On opening night Saturday, the party started outside.
It actually started in the theatre about 15 minutes prior as the audience made their way through Andy Warhol’s Factory to their seats on either side of the dance floor. The actors were already in full swing by the time the guests arrived, decked out in shimmery period costumes, the room awash in silver and black–a thoroughly glitzed up industrial look–60s hits blaring from the turntable in the corner, while Andy Warhol, as an ingenious re-imagining of Prince Escalus, looked on in approval. With martini glasses in hand, the Montagues and Capulets effusively welcomed the guests to the party–until the fire alarm went off.
You would have thought it was all part of the show, some kind of immersive theatre, and as it turns out a parking lot is as good a theatre as any: half of the faux-guests waited around with the real ones in their furs, pearls, and high heels, taking drags of their fake cigarettes while the other half gallivanted about in complete character.
The staff handled the situation with poise and a good dose of humour, but in the end, no one seemed all that put out about having to wait outside for 20 minutes, and there was never a dip in the atmosphere. In fact, it was almost heightened by the unexpected hiccup; a humorous prelude to a night of good fun, making it clear this wasn’t going to be a standard or old-fashioned presentation of Shakespeare’s work.
While I can’t promise that the play will have any other unplanned evacuations during the rest of the run, what I can attest to is the palpable enthusiasm of all of the actors and staff involved. The whole building was a buzz of excitement, undoubtedly in celebration of the opening of Studio 58’s 50th season, though there was an undeniable sense of eagerness from the students themselves.
Despite the tragic premise, the performance engendered a sense of optimism and sincerity not always present in play often scoffed at for its ridiculous notions of love. Studio 58’s interpretation brought out all the best parts of the story, including its humour and a delightful level of earnestness.
I do stress the term interpretation though, as the play was certainly condensed and much of the language of the original work was replaced with shorter speeches and sometimes even musical numbers. While I did miss some of my favourite lines (Romeo and Juliet’s speech upon first meeting in particular), the majority of the play’s most recognizable lines were kept in. Where lines were cut, it was done judiciously, and allowed what remained of the original language to stand out. The changes were refreshing and I imagine only the strictest purists could take issue with the update.
The swapping of Romeo’s gender was perhaps the least bold of the changes, though perhaps it only felt that way because it worked so well. Romeo is exceedingly more likeable as played by Camille Legg than he ever was as a lovesick boy. The change added much needed motivation to make Romeo’s flip-flopping on matters of love transform from ridiculous to heartbreakingly sincere. Juliet’s decision too, to end her life, becomes even more profound in light of her parents forcing her to wed a man when she loves a woman instead. While Legg’s Romeo and Adelleh Furseth‘s Juliet were both beautiful and beyond convincing, it was Conor Stinson-O’Gorman’s performance of Mercutio that stole the show for me. No performance of Romeo + Juliet is complete without a proper Queen Mab speech, and he delivered it beyond my expectations.
Romeo + Juliet runs at Langara College until October 18. More information about the play and the rest of Studio 58’s anniversary season can be found here.
An aerial rope is a surprisingly diverse prop. Accompanied onstage by only two plain white folding chairs, some sheets, and a small blue ball, the aerial rope ascends into the rafters, drawing the eye up and revealing a terrifying mass of negative space. In CLIMB, Esther de Monteflores commands that space with ease, twisting the aerial rope to her every need. De Monteflores’s range of expression with a singular rope is both impressive and stunningly beautiful, bringing meaning to the constant coiling and uncoiling of the rope. At times a cradle, a crutch, and at others a restraint, its tail end thumps against the stage like a unifying heartbeat.
De Monteflores’s acrobatics are accompanied by Meredith Hambrock’s brilliant writing in the form of voice over, bringing five different moments to life through movement, sound, and story. Hambrock’s vignettes are equal parts poetic, profound, and tragically hilarious. The decision to alternate narrators was refreshing for such a visual performance, though it did impede slightly on the cohesion of the different stories. Nonetheless, each narrative was compelling in its content and its interpretation by de Monteflores.
