“Watching this Dance is to appreciate why actors should not tackle Strindberg unless they are at the very top of their game”
Watching a play about three people trapped in a dysfunctional marriage may not be everyone’s choice for a night at the theatre. But this production of Swedish playwright August Strindberg’s Dance of Death by the National Theatre of Norway should not be missed. Directed by Marit Moum Aune, the production currently visiting the Coronet Theatre in Notting Hill, is also performed in Norwegian with English subtitles on stage. The best way to experience this production, then, would be to read the play beforehand. That way you can settle back in your seat and get immersed in the stellar performances of Pia Tjelta, Jon Øigarden and Thorbjørn Harr without the distracting subtitles. Because make no mistake, you won’t want to miss a moment of these actors’ intense portraits of people intent on driving each other to madness and worse.
Dance of Death occupies a transitional space in Strindberg’s plays. It’s midway between intensely naturalistic dramas like Miss Julie and The Father, moving inexorably in the direction of the symbolist Ghost Sonata and A Dream Play. But the symbolist features of the latter plays are present in the earlier plays, if you know where to look. Dance of Death is no exception. Even in the naturalistic setting of a fortress prison where Edgar and Alice have endured twenty five years of a tortuous marriage, we see that the space itself is one of the characters driving this broken pair to ever more savage acts. When Alice’s cousin Edgar arrives, the space takes hold of him in much the same way. Strindberg has set up a glorious plot. Trapped on an island, isolated from the rest of the world, will anyone survive? And did I mention that Dance of Death is also funny? Strindberg’s wit shines through in this production, even in Norwegian.
Every part of the National Theatre of Norway’s production does justice to Dance of Death. The set (Even Børsum) presents a domestic setting that gives the actors space to show their distance from each other, as well as spaces where they physically grapple for domination and control. Connections with the outside world, such as the telegraph, are suspended above the stage, showing another kind of distance. The sound (designed by Bendik Toming) and lighting (Agnethe Tellefsen) echo the sounds of other lives, outside this prison, outside this play. These also intensify the sense of isolation that is driving Alice, Edgar and Kurt to madness.
As you might expect, it is the actors who deserve the most credit in Dance of Death. From the start, where Pia Tjelta’s Alice faces off against Jon Øigarden’s Edgar on opposite sides of the stage, you won’t be able to look away. Øigarden’s performance in particular is a masterpiece of control. Switching between bouts of sickness where he literally collapses prone, to physical grappling with Alice and Thorbjørn Harr’s Kurt, the audience never knows what he will do next. He is the puppetmaster, who knows how to disguise himself as a victim. Alice and Kurt have no choice but to dance to his tunes. Pia Tjelta has the difficult role of playing both betrayed wife and vengeful vampire. But her Alice (a former actress) knows how to move effortlessly between cold indifference and seductive charm. And like a vampire, she can never be quite killed off, despite the attempts of both men to do so. Thorbjørn Harr’s Kurt is a portrait of a man seemingly in control of his life, despite its sorrows. Harr’s physical transformation into a pallid drunkard by the end, sucked dry of life by this predatory pair, is impressive. Watching this Dance is to appreciate why actors should not tackle Strindberg unless they are at the very top of their game. And they will still need a good director to guide them through the traps the playwright places along the way. Fortunately for Harr, Øigarden and Tjelta, Marit Moum Aune is up to the task. Aune has created a Dance of Death that manages to avoid the seemingly unrelenting gloom. Her direction shows us a ruthless world, it is true, but one shot through with humour, and hints of how to escape.
Dance of Death is revived often on British stages. Often with mixed success. And that’s another compelling reason to catch this production. Scandinavians know this material intimately. They are raised on it. Hence the go for broke, no holds barred approach from the National Theatre of Norway. It’s an instructive experience.
“Stephen Unwin’s direction presents a deeply authentic sense of period, supported by Ceci Calf’s gently peeling wallpapered set and forties costumes”
Katherine Moar’s Farm Hall is a history play about six German physicists detained in a Cambridge great house in 1945. Directed by Stephen Unwin, and performed by the kind of acting talent theatregoers have come to expect at the Jermyn Street Theatre, audience members may be forgiven for thinking that they are about to watch the sequel to Michael Frayn’s Copenhagen. It is true that both plays are concerned with the practical, and moral consequences, of making an atomic bomb. Yet Copenhagen and Farm Hall are entirely different plays, even though both feature Werner Heisenberg as a central character.
In Farm Hall, Moar uses her historical training to present a play based on indisputable facts. The six physicists (three of them Nobel prize winners) were detained by victorious Allied Forces at the end of World War Two. The house they occupy is extensively bugged, and their conversations transcribed—rich material for historians. Nevertheless, these conversations by themselves do not make compelling theatre, even when the subject matter revolves around whether a world could live or die. In Farm Hall, we are presented with a series of domestic situations in which five theoretical physicists (and one experimental physicist) play at amateur dramatics, fix a broken piano, and play chess, among other mundane matters. Their discussions range, as you might expect, from missing their families and their homeland, to dodging around the subject of whether they were members of, and believers in, the Nazi Party.
Throughout the first act in Farm Hall, we focus on the history. But the urgency that makes a drama compelling, the pressing need for action, is largely absent until the beginning of Act Two. At this point, the drama comes together because the unthinkable has happened. The Americans have built and detonated an atomic bomb over Japan. The abstract concerns of theoretical physics are suddenly replaced by pressing issues of moral philosophy—and geopolitics. The world is now a few seconds to midnight away from nuclear annihilation. The difference between Frayn’s play and Moar’s is that Frayn gets to the heart of the matter right from the start. He sees that a representation of the physicists’ concerns works better in an abstract place, rather than a real one. His title Copenhagen is ironic, Moar’s Farm Hall is not.
Despite the lack of dramatic tension for much of Farm Hall, however, there is plenty to admire in this production at the Jermyn Street Theatre. Stephen Unwin’s direction presents a deeply authentic sense of period, supported by Ceci Calf’s gently peeling wallpapered set and forties costumes. The actors do not have German accents, but Unwin is wise to steer his actors away from anything that might distract from the weighty subjects under discussion. The performances are terrific in this well rounded ensemble. Alan Cox as Heisenberg in Farm Hall has the difficult job of differentiating his character from the Heisenberg in Copenhagen. In Farm Hall, Cox plays the role as just one of a group of men thrown together in difficult circumstances. Nevertheless, Cox’s Heisenberg is suitably complex, conflicted, and holds the drama together, as expected. Julius D’Silva’s deftly managed Diebner is the foil in the group. He is the experimental physicist (and therefore looked down on by the theorists.) Diebner is also an acknowledged member of the Nazi Party, full of angry justification. Forbes Masson’s Hahn carries the guilt for all of them, and is both sad and joyful at the news he has been awarded a Nobel Prize. David Yelland’s Von Laue, Archie Backhouse’s Bagge, and Daniel Boyd’s Weizsäcker round out a group widely separated in age and politics. They give convincing performances as men caught up in events that had little to do with their work as physicists, and yet everything to do with the future of the world. These characters in Farm Hall makes us think the unthinkable: if we had the knowledge of how to destroy the planet, how would we use it?
Farm Hall is the stuff of nightmares, set in relative comfort in a Cambridgeshire stately home. It is this paradoxical presentation, and the strong sense of period, that will make the story attractive to fans of history plays.
