Saturday, August 23, 2014

Stratford comes out of the closet with Midsummer

Titania (Jonathan Goad) falls hard for Bottom (Stephen Ouimette) at Stratford. (Photo: Michael Cooper)

As gay marriage has swept the civilized world (and no, that does not include the Southland, or other Republican redoubts), I suppose it was inevitable it would catch up with Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream - as well as the rest of his comedies, as they almost all close with multiple marriages (Midsummer wraps with three, if you don't count Oberon and Titania's romantic reconciliation).

Still - who would have thought that Canada's venerable Stratford Festival would lead the charge out of the closet?  Yet that is what has happened with director Chris Abraham's landmark Midsummer, which has been devised as an entertainment for a gay marriage celebration in a Stratford backyard - much as  the burlesque "Pyramus and Thisbe" is performed for the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta within Shakespeare's play. (So here "Pyramus" becomes a play-within-a-play-within-a-play, and Midsummer itself becomes something of a burlesque.)

Not everyone has been overjoyed about this. Indeed, this Midsummer has been met with vexed reviews - one major Toronto reviewer gave it four stars, but another not even one - and Chris Jones, down in gonzo/macho Chicago, likewise seemed a little uncomfortable with its anything-goes queer ethos. (Although Jones was careful not offend any political sensibilities: "Abraham is making a statement.  Good for him, say I. There is great value in a production that takes such joy in the sudden changes in the world. The moment should be marked."  Okay . . . thanks for letting us know, Chris.)

Now the subtext here (it seems to me) is a rich one, and has as much to do with Stratford as with Shakespeare. The Festival - which I've been attending for some thirty years - has long seemed to exist in a kind of glass closet; many of its leading lights were obviously gay, but a discreet veil fell over that fact in public discussion. And what Abraham has essentially done is tear that cultural hymen away - so there were bound to be ripples in the larger theatrical pond. He puts the Festival's most butch actors in drag, and the most femme ones in boots, and turns the romantic leads into lesbians for good measure. What's more, the production is so closely observed (the milieu of the hipster wedding is superbly realized) that it feels like the 'truest' update of Shakespeare I've ever seen. The actors really do just seem to be up there being themselves, evincing their own attitudes, gender-bent or not; there's a relaxed, funky vibe that's new at Stratford (and rare in any theatre). It has been said of many a production that the performers "seemed to be having a really good time" - but this Midsummer brings that kind of playful atmosphere to a whole new level.

Bottom and the mechanicals warm up "Pyramus and Thisbe" by the grill.

To be fair to the naysayers, however, I'd never argue that this is a penetrating exploration of the text.  It's a lark, not a lecture; a diversion, not a dissertation. Bottom wears an apron that reads "Daddy-o of the Patio," and Titania looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger dressed for the prom; later there's a food fight, and the fairies (a happy band of kids who scamper over everything, and don't care who's gay and who's not) sing Bruno Mars in the moonlight, before a disco ball descends for a dance-along to New Order's "Bizarre Love Triangle." So you don't brood over this Midsummer, you boogie to it (when you're not dodging the wedding cake) - but in a wholesome, basically Shakespearean way.

Why do I say "basically Shakespearean"? Well, because here you never feel that anyone is pimping the Bard to sell drinks (as you do in other disco Midsummers which shall not be named!) - but also because sexuality as performance is a deep Shakespearean concern; indeed there's a clear parallel between millennial attitudes and the mood of his greatest comedies (and particularly the travesty of romantic tragedy that wraps this one).

Yet other Shakespearean basics do seem to be missing; indeed, the flaw in this Midsummer may be that it isn't gay enough - or rather, that there's no real sex (either gay or straight) in it. For if Oberon and Titania are both genial macho dudes (who end the evening with a boo-yah! chest bump), it's easy to like both of them, but hard to find any romantic tension (or poetry) between them; and a great Midsummer should have that. Still, director Abraham could counter that his production offers political, rather than poetic, insights: here, for instance, Lysander and Hermia's cry to be free to marry who they choose has a new and poignant resonance.

Perhaps this is an opportune moment to ponder a different Festival offering, which purported to dive deep into Shakespeare's text - Peter Sellars' "chamber" production of Midsummer, done with only four actors in a found space in Stratford.  (Yes, the Festival presented two opposing views of the same play this season, for the first time in its history.)

Only I actually can't ponder the Sellars Midsummer - because I bailed on it. The noises the director had made were discouraging (he said he was trying to find common ground between Shakespeare and Strindberg!!), and the local buzz was negative - while two friends who did see it gave it a thumbs-down. So while I had tickets, suddenly I just couldn't face it. The whole shebang - texts cut by half, whispering actors, arty installations, "intensity" - it all seemed so pretentiously dated. (And to be honest, it also sounded like an artifact from another kind of cultural closet.  If gay marriage kills off that whole theatrical faction, I found myself thinking, it will have really accomplished something!)

So I traded my ticket to the Sellars for one to King John - which I'll consider in the second part of this series on the Stratford Festival.

(To be continued.)

Friday, August 15, 2014

Bad Habit takes on Translations

Patrick Varner and Sarah Elizabeth Bedard communicate via body language in Translations.

Bad Habit Productions has a habit of producing eloquent versions of literate, large-ensemble plays from the British tradition, and their current production of Brian Friel's Translations (through this weekend at the BCA) proves no exception to the rule - although Friel is of course Irish, not British, a distinction very apropos to Translations itself.

For the author's popular 1980 melodrama explores a forgotten episode in Great Britain's long domination of the Emerald Isle: sandwiched in between the Rebellion of 1798 and the Great Famine of 1845, the crown launched a covert effort to erase Gaelic - and airbrush away much of Irish identity - by "officially" mapping the landscape, while anglicizing the country's many (and often competing) place-names in the process.  Thus "Baile Beag" (roughly, "Small Town," a common enough name for an Irish hamlet) became the blunter "Ballybeg," while pungent tongue-twisters like "Poll na gCaorach" (roughly "The Hole of Sheep") were boiled down to the likes of "Poolkerry."

Friel sets this tale of indirect but deliberate cultural oppression in a rural "hedge school" of one of Ireland's many "Ballybegs," and his appealing central trope is that while his Irish and British characters are both intelligible to us, they can't understand each other. And perhaps inevitably, he works in an added audience hook: one sensitive soldier sent to eradicate Gaelic quickly falls in love with its mysterious music - and with the local lass who speaks it, too.

Sometimes this subplot makes Translations seem like little more than Ryan's Daughter Revisited - but to be fair, the touches of soap opera in the text also make the historical questions more accessible to a general audience, and Friel's handling of much of his action is subtle and apt. Perhaps more importantly, the script brims with strong character sketches - and luckily Bad Habit has pulled together a top-notch non-Equity cast for this production, from which director M. Bevin O'Gara has drawn mostly detailed and affecting work.

