the world turned upside down

Ah, but so far I've neglected to say much of Bottom and the other mechanicals—not because of any weakness on their part, but rather because I was saving, if not the best, then at least the most surprising aspect of a production full of surprises for last.

As with so much here, the mechanicals did not reveal their full dramatic power at first encounter, beyond a certain surprise and the characteristic contrariness of conception. Our first view of them in this contemporary-dress production was a bit of a shock, though of a wholly conventional sort: one of them—for obvious reasons it should have been Bottom, but I don't think it was—appears bottom-first before the rest, with the crack of his ass showing above the toolbelt cinching his sagging dungarees. Yet the cliché didn't seem complete, in a play that could easily have employed costumes from a different era.

The reason I don't think this crevice belonged to Geoff Hoyle as Bottom is for the simple reason that he's probably too thin to present a convincing cleavage—and here's where at first we seemed to have simply another instance of Ott courting surprise through contrary conceptions. Bottom is typically of a more phlegmatic cast, displacing greater girth to back up his beefy English bluster. Hoyle, in contrast, takes over the stage as a wiry Scot possessed of irrepressible manic energy.

True, this unconventional portrayal did drive the mechanicals' scenes through with greater alacrity than is typical, avoiding any tendency for the action to lag. Yet beyond avoiding the boredom of a bad Bottom, Hoyle's turn here did not seem to bring out anything new in the role—and at times merely distracted from its customary pleasures.

That is, until their play is preferred and Bottom and company arrive to present Pyramis and Thisbe before Theseus's court. At this point, the world began turning upside down with a vengeance—until the court with its artful dramatic trajectories receded almost entirely from view, and Bottom emerged center stage and the unlikeliest star of the show.

The other mechanicals contributed much in the early stages to the developing hilarity. Special recognition goes to Eric Ray Anderson as Wall, covered with a roughcast so heavy that he was in danger of toppling over at every instant—especially while Pyramis/Bottom and Thisbe/Flute (Darren Lay) keep trying to rectify being caught on the same side of his chink with little practical, but great comic success. Also contributing much to the mood were the stentorian prompts of "Ninus!" Jeff Seitzer as Peter Quince bellowed out every time one of the actors mistakenly intoned the infamous "ninny's tomb."

Nothing, however, could prepare for the audience for the inspired piece of lunacy Hoyle performed before said tomb that somehow brought us all, or nearly all to the point of tears—of hysterical laughter. If our seats hadn't restrained us, I fear some would have been rolling in the aisles.

The secret of this effect only Hoyle himself knows—if even he does; like all great artists, he may be in the dark almost as much as the rest of us concerning the deepest resources of his power. All I can say is that somehow, in getting himself caught in a splits that just would not go away as he attempted to bend down and retrieve Thisbe's bloodied mantle, he drove us all wild with laughter for the seemingly endless time the gag endured: would it had lasted even longer!

I haven't laughed like that for years; yet I remain lost—completely dumbfounded—in every effort to discover what power could have made us so drunk with delight at a simple bit of physical comedy whose nature seems, in retrospect, as ordinary as its effect on us was truly extraordinary.

Despite continued strong performances from the other players after, Hoyle's slapstick star turn had changed the character of this production forever. There was no going back: a star was born, and this Dream was now according to Hoyle, for better or for worse. Even Donohue's great arch Puck had trouble regaining some measure of authority over the proceedings at the end. And the highly nuanced answer we finally received to the overwhelming question with which this production opened—what the devil was going on between Theseus and Hipployta anyway?—unfortunately fell mainly on deaf ears: near as I can recollect, Hippolyta let Theseus know with a kiss that however anxious he may be she's going to reject him for coming on—despite his best efforts to moderate his power—a little too strong, he needn't worry—that's just the way she likes him.
 

social utopia

Some tension lingered at the final curtain, however—and beyond, when Hoyle came out last to accept a thunderous ovation as the acknowledged star of the production, while Oberon/Theseus made a show of shoving the upstager offstage. And on my way to the lobby, I'm fairly certain I passed Ott in standing room explaining to an audience member who was offering his commiserations that yes, it's very difficult to direct such talented clowns, when they know it's in their power to steal the show.

If it was for her—perhaps it was as well for the original director of this play. For who would likely have been the original Bottom? Unless I'm completely wrong in my calculations, that would have been Will Kempe—the most talented and successful clown of his generation. So successful, indeed, that only he along with Shakespeare was elevated from actor to shareholder when the Globe theater was constructed a few years later. To the company he played for, it seems his importance rivaled the great bard's himself.

We can only speculate on the inspired bits of lunacy Kempe must have brought to the original creation of Bottom. But what history has lost, Hoyle has found for us in this production.

Such is the effect of great fooling that there seemed to be no hard feelings all around: the onstage nobles who witnessed the apotheosis of Bottom were as amused and gratified by the experience as the rest of us—I'm sure I saw Theseus and Hippolyta losing their composure under the influence of Hoyle's antics.

A final surprise was in store for us as we left the theater for the lobby: the cast's opening-night party was not private, but something everyone in the theater was invited to share. Hors d'oeuvres lined a long table in the lobby; drinks flowed freely for the crew, beside a cash bar for the audience. The welcome my companion and I sensed on arrival seems to have been no fantasy, but palpable and real. I could almost feel the walls that separate performer from audience begin tumbling down.

I think I'm going to like living in Seattle.