by William Shakespeare
Directed by James MacDonald
At the Avon Theatre
May 23-October 31, 2009

   The Elizabethans accepted Shakespeare’s anachronism of a striking clock because they knew that this was the playwright’s way of identifying “then” with “now.” But in James MacDonald’s woeful production there is little “then” and not much “now.” David Boechler’s design is a huge reason. With the plethora of cross-period costumes—partial togas, modern army camouflage, summer frocks, business suits, exotic shirts and blouses, and a sci-fi Darth Vader look for some of the soldiers—we could be anywhere: Rome, Africa, North America, the Pacific, or outer space. If director and designer were seeking to universalize the play, they have made a mess of things. Tragedy loses scale when the punning Cobbler looks like a Camp figure, when the males (except for Caesar) wear layered costumes from which hang aprons that look like redundant phalluses, or when Brutus enters for a long scene with his white shirt hanging out rather like an untidy schoolboy at recess. Full togas are worn by the conspirators for the scene where they tempt Caesar to the Capitol, but under the togas are modern patent leather shoes—of genuine Italian leather, one hopes.

   As many a director has undoubtedly discovered to his dismay, Julius Caesar is more than just a historical costume drama about military combat or political rivalry. It is about conflicts between private and public selves, challenges of the irrational, and, most all, radical disillusionment. The Elizabethans were fond of it because it suggested to them different models of Roman rule and misrule, the perils of dynasty and civil war. The play is a subtle psychomachia or soul-struggle, principally in the case of Brutus who is the moral center of the drama. MacDonald is nothing if not a child of his century, by which I mean a child with an unusually simplistic view of things. In his program note, he comments on Shakespeare’s black and white presentation of events, assuming that his own concept allows for greater ambiguity. Wish it were so—but it isn’t.   MacDonald’s production tries to be stylized in some scenes, realistic in others. There are tableau moments and rituals where the Roman crowd indulges in hand gestures that mean little beyond a superficial mime. Sometimes the crowd vamps as it snaps its fingers rather like a chorus from an inferior version of West Side Story. MacDonald does make history of his own by introducing the first female Roman senator in the figure of Popilius Lena. Pity that she is rendered hysterical at the sight of Caesar’s bloody corpse. As a piece of blatant directorial intrusion, this ranks with the inane sex change for the Inquisitor in Anouilh’s The Lark that Stratford perpetrated a few seasons ago.

   Ironically, the director’s apparent fervour for elevating the status of Roman women does not translate into good direction of his actresses. MacDonald fails miserably with his Calphurnia and Portia, two small but important supporting roles that are meant to be contrasting studies in anxiety, as well as buffer domestic scenes. Cara Ricketts looks lovely as Portia but dramatically she is a nullity, womanly but not much more. The usually wonderful Yanna McIntosh is disappointingly flat as Calphurnia, failing to register an almost childlike fear of the nightmare about her husband. But, then, mood and atmosphere are what this production lacks in general—or tragic mood, to put it plainly. 

   MacDonald attempts for striking effects rather than striking acting. The Lupercalian festivities are given red lighting. Roman flags are unfurled ceremoniously, and there is a light snowfall for the death of Brutus. Let down badly by their director, the cast flounders often, except for some of the male principals who, however, give only superficial performances. Geraint Wyn Davies is a handsome Caesar, managing to suggest both private and public selves. Michael Spencer-Davis finds humour in Casca (whose name is egregiously misspelled as Caska in the program). Tom Rooney’s Cassius has a lean look but his voice is pinched and his performance sometimes colourless. The contest between Brutus and Mark Antony carries the most dramatic weight, and it is interesting to note the acting personalities of Ben Carlson and Jonathan Goad in these roles. Carlson, as is his custom, dives right into the prose in order to reach some bedrock truth. However, his voice occasionally sounds too flat, causing his Brutus to be plain in the wrong way. Goad, on the other hand, is given to rhetorical flourishes for Antony’s poetry but these sometimes seem to come from a class in trained elocution rather than organically from situation and character. In other words, he often makes the right sounds but without proper or credible emotional foundation. The most glaring example comes in his aphoristic homage to Brutus at the end of the play when his eulogy sounds patently like a vocal exercise rather than a sincere tribute. A good director could have corrected these lapses and could even have found new edges and angles for the dichotomy of Brutus and Antony, perhaps in the idea of sexual domination under the surface of hero worship and admiration. Now that would have been far more interesting than simply the importation of helicopters, video, and Darth Vader costumes for the military scenes or the sex change for Popilius Lena. But then I am probably over-estimating the intelligence, taste, and craft of most theatre directors in this country.

photos: David Hou

pic 1 (L-R): Ben Carlson (Brutus) and Geraint Wyn Davies (Caesar)

pic 2: Jonathan Goad (Mark Antony)




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