Ontario's Vintage Theatre Festivals 

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Still finding her way as Clytemnestra, Karen Robinson was already formidable in the ghastly denouement. The unheeded prophetess Cassandra gets added emphasis in director David Latham's imaginative concept, and Sara Topham executes with a finely gauged hysteria, tethered to a pole and daubed in slime.

But the most charismatic performer, appearing late on Savoini's high balcony, is Scott Wentworth glorying defiantly in the fiendish, furtive triumph of Aegisthus. Sean Arbuckle has plenty of nobility as Agamemnon, but Wentworth throws him decisively into eclipse after his treacherous regicide. Fortunately, there are generous extra helpings of Wentworth as Aegisthus in the remaining Atreus dramas.

Avon Theatre Broadway habitues will feel right at home in this midsized 1093-seat proscenium theater, remodeled to coincide with the opening of the adjoining Studio Theatre during Stratford's 50th season in 2002. Gigi, the most charming production at Stratford this year, is also the slickest, utilizing a velvety turntable to whisk us from scene to scene and animated projections on the painted scrim to remind us of the cinematic origins of this Lerner & Loewe bonbon.

As Gigi, Jennifer Gould spans the chasm between girlish ebullience and budding womanly grace. You never believe such a sprite could ripen into a cold courtesan, but the ultra-discreet script barely grazes that possibility you can take innocent children to this show without fear. Patricia Collins regally commands each scene she appears in as Gigi's Aunt Alicia with her hilariously decadent rectitude, and Domini Blythe's Mamita had me thinking that Hermione Gingold's was overrated.

The garrulous James Blendick as Honore was not quite as successful in exorcising the ghost of Maurice Chevalier, but Dan Chameroy's Gaston was a revelation. Stripped of its French accent, the misogyny of "She's Not Thinking of Me" and the capitulation of "Gigi" closely mirror the agonies of Henry Higgins under the spell of Eliza. And Chameroy doesn't shy away from the comedy.

There are also revelations in the new homegrown adaptation of The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Rick Whalen. Unlike the seminal 1939 movie version, Whalen doesn't tinker with Victor Hugo's ending and even references the French novelist's intro. We get more of Phoebus and his fiancee Fleur-de-Lys in the new version. Esmeralda's embittered mama is restored to the story, and the gypsy's enchanted goat gets more of the spotlight. The tortured soul of Frolio, archdeacon of Notre Dame, is bought back into focus.

But to get around Hugo's labyrinthine plot, Whalen has a bunch of innocuous Parisians shouldering an outsized portion of the narrative burdens. Sharing the stage with Gigi, set designer Alexander Dodge doesn't deal with scene changes nearly as gracefully and his palette rarely transcends a drab monastic gray.

Stephen Russell is superb as Frolio, and Jennifer Gould's Esmeralda is a remarkable transformation from her Gigi sensuous, sentimental, and pitifully doomed. Peter Van Gestel replaced Nicolas Van Burek as Quasimodo for the matinee I attended, delivering a compelling characterization of the hunchbacked bell-ringer without the fearful presence I would have liked. The fight scenes were an embarrassment, but I blame fight director John Stead more than the understudy. Stead's handiwork in The Adventures of Pericles is hardly any better.

The expanded gallery of minor characters restores much of the authentic Hugo texture to this effort, and the ensemble is superb.

Tom Patterson Theatre Sitting next to a lawn bowling field and sharing space with Stratford's Kiwanis Club, this 487-seat facility is Stratford's least inviting. Nor did the current production of Sartre's No Exit warm up the thrust stage. Seven days before its official opening, this 75-minute chamber piece seemed to need more incubation in its second preview performance than the Agamemnon.

Or perhaps the right word from director Jim Warren will cause the austerely designed production to click into place. Casting and characterization both appear on-target. But the elemental message never quite sparked between characters. I didn't see an electric moment where somebody in Sartre's mirrorless hell understood that his or her existence could only be validated in the eyes of an eternally damned roommate. So none of the tense encounters ever slapped me as they might.

Festival Theatre Reminding me of the beloved Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis, this 1824-seat facility was my favorite among the seven theaters I attended in Canada. No spectator is more than 65 feet from the marvelously versatile and atmospheric thrust stage. You'll also find that the gift shop/bookstore at the Festival is several notches above the Avon's.

I began an enchanting day at the Festival with a magical production of Shakespeare's Pericles, flamboyantly renamed The Adventures of Pericles and given a flamboyant Far Eastern design. Warriors parade across the stage wearing costumes that conjure up the conquering Tartar and Mongol hordes, with colored armor that shines like "transformer" gladiator toys.