A new production of William Shakespeare's THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, directed by Vickram Kapadia, and part of the Aadyam theatre initiative by the Aditya Birla group, gives us a gloriously self-mocking Portia, played by Ira Dubey, who strides in and out of umpteen costume-changes with the quality of a woman who wears her entitlement very lightly. Her sartorial sass is much in evidence in designs by Gaviin Miguel, including a two-piece bikini, several evening gowns, and of course, the fitted suit that passes her off as a male lawyer from Padua. This production, in a touch similar to a lauded British version by Rupert Goold that is also set in the glitz of casino culture, provides the 'choosing of the caskets' with the trappings of a TV game show. The blue-blooded suitors are introduced like reality TV contestants, with gaudy blowups against a backdrop of sheer curtains.
A dependable (but under-utilized) Neil Bhoopalam shows off leading-man cred and solid comedic timing in the peripheral parts of the princely suitors. Dubey clearly relishes her turn, and balances her showboating with a good measure of Portia's wisdom and poise, only occasionally bringing out her array of accents, that served her so well in 9 PARTS OF DESIRE, for an airing. As a somewhat prominent Gratiano, Jim Sarbh appears to go off on several ad-libbing sprees that substantially enliven the proceedings, and provides moments of cheer to an audience that, in this particular show, consisted of vast swathes of school-children for whom applause is a strange clapping game.
However, their ministrations cannot really offset the failings of the principal male cast. It must be said that Luke Kenny does invest his hapless Antonio with a plaintive rectitude in the last act, but Rajeev Siddhartha's Bassanio is all personality and no character, and Shylock - one of Shakespeare's most complex characters - is reduced to an insipid gentility by Vickram Kapadia's straight-laced turn. He does give in sporadically to snatches of camp hyperventilation, but his white-collar stockbroker in a three-piece suit is completely devoid of conflict. This is unfortunate because the politics of the original has immense resonance in the fractured times we live in - the 'other' is an entity on whom is centred our fears and apprehensions. But here, Shylock is very much a part of the establishment, almost the purveyor of a gentleman's club (to which Antonio and Bassanio are most certainly welcome). There is a discernible 'whiteness' that washes over the proceedings (like this year's disparaged Oscars telecast, perhaps), underlined by Jaswinder Singh's use of a distinctly South Asian accent for his part as Launcelot, Shylock's minion of suspect stock. A liveried Singh is spirited and soars in the few minutes he is allotted (quite deserving of a play of his own) but in a reversal that emphasizes this internal class logic, becomes the brooding Duke of Venice with a colorless drawl in the courtroom sequence.
Although the play's publicity material exhorts us to 'imagine the 21st century', there isn't much by way of adaptation. Instead, we are accosted with a retrograde world in which gay men are sissies (if you ignore the play's central bromance, as this production does) and women's behinds are routinely slapped. The trappings of glitz are well established with an opening sequence set in a night-club. The attempt to introduce on-stage audience members as part of this party setting seems like a gimmick that hasn't been thought through, but a crooning drag queen (a sincere Mikhail Vaishnav) taking up duties as Solanio, the play's opening character, is an ingenious choice. Indeed, a shape-shifting Vaishnav provides atmospheric 'fillers' - commiserating with Salerio (Anil Ramani) in a sauna, or turning up as a mustachioed balladeer in the play's romantic interludes.
However, dapper accoutrements can scarcely stop the outworn selves of the characters from emerging, and playing out their decidedly 16th century woes. So Dubey's efforts in updating Portia into a new-age paragon whose benevolence doesn't smack of feminine subservience come to naught. Ultimately, the creaking floorboards and static scenes extract (if you'll pardon the cliche), an irretrievable pound of flesh from this bloodless enterprise.
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