Strindberg once said that a poet’s vision gets distorted by the written word, and a written drama, in one way or another, gets distorted by its materialization in a performance on stage. Still, his works have a dimension which nothing can diminish – it is that very spiritual charge through which the work was born. Of course, an inadequate interpretation can diverge from the author’s original intention, but it surely would not be the one and only, and it would not escape comparison with other productions. Therefore, a comparative analysis becomes that litmus test which allows us to probe one or another version’s vitality, its relevance to our times and the trace left by Strindberg in our present-day memory.
The extreme world of Strindberg’s plays is most poignantly reflected by his Creditors (Fordringsägare), which he himself considered to be his most personal play. It is a real bible of spiritual cannibalism with the idea of the destructive force of love, and it reveals every new nuance of resistance to this spiritual yoke, which is passion. The relationship of the lovers here is a gladiatorial arena where everyone tries to steal another’s soul and replace it with his/her own by imbuing it. As they strive to achieve this aim they disregard any limits.
It is quite paradoxical that food for the soul is also being cooked in this hell’s kitchen – the perennial struggle of the sexes is going on not just between them, but also for one’s personal freedom and dignity. These human tendencies were envisioned and proven by two productions which were staged at the same time in Lithuania and France – Creditors directed by Gytis Padegimas in the Kaunas Drama Theatre (1981) and Jacque Baillon‘s almost simultaneous production in the Petit-Odéon (1980) which at the time belonged to the Comédie-Française. The comparison of these two productions reveals that both directors were able to recognize in Strindberg‘s drama as universal, which is in despair over its own and life‘s imperfection, yet is not disappointed in human beings and still believes in them.
Of course, comparing these productions is a rather complicated task, firstly, because Padegimas‘ interpretation involves actors from two generations – a junior and a senior cast – who create two different performances sharing the same plot and the same place of action, yet being totally distinct in their experiences and inner feelings. They are like children and parents, where the first version is an a priori one – prior to experience – when the participants are only beginning to live and are just learning, trying, tasting the art of psychological duel, while the second – a posteriori – version is acted out with already acquired experience, when the characters are rather mangled by life, cynical and having mastered the lessons for mutual attacks. Such a director‘s approach opens the perspective, which seems to expand time and space, complementing the characters‘ biographies with new yet unwritten pages: actually, the characters‘ lives in the first and the second variant are separated by some twenty years. This newly manifested time, having elapsed beyond the confines of the stage, is still important for the conception of the whole production. The imagination of the viewers has to engage in an additional activity – it must envision, conjure up some third, interim life for the characters, which allows the imagination to easily connect both versions into a continuous narrative, thus bringing it closer to the structure of a novel.
Jacques Baillon‘s production is limited to a single cast, so in this case we need to look for the points of similarity or differences which have been dictated by Strindberg himself. Even in this instance it is possible to find distinctive correlations, because Baillon is likewise interested in the issue of generations, which he presents through the age difference of the characters – by choosing for Tekla‘s role a young actress (Catherine Hiegel) and inserting her character into the company of older men (Gustav – François Chaumette, Adolph – Jacques Toja). This serves quite well to illustrate the importance of means and colours used for creating a performance, when the actor’s type alone can enhance or distort the initial interpretation. In this case everything is logical, since the very casting of the actress underscores the director’s idea that a young person can be easier manipulated and recreated to fit a certain mold. By the same token, he also indicates Tekla’s disadvantaged defensive position, because she has to fight the adversaries who are older and more experienced than she is. This partly explains her reserved style of acting, when emotions are being hidden due to the lack of confidence in her strength. Jean-Jacques Gautier in his review This Has to Be Seen mentions it: “One hardly has the impression that she moves or that her features stir. Everything she conveys comes from within and her mystery remains profound.”1
In Padegimas’ versions both casts are commensurate in terms of their readiness to fight and their life experience. In them, both Teklas, as if denying the Baltic reserve, are flirtatious and playful, only the younger actress (Jūratė Onaitytė) tempts, entices and terrorizes her partner while still not fully in control of her own strength and as if trying on an adult woman’s garment, whereas the older one (Doloresa Kazragytė) already has at her disposal the full arsenal of an experienced woman. The theme of the junior cast is more that of a miscommunication between people fighting for their dignity, principles and an imagined model of love – their actions are emotional, not always rational. In the version of the senior cast, a variation of merciless debtors, of cruel, unforgiving and egotistic creditors is brought to light. Here Tekla reveals herself in all the colours of a mature woman.
