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| ID: Freddie Crawford and Kiera Joyce. Credit: Lila Patterson |
“They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams in an instant, then it’s night once more.” That’s not our play; that’s
Waiting for Godot, another absurdist tale of two existentially alienated guys contemplating life, death, and the self. What we have here is more
Puzzled and Frustrated by Hamlet. The similarities between the two plays exist but I’m sick of Godot by now, my essay submitted thank God, so I happily turn my attention to Mermaids’ latest,
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. This production, directed by Willa Meloth and Annalise Roberts, was born astride of a grave (postponed by a slight catastrophe), gleamed dazzlingly in an instant, and then ejected me into the freezing night, dazed and pleasurably confused.
The set is sparse, reflecting the feeling of existing just offstage—two banners for Elsinore, three barrels for the ship to England. The barrels are particularly charming, especially when the cast pours out of them (and into them) like clowns out of (and into) a clown car. Clowns into a clown car? It occurs to me that you don’t often hear about them getting in. But I suppose this play is about what goes on behind the scenes. Though there’s a stage onstage, too: a raised platform that dominates the left half of the stage proper, where Rosencrantz (George Rook) is sat flipping coins when the play begins. Yes, all the world’s a stage, though I wish this one had been used more intentionally. Sometimes the troupe of players that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (Freddie Crawford) hang out with occupy it, but for some reason they rehearse “The Murder of Gonzago” on the actual stage below.
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| ID: Freddie Greenwood and George Rook. Credit: Lila Patterson |
Co-director Annalise also did the sound, which is more vivid than the set in establishing a sense of place. The result is an uncanny but compelling contrast between the falsity of what we see and the realism of what we hear. For the ship, we hear the seagulls before the lights come up on the barrels—especially realistic as the screams of thoughtful St Andrews seagulls had kindly interrupted an earlier scene. I have to mention the tune played during the two intervals, a kind of bardic-Appalachian banjo number, because to me it sounded exactly like the “Current Publicly Available Information” screen that works like an act drop in
Attack on Titan. Willa did the lighting, and while it can occasionally tip into the clinical—very hot or cold-looking and exposing—it is just as often arresting, as when darkness, representing death, snaps down over the actors. Or when Rosencrantz and Guildenstern issue their final lines in a gold spotlight (someone began hesitantly clapping) but then instead of cutting to black more lights reveal a tableau from the ending of
Hamlet (spoilers!), frozen like a painting because most of the figures in it are dead.
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| ID: Freddie Crawford, Jack Dams, and George Rook. Credit: Lila Patterson |
And in fact the beauty of the production—what makes it a pleasure to watch—derives from the actors, their physicality and their costumes. As Rosencrantz, George commands a languid aspect, a mellowness and childlike vulnerability played off against Freddie’s tense energy and incredulity as Guildenstern. Guildenstern paces, lectures, and gesticulates; Rosencrantz follows orders at his leisure, and twice lies posed up like an iguana, investigating the stage floor. Kiera Joyce, as the leader of the players, treats the stage like a playground, her eyelashes individually visible from twenty feet away. Witty and lecherous, she’s channeling the Emcee from
Cabaret crossed with Fleabag, and doubles the momentum onstage whenever she appears. Hamlet (Jack Dams), as R. & G. describe him, is certainly afflicted—afflicted with a bad case of main-character syndrome. It seems the only thing that can stop him from storming around is being dead. He wears a comically large doublet with a lobster on the back, raising its claws to heaven, and when he turns away from the audience and shakes his fists at the sky, he looks exactly like the lobster.
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| ID: George Rook and Freddie Crawford. Credit: Lila Patterson |
If you thought nothing gay was to come of all this, think again. The real tour de force of physical comedy arrives during the rehearsal of “The Murder of Gonzago,” when one of the players (Ian Crews) sneaks up with cartoonish mincing steps to pour poison in the king’s ear, then basically goes to town on the queen, portrayed by another player, Alfred (Freddie Greenwood). Thank intimacy coordinator Lila Patterson for the various positions on display—what passion! Later Rosencrantz mistakes Alfred, still in costume, for a woman, and covers his eyes flirtatiously: “Guess who?” He’s horrified to learn the truth, of course. “Where’s my hug at?” . . . gone WRONG!
So the gay stuff is acting, sure, and costume, but the play seems to conclude that we’re all acting anyway, just some of us on the margins of the play and others in the spotlight. Sometimes the dialogue is difficult to hear; that Stoppardian piling of clause on clause demands projection, and even then feels like a high-speed chase. Still, if you’re in the mood for some ennui and entertainment, you’re in luck: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern will be resurrected tonight, that light will gleam for another instant, and then it’s ILW stuck in St Andrews once more.
By Eliza (she/her)