While the story for Adolescence was my personal favourite (it’s too good to be spoiled here), de Monteflores’s treatment of Old Age was nuanced, a delicate balance of vulnerability, delicacy, and grace. The choice to switch from aerial rope to slack rope here was apt. The switch over made for a fitting conclusion, though it would have been nice to have seen more slack rope throughout the performance, considering de Monteflores’s mastery of it.
De Monteflores’s physical performance and Hambrock’s story are strung together beautifully by Aaron Read’s score; the tension and drama of the string instruments function as a perfect parallel to de Monteflores’s use of the aerial and slack rope.
Another unexpected delight was the decision to keep de Monteflores on stage during costume changes. The choice makes sense from a practical standpoint, but also brought an intimacy to the actions. These moments turned audience members into voyeurs, enhanced by Hambrock’s eerie narration: “at any given moment you are being watched.”
For both veterans of acrobatics, and newcomers like myself, CLIMB offers a compelling, intimate, and lovably weird alternative to the way we normally experience stories and will certainly be a standout at this year’s Fringe.
CLIMB is part of the 2015 Vancouver Fringe Festival and can be seen at the Cultch Historic Theatre until September 20. Tickets are available online. For more on the Fringe, check out the festival website.
On August 22 the CBC Studio 700 will be taken over by the second annual Movin’ On Up-Staged Readings. Movin’ On Up presents the new works of two local, emerging playwrights and puts them on stage using top-notch, well known actors. This years works include Strip by Christopher Cook and Rogue Horizon by CJ McGillivray, directed by Brian Cochrane and starring Allan Morgan, Deb Williams, Emmelia Gordon, Yoshie Bancroft and Georgia Beaty. The event will be hosted by local comedian Adam Pateman!
Sad Mag recently had the chance to interview playwrights Christopher Cook and CJ McGillivray over email to get some insight on their writing process and the upcoming presentation of their works.
Playwrights Christopher Cook and CJ McGillivray
Sad Mag: Can you tell me a little bit about yourselves and your experiences with theatre?
Christopher Cook: I grew up here in Vancouver, and I swore I would never live here as an adult. (I’ve lived here for the majority of my adulthood so far–I really do love this city.) I studied theatre in Montreal, at Concordia University, and in London, at LAMDA.
My focus was always performing, and I came to writing later–I’ve been writing plays for about five years now. At the moment, I am working on an MA in Counselling Psychology by day, and playwriting by night.
CJ McGillivray: I am a young interdisciplinary artist who was born and raised in Vancouver. I went to theatre school at Capilano University because it allowed me to keep writing, acting, directing and making music. I was able to combine all of my creative passions with an interest in behaviour, psychology, interpersonal relationships, and human nature. Theatre has always been a platform for me to explore fearless expression, compassion, and absurd thoughts.
SM: What got you both into theatre in particular? Did you have your own local theatre moments to inspire you when you were younger?
CC: I was desperately shy in high school, and closeted–it was the 90s, and I knew I was gay, but I didn’t feel comfortable letting anyone else know. I felt incredibly isolated. I got involved with the students that were rehearsing plays after school so I wouldn’t feel so alone. It really helped. I made some of my strongest teenage friendships through theatre.
CM: I enjoyed expressing myself through music and saw theatre as a way to explore my creativity further. I found that studying drama in high school could be a positive method for developing confidence and empathy. Theatre is the one place where anyone can feel at home in a strange environment.
SM: How have your writing styles changed since first starting writing? Did you have any ‘aha’ moments that changed your perspective? CJ specifically: can you speak to the influence the LEAP program has had on you?
CM: I have so much gratitude for the playwriting mentors who have supported me so thoroughly in the past number of years. Through guidance and experience, I now focus less on being clever and put more emphasis on the value of honest writing. So much of that insight and self-awareness was developed under the mentorship of Shawn Macdonald through the LEAP playwriting mentorship in association with the Arts Club Theatre.
