Coriolanus: Ashland Oregon Shakespeare 2024

  After last year’s financial challenges it’s great to see the Ashland Shakespeare Festival back — and in first-rate form.     

        The rarely produced Coriolanus is a coproduction with the feminist Upstart Crow Collective and Play on Shakespeare. The latter provided a modern verse translation by Sean San Jose, which proved a quite acceptable stand-in for a Shakespeare text that for once conveys more energy than poetry.

        The former shrank the cast to eight woman/nonbinary performers who seamlessly explored the tragedy of a war hero both nurtured and destroyed by his mother’s living her warrior dream through him. Any fear that the violent text would be diminished by the casting quirk was immediately dispelled by the excellent performers and the poetic infusion of ritualized dance and war-choreography.

The gender casting actually serves the plot. Though Coriolanus is obviously the given tragic hero, a case could also be made to qualify his mother. Volumnia’s tragedy is that she was a woman denied the opportunity to become the heroic, suffering soldier she craved to be. So she fashioned her son into her sunken heartless warrior. That selfishness also leads her to coax him into his own eventual death. Casting women as every Everymen allowed the performers the liberty she craved. They’ve come a long way, baby.

In the event the gender issue didn’t really  arise. The characters registered as people. Jessika Williams was a powerful, strident Coriolanus, as “manly” as imaginable. The other performers provided a full range off civilian characters, gender irrelevant. 

The rarely-produced play immediately speaks to our present politic. The heroic warrior disdains of the common people and declares his purity in an unwillingness to pay any respect to them. Director Rosa Joshi emphasizes the matching corruption of the elected tribunes by a telling addition to the text. Having doled out miniscule portions of corn to the starving, raging populace, the tribunes steal the bulk of the bag for themselves. In this clash between the unwavering militant and the gullible civilians there is little absolute virtue.

The gender casting serves another theme as well, the implicit homoeroticism between the two central warriors. At times Coriolanus’s clash with Aufidius segues into the promise of love-making. War turns out to be yet another arena for obsessive dedication to another person — as well as to a cause or a nation. 

In a brilliant casting, one actor portrayed both Coriolanus’s wife Virgilia and his fatal antagonist Aufidius. (On our night, because of an injury the understudy Ava Bingo played both roles -- brilliantly!) This Coriolanus shows a less erotic connection to his wife than to his enemy soldier. That is the twisted essence of the warrior, a hatred intense enough to turn erotic.So, too,  Volumnia’s exulting in her son’s bloody success often turns sexual. 

Aptly, this intensely psychological politic was performed in the small black box theatre, feeding the intimacy. 

Not knowing the play, I was struck by its echoes of Antony and Cleopatra, which Shakespeare wrote at around the same time. In both a great Roman warrior is destroyed by an intense relationship with a woman. Antony is of course defined by his passion for the Egyptian queen, Coriolanus by his submission to his mother, first by her thrusting him into the suffering of war, then by her compelling him into a fatal peace. Both soldiers are ultimately doomed by softness. The play defined by love has a poetry missing from this more violent one.  But this production was an equally compelling experience in its own range.

The Makioka Sisters (1983)

  Kon Ichikawa’s The Makioka Sisters is the Seven Samurai of domestic melodrama. The dense relationship between four Osaka sisters foregrounds themes of familial responsibility, personal identity, class tensions and the burbling conflicts at home and in the history beyond.         All this is played against two backgrounds. The more obvious is the beautiful cycle of the seasons, centered on the spectacular.time of blossoming. Here nature and the women are at one. The second is the historic background. The periodic references to events beyond the family drama culminate in the specific date of the film’s closure. 

    In the last scene the oldest sister accompanies her husband’s move for a promotion to Tokyo. But her reluctance has exposed a sinister streak in him. The spinster third sister Yukiko seems finally settled into a relationship with a handsome young aristocrat who promises to keep an eye on the wayward young fourth sister, Taeko, who is happily committed to a penurious bartender.

But. The family relationships are not as secure as they may seem. The oldest sister may find teeming Tokyo a less amenable setting than her rule in small and familiar Osaka. The second sister may be relieved by her domineering sister’s departure but with a lingering and sensitive responsibility towards the rebel youngest. 