After receiving an award for the best female role of the year, actress Doloresa Kazragytė shared her thoughts:
There were more reviews than usual, and they were more contradictory than usual. To one critic she was a predator, a feline, to another – a fragrant rose, to yet another – a tragic, egotistic character who embodies femininity, exemplifies power and resilience. To some she is more reprehensible, in others she evokes sympathy. Perhaps they are all right. She has all these things in her. At least, we rehearsed her this way with the director G. Padegimas and fellow actors. I don’t know if this was close to Strindberg’s intentions, or far from them (we believed it was close), but who can tell what a woman is?.. Has Strindberg found an answer?.. […] However, above all this, as a leitmotif, as fate, there’s a terrible struggle for your own freedom – the only, unique, inimitable creation of nature. The struggle is cruel, egotistical, but the opponents are no less cruel and egotistical also. This theme is the most interesting one for me. Why does one person strive to enslave another, to impose his wishes, his own thinking, his way of living, his own taste? Neither the first, nor the second husband accepted Tekla as she was, and only tutored, tutored, and tutored her! Yes, Tekla took it in, she dissembled, adjusted, submitted to tutoring, but… Her nature just couldn’t bear it, she began resisting, until she reached the end of the line, beyond which – death. And she steps over it. Because Adolph’s death is hers too. They had really grown into one tree trunk – into their love. Which is also bondage. So isn’t death a liberation?..2
The two directors interpret differently the image of Tekla created by Adolph. In Padegimas’ production, in the proscenium we see an unfinished woman’s sculpture, which is in active use: it is now caressed, now spurned, a covering is either thrown over it, or pulled away. The characters treat it as a living person, to the men it is evidently a stand-in for Tekla, whenever she herself is not around. It is noteworthy that even then they attempt to “recreate” her.
In Baillon’s production we see a sculptural bas-relief of a stylized woman’s figure, framed in ornaments. At the start, Adolph uncovers it in order to show it to Gustav, and later on, having received no encouragement from him and beginning to doubt Tekla, he covers it up again. Tekla, by repeating this sequence, unconsciously confirms the doubt in his talent, as she instantly dissociates herself from Gustav’s sardonic allusion to her image. In Baillon‘s production, she is embarrassed and perplexed while doing this, whereas in Padegimas‘ interpretation she acts joyfully and with playful coquetry. Thus the directors convey the thought that Strindberg‘s characters, who often justify their actions with their desire to create or with their lack thereof, pursue it only by brutally destroying or denigrating this gift in one another.
Further comparison reveals other differences in interpretation, along with certain common aspects. The action of Creditors takes place exclusively in a hotel room, in an intimate setting, enclosed within a love triangle, the author’s favourite. In this respect the scenography of the two productions overtly reflects the inner life of the characters. Yet in both of Padegimas’ versions, they are given more space (especially in the performance of the junior cast filmed for TV in a an old manor building) as the characters are placed on an open terrace with a view of the sea framed by white columns on both sides. Since the columns are slightly marked by cracks and fissures, the lights help to create an illusion that in the second, senior, cast’s performance those fissures had deepened. The sumptuous environment underscores the contrast between the beauty around the characters (vases, flowers, tulle drapes) and their inner discomfort.
In Padegimas’ production the sense of the flow of time is especially important. In the course of the performance, we notice the bright morning lights grow slowly dimmer as day turns into evening. Two dimensions of time are emphasized by mise-en-scènes: when the characters act in the present in the proscenium, and as they approach the white balustrade, it opens to the sea view, and they return to the past. They now run ahead for a short minute (typical of the first variant), now linger on for quite a while, as if gathering strength for their fight in the present (the second variant). Entering the room, Tekla starts to disarrange the flowers: she places a bunch of red blossoms in the vase which already has a white one in it. This is a sign foreshadowing a shift in feelings, warning of their fickleness. The moon above the sea also changes its colour, turning from pale into red, as if taking over the ominous mood of the characters. Russian theatre critic Alyona Kravtsova, who reviewed the production during its tour in St. Petersburg (then Leningrad), noted that “the precise and subtle work done by the director makes it possible to watch and comprehend the performance even without simultaneous translation.” 3
Creditors directed by Baillon (and seen by me in its Ina.fr TV version), on the contrary, are emphatically ascetic: the set designer has confined the characters within a tiny artist‘s studio, as if echoing the tradition that the Swedish dramatist’s characters must fight it out in a cramped space with no adornment. The actors are restricted by minimal mise-en-scènes and dotted-line moves, and they mostly either sit or stand, channeling everything into the explosive inner charge of the here-and-now. The director has shared a very interesting story about his work on the production where he mentioned the method of “rewriting” (abbreviating) the text he had used. Although the production remained rather close to the traditional French verbal theatre, which can be truly enjoyed only if one knows the language to perfection, still the director succeeded in “rewriting” the acting manner typical of Molière’s theatre. However, it was Jacque Toja who was the best at working simultaneously in all three directions – those of form, of logical thinking and of emotion – by blending them into a unity. In the acting style of other players Molière occasionally still “comes through” when more emphasis is put not so much on the dynamics of the author’s thought but rather on creation of a typage. Jean-Jacques Gautier confirms this in his above-mentioned review: “Mr. François Chaumette imparts to Gustave’s personage a disquieting, menacing, dangerous nature.”4
