Strindbergian mirror of matriarchy

Press, 23 April 1979, Page 6

Strindbergian mirror of matriarchy

By

HOWARD MCNAUGHTON

“The Stronger,” and “The Dance of Death,” by August Strindberg. Directed by Elric Hooper for The Court Theatre, Christchurch Arts Centre. Running time: 8 p.m. to 10.15 p.m.

“As for England. I have nothing to say, for there we are dealing with a puritanical country, delivered into the hands of women — which means the same as having fallen into a state of absolute decadence.’’ Strindberg wrote this to Nietzsche, his mentor and confident, on the eve of their mutual insanity; neither of them, one suspects, would have been surprised at the English reception of his plays — or at their general absence from the Christchurch stage. As our first Strindberg production in a decade, this double bill is of extraordinary significance: it reintroduces us to a seminal genius of the modern theatre, and it jerves as an up-to-date index of local Puritanism, matriarchy, and decadence. In “The Stronger,” the ttage, too, has been delivered; Into the hands of women/ Through a single speaking role, a tale of predatory re-1 lationships gradually unfolds.! until the Darwinism of the' title becomes explicit. Helen Smith’s performance )f the main part needs more rariety of pace, but is nonetheless very effective: Sherril Cooper is the nonipeaking catalyst who may

| exist only in the other’s imagination. Though it makes for an | early interval, “The Stronger” serves as an interesting cur-tain-raiser and, happily, allows an uninterrupted performance of what is, to me, clearly the best script and the best production in The Court’s “Wedlock” season to date. As a near-perfect fusion of comedy, horror, beauty and savagery, “The Dance of Death” is utterly absorbing. Like most of Strindberg’s later plays, “The Dance of Death” leaves us completely mystified about its level of realism. All the participants in the sex-war may be real — or they may be literally in hell, the granite island (on which the play is set) representing Boecklin’s “Island of the Dead." Again, some of them may be alive and others dead, ghostly predators or hallucinatory projections. The ambivalence and subjectivity of Strindbergian drama is well established, first by a brief biographical sketch which, simplistic and sensationalised, is nevertheless a good orientation. Second, there is Elric Hooper’s lurid red set, a ciricular scarlet cage defining the domestic arena. The individual properties are those [of drawing-room realism; the I total atmosphere is that of a slaughterhouse. The inhabitants of this place are the simplest of character combinations: the captain and his wife, in their twentv-fifth year of marriage and Kurt, a link figure who was once their matchmaker

and who now represents divorce, isolation, vampirism, infidelity, and spiritual quarantine—in other words, all the associations that marriage has for the primary characters.

From the first scene, in which Stewart Ross and Sherril Cooper spar with arch, accusatory deftness, it is clear that this production is to be a triumph in terms of the musical manipulation of tempo, as Strindberg tried to achieve in his “chamber plays.” Separately, the actors rise magnificently to their big scenes of theatricality — Sherril Cooper in her frenetic vampire dance towards the end, and Stewart Ross in his heroic blusterings through her machinations.

But it is in combination that the greatest acting impact is achieved. Much of the grouping is ingenious. Brian Beresford’s Kurt has a Mephistophelean insistence, and the dialogue often has the uncanny feeling if imposed rhythm, as if Strindberg’s “Powers” were speaking through his characters’ intermittent hypnosis. Especially as this is a short season, the production is lavishly and carefully mounted: Pamela Maling’s costumes are magnificent, David Fitzgerald’s lighting explores the design inventively. and Elric Hooper’s direction is fresh, deliberate, and intelligent—his best for more than a year. Strindberg enthusiasts will be gratified by this production, while initiates will find a fascinating sampling of Steinberg’s complexities.