In the Next Room, or The Vibrator Play Not as Shocking as its Title Suggests

Sarah Ruhl is known to put some quirky, physically implausible things in her plays. In Eurydice, a retelling of the Orpheus and Eurydice story, her characters enter a kind of purgatory where they lose their ability to read and write. But Eurydice's father communicates to her from the other side by writing letters, because he is the only dead person who can still write. In Dead Man's Cell Phone, the dead are more clearly present through the presence of a cell phone. In The Melancholy Play Ruhl introduces the idea of two twins separated at birth who are still psychically connected.

Knowing this about Ruhl's work, I was curious to see what fantastical elements she would bring into her latest play In the Next Room, or The Vibrator Play, which is having its DC premier at the Woolly Mammoth Theatre following a Broadway run last season at Lincoln Center. Curiously enough, the most transgressive thing about this play is all revealed in the title: the vibrator. Other than its insistent presence, The Vibrator Play follows a very traditional story arc in a commonly depicted time period.

It's the end of the Victorian age, and electricity is becoming more ubiquitous. The Givings are a well to do doctor (Eric Hissom) and his wife (Katie deBuys) who are embracing electricity both in their home and in the doctor's work. Mrs. Givings' slowly turning on and off of the lights in the opening scene is the first sign of electricity's vital role in the film and the late nineteenth century. Indeed, Dr. Givings has just purchased a new massage machine that's meant to relieve women of hysteria from build up in their wombs. Yes -- a vibrator.

With the help of his middle-aged midwife, Annie (Sarah Marshall), Dr. Givings begins to administer treatments to a housewife named Mrs. Daldry (Kimberly Gilbert) and an artist named Leo Irving (Cody Nickell). (That feat's thanks to the male version of a vibrator).

As Mrs. Daldry and Irving receive treatments, they let down their guards and reveal their problems to the audience. These problems are not very surprising. Mrs. Daldry is shy and doesn't feel enought; Irving, the free spirited artist he is, feels too much. We in the audience are also forced to get more comfortable with ourselves as we witness Mrs. Daldry's increasingly frequent orgasms. Her first one feels much longer than the three minutes it actually takes. Gilbert convincingly writes on the operating table like a sex novice. She even covers her mouth in embarrassment following the first few unseemly moans. After a few more sessions, though, Mrs. Daldry finds herself coming back for more voluntarily. She begins to dress more colorfully and behaves more confidently. Soon after both Mrs. Daldry and Leo Irving get so stimulated, their orgasms merely drift into the background of the play.

With the subject of sex and orgasms safely in the background, Ruhl draws our attention to the heart of the play: the Givingses' marriage. In some introductory remarks in the program, Ruhl writes that "I'm ultimately more interested in the relationships that expand around [the vibrator], and the whole notion of compartmentalization." Mrs. Givings is dismayed by how her husband separates his doctoring from her, as if she can't understand it, going so far as to lock the room when he leaves home. Mrs. Givings' curiousity gets the better of her, and she breaks in to the next room. Her discovery of the vibrator and break in illuminates a mutual breach of trust that the couple spend most of the play repairing.

While Ruhl makes the characters' motivations and actions perfectly clear, they are based on blunt characterizations. Mrs. Givings is too easily typed as the stifled romantic in Victorian times. Dr. Givings is too easily typed as the strict man of science who can never succumb to emotion. Only one of the Givingses convincingly changes by the end, but not until everyone has endured a lesson on how to see others for who they really are.

Passing Strange Explores Questions of Identity

Aaron Reed looks a bit awkward when he first takes the stage in the musical Passing Strange at The Studio Theater (through August 8). Reed plays a young Stew, the singer-songwriter behind the band The Negro Problem, in this musical about his life. (No worries--I hadn't heard of Stew either until Passing Strange premiered on Broadway last year). Passing Strange covers the period of Stew's creative germination, from the time he leaves his LA home as a teenager through his travels in Amsterdam and Berlin. When Reed first emerges, he plays the role of the uncertain teenager perfectly. He argues with his mother about not going to church, and needing to "find himself." But Reed's affected, whiny speaking voice transforms into a robust baritone when he sings. Halfway through the first half, Stew gets his wish and leaves for Amsterdam.

Stew undergoes the typical young adult trials of love and drugs. Meanwhile, his mother (Deidra LaWan Starnes) implores him to return home. Naturally, Stew ignores these wishes and continues his adventures on to Berlin in the second act.

