What we want from the theater is beauty, truth or, best of all, the two combined. Of course, beauty, like truth, has many guises — it's as much present in the epic obscenities of a David Mamet play as it is in the tender lyricism of Tennessee Williams, as present in the incomparable word painting of Jean Giraudoux as it is in the desolate, incomplete phrases of Georg Büchner. A play that gives us beauty without truth can still be a favorite — for example, Broadway's The Lion King, whose spectacular visuals are a source of constant pleasure, even while its moral is simple and predictable. And then there are plays that give us matter without manner — say, Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman, which, while deeply perceptive, is, as a literary experience, largely unimpressive. As for playwrights who combine beauty and truth, they're not quite so rare as they might first appear: not only Shakespeare (ever the best) belongs to that number; but so do Chekhov and Shaw and Beckett and August Wilson. It's almost as if we've made a deal with our authors: delight our eyes or our ears, dive into our hearts or minds (and return with hitherto-buried treasure), and we'll reward you at the box office and bookstore. Do all of these things, and we'll anoint you as theatrical royalty.I make these observations as prelude to my judgment of Mary Zimmerman's Metamorphoses, the highly praised show based on the fables of Ovid that is currently playing at American Stage. To get right to the point: I found the production boring. I was surprised to have this reaction, as I'd read wonderful things about the show's Chicago and New York incarnations, and was expecting to have a very good time in St. Petersburg. On reflection, the reasons for my dissatisfaction all fall under the headings of "Little Beauty" and "Not Much Truth." More specifically, the St. Petersburg production lacks emotionally powerful acting, an approach to the myths that finds their contemporary relevance, an attractive, germane set, and justification for the pool of water into which too many characters go wading. Yes, all the actors in the show are talented (some of them prodigiously), and yes, Zimmerman's language is evocative and appealing. But this is a show that never reaches very deeply into our psyches, or even into our love of spectacle. If myths, as Carl Jung would have it, are the dreams of the race, these examples almost never have the look or urgency of dreams. If myths are the repositories of ancient, undying wisdom, these examples seldom strike us with the force of a powerful insight.
An example: the story of Midas. As Zimmerman imagines him (and as he's played by Ben Masur), he's an ordinary enough millionaire, pleased with himself for having risen from poverty, and so committed to his labors that he can't be bothered to remember exactly what he's working for. One day a drunkard, Silenus (Ben Grimes), wanders into his domain and Midas gives him momentary refuge. Soon after, the god Bacchus (Jason Scott Quinn) arrives, congratulates Midas for looking after Silenus, and offers him, as reward, just about anything he can name. Midas thoughtlessly asks that everything he touch be instantly turned into gold; and though Bacchus objects, Midas holds the god to his promise. So he gains the miraculous power; and before you know it, his beloved daughter (Sacha Iskra) runs into his arms and is turned to gold. So Midas decides he's had enough of his new talent; when we leave him, he's just beginning the trek in search of a pool of water that can restore him to normalcy.
Now, here's a case that well demonstrates the limitations of the play and its staging. We all know the Midas myth, so we naturally expect that a modern version of same will remake it sufficiently to render it newly significant. But Zimmerman's script doesn't do that: its most up-to-date element is its colloquial language; besides that we're offered the usual story without any unexpected interpretation. The staging also is less than revelatory. Yes, it's pleasant to see comically gifted Quinn as a Bacchus-of-few-words, and yes, it's mildly funny to see Silenus fall into the ever-present pool. But besides the spectacle of Midas' young daughter bouncing a large red ball, there's no beauty to the scene, no magic to transform an old fable into something new. And why does the story take place in what looks like a medieval stone castle? Doesn't the heaviness of this stone edifice — designed by Dan Doubleday, and making the whole production ponderous — contradict the play's theme of metamorphosis, alteration, evanescence?
The other stories have other, but related, problems. The lesser-known tale of King Ceyx (Christopher Swan) and his wife Alcyone (Julie Rowe) should move us with its emotional urgency. But as staged by Brian Jucha, Alcyone's pleas that her husband not leave her are presented with a kind of Brechtian alienation effect: we hear the words but we don't feel the feelings. The story of Erysichthon (Scott Janes), punished for irreverence by Hunger (Iskra), begins to frighten us, but uses comic language just when we're steps from dread; and the story of Orpheus (Swan) and Eurydice (Nevada Caldwell) never fully enters into the great seriousness of Rilke's (quoted) poem on the subject. Maybe that's the key to so many of the play's failings: the author and director want to be comic, but the stories they tell want to be tragic. So when Colleen McDonnell plays an ancient psychotherapist whose patient is Phaeton (Grimes), or when Quinn, the most easily comic of all the performers, plays just about anyone, Metamorphoses makes sense. But there's a cost to this success: the more cartoonish the scene, the less it satisfies our desire for truth. Tellingly, the only myth that's treated with complete seriousness — and which, therefore, completely fascinates — is the story of Myrrha (Iskra) and her incestuous love for her father (Janes). As usual in modern thought, only sex is really weighty.
Oh yeah, Kris Hanssen's costumes are lovely (score one for beauty) and so are some props. But none of the stories quite rises above the heavy gray set. And can anyone explain the necessity of that pool of water?
A last note: next month, this same play is scheduled to open at Sarasota's Florida Studio Theatre. Different director, designers, actors. I can't wait to discover whether a different approach can make the thing work.
I'm almost sure that it can.
Till then, I'm a skeptic where Metamorphoses is concerned.
This article appears in Nov 17-23, 2004.