September 9, 2007

Evening. Spent ten minutes watering the garden, and will spend the next hour scratching the mosquito bites.

DJ and I went to see Much Ado about Nothing at Montford Park last night. It was sweet seeing people I know so well transformed into OTHER people, fictional people, whom I also know so well. The production had a bright surface, if no depth, and it may be that this is all that can be expected from outdoor theater done by these people in this place. Is depth–subtlety of reading, nuance of expression– pianissimi as well as foritissimi-- achievable outdoors on a summer night before children and picnickers on their blankets? My experience is too limited to know. Ultimately, nothing like that mattered, for the onlookers were experiencing a sacred and public rite, the performance of the Great Voice of the Tribe, in which they were happy to be immersed fully and enthusiastically. It was like an evangelical church service, where full participation is expected. The crowd willed the production to work, and it did. I told Dogberry the truth that however many times I have seen this play, this is the first time he and the Watch were actually funny. In the sacredness of the moment, individual performances ceased to matter so much. No one was bad. No one–except Dogberry, and a few of the villains–was very good, but all were sufficient. All rode the raft that the great wave of community expectation kept aloft.