Summary 
A revival of a previous success, this Cymbeline is a broadly comic fairy tale that minimizes dark moments and potential tragedy. Strikingly lit and lushly costumed, the production is a light-hearted comedy enhanced by the special-effects laden arrival of Jupiter and an impressionistic battle sequence consisting of the swirl of color-coded purple and yellow flags. Highly entertaining eye candy, creatively staged with a slapstick sense of humor.
Design
Directed by Barbara Gaines. Original sets by Michael Merritt; remounted by J. Michael Griggs. Costumes by Karin Kopischke. Original lights by Robert Shook; redesigned by T.J. Gerckens. Sound by Robert Neuhaus. Fights by Richard Raether.
Cast
Lisa Dodson (Imogen), Timothy Gregory (Posthumus), Michael Guido (Iachimo), Susan Hart (Lady Helen), Ross Lehman (Cloten), John Malloy (Cymbeline), William Norris (Belarius), Scott Parkinson (Cadwal), Ernest Perry, Jr. (Pisanio), Robert Scogin (Philario/Caius Lucius), Kathy Taylor (Queen), Larry Yando (Storyteller/Jupiter).
Analysis
Shakespeare Repertory's sweeping wood-paneled stage for its revival of Cymbeline features a half dozen tall, sliding doors upstage that, when open, reveal a partial view of a barren blue panorama. Drifting white snowflakes help create the illusion of a beautiful, winter mountain vista beyond the paneled doors. Two metallic screens, flat upon the otherwise completely bare stage, conceal lighting that allows for dramatic visual effects. For example, the shrill and comically venomous Queen, when raving over her poisons, is harshly uplit in stark white light while standing over one grate, the bright illumination creating dark shadows upon her face for a melodramatically monsterish effect, and later, a deep red light from the other grate shines warmly up onto the bottom of a large suspended stove pot, visually representing Belarius' cozy mountainside campfire. And in an ingeniously thematic lighting technique, shadows from bleakly barren tree branches are reflected across the entire stage for most of the play, clearly visible upon the stage itself, on the doors and walls upstage, and across the wooden panels flanking the set. Later, when all the conflicts have been resolved and Imogen and Posthumus have finally been reunited, the shadows reveal branches that have become leaved and heavy with fruit, in a subtle visualization of the soothsayer's final words about Cymbeline and his flourishing kingdom.
Director Barbara Gaines delights in the fairy-tale aspects of this play, and she characterizes her lavishly costumed production with colorful pageantry, exuberant theatrics, and a broadly comic interpretation of the text. Gaines liberally peppers the play with whimsical and humorous moments, such as Lucius' outrageously rapid-fire interrogation of "Fideles," the slight Imogen's grunting struggle to wield a battle-sword that is nearly as large as herself, and the befuddled Polydore's plaintive glances to the audience as he experiences an odd combination of brotherly love and physical adoration for a supposedly masculine stranger. The buffoonish Cloten is a comic stand-out: sometimes sniveling, often blustery, always asinine. He is absurdly clad in turquoise tights, a matching brocade tunic with puffed shoulders, and a shower-cap-like hat. His whining outrage at Imogen's disdainful and disparaging comparison of his attire to Posthumus' "meanest garment" becomes a running joke, and Cloten can be heard both on-stage and off, loudly sputtering those two words repeatedly in offended dismay.
Gaines maintains a brisk pace by taking full advantage of the depth of the Ruth Page Theatre's stage: as downstage scenes near their conclusion and the lights go down, actors enter upstage and the deep lights come up, and vice-versa, providing a continuous series of vignettes. This quickened pace accentuates the twists of the roller-coaster story line, and the complexities of the plot are made clearer through the chorus-like presence of a gold-caped and bare-chested Storyteller. Gaines' keen sense of humor, combined with her flair for theatrical flourish, diminishes even the darkest moments from Cymbeline and manages to transform the potentially tragic elements into breezy episodes. Cloten's decapitation, for example, despite the gruesome brutality of the murder, still generates amusing moments as a result of the production's romanticized, story-book structure: Polydore mocks the severed head of Cloten with a volley of silly faces, mimicking the Prince's expression, which even in death is comically wide-mouthed outrage; the feeling of melancholy as the kneeling Cadwal and Polydore sing together in somber homage to the apparently deceased Fideles is quickly undercut by the appearance of Belarius behind them - visible through the open doors of the backdrop - struggling with exaggerated, almost slapstick effort to drag the headless body of Cloten to stage-right; and the horror and shock expected from Imogen, who has been surprised at awaking apparently at the side of her lover's beheaded body, is instead a sweet and matter-of-fact, "where is thy head?," delivered after an amusingly pregnant pause.