When we compare the characters in Baillon’s production with those in both Padegimas’ versions, where the text remains the same, it becomes evident that the characters in Padegimas’ production derive greater enjoyment from the game of tempting and fooling their opponents. If we see Chaumette‘s Gustav as, according to Gilles Sandier, “…a paranoid virtuoso wielding the word like a hidden knife“5, then Masiulis‘ character is more inclined toward the art of changing his masks: “…in less than two hours we see unfold before our eyes the manifold picture of a refined gentleman, a humble Tekla adorer, a pedantic and observant scholar of classical languages, a Iago-like schemer, a hotly jealous lover, a morbid sex addict, a thinker, a psychologist and a lonely man. And this is still an incomplete list of his colours…”6 Padegimas’ subtle staging work presents a flexible score of motions which reveals the inner mise-en-scènes that he constructs. It is so naturally finetuned that it becomes unnoticeable in its course, although it reflects all the psychological nuances as they get underscored by erotic moves. Let us say, Gustav (Algimantas Masiulis) licks Tekla’s ear as he attaches her earing. In both director’s productions the roles of the above-mentioned actors are notable for their distinct form and are theatrical in the good sense of the word. Meanwhile, the young Gustav (actor Valentinas Masalskis) uses more subtle colours. He does not torment his victim so methodically as the latter ones do – in the beginning he even feels for her. Anyway, we might say that he, having found Adolph so sensitive and susceptible to suggestion, just can not resist the temptation to experiment, and gradually becomes merciless to him.
When the director chose Jacques Toja, known for his classical roles, to play Adolph, he risked being excessively influenced by the charm of the actor who had become very popular in the seventies for his appearances in Bernard Borderie‘s “cloak and rapier” films The Three Musketeers (Aramis) and the Angelique saga (Louis XIV). However, in Baillon’s production the external attractiveness of Toja is as if hidden, reduced to its minimum, not standing out – although even dressed in a figure-concealing loose garment similar to a workman’s robe, he, to paraphrase a saying from George Bernard Shaw’s Heartbreak House, can not get rid of his fatal gift of beauty just as he can not cut off his nose. Yet Toja did succeed in distancing himself from his previous “bright and light” acting style. Gone were his usual gracefulness, distinguished stance, aristocratic presence. Even though the director in his interpretation refused to use the crutches that were mentioned by the author, Adolph in Toja’s embodiment appeared neither charming, nor alluring, nor gallant – his discordant moves, slight stoop, arms always either folded at the waist or hanging loose, his frequently erupting nervousness revealed the character’s insecurity and persistent anxiety. This was stressed by François Chalais in his review called A Highly Successful Production: “Jacques Toja, better perhaps than he ever was – seduction on the back burner, talent in full view.”7 Quite deservedly the role of Adolph was noted as the actor’s great achievement and a breakthrough in the context of his usual classical parts which had allowed him to remain within the framework of his psychophysicality.
In the “junior” version staged by Padegimas, the actor Robertas Vaidotas, who played Adolph, was in many ways similar to the character created by Toja, regardless of their age difference, – the same good looks, sensitivity, impulsiveness, inner flexibility, only he, unlike Toja, did not have to struggle with the self-created image of a “classical actor”. Both Lithuanian and French reviewers used rather analogous terms for their analysis of their two roles. Jean-Jacques Gautier wrote: “Jacques Toja, the second husband, is forced to be less virtuosic, since he plays a paler, more disarmed being: he creates a skillful composition, a half-tone blur, and appears to have studied Edvard Munch’s self-portraits and the works this painter had dedicated to jealousy: the same white anguish on the face, same loss of strength.”8 Audronė Girdzijauskaitė in her characterization of Vaidotas‘ Adolph likewise mentions his pallid complexion: “The theme of love and despair rings out in Adolph’s image. R. Vaidotas’ Adolph is fragile and savant. Being madly in love with Tekla and tormenting her, he deepens the chasm of mutual misunderstanding and himself wanes. Having retained the naïveté of his soul, he is the first to get depleted, goes blind and perishes. From his lean figure, from his pale face of a condemned man, from his originally designed moves (fits of partial paralysis, running after Tekla on his crutches, dragging his feet, etc.) we can see the director’s desire to arouse in the viewers not just amazement or shock but rather deep compassion for the characters, the necessity to turn back to oneself.”9
In the performance of the senior cast, Viktoras Šinkariukas‘ Adolph is quite different – outwardly very reserved, gloomy, evoking no sentiments. These differences are best underscored by two dissimilar finales. In the performance of the junior cast, Tekla and Gustav, kneeling before dead Adolph‘s body, seem to constitute a mutually integrated group. In the version of the senior cast, dead Adolph hangs on his crutches, while Tekla and Gustav keep shoving him at one another, as if trying to shift their responsibility and guilt. Eventually, they press against each other and freeze. In the final scene of Baillon‘s production Tekla likewise falls on her knees beside the prostrate Adolph, but Gustav remains standing aside, leaning against the wall.
