By John Thomason
By John Thomason
By Andrea Richard
By Fire Ant
By Andrew Soria
By Dana Krangel
By Andrea Richard
By Andrea Richard
At best the revival of a classic stirs our sensibilities much like a remarkable piece of music. A chord is struck that reverberates from antiquity to the present, reuniting us with the universality of our most human emotions. At its worst a classic only manages to transport us as far back as high school, where a six-pack of Jolt Cola couldn't stave off drowsiness the night before a test on The Iliad. New Theatre's production of Electra lies somewhere between these two extremes. It accomplishes the feat of being neither melodramatic nor laborious. At times it even lights up the sky with its energetic alchemy. But it fails to electrify on a consistent basis.
Electra (Lisa Morgan), the embittered sister of Orestes (David Mann) and Chrysothemis (Tanya Bravo), has been condemned to a life of slavery. She also has sentenced herself to a life of mourning the death of her father, who was murdered by her mother, Clytemnestra (Yolandi Hughes), and her mother's lover, Aegisthus (Robert Strain). Her only hope is that Orestes will return to the city of Argos to avenge their father's death. Unbeknownst to Electra, Orestes has sent his servant (Wayne E. Robinson Jr.) to Argos to tell Clytemnestra that her son is dead. In this way Orestes can arrive unexpectedly to avenge his father's murder.
Rafael de Acha, who serves as both artistic director and director, made a smart decision by choosing Frank McGuinness' Tony-nominated script for the South Florida debut of Electra. McGuinness has extricated the antiquated and obtuse dialogue of the original translation and replaced it with a clear, well-honed text. The language is not only accessible and tuned to the contemporary ear, it retains the elegance of the original play. Electra's opening speech possesses the mellifluous lyric of a Shakespearean sonnet, minus the sing-song rhyme scheme:
"Divine light/Sweet air/Again hear/My pain.
Divine light/Sweet air/Again hear/My pain.
Have you not witnessed when morning breaks/My heart break, my heart break?"
Sophocles gave many a demanding role to women in plays such as Antigone and The Women of Trachis. His greatest character drama, however, is Electra. When the playwright Aeschylus treated this story of revenge, he was concerned primarily with the ethical issues of the blood feud. Sophocles' version dismisses the ethical question and instead addresses character: What kind of woman is Electra that she would want so desperately to murder her own mother?
Electra is the female Hamlet unbridled. Lisa Morgan's energy and rancor is boundless. From the moment she enters the stage until the end, her Electra is like a cannon that has been fired at the heed of a battle call. Filled with bitterness, grief, and rage, Electra is a trajectory of emotions that cannot be slowed by her sister's reason, her mother's wrath, or her nurse's compassion and camaraderie. Unfortunately there is little modulation in the level of intensity. Be it anguish, anger, or accusations, the emotions almost always are delivered with the same full-throttle speed and fervor. Granted de Acha and Morgan steer the character away from the most obvious and perilous pitfall -- unrestrained hysteria and melodrama -- but they also never delve into the less obvious and subtler reaches of the character's heart. Like Hamlet, Electra is trapped in her own neuroses. Unlike Hamlet, she is not hiding her grief from anyone or speaking in double-entendres. She has swallowed the bile of her own feelings and is interminably and openly bitter for it. As she tells her mother, it is against her own will that she grieves as she does: "I know what I'm doing's wrong. It goes against my nature. But you are malign; you are cruel. You force me to act against my own will." This is a missed opportunity to let other psychological nuances creep into the role of Electra.
Yolandi Hughes is a disturbing presence as the regal and maniacal Clytemnestra, again reminding us of those disturbing scenes between Hamlet and his mother. Her moments of compassion as a mother only lend more dimension to Hughes' portrayal of a murderess. The actress' presence is so ominous in her jewels, heavy black eye makeup, and slow, deliberate speech, we believe equally her compassion and her cruelty. Kimberly Daniel as Electra's nurse takes on the role of chorus, friend, caretaker, and accomplice. Daniel covers all this emotional territory seamlessly. Being the more reasonable sister, Chrysothemis is more detached and rational than Electra. She reminds Electra that they are not men but women, and they must learn to survive as women do, behind a deceptive veneer of passivity and submissiveness. Chrysothemis is resigned not to mourn as her sister does so that she may survive within the confines of her new family. Yet at times, such as when she arrives glowing and breathless from her father's grave, having seen what she thinks is a sign of Orestes' return, we see an incredible vulnerability and youthful naiveté. Bravo also exercises a control that eventually reveals her character to be as hopelessly caught in the ethical trappings of this crime as her sister. All three supporting actresses do a splendid job of broadening the play's emotional and psychological scope.