Marie Antoinette and Romeo & Juliet

My daughter expressed an interest in seeing the movie Marie Antoinette, and since I almost always enjoy a period film, and it showed every sign of having some kind of educational value (that’s me — the fun parent!), I was happy to oblige. Besides, my son is studying the French Revolution at school at the moment, so it was quite opportune.

Of course, it’s a movie that has plenty of appeal on a purely aesthetic level: the beautiful shots of Versailles, including its opulent interiors, the spectacular — and, from our perspective, laughably eccentric — costumes, the lavish tables. The soundtrack is wonderfully eclectic with a good dose of anachronisms thrown in with the baroque fare. I found that these, along with Kirsten Dunst’s approach to the role, make it easy for the North American audience to identify with the character. We see her as a whole person — — one who faced her own heartache, and who showed remarkable inner strength in the face of enormous challenges. We see the world through her eyes, and it is not until the end of the film that we see one or two very short glimpses of the commoners who made up the vast majority of France’s population. Otherwise, like Marie Antoinette, we are spared the images of backbreaking toil, inadequate housing, starvation, and disease. As I watched Marie Antoinette shopping for shoes and fabric during her excursions to Paris, or consulting with her perruquier about the design of her next wig, or fastening a bejewelled collar on one of her puppies, I couldn’t help but think that this American-accented dauphine would be easy for many a contemporary material girl to relate to. And I began to realize that the privileged North is not so very different from the Bourbons cloistered away in Versailles enjoying their prodigal lifestyle, completely out of touch with the realities that face the majority who must pay for it.

When the movie was over, my daughter asked, “Why did everyone hate her so much?” Yes, I thought. This is awfully close to home.

Last night, my wife, our friend Maria and I had a very different entertainment experience. We went to a play put on by a small cooperative company at a tiny theatre with seating for no more than 60. It was an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet by Joe Colarco called Shakespeare’s R&J. In a repressive Catholic school, four boys secretly discover Shakespeare’s text and enact it, taking the various roles in turn. It’s a fascinating take on the classic, layering the relationships between the boys on top of the roles they are playing, as they explore feelings of guilt, shame, love and jealousy. I’m no theatre critic, but I found the production quite wonderful. I enjoyed its spareness — two or three risers and a wire fence were the only set, and a long red cloth the only prop — which put the full spotlight on some virtuosic performances. I also liked the immediacy of the small production — being able to see the nuances of facial expressions and tears.

I had been a little apprehensive about inviting my wife and our friend along; I’d wondered if they might feel awkward watching men share a tender kiss (or if I would feel strange watching with them). But as it happened, I needn’t have worried. It was all perfectly comfortable, and they both enjoyed it as much as I did. And that was another thing that made the evening so enjoyable.