The standouts are Patrick Varner's lyrically smitten soldier, Greg Maraio's cheerfully knockabout local lug, and Gabriel Graetz's romantically frustrated school teacher - but they're given more than solid support by Kevin Fennessey, Gillian Mackay-Smith, Bob Mussett, and Margaret Clark in a variety of smaller but sharply etched performances. Alas, two of the leads - Sarah Elizabeth Bedard and Matthew Barrett - struck me as appealing young talents who hadn't yet sounded the deeper dimensions of their characters; and another major role had just been re-cast with an actor who understandably wasn't quite up to full speed.  Even with these minor gaps, however, the Bad Habit ensemble once again impressed.

And O'Gara once more proved herself a superb director of individual actors, although she seemed to miss some of the larger challenges of this particular text. There was little sense of the unspoken, resentful threat that should move in the background of Friel's mise-en-scène, for instance - nor did the production manage to convey the playwright's suggestion that the incidents of his play had set off a gathering historical storm (it relied on literal rumbles of thunder instead). To be honest, these aren't minor points - but many of the performances on display here are charming enough that you'll find yourself tempted to forget them.

Friel's "hedge school" of 1833. Photos: Paul Cantillon.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

The actors go the distance as 4000 Miles spins its wheels

Life looks better when you're stoned, and to be honest, so does this play. (Photo: Gary Ng)

I'm happy to report that with its current show, 4000 Miles, feisty little Gloucester Stage has once again showcased some of the best acting in the Boston area.

But I also have to say (once again) that all that talent has been put in service of a play that's only - well, serviceable. Miles is a mildly amusing evening, sure, but given the acting firepower assembled here - and the huzzahs for playwright Amy Herzog rising from New York and Washington - you expect the show to combust, rather than mostly sputter like a damp squib.

But what can I say?  I guess times are tough in New York and D.C.! Of course the critic who went gaga over it at the Times was none other than Charles Isherwood, and we all know by now to take him with at least a grain of salt (or maybe a whole shaker to be on the safe side). "The Ish" (as he's known) often loses his head over the protégées of favored gurus at certain egghead redoubts, and needless to say, Herzog has been launched from Yale, and has triangulated her little dramedy to appeal to familiar audience segments on the East and West Sides, two demographics very near and dear to the heart of the Arts section at the Times. (It probably helps that Herzog is married to Sam Gold, the director who has been tending Annie Baker's inflated plays of late - to similar acclaim from the Ish.)

But alas, in dramatic terms Herzog has also triangulated her script between a romcom and a sitcom - with the resulting hybrid tagging the sentimental conventions of both genres, only to little dramatic effect. Although we get the impression that Herzog is also signaling (via authorial semaphore) that her whole idea is to have no dramatic effect. (In this way she reminds me a bit of my awkward little niece, who announces after every unintentional spill, "I meant to do that!")

You see Herzog's 91-year-old lead, "Vera" (Nancy E. Carroll) - who's unexpectedly playing hostess to a crunchily conflicted nephew in her Manhattan apartment - has begun to "lose her words," and maybe some of her memory, too.  And so the playwright seems to think it's okay to lose her grip on story and structure in much the same way.  Thus weird inciting incidents arise, but then are dropped - and love interests come and go - while the plot, such as it is, hinges on not one but two deaths we never see, of characters we never meet; you could almost call these choices brave, if they weren't so meandering . . . but there you have it.  "The Ish" raved, so Herzog is The Next Big Thing, at least for a while.

And to be fair, she's not the worst Next Big Thing to be launched by the Times. Herzog does have a light touch with dialogue, and intermittently manages an atmosphere of eccentric affection between Vera and "Leo" (Tom Rash), that callow relative taking an extended break from a cross-country bike ride on her sofa - a ride, btw, that he saw no reason to end when his best friend was squashed under a truckload of Tyson chickens!  Oh, well - maybe he was distracted by memories of frenching his sister while high on peyote, as he recounts in an earlier scene.  Or maybe he was still fixated on memories of his mother doing the same thing!

What, that sounds like the opening scene of some wicked little satire of New Age mores?  Well, not in Herzog's book - move along, nothing dramatic to see here, and at any rate something even more bizarre is going to be dropped off-handedly in the next scene, trust me.  The whole graduate-school mélange does briefly come together when Vera and Leo trade war stories while wasted (at top).  My advice regarding an earlier new play at Gloucester was to come late.  This time, it's probably best to go stoned. And bring Charles Isherwood.

Even if we don't get to watch a great play, though, we get to watch a great cast, anchored by local star Nancy Carroll, who as Hub Review regulars know is kind of in a class by herself.  This isn't exactly news, of course, everybody agrees - I think it was almost seven years ago that I said Carroll should be given the keys to the city for her performances so far, and she has only gotten better since then. When people ask me what "truth" in acting looks like, I usually say, "Just watch Nancy Carroll." Because she is always honest, and never vain - and the sheer economy of her performances is legendary; Carroll does more with less than probably any actress in town. Her no-nonsense take on Vera's poignant decline almost saves this script all by itself, and she does manage to conjure, with little help from the playwright, a budding sense of connection with Leo.  But the rest of the (non-Equity) cast, under the direction of Eric C. Engel, is only a small step behind - although newcomer Tom Rash, while the perfect physical type for Leo (and an attentive foil for Carroll) manages to suggest less unspoken turmoil than perhaps he should. But as his two love interests (one long- and one very-short-term), both Sarah Oakes Muirhead and Samantha Ma do more with their roles than perhaps Herzog's rough dramaturgy deserves.  So everybody more or less goes the distance - if only this play were in gear!

Monday, August 4, 2014

Lost in the stars of the 70's (Jamie Wyeth, Part 2)

Two obsessions - Nureyev and the color yellow.
(This is the second of a three-part series on Jamie Wyeth, currently the subject of a major retrospective at the MFA. The first installment is available here.)

It's not hard to imagine the curious crossroads that Jamie Wyeth faced in the early 70's.

On the one hand, he was the scion of one of America's most famous painterly families, and the inheritor of a superb realist talent (indeed, he already had a clutch of masterpiece portraits to his credit). The artist also had few financial worries; his family's fame (and his own skills) ensured him a stream of lucrative commissions, and moreover he had married into the du Pont dynasty.

So as he approached thirty, Wyeth was utterly secure in one way - but in another, he was completely at sea. For realism was all but ridiculed in the high artistic society of the 70's, and Wyeth found himself facing unrelenting critical hostility. And while his talent was undeniable - and his obsession with his craft all but complete - the object of that ability remained indeterminate.

For the legacies of his father (and grandfather) still loomed over his achievement so far. And their essentially literary artistic values had fallen on hard critical times. Sentiments, insights, impressions - the very meaning of "realism" - all this seemed passé, much like technical prowess itself. So by the 70's the Wyeths were being widely dismissed as illustrators rather than artists.

