Forget about Clark Kent. The real Superman is Ben Carlson.
In the six-hour marathon called Man And Superman that had its opening
performance at the Shaw Festival on Saturday afternoon, Carlson displayed
the kind of virtuosity and magnetism that should secure him a place
at the very top rank of classical actors on the North American stage.
As the upper-class revolutionary John Tanner, swashbuckling his way
through the hypocrisy of 1905 British society, Carlson delivers reams
of the kind of brain-twisting rhetoric that George Bernard Shaw loved
to write.
The fact that he does it with such apparent ease turns what could be
a boring talk-fest into a fascinating piece of theatre, despite some
serious flaws.
Shaw himself would appreciate the irony that what makes this production
so interesting is the fact that it is, ultimately, a battle to the death.
On one side, you have a script packed with philosophy and wit, as well
as a largely excellent cast.
But, while Carlson and Company are trying their best to illuminate
Shaw's glorious text, director Neil Munro and designer Peter Hartwell
are doing their damndest to subvert it.
My heart sank when the curtain rose to reveal a row of ordinary chairs
which black-clad stagehands promptly arranged into a skeletal set.
This "look-at-us-aren't-we-postmodern?" school of design
has been getting quite a workout at the Shaw Festival in recent years,
and I think it's time to retire it.
Munro's attention-getting device in this production is the way each
actor is silhouetted behind a backdrop to deliver the first line, before
bursting onstage to a snatch of Paul Sportelli's ragtime piano music.
These devices wear out their welcome very quickly, but fortunately
the astringent briskness of David Schurmann's work as Roebuck Ramsden
erases the bad taste left by the directorial shtick.
Schurmann excels at cutting to the essence of what a speech and a character
are trying to say.
Evan Buliung is also doing some first-rate work as the love-smitten
Octavius Robinson, playing down his natural flair to concentrate on
the weedier side of the character, which creates a fine comic tension.
And of course, through it all, there is Carlson, usually sitting off
to the side, from whence he can lob his metaphysical zingers, shake
his mane of curls in disdain and quietly dominate the stage.
Fortunately, by the time Act II rolls around, Munro has forgotten many
of his bad ideas and Shaw's plot about who is going to marry whom is
taking over with its own energy.
We also gain one more gem-like performance from Patrick Galligan as
the chauffeur Henry Straker, whose instincts are correct, even if his
accent isn't. He is a master at joining reality and theatricality seamlessly.
By now things are rolling and we wind up next in the desolate mountains
of the Sierra Nevada, where Hartwell's set continues to remain more
of an obstacle course than an aesthetic statement.
But once again the balance is set straight by another juicy acting
turn - this one from Benedict Campbell as the brigand Mendoza.
Oozing dangerous charm from every pore, Campbell exults in his characterization
of the Savoy Hotel waiter-turned-Spanish outlaw and manages to amuse
us mightily while driving home every Shavian point.
Then in the middle of this wilderness, the characters go to sleep,
and wake up to greatness.
The dream they dream is "Don Juan In Hell," a 90-minute philosophical
debate in which the characters from Man And Superman become Don Juan,
Dona Ana and The Commendatore from Mozart's Don Giovanni, turned into
an infernal quartet by the addition of The Devil.
This is the motherlode, a piece of writing of almost unparalleled richness.
On one level it is simply an argument between good and evil, but in
the skewed perspective of Shaw's world, the notorious libertine Don
Juan argues for virtue, while a very reasonable Devil makes the best
case for Lucifer you've ever heard.
Carlson takes off into the stratosphere here as Don Juan, delivering
the character's soaring tirades with such bravura that the audience
actually broke into cheers after one of them.
And right beside him is Campbell's Devil, bringing a post-9/11 chill
to his description of man as "the most destructive of all the destroyers."
Hartwell's set suddenly achieves an operatic grandeur, Kevin LaMotte's
lighting is appropriately infernal, while Munro mercifully lets the
actors and the words do all the rest. It's thrilling theatre.
When we return to Man And Superman, the final act is a bit of a letdown,
because it's here that the show's major casting flaw can no longer be
avoided.
Put bluntly, Fiona Byrne isn't up to the demanding role of Ann Whitefield - the
supermate for Carlson's superman.
Byrne's singsong voice and sulky demeanour are in total opposition
to the epitome of female charm the character is constantly described
as being. It's possible to ignore her for most of the show, but she's
supposed to help lead the play to its triumphant conclusion and it's
here that her shortcomings become all too obvious.
Yet in the end, the dazzling work of Carlson, Campbell and company,
as well as a rare chance to see this Shavian masterpiece, makes Man
And Superman worth a visit.
An important note: The six-hour version, including "Don Juan In
Hell," will only be presented six more times between now and July
25.
After that, the three-hour Man And Superman continues on its own to
Oct. 9.
But for my taste, "Don Juan In Hell" is the most triumphant
part of this production, and I urge you to make every effort to see
it while you still can.
Usually people tell critics to go to hell, but this time it's the other
way around.
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