Set in Vienna in the late 19th century, “Anatol” follows the romantic dalliances of the namesake protagonist, an aging Austrian playboy in constant search of female affection. The play is an episodic depiction of Anatol’s many interrelated affairs, each depicting him simultaneously deluding and distrusting himself with his women.
Originally written by 19th-century Austrian playwright, Arthur Schnitzler, “Anatol” was translated for the Aurora Theatre Company by Schnitzler specialist Margret Schafer and directed by the group’s founding artistic director Barbara Oliver. Composed of only six scenes and four actors, “Anatol” does a lot with a little, a truly interesting concept for a play about a sentimental mess of a serial lover.
The play has a deeply reflective bend to it, as Anatol is provoked into explaining the rotating spokes of both mind and heart. His frivolous sense of sentimentality and reckless need to find love in its purest and most complex form, reveal a view of humanity that is both skeptical and pessimistic. As Sigmund Freud put it in a letter to Schnitzler, “I believe that at bottom you are a depth psychologist, one supremely unbiased, honest and unafraid to tell the truth about human beings.”
At the same time, “Anatol” is a comedy. The dialogue is crisp and witty, and even long-winded, potentially maudlin lines are kept with the tone of the play through subtle hints of humor. The exchanges are reminiscent of those written by Oscar Wilde, specifically those exchanges between Anatol and his sardonically faithful pal Max. The material has the ability to deliver solid social commentary without ever once letting on about it.
The Aurora Theatre Company did no mere justice to “Anatol.” They took the charged and resonant material and reveled in it, creating a production that spins every line and expands into every silence with a gentleness and nuance that can be both sidesplitting and heartbreaking. And while this is in large part due to Barbara Oliver’s sensitive direction, it is more so due to the performances of four extremely talented actors.
Aurora newcomer Mike Ryan eased into the role of Anatol, creating a character in equal part flamboyant and believable, perceptive and blind, foolish and insightful, sentimental and skeptical. He played the part of an aging playboy in a way that was necessarily unconventional in Anatol, displaying the character’s complete lack of resolve and ability to find, nearly simultaneously, both the sweet and the ugly in all things. As a man in pursuit of heart, Anatol is always trapped in the turbulence of unresolved feelings, and Ryan did so most remarkably with a nuanced breath of silliness.
Playing all of the six women — ranging from Russian circus performer to aristocratic housewife — theatre veteran Delia MacDougall was breathtaking, taking on each new role with fresh inclination, posture and air, morphing from one woman into the next in a way that was spookily reminiscent of the plot’s thematic undertones. She was absolutely extraordinary. Each woman was crafted with such care, such specific expression in their eyes, that it is impossible to mistake one of her performances for another.
As Anatol’s trusted friend Max, a sarcastic playboy in his own right, wielding a sense of humor dry enough to dehydrate fruit, actor Tim Kniffin was spot-on. Not only did he nail the amused nature of the character, possessing an air of assuredness and elegance completely absent from Anatol, he also found a way to infuse the role with warm undertones. His delivery was perhaps the snappiest, with never a line wasted.
With a solid base and nearly flawless execution, “Anatol” was an indulgence for character and audience alike.
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