A Doll's House

 

"I must stand quite alone, if I am to understand myself and everything about me" (Act III).

I first heard of "A Doll's House" in a college class on critical theories. Hearing it described by the professor to illustrate Feminist Theory, I was haunted by the characters in a play that I had not read. I don't specifically remember the words that were used. I do, however, recall the effect that they had on me--one of horror at the manipulative abuse of a marriage that was like a mouse trap. Punished for seeking some succulent aroma of sustenance, prison bars clanged shut upon the limbs of the couple. But it did not kill them immediately. 

In clawing at the trap to escape its confines, they drew blood from one another until one or both would end up destroyed if they were not able to break free.

Having had this dramatic introduction to the text before ever picking it up, my response to the play was certainly different than it would have been had I read it independently. I think I was given a uniquely powerful sense of the foreboding throughout the first two acts that may be somewhat lost on those reading more blindly.

One downside is that I had certain expectations of the atmosphere present in the play, and I am not altogether certain that those expectations were met. Does that indicate a flaw in the playwright's work, a factor unfortunately present in all stale readings of a text meant to be performed for an audience, or a personal failing of the reader? Perhaps an element of all three exists in this review.

1. "There is something so indescribably sweet and satisfying, to a man, in the knowledge that he has forgiven his wife" (Act III).

Hidden complexity. The theme of a complex inner life, separate from one's public interactions and perhaps even hidden from one's own spouse, runs deeply in "A Doll's House." No one is as they seem, and perhaps that is true of all people. Can you really know someone, as they truly are? Can we even know ourselves?

The answer, according to this play, would seem to be that you can't even begin to know yourself if you are in a relationship that doesn't allow full freedom of expression. Torvald and Nora lack the ability to see one another honestly, but blame is carried on both sides. Nora is manipulative and often falsely kowtows to her husband's expectations by lying and then going ahead with her own plans anyway. Torvald, on the other hand, is controlling, demeaning, and bereft of true listening skills. 

In the end, the characters each face a moment of crisis: Torvald uncovers his wife's lies and realizes that loyalty to her will cost him. And the price? His reputation, which turns out to be the greatest priority in his life, far and above his marriage. He pretends to be concerned for the morality of his children under such a "careless and selfish" mother, but puts on full display his own propensity for self-serving behavior and ineptitude in identifying Nora's true motives.

Nora herself has indeed kept up a web of ever-increasing deception for the play's entirety, becoming nearly hysterical at some points (which, based on her final, incredibly controlled decision, may be something of an elaborate falsehood as well). In her own estimation, her greatest mistake was trusting her husband unequivocally. When his true colors reveal themselves in quick succession, she decides to leave her apparently loveless and respectless marriage.

All along, she was willing to sacrifice her autonomy for Torvald, as long as she felt that he would do similarly for her. Well, no more! She walks out the door and the curtains drop. The aftermath of this decision is left ominously to the imagination. There is a lot to unpack in this symbolic action, as she shows that her strength of will is not so fragile as she made it seem throughout her attempts to play the part of the weaker sex to her husband's specifications. 

But in another sense, she has also left her children, who lack the ability to understand or follow their mother on this path of self-discovery. What are we to make of this resounding ending? Are there any heroes to this story, or are they all flawed people making decisions that have repercussions on those around them for better or for worse? These are all important questions, and many answers exist. That is the ultimate genius of Ibsen's work.

2. "After all, it is splendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen" (Act II).

Reader's interpretation. The interpretation of the play is left in the hands of the observer to an even greater extent than perhaps the average work of literature. It does not tell us what to believe, because there is no single, sympathetic protagonist who embarks on a journey to realize the truth or the right course of action. 

Or maybe there is. Maybe Nora is that for some audience members. But doesn't the existence of multiple meanings show that final analysis has been withheld from the work? This text had great controversial value in the century of its publication, because of how utterly outlandish and frankly blasphemous the conclusion seemed to its early viewers; now, it is lauded as a feminist masterpiece. 

Which one is it? A corrupting influence or a carefully plotted declaration of the equality of the genders? I really can't say. I can only give my personal opinion, as any of us can do, and that makes the conversation a significantly more interesting one. For this reason, I teach English and not Algebra. There is not a quantifiable right answer; there is only speculation, personal experience, and the ever-evolving social views on relationships.

Math teachers are cringing. I am itching to sit in a classroom full of students who have different views and can challenge one another, promoting the flow of critical thought. 

3. "You know how devotedly, how inexpressibly deeply, Torvald loves me; he would never for a moment hesitate to give his life for me" (Act II).

Quick changes. If I have any criticism of the play, it is that the short format makes it difficult to realistically convey such huge shifts in personality. Obviously I understand that those changes are not truly changes, but rather a revelation of what has been hidden under the surface all along. However, the shift in tone is dramatic and seems sudden to me, as those undercurrents don't really shine through their honed exteriors except in subtle ways.

Maybe, if I were to see the play performed rather than read it in literary format, my opinion on this aspect would be different. The brilliance of actors and actresses is that they can show what lurks between the lines of the dialogue in ways that don't exist on a black and white page.

