NEW YORK — It’s kind of wild, if not entirely wonderful, what Cate
Blanchett and her co-conspirators achieve in their revival of Jean
Genet’s louche tragicomedy, “The Maids.” With cameras perched behind
every mirror on the stage at New York City Center, the antic,
mischievous charades of Blanchett and Isabelle Huppert, as sullen
sisters in the employ of an imperious mistress, are projected onto a
giant screen, the better for us to peer into every pore of their
stricken faces.
Blanchett and her co-conspirators achieve in their revival of Jean
Genet’s louche tragicomedy, “The Maids.” With cameras perched behind
every mirror on the stage at New York City Center, the antic,
mischievous charades of Blanchett and Isabelle Huppert, as sullen
sisters in the employ of an imperious mistress, are projected onto a
giant screen, the better for us to peer into every pore of their
stricken faces.
The
mistress — called Mistress— is portrayed by the ravishing Elizabeth
Debicki as a petulant trophy wife, prone to hysterics, in a dazzler of
a supporting turn. She and Blanchett, in fact, perform this difficult,
at times wearying, piece at such an accomplished level that it’s doubly
painful to report that Huppert, the French film and stage star, can’t
keep up. Her portrayal of Solange, the older of the two sibling maids,
remains so stridently one-note, and her English is such a struggle to
understand, that a pivotal leg of this hyper-dramatic evening collapses.
mistress — called Mistress— is portrayed by the ravishing Elizabeth
Debicki as a petulant trophy wife, prone to hysterics, in a dazzler of
a supporting turn. She and Blanchett, in fact, perform this difficult,
at times wearying, piece at such an accomplished level that it’s doubly
painful to report that Huppert, the French film and stage star, can’t
keep up. Her portrayal of Solange, the older of the two sibling maids,
remains so stridently one-note, and her English is such a struggle to
understand, that a pivotal leg of this hyper-dramatic evening collapses.
And with this significant deficit, “The Maids,” a centerpiece of this summer’s Lincoln Center Festival that
had its official opening Friday night, isn’t quite the galvanizing
event it’s meant to be, courtesy of director Benedict Andrews and his
co-adapter, Andrew Upton. In Huppert’s defense, Genet’s 1947 play, full
of bohemian contempt for, among other things, the stresses inflicted on
the lower classes by those above them on the social ladder, is windy and
elliptical. Solange and Claire (Blanchett) engage in what amounts to
105 minutes of spleen-venting in the guise of an increasingly cruel
masquerade, during which they repeatedly switch the roles of toxic
mistress and submissive servant. (Until, of course, the appearance of
the real mistress — a piece of work herself.) Getting the drama’s savage
heart to pump at full tilt is a challenge of a high order.
had its official opening Friday night, isn’t quite the galvanizing
event it’s meant to be, courtesy of director Benedict Andrews and his
co-adapter, Andrew Upton. In Huppert’s defense, Genet’s 1947 play, full
of bohemian contempt for, among other things, the stresses inflicted on
the lower classes by those above them on the social ladder, is windy and
elliptical. Solange and Claire (Blanchett) engage in what amounts to
105 minutes of spleen-venting in the guise of an increasingly cruel
masquerade, during which they repeatedly switch the roles of toxic
mistress and submissive servant. (Until, of course, the appearance of
the real mistress — a piece of work herself.) Getting the drama’s savage
heart to pump at full tilt is a challenge of a high order.
Still,
Andrews, who first directed the actresses in “The Maids” last year at
Australia’s Sydney Theatre Company, develops some spectacular conceits
with the aid of set designer Alice Babidge. They create a
gorgeous environment, wittily overripe with feminine touches. We’re in
Mistress’s boudoir, a shrine to fashion and filled to choking point with
flowers of every variety: roses, mimosas, calla lilies, gladioli. The
plushness and softness are a counterpoint to the acrid vindictiveness
that suffuses the play, a bitterness that has driven the maids to take a
spiteful revenge on their employer and now has them quaking at the
possible consequences. It’s the terror of the powerless. The rawness in
the air is heightened by the work of the camera operators, whom an
audience sees lurking behind the room’s glass walls.
Andrews, who first directed the actresses in “The Maids” last year at
Australia’s Sydney Theatre Company, develops some spectacular conceits
with the aid of set designer Alice Babidge. They create a
gorgeous environment, wittily overripe with feminine touches. We’re in
Mistress’s boudoir, a shrine to fashion and filled to choking point with
flowers of every variety: roses, mimosas, calla lilies, gladioli. The
plushness and softness are a counterpoint to the acrid vindictiveness
that suffuses the play, a bitterness that has driven the maids to take a
spiteful revenge on their employer and now has them quaking at the
possible consequences. It’s the terror of the powerless. The rawness in
the air is heightened by the work of the camera operators, whom an
audience sees lurking behind the room’s glass walls.
The cameras
intensify the idea of the theater as the domain of unrelenting exposure;
there is nowhere for these characters to hide. (Onscreen, we even watch
as Debicki’s Mistress retreats to a bathroom to relieve herself.) At
center stage, Blanchett’s Claire, in an extravagant parody of her
employer, sits at a vanity with her back to the audience, applying
makeup. A lens behind the dressing-table mirror captures in extreme
close-up the beautiful planes of Blanchett’s face, but also the haunted
cast of the eyes — a suggestion of an anguish underlying the bravado.
intensify the idea of the theater as the domain of unrelenting exposure;
there is nowhere for these characters to hide. (Onscreen, we even watch
as Debicki’s Mistress retreats to a bathroom to relieve herself.) At
center stage, Blanchett’s Claire, in an extravagant parody of her
employer, sits at a vanity with her back to the audience, applying
makeup. A lens behind the dressing-table mirror captures in extreme
close-up the beautiful planes of Blanchett’s face, but also the haunted
cast of the eyes — a suggestion of an anguish underlying the bravado.
Blanchett has been more haunting still on the stage, as Blanche in the stunning production of “A Streetcar Named Desire”
that, as then-co-artistic director of Sydney Theatre Company, she
brought to the Kennedy Center in 2009. She’s been funnier, too, as
evidenced by her exuberant take on Yelena in “Uncle Vanya” at the center two years later. But as the turbulent, histrionic Claire, never has she seemed freer.
that, as then-co-artistic director of Sydney Theatre Company, she
brought to the Kennedy Center in 2009. She’s been funnier, too, as
evidenced by her exuberant take on Yelena in “Uncle Vanya” at the center two years later. But as the turbulent, histrionic Claire, never has she seemed freer.
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