Narrating throughout is the appropriately named character, "Narrator." Played by Stew himself in the Broadway production, this figure can also be thought of as an older Stew looking back on his life. He is expertly portrayed by Jahi Kearse in this production. The Narrator doubles as part of the band, and serves as a tongue-in-cheek link between the fiction of the stage and the reality of the audience. He makes many comments pointing out the fact that we're watching a performance.

Most importantly, the Narrator allows The Studio Theatre to adopt a minimalist approach to Passing Strange. The Narrator can tell us what city Stew's in without any fancy sets. Studio Theatre's Stage 4 is hardly even a stage. The raised platform is only a few feet--just enough room for Stew's mother to perch when she is singing from LA.The ensemble roams about the floor at the same level as the audience. Actually, we are higher because of the stadium seating. By stripping away all gratuitous flourishes, this approach forces audiences to connect with the actors. We can focus on the story and Stew's dilemmas. The jokes are also more heartfelt when close up. When Stew explains why he can't go home to see her, his mother responds "Your deep concern for yourself is really moving."

Though it covers some traditional themes, Passing Strange is no cliched bildungsroman. It also deals with issues of black identity and reality in art. When Stew is in Berlin he embraces the impoverished black American as his true self. He tells everyone that he grew up in the ghetto, where he dealt with hate every day. An ironic duet then ensues with Stew telling these stories of woe juxtaposed with his mother's stories of the American dream. "What will I do alone in my big two story house?" she sings as Stew tries to paint a portrait of himself as someone who grew up in a crack house.

Passing Strange explores authenticity without shoving it down out throats. The questions of what make's Stew's identity authentic are asked, but not fully resolved. The Narrator wryly remarks "Aren't you shocked when you find out that your life was determined by the decisions of a teenager?" We can all relate to those moments when you think of how different you are from previous years. Sometimes it takes years--more years than the period covered in Passing Strange--to figure out what one's identity truly is.

Mrs. Warren's Profession Brings a Satisfying End to Shakespeare Theatre's season

George Bernard Shaw's play, Mrs. Warren's Profession, has gotten a lot of action lately. I first learned about it when it was at Princeton's McCarter Theatre in the 2008-2009 season. Next year, it's playing at Roundabout Theatre in New York. Meanwhile, it's being staged at the Shakespeare Theatre as its final production of the season.

Mrs. Warren's current popularity might stem from its salacious history. It was officially banned by the Lord Chamberlain in 1893, when it was written, and wasn't performed until 1902. A public staging in New York City was put to a stop by the police. Perhaps producers hang on to this bad ass image when they market new productions of Mrs. Warren as "controversial." The tagline for Shakespeare Theatre's current show boasts, "There are no secrets better kept than the secrets that everybody guesses." But in an age of Jersey Shore and Sex and the City 2, Mrs. Warren's Profession is not the place for lewdness.

Instead, this play should be seen for its careful, deep exploration of perennially interesting themes: a woman's place, class, and the bond between mother and daughter. Without a single utterance of the word "prostitution," the play centers on this, Mrs. Warren's profession. Mrs. Warren (Elizabeth Ashley) is returning to her home in the England countryside after long trips abroad. Her daughter, Vivie, is also residing there, studying law after graduating Cambridge with extremely high marks in mathematics. Vivie embodies the 1890's "New Woman," one who is educated and wants to work for a living. However, Vivie also has a very rigid sense of morality and "way of life." She thinks people should work hard to get what they want. Basically, Vivie would be a Ayn Rand follower is she lived 100 years later. Naturally, Vivie is appalled when she learns that her mother was once a prostitute in her youth. But the two reconcile when Mrs. Warren (in a great performance by Ashley), asks Vivie exactly what choices did she have as a young woman in the 1860s: the lead factory for 9 shillings a week, or much more money in her chosen profession?

However, Vivie's respect for her mother quickly fades when she finds out that Mrs. Warren is still a madame. Most devastating of all is Vivie's realization that all of her own money comes from this kind of business. She is just as culpable for prostitution as are the barons who pay for these services. But while Vivie tries to work out her indignation, we wonder if she really has a right to be indignant. Mrs. Warren's business partner, an aristocrat, asks Vivie which is worse: his brother's investment in a factory that employs 600 poorly paid girls, or his investment in a brothel that helps girls actually earn a living for themselves?

