The Merchant Of Venice (Bell Shakespeare)

One of the most convenient attributes of the Shakespearian canon is its malleability to the values of the now. In the four centuries since the Bard first inked his quill and scratched his verse onto parchment, successive generations of directors have found the resonances that best vibe with their society's viewpoint. But this generous flexibility is not a unanimous trait amongst Shakespeare's plays. Of these more unwieldy works, The Merchant Of Venice is perhaps the most infamously difficult to unriddle, saddled as it is with a jarring competition of plots, some romantic, some comical, and crucially, some scathingly anti-Semitic.

Written in a time when Judaism was outlawed in Britain, the myriad slurs hurled at its "villain", the Jewish moneylender Shylock, hits our modern ears with nauseating force. The fact that this almost gleeful persecution, aimed at a character that can often be more grotesque caricature than truth, is framed by a jolly romp of giddy, young lovers, only acts to highlight the rank inequity at the heart of this play.

These hurdles haven't deterred theatre-makers from taking on the challenge, but few directors would likely choose to make their Shakespearian debut with this problem play - even Shakespeare veterans have been hobbled by The Merchant. Beyond the glaring issues of ugly religious conflicts spun on an ambiguous moral axis, there's also the matter of balancing the loaded dynamics of its lovers. Oh, and don't forget to make it funny. It's a mercilessly complex muddle of quandaries, that demands an equally complex response. And it certainly gets it in this production, and from a Shakespeare first-timer to boot. Director Anne-Louise Sarks delivers a stunningly assured staging, conjuring beautiful lyricism, nimble humour and stark, crushing cruelty in equal measure. 

From the outset, this production is sparklingly embroidered with directorial insight. Against a cascade of golden silks, leaves gently flutter to the floor. This is a fairytale realm of unreality, a timeless place where our disbelief is not only unsuspended but actively enforced. A ring of simple benches edge the stage, and the open wings reveal rails of costumes where the actors change in full view of the audience. Sarks elects to keep her cast on stage throughout, passively observing, or deliberately ignoring the action. Cultural context and theatrical conceit are unimportant to this setting - this is a space where the nuance of human emotion is prized above all else.

These are canny choices for several reasons. Shakespeare's concept of Venice was drawn from fantasy rather than first-hand experience, so divorcing this play from historical accuracy is innately precedent. But more than this: by offering such a simple, immutable canvas for this narrative, Sarks focuses the audience's attention on the minutiae of her direction. This is theatre of exquisite precision and delicate gestures; no longer is this a glib rumble between Christians and Jews. Sarks makes her Merchant about individuals, whose choices can't be easily explained away by mob mentality or stereotyped malice.

Focusing on personal motivations offers a far richer rationale for this play's narrative quirks. Antonio's (Jo Turner) intense loyalty to his friend Bassanio (Damien Strouthos), for whom he is prepared to be mutilated over a debt, is spun with a more conspicuous homoeroticism than many productions dare, his willingness to be butchered for the famous pound of flesh a kind of warped display of semi-requited love.

Portia (Jessica Tovey) and Nerissa (Catherine Davies) are given a delicious infusion of moxy, barely deigning to tolerate the tedious imposition of suitors trying to guess which of three caskets contains Portia's portrait, thus winning her hand in marriage. These scenes, as per the norm, are played for laughs, but they still allow us to see these women as smart and in control. However, this agency cuts both ways — they are also capable of the same cruelties as their male counterparts, as found in the distinct note of relish piercing Portia's voice as she issues her harsh decrees in the courtroom scene.

The most miraculous accomplishment of this production is found in its handling of Shylock, rendered with outstanding clarity by Mitchell Butel. There's a tangible lucidity underpinning the behaviour of this much-maligned character, as the incessant insults and abuses he suffers, the hissed insistences that he is "alien", an outsider, an unwelcome element, are constantly reinforced by Sarks' careful blocking.

Her master stroke, galvanising this emotionally wrought account, is anchored to the relationship between Shylock and his daughter Jessica (Felicity McKay), who chooses to rob her father, flee with a Christian lover and abandon her faith. Commonly painted as a lucky escape from a tyrannical parent, Butel's Shylock is, in fact, a loving, clearly concerned father, aware of the danger that faces members of their faith. Sarks doesn't hold back in the viscousness shown towards Shylock, but he initially meets this scorn with measured restraint, as if he knows, or perhaps fears, the bottomless well of hate the Venetians may eventually turn towards his child. 

However, Jessica's cavalier decision to leave her father transforms her from Shylock's comfort into his despair. The betrayal of Jessica surpasses any pain the gentiles might have dealt. Now utterly alone, any thoughts of compassion that might have been inspired by her are dashed.

Sarks reveals his total refusal to show clemency in the pivotal court room scene, not as the actions of a greedy heathen, hell bent on savagery, but as a release of devastated rage from a man who has lost something far more precious than ducats. His insistence on payment of the grisly bond - the pound of Antonio's flesh - becomes an almost relatable stand for principle, the only means that Shylock might express some measure of justice for all that has been done to him. When his gambit fails, and he is stripped of his fortune and even his faith, the broken, disrobed spectre we're left with is no cause for celebration.

There are, of course, moments of light to balance this show's many shadows, carried largely by the expertly judged clowning of Jacob Warner's Launcelot, the inconstant, wantonly dim servant. But ultimately, it is impossible not to be moved by Shylock in Sarks' emotionally overwhelming staging, because his actions are not so much defined by his faith as they are by his humanity. It's this searing, agonising revelation that powers this production's parting gesture, a moment of sobering pain that exposes both the folly of such arbitrary hate and the hypocrisy of the "good Christian."

Bell Shakespeare presents The Merchant Of Venice, at Arts Centre Melbourne till 30 July, then touring national until 26 Nov.