“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.
“Michael Akinsulire’s Othello is a commanding presence.”
We are in a rough suburban pub. It could be London, but more likely a Northern province; the accents give nothing away. But the accentuation of Shakespeare’s words crackles with a dynamic menace that propels us headlong into the ensuing tragedy. Beer bottles and baseball bats are the weapons of choice, a pool table is the battlefield. Frantic Assembly’s fierce retelling drags “Othello”, kicking and screaming, well and truly into the twenty-first century. The jealousy, revenge, paranoia and racism are brought so close to home you can practically smell the beer on the breath; and you’re not sure if you’re about to be kissed or killed.
The opening sequence sets the theme. The electronic duo, Hybrid, provides a throbbing soundtrack that epitomises the tensions. The pecking order is beautifully established in the staccato movement that is both balletic and thuggish. Purists look away – but these moments evocatively replace much of the text that Scott Graham and Steven Hoggett have sliced from the original.
Michael Akinsulire’s Othello is a commanding presence. A powerful gang leader but with a gullibility and vulnerability that Akinsulire manages to pull off without it clashing with, or weakening, his power. Chanel Waddock is a fiery and feral Desdemona, genuinely baffled by the injustices of her husband’s accusations. The performances are powerful, yet unafraid to expose the weaknesses inherent in the characters. Weaknesses that are exploited by Joe Layton’s distrustful and fearful Iago. Layton’s unflinching performance sets the standard and throws down the gauntlet for others to match. Which they do. This is a tight-knit gang who move, think, and speak as one body.
The themes of jealousy and revenge in “Othello” are inherently heightened and often difficult to infuse with realism. It works with these characters, that are dangerous and youthful; fuelled by cheap alcohol and seeming social deprivation. Laura Hopkins’ fluid set displays the grimy claustrophobia that funnels the raging emotions. We never escape the pub setting, except when the walls unfold to reveal the back alleys. At other times the walls shift, threatening to envelop the characters as they sink further into the crevasses of their consequences.
Slightly overwhelming, it is nevertheless thrilling. The key moments are highlighted while superfluity is banished. There is a fine balance between the electrifying physicality and the subtle discourse. The tragic finale comes across as a bit rushed, with a body count veering on the comical. The fault lies in the script: as with some of his other plays, the loose ends seem to be tied up with a deadline-defeating desperation. It’s a flaw the writer can surely iron out with experience though! But with a performance as strong as this, Frantic Assembly will undoubtedly help to ensure that Shakespeare’s work achieves the longevity it deserves.