When I was younger, I pushed away from the absurdity of my writing but then it occurred to me that I could cultivate the quirkiness instead. I stopped apologizing for being eloquent.
CC: My “aha” moment as a writer is still happening–I feel like my “aha” moment is lasting for years. With each play I write, I become more and more comfortable with myself as a writer, and get a little more courageous. I am beginning to question assumptions I always had about my writing, particularly about structure and form. I am asking myself questions like: “What shape is the story I am telling?” “What sounds does it make?” “If I took it out on a first date, what would it wear, what would it be like, and where would it want to go?”
I find these are the questions that now interest me, compared to questions like: “What’s the rising action?” There’s nothing wrong with asking about a play’s rising action, but I am beginning to think of it a bit like asking about someone’s favorite color–ask a bland question, get a bland answer. And I suspect that bland questions are death in the play development process.
SM: Describe your ideal writing set-up. Do you have a favorite writing location or music playlist?
CC: A room in the woods with skylights and huge windows. No music, but the sounds of running water and nature. I usually settle for my East Van apartment–an old chair by a window and a good cup of tea.
CM: I create a playlist for each script that I am working on. The playlist for Rogue Horizon features contemporary blues and alternative folk music from Pokey Lafarge, Mumford and Sons and Jasper Sloan Yip.
SM: Where do you grab inspiration from for your plays and their subject matter?
CC: A lot of my inspiration comes from personal experiences–my plays aren’t autobiographical, but at the heart of their stories is always a personal experience. My way into my plays is through the characters–they are what I start with. I hear their voices in my head, see them together in various environments, and start writing. A version of this play, Strip, and these characters, first came up for me three years ago, after I took a trip to Vegas with my partner.
CM: I am often inspired by imagery, song lyrics, old photographs and moments of observation from people all around me. In regards to Rogue Horizon, having an older brother gave me support and laughter throughout my childhood. But the concept of sisters is so foreign to me. I wanted to explore the tensions and beauty of a relationship that I have never personally had but have embraced through close friendships.
SM: Both of your plays seem to centre around complicated and dysfunctional women. Is there something particularly appealing to either of you in writing about flawed characters?
CC: I don’t see my characters as dysfunctional–I think they’re all functioning pretty well, given their circumstances. As for flawed characters, I don’t think I would ever want perfect characters in my plays. I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I wonder if perfect characters might be reserved for commercials, and selling products.
Flawed characters are the ones I want to meet, cry and laugh with, and maybe carry with me. When I am writing a play, it’s like a romance–I fall in love with the characters, each of them, all at the same time. Really, I do. I look forward to spending time with them, and getting to know them better–and if I could meet them at a bar for a drink, I would in a heart beat.
CM: Our character flaws and personal struggles are what make people individually beautiful and compelling. Of course people are complicated and dysfunctional by nature. People run away from vulnerability and connection. People kick and scream. Theatre reflects our universal flaws in order to strengthen our compassion and understanding of the human condition.
SM: What’s it like to be able to showcase your work locally in a space like the CBC?
CC: I really believe that opportunities like Movin’ On Up are essential for emerging writers, and for the play development process. To be able to work with actors and a director, and share my work with an audience before ever thinking about the logistics of a full production allows me to really focus on the script, and gives me the chance to take risks and experiment. I never really know how an audience is going to respond to my work, and getting the feed-back of a live audience is so hopefully in the development process. To be able to do so in the CBC space, with a company like Staircase Theatre is thrilling–I count myself very lucky!
CM: There is nothing more valuable than hearing how an audience reacts to something.
SM: What do you hope people will get out of your plays?
CC: If someone has never asked questions about gender and the many assumptions around gender we have in North American society, I hope this play offers them a way to start asking some questions, if they want to. I also hope that this play reaches out to people and says, “Yes, loving your family can be one of the most challenging things. And loving your family may often require a leap of faith–faith in them, faith in you, faith that you’ll all still be there in the morning. But still, why not leap? Go on, I dare you. Try some faith.”
