And the setting could hardly have been more appropriate: The Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. has a complete set of Ibsen’s first editions – in addition to some 1400 other books in 30 languages – about the world-famous Norwegian author. This illustrates the international scope of Ibsen’s work, which was also one of the central themes of the symposium.
It was sponsored by the Royal Norwegian Embassy and opened by the Norwegian Ambassador, Knut Vollebæk, who talked about Ibsen as an internationalist, and the significance that the United States had on his writing:
“Ibsen never visited the U.S. but was still well known here," Ambassador Vollebæk said.
“While Ghosts was prohibited in Europe it played in Chicago. The U.S. played a role in presenting one of the more controversial plays.”
The main theme, however, was Ibsen’s modernism and peculiar relevance even today, one hundred years later.
“A Doll’s House, Ghosts, Hedda Gabler, even Peer Gynt—these are classic treatments of problems that became particularly intense in the modern age but which invariably have deeper and timeless dimensions,” said James Billington, the Librarian of Congress, in a statement to the symposium participants.
“I personally think Ibsen is the world’s greatest playwright since Shakespeare and that there is a need for far more performance of his work, which grows only better and more relevant with the passing of time.”
“But in his profound plays generally written rather later,” Billington added, “one finds (…) tragedies that seem as inexorable as those of the Greeks, and yet strangely relevant to modern times in ways that more ancient drama sometimes lacks despite its nobility. Rosmersholm, The Wild Duck, An Enemy of the People, Master Builder, and above all, John Gabriel Borkman, depict the social tensions and individual tribulation of modern—and even post-modern—man.”
Among the other speakers at the symposium were Michael Kahn from the Shakespeare Theatre; Professor Vigdis Ystad from the University of Oslo, one of the world’s most prominent Ibsen scholars; Professor Rune Engebretsen from Concordia College and Robert Ferguson, who could tell the story of how a young Charlton Heston got his acting debut as Peer Gynt in 1941.
In addition, double Oscar nominee Jane Alexander spoke about Ibsen from the point of view of the actress, and about playing all the women in his plays:
“While Hedda presents the actress with a tour de force role it is not one of Ibsen’s great plays, and I do not know an actress who has adored the experience of playing Hedda. Hedda is a role we have to do to test our metal. Hedda is in a serious and unremitting state of depression from the time we meet her until her death by suicide. An actress can play her in a manic high as Kate Burton did not long ago; she can play her in a constant rage as I am told Cate Blanchett did recently; or she can play her as a caged panther as I did.”
Jane Alexander. Photo by Arild Strømmen.
She also commented on how Ibsen is able to create the sense of timelessness in his plays:
“Ibsen is consumed with mortality,” she said. “With how we live before we die, and how with our actions we push ourselves and others to the brink of despair, and ultimately death. There is no bigger theme in the life of a human being; it is universal, it transcends cultures, time and distance. It is why Ibsen is a writer for the ages, the greatest dramatist after Shakespeare and the father of modern drama. As Bjorn Hemmer of the University of Oslo writes: (Ibsen brought)”…an ethical gravity, a psychological depth and a social significance…giving European drama a vitality and artistic quality comparable to the ancient Greek tragedies.”
TRANSCRIPTS OF JANE ALEXANDER'S AND JAMES BILLINGTON'S ADDRESSES
JANE ALEXANDER'S SPEECH
Mr. Ambassador, friends, and colleagues it is my great pleasure to be with you today as we muse on the life and literary gifts of one of the greatest playwrights of all time, Henrik Ibsen. In this august company of scholars my own contribution to the discussion is empirical to say the least. It reminds me of the story of humorist Robert Benchley’s exam paper at Harvard. He was asked to write an essay on the 18th century French and British wars over the small north Atlantic islands St. Pierre and Miquelon, especially the impact on the fishing industries. Benchley, knowing little to nothing about the wars began his essay with the line: “I intend to write this from the point of view of the fish.”
