Joe Cillo

Celebrating its “four-and-twentieth” season, Marin Shakespeare Company has reached even farther into theatrical history and come up with a pre-Shakespearean hit, Thomas Kyd’s “The Spanish Tragedy.”
Kyd’s play was packing playhouses by the time Shakespeare arrived in London, and “Spanish Tragedy” was revived over and over, even after The Bard began producing his own work. He certainly would have seen it at least once, and dramatic evidence suggests he borrowed from it here and there.
Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” for instance, is rooted in the young prince’s vow to avenge his father’s death, a vow inspired by the father’s angry ghost. In “The “Spanish Tragedy,” it is the father who’s bent on getting revenge for his murdered son. Revenge is a character that lingers onstage in company with the ghost of another murder victim. (Revenge looks and sounds not at all as you might expect.)
The ghost’s former love — now a bereaved young woman — could almost stand in for Ophelia, and “Tragedy’s” smarmy, sneaky young nobleman could double for Iago, the villain in “Othello.” To top off the resemblances, Kyd even scripted a play-within-a-play as payback for the guilty parties, and as in Shakespearean plays to follow, the bodies begin to pile up.
Director Leslie Schisgall Currier has revived this gory old favorite, set it in a multi-level castle and cut it down to a manageable two hours and forty minutes’ playing time. The action begins with a tolling bell and a long funeral march of white-masked mourners. The deceased follows the march, describing the foul deeds that have made him a ghost. Ghost stays visible throughout the play, accompanied by Revenge.
The Duke of Castille, the King’s brother, describes the battle and shows off its most famous prisoner, Balthazar, Prince of Portugal. Horatio has helped apprehend him, though the Duke’s son, Lorenzo, claims that he was the real nabber. Lorenzo’s sister, Bellimperia, captures Balthazar’s attention, and in no time, speculations begin that a marriage between the two would cement peace between their nations. The young lady, however, had been the sweetheart of Don Andrea, now the Ghost pacing the battlements. She is not available, though her servant vows that the lady’s affections have recently turned to Horatio. This information enrages Balthazar; Horatio’s too much in his way.
But despite all the royalty represented onstage, the most complex character in “The Spanish Tragedy” is the judge, Hieronimo. When he finds his beloved son murdered, Hieronomo’s reaction is similar to King Lear’s over the corpse of his daughter, Cordelia. Justice now equals revenge.
In this large, outdoor performance space, trained voices enhance the show. Julian Lopez-Morillas is superb as Hieronomo, commanding the stage with a big voice and big emotions. Scott Coopwood, as the Duke of Castille has a similar presence, as does Jack Powell as the Viceroy of Portugal. Both Elena Wright in the role of Bellimperia and Jessica Powell as Hieronimo’s wife, Isabella, have roles with heavy vocal demands. Erik Johnson plays the ill-fated Horatio, and in three widely varying roles, Steve Price, who grew up on the Peninsula, portrays a Portuguese nobleman, a petitioner and a hangman. In a last-minute substitution on opening night, Liam Hughes took over the role of Balthazar. Twenty-five additional cast members round out this generously-sized production.
“The Spanish Tragedy” will play at the Forest Meadows Amphitheatre on the Dominican University campus until August 11 and in repertory with “A Comedy of Errors” after July 27. Friday, Saturday and Sunday evening performances are at 8 PM, with Sunday matinees at 4 PM. For tickets, directions and more information, call 499-4488.
As with all outdoor performances, dress for the weather and bring extra layers as the theatre gets cooler after dark. Picnics are welcome.

Joe Cillo

www.forallevents.com/

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, LIKE IT OR NOT

Everything you see I owe to spaghetti.
― Sophia Loren

First, it was horsemeat.  We thought we were eating succulent bits of beef but to our horror, we discovered we were shoving Dobbin into our lasagna.  Worse, we have been devouring him topped with cheese, tomato and soupçon of lettuce in our burgers.  We were horrified.  Tesco, a major seller of deceptive equine products ran full page ads apologizing for misleading their customers, insisting they had no idea that they were mislabeling their products.

The rest of the world scoffs at English fastidiousness. “So what?” they say in at least 358 different languages.   The French adore horsemeat…in fact they hint that is why they are so romantic in bed, in contrast to the British who apologize before they even mange to get started.  The Irish add a wine sauce to anything and once tasted don’t give a damn.

