"Head over Heels"

The Oregon Shakespeare Festival, in its relentless drive towards leadership in all things American theater, is currently premiering the next big thing from Jeff Whitty.

Whitty's new musical, Head Over Heels, juxtaposes Philip Sydney's Elizabeth romp Arcadia with the music of the Go-Go's. As such, it's a perfect combination of the Avenue Q's playwright's chops as a pop culture bard with OSF's dual interests in the existing Canon and in expanding it to include, among other things, women.

John Tufts, as the mercurial fool Philanax, opens the show (playing in the outdoor Allen Elizabethan Theatre), with the obligatory "turn off your cell phones" and an etymological musing on the word "twilight." We in the audience watch the sky change as Philanax explains that "twilight" is Anglo-Saxon for "two lights": that of the day and that of the night. It's about simultaneous opposites. And then the show begins. Basilius, King of Arcadia (Michael Sharon) is visiting The Oracle (Michele Mais), and she gives him four prophecies, all of which have to do with his losing control over his wife and daughters. Oedipally, Basilius leaves Arcadia to seek out Philanax's Bohemian homeland and escape his fate. In tow are his wife Gynecia (Miriam A. Laube), his beautiful daughter Pamela (Bonnie Milligan), and other daughter Philoclea (Tala Ashe), who's "stunningly routine appearance" leaves her in her sister's shadow. She has one suitor, though: the young shepherd Musidorus (Dylan Paul). Desperate that this may be his last chance, he proposes with "I'm Mad About You." Philoclea tells him "no", though, and hits the road with her family. While travelling, Philanax introduces the sisters to a game in which two opposites are written on either side of a card. The object is to embody both at once. Bored with the parlor game, Pamela reads Philoclea and Philanax a poem describing her perfect suitor. Much to the audience's delight, her perfect man is in fact a woman. When she and her lady-in-waiting Mopsa (Britney Simpson) harmonize on "Automatic Rainy Day" together, we know specifically which woman her perfect suitor is. It's here that lovelorn Musidorus reappears, following along like a spaniel. At Philanax's suggestion, and an opportunity presented by the chest of a theater troupe who died of not being able to find a "meaningful message," he disguises himself as the Amazon warrior Cleophila. He rescues the family from a ravenous lion single-handedly, and mother and father both fall in love with him/her. The stage is set for the Oracle's prophecies to all come true and for Basilius and family (and us the audience) to learn about the many nuances and shapes of true love.

Head Over Heels is a fun juxtaposition between Sydney's Elizabethan romance, and the Go-Go's rockin' beat. Jeff Whitty, though, is the man who makes them come together so well. His background in writing socially conscious musicals like Avenue Q, and in playing with the classics as in The Further Adventures of Hedda Gabler stand him in good stead in this project. By playing to his strengths, he's turned out an exciting retelling of a classic text.

OSF is a good place for him to initiate this project: they have a strong background in the classics, with an Elizabethan emphasis, but are also doing exciting work to expand the Canon to include voices that have been historically suppressed by a male, Anglo-Saxon and straight hegemony. By juxtaposing the Go-Go's work with that of an Anglo-Saxon male contemporary of the Bard, they acknowledge the Go-Go's cultural relevancy and their deserving admission to the Canon. And, to top it all off, it's a fun juxtaposition! Whitty's fun, the Go-Go's are fun, Sydney's fun - the whole thing's fun! By sticking to his strengths, Whitty's delivered a musical that's simultaneously fun and thought-provoking.

OSF's Pericles

Shakespeare's Pericles is a heartwarming story of a healed relationship between a father and his family that seems to parallel the author's own angst over his strained relationship with his family.

Written by Shakespeare while living and working in London, while his daughters lived in Stratford-upon-Avon, Pericles is the story of a father separated from his family by the pressures of his job as king of Tyre and the unfeeling tides of the universe. Pericles is written as an empathetic character, and the Oregon Shakespeare Festival's current production taps into that core quality of the script.

Pericles (Wayne T. Carr) meets his wife, Thaisa (Brooke Parks), while on the run from the villainous Antiochus (Scott Ripley). The pair have a daughter, Marina (Jennie Greenberry), while at sea, only to be separated by shipwreck. The three end up in different cities, but the story follows Marina and her salvation of Mytilene from the vice of lust through her unprecedented chastity. The play ends with the family's reunion at the hands of the goddess Diana (Emily Serdahl).

