Antigone

Jean Anouilh's "Antigone" is most certainly rooted in the Greek tragedy by Sophocles, but its focus has more to do with the politics of oppression - and the tricky ethics of response and resistance - than with questions of piety.

The Flat Earth Theatre production of Lewis Galantiere's adaptation of Anouilh's play touches upon many topics relevant to American politics, but the most straightforward way to explain its crucial conflict would be to ask you to imagine a Gen Xer or a Boomer arguing with a Bernie Sanders adherent during the 2016 elections.

If you had such arguments yourself, you probably remember them with a wince: The older of two passionately invested people insisting that party loyalty and focus on the outcome must take precedence over flaws in the process and matters of personal distaste, while the younger individual replies to every argument with a variant on one or two responses: The DNC was corrupt, and/or Hillary was evil. In any case, not even the prospect of a Trump presidency was going to induce them to tarnish their convictions.

A thinly-veiled repeat of those arguments - not in particulars, but in tone - is what this production feels like. After a civil war that has left both of her older brothers dead, Antigone (Regine Vital) is determined to defy the new king - her uncle, Creon (George Page) - and carry out at least symbolic funerary rites for the officially reviled brother, Polynices, whose body has been left on the field of battle to be picked at by dogs and buzzards. (Meantime, Creon has sent Antigone's other brother, Eteocles, off to his eternal reward with a lavish state funeral.) Antigone's sister Ismene (Rachel Belleman) is too frightened to participate in this act of civil disobedience; their nanny (Karen Dervin, radiating devotion in the role) is far too guileless even to suspect them of contemplating it; and Antigone's intended husband, Haemon (Cody Sloan), is so smitten with Antigone that he's blind to the fatal flaw of her intransigence.

The story's political and personal backgrounds are explained in a lengthy prologue undertaken by a Greek Chorus (Elbert Joseph, Michael John Ciszewski, and Emily Elmore), who use American Sign Language as part of their communication with the audience. As part of the direct and detailed explanation of who's who and what's what, we're told that the act of leaving a dead man unburied is a hideous desecration at which gods shudder with as much horror as mortals.

That might be notionally true, but as Antigone argues for defying Creon's edict out of religious necessity and sheer human decency, her talking points are winnowed away bit by bit, first when she debates the action with her fearful sister and then later, after being apprehended by a trio of loyal guards (Nicole Frattaroli, Kim Feener, and Michael Rodriguez), with Creon. This latter debate goes on far longer - and covers far more ground - than the first one. It also throws some juicy twists and reveals into the mix, stuff that should give Antigone sound reasons for reconsidering her hard-headed determination to pursue a suicidal course of action.

That, of course, is the essence of tragedy: Antigone won't listen to Creon because she is hard headed, and she's not impressed by either his carefully reasoned arguments or his delicately weighed statesmanship. There's a moral imperative of some sort that she's clinging to, and it's so large and firm in her mind that nothing can send so much as a tremor through her convictions.

But what, exactly, is that moral imperative? The honor of house and family? A fear for Polynices' soul, which superstition says will wander the earth unless his body is interred? A blind, faith-based terror that the city will suffer divine wrath? Or maybe a civic-minded concern that the people of Thebes will be so disgusted that fresh paroxysms of civil strife will erupt?

One thing the two of them agree on is that Creon is brutal, relying on force to keep order. But Creon isn't so very brutal that he doesn't offer his rebellious niece off-ramp after off-ramp as she speeds down her chosen route to self-destruction. In the end, of course, things come to a place of total impasse where neither is willing to bend to the other's will, but before they get there it's Creon who has given far more ground than Antigone, who hasn't budged an inch.

Such is the certitude of youthful fervor, and those focused on purity of intent might applaud Antigone for it. By comparison, Creon is wishy-washy and irresolute. The thing is, none of that matters; Creon possesses the legal power here, even if Antigone keeps hold of her moral authority, and in the end there's a lot of suffering and death for little constructive purpose.

This is a play written in the shadow of Paris' occupation by Nazis, and its clashing themes of pragmatism and ideology - or, if you like, the survival of the "good enough" (or not really good at all) versus the self-propelled extinguishing of the unflinchingly pure - speak forcefully to us in the Trump era, as it has in eras past. There is a reason, after all, that Sophocles' classic play has retained its power for, literally, millennia, and there's a reason why Anouilh's version of the play feels timelessly raw.

