In a time of widespread unemployment, gut-wrenching debt, rampant home foreclosures, and families fracturing under the pressure of a financial crunch the like of which Americans have not experienced since the 1930s, it is easy to feel powerless and paralyzed. What if we could know what the right choice is at the each and every intersection in our lives? What if we could find a map to guide us out of our troubles—by winning the lotto, betting on the right team, or knowing exactly how to negotiate a job offer, should one ever come?
This is the fantasy that Eddie Antar’s new play The Navigator explores with mixed results in its current production at the WorkShop Theater Company.
As of yesterday, January 19, 2012, I am a graduate of Hunter College, having received an MA in Theatre. Before long, my thesis, “Dark Shadows: Adaptation and the Chernukha Aesthetic in Contemporary Russian Drama,” should be available in the special collections section of Hunter College’s library.
Mr. Darcy is about to propose (1980 Pride & Prejudice)
Poor David Rintoul. He played the role of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the little-known 1980 film of Pride and Prejudice. And he did it so well that he drew the ire of a solid portion of the much-adapted novel’s fans.
The 1980 miniseries has been largely eclipsed by the much more popular and cinematic 1996 version, which presents the mature, intense, and carefully humanized Colin Firth as what many consider the definitive film Darcy. Then came the 2005 film with Matthew Macfayden as an obviously shy Darcy whose visable, immediate attraction to Elizabeth breaks out inevitably in an impassioned, almost impromptu proposal in the midst of a thunderstorm.
Quite a difference from Rintoul’s Darcy, pictured above as he waits for an answer to his knock at the door of Mr. Collins’s parsonage: Rintoul looks like he’s heading to his doom. Not at all unfitting, really, for a man who is about to propose to someone who is so far below his social station that the union is likely to materially damage not only his own reputation, but his sister’s–along with her marriage prospects. Yet, he is going into the lion’s den and doing it, nonetheless.
Certainly, Rintoul is as tall and handsome as subsequent Darcys. Indeed, I’d posit he’s more classically handsome than either Firth or the puppy-dog-eyed Macfayden. He reads younger than Firth, too–closer to Darcy’s age in the novel. Yet it is Firth who has turned into the enduring image of Austen’s proud, unreadable hero: passionately gazing across the room at Elizabeth, or spying from a window at her playing with a dog right after emerging from a bathtub. Firth really has the advantage in the adaptation of these films: whereas the 1980 version sticks faithfully to Elizabeth Bennet’s point of view, Davies’s version humanizes Darcy from the very beginning, revealing his passion and emotional struggles, and even his heroic actions regarding Lydia to the audience throughout the film.
Rintoul doesn’t get the benefit of an adapter who has decided to re-distribute the balance of the source material, allowing the viewer into the inner-life of both heroine and hero. Like Austen’s Bennett family, the viewer of the 1980 Pride and Prejudice get precious little chance to see beyond his well-practiced shell. So where did Rintoul go wrong, according to fans? Well, to quote some quips from around the web:
“The only negative [to the 80s miniseries], in my opinion, is Rintoul’s wooden, poker-faced portrayal of Darcy.” – from this post on Amazon.
“I found that David Rintoul from this 80s version played his role way to snobbish for my taste and Colin Firth did not, nor did Matthew McFayden.” – another Amazon commentator.
“[W]here is the feeling? Where is the passion? Darcy in this version is cold, and stiff, even AFTER we know he’s fallen in love with Elizabeth.” – yet another.
“My one quibble with this version is the stiff, rather boring portrayal of Mr. Darcy. And that’s a failing since he is supposed to become Elizabeth’s perfect match. It’s hard to understand how Elizabeth could be attracted to him at all other than he ‘saved’ her sister. He shows so little emotion, even after he’s changed, it’s tough to root for them to get together.” – And so forth.
“Mr. Darcy had a brick-like countenance that seemed impervious to change,” reports yet another viewer.
