Bernarda Alba Beautiful, Sly

A surprising and beautiful moment in the current production of Federico Garcio Lorca's play The House of Bernarda Alba comes with the performance (rendered wonderfully by sophomore Claire Miller as Maria Josefa) of a flamenco. It is a dance which mirrors in its opposition of restraint and desire the psychological landscape of the play as a whole.

Lorca's central concerns resonate symbolically throughout the play. Set entirely within the premises of a well-off household in a Spanish town, it dramatizes the drastic conflict between social custom and the passionate, instinctual urges within the individual. The subject matter is central to Lorca, in both his plays and poetry: his liberal sympathies and homosexuality (both for which, ultimately, he was executed) made them inescapable. There is no doubt where Lorca's sympathies lie - he is condemning of the repressive nature of societal control, particularly the self-rationalizing paranoia of fascism- and their disastrous effects of the individual.

Here the sets of Eric Einhorn work to great effect. The Great Hall of Peters is draped and wrapped in white, highlighting its angularity and encompassing the audience. This, contrasted with the mourning-black of the all-female cast, serves to bring out the sharp dualities of the play. The cast was generally very good. Antonia Alvarez, as Bernarda, the harsh, domineering mother of five daughters and leader of the household, was appropriately intimidating. The actresses playing Bernarda's five daughters worked to bring out the subtitles of their personalities in the face of the static, unbearable household in which they are trapped. Their responses spanned the gamut from outright rebellion to withdrawal and, ultimately, complicity. Particular standouts were junior Ria Cooper as a dry-witted, adroit Magdalena, sophomore Sammy Tunis portraying the passionate Adela, and an understated Amelia by Katya Mehta. While a bit shaky initially, sophomore LeAnna Hallman in the role of the servant Criada quickly settled in and brought a surprising humanity to a role that is at least partly a plot device. Miller does a fantastic job as the mad grandmother Maria Josefa, bringing an enigmatic, delusional humor to her part. Her madness is not, however, merely fun and games. Some of the play's most haunting moments come from the contemplation of the outside, which is unbearably far away. Maria Josefa weeps: "Little lamb, child of mine/Let's go to the shore of the sea,/The tiny ant will be at his doorway,/I'll nurse you and give you your bread." At another point the

daughters contemplate the song of field workers as they pass, their music wafting into the house.

This is a quiet and powerful moment, the manifestation of an inexpressible desire for escape and for a life without self-alienation. It is this desire which motivates the play and its tragic conclusion, and which the cast and crew proficiently bring to life.