OSF's Pericles is a compelling piece because director Joseph Haj embraces the fairy tale qualities of the script, allowing Shakespeare's fantasy of a happy reunion with his family to play as such. It allows us to believe the happy end the way we might believe the happy end in any fairy tale: we don't necessarily believe the events of the, but we believe its sentiment. We believe that the Big Bad Wolf gets his just desserts and celebrate Little Red Riding Hood's victory. We are disappointed in the princess's mistreatment of the frog, and celebrate her reward upon behaving correctly. We hope that Pericles, Thaisa and Marina will be all right in the end, and cry just a little bit when they are. Pericles is a fairy tale, and Shakespeare's telling is the most famous one for us in our time, just like the Grimm brother's "Little Red Riding Hood" is the most famous telling of that tale. Shakespeare's Pericles is not an anonymous telling, however, who's author is shrouded behind the curtains of tradition and intermediary anthropologists. Shakespeare is very present in his Pericles, with Pericles' separation from his wife and daughter paralleling Shakespeare's own alienation from his family. That Pericles is most engaging once that central problem begins in the third act speaks to Shakespeare's Pericles' strength lying in the protagonist's role as an authorial proxy: since Shakespeare seems to have identified with Pericles in his struggle for reunion with his family, it's easiest for the audience to identify with Pericles there, too.

The lesson here is for playwrights to write not just what they know, but what they've experienced. The first two acts of Pericles are compelling only by OSF's stagecraft: the play speaks for itself when the protagonist's struggle parallels the author's own experience.

Theatrical Craftsmanship in "Three Days of Rain"

Silas Weir Mitchell brings his technically fantastic acting chops to the technically fantastic script of Three Days of Rain at Portland Center Stage.

Three Days of Rain is fairly standard kitchen-sink realism (the water in the sink even runs), to which Silas Weir Mitchell brings fairly standard acting techniques as Walker and Ned Janeway. So far so bland, but it's the proficiency of Richard Greenberg's script and Mitchell's acting that elevate PCS' production above what could have been prosaic stage-filler to something really exciting.

Three Days of Rain is written anti-chronologically: the first act is set in 1995, and the second act in 1965. Act One deals with Walker Janeway, his sister Nan (Lisa Datz) and childhood friend Pip Wexler (Sasha Roiz) just prior to and just after the reading of Ned's will. Pip's father Theo (also played by Sasha Roiz) and Ned were architectural business partners. Theo died first, and much later Ned. Neither Nan nor Walker were particularly close to Ned: he was a silent man and a distant father. Hence Walker's excitement at finding his father's journal in the apartment where Ned and Theo lived when they began their practice, which also serves as the venue for the entire play. The journal poses more questions than it answers: the evening on which their mentally unstable mother heard Walker laughing and bolted through a glass window, emerging "like a crystal being, then colorized," is entered into the journal simply as "a terrible night." The journal even begins prosaically: "three days of rain." The first act poses these questions and others, and the second act sets out to answer them by allowing us into a critical moment in the relationship between Ned and Theo and the mother Lina (also played by Datz).

Three Days of Rain's protagonists are Walker and Ned Janeway: Silas Weir Mitchell's characters. That means, taken as a whole, the play is the story of the relationship between son and father, and that it falls primarily on Mitchell's shoulders to tell that story. His acting, therefore, is the focal point of PCS's Three Days of Rain, and his presence on stage is a credit to Roiz and director Chris Coleman's bringing him into their prospective collaboration, from whence this project springs. Mitchell's technique as an actor is phenomenal. Currently, audiences have their primary exposure to him in his work as a series regular on Grimm (also co-starring Roiz), but his resume goes back years to his undergraduate and graduate work at Brown and UC San Diego, respectively. Even in minor roles, written as jokes, such as Donny Jones on My Name Is Earl, his technique steals his scenes. The only problem with Mitchell on TV is that we don't get to see enough of him. Three Days of Rain is a fantastic showcase for Mitchell's craft in that it allows us to see him use physicality, voice and methods of receiving information over the course of more than two hours to define two very different characters. Besides just showing us what a great actor Mitchell is, PCS' Three Days of Rain is a testament to the importance of craftsmanship in theater.

Greenberg's script has been performed in LORT theaters since the 90s, and with good reason: it's a technical masterpiece that plays well to Boomer subscribers comfortable with kitchen-sink realism. As such, it's a perfect vehicle for a technically brilliant actor like Silas Weir Mitchell. It's a reminder that if you're doing something well, even if you're doing something as notoriously familiar as kitchen-sink realism, you'll be doing something exciting and special.

Hero's Journey

The Oregon Shakespeare Festival's current production of Much Ado About Nothing makes it clear that the story's real hero is Hero herself.

Much Ado is two stories intertwined into one play: the "Merry War" between Beatrice and Benedick, and Hero's journey from the altar to the grave back to the altar. The Merry War is the perennial crowd pleaser, but Hero is the play's heart.