The two younger sisters remain less secure. Yukiko is finally in love and properly engaged — but to a playboy of dubious stability.  Also, she has innocently captivated the second sister’s husband, leaving him bereft, bleary and open to infidelity. And how long will the wild Taeko stay contented with her cramped domestica?

One more shadow falls across the happy ending. Some seven months later comes Pearl Harbour. 

That is, just as the long saga of familial tensions appears to have been satisfactorily resolved, international hell breaks loose. Here is an epic drama about self-realization, aspiration, compromise, played out in one family in anticipation of its magnified replay around the globe.

This is a wonderful film.

Alex Edelman: Just Like Us

  The leap from the standard standup comedy special to Alex Edelman's Just for Us is like Shakespeare's advance upon the morality play. Colour it quantum.

The Broadway show comes to us on Netflix. Instead of running gags Edelman unfurls a multithreaded narrative. We know it's going to be personal from the first scene. Instead of opening on the Broadway stage it shows him in his dressing room, then follows his run down to the stage — where the performance conventionally begins. The entire drama will focus on this theme— the continuity between the performer's life and his performance. 

Or: how our life indeed is performance, routines that attempt to connect us to others. Conversely, the willful drives that separate us by our instincts and impede our stabs at understanding, at union.

Arguably the drama's core is the story of Koko, the gorilla taught to use sign language. Long after having met comedian Robin Williams, upon hearing of his death Koko signed an expression of grief. Edelman tells the story at the beginning of his… no, ‘routine,' won’t do… drama. He returns to it at  the end.

The Koko drama is the miracle of inter-species communication, especially through the Williams forte, comedy. Between the versions of that miracle Edelman dramatizes the failures in communication and connection within that apparently inferior species, the benighted human.

Obviously the main example of that gap is the neo-Nazi and the Jew. As Edelman develops the tension of the cell meeting that he crashed, he suggests a couple of possible reconciliations. One is his reflex fantasy of a relationship, even perhaps marriage, with the attractive woman, named — in her own cross-cultural ambition, Chelsea…. “You never know” ….But she ultimately orders him out. 

Also, as he finds himself sympathizing with his persecutors he finds himself even identifying with them — down to a fleeting fantasy of becoming their Klan leader.

But alas no such triumph over malice is humanly realistic. The best our hero can do to thwart this historic enemy is — to steal a piece from the hostess’s monster crossword puzzle.

  But he manages a larger triumph. From all his insecurities, all his vulnerabilities, he salvages —this performance! He wins his theatre audience with his shameless self-exposure. So he confides in us his autism. He recalls overhearing his mother’s remark to the doctor: “What do you mean, ‘He’s fine!’?” So too he tells us his jokes—that didn’t work! He has supplementary tensions with his brother the Olympian, with his father the Orthodox, essentially with life.

Finally, for all the centrality of his Jewishness the climactic counterpoint crops up in his comic memory of his family transcending their faith and identity. Tanks to the generosity of his mother towards a bereft Christian friend, in once celebrating Christmas they discover —through that conflct — the true meaning of that pagan festivity. It is mentschlichkeit. The concept as Jewish as Jesus. The Other is the hidden You.

One must also note perhaps the most dramatic element in Edelman's performance — his animal, possibly manic, energy. From his bounce down those stairs he does not stop moving. He runs, he jumps, he freezes in total-body pathos. 

There is no calm in his story, no peace. Just the commitment of the driven. The compulsive spirit of Robin Williams rides us again. And if he went for the comedy, we’re left with Koko’s pain.This performance lays bare the function of comic performance. Beyond amusement, its ambition is to establish harmony with the Other. That is work. Today that is vital.

Evil Does Not Exist

Od course i paid admission hoping there’s a guaranty.  (There isn’t.)

Evil does not exist. Nature exists. Mankind exists. What evil there is — or isn’t — lies strictly among those elements. 

But nature is nature. Outside the moral arena. The deer are timid, avoid humanity, but can be prompted to harsh reactions that may seem evil but — they’re natural. They are self-preserving reflexes not calculated actions. Even at its bloodiest nature remains innocent in its primitive stirrings. “Red in tooth and claw,” nature remains innocent of evil.

