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Don Juan is a man for all seasons—seasons of amor that is. His epic tale has been told by the most prolific of writers and in as many languages as there are women he has seduced: Baudelaire (French), Blok (Russian), Byron (English), De Molina (Spanish), Grabbe (German), Moliere (French), Mozart/Da Ponte (Italian), Shaw (English), and Zehentner (Latin), to name but a few. What is it about the legendary Spaniard that keeps him alive century after century? When I think of ways to articulate his character, I am puzzled because what come to mind are the least noble traits. To begin with, he’s a con artist and women are the canvas he paints and re-paints. He sets up secret mock marriages, which satisfies his wife of the moment, yet leaves him legally free when he tires of her charms. He is the Hugh Hefner of the 17th century—all voyeurism and elaborate celebrations with buxom women. So, where is the substance that deems it necessary to retell his tale over and over in plays, movies, operas, and poems? Perhaps what attracts us to Don Juan is not his sexual escapades. Could it be that he’s also an anarchist who fights against social expectation and religious piety? Maybe that’s why the church closed Moliere’s original production after 14 performances. Don Juan questions God’s existence and women are his means to struggle with God. Ah, yes, the story of original sin—the story that is a comedy yet tragically ends with Don Juan’s fall into hell.
Because it sent me in all of these interesting directions, the Chekhov Theatre Ensemble’s production of Don Juan is a compelling and smart theatrical experience. Gregory Maupin freely adapts the script from the Moliere, Byron, Shaw, and Da Ponte texts. Rene Migliaccio’s direction is inspired by the theatricality of the commedia dell'arte and its stock characters. He trusts whole-heartedly Maupin’s adaptation, and the actor’s articulation of the facial mask and the body’s gesture through movement. I applaud Migliaccio’s sense of economy in his staging and his ability to unearth deep human realities while guiding his actors through a form that requires skill, education and inspiration. Physicality, language, and fun—everything is there.
In this gender-reversed production, April Cantor is remarkable as Don Juan. She embodies Migliaccio’s vision with total command of her voice and body. She handles the language with precision and every gesture is executed with definitive ease. Rounding out the cast are T. Scott Lilly as Sganarelle (Don Juan's servant), and Liz Turkel, Yvette Feur, and Andrea Perlin playing a multitude of male and female characters. There is certainly inconsistency in the abilities of the actors— Perlin is least effective and most self-conscious, particularly next to the talent of Cantor—but the company as a whole works as a unified ensemble. Big physical acting—extreme and grotesque—has been shaped to perfection by Migliaccio’s vision.
I loved the gender play that dominates the casting of this production. It reminds us that we are watching a company of actors representing character types. It also places less emphasis on the objectification of women (although that is an important issue in the play), focusing rather on Don Juan’s battle with God and his existence as a man with unlimited willpower.
Russell Michael Schramm’s set is a suspended drop that resembles a large theatrical advertisement. The grandeur of his minimalist design creates a world that suggests both the 17th century and a backdrop for a touring company of the commedia dell'arte. Mario V. Leite’s detailed costumes capture the whimsy of each character. Russel Drapkin’s lighting poignantly illuminates the play's journey of earthy exploits towards a happy ending in hell.