Malthouse Theatre’s dazzling production of Yentl opens with a command: “Once you say ‘A’, you must say ‘B’”. It’s not said by our eponymous lead (the effervescent Amy Hack), but maybe it should be. They are the bookish one, after all. Forbidden to study the Talmud as a woman, they’ve spent years prying the occasional theology lesson out of their father and reading the Torah on the sly. They know the near-divine power of language more than most; the way it obliges us to participate in it to understand and express ourselves, to worship, or to love.
The Yentl we encounter in this mystical adaptation from Kadmiah Yiddish Theatre seeks out a new language, or rather finds something new in an old language; a way of understanding Jewishness and Jewish womanhood that embraces the liminal, the inexpressible and the ancient. And they begin by giving themselves a new name, a male name that will allow them to become a scholar of the Talmud: Anshl.
Rather than overstate the novelty of these ideas, co-writers Gary Abrahams, Elise Esther Hearst and Galit Klas show just how deeply rooted they already are in Jewish lore, theology and myth. What they’ve accomplished is nothing short of magic: an explicitly queer retelling of a story made famous by a Barbara Streisand-led 1983 film that brings to light the transness implicit to Isaac Bashevis Singer’s original text and makes it an essential part of Yiddishkayt (Jewishness).
It would be heady and potentially boring, were it not for the gorgeous design and often hilarious script Abrahams (who also directs) and his production team have created. Malthouse’s Merlyn Theatre is transformed into a world of mist and shadow; of demons, dybbuks and golems. Dann Barber, now synonymous with a kind of vaudevillian-Gothic design, has constructed a towering 19th century shtetl pockmarked with various cubby holes from which everything – horned headpiece, Torah and wedding veil – are pulled out. Its pale wood finish and angular shape recall Jewish folklore by way of German expressionism. When lighting designer Rachel Burke throws her sickly yellows and the shadowy silhouettes of the cast onto its surface, the effect is both mesmerising and horrific. Projected English subtitles – much of the show occurs in Yiddish – become part of this ghostly set; a constant reminder of how our cast use and grapple with language tattooed on the shtetl.
Speaking of the cast, there’s not a weak link among them. Evelyn Krape is hypnotizing as our mischievous narrator, yesyster ho’re (“The Evil Inclination”), switching from charm to menace with terrifying speed and demonic chagrin, filling each scene with their gravelly cackle and a melodic control of every Yiddish monologue.
Nicholas Jaquinot is charming as Anshel’s benevolent and benevolently horny friend, Avigdor, and Genevieve Kingsford lends a mesmerising sensitivity and poise to Hodes. If we feel the tragedy of the dissolution of the show’s relationships in the second act, it’s because of the actors’ natural chemistry and Abraham’s tight blocking and fluidly choreographed group scenes.
Still, the show belongs to Hack, who more than rises to the challenge of an incredibly demanding role. Hunched over and unsteady on their feet initially, they perfectly embody Anshl’s boyish insecurity and self-effacing charm, building in verve and stature quietly over the course of the show until a final moment of self-determination sings with maturity and strength.
This show is not really new; it first appeared at Arts Centre Melbourne two years ago. Even if much of the cast remains the same, Yentl’s audience has surely changed in that time. Again, this is a show about language. It knows the importance of naming and the power of description. “Thoughts lead to words, words lead to actions”, we’re told part-way through its second act; a follow up to the command with which we started. But it’s not a command this time, more a responsibility.
Opening night was framed by actions: a security guard outside of the theatre checking names; the Pro-Palestinian Clementine Ford, meant to perform at Malthouse’s Outdoor Stage, was moved to Trades Hall in the wake of security fears. On my periphery in the second row was an audience member wearing a keffiyeh. These are glimpses of the context we bring inside the theatre, and it’s not necessarily one that was there two years ago, nor is it one many reviews have mentioned. If the language we use matters, as Yentl/Anshl so believes, so too does the language we don’t.
Yes, the show exists in 1870 Poland. But if we are happy to describe it using terms like ‘timely’, ‘inclusive’ or ‘contemporary’, we must ask why context that elucidates its timeliness is often absent from commentary. As we watch the events in Gaza defined as plausibly a genocide by the International Court of Justice, we see the fear implicit in critics avoiding placing the words Palestinian and Jewish in the same sentence.
Surely, this context informs how we understand the show? Near the end of Yentl, Anshl speaks of wanting “another set of stories, another way forward”. Centre stage, wrapping their arm in a Tefillin printed with the language of the Torah, they end the show by singing out a prayer into the audience, asking, still, for a new language; still for “another way forward”, and perhaps even showing what that language might look like.