Though Mrs. Warren is entirely relevant, parts of it do feel a bit dated--or, at least--foreign. A minor character, Mr. Praed, is never entirely accounted for. How does he know Mrs. Warren? I suppose the audience is just supposed to accept him as one of those house guests that so often dot the landscape of Merchant-Ivory films, but he remains a random plot-advancing device throughout the play. It's also more difficult for American audiences to empathize with the dilemma of forgiving one's own mother for partaking in a low-class pursuit or never speaking to her again. But it's ultimately Vivie's choice to forgive or not to forgive that makes Mrs. Warren's Profession a memorable play.

Duke Ellington's Sophisticated Ladies

There's always something unsettling about musicals based on the music of such-and-such. Often, these musicals--think Mamma Mia based on the music of Abba, Movin' Out based on the music of Billy Joel, and Times They Are A'Changin based on the music of Bob Dylan--tell stories only tangentially related to the music. They are made to draw on the songwriters' popularity and fill theater seats. Thus, they are very close to being campy, almost bordering on parody of the writers' work. Sometimes this works. Mamma Mia is successful because it embraced the camp, and didn't take itself very seriously. Even in the film version, serious actors like Meryl Streep look like they are having a lot of fun playing unrealistic, one-dimensional characters. The music seems to drive the story, even though we know it was created the other way around.

Duke Ellington's Sophisticated Ladies, playing in its final two weeks at the Arena Stage at the Lincoln Theatre, falls squarely in the camp category resulting in varying degrees of success. A self-described celebration of Duke Ellington's career and influence on America, it features musical acts from all stages of his career, along with the appropriate dance style. So early on, a piece with both scantily clad male and female dancers mimics the jungle themed cabaret acts of the 1920's. Later, during the jitterbug period, we see a white couple slowly learning to jitterbug with the help of some skilled black couples. The white couple is exhausted at the end, collapsing on the stage floor. Throughout the musical acts, there's a lot of sexual innuendo with whether it's a woman dancer sandwiched between two male dancers, or a male dancer miming sniffing at a female dancer's butt. At one point, Ellington's character (Maurice Hines) receives four pecks from one of the female dancers. "Very continental, darling," he says, "But why four?" "One for each cheek" she responds, winking at the crowd. All of this is tastefully done, hearkening back to an era when live shows were the only place to publicly enjoy such titillation.

At the same time, dance is the only stimulation Sophisticated Ladies has to offer. The show is one musical act after another. I spent the first thirty minutes waiting for a plot to emerge, and the next thirty coming to terms with the fact that there isn't going to be any plot. We are basically introduced to the entire cast through the first four numbers. There's a glamorous singer, young upstart dancers, a woman vying for a man's attention, and the Duke himself. But these roles shift throughout the production. The only consistent character is Duke Ellington. His "sophisticated ladies" consist of eight women, none of whose relationship to Duke is clearly defined. We just know that many of them pine for him, but he has trouble being faithful. Of course, this isn't a real problem that the audience care about; it's merely a vehicle for songs like "Mood Indigo Blues" and "In My Solitude."

Once I got over the missing plot, I was able to relax and enjoy the dance numbers. The unexpected highlight was the tap dancing. The show actually drew on local talent for many of the tap numbers, which left a strong message for the importance of arts education. Last night's performance was a neighborhood affair in other ways as well. There was the coming full circle aspect of a musical about Duke Ellington performed in Duke Ellington's city of birth. Maurice Hines also took many opportunities to speak to the audience directly during a number of tap scenes. Even the audience, consisting of blacks and whites alike, reflected DC better than the usual Northwest DC affair. One can see how this crowd pleaser--despite its lack of cerebral content--was held over to June 6 by popular demand.

Labute Explores Vanity at Studio Theatre

When I rented The Shape of Things several years ago, back when the local rental store was still in business, I thought I was in for a nice, relaxing romantic comedy. Starring Rachel Weisz and Paul Rudd, I knew it would not be entirely vapid either. But by the end of the movie, I wished that I had rented Clueless instead for my dose of Paul Rudd. Instead of being the typical feel-good rom-com, this movie written by Neil Labute provides a stark look at how vanity leads to cruelty. Rachel Weisz plays an art student with whom Paul Rudd falls in love at the beginning of the movie. Thanks to her artistic talents, he goes from rattily dressed professor to sharply dressed dandy. The film's denouement, however, reveals that Weisz's character is using Rudd's in a twisted act of manipulation. I finished the movie feeling despondent, as if I had been tricked as well.

