Cymbeline, and: Much Ado About Nothing (review)

Director Antoni Cimolino enlivened the opening moments of Cymbeline in his spellbinding production, but did so in a rather curious manner. Instead of beginning with the two Gentlemen apprising each other longwindedly of Britain’s malaise and Posthumus’s convoluted life story, Cimolino teased his audience with sleep and dreams, and the disparate possibilities that each offer. A four-poster bed, table, and several velvet-covered stools occupied an otherwise bare stage, while warm, bluish lights and a cerulean drape, pulled toward stage right, provided tranquilizing hues. One object on stage disrupted this somnolent ambiance, however, and brought to the fore two harsher realities of sleep: that it occasionally brings more than rest, and that we are more vulnerable when we succumb to it. Perched above the drape, a remarkably lifelike eagle—larger and more intimidating than any other prop in the play—stared down with unblinking black eyes. Dressed for sleep, an aged, weary Cymbeline silently dawdled forward, placed his candle on the table, climbed into his bed, and drifted toward sleep. Suddenly, and from all directions, the play’s other characters entered, surrounded the king, and, with the same intensity as that of the eagle looming over them, studied his slumber. After an interval just long enough to arouse everyone’s discomfort, the characters departed, Dr. Cornelius and another Gentleman entered, and the play began as its text dictates.

Cimolino revisited this opening scene in several brilliant incarnations throughout the performance, and established in his variations on it a chronology suggestive of recurring dreams. Each scene that involved a character hovering over and scrutinizing another while she or he lay in repose—either asleep, drugged, or dead—created an impression that time doubled back on itself and started over, even as the storyline galloped forward and gained in complexity. As part of his plan to destroy Innogen’s reputation and relationship with Posthumous, for instance, the villainous Iachimo emerged from a trunk to observe, fondle, and record the oblivious princess’s physical features. Later, in the wilds of Wales, the princes Guiderius and Arviragus, who at this point identified themselves as Polydore and Cadwal, respectively, stood over Innogen’s unresponsive body (they knew her as Fidele) and lamented their loss after she consumed a drug Pisario provided her. Then, still disguised as Fidele, the revived Innogen lingered over Cloten’s headless body, and mistook him for Posthumus because of his clothes. Finally, the god Jupiter angrily placed a tablet upon the sleeping Posthumus’s body as the ghosts of his ancestors watched.

While each of these scenes achieved an emotional...