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Clik here to view.
It’s not often that I begin a review by talking about a play’s set and costumes, but in the case of New Stage Theatre’s Hamlet, I’ll have to make an exception. This very interesting production takes place on a black stage, on and around a mostly black set, and with characters mostly dressed in contemporary black clothes. I suppose the point was to suggest the spooky, ever-present existentialism of Shakespeare’s classic, but the real effect is otherwise: the stage seems too small, the set feels incomplete, and the costumes look like they came from the actors’ closets. So even at its best, this Hamlet reads like a last dress rehearsal, the one just before the transfer of all the performers (who tomorrow will be issued costumes) to the more attractive real stage, where the famous tragedy, in all its colors, will triumphantly unfold. Note that I’m not (yet) commenting on the acting or directing; I’m just saying that this production is constantly undercut by its look. That’s not a minor criticism.
But anyway, let’s get to the meat of things: the performances and director James Rayfield’s interpretation of this most celebrated of all tragedies. In short, this is a solid but not revelatory production, one that moves along quickly (thanks to some huge cuts) and features a lot of adequate acting occasionally punctuated by dazzle. Of course, the key character is Hamlet himself, and I can say that Chris Jackson turns in an admirable effort, though not one that tells us anything we didn’t already know. Jackson’s Hamlet feels deeply, is passionate and vehement, and is sometimes so despondent that the only way he can express himself is to throw himself spread-eagle onto the ground. When this Hamlet considers suicide in the “To be or not to be” speech, you don’t doubt that he’s capable of launching himself off a cliff, and when he leaps into Ophelia’s grave, you can’t disagree with his claim to have loved her “more than 40,000 brothers.” Jackson is just the right age for Hamlet, and has all the right anguish. If he doesn’t give us a clue as to his character’s delay in killing Claudius, still he reminds us of the danger of being too young for irony. This is a robustly distressed prince, dangerous to himself and others.
The members of his immediate family — mother and stepfather — aren’t very dimensional. John Lombardi, dressed in a three-piece suit, has just as many emotions: pleasant, harsh, and worried. It’s hard to tell what sort of king this Claudius is, whether he reigns tyrannically or permissively, and whether he loves his queen. As Queen Gertrude, Antonia Krueger comes across as little more than melancholic, taking no pleasure in her status, her marriage, or the fact of another sunrise. She’s terrific when Hamlet confronts her in her chamber — her agony is spot-on — but in quieter scenes she fails to suggest any answers to the mystery of her quick remarriage or her possible complicity in Hamlet Sr.’s murder. And while I’m focusing on actors who don’t bring much complexity to their characters, I have to admit that the usually wonderful Brendan Ragan is pallid and superficial as Laertes, who seems not to have a sub- pre- or unconscious. Greg Thompson is a little better as the clueless Polonius (though he’s too old to also play Horatio); still, he doesn’t have anything memorable to show us about a character too easily reduced to a caricature.
But then we come to the truly outstanding performances: Nicole Jeannine Smith as Ophelia and Giles Davies as the Gravedigger. Smith’s Ophelia is so resplendent, you want to say, yes, this is Shakespeare. Smith’s level of acting answers questions we didn’t realize we were asking: it shows us an Ophelia so giddily in love with Hamlet, so impressionable and oversensitive, her eventual madness when her father dies feels psychologically inevitable. And Davies as the Gravedigger is delightfully self-satisfied, in love with himself and his wit and his craft; watching him, you’d think that there’s no more joyful soul in Elsinore. Rayfield’s direction nicely emphasizes efficiency and logic, and the many cuts that he made seem sensible enough, though I missed Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and Hamlet’s banter with them.
In sum: a solid, unspectacular, thinkable version of the play, offering few solutions to its famous problems. A strong title character, plus Ophelia and the Gravedigger. Regrettable set and costumes.
And, lest I forget, fine stage combat of Hamlet and Laertes.
The rest is silence.
Clik here to view.