It's perhaps no surprise then that Jamie began to drift; and given his social position, that he drifted among the parallel demimondes of celebrity and wealth. What's almost too perfect an irony, however, is that he eventually found himself in the orbit of Andy Warhol. For Warhol, far more than Wyeth, really was an illustrator - in fact he got his start sketching shoes. Yet Warhol was already well on his way to iconic status, while Wyeth was all but being ignored; for he had done what Wyeth could not: he had brilliantly re-invented illustration as a new phase of the avant-garde.

"Jamie Wyeth," Andy Warhol, 1976
This was accomplished with just a handful of images - the famous soup cans and Brillo boxes chief among them. But the superficiality of these pop-art tricks only concealed the depth of the transformation their banality heralded. Somehow Warhol had instinctively known that retail all by itself could fill the vacuum left by society's various post-war liberations - indeed, that it had to fill it. Which proved arguably the most powerful insight since the forging of modernism; in fact fifty years on, we're still living through zombie-like revivals of Warhol's central idea. Still, it inspired only a brief flowering in his own art; the high period of Warhol's achievement stretches only half a decade, to the day the pop impresario was shot and nearly killed at his famous "Factory" in 1968.

Indeed, by the time Wyeth became a habitué of the Factory, Warhol was in artistic (if hardly financial) decline, churning out celebrity portraits and holding court at intentionally vacuous Interview parties. His portrait of Wyeth (above left) tells you as much: it's "fabulous" in its lipstick-pink way, but the color-field/wall-paint gambit no longer shocks, and the underlying silkscreen could be of Liza, or Liz, or anyone famous, really.  (Unbelievably, Warhol claimed to have spent two months on it!)

"Andy Warhol," Jamie Wyeth, 1976.
In contrast, Jamie's reciprocal portrait of Warhol (at right) spooks you with its psychological depth. Perhaps some of this derives from the artist's seeming awareness of the subtle parallels between himself and his subject (neither man was at home, really, in his own skin). Thus the horrified recoil of this startled corpse recalls (but intensifies) the mood of an earlier Wyeth self-portrait (see post below) - and the artist re-purposes tricks from his remarkable "Portrait of Shorty" to subtly suggest Warhol's inner disarray: his buttons are undone, and his attire and wig are clownishly askew; meanwhile his anxiously aroused dachshund seems to be emanating right out of his abdomen. No wonder Warhol (much like Helen Taussig before him) opined that he wanted to keep the painting in a closet! And no wonder an eventual show of the work in New York won Wyeth a little overdue prestige.

So while you'll only glance at Warhol's brand statement (it's part of the show at the MFA), you'll be drawn irresistibly into the Wyeth. And in the process, you may notice what I think counts as a small step in the artist's individuation from his father: Jamie's brush stroke is here thicker and more corporal than the Wyeth patriarch's famous featherbeds of dry pigment  - and Warhol's pallor is faintly, but uniquely, citrine.

Indeed, I realized while looking at this memento mori (as it were) that yellow was Wyeth's signature color, his acid answer to Warhol's gay lavender. Yellow actually grounds several of the early portraits (including "Shorty"); but it first fluoresces openly in Wyeth's 70's sketch of Rudolf Nureyev in performance (at top - an image so striking it was chosen as the poster for the production, Don Quixote).

You may also perceive here another of Wyeth's emergent obsessions - savage élan. For the searing sheet of neon gold before which Nureyev is poised ruthlessly heightens his attitude of attack -  he might almost be a bird of prey; and it's worth noting that the artist was far more entranced by the ballet star than he was by Warhol, the art star. Indeed, Wyeth reportedly executed hundreds of renderings of the dancer's vulpine glamour (here we even see a rarely-exhibited gouache of Rudy nude, with his imposing endowment scrupulously mapped by this most precise of painters!).

But the Nureyev portraits in the end are more dazzling than diagnostic; we see the dancer's skin, but don't get under it. The images instead hint at something about their painter, and his own fascinations. For the cruel confidence of Nureyev's pursed profile haunts Wyeth's output to the present day; you can see its echo in the beaks of his many gulls and ravens, and even in the cerrated edges of his shells, skulls and bones. Likewise the blanched alienation he captured so perfectly in Warhol floats like a veil over the faces he was drawn to paint once he had retreated to his redoubts in Pennsylvania and Maine.

These opposed presences are quite evident, for instance, in "Kleberg" (below), from 1984. On one level, the painting is just a sketch of the family dog, a yellow (yes, yellow) Lab; but its odd details transform the picture into yet another oblique self-portrait.  A painted loop around the pliant pup's left eye seems to "target"  him as a painter - or at least as a watcher of the world; and he's placed in a curiously Cézannesque space, bisected by verticals that seem to vanish, and a floor that slopes improbably; meanwhile the books on the tilted shelf behind him are all of high significance to Wyeth or his family (even Treasure Island is there).

Stranger still is the fact that Nureyev is there too - at least in spirit - in the skep bee-hive that's inexplicably sitting next to the clueless canine.  Needless to say, its straw is Wyeth's signature yellow - in fact a sickly gold; and it's capped with a vaguely Slavic crown. It even sports two beady eyes, a smudge of a nose, and a boxy little mouth, spiked with spindly teeth. Most importantly, we can imagine it humming with internal menace - it's a sallow daemon, sealed away from us, but defiantly alive - and perhaps even patiently waiting.  And it heralds a new, self-conscious trope in Wyeth's art: after he withdrew to the Brandywine and Monhegan Island, he became obsessed with conjuring a sense of mystical presence - often non-human presence - in his images of the natural world.  But I'll consider that development more fully in the third and final part of this series.

"Kleberg," Jamie Wyeth, 1984.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

The Complete Bard, Abridged (again!)

Brooks Reeves cooks up some comedy as Titus Andronicus.
Just as the swallows return each spring to Capistrano, so it seems The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) returns every summer to at least one of Boston's stages.

And why not?  It's a cute show, ideal for a college town (it was first designed for the Edinburgh Fringe), with enough insider winks mixed among its broadsides to keep both Shakespeare's haters and adulators happy. 

And thank God, it never wades into the shallows of all that Oxfordian foolishness; indeed, beneath its Beatrice-and-Butthead snark, the show evinces a clear desire to sneak a sense of the genius of the Man from Stratford under the current generation's cultural radar, and into hearts and minds both innocent and ignorant of just how powerful great art can be.

And it helps that more often than not, it's just plain clever. My favorite bits in this valentine/raspberry to the canon are the snappy pastiches, like the mash-up of every comic gimmick the Bard ever borrowed into something like The Twelfth Night of Much Ado about the Merrie Wives of Venice (or whatever it's called).  I also always get a kick out of the chronicle of the history plays translated onto a football field (with the crown itself passed or punted over the gridiron of history).