Even the inherently creepy menace of Iachimo's bedroom scene is staged with physical humor and a decided lack of actual peril, as the heavily muscled Italian, shirtless but wearing black tights and knee-high boots, crawls with evil relish from a trunk to linger over the sleeping Imogen. Iachimo is portrayed as simply a gambling man endeavoring to win his wager at any expense - he is euphoric when he successfully lifts the prized bracelet from Imogen's wrist - and who is genuinely fond of the virtuous Imogen - he steals a kiss from her mouth and delicately kisses the mole upon her breast. His intrusion into her candle-lit bedchamber is portrayed as less a defiling invasion than a comically risky escapade, with the athletic iachimo ducking and diving for concealment or holding his breath for an inordinate length of time in order to remain silent and undiscovered.
Similarly, the imprisonment of Posthumus during the Roman war is tragically depicted, and then, through tongue-in-cheek humor, considerably lightened in tone. Posthumus' inner torment over his unjust condemnation of Imogen is apparent: he is shown alone on the darkened stage, crouched over one of the grates, a hazy purple glow from beneath the screen the only illumination. Chained from the neck and wrists to the metal grate, the boyish and sandy-haired Posthumus sulks in anguish, finally collapsing to his side before dreaming of his ancestors and their appeal to Jupiter. He looks about when he awakens, despondent over the fact that he could have had such a vision with no tangible assistance, not noticing the book left at his side that contains his salvation. The audience titters at the extent of his obliviousness, and when he finally notices the sign given him by the gods, the delight in his voice overwhelms the somber images of the previous few moments, as he cries in wonder at what has been, at least to the audience, painfully obvious: "a book!"
The production's visual highlight is the appearance of Jupiter, staged by Gaines with extravagantly theatrical overkill. The god, perched high upon a rolling, elevated platform, is blindingly back-lit and emerges amid a sudden, fiery spray of sparklers from a billowing fog of dry-ice at upstage. Dressed in glittering gold, his booming, amplified voice resonates throughout the theatre, and he explodes several bright white flash-pots with waves of his arms to spontaneous applause from the audience. At the end of his discourse he disappears backward into the darkness of the stage, the audience still applauding his gaudy splendor. The completely overwhelmed ghosts of Posthumus' family, by comparison drab and undramatic "spectacles," can barely manage a meek cry of "Thanks, Jupiter!" Their understated humor underscores the intended excess of the overblown staging, firmly establishes the sense of light-hearted wonder that permeates this production, and decidedly lightens the mood for the remainder of the play.
The production's most memorable sequence does not feature this defining humor and sense of wonder, but is instead ethereal and dance-like: the combat waged between the Romans and the Britons is expressionistically staged with a minimum of choreographed fight sequences. The declaration of war is depicted in Gaines' usual tongue-in-cheek fashion - the stiff and craggy Lucius is given the scroll of war upside-down and responds with a drolly withering glare - but the battles themselves are flamboyantly depicted amid thundering martial music and with a swift, colorful swirl of purple Roman flags dancing amid - and clashing with - yellow British flags. The regal Cymbeline, motionless at center stage, is subsequently captured by the Roman flags, surrounded and obscured in a whirling blur of purple cloth. But the British soon charge back onto the scene, led by Posthumus with Cadwal and Polydore. As the flag-bearing Britons chant, "Fight, Fight, Fight," Cymbeline is rescued, again to the spontaneous applause of the audience, and after the purple flags are scattered, the King is embraced in a splendid veil of yellow flags and escorted off-stage to safety. The triumphant rescue of Cymbeline is the first in an energetic progression of whimsically depicted revelations and events, each responded to by the cast with light-hearted wonder, that conclude this fanciful and upbeat revival.
Note: A version of this article was edited and published in Shakespeare Bulletin, Vol.12, No.2, Fall 1994.