Not so humanity  — “man” as non-gendered. Man has moral awareness, moral responsibility, so there lurks and springs the evil. Evil does not exist — except in mankind. If there is any evil it is in man, not nature. 

That’s the point of the opening and closing scenes. They open with a lengthy meditative view up through tree-veined skies, exalted by the score. The first ends abruptly with little Hanna staring up at the skies. The end closes with her dead. As her handyman father, Takumi, bears off her corpse they disappear into the dark forest. They have returned to nature, dust to dust, leaf to leaf. 

        They achieve a greater non-materiality than the skeleton of the gut-shot fawn.

Not so the city slick. The former talent agent is now touting the corrupt company’s greedy plan to spoil the region and the village by developing a sophisticated camping site on the hill above them. The sewage like the water (and like modern corporate urban man) will inevitably run downhill. The moral antithesis to gravity.

At the meeting the company’s two PR touts fail to win the villagers trust. Instead, the two are genuinely moved to pressure their boss to remake the project. Sent back with a hollow pretence to compromise, they decide to convert to the village life. 

The woman is the likelier to succeed because she has a more realistic sense of herself. She survives her violent encounter with the greenery — a sliced palm, like another culture’s stigmata.

Not so the man, who is still seeking a role he can play in life. The marginal actor converted to talent agent. Now one happy stab at log-chopping persuades him to take an even more dramatic life change. 

But his instincts betray him. The climactic scene is harsh and elliptical. His and Takumi’s search for Hanna seems to have reached a happy conclusion. But then Hanna walks toward the majestic stag. Takumi hangs back, trusting to the deer’s natural gentleness. The city slicker panics and rushes to “save” her. That panics the deer, who fatally gores Hanna. 

Takumi, trying to restrain the hapless transplant, wrestles him to the ground, leaving him possibly dead. But he’s too late to save Hanna so he carries  her off, dissolving into the field. The city guy struggles back to life. 

        But then he stumbles and falls, even now unable to merge himself into nature. Dead or alive he hasn’t the self or sensitivity to be the “at one with nature” he deluded himself he could become. The loner in the human world remains isolated in the field. What life he may still muster is doomed by his guilt about Hanna. 

Arthur Newman (2012)

  This is director Dante Ariola’s dark psychological plumbing of the screwball comedy. You know, like Bringing Up Baby aka What’s Up Doc? Uptight white male hero meets freewheeling femme whacko and it’s love … at the end of the disastrous trail.

Here the laughs are light. This is a sombre examination of identities, how we find them, why we need them, how we’re both bound to them yet compelled to flee them. How we can/can’t recover one.

Wallace Avery starts with a shattered identity. He was a very promising amateur golfer but fell apart on the pro circuit. His golf identity eroded his function first as a husband and more hurtfully as a father. Now he’s a Fed Ex functionary with a one-way committed girlfriend. Cut off from his son, he created a room for him, a shrine the kid has never seen. The connection defines the distance between them.

When he can’t live up to his role as golfer, dad, lover, businessman, what does a guy do? Make himself a Newman (pause halfway thru). Arthur J., to be precise. Wallace fakes his death — by drowning, aptly, for a drama about immersions as self — and drives off to a casually promised job as a Terre Haute private golf course pro.

He’s barely on the road when he encounters Mike — a woman really named Charlotte, but you know how shifty identity can be. Clearly Arthur/Wallace and Mike/Charlotte have something in common and will hotly hit the sack before you can say QED.

Mike is introduced vandalizing her lover’s wife’s car, on some kind of bad trip. Gently concerned, Arthur takes her to the hospital and attends to her there. As they gradually adjust to each other their relationship continues but stiffly, with many jabs and no caresses. Turns out she’s fleeing an identity too. With a psychotic mother and a psychotic twin sister (the true “Mike”) , Charlotte is rootless, unfocused, driven, self-destructive.

        In a supporting theme the unconnected couple witness a diabetic man die at  bus station. Wallace tries to revive him. Mike steals his identification, so he dies as an Unknown. Our central couple take a siginificant step towards humanity when they look up the man's widow and deliver the news. More personally, this extremely odd couple stumble into a mode of relationship that will finally get them into bed. Ok, to intimacy. 

