I had mixed feelings, walking into A Midsummer Night’s Dream, composed by Benjamin Britten. Midsummer was the first Shakespeare play I ever saw. I love the show unreservedly, but I don’t love Mr. Britten’s work. I did see the Philadelphia Orchestra’s excellent performance of “A Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra” in December, so I was aware that Mr. Britten is capable of delivering musical experiences that don’t leave me wanting to walk into the sea off of the nearest gloomy English cliff (Peter Grimes and Billy Budd spring dolefully to mind). Nevertheless, “Benjamin Britten’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream” initially struck me rather like “Sylvia Plath’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” I was, to say the least, skeptical.
According to the program (which I always remember to read just as the lights dim), Britten pulled his libretto directly from Shakespeare’s play, setting the language to music. He cut several lines, but added only one (for, I believe, expository convenience). Britten’s decision to maintain Shakespeare’s familiar language helps those heathen opera-goers among us who struggle to understand operatic language, but are semi-conversant in Elizabethan comedy (boy, that’s a niche group). Shakespeare’s language is delightful, clever, and already lyrical. It suits music nicely. Operatic singing, meanwhile, can be difficult to comprehend. I’ve spent whole operas trying to determine whether the performers were singing in German or Italian, only to learn (in a discussion with my very disappointed parents) that they were actually singing in English. A passing knowledge of Shakespeare’s play, however, helped immensely. I was able to let the music wash over me and actually watch the stage, rather than staring fifty feet over the actors’ heads at the English-to-English translation.
Music
As I have said before (exhaustively), Benjamin Britten is not exactly my cup of tea. I struggle to understand his appeal, as I often find his melodies discordant and off-putting. I do not usually enjoy recitative, and find it especially annoying in English. For some reason recitative in my own language strikes me as an unnecessary affect. Why couldn’t you just say what you wanted to say instead of jumping all over the piano to do it? Of course, I have no such compunctions about recitative in Italian. Ignorance truly is bliss.
Suffice it to say, it took me a little while to warm to the show. All of Britten’s musical habits—which fall lightly upon my ears like hail on a Buick—were in evidence. I felt, for a few minutes, like a dog listening to a cacophony of discordant whistles in registers too high for the ears of my fellow audience-members. My neighbors, a quick glance revealed, nodded and smiled blithely along to the show, apparently oblivious to the musical civil war underway in my brain as treble fought bass, major battled minor, and sharps bayonetted flats without quarter. Fifteen minutes into the opera, however, I felt something shift in my brain, as if a particularly tangled knot had just come undone. The battle flowed into a dance. Still a rough dance, at first, with trodden feet and misplaced hands, but becoming ever smoother and more coordinated. Within half an hour (or roughly 3.5 opera-minutes) I, too was nodding along, listening with rapt attention.
By the end of the show, I could hardly imagine A Midsummer Night’s Dream set to any other sort of music. It is a truly evocative score, haunting, otherworldly, and immersive. It is melancholy, oppressive, mischievous, and triumphant, suiting the story perfectly. I stumbled from the show feeling like I’d been marinating in a fairy tale. I may never grow to appreciate Britten as true opera cognoscenti do; you’ll not find me humming along to The Rape of Lucretia as I do the dishes (you know, like I do with The Magic Flute). Nevertheless, his Midsummer completely engrossed me. It left me shaking, drained, and immensely sorry that it was over.
Production
Given the strength of my reaction, it is only fair to applaud the myriad elements that the show did well. The set was simple, a slanted green stage with two large white pillows at one end, giving the unmistakable impression of an oversized bed. This “bed” served for two acts, though the second act introduced another eight smaller beds on top of it. The director’s notes in the program indicated his aversion to the idea of trying to construct a fake forest on-stage. He preferred a “visual metaphor of the forest.” I found his metaphor wildly successful: the mossy green shade of the bed-covers very much evoked the forest floor as the actors cavorted about. The beds in Act Two provided nice springy surfaces for the fairy mayhem that ensues as the play progresses. I left the opera feeling very much like I’d spent the afternoon in a densely wooded forest, without a tree in sight.
The costumes in this production helped conjure the world, too. The Lovers, for instance, enter the forest in pristine white outfits that steadily degrade over the course of the show. By the end of their night in the forest their tattered, stained rags hang off of them. As an audience member, watching that progressive dilapidation is captivating. That testimony of their continued misfortunes offstage lent a depth to their storyline that has never struck me before. They didn’t just disappear offstage and reappear on their cue. Their storyline continued unseen.
The Fairies’ costumes are unchanging, but still serve ample symbolic purpose. Puck’s costume, for instance gave off a “grotesque hobbit” vibe. If Rumpelstiltskin were Irish instead of German, he’d look a lot like Puck in this production. Tytania’s attendants, meanwhile, evoke the munchkins from The Wizard of Oz, reinforcing the surreal imagery. Oberon and Tytania’s nobility stands out in contrast to their uncanny underlings. Their costumes are simple, but also regal and deep-colored. Oberon’s moss-green cloak and Tytania’s deep purple dress gently allude to the consistency and balance that their conflict has stripped from the world.
