on stage and thrown around, drenching the cast in red. Well, why not? It's not as if there's a subtle way to stage this round robin of rapes and homicides; you might as well go with what you've got. Except for the most determined Bardolator, Titus Andronicus isn't easy to love. Apparently written to cash in on the prevailing popularity of revenge tragedies, it represents Shakespeare's bid at being the Quentin Tarantino of his time. Nothing wrong with that -- it's not the first time the greatest playwright of all time worked with second-hand goods. But, this time out, despite a few eloquent moments, Titus Andronicus is a house of horrors built on a shaky foundation, absent any real compassion or psychological insight. The author's method here combines savagery with speechmaking; in what may be its most telling sequence, Marcus, a tribune (and brother of the title character), discovers his niece, Lavinia, who has just been raped and mutilated by a pair of aristocratic thugs. Instead of rushing to her aid, he stands there, unburdening himself of a speech of some 50 lines, describing how awful he feels about it all. This is par for the course in a play in which the title character quickly dispatches one of his sons over a matter of honor, without turning a hair. Compared to the feral creatures that surround him, Titus at least follows a code, for all the good it does him. Eventually, driven mad by the unbridled violence staining Rome -- at least he's upset over what happened to Lavinia -- he cooks up (a term I use advisedly) a revenge plot that takes most of the supporting cast with it. (Among other things, it involves killing Lavinia's tormentors, baking them in a pie, and serving them to their mother, the hellcat Tamora, Queen of the Goths.) It's hard not to get caught up in the game of who's-doing-what-to-whom, but chances are you'll hate yourself in the morning, for Titus Andronicus is all blood sport, with no redeeming social value. Call it Elizabethan torture porn. Still, if you're curious, a Shakespeare completist, or a student, Michael Sexton's chamber production does a fairly solid job of serving up this bloody cocktail, straight up, no chaser. He has assembled a well-spoken cast who go, hammer and tongs, at the business of eviscerating each other. In the title role, Jay O. Sanders unravels spectacularly, going from a career soldier defined by his rules of combat to a raving madman, plotting his revenge with the unhinged glee of a Hannibal Lecter. Underplaying against him suavely is Ron Cephas Jones as Aaron, the Moor, and the play's head schemer, who, among other things, is cuckolding the emperor, Saturninus, by sleeping with his empress, Tamora. Whether Jones is quietly chuckling over the havoc he has wreaked, or furiously declaiming, at knife's point, that he only regrets not having sinned more vigorously, he is the most compelling presence on stage. There are suitably menacing turns by Jacob Fishel as the thoroughly corrupt Saturninus; Sherman Howard as Marcus, Titus' all-too-eloquent sibling; and Rob Campbell as Lucius, his battle-hardened son. Less effective are Stephanie Roth Haberle, practically howling at the moon as Tamora, angling for the title of wickedest woman in Rome, and Jennifer Ikeda, who finds herself largely hamstrung by the role of abused ingénue Lavinia. Sexton's use of a small company and his conceptual framework also intersect in less-than-helpful ways. There's the figure of a young boy (Frank Dolce); carrying around copies of Ovid and Thomas Kyd's The Spanish Tragedy in his backpack, he appears to be a modern observer to all this carnage -- but he also plays Mutius, murdered by his father, Titus; Lucius' son; and Alabus, one of Tamora's boys, who also is executed. Dolce gracefully submits to being killed over and over, and he speaks his few speeches well, but it's often hard to tell who he is supposed to be. This goes double for Daoud Heidami, who plays so many assorted lords and messengers -- in a single costume -- that, in one unfortunate scene, he is forced to introduce himself. This production also shows one of the limits of nontraditional casting: As it's a major plot point that Tamora, who has been sleeping with Aaron, risks disaster by giving birth to a black baby, it's probably not a good idea to cast a black actor as one of her adult sons--it dulls the point. William Jackson Harper is otherwise convincing in the role, however. Brett Banakis' set design makes use of nothing more than a red stage deck and a pile of plywood sheets; one by one, these are revealed to contain primitive, yet effective drawings that foreshadow the ugly events to come. With articles of clothing affixed to them by hatchets, they are piled up against the upstage wall, signaling the play's growing body count; they also provide a hideaway for Lavinia's brutalization to take place. Mark Barton's lighting is finely done and Brandon Wolcott's sound design, making subtle use of the system of mics hanging over the stage, ensures we get every word. Cait O'Connor's costumes include some well-tailored and appropriately chic suits for the men; the women must make do with a series of unflattering outfits; Tamora's frocks have a borderline camp quality that isn't really helpful. All in all, this is a reasonably solid production of a piece that only gets occasional revivals. (There was one at the Delacorte in 1989, which went way over the top, and a well-regarded Julie Taymor staging, for Theatre for a New Audience, in 1994.) Directors will massage the script, trying to make a statement about one modern atrocity or another. (You can fill in the blank.) But somehow it never quite seems worth the effort. Anyway, Titus Andronicus runs through December 18; if you eat after the show, take my advice and opt for vegetarian.--David Barbour 
|