CM: Curiosity? I want people to embrace the sensations of escapism, aimless confusion, nostalgia, compassion and the universal longing for home in an unfamiliar place. I want people to feel compassion for my characters even when they are brutal to one another.
SM: In 5 words or less, what can people expect from your play?
CM: Heat, sarcasm, nostalgia, escapism, and tension.CC: How to love strangers (i.e. family).
Reserve tickets for Movin’ On Up (Aug 22) here. More information about Staircase Theatre can be found here.
When I found out I would be reviewing the new musical Miss Shakespeare, my thoughts went immediately to Virginia Woolf’s story “Shakespeare’s Sister” from A Room of One’s Own. Woolf imagines what it would have been like had Shakespeare had an equally talented sister named Judith who “was as adventurous, as imaginative, as agog to see the world as he was…Perhaps,” Woolf muses, Judith had “scribbled some pages up in an apple loft on the sly, but was careful to hide them or set fire to them.”
Tracey Power’s musical picks up right where Woolf left off over 84 years ago, though Power’s Judith finds a much happier ending than Woolf’s. Miss Shakespeare is the story of Shakespeare’s youngest daughter who refuses to play the part of the average housewife, choosing instead to travel to London, have affairs with men, and most importantly, write plays.
The Cast of Miss Shakespeare: Erin Moon, Tracey Power, Pippa Mackie, Amanda Lisman, Caroline Cave, Susinn McFarlen, Medina Hahn. Image Emily Cooper.
At first I was unsure of what new things the play would have to say about women’s roles in the creative world. After all, the play is set in Shakespeare’s time; beyond employing an all female cast it wasn’t immediately clear what road Power would take to speak to a modern audience. As the show went on however, it became increasingly obvious that even though Judith and her friends were dealing with a situation very much specific to their time, their fight for creative freedom is very much a relevant topic to modern women as well. At one point, Judith lashed out at her famous father, saying, “You write about us [women] like you know who we are.” My thoughts went immediately to the recent controversy surrounding Joss Whedon and his representation of women in his films; suddenly, I was grateful for playwright Tracey Power and the play’s other contributors and supporters.
There was much more to endear me to the play other than simply the novelty of seeing a whole troupe of female performers on stage. Miss Shakespeare is optimistic, charming, and most of all, fun, thanks to its exemplary cast.
Judith, played by Amanda Lisman, was perfectly endearing. I was won over early on by her performance of a song entirely about the fascinating powers of an actor’s ass, but Lisman was truly at her best when directing her witless companions.
Judith recruited what can only be described as a rag-tag group of misfits, including a pregnant woman, a bastard, and a married virgin. This is where the play really came together, transforming from a story about creative freedom of expression to one about female friendship and empowerment. The troupe’s renditions of the stories of Venus and Adonis and Pryamus and Thisbe rivaled those of Shakespeare’s own sorry group of players in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Characters Hannah Storley (Pippa Mackie) and Isabel Loxley (Tracey Power) provided big laughs with their wonderfully incompetent acting, while characters Margaret Moore (Erin Moon) and Katherine Rose (Medina Hanh) kept things grounded with a perfect balance of emotion and candour.
Caroline Cave & Amanda Lisman in Miss Shakespeare credit Emily Cooper
One of the most compelling parts of the story, though, was the relationship between Judith and her sister Susanna (Caroline Cave). Cave brought nuance, humour, and depth to her character. I loved the interplay between Judith and Susanna; my only wish is that I could have seen a bit more of it.
The songs were well written and kept the story from getting too preachy or sappy. The musical component achieved a perfect balance between being appropriately crass and beautiful, delivering laughs, yet still allowing for moments of sincerity.
