In one of the University of Victoria’s smaller, studio theatres, Federeico García Lorca’s masterpiece, Yerma, was recently realized. Having had the privilege to attend, I was immediately taken with the set design—a thrust, the stage itself was ovular, and was graduated dramatically so that its downstage was significantly lower than its up. This central space was encompassed by a ring with a less dramatic tilt; between the two a narrow trench contained the water which formed the river gurgling quietly from the foot of the stage. In the background stood a tree, red-painted children’s toys hanging from its branches. Stage left culminated in a ramp, gradually sloping upward, for character entrances from afar as well as the chorus of townspeople. In a word, the set design was innovative for the space used—and for a theatre without curtains, it heightened the audience’s eager anticipation of the performance’s start.
And it began with the stage creatively illuminated with a circular light, and revolving text. The setting established: the countryside, amidst the Spanish Civil War. Yerma is a married woman who more than anything longs for a child. Often reviled for her barrenness, she is determined to conceive—but for what purpose? Is it because she wants a child for the opportunity to mother one? so that she can finally be a “woman,” as he reality has defined womanhood? is it so that she can escape the social condemnation?
I hoped for my question’s answer in the second act; the first focused on Yerma’s realization that she could not conceive a child with the help of her husband. To her, intercourse with her husband serves to provide a child—and repellant is the notion that it might serve as anything but. Yerma doesn’t know whether she hates herself or her husband for her inability to bear—but seems not to entertain her husband’s culpability for long. The women in her life all have children, and she does not. And so, she visits the eccentric, outcast Pagan Woman, mother of fifteen, and provider for many more. For her visit to the Pagan Woman, the source of Yerma’s desperation is disassociated with escape from condemnation, for from the moment of her visit onward, her relationship with her husband as well as her image in the village becomes one inveighed against her, now a pariah.
At the end of the first act, I specifically noted that the lighting had been totally effective in the first act—different parts of the stage had been effectively illuminated and dimmed, so that focus was consistently directed by the obviously meticulous lighting design.
At the same time, though, I felt that the stage had not been used to its full potential by the actors; for a thrust, it too often seemed to me that scenes would simply be performed for alternating sides of the stage, instead of encompassing the whole stagespace, so that the action and a scene’s physical motivations were clear to every audience member. Through the end of the performance of the second act I felt this way. I did not find the direction of specific scenes to be incredibly innovative. On the part of many of the actors, too, I found much movement to be stiff, and unconvincing for its frequent lack of motivation. This said, though, the choreographed movement during transitional scenes, involving the women washing clothes at the river, or the chorus as a whole, was very effective.
I found Kesinee Haney’s understanding of her character, Yerma, to be profoundly authentic, and the meticulousness with which she cast the emotional underpinning of Yerma, to the character’s final collapse was on par with that of a professional, considering the abstruseness of the play’s language. Her performance did wane in intensity slightly, in the middle of the second act, and I felt that it struggled sometimes to establish pace during the first, but overall, her abilities were clear. Vocally, in more ways than any, she encompassed the character—by singing, through the use of tone, volume, and inflection, and culminating in the animalistic screams of the penultimate scene, she wholly proved Yerma’s plight to the audience.
While Hayley Feigs’ performance was appealing, I didn’t feel as if it captured the character, the Pagan Woman. In a word, I felt as if she was an actress onstage playing an eccentric character, as opposed to the pure embodiment of the Pagan Woman. But I was totally confused by Graeme Nathan’s portrayal of Juan. His performance was so stiff and unnatural, I have to surmise that it was part of the direction. This the case, I might completely reconsider my critique of Feigs and Nathan’s performances; considering the poetic nature of the text itself, perhaps naturalism was far from the director’s vision, and so, by disassociating character from reality in such a way, the words of the play were the greater focus.
On this note, I found the translation of Lorca’s text to be a well-executed and interpretive realization of his original work. On a specific note, while I appreciated the authentic Spanish-speaking abilities of Angie Lopez as one of the Angels, the attempts at Spanish by the rest of the cast were… the opposite. Sometimes, they were speaking what sounded like Spanish, but really wasn’t at all.
I did appreciate the heavy integration of music into the adaptation, however. At times, it overpowered the actors, but in Yerma’s final scene, the subtle guitar only heightened the hysteria.
As the second act hurdled to its chilling climax, a brief lull broke, and as one of the more arresting scenes of the performance’s duration—that of the pagan forest orgy—unfolded, the pace of the production was established, as it hadn’t been before. To that point, I don’t feel as if the audience had ever been totally disengaged, but it was from that point to the end of the play that I could describe the performance as visceral and harrowing, and the audience’s demeanor: captivated. The scene of Yerma’s undoing—the climax at which she chokes her husband to death with her bare hands is a dangerous one. Done improperly, it could be potentially hilarious. On UVic’s stage, though, it was silencing; and, I might attribute it to Kesinee Haney’s vocal work. As the lights on the main stage dimmed, Yerma threw herself into the river, screaming and crying. She opened her legs, and the water from upstream poured across them—her character had given birth to the rage that society had fostered, and repressed within her. In retrospect, I think this was clichéd. But in the moment, it did little to distract from the profundity of the previous moments.
The performance ended with a reminder of the Spanish Civil War (fine, but unnecessary, in my estimation), and a bow.
In all, the experience was definitely an enjoyable one. The adaptation of the piece was effective, as was the music incorporated. I was ultimately ambivalent towards the direction, though—at times (mostly during transitional scenes involving the chorus) there was a clearer vision and style. But in more of the scenes, I almost felt cheated out of the action.
Overall, I found the production quality to be very good—the set and light designs, especially. The costumes, I felt, were not drab enough when it would have been appropriate, and not flamboyant enough when needed. The use of the colors grey, black, and red truly tied the whole production together visually, though. Red—blood, passion—created an ambient tone of calm verging on uneasiness teetering on breakdown.
A few days later now, I recall the performance fondly. Having read Lorca’s original text before, I found the adaptation enlightening. I’d recommend it, and, keeping in mind its status as a student production, I describe it as nothing short of stellar.
