“Ambiguous and challenging, “Lovefool” has its imperfections. But Winters is mesmerising in a performance that is faultless.”
Towards the end of “Lovefool”, Grace – played by the intensely charismatic Kristin Winters – hovers at the edge of the auditorium and directs a few merciless questions at the audience. Without giving away the exact nature of them, it becomes clear from the reactions that the realities of depression, abuse, suicide, anxiety, fear or self-loathing are a hair’s breadth away from each and every one of us. They walk among us. And in just under an hour, Winters leads us right into the throng, on a journey that takes many wrong turnings. It sounds dismal, yet the vicarious sense of healing derived from Grace’s self-examination is exhilarating. And often funny.
Grace is looking for love. But what is love? It’s a question echoed in a thousand pop songs, none of which help Grace at all. She dances to the rhythms but can’t bear the lyrics. She sees her shrink, goes to confession, and devours dating apps and red wine in equal abundance. She thinks she finds love in an Icelandic singer but, when the alcoholic haze disperses, he’s just another figurative fist to endure. Written and directed by Gintare Parulyte, this one-woman show is initially charged with humour, even if a little dark. It might not be telling us anything particularly new but there is a freshness to the expressions and a sharpness to the language that strengthens the text. There is a Larkinesque quality as she talks of the “broken families we run away from and then create”.
The authenticity of the performance is tinged with strokes of satire. A dig at a sexist director pinpoints the gender inequality in the industry, while David Gaspar’s video projections parody the sex education programmes we all remember. While Winters successfully interacts with these, her imaginary characters and with the audience, the overall staging is haphazard and disjointed. Perhaps this is intentionally disconcerting. Anyone who has spent time with someone with OCD will be on familiar ground. Winters convincingly portrays a damaged soul, with a dark humour that slowly gives way to mere darkness, as memories of past traumatic abuse are uncovered; shockingly triggered by a song she used to hear.
There is occasionally a platitudinal air to the messages that Parulyte wants to convey. In less able hands the piece could come across as a rather morbid affair. But Kristin Winters commands the space with her finely honed stagecraft. She knows when to dress the wounds in light entertainment and can perfectly balance the bawdy with the tragedy. Dispensing with the bulk of the auditorium, the audience are seated in an arc around the playing space. We are therapist, witness, confidant and eavesdropper – the intimacy sometimes blurring the line between Winter and the character she represents.
Come curtain call, Winters fights back the tears. Tears that glisten with notes of optimism. “We are all wounded children of wounded children”. Perhaps the cycle has been broken for Grace, and she can dance to a different tune. Ambiguous and challenging, “Lovefool” has its imperfections. But Winters is mesmerising in a performance that is faultless.
“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.