This production's design work is inventive all around, from Chris Larson's percussive sound work to E. Rosser's eclectic, era-spanning costumes. The staging, too, is potent: Director Lindsay Eagle knows how to keep a talky production moving at speed, and even getting to your seat is an adventure thanks to scenic designer Darren Cornell's labyrinthine, subterranean-feeling passageway into the black box space.

The performance area itself has a blend of ancient and modern about it. A shattered Doric column stands to the left, and a large urn to the right, as banners catch the vivid hues supplied by lighting designer PJ Strachman. It's into this milieu that The Chorus enter like a team of archaeologists, searching around and then uncovering a vessel they use for some cryptic rite involving what looks like a bottle of booze. The atmospherics are gripping.

But there are problems, largely to do with the production's need, at a late date, to replace the actor originally slated to play Creon (and then, in a double dose of misfortune, forced to replace the actor initially intended to sub in for the role). While Page steps in heroically to ensure that the show goes on - and does so without time to master all his dialogue - one has a sense he might not have been the ideal fit to begin with. He lacks the hard edges of a despot; nor does he have the blend of overbearing authoritarianism and delusional haziness of our own president. What sort of tyrant is he? An unusually mild one, it would seem; his affect is more like an accountant or a university professor, as he muses on the theoreticals of centralized control, than a tyrant who's learning the use of power as a blunt instrument.

What might simply be a case of miscasting is aggravated by technical difficulties. In what seemed an intriguingly anachronistic touch - not too out of place, though, considering the melding of ancient Greek design touches with the modern flourishes - Creon wields a tablet device which he consults and pecks at from time to time. At first this seems like another stylistic choice - why not? A busy tyrant has to keep up with lot of things at every moment - but then it becomes clear that Page isn't fussing with the tablet for effect, he's using it help remember his lines. As an aid to the actor, the tablet proves less effectual than a paper script might be; the rehearsal I attended found him fumbling for several moments with the device, scrolling away in an attempt to find the passage he needed to recall.

The need to replace an actor on short notice is an occasional fact of life in theater, and audiences are generally understanding. I've seen one or two productions in which a late substitution required an actor to read lines directly from the script, and when this was explained up front to the audience it simply became part of the performance, with the actor coming across as a real trouper for making sure the show went on.

Let's be clear that Page - a veteran with a lengthy stage resume to his credit - is indeed a trouper, and he's to be commended. He might not seem quite right for the role, but he's taken it on with impressive fortitude. Still, a word of explanation would have taken the puzzlement out of the experience. Moreover, reliance on a script, cue cards, or other crutches can be stylistically integrated into the proceedings so as to minimize distraction. (That busy tyrant, as noted above, might have cause to check back on his device rather frequently; there's nothing a contemporary despot needs more than Twitter, and we all know the demands of texts and emails make on our time and attention.)

None of that was done here, though, and the awkward pauses at the performance I saw led to moments when it felt like an anxiety dream had come to life. While that could be construed as fulfilling Aristotle's mandate that the audience be compelled to experience terror and pity, it didn't really work in service of the play.

Vitale's work seemed to be affected by these difficulties, too; though her scenes with the actors before and following the song central debate with Creon offered a range of nuance and color, the onstage difficulties she faced required Vitale to work harder at keeping the momentum going. In this already challenging scene, Vitale's performance loses some of that nuance.

These difficulties do not mask the fact that "Antigone" is a work that speaks directly and passionately to a recurring problem that lies close to the heart of civilization. How far is too far when it comes to exerting authority and control? How far is too far when it comes to pushing back against authority that overreaches? Even the Chorus - which spends much of the play lurking on the periphery like invisible agencies - reveal themselves to Creon and argue with him in anguish when he reaches a point where he can no longer waver or compromise. If the gods weep to see us making the same grievous mistakes over and over again, it's the playwright's job to make us look past our own certainties and weep with them at our own frailties.

"Antigone" continues through March 31 at the Black Box space at the Mosesian Center for the Arts in Watertown. For tickets and more information, please go to https://www.flatearththeatre.com/shows/season-12/antigone/