But it’s only through their respective shields. Their sex happens only when they role play. They follow strangers, study them, then enter their homes, assume their unwitting hosts’ clothes and identities and finally make the beast with two backs. Well, as they’re playing others it’s maybe four.They’re themselves only when they’re others so when they’re just themselves they can’t get it together.

Until the end. Even there the uniting is a separation. Both return to their abandoned identities because… well that’s who they are. It’s not like in the movies, where you can just play someone else when you feel like it.

Baby Reindeer

You could call Baby Reindeer the Meet Cute Romance on steroids. Or a new chapter in Psychopathology in Everyday Life. I’ll settle for a triple-threat introduction to genius. Richard Gadd wrote this series, directed it and stars as the failed standup comedian who discovers himself through a Wacko Other, the humongous Martha. That’s about as impressive a triple-threat intro as Orson’s Charlie.

In the beginning. The haggard Donny is a bartender who buys a needy woman a drink. He is then alternately tickled and tormented by her stalking him. What keeps him from firmly and finally shucking her is his own guilt/shame/insecurity that derives from his having been drugged and raped by a screenwriter who’d encouraged his hopes to crack the biz.

The stalker’s intrusion into Donny’s life and mind torpedo his romance with the lovely and generous trans, Terri. It also queers his relationship with his ex, Keeley, and her mother, who has let Donny live in her house until Martha’s violence turns threratening. 

The last scene finds Donny alone and miserable in a bar, sans Visa. He killed his standup career by spending his gig on a humiliating confession. That makes him a brief celebrity. But he has nothing and no-one. The handsome young barkeep pays for Donny’s drink.

Now, there is an ambiguous ending for you. Will Donny revive his sanity, hopes and remnants of self-respect by invading the bartender’s life as Martha did his? Will the stalked turn stalker? 

Or is this revelation the necessary step for Donny finally to understand his nemesis Martha and to embrace her, perhaps even romantically, as radically kindred? After all, it was his first intercourse with Martha that finally freed him to make love to Terri. There’s guilt in them that hills but also maybe hope for a prospector?

When he/we learn what her sobriquet Baby Reindeer means we see she is as damaged by a loveless childhood as he was. This couple lives second generation trauma. Martha’s parents always fought. Donny’s vulgar bullying brute of a father was only hiding from his own childhood abuse by a priest. Father and son finally embrace over their respective rapes. Emerging from those traumas, neither the round lawyer Martha nor the skeletal comedian Donny have an easy path to self-knoweldge and self-acceptance. But they’re mad enough to try.

This dense, tense, shocking melodrama ultimately addresses an unexpected corner of our own humanity. It’s remarkable. And in both Jessica Gunning and Richard Gadd gives us two amazing new stars. 

The Juniper Tree (2003)

  To my regret, I lost touch with the work of Quebec actor/director Micheline Lanctot after her wonderful Handyman (1980) and Sonatine (1984). Happily, a dvd sale just produced The Juniper Tree, which she wrote, edited and directed. She also provided the music. It’s a wonderful reunion.

Lanctot’s familiar theme of two sensitive souls meeting across obstacles of class and culture here gets an operatic rendition. The film opens with a poetic reverie — both in word and in abstract imagery — about the savagery of archetypal motherhood. It closes on an operatic summation. In between we get two very dramatic stories about families fractured by passions and loss. 

Lanctot intercuts a two-hand melodrama with an opulent fairytale production of a typically grim Grimm fairy tale. In the titular tale a stepmother beheads her rejected stepson and is eventually killed by the singing bird that has revived the boy’s spirit. A macabre story of fatal passions finds a happy miracle.

In the main plot a maddened mother drowns her two young sons and is saved from a motor suicide by a highway patrolman. But he is as riven as she is. He’s a reformed commune hippy who has found stability and purpose as a cop. But that career choice cost him his hippy wife and access to their two young sons. He deals with the maddened strange mother en route to visiting his sons to explain why he’s gone. The brief encounter compels him to transcend his professional legality. This is itself an ending of fairytale extremity. 

Leads Sylvie Drapeau and Frederick de Grandpre are unfortunately unknown to me, as I have drifted from Quebec cinema. But they are both excellent. 

Wonderful to see the artist Lanctot at her sustained peak.