‘A Doll’s House’ in Brooklyn

So I returned alone to get a close look. Although this 1895 version measures a mere 36 inches by 29, it possesses mesmerizing power. A frail human figure — skeletal, bald, possibly a boy, a woman, or even a ghost — stands on a bridge over a fjord. This specter holds its sunken white face in its hands, its eyes wide with horror, its mouth agape in a soundless shriek. Behind the figure, a blood-red sunset looms threateningly. The turbulent blue-black waters below seem unnatural under that fiery sky. All the elements — external and internal — signal danger, but the silhouettes in the distance are too far away to notice. The figure is utterly alone, helpless.

Standing before that frightening fin de siècle painting, I felt the same feelings of anxiety and panic that the artist himself expressed in his diary, when he described crossing that bridge one evening and feeling compelled to paint the scene.

Trapped in marriage

So imagine the shock of seeing a fearsome facsimile of that face one year later — not in a painting, but on a stage, in a play written at the same time and by a compatriot of the artist, too.

That agonized face, with its soundless scream, belongs to the actress Hattie Morahan; the play is A Doll’s House; and the likeness between Munch’s terrified figure and Ibsen’s tortured protagonist, Nora, is downright scary.

I know what you’re thinking: Not another Doll’s House! That was my reaction, too, when I heard that the Young Vic was bringing its new production to the Brooklyn Academy of Music. It’s one of the first plays we all read in high school and one of the most frequently performed plays in the world today.

By now the theme of a woman trapped in a stifling marriage and rigid societal conventions is a cliché. Nora Helmer, a young housewife and mother of three children, lives a protected, affluent life in a Norwegian town. Her husband Torvald, bank president and pillar of the community, dotes on her, calling her “little skylark” and other feathered terms of endearments. But he has rigid expectations for her role in the home and society. Indeed, he keeps her on a behavioral and financial leash so tight that it’s choking her.

Denounced by critics

Meanwhile, Nora has a dark secret from her past: She forged a signature on a bank loan to support a trip abroad when Torvald was seriously ill and they had no money. That secret is used as blackmail by a disgruntled bank employee, Krogstad, who tries to force her to convince Torvald to promote him. Instead, Torvald fires him, and Krogstad exacts his revenge by sending Torvald a letter revealing his wife’s felony. Torvald flies into a punishing rage against Nora, who responds by walking out on him and her children to find her identity.

A Doll’s House provoked shock when it premiered in 1879 in Scandinavia. Some critics (including Strindberg, of all people) denounced its defamation of the sanctity of marriage. (The lead actress in the German premiere refused to perform the role unless Ibsen changed the ending.) But others, like George Bernard Shaw, championed it, and productions soon sprang up throughout the world. Dozens of fine actresses — including Julie Harris, Claire Bloom, Jane Fonda, Liv Ullman, Juliet Stevenson, and Janet McTeer— have played Nora on the English-speaking stage recently. This season alone has seen three high-profile revivals of A Doll’s House in Great Britain, most recently by London’s Young Vic, whose production came to Brooklyn this month.

Out of control

Director Carrie Cracknell has created a theatrical metaphor that strikes a responsive chord in contemporary audiences. She’s trapped her Nora in a house set on a turnstile that revolves throughout the performance. The brightly lit rooms — complete with Christmas tree, piles of presents, and scurrying servants — offer a deceptive aura of warmth and safety. In truth, they’re imprisoning.

As Nora’s world spins out of control, she careens from room to room like a caged bird, from husband Torvald to blackmailer Krogstad to confidante Kristine to unsuspecting children and back again. Round and round the house turns, faster and faster, as she crashes against the walls, trapped. At one point, Nora dances a frantic tarantella for her husband. Her movements are more convulsed than choreographed, like a marionette dangling from entangling strings. Exhausted, she leans against a wall, her face contorted in the same soundless scream as Munch’s agonized figure.

In the final scene, Torvald offers forgiveness — but Nora won’t have it. “This house was a playroom, and I’ve been your doll,” she says. Torvald threatens: “You don’t understand the society you live in.” Yes, she does, finally. Her slamming of the dollhouse door is often called the first sound cue of modern drama.

Unfinished business

Hattie Morahan’s fresh interpretation of this classical role brought the audience to its feet on the night I attended. From the opening scene when she stuffs her mouth with chocolates to the moment when she crams her fist into her mouth in fear, she’s stifling a scream that finally breaks loose. The little swallow has become an eagle.

By now you’d think we’ve addressed the issues of woman’s identity, at least in the western world. Why so many new Doll’s Houses, and why now?

In Ibsen’s Norway, a woman couldn’t scream. But today you can — about equality in the workplace, about who controls a woman’s money, about the perfectionist expectations imposed on women by spouses, friends, relatives, schools, communities.

“A woman cannot be herself in modern society,” Ibsen wrote. But you can be heard today — just open your mouth and scream.