Ibsen's "Master Builder' in Brooklyn

Ibsen's protagonists are nothing if not intense. They're rugged individualists, staunch loners, obsessed idealists who tenaciously hold on to their beliefs— no matter how much controversy they provoke, no matter how high a price they pay.

There's Brand, the messianic priest in Ibsen's eponymous verse-drama, who believes he was put on earth to save men's souls. There's Eilert Lovborg, the philosopher/scientist in Hedda Gabler, who's writing a visionary book about the future. There's Thomas Stockmann, the small-town doctor in An Enemy of the People, who takes a moral stand for the good of his fellow citizens— one that brings about his own destruction.

These mistrusted and misunderstood figures stand steadfast against the multitude. But their isolation doesn't deter them; on the contrary, it fuels their resolve. As Stockmann says: "The strongest man in the world is the man who stands most alone."

Haunted by tragedy

Halvard Solness, the brilliant visionary architect in Ibsen's 1892 play, The Master Builder, belongs in their ranks. He's one of Ibsen's most perplexing protagonists, and the most autobiographical. It's hard to understand what makes Solness tick (or, in his case, build), considering the obstacles he must overcome in order to function.

Solness is haunted by past tragedies, like the fire that destroyed his wife's family home and a fatal illness that took his young twin sons. His imagined guilt is so strong that he begins to believe that he is in fact responsible for these devastating events, and that he possesses supernatural powers.

Determined to defy fate and driven by a messianic mission to right past wrongs, Solness relentlessly builds ever taller and grander and more elaborate structures, to replace the one he believes he has destroyed.

What drives Trump?

So expectations ran high at the Brooklyn Academy of Music this past month, in anticipation of a new production of The Master Builder. Perhaps, in understanding the complex psyche of this mysterious master builder, we'd gain insight into the creative and psychological forces that have driven master builders of our own time"“ the "select few given the power to want something and to will it into being," as Solness puts it.

Think of architects like I. M. Pei, who possessed the vision and the daring to re-imagine the courtyard of the Louvre in Paris, or Gaudi, who single-handedly (and single-mindedly) transformed the city of Barcelona into a fantasy.

What drives Donald Trump to build skyscraper after skyscraper for the rich"“ towering constructs that are, ultimately, monuments to his own name? What forces have motivated not one but three architecturally groundbreaking Guggenheim Museums"“ in New York (by Frank Lloyd Wright), Bilbao (Frank Gehry), and soon in Abu Dhabi (Gehry again)?

What alchemy of genius, vision and audacity (not to mention money) brings about these extraordinary architectural achievements?

Sexual hero-worship

I had hoped that the current production, starring John Turturro in the title role, would provide insight into these questions. But instead of the anticipated fireworks that most Ibsen plays generate, we were met with a strangely subdued, static rendering of this complex work.

Turturro, a charismatic actor capable of the fire and ice that Ibsen's work requires, chose instead to deliver a measured, muted performance. His director, Andrei Belgrader, in turn, has focused on heightening the dramatic tension generated by the triangulated relationship between Solness, his grieving wife Aline (a stately Katherine Borowitz), and his passionate younger admirer Hilde (a feisty Wrenn Schmidt).

The sexually charged hero-worship that Hilde lavishes on Solness ultimately turns Satanic (a bit like Abigail's for John Proctor in Arthur Miller's The Crucible), providing the production with its most compelling scenes. Still, Solness's desire to impress Hilde, who goads him to build higher and climb higher, is only one manifestation of a profound, psycho-spiritual disturbance that this staid production fails to plumb in sufficient depth.

Inspired set

It was left to another master builder to save the day. Santo Loquasto has created an inspired set, consisting of an abstract steel cubist construct turned on its side. The actors weave in and out of it, dressed in period costume, generating a provocative and dynamic visual juxtaposition between past, present and future.

Watching them, we begin to meditate on the issues at the heart of Ibsen's play: the nature of the creative drive, the power of architecture and man's relationship to God, the ultimate master builder.

At the play's penultimate moment, an upstage curtain rises, revealing the Norwegian town's skyline and a towering spire that Solness has erected and intends to climb, no matter the outcome. The spire is a deep, vivid blood red, awe-inspiring and frightening, reaching skyward, defying heaven itself. Donald Trump couldn't have done better.

An old theater adage advises, "If you leave the theater humming the scenery, there's something amiss with the production." Master builder Santo Loquasto has disproven this adage. He's provided this show with just the right tone.