I'm less tickled by the longer parodies of specific plays (although conveying Ophelia's confused state of mind through audience participation almost justifies an extended sojourn in Hamlet). And frankly these are not the most experienced Shakespeareans I've seen take on these sketches - so the yuks rarely have the wicked, knowing edge they can sometimes conceal. Still, the all-guy cast at Hub Theatre Company (no relation to the Hub Review, btw) always keep the blank verse bouncing, and director Lauren Elias knows to keep the gags coming - and coming (the broader the better!) - so the show has a friendly, go-for-it vibe that's consistently beguiling.

The standout in the cast was William J. Moore - the gonzo gleam in his eye, coupled with a sexily goofball grin, brought a shine to every skit he was in. But not far behind was smart, fussy Brooks Reeves, while  Patrick Curran - though he struck me as a bit more of a stand-up comic than a true actor - definitely gave good "dude" whenever one of Shakespeare's heroes said something particularly stoopid. I must also note that the stage management of this onslaught of drag and gags came off without a hitch, and the space - the cabaret at Club Café - proved surprisingly congenial. As a light, literate aperitif before a night of drinks and dancing (which was what was happening next at Club Café), it could hardly be bettered - and given that the Hub Theatre is committed to a pay-what-you-can policy, the price is right, too.  Through this weekend only.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Portraits by an artist as a young man (Jamie Wyeth, Part 1)

Jamie Wyeth, "Self-Portrait," 1969.
James Browning Wyeth (at right) - son of Andrew Wyeth, and grandson of N.C. Wyeth - never outgrew his childhood nickname, "Jamie."

And judging from his recent appearance at the MFA to open his retrospective there, "Jamie Wyeth," he never outgrew his fondness for knickers, either.

Which suggests there's a touch of Peter Pan to this third-generation scion of our first family of realist painters. Images like the one at right only re-inforce that impression: Wyeth was 23 at the time, but portrayed himself as younger - indeed, as almost adolescent. Diffident, sensitive, and sexually vulnerable, he's like a threatened waif out of Treasure Island or Kidnapped (which his grandfather famously illustrated in a career that kickstarted an entire dynasty).

What the painting also suggests - beyond a haunting theme of innocence lost amidst barbarism - is that the young Wyeth was one of the very greatest American portraitists. No less an eminence than Lincoln Kirstein declared him the best since Sargent, so it's no surprise there's a painting of Kirstein himself at the MFA that more than validates that claim - even though it's one of Wyeth's lesser achievements in the genre.  

"Portrait of Helen Taussig," 1963
Indeed, it's outshone by a half-dozen portraits that could rank among the most penetrating of the past century. Wyeth's notorious rendering of the eminent cardiologist Dr. Helen Taussig is here, for instance (at left) - an image so stark it shocked the good doctor and her colleagues at the time, perhaps in part because it had been painted by a 17-year-old boy (it was the young Wyeth's first commission - he only got it because there's wasn't enough cash available to cover his father's fee, to whom it had first been offered).  

Although to be honest, "horrified" might be a better word for the official reaction to the portrait. The indefatigable Taussig had been refused a degree by both Harvard Medical School and Boston University,  but finally was awarded an MD by Johns Hopkins, where she took up residency. During her tenure there, she suggested a technique that saved the lives of countless "blue" babies, and eventually became chief of cardiology. Thus her colleagues hoped to honor her with a standard slab of "great man" flattery - much like the many canvases that gather dust in the halls of hospitals the world over.  

But instead they got this piercing picture of troubled, but undaunted, intelligence - biographers have since confirmed that Dr. Taussig had just lost a patient prior to sitting for it, and Wyeth captured that inner blow almost exactly. It should also be mentioned that at this point in her career Dr. Taussig had gone deaf  - yes, she "listened" for the heartbeats of the babies in her care with her fingers. Somehow I was unsurprised to learn that; Wyeth's artistry had already painted in an unspoken backstory for her of repeated gauntlets and obstacles overcome.

Helen B. Taussig, by Yousuf Karsh
But that's not why the doctor who unveiled it wept in dismay (somehow she could not see the calm fire in the sparkling sapphires of the portrait's eyes). Her colleagues likewise called it "evil," and the hospital blanched at hanging it - so it was offered to the great physician as a gift. She in turn was gracious to Wyeth, but wouldn't hang the picture; for years it gathered dust in her attic instead of her office. 

Not everyone was so shocked by Wyeth's round, unvarnished rendering - in fact The Lancet judged it "a brilliant masterpiece" - but it still remained under wraps for the coming decades. Friends and colleagues even urged Taussig to destroy it (a more conventional compliment was eventually procured from celebrity photographer Yousuf Karsh, at right). 

Still, somehow the painting survived in the archives at Johns Hopkins, and slowly became better-known, although its MFA appearance marks the first time it has been widely seen since the day it was unveiled.  Which may be why curator Elliot Bostwick Davis holds it back till the last minute as a kind of artistic lagniappe - although to be honest, perhaps she also senses in its depths some of the richness that only the first half of "Jamie Wyeth" consistently supplies.

For this retrospective does seem to wander far from the power of such images as "Portrait of Shorty," below, another early triumph for this precocious painter (who completed this at age 17 as well, along with another masterpiece not at the MFA, the heartbreaking "Lester", which is worthy of Velázquez).

"Portrait of Shorty," 1963.
But if determination was the subtext of "Taussig," then irresolution shadows "Shorty," although Wyeth explores this very different theme with even deeper and more patient craft (indeed it would be hard to overstate the subtlety of this portrayal). The subject was a local "character" in Wyeth's hometown, and the young artist suggests his lowly status with calm economy: Shorty is unshaven, and clad only in a "wife-beater," although his physique is slack, and skin sagging; meanwhile the smoothly upholstered throne in which Wyeth has placed him seems to comment ironically on both his tattered clothes and sallow complexion, while whispering of a richness he has never known (and never will know - "Shorty," we realize, will always come up short). In fact, if you squint a bit, you may even see something like scornful laughter in the Rohrschach blots of the wingback's satin pattern. But beyond the chair itself, there is only blackness - a void which Shorty himself seems to both emanate from and scan with anxious uncertainty. Indeed, his haggard eyes are the most touching thing in the picture: they seem to anticipate some new humiliation from the universe.

"Jamie Wyeth," by Andy Warhol
It's yet another startling achievement from a basically teen-aged painter. But you may have noticed that every work discussed so far was executed before the artist's 25th birthday; and indeed "Jamie Wyeth" leaves one quite sure that the artist's early years were his heyday. Still ensconced in the supportive frame of his family, and couched in their artistic tradition, he was operating at a level that was almost vertiginously high, and yet - by the critical standards of the day - also ridiculously low. 

