Romeo and Juliet

At last we have Tammy Tell Me True on the mainstage. George Hamlin has transformed Romeo and Juliet into a sugary epic. Teenagers will adore it, parents will approve: it's baby sex.

The spirit of the production manifested itself early. Romeo, when he was mooning over Roseline, twirled around in his cape like a little girl in a new party dress. Juliet on her first entrance seemed like the dark-haired ghost of Sandra Dee. Pristine unreality continued during their tete-a-tete at the Capulet's party. Warren Motley (Romeo) and Lori Heineman (Juliet) tossed out half sonnets as though they were inviting each other to milk and cookies. Not that they should have been bawdy. But they should have acted as if they were irresistably drawn to each other--otherwise there isn't much reason to get married after a little balcony scene.

That scene too Hamlin directed as if the lovers were simply applecheeked sweeties with a crush on one another. Motley had the shyness of a boy who bumped into a girl after tennis, was tremendously pleased, didn't know what to say. Miss Heineman, though her lines implied she'd been forward, gave us no sign of it. The lovers treated each other as if they were terribly delicate. One outbreak, one glance unprotected by coyness, and they would no longer look like valentines to the audience. What the actors, and presumably Hamlin, didn't realize about Romeo and Juliet is that their love is so intense they can be frank about it. Their expressiveness crystalizes their feeling for each other into a religion. They may not be wise about preserving themselves in the world, they may be young, but their creed is unshakable. Each is a disciple in his own eyes, a saviour in the eyes of the beloved.

The rest of the cast, except for Martin Andrucki and Sheila Hart, isn't worth mentioning. He interpreted Mercutio as a flit and she-with another director might have been an okay Nurse. Frank Hartenstein's set was a split-level bungalow that converted into a shower.