PCPA’s performers and production values are as solid as ever, but this latest production may be too gentlemanly for its own good.
William Shakespeare wrote The Two Gentlemen of Verona sometime between 1588 and 1593, and it was published in Shakespeare’s “First Folio” of plays (1623). The playwright’s flair for sharp wordplay is evident here, but it grows tedious as every conversation bogs down in a verbal sparring match (one wonders if the young Bard was showing off). In 1971, the play was adapted into a Tony-winning counter-culture rock musical.
As is PCPA tradition, this production uses Shakespeare’s original text (listed as “adapted by Patricia Troxel” in the program), but visually places the production in another time—in this case, Italy in the 1920s.
The setting (Dave Nofsinger) is a beautiful Italian villa, with marble pillars, vine-draped lattices, twisting iron grillwork railings, and twinkling lights amid the branches of trees.
The period hair and costumes (Juliane Starks) are also a visual treat, suave and stylish. The ’20s setting could have been used for more of a sense of madcap revelry—it’s there in the wordless opening scene, which is one of the best parts of the production. But then, the story begins.
The titular gentlemen are best friends Proteus (Evans Eden Jarnefeldt) and Valentine (Tobias Shaw), who grew up together in fair Verona. Valentine heads off to establish himself in the royal court of Milan, which here is pronounced Mi-lun. (I assume this is the proper way to say it in a Shakespeare play, but it’s distracting to the modern ear that’s used to hearing it as Mi-lan).
Proteus laments his friend’s departure but remains in Verona to woo his beloved Julia (Stephanie Philo). Meanwhile, Valentine is staying with the Duke of Milan (Peter S. Hadres) and falls hard for his daughter Sylvia
(Megan C. C. Walker). But her father wants her to wed the wealthy Thurio (Leo Cortez), whom she despises. Meanwhile, Proteus is torn away from his beloved when his father (also Hadres) decides it’s time for him to join Valentine in Milan. But one look at Sylvia, and Proteus immediately forsakes both Julia’s love and Valentine’s friendship—he will make Sylvia his own. Meanwhile, Julia’s longing for Proteus is such that (this being Shakespeare) she dresses in drag as a man and journeys to Milan.
The performers’ tongues are all adept at Shakespeare’s intricate romantic dialogue—the love scenes have poetry, but no passion. We never buy either pair as madly in love, nor Proteus as a man consumed by an uncontrollable desire for a forbidden woman.
Jarnefeldt is likable in the early scenes as a nice-guy Proteus. However, once he flips into an anti-hero, he could use some naughty glee in his scoundrelly deeds—then, we’d like him in spite of ourselves and want to follow his story.
Philo’s biggest laugh comes early on, as Julia schoolgirlishly presses her name to Proteus’s in a love letter he sent her, making them “kiss.” But there is no humor in her drag act (save the fact that Proteus has no idea who she is, like Elmer Fudd failing to recognize Bugs Bunny in a wig). She does get the strongest emotional response of the four leads, as she appears to be almost physically wounded by Proteus’s treachery.
Shaw shares a good bit with Hadres, as Valentine tries to hide a very large incriminating object from Sylvia’s all-too-clever father. As the romantic rival Thurio, Cortez oozes odiousness, aided by some loud suits and a puffed-up pompadour.
But the show really comes to life whenever the comic relief servants amble onstage. Speed (Paul Culos) and Lucencia (Kitty Balay) are more than a match for the wits of their “masters,” Valentine and Julia, respectively. Launce (also Cortez), the eccentric servant of Proteus, laments the hard-heartedness of Crab, his beloved dog. He steals the show, even as the canine player steals the show from him as Crab—the perfect straight man … er, straight dog … to Cortez’s broad comedy.
Things improve in Act Two, as the plot gets rolling and more comic-relief characters are introduced to further distract from the main lovers.
Cortez, Culos, and Balay turn up yet again as a trio of odd forest-dwelling bandits. Valentine’s “what the heck was that?” expression after his first encounter with them is priceless. Even poor Sylvia, who spends most of the play locked in prim-and-proper mode, has a humorous moment when she runs into them. (“O Valentine! This I endure for thee!”)
One of the play’s most famous passages is the serenade “Who is Sylvia?” here sung by Balay (in another role). While she does it beautifully, character-wise, it seems like Proteus should have sung it himself, to express his obsessive love for Sylvia directly.
The relationships and Proteus’s misdeeds (including, awkwardly, a near-rape) are treated so seriously throughout, the lighthearted resolution seems like an anti-climax.
Director Roger DeLaurier’s uneven production contains many hilarious moments and other wonderful qualities. Unfortunately, both the script (sorry, Will) and the sometimes-stuffy main couples keep it from being the romantic summer romp it could have been.
Freelancer Brent Parker is a gentleman or a scholar—take your pick. Contact him through Arts Editor Shelly Cone at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 21-28, 2011.