Darcy Becomes Fascinated by Elizabeth
Over on IMDB, however, one reviewer (LouE15) captures Rintoul’s Darcy particularly well–understanding how he can be simultaneously off-putting and yet perfect for the role:
David Rintoul’s Darcy is on first watching, excessively stiff and not particularly entertaining to watch. There is so little mobility in his face, and on occasion even in his voice, that only careful repeated viewings reveal nuances in his performance. I do find myself liking his portrayal more now: it’s very subtle, to be sure, no diving into pools or striding open-shirted through dawn meadows, but once you’re used to the subtlety, the great formality provides a backdrop against which Darcy’s own wit and growing interest in Lizzie stand out in the gentlest relief, like the pattern on a damask cloth.
Indeed, indeed. Rintoul’s Darcy is subtle, he keeps his thoughts to himself as best he can, under what he may mistake for a mask of aloof politeness (this is particularly apparent in his scenes with Miss Bingley, where Rintoul-Darcy’s struggle to maintain composure under his friend’s sister’s barrage of flirtation is given away by the merest twitches of the cheek).
But what was Mr. Darcy–Austen’s Darcy, I mean–but totally unreadable except by the most observant–and even then, he was able to keep his “romantic” struggles to himself, even in front of his friends? The brilliance of Rintoul’s Darcy is the fact that we, as the viewer, upon first watching can see the man that the Bennets saw, “wooden” “stiff” “aloof” “cold” and “too snobbish.” But upon watching again, the viewer sees the inside man–the one who softens and even secretly smiles when Elizabeth enters the room at Rosings, and who is practically aglow–once he recovers from his shock–to discover her at Pemberley. All while he remains a palpable mystery to his companions.
As this post is already long, I will save the rest of my argument for future installments in this series which will, I hope, included video and textual evidence for my assertion that Rintoul is indeed the best, if least-loved, of all the film Darcys.
Duncan on a throne of corpses in Macbeth After Shakespeare
On Saturday, December 10, a friend and I attended a production of Heiner Müller’s Macbeth After Shakespeare, performed at La MaMa by the Mini Theatre and Novo kazalište of Ljubljana, Slovenia and Zagreb, Croatia, respectively. The production was performed in Slovenian with English supertitles projected on the theatre’s back wall, as well as occasional interjections from cast members in English.
When one thinks of William Shakespeare’s tragedy of Macbeth, one does not exactly think of joy. But Müller’s version, at least as conceived by director Ivica Buljan, strips every last bit of hope from the original. Even Duncan, often shown as an old man, is here a virile buck who enjoys–really, really enjoys–lounging around on a throne of corpses (see photo above). As murder piles upon murder and body upon body, the sexual shenanigans rather unpleasantly bring back memories of watching Deliverance. In Müller’s Macbeth, the world is already out of joint long before the titular king’s crime, and will be so long after–a vision so horrifying that in the final moments of the play, Duncan’s son, restored to the throne, can only look around him and cry out “I’m going back to England!!”
I write this impromptu about Macbeth After Shakespeare because as I sat in the audience and the play went on . . . as Macbeth was left stripped nude and vulnerable by the witches . . . as I watched the carnage and the violation, mixed in with a wild coronation party in which Macbeth and Lady Macbeth handed out eatables and drinkables to the audience members and tried their darnedest to get us to shout along with them, “Long live Macbeth!” (but in Slovenian) . . . as all this agony unfolded before my eyes, two tears fell down my cheeks. One from each side. And yet, I felt no pain.
I cannot call Buljan’s production beautiful, though it was often striking to look at. Indeed, it was far from beautiful. But the text–and also the context of this production, at this moment in time, by this company–reminded me so forcefully of the plays I wrote about for my recently completed thesis (“Dark Shadows: Adaptation and the Chernukha Aesthetic in Contemporary Russian Drama”) that I cannot pass up mentioning it on this blog. I will not go into much further detail, because I am considering writing about the production in further detail for Slavic and East European Performance.
