Theatre in Review: Coriolanus (Red Bull Theater at Barrow Street Theatre)Michael Sexton's modern-dress staging of Coriolanus features at least one moment that, seen before last week's election, froze the blood; if you plan on attending, hold on tight. As you probably know, the title character of William Shakespeare's tragedy is a brilliant Roman general who, after a military triumph, is urged, much against his will, to run for the office of consul. Having spent his career commanding men, he is psychologically ill-equipped to court the favor of his fellow citizens, whom he considers to be little more than rabble. He is especially annoyed by the expectation that he is to parade his battle scars in front of them. With the greatest reluctance he agrees to do so, and wins the election. In truth, however, he intends to renege on his promise. Meanwhile, Sicinius Velutus and Junius Brutus, a pair of tribunes who would dearly love to see Coriolanus fail, stir up the crowds against him, accusing him of playing the citizenry for a pack of fools. The mob, enraged, takes action, and the steel ballot box at stage center is smashed open, scattering paper ballots everywhere. It's a savage image of populist rage that, all by itself, reveals how well-timed this production is. Nobody would put Coriolanus in the top tier of Shakespeare's plays -- the title character, for most of the running time, is rather two-dimensional and the text is surprisingly thin on poetry. But few playwrights have understood the dynamics of political power so thoroughly, and, Sexton's mordant staging has an undeniable, unsettling timeliness. As you enter the theatre through metal detectors, the walls are covered with handbills urging one, in English and Spanish, to vote; you could be visiting your local polling place. Brett J. Banakis' set places a small raised stage -- detached from the theatre's proscenium -- in the house. (There is seating on three sides.) The actors roam through the house, forming a chorus of plebians who are alarmingly fickle in their affections for those in power. The shattering of the fourth wall is rarely as effective as it is here; this Coriolanus is staged as a town hall meeting in a democracy that is quickly becoming unhinged. Sexton creates a number of hard-to-forget images: Coriolanus, returning from battle, his blood-spattered body framed in a doorway; the theatre turned into the site of a political convention, with red banners on the walls and a shower of red balloons, as Coriolanus' candidacy is announced; a procession of Romans, dressed in black, praying for mercy in the face of almost certain attack by the barbarous Volscians. That the attack is to be led by Coriolanus, who has fled Rome in the wake of his political humiliation, and the procession is led by his abandoned wife, mother, and son, only adds to the tension. With its jaundiced view of electoral politics as a cynical reality show and its solid grasp of the cankerous dynamics of revenge, this is very much a Coriolanus for the present moment. Sexton has assembled a cast especially skilled at conveying these cutthroat maneuvers and set to deliver the dialogue at a fast and furious pace. Until the play's climax, Coriolanus is a one-note character, defined almost entirely by his bellicosity, but Dion Johnstone's commanding presence and fluent handling of the verse goes a long way toward explaining his allure; if he vividly renders the character's innate disgust at his fellow Romans, he also manages to find a few moments of tenderness with Rebecca S'manga Frank as Virgilia, his wife. Late in the play, he finds new shadings when, confronted by his mother, Volumnia -- the one person who has any sway over him -- he renounces his plan to join the Volscians against Rome. Volumes could be written about the relationship between Coriolanus and his mother, and Lisa Harrow makes a great deal out of this most formidable parent. (Having previously convinced her son to return to his original promise to court the voters, she pulls away from him; instead of praising him -- her usual tactic -- she withdraws, her face a frozen mask of distaste. It's a telling insight into a relationship dominated by manipulation rather than love.) In the eleventh-hour confrontation, Volumnia seizes control of the action, exerting in full view the domination that has always been there, carefully sheathed in her motherly accolades; she forces Coriolanus to face the consequences of his perfidy, all but unmanning him in the process. As good as these two actors are, the cast is loaded with distinctive characterizations. Patrick Page, clutching a glass of bourbon and speaking in a honeyed drawl, is every bit the political fixer as Menenius Agrippa, Coriolanus' great friend; Aaron Krohn is appropriately dignified and well-spoken as a general whose coolly reasonable manner provides a kind of rebuke to Coriolanus' pride and fury; Stephen Spinella and Merritt Janson, as those treacherous tribunes, are as up-to-date as a CNN broadcast; Matthew Amendt inflects the obsession of Tullus Aufidius, the Volscian general, with an almost homoerotic undertone. In addition to his set, which proves entirely suitable to Sexton's production concept, Banakis' lighting achieves a surprising number of looks for scenes of battle, public address, and scheming in moonlit streets. The costumes, by Ásta Bennie Hostetter, include authentic-looking military uniforms for Coriolanus and his generals; dumpy khaki-and-blazer combinations and pantsuits for the tribunes; and a kind of punk look for the Volscians. (Many members of the company must make lightning-fast costume changes.) Brandon Wolcott's sound is perfectly solid. There are a number of productions in town right now that allude to the recent presidential election, but none takes such deadly aim at the politics of populism as this Coriolanus. As a bonus, it presents a candidate who is undone by his overweening pride. It's a powerful reminder that some facts of politics are always with us and the need to protect democracy from clear and present dangers never fades away. -- David Barbour 
|