For Wyeth endured repeated critical drubbings throughout the 60's, just as he should have been coming into his own.  So perhaps it's no surprise that he was drawn into the orbit of Andy Warhol, the rising critical darling of the era (Warhol's silkscreen of Wyeth, at right).  But we'll consider that encounter, and its fall-out, in the next installment of this critical assessment.

(The second part of this series is available here.)

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Gloucester Stage floats some summer stock

The widow and the wiseguy at Gloucester Stage.  Photo: Gary Ng.

Summer stock still lives!

As a theatergoer, you may (or may not) be glad to know that - and of course "lives" may not be quite the verb I'm looking for in the case of Jack Neary's Auld Lang Syne, whose modest charms are currently spacing out the more ambitious productions at Gloucester Stage. Maybe "Summer stock is still mildly entertaining!" or "Summer stock is still a pretty good way to while away two hours on a hot night as long as there's air conditioning!" might be better opening salvos for this review.

Still, I have seen weaker new plays than Auld Lang Syne - its author has a talent for badinage, at least - although it must be said the value of this stock issue largely derives from its two stars, much-loved local acting couple Paula Plum and Richard Snee, who sell the rather predictable twists of Neary's plot with sure, subtle skill (and even swing his abrupt shifts in tone). Plum is the mousy widow from Southie who longs to join her departed husband in the hereafter; Snee is the wannabe wiseguy she hopes will help her on her way.  She's a good Catholic, you see, so suicide is taboo - but she doesn't want anybody to kill her while he's mad at her, either; meanwhile the hired hand, though he's been rehearsing for a whack job all his life, has some doubts about whacking someone quite this wacky, oh and another thing  . . .

You get the picture. It goes without saying that summer stock is long on exposition and short on development, but Neary pushes the envelope of dramatic delay so far that he all but tears it open; in fact we're almost an hour in before we get to anything like rising action - and then it's only a slight upward grade.

Still, the bright side of that strategy is that he only has to write half a play - and the upside for you is that you can come in late without missing anything. In fact my advice is aim for intermission, because things do improve in the second half, when Neary finally gets around to his actual exposition. Alas, we never reach anything like development, which is too bad, because the play's premise is a bit better than a mere gimmick; indeed, I kept thinking that if only the playwright had watched Plum and Snee in action, he might have been tempted to write them better lines! But Neary never explores the parallel ironies of these two basically wasted lives: the widow and the wiseguy (now there's a title for you) never achieve any new level of self-awareness, and they don't even build a real relationship (although Plum and Snee, through pure sleight-of-hand, may make you half-believe they do). And in a two-hander, those are basically your only options.

Oh, well. I must also report, however, that despite the script's shortcomings, many in the opening night audience at Gloucester were not displeased as the curtain fell. But I suppose it helped that the show was sprinkled with catnip for a Boston crowd of a certain age (if you remember Edith Bunker, and thought Nunsense rocked, you'll love this), and Plum and Snee do keep the ping-pong ball of the dialogue bopping lightly through the air. And under the capable direction of Doug Lockwood, both sketch in the backgrounds of their characters' journeys as well, even if this dramatic vehicle is basically stalled; Snee may have been the more compelling in this regard, although perhaps we've simply seen Plum go down this road too many times before. But then even a well-traveled path can be welcome if the destination is worthy. Maybe next time this playwright will provide one.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

The suddenly shrinking fringe

The world of Boston theatre just got a little smaller.

For word has reached us that the venerable Factory Theatre, a long-time tenant in the rear basement of the famous "Piano Factory" at 791 Tremont, will close its doors as of October 31.  A widely circulated letter from Greg Jutkiewicz, who has been handling the space since 2007, states that the building's management has decided to push the theatre out to make room for "amenities like a fitness center, gated parking lot, and a concierge."  Ah yes - just what the South End needs: a gym and a concierge!  After all they're so rare in these parts . . .

Oh, well. Gentrification is an old story, but every time it's told, it seems to have fresh teeth, doesn't it. The loss of the Factory will hit Boston's fringe hard, of course, as the space, though spartan, was in a prime location - close to the T, and only a stone's throw from the South End's lively restaurant and bar scene.  So it's no surprise that almost every smart new theatre company with big dreams (but a smaller bank account) at some point played its famously rough-hewn "stage." Beau Jest Moving Theatre, Whistler in the Dark, and Mill 6 Collaborative all were resident companies at some point or other - and the T Plays and Tales from Ovid both debuted there. The Factory currently hosts Heart & Dagger, Happy Medium, Fresh Ink, and many other companies - all of whom are scrambling for new homes for the shows they had expected to stage there this winter and beyond.

The good news - and there is a bit of it - is that the fringe is already trying to respond, and they're a much more supportive, idealistic, and connected crowd than the mid-sized and large company scenes.  Dawn Simmons at the BCA is reportedly launching a "Factory Theatre Orphans" initiative, and the folks at ArtsBoston are said to be reaching out to alternative spaces. A few people are even mulling bringing this to the attention of the Mayor's office - after all, hizzonah has often said how important the arts are to the city - maybe there's a little political muscle that can be put behind that promise. Who knows? Sometimes a crisis can pull a community together - and that could be the silver lining to this latest blow to the fringe.

Of course there is one thing about the Factory that will be hard to replace  - the space's sheer grittiness. Its unvarnished bricks and cold concrete floor were like nothing else in Boston - so basic you couldn't even pretend they were "funky" or "shabby chic." They were just real - a painted flat didn't stand a chance at the Factory - which made the space ideal for Beckett (a memorable Krapp's Last Tape just played there), Caryl Churchill, and other playwrights with a raw or probing edge.

So the Factory will be missed by many beyond the local acting community - yours truly included. Even though I'm confident the fringe will weather this latest blow, I'll miss that brutish, blunt old space. Yes, I know there's no nostalgia like nostalgie de la bout - but then again, did anyone ever wax nostalgic for a stairmaster and a concierge? Somehow I don't think so. Wherever the migrant birds of the fringe next settle - and don't worry, we'll be tracking their movements on the Hub Review - let's hope they don't forget the lessons they learned on the Factory's rough proscenium.

Friday, July 4, 2014

Post-mortem: a Shepard stumble at Trinity

The fresh faces at Trinity can't save Shepard from his own bald symbology.  Photos: Mark Turek.

Dark theatrical clouds sometimes come with a silver lining (at least to those with a critical cast of mind), as the wrong turns a bomb inevitably takes can lead the right observer to startling insights into the text at hand. For a terrible performance is often as well-oiled a machine as a brilliant one: everything fits together perfectly - it's just all headed in the wrong direction. Turn the show's artistic vision on its head, and suddenly you see how the play might work ideally. I never really understood Shakespeare's Cymbeline, for instance, until I suffered through one of the most godawful versions of it imaginable; once my mind broke free from my appalled response, however, I was able to consider the inverse of the production's every misstep. As a result, now I feel I'm ready to direct it myself!

