The Joffrey’s Othello: “I Am Not What I Am”
I watched the gentleman to my right pass his time with a RedEye Sudoku as one of the Banana-Clipped on my left enjoyed a Big Gulp with such zeal that I feared for the straw. This must be some kind of joke.
When the topic of the Bard and his numerous spin-offs enters conversation, one tends to end up discussing the regular tropes of Shakespearean drama: madness, despair, confusion, betrayal, and – of course – an impressive body count. This weekend, as I left one of the closing performances of the Joffrey Ballet’s Othello, I realized there is an item I may add to the list: a Big Gulp from 7-11. If I am getting ahead of myself, however, allow me to begin again—if only that we may better understand that Big Gulp.
In the early evening of this past Saturday, as I gingerly skipped across the threshold of the Auditorium Theatre, I was relieved to find that the staff had not installed a wailing siren to mark the trespass of a fine-arts neophyte who is, I assure you, much more familiar with Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer than with Rudolf Nureyev. The image in my head had, the night before, obsessed over marble-heavy, scoliosis-causing pearls and cumbersomely long, blindingly white gloves in an atmosphere chilled, beyond shivers, by the austerity of the cultural “elite.” Since I thought I’d be venturing behind enemy lines, I was shocked to realize that the designated escort to my seat was not a dashing young man with sweeping coattails but a middle-aged woman who would have looked more at home in a P.T.A. meeting – minus the oversized bowtie that supported her folding chins – than at a ballet house. (I might be kinder to the crone if her definition of “escort” had involved a little more courtesy and effort than “It’s upstairs! Can’t you read?”)
Yet I soon managed to find the proper box, and I delighted in how the venue itself seemed to be lifted straight out of a cinematic fantasy. Sweeping trails of incandescent lights illuminated the gold patterns and sombre murals adorning the walls as I spied and noted, peacefully and privately, from a nice piece of real estate sequestered with a heavy curtain. After the initial pleasure, however, the grand scene served only to make the writhing mass of contradictions stand out, from below, all the mind-numblingly more. The last vestiges of pomp and propriety were guarded halfheartedly by gentlemen with the pressed suits, comb-overs, and Birkenstock sandals and by ladies with the wrinkled sweaters, banana clips, and an overabundance of houndstooth. Many a stockinged leg terminated in the Ugg-liest of footwear. I watched the gentleman to my right pass his time with a RedEye Sudoku until my attention was diverted by the slurping sounds that menaced my left. One of the Banana-Clipped was enjoying her Big Gulp with such zeal and gusto that I feared for the straw. This must be some kind of joke. The cacophony of the orchestral warm-up only compounded my sense of unease.
In a further turn of the rack, the announcer appeared on stage to “thank the Joffrey Ballet’s sponsors for making tonight possible.” Dropping such names as AthletiCo and United Airlines, his speech was reminiscent of the preamble to a Super Bowl halftime show. Indeed, I half-expected Prince to emerge from the shadows with phallic guitar in hand. Then the lights dimmed, however, and the audience was all a-Twitter with excitement until the glow of the last cell-phone screen faded into its coat pocket. It was with a strong feeling of trepidation that I finally focused my attention on the stage, as Fabrice Calmels, our notable Moor, became slowly illuminated in a position of prayer. And so it began.
Art/Photography Credit: Herbert Migdoll
The low expectations established at the beginning of my experience were adequately satisfied. The titular character had managed to accomplish surprisingly little in the first significant part of the work. Meanwhile, the Machiavellian Iago was pushed to the point of caricature by the hands, feet, and facial pantomime of Matthew Adamczyk—who all but wore a sandwich board bearing the inscription “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.” Desdemona and Emilia – performed by April Daly and Valerie Robin, respectively – appeared to serve no purpose other than to alternate between simpering about the stage and flying between the arms of their male counterparts as dumbly as volleyballs. In comparison with the lightning-quick wedding scene, which is supposed to be so controversial in fair Venice, the celebration took ages to complete. After the third interruption of the wedding dance by the court clowns – or, more accurately, the “Venetian dancers” – I began to consider bothering my neighbor for his RedEye. I suppose the troupe needed something to do while Iago glowered menacingly at the newlyweds for twenty minutes or so. Elliot Goldenthal’s score took on an eerie circus-like aura that captured the unease of the scene, although I refuse to attribute my unease to the music alone.
In reflection, it seems that Aaron Rogers’s appearance as Cassio salvaged this capsizing ship. His part in the celebration was very much like a wind-up toy – meant, as it was, only for amusement – but he moved with such simultaneous fluidity and precision that even the most slack-jawed, low-to-the-ground, knuckle-scraping of ballet ignoramuses could remark his gift.
Yet my sunny blip of fascination entered overcast soon after, when Iago’s crazed outburst led to a solo that drew on movements not unlike those featured, again and again, in Justin Timberlake’s music videos. There is modern ballet, and then there is pop-and-lock in pointe shoes.
The break for intermission hardly seemed out of place, as another, equally graceful usher invaded my box-seat oasis with an L.E.D. flashlight keychain, checking my ticket to make sure I was, as he so appropriately put it, “in my rightful place.”
