Romeo and Juliet
By Justin Hayford
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So it might seem unlikely that actors in these plays would turn every incidental innuendo into an opportunity to grab their crotches, thrust their pelvises, or position any handy cylindrical object in front of the nearest man’s zipper. But in Alison C. Vesely’s Romeo and Juliet and Dale Calandra’s cloyingly retitled 12th Nite, the crotch grabbers, pelvis thrusters, and cylinder manipulators are out in full force. Such gestures encapsulate both directors’ approaches to “livening up” the dusty old Bard. Like nearly every director in town who’s staged Shakespeare in the last decade or so, both seem convinced that audiences can understand Elizabethan drama only if actors illustrate every other phrase with enormous gestures or blaring passions.
Beyond insulting an audience’s intelligence, this approach drains all urgency from the scene. Mercutio isn’t inventing this speech for his own amusement; he’s trying to lift Romeo out of his melancholy. His words are supposed to effect a change in a character, to move the story forward, as all actions in a well-directed play should. Here they’re meant simply to illustrate themselves. As a result, despite all the grand gesticulations and general horsing around by Mercutio and his gang, nothing happens during the scene–or in most of the other scenes–except a lot of noise, and the characters remain perfect strangers to one another.
At its worst, the production ridicules the very sentiments that the play celebrates. The duke’s profound and inexplicable love for the uncaring Olivia, which sets the play in motion and keeps the action heightened, is reduced to a tantrum as he barks out cartoonish sobs and then slaps himself in the face a half dozen times. If the actors don’t care about their characters’ predicaments, if they can’t be bothered to feel empathy for them, why should we?