It is extraordinary how malleable classic stories are–how they can be formed and reformed into new nightmares as well as frothy visions to suit the tastes and needs of their time.
I do, however, wish to mention two (to my mind, major) flaws of the production as presented at La MaMa: First, the Slovenian text was much more compact than the English supertitles, so much so that it was impossible even for me, a native English speaker, to follow them without missing the action downstage; second, although the program notes the names of all the players, only the actor who plays Macbeth is identified with his role. I know that most of the other cast members played multiple roles, but I wish to praise and to question, and without knowing whom to address, it becomes difficult to do so. I will now have to get in touch with the creators for more information.
Republished with permission from the fall edition of Green Room, the newsletter of the Doctoral Theatre Students’ Association of the Graduate Center, City University of New York.
ATHE DIARY: CHICAGO Shari Perkins
This August, I attended ATHE at the Palmer House Hilton, where the organization’s first conference was held in Chicago twenty-five years ago. It was a wonderful year to be present as the membership celebrated a quarter-century of scholarship and debated the future of the organization and of theatre in academia. As a (virtually) first-time attendee, I found ATHE richly rewarding and occasionally overwhelming. Therefore, I will use this diary to share some strategies for making ATHE as fruitful as possible for future attendees.
First, I recommend taking advantage of the mentorship program that ATHE offers. I was paired with ATHE Treasurer Frank Trezza, who offered to meet me in New York before the conference began, then took the time to meet up with me several times while we were in Chicago, advising me about which sessions to attend. He also quickly introduced me to many members of the governing council as well as to friendly and supportive past graduates our program, whom it might otherwise have taken me much longer to meet
Second, watch for hidden opportunities in the schedule. The most useful session I attended (thank you, Frank!) was “Focusing on the Conference: How Can ATHE Serve You?,” which ended up being a voluble and valuable hour-and-a-half conversation between four past conference Vice-Presidents, myself, and just two other attendees. What had looked like a dry business meeting became a fantastic opportunity to get advice from Harvey Young, Nina LeNoir, Michael Ellison, and Judith Sebesta. “Publishing Your First Journal Article: Conversations with Editors” was a one-stop opportunity for learning what the editors of various journals—including David Savran for JADT—are looking for from submissions.
Third, get into small gatherings whenever possible. I learned from Dan Venning that there is an annual, private party for those who have published anything—including book or performance reviews—in the ATHE journals (Theatre Journal or Theatre Topics) during the year. The small size of the gathering makes it an ideal way to meet people and follow up on past contacts. Writing a book review is very possible, even if you are early in the Ph.D. program; write one, then find out when the party is next year at ATHE (you might have to ask around—I never got the emailed invitation!). It’s worth the effort.
Finally, don’t be forget about committee meetings—they are open to anyone and can give you opportunities to get involved with the organization. The Professional Development and Research and Publications committees look especially promising.
Of course, ATHE isn’t only about meeting people. It most of all about a lot of wonderful scholarship. Among the most interesting panels I attended were: “Fresh Print: Performing Remains,” a discussion of Rebecca Schneider’s new book; the Theatre History focus group’s session on interdisciplinarity in theatre departments; “Black Holes in Our Memory: Undiscovered Legacies of the African American Theatre,” which sparked a vigorous discussion of the importance of recovering forgotten theatre artists; and “Disrupting Genre/Fracturing Form,” in which a scheduling error resulted in no panelists at all, an impromptu paper by chair Kyle Gillette, and an enjoyable and productive three-way debate on the practical implications of breaking generic boundaries.
What I saw was a fraction of ATHE’s offerings, and there are as many stories to tell as there were attendees in Chicago. The Graduate Center was well represented in Chicago by faculty, students, and program graduates (I won’t attempt to list everyone). Although ATHE can be daunting, it is also exciting to participate in a conference with such a high level of discourse. Hopefully, I will see many of you next year in Washington, DC!
