Emily Mann directs 'Antony and Cleopatra' at the McCarter

When we meet the lovers in director Emily Mann's adaptation at Princeton’s McCarter Theatre — for all Antony and Cleopatra productions are edited, as well as staged, by their directors — they're entwined on the floor surrounded by uncomfortable servants, as oblivious as two teenagers at a make-out party. Their affair starts at a passionate level and has nowhere to go but down, however passionately it crashes.

Nicole Ari Parker (of Showtime's Soul Food and also Mann's Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire) and Esau Pritchett (McCarter's Fences last year and eight times an Othello) are adults, but their characters are not altogether mature. Their passion resembles Romeo and Juliet's with all the emotional excesses and paranoid insecurities that infect young love, grabbing each other in sloppy embraces one minute and hurling accusations the next.

As annoying as Frankie and Annette

Like Romeo and Juliet — or more recent counterparts like Frankie and Annette in those '60s beach movies — their jealous fits are more wearisome than endearing. Perhaps I'm jaded, believing that true love is more than bad manners, but she's a head of state and he's a leader of armies, so it's tempting to say, "Grow up, already." The fault is more Shakespeare's than Mann's or that of these dynamic, well-spoken, sleek actors, and if everyone else says this is one of history's, and theater's, great loves, I'll try to accept it.

Like Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra's fates are determined by a tragically impetuous false death that leads to a real suicide, and then a second. There's more to it, however; it's a political story based on historic events, which Mann and company make reasonably clear, though a quick glance at the program notes is helpful. Only four actors of eleven — from an original list of dozens of roles — are doubled (or quadrupled, in two cases), and Mann patches a few small roles together to give the play much-needed coherence and focus.

The economical casting serves the play well, along with locating it on the relatively small Berwind Theatre stage, with a set by Daniel Ostling that towers abstractly to frame in sand colors or gold (the variety defined by Edward Pierce's lighting) what's really an intimate play. Costume designer Paul Tazewell likewise keeps his work simple, subtly color-coding the warring factions while spending most of his budget on Cleopatra's sumptuous gowns.

A tight focus

Seldom are more than five or six characters onstage, typically only two or three, and they're all played well; standouts include Everett Quinton as Cleopatra's pet eunuch, and former Philadelphia actor Tobias Segal as the young would-be emperor Octavius Caesar. On a smaller stage, there's no temptation to make the play epic — we see no battles, and the one party scene occurs largely offstage.

Live percussion — an extraordinary range of sounds created live by Mark Katsaounis, composed by Mark Bennett — likewise directs our attention, often providing colorful and, yes, romantic underscoring as well as thumping wartime suspense.

The production's final scenes in Cleopatra's monument are beautifully acted and staged, leaving a lasting impression of great love lost. Mann's production represents a rare opportunity to see a difficult play staged well. She neatens it considerably but can't hide its flaws, making it perhaps disappointing for those hoping for something more tidily soap opera-ish, but satisfying for those wanting to experience thoughtfully produced Shakespeare.