Camelot Theatre and the Bloody Politic

Camelot Theatre's production of The Manchurian Candidate explores the exhibitionist and exploitive ontology of the pleasure taken in the vicarious experience of violence through war news on the part of Jackson County and communities like it that exist on the periphery of the United States' imperialist agenda.

By telling the story as a juxtaposition between live theater directed by Roy Von Rains, Jr., and videography by Brian O'Connor, The Manchurian Candidate casts journalistic depictions of violence as specious accounts based upon likely events that primarily serve to sate the consumers' bloodthirsty appetites. Since American consumers equal American voters, war journalism serves to entrench power in a the hands of antisocial hawks.

Camelot's production begins with a video account of a UN peacekeeping platoon's capture by an unidentified foe in Kuwait. The story cuts to a staged homecoming event for Raymond Shaw (Aaron Garber), a survivor of the ill-fated platoon and stepson to Republican Senator Johnny Iselin (Jeff Golden). Iselin uses the event as a campaign stump. Through fellow survivor Ben Marco's (Mark Schneider) videographed dream sequence, we learn that Shaw could have been brainwashed to act as a sleeper agent for an unknown entity. Also likely, these dreams can easily be chalked up to his untreated PTSD. The story, staged and videographed, follows Iselin and his wife's (Presila Quinby) rise to power, and Marco's struggle to unravel the mystery of Raymond Shaw.

Camelot explores our relationship to fictional and documentary violence as an event wherein "fictional" and "documentary" aren't, at least for the consumer, entirely distinct. By focusing heavily on depictions of violence often similar to those in fictional videography and film, journalism's violent focus serves prurient, rather than educational, purposes. In a community like Jackson County, geographically distinct from high-violence regions like current war-zones, such depictions are exhibitionist to the benefit of distant power struggles in Washington, and exploit actual victims and perpetrators of violence. O'Connor's contributions, as Video Designer, take primacy in this story. By staging artificial and intimate footage of war stories, from brainwashing to PTSD, O'Connor comments upon the insincerity of such footage as it's usually seen in Jackson County: broadcast and internet journalism. In using stage, a medium wherein artifice is acknowledged and accepted, as the venue wherein to present his videos, O'Connor comments upon the artifice inherent to video-journalism, a medium wherein acknowledged artifice is equated with failure. O'Connor, as the primary artist in this Manchurian Candidate, levels a critique at our relationship with journalistic war stories.

As described by Camelot's Manchurian Candidate, the relationship of Americans living outside sites of power and/or sites of violence with journalistic depictions of violence is defined by exhibitionism on the part of those in power, and exploitation of those actually experiencing the depicted violence. It's a particularly appropriate description during a post-9/11 election cycle. O'Connor, as the de facto primary artist in this production, uses his new-media stage-craft to its fullest extent to level this critique so tactfully that it reads as stupefying Aristotelean coercion, as opposed to a more pedantic Brechtian A-effect. While potentially soporific, this approach seems to best fit the overall story that O'Connor is telling: like Bill Watterson says, Marx only called religion the opiate of the masses because he'd never watched TV.

"The Last Five Years" 16 Years In

Jason Robert Brown's The Last Five Years is a sturdy and stubborn piece whose charms and problems persist from the Northlight premiere in 2001 to Camelot Theatre's current production.

Chris Jones's Variety critique of The Last Five Years' world premiere praises the emotional range of the score, but finds fault with the underdeveloped characters. Change the names of the artists involved, and he could almost have been writing about Camelot's revival.

The Last Five Years follows the birth, life and demise of Jamie (Nathan Monks) and Catherine's (Amanda Andersen) five year love affair. It follows Jamie's story chronologically, and Catherine's in reverse chronology: his arc begins with the first blush of love, and hers with reading his "Dear John" letter. For the most part, the musical is structured around solo numbers, with duets when their stories intersect during the wedding.

Livia Genise, artistic director of Camelot and director of this production, writes in her program note that she chose this particular play because "...it resonates with me. We all go into a love relationship, any relationship really, with all the naiveté and hope that make us who we are. And once you 'open your heart, one stitch at a time,' you may get hurt. But one thing is sure; you are never quite the same person again. And sometimes, that's a good thing." To paraphrase, she chose this text because the story resonates with her. In spite of that, her production deemphasizes narrative in favor of music. And maybe that's a good thing. The Last Five Years has an exciting score, into which both Monks and violinist Beth Martin are particularly successful at sinking their teeth and horsehairs, respectively. Genise thinks that this play asks "who is responsible for the relationship not working?" and that her "audience will ultimately decide based on whose story resonates with them the most." I contend, and Variety's Jones seems to agree with me here, that The Last Five Years is not open to such a Rashomon-esque reading: our sympathies are clearly meant to rest with Jamie. By structuring Jamie's story chronologically, we can follow his logic as to why he feels a relationship we're told at the outset is doomed is a good idea. Catherine does not have that benefit. By making a Jamie a successful novelist and Catherine a struggling actress who is, it's implied, jealous of his success, Catherine is too easy to read as a nagging wife and deuteragonist in her man's story. She's too hard to read as a protagonist. A marked difference in singing abilities between Monks and Andersen only serves to highlight these textual problems. In fact, and I'll go back to Jones' critique of the Northlight premiere again, Brown's created relationship reads as a little sexist. In short, The Last Five Year's songs are good and its story's not, and it's been that way for the last 16 years.

