The Merchant of Venice, BAM, NYC

Richard Clothier and Company in 'The Merchant of Venice,' photo by Richard Termine

The Merchant of Venice
by William Shakespeare

Directed by Edward Hall
Watermill Theatre (UK) and Propeller production, BAM Harvey Theater, New York
May 6-17, 2009

Antonio – Bob Barrett
Salerio – Sam Swainsbury
Bassanio – Jack Tarlton
Gratiano – Richard Frame
Lorenzo – Richard Dempsey
Portia – Kelsey Brookfield
Nerissa – Chris Myles
Shylock – Richard Clothier
Morocco – Jonathan Livingstone
Tubal/Aragon – Thomas Padden
Lancelot Gobbo – John Dougall
Jessica – Jon Trenchard
Duke of Venice – Babou Ceesay
Monsieur le Bon/Preacher – David Newman

In times of recession, one industry that ought to flourish is timely interpretations of The Merchant of Venice. Where are the productions that show cocky, extravagant businessmen seeing their worldly paradigms collapse? Where is the gritty, visceral production that exposes the filth and duplicity of the various moneyed relationships, in which loans are procured by backhanded vows of friendship, in which justice equals compensation and love itself is dehumanized and corrupted? How could a director go wrong by staging this play about merchants and moneylenders at a time in which money is on everyone’s minds? The Merchant of Venice is about a lot of things – ethics, racism, justice, loyalty, and a culture of quantification in which these things, commendable and deplorable alike, are seasoned by plain old-fashioned machination and greed. It’s a market society in which anything can be bought and sold – so why not human flesh?

This is the kind of Merchant I was in the mood for. The production by the Watermill Theatre (UK) and the Propeller Company, which was directed by Edward Hall and played for three weeks at BAM, wasn’t exactly that kind of production, but that isn’t the reason I didn’t admire it. It was because the staging seemed isolated not just from the cultural moment, which is so filled to the brim with thematic inspiration, but also from the actual text. Little in this production helped to illuminate anything meaningful about the play. Despite being generally familiar with the text, most of the time I had no idea what was going on. It started off with a promising premise, but the exploration of it was neither revelatory nor particularly entertaining. The all-male company sets the play in a prison, with bars reaching up toward the proscenium, filthy bunk beds, mess hall tables, public toilets, and lighting that approximates the institutional. The businessmen are rival gangs in monochromatic gray, competing in a claustrophobic, cutthroat environment. Bob Barrett plays Antonio the eponymous merchant with understated earnestness, as a likeable middle-aged man who’d outgrown the requisite aggression and posturing that seem to accompany every transaction behind bars. There are some talented performers among the disgruntled inmates but they blend together into a nondescript ensemble, and the production concept is so generalized and imprecise that it never maps onto the play with any measure of coherence. It’s usually impossible to even tell whether a generic goon is on the side of the merchant or the Jew. There is little specificity to the locales or depth to the relationships, all of which serves to dilute the stakes and, in spite of the production’s intent, defang the story.

With one major exception. As Shylock, Richard Clothier is a true original. This is almost enough to redeem the production in my eyes, because it’s unlike any portrayal of this iconic character I’ve ever seen. Virile and imposing in a knit cap and drab navy blue jacket, his beard carefully trimmed, this Shylock is a far cry from the stooped, browbeaten, victimized old man archetype with which we’re all familiar. He is both a shrewd businessman and a ruthless enforcer, a generation younger than your average villainous moneylender. Alternately vicious and smarmy, and always unpredictable, he sneers his dialogue and plays the anti-Semitism card with fits of volatile indignation. In the sole thrilling, perfectly inspired moment of the production (and I can give it away now that the production has closed), Shylock asks, “Hath not a Jew eyes?” while scooping out his interlocutor’s eye and hurling it across the stage like a squishy marble, as the fellow, tied-up, shrieks in pain. It’s too bad that the effect upstages that timeless speech, but everyone knows the gist; what’s gained is a radical and powerful reimagining of arguably the most famous Jewish character and one of the most complex antagonists in all of theater. Suffice it to say that I’m thrilled that painfully self-conscious, politically correct interpretations of Merchant are no longer the norm, and I hope that this production opens the door to edgy and exciting Shylocks in the future. It’s about time.

Mr. Clothier could have been a Shylock for the twenty-first century in a more thoughtfully conceived production, but despite his galvanizing characterization, he cannot anchor so unseaworthy a ship. There is another notable moment later on in the production, when Antonio, resigned to repay his bond, bares his chest to reveal a prison cross tattoo. For a split second, the production becomes a delicious Gothic horror show as Shylock lifts his glinting dagger over Antonio’s heart. But then, Portia-disguised-as-the-lawyer reveals that life-saving caveat at the last possible moment, and the production turns into toothless slapstick. Kelsey Brookfield as Portia, resplendent and utterly bizarre in fishnets and lipstick, is an interesting presence whose effect is marred by the lack of any contextual explanation of why there’s a transvestite inhabiting the prison.

After Shylock’s humiliating defeat, there is that purely farcical scene that directors rarely know how to handle, in which Portia and her maid, both in disguise, coerce their husbands into giving up the rings they gave them, and then out of disguise, nag them for losing the rings. I’ve only seen that vignette work once, in a production at the Shakespeare Globe in London that staged the play as a straight-up romantic comedy, replete with motley costumes and a full-company dance number. That production honored the play’s origins as a traditional comedy; I doubt that Shakespeare intended Shylock to be taken any more seriously than, say, the scheming half-brother in Much Ado about Nothing. But the question of how to portray Shylock in contemporary productions is perpetually evolving. In the Propeller production, Mr. Hall has come up with a fresh and undeniably dramatic solution, but neglected to imbue the rest of the show with the same deconstructionist boldness and invention.