Theatre in Review: Timon of Athens (The Public Theater) Sometimes I think Shakespeare's problem plays aren't so problematic after all. Take Measure for Measure: For decades, if not centuries, it was dismissed as a tangle of ill-fitting plot developments -- until the culture wars of the last 30 years, with their parade of political and religious hypocrites, made it seem a work of acute psychological observation. Then there's Timon of Athens, long-regarded as all but unstageable until Brian Bedford and Michael Cumpsty both had successes with it in the '90s. Today, as we continue to nurse our national economic hangover, this tale of a spendthrift millionaire who loses everything -- his friends, his home, and his place in society -- when he goes bankrupt couldn't be timelier. And in Richard Thomas, Barry Edelstein's production has a Timon who can stand proudly alongside his predecessors. This is not to say that Timon of Athens isn't notable for its many stylistic quirks. There's a range in the quality of the dialogue -- from nearly sublime to surprisingly flat-footed -- which has led many to wonder if Shakespeare wrote it at all. (According to the program notes, modern scholarship, aided by computer textual analysis, strongly suggests that Shakespeare's co-author was Thomas Middleton, author of the notorious period potboiler, The Changeling.) Possibly because more than one hand was involved, there's a pronounced disconnect between the play's two halves. The first part -- which apparently reflects Middleton's influence --is a brash series of cartoons designed to establish, to an exhaustive degree, that Timon is being fleeced by an army of "friends" who mooch off his hospitality, petition him for favors, and sell him needless luxury items. The second half takes place in a landscape located somewhere between Lear's blasted heath and the metaphysical desert of Waiting for Godot Technically a tragedy, it ends with no satisfying restoration of the moral order; Timon dies alone and unredeemed, and Athens is invaded and put under martial law. And yet, it is the play's apparent flaws that make it seem so jarringly modern to our eyes, a fact that Edelstein turns to his advantage. Rather than trying to impose some unifying concept on the script, he emphasizes the dichotomy of styles, gambling, successfully, that the performances will hold everything together. Thus, when Timon hosts a banquet, it is presented in comically extravagant terms -- a giant tub of caviar is passed around and bits of gold leaf are scattered around the room. A post-dinner screening begins with It's a Wonderful Life, followed by vintage pornography, sending the guests into a lustful frenzy. "I am wealthy in my friends," Timon announces, all but echoing the last line of the Capra cornball classic ("Poor? I'm the richest man in town!"). It's all an illusion, of course, for the money soon runs out and Timon finds himself starkly, stunningly alone. The second half, which arguably shows Shakespeare's hand, takes in a kind of dumping ground, with Timon, now looking like a member of the homeless community, emptying slop buckets and venting his spleen against humanity; when he finds a box of gold, he gives it away to the military officer Alcibiades, to finance his war against Athens. Even more than in most productions, money here is seen as a rogue element, distorting reality, corrupting relationships, and leaving its possessor cut off from the fundamental facts of life. If Thomas' performance seems a bit unremarkable at first, it's only that, in the early scenes, he has little to do but play an agreeable dupe. Disaster lends him stature, however, and, near the end of the first half, he rattles the theatre's foundations with his denunciation of his false friends. In the second half, he is transformed into a feral creature, bearded and shaggy-haired, dressed in rags, his posture more like an animal's than a man's. And yet he retains -- or, perhaps, has finally found -- a savage tongue for commenting on the evil around him. Not only does Thomas plausibly evoke both sides of the character, he somehow makes them seem aspects of the same unhappy individual. Given some of his recent roles -- most of which haven't called on his full range -- it's easy to forget just how abundantly gifted the actor is. This performance signals that he is ready, willing, and able to take on the most demanding classical roles. The rest of Edelstein's production is swift, efficient, and devastating in its lack of ornament and fuss. Max Casella makes a number of smart appearances as Apemantus, the misanthrope, casting a gimlet eye on the circus surrounding Timon. Amusingly, at Timon's dinner party, he is made to sit at the children's table, and later he returns to offer a tart assessment of Timon's change of heart. Reg E. Cathey is suitably enraged as Alcibiades, who turns against Athens when one of his soldiers is given cursory treatment in the city's court. And Mark Nelson is a compelling presence as Flavius, Timon's steward, who stands by in sorrow and rage as his master's wealth is squandered. I also liked Triney Sandoval as Sempronius, one of Timon's falsest friends, here depicted as a dissolute gay playboy, and Greg McFadden, with his carefully tailored "bohemian" look (complete with artfully arrayed scarf) as a poet who busies himself composing odes to the wealthy Timon. Some of Neil Patel's best designs are also his most minimal; this is the case here, with Timon's world of wealth artfully suggested by a large table, a handful of chairs, some elegant carpeting and a few carelessly placed chandeliers. In the second half, the stage becomes a dumping ground through the opening of a number of doors in the deck. Russell H. Champa's lighting easily reshapes the mode and configuration of the stage from scene to scene. Leon Rothenberg's sound design provides solid reinforcement for Curtis Moore's melancholy guitar score. Katherine Roth's costumes plausibly dress the action in modern wear. Andrew C. Kircher created that bizarrely effective dinner party film sequence. This production is part of the Public's Lab series, which is mostly devoted to new works, but, in this case, aimed for a stripped-down approach to a classic text. The result is strong enough to make you question if too many Shakespeare productions don't suffer from an overload of conceptual thinking. Even if the play is supposedly a problem, the author's great words are surely enough to carry the day.--David Barbour 
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