A MUTED
MERCHANT
THE MERCHANT OF
VENICE
Directed by Jeri Pitcher; written by William
Shakespeare; costumes designed by Mara
Famiglietti; scenes designed by Chez Cherry
With: Rich Kimball, Anna Soloway, Miranda
Libkin, Ian Austin, Dan Olmstead, Dustin Tucker, Dennis A. Price, Matthew
Archembault, Carl Johannson, Bill Van Horn, Mark S. Cartier, Kristen Burke,
J. Paul Guimont, Rick Fayen, Heather Gorby, Anthony Arnista, and Katee Brown
At the Theater at Monmouth in Monmouth, Maine
Performed in repertory from July 25, 2008 to
August 22, 2008
Reviewed by Laurie Meunier Graves
Last year, my two daughters saw Kevin Spacey
in a Broadway production of A Moon for the Misbegotten. Both
daughters admire his work in film, and they were looking forward to seeing
him on stage. Yet, after they saw the play, they were somewhat disappointed
with Spacey’s performance. “He was all right,” my youngest daughter,
Shannon, said, “but we liked Eve Best and Colm Meaney better.” Later,
Shannon decided that Spacey’s subtle, natural acting style was better suited
to film than to theater, which needs a certain amount of panache to provide
momentum to the action. Without that panache, a play can seem flat and
sluggish because however intimate the theater, actors on a stage will always
seem small in comparison with actors on a screen. Stage actors need to
project action and emotion as well as their voices.
I thought of this during the Theater at
Monmouth’s current production of The Merchant of Venice, where, with
only a few exceptions, the acting was so understated that the play actually
lagged in the middle. As my friend Judy Johnson observed during
intermission, Shakespeare, that great melodramatist, is especially ill
suited to this understated, natural style of acting, which drains the life
from the stirring speeches and robs the plays of their pageantry.
Fortunately, the actors were good enough so that the play wasn’t
unwatchable, but the subdued performances of most of the main actors
dampened the spark of this difficult, demanding yet exciting play. This is a
real shame because The Merchant of Venice has such a swirl of
action and conflicted characters that theatergoers have every right to
expect a riveting evening as they wrestle with notions of religion,
tolerance, money, power, gender, and class. The Merchant of Venice is
not an easy play, but even though it was written over 400 years ago, it
remains relevant in a world that is still too often bound by revenge and
ethnic cleansing.
As Stanley Wells noted in Shakespeare: A
Life in Drama, “The first known reference to The Merchant of Venice,
in 1598—a year or two after it was written—tells us that it was
‘otherwise called The Jew of Venice’…” Shylock, of course, is that
Jew, and his intense personality is what drives the play, even though “that
role is comparatively short.” Shylock is a moneylender, one of the few
professions open to Jews in Venice, and his status as an oppressed citizen
has made him hard and bitter. He especially hates Antonio, a merchant, who
has spit on Shylock and has called him a dog. Nevertheless, Antonio has come
to Shylock to borrow money so that his friend Bassanio can woo Portia of
Belmont. Antonio’s ships are all at sea, which means he doesn’t have the
cash to give Bassanio. Shylock agrees to lend Antonio the money, but only
under the condition that Antonio will forfeit a pound of flesh if the debt
is not repaid in time. Antonio agrees, and off Bassanio goes to Belmont.
Interwoven into this story is the tale of two
daughters, one rebellious and one dutiful, and this aspect of the story is
not often commented on. Jessica, Shylock’s daughter, has fallen in love with
Lorenzo, a Christian, and as Antonio leaves for Belmont, Jessica robs her
father, forsakes her religion, and elopes with Lorenzo. Portia, on the other
hand, is bound in a very odd way to her father, even though he is dead. His
will has stipulated that the only man she can marry is the one who chooses
correctly among three chests—one made of lead, one made of silver, and one
made of gold. Portia longs to ditch those chests and choose her own husband,
but she will not go against her father’s will. Bassanio, of course, has come
to Belmont to try his luck with the chests.
But then, as they say, things go horribly
wrong. Antonio’s ships are lost at sea, he is unable to pay Shylock what he
owes, and Shylock becomes obsessed with that pound of flesh. It is here that
Shakespeare shows his brilliance not only as a great playwright but also as
a humanist with a keen sympathy for unlikable characters. With his “Hath not
a Jew eyes?” speech, Shakespeare gave Shylock some of the most memorable
lines in the history of theater, and those lines help connect the audience
to Shylock. We might not agree with him. In fact, we might even want him to
relent, to make peace with his bitterness, but because Shakespeare has given
us Shylock’s point of view, we understand Shylock at a very deep level. And
we feel for him.
The action then converges on a famous
courtroom scene, where Shakespeare employs one of his favorite
devices—having women dress as men. Portia gets to deliver her great “quality
of mercy” speech, and audiences will be left pondering exactly how much
mercy is delivered and whether this speech is mostly ironic. There is
something, however, that today’s theatergoers should keep in mind. Despite
the color and creativity of Elizabethan England, it was also a cruel time
where Londoners got their kicks watching bear-baiting and public executions.
As such, simply sparing a life could indeed be considered merciful, even if
it came with loss and humiliation. By most people’s standards, losing an
estate and changing one’s religion would be preferable to being hung and
quartered.
As I mentioned previously, the Theater at
Monmouth’s production, with its emphasis on understatement, unfortunately
drained the play of much of its power and energy. For example, Portia’s
(Anna Soloway) “quality of mercy” speech was delivered in such a causal,
almost offhanded, manner that it lost its stirring yet ironic qualities. And
while Dan Olsmtead’s merchant, Antonio, had an arresting, noble face, he was
so lethargic that it was difficult to believe he could rouse himself to help
a brother, much less a friend. Jessica (Kristen Burke) and Lorenzo (J. Paul
Guimont) were two of the most unenthused lovers I have ever seen on stage,
and even the usually buoyant Dustin Tucker played a subdued Bassanio.
The two main exceptions (along with some silly
minor characters) were the irrepressible Bill Van Horn, who played Shylock,
and the equally irrepressible Dennis A. Price, who played Gratiano, one of
Shakespeare’s endearing, comic dunderheads. Van Horn was by turns
ingratiating and angry, and it seems to me he got the part exactly right.
Price’s exuberance was a joy to behold, making me wish that the rest of the
play had even a smidgeon of that energy.
Despite my criticism of the tone of this
production, I do understand that The Merchant of Venice is a
difficult play for modern directors and audiences. In her director’s notes
in the program, Jeri Pitcher writes, “The Merchant of Venice was
originally considered a comedy.” After the horrors of the twentieth century,
anti-Semitism, whatever the timeframe, cannot simply be ignored and played
for laughs. Yet surely between a rollicking comedy and a muted play, some
balance can be found.
