Antigone

by Jean Anouilh Circa Theatre

Creon is a king guided by pragmatism and expediency, come to power after a civil war in which his two rival nephews have killed each other. To enforce his authority and establish a moral code, he decrees that one shall receive full state burial, while the other (Polynices) must be left to the vultures. For the sake of her brother's soul and her own freedom (and by extension her country's) Antigone knows she must bury Polynices herself. She also knows she must die for it.

Anouilh wrote the play in 1942, in direct response to the German occupation of France. His Antigone is a political weapon designed for a specific political occasion. Its truths remain for us to see, but are not all directly of us. When in the second act the play comes to terms with some harsh realities, Circa's production is dramatically intense. But in the first, which is permeated by a sense of beauty threatened, the drama is all but gone.

Director Ray Henwood has been almost unswerving in1 realizing this dichotomy. The value of knowing simple joy comes over like a facile cliche. "Don't you think it's marvellous—to be the first person who is aware that it is morning?" says Antigone. Perhaps it's because of the relative freedom we now enjoy the subtlety of this is lost in speech.

For most of the first act Margaret Burnett (Antigone) and the supporting cast go through the right motions—vocal and physical—and it just doesn't mean anything. Henwood has sustained all the proper logic and rhythm. But nobody seems to feel a thing.

Patrick Smyth's Chorus, a part we might assume from the story to lack depth of character, is quite as personable as the others. This is because Smyth (as we know from The Balcony) is good on has speeches. Peter McCauley's Guard provides the comic relief and nearly steals the show The drunken first night audience lapped him up, although to his credit he did not pander to them.

Janet Williamson's design is partly to blame. The steel gray apron stage (Circa getting adventurous with their new seats . . .?) looks very exciting, but doesn't work. Creon's desk is downstage facing inwards—the weakest place on the set. How we are ever supposed to think he or his office has power I don't know.

And for some strange reason many of the entrances and exits are made by actors running up a few steps, turning and running down a few more. This is never more so than when Antigone's sister is more appears late in the pay to announce that she too is ready to die.

Creon argues that he is for life, for 'happiness'. Yet only Antigone may claim a life force. She dies, and that is pain to Creon. His son dies, and that is anguish. His wife dies, and that is resignation. He has caused these deaths and knows it better than anyone. But he doesn't know how to change.

Antigone is extraordinary for the very reason that its protagonist doesn't have the answers, doesn't even know why or for what she is sacrificing her life. Her silences ask us to look for the flaws implicit in Creon's speeches. "I am not here to understand", she says. "I am here to say no to you, and die".

Neither Burnett nor Kevin Woodill (Creon) come anywhere near impressing on us the immediacy of their characters' positions. The language is extremely powerful—this they have certainly not lost—yet is still encircled by a vacuum. Anouilh's play is not merely about human siffering: it argues that the people do have the ability to resist.

The weaknesses in Act One, several mistakes with lines, a lack of response within the cast, even the ashtray which was accidently knocked onto the floor and stayed there while Creon told us how fastidious he was (a minor case, but also a perfect example for Woodill to be the character, to really come to terms with live performance) all these things betray a lack of appreciation of the play's meaning.

At one stage the Chorus outlines the difference between melodrama and tragedy. Tragedy implies that what will happen, must. 'The soring is wound up tight. It will uncoil itself. 'Tragedy can only be averted if we take care not to wind that spring. This is the play's significance for us. Melodrama lurks uncomfortably close in this production, but never wins out! If only for the lines, the play is worth a visit.

Simon Wilson.

Spring Awakening

by Frank Wedekind Downstage

It's a rare occasion when everyone agrees on the value of a Downstage production, and certainly notable that this one comes from outside the theatre s main programme. Tony Taylor's recent decision to cut back on activities because of financial pressure is understandable. But in Spring Awakening there is further proof (for those who need it) that long-running mail bills are not the theatre's main claim to . . . (what is the right word?).

The play is not faultless. It sports a chorus which is never really integrated into the overall tone yet does not forcibly stand outside it. Although staged in the round nearly all the principle moments are directed to the same side. The balance of naturalism and expressionism is well observed in those scenes rooted in the former, yet not so well in the latter. The professors, for example, are in danger of replacing the sinister and ridiculous with simple confusion.

Spring Awakening has its own pecularities. Focus is not directed on adolescence by the adult world (as in, say, Equus). It works the other way. As we all know, puberty brings out the deadly serious cliches, and there are a great number of them in this play.

Director Colin McColl's handling of this is the most successful element of the production. His actors do not get lost in the lines, because they know the cliches. Neither do they condescend to say them. Not what a person says, but the fact that he is moved to speech is always the important factor.

Subtleties of communication and belief are all founded on this simple truth and best expressed in the two male lead performances. Stephen Murray (Melchoir) and David Pringle (Moritz) had the difficult task of defining characters of very different temperament, who nevertheless form a strong bond together. On stage this can often mean that each actor [unclear: pinks up traits of the] other.

Not here. Murray's stillness, punctuated by purposeful movement is counterpointed by Pringle's nervous jittering. Their vocal work extends the distinction. Moritz's story of the headless queen—perhaps his happiest moment is the finest example. Pringle has had him suddenly confident and enthusiastic, without forfeiting any of the characterization we have previously witnessed.

That ephemeral scene is reborn at the play's end. Moritz's ghost appears with his head under his arm, grinning and exhorting Melchior to real as he has by following him beyond the grave. Ironies abound: headlessness, the constancy of spiritual existence, role reversal (Melchior is now the doubtful one), and the underlying potential for a re-reversal of roles. For Melchior, alive, can still know real pain, real joy.

It is Pringle's scene. He enjoys the worry as his character enjoys the occasion. Elsewhere others of the cast make similar contributions. For the performances he has elicited, for his fine handling of the mood and issues of the play, above all for breathing life into the Hannah Playhouse, Colin McColl deserves much praise.

—Simon Wilson