If you've never seen a theater piece by Mary Zimmerman, "The Secret in the Wings" should not be missed. Her latest production, now playing at Seattle Repertory Theatre, offers a "once upon a time" experience akin to Story Theater on acid.
Like a pop-culture Goethe, Zimmerman guides you through a walk on the dark side of the Brothers Grimm and their fairy tale world where you encounter the foibles of the human dilemma. Lust, violence, obsession, revenge, terror, kidnapping, murder, bestiality, whimsy and Zimmerman's trademark taboo, incest. A far cry from Disney's "happily ever after" scenarios.
You expect to be astonished at a Mary Zimmerman production. But with "The Secret in the Wings" you might also be confused, especially if you are an aficionado of logic. Zimmerman dissects and intersects these childhood stories like a scientist in search of a new species. Her signature style always dazzles the viewer with a shifting kaleidoscope while she digs beneath the surface to challenge the psyche.
In "The Secret in the Wings," the Tony-winning director recreates four rarely told European fairy tales, "Three Blind Queens," "Allerleira," "The Princess Who Wouldn't Laugh" and "Silent for Seven Years." And she frames them all within the context of a new twist on Perrault's classic "Beauty and the Beast."
Each tale stops at a dramatic point of disaster, interrupted by a new story to be half told before it, too, is interrupted. Eventually they will be resolved during the final minutes of the performance. Clever as this may be, it's sometimes hard to follow. But never boring. Zimmerman wants us to feel a child's sense of bewilderment. And as we said, it's like being on drugs. So if you missed blotter acid in the 1960s and '70s, you can have a retro trip without the repercussions.
Zimmerman's 90-minute work (sorry, no intermission) displays her fanciful creativity, using a nine-member ensemble of actors, many of whom were seen in Zimmerman's previous works. She also collaborates regularly with an amazing crew of artistic designers whose work was on view in Zimmerman's Seattle productions of "The Notebook of Leonardo da Vinci," "Metamorphoses" and "The Odyssey." This show doesn't have the visual elegance of "Metamorphoses" or the epic splendor of "The Odyssey." Instead, Zimmerman's newest production, via designer Daniel Ostling, is grimmer - no pun intended. It resembles an antique warehouse of sorts, shabby-chic territory for the fairy tale set.
The stage design blends the elements of many tales. There's a trapdoor, a wardrobe, a perilous staircase to one side, rough-hewn beams and columns, a haphazardly hung chandelier, a tiny cubbyhole loft, oriental rugs, gold pictures frames and a mound of dirt that leads to a secret door. There's also a regal-looking pair of gilt chairs done up in plush red velvet, and a cluster of table and floor lamps scattered about the stage for a series of mesmerizing lighting effects.
Zimmerman creates a dramatic and sometimes playful dreamscape where kings and queens, princesses and princes, even commoners, are transformed and reformed. They seek revenge and forgiveness, die and come back, love and hate, laugh and cry. As she delves into forbidden topics, Zimmerman dazzles the imagination and spins the anxieties of childhood into a tapestry of magic and menace. But be advised: her psychological fairy tales are more appropriate for adults than for small children.
With a flash of lightning to set the mood, we're swept into a make-believe world where a couple prepares for a night at the opera. The self-absorbed, silly parents have arranged for their neighbor, Mr. Donahue, to watch after their young daughter, Heidi. Only one small problem: Mr. Donahue is an ogre, and Heidi's totally repulsed by him. This is not surprising; he's an unkempt specimen of manhood, complete with a paunch, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a scruffy beard and his crowning impediment - a long tail that makes an ominous noise as he lumbers across the floorboard, much like a car going across a series of speed bumps. Christopher Donahue makes a wonderful ogre/babysitter - yes, he uses his real name - and Tiffany Scott shows plenty of pluck as his young charge. As the ogre settles in to read a few fairy tales, he first utters the line, "Heidi, will you marry me?" She refuses, but she's not heard the last of him.
Every member of the talented ensemble plays multiple roles and gives virtuoso performances. Their characters tell timeless tales using modern slang, synchronized movement and speaking, and choral singing that often turns into a haunting soundscape of musical rondos.
Instead of three blind mice and the butcher's wife, we have three blind queens and an eyeball-eating nursemaid. Instead of a glass slipper, we have a ring in a bowl of soup. Instead of a wicked stepmother, we have a wicked mother-in-law. Instead of babies, we have bundles of twigs. Instead of naughty boys, we have silent swans. Instead of trees, we have men with branches attached to their heads. Instead of magic apples, we have oranges. And paper hearts float over the heads of besotted suitors, and huge rat puppets scurry around the stage, perhaps on a scavenger hunt.
Zimmerman doesn't neglect comedy relief. In "The Princess Who Wouldn't Laugh," a king wants his daughter to marry, so he parades three princely suitors - including a shepherd who does stand-up in his spare time - in front of her with a royal proposition. Whoever can make her laugh wins her hand in marriage. But if they fail, it's the old off-with-your-head routine. Their attempts at levity play out like an episode of "Last Comic Standing." Louise Lamson turns deliciously negative as the spoiled princess with hilarious stream-of-conscious nastiness.
Another delightful segment introduces a cheeky quartet of pubescent girls who keep interrupting the tale of Allerleira - and each other - with their extemporaneous comments. These nubile maidens do cartwheels, throw their skirts over their heads to flash their panties, hopscotch in unison and talk like the girls in the movie "Clueless."
To maintain the make-believe mood, designer Mara Blumenfeld dresses heroines and villainesses in retro prom dresses of vibrant reds, blues, greens and gossamer whites, while the men don dinner jackets and an occasional frog mask. And in a bit of whimsy, a ship's captain substitutes a throw pillow for a hat. Sound designers Andre Pluess and Ben Sussman cast a magical spell with their creaky doors, ominous clock chimes and a realistic storm, while TJ Gerckens does the same with his supernatural lighting.
At the end, Heidi tries to soothe the ogre with the message, "That which is most frightening is the only most frightened." Intellectuals will look for Freudian slips and symbols; Jungians, for male/female ambiguity. Rednecks will shift uncomfortably in their seats, wondering why they are there while they wait for a nonexistent intermission. Grown-up hippies will be reminded of old times. And conscientious parents will be glad they didn't bring their children.
But back to Heidi and Mr. Donohue. Short version. Turns out he's not really her babysitter. Go figure.
Freelance writer Starla Smith is a Queen Anne resident. Before moving to Seattle from New York, Smith was a Broadway journalist and Tony voter.[[In-content Ad]]