I don’t post very frequently, and I don’t delve into my past involvement in The Scarlet Pimpernel fandom very much, since the time when I was spending my spare time running “The League” mailing list and “Sir Percy’s Place” is so far behind me now. After all, Scarlet Pimpernel opened when I was in my senior year of high school. That’s a long time ago, and I consider that to be a “hobby” which predates my professional work in the theatre. In some ways, admitting to having been a “fan”–and even I won’t claim to have been a big name or prominent fan, though I put in a lot of work publicizing Pimpernel back in the day–seems like a fact which might make people take me less seriously. I was more concerned about that when I was fresh out of college than I am now, with a resume and a reputation for being sane and dependable.
But now, I’m going to stick up for Frank Wildhorn. No, his shows have not all been perfect. And I missed seeing several of them: I did not see Wonderland, nor did I see Dracula, and I’m pretty much OK with that. But I did see Jekyll & Hyde, once on Broadway and once on the National Tour, and I watched The Scarlet Pimpernel at least seven times. I’ve been to Bonnie & Clyde twice already–even prior to its opening last night–and sat in on a tiny part of rehearsal. And although the concept recording of Civil War confused me, I regret that I didn’t see that show, at least in its subsequent incarnations as a “song cycle.”
As far as I can tell, Frank Wildhorn can’t win. He can’t win because his music is too popular outside of the theatre world. He can’t win because his musicals are too popular outside the United States. He can’t win because his collaborators have not always held up their end of the deal. He can’t win because he was the first composer in 22 years to have three shows running on Broadway simultaneously. And he can’t win because he sometimes writes music which is more about the characters’ emotional state at the moment of the song than about moving the story forward. But what is so wrong with that . . . “I ask you?” in Anthony Andrew’s version of Sir Percy’s characteristic drawl.
It isn’t as if there is no tradition of musical songs of that kind. It isn’t as if Broadway and Popular Music have always been mutually exclusionary terms.
And now we have a production which is elegantly staged, beautifully performed, with Wildhorn’s best score so far, and the most cohesive book upon first opening night of his shows that I’ve seen. It is an entertaining show. It actually has a message which pertains to our current moment in time. The design is beautiful to look at. Yes, it makes Bonnie and Clyde into more sympathetic characters than we might expect. But then, Gypsy wasn’t exactly the picture of historical accuracy, either, was it? Sweeney Todd wasn’t exactly complex, and yet we cheer him on in his bloody spree. So why are the critics so savage? Why is it so irresistible to pan Frank, whose been incredibly prolific and who is bringing Broadway-style musical theatre around the world?
Are we critics too snobby to accept anything that doesn’t meet the Sondheim standard? Does it make us feel superior to sneer at gothic melodrama (J&H) and historical romance (Pimpernel)? Have we forgotten that part of theatre’s point is to entertain . . . that theatre was the main form of popular entertainment in the 19th century, and drew in crowds like mad . . . and that shows like Wildhorn’s (at least, his better ones) are entertaining? Is it really so much more rewarding to pan Wildhorn with his breakout stars and accessible, popular entertainment–with a vehemence far from deserved–than to focus on the far worse shows out there?
And why not instead of mockery offer constructive feedback? Why not turn the knives on less polished and competent shows? Why try to kill Bonnie & Clyde (outside the parameters of the show’s plot) instead of focusing on how to make theatre accessible and appealing to more people, to bring in more audiences, to promoting it as a popular form instead of an elitist one?
My students can’t afford to see theatre. I can’t afford to see theatre (not regularly at full Broadway prices). And I can tell you, that when I get my students to see a show, I want them to be able to identify with the themes (economic hardship driving a few to extreme measures and others to despair), enjoy the music (which is appropriate to the show, showcases the stars’ talents, and is within the vernacular of a young audience unfamiliar with theatre conventions), recognize the magic of true, LIVE star power (you can’t get that on TV), and understand how very much can be done with comparatively little in terms of creating an entirely different world and time that they’ve never seen before.