And so I was prepared to see the same kind of cruelty spotlighted in Neil Labute's play, reasons to be pretty in its closing fortnight at the Studio Theatre. (Yes, it insists on lowercase representation.) The conclusion of a trilogy that includes The Shape of Things and Fat Pig, reasons to be pretty does touch on the theme of American's obsession with the superficial, and its undesirable consequences. The play opens with Steph yelling at her boyfriend Greg for telling other people that he thinks her face is ugly. Steph (Margot White) knows this because her best friend Carly (Teresa Stephenson) overheard Greg (Ryan Artzberger) talking to Carly's husband Kent (Thom Miller). After arguing with Greg over what he did or didn't say, Steph ultimately breaks up with him. This scene terrifically asks who the vain one really is - Greg for making a appearance focused remark, or Steph for taking it so much to heart?

In the meantime, Carly and Kent are having their own troubles surrounding vanity. Kent is the stereotypical macho jerk who's cheating on Carly with "the new girl." All we know is that she has a fantastic face, even though Carly is already a knock-out. One joke in this play is "My dad always said, find a hot girl, and you'll find a man who's tired of fucking her." Kent soon involves Greg to deceive Carly. Greg ultimately has control of whether or not Carly finds out. In the scenes where he's alone with Carly because they both work at the same place, we wonder how much responsibility Greg has for Kent's actions. And we wonder how far Carly wants to go to deceive herself.

But Labute is most interested in the origins and purpose of vanity. Though we may think all the characters are shallow for protecting their bruised egos, Labute shows that this obsession with the exterior may be a manifestation of how one feels on the interior. This idea is most fully explored in a final scene when Steph confides in Greg that she wanted him to be someone who would put a ring on her finger, and take care of her. Unfortunately, it took four years of being with him to realize that he would not be able to provide those things. In this moment of confession, we wonder if the "ugly" comment sealed the deal for Steph, or if it was on some level an excuse for her to leave Greg. Did she hurt herself by giving up so easily, or save herself by leaving when she did? The extent to which superficial concerns actually drive decision making is a question that Labute leaves unanswered.

Gruesome Playground Injuries

The Woolly Mammoth's new production of Gruesome Playground Injuries opens with Doug (Tim Getman) and Kayleen (Gabriela Fernandez-Coffey) as eight year olds. They are hanging out in the nurse's office at their Catholic school after Doug cut his face on the playground, and Kayleen came down with a stomach pain. While musing over their respective injuries and trading elementary school banter--"I broke my face"--"It's not broken, just cut"--the two discover they have a special connection. When Kayleen touches Doug's cut, he miraculously feels better. So foreshadows an unique relationship that will carry them through the next thirty years.

The subsequent scenes jump to the pair when they are 23, 13, 18, 33, 23, and 38 respectively. In each scene, Doug and Kayleen find themselves injured, needing the other to help them recover. We see a trend in the injuries. Doug's injuries are always extremely violent, the result of some physical stunt. One time a firework explodes in his eye; another time, he gets in a fight. Kayleen's injuries, on the other hand, are more hidden. One time she throws up blood; another she feels the results of her parents' abandonment. It's as though Doug manifests Kayleen's emotional injuries. Though it's unlikely for a pair of real-life friends to limit their interaction to times when they get hurt as they do here, Doug and Kayleen's relationship calls to mind any where one's well being is dependent on someone else. It asks what it means to share injuries with another person, to inflict injuries on another person, and to heal injuries in another person. Though Doug and Kayleen each suffer from extreme injuries, their injuries still recall smaller hurts--whether emotional or physical--that anyone in the audience may have suffered.

This specific production of Gruesome Playground Injuries is staged in a way that brings the audience in even closer. Staged on a theatre-in-the-round, the actors use four "corners" to change between scenes. They effectively never go off stage during the entire show (there is no intermission). We see them literally changing before us. In addition, rock songs relating to injurious love like Ludo's "Love Me Dead" play during the blackouts to situate us, and to reflect the actual music that the characters may listen to.

