The Merchant of Venice
Written by William Shakespeare, directed by Richard Rose, starring Graham Greene, Sean Arbuckle and Severn Thompson; at the Festival Theatre in Stratford, Ont., until Oct. 27 (800-567-1600)
It will be interesting to tally how many tickets the Stratford Festival sells this season for what must be surely the strangest production of The Merchant of Venice it has ever mounted.
Arguably Shakespeare's thorniest play, embracing questions about justice, religion, anti-Semitism and values, it's directed by Richard Rose in a confused and confusing manner. The confusion seems to infect everything: Phillip Clarkson's bizarre, all-over-the-map costume selection, music that ranges from funky electronic rap to medieval holy, and a cast that cannot speak the Bard's English and deliver largely insipid performances. Nothing coheres. If there's a central idea that framed Rose's directorial thinking, it's not readily apparent.
Three intersecting story lines traverse the famous text. The first involves the attempt of an impoverished Venetian Bassanio (Sean Arbuckle) to woo the fair Belmonte heiress Portia (Severn Thompson). To that end, he seeks a short-term loan of 3,000 ducats from his friend, Antonio (Scott Wentworth), a successful dealer in imports. With Antonio's assets essentially tied up in transit, he loans the funds on Bassanio's behalf from a noted Jewish moneylender, Shylock (Graham Greene).
But when ships carrying his merchandise are reported lost at sea, Antonio cannot repay the loan. Shylock insists that the terms of forfeit in the contract be strictly enforced: in lieu of repayment, he will exact a pound of Antonio's flesh. Shylock's rigidity on this issue is driven in part by anger at Christians, whom he blames for seducing his daughter Jessica (Sara Topham). Taking part of his fortune, she runs away with Lorenzo and converts, not without misgivings, to Christianity.
Meantime, Portia is juggling a raft of suitors, including Bassanio. He eventually wins the day but, before their marriage can be consummated, he must return to Venice to help Antonio deal with Shylock. It's Portia, finally — disguised as a male — who arrives to parse the loan contract and save Antonio's bacon.
Give Rose points for daring, at least. He's willing to try anything to juice the script and milk it for its comedy. But he doesn't discriminate and the inconsistency plagues the actors.
Thus, Portia in her opening scenes is played as something of a ditz, emotionally wobbly, tremulous of voice. Fine — but this is not easily reconciled with the steel-trap-minded Portia who later argues with eloquence and brilliance before the Venetian court. And if she's so sharp and has rushed to make her courtroom appearance, why does Rose have her read the remarkable "quality of mercy" speech from a written scroll?
Rose intends (though this is a mere guess) for us to see Merchant as representing a fundamental clash of cultures — between the dominant Christians and the ghettoized but reviled Jews (Muslims are also briefly represented, with the Prince of Morocco's attempt to win Portia).
Gillian Gallow and Douglas Paraschucks's set is a kind of crucifix, broken at its heart. The opening scene features a long table set for dinner, like the Last Supper, but with a fat roasted pig as its centrepiece. And the point is? Soon, a gang of men — wearing pig masks — emerges and beats a man that seems to be a Jew. A club for anti-Semites? Perhaps. But none of this congeals into a directorial vision.
And where exactly are we? Is this stratified, codifed 16th-century Venice, as it sometimes seems? Or is it a modern-day, urban Anywhere, where people turn up dressed in Scottish kilts, German lederhosen and military garb that look anything but Italian. Shylock wears a snappy business suit straight out of Harry Rosen. Others come swaddled in cloaks and tunics.
Although he only appears in a handful of scenes, Shylock is generally considered the fulcrum of the play and to have the starring role. It's telling, then, that Rose awards the final curtain call not to Greene, but to Portia and Bassanio — a recognition that Greene does not dominate the production as Paul Soles did a few years ago at Stratford and others have before him.
The performance is certainly adequate — Greene nicely captures Shylock's intractability, standing rooted to the stage — but there's no magic. Certainly, this is not what Stratford must have hoped for when it made the bold, but seemingly marketable move to cast Greene, a native Canadian, in the role. The result is disappointing, no more so than in his delivery of the famous "hath not a Jew eyes?" speech. It doesn't require histrionics, but it does require passion, some sense that it comes from some place deep within.
The ennui seems to be contagious. For example, the always impressive Scott Wentworth as Antonio here seems half-hearted and out of sorts.
It all ends with Jessica, for reasons that you won't find in the text, singing a lovely Jewish prayer. Does she regret her elopement? Her theft of Shylock's jewels? Is she mourning her father's disgrace? Whatever.
The Merchant of Venice, of course, appears on many high school curricula. So there is one group that will doubtless come to Stratford to see this production — student audiences. They have no choice, poor suckers.
