Steamy, windowless rooms. Vodka shots from a stranger. Poppers. Pop girls. Loud gay guys. Lots of loud gay guys. One wears a wig. Such is the sensory vocabulary of June in cities as beautifully queer as ours. We’ve hit the second week of Pride Month, folks, where group chats begin to assess “the move,” scouring Instagram for parties to attend. And you will find all of these delights and more at The Modern Rep’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Yes, you read that right, Shakespeare’s own. Director Grant Sorenson has spun the Bard’s most saturated comedy into a complex gay romp with a six-man cast. Don’t be intimidated by the hithers, thees, and thous. Leave your Renaissance preconceptions at the door, because the cast will snatch you bald of them regardless.
Here’s a Midsummer crash course for those who need it. In a wooded dreamscape, four Athenian lovers enter arranged marriages against their hearts’ desires. Unbeknownst to them, the forest’s warring fairy kingdoms remix their love stories. A bumbling crew of actors gets hilariously tangled up in the drama. (If that’s too much to wrap your head around, just imagine a Shakespearean take on Obsession.)
Over the past year, Sorenson has pioneered a flurry of bold and experiential new Twin Cities theater projects. He’s directed local playwright Kurt Engh’s Only Ugly Guys, the monthly one-night-only Table/Read, and Oscar Wilde’s Salomé. In July, he’ll open The Modern Rep, a new theater company dedicated to freshening up the classics.
“We’re looking at the way that these plays that make up the bedrock of the Western canon can still be given productions as if they were written yesterday,” Sorenson says.
Midsummer precedes the company’s official launch, and it accomplishes this mission expertly.
The show is staged in The Modern Rep’s North Loop home at 901 N. Third St., a building shared with Butcher and the Boar, but you might not realize when entering through its back alleyway garage door. This covert introduction to the space sets the tone for the experience. Instead of hiding behind a curtain, actors roam the floor from house open, plying audience members with tattoos, shots, and snacks.
“I want people to feel like when they see anything I do as a theatremaker, that it’s a space for socialization and conversation,” Sorenson says. “My two favorite things are making theater and throwing parties, so any opportunity where I can sort of do both of those things in one go is really satisfying to me.”
Guests sit on bleachers arranged in the thrust. (Be prepared for some slight butt discomfort by the end—like any good Pride event.) Disco balls, vines, and string lights adorn the space. The only set pieces are a bare mattress, piles of rubber mulch, and support columns that members of the dextrous ensemble float up and down like sprites. Shannon Elliott’s crafty lighting design, which ushers the audience through varied scenes of fantasy, complements this simplicity.
Shakespeare’s most visible devotees tend to be heady academics or pun-obsessed nerds. Thank God, then, that we have theatremakers in the Twin Cities who accomplish the impressive undertaking of seeing his text plainly for what it is, showing us something there we couldn’t find ourselves. Sorenson strips 400 years of context to create a completely original experience while staying faithful to the script (with a few well-earned exceptions).
“He’s one of the most collaborative playwrights you can work with,” Sorenson says. “The text can take it.”
Too often, contemporary theater fixates on discovering a novel Shakespeare twist. Many directors force an angle with clunky design choices that don’t translate to a meaningful new access point for viewers. Something similar can happen with queered productions, where an opportunity for critical analysis ultimately functions as a casting decision.
But with this cast, the play’s conflict elevates from crowd-pleasing rom-com love polygons to thorny dynamics of consent, violence, and desire. That doesn’t diminish the humor, though. The inventiveness of Shakespeare’s horny double entendres really get to shine with a bunch of gays, whose culture has fashioned so much of its identity through the perversion and play of language. The fairies, woods, and “fiery shafts” get milked for all their comedic worth.
The sexuality of Shakespeare here becomes propulsive, shading each moment with new colors. The mechanicals’ shadowy rendezvous in the woods thrills with its undertones of cruising. The fantastical aspects of the show allow queer emotions to transcend the typical anxieties forced onto modern gay characters. Even when realist narratives don’t directly engage themes of isolation or homophobia, their implications linger and affect our perceptions of queerness. In fairyland, though, none of the characters carry that self-consciousness.
This allows us to receive the actors’ emotional precision more purely. At one point Helena, played by the fabulous Jonathan Edwards, crawls across the floor as she begs Demetrius: “Use me as your spaniel.” The moment is funny, yes, but the palpability of kink allows Helena’s barefaced desperation to carry a deep and human sadness.
Triple casting the company creates an intense and demanding challenge for all six actors. They are all fit for the job, delivering physical performances with vocal versatility. Clever costuming aides the rapid character switches. Each actor wears a stylish and contemporary base layer that morphs under flowy garments, patterned corsets, and bulky regalia. (The most inspired costume choice is Helena’s simple t-shirt reading “Who’s A Good Boy?”)
David Michaeli executes the most arduous track as Hermia, Oberon, and Quince, springing with energy the whole way through. Kashif Shakti exudes elegant androgyny as Titania. Leo Rossmiller’s carefully wielded vocal fry transforms the fussy Bottom, often played as neurotic, into a fierce diva.
Puck, the troublemaker played with flirtatious abandon by Richard Rigmaiden, toggles each couple’s chemistry between homosocial and homosexual—dynamics familiar to many gay men, whose relationships often find such nuanced forms of intimacy. Familiar, too, are the way that drugs and substances act as potions that affect attraction.
Those familiar with Midsummer might expect the musical numbers to be ethereal a capella harmonies or enchanting strings. Sorenson’s production favors Slayyyter-scored sex scenes, Luther Vandross lip syncs, and a show-stopping J-pop dance battle. They take many more risks with the play’s base elements, most of them so delightfully shocking that I’ll leave them unspoiled.
Before you buy that ticket to a Heated Rivalry rave, consider treating yourself to something a little more—sorry, there’s no other way to say it—faggy.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Where: The Modern Rep, 901 N. Third St., Minneapolis
When: through Saturday, June 20 at
Tickets: Regular admission ranges from $35 to $50, with students and industry members getting in for $20 to $25. (They’ve been pretty generous with the discount codes over at @dreammpls on Instagram, too.)