I intend to speak from the point of view of the fish----er, actress. My love for Ibsen began at the relatively young age of 16 when I saw a college production of The Master builder in Boston. I can still remember the thrill of Hilda’s urging Solness to climb the tower; the fire in her eyes and the indomitable belief that not only could he do it but that both of them would soar when he did. And then he came crashing down, as life comes crashing down around us and jolts us from our dreams, our visions of glory. I was hooked. I vowed then and there that I would play Hilda one day and set about reading all of Ibsen and making a list of all the roles I would play in my lifetime. The list included Hilda, Hedda and Helen Alving---the three “H’s”, and also Ellida in Lady from the Sea, and Rebecca West in Rosmershom. It did not include Rita in Little Eyolf or even Nora in A Doll’s House. They are both remarkable roles for women but I did not see myself in either of them. I have probably seen A Doll’s House more than any other play, indeed it is probably performed more than any of Ibsen’s plays, and every actress worth her salt for the past 125 years has played Nora. Of those I have seen: Julie Harris was a wide-eyed delicate Nora, and Claire Bloom danced the Tarantella with great verve and seductiveness. Janet McTeer was an energetic Nora while Jane Fonda was a puzzled, vulnerable one. The recent production of Lee Breuer’s Mabou Mines Company with Maude Mitchell in the title role was one that made an indelible impression. Liberties were taken. The men were played by little people, dwarfs, and the maid by a giant of a woman. The set was a child’s playhouse and Nora shuffled about on her knees to talk with the men. There was an epilogue where Nora stood naked, her head shaved, and sung an aria from an opera house box. Curtain. It was moving and visually memorable. Ibsen can survive anything because his plays are written with passion. He can take modernizing, editing and adaptation. Maude Mitchell who played this Nora so effectively is now performing it in Tel Aviv as we speak, then Hong Kong, then Brisbane, Madrid, Zagreb and Los Angeles. She is also compiling with Susan Mason interviews of Noras all around the world. She writes from Europe: “In China Nora was seen as a symbol of the new woman. (Madame Mao played her in 1934.) 1935 was declared the year of Nora and the post show debate centered on whether or not a woman could be liberated without society changing as well. Whereas in Japan the term “Noraism” was coined to mean a selfish emancipated woman. Nora was the first role on the modern Japanese stage to be played by a woman, Matsui Sumako…. (Surprisingly, the great Italian actress) Eleanora Duse wanted to play the alternative ending in 1893 (where Nora cannot leave her children after all) but strong enough copyright laws were in existence to allow Ibsen to refuse---she played it as written and was widely acclaimed---(George Bernard) Shaw said that: “she knew Nora more intimately than Nora knew herself.’”
Duse’s is a performance I would have loved to have seen. She herself was living the life of Nora after The Doll’s House. Many of us actresses live that life. Perhaps the closeness of the story to my own middleclass upbringing and my desire to break out of it, which I did, steered me away from going into that milieu again in the play. But Nora remains one of the great roles for women in the canon of theatrical literature. And although time and circumstances and political ramifications may influence the way the audience views the play, Ibsen is clear that Nora’s relationship to her husband Torvald has, as Maude Mitchell says “robbed her of an authentic life, and when she finds it in her to throw off her shackles for the unknown it’s a brave, defiant, anarchic moment stemming from both an elemental instinct for self-preservation and the longing to experience her full humanity.” Such a giant step takes its toll however---on the character and on the actress playing her. Maude goes on: “Initially I thought doing Hedda must be much more painful because at the end she steps into the dark whereas Nora steps into the light. And yet for a long time I couldn’t experience any of the light. All I was left with at the end was an empty Pyrrhic victory. Loss, loss, loss was all it seemed to me. The curtains would close on my (opera) box and I’d stand there weeping. … But now …it has been a good…five years that I’ve been pretty immersed in ‘A Doll House’ …now it feels absolutely necessary…now there is much more anger and defiance---and ultimately hope---the hope for renewal---the hope for self realization…before…I didn’t believe that Nora had much of a chance at surviving, much less change or future joy. But playing Nora has made me stronger and bolder, now I think there is a chance…perhaps she’s on the docks heading up North and she strikes up a conversation with someone who persuades her to go to the capital instead. ---And perhaps she falls in with the ‘Christiana bohemians’ working as an artist’s model and ends up traveling on to Paris. ---And perhaps she works as a dancer, learns to speak fluent French, makes many wonderful friends and maybe she even falls in love again---Not as a child but as a grown woman---Perhaps she writes a book, keeps in touch with her children and is eventually able to spend summertime’s with them. Who knows?”
