The Globe and Mail, September 08, 2006
Bloodless does not become Lear
By: Kamal Al-Solaylee
The search continues. At 8 p.m. on Wednesday, Soulpepper Theatre Company's disappointing track record of Shakespeare productions in Toronto looked set to change. If this play (King Lear), this cast (led by William Webster, the company's senior statesman) and this stage (an intimate thrust configuration) didn't break the spell, what else could?
Three hours later, under Joseph Ziegler's direction, King Lear, a tragedy of "passionate collisions," to borrow the most understated description I can find from centuries of scholarship, ended as a well-meaning but poorly co-ordinated effort.
There are individual moments of animated clarity in its staging and performance, but the production never coalesces. Ziegler doesn't dig deep enough into the story's wild, tragic arc or touch upon the social -- socialist is more appropriate -- ramifications of a man whose newfound sense of justice and charity comes too late and at a price beyond human comprehension. He's content to see the story unfold and let the theatrical chips fall where they may. I like the confidence this implies, but the evening's mixed blessings beg for a more interventionist direction. Christina Poddubiuk's costumes, for example, are catwalk-ready in their creativity, but their modernity contradicts the of-no-fixed-address-or-time choices of Ziegler. When the characters of France and Burgundy are dressed in Le Ch�teau's fall line, you unfairly dismiss them before they say a word.
The production's biggest asset (Webster as Lear) becomes a serious liability for about two-thirds of it. After a thoughtful portrayal of Lear as a weary king who wants nothing more than to shed the burden of the crown and divide his kingdom among his three daughters, Webster lapses into old-school theatrics. It's not exactly hammy but it's indiscriminate enough to unintentionally have a similar effect.
Webster's heath scenes are histrionic, and he rarely knows how to separate the man from his madness. His voice betrays him in any exchange or soliloquy that requires Lear to rail against the ingratitude of his daughters or the vagaries of fortune -- which is to say, the bulk of his lines. He restores Lear's grip on reality and our faith in him in the final death scene, suggesting that he's an actor who's more comfortable in the lower registers of the character. He may well refine his performance as the run continues, but for now, Lear is a stretch for Webster.
There's no doubt that Webster and Ziegler have worked very closely on unlocking Lear in performance, but you can't help thinking the actor is left to fend for himself. Ziegler has his hands full not just with other cast members, but with what proves to be an unwieldy thrust stage. From where I was sitting, entire scenes were blocked by actors unrightfully occupying valuable real estate, suggesting a director who hasn't taken the specifications of his setup into full account.
To make matters worse, nobody enters that stage walking if they can't come in running. Intentionally or not, this results in a very muscular and athletic King Lear, qualities enhanced by the physicality of Stuart Hughes as the loyal Kent and the acrobatics of David Storch as Edgar. The sturdy masculine quality of the production is appropriate. Despite the finely contrasted presence of the three daughters -- a fiery Nancy Palk as Goneril, a pugilistic Brenda Robbins as Regan and a delicate Patricia Fagan as Cordelia -- this is a man's world.
Still, not all men are recreated equal here. The finest performance comes from Stratford's Jonathan Goad, who draws on his physical and mental prowess to create a thrillingly dangerous Edmund. That you actually sympathize with him is more a reflection on the underwhelming work of fellow cast members than a lapse in moral judgment. Les Carlson's Gloucester has no weight of his own, let alone as a parallel to Lear's story; Diego Matamoros as the Fool is perfunctory and C. David Johnson's Cornwall is just too nice a guy to raise his voice at an old man, let alone gouge Gloucester's eyes.
That scene, ostensibly the most harrowing in all of Shakespeare, is literally and metaphorically bloodless. The main tragedy of this King Lear is that bloodlessness overflows in places where we've come to expect guts and glory.
Oh well, maybe the next Shakespeare will do it for Soulpepper.