Oh for a muse of fire. Or any muse, really. I’m so conflicted about the Tennessee Shakespeare Company‘s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that I’m nearly at a loss for words. And I sincerely wonder if the audience that clamored to their feet to give this sweet but sexless Dream a standing ovation carried that palpable excitement all the way home or if the enchantment lifted somewhere along the way, leaving the poor souls to wonder if they’d mistakenly fallen for an ass. Because, for all of the detail and beautifully spoken words, there were several things about this show that, to borrow a phrase, were sent before their time into this breathing world scarce half made up. And I couldn’t help but wonder if most members of the attractive and richly costumed cast were accustomed to performing outside or in houses much larger than Germantown’s intimate Poplar Pike Playhouse. That at least might explain why so many of the players shouted their lines, pronouncing each word as though Shakespeare’s phonics were more important than any attendant meaning.
