Illyria
Taproot Theatre, 204 N. 85th St., 781-9707, taproottheatre.org. $25–$40. Runs Wed.–Sun. Ends Aug. 10.
What’s best about Illyria (by some distance) is Pete Mills’ book, a nimble distillation of Shakespeare’s dreamy love-triangle farce Twelfth Night. If occasionally a bit glib, the lyrics are enviably clever (these examples are typical rather than cherry-picked): “Woman—a frail vessel/A mortar lacking pestle” or “Once I was pale and unassailable/Under a veil and unavailable.” Lines like this are the show’s nearest approach to the play’s elegant magic, its once-upon-a-time bittersweetness seasoned with a pinch of bawdiness.
The cast of Taproot’s production, directed by Karen Lund, provides a bit of this magic too: Mark Tyler Miller as Orsino brings out the romance in his adorably clueless narcissism, and Daniel Stoltenberg adds some pathos to the put-upon Malvolio, deftly played midway between Sheldon Cooper and Niles Crane. What almost never does is Mills’ lite-pop score; there are mere hints of it in the opening number and in “Patience,” a moody Act 1 song for Viola (Helen Harvester). What bothered me about the music was not its style, bland as it was, but its complacency; I yearned for it to aim higher. I get the impression, from Illyria (first produced in 2002) and a few other recent shows, that writing a musical anymore is seen as a matter of first mastering a very specific and rigidly limited musical idiom, taking care to scrub it clean of personal idiosyncrasy, and then applying it to any project that comes along. Shouldn’t a unique sound-world be part of a composer’s overall vision for a show? And doesn’t he have some responsibility to at least attempt to live up to his source material, rather than just use it as a variable plugged into a formula? Gavin Borchert
PLysistrata
Cornish Playhouse at Seattle Center, 201 Mercer St., 726-5190. $20–$50. schedule varies; see intiman.org. Ends Sept. 15.
The mixing of moods in theater was a no-no in classical times, but luckily director Sheila Daniels’ take on Aristophanes’ antiwar comedy flouts such prude genre segregation. Setting the salacious tale—about a coalition of Athenian and Spartan women who unite in a sex strike against their warrior husbands to end the Peloponnesian War—as a play within a play, performed by soldiers for fellow soldiers at a U.S. camp in Afghanistan, makes more urgent the heroines’ crusade to kill the war. Throughout most of the 85-minute one-act, we’re immersed in the wacky (and raunchy!) world of Deb Trout’s glam-gross costumes and Jennifer Zeyl’s orificial set, fully invested in the gender wars. Seldom does combat intercede, but this topical Lysistrata is a forcible reminder of bloody wars still being fought on the other side of the globe.
The conclave of women convoked by Lysistrata (intelligently played by Shontina Vernon) suggests how sensuality and personal expression are prized in the barracks: Mohawks, bare thighs and midriffs, push-ups, goosing, and butt-wagging accompany copious sex talk and innuendo. It’s no easy task to convince these lusty ladies to forego sex, as evidenced by their demonstration of beloved positions including the “she-lion and the cheese grater” (it’s in the original text). But their sexual privation pales next to that of the bellicose men, evoked by hilarious priapic contraptions ranging from tiny kettle spouts to flashlights to lengthy plastic proboscises operated like trombones. Ensconced deep like a cervix in the vulval tent hanging over the stage, a machine-like glory box flashes to songs by Pink and Destiny’s Child. In response to this teasing barrage, the horny guys pound out their frustration on electric guitars.
When warfare breaks the suspension of disbelief (conveyed by Andrew D. Smith’s flashing lights and Matt Starritt’s unnerving audio design, guided by military consultants), it really breaks it. The pure comedy is quickly forgotten, and the tenor shifts to the macabre. (Destiny’s Child’s prior refrain, “I’ve bought it” from “Independent Woman,” takes on much darker meaning.) A political chorus, rendered zombie-style at the end, seems a bit heavy-handed—is Daniels suggesting that soldiers, including those “drafted by poverty,” are zombies? Would an antiwar play like Lysistrata even be allowed on an Army base? Maybe it’s better not to approach this powerful, provocative piece too literally; just let it hit you. Margaret Friedman
E
stage@seattleweekly.com