The cast clearly didn’t need the help of any male actors, with Hahn, Mackie, and Moon each taking turns playing a single male character. Employing a rotating cast for this male character championed the importance of women and their relationships with each other in the play, rather than their relationships with men.That said, I loved Susinn McFarlen’s appearances as Shakespeare, which provided motivation for Judith’s character and delivered some well-received knocks at the Bard himself.
After seeing Miss Shakespeare, I was pleased to return the next night to see what the women could bring to their adaptation of Julius Caesar. Though the contrast between the two plays couldn’t be greater, the cast again proved themselves highly capable with their emotionally charged performance of J. Caesar.
Seeing the two plays back-to-back like this was made it feel as if Judith’s company of players from Miss Shakespeare had banded together once again to prove that female actors can not only carry a play, but make one.
I particularly appreciated the way the adaptation was handled, with all male pronouns switched to female equivalents. This change was simple and impactful, turning Caesar’s Rome into a matriarchy far more interesting than a traditional all-male power structure. Julius Caesar was an apt choice for a gender swap, allowing for a hard-hitting representation of female power in which women are freed from competing for male attention. The pronoun switch gave tired aphorisms from the original play, too often ungenerously interpreted, new meanings and depth.
The J. Caesar Cast, credit Emily Cooper
As with Miss Shakespeare, the play was perfectly cast. Cave was especially notable in her role as Brutus; her scene with Portia (Erin Moon), was perhaps the most emotional and beautiful scene from either of the plays.
One detraction from J. Caesar‘s success, however, was the music. Considering that the songs from Miss Shakespeare had been some of the play’s highlights, I was dismayed to discover that most of the music for J. Caesar was electronic. The choice made sense thematically; the play required a grittier sound to match the tone of the play and the futuristic look of the costumes (those I did love – especially the matching knives that Brutus, Cassius, and Casca wore in their hair). The integration of a DJ into the performance—who remained visible in a loft-like area above the actors, lit by an ominous, red glow—was a brilliant choice; but while everything worked in theory, the execution was lacking. I was grateful for the moments of silence that allowed for intensity built off of emotion, rather than scenes in which the music was too aggressive for me to connect with what was happening. Actors’ voices were looped throughout the play, an element of the music I thought worked well; however, technical difficulties at the very end of the play drew me out of what was an otherwise rousing finish.
For fans of either Shakespeare or local theatre, both Miss Shakespeare and J. Caesar are not to be missed. Miss Shakespeare is perfect if you’re looking for laughs, while J. Caesar should please even the Shakespeare purists. The most rewarding option, of course, is to see both.
You can see Miss Shakespeare and J. Caesar at Performance Works until May 17 or at Kay Meek Centre from May 21-29. More info about the productions and other works by The Escape Artists can be found here.
The last time I checked Stephen Harper didn’t drink scotch. But then again, he also hasn’t been found cavorting with young, salacious, female MPs, and he most definitely did not win that many seats in Quebec during the previous Federal election.
Who’s that PM?
Michael Healey’s play Proud is a wild retelling of the 2011 federal election—very, very wild. While our stoic leader Stephen Harper is an all too familiar presence in Canadian’s lives (what has he gone and done now?), as leader of the ultra conservative Conservatives he isn’t normally surrounded by so much overt femininity. This femininity is found in the play’s conflict inducing, foul-mouthed, incendiary force Jisbella, single mother and highly-inexperienced Quebec MP—unless, of course you consider managing a St. Hubert to be the only credible experience necessary to sit in the House of Commons.
While our fictitious and facetious PM struggles in new territory, Michael Healy situates the audience in hilariously perfect Canadiana. The play opens to a dark stage, when the familiar opening notes of the CBC’s The National denote the start of the audience’s descent into political madness. Only there’s no Peter Mansbridge to comment on Harper’s precarious situation this time. All of the signifiers of Canadian politics can be found here, both for comedic effect as well as to remind the audience of the ever-present comedy—or perhaps horror—that our political system elicits, even without the ridiculous reimagining of the current distribution of seats in the House.
