The Devil's Music, The Angel's Gift: When Steppenwolf Takes on Amadeus, Sparks Fly

Ah, Amadeus. You know, Peter Shaffer's towering masterpiece—it's a play that just… it sticks with you, doesn't it? It isn't merely about two composers, really; it's a gut-punch meditation on genius, on the crushing weight of mediocrity, and perhaps most provocatively, on God's rather peculiar sense of humor. And honestly, for a theater like Steppenwolf, renowned for its raw, visceral performances, tackling this epic feels like a match made in, well, maybe not heaven, but certainly a compelling dramatic purgatory.

This particular staging, you could say, delves right into the delicious, festering wound that is Antonio Salieri’s soul. From the moment he shuffles onto the stage, a shadow of his former self, recounting his bitter rivalry with the prodigious, almost obscenely talented Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, you're hooked. And frankly, the actor embodying Salieri here—let’s just say they deliver a performance that gnaws at you. There’s a quiet desperation, a palpable agony, that transcends mere jealousy; it’s a theological crisis, an existential scream against a universe that seemingly delights in unfairness. It's truly something to behold.

But what of Mozart, the subject of Salieri’s venomous envy? This production presents him not as some ethereal sprite, but as a gloriously, frustratingly human creature. He's a childish genius, all giggles and gross-out jokes one moment, then composing celestial harmonies the next. It’s this very dichotomy, this jarring blend of the sublime and the utterly base, that fuels Salieri’s torment. How could God—a just God, mind you—bestow such divine gifts upon a man so... undignified? It’s a question that echoes through the play, and certainly through the Steppenwolf theater, making you ponder it long after the final bow.

The direction, I must admit, is sharp, almost surgical, stripping away any unnecessary frills to focus squarely on the raw emotional conflict. The set, for instance, isn't overtly grand; it’s atmospheric, often stark, allowing the performances to truly fill the space, to reverberate. And the costumes? Period-perfect, naturally, but never distracting—always serving the story, the characters' inner lives. One feels the weight of the era, the societal constraints, even as the eternal human dramas unfold.

Ultimately, this Amadeus at Steppenwolf isn't just a retelling of a historical rivalry; it's a mirror reflecting our own struggles with ambition, talent, and the sometimes-cruel hand of fate. It challenges you to look past the surface, to feel the burning resentment and the transcendent beauty simultaneously. And you know, that’s precisely what truly great theater is supposed to do, isn't it? It leaves you wrestling with big questions, with uncomfortable truths, and with the undeniable power of a story well told, long after you’ve left the building.