This is a rant. I know it is a rant. But I am dumbfounded by the venom, so far beyond what Bonnie & Clyde deserves. Yes, there are problems with the show. But not like the majority of reviews I skimmed portrayed them. This show could be hit. And I’d hate to think that the grudges of a few people will get in the way of that. I’d also hate to think that the prejudices of small number of critics–among whom I sometimes count myself–might shut down, ignore, or deride the very pieces of theatre which have hope of reaching the new audiences that the theatre world so desperately needs.
So give Wildhorn a fare shake, critic-people.
And, producer-people, please get tickets out there that are actually cheap enough for my students to afford. I hate to break it to you, but in this economic climate, $30 rush tickets are beyond many of us. Some of my students can’t spare $10, especially considering the massive hikes in their CUNY tuition bills.
Now, for a break from my ranting, and a montage from Bonnie & Clyde:
Now, does this show deserve to be panned?
At this point in my life, I cannot create “The Gang” like I helped create “The League.” I cannot dedicate the hours and hours I spent from my computer in Roanoke VA to convincing people that Pimpernel had something good in it. But I hope that there are others out there who will have the time and the passion to do so. In the meanwhile, I’ll go back to teaching this city’s college students to read, write, and understand theatre they can’t afford to go to, and that–if critics have their way–they may not feel anything for once they scrape together the price of a ticket.
Strange Horizons has just posted an article, “Watching the Watches: An Interview with Sergei Lukyanenko,” in which I played a small part. The article itself is authored by my dear friend Nicholas Seeley. I translated Nick’s questions into Russian and handled initial communication with Mr. Lukyanenko.
Unfortunately, by the time we were ready to translate the science fiction author’s responses into English, I was over-committed with Graduate School and the translation-torch was passed to Natalia Antonova.
For those who are interested in learning more about the author of Night Watch and Day Watch, as well as other works of Russian fiction which have begun to enter the American consciousness, please take a look at Nick’s article: “Watching the Watches: An Interview with Sergei Lukyanenko.”
Fantastic news! My Master’s thesis has been completed, edited, approved, and submitted to the Dean’s office at Hunter College, which means that I now–for all intents and purposes–have a MA in Theatre. In January of 2012, therefore, I will become “Shari Perkins, M.F.A, M.A.” (should I ever have the least desire to add those letters after my name).
Although I am proud to have completed my degree from Hunter, I am even more proud of my work on the thesis itself, which is entitled Dark Shadows: Adaptation and the Chernukha Aesthetic in Contemporary Russian Drama. It is the first step in what I hope will be an extended exploration of recent Russian plays which have radically juxtaposed high-brow literary sources with a kind of brutal realism.
Some excerpts of my thesis have already been heard at various conferences, and it is my hope that in the future, I will be able to share more of my research with the larger academic community. For now, though, I am content to celebrate the completion of a two-year-long project, which grew from a seed planted while I sat in the audience of Playing the Victim at the Moscow Art Theatre in 2005, unable to understand a word of the text, but stunned by the powerful the piece had on the audience around me.
My newest article has just been published on Hot Review:
More than three-quarters of the way through How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, J. Pierrepont Finch is in trouble–and he knows it. Ensconced in the executive washroom, the ambitious young go-getter sings a pep song to himself, praising his “cool, clear eyes of a seeker of wisdom and truth” and his “up-turned mouth with its grin of impetuous youth” as he gets ready to walk into a meeting for which he is almost completely unprepared. In past productions, this number has been performed as a comic love song–a celebration of Finch’s narcissism and self-confidence despite all odds. But the Finch of Daniel Radcliffe, the star of the current Broadway revival, is not so sure of himself. He performs “I Believe in You” with a charming–but rather disorienting to those who have seen or heard earlier productions–anxiety, which suggests that this J. Pierrepont Finch knows that he’s in over his head, but he is going to walk into that boardroom anyway. If the winds blow just right, he might walk out again alive.
, which presents the mature, intense, and carefully humanized Colin Firth as what many consider the definitive film Darcy. Then came the 
