Holy Mackerel!

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 18/08/2023 (937 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

‘We must not imagine that there is nothing at the bottom of the sea but bare yellow sand,” wrote Hans Christian Andersen in the opening paragraph of The Little Mermaid, published in 1836. On the seafloor, the “most singular flowers and plants” grow, and even the slightest agitation causes them to stir as “if they had life.”

Andersen’s fishes didn’t swim, they “glided between the branches, as birds fly among the trees here upon land.”

It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?

Holy mackerel: it sounded even better at Rainbow Stage on Thursday, when the country’s longest-running outdoor musical theatre company also staked its claim as the best with a luminous, depth-defying and virtually flawless staging of the classic folk tale about desire and longing, centred on two starfish-crossed lovers searching for shared independence on common ground.

The production, fastidiously directed by Carson Nattrass, is a sonic and visual feast, with cast and crew working together like two species involved in a mutualistic relationship. Their underwater vision is unclouded and pristine, avoiding turbid clutter and any detritus, capturing the glory of the entire visual spectrum as promised by the Kildonan Park venue’s name.

Across two acts, The Little Mermaid tells the story of Ariel, the fish-tailed daughter of Triton, the king of the sea. Blessed with a gorgeous voice, Ariel yearns to explore life on land, where the handsome prince Eric catches her eye.

Triton despises the humans, convinced they were responsible for his wife’s untimely passing. With limited success, he and a bevvy of sea creatures attempt to keep Ariel’s head under water and out of the clouds.

Meanwhile, a bottom-feeding sea-witch seeks revenge and a seat on Triton’s throne, using Ariel as an unwitting pawn in her murderous long-game.

As Ariel, 24-year-old Julia Davis proves an ascendent talent, embodying a role she’s dreamed of playing since watching the animated version of The Little Mermaid as a three-year-old. Straddling two parallel, nutrient-rich universes, Davis performs with gravitas and gravity, defying the latter by summoning every ounce of the former with each upward climb in her pitch-perfect soprano.

Josh Bellan’s Prince Eric is equally impressive, embodying the “charming” epithet often associated with a fairy-tale royal, relying on a sensitive spirit and warmth that cannot be faked. Her Voice, an Act 1 standout, is a showcase for Bellan’s tenor, building to a leviathan boom and shrinking to a breathed whisper.

While the two romantic leads are excellent, the rest of the cast — especially Laura Olafson’s pithy Ursula, Joema Frith’s frazzled crab Sebastian and Nathaniel Muir’s knife-wielding Chef Louis — win admiration for their full-throated, full-bodied portrayals of beloved characters.

Emphasis on the body: choreographer Alexandra Herzog directs each performer’s movement with precision, elevating the narrative, the musicality and the actors’ characterizations by incorporating anatomical logistics while focusing on the diversity of movement under the ocean blue.

When Olafson — a glowing polyp with the vicious stare of Medusa — walks, she undulates, each of her inky limbs swaying like a hypnotist’s watch. Each step Frith takes as Sebastian lands with his toes pointed upward and whenever he enters the scene his claws lead the way, putting his anxious sidle at centre stage. Muir’s rotund Louis, who prepares poisson with murderous zeal, swims through the air as he saunters his way through a crowded kitchen. Dressed in balloon-pants, with his feet pointed sideward, Muir’s silhouette roughly resembles the fish he chops up for dinner.

The set, designed by Brian Perchaluk, is constantly churning, reflecting the ever-changing nature of the seafloor. Under Andrew St. Hilaire’s direction, the orchestra bounds between martial jaunts and island rhythms, building a polyphonic choral reef to match the lyricism of songs such as Kiss The Girl and Under the Sea, led with tremendous energy by Frith.

Costume co-ordinator Nancy Puttaert outfits every man, woman and snail remarkably well. Literal highlights included the fluorescent garb of Ursula, Flotsam (Alyssa Crockett) and Jetsam (Becky Frohlinger), which takes on greater prominence as the August sky — and momentarily, the plot — fades to black during the second act.

Indeed, it’s after intermission when the full impact of Scott Henderson and Ksenia Broda-Milian’s lighting design is felt: many of Puttaert’s costumes are embedded with bulbs and shimmering material, while props, such as Ursula’s conch, glow in the dark. The stage is framed by a roped border, studded with colour-changing pearls that force the eye toward the action beneath.

Of course, a musical set in the water involves the creative challenge of mirroring the act of both freestyle and synchronized swimming through the nimble execution of crew in the fly gallery. Just as Andersen envisioned, the aquatic characters glide through the water like birds through the trees, rising and falling with grace and control like a sparrow adrift.

This is best exemplified during a shipwreck scene, late in the first act. When Prince Eric falls overboard into the water, his vessel disappears into the blue. The sleight of stagehand is evident as Bellan floats like driftwood, sinking slowly before meeting Ariel’s embrace mid-fall, two bodies rising and falling at the same pace. It’s a moment of remarkable technical achievement in a musical full of them.

There is more at the bottom of the sea than bare yellow sand.

There are creatures stirring.

ben.waldman@winnipegfreepress.com