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THEA 143: Development of Dramatic Art II

A discussion of ideas, individuals, innovations, and trends in theatre over the past 150 years.

Monday, September 26, 2005

The Cherry Orchard: Joys and Sorrows

If The Cherry Orchard were stripped down to its basic plot, it would be a very sad story. The mistress of the house, Mrs. Ranevsky, returns home after having spent several disreputable and eventually penniless years abroad, because her beloved childhood home is being auctioned off due to the family’s inability to pay its bills. Mrs. Ranevsky makes no real effort to save her estate, and thus it is eventually bought by a family friend, Lopakhin, to be leveled and leased out in pieces. The family members all relocate, but the faithful family servant is forgotten and left to die. In the midst of this tragic plot, however, Chekhov inserts a multitude of comic characters and moments. The characters of Charlotte, whose sole purpose seems to be entertainment for the family, the slightly narcoleptic and easily surprised Pishchik, clumsy Yepikhadov, and the eternally bored and impertinent Yasha, are all secondary characters who lighten the scenes with their antics. Even more central characters take part in the comedy; Gayev’s oft-repeated “Pot the red in the middle (p. 674)!” adds a likeable quirkiness to his character, and Mrs. Ranevsky’s penchant for giving away money despite her poverty, is laughable even while it is frustrating to watch. Even after her home is sold and she is preparing to leave, this unfortunate habit pops up again, in a quick on-stage-off-stage exchange:
“Gayev: You gave them your purse, Lyuba. You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t!
Mrs. Ranevsky: I-I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t help it. (pg. 683)”
Finally, the play ends with Firs, the aged servant left forgotten, to die alone in the house. You can’t help but feel pity for Firs, and the scene is incredibly poignant. But Checkov decides to end the play with the very comic word “nincompoop (p. 687)” to echo in the audiences’ mind. The scene is suddenly not quite so tragic, and the reality of life as a mixture of sorrows and joys becomes apparent.

Ibsen and Strindberg

SUBJECT: Mutual Influence: Ibsen & Strindberg

I mentioned in class how August Strindberg and Henrik Ibsen followed each others' work, and demonstrated a fascination with each other late in their careers. Here's a passage from Robert Ferguson's Henrik Ibsen: A New Biography (NY: Dorset Press, 1996) where Ferguson addresses their relationship.

The most illuminating example of a mutual fascination that cuts surreally across the perceived image of two artists involves Ibsen with Strindberg. Strindberg ... saw Ibsen as an artist in decline since attaining the heights of Brand and Peer Gynt. ... In the 1890s he always spoke disparagingly of Ibsen; yet paid him the compliment of following his work closely.

Ibsen returned the compliment, and in a very strange way: in March 1895 he purchased a large oil painting of Strindberg by the Norwegian artist Christian Krohg. This painting hung in his work room in the new apartment in Arbinsgate. Ibsen gave it a title of his own, 'Madness incipent.' He referred to it in a humorous, half-joking way, saying that Strindberg 'hangs there and keeps watch, because he is my archenemy.' Every scene he wrote had to be held up to the scrutiny of Strindberg's image and to survive his imagined criticism. And true though the description of him as 'archenemy' may have been, who could doubt that in importing the image of this wild and spontaneous man into his work-room, to hang opposite Kronberg's 1877 portrait of himself [Ibsen] from Uppsala, with his doctor's scroll and his good-conduct order for services to literature pinned to his gown, Ibsen also discovered that a certain deeply truthful, perhaps even restful psychological banalce was struck in his room (Ferguson, 399-400)?

Like Ferguson, Michael Meyer, author of Ibsen (NY: Doubleday, 1971), observes that Ibsen read and admired Strindberg's work, and vice versa, whatever their conspicuous differences as individuals. Of note for us is that (according to Meyer) Ibsen had been deeply impressed by Inferno (Meyer, 772n), and that he had read the copy of To Damascus that Strindberg personally sent him in 1898 (Meyer, 785).

Sunday, September 25, 2005

To Damascus: Who Knows? Not me . . .

Out of all the plays we’ve read so far, this one is my favorite. It is also the one I understand the least. It is almost bursting with symbolism – of death (the repeating funeral dirge), of hell (the introduction says “the first nine scenes represent the nine circles of Dante’s inferno (pg. 384),” and of rebirth (the repetition, backwards, of the nine scenes) to name just a few – and the text is stuffed with biblical allusions. The difficult part is simply trying to get a sensible idea of what all those symbols and allusions mean. Honestly, I like a play that doesn’t lay everything out on the table for you. I like trying to sift through all the metaphors and insinuations. I also much prefer this translator than the one from Miss Julie. It is more realistic, and lent the Stranger, and the play itself, an informal and almost careless attitude. Its difficult for me to comment on what is trying to be told through the play, because many of the symbols and allusions are related to personal events of Strindberg (also from the introduction, pg.383). However, I greatly enjoy the format.