Yes. Who knows? That is the operative question for the audience. A Doll’s House gives us the possibilities of a hopeful life afterward. This is not the case with Hedda. Or The Wild Duck, or Ghosts, or almost any of the plays with the exception of Lady from the Sea which has the redemption of love in its final moments. Every major play ends with death or impending death---death that alters the lives left behind irrevocably. Ibsen often gives the remaining characters something positive to do for the rest of their lives: pledging to work together, or to be better husbands and wives, parents, sisters or friends, or finding liberation through death as with Rebecca and Rosmer throwing themselves in the millrace. These are weak aftershocks however, after the earthquake has leveled everything. Ibsen is consumed with mortality---with how we live before we die, and how with our actions we push ourselves and others to the brink of despair, and ultimately death. There is no bigger theme in the life of a human being; it is universal, it transcends cultures, time and distance. It is why Ibsen is a writer for the ages, the greatest dramatist after Shakespeare and the father of modern drama. As Bjorn Hemmer of the University of Oslo writes: (Ibsen brought)”…an ethical gravity, a psychological depth and a social significance…giving European drama a vitality and artistic quality comparable to the ancient Greek tragedies.”
Ibsen also incorporated mystery and mysticism into many of his plays, writing emblematic roles where the character longs for the sea, for the mountains, for the sun or “castles in the sky;” where “helpers and servers” make wishes come true, and “white horses” represent the dead riding through. I was drawn to these roles. Ibsen wrote his greatest parts for women, seeing in them an elemental bond with the supernatural, with the very forces of nature, as if they were indeed ancient Greek goddesses in a modern setting. Hilda Wangel could almost be Pandora. She opens her box and all sorts of havoc is wreaked on the Solness’ household. I played Hilda 30 years ago here at the Kennedy Center, in a production directed by Ed Sherin, who is happily also my husband. We did extensive research on the influences of the time. The set was an expansive glorious architectural design befitting a great builder, with a Munch sky behind it, all red and yellow. We read about the Free Love movement of the time and of the cafes of Berlin, places like The Black Pig which were frequented by artists and writers. Hilda walked into Solness’ house in 1890 just as a breezy flower child of the 1960s might have walked into one of your lives: with confidence, with bravado, with love-light and mischief in her eyes. One problem we had was with current translations---translations are always the nemesis of actors because the rhythms of a writer are so specific and are truly often “lost in translation.” My Norwegian friend Sam Engelstad and I sat down and decided to do it ourselves. He translated literally and then we approximated the English idioms as best we could. We were particularly fascinated with Ibsen’s punctuation which was so often cleaned up for published translations. In the originals Ibsen was writing specifically for the stage---dashes and dots illuminate pauses or hesitations in speech. We left all those in. Richard Kiley was a remarkable Solness and Theresa Wright a touching Aline.
The next Ibsen Ed and I were involved in was Hedda Gabler. While Hedda presents the actress with a tour de force role it is not one of Ibsen’s great plays, and I do not know an actress who has adored the experience of playing Hedda. Hedda is a role we have to do to test our metal. Hedda is in a serious and unremitting state of depression from the time we meet her until her death by suicide. An actress can play her in a manic high as Kate Burton did not long ago; she can play her in a constant rage as I am told Cate Blanchett did recently; or she can play her as a caged panther as I did. There are as many ways to play depression as there are actresses to interpret it, but it is a downhill slide to death no matter how it is done. Ed chose Eva Le Gallienne’s translation which dated from the 1930s but whose formal language suited the stuffy Tessman home. Le Gallienne was a remarkable actress, producer, director, translator and mentor. I was immensely honored recently when a 90 year old friend gave me Le Gallienne’s original collection of all of Ibsen’s plays translated by William Archer.
I never had the opportunity to play Ellida in Lady from the Sea or to play Rebecca West but three years ago I did get to play Mrs. Alving in Ghosts, here at the Shakespeare theatre. This time Ed and I decided we wanted to modernize Ibsen, choosing the HIV virus as a parallel for syphilis, which was wasting Oswald’s body. Ed wrote a splendid adaptation and placed the events of the play on an island off the coast of Maine. The modernization which does not work for most of Ibsen’s plays worked remarkably well. The secrets Mrs. Alving harbors about the dissolution of her husband, her love of Manders, the sibling relationship between Oswald and Regina, are as modern as any today. The scourge of syphilis 100 years ago is matched by the even greater scourge of the AIDS virus today. And although in our version Oswald does not inherit his father’s disease through the blood of his mother, he inherits a sexual appetite both homosexual and heterosexual and is ultimately doomed by the secrets of his mother. Ghosts is a play about disclosure, about the need for honesty. It was a lacerating indictment of the double standard of Victorian society which masked a rampant sexual underground with a veneer of propriety. Our version, placed in 1981, looked at the fallout of the sexual revolution of the ‘70s and demanded honesty as well, as AIDS touches us all.
