By Ciara LaVelle
By Jose D. Duran
By Kat Bein
By Juan Barquin
By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
In fact leave it to James, the prolific nineteenth-century novelist and brother of William James, founder of modern psychology, to create a tale, The Turn of the Screw, so strewn with fantastical imagery and convoluted states of mind that we're left scratching our heads and wondering, "Just what is a ghost, anyway?"
Ambiguity pervades James's most popular novella, a story that is ultimately less about ethereal visions and more about the power of the mind to create its own reality. For that reason the book, a century after its 1898 publication, remains one of the scariest ever written.
No ectoplasm (or its theatrical equivalent) puts in an appearance onstage in Jeffrey Hatcher's flawed adaptation of The Turn of the Screw, now getting a better production than it deserves at Coral Gables's New Theatre under the direction of Rafael de Acha. Actually, ghosts aren't the only things without corporeal presence here: The show features only two actors, yet there are a half-dozen characters in the story.
The talented Lisa Morgan (in good form here) plays the unnamed governess hired at the story's outset by a bachelor to care for his orphaned niece and nephew at Bly, his remote English estate, while he conducts business elsewhere.
Heath Kelts (a whirlwind of versatility) plays the bachelor uncle, as well as the narrator who sets up the story, the female housekeeper Mrs. Grose, and ten-year-old Miles, one of the governess's two charges. That's no easy task, of course, and the great fun to be had from this production is watching Kelts change roles without changing costumes, transforming himself from the housekeeper (a stooped older woman who scurries around like an animated Disney character) to the impetuous Miles, a youngster who seems to be growing out of his clothes as we watch.
This chamber-size adaptation invites us to imagine more than is really there, an illusion James would surely have approved of. For example, we are asked to "see" Flora, Miles's younger sister, when she "appears" in scenes as others talk to or about her. (The author, who died in 1916, must be turning the screws in his own coffin, however, upon hearing Hatcher's dialogue, some of it cobbled together from the novella but great portions of it invented in such a way as to undermine the intention of the story.)
The two-actor structure, in which the governess is either alone at the big estate or with just one other person, emphasizes the emotional isolation that makes her vulnerable to the apparitions that begin to appear as soon as she arrives at Bly. Her solitary state -- she has no social equals amid the household of children and lesser servants -- is cemented by the promise she made to her employer to never contact him. (Stephen King's The Shining is a watered-down version of this tale about a person who encounters ghosts after experiencing extreme loneliness.)
The New Theatre's black-box performance space, designed for this production by de Acha himself, is hung with funeral crepe. A wooden platform set underneath a candle-lit chandelier serves as the rooms of the estate, while the grounds are suggested by a vacant area to the side. Smaller spaces, such as the governess's writing desk, are implied by a single upholstered chair off to the other side, behind which fall the shadows of casement windows.
Morgan and Kelts, outfitted in green velvet and butler's black, respectively, follow de Acha's blocking so deftly that their movements are not only choreographed down to tiniest flourish, they actually anticipate the play's most identifiable themes. For example, no one who watches the governess and the bachelor uncle interlace their hands in the manner of bride and groom after settling the terms of their business deal will miss the implication.
As James fans will recall, the governess, having been given only sketchy details about the demise of Miss Jessel, her predecessor, allows the shadows and sounds in the strange mansion to assume the identities of Jessel and Peter Quint, the valet who seduced her and possibly corrupted the children before he also died under mysterious circumstances. (If we are to believe Hatcher, Quint tainted Miles and Flora by exposing them in some fashion to adult sexuality.) Eventually the governess comes to believe that the ghosts have returned for the souls of the children, and she begins to see herself as their only hope for salvation.
Do Jessel and Quint actually exist? If they don't, then what is the meaning of their power over the governess? Through clunky double-entendres and a series of sexually suggestive riddles he has the characters ask each other, Hatcher practically tells us outright that the ghosts are manifestations of the woman's repressed sexuality. The clumsiness of this revelation is bad enough; worse is Hatcher's decision to single out repressed sexuality as the play's principal theme. In the book, it is only one of several subtle threads weaving through the story.