Macbeth directed by Joe Dowling Guthrie Theater Minneapolis, MN March 30, 2010
The Joe Dowling Macbeth at the Guthrie was crisp and clean; crisp in that they brought it off in 2 hours 10 minutes (without intermission), so Shakespeare's third shortest play moved with a concentrated intensity. I was not aware of cuts, though perhaps (wishful thinking?) Malcolm's test of Macduff may have been a bit shorter. I didn't hear a witch say "Fair is foul, and foul is fair," a crucial line for me. I was listening for it, but maybe it was swallowed up is the opening battle stage business.
It was good attending with my thirteen-year old granddaughter, Kaia, who had previously seen this production. This allowed me to see the play partly through her eyes, as she could anticipate action and flesh out her first impressions. From her previous experience she thought the witches were good. I would guess that meant they were memorably exotic (their voices may have been electronically filtered), but I better remember the acrobatic trio at the Berkeley Rep and the Polanski witches digging for corpses in the sand (backed, later, if I remember, by 75 naked crones).
This Macbeth was clean in that it did not seem to attempt any fresh vision. no chances taken, so it was finally as bland as the Dowling Hamlet that closed the old Guthrie.
The Dowling touch was violence and sex. The play opens with a long, busily choreographed battle, pre-witch. Lots of bodies (with a little audience distraction of how to get them off the stage in a thrust theatre). The uniforms do not particularly demonstrate, for an audience not quite settled in their seats, who is fighting whom, which the Scots, which the Norwegians, which Cawdor's traitors. I looked for Macbeth (Erik Heger), whom the bloody Captain will describe as heroic, but amid the smoke and business, I did not distinguish him (as he reportedly distinguishes himself). I was trying to orient myself, so the use of firearms (an AK 47 or two?) before they all got down to short swords, was irritating, compounded by the set which salted the stage with rubble -- a decaying civilization (surely not: Duncan is described as the ideal, fertile, sun-drenched king) -- with a prominent, rusted bike rim prominently in front. Whatever Dowling was attempting to do achronologically didn't reach me. But it didn't matter much because the chronology was only peripheral (not like setting the whole thing in a banana republic as one production I saw did).
The opening battle was a bookend for the finale, Macduff and Macbeth with a dozen of Macduff's troops as spectators (didn't any of them bring his AK47?), so the motif of a primitive warring tribal culture came across (Beowulf-time), yet this diminished Malcolm's "People, I just want to say, you know, can we all get along? Can we get along" resolution (V.viii. 60-75 -- I'm probably paraphrasing from memory).
The sex is not so dramatic, but Lady Macbeth (Michelle O'Neill) had five costume changes, each, except the madness nightgown. displaying her impressive superstructure. She reads Macbeth's letter recounting the projections of the witches nearly orgasmically, and when hubby comes home she strips him down to his bare pecs. That's it, but it does remind us that sex and violence underscore ambition, and I certainly prefer this to sects and violins (Amadeus?).
I sometimes find the Porter (Kris L. Nelson) a drunken bore. Not here. But I never quite got Lenox and Rosse and Menteth and Cathness and Angus straight. Were they really all dressed in business suits? The Doctor, dressed in a grey Hillary Clinton power suit, looked like she had wandered in from another play. They pronounced Seyton "see-ton" whereas Shakespeare pronounced it "say-tan," perhaps here avoiding confusing the audience. I'm almost sure Seyton was the third murderer. I've seen a production where the third murderer was Macbeth -- a stretch.
As a Scotsman, I counted how many future kings were evoked by the witches in Act IV -- eight, so Dowling got that right (there were eight Scottish kings, including five James's descended from Banquo, between Malcolm and James I, who was in the opening night audience.
Logged by, Gilbert
Photo credit: Lady Macbeth (Michelle O'Neill) encourages Macbeth (Erik Heger) after Duncan's murder. Image courtesy of the Guthrie Theater; photo by Michal Daniel.
Cindy asked, long ago, for Twelfth Night teaching moments, and though this is far too late, let me at least try to contribute something for her teaching folder for the next time the play appears in her syllabus (I’m soooo sorry, Cindy.)
For me, I think the most profitable focus in Twelfth Night might be on dramatic irony, when the audience is in possession of information which is unknown or unperceived by one or more of the characters. We know from the opening scenes that Viola is disguised as a man, Cesario: Orsino, who takes “him” on as a courtier; then Olivia, who falls in love with “him” when he appears as Orsino’s messenger; then Sir Andrew, who is goaded into challenging “him” to a duel, do not know. Thus, all three say foolish things or take foolish actions that they would not if they were more fully informed of the facts. For instance, we, the audience, can evaluate, seeing through, how foolish Orsino’s patriarchal commonplaces seem when we recognize it is a woman who is listening. (“For women are as roses, whose fair flow’r,/ Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour,” II.iv.38-9.)
There is the same dramatic irony when Sebastian makes landfall—we know there are now “identical” twins in Illyria, but mistaken identity is inevitable for everyone else. There has been the same “error” in Plautus’s Menaechmi, then in Comedy of Errors. In Twelfth Night it is insisted on in I.ii (Viola’s arrival and her gender disguise—a reasonable protection for a woman in a strange land), then in II.i (Sebastian’s arrival), together with Viola’s frequent imparting of her deepest hopes, fears, and perplexities in soliloquy proper (an audience can always take soliloquy as unalloyed communication) or utterances whose full meaning is a secret to all but ourselves.