Although to be honest, such eureka moments are most satisfying when the text, though flawed, is still fundamentally worthwhile (like Cymbeline). I'm not quite sure I can make that claim for A Lie of the Mind, the Sam Shepard epic that was meant to form a triumphal arch over his achievement, but instead signaled the last gasp of his artistry. It did also, of course, win a Drama Desk Award (among others). But so it goes. The critics are always the last to know.

At any rate, Trinity Rep saw fit to revive the show (which closed last week), and this was a risk, to be sure - riskier still given the wild variability of its director's previous productions. Brian Mertes (the head of Trinity's directing program!) likes to paint with broad brushes, and bright, cold colors; the results so far have included a bracing Clybourne Park, and easily the worst production I've ever seen from this venerable theatre, a Crime and Punishment that played like Dostoevsky crossed with Breaking Bad on a Mardi Gras float.

Alas, most of the signature flubs of that C & P are echoed in A Lie of the Mind - self-consciously clumsy set design and air-quote acting chief among them. But to be fair, the collegiate symbology comes from Shepard himself, who in his magnum opus played Dr. Frankenstein with his own oeuvre: to make up the play's three-hour running time (cut down from over four, legend has it!) he simply stitched together pieces of his previous hits: you might call the resulting theatrical Tinkertoy Curse of the Fool-Child Buried in the True West.

But whatever you call it, don't go see it (you have been warned). Even in his heyday, people compared Shepard's plays to pop songs: punchy and raw, but also fragmented, simplistic - and best when brief. At some level the author must have understood there was something to this critique (I'm an admirer of his stronger work, btw). But alas, even though he longed to go long-form, Mind demonstrated beyond a doubt that he was simply unable to; for while he clearly thinks he's building some sort of surreal arc over a yawning American abyss, or perhaps even pondering some essential problem of the self, the flailing playwright only makes each and every one of his signature tricks cruder and more garish. This time around, for instance, the immature boy-hero wanders about in actual short pants, and likes to wrap himself in the American flag; the spooky, feuding parents are certified loons, incest isn't just suggested, it's all but enacted, and the damaged girlfriend is literally brain-damaged - and just as there are not one but two dysfunctional families wandering the landscape, not one but two carcasses get dragged onstage. I guess you could call A Lie of the Mind "Shepard on steroids." That is if you like 'em big and stupid.

Or perhaps Mind seems more mindless than usual because it's short on Shepard's strongest suit: his language is flatter than we expect here, and there's no grand, freak-out soliloquy like the ones that glue together Starving Class and Buried Child. Although to be fair, the script does boast about a half-hour of fresh writing: the scenes focused on the hero's brother, trapped with a rotting flesh wound in a snowbound cabin with his indifferent in-laws, do edge Shepard's themes toward newly-ghoulish comedy. Clearly the author's mojo hadn't entirely given up the ghost; he just didn't have the sense (or humility) to strip everything else out and pen another of his savage little one-acts.

The old guard is at lost as the new in A Lie of the Mind. Photos: Mark Turek

So to my mind, A Lie of the Mind represents an uphill battle for any company; still, Trinity has quite the track record when it comes to Shepard (some of their great productions of the early 80's still echo in my memory). They even have some of the same actors on tap. But alas, these vets have Brian Mertes as their director this time around, whose cartoonish sensibility seems to push them into every trap Shepard has unconsciously set. (Note to all directors of well-regarded acting companies: if things go south, we'll know it's your fault.) Meanwhile the fresher faces end up in pretty much the same place, although Britt Faulkner and Charlie Thurston somehow signal they're far better than their direction (their scenes together are among the few that click). It's hard to know how far everyone else could have gotten with a subtler approach, but I wouldn't rule out the possibility that A Lie of the Mind could hold the stage for much of its length (or at least not drive away about a quarter of the audience, as it did the night I attended).

So to recap: at the top of this essay, I did promise that through a process of critical inversion, I would be able to divine from this production an ideal version of Sam Shepard; thus, what follows are a few guiding principles for virgin directors of this great American playwright:

First - Shepard should be surreal, but not too surreal  - as soon as your production feels absurdist (much less self-consciously absurdist!) - you've gone too far; the gig is up, the game over.  Thus a Shepard set can show a kitchen table plunked down on a mesa, yes - but the details of both table and mesa must be believable; it's the realism of their co-existence that is key.  And even if you feel you can deconstruct the kitchen, you can't deconstruct the desert.  The West is always real in Shepard. (Hence the wall of fans that dominate this production only seems to comment on its own sense of afflatus.)

Likewise you shouldn't put quotes around Shepard's symbols: this only makes them feel balder. The acting works much the same way - heightened, but still tethered to naturalism; occasionally meta, but never mannered.  And certainly never overtly comic! (A central mistake here.)  There are one or two short Shepard efforts that are basically satires - and there's a wickedly bemused edge to many of his scenes; but all his major plays are essentially adolescent - and adolescents don't see themselves as funny.

Which brings me to my final point: what drives most Shepard plays, at bottom, is the characters' (I almost wrote the children's) desire to connect. It's a cliché, I know, but beneath all his surreal nihilism, this playwright is telling the same old sentimental American story of broken homes and broken hearts. If only we could have heard a little of it this time at Trinity!

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Tiptoeing toward the drone wars

Confronting the drone wars: Lewis D. Wheeler and Nael Nacer. (Photo: Andrew Brilliant)

One of the frustrating things about our current theatre is its refusal to confront the really difficult questions of our age.  We wallow instead in paeans to diversity and inclusion - the hot topics of a decade or more ago; but when it comes to exploring the thorny issues of the millennium - such as the attacks on 9/11, and our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan - our major theaters have mostly looked the other way.

So I welcome plays like Pattern of Life (from the New Rep, but at BU's Studio 210, through this weekend only), even if they feel self-censored and circumscribed. I figure at least we're tiptoeing toward the present day; and to be honest, in terms of its sophistication and craft, Pattern is by far the best new play the New Rep has done in - well, maybe years.

So local author Walt McGough is clearly a talent to reckon with - although here you can feel that talent is in shackles (which the author has partly forged himself).  Indeed, you sense him nervously plotting each and every forward step, and it's not hard to understand why; his theme - the use of drones to eliminate terrorist targets in the Middle East - is so very fraught politically. And it's fraught politically because it's so very hard to justify ethically. Indeed, fully treating our drone war would mean either pondering American foreign policy with an honesty we haven't seen since Vietnam - or finding some clever trick that allows the audience to never quite look in the mirror.

Alas, McGough takes the second, lower road, and relies on many such tricks to see him through. Thus he never considers the full ethical dimensions of drone warfare; instead he chooses to focus on its long-distance aspects, and capacity for mortal error. Which lets him off the hook when it comes to drone proponents' Minority-Report-like delusions of moral authority - not to mention our own collusion in the political situation that has bred so much terrorism in the Middle East. (To his credit, the playwright does treat the self-defeating aspects of assassination-at-a-distance - can't we call it what it is? - but only to a calculated degree.)

