Bailiwick Repertory
Directed by David Zak
Musical Direction by Christopher Moore and Margaret James Bell
George Orwell's Animal Farm has been the subject of endless discussion for the last fifty years, referred to as the perfect example of allegory: specific references to Russian history, politics, and personages. We have heard that the pig named Snowball is actually Trotsky and that Napoleon is Stalin. Essays link the battles the farm animals fight to overthrow their cruel master, Mister Jones, to specific battles that occurred during the Russian Revolution.
Maybe it's just me, but could this be a story not about history, not about the past, but about the eternal and universal piggishness of "pigs" in any society. I don't need to go all the way back to the twenties to find allegory: as I watched Baliwick's imaginative production of Peter Hall's musical version of the novel, I was reminded, variously, of Saddam Hussein, Newt Gingrich, and yes, even Bill Clinton.
David Zak has remounted his award-winning 1986 production with a young and energetic cast, in a virtual circus of stagecraft and mime. Performed on Mark Liberty's interesting arrangement of ramps and burlap-covered panels, with curious collages of posters and other art decorating the doors of the "barn" and Mr. Jones' house. The various farm animals are suggested by ears and snouts, open soft sculpture masks that allow the audience to see (and hear) the actors' faces clearly through them. Norwood Rice's costumes are made from combinations of shorts, baggy shirts, and in one case a goat is clad in a mass men's ties dangling all around.
The miming of the animals' movement is greatly enhanced by Steve Pickering's extended mechanical forelegs, and in some cases they are articulated so that the animals can paw the ground, stomp the enemy, or even spell out letters convincingly. The actors are to be commended in their skilled use of these devices to give some realistic illusions--especially convincing was Tammy Meneghini's Squealer, with her piggy gait, even when scampering up and down a long ramp. Young Matthew Brennan does a very professional job as the Boy narrator--he sings well, too. There are several good singing voices to hear here--especially in the choral selections. Notable solos come from Malina Linkas as Mollie and Ron McKenna as Boxer. As Napoleon, Penelope Walker exhibits a quiet strength, proud and devious, wearing her gestapo-dogs like jewelry. Joe Endeson's bald-headed Snowball looks very piggy, galumphing about on his four legs--appropriately, we miss Snowball when he is run off the farm.
There are times, however, when all of the animal impressions tend to overwhelm, and when a little stillness and sharing of focus might have helped us to follow the story more clearly. Also, with the open masks, the multiple casting can get confusing. It took me several minutes to understand that Old Major had died, since he appeared to me to still be on stage, walking around, singing--and when the animals paid homage to the late boar's skull (the dark brown mask hanging on the dark wall, unlit) it took some time to figure out what they were looking at. And at the risk of sounding politically incorrect, there were times that the cross-gender casting created another troublesome complication for me: even though Napoleon and Squealer are both referred to as male, neither of the two women who played them seemed to be playing them as male--nor did their costumes reflect the masculine character of these studs whose main purpose is to impregnate sows. After all, surely part of the problem is testosterone--manly males fighting for territory and dominance over the herd. We therefore miss part of the aggressiveness and physical threat that might have been part of these characters' relationship with the rest of the animals.
On the whole, however, I would recommend this production as an entertaining and thought-provoking evening that does not require a knowledge of Russian history or even communism; one to which you would want bring your adolscent and perhaps pre-adolescent children.
