Tristan & Yseult

As the audience files in, the "lovespotters" pounce. Roaming up and down the aisles as musicians on stage set a playful (yet somewhat sad) mood with renditions of popular songs of unrequited love, these chorus members, these "unloved," ask questions of those seated. "How long have you been married? Still smiling, so not too long." Dressed in drab jackets and hoods, they could be any wanderer on any street. These unloved permeate the classic tale of Tristan & Yseult, a Kneehigh production masterfully adapted by Emma Rice. 

Our narrator-of-sorts, Whitehands, introduces her band of unloved comrades and introduces us to the players in our tale, and with the aid of music and movement this ancient tale highlights every pained perspective of romantic love. Why do we love? Who do we love? Why are we unloved? Why are we loved? Why do we betray? Can we love two people at once? Does love die?

Love and romance can be funny and clumsy, of course, and there are elements of hilarity throughout.  There are giggles and guffaws to be had in between melancholy laments and the cast balances the joy and heartache of love perfectly, never losing the authenticity of either side of the pendulum swing. The entire production vibrates with energy, bolstered by grin-inducing elements of audience participation. This is a show that never slows down, never sinks.  Even the soberest moments have a strong pulse of passion, and some of the most powerful of those moments are provided by the band of unloved (whose ranks increase throughout the play, but I won't give any of that away), an astute comment on how brutal life is when staring at Love from the outside.

Alternating elevations on stage was a powerful and effective strategy for not only showing the change of time and location, but for creating a defined space for the lovers and the unloved.  The unloved are constantly outside the central circle most often occupied by our hero and heroine, only breaking into the space at moments of deception, heartache, and desperation.  Even when they're able to assert themselves within the bounds of that elite "club" (as noted by Whitehands, de facto queen of that band), they're quickly dismissed. "Do you love me?" is a question answered in the negative.  That stark line between those experiencing love and those forced to spectate on that experience is powerfully and beautifully drawn.

It has been awhile since I've seen a show that I immediately wanted to see again. And thankfully, with shows through March 23rd, there's time to indulge repeatedly. It's time to head to the Guthrie again, people.

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