Shrews, Tamed and Otherwise

I like Shakespeare as much as the next fair-minded English major
(overexposure is no reason to reject something, guys), but I’m about
ready to give up on the comedies. Tragedies, fine.

Histories, you bet. King Lear? Great work there, man! The
comedies, while excellent poetry on the page, are rough ground for
real-life theater companies. Because they just aren’t funny.
Some wordsmithery here and a fart joke there and over there you’ve got
some sexual innuendo and then—don’t worry—plenty more
farting in act 3! But the language presents such a barrier for
audiences that most characters become screaming, jabbering clowns. THOU
SHALT NOT MISS THE GOOFINESS! ‘TIS DECREED! It’s exhausting.

Speaking of exhausting, this weekend I watched more than one Shakespeare-in-the-park production—more than one production of
the same play, by different theater companies. The play is The
Taming of the Shrew. The park is Volunteer. The person is me. The
leg cramps are many.

Theater in parks is a lovely idea, if you happen to be in a park and
it’s sunny and you want something to look at. It is less lovely if you
find yourself at the wrong park one day (Balagan, which was supposed to
be at the Fremont Troll, moved to Volunteer Park at the last minute
leaving no explanation or sign—we heard murmurs from other
spectators as they wandered off) and caught in a torrential downpour
the next (Wooden O’s words were drowned out by frightening
thunderclaps). Despite those pretty-serious inconveniences, the two
productions offered some interesting contrasts.

A young woman played feisty and earnest acoustic guitar before the
Balagan performance (“This is the kind of chick who—if you showed
her to me in middle school—I would have died of wanting to
be her,” my friend whispered, slightly mortified). It was a fitting
introduction. Balagan’s production was young, rough. The cast was
noticeably attractive (when Petruchio said, “For I am rough and woo not
like a babe,” you couldn’t help feeling a little wobbly). They wore
wristbands and had tattoos. They were eager and silly and almost
impossible to follow, situated in a too-vague, timeless, contextless
Padua (maybe the Troll would have helped?).

Wooden O’s version was older, tighter, less hot, and much, much
better. Their Padua became the Padua Trailer Park; their affect was
full-on white trash: mesh shirts, miniskirts, NASCAR swagger, Southern
twang. It worked like crazy. Every phrase that had seemed impenetrable
in Balagan’s version was clear as Crystal Pepsi at Wooden O. Bianca was
a vapid beauty queen (it’s much better when Bianca isn’t sympathetic),
Petruchio is a ringer for Christopher Meloni in Wet Hot American
Summer, Baptista is the trailer-park matriarch.

The Taming of the Shrew is troubling in so many
ways—there are always, like, 50 characters onstage at once; they
all have similar names (Gremio, Grumio) and similar jobs (suitor,
servant); that subplot where Tranio has to pretend to be Lucentio and
woo Bianca while Lucentio tutors Bianca doesn’t really make
sense (I forget—why can’t you just woo Bianca directly like a
normal person?). And then, of course, there’s the misogyny (whether
Shakespeare intended it or not). The misogyny sucks. It’s hard
to escape, too—the physical violence toward Katherine is built
into the script (lots of dragging and gripping and “Let me go!”); her
eventually broken will is built into the title.

Wooden O performs a neat trick in the
domestic-abuse-is-not-actually-hilarious arena. It’s an old
romantic-comedy trick: You can see Kate’s infatuation with Petruchio
from the moment she first stumbles out of the trailer and into his
arms. This Kate comes pretamed; everything else is flirting, not
fighting. Balagan’s approach to the violence is way more interesting:
Their Kate is in a wheelchair, and her subtle loss of mobility
(and, by extension, personal dominion) makes all that problematic
violence unnecessary. Petruchio doesn’t have to drag her
around—she’s very much at the world’s mercy—which makes her
emotional digging-in-of-heels even more understandable.

But it’s still not funny. And I’m all wet now. Thanks, park.