I first wrote about a Festival Theatre production of “Romeo & Juliet” back in 1993 and have since seen two other productions in Austin Gardens. This summer’s performance, which begins July 5, will be the fourth. I never tire of the play and its extraordinary language. The following piece, “Festival Theatre: A star-crossed night,” can be found in my book, “Our Town Oak Park – Walk with Me in Search of True Community,” in the Settings chapter on page 146, one of 90 short essays capturing “community” in this village. The book is available at The Book Table, 1045 Lake St.
In some parks you play ball or barbecue or run your dog or toss a frisbee. And then there are parks like Austin Gardens, where, for six weeks each summer, Shakespeare’s players strut and fret their hours upon a temporary stage. Think of it as Stratford on Forest Avenue.
Normally, this is a place of repose — part woods, part meadow, circled by a paved walkway. There’s also a gravel path through the wildflowers (in spring) among the trees on the north end.
This is about the last place you’d expect to find impassioned soliloquies, desperate swordfights, and star-crossed lovers, but that’s what’s in store on this muggy evening for the 100 or so spectators who have staked their turf with lawn chairs and blankets, forming an expansive semi-circle that fans out from the wooden stage.
Four tall erector-set towers roughly define the parameters of the seating area. A cluster of lights perch on top, aimed at the stage below. A cat’s cradle of wires connects the towers, and ground cables wind like snakes through the grass.
This summer’s scheduled Shakespeare al fresco is Romeo & Juliet, courtesy of Festival Theatre, which has been doing this for over four decades, but that fearful consequence hangs in the stars, which won’t be visible until dusk thickens into night. At the moment, wine and cheese and full-blown picnics are currently the centerpiece. Salami, crackers, and fluted glasses form lovely still-life arrangements atop wicker baskets, short-legged tables, and plastic coolers.
Petunias in window boxes decorate the skeletal stage, which will shortly serve as a villa, garden and Verona’s town square. “I’ll bet I know where Juliet stands,” observes one sharp-eyed patron d’art, pointing to a balconesque construct to the right. A man wearing a blue Festival Theatre T-shirt interrupts consumption and conversation, in medias res, to beseech the audience to fill out their surveys, necessary for future grants.
They need to know how often we attend live theater, how much money we make, and how much time and how many dollars we’ve spent in Oak Park as part of our “theater experience.” Don’t forget babysitting charges. You can see where all this is heading, but in the current economy, one can forgive an arts organization its sense of urgency about hustling funds.
As dusk deepens, the thicket of trees behind the stage seems to close ranks and creep forward like Dunsinane Wood (but that’s another story). Renaissance music flows from the speakers on either side of the stage. The heavy, drapery-like costumes can’t be comfortable on a sultry night like this.
She doth teach the torches to burn bright. … she hangs upon the cheek of night … beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. … Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, for I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.
Lights bathe the set, accented by sporadic fireflies and heat lightning to the north, providing an appropriate backdrop to the charged atmosphere of ancient grudge and bloody mutiny that is the business of our next three hours.
The stage itself hangs upon the cheek of night, the beauty of the language too rich for use, for earth too dear. The brightness shames the stars as daylight doth a lamp, so bright that birds sing and think it were not night. By whose direction did we find this place? By love, that first did prompt us to inquire. He lent us counsel, we lent him our eyes.
In the front row, two young gentlemen (not from Verona) invite two young ladies to combine blankets with them. Perhaps more stars will cross this night than the doomed duo onstage.
The actors speak their speeches trippingly from the tongue (yet another story) while, along the western edge of the park, lit windows of a condo building remain open, perhaps to catch this midsummer night’s livestream dream.
Overhead, an occasional phantom aircraft crosses the Big Dipper like some evil omen. As if on cue, the fortunes of our two heroes take a decided turn for the worse. There never was a tale of more woe, but the crowd doesn’t seem bummed. Their applause, though muffled by the great suburban outdoors, is appreciative, in spite of the decidedly downbeat ending.
What a civilized way to spend an evening in the village’s most civilized park. The audience lingers afterward on the green meadow, nailing down vacation plans, finishing drinks, packing coolers, and, finally, strolling off into the star-crossed night, swearing by the moon, or by Shakespeare’s gracious self, which is the god of our idolatry.
“Romeo & Juliet,” Festival Theatre’s 2024 production, begins with previews on July 5 and runs through Aug. 17 onstage in Austin Gardens.