The Art of Crime

What on earth do incarcerated women and Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar” have in common? Absolutely nothing, you may think. I thought similarly until I saw an incredible all-female production last week of “Julius Caesar” at St. Ann’s Warehouse in Brooklyn, New York. Modern re-imaginings of Shakespeare are of course nothing new—and sometimes, they are painfully terrible. But this version of “Julius Caesar,” directed by Phyllida Lloyd of “Mamma Mia” and “The Iron Lady” fame, is entirely successful in its creativity and innovation. Lloyd sets the classic play of “Julius Caesar” in a prison, with all female felons playing the different characters. It may sound too far-fetched, but as one New York Times reviewer put it about the play’s London production with the same cast: “Who would have guessed that the London production currently boasting the greatest testosterone also happens not to have a single man in its cast?”

The premise of the production is that female criminals in a high-security prison have decided to act out the play “Julius Caesar.” It’s never explicitly stated why they have chosen to do this but it is suggested that it is a form of liberation from the usual routine of life in incarceration. The production stays true entirely to the original Shakespearean script, with only o e or two interruptions in which prison inmates get out of hand and guards have to step in and restore order. Props are improvised prison materials, such as the Brutus and co.’s red kitchen gloves that emerge once they kill Caesar. At the end of the play, alarms go off to signal that the inmates are expected to return to their usual routines now that the fun is over. After two and half hours (no intermission) of pulsating intensity, each woman has to shed her Shakespearean character and return to her cell.

There’s not a minute of Lloyd’s “Julius Caesar” that is not entirely believable. From the minute you step into the warehouse, you become part of the prison. Sullen guards usher audience members inside. Even the bathrooms live up to the atmosphere; signs in the stalls warn inmates to report sexual assault. By the time the play opens, you truly feel like you are inside the tightly controlled world of confinement. But it’s the acting of the prisoners/Romans that really makes an incarcerated “Julius Caesar” seem completely natural. Each actor, especially veteran Harriet Walter as Brutus and Jenny Jules as Cassius, offers a raw emotional energy that gives the famous words new life. It is a jarring punch to the nervous system to watch desperate women who have nothing but time on their hands play men with all the power in the world.

“Julius Caesar” is a play that breathes violence and hate: Cassius’s “lean and hungry look,” the rousing speech of Antony after Julius Caesar’s death, the suicide of Brutus. Hate lurks behind every smile, and power, even if it seems stable, can topple over at any moment. When you describe “Julius Caesar” in these terms, you can see the strong parallels between the ancient world of Rome and the modern universe of the steel cell and the orange jumpsuit. Like Rome, prison is a place where power is constantly bubbling over, threatening to explode, and the constant quest to be “top dog” is also one of survival. In both worlds, backstabbing is not just an activity, it’s an art form (and I think it’s safe to argue that politicians and cliques of women are probably the best at it). The claustrophobic nature of ancient Roman politics is heightened even more in the tense, closed world of a female prison. As an audience member, I could almost taste the how static and closed the air was once the “guards” shut the gates and we were ushered inside.

But prison is not just frightening and dangerous, it’s also sad—and “Julius Caesar” is too. Amid the drama and the excitement, it’s easy to forget the tragedy of failed morality and confused loyalty. Friends become enemies and enemies become murderers. Appropriately, then, Lloyd’s “Julius Caesar” ends on a bitterly painful note. As the guards usher the inmates off after the play is over, the inmate who played Brutus stands off to the side, crying. The guards tell her to hurry up and as she brushes past them, the devastation on her face is palpable. From the fiercely strong Brutus, she transforms back into a woman whose daily life is one of humiliation and fear. She returns to a state in which glory is gone and passion is strangled.

—Staff writer Isabel H. Evans can be reached at isabel.evans@thecrimson.com.