Lantern Theater's "Henry IV, Part I' (1st review)

The near-century between 1399 and 1485 was, even by the standards of a bloody age, a very gory one in England. It began with the deposition and subsequent murder of a king turned tyrant, Richard II, and a successor reign— that of Richard's executioner, Henry IV— that was plagued with domestic unrest and rebellion. Henry's son and successor, Henry V, England's most sanguinary ruler, died fighting in France, leaving behind a nine-month-old infant as Henry VI.

This Henry grew up to an England that lapsed into an episodic civil war that lasted 30 years. He himself was put to death after long captivity, and the young sons of his successor disappeared under a regent, Richard of Gloucester, who then as now was widely regarded as their murderer.

This Richard, crowning himself as Richard III, was slain within two years in a fresh rebellion. Only then did the country begin to settle down under a new dynasty, that of the Tudors, which gave us plenty of Masterpiece Theater material itself but was, at least in relative terms, peaceable.

Englishmen of the 16th Century looked back on their 15th-Century with the same fascination that 20th-Century Americans recalled our Wild West. The English didn't have a Stagecoach or a "Gunsmoke" to popularize their imaginings, but they did create an entertainment medium to represent it for themselves: the popular commercial stage. They also had the services of a prolific playwright and sometime script doctor, one Will Shakespeare, whose works depicted the whole period between Richard II and Richard III.

Unattractive figures all

The Bard is a catch-as-catch-can experience locally since the demise of the Shakespeare Theater, and in any case he wrote a few other things besides his history plays. The Henriad— as the plays covering the reigns of Henry IV, V and VI are known— are a distinctive subset. They are really a sextet, with two plays for Henry IV and three for Henry VI. The plot lines are tangled, and the characters are many and easily confusing. There are few admirable characters among them.

Henry IV, Part I, now onstage at the Lantern Theater, is a case in point. Henry himself, choleric and suspicious, is an unattractive figure. His son Hal is, as they used to say, a wastrel, who haunts taverns and brothels with a broken-down soldier, John Falstaff, who plays his boon acquaintance for all it's worth.

Henry would really much prefer Sir Henry Percy, a.k.a. Harry Hotspur, as a son. Hotspur is a dashing figure of high temperament, the epitome of chivalric "honor"; but, unfortunately, he's a rebel. (The real Hotspur was actually three years Henry IV's elder, but, no matter; history is one thing, and history plays another.)

Dose of testosterone

Almost every nobleman in Henry IV, Part I has a beef with Henry, mostly related to being insufficiently rewarded for helping him in his bloody climb to the throne. Everyone talks about how sad it will be if England is once again plunged into war and brave men must die in battle, but the fact is they're all itching for a fight— all except Henry, who simply wants obedience on his own terms.

Shakespeare gives all his characters, male and female alike, a heavy charge of testosterone, especially the near-psychotic Hotspur. By the playwright's time, the warrior cult had been largely domesticated, but Shakespeare's audiences still appreciated a vicarious bath of gore, as we do with Westerns and gangster films.

Psychologically, the play's most interesting relationship is between Henry and Hal, one that continues in Henry IV, Part II. Hal's adolescent rebellion is nicely balanced between thinly concealed aggression against his father and preserving the birthright that will lead to his own eventual accession to the throne, a point the opportunistic Falstaff takes very well. In the current production, Henry and Hal face each other warily at the end of the battle that has preserved both their fortunes, their own antagonism ready to mature in the hour of their personal triumph.

Nine actors in 22 roles

This moment is a masterstroke in a production that for the most part succeeds in projecting Shakespeare's rich and teeming world with a great economy of means. The Lantern is a theater in the round that must do much with little, and whose performers and production staff are usually on their mettle.

There are 22 named roles in Henry IV, Part I, in addition to a sheriff, a vintner, a chamberlain and assorted "lords, officers, drawers, carriers, travellers, and attendants." Nine actors- seven male and two female— stand in for all these parts, by person or inference.

Peter Pryor is both Henry IV and Falstaff, two roles that, each calling for intense concentration and invention, couldn't be farther apart dramatically. He's fine as the king and terrific as Falstaff. Among the other principals, one must note particularly Andrew Kane's Hotspur, Jered McLenigan's Douglas, and Russ Widdall's Glendower.

Cole Hamels look-alike

Rachael Joffred gives as good as she gets as Hotspur's randy wife, and Mary Lee Bednarek likewise holds her ground as Mistress Quickly. Tim Moyer is as always a pleasure onstage, even in subordinate roles.

Only Allen Radway, with his Cole Hamels-like looks, lacks the requisite heft for Prince Hal. His performance is certainly serviceable, but Hal's suppressed fury— the fury that will mature into the warrior's confrontation with Hotspur on the battlefield— is outside his register as a performer.

Director Charles McMahon drives the production with unflagging energy and resource, making a virtue of his limited space as his actors come and go with their multiple roles, yet creating too some memorable tableaus. J. Alex Cordero staged the fight scenes and battle choreography with his customary invention and skill, although the latter could perhaps have been a little compressed, and the use of the female performers was for this viewer a bit distracting. Lighting, sound, mise-en-scène, and costumes were all superbly integrated.

A growl to remember

One small detail in this show was, for me, emblematic of its precision and drill, and of the actors' commitment to their roles. Jered McLenigan's Douglas, the doughty Scotsman who lives for a good fight, accompanies his bloodlust with a manly growl as he lays about him. Exiting the stage, presumably in search of fresh combat, he went past where I was sitting near the door that normally brings the house in. As he did so, still in character, McLenigan repeated the growl, though only the handful of audience members in the immediate vicinity would have heard it.

When an actor exits his stage space, he is in the process of finding his next mark and cue where no one can see him. McLenigan's parting growl is meant to cast an imaginative space beyond the stage itself where combat continues— in other words, to enlarge it. If the growl is perfunctory, it will have the opposite effect: those who hear him will experience only a distracting gesture. It's a lot to risk on a single vocalization, but McLenigan brings it off; you do see not the narrow corridor you've traversed yourself, but the sphere of violence Douglas inhabits and carries with him.

That's what acting's about, and why we thrill to a live theater that can narrow the space between imagination and reality to a hand's-span, and still keep it intact. Bravo, sir; and bravo to all.♦


To read another review by Steve Cohen, click here.