Still, targeted as its vision may be, Pattern of Life stands out from the generally cowardly theatrical pack, even if McGough only dramatizes two victims on either side of a drone strike (for yes, a drone's "pilots" are its moral victims). And even if his two protagonists never meet in the flesh, but only in dreams (or in some sort of hallucinatory moral continuum).

To be sure, this circumscribed frame does make Pattern of Life feel somewhat schematic. And while McGough has given his American character, "Carlo" (Lewis Wheeler) a recognizable, individual voice, his writing for "Pakmat" (Nael Nacer), a Pakistani who loses a beloved nephew to Carlo's trigger finger, feels far less authentic; Pakmat basically sounds like a pastiche of half the authors nominated for the Man Booker Prize.

McGough does scores his successes, though, thanks in no small part to a strong cast and sensitive direction from Bridget Kathleen O'Leary (one of the more thoughtful presences at the New Rep). Carlo's slow decline (once he has admitted to himself that he did see a young boy dash into the line of fire) is harrowing, and actor Lewis D. Wheeler charts the crack-up of this cocky cowboy of the "Chair Force" with memorable honesty. Meanwhile, if Pakmat's voice isn't quite convincing, his situation is - even as he grieves, local al-Qaeda operatives move in on him - and actor Nael Nacer all but embodies both the character's overwhelming pain and that frightening pressure.

So despite its flaws, Pattern of Life counts as a small step forward for the local scene. I certainly hope it's not the last play about the drone wars, but from where I sit, it will serve as one of the first. In a better world, with a truly free theatre, I can only imagine what we might hear from playwright Walt McGough.  In the meantime, I'll keep listening to him - and you should, too.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Yes, Smart People is sexy, but is it really smart enough?

Eunice Wong and Roderick Hill hook up for some hot identity politics.  Photos: T. Charles Erickson.

All good plays cast long shadows, so perhaps it's unfair to feel disappointed with Lydia Diamond's Smart People (at the Huntington through July 6) which is indeed smart, and often entertaining, but never quite emerges from the penumbra of Stick Fly, the playwright's hit of four years ago.

And the reason is clear: in Stick Fly, Diamond borrowed the sturdy structure of the "well-made" play, and kept her designated factotum (she inserts herself quite openly into every play she writes) confined to the dramatic sidelines.  But in Smart People, she pushes her witty mouthpiece front and center (even though she doesn't have all that much to do), and attempts a complicated, multi-focused dramatic arc even though she isn't all that good at structure.

Sigh. So we're left with a witty (but meandering) meditation on race and racism among the self-described smart set - which is diverting, in the way a lively cocktail party is; it just isn't a play. Which is too bad, because it could be a play so very easily - as Stick Fly proved, once she has an arc, Diamond is fluent and compelling line-by-line. But without a game plan, she tends to polish scenes to a high gloss, then set them against each other like puzzle pieces that don't quite fit. Which means any larger statement remains frustratingly out of focus.

Still, perhaps these days we should be happy with small successes, with correspondingly small stakes. And even if Smart People is a muddle when it comes to race, it often scores as a comedy of manners, for Diamond comes through (again) with a clever little sketch of an American class - this time, the academic class, which needless to say, is the milieu she swims in every day.

Thus even though the playwright's putative premise is the discovery that racism is hard-wired into our skulls (the script was inspired by research at Harvard), what actually holds our attention are the sculpted details of her characters' manipulative social behaviors. Indeed, the racist patterns Diamond anatomizes in sketch after sketch feel almost over-familiar - pop culture has already had its way with them. Yes, we get the obvious point that these episodes are abundant proof of the thesis that Diamond's researchers are inching toward - still, we've seen better on cable.

In contrast, Diamond's Harvard Club vignettes glitter with secret, sweet amusement.  The narcissism disguised as altruism, the conversations built of dueling correction, the etiquette that's basically an endless chess-match of competitive self-awareness - all these mores and more are etched with a scalpel in Smart People.

But the sharpest idea in Diamond's conceptual quiver ties the long climb up the academic ladder to the clever exploitation of racial profiling. Her Asian academic superstar, "Ginny Yang" (Eunice Wong), has a name that sounds like a Bond girl's, a personality cleft between geisha and bitch, and an M.O. that turns every social encounter into a permutation of the concubine dynamic. Thus while Professor Yang tears up over Asian women who have been victimized by submissive stereotypes, she also demeans the staff in every establishment she enters; and most intriguingly of all, she insists her victory lap round the tenure track depended on her ability to decry the geisha stereotype while subtly enacting it with her own professors. Hence Ginny privately submits to what she publicly resists; like so many "smart" (or at least hyper-articulate) people, gaming the system is what she does best.

The cast of Smart People interacts with their respective racial profiles.

And Ginny's certainly the smartest thing in the play - we long to spend more time with her.  So we can only imagine how dazzling Smart People might have been if Diamond had cast as cold an eye on her African-American strivers! But when dealing with them she offers nothing nearly as probing as the great scene in which Ginny weeps over a series of online shopping menus which offer her no actual person to abuse (and thus no way to validate her superior status). Indeed, Diamond seems to unconsciously withhold from her black characters a truly complicated internal landscape; so benighted as we are, we don't read them so much as "black" as blank; they don't even have their own voice (instead, they time-share Aaron Sorkin's).

And then there's the way Diamond fumbles her treatment of that disturbing Harvard research - as well as her portrait of its leader (here "Brian White," believe it or not). The playwright's "smart people" are all agog that innate cognitive structures (which as tribal mammals we almost certainly have) might yield outcomes like racial bias - to which I can only say, really? Now maybe I'm not that smart, but somehow I'm less surprised. Worse, Diamond only cursorily sketches her protagonist's decline into scientific OCD as he's met with blowback from an uneasy Harvard faculty. Oh, she makes a stab at a few half-hearted point-counterpoint scenes, but let's just say they're far from Shavian. And instead of developing her hero's descent dramatically, she just tags Ibsen's Enemy of the People, as if to whisper on the down-low, "This part of the play that I'm not writing?  Check out Ibsen - it's in there!"

Of course it's hard to grapple with a dialectic when you're simultaneously trying to write a date movie. Which brings me to my final point: Diamond doesn't even tie her characters together in the way her material demands: for them, the personal and the political seem entwined with the sexual, but never more than superficially brush the professional (which is where they live).  It seems obvious, for instance, that Ginny, once she is Brian's bedmate, should end up as one of the faculty asked to evaluate his research; but such a taut little twist is never even suggested - one somehow gets the impression it might have been too dramatic.

