Personal Effects
Theatre Babylon at the Union Garage, 1418 10th Ave,
720-1942 or www.theatrebabylon.org. Thurs-Sat at 8; $12,
all Thursdays are pay-what-you-will. Through Nov 18.
Autobiographical speeches given from bed, reminiscences of a dear and annoying grandmother, real artifacts from the grandmother's legacy (a perfume bottle, an ancient hand-written note)--these elements help compose Susanna Burney's one-woman show about her life thus far. While the theatrical equivalent of a literary memoir (which continues as the publishing industry's biggest cash cow), Personal Effects generally stands clear enough from memoir clichés and pitfalls to be a success: There are no substance-recovery or locked-in-the-basement-with-an-incestuous-hairy-stepbrother episodes here.
The performer threads a childhood vision of aliens with her family history and decision to be an actress. She's also obsessed with houses: their ways of exuding atmosphere, presence, and/or comfort. With these structural girders in place, Burney delves into the minutiae of her growing-up years in Massachusetts and Seattle.
The swathe of the piece dealing with her card-carrying Communist stepfather is one the most interesting. She reveals how this staunch anticapitalist, proletariat-pushin' dad simply used his rhetoric as a means of controlling and subduing the people around him. I wanted to hear more about how this ascetic father affected his daughters and their current credit card bills, for example.
But Burney doesn't dwell too long on the rather dismaying details of her stepfather's behavior, and that's probably good. This sense of restraint coupled with Burney's fresh, original writing keeps the piece apart from memoir hell, and the piece feels whole, mature, and engaging (if you aren't against memoirs, and a lot of people aren't). The second section of the performance isn't as crisp, and I could have done without hearing the actress' taped voice intoning a soliloquy from Hamlet while she speaks of her past. Lengthy details about discovering a friend's suicide could have been omitted, too, in the spirit of not ogling at death--or Burney might have found another aspect of death to ogle. But Burney is an interesting and capable actress--be on the lookout for what she does next. STACEY LEVINE
Measure for Measure
Intiman Theatre, Seattle Center, 269-1900.
Tues, Wed, & Sun at 7, Thurs-Sat at 8, Sat-Sun at 2;
$23.50-$42. Through Nov 18.
For directors, Shakespeare's mid-career "problem plays" are like troublesome friendships: Every time you think you've made a breakthrough, five days later you're scared to answer the phone. Measure for Measure doesn't even have the good grace to sound like a pain in the ass, the way Troilus and Cressida does. It's a comedy that's not really a comedy--people marry rather than die at play's end, but the marriages may be worse than death. Measure for Measure has stubbornly outlasted yet another reclamation effort, this time from director Libby Appel and Intiman Theatre.
Measure for Measure offers audiences a darkly humorous exploration of sexual realpolitik. The Duke of Vienna takes a sabbatical, ordering zealous subordinate Angelo to re-attach the city's moral backbone in his absence. Angelo decides to make an example, Texas-style, of a man arrested for impregnating his fiancée. Things become complicated when Angelo himself swoons with lust upon meeting the man's sister. The Duke--now in disguise--helps her thwart Angelo's advances and stay the brother's execution. Traditional productions focus on the Duke and Angelo, and are often frustrated by the lack of clear motivation given either. But Appel's sympathy lies with the sisterly lust-object Isabella--a great move for two reasons. Isabella's absolute refusal to part with her virtue may be a greater mystery to modern audiences than any commingling of power and sex. And with the focus on Isabella, head-scratching actions by the male characters seem arbitrarily cruel rather than inexplicable.
Lamentably, compelling thematic emphasis doesn't guarantee good theater. As much as Measure for Measure's ideas fascinate, Shakespeare's narrative is exposition-heavy and his leads are dull as stones. Despite fine ensemble acting, Intiman's production simply never raises the dramatic stakes past idle curiosity. And while Shakespeare's writing may crackle with potential sexual firepower, Appel and company confuse effectively harnessing that energy with bluntly alluding to specific sexual acts. The result is a night of duller-than-usual verse, with flashes of writerly insight and the occasional pelvic thrust. TOM SPURGEON
Lucia di Lammermoor
Seattle Opera, Seattle Center Opera House, 389-7676.
Nov 1, 3, & 4 at 7:30; $31-$107.
There are reasons Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor has been an opera favorite since it opened in Naples in l835: lovely ensemble singing (like the amazing sextet); the high notes Lucia hits, which soprano Harolyn Blackwell delivers like someone in a fever dream; and some positively chest-expanding, bust-enhancing, march-inducing choral numbers. I mean, man, do those guards, wedding guests, and mourners (which, by the way, gives you an idea of the basic plot of this and approximately one hundred other operas) get to sing their hearts out! The irony, of course, is that this rousing music tells an extremely disturbing story of greed, ghosts, madness, and the more grisly consequences of arranged marriages. Lucia, or Lucy of Lammermoor (as she was known in the Sir Walter Scott novel on which this opera is based), is in love with Edgardo of Ravenswood. Lucia's evil brother Enrico wants to marry his sister off to the ultra-wealthy Arturo to interject some badly needed cash into the trés needy Lammermoor coffers. Lucia is deceived into thinking that Edgardo has betrayed her, and she is forced, in her sadness and shock, to sign a marriage agreement with Arturo. When she emerges glassy- eyed and dreamy from her wedding chamber, we learn that her strategically bloodied bridal gown is not the result of a joyous deflowering, but rather from the fact that she has murdered her husband. Lucia's shock at being betrayed has blossomed into full-blown madness. She sings/talks to herself (a chilling duet by Blackwell and a flute), then offs herself. Poor Edgardo, who is informed of all this mess too late to do anything about it, stabs himself too. The moral is clear. Do not miss this opera. REBECCA BROWN