I have not spoken about Ibsen’s two great last plays John Gabriel Borkman and When We Dead Awaken. These are works rarely seen on stage in the United States. At one point the great actress Liv Ullman and I hoped to alternate the two female roles in When We Dead Awaken but the opportunity never came to pass. I’m grateful I can read the plays whenever I want and dream. Ibsen influenced most of the major American dramatists of the 20th century: Eugene O’Neill, Arthur Miller, Clifford Odets, Edward Albee, David Mamet; even Tennessee Williams. Remember Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof starving for sexual attention from her husband Brick who is mourning the death of his beloved friend? Maggie cries: “Skipper is dead! I’m alive! Maggie the cat is alive! I am alive, alive! I am …alive”. Now read the equally intense scene in Act 2 between Allmers and Rita in Little Eyolf. Their son Eyolf has died tragically and Allmers says they cannot be lovers anymore: Rita cries out: “I am a warm blooded being! I don’t go around with fishes’ blood in my veins. And now to be imprisoned for life---in anguish and remorse! Imprisoned with one who is no longer mine, mine, mine!”
I’ll end with this quote from Ibsen speaking to Christiana theatre students, which sits on my wall and on my dressing room table in the theatre reminding me of the noble profession I am in and of which he was the giant:
“Some say that the art of the theatre, born for and bound to the moment, must, like a soap bubble or nocturnal meteor dazzle, then burst to leave no trace. Free yourself of this dark thought. The very fact that your art is a child of fragrance, of the spirit, of a mood, of personality and imagination, and not something of wood and stone, or even a thought fixed in black and white, but a sprite forever swinging free on beauty’s vine, the fact that it lacks tangible form, renders it immune to the gnawing of time’s worm. And that is what life truly means: to live in memory…to rest in people’s minds free of the mildew and rust of age…and this lot has been granted to you."
JAMES BILLINGTON'S ADDRESS
James H. Billington
The Librarian of Congress
I am terribly sorry not to be with this group hailing the anniversary and legacy of Henrik Ibsen. I personally think Ibsen is the world’s greatest playwright since Shakespeare and that there is a need for far more performance of his work, which grows only better and more relevant with the passing of time. Though I am mainly a student of Russian culture and Norwegian is, alas, not one of the languages I read, I have to define the first summer in which I systematically read through Ibsen’s plays as one of the great periods in my adult discovery of literature.
And as I have pursued productions of Ibsen plays mostly in America, I have been further enriched and have become more deeply appreciative of what he has done. His so-called problem plays have been reasonably frequently performed and appreciated. A Doll’s House, Ghosts, Hedda Gabler, even Peer Gynt—these are classic treatments of problems that became particularly intense in the modern age but which invariably have deeper and timeless dimensions. But in his profound plays generally written rather later, one finds constructions with almost mathematical precision and tragedies that seem as inexorable as those of the Greeks, and yet strangely relevant to modern times in ways that more ancient drama sometimes lacks despite its nobility. Rosmersholm, The Wild Duck, An Enemy of the People, Master Builder, and above all, John Gabriel Borkman, depict the social tensions and individual tribulation of modern—and even post-modern—man.
It has been said of Ibsen that in his plays we see on stage the drawing rooms of 19th century bourgeois life, but that just off stage there are the yawning fjords of Norway. George Steiner in his fine book The Death of Tragedy suggests that real tragedy of Shakespearean dimension is not possible in the modern world, since salesmen and other figures of the modern world lack the assumed grandeur of mighty kings and bigger-than-life figures. But Ibsen is able to offer the suggestion of man’s struggle with the higher moral order of things and hints of transcendence without heavy editorializing from either a particular religious or political perspective. As such, he engrosses someone struggling with the dilemmas of modern life in a very special way.
When I taught European intellectual history at Princeton I always included the plays of Ibsen, and on those all too rare occasions where I am able to read plays either by myself or together with others, Ibsen has always been specially rewarding.
I have no real expertise on Ibsen studies, but I am particularly sorry to miss this convocation to both study and honor this extraordinary dramatist and the country of his origin.