Camelot Theatre's production reproduces the qualities and failings of The Last Five Year's world premiere verbatim, suggesting that these are not brought to the script by any particular theater, but in fact hardwired into the play's DNA. The music's good enough, though, that audiences continue to be willing to forgive the story. Thus, the real danger with this play, though, lies in artistic directors like Genise with whom the story actually resonates. Thankfully, Genise deemphasized narrative in her production by playing fast and loose with temporal landmarks: there's only one projected on the scrim after the first number. By relying on her established musical taste and musical background, Genise emphasized the part of The Last Five Years that works and deemphasized the part that doesn't.

Community-Building in "H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS"

Philippe Parreno's H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS (pronounced "hypnosis") has important contributions to make to the ongoing dialogue over inclusivity and audience engagement in the theater industry.

H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS is a 360 degree multimedia installation existing in the Wade Thompson Drill Hall of the Park Avenue Armory. By deemphasizing narrative and allowing the audience to experience the space and the micro-narratives within it on their own terms, Parreno has allowed the public to become collaborators in the creation of the ultimate event.

Upon entering the drill hall, the audience encounters Danny The Street, an avenue of marquees of light bulbs suspended parallel to the floor, along with three player pianos, and a marquee perpendicular to the floor that displays both still and moving images. At the end of the avenue, a circular mass of bleachers rises between three large screens where, over the course of the two and half hour loop, four experimental films play. The perpendicular marquee comes to life with Annlee, a nondescript manga character who steps out of the realm of studio art into the hall as two young women actors. These two living, breathing Annlees attempt to engage the audience in conversation.

Philippe Parreno places high value on collaboration: between his collaborators on the films, the composition and performance of the music, as well as other aspects of creation and production, H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS is hardly a solo exhibition. As such, it walks the porous disciplinary line between studio art and theater. What's particularly intriguing, however, is how Parreno uses the Armory's space to facilitate co-creation of community with his audience. Since H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS deemphasizes narrative, and runs on a two and a half hour loop for a space of between eight and ten hours, the audience is allowed to drift in and out as individuals or small groups as the piece progresses. They can explore the ways in which the marquees cast light and shadow, and interact directly with the Annlees. In other words, the audience is free to interact with each other, the actors and the space on their own terms. By allowing the audience such autonomy, Parreno shows how artists, both in the theater and studio art fields, can use their art to facilitate non-coercive micro-community building.

The American theater industry is currently exploring ways in which to facilitate audience engagement and community building with its craft. Parreno's H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS posits one compelling way to do so.

"Long Day's Journey Into Night"

In the Oregon Shakespeare Festival's hands, Eugene O'Neill's private anguish in Long Day's Journey Into Night taps into the universal hell of addiction.

Dramaturg Lydia G. Garcia's program notes point out that the experience lived by the Tyrone is autobiographically similar to that lived by the O'Neill family during Eugene's growing up. In the very capable hands of the acting quintet (Michael Winters, Judith-Marie Bergan, Jonathan Haugen, Danforth Comins and Autumn Buck), OSF's study on the social effects of addiction resonates with startling clarity.

The set (by Christopher Acebo) and costumes (by Meg Neville) are both realist: director Christopher Liam Moore keeps any ego out of the way of the play. The opening sequence is almost a laugh a minute, punctuated by moments of tension when one of a character's addictions are obliquely referenced. As these tense punctuation points unfold, a pattern emerges: the tension exists between the three men. Mother Mary Cavan Tyrone (Bergan) brings the much needed levity. Slowly we learn that she has a problem of her own: she's addicted to morphine, and recently returned from a sanitarium. We also learn how easily she can slip back into using in the face of husband James' (Winters) alcoholism, son James Junior's (Haugen) alcoholism and gambling addiction, and son Edmund's (Comins) mysterious illness. It's so easy for her to quietly slip into the isolation of being stoned and escape the others' sicknesses, and her own sense of failure and ennui. Once she retreats into her addiction, the levity is gone and she drifts ghost-like into the background: rarely seen and never distant. The three men are left to their own devises, and explore their own vices in O'Neill's meditative prose.

Addiction, like Mary, is surprisingly invisible for its nearness to everyone. In this study, O'Neill examines the ways in which those closest to us can be afflicted, and yet, because of how isolating addiction is, it may take years before we're cognizant of what ails them. Long Day's Journey Into Night is a classic and unfortunate instance wherein a deeply personal story is in fact universal. Whether you yourself reside in that hell, or simply have to watch powerlessly as those you love sink into it, O'Neill's text resonates.

OSF's team, led by Moore, both allows O'Neill's anguish to reverberate, and gives it body to do so. It can do so because of how familiar addiction's isolation is: if you yourself suffer from one, how can you ever communicate that hell to someone who doesn't? When you watch your childhood friend retreat further and further into vodkas and crans until you can't even see him any more, how can you understand his pain or communicate your own sadness and helplessness to the guy sitting next to you who's never known any of his friends or family to suffer so? By exploring his own anguish, O'Neill taps into the universally isolating hell that is addiction, and OSF brings us into a room together to think about it.

"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.