Freedman has given fresh significance to Pindarus--whom Cassius captured, forced into servitude, and finally frees-by assigning the role to a black actor (a forceful Joe Morton). Ray Dooley is sufficiently young-looking for the 21-year-old Octavius, and nicely captures the chill efficiency of this whiz kid with a fourragere on his uniform.
I cannot forever put off mentioning Robert Burr's disappointing Caesar. We are prepared for him by an onstage brass band and drum, but when he at last appears we see a most ordinary man (dressed up, to be sure), lacking all force of personality. By no stretch of the imagination could Cassius say that this Caesar " doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus." In the brief colloquy between Caesar and Decius Brutus, the latter exhibits much more magnetism, as played by James Harper, and I wish the two actors had exchanged roles.
The murder of Caesar is effectively staged indeed. There is no sense of haste; the assassins do their work with plenty of time between knife-stabs. And they carefully roll up their shirt sleeves before going through the ritual of bathing their hands in Caesar's blood, and then--in slow succession again--shaking hands with Mark Antony. (This was a wonderful idea on the author's part, and is not found in the three Plutarch biographies that provided most of Shakespeare's material. The Bard may have taken a hint from Plutarch's sketch of Publicola, which contains a reference to a band of youths who murdered a man, tasted his blood and immersed their hands in his entrails.)
Freedman makes something quite special of the famous funeral scene. He has tried to enroll the audience among the mourning citizenry by deploying a lot of bit players in the balcony and on the sides. This device usually is nothing but an annoying distraction--as it was in the recent execrable Al Pacino Richard III in New York. But Freedman has orchestrated his plebeians so carefully that his gamble pays off.
In addition, Brutus and Antony not only deliver their eulogies before a battery of microphones but also are filmed by an unseen TV camera. So as we watch the two men speak, we simultaneously see them, from a slightly different angle, projected on a screen over their heads--bigger than life, as in a movie newsreel.
Haigh makes the most of Brutus' abstraction-ridden speech. As everyone knows, Antony's demagogy must top this, after Caesar's body is brought out in a closed casket with his bloody military jacket on it instead of a flag. Luckily, James, Naughton is blessed with a rich baritone voice. If he cannot match Brando's electrifying performance in the 1953 film, he is still hugely impressive, shrewdly guaging his manner against the scattered reactions of the crowd and choosing the right moment to throw open the mirror-lidded casket.
Not so shrewd was Freedman's decision to turn Brutus' servant boy Lucius into a grown military orderly. Peter Webster is a good ten years too old, even if he did write his own song and does accompany himself on a mandolin. Brutus is his best self when dealing with a youngster who is a surrogate son. The character of Lucius was entirely Shakespeare's happy inspiration, and having an adult in the role undercuts what ought to be a loving, tender and solicitous father-son relationship--as we saw here between Douglas Watson and young Alan Howard in the 1966 production.
Still, this is a daring show that sustains interest unflaggingly throughout its running-time of two-and-a-half hours. The greatcritic James Agate once wrote of Julius Caesar: "The play's second half is one long anti-climax. Shakespeare left his play in two halves which no company of actors, however skillful can succeed in putting together." Were he alive and here, I think Agate would change his mind.
Playing in repertory with Julius Caesar (and shortly to be joined by The Tempest) is a revival of the production of Twelfth Night, set in the 18th century, that Freedman directed here last season, and about which I wrote at some length in these pages (July 18, 1978).
Ming Cho Lee's grand ballroom and tapestry are as handsome as ever, and John Morri's substantial incidental music and songs stand up beautifully, supported by Graciela Daniele's choregraphy. The four supplementary singers are all back and in good voice.
I still don't like Freedman's decision to fuse Fabian and the clown Feste into one character, and he still has not taught his players to accent the word exquisite on the first syllable. The cross-gartering of Malvolio's yellow stockings is still inadequate, although Freedman and his costumer Jeanne Button had only to descend into the downstairs lounge of this very theatre to see on the wall an illustration of how it should be executed.
Freedman has changed only small details in his staging. But there have been a good many alterations in the casting, often for the better. Jeremy Geidt's toping Toby and Jacqueline Coslow's merry Maria are superior to their 1978 counterparts, and Reno Roop's sappy Sir Andrew is just as funny as his predecessor's. Robert Stattel has been upgraded from Antonio to Duke Orsino, and acquits himself admirably if without the three-dimensionality that Lawrence Guittard gave the role.
Bill Roberts was promoted from a non-descript Lord to the pivotal part of Feste. He sings well indeed, although-unlike Mark Lamos last year--he has to fake his lute-playing. Ellen Tobie is a little less skillful than Lynn Redgrave as the disguised Viola, but Julienne Marie's countess Olivia is a bit more subtle than we had before.
The most striking change--and welcome it is--comes with the spoilsport steward Malvolio. Bob Dishy's portrayal last summer was by far the worst Malvolio I have ever seen, professional or amateur. This time we have Kenneth Haigh, who knows what he's doing. He can wither with a glance, and inflate his importance with a long swagger-stick. And he is wise enough not to protract the Letter Scene beyond endurance. Fine as Haigh is though he has not found as many nucances in the character as Philip Kerr did on this came stage in 1974.
It is possible to mount a Twelfth Night that displays marked sad, bitter, even tragic undercurrents; it is an extraordinarily multivalent script. Freedman has chosen to concentrate on the pleasant and sunny aspects. Although there may be too much sugar-coating for some tastes, there is no denying that Freedman has turned out a smooth, elegant and delicious dessert.
***
The drive to the AST grounds on the Housatonic River takes about two and three-quarter hours at legal speeds, via the Massachusetts Turnpike, Interstate 91 and t he Connecticut Turnpike to Exit 32 or 31. Out-of-state motorists attending the Theatre can, whatever their license-plate number, obtain gasoline from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. on Fridays Saturdays and Sundays at the Honeyspot Gulf Station at 245 Honeyspot Road near Exit 31 in Stratford. Performances at 2 and 8 o'clock. There are free facilities for picnickers on the premises.