Maurice Maeterlinck was a Belgian, writing in French in the first decade or so of the twentieth century. His work epitomized symbolism. Nonetheless, his The Blue Bird was first produced at that bastion of realism, The Mosow Art Theater, in 1908, directed by Mr. Stanislavski himself. The play's success led to the Nobel for Maeterlink in 1911.
In The Blue Bird, two children set out to find the elusive Blue Bird, with the help of a magic hat that lets them see the souls of all things. In their search they confront personifications -- first of objects and creatures (bread, sugar, the cat, the dog, etc...). These accompany our heroes, along with Light herself - i.e., Light personified. The kids confront the hostile souls of trees, and then things start to get heady: they begin to meet up with abstractions. And so we're introduced to: the various Luxuries (the Luxury of Being Rich, the Luxury of Owning Land, the nameless luxury unfit to meet children, etc...); the Happinesses (the Happiness of Good health, the Happiness of Seeing the Stars Rise, etc...); the various Joys... There's no through line here, just a series of metaphysical episodes. The search ends, and the two return home just because Maeterlinck's exploited the metaphor. That cagey bird, of course, was there all the time, but when they attend to it, it escapes.
At the Williamstown Theater Festival, Bird is billed as family fare, and indeed, this looks at first blush to be a children's show. But the kids in the audience looked decidedly bored -- they're left behind by this hyper-intellectual allegory. In the play's darkest moment, Light refuses to lift her veil for the Happinesses; they're not ready to see her. This whole play would be unfit to meet children, but for the fact that, mercifully, they don't understand.
In this outdoor production, Annie Dorsen solves some formidable logistical problems with clear direction, pointed and in control. Oddly, she can't deal with exits: the show stops while her actors get off (sometimes on stilts, and rather precariously). And there are other pacing problems. But she has the Luxuries stomp their way through a dance that's deliciously, indulgently vulgar, and we relish it. Katherine Profeta's tall, delicate puppets are managed by stage hands in black, with black veils—terrific. The background, a Hansel-and-Gretel cottage gone askew like a candle melted in the sun, is drippy and wrong, but the twinkling lights indicating magic are marvelous.
Logan Marshall-Green and Ashley Williams do quite well as the little innocents—the latter in a thankless role that places her always onstage with next to nothing to say. They're grown-ups, much too old for the roles. It's like watching Judy Garland in that Oz movie: we forget the anachronism quickly enough, but it's always in our subconscious, creating a wonderful, delicate distance. This is a huge cast, and the crowning performance comes from William Thompson as Tylo the dog. He succeeds in personifying the spirit of canine. "Let me kiss you, my little god" he yelps, throwing himself on his master. We want to take him home with us.
Maeterlinck's stylistic vision is routine to us now, and the stage techniques here are rather prosaic. But you'd have to have a heart of stone not to love this production. May the Williamstown Festival thrive through the first decade of the next century. May they be flooded with funding. May their audiences line up to the awesome, brooding peaks of Mount Greylock.
