Playwright: William Shakespeare. At: The Hypocrites at the Chopin, 1543 W. Division St. Tickets: 773-989-7352; www.the-hypocrites.com; $28. Runs through: April 21
Viewed from one perspective, Coriolanus is a lesson in the folly of former soldiers going into politics. From another, it's a semper-fideles hymn in praise of the warrior brotherhood. A Freudian interpretation might present it as a case study in apron-strung sons. Geoff Button's direction for The Hypocrites' in-the-round production asks us to look at the story from, literally, all sides.
It begins with Roman General Caius Marcius winning the war against the Volsces, despite sustaining terrible wounds in a one-on-one showdown with the enemy commander, Tullus Aufidius. For his valor, Marcius is lauded by his countrymen as a hero, awarded the name "Coriolanus" in memory of his victory and encouraged to run for the senate. His inexperience at diplomatic equivocation soon leads him to be banished for treason. He appeals to Aufidius, who is happy to accept the decorated field officer's allegiance. Their invasion grants Coriolanus his revenge, but when his mother persuades him to seek a truce over full surrender, his new allies accuse him of betrayal. Despairing at the complexities of civilian life, he defiantly invites his own execution.
We are inclined to sympathize with him, not only because of recent evidence affirming the military dedication to order providing a seductively simplistic universe for individuals seeking escape from unstable social environments, but because the subtleties of government slicksters swapping 17th-century rhetoric are often as puzzling to modern playgoers as to our bewildered ex-GI. Actions speak louder than words, however, and The Hypocrites ascertain that we understand every last plot twist in their 105-minute play by integrating physicality into the whole of its narrative structure. Ryan Bourque's inventive fight design isn't restricted to the battlefield (even the sweaty wrestling scene foreshadowing the homoerotic attraction between Coriolanus and Aufidius), but also manifests itself in the everyday violence of the common citizens.
Purists may reject this motif as overly broad, but knowing immediately who's who and what's what makes for identification rendered all the more intense by the close proximity of actor and audience. Steve O'Connell and Jude Roche emerge a noble pair of comrades-in-arms, Robert McLean acquits himself bravely as the conciliatory Menenius, while Donna McGough nearly steals the show as the emasculating Volumnia, the most manipulating mom since The Manchurian Candidate. Whatever theme you may ascribe to Shakespeare's tale of a veteran adrift in an exploitive society, you'll find it addressed downstairs at the Chopin.