Performances
Puck: Puck’s role was unsung, but he plays his usual central role Britten’s opera, deceiving humans and fairies alike. Miltos Yerolemou (most recognizable as Syrio Forel in Game of Thrones) plays him as a vulgar, grotesque creature: more imp than fairy. Most productions that I’ve seen have tended to cast Puck as an attractive, androgynous type: mischievous, but in a good-natured, playful way. Miltos’ Puck, by contrast, would feel right at home in a discount brothel. He’s crude, lascivious, and humps his way across the stage throughout the show. The distress that his actions cause seems an explicit motivator, rather than an unfortunate side-effect. Puck’s leprechaun routine feels fresh and amusing. His grotesque haunting of the fairy realm is evocative and surreal. Miltos is also clearly physically gifted, often leaping offstage to depart, and springing from bed to bed onstage like some kind of nightmare goblin.
Oberon: I was not expecting a counter-tenor when Oberon walked onstage and began singing (my research before watching operas is clearly somewhat shoddy). In most (play) productions that I’ve seen, the same actor plays both Oberon and Theseus, usually deep-voiced and imposing. His piercing first notes therefore took me by surprise. Over time, however, I grew to love Britten’s choice. These are Fairies, after all: small spritely folk who reside in the woods. They are immensely powerful, triggering storms and earthquakes with their anger, but there’s no reason why fairies should inherently embody the same metaphors of power that we insist on in our blinkered human world. Tim Mead, who played Oberon, performed his part wonderfully. He looked every bit a king: upright and regal, intentional (and economical) with every move.
Tytania: Anna Christy was a pleasure to watch as Tytania. She was poised and confident even under the effects of the flower. In many of the productions that I’ve seen, Tytania descends into a simpering, slavish character under the effects of the flower. Her love for the ass in such productions seems to dilute her other powers, too. Ms. Christy’s Tytania, however, remained regal and imposing throughout her bewitchment. She incorporated the effects of the flower into her already-established persona better than in any Midsummer I’ve ever seen.
The Lovers: A Midsummer Night’s Dream really has the potential to drag when The Lovers are onstage. In contrast to the colorful cast of characters in the fairy realm and the slap-sticky humor of The Mechanicals, The Lovers (Georgia Jarman as Helena, Johnathan McCullough as Demetrius, Siena Licht Miller as Hermia, and Brenton Ryan as Lysander) serve, in a way, as everyman characters: neither the comic relief, nor the magical schemers, they are beings with whom the audience can related more personally. They bear the show’s emotional weight and embody the potential lasting consequences of all the mirth. That can get boring if you’re not careful. Fortunately, this cast of Lovers kept things moving brilliantly. They brought an energy and life to their scenes that kept me gazing in rapt attention at the bits of Midsummer that usually let me space out for a few minutes until Puck comes back. I loved their physicality and the way they threw themselves across the stage. Their energy helped their characters move beyond the confines of the everyman role, ensuring that their scenes remained as captivating as those of the extreme characters surrounding them.
The Mechanicals: The Mechanicals stole the show. Matthew Rose (Bottom), in particular, was fantastic. His voice was rich and deep, his buffoonery perfectly timed and executed. His Ass’ head did muffle his voice for a few lines (a full-face mask is rather difficult to sing in, it appears), but he carried on valiantly and seemed to find the mouth-hole before long. The other Mechanicals supported Bottom magnificently. Miles Mykkanen (Flute), in particular, played an excellent blushing boy playing a blushing girl and managed the necessary vocal contortions beautifully. Patrick Guetti (Snug), too, was a brilliant dim-witted lion.
The final “show within a show” is usually a perfunctory dénouement. We all know it’s coming, but we always forget how long it is, and it often feels like a chore after all the magic-fueled sylvan sexscapades. This performance was revelatory. The music elevates the show within a show to absolute sublimity, and I found myself shaking with laughter throughout the entire bit. Both George Somerville (Snout) and Zachary Altman (Starveling) were radiant. I’ve never before actually choked while laughing, but Somerville’s Wall left me desperately sucking for air. Obviously, Britten’s version came along some 350 years after A Midsummer Night’s Dream (the play) was written, yet I still somehow felt that I was watching Act 5 the way it was meant to be performed.
It’s difficult to analyze something that you love. Analysis comes easily when you’re bored or disappointed, gleefully picking away at details that missed the mark. That task becomes harder when a production sweeps you away. Having walked out of the theater, weak-kneed and transported, I find myself straining for details, belatedly trying to disentangle threads in a tapestry that enveloped me for nearly four hours. It is, in many ways, a futile task. As I explore my memory, I find myself wandering further into the realm that the show created, immersed again and unable to see the trees for the forest.