But horsemeat in our dinners is not the worst of it.  Oh, no.

Now that we have managed to come to terms with the brutal fact that the glorious winner of Epsom Downs faces a future in our goulash, we have another gastronomic hurdle to cross.  Sixty percent of the tuna we buy to fill our children’s lunch boxes and add flavor to our casseroles is not tuna at all.  It is escolar, an oily fish that causes diarrhea.  That is why so many of us have that irresistible urge to relieve ourselves after indulging in those cute canapés topped with a pimento.  And you thought it was the conversation.

The fact is that most restaurants serve escolar and tell us it is albacore tuna. No wonder we cannot figure out why that delicious Salad Niçoise sent us to the loo within moments of savoring it flavor. It wasn’t that drink you had to wash it down.  It was tacky escolar putting on airs.

Everyone knows that we are what we eat.  It is now apparent that when we feed our children stew, they could easily be neighing for their supper in a matter of weeks.  What is far more frightening, that tuna fish sandwich that every child cannot resist could very well send him swimming in the Atlantic never to return.  It has already happened in my family.

My Aunt Gert swears that the reason her daughter Penny became an Olympic swimmer was that she ate nothing but tuna fish for SEVEN years.  She stopped eating it that unforgettable day when she cramped up just as she was approaching the finish line in Rome in 1960.  She blamed her loss on nerves, but we know better.  It wasn’t the pasta either.

My mother’s staple casserole was tuna fish mixed with cream of mushroom soup topped with crumbled crisps. She served it at every party.  We never understood why everyone who ate it got the “flu” the next day.  We thought it was Ohio weather.

The moral of this shocking tale is that if you want to win the big fight, eat a bull and if you think you are gay, eat fruit.

Joe Cillo

www.forallevents.com/

WHISTLE POWER

Whistle and dance the shimmy
You will find your audience.
Anonymous

Robert Smith has been arrested several times for whistling on the streets of Portland Oregon. Residents said he was disturbing their peace.  The court listened to shop owners, pedestrians and outraged mothers’ complaints and last February, decided that Smith was free to whistle as long as he didn’t stand still.  Now, Robert Smith walks throughout downtown Portland, whistling a penetrating, tuneless melody so loud you can hear him blocks away.   “I get more self-worth out of whistling. I do it every day — weather permitting,” he said. “I’m not out here to be the best whistler in the world. I’m just trying to make people smile.”

I think that is a lovely attitude, one that all of us should think about adopting.  Whistling is a delightful way to spread joy, catch someone’s attention and call the dog.  My sister could whistle before she could say a sentence.  She, like Robert Smith, used to love to whistle while she walked.  The difference is that my sister was a fat, adorable three year old who toddled happily in the neighborhood; Smith is a grown man; a construction worker, who should have better things to do with his time.

However, the end results for both of them are the same.  When neighbors saw my sister wandering through Birkhead Place, they would call my mother and say, ”Ida, your kid ran away again.”

That served to alert my mother and give my sister the attention she wanted. She too had no intentions of being the best whistler in Toledo, Ohio.  She wanted her mother.  My sister’s whistling often took her out of our gated community and into the main thoroughfare.

One summer day, in 1944, my sister wandered out of the house whistling and attracted a mangy dog who fell madly in love with her unique melody.  The dog followed her down the street, past manicured lawns and budding maple trees, across busy intersections and crowded parking lots until at last, a policeman noticed the tiny, dimpled whistler followed by a large, flea infested hound.

He stopped my sister and said, as kind policemen did in the days before they carried guns and a chip on their shoulder, ”Darling where are you going?”

My sister, who had not mastered speech as well as she had her tuneful art, said, ”Dog!” and she smiled at the policeman expecting him to tell her she was a brilliant child because she said a complete word.  At this very moment, my mother dashed into the street her apron strings flying behind her yelling, ”Marsha Dee!!! STOP!!!”

The policeman stopped.  Pedestrians stopped   My sister kept walking and whistling her way past the drugstore toward the bakery.  She pointed to the dog.  “We hunnry.” she announced.

The policeman went into the bakery, bought a bag of cookies: He gave one to my sister and one to the dog.  “Say thank you,” my mother said to my sister.  The dog barked, my mother popped a tranquilizer and the policeman continued his beat.

The moral of this story is: There was a time when a whistle got you a cookie, but now-a-days, all you get is a citation.”

Joe Cillo

www.forallevents.com/