Gruesome Playground Injuries officially opens today, and there are still some rough edges. The acting is the most prominent rough edge. Getmand and Fernandez-Coffey's characters maintain a childish posture regardless of age. When they are eight, Getman uses a loud guffawing, and Fernandez-Coffey maintains a petulant attitude. Unfortunately, this loud guffawing and petulant attitude persists when the two are older. I got used to it over the rest of the play, or maybe the actors realized what they were doing. By the final scene, when they are thirty-eight, each has calmed down.

This was only the second show I've seen at the Woolly Mammoth Theatre. Though their shows are usually less well-known than the other theatres' in the local area, they bring shows from up and coming playwrights. The writer of Gruesome Playground Injuries, Rajiv Joseph, is definitely talented. Hopefully the acting will match up as the run continues.

American Buffalo doesn't Buffalo

Saturday's performance of American Buffalo at the Studio Theatre was my first introduction to "Mametspeak," David Mamet's brand of dialogue. Mamet, a playwright known for Glengarry Glen Ross, Speed-the-plow, and American Buffalo, writes characters who use crude language to mask their insecurities.

The two main characters of American Buffalo, Don and Teach, fling around "fuck," "cunt," and political incorrect slurs whenever they get the chance. After all, they have little control over the other aspects of their lives. The play opens in Don's scrap metal shop. He has just lost $200 the night before in a game of cards. He has also just sold a buffalo nickel for much less than what he thinks it was worth. Though Don maintains a commanding exterior, these two losses clearly still weigh on his mind.

His younger, feeble-minded assistant, Bob, tells Don that the wealthy man who bought the buffalo nickel has just left down. Don throws around the idea of breaking into the coin man's house and stealing the nickel back. Meanwhile, Teach, a slick, leather jacket type, has entered the stage cursing out some women who disrespected him with a snide comment. Once he gets wind of Don and Bob's plan, Teach tries to reclaim his respectability by taking over the robbery plan. He convinces Don to drop Bob. Though Don originally feels buffaloed by the coin collector, the rest of the play forces us to ask who is really buffaloing who here as it explores the consequences of Don's decision to sacrifice Bob's loyalty for potential riches.

Written and set in the mid-70's, during our last serious recession, American Buffalo is a very timely pick for the Studio Theatre today. Don and Teach's insecurities surrounding their masculinity reminds me of the vandalism committed by a laid-off neighbor in a recent Dexter episode.

In the Studio Theatre's intimate theatre-in-the-round environment, these insecurities were even more palpable than if the play was performed on a traditional stage. Sitting extremely closely to the actors, I could see the emotion on their faces--Don's quivering jowls, Teach's hurt pride--clearly without the aid of inches of make-up. Such proximity also made the show one that I won't easily forget.

Lying Can be Fun: The Liar at Shakespeare Theatre

"Sit back; turn off your brain," the actor implored us in an opening monologue to The Liar on Tuesday. My friend Michelle and I were at the Shakespeare Theatre Company's Lansburgh Theatre for a special performance of The Liar meant for young professionals. Sponsored by The Onion and Magic Hat, the event was full of 21-35 year olds who took advantage of the cheap tickets.

The character giving the monologue turned out to be Cliton, (Adam Green) a valet to The Liar himself, Dorante (Christian Conn). And Cliton's warning to empty our minds proved to be exactly the right mentality with which to approach the play.

Pierre Corneille wrote and premiered The Liar in 1643. The Shakespeare Theatre's version, however, is a revamped one, replete with modern references by Peter Ives. It tells the story of Dorante, a man newly arrived in Paris, and his attempt to pursue a woman whom he meets on the first day. The problem is that he doesn't know the woman's name and incorrectly thinks it to be Lucrece instead of Clarice. Two other challenges are that his father wants him to marry a girl he has picked out, and Dorante's best friend, Alcippe, is already engaged to Clarice. This is all complicated by Dorante's inability to tell the truth in any circumstance.

Besides the typical joy one gets from such ludicrous dramatic irony, this production heaps on the jokes in its smartly rhymed lines. Recited entirely in verse, the play delivers unexpected laughs simply in the ridiculousness of some of its lines in order to make things rhyme. Near the end when Dorante is wooing one of the women, he says, "You may be a bivalve, but you are my valve." That line also delivers the delicious juxtaposition of SAT-type words (in this case SAT II Biology) with more commonly used words in the name of rhyme. Ives has also reached to the world of Twenty-first century vocab to draw even more ridiculous rhymes. Though you can pretty much predict the end of the play by the end of the first half, many jokes are delightfully unpredictable.