I am looking forward to teaching this play for the first time in the coming school year. I will be fascinated to discover how the perspectives of my students coalesce and diverge from one another, and I hope for a rousing discussion with a multitude of opinions!

A Raisin in the Sun

 

"They spirited alright, my children. Got to admit they got spirit...Like this little plant that ain't never had enough sunshine or nothing - and look at it" (43).

I owe yet another positive experience with a classic to one of the professors who guided me through my Master's. The course was Dramatic Literature, and I registered for it because the class that I actually wanted to take wasn't being offered that semester, and I only needed one more elective to graduate. One might say that my participation was, if not reluctant, at least passively resigned to competently finish the assignments before me and move on to thesis work. Completely outside of my expectation, I did, in fact, end up analyzing a series of plays for a portion of my thesis. I suppose God organizes our lives with a continuity that human foresight lacks.

The theme of the class was: family relationships in dramatic literature. My high school and undergraduate educations were somewhat lacking in exposure to any plays other than Shakespeare, and so most of the subject matter was new to me. A Raisin in the Sun was one of these. While not my favorite play, it is one to which I returned, as the stark characterization of family life is resonant with the contradictions of the everyday. It is a quiet play, set in a singular location, without much shocking plot work. Anyone looking for the sort of excitement or scandal required to keep the attention of many a modern theatre attendee will not find it here. The importance in what Lorraine Hansberry accomplished is in her subtle and straightforward insistence on displaying what each family experiences in its own way, without ringing bells or unexpected twists. Whatever a reader's familial origins may be, this play will touch on some aspect of what it means to be together with the people who understand one another, simultaneously, for the best and for the worst.

Why should you sit awhile with this inconspicuous text?

1. "You see, Mr. Asagai, I am looking for my identity!" (51)

The characters. Each member of the Younger family portrays an important role consistent with the successes, failures, and challenges of the average working-class American. Beneatha, the younger daughter, searches for her identity; she is a young black woman struggling to break free of what she perceives as the oppressive restrictions of previous generations while simultaneously connecting with her African heritage. Walter desires nothing more than to be a man as society defines manhood. Unfortunately, he does not have the maturity or freedom within his mother's home to take control of his family's direction and solely provide for them. Even George, a side character who is an occasional date for Beneatha, functions as a picture of the shallow carelessness of a young man seeking a pretty girl without too many challenging thoughts in her head. Everyone involved in the story plays their role to perfection, and from within the archetypes rise complexities that are familiar to anyone struggling through the daily messes of life.

2. "Son - you - you understand what I done, don't you? I - I just seen my family falling apart today - just falling to pieces in front of my eyes. We couldn't go on like we was today" (86).

The family dynamic. Speaking of daily complexities, familial conflict is a key element of ARitS. Family can either strengthen or condemn, support or humble. This reality is especially true in the case of multi-generational homes. We see three generations of family living in a small, two-bedroom apartment on the south side of Chicago. They trip over one another in their attempts to achieve personal dreams and goals, and there is little privacy to be had. Every member of the family has both selfish and selfless tendencies. For example, Mama interlopes in the parenting and marital relationship between Walter and Ruth, but also endeavors to do everything that she can to protect the integrity of her family's future. Ruth berates Walter for running after every barely formed get-rich-quick investment that comes his way, but she also quietly advocates for him when discussing the use of the insurance check with his mother. 

Here we find the core of why this play was, and still is, so important: every person has a family. And what we all know, every time we enter a room with a group of those people who hold us dear while also instigating more anger and hurt than we have felt anywhere else, that our lives rise and fall by our families. We are each our own worst contradictions-everything that we think to be true about ourselves is thrown into question by those who know us best. ARitS reminds us of this truth and gives us hope for moving forward, whatever we may face in life. Our families are who we are-past, present, and future-for better or worse (and sometimes both at once). 

3. "All that talk about dreams and sunlight that goes on in this house. It's all dead now" (128).

The symbolism. Hansberry's symbolism is often attached to the physical, daily world, leaving the reader with a sense that meaning is sitting innocuously all throughout the home. The most obvious metaphor, that of Mama's plant, is a dear reminder of the care she gives each member of her family as they battle their lacking resources necessary for growth. It sits by the window and survives, not truly thriving, but sprouting new leaves against all odds. The final moments in the play show Mama carefully cradling the pot as she leaves the apartment for the last time. The plant will go to their new home with them, and perhaps it will find new life where there is sunlight and nourishment. 

Another symbol, the insurance check, dominates the plot and is held in almost reverent regard by each member of the family. That money is their ticket to a better life-whatever each of them may determine to be the best path forward. Beneatha's education is assured identity and progress, Walter's liquor store is self-sufficiency and independence, Ruth and Mama's house is a place for the family to thrive. Isn't that how we all operate within life, attaching specific meaning to whatever resource our hearts cling to? Perhaps it is only obvious from the outside looking in.

I would recommend A Raisin in the Sun as a reserved treatise on the challenges of life, for any who are searching for identity, security, or the strength to keep growing.