CARNAL NATION

Titus Andronicus is the first show in the "Grudge Match: DMT Vs. Shakespeare" series ("in which nearly all of the Bard's great works will be ruthlessly mutilated, bent, battered, cut to ribbons and otherwise manhandled," so sayeth the program) from Danse Macabre Theatrics, the good folks whose critically-acclaimed S&M futuristic fantasia Bitch Macbeth likewise played to enthusiastic audiences at The Brick Theater in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. If you're not familiar with the Bard's goriest work, which pits the titular Roman general against the queen of the Goths Tamora in a setting in which vengeance reigns king, all the better. Director Frank Cwiklik's multimedia production dispenses with the modern parallel-drawing yawn inducements to do something even more important than simply making Shakespeare relevant to today's world. He's made the Bard's text actually come alive in a riveting and twisting thriller, honoring the playwright through the "mutilation" of his work. 

And the first twist is that the macho warrior general is a she, lending the production an air of Mother Courage. Titus is played by Kymberly Tuttle, a tiny blond thoroughly believable in the role of ruthless heroine since she—along with the rest of this solid ensemble—possesses such a strong command of the stage. All the performers, from Brianna Tyson as Tamora (the queen and her thuggish sons are "Goth" in both senses of the word) to Sean Phillips as the sexy scheming Moor, Aaron, don't ask us to watch but demand that we do through both the Bard's words and their own subtle body language. And the fact that Cwiklik has chosen to seat the audience at the back of The Brick's black box space (i.e., "onstage"), has cast us in the role of the Roman populace to be addressed by the players speaks volumes in and of itself. Since the exit is in the wings Cwiklik has psychologically trapped us in front of the show. We will witness the gruesome horrors, from rape to dismemberment, whether we want to or not. And crucially, we will be forced to delight in the torture porn every bit as much as the characters. When Ann Breitbach's sweet Lavinia begs for mercy from the stoic goddess Tamora, even as the queen's black eyeliner and leather collar wearing sons run their hands and torsos lewdly over the innocent redhead's body, we're horrified. Yet turned on.

For the Bard understood all too well that sexuality is power and violence is power. And power is, as that serial, Hollywood starlet-dating warmonger Henry Kissinger once put it, the "ultimate aphrodisiac." Holding absolute control over another's fate can be proof of one's own existence in the same way that childbearing can. Shakespeare was forever firmly aware that the act of creation and destruction are one and the same, which is why this scene with the queen and her sons is charged with a double rush of adrenaline. DMT's Titus Andronicus unfolds like a BDSM version of a car accident, with the adulterous "Mistress" Tamora and her slave offspring firmly in the driver's seat for most of the ride. The allure of revenge as all-consuming power trip at the heart of Shakespeare's work is made astonishingly transparent.

Add to this that the production itself is both visually and aurally heightened, and you've got one heck of a visceral experience. Between the set design that mainly consists of television sets displaying everything from picture-postcard home movies to tranquil forests to snuff-style executions, and the sound design with its booming gunshots and the screech of Poe-like crows, juxtaposed with thumping rock music—giving the illusion of a show twice its size—the play breathlessly moves at lightning speed like the Bard originally intended it to. Even the actors' eclectic fetishistic costumes, with military camouflage, flannel shirts and blue jeans, suits and ties, and punk belts and black T-shirts all present on the same stage, creates the feeling of a motley crew thrown together by necessity and not by choice. By the time we reach the Grand Guignol finale, preceded by television images of the characters slow and sultry dressing for the bloody banquet, the simple act of slicing a piece a pie takes on the weight of the world—that which rests on the Roman general's longsuffering shoulders. Relief comes only upon death, that ultimate release, and the cutting to the end credits on those TV screens