What makes this production memorable is how Ives draws out the themes that resonate the most with contemporary audiences. Perhaps I am prone to seeing things I want to see, but I thought this production touched on a range of modern romantic concerns, from whether or not women should play hard to get, to the standards to which women should hold their suitors.

Even if you don’t see all that, the play is sheer fun to watch, and well worth the two hours.

Classical Take on Henry V at Shakespeare National Theatre

The first thing Mike and I saw when we arrived at Henry V at the Shakespeare Theatre Company fifteen minutes late last night was a giant papier-mache head with white balls coming out of it. This was a joke that the Dauphin of France sent to King Henry V, sealing the latter's decision to war against France. While this piece of modern know-how detracted from the drama of Henry V, the overall production uses a traditional approach that illuminates the power of Shakespeare's language.

The Shakespeare Theatre is producing Henry V concurrently with Richard II. These histories with overlapping themes share the same exact cast, featuring Michael Hayden as both King Richard and King Henry. This production makes good use of a spare set and three chorus members to paint a picture of the battles and transition from scene to scene, as the players in Elizabethan times needed to do.

Of course, the production is also aided by excellent sound effects during scene changes to mimic the sounds of battle. In addition, elaborate costumes helps the audience clearly distinguish between the French (ostentatious) and English (modest).

Similarly, the acting struck a good balance between flashy and subdued, with each style being used at the right time. Tom Story plays the Dauphin for laughs, injecting a bit of haughty French nasality into every line. He appears as a helpless, flabby sap as opposed to an evil enemy. Story provides good comic relief, though at the cost of credibility.

In contrast, Michael Hayden's Henry is more subtle and convincing. Hayden's Henry evolves over time. While he initially bursts into anger at seeing the Dauphin's tennis gag, by the end of the play, Henry has become a man who is incapable of such a quick, knee-jerk reaction. By communicating with his soldiers and embarking on war together, Henry becomes more reflective. In contrast to the Kenneth Branagh's rousing Saint Crispen's Day Speech, Hayden delivers his version as a fireside chat. He looks each soldier in the eye, recruiting each man personally, as if to say "You, indeed are my brother." It's a solemn, unvictorious tone, that ultimately succeeds.

When a Play Tries Too Hard

One thing I really like about DC is its totally accessible theater scene. The reputable theaters can nearly be counted on one hand, and I live a block away from one of them. Many theaters here gladly offer discount tickets for those of us under 30 or 35, which makes the theater extremely affordable as well. But of course, this all comes with a huge downside: DC is no New York. Shows arrive here long after their debuts. Good revivals are often bought up well in advance, as in the case of Cate Blanchett's Streetcar Named Desire. Nonetheless, the affordability meant that I was able to see two interesting productions recently: As You Like It at the Shakespeare Theatre, and the Arena Stage's The Fantasticks at the Lincoln Theatre.

Both of these productions featured new twists on class stories, but only one of them pulls it off. This production of As You Like It takes place over the course of three hundred years. That’s right – three hundred. The movie begins in Shakespearean time in England, where Rosalind decides to follow a main she loves, Orlando, into the forest of Arden. The next scene quickly moves to 18th century America, and then America during the Civil War, and then the American West, before concluding in jazz age America. This is because the forest of Arden equals “Classic American cinema” in this production. This staging not only makes the play incredibly confusing in the first half, it also makes the characterization completely inconsistent. In one scene they have British accents, in the next they have Southern antebellum accents. It’s difficult to believe in the character when the character changes basic traits like this every twenty minutes.

The Arena Stage’s production of The Fantasticks is a more successful rendering. The Fantasticks, which ran off Broadway from1960 to 2002 straight is about the importance of nostalgia. Essentially, two young lovers experience a fall from innocence when the narrator of the play separates them and exposes them to the real world. In the original version, the narrator, El Gallo, is a mysterious bandit. The new version at the Lincoln Theatre portrays El Gallo as more of a friendly magician. As the BF pointed out, this change is effectively made because it is consistent, even if it makes the show more child-like than one might prefer.

Needless to say, As You Like It with its myriad sets and costume changes was more elaborate than The Fantasticks. But at the same time, the Shakespeare production defined trying too hard.