OK, but dramatic irony is not just a literary-critical term. The power of the audience in possession of full knowledge when the characters are not emerges because we can then see into and see why “what fools these mortals be.” That is, outside the theater none of us ever knows everything, yet we speak and act based on the best of our knowledge. Orsino can talk pompously of love to his young boy-courtier freely, but would not to a woman, and especially not to a woman who loves him. We are always alazons (someone who pretends or tries to be something more than he is, a self-deceived character—thank you Northrop Frye); dramatic irony makes us, as audience, eirons (someone who sees through self-deceptions or pretensions; akin to irony itself). Thus, reading/seeing Twelfth Night sets your students up to see into an essential element of human discourse. We make mistakes hourly based on only partial perception. But seeing or reading the play, we are in on the secrets, so we are in a perfect position to evaluate the flawed nature of human communication.
The punch line of all this is the Viola/ Sebastian denouement, where even "ocular proof” is no longer trusted. In Comedy of Errors, all the “facts” are so inexplicable that one explanation is magic or enchantment. In Twelfth Night, Antonio is a fact, so when the Illyrians see him, they arrest him. But Sebastian is not perceived as a “fact” so when Sir Andrew sees someone he presumes is the pusillanimous Cesario, Sebastian breaks his pate. POW! Probably all comedy is an exercise in dramatic irony (tragedy is, of course, too, but it is not THE point of tragedy, where misalliance with the pure laws of the universe is).
Same, same for Malvolio [I hope to return to Cindy’s initial query about him soon]. Maria’s “practice” (the forged letter) manipulates Malvolio into exhibiting his day-dreams (fantasies) to the cruel light of public scorn. They can practice on Malvolio because they know exactly what he wants [I have been reading Stevie Davies’s Penguin Critical Studies here]. We can easily be influenced by what we want desperately to believe. CL Barber uses the box-hedge scene as a central example to define his “Shakespeare’s Festive Comedy,” with its saturnalian play and its festive Lord of Misrule (now, of course, think of Falstaff and all the shows he puts on for Hal—13 men in buckram or killing Hotspur with a thrust to the groin, etc.) Davies refers to the Malvolio plot as a play-within-a-play, complete with on-stage audience selling the house audience on the joke, watching Malvolio acting out his fantasy life (dramatic irony: we know the letter is forged, so we can see how he makes a fool of himself as he lusts to believe in it; like Othello, innocence has no defense against being gulled, even if the gull somehow “deserves” it). Then the letter becomes an acting script for the yellow-stocking scene (III.iv) and the persecution of Malvolio (IV.iv).
Yes, he is tricked; however, ask your students how many believe in “personality,” then remind them the term comes from persona, Greek for “mask,” and note that almost all of our perceived “personality” is taken from others’ observations of our play-acting, role-playing, living according to a received script.
Olivia and Orsino, however ‘genuine’ their claims of feelings may be, are both characters who perform their aloof (grieving) or love-sick states as theatrical scripts from which their actions must never deviate. For me, both are doomed because of unnatural excess: Orsino’s amorous binge-and-purge—“if music be the food of love, give me excess of it that surfeiting the appetite may sicken and so die” (“hurl” won’t scan here)—while Olivia, the most eligible, fertile, naturally sexual damsel in Illyria has taken an unnatural vow of seven years of chastity. The audience has to know that both unnatural vows are doomed from the moment we hear of them, but we can enjoy how each is hoist on inevitable disillusionment, though as the aristocrats, neither is punished for such folly, unlike poor Aguecheek.
Ah aristocrats. At the end of the Helena Bonham Carter Twelfth Night, directed by Trevor Nunn, all dance, as in a “good comedy.” No, wait. No Aguecheek, no Malvolio, no Antonio, no Feste, all outside the dazzling crystal-lit ballroom, outside the castle. So the happily ever after is exclusive to those who are back in the illusion of romance. Inability to play the game (Sir Andrew) or clear, disillusioning, rational understanding (Antonio or especially Feste) are dangers to the romantic illusion we all thrive on.
Think of Hamlet, the only person in Denmark unable to belong to the fourteenth-century script, must at last be borne away by flights of angels. In Twelfth Night, even the seeming outsider, Sebastian, is now part of the dance (because, apparently, he has good abs—what more could a girl ask for?). Now the irony is on us, we who wistfully lust after happy endings.
My favorite class would be a tight exploration of I.v, “Cesario’s” embassy to Olivia that produces the “Make me a willow cabin at your gate” declaration, a scene overflowing with dramatic irony, but I’ll save that for a post on love poetry, unless Cindy has a moment and can tell us in advance what she knows I am going to say.
The William Shakespeare Experience is a virtual book club, the goal of which is to read and discuss each of Shakespeare's plays in the approximate order that he wrote them. The Experience members are Mike Bazzett, Cindy Calder, Jim Darling, Gilbert Findlay, Randall Findlay, Derek Gottlieb, John U. Harkness, Stu Naber, Ernst Schoen-René, and Doug Scholz-Carlson. We are passionate about reading and seeing and hearing Shakespearean drama in all its forms, and this blog, the only one of its kind on the Internet, reflects that passion.