The horror of birth is oft lost in the profundity of creation.
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein graphically explores the tension between the creator and creation or the parent and the child. Equally famous is the birth of that novel: a child-centric summer in Switzerland. Byron fights to see his daughter while impregnating Shelley’s sister; Mary and Percy care for their second child, prepare for the birth of the third, and silently mourn the death of their firstborn; Percy defends a local nanny accused of murdering a child. The melodrama of these Hideous Progeny was enacted by the Livewire Chicago Theatre company.
Mary creates her monster in an act of catharsis. The play hints at that act but is content to focus on the raw emotions among the vibrant characters. The actors do a fine job of balancing the outlandish behaviors with small scenes hinting at the pain hidden by those facades. The flippant word games and sexual intrigues distract from the talent and intellect of the true life counterparts, but are easier to display.
Returning to the monstrous catharsis, the play provides a context for the novel’s readers and generates the core question: who is the monster? The dead firstborn child? The petty traumas inflicted by the residents in that Swiss summer home? The difficulties of artistic creation? The risk of childbirth in that age? The plight of intellectual woman in that era? The burden of surviving as a child when your mother died in childbirth?
Mary Shelley was a surviving child and the mother of a dead child and of living children. She eventually married an artist and was one herself. She understood biological and intellectual creation. Her articulate, human, and rage-filled monster symbolized complete creation and the struggle between parent and child or prey and predator.
The dance between prey and predator is displayed in shadow, puppet, and human animal form in Julie Taymor’s The Lion King, at the Cadillac Palace. Her minimal use of dialogue and music provides a skeleton for the story. The battles among animals are the bulk of the stage time. Taymor’s shadows, puppets, and human animals continually stalk, restlessly prowling the stage. There is no death; there is no creation; there is no angst; there is only the circle of life. All beings participate.
Taymor’s interpretation of The Lion King deepens the moral lessons of the film and forces the audience to recognize its part in the circle. The joy at the birth of Simba and sadness at the death of Mustafa are tempered. The events are expected and are to be respected. Each creature is subservient to this lifecycle. Taymor evokes feelings of peace and belonging, where Shelley emphasizes the mystery and violence of birth and death. Shelley and her creation are outcasts from their families and from society at large. They are battle-hardened, showing the scars from their dances as both prey and predator. The consequences of their wounds are on vivid display in the play and in the novel.
Artistically, The Lion King is a complete, thoughtful piece, based on slighter material. Hideous Progeny struggles to humanize its strong personalities, though its source material is deeper. Both plays and their complementary works challenge their audiences. Is birth/death a comforting, cyclic inevitability? Or are the complexities of birth/death too horrifying to ignore?