Strindberg provokes the actor to expose human nature and so the actor reveals himself in very dreary, naked, tragic forms of the individual, where everybody is both a tormentor and a victim. Submerged in their desires, led by their unconscious, the characters neither see nor hear each other, and if they do, so only the most hurtful things which allow them to justify their egotism. The relations between the lovers become a fighting arena, where the quest for harmony always turns into discord. Their humanity and sensitivity are overwhelmed by the need to rule the one close to you, the range of their feelings expands from total acceptance to horrendous hatred.,
The actors in both Padegimas‘ versions asserted that they had consciously avoided watching the rehearsals of their colleagues for fear of getting influenced by them, and, as a result, two completely different performances were born, with no mise-en-scènes in common. The comparison with the French version convinces one that the play can be interpreted in endless ways. The Lithuanian and French productions were staged almost at the same time, and it is not hard to notice that both directors resorted to the means of expression which appealed to them – they accentuated the dynamics of emotional and spiritual change, the spontaneity of the actors’ performance and their Munch-like moves. Although most likely they were united by what had inspired their productions with the leitmotif of humanity ringing loud and clear. “But, eventually, the director imparts to us the thought that a human being attempts in vain to assert himself/herself through egotism. A simple thought comes through about one’s inability to defend oneself in this world and about the imperative closeness of people. An almost physical need for kindness and attentiveness arises,”10 – resumes Aliona Kravtsova while analyzing Padegimas’ diptych. The correctness of her insights was confirmed by the director himself: “While staging Creditors I wanted to negate the opinion that Strindberg extols anger and hatred. This writer believes in mankind. And humanism is what we tried to emphasize in our production. We wanted the viewers to start thinking – are people simply wasting their emotions, do they know how to cherish love?”11 The French reviewer Paul Chambrillon notes the same when he mentions Adolph played by Toja: “A climate of tenderness and trust would give him happiness and life. He is mercilessly denied that.”12
“Before giving free reign to one’s own nature, one has to know the natures of others quite well. Or they might clash.” – says Gustav to Tekla. By this statement Strindberg both warns and shows a way out, as he turns in the direction of the human dimension. At the same time he fully realizes that the problem is everlasting, therefore, paradoxically, theatre, by striving to devote its art to the allegedly old-fashioned search for humanity, for justice and kindness, will always be contemporary. In his reminiscence about creating the production of Creditors Baillon wrote: “I was convinced that the human dimension appeared in its eternal form when Jacques, through his example, showed me that humanity could only express itself by being a modern humanity. It is true that the character of the sculptor that he played in Creditors allowed him to make more understandable the need for a sensitivity open to creation in order to justify the modernity of all humanity” 13 I believe that both directors, who not just clearly elucidated the tragedy of egotism but also sought to show some ways of overcoming it, have succeeded in turning our attention to the human factor both in Strindberg’s works and in the realities of life.
Bibliography
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Chalais, Francois 1980. “Mise en scène particulièrement réussie”, France-Soir, 1980, 31 Janvier.
Chambrillon, Paul 1980. “Sensibilité pasionée”, Valeurs Actuelles, 1980, 11 Février. (Acording Theatre. August Strindberg Creanciers [Bimensuel l‘Avant scene]. Odeon, 15 mai 1980).
Gautier, Jean-Jacques 1980. “Il Faut le voir”, Le Figaro, 1980, 12 Février.
Gautier, Jean-Jacques 1980. “Il faut le voir”, Le Figaro, 1980, 12 Février.
Girdzijauskaitė, Audronė 1981. “Kas tie „Kreditoriai“?”, p.18.
Girdzijauskaitė, Audronė 1981. “Kas tie “Kreditoriai”?”, Kultūros barai, 1981, Nr. 10.
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Kazragytė, Doloresa 1982. „Dvi viršūnės 1981-ųjų teatrinėje panoramoje: Kūrėjo tribūna“, Kauno tiesa, 1982, sausio 30.
[Kravcova, A.], “Leningrado teatrologai apie kauniečius” Literatūra ir menas, 1981, spalio 31, p. 7.
[Padegimas, Gytis], “Versmės”. Kalba Vilnius, 1981, balandžio 10.
Sandier, Gilles 1980. „Merveille“, Le Matin, 1980, 7 Fevrier.