I once saw a production of Ibsen’s
A Doll’s House which the audience
perversely insisted on treating as a bourgeois comedy. At one point the
blackmailer Krogstad turned stage front, shrugged and began playing as
the villain he was expected to be. I think I saw Indira Varma
experience a similar moment during the press performance of
Strindberg’s
The Dance Of Death,
although on this occasion it was not the audience that made the running.
This three-handed 1900 portrait of a rancorous marriage is probably
Strindberg’s bitterest play (if it is not, I do not want to see the
alternative candidate). Edgar is a bull, bellowing and charging at his
targets; Alice is a serpent, insinuating her way around others to
create stratagems. As they prepare grimly to celebrate their silver
wedding anniversary, Alice’s cousin Kurt arrives on the military
garrison island to be sucked into their vortex. It is a clear
antecedent of Albee’s
Who’s Afraid
Of Virginia Woolf?, especially in Conor McPherson’s new version
of the Strindberg, which is at times (and deliberately) too blunt to
take seriously and so lets us off with laughs. As the two-hour playing
time wears on, this tendency grows worse: when Daniel Lapaine’s Kurt,
his eyes literally rolling, declares of Edgar “I… I… I want to kill
him!”, Varma’s Alice gasps, “Yes!” as if in the throes of orgasm. Kevin
R McNally as Edgar roars, lies, winces in coronary agony and freezes in
petit mal attacks: a committed
and varied performance, but not one that would satisfy Strindberg’s own
requirement for psychological realism of motive when he said, “We want
to see the wires.”
Richard Kent has designed an impressively dilapidated cabin for the
couple to inhabit, and Alex Baranowski’s sound design is so mournful
that even the military band in the background sound as if they are
playing Gavin Bryars’
The Sinking Of
The Titanic. But Titas Halder, directing in the Donmar’s
Trafalgar season, is either unable or unwilling to make the play
anywhere near as harrowing an experience as it ought to be. My ringtone
(until my phone went off during a performance) used to be Helium, the
chirpy pink balloon-creature who accompanies the playwright in the
wonderful online animations at www.strindbergandhelium.com, cheerily
squealing, “Misereee!” That’s this production in a nutshell: misery,
certainly, but misery that owes at least as much to helium as to
Strindberg.
Written for the Financial
Times.