Much Ado begins with soldiers returning home to Messina, to be greeted by Beatrice (Christiana Clark) and Hero (Leah Anderson). Beatrice immediately starts laying into Benedick (Danforth Comins) before the latter even arrives, but Hero remains passive: laughing good naturedly at her cousin's antics, and allowing herself to be wooed by Don Pedro (Cristofer Jean) on behalf of Claudio (Carlo Albán). Her greatest moment of activity comes when she describes how madly in love with Beatrice Benedick is, while her cousin eaves drops. She loses her agency again when Claudio insults and refuses her at the altar, all on the strength of Don Jon's treachery, and his own fear of women. She's caught in the claws of the patriarchy: when she denies that she had sex with another man on the night before her wedding, her own father (Jack Willis) asks, "Would the two princes lie?" To escape, she has to feign death and then resurrect herself at the Friar's (Tyrone Wilson) suggestion. It's at the play's conclusion that she regains some semblance of autonomy: her public forgiveness of the men's transgressions is what allows the play to end.

The Merry War is Much Ado's entertaining selling point, especially when the belligerents have as much chemistry as Clark and Comins, but it's also the sugar that helps the proverbial medicine go down. Shakespeare apparently spent more time with Hero's journey than the Merry War, seeing as the former is written in verse and the latter prose. For the most part, the Merry War you see is the Merry War you get: Beatrice and Benedick pretend not to like each other, and flirtingly tease each other, but all it takes is a little nudge and they're plastering their own nuptials onto cousin Hero's wedding. The only place we get to see the substance of their rapport with each other is alliteratively not-funny "Kill Claudio." Phrased differently, Hero's journey shows us the substance behind the Merry War. On the other hand, Hero's arc closely parallels the most important story in Elizabethan culture: the death and resurrection of Jesus. Hero is innocent, but nonetheless forced into her grave by the faults of others. Her primary antagonist must confess his sins to her before she returns from the grave and, at least publicly, she forgives him and the other sinners. The differences between Shakespeare's story and the one(s) in the Bible are telling: in contrast to Jesus' masculinity, we have Hero's femininity. While Jews and Romans are responsible in the Bible for Jesus' crucifixion, it's men organized in a sexually immature patriarchy who are responsible for Hero's figurative interment. Hero's journey is a rather forward thinking critique of a society structured around male power and frailties, and constitutes the soul of Much Ado About Nothing. The Merry War's function is to pick up the mood from the troubling, and perhaps blasphemous, implications of Hero's Passion. Telling that story, though, calls for a strong actress: one who can tell a story to a rather cavernous house without saying it. Hero is a repressed female, who only says the sorts of things that her men want her to say. It's her hamartia, since it puts her in a position where living her life at their behest means alienation from them since, for the most part, they're stupid and viciously insecure. Leah Anderson is an actress who can tell that story, and director Lileana Blain-Cruz is a director who knows enough to give Hero's character the attention needed to allow Anderson to do her job. In Anderson and Blain-Cruz's hands, OSF's Much Ado is a compelling narrative about a woman Jesus, the gall of which is sweetened by the sugar of Clark and Comins' merry banter.

Hero is the oft overlooked hero of Much Ado About Nothing, but she's not at all overlooked by OSF. Leah Anderson and Lileana Blain-Cruz are the heroes of this particular production for giving her the weight the play needs her to have.

E Is for Empathy, F Is for Fingersmith

Augusto Boal, in his Theatre of the Oppressed, takes a cynical view of dramaturgy that excites empathy. He describes that the dominate powers in a given society use empathetic theater as a means to normalize systems that reinforce their control. Sarah Waters' Fingersmith, as adapted for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival by Alexa Junge, demonstrates how empathetic theater can be used to assert the rights of an oppressed group in the face of belligerent social systems.

Fingersmith's impact centers on the work of Waters, Junge, Sara Bruner (who plays Sue Trinder) and Erica Sullivan (who plays Maud Lilly). Waters and Junge craft a suspenseful love journey between Sue and Maud, and Bruner and Sullivan deliver grounded performances that inspire empathy in the travails of the protagonists.

The first act is told through the point of view of Sue, a "fingersmith," or jill-of-all-crimes in Victorian England. She's hired on to a con by the Gentleman (Elijah Alexander) to defraud Maud Lilly. The Gentleman is paying court to the heiress whose inheritance is in trust until she marries. Sue is to hire on as Maud's servant to support the Gentleman's suit. Once the pair are married, they plan to dump Maud into a mad house. Her inheritance will go to the Gentleman, and he and Sue will split the take. As the women spend more and more time with each other, however, they develop a friendship that blossoms into an illicit love affair. After a cliff-hanger chapter-end at the end of Act I, Maud takes over as the point of view character. Act II likewise ends in a cliff-hanger, whetting appetites for the climactic Act III.