Oh, well. At least the Huntington has once again fielded an impressive cast - McKinley Belcher III, Miranda Craigwell, Roderick Hill, and Eunice Wong are all fluent in Sorkin, and all are just about pitch-perfect under Peter DuBois' detailed direction. Although to be honest, I found Craigwell and Wong slightly more compelling than the men; Wong at first seemed stiff, until we learned to read that as evidence of her constant calculations; meanwhile Craigwell was just endlessly charming; after watching her suffer through Mamet's Race last year, it was good to see her land a real break.

And frankly, given that we're facing Guess Who's Coming to Dinner at the Huntington this fall, Smart People may look clever indeed in the rear-view. Still, I wince to think of all the plays this theatre's oh-so-racially-sensitive audience has been missing. Why isn't Jackie Sibblies Drury, surely our most exciting new dramatist, on its main stage, for instance?  Why was it somehow decided that We Are Proud to Present a Presentation, etc., arguably the most challenging play of the year, would wind up at Company One (where it - well, we won't go there; but let's just say I've spent much of the spring explaining why We Are Proud to Present is indeed a great play).  I certainly have no argument with this theatre's commitment to themes of race and racism - but the real question is, does it think that its audience is composed of "smart people" - or not?  That's what I wonder.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Girl-on-girl action rocks Mozart

Jean-Honoré Fragonard, The Shepherdess (1752)

I'm late with an appreciation of Grand Harmonie's latest effort, a performance of Mozart's Il re pastore (The Shepherd King), which attracted an appreciative crowd to Harvard's Paine Hall last weekend. They were partly drawn, I imagine, by the chance to hear this rarely-performed opera seria, which dates from 1775 - just before the 19-year-old Mozart's stage breakthrough with Idomeneo. Well, that's what drew me, at any rate - but I found myself also treated to some spectacular singing from a posse of early-music stars, as well as an opportunity to touch base with a new (if not quite fully-formed) force on our period scene.

So it proved a lively and enjoyable evening, and left me much to ponder.  Top-of-mind was perhaps this opera's special place in Mozart's oeuvre - it's a charmer, to be sure, but hearing it cold, you might not guess it's "Mozart;" you'd merely think it was splendid, and by somebody who was obviously going places.

Okay - but what's missing, you might ask?

Jean-Baptise Greuze's purported portrait, 1764
Well, the divinely pure melodic line that marks Mozart's high achievement - and its peerless distillment of dramatic meaning - isn't quite there; but then we only miss it, really, because we know the later operas! Yet we also know Mozart slaved over Il re pastore - no doubt because it was created for an occasion of some pomp (a state visit to Salzburg by an archduke), and was based on an already proven libretto, Tasso's Aminta; so it clearly counted as both opportunity and challenge for the young composer.

Thus what we're listening to in The Shepherd King is a major talent still shepherding his own resources, and hoping to make a big, conventional splash. Although there are hints here and there of themes that would later spark his genius: the opera's twin couples prefigure those of Cosi fan tutte, while its central conflict echoes the imminent Idomeneo.  And certainly its most exquisite arias, such as "L'amerò, sarò cost ante," would not sound out of place in a later masterpiece - and the opera even closes with a remarkable ensemble. Indeed, at such moments we're all but itching to hear Mozart take the next, inevitable musical step.

Still, it must be admitted that much of Il re pastore, though transporting, is a bit generic. Aminta, a hunky, heroic shepherd, is in love with the beautiful, pure-hearted Elisa - although he's secretly the long-lost heir to the throne of Sidon (hardly a pastoral spot, as it's near Babylon, but never mind). The couple's royal secret is safe, however, until the well-intentioned King Alessandro overthrows the reigning tyrant of Sidon, and urges Aminta to take the throne - which would mean leaving the low-born Elisa behind with Lambchop. If the resulting conflict between love and duty sounds contrived to flatter a royal audience, well of course it was - yet Tasso's libretto ends up treating its theme with more depth than you'd expect, particularly in an ironic subplot that trips up an advisor of realpolitik in his own diplomatic web.  It's here that you most feel Mozart's voice about to break out in song - only it doesn't, not quite.

The same might be said about the performance by Grand Harmonie; this latest addition to Boston's period scene is obviously poised to go great places - but they're not quite there, not yet.  This was my first exposure to this new ensemble, and what struck me immediately was the freshness of a period sound that's driven by the horns and winds (I later discovered that these players were the founding core of the group). Indeed, listening to Grand Harmonie, I began to wonder whether our conventional early-music mode has become a bit lulled by the sad sighs of Lully and the baroque - in contrast, these guys sounded lusty and rhythmic and rustic; theirs was early music with a stomp, and I got the impression that they're also focused on less-trodden period paths from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

Amanda Forsythe
Which was all refreshing, to be sure; but while the horns and winds were clearly in the driver's seat, they didn't seem to always have their hands on the wheel (or perhaps conductor Edward Elwyn Jones didn't). Jones kept things at a rambunctious clip - and that was good - but I felt as a result he sometimes ran a little roughshod over more subtly shaped passages (the orchestra only really slowed down for a sensitively-voiced solo from violinist Sarah Darling). And then to be honest, there were some intonation problems among the winds, as well as the to-be-expected fuzz from the natural horns (which are fiendishly difficult to play).

But all this was forgotten whenever the singers took the stage, for Grand Harmonie had assembled a galaxy of local vocal stars for this particular evening. Dominique Labelle, Amanda Forsythe, Teresa Wakim - these are the names you want on any early-music playbill, and all three delivered performances that ranked among their best. In the role of Elisa, Forsythe (at right) was in particularly fine form. Her melisma was pinpoint, her passagework beyond dazzling, her tone achingly pure - and you know in dramatic terms, she can play an Arcadian shepherdess in her sleep.

Dominique Labelle
Meanwhile, in the breeches role (literally) of Aminta, soprano Dominique Labelle (at left) shone just as brightly - indeed, if Forsythe had the sparkle of a tripping brook, then Labelle had the warm glow of afternoon sun; and while she didn't, perhaps, project the idealism of youth, her more-experienced persona gave Aminta's laments a touchingly world-weary tone. As you might imagine, this pair's love duets were breath-taking; indeed I'd say girl-on-girl action just doesn't get any better than this - at least vocally!

But wait, there's more: as Tamiri, a heart-broken pawn in the libretto's game of love and war, Teresa Wakim played silvery moon to Labelle's sun, with a ravishingly pure rendition of "Se tu mi fan dono." And her male co-stars weren't far behind: tenor Zachary Wilder has oft been seen in these parts, but rarely has he brandished the rich, ringing confidence he displayed as Alessandro. Meanwhile rising tenor Jonas Budris likewise brought an intensity to the Machiavellian advisor Agenore that we haven't seen from him before - although this young performer needed a subtler acting coach to draw out the mature resonances of the central twist in the libretto.  Like Mozart, and Grand Harmonie, Budris seemed poised on the cusp of great things.  So what can I say?  Stay tuned.