If his hairpiece doesn’t convince you, Andrew Wheeler’s impeccably robotic reimagining of Harper certainly will. The stiff arm movements and stilted legalese that characterize his speech are dead on, hardly needing to be exaggerated to be comical. What’s nice about Wheeler’s performance is that he doesn’t attempt to be some carbon copy of the PM, but rather the perfect caricature, at once ridiculously unlikeable for his ruthless politics, and surprisingly sympathetic in his pathetic attempts to play the average human.
The uproariously unstoppable Jisbella, played by Emmelia Gordon, only makes Wheeler’s mannerisms all the more comical. Gordon is not only able to provide some serious comedic power; she brings a dose of humanity to the play as she struggles to balance the rigours of a politic life she is unprepared for with single-motherhood.
What’s so successful about Proud is that it doesn’t take the easy route. Healy could have taken some easy shots at the Conservatives recent misfortunes and run with it. Instead he took perhaps one of the most monolithic Prime Ministers of date and used him as a jumping off point to astutely examine politics as a whole in the country. The play was certainly humorously critical of many of the Conservative party’s downfalls and despite the ridiculously exaggerated plot and heightened amorality, it suggests that the situation that Harper finds himself in is in fact not so improbable for any of our political parties really; perhaps a sneak peak into what Canadian politics would be like if we were a little closer to our American counterparts. Luckily it’s still only just a play and not a reality, for now of course.
Catch Proud at the Firehall Arts Centre from now until April 26th . More info regarding tickets and talkback dates can be found here.
TJ Dawes is an average guy. He takes the stage in an unassuming all black outfit, his only prop a water bottle and the only staging some simple lights. He could easily be mistaken for a member of the audience. TJ Dawes is an average guy, which is exactly why his story is so compelling.
The talkback is just the prescription you'll need after this show. Photo courtesy Firehall Arts.
The premise for Medicine, showing at Firehall Arts, is a little strange on first appearance. It involves Dawes’ experience with the psychotropic plant ayahuasca—though it’s no tale of debauchery or youthful exploration (though he does touch on that). It also involves the well-known Vancouver based Dr. Gabor Maté—but this isn’t a story about addiction, and while the title may be Medicine it isn’t really about sickness, at least not an easily identifiable one. At its roots, it’s just a story about an average guy, with maybe some non-average, but also completely understandable problems.
In 85 minutes on the stage, Dawes weaves a tale of introversion, neuroses, and longing. It is clear from the start that while Dawes appears ordinary he has an extraordinary amount of wit, awkward charm, and comedic timing. Medicine contains hilarious insights into the process of growing up—a process that in Dawe’s case, as in many others, spans well past adolescence—but also the stranger things in life, like alphabets and keyboards.
Medicine is captivating the whole way through but really starts to gain momentum around the halfway point when Dawes begins to delve into those things that set him apart. His story is interesting but he knows that it’s just one among many, and while extraordinary in many ways, it’s still one that anyone could relate to. What keeps the whole thing going though is Dawes unwavering candor and lack of pretension. It sounds strange, but Dawes somehow finds a way to turn his extraordinary experiences into the universally relatable moments. He makes his story of a weeklong retreat full of group therapy sessions and nights of hallucinations into something both novel and familiar to the audience all at once. It’s interesting, funny, and perfectly heartbreaking.
Medicine is brilliant for being able to match the form to the content but of course that’s not what makes it hit home; it’s the fact Dawes makes you feel like you share the same story – you just wish you could tell it as well as he does.
N.B. For those who have the opportunity, the talkback session with Dawes and Dr. Gabor Maté is not to be missed.
Medicine is playing at Firehall Arts Centre through January 25. More info regarding tickets and talkback dates can be found here.
These are not your childhood puppets: no Lamb Chop, not even of the same species as any of the raunchier Muppets (apologies to Miss Piggy). No, Ronnie Burkett’smarionettes are really something else. Donned in beautifully crafted costumes and painted with expressions ranging from the adorably innocent to fantastically grotesque, his collection of over thirty marionettes includes a twerking librarian, multiple talking animals, including a gay rabbit who is also an aspiring Olympian, the aged and flighty French chanteuse Jolie Jolie, and a haggard diva named Esme who refuses to relinquish her spotlight.
