Henrik Ibsen’s classic 1879 drama A Doll’s House is famously said to end with “the door slam heard round the world.” But that would be far too conventional for the current Broadway production starring Jessica Chastain and directed by British wunderkind Jamie Lloyd. After all, to hear a door slam, you actually need a door. To reveal how the show actually concludes would constitute a spoiler, although it’s not likely to be a secret for very long.
You should arrive at the theater early, since about fifteen minutes before curtain you’ll be treated to the sight of the Oscar-winning actress sitting stone-faced on a chair which slowly revolves around the bare stage, bringing to mind an airplane circling LaGuardia. The ushers helpfully inform us that photographs are allowed at this point, resulting in hordes of audience members whipping out their cell phones as if they were trying to snatch a shot of Flaco the owl in Central Park.
That immediately clues you in as to what you’re in for with this ultra-modern production which should more accurately be titled A Doll’s House: The Reading. That approach is a particular specialty of Lloyd’s, who apparently feels that such things as costumes, scenery, and lighting that’s bright enough to discern which actors are speaking, are simply too bourgeois. Instead, we’re supposed to concentrate on the text, the text, the text, which would be fine if you were attending an Actors Studio workshop. On Broadway, it just feels like the height of pretension. Theatergoers can be forgiven for thinking, “I’ve paid $200 for this ticket. Would it kill them to spring for a sofa?”
[Read Steven Suskin’s ★★★★☆ review here.]
Or costumes, for that matter. To emphasize the universality of the play’s themes, the performers are clad not in attire that would have been worn in 19th century Norway but rather sleek black outfits that make it look as if they’re all heading for a late-night supper in a trendy Lower East Side boite.
But okay, let’s forget the old-fashioned trappings. Let’s just concentrate on the text, the text, the text. That doesn’t go so well either, since all the actors deliver their lines in a hushed monotone, their whispery delivery amplified by the best sound system money can buy. (So that’s where those ticket dollars went.) Unfortunately, their rushed recitations are still often undiscernible, which would be more of a problem if Amy Herzog’s colloquialism-laden adaptation were more elegant and less giggle-inducing. Although let’s face it, we’ve probably all wanted to hear Nora express her frustrations with an impassioned “Fuck it all!” at least once. Or a suddenly amorous Torvald telling his wife, “I wanted you so bad.”
At least those outbursts convey some emotion, which is mostly lacking throughout the three-act play’s uninterrupted 110-minute running time. (Intermissions, you may have already figured out, are too bourgeois as well.) Up until the climactic encounter between Nora and her cluelessly oppressive husband Torvald (Arian Moayed), the actors speak their lines with such a flat affect it’s as if they’re appearing in an ASMR video.
At every point, you can feel the director delighting in his own cleverness, as with his staging of Nora’s tense interactions with the blackmailing bank employee Krogstad (Okieriete Onaodowan) in which they sit back-to-back, the latter facing away from the audience. The characters are at odds, get it? Although if I were Onaodowan, I’d be pissed at having some of my most dramatic moments go unseen.
The societal constraints suffered by Nora are manifested by having Chastain sitting in a chair for nearly the entire evening, even when her character is supposed to be dancing. It’s no wonder that she practically suffers a seizure. When Chastain does stand up for the occasional moment, it feels like a coup de theatre. The other actors are often seen standing stiffly in the background, looking like chic mannequins. And when Nora interacts with her children, we only hear their disembodied voices, which I suppose makes it easier for her to leave them at the end.
It’s not surprising that the performances don’t exactly shine amidst the hyper-stylized proceedings. Chastain, in her first New York stage appearance since The Heiress a decade ago, nonetheless proves to be compelling, especially in the final scene in which she finally displays some emotion, like one of the catatonic patients in Awakenings after receiving L-dopa. And Michael Patrick Thornton manages to convey something resembling humanity as the grievously ill Dr. Rank. (The actor uses a wheelchair in real life, which feels appropriate for a character suffering from “tuberculosis of the spine.”)
As for the show’s conclusion, it features a visual gimmick that might have been more effective if perhaps a third of the audience was in a position to actually see it. (Try to get seats near stage left). In any case, the stunt completely takes you out of the play and leaves you thinking not about the epochal nature of Nora’s decision but rather the director’s ingenuity in pulling it off. Which, I suspect, is exactly how he likes it.
A Doll’s House opened March 9, 2023, at the Hudson Theatre and runs through June 10. Tickets and information: adollshousebroadway.com