Hamlet Runs through Nov. 2 at New Stage Theatre and Conservatory, 11650 131st St. N., Largo; 7 p.m. Thursdays, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 3 p.m. Sundays; $30. 727-301-3001; newstagelargo.org.
It’s not often that I begin a review by talking about a play’s set and costumes, but in the case of New Stage Theatre’s Hamlet, I’ll have to make an exception. This very interesting production takes place on a black stage, on and around a mostly black set, and with characters mostly dressed in contemporary black clothes. I suppose the point was to suggest the spooky, ever-present existentialism of Shakespeare’s classic, but the real effect is otherwise: the stage seems too small, the set feels incomplete, and the costumes look like they came from the actors’ closets. So even at its best, this Hamlet reads like a last dress rehearsal, the one just before the transfer of all the performers (who tomorrow will be issued costumes) to the more attractive real stage, where the famous tragedy, in all its colors, will triumphantly unfold. Note that I’m not (yet) commenting on the acting or directing; I’m just saying that this production is constantly undercut by its look. That’s not a minor criticism.
But anyway, let’s get to the meat of things: the performances and director James Rayfield’s interpretation of this most celebrated of all tragedies. In short, this is a solid but not revelatory production, one that moves along quickly (thanks to some huge cuts) and features a lot of adequate acting occasionally punctuated by dazzle. Of course, the key character is Hamlet himself, and I can say that Chris Jackson turns in an admirable effort, though not one that tells us anything we didn’t already know. Jackson’s Hamlet feels deeply, is passionate and vehement, and is sometimes so despondent that the only way he can express himself is to throw himself spread-eagle onto the ground. When this Hamlet considers suicide in the “To be or not to be” speech, you don’t doubt that he’s capable of launching himself off a cliff, and when he leaps into Ophelia’s grave, you can’t disagree with his claim to have loved her “more than 40,000 brothers.” Jackson is just the right age for Hamlet, and has all the right anguish. If he doesn’t give us a clue as to his character’s delay in killing Claudius, still he reminds us of the danger of being too young for irony. This is a robustly distressed prince, dangerous to himself and others.
The members of his immediate family — mother and stepfather — aren’t very dimensional. John Lombardi, dressed in a three-piece suit, has just as many emotions: pleasant, harsh, and worried. It’s hard to tell what sort of king this Claudius is, whether he reigns tyrannically or permissively, and whether he loves his queen. As Queen Gertrude, Antonia Krueger comes across as little more than melancholic, taking no pleasure in her status, her marriage, or the fact of another sunrise. She’s terrific when Hamlet confronts her in her chamber — her agony is spot-on — but in quieter scenes she fails to suggest any answers to the mystery of her quick remarriage or her possible complicity in Hamlet Sr.’s murder. And while I’m focusing on actors who don’t bring much complexity to their characters, I have to admit that the usually wonderful Brendan Ragan is pallid and superficial as Laertes, who seems not to have a sub- pre- or unconscious. Greg Thompson is a little better as the clueless Polonius (though he’s too old to also play Horatio); still, he doesn’t have anything memorable to show us about a character too easily reduced to a caricature.
But then we come to the truly outstanding performances: Nicole Jeannine Smith as Ophelia and Giles Davies as the Gravedigger. Smith’s Ophelia is so resplendent, you want to say, yes, this is Shakespeare. Smith’s level of acting answers questions we didn’t realize we were asking: it shows us an Ophelia so giddily in love with Hamlet, so impressionable and oversensitive, her eventual madness when her father dies feels psychologically inevitable. And Davies as the Gravedigger is delightfully self-satisfied, in love with himself and his wit and his craft; watching him, you’d think that there’s no more joyful soul in Elsinore. Rayfield’s direction nicely emphasizes efficiency and logic, and the many cuts that he made seem sensible enough, though I missed Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and Hamlet’s banter with them.
In sum: a solid, unspectacular, thinkable version of the play, offering few solutions to its famous problems. A strong title character, plus Ophelia and the Gravedigger. Regrettable set and costumes.
And, lest I forget, fine stage combat of Hamlet and Laertes.
The rest is silence.