Corneille's "The Illusion' at Villanova

Pierre Corneille and Tony Kushner:
An odd coupling that works

ROBERT ZALLER

The works of Pierre Corneille (1606-1684) are the cornerstone of the French stage, but performances of them in America are rarer than hen’s teeth. The Alexandrine verse of his tragedies is next to impossible to render in dramatically passable English; the long speeches and static tableaux of his characters make them a lugubrious experience for modern audiences raised on MTV.

L’Illusion Comique is, however, the busman’s holiday in which Corneille sends up not only his own high seriousness but also theatrical convention in general. Pridamant of Avignon (James F. Schlatter), a lawyer like Corneille’s own father, comes to the cave of the magician Alcandre (Paul Guerin) in hopes of conjuring his long-lost son, Calisto. Alcandre obliges, and Pridamant watches in alarm as Calisto moves through a series of amorous and mock-heroic adventures with ever-changing identities: He’s a very modern Renaissance man on the make.

Pridamant isn’t exactly a paragon of virtue himself, but, with intimations of mortality upon him, he hopes for reconciliation with his heir. Is it Calisto, however, whom he seeks? Or Clindor, or Theogenes (Carl Granieri)? Is it Melibea, Isabelle, or Hippolyta (Rachel Anne Stephan), who is the latter’s beloved or betrothed or wife?

A stand-in for the playwright

Corneille whips up a merry froth, and director Harriet Power keeps it moving along with a finely shaping hand. The linchpin of the proceedings is Alcandre, whose tricks resemble those of Shakespeare’s Prospero, and who is likewise a stand-in for his creator.

The performers throw themselves into the fun with gusto. Carl Granieri displays particular comic verve as the Prodigal Son, and Kristen O’Rourke is a scene-stealer as the maid Elicia/Lyse/Clarina. Charles B. Illingworth IV has fun with a cowardly warrior, and Luke Moyer is suitably manic as Matamore, “a lunatic,” who serves less as a character than as a gloss on the entire proceeding. There’s a fine effect at the play’s end as he ascends Frank McCullough’s spare but effective set against the projection of a gigantic moon.

But is this, in fact, Corneille? The playbill informs us, disconcertingly, that not a single line in Tony Kushner’s English adaptation actually translates the original. There is a fine recent translation, in rhyming couplets, by the poet Richard Wilbur. It’s eminently playable, but-- rhyme? That may be a bridge too far for a modern audience. So let us call this Illusion a free paraphrase, close enough in spirit and diction to the original to pass muster, and witty on its own terms.

There’s a quotation from Hamlet that’s disconcerting, and when Alcandre takes a shot at Corneille’s younger rival Racine, one might remember that the play actually preceded Racine’s birth by two years. Kushner also introduces a tongueless assistant to Alcandre (Jeffrey S. Paden), who plays strictly for Grand Guignol laughs, and the cynical twist at the end is Kushner’s invention as well.

Up from Angels in America

In a way, though, Corneille and Kushner are well paired, for Kushner himself is chiefly associated with a lugubrious tragedy, Angels in America. Letting his hair down was probably a good thing for Kushner, too.

The production staff deserves a particular bow: Charlotte Cloe Fox Wind for her costumes; Jerold R. Forsyth and Jorge Cousineau for light and sound design, respectively; and Samantha Bellomo for a crisply executed swordfight.

There are serious themes to ponder in The Illusion— love’s inconstancy, the shadow of death, the tender lies we tell each other and the nasty traps we set. Above all, there’s the phantasmal nature of experience, for which the madman Matamore is finally the only adequate symbol. But don’t worry. You’ll laugh your way through the whole business.