By Emily Parkhurst

Westbrook, ME, 15 July 2010.  Intermezzo Festival’s production of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods left me searching for the forest despite a couple of tall trees. While there were a few performers that stood above the rest, the overall production was flat as a clear-cut forest. There was little sense of ensemble when everyone was on stage, as if they were there in chorus voice only, their characters gone until they were called upon to conjure them up for solos.

Quitting the metaphor now, let me first explain the show. Into the Woods is a Sondheim favorite that follows a baker and his wife in their quest to get a curse reversed. The curse, placed on their family by a selfish witch, has prevented them from getting pregnant, something they both wish for “more than anything.” In the midst of their quest, they encounter several characters from childhood fairytales, including Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, and Rapunzel. As these characters live out the stories we all know so well, not shying from the violence and sex inherent in these tales, the baker and his wife eventually reverse the curse, whilst getting irreparably tangled in the lives of the fairytale characters.

Of course, we all think we know what we want when we wish for it. Turns out, we should all be more certain what we want is what we wish for; in true opera fashion, nearly everyone is dead by the end of the show. I’ve loved this show since I was a child. It’s a musical that grows darker, funnier, and more complex each time you see it. And having also sat in the pit for close to 100 performances, I’ve seen it and seen it. However, this time, I felt like I learned nearly nothing new.

Despite that, there were a few “moments” in these woods. Jacqueline Elyse Rosenthal, who played Jack’s mother, was gripping as soon as she stepped onto the stage. Her voice carried through the theater, her presence was arresting and her delivery was real. Rosenthal remained in character even when she wasn’t speaking or singing. The expression on her face and in her voice always matched, always conveyed the emotion, humor or tragedy, the scene called for. I found myself wishing she had a larger part.

Little Red Riding Hood, played by Melanie Burg, also stood out. She played the part with a lisp, a light skip, and that awkward goofiness of an adolescent girl. Her timing was solid throughout and her solo, “I know things now,” was one of the best performances of the night.

Cinderella, played by Carly Hughs, was less arresting than some of the others, but kept her energy through the performance. By the end, I was convinced she was a three-dimensional person I wanted to know more about. But it took the whole show.

Oh, but the princes. While there’s little emotional depth to them – what emotion can you really expect from Prince Charming? – both Michael Luongo, Cinderella’s prince, and Ian O’brien, Rapunzel’s prince, had me hanging on every word. From their posture and sense of their bodies on stage, to their clever interplay with each other during duets, these two were the highlight of the night. That Luongo also played a spectacular, sexy, terrifying Wolf, elevated him to show-thief for sure.

While some others, such as the Baker, played by William Macke, and Jack, played by Joseph Leno, held their own, many other performances, including the all-important witch, played by Katie Sarno, were utterly forgettable. There were times when, even sitting in the orchestra section of this relatively small theater, I could not hear them. When actors turned toward the back of the stage, their voices disappeared. When the eight-person orchestra got even mildly close to forte (particularly the two times the trumpet player actually hit her cues), only those in the first two rows would have heard from the Baker’s Wife, played by Kristina Wilson, or Cinderella’s mother, played by Catherine DeLuce. Even when the orchestra wasn’t playing at all, I could barely hear the Narrator, John M. Olsen, or Mysterious Man, Kristopher Howard, both of whom seemed to have little sense of their bodies on stage, little control over their movements.

Comparing this to the previous evening’s performance of Benjamin Britten’s The Turn of the Screw would be unfair: Different genre, different themes, different music. But as horrifying the topics are in Britten’s opera, I couldn’t turn away from that evening’s performance. I was engaged to the very last note.

At the end of the Sondheim, I was ready to leave the woods.

(Into the Woods music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, book by James Lapine.)