Phedre (review)

Jean-Louis Barrault once noted that the formality of Racine's language—its cadence, its rhythm, its rhyme—constrained the actor to be equally stylized in his or her approach to performing his plays. French Neo-Classical performance, with its ritualized, iconic poses and declamatory speech, was a performative correlative to the rigid parameters of verse tragedy. It is hard for us to imagine how such performances could have seemed real or immediate for their audiences. With her production of Phèdre at the Court Theatre, JoAnne Akalaitis puts a postmodern spin on neo-classical stylization and proves that it is not necessarily synonymous with emotional distance and cool formality. Like their 17th-century counterparts, Akalaitis's actors strike dramatic poses, repeat a series of ritualized gestures, and, at times, allow themselves to be carried along by the rhythm of the verse. The effect is unexpected: Phèdre's tormented lust for her stepson, and the tragic events her confession sets in motion, come to life in raw, physicalized emotion.

The scene design by Gordana Svilar imagines Troezen as a kind of seaside resort for the rich and famous: the action of the play takes place on the deck of a modern beach house, with sand in the foreground and a louvered wooden entrance to the structure in the background. Kaye Voyce's bold and wonderful costumes (in a palette of blues and greens) evoke the Middle East (with turbans) and seventeenth-century France (with Phèdre's wig and gown). But before the play even begins we know we're far from Ancient Greece or Neo-Classical France: in a pre-show prologue, two women looking retro-1950s in sunglasses and bathing suits relax and chat quietly at a patio table graced with a well-stocked cocktail tray. They'll later play the two servants who survive the tragedy, and while their presence here is unexplained, in retrospective they serve, perhaps, to frame the story of the play as the stuff of downstairs gossip.

Jenny Bacon plays Phèdre masterfully. She infuses the character with a blend of passion-induced psychosis and guilt-ridden neurosis. Our first glimpse of Phèdre comes when she is wheeled in naked on a medical gurney, strapped to an IV and being "cupped" by her servants. Her entrance occurs in the background to the opening scene between Hippolytus and Theramenes, and her physical debilitation and emotional vulnerability provide an immediate visual contrast to the youthful Hippolytus (played by James Elly) vigorously pumping iron center stage. Like the play, Bacon's performance starts in medias res: as a Phèdre in the grip of a mad lust and ready to die, she enters in a pitch of fever. It does not seem as if the actress has anywhere to go with her performance. But go she does—up and down and all around. Especially effective are her sudden shifts from high to low diction, from elevated pathos to dry, offhand direct address to the audience, from English into French, and from lyrical to crass. It is funny, moving, and riveting all at once—we are watching a woman come undone before our eyes, uncannily performed. And as the servant Enone, Elizabeth Laidlaw is the ideal foil to Bacon's Phèdre. Cool and composed, she centers the scenes in which Bacon takes flight, offering the perfect dry, down-to-earth retort to Phèdre's histrionics.

Bacon's interpretation of the role gets added punch from references to cultural icons. There are whiffs of Ally McBeal in her performance (yet another woman who wears her neuroses on her sleeve), and in her second-act encounter with Hippolytus, Phèdre's costume and disheveled wig suggest Marie Antoinette—à propos, since Phèdre is also losing her head, albeit not literally. Ritualized gesture and physical stylization work here, as elsewhere, to charge the scene with emotion. With arms outstretched and palms facing out, as if bracing herself in a doorway against the onslaught...