the comedy of errors

Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's worth to season.
Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say,
That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?
-Dromio of Syracuse, Act IV, Scene II, Lines 64-68

Last night I saw The Shakespeare Theatre Company perform The Comedy of Errors at its invited dress rehearsal. My friend dakota got tickets from her friend's partner, who is one of the costumers. Which means . . . a free ticket for me!

The production was awesome. Fabulous. Unbelievable. Superlative, superlative, superlative. I loved, loved, loved it. Now to be fair, this particular Shakespeare comedy has a special place in my heart, based as it is on the Roman comedy The Menaechmi, by Plautus, about identical twins--both with same name--separated at birth. I took a class in college devoted just to this work, taught by a crazy Classics professor at the University of Texas (which really doesn't narrow it down, I realize). 6'1" and I were both in the class (our first together, I believe), and we cemented our friendship in commiseration. This class, unfortunately, later became a sore subject when for reasons unknown I received a higher grade for considerably less work. (For the class project, he wrote a 10-page paper while I had a small role in a skit). Then, last year, I got to torture my own students with the play when I taught parts of it in my Latin III Honors course. Like my crazy professor before me, I gave my class a project choice of a paper or a performance, and wouldn't you know it? All of those 17-year-olds knew well enough to make the latter choice! (Ahem, 6'1".)

In his homage, Shakespeare gave the plot two sets of twins--the Antipholi and the Dromios--instead of Plautus's original one; retained the farcical elements of mistaken identities, slapstick humor, sight gags, and sexual innuendo; and added an Elizabethan sensibility. Last night's interpretation boasted beautifully colorful costumes, wonderfully imaginative set design, flawless performances, and that essential je ne sais quoi that makes theatre come to life. The backdrop was mishmash of modern art: Dali's clock, Escher's staircases, and de Chirico's colonnades, plus a smattering of the evil eye.

In the classical tradition, the Company added several songs and dances to Shakespeare's already over-the-top action, but the absurdity finally reached its peak at the end of Act IV. The turning point reminded me of the drug use montage in the great Jewish summer camp movie classic Wet Hot American Summer: it seems like a fairly typical, entertaining film, until the counselors and the camp director go into town in the morning, and the resulting scenes are ones of narcotic purchase, experimentation, addiction, and withdrawal, all purported to happen by mid-morning. It's hilarious, and it sets the tone for the rest of the movie. Last night, the moment occurred during a chase scene; Antipholus and Dromio of Syracuse run to the back of the theatre to escape their pursuers, at which point the latter takes notice of the audience. They react with surprise, shift around uncomfortably for a bit, and then embark on a synchronized dance and song number. Then, in the interregnum between Acts IV and V, Groucho Marx (complete with safari hat, eyebrows, and cigar) dances on stage, and Salvador Dali sketches his own clock as if struck by inspiration. It was, as a dear friend so eloquently observed about the corresponding scene in WHAS, "off the hizzy." (Yeah, I don't know what it means, either.)

The actor who played Dromio of Syracuse, Daniel Breaker, unquestionably stole the show, not just with his terrific skill but also with the richer role. The twin Dromios are servants to the twin Antipholi, but the play certainly made me think how much better it is at times to be the sidekick. And Harold Bloom agrees with me! As he observes in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human,

These two long-suffering clowns have had to sustain numerous blows from the Antipholi throughout the play, and the audience is heartened to see them go out in such high humor. When the Ephesian Dromio remarks, "I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth," we see, too, and the concluding couplet exudes a mutual affection clearly absent in the two Antipholi. It would be absurd to burden The Comedy of Errors with sociopolitical or other current ideological concerns, and yet it remains touching that Shakespeare, from the start, prefers his clowns to his merchants.