It's hard not to draw parallels between the drowningly homophobic milieu that Waters writes in Fingersmith with Indiana and Arkansas' attention-grabbing attempts at passing discriminatory anti-gay laws, and Oklahoma's acquiescence to gay-conversion therapy. When gay kids are being driven onto the streets by parents who are too caught up in their own prejudices to love their offspring, when American Protestant morality equates itself with discrimination on the basis of sexuality, we need stories that normalize homosexual love. Fingersmith, at least with Bruner and Sullivan in the protagonic roles, takes the audience on a journey on which we root for Sue and Maud to overcome the homophobic road-blocks thrown in their path by Waters' Victorian England. Whether or not we in the audience are lesbians, we can empathize with this love story. Since non-heterosexuals are gleefully and anachronistically oppressed in the U.S., empathy plays the opposite role in Fingersmith of how Boal describes it. Instead of normalizing systems of oppression, this dramaturgy in Fingersmith normalizes equality.

Fingersmith uses classic empathetic dramaturgy to assert the rights of our homosexual citizens. Since some of our other, more Victorian, citizens, are currently in the process of trying to take homosexual rights away, Waters' story is especially timely.

Considering the Canon: Blithe Spirit

Classics are supposed to be cultural markers that tell us something timelessly and universally human about ourselves. By such a litmus test, Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit ought not to be counted with the canon.

Blithe Spirit tells us something about ourselves, but it's not timeless, and it's not universal. Coward's farce plays towards audiences' (especially American audiences') desire to feel superior. The tools it uses are often dated, and never admirable.

An English comedy of manners, Blithe Spirit saw its London debut in 1941 and hopped the pond the same year. Charles and Ruth Condomine invite eccentric medium Madame Arcati over for a little séance so that Charles can mine her for details for his upcoming novel. Arcati accidently conjures Charles' dead wife, and hilarity ensues. The jokes include references to lazy Indians, wife-beating and sexual assault, but primarily the humor comes from the characters always being one step behind the audience.

Coward flatters the audience by giving them an easy metaphor and a sense of superiority to the British characters. For American audiences, this is particularly apt. In the States, audiences are fascinated by all things British and aristocratic: look at the popularity of Downton Abbey and Jane Austen's novels. By staying one step ahead of them in Blithe Spirit, Americans are elevated from middle class mediocrity to a place above the fantastically aristocratic Brits. In addition to taking shots at his neighbors, Coward takes cheap shots at Indians ("Well, for one thing [Indians are] frightfully lazy and also, when faced with any sort of difficulty, they're rather apt to go off into their own tribal language which is naturally unintelligible"), and Cockney laborers with the clownish Edith. In addition, the jokes about domestic violence ("ELVIRA: Not at all - you were an absolute pig that time we went to Cornwall and stayed in that awful hotel - you hit me with a billiard cue. CHARLES: Only very, very gently...") and sexual assault ("CHARLES: You let him kiss you though, didn't you? ELVIRA: How could I stop him? He was bigger than I was.") aren't terribly funny.

If Blithe Spirit accesses anything universally human about us, it's our desire to feel superior to our fellow human beings. The tools it uses to make us feel superior are dated 73 years since they were written, and so can hardly be called "timeless."

What Is Portland's Artistic Future?

Theater is Portland's artistic future.

Amanda Hunt and Disjecta's "Portland2014," partially exhibited at Southern Oregon University's Schneider Museum of Art through December 6, respectfully nods to studio art's 2D past while drawing focus to its interactive and performative future.

The body of Portland2014 is 2D: Modou Dieng and Devon VanHouton's Tranquilo references public mural. Travis Fitzgerald represents tapestry with Objects of Permanence I & II. Blair Saxon-Hill's double-sided quilt Shifting Ground and Occupation hangs in the center of the gallery, and D. E. May's geometric musings hang towards the far end. Abra Ancliffe's interactive Personal Libraries Library nestles in a corner near the entry. The its membership card reads,

"The Personal Libraries Library is a lending & subscription library located in Portland, Oregon. The Library is dedicated to recreating the personal libraries of artists, philosophers, scientists, writers and other thinkers & makers. It, and the books, function as a locus for research, connections, convergences, discoveries, curiosity & happenstance.

"The PLL Press produces and disperses printed matter that investigates the material, conceptual, textual and social presence of the Library."

Enhanced white noise emanates from Kelly Rauer's Locate, a triptych of video loops meditating on human movement with its locus in the spine, in the back antechamber. Studio art, dance and video converge in this geographically isolated yet aurally pervasive piece.

PLL and Locate stand out by their difference. In a space dominated by satisfying but ultimately predictable work, these two pose questions: what is a lending library doing in a museum? what is that noise coming from the back? Without ignoring the pedigreed place that 2D art holds in such a venue, Portland2014 guides museum art towards the interactive and performative. Hunt and Disjecta are telling their artists and venues to think theatrically.

We're used to the two dimensional in art museums. There's not a lot of ground left to cover. If artists want to grow, they need to encourage their audience to engage with their work, like Ancliffe. They need to pull divergent media together like Rauer. They need to think like theater makers.