Esme struts her stuff.
For two hours straight Burkett worked the crowd to perfection. The largely improvised play not only had the audience cackling but also revealed just how well Burkett knows what he is doing. The entire night was an onslaught of jokes at the expense of Canadian politicians, Rob Ford and John Baird being givens, but also local culture, taking light hearted jabs at other Vancouver institutions, even his hosts at The Cultch. Burkett has mastered the art of walking a fine line and he never falters.
Burkett’s show works because it embraces the best things about theatre. The Daisy Theatre demonstrates that a good performance is not only about keeping your audience entertained but also keeping them engaged. Burkett must have been studying up on Marshall McLuhan (or more likely has just tapped into his years of experience), as he clearly knows that a show that involves the audience is a successful one. Not only did the way the audience reacted determine much of the play, Burkett even managed to get a few unsuspecting audience members up on stage.
Audience participation can often feel awkward and while this was no exception, it was awkward in the best way possible; the balcony gleefully looked on at the front rows as Burkett plucked out his next unwitting victim who would either suffer the fate of poorly attempting to work a marionette or, better yet, be seduced by one. Not only is Burkett unafraid to take the show to weird places; he revels in it. The whole performance, audience participation especially, was testament to the fact that it is often those cringe worthy moments that make us laugh the most.
While most of the show fell somewhere between silly and fantastically bizarre, it had its more heartfelt moments too. The adorable Schnitzel, a peculiar child-mutant who wants to be a fairy, certainly elicited a few “awwws”, but it was Edna, a widowed farm wife confronting dementia, who unexpectedly stole the show.
The marionettes delight at The Daisy Theatre.
At The Daisy Theatre an audience who shows up with an open mind ready to be entertained will certainly be rewarded. And while everyone’s favourite diva Esme taught the audience how to greet a star, they were already in the know about triumphant send offs, giving Burkett a well-deserved standing ovation.
The Daisy Theatre is on at The Cultch until December 15th. Don’t miss the chance to be enchanted by Burkett’s quirky characters—grab tickets online.
The staff handled the situation with poise and a good dose of humour, but in the end, no one seemed all that put out about having to wait outside for 20 minutes, and there was never a dip in the atmosphere. In fact, it was almost heightened by the unexpected hiccup; a humorous prelude to a night of good fun, making it clear this wasn’t going to be a standard or old-fashioned presentation of Shakespeare’s work.
I do stress the term interpretation though, as the play was certainly condensed and much of the language of the original work was replaced with shorter speeches and sometimes even musical numbers. While I did miss some of my favourite lines (Romeo and Juliet’s speech upon first meeting in particular), the majority of the play’s most recognizable lines were kept in. Where lines were cut, it was done judiciously, and allowed what remained of the original language to stand out. The changes were refreshing and I imagine only the strictest purists could take issue with the update.
While Legg’s Romeo and Adelleh Furseth‘s Juliet were both beautiful and beyond convincing, it was Conor Stinson-O’Gorman’s performance of Mercutio that stole the show for me. No performance of Romeo + Juliet is complete without a proper Queen Mab speech, and he delivered it beyond my expectations.
An aerial rope is a surprisingly diverse prop. Accompanied onstage by only two plain white folding chairs, some sheets, and a small blue ball, the aerial rope ascends into the rafters, drawing the eye up and revealing a terrifying mass of negative space. In CLIMB, Esther de Monteflores commands that space with ease, twisting the aerial rope to her every need. De Monteflores’s range of expression with a singular rope is both impressive and stunningly beautiful, bringing meaning to the constant coiling and uncoiling of the rope. At times a cradle, a crutch, and at others a restraint, its tail end thumps against the stage like a unifying heartbeat.
