Metamorphoses

Maybe Ovid, the Latin poet (43 BC to 17 AD) was a lot like Liz Smith. His tales disclosed some wicked and heartfelt truths about the gods and goddesses that society worshipped. As adapted by Mary Zimmerman in her play METAMORPHOSES, they do carry on a bit like the celebs of our day.

There’s Midas for one who discovers the reality of change when those he loves turn to gold. And Orpheus, the great artist, whose sudden self-consciousness or impatience, cause him to glance backwards at Eurydice. These stories about characters on the brink of success who overstep their boundaries are familiar to us today.

But by far the most charming tale told here is about Phaeton and his father Phoebus Apollo. Lying on a yellow float in the 30’ pool of water in which METAMORPHOSES is staged, the youth discloses his feelings to his poolside psychotherapist. It is a kind of David Hockney setting, with the shimmering water evoking a veritable suburban mecca. Phoebus Apollo, of course, is the god of the sun, who our bathing confessor has never met, but whom he finally approaches, wheedling his way into his office, past his assistants…the days, the hours, and the century. But after a warm embrace Phaeton asks his father for the keys to the car "and the old man quickly starts back peddling".

The other tales have less immediacy. And while they are artfully staged and well-acted, they are not always compelling. In fact the entire production is a tour de force in the artifice of story telling, with little relevance to the subject matter itself. In fact, Zimmerman’s play of archetypes offers more pretense than reality.

That’s